#Mundane Aftermath AU

[snail-speed]

okay but hear me out:

disney villain death for him

[franticfloralfrenfern]

More ddvau by @kitsuneisi and @xmaruu11 because the guys have taken over my brain

[seventeenpins]

⁵⁾ pressing the pads of their fingers into their lips in the aftermath, like they’re either trying to capture the feeling or banish it from memory

with x1!Logan pretty plssssss 😏

YES Ozzie omg thank you I love this ❤️

Forbidden Fruit

pairing: dbf!Logan x neighbor!reader word count: 3.4k summary: You’re a little obsessed with your attractive new neighbor. Unfortunately, he’s quite a bit older than you... And your dad's new best friend. content/warnings: non-mutant AU, unspecified age gap, written as x1 Logan, Scott is your dad (sorry), silence of the lambs spoilers???, yearning, tbh yall are as bad as each other, smut a/n: lmao this was supposed to be a drabble 🤷 ty to @ozarkthedog, the most perfect human 🩷

There’s a party roaring outside. As a general rule, your dad doesn’t like to throw parties often, but when he meets the man who’s moving in next door, he announces to you his plan. “Hosting a new neighbor helps to establish a good relationship!” he insists, and that’s that.

You’re sat in the living room, the space dimly lit, nursing a Pabst Blue Ribbon as the glow of your latest Blockbuster rental illuminates your face.

"You even old enough to drink?" comes a voice just outside the door frame. 

You jump, beer sloshing gracelessly down your front. You turn to him, glowering. He’s silhouetted from the hallway and you can’t make out his face. “Yep,” you tell him, “I just have an immaculate skincare routine. Keeps me youthful.”

“So you’re hiding inside… because?”

You shrug. “Just like time to myself.”

He nods, and then strides over. He takes a seat beside you.

“Who are you, exactly?” you frown, looking him up and down.

“You mind?” he asks, smirking as he wiggles the beer you didn’t realize he was holding and nods towards the bottle opener. The audacity.

You glare and grab the bottle opener. He holds his hand out for it, but you withdraw. 

“Logan,” he laughs, “Logan Howlett. I just moved in next door.”

“Oh,” you drop the bottle opener into his hand, remembering your dad’s words. Establish a good relationship. “Oh, yeah, my dad was really excited about the party. Hope you’re enjoying it.”

His eyebrows raise. “Your dad?”

“Yeah,” you nod, “Scott Summers.”

“No shit,” he frowns, “That guy sends a lot of emails.”

“That he does.”

Logan pops his bottle open. “Mind some company?”

“Long as you don’t mind watching Silence of the Lambs starting part way through.”

“Ohhhhh yeah, has he asked for a quid pro quo yet?”

“Aahh, a connoisseur,” you grin, “Yeah, just got past that part. I can rewind–”

“Nah,” he shrugs, “Let it play.”

You watch for a while in silence, but then start chatting again, swapping mundane questions. 

“So, Scott’s your dad, huh?” he asks, after a while.

“He sure is.”

“When he said he had a daughter, I guess I assumed someone younger.”

“Same skincare routine,” you deadpan.

He closes his eyes, holding back a laugh as he shakes his head. “Sorry, sorry. It’s none of my business.”

“It’s okay,” you laugh, “Yeah, he was still pretty young when I was born.”

“And what about…” he trails off, suddenly realizing tact may be appreciated.

“Dad’s a widower,” you explain simply.

Logan nods. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

You sit in silence for a moment, watching as Lecter is revealed to be wearing the guard’s face.

“How about you?” you ask, “You got a wife? Husband? Girlfriend? Partner?--”

He turns to look at you and you peter off. “Nope.” 

There’s something in the way he’s looking at you. You’re not sure if he’s being suggestive, or if you’re reading into things. Maybe it’s just the reflecting light making his eyes look more provocative than he intends.

Either way, you feel your heartbeat surge and your stomach flip.

You turn away and try to affect nonchalance, try not to be suddenly mesmerized by this unexpected plot twist that is Logan. The movie is wrapping up, Clarice taking Lecter’s call as he pursues Chilton. You try to focus on it, the score, the costumes– but instead you notice the way he smells, musky and a little sweaty. It’s nice. A little dizzying.

“What about you?” you ask.

“Hmm?”

"You have any kids?" you ask, and immediately wonder if you waited too long to carry on the conversation.

"Shit," he snorts and shakes his head, "I hope not."

It takes you off guard. You burst out laughing.

He huffs, lifting the beer to his lips to hide a smile.

The credits begin to roll over the ending scene. 

With the bottle drained, he pats his thighs and stands up. "Alright, kid," he says, "I probably shouldn’t hide in here any longer.”

“My dad appreciates it,” you tell him, “Don’t wanna give him a heart attack when his guest of honor is nowhere to be found, soon to be discovered with his delinquent daughter.”

He picks up his empty and shakes his head, heading back outside. He calls back, “Oh, you’re trouble.”

Now that you’ve met him, you can’t get him out of your mind. 

When you see him again, a couple days later in daylight this time, you have to pick your jaw up off the ground. He’s taller than you realize, and he’s fucking built. And fuck, he’s handsome too. When he sees you, he waves a hand. “Hey Trouble,” he calls, “Keepin’ your nose clean?”

Weeks pass, and, much to your delight (and, admittedly, despair), your dad and Logan become close. 

Sundays become your favorite day. Sunday, you discover, is the day you can see Logan through your window, chopping a seemingly endless stack of firewood. 

One time, he catches you watching. To your utter shock, he winks at you. Knowing your eyes are on him, he lifts the hem of his beater to wipe his brow, and shoots you a shit-eating grin.

You had plans but that doesn’t matter now. All you can do is shove your hand into your panties and rub circles around your throbbing little clit until you cum with a muffled sigh, knowing he’s outside. Knowing there’s not more than a fence and a few feet between you.

Almost every night, his fire pit is alight and you see him reading, or strumming his guitar, or fucking whittling, serene in the smouldering glow, till the fire burns out and the night turns too cool to enjoy.

As the weeks pass, he’s at your house more and more. You wish your heart would stop doing flips whenever you see him on the sofa next to your dad, beer in hand, laughing at some story that’s being recounted.

He says hello to you each time he sees you, and always asks after you when you’re out.

“Oh, Logan says hi,” your dad will say over his morning toast, “Why does he call you Trouble? Tell me you haven’t been besmirching the Summers name?”

“Nah,” you grin, “Just the littlest besmirchment, at worst.”

His eyes narrow.

“C’mon, now, we want to-”

“Establish a good relationship!” you finish, grinning at the way he scowls.

“Smartass.”

“Hey, Trouble,” he’ll greet you, whenever you find him at your home.

“Hey neighbor.”

“You bein’ good?” he’ll ask.

“‘Course not,” you’ll wink, “Where’s the fun in that?”

You love that he calls you Trouble. That he has a name, just for you. It feels like it could almost be something, and so it’s almost enough. 

Before long, what you’d once feared was a one-sided attraction begins to morph into something different. 

It’s a Saturday, and you decide to wear a cute little dress. It’s a flowy thing that hugs all your curves in the very best way, hem barely falling past the curve of your ass.

Your dad just popped out for another six-pack, and you’re in the kitchen, making pasta salad. With your father gone, Logan isn’t subtle in the way he looks at you. You delight in how his eyes linger at the curve of your hip, the swell of your chest. It feels like a victory, the way he grits his jaw a little when you lean forward, cleavage on full display.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ wearing a naughty little dress like that?” Logan asks, scowling.

You raise an eyebrow and try not to let the way your heart starts to flutter affect you. “Thought you’d figured it out on day one – I’m trouble.”

He looks you up and down, his gaze lascivious. It’s the boldness of it. The two of you are alone, and you both know it.

“I think you like it,” you narrow your eyes.

He’s silent for a long moment. Then he lets out a deep breath. 

“God help me, I do.”

“Why don’t you do something about it?”

He opens his mouth to respond, but then you both hear the latch, and the front door swings open.

Logan sits back, pretending as though nothing just happened.

You turn back to your salad.

You can see Logan in the sitting room, right in your line of sight. Your dad sits across from him, his back towards you. 

If you’re honest, you’re not sure exactly what compels you. 

You turn to face Logan, wave for him to catch your eye. He does, quickly, immediately attuned to you. Your dad doesn’t notice the way his eyes follow you. You hold a finger to your lips. His eyes dart between you and your dad, and he tries to focus on whatever his friend is saying to him. 

Slowly, you slip one strap down, and then the other. You can hear Logan’s breath hitch, which he covers almost believably with a gulp of his beer. Shimmying the bodice just a little, you expose your cleavage to near-dangerous depths. He’s grinding his teeth now, and it feels like victory.

Quickly, silently, you slip your top all the way down, exposing your breasts to the cool kitchen air. Your nipples, already hard, tighten. Logan is holding his can so tightly he’s crushing it in his fist. 

“You okay, buddy?” you hear your dad say, and you can practically hear the frown in his voice. In a couple of quick movements, you slip your top back up and turn back to your salad.

“Huh?” Logan asks quickly, and then looks at his beer. “Oh, shit–!” he grumbles, relaxing his grip gingerly.

It’s not till an hour later that your dad stands up and announces, “I’ll be right back, gonna hit the head.”

When he’s gone, Logan bolts up and marches over to you.

“Are you out of your damn mind?” he demands.

You shrug and, not so subtly, glance down at his crotch. You smirk at the way the front is tenting. Logan stares daggers as he adjusts himself, better hiding his hard-on.

“Some of you seems to like it,” you point out.

“Out here? With him here? You want your daddy to kill me?”

“No,” you promise, “No, I just want you to fuck me.”

“Jesus Christ you’re trouble–”

You both hear a toilet flush, and, moments later, footsteps descend on the stairs.

Logan adjusts himself again, and you blow him a kiss as he tromps back to his seat.

It’s a week before you see Logan again. He’s working late this week, apparently. Or maybe he’s just keeping his distance from you.

On Friday night, you debate going out. It’s been a while, and you could use a chance to unwind. But drinks are expensive, and– and you see a fire out your window. Logan sits out by his fire pit.

Without thinking, you put on your shoes.

It’s late, but not too late. Your dad’s on his recliner, game on TV, newspaper in hand.

“You headin’ out, kiddo?” he asks.

“Yep,” you lie, “Meeting a couple friends downtown. They’re picking me up!”

“Stay safe,” he calls after you, “Call me if you need a ride.”

“I will,” you tell him. “Don’t know if I’ll be home tonight. Don’t wait up for me!”

You head out of the house and through your neighbor’s gate. 

Logan is golden, illuminated in the glow of the flames. He’s whittling something, angrily.

You realize then that your entrance has been near-silent on the soft grass. “Uh,” you clear you throat and knock on his fence as you approach him. “Hey, there, neighbor!”

Logan looks up and frowns when he sees you.

“You are makin’ me crazy, Trouble.” he huffs.

“Like, in a good way?” you ask.

He glares at you.

You come closer. “Can I sit?”

Logan budges up, putting down his whittling tools.

“So…” you venture “Am I more trouble than I’m worth?”

Logan scoffs.

“Nah.” he concedes, “I just don’t wanna make things complicated.”

You shrug. “They’re already complicated. You’ve seen my tits.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Goddammit, Trouble. I can’t get you out of my head.”

“They’re great tits,” you shrug.

“They are great tits.” Logan agrees.

The fire is crackling and the night is clear, stars hanging above you. You've been sitting side by side, quiet.

You don’t know what to say. Maybe there isn't anything to say. You’ve been patient, dammit. You just need to leap.

You pull him towards you and he moves without resistance.

He growls into your mouth, a needy animal sound. The scruff of his beard feels nice against your chin and you’re dizzy with his proximity, with his lips on yours.

After an eternity in the space of a single moment, you pull apart.

Logan stares at you, overwhelmed. His eyes are dark, his kiss-glistened lips catching the light as the fire dances. 

He presses the pads of his fingertips against his lips in the aftermath, as though either trying to capture the feeling, or banish it from memory.

Then, after a long moment, he’s on you. His hands grip you, grasp you, trace the shape of your body as though memorizing it by touch alone. 

“Inside. Now.” he growls, “Out here you’re askin’ for your daddy to catch us.”

You’re barely through the door before Logan is tugging at your clothes. You help him pull your top above your head, and you fumble with the button of your jeans as he unhooks his belt and yanks off his beater.

In a matter of moments, you’re both fully bare. His skin is hot against yours as he holds you to him, caging you against the door as he drags his teeth along your shoulder. His hard cock hangs against your thigh, heavy and thick and leaking.

Your clothes trail from the front door to his sofa. You don’t make it any further than that.

You’re a ticking time bomb, a siren, pulling him in, driving him wild. He wants and wants and wants, more than he ever knew he could. So much could be ruined; his friendship with your dad, the scrap of reputation he’s been building, his new life in this new place—

But now his want has turned into a need, and feeling you soft and pliant and oh so willing against him, he’d be a fool to turn back now.

Logan’s gropes at you, fingernails digging into the swell of your ass before cupping your pussy in one large palm. Rubbing up and down your cunt, he smears your wetness around.

“You’re fucking dripping,” he gasps. “Prettiest pussy I’ve seen.” 

Then he dips a finger into you and you groan and clench around it. He fucks you with it, deep, gentle strokes. He wasn’t wrong. As he fucks you with his finger, you feel how unbelievably wet you are. When he pulls back for a moment, you can see his hand is glistening with you, drips going all the way to his wrist.

“I can take more,” you promise, and he growls. 

“Can’t say shit like that,” he pants, “You’re sure you can take more. Can you take me? Don’t wanna hurt–”

“I can take you,” you assure him. If you’re honest, you don’t know if you can. What you do know is that you’re sure as fuck gonna try.

“How do you want me?” he asks, fighting to maintain the last shreds of his self-control.

Ever the masochist, “Want you on top of me, my ankles round your shoulders. Need you deep.”

“Gonna fuckin’ kill me.”

You lay back as he positions himself between your thighs. He presses a kiss to your left thigh before he hikes it over his right shoulder, and a kiss to your right calf, folding you in half.

He strokes the dripping head of his cock against your folds.

“You ready?” he asks, and you whine in desperation, nodding a yes.

He presses in, notching the tip inside. You groan at the sensation, relaxing into it as he rocks his hips gently.

“Doin’ so good,” he praises, “I know, baby, it’s a lot.”

You writhe and moan. It is a lot, but you still want more. More of his cock, of his hands on your body, of his praise.

“Taking it so well,” he soothes, letting his cock slide that little bit deeper inside, pulling most of the way out and driving back in, pressing whispers in your ear as he fucks into you.

When his pelvis is pressed flush against you, he lets out a sigh. 

“Look at that,” he huffs, “Takin’ all of me.”

You look down and watch enraptured as he pulls out and presses back in, deeper than you ever imagined, and rolls his hips, coarse hair grinding against your clit and making you howl.

”Keep making those pretty noises for me, honey.”

”Need more-“ you beg.

He starts rocking his hips, building a solid rhythm. His strokes are deep and devastating, and with every thrust you can feel your wetness start to flood down your thighs and cream around the base of his cock.

The wetter you get, the harder he fucks into you, each plunge punctuated with your cries, of “Yes!”, “More—“, “Please, Logan, please—“

Generous to a fault, he gives you everything you beg for.

The frustration of these longing, pent-up weeks is almost a forgotten memory. As you build towards the peak of your pleasure, the man above you is an animal. He grunts and pants and fucks you deeper than you knew possible. Your whines and cries and demands taper off, replaced by soft moans that start to swell as he litters your collarbone with kisses and rubs a calloused thumb against your clit.

”I’m—“ you warn, struggling to form words, “I’m gonna—“

 “‘M close too,” he grunts, “Give it to me, baby, need to feel you— Please, baby—“

With his words and a firm press to your clit, you come with a sob, cunt squeezing around him in pulsing contractions.

He fucks you through it, muttering a steady stream of filth the whole time. “That’s it, that’s it, fuck you’re gushing, soaking this cock. You feel so fucking good, tight little thing stretched so nice around me, taking it all like you’re made for it—”

Before you can even get over the first climax, the second starts to build. Logan can feel the way your pussy twitches for him, the way your breath shudders as he drives into you with staggering thrusts.

”Gonna cum again, aren’t you?” He growls. “Good-“ a thrust, “fucking—“, thrust, “girl—“ thrust, “Just can’t get enough of this cock, can you?”

You try to answer, but all that comes out is a cry as another orgasm overtakes you.

"That’s it,” the praises, still punctuating every word with a thrust, “That’s it! Let yourself feel it, let yourself feel good—"

You do, wave after wave of pleasure coursing through you. It’s overwhelming, the way it tears through you with no end in sight.

When he finally pulls out of you, you start to come back to yourself, your life-changing orgasm starting to wane.

He’s beautiful above you, covered in sweat, your wetness dripping down his thighs as he strokes his creamy cock.

With a groan, he comes on your stomach. You wrap your hand around his, stroking him gently till every drop is spent.

You make room for him on the sofa, uncaring that both of you are covered in sweat and fluids, and pull him down to rest in your arms.

"Fuck—" he exhales, and finally turns to face you again.

You stroke your fingers through your mussed hair.

"I knew you were trouble,” he murmurs, pressing kisses to your sternum.

There are so many things you’ll need to talk about, to work through. You are neighbors, after all, and you can’t do something like this without there being an aftermath.

But whatever is next can wait till morning.

Gently, he pulls himself up, and you with him. Holding each other close, you head to his bedroom. Without a word, you lay together, curled up in one another’s embrace.

He’s silent a long moment before speaking. "Is your daddy expecting you home tonight?” He asks. Neither of you want to think about that.

But thankfully, “No,” you tell him. “Told him not to wait up.”

"Oh, optimistic, were we?” He teases, and you look him up and down. His broad shoulders, sculpted chest, dark eyes, rumpled hair. This man you’ve grown so very fond of. 

“Yes,” you smile. “Yes, we are.”

Scott finds out, like, a day later and declares Logan his sworn enemy

[themirrorghost]

I can't write for the life of me, but I've just thought of a tasty soulmate-fic premise (romantic or platonic!):

When their eyes are closed, a soulmate can see what their other half sees.

Whether it's super clear, or just impressions, or perhaps the more one stares at something the clearer it gets, just imagine the potential.

Soulmates taking turns to close their eyes and communicate through notes to find eachother. Soulmates who know when the other's fallen asleep because it's completely dark on the other side. Soulmates who can't sleep because their other half is somewhere way too bright and have to write passive-aggressive notes asking if they could "please turn the lights down!" Soulmates who are bored and would rather watch the others everyday life, no matter how mundane. Soulmates who's friends and/or family make fun of them for zoning out to watch through their other halves eyes instead of paying attention.

And then, on the other hand? The angst potential is delicious-

Soulmates who are so desperate to stop their other half from knowing that they wear a blindfold, or straight up blind themselves, to prevent it. Soulmates who hate the thought of someone intruding on their private lives, whether they're meant to be together or not. Soulmates who have terrible home/work lives and hope against hope that their other half doesn't find out or worse. Soulmates who are abused or get into fights often, trying their damnedest to protect their eyes above all else. Soulmates who's eyes are damaged, accidentally or otherwise, terrified of the thought that their other half won't ever be able to find them.

There are so so many ways you can swing this:

One soulmate afraid that their other half had died, having never been able to see through their eyes. Their soulmate was born blind, and managed to see things they thought they never could/would thanks to their soulmate.

Soulmates that met during childhood, living their lives as a whole, using their connection for simple, silly, domestic reasons.

Familial soulmates! Twins who aren't quite psychic but know what the other is doing all of the time. Siblings who are stuck with eachother and pretend to hate it, but are secretly glad they'll always have the other. Found family where it feels like they've always had the other and are impossible to separate.

Long-distance soulmates, teaching eachother about where they were born/grew up, showing eachother things precious to eachother.

Daytime Vs Nighttime soulmates who are barely ever awake at the same time, treasuring those in-between moments.

Soulmates with nightmares, one waking up in a panic, blinking hard and trying to calm down as quickly as possible. The other getting glimpses of the aftermath as they blink, perhaps rushing to their side if they can, comforting their distressed soulmate.

College/University AU soulmates knowing too much about their other halves area of study. Writing eachother notes to go to bed or to eat when they both forget and stay up studying way too late.

Assassin/Spy AU soulmates, using their bond to complete their missions as effectively as possible. Or perhaps the assassin/spy's soulmate is their target. Especially tasty if you throw in undercover work.

I could write a million of these prompts-

[vivalabunbun]

There Are Nothing But Flowers

Summary: You want to play house and he’s just hungry.

Word Count: 11.3K

Tags: Alhaitham x Fem!Reader, Smut(r18+), Modern AU, Vampire AU, TW: Death, Terminally ill! Reader,  TW: Medical gaslighting, description of medial treatments & corruption, TW: Blood & Blood drinking, vague mentions of violence, Contract Marriage AU, slight! enemies to lovers, Slow burn, NSFW, Fluff, Heavy Angst, Unrequited love?, Vampire! Alhaitham, Dom! Alhaitham, Human! Reader, biting, slight orgasm denial, overstimulation, creampie, slight corruption kink, temperature play? you fall hard, slow fic, tragedy. 

Authors note: This is the other side to this work, your side of the story, please read the tags carefully. I wanted to explore the other side of the garden wall and themes of mortality, it’s heavy, please read when you feel well enough to see what lies beyond. Enjoy. 

Side note: the aftermath

“Honey, I’ll be off to work now.” A dapper man straightens out his tie, a briefcase in his other hand.

“Dear…aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Are my pants unzipped again?” His eyes darted down as disembodied laughter rang out in the unseen background.

“No, you forgot this.” The pattering of house slippers stops as the woman cradles her lover's face between her hands.

The kiss from her immaculately painted lips melted the wrinkles from his forehead as the taller man leaned into his deserved affection.

“Have a good day at work, my love.”

—

A quiet house on the hill, white picket fences, and a lovely dog wagging its tail in the green yard. Eyes watching the vibrancies dance along a small screen, blocking out the gray in the peripheral.

Everything about this drama was cliché, the plot slow and predictable, just mediocre. So perfectly mundane that your hand itches to grab it through the screen like a thief. But are you really a thief if you steal back what was taken from you? 

Before your mind can explore that comparison further a knock drags you out of the immersion, thumb quickly taps the screen to halt the fantasy. 

“Good evening, ma’am.” The doctor in his white uniform enters. 

“Hello, doctor.” 

Two polite smiles greet each other, neither truly reaching the eyes. Your hands neatly folded together, his fiddling with the chipboard which held your verdict.

Observing how his teeth bit the inside of his cheek as his eyes scanned the charts. Your hands remain still even as he takes a deep breath.

“Unfortunately it has spread beyond our initial expectations. The results show that it’s progressed to a late stage despite our best efforts. Right now, you only have a few treatment options left.”

What happened to ‘just that time of the month’, ‘just get fresh air’, and ‘just give it some time’? 

“There’s a series of procedures to cut out the spread, however, it might be very difficult as the infection is deep and intertwined with healthy tissue. The success rate is low, and the probability of it coming back is very high.” 

What happened to ‘you’re young and healthy, it’s nothing’? 

“The next possible treatment would be Kalpalata Lotuses. It has properties to slow inflections and has pain-reducing effects, however, it’s slow and inefficient in the long run. If you choose the first option you’ll have to pair it with treatment two. The first could give you fourteen years, the second on its own might only give you half of that.” 

What were these past months spent behind a glass prison all for? 

The constant hum of the machines filled in the dead space, the beeps on the monitors counting the passing seconds as two lips remained closed.

From the hallways, the chattering of nurses provided proof that the world in fact has not stopped spinning. Something dreadful filled the room, a silent suffocation. He was the first to fold. 

“Please take your time to think this decision over, I’ll leave you to get some rest. Have a good night ma’am.” There was a flutter of pages folding back down to the clipboard.

The doctors were letting you pick your poison, how thoughtful of them. 

Just as before two polite smiles that didn’t reach the eyes acknowledged each other, with a nod the doctor took his leave, eager to end his shift, to escape the unseen hands.

Not a word slipped past your lips during the one-sided conversation, tongue unable to string together a single sentence. What is there left to say? 

As you lay back down your fingers brushed against the screen, restarting the episode as the laughter of an audience resonated along the sterile walls. 

Maybe if the doctors, with their acclaimed degrees and status, were just a little more attentive.

Maybe if they didn’t simply see you as a lady with nonsensical symptoms.

Maybe if they didn’t view you as a statistic.

Then you wouldn’t have collapsed that day at work.

Then you wouldn’t have spent grueling months undergoing diagnosis after diagnosis.

Then maybe just maybe the Pythagorean Cup wouldn’t have surpassed its threshold, emptying out all hope. 

The dialogue continues but it’s all but a fuzzy ringing now. Eyes watching the passing car lights dance upon the gray ceiling from the late evening traffic of workers, with their white or blue collars, eager to return home. 

You longed for that, to return there. Hands itching to rip out the tube from your arm and the sensor with its pitched beeps. 

Fourteen years, fourteen years of what? Bed sores from thin sheets? Chest pains at too deep of breaths? Stitches recovering only to be ripped open again? 

Sounds more like a punishment delivered deep underground in a place whose temperature rivals the surface of a burning star. 

Was it because you cursed at the man who cut you in line once?

Was it because you stole your college roommate’s sweater?

Was it because you never brought offerings to the Sanctuary of Surasthana? 

Were you such a despicable person in a past life that the sins carried over? 

Heavy lids closed to soothe the burning in your eyes, letting the warm trails run down your cheek. Reining your senses back from its escapade with a slow breath. 

No. It’s none of that. It’s just life, capricious life. Capricious life that took your parents and now is hunting you. 

There’s no karmic debt to pay off, there’s no faceless god to pray to. Setting one foot onto the path of true adulthood, only for your eyes to spot the end just over the horizon. What can you do? 

The jumbled laughs and fuzzy speeches coming from your phone’s speaker were becoming too much. Thus you rolled your heavy body over to silence it. Once again the world outside the window was in view, the soft orange glow from the office right across leaking into the suffocating grey. 

Oh, he’s at his desk tonight. 

Wet eyes watch as the ashen-haired being shifts through sheets of crisp paper and his pen moving constantly. It’s strange, a bit mocking even, that an immortal creature could be so mundane.

Maybe that’s why their office is just across the Bimarstan, to taunt those who longed for that reality, beckoning them to sign their names on a dotted line. 

Candace’s words were right, it’s a predatory scheme. 

Perhaps hold habits die hard, after all, vampires are creatures of the night that once terrorized generations of humans. 

Shielded by the panes of glass separating the two buildings, it was safe to continue this strange routine. Is staring at a stranger considered stalking if they’re the only view the windows offer? 

He got up from his desk, moving towards the filing cabinet just off to the side, allowing for his profile to come into view. 

He’s handsome, features outshining any of the male leads you’ve seen in movies. 

Teal eyes, ashen hair like moonlight, tall and broad stature. It’s no mystery why so many heroes and heroines fell into depravity, lured in by their beauty, entranced minds blindly offering up their everything. 

You weren’t special enough to be immune. Hence, why you continued to watch the nameless vampire who doesn’t know yours. Resting your cheek upon the stiff pillow, the feeling in your arm decreases like the cars in the streets. The pitched beeps keeping time.

He stood back up from his desk again, one hand grabbing the coat thrown over the back of a chair. Placing pens back into a cup and paper back into folders, he walks to the door before his hand shuts off the warm orange light. 

It looks like tonight’s episode has ended on time like always. Rolling back to stare at the drab ceiling, allowing blood to rush back into your arm as the sensation of pins and needles crawled up. It wasn’t bothersome, as tonight's viewing evoked entertaining thoughts. 

What a punctual vampire, where does he go after midnight? To a tavern or home?

Is someone waiting at the door for him there? Welcoming him back with soft lips?

Is that why he’s so eager to leave?

Your lids were growing heavy, the view of a blank ceiling wanes your alertness. The sweet curiosities coax you to continue in the realm of dreams, you listened to their call. 

Could you be that someone? 

“So, how ya feeling?” Dehya places down a container filled with baklava. 

“Mmm…”

The metal legs of the visitor's chair scraped across the floor as she awaits your response.

“Would you still be my friend if I was a rock, Dehya?”

“Ahh, not this again.” She rolls her eyes. 

Sitting upright in the hospital bed, hands folded together you awaited her response.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll still love you to bits even if you’re a pebble or something,” Dehya sighs, but there’s an upward tilt in her lips. 

“I’ll love you too.” You helped yourself to some baklava. 

A reward for your diversion of a miserable topic with sweet nonsense and special words. After all, she’s got a difficult job during the night, no need to make the day as difficult. Your mother used to say to save such words only for a special someone, but that’s the point of a word if it's never used?

–

“So, a few weeks ago I took this assignment that–” Dehya’s sapphire eyes moved behind you, gazing out the window where the sunlight poured in. 

“Ugh, his office is right across from you.” 

“Who?”

“Alhaitham, he’s a vampire I had the misfortune of meeting during a job, not that he’d remember.” 

So the vampire’s name was Alhaitham, it felt nice on your tongue. 

“Oh? How come?” 

“He just always talks in long, convoluted sentences, and in that snooty tone, snooty even for a vampire.” Dehya takes a piece of baklava to ease her from that bitter work experience. 

“My, I wonder how his spouse bares with him.” The bait was set out. 

“Pfft?! Ahaha! Who? It’s nearly impossible to spend five minutes by his side.” 

“Mm, really?” 

“No ring on his finger. From what I’ve gathered even other vampires can’t stand that personality of his.” Dehya takes another piece. 

Success. 

–

The container of baklava now only holds a few crumbs and traces of sweet syrup. The sun was beginning to kiss the horizon, a sign that your friend’s visit was coming to an end.

After all, she’s got a duty to fulfill as a hunter that maintains the balance between mortals and creatures who dare cross the boundaries of the law. 

Right as your hand returns from the air after bidding goodbye, it lands on the cold screen of your phone. In an age of growing cities and ever-advancing technologies, you’re grateful for these developments. As it makes your next actions possible.

It’s hard to miss a name when the letters are written in bold, imposing signs along the building just beyond the panes of glass.

As per Sumeru regulation, all employed vampires must be listed on company sites, an attempt at keeping track of such creatures. 

Scrolling page after page until eyes landed upon familiar ash-mint trusses.

Name: Alhaitham

Species: Vampire (Born)

Title: Secretary

Years At Company: 168

Fingers clicked on the next tab. 

“To apply for a blood contract, one must bring personal identification, and fill out an application during an appointed consultation with the vampire present. Once the boundaries of the contract are established, it will go through the approvement process.” 

Eyes moved to the next tab.

“Seven years is the maximum time for a singular contract, but it can be renewed every seven years. Both parties must fulfill the terms written on the contract. The value of a contract is determined by the amount of blood offered on a regular basis or in a future deposit. Applying for a contract that gives the maximum, 10 pints, in a full sum amount must pass a psychological evaluation.” 

--

Fourteen years is an unjustly cruel fate, but seven… Seven might be tolerable. After all, it’s often called the number of luck, you wonder if vampires were aware of this, maybe that’s why they chose that arbitrary number. 

Waiting as the sun disappears behind the horizon with your head resting against the stiff pillow. The warm orange glow from the office across from you signaled the start of tonight’s episode. Observing every stop and start of his pen as two voices wrangled your thoughts. 

There was a guest featured in this episode it seems, another vampire enters the office with a fresh stack of paper. He seemed eager for Alhaitham’s approval, even going as far as offering a pen out from his own pocket. However, this plan was foiled by a simple rise of hand by the male lead. 

The universal signal for rejection. 

The guest seemed dumbstruck. The only explanation the silver-haired lead gave was a simple gesture toward a clock. The guest’s hands were moving frantically as if to convey the urgency of the papers piled up.

However, Alhaitham simply takes his coat from the back of his chair and shuts off the warm light. 

In the murky darkness, your eyes could just barely make out the silhouettes of two figures traversing out of the office. Oh, tonight’s episode has ended just on time as always. 

How shamelessly punctual that vampire is. Some might even call it selfish. But what’s wrong with being selfish? After all, all true passions in life in the end are thinly veiled excuses for selfishness. 

If life wanted to be shamelessly selfish, then why can’t you? With that, it seems one voice has finally emerged victorious. 

Your fingers crept towards a button just off to the side, a quiet ding resounding as the bright glow flashed. Breaths counting the minutes before a set of footsteps stopped in front of your room, followed by a polite knock. 

“Is there something you need, ma’am?”

“Yes, I want to discharge myself tomorrow, as soon as possible.”

Your eyes traced over the too-long string of zeros printed on the check, hands wanting to crumble up the slip of paper. So this is how much your life was worth. Standing outside the Bimarstan, you peered up at the tall building that once caged you. 

Were the administrators looking down at you at this moment from their high offices? Were they watching your reaction to their little bribe? Pushing you to keep your lips shut, so that their mistakes and misjudgments won’t reach the ears of the press? 

It doesn’t really matter now, but it was thoughtful of them to hand out an extra bargaining chip. Refocusing your attention back on the building just across the street, there were still some preparations to finish.  

–

The time was now 6:30 pm, the sun has ran off into the night allowing for the stars to guide you back to the building just beyond the glass.

A simple bag held your offerings: proof of identity, property documents, doctor's notes, and bank statements handsomely topped off with the help of a certain check. 

There’s a jitter in your legs as you stood just beyond the threshold of the sliding doors. Is it really the right thing to do?

What would be the look on the faces of your dearest friends?

Would the handsome stranger show last night’s gesture to you too? 

Your lungs steadily filled with the crisp air, pushing their capacity almost to the point of pain, you exhaled. 

The right thing to do is to be selfish, they’ll understand sooner or later, and the worst thing he could do is say no.

Even if you leave with your cheeks burning in shame, the burn would only last seven years. Your feet stepped past the threshold and the glass doors parted. 

“Excuse me, is Mr. Alhaitham here tonight?” You already knew the answer. 

“Hm? Yes… Are you looking for him, youngster?” The receptionist quirks a brow at you. 

“Yes, I want to schedule a contract consultation with him right now.” You take note of her name tag. 

“Hold just one moment, the secretary-”

“Is his schedule occupied right now?” 

“No, but if you’d let me finish, Alhaitham isn’t one of the vampires that usually accept such-”  

“Please, Madam Faruzan?” 

You weren’t sure if it was the polite address of her name or the plead in your gaze that was the cause of the decisive furrow between her brows. However, her shoulders slumped forward as a huff leaves her lips. 

“Alright, please follow me.” She gestures a hand, welcoming you to the elevator just behind the desk. 

“Thank you.” 

Within the confines of the fancy cart, the blue-haired vampire asks over and over if you had all the correct documents, listing each one out. Your skilled ears tuned every word out, nodding along to feign attention. Finally, the saving grace of a pleasant ding signals the chart’s stop at its destination. 

When the polished doors slid apart, you charged out into the floor, your legs guiding you to the office with the clearest view of your old glass cage.

From behind you, Faruzan called out your name as she mutter something about how humans these days are always in just a rush. Your ears could care less about her words. 

Gallivanting through the threshold of his open office door, you finally came face to face with the male lead you’ve been fawning over.

As his eyes meet yours, you observed the brilliant shades of teal and ocher in them. Really, the view from across two panes of glass couldn’t detail his true beauty. 

“Hello, Mr. Alhaitham.” You beamed your best smile. 

The pattering of steps behind you comes to a stop as Faruzan finally catches up exasperated at your impatience. 

“Secretary Alhaitham, this young lady here would like to make a blood contract with you.” 

The weight of his teal gaze shifted back on your frame after your late introduction, assessing the situation as you awaited his response. 

“I see.” He nods while walking out from behind the desk, pulling out the chair in front of it.

The receptionist took her cue to leave the room, shutting the office door on the way out. The room now balanced with just one mortal and one immortal. 

You paid no mind to his words as you settled down into the seat, after all, you’ve already read through them. Instead, your ears absorbed his timbre tone and smooth cadence. What a dangerously beautiful voice, it’s beckoning you towards the murkier waters. 

“What are your demands?” 

“Marry me.” Your lips blurted the truth out before shame got the chance to stop them.

Remember, the worst he could do is to show you the door. 

–

In truth, you were preparing yourself to see the open palm of his large hand as he rejects your ridiculous proposal. Yet, here you were, still in his office. Sitting just across the expanse of his dark oak desk, all your documents scattered across it as Alhaitham’s pen guided across a form. 

“What are the living arrangements you expect?” He doesn’t glance up from the paper.

“Mm… Would moving into your home be possible? Married couples usually live together.” 

“That’s possible. Expectations for domestic and financial responsibilities?” 

“I can’t work, so I don’t mind taking care of the house. But, I do want us to share some chores, so I don’t go insane.” You wonder if the ends of his lips would curl at your humor.

“I see.” The pen continues to record the sentences down on the form. 

You kept the smile up despite the sting of failure. 

“So… How much blood do vampires need?” Best to move on. 

“It depends. Humans can give at most two pints of blood safely, and only once every two months.”

“You only need to feed once every two months?”

“Yes, would that be an issue?” 

Lips parted, your next sentence dangles just off the tip of it. However, it seems that Alhaitham had already read them. 

“Mortal medicine has no effect on our bodies.” 

“Are there any restrictions on affection? Any personal boundaries?” You pivoted to another question. 

The pen stops for a moment, his teal eyes shifting off the paper for just a brief moment as he evaluates numerous scenarios, or at least that’s what you think he’s doing. 

“Deep kisses are not permitted.” Alhaitham’s teal eyes pierced straight into yours as he delivered the verdict. 

It’s silly really, you really don’t have the right to demand an ounce of touch from him, you aren’t entitled to his personal space. However, something still made your stomach sink. 

“Oh?... May I ask why?”

“There runs the risk of blood contamination through exchanging saliva, our incisors are quite sharp.” 

Oh. You read between the lines he penned down. The most sacred law of this age, a time where mortals and immortals walk alongside each other: vampires cannot turn humans into immortal beings. 

He’s being precautious, after all the price he’d have to pay for a drop of his blood tainting yours is far greater than anything you could offer. Yet, the greed deep within you wouldn’t stay silent. 

“Are closed-mouth kisses okay then?” Haggling the clauses like you were at a market stall. 

Once more the pen stops as he contemplates your bargain. 

“Yes.” 

“The contract has been submitted to the legal department. If you pass the evaluation, it’ll be approved by the end of this month. I look forward to your cooperation.” 

And with his disembodied voice over the phone, he accepts your proposal. Alhaitham agreed to play the role of your husband. The anticipation that weighed down your shoulders for the past three days was finally lifted. Hopefully he can’t hear your idiotic grin through the phone. 

Success. 

—

“No, I won’t accept this.” Dehya slams her glass down, unfazed by the glances from surrounding tables. 

“Please reconsider your decision.” Candace gives you her disapproving gaze. 

Shifting your eyes over to Nilou, poor sweet Nilou whose wide eyes could only convey the word ‘why?’. The interrogation after showing the ring to your dearest friends was much more intense than the evaluation you underwent to get the marriage approved. 

However, it’s to be expected. After all, two of the people at this table were hunters. If anyone knew the true brutality vampires hold, it would be them. 

Tapping on the screen of your phone to reveal the time. Of course, you won’t arrive at this negotiation unprepared. Glancing back up to face the counsel of your friends, a honeyed smile on your lips. 

“Would you guys have the time to accompany me to a doctor’s visit?” 

–

That took longer than you expected, walking out of the sliding glass doors which reflect the everchanging hues of dusk. The cause for this extended session at the Bimarstan was the numerous times your dearest guests made the poor doctor repeat your verdict. 

Each time hoping that something different would leave his mouth. Peering up at the building across the street, you wonder if he’s getting ready to leave the house soon. 

The closing of the automatic doors draws your attention back to the three figures who followed behind you. Pensiveness eyes downcasted as their minds continued to digest the events that have unfolded. 

“Pfft! What’s with this atmosphere?” A giggle leaves your breath, it’s unbefitting for a gathering of friends. 

“I won’t force you to attend my wedding if you don’t want to. However, I’ll be quite the lonely bride without any bridesmaids.” There was your honeyed smile again.

They could say no, they could beg you to drink the first poison offered by the doctors, they could ask you to give them more time, to give yourself more time. But they won’t. You knew they won’t.

Unlike you, they’re selfless and heedful, all your fortune in life must’ve been spent on finding such dear friends. 

You’re the only selfish one. 

There are many things you like about Alhaitham. Even excluding his excellent physique, his starlight hair and beryl-citrine eyes, he’s got the perfect traits of a life partner. He satisfies all the aspects of the ideal husband. Never leaving you wanting or hungry. You could list all his positive traits.

–

One, by simply holding out a hand, he’ll place his black card onto your awaiting palm. Not even batting an eye when you returned home from a ‘simple grocery run’ in a new set of clothes with the tags still on.

When you mentioned to him that a TV would look nice on the empty living room wall, he ordered one on the same day. How dreamy. 

–

Two, he’s quite the interesting specimen. 

“So, if someone were to douse you with blessed water, your flesh won’t burn?” 

“No.” 

Alhaitham humors your ridiculous inquires about his species, enlightening you to just how inaccurate those films and shows you loved were.

He even humors the trivial anniversaries, celebrations, and dates inspired by any recent dramas you fancied. The wedding was proof enough: he tolerates your fantasies. 

–

Three, what you liked most of all: he’s too smart to ask redundant questions. After all, he’s read the files, he’s seen the diagnosis.

It’s not some secret that shall not be told, not a monster that shall not be named. Just like how there’s no point in telling someone the sky is blue, there’s nothing left to say about the doctor's notes.

No surprises, no sudden alarms, just the artificially sweet lull of domestic life. 

–

Performing the part of a doting husband with such spectacular accuracy, you could almost mistake it as sincere.

You applaud the amount of skill it takes. However, costars are meant to bring out the best in each other, pushing one another past their thresholds for an excellent show. 

The slightest blunders of lines and facial muscles couldn’t fool your expert gaze. It does take one to know one. 

–

“Haitham,” you called out. 

Setting down the two servings of biryani on the dinner table, the rich spices perfumed through the halls. It only takes one call for Alhaitham to come out from his library, halting for a second at the threshold of the kitchen before swiftly composing himself once more. 

“Dinner is ready, it’s biryani tonight.” You gestured for him to take a seat, a smile ever present on your lips. 

“Thank you.” He takes his place. 

You take your place just across the table, wasting no time enjoying the fruit of labor after standing over a stove. Every grain of rice perfectly coated in the right amount of seasoning, just the correct level of richness. The recipe you followed online deserved its high rating, it’s delicious. 

Traveling across the length of the dinner table, your leaden gaze landed upon the figure who has yet to touch his meal. That must’ve been enough for him to take his cue, bringing a spoon full into his mouth, chewing then shallowing. 

“How is it?” Resting an elbow on the polished oak.

“You’ve worked hard on this dish, thank you.” He takes another bite. 

Letting out a pleased hum, you released him from this scene. Turning your attention back to your own meal. 

You’ll clear your plate in about twenty more bites, and he’ll continue to push the contents of his plate around once in a while faking a bite. Then after you’re finished, he’ll swiftly offer to clear the table and dishes, telling you to retire to the bedroom for rest. 

A clever diversion from his ultimate goal of dumping your cooking into the trash. You’ve gone through this script for two years now. 

It’s practically impossible to completely suppress one’s true intentions and instincts. Alhaitham can’t fully prevent the corners of his lips from down-turning every time you address him with that botched nickname. 

He can’t entirely stop the sigh escaping his lips whenever you call for him to help with menial tasks, unbefitting for such a noble creature. 

He can’t suppress the repulsive scrunch of his nose every time your cooking assaults his palate, the same reaction witnessed during the bi-monthly feeding sessions.

The same disgust he has of your blood, you thought mortal medicines has no effect on such beings, an oversight on his part. 

He’s not as much of a mastermind as he might think, after all, he’s the one who allowed a piece of paper to be dangled over his head. Placing the power of clauses into the palm of your awaiting hand. 

You tell him ‘jump’, and he’ll ask how high with disdain thinly veiled behind brilliant teal.

Humans are defined by their curiosity and greed, mortal hands always playing chicken with a boundary, testing how far they could go. You’re not special enough to be different.

Perhaps the only time he gets the advantage is when you bare your neck for him. Fangs hastily piercing skin, hands a bit too harsh around the neck. He wants it to hurt, you know. 

Too bad, months spent at the hospital trained your tolerance to such sensations. 

If life wants to entangle its fingers into your hair and cruelly tow you to and fro, why can’t you enjoy that same feeling? You’ll just grasp at any wisp of control, you’re a simple human after all. You’d even grasp onto death to stable yourself.

Mortal self-interest versus immortal apathy, what a disastrous harmony. 

Ah, you slept a bit too long. Extended nap causing you to miss a scheduled cup of tea. Tapping a finger along the cool marble countertop you watched the kettle boil.

Frame resting against the counter, each tap against the marble was a futile attempt at distraction. Kalpalata Lotus’ effects can only last four hours, what a shame. 

The steady rhythm of taps interrupted now and then by a pulse of pain as the leaves steeped. Starting deep within your core then crawling it’s up to your lungs like a shadow overtaking a frail flower. 

This must be your warranted punishment for a transgression committed over the weekend. Dragging a creature of the night into the bright, unwelcoming sun all for a silly farmer’s market. Alhaitham’s slumped figure and worn tone were the cue. 

You thought vampires weren’t like how the drama portrayed them, but perhaps there’s some truth, an oversight on your part.

You played chicken with that boundary and got burned, how will you soothe the wounds of guilt now? 

Foregoing honey this time, you hastily swallowed the entire contents of the cup. No matter how fast you push the tea down your throat, no matter how many spoonfuls of honey you put into it: it’s unpalatable. 

The herbal tang dried the inside of your mouth, yet the bitterness made your salivary glands go into overdrive. This is what purgatory is like, huh? 

The chime of your ringtone snapped you back to reality. Glancing over at the screen: Candace. A call so late, she’s at work now, isn’t she?

Swiftly pushing down the bitterness that lingered, clearing your throat before accepting the call. 

“Hello?”

“Good evening, how are you feeling, any discomfort?” 

“Pfft! The diligent Candace gets on her phone during work just to check up on me? I’m swooned.” Your bell-like laughter made the pain worse as it rang through the empty house. 

From the other side, you could pick up the faint giggle, you envision her fighting back a smile. 

“Yes, yes. But more importantly, where are you now?” 

“Home, why? Did you want to visit? I got some baklava.” 

“Good, stay there.” There’s an instant switch to the mood. 

“Mm?” You hummed, passively acknowledging the tension. 

“Please stay inside. There’s a rouge vampire at large, hunters are scattered all throughout the city.” 

Leaving you with a cliffhanger, she knew you’d want a taste of the details. You’ll bite. 

“Oh? That serious, what did they do?” 

“He turned his lover.” 

Goosebumps ran up your neck in the perfectly tempered room. That vampire crossed the forbidden line in the sand, straight into the ocean of inevitable demise. 

The most sacred rule results in the most miserable end. Once caught, his chest will be pierced with silver, heart torn from his body. She doesn’t need to detail those, you already knew. 

“Oh?” 

“His lover has been located, they’re receiving treatment, unsure of the status. However, you should tell your husband to be careful.” 

“I should be saying that to you. Stay safe out there, he’s probably on his way back anyways.” Your eyes glanced at the clock, 11: 59 pm. 

“Alright, I will. You should really rest, it’s so late.” 

“Mm? Says you, Candace. Tell Dehya I said to stay out of trouble.” 

She hums in response. Right after you chimed your farewell and right before she disconnected the call, you slipped in one more line. 

“Please stay safe.” Addressed to no one person in particular. 

–

The hands on the clock now read 3: 21 am, a fresh cup of tea now rested in between your hands. Eye reflecting back at you, still no message, not a single call. His voicemail now ingrained into your ears. 

In an age where humans and vampires now live side by side, it’d be naive to believe that such arrangements are free from prejudice. After all, centuries of fear and hatred don’t just vanish into the air like the vapors of hot tea.

If a vampire is slain during a hunt, a creature unrelated to the true prey, oh well. 

It was for the greater good, it was to maintain the peace, to ensure humanity’s safety. You’re not in the mood to debate such flimsy excuses. 

–

It’s now 4: 34 am, the blushing hues of dawn were just about to creep through the curtains by the front door. Your legs begged for rest, your shoulders heavy, but you refused to leave your post. 

Finally, the clink of keys slotting into place sang through the entranceway. The heavy oak door opens, you don’t need to study his expression, he’s disappointed to see you. 

“Where’ve you been?” No chirp in your command. 

“I went drinking with coworkers.”

You know, you could smell it on him. 

“Why didn’t you call beforehand?”

Alhaitham doesn’t bother to suppress his deep exhale, nor the downward tug at his lips. Disdain meets disappointment, eyes and frowns locked into a staredown as the hands of a clock kept time.

In the peripheral you spot warm orange chasing away the pink, clearing the way for the most brilliant star. Oh, it looks like your wound wasn’t soothed enough. You closed your eyes. 

What went wrong with the script? 

You. 

It’s not selfishness, it’s plain immaturity. Immaturity breeds cruelty. The same immature cruelty of a curious child who ripped off the hypnotically beautiful wings of a butterfly. 

Perhaps the corruption of your tissues has made its way into your personality, an unforeseen consequence of that herbal tea. Or maybe your transgressions were the influence of a green-eyed monster. Immortality gives him an overabundance of what you’re deprived of. 

But it’s not his fault, it’s not an unseen monster’s fault, it’s your immaturity that’s ruining this performance. 

This just won’t do. With the script going awry long ago, there’s no use in trying to follow it, the two of two should conserve your energy.

It’s best to rewrite it again, to say lines that’ll move the scene along in the right direction, to save this domestic drama. You’ll be the first to fold. 

“My life’s too short for misunderstandings and messy communication,” you huffed. 

Lids opening back up to catch his gaze again, restrained and artificially blank as always. Still, he’s got beautiful eyes. 

“I’m your wife, and you’re my husband.” You stated the obvious.

Alhaitham knows that, so his lips remain still.

“So when my husband, who usually arrives home at half past midnight on the dot, didn’t arrive home until dawn without a single text or call, I got worried.” 

Another deep exhale from him. 

“You don’t need to report every movement to me, I don’t want that either. But if you plan on staying out please give me a simple text, so I don’t have to spend hours worrying about why my husband isn’t answering my calls.” 

The discoloration under your eyes, the slump of your heavy shoulders, and the unsteadiness of your knees. He’s observing them all, isn’t he? A pro-actor accesses the situation before deciding how to respond to an ad-lib. 

“I understand, I’ll do that from now on,” he answers. 

What a typical response for him, but maybe not so much for a husband. 

“You’re supposed to apologize, ya know: ‘I’m sorry, I’ll do better next time, my wife’,” you advised. 

“I’m sorry, I’ll do better next time, my wife,” he parroted. 

You’ll suppress your giggles for now, this successful pivot of a dreadful scene caused a grin to break out on your face. One that reaches your eyes. 

Arms outstretched you wrapped them around his neck as your lips warmed up his cool cheek, tying the ending together with repetition that’s now become a habit. 

“Welcome home, Haitham.” 

“Closed… for construction?...” Your eyes trailed across the bolded letters. 

The grand garden was blocked off by iron gates and mossy stonewalls, path dimly lit by dull streetlamps. 

It’s your third anniversary, to celebrate a new chapter, a reworked script, you planned this special itinerary. The Pardis Dhyai was the grandest garden in all of Sumeru, and they offered night tours. It was perfect, but it seems that you miscalculated.

“It’s negligence on their part for not having this notification on their website.” Alhaitham’s baritone voice draws you from your thoughts. 

You must look so idiotic right now. Getting all dressed up and even coaxing him from the comfort of the house just to bring Alhaitham to a wall. You didn’t fight the slump of your shoulders, the fires of shame licked at your cheeks. You feel the weight of his teal eyes. 

“The street market is open tonight, would you like to go there instead?” 

What a good husband, stepping in to remedy his wife’s mistakes. Finally gathering the courage to connect with his gaze, you notice the faint twitch of his nose as a breeze passed by. 

“Do you not like flowers?” 

“Their fragrance is overbearing.” 

Recalling the times you’ve shoved an excessive bouquet in front of his face during previous anniversaries, the familiar burn of guilt crept up your back. You just can’t do anything right tonight, huh? 

“There’s no point in standing around.” He stretched out a hand towards you, palms waiting. 

“... Heh, it’s a good thing it’s closed then huh, Haitham?” Placing your warm hand into his cold grasp, a meek smile stretches your lips. 

Alhaitham hums in response, mercifully guiding you in the direction of the night market. As you walked along the dimly illuminated path, your eyes traveled back to the stonewall once more, its height towering even over your husband. 

“I’ve never visited this place before… what a shame…” The comment slipped your tongue before you could bite it back. 

Alhaitham promptly stops, turning back to glance between you and the mossy wall. The lullabies of crickets filled the nothingness, much like they did during the wedding night. The smile on your face grew tighter, he must think you’re whining. 

“Woah??-” 

Before you could conquer up a line to transition from this scene, Alhaitham had released your hand, only for his arms to hoist you off the ground.

Tender hold balancing you against his firm frame, you had to tilt your neck down to look at his face. Following the subtle motion of his head you looked in the same direction, eyes widening as realization dawned upon you. 

The garden wall towered over the two of you, but as one, you were able to peer over the craggy barrier that once blocked your view. Wind blowing the floral fragrance over your face unobstructed. 

“What do you see?” The deep vibrations of his chest resonate against your body.

There was no one here tonight. Just a husband and wife enjoying a moment so private, not even the moon dare intrude. Sweetness meddling with bitter guilt, crafting something bittersweet.

“Flowers…very beautiful flowers,” you answered, gazing beyond the stones. 

“It’s a garden after all.” 

“Pfft!”

The contrast between this gentle scene and his curt response pushes a laugh from your breath. 

Patting his arm, you signaled for him to place you down, and carefully he follows your instruction. Once your feet touched the solid earth again, you pressed your face into his shoulder. 

“Thank you,” you whispered. 

“It’s our anniversary.” The justification of his actions. 

“Of course… now let’s go, I want to try the samosas there!” The brightness returns back to your lips. 

This time, you lead the way. Warm hands mingle with his cold ones, creating a comfortable temperature as you gallivanted along as one. Under the moonless sky, you told him your first true lie, a full lie. 

–

How troublesome, you said you’d clean the library tonight. Looking around at the piles of books littered all throughout and the coating of dust. If only a nap didn’t eat away at the day, then maybe you wouldn’t be so pressed for time. 

Oh well, rolling up your sleeves to begin your promised duty. No use in mulling over it, and no use in blaming the nap either. It’s to be expected, after all, tea time is now every three hours. 

Alhaitham’s collection of books is nothing to scoff at, in fact, you’re willing to wager his collection rivals those of academic archives.

How long did it take for him to gather them? What criteria must they fit to catch his interest?

Small inquiries bloomed through your thoughts as each journal slid back into its rightful shelves. 

It can’t be helped. Finally, after four years, you’re now allowed past the threshold of his library. The last corner of the house which was wholly his. You’re allowed a glimpse into his sanctuary. The exhilaration from this privilege was enough to outweigh the tediousness. 

Eyes switching back and forth between the two covers currently in your hands. So focused on deciding between which shelves to place them your ears failed to pick up the poised footsteps coming your way. It took a pair of adamant hands on your shoulders to wake you from these thoughts

“Why weren’t you at the door?” A familiar baritone voice.

Oh, you weren’t mindful of the time at all. Meeting teal irises as you glanced back over a shoulder, not missing the ghost of a furrow between his brow. Alhaitham isn’t one who’s fond of deviations from a practiced script. 

“Sorry, sorry I got caught up in these books.” You couldn’t help but giggle. 

Placing the books back down and spinning around, cradling his face between your warm palms, you carefully placed a kiss on his cold lips. 

“Welcome home, Haitham.” You whispered against them. 

Alhaitham hummed as his eyes closed, savoring the sensation of your warmth transferring to him. How unbefitting of such a noble creature, melting into the touch of a mere mortal. What a beautiful view to witness, so lovely in fact, a certain phrase clawed its way to the tip of your tongue. 

“I...” You waited for his brilliant beryl eyes to reveal themselves again.

The soft trills of crickets creep in through the window, a call back to a night when an executive decision was reached by both parties to remove necessary lines from the script.

“… wonder if you collect books in place of company.” You’ll heed their warning. 

There was a sigh that filled the distance between you. 

“They’re great stimulants for the mind, perhaps you should read some.” No hesitation in his sardonic counter to your playfulness. 

“Pfft! Haitham, I can’t read half of these languages.” 

 It’ll be redundant to reinstate such words into a script that wasn’t written for it no? A part of you wonders if the quip was supposed to be a diversion from the faint downward pull of his lips.

The windows were cracked ajar allowing the crisp night breeze into the sanctuary of the bedroom, the new air circulating through helped push out the stuffiness. However, Summer was always too hot for you.

“Haitham.” Under the glow of a waxing moon, your hands reached out. 

Soon, the cool cheeks of your husband settled into the space between your palms, taking away the excess heat. You brought him closer, allowing your foreheads to touch. 

To never be bothered by the polar extremes of temperature, how nice it is to be born of the supernatural. 

“Mmm… It’s been a while, aren’t you hungry?” You broke the comfortable silence. 

“I’m fine.” Two firm arms pulled you closer. 

His gray lashes were still shut, concealing away the teal stained with hints of scarlet. A tell-tale sign. It’s about five years too late for him to lie to you. Like a stubborn child refusing to take his medicine, where did the arrogant vampire go?

It’ll be best to change tactics, everything must have its fair compensation, a principle Alhaitham follows to its core. Sliding your hands away from his face and down along the contour of his body as your face rests into the crook of his neck.

“It’s really hot tonight.” Warm palms sneaking under the barrier of a shirt. 

There’s a hiss that sounds next to your ear as two hands firmly grasp your hips. Emboldened by his reaction, your hands continued to explore his sculpted frame, icy skin stealing away the warmth that smothered you. Alhaitham’s fingers kneaded your hips in contemplation. Moving closer to his ear, your breath ghosted over them. 

“Haitham, can you make it go away?” The final push. 

A deep growl reverberated against his chest, a sign of his surrender to your whims. A gasp is knocked out of your lips as your back meets with the plush mattress. This time two icy palms traversed the sweltering outline of your skin, goosebumps trailing behind his every touch. 

You hummed at the sensation as his hands travel further up, pushing the troublesome fabric of your shirt out of the way, exposing your soft breast to the air. A moan slipped off your tongue as Alhaitham gropes at the soft mounds, placing a kiss in the valley between them, cold fingers playing with the nipples now perked. 

Wrapping your legs around his solid frame, your hands tugged at the shirt that blocked your view of his godly body. A silent whine for him to take it off, and like the good husband he is, Alhaitham complies. In return, your shirt was also stripped from your frame, a fair trade. Cheeks stained red from shame your mind was too muddled to process, you blame it on the heat. 

More icy kisses trailed along your chest and neck, as cool fingers sneaked under the waistband of your shorts. His icy touches land straight against your puffy lips, labia glistening with slickness. You flinched at the sudden temperature change against your pussy, and his hand twitched at the small surprise. 

“Wet already, and nothing underneath…” Alhaitham’s baritone voice reports his finding against your ear. 

“Mmm,�� you sounded out, shivering at the combination of his voice and teasing fingers. 

“How lewd.” 

“You don’t like it?”

Instantly, a stiff mass was pressed against the softness of your thighs. 

“Do I seem displeased?” 

Entangling your fingers into ashen locks, you let a giggle flutter your chest against his. Two hearts beating on opposite sides. Shorts pulled off the length of your legs and kicked to the side, leaving you bare underneath his mercy.

Rolling your hips against his cool palms to generate some friction, your clit begging for an ounce of attention. A quick slap against the sensitive bud jolts your body as you moan, a swift punishment for your impatience. 

As if to soothe the lingering sting, his fingers circle the bundle causing your legs to shiver as pleasure runs up them. Your folds release more of their essence, Alhaitham’s fingers collect it, tracing your entrance with fleeting touches. The heat engulfing your body was beginning to become too much, your walls clenching around nothing desperately. Your legs pull him closer, attempting to spur on the tempo. 

Your feeble strength is nothing against his, Alhaitham effortlessly pulls away from your trap. A whine left your throat as even his ashen locks freed themselves from your grasp. 

“Shh, let me have a taste first.” He pulls you toward the edge of the bed. 

Vascular hands gripping onto your thighs, spreading them open to allow him unobstructed access to your dripping greed. A firm hold denies you the opportunity to slither away from the cool breaths hitting your pussy lips. 

Alhaitham’s tongue teases its way between your folds, collecting your escaped honey into his mouth as he releases a satisfied grunt. Licking stripes along your pussy, cool lips brushing against your sensitive clit. Your fingers found their way back to his silken locks, the back of your hand blocking your mouth. 

Objecting against your cruel act of denying him the privilege of your moans, a finger was abruptly thrusted into your soaked walls with a squelch, causing your back to arch off the sheets. Hand no longer able to withhold the sinful sounds from his awaiting ears. 

  Another finger soon makes its way into your gummy walls, sliding to curl against that one spot deep within before sliding out and repeating. All the while his lips closed around your delicate bud, suckling and abusing it with his brutish tongue. 

He was supposed to cool you down in this unbearable heat, yet your body only burned more under his ministration. Your walls desperately clenched down as your fingers tightened their hold on his ashen hair, trying to find any perch for your sanity to cling to. 

Your actions only spurred him on, harsh sucks to your swollen clit and fingers increasing their pace. He wanted to ravish you wholly, to leave you a mess beyond saving. White flashes shoot up your trembling legs still held apart by his iron grip. If he continues then you might really fall beyond the grace of help. 

“S-slower.”

Your slurred speech must’ve made your words incoherent, as Alhaitham only added more force behind his movements. Your slicked walls clenched around his fingers as they continued to pinpoint your weak spot, the messy licks and sucks at your clit causing the knot in your core to grow tighter and tighter. Or maybe your husband is just too famished to know mercy. 

Back raising off the bed, no matter how hard your fingers cling onto his hair and the messy sheets you couldn’t stop the fall off the edge as your eyes saw the back of your head. A broken moan resounded through the room. Hopefully, it’s too late for anyone on a late-night stroll past the open window. Every fiber of your being shivering and nerve overwhelmed with hot flashes of pleasure. All the while Alhaitham’s tongue never stopped its torture. 

Laying bonelessly upon the ruined sheets, hands limp by your side. Your chest heaves trying to remember how to breathe as a large figure looms over you. Your quivering pussy reluctantly released his fingers as a string of slick connected them.

Unfocused eyes watch as your husband’s tongue cleans the essences off, making sure to clean every inch. 

You felt so empty inside, the heat between your legs only escalating as your walls clenched around nothing. Was it the heat or pleasure that’s melting your mind? You don’t know and were too desperate to care. You wanted relief from the heat and judging by the hard shape pressed into your thigh, he needed relief too. 

Wordless your nimble fingers reached down, curling over the waistbands of his pants and boxers you pulled them down. Finally freeing his cock, it slaps against his naval as the leaking precum spears across his exposed skin. Playfully, your finger toys with his swollen tip, gathering up the precum as a hiss leaves his clenched teeth.

Making sure to look directly into his piercing eyes, you brought the finger into your mouth. Swirling your tongue around the digit and then pulling it out from your lips with an audible pop. 

Your shameless behavior earned you a guttural growl from Alhaitham, soon your hand was pinned above your head. His face was just inches away, the brilliant teal of eyes now wholly glazed over with crimson. Everyone is warned to never play with fire, but it’s just too addicting to resist. 

“Brazen girl,” he snarls. 

You countered with a grin, cheeks a deep red, but what’s there to hide from someone who’s laid you bare numerous times before? 

Sucking in a gasp as his thick tip rubbed against your negligent folds, your leaking walls trembling with anticipation. Longing for the stretch only he could offer you.

“Beg.”

Of course, nothing ever comes easily when it comes to him. Self-control honed by years of experience, all held by the iron grip of his analytical mind. A battle you’ll never win, so it’s best to sacrifice your self-respect in favor of your aching pussy. A fool for pleasure, gone far beyond the point of saving. 

“Please… I want you to ruin me… please ruin me.” Sinful words rolling off your tongue. 

Words that finally snapped the last thread of self-restraint Alhaitham had, instantaneously his hips met yours. Your gummy walls, long ingrained in his shape, welcomed the familiar stretch, clamping down as a wet slap resounded through the room. Alhaitham pushed his cock in further, pinning your body deeper into the mattress, hissing at the heat that engulfed his length. 

Your mouth falls open, pleasure shooting through overstimulated nerves, the bed creaking underneath you as his hips pulled away just to snap back. Setting a more punishing pace than usual, the bed shook in protest as your pussy welcomed each thrust, slick walls wrapping around his girth.

Moans flowed out of your mouth like how water flows through rivers, any semblance of embarrassment drowned out by molten pleasure. Two bodies connecting and mingling together to create a private heaven. 

Alhaitham’s hand abandons its grip on your wrist in favor of getting more leverage on your hips, purple marks promising to appear in the morning.

Before your muddled mind could process it, icy lips crashed into your plush ones, a tongue crossed the line. Sloppy and hungry was how his mouth devoured yours. Tongues clashing and dancing as he shallows each moan of yours. 

He pulls away momentarily as you took the opportunity to steal a few breaths. Scarlet-hazed eyes observe the transgression just committed before his lips moved back to reconnect with yours.

It’s clear he doesn’t give a damn about that arbitrary rule anymore. Why must forbidden acts always feel so good? 

Free hands now found purchase on his broad back, nails digging into the smooth skin trying to balance out the onslaught of pleasure invading every fiber of your being. Legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper into the sheets with you never once interrupting his savage pace.

Your attempts at staving off your independent orgasm were futile, teary eyes rolling back as your walls clenched and your body shook. 

Alhaitham released your lips in time to savor the broken symphony of a moan leaving your throat, the sheets underneath you a soaking mess, proof of your fall from cloud nine.

Despite this, your husband doesn’t slow down in the slightest. The sight in front of him only heightened the hunger in his eyes. 

The solid oak bed frame swayed in time with the pistoning of his thrust, tight walls clamping down yet giving no resistance as his thick tip continued to bully that sweet spot. His chilly breath against your nape, tongue running a wet trail to prepare the area. Sensations your melted mind could barely register.

His fingers dig deeper into your hips as he pulls them flushed against his, thick cock pressing further into your wanton core. 

A sharp prick shoots up your nape before the sensation of your walls being filled beyond capacity distracts from it. Your pussy pitifully attempts to suck in every last drop before succumbing, letting his essence join yours in making a mess of the sheets. Trembling hands run along his muscular back, pulling him closer to your heaving chest. 

Your pants counted in time with the hands of a clock, shards of your sanity slowly returning to you as gulps moved down Alhaitham’s throat. With a satisfied sigh, his incisors released your neck, tongue lapping over the escaped drops of scarlet.

Slowly pulling away from your embrace, his untainted teal eyes scan over you. Hair fanned out behind you, chest still heaving, and cheeks still violently flushed. You must look absolutely ruined, just as you asked of him. 

Carefully, he pulls out from your gummy walls, trembling walls allowed to gather their senses again. Detangling your legs from him with tender hands he repositions your droopy body comfortably along plush pillows. 

Humming in gratitude as you rolled onto your stomach, face buried into the luxurious pillows which held his opulent scent. The aftermath of passion gradually faded away from recovering nerves. The space next to you dips down as his frame joins you, a cool hand resting along the curve of your back. 

The soft sways of leaves in the night breeze, slowing pants, and the sweet lull of nothingness filled the air of this private haven. Two hearts, one mortal and one immortal, beating together.

“Would you want more time?” Came a question that broke the silence.

A hushed invitation slipped to you behind the watchful eyes of the divine. A lure towards deep waters by his beckoning voice. 

Perhaps your curiosity has influenced him as well. All your innocent inquiries must’ve muddled the line, question after question brushing away at the definition until misunderstanding took its place.

This won’t do. Your time is too short and his time too precious to be wasted on miscommunication.

Since it was you who muddled the line, it shall be you who reestablishes it. 

“I was born a human,” you began.

Pausing to enjoy the feeling of his cool fingers drawing unknown shapes into your back and the gentle vibrations of his hum. 

“I will die as one.”

With those simple words, the line was once again clearly drawn in the sand.

Separating you from him, and him from you. Just as the laws of morals, nature, and this world dictated. 

After all, it was you who said: “For a fraction of your time, I’ll give you all of mine”. Not the other way around. The price he’d have to pay is far greater than anything you’re willing to sacrifice.

No, you’re too selfish for that.

Under a waning moon, the market was lively tonight. Bright lanterns and stringed lights challenged the radiance of the sky’s stars. The twinkling momentarily distracts your mind from the cries of your muscles and the aches of your bones. 

What a simple thing you are, or perhaps you’re just a human in the purest sense. So entranced by the beauty of a rose, it distracts from the sting of thorns.

Such drab comparisons have no place in your thoughts tonight. 

As if to run away from them, your legs moved with volition, weaving in and out of the surges of crowds with clumsy grace, some haggling, some laughing, some yelling. 

Glazing up at the moon above, it was as if she was following your every step, watching, judging the performance of this daydream.

It wasn’t long before the volition faded away as you slowed to a halt, lung greedily trying to hog all the air they could. A herbal scent found its way to your senses, a quick glance to your left confirms your suspicions. 

It looks like your legs couldn’t carry you far enough in the end. Stopping right in front of a display of dried Kalpalata Lotuses, the moon must be laughing right now. 

You weren’t sure which one tasted more bitter, the herb or the irony.

Straightening your posture back up, ready to push through the burn of your muscles once more before a cold grasp grounded you back into reality. 

Whipping your head around, bewildered eyes connected with placid teal. There was a furrow in the brows that framed the hypnotic azure.

“Don’t go where my hand can’t reach.” Alhaitham’s atonal voice carried over the chatter of the streets. 

Bringing your husband out of the house, only to then leave him alone in a sea of people. What a capricious wife you are.

Perhaps Alhaitham foresaw this exact situation, that’d explain the recent spike in his reclusiveness. Seeing this, a giggle bubbled up in your throat. 

“Oh?~ Someone’s been watching my dramas. Where’d you learn that line from?” 

As he sighs your giggles only increased, cold fingers loosening around your wrist. 

“It’s exceptionally crowded tonight, be mindful of your surroundings.” 

You simply nodded along, a sign to him that you’re only absorbing half of his words, another sigh from him and another giggle from you. 

“A bag of Kalpalata Lotuses for the two of you tonight as well?” The vendor, ready with a fresh paper bag, intrudes on this raillery. 

Your lips pressed into a thin line, silencing your giggles as your eyes trailed over the dulled hues of the dried herb. 

Four hours went to three went to two and now down to one. Each cup becoming more and more unpalatable. There comes a point when a bucket can longer keep a sinking ship afloat, perhaps it’s better to gaze upon the starry night as one disappears under the waves.

“Actually… Padisarah tea tastes better, I want a bag of that instead.” A honeyed smile dawned upon your lips as you glazed back up at him. 

Alhaitham parts his lips, a response ready to fall off his tongue, but he closes them just as swiftly. Returning a hum of acknowledgment at your request, handing over the mora in exchange for the bag of dried Padisarah. 

Your attention has already shifted away from this scene, eyes avoiding the dull hues, finally landing upon wood carved with much creative liberty. There’s enough space for another sculpture no? It’d be nice to add more company to the home. 

Before the muscles in your legs could budge, a hand twitched, reminding you of the loose hold still around your wrist. 

A good partner should respect the wishes of their spouse. Warm fingers slide into the space between cold ones, intertwining like the lights above with the sky.

All it took was a soft tug for a human to move a vampire through the bustling crowd. 

A common phrase uttered to unwell patients is ‘mind over body’.

However, there’s only so much the body can take before it rebels against the mastermind.

Even your own body had enough of your selfishness. 

Protest taking the form of wheezes, lethargy, and that piercing ache forever present deep within. You were always the one to toe the line, pushing your luck to the limits and beyond, only stopped by a towering wall. 

It’s time to lay rest under silken sheets and plush pillows. Something you’ve been doing very often these days. Perhaps your body is just practicing for the ending.  

The cumbersome duvet fails to capture the wisps of warmth only a Sumerian Summer can offer, it fails to prevent the chill from penetrating deep into your every bone.

Dull senses alert you to a shift in weight on the mattress. Fighting against the leaden weight of your lids, you opened your eyes to the sight of your husband.

Ashen hair slightly trussed and button down wrinkled as his frame lays next to yours. He must have come here straight from the door, a once-practiced tradition slowly faded away much like strength from your limbs. 

The muscles on his face relaxed, neutral by default, yet his eyes were downturned much like the corners of his lips.

Your husband must be deep in thought. His thumb is digging into his palm again, it seems that Alhaitham has developed a new habit. Hazy eyes carefully focused on how the nail threatened to break the surface of his palm.

That’s no good. 

Ignoring the exhaustion, you slipped your fingers in between his, shielding his palm from the assaults of his thumb, settling into a gentle embrace as two rings clinked together.

The weight of a teal gaze centers on you.

“My husband is such a handsome actor.” Breathy voice barely a whisper. 

Chest protesting against your action with wheezes, but you needed to finish this script, it's what a co-star should do.

“You don’t have to play this role anymore.” Exposing your neck to him as your lashes fluttered shut, it was time to pay your dues. 

Much like the clauses written on parchment signed by two names, the ending of this script must be followed, your body already taking its cue.

At least the doctors were accurate this time, how punctual your body is. 

A brisk breath brushed against your nape, skin reacting with a trail of goosebumps as you feel the presence of sharp incisors draws near before grazing against your delicate neck. Your mind counts back, ready for the final pierce of pain to come. 

Three… Two… The pressure of his fangs disappears from your skin. Replaced by the touch of gentle lips.

Opening your eyes with confusion and lost anticipation, you were met with stoic eyes.

“You don’t have to hold yourself back.”

“I’m not holding myself back,” Alhaitham answers without the slightest pause.

Your chest wheezes once more at your lung’s clumsy attempt at gathering a breath.

“What a silly vampire,” you giggled, the crimson hues were obvious even to your dimming vision. 

After the numerous questions you asked and the innumerable answers he gave these past seven years, you still couldn’t fully comprehend him. Neither of you were the masterminds you thought you were, huh? 

In the end, both of you were fools trying to perform a stage play.

Your mind ponders this revelation as Alhaitham tugs the covers up your body, gentle hand running along your body through the thick fabric barrier. 

The faint ticks of a clock pull a buried secret from the guard sanctuary of your thoughts, dusting off the obscurity to reexamine the details in full clarity.

What was the end of the path like? Well, just like the scene blocked off by a garden wall under that moonless night, it’s all the same.

Maybe tonight you’ll tell him the truth.

What was over that wall? With its stones piled high and with moss creeping through its crevices, a wall that only creatures born within the grace of an undecided god could peer past. What did it conceal?

Nothing.

A nothingness so empty, ultimate peace could reside. 

Seems like you’ve discovered something new in the end, you shameless fool. Death is nothingness in the end, a nothingness that fingers pass right through. 

So instead of holding on to nothing, you’d rather grasp a cold hand as nothingness envelopes you. He didn’t seem to mind. 

You wanted to tell this to the creature who humored your daydream for all these years. If he doesn’t want your blood then you could at least impart this priceless insight to him. 

Oh, it’s such a shame that your tongue just won’t move anymore. Instead, you’ll offer him a smile. In hopes that Alhaitham could decrypt the curvature of your lips with his seven years of experience. To translate your silent message into a language known to man with his lifetimes of wisdom. 

It’s all you could do to thank him for holding your hand as the dirge of Summer crickets fade out and the last first rays of a grieving sun kiss the horizon. The final wisp of warmth escaping down your cheek. 

Fin~

©️vivalabunbun DON’T PLAGIARIZE, REPOST, OR TRANSLATE ANY OF MY WORKS. 

[lilacura]

”Uh oh”

Pairing: no specific pairing tbh

Genre: College Au

Tw: idk humiliation?

Summary: As Y/N faced the aftermath of her accidental love letter revelation, she grappled with the unexpected turn of events, hoping that amidst the chaos, she might find a silver lining to this cringe-worthy chapter in her college life.

part 2

Y/N had always been a hopeless romantic, secretly harboring feelings for her four crushes: Huh Yunjin, Ahn Yujin, Kim Minjeong, and Kim Minji. In an attempt to express her emotions without revealing her identity, she poured her heart into love letters addressed to each of them.

One fateful morning, Y/N overslept and rushed to gather her assignments from her desk before dashing to class. Unbeknownst to her, the stack of love letters was mistakenly mixed in with her schoolwork. As fate would have it, her professor decided to read out the titles of the papers to the class.

Amid the sea of mundane titles, one stood out like a neon sign: "Confessions of the Heart." Y/N's eyes widened, and her heart plummeted as the professor began reading excerpts, unintentionally revealing the contents of her most intimate thoughts.

“Uh oh” Panicking, Y/N leaped from her seat and sprinted to the teacher's desk, desperately pleading for the return of her love letters. Despite her heartfelt apologies and promises of eternal gratitude, the professor remained adamant, refusing to spare her from the impending embarrassment.

The next day, Y/N's worst nightmare unfolded. Love letters meant for Huh Yunjin, Ahn Yujin, Kim Minjeong, and Minji were scattered throughout the school, each page revealing her deepest emotions. The once-private confessions were now public, and Y/N couldn't escape the stares, whispers, and giggles that followed her every step.

Her crushes, unsuspecting of the storm brewing around them, discovered the letters one by one. Y/N watched as they reacted with amusement, confusion, and occasionally exchanged glances with her. The embarrassment reached its peak as her high school became a stage for the unintentional romantic drama that unfolded. “Uh oh” said Y/N but this time it was filled with humiliation.

this was rlly short bc i’m gonna make a pt.2 if it does well 🙏🏼

who would you guys want to be the main on pt.2?

[lilmisssona]

｡𖦹° Brownie Battle ｡𖦹°

｡𖦹° Pairing - Felix × Fem Reader

｡𖦹° Plot - Felix is running late, leaving the kids quietly waiting for their dad. Deciding to take matters into your own hands, you attempt to bake brownies before he arrives, despite knowing nothing about baking. Chaos ensues as you quickly realize this might not go as planned.

｡𖦹° Genre - Comedy, Hurt, Fluff

｡𖦹° Warnings - Comedy, husband! Felix, dad! Felix, established relationship, mentions of control, hurt to comfort, fluff ,idol au

｡𖦹° Word Count - 6.7 K ｡𖦹° Screenshot Count - 1

｡𖦹° A/N - The fifth episode of Staymas is here with a mix of laughter, cozy moments, and lingering pain. Can this battle with the brownies be ever won ? Read to find out! ( This story is slightly proofread , so apologiez for any mistake 🙂‍↕️)

｡𖦹° SKZ Masterlist ｡𖦹° STAYMAS Masterlist

The clock on the wall struck 10:30 PM, its hands moving with an almost mocking slowness. Felix still wasn’t home, and worse, he hadn’t answered your texts. You glanced at your phone for the hundredth time, reopening the message thread filled with unanswered texts and a lone photo you had sent earlier of the kids, their faces bright with anticipation.

Nothing. Not even the faintest hint of “typing…” appeared beneath your last message. The screen stayed stubbornly blank, and you locked your phone with a frustrated sigh. Your fingers hovered over it again, tempted to call, but you stopped yourself. You didn’t want to seem pushy,or worse, distract him if he was still working. A new, darker thought crept into your mind, twisting your stomach. What if he was caught up in something he couldn’t control?

You pushed the phone away and leaned against the counter, gripping its edge as you forced yourself to stay calm. Felix had to be okay. He had to be. He never forgot this night. He loved it just as much as you and the kids did. He wouldn’t miss this on purpose, you repeated silently, holding on to the thought like a lifeline. But despite your efforts, the quiet ache of longing was settling deeper as you stared at the scene in front of you.

The kitchen looked like the aftermath of a festive explosion - flour dusted the countertop like fresh snow, cocoa powder smudged the edge of the recipe book, and eggs sat perilously close to tumbling over. Every ingredient you needed for your special Christmas brownies was there, waiting to be transformed into something magical. Yet, the most crucial part was missing: Felix.

His warmth, his laughter, his way of turning the most mundane moments into cherished memories, it was all absent. This tradition, the annual brownie-baking session, had started years ago when it was just the two of you in a tiny apartment with a second-hand oven that barely worked. What began as a simple attempt to add sweetness to your holidays became a ritual, a symbol of the love and joy that defined your family. Now, with two little ones running around, the tradition had grown even more special.

But tonight, the air felt heavier. The kitchen wasn’t as lively without Felix humming along to Christmas carols or playfully swiping flour onto your nose when he thought you weren’t looking. The silence stretched longer with each tick of the clock, broken only by the occasional squeals and giggles of your children, still brimming with energy despite the late hour.

“Is Daddy here yet?” your youngest asked for the fifth, or maybe sixth, time, tugging at the hem of your sweater. Their tiny voice was filled with hope, their wide eyes shimmering like ornaments on the Christmas tree.

“No, baby, not yet,” you said softly, crouching to meet their gaze. You brushed a strand of hair from their forehead, forcing a smile even as your heart tightened. “But he’ll be home soon. You know how much Daddy loves this night. He wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Your words felt more like a mantra to calm yourself than a promise. You knew Felix’s schedule was grueling, rehearsals that stretched into the early hours, endless performances, interviews, and the heavy weight of being an idol. You reminded yourself of everything he was doing for your family, for the life you had built together, but it didn’t make the waiting any easier. Tonight, all you wanted was for him to walk through the door and light up the room the way he always did.

You tried to be patient. You really did. But as the minutes crawled by, the waiting felt unbearable. The house was too quiet without Felix’s laughter echoing through the halls or the sound of his footsteps rushing to join you in the kitchen. The silence became deafening, broken only by the ticking clock and the occasional giggles of the kids, oblivious to the tension simmering beneath your calm exterior.

The nagging voice in your head, the one you tried so hard to silence, began to whisper, sharp and relentless.

He doesn’t prioritize you anymore

You’re just sitting around, waiting. Again

Why can’t you ever handle this on your own?

Your fists clenched tightly, nails digging into your palms as you struggled to shove the thoughts away. They weren’t true. They couldn’t be true. Felix loved you. He loved the kids. He would never miss this night on purpose. Yet the doubts crept in like shadows, growing harder to ignore.

The kids were watching you now, their bright eyes filled with unspoken questions. They didn’t understand why Daddy wasn’t home yet or why you kept glancing at the door every few minutes. Their innocence only deepened the ache in your chest. You couldn’t let them see your frustration. You couldn’t let them feel your disappointment.

“Okay,” you said suddenly, your voice cutting through the heavy silence. You stood up abruptly, brushing your hands on your apron as if to shake off your hesitation. The sudden movement startled the kids, who looked up at you with wide, curious eyes. “We’re not waiting anymore. Let’s make the brownies ourselves!”

The kids froze for a moment, exchanging surprised glances before their faces lit up with excitement. “Really, Mommy? Can we?”

“Yes,” you said, forcing a smile that you hoped looked genuine. “How hard can it be?” You grabbed the recipe card from the counter, clutching it tightly like it was your secret weapon.

The kids exchanged wary looks, their expressions a mix of skepticism and mild horror. “But you don’t bake,” one of them pointed out, crossing their arms like a miniature food critic.

“Don’t need to,” you shot back confidently, planting your hands on your hips like you were about to conquer the Great British Bake Off. “How hard can it be?”

Famous. Last. Words.

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

The first obstacle? Felix’s so-called baking notebook. It wasn’t a notebook, it was a chaotic, butter-smudged relic of culinary madness. The cover looked like it had survived a battlefield, and the pages were a disorganized mess of dog-eared corners, scribbles, and stains. Half the recipes were in Korean, the other half a confusing blend of shorthand, doodles, and what suspiciously resembled advanced calculus. You stared at the entry labeled Ultimate Fudgy Brownies, squinting at what might have been a measurement or a phone number.

“Whatever,” you muttered, snapping the book shut with a decisive thud. “We’ll wing it.”

“Wing it?!” The kids’ collective gasp could have been heard from space. They gawked at you as if you’d just suggested setting the Christmas tree on fire.

“Relax,” you said with a nonchalant wave, trying to mask your own rising panic. “It’s just brownies. How bad could it be?”

The kids, unfazed by your misplaced confidence, sprang into action, dragging stools and chairs to the counter. Their laughter bubbled through the room, and for a fleeting moment, the warmth of their joy muted the gnawing worry in your chest.

It can't be that bad, you thought.

Five minutes later, the kitchen resembled a chocolate-coated war zone. Flour floated through the air like confetti at a poorly planned party, cocoa powder smudged every visible surface, and sugar coated the floor like fresh snow. Even the cat, who’d foolishly wandered in, was now speckled with evidence of your culinary ambition.

The kids, who were supposed to be your helpful sous chefs, had gone rogue. A rolling pin and a spatula had been repurposed into makeshift lightsabers, and an intense Jedi duel raged in the middle of the disaster zone.

“Guys, focus!” you yelled, lunging to confiscate the rolling pin mid-swing before someone lost an eye. “This is serious business!”

One of them blinked at you, tilting their head. “You’re acting like you’re on MasterChef.”

“Maybe I am,” you shot back, slamming a mixing bowl onto the counter with dramatic flair. The clang silenced even the imaginary lightsaber sound effects. “And Gordon Ramsay would totally approve.”

Your youngest raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Pretty sure he’d say it’s raw.”

“Pretty sure you’re grounded,” you muttered, pointing a spatula at them like a teacher issuing detention.

With a deep breath, you turned to the recipe, or what little you could decipher of it. Flour? Check. Cocoa powder? Check. Eggs? Check.

“Alright, crack two eggs into the bowl,” you announced, trying to channel an air of competence.

Simple enough. Or so you thought.

You grabbed an egg and tapped it against the bowl’s edge. Nothing. You tapped harder. Still nothing. Finally, with a decisive whack, the egg shattered, sending yolk flying... directly into the sugar canister.

The kids collapsed in laughter as you stared at the sugary mess, stunned. “It’s fine,” you said, scooping out the yolk with a spoon like it was all part of the plan. “It’s all going to the same place anyway.”

The second egg fared slightly better, though you did spend an embarrassing amount of time fishing out bits of shell. Cracking eggs, you realized, was apparently a skill you’d taken for granted.

When it came time for the chocolate chips, the pantry betrayed you. The bag was empty, save for a few pitiful crumbs. Undeterred, you marched to the fridge and retrieved Felix’s prized dark chocolate, the one he treated like a sacred artifact.

“That’s Dad’s special chocolate,” your youngest whispered, their voice trembling with the gravity of the situation.

“Well,” you said, unwrapping the bar with exaggerated flair, “it’s special brownies now.”

The kids watched in stunned silence as you aggressively chopped the chocolate, the rhythmic thunk thunk thunk filling the room.

“Mom’s... kind of scary right now,” your eldest muttered under their breath.

“I heard that!” you snapped, pointing the knife in their direction before returning to your overly enthusiastic chopping.

With the chocolate finally added to the batter, you poured the wet ingredients into the dry, and the kids took turns stirring. Their initial excitement quickly gave way to complaints.

“It’s too thick!”

“My arm hurts!”

“Why does it look like cement?”

“It’s supposed to look like that,” you lied, wrestling the spoon from their tiny hands. The batter was dense enough to be classified as a construction material, but you pressed on, determined not to let this defeat you.

Next step: preheat the oven. Simple, right?

Except Felix’s high-tech oven seemed designed by NASA. The digital display was a labyrinth of buttons, bake, broil, convection, mystery symbols that could’ve been hieroglyphs. You pressed a few experimentally, only to accidentally activate the broiler. A wave of scorching heat blasted your face.

“What’s that smell?” one of the kids asked, wrinkling their nose.

“It’s... ambiance,” you said, waving a dish towel at the faint tendrils of smoke.

After a solid five minutes of trial and error (and muttered threats at the oven), the preheat function finally activated.

“Victory!” you declared, raising your arms in triumph.

The kids burst into applause, their small hands clapping as if you’d just climbed Everest. It was almost enough to make you feel accomplished, almost.

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

Finally, with a deep breath and a prayer to the dessert gods, you poured the lumpy, suspiciously mud-like batter into the pan. You gave it a determined shake, hoping to even it out, but it just glared back at you, stubbornly refusing to cooperate. Whatever. Perfection was overrated.

With oven mitts on both hands because safety first, you flung open Felix’s unnecessarily fancy oven like a warrior storming into battle. The pan slid in with a satisfying clunk, and you slammed the door shut as if sealing a vault. “There,” you declared, brushing flour off your shirt like a pro. “Now we wait.”

“Wait how long?” one of the kids asked, peering at the oven as if it might explode.

“Until it’s done,” you replied confidently, snatching the recipe card for reassurance. But Felix’s handwriting was as cryptic as ever, and you couldn’t tell if it said bake for 25 minutes or bake at 52 minutes.

“Uh... we’ll just... check on it,” you said, tossing the card aside with faux authority.

As the oven hummed and the rich smell of chocolate filled the air, an unwelcome memory surfaced: your ex, standing in your old kitchen, smirking as you botched dinner yet again.

“This is why I always cook,” he’d said with a smug shake of his head. “You’re hopeless in the kitchen.”

The memory hit like a slap, sharp and uninvited. You clenched your fists. Hopeless without me? Not today. Not ever.

"Not today, Satan," you muttered, aggressively adjusting the oven mitts like a general preparing for war.

But watching over the brownies turned out to be harder than expected.

First, the timer on Felix’s unnecessarily high-tech oven decided to rebel, blinking “Err” at you like it was judging your life choices. Then, as if on cue, the smell of something burning began to creep through the air. You whipped open the oven door, only to find the batter bubbling over the sides of the pan like molten lava.

“Why is it doing that?!” one of the kids shrieked, diving behind a chair like the brownies were about to explode.

“Because... science,” you answered vaguely, grabbing a baking sheet in a desperate attempt to save the day. But in your rush, you elbowed a bottle of vanilla extract off the counter. It shattered spectacularly on the floor, filling the room with a sharp, sugary scent that did nothing to soothe your frazzled nerves.

“It’s fine,” you said through gritted teeth, snatching up a broom like you were ready to duel the broken glass. “Everything’s fine.”

The kids exchanged wide-eyed glances, clearly questioning your sanity. “Should we call Dad?” your eldest asked cautiously.

“No!” you snapped, your voice a little too loud. “We don’t need him. We’ve got this. We are perfectly capable of making brownies without your dad swooping in like some culinary superhero.”

The kids didn’t look convinced, but they wisely stayed quiet as you swept up the shards, checked on the brownies again, and willed the universe to cut you some slack.

For a brief, glorious moment, it seemed like everything might turn out okay. The batter had miraculously stabilized, and though the edges looked a little crispy, you convinced yourself they’d just be “extra chewy.”

And then the smoke alarm went off.

“NOT AGAIN!” you yelled, grabbing the oven mitts as the shrill wail of the alarm echoed through the house.

The kids screamed in unison, “THE HOUSE IS ON FIRE!”

“It’s NOT on fire!” you bellowed, yanking the oven door open to reveal... chaos. Smoke poured out in thick, accusatory tendrils. The batter had rebelled, overflowing the pan, dripping onto the oven floor, and transforming into a blackened crust that smelled like a mix of burned chocolate and despair.

The kids clutched each other, their faces pale with horror. The cat, wisely staying far from the action, watched from the doorway with a look that clearly said, I told you so.

“We’re gonna die!”

“We are NOT going to die!”

“Then why is there SMOKE EVERYWHERE?”

“It’s just a tiny mishap!” you yelled, though at this point, you weren’t sure if you were trying to convince the kids or yourself. “Open the windows!”

The kids, officially in full-on disaster mode, scattered like startled pigeons. One yanked a window open so hard it nearly came off its hinges, while the other grabbed a water gun and aimed it at the oven as if preparing to face a raging volcano.

“Put that down!” you barked, snatching the water gun before they could turn your kitchen into a baking-themed waterpark.

And then, because the universe has a cruel sense of humor, the doorbell rang.

“Now?!” you groaned, storming toward the door, smoke trailing behind you like an ominous cloud. You flung it open, fully expecting Felix,or, worst case, the fire department. But no. Of course not. It was Mrs. Kim.

There she stood, the epitome of suburban perfection, holding a Tupperware container that undoubtedly contained her legendary snickerdoodles. Her immaculate hair didn’t dare move, and her lips twitched into a saccharine smile as her eyes narrowed, taking in the chaos.

“Do you... need help?” she asked, her voice as sweet as the cookies in her hand, though her tone carried the kind of judgment that could curdle milk.

“Nope! All good!” you chirped, your smile stretched so tight it could snap.

“Are you sure?” she pressed, leaning ever so slightly to peer past you. “It smells a bit... smoky.”

“It’s just a new recipe we’re trying!” you said, inching forward to block her view, the kitchen carnage visible in your peripheral vision.

Mrs. Kim tilted her head, her perfectly sculpted eyebrow arching. “Well, if you’d like, I could share my snickerdoodle recipe. It’s very foolproof....”

“Thanks, but we’ve got it covered!” you interrupted, your voice a pitch too high, slamming the door with a polite-but-firm force that sent a satisfying clunk reverberating through the frame.

Leaning against the door, you took a moment to catch your breath, or rather, cough violently as the lingering smoke reminded you there was still a crisis at hand.

“Mom! The smoke alarm’s still going off!” one of the kids shouted, their panic palpable.

You sprinted back into the kitchen, brandishing the dish towel like a makeshift weapon. The smoke alarm screeched its relentless siren, mocking you as you flailed at the ceiling. When waving proved ineffective, you grabbed a broom and jabbed the reset button with the precision of someone vanquishing an enemy. With a final beep, the alarm went silent.

The kids stared at you, wide-eyed, as if you’d just performed some ancient, mystical ritual. “So... are the brownies ruined?”

You glanced at the oven, where the batter had transformed into a bubbling, blackened mess. With a deep sigh, you grabbed the pan and pulled it out, setting it on the counter like a defeated warrior laying down their sword.

“They’re... extra crispy,” you said, trying to sound optimistic.

“Mom, they look like lava.”

“Well, some people like lava cakes!” you shot back, clinging to a shred of pride.

The kids exchanged skeptical glances, silently questioning whether your culinary skills had ever been a thing. Honestly? You had your doubts too....

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

Just as you were about to surrender to the inevitable disaster, the front door swung open.

It was Felix.

“What’s going on?” Felix’s voice rang out, panic threading through his words as he stepped into the room.

You turned to see him standing in the doorway, still in his stage outfit, eyes widening at the chaotic scene before him. The kitchen was clouded in smoke, the kids were armed with water guns, and you looked like you’d been in a battle with a recipe that had no mercy.

“Oh, you know,” you said, forcing an overly cheerful tone that barely masked your frustration, gesturing grandly at the mess. “Just another successful baking night.”

Felix blinked, his eyes darting between the burnt remnants of what was once your "brownies," overturned chairs, and the water gun still gripped in your youngest’s hand. “This... this looks like a scene from Survivor. What happened?”

“Well,” you began, adopting an unnervingly chipper tone that teetered on the edge of hysteria, “I decided to give baking a try, since someone decided to disappear for hours without so much as a check-in.”

Felix winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was stuck at rehearsal! My phone died....”

“Your phone always dies!” you snapped, crossing your arms tightly. “Ever heard of a charger? It’s this magical little device that prevents disasters like this!” You gestured dramatically to the smoke still wafting from the oven and the faint scorch marks now decorating the counters.

The kids, sensing the brewing storm, exchanged worried glances before hastily retreating from the kitchen. One of them placed the water gun on the counter with what could only be described as an offering to the gods, then quickly scampered away.

Felix sighed, holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay love, I get it. I should’ve been here. But...” He stepped closer, peering into the baking pan. His face contorted in something that was equal parts sympathy and barely-contained amusement. “What is... this?”

“Brownies,” you bit out through clenched teeth.

“They look like meteorites.”

“I know!” you shouted, throwing your hands up in exasperation. “Do you think I don’t know that? I followed your stupid recipe! Well, mostly. I had to improvise because someone insists on hoarding fancy chocolate instead of keeping normal chocolate chips like a normal person!”

Felix bit his lip, fighting a laugh that was clearly winning. “You used the dark chocolate?”

“Yes!” you nearly shouted, throwing your arms wide as if it was a revelation. “Because the pantry was empty!”

“That’s 85% cacao. It’s for special occasions,” Felix said, his voice dripping with disbelief.

“Oh, well, congratulations, because this is officially a special occasion!” You grabbed the pan and shoved it toward him like an offering. “Go ahead, taste it. Tell me how your precious chocolate turned out.”

Felix hesitated, glancing at the charred edges and the rock-like texture of the “brownies.” “I’m not sure this is edible.”

“Coward,” you muttered, turning away to begin the painful process of cleaning up the wreckage.

Felix sighed again, stepping closer. His voice softened, more sincere now. “Hey, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset,” you said, scrubbing the counter so forcefully you thought you might burn a hole through it.

“You’re scrubbing like the counter insulted your ancestors. You’re definitely upset.”

You turned to glare at him, feeling the sting of tears in your eyes. “I tried, okay? I tried to do something nice for the kids, to step out of my comfort zone for once, and it completely backfired. Now the kitchen’s a disaster, the brownies are ruined, and Mrs. Kim probably thinks I’m a lunatic!”

Felix’s face softened, his eyes filled with something close to tenderness as he reached for your wrist, gently stopping your frantic scrubbing. “You’re not a lunatic. You’re just... a little dramatic.”

“Excuse me?”

“In a good way!” he added quickly, his hands raised defensively. “Look, the kids had fun, didn’t they?”

“They think I’m incapable of basic survival skills.”

“Well, they’re not wrong,” he teased, a grin tugging at his lips and earning a scowl from you. “But seriously, you tried, and that’s what matters. You stepped up for them, and that’s what counts.”

You turned away, jaw clenched, as you grabbed another dish towel. You didn’t want him to see the tears that were threatening to fall, the overwhelming mix of frustration and exhaustion that had built up all night....

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

Together, the two of you worked quietly to restore order in the kitchen. Felix tackled the dishes, sleeves rolled up, his movements precise despite the weariness in his posture. You swept the floor, gathering the flour, crumbs, and shattered remnants of your baking ambitions. The silence between you was heavy, not uncomfortable but weighted with everything left unsaid. Your glances brushed against each other like passing shadows, each one carrying more than words could convey.

By the time the kitchen was spotless, the clock had ticked its way toward two in the morning. Felix, despite his obvious exhaustion, didn’t hesitate. He pulled out a pan, the rhythmic chopping of vegetables the only sound breaking the quiet. Soon, the sizzle of stir-fry filled the kitchen, mingling with the warm, savory scent of soy and sesame oil. It was a simple meal, but it felt like a salve to the night’s chaos.

When the four of you finally sat down at the table, the earlier disaster already felt like a distant memory. The kids were animated, reenacting the night’s events with dramatic flair. Their “water gun heroics” and vivid descriptions of the “Great Brownie Disaster” spilled out in waves of laughter, their joy contagious.

You found yourself smiling despite the lingering weight in your chest. The guilt clung stubbornly, a quiet voice whispering that you had tried and failed, that your effort hadn’t been enough.

After dinner, the kids’ energy waned. Their sleepy goodnights and tight hugs soothed some of the sting of the evening, though it didn’t completely fade. Felix stayed behind in the kitchen, humming softly as he tackled the last of the dishes. His voice, low and soothing, filled the quiet house with a comforting presence.

But as the stillness settled in, the emotions you’d held back all night began to press harder. It wasn’t just the brownies. It was the memories of your ex, the relentless doubts in your head, and the crushing pressure you placed on yourself, to be better, to prove you were enough for the kids, for Felix, for yourself.

You slipped outside, needing air and space to clear your thoughts. The winter chill nipped at your cheeks, sharp and biting, as you wrapped your coat tighter around yourself. Your breath puffed out in visible clouds, curling upward into the silent night. Beneath your boots, the snow crunched softly, the sound amplifying the stillness around you.

The silence should have been calming, but it wasn’t. It only gave your thoughts more room to unravel.

The doubts crept in first, unwelcome but familiar, rising like a tide. Maybe the kids deserved better. Maybe Felix did too. Maybe...

You closed your eyes and inhaled deeply, willing the icy air to steady you. But the ache in your chest only swelled, tightening like a vice.

Then, the sound of soft footsteps broke through the silence behind you. You didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

Felix.

He stepped onto the balcony quietly, his presence warm and grounding despite the chill in the air. He stopped beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours lightly. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the quiet between you stretching but not uncomfortable. It felt like he was giving you space, waiting for you to speak first.

“I knew I’d find you out here,” Felix finally said, his voice low, careful not to disturb the fragile peace.

You didn’t meet his gaze, your eyes fixed on the frosty horizon. “Just needed some air,” you murmured, though you both knew it wasn’t just that.

Felix glanced at you, studying your profile in the dim light. “Rough night,” he said simply, his tone understanding rather than probing.

A small, humorless laugh escaped you. “You could say that.”

“Want to talk about it?” he asked, his voice gentle, inviting but not pushing.

You hesitated, the lump in your throat tightening painfully. “It’s stupid,” you muttered, shaking your head.

“It’s not stupid,” Felix said firmly, turning slightly toward you. “Talk to me. Tell me everything.”

His words, so soft yet so steady, broke something in you. The dam you’d been holding back all night cracked, the weight of your emotions spilling over before you could stop them.

“Y/N…” Felix started gently, his voice laced with concern as he reached for your hand. But you couldn’t hold it back any longer.

“I feel like such a failure,” you blurted out, tears spilling down your cheeks before you could stop them. “I couldn’t even bake brownies, Felix. Something so simple, and I messed it up. And the voice…” You paused, your voice breaking. “It keeps telling me I’m not enough. That I’m too dependent on you, that I’ll never be enough for anyone. My ex! He won tonight. He’s still in my head, making me feel worthless.”

Felix’s expression softened, and without hesitation, he closed the gap between you, wrapping his arms around you in a warm, steady embrace. The crisp cold of the winter night melted against the solid warmth of his chest. “Shh, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice gentle but resolute. “Don’t let his voice live rent-free in your head. He doesn’t deserve it.”

“But I...” you started, but Felix cut you off.

“No buts,” he said, pulling back just enough to look into your tear-streaked face. His gaze was unwavering, filled with sincerity. “You’re perfect for me just the way you are. You don’t need to be good at everything. You don’t need to prove anything to anyone. Especially not to him.”

The walls you’d been holding up all night crumbled, and the sobs you’d been suppressing finally escaped. You clung to him like a lifeline, burying your face in his coat as your shoulders shook. “I just wanted to make tonight special for the kids,” you whispered, your voice muffled.

“And you did,” Felix said softly, his hand stroking your hair in slow, soothing motions. “They’ll remember this night, not because of some brownies, but because you tried. Because you love them. And because you’re their mom, their safe place, the most important person in their lives.”

You pulled back slightly, your watery eyes searching his face for any sign of doubt. Instead, you found only unwavering truth in his expression. His words struck something deep within you, something raw and fragile but also comforting.

“Do you really think that?” you asked, your voice trembling, thick with emotion.

Felix cupped your face with both hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears staining your cheeks. “I don’t just think it, I know it,” he said with quiet conviction. “You’re an incredible parent, Y/N. And honestly? I couldn’t care less if the brownies turned out like bricks. The fact that you even tried says more about you than you realize.”

Despite yourself, a small, watery laugh escaped your lips. Felix’s smile widened, his dimples appearing like tiny constellations in the starlit night.

“And for the record,” he added with a teasing lilt, “I think you’re amazing. Even if you can’t cook.”

You playfully swatted his arm, a hint of warmth breaking through the lingering weight in your chest. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to spark a faint ember of hope.

As the two of you stood there beneath the glittering stars, the snow sparkling softly around you, Felix reached for your hand, his fingers threading through yours. He gave it a gentle squeeze, grounding you in the moment.

“Next year, we’ll bake the brownies together,” he promised, his voice steady with determination. “No matter what.”

You nodded, the corners of your lips curving into a small, genuine smile. “Deal.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, the tight knot in your chest began to unravel, replaced by something softer, lighter. Maybe you weren’t perfect. Maybe you didn’t have everything figured out. But in that moment, surrounded by Felix’s unwavering love and support, you realized something important.

You didn’t have to be perfect. You didn’t have to have it all together.

You were enough, just as you were. And that was more than enough....

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

The next morning was Christmas. Sunlight streamed through the windows, casting a warm, golden glow over the kitchen, as if the day itself was offering a fresh start. You were already awake, sitting at the counter with a steaming mug of coffee in hand. Spread before you was a fresh brownie recipe Felix had printed out and placed by the stove. His handwriting sprawled across the top in a slightly messy but unmistakably affectionate scrawl:

"We’ve got this. Fighting! – Felix"

A small smile tugged at your lips as you traced the words with your fingertips. It was such a simple gesture, but it filled your heart with a warmth that matched the cozy glow of the room.

The soft creak of the door broke the quiet, and Felix shuffled into the kitchen, his hair sticking up in every direction and his face still creased from the pillow. He yawned, rubbing his eyes, and gave you a sleepy but radiant grin.

“Good morning love,” he mumbled, his voice low and raspy. His gaze fell on the recipe in your hands, and his grin widened. “Already planning your redemption arc?”

“Maybe,” you replied, holding up the recipe like a badge of honor. “Figured I’d give it another shot... with some professional supervision this time.”

Felix chuckled, ambling over to pour himself a cup of coffee. “Lucky for you, I just so happen to be the best brownie coach in town.”

Just then, the kids burst into the room, their small feet thudding against the floor as they raced in, their pajamas rumpled but festive. One of them wore a Santa hat that was slightly too big, while the youngest carried a stuffed reindeer clutched tightly to her chest.

“Merry Christmas!” they shouted in unison, their voices filled with the kind of unfiltered joy that only children seem to have.

“Merry Christmas!” Felix and you chimed back, laughing at their enthusiasm.

“Can we open presents now?” the youngest asked, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.

“Presents after breakfast,” Felix said, his tone firm but playful. “But first, we’re baking round two of the brownies.”

The kids’ excitement only grew as they realized they were about to help. “Again? Yay!” they cheered, bouncing in place.

The kitchen soon came alive with a mix of festive chaos and warm holiday spirit. Christmas carols played softly from a speaker in the corner, filling the air with cheerful melodies. Felix measured out the ingredients with exaggerated precision, earning giggles from the kids as he declared himself the “official flour master.”

The kids took turns cracking eggs and stirring the batter, their small hands dusted with flour and smudged with cocoa powder. The youngest even tried to draw a reindeer in the flour that had spilled on the counter, her giggles echoing through the room when Felix joined in, attempting his own (terrible) drawing of a snowman.

You couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of him, a streak of chocolate on his cheek and his Santa pajama bottoms looking hilariously out of place on a “professional brownie coach.”

“This already looks better than yesterday,” Felix said as he peered into the mixing bowl.

“That’s because I’m not using your special occasion chocolate this time,” you teased, nudging him with your elbow.

He leaned in closer, his grin playful. “See? Teamwork. Who knew we’d make such a great power duo?”

The batter was poured smoothly into the pan, no lumps, no panic, just a perfect mix of holiday cheer and lighthearted banter. Felix slid it into the preheated oven with a dramatic bow, earning a round of applause from the kids.

As the brownies baked, the youngest dragged you all to the living room, where a stack of presents waited under the glowing Christmas tree. The kids’ eyes lit up as Felix handed out the gifts one by one, their laughter filling the air as they unwrapped toys, books, and clothes.

When the timer dinged, everyone rushed back to the kitchen, Felix leading the charge like an overgrown child himself. He carefully pulled the pan from the oven, and the rich, chocolatey aroma enveloped the room. The brownies emerged perfectly baked, their tops shiny and crackled just enough to promise the perfect texture.

“They’re... beautiful,” you said, half in awe, half in disbelief.

“Told you we’ve got this,” Felix said, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and squeezing gently.

The kids cheered as the brownies cooled, bouncing with excitement until they were finally cut into neat squares. Felix handed out the first pieces, grinning as the youngest took a bite and her eyes widened in delight.

“These are amazing!” she exclaimed, her mouth full.

“Better than Mrs. Kim’s?” Felix asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Way better,” the eldest said confidently, already reaching for a second piece.

Felix turned to you, his smile soft but proud. “See? You’re a brownie master now.”

“Team effort,” you corrected with a laugh, nudging him lightly.

The rest of the morning was spent in a haze of sugary treats and warm moments. The kids insisted on a “snowball” fight with the leftover flour, and Felix somehow ended up wearing half of it. You couldn’t stop laughing as he tried to shake it off, his dimples deepening with every giggle.

Later, as the four of you gathered around the table with mugs of hot cocoa and the plate of brownies nearly empty, you felt an overwhelming sense of peace. The tree lights twinkled in the background, and the soft hum of carols filled the air.

Felix caught your eye, chocolate still smudged on his cheek, and gave you a smile so full of love and contentment that it made your heart swell.

This wasn’t about perfection or proving anything, it was about these messy, magical moments of love, laughter, and togetherness. And as you sat there, surrounded by the people who mattered most, you realized you wouldn’t trade this for anything. This Christmas, with all its imperfections, was perfect....

｡𖦹° Tags - @atinyniki @writingforstraykids @yangbbokari @theo4eve   @livelovelaughmiko @silverstarburst @galaxycatdrawz @skzoologist @shua-f4lmings @iknowyouknowminho @krisstheidiot @hyunjinhoexxx @gho-ster @ezlynkisses @elmoslungcancer @b1nn1e-1s-cut3 @seungseung-minmin @cuddlylonelyperson @jeonginsleftcheek @oreoqueen @freekyfangirl

Comment your @ If you wish to be added or removed from this list ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

｡𖦹° ENDNOTE - Everything Here is a work of fiction and my own imagination. This does not represent the real life characteristics of Stray Kids. Make sure to like, reblog comment, and follow me for new updates!

[in-my-loki-feels]

Title: A Desperate Play For Control

Rating: E

Fandom: The Avengers (2012), Loki (TV)

Relationship: Loki/Mobius M. Mobius

Some Additional Tags: Canon Rewrite, SHIELD Agent Mobius M. Mobius, POV Loki (Marvel), POV Mobius M. Mobius, Mind Control, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Loki Needs a Hug (Marvel), Slow Burn, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending (in case there was any doubt), Explicit Sex, Porn with Feelings

Word Count: 53.9k [9/9, complete]

Summary:

It's been almost a year since Loki first appeared in the underground P.E.G.AS.U.S. base. His quest for power has been abandoned and a mundane life working for S.H.I.E.L.D. embraced. But this punishment was never meant to last forever and, like all good things, it must come to an end.

We've come to the end of the road, friends. 🥹 Thank you to everyone who has read along each week; to those waiting until it was complete before you started, now's your chance! 💚🧡

You can see the final chapter's art here! This AU wouldn't be possible without @wolfpup026's idea to kick it all off. I've had so much fun collaborating on it! As an analyst with a heart of gold once said, thanks for the spark. 😉🫶

[galway-girlatwork]

Fandom: The Last of Us-AU-No outbreak

Rating: Mature-There is angst. Fluff at the very end.

Central Characters: Joel, Sarah, Tommy, Tara (Original Female Character)

Central Relationship: Joel and Tara

Word Count: 2,534

AO3

Please do not copy my work. If you liked it, please re-blog and tag me. Please do not steal my mood board. I do not give permission to copy, translate, or post my work to any other platform.

Music inspiration: Hold On By Chord Overstreet-Hurricane by Tommee Profitt and Fleurie. Never Not Love You by 30 Seconds to Mars. Carry You by Ruelle and Fleuire

Written for @burntheedges Roll-A-Trope Writing Challenge

Amnesia

SUMMARY:

The aftermath of a traumatic car accident leaves a family struggling with fear and uncertainty. The emotional toll weighing them all down as they try to find some normalcy which they all know is impossible until he wakes up. Vulnerability and desperate needs for the man who is the center of their lives to remember who they are and the life he had with them.

Fragile State

It was one the most cliché things that could happen. Something you hear about on the news, read on the internet. You feel bad to those it’s happened to, the “oh god that’s terrible” but then you move on with your day of mundane tasks that you are imprinted on your brain. They were just coming home from picking up dinner from some random drive thru when it happened. Some asshole running the red light, t-boning the SUV they were in, his side taking the most damage, the impact so brutal, they were surprised he had survived.

That was four days ago and before then? Life was normal. It was school, work, soccer practice, backyard BBQ’s and sleepovers. Now it was sleeping on hard cots, hospital food and coffee, unwashed bodies and constant beeps of machines that you swore were driving you slowly insane, each one, one push closer to the edge. Standing you walk into the bathroom, staring into the mirror, you notice bruises turning sickly shades of yellow and purple. The black eyes are second to the blood-filled sclera that surrounds your irises. You and your step-daughter were “blessed” as they put it, minor scrapes and bumps but your body disagreed when you did the simplest of tasks. Washing your hands was one of those tasks, they trembled under the gush of warm water, the room always slightly above sub-artic. Turning off the water, towel grabbed and as you dry your skin, light reflects along your engagement ring, remembering the night he proposed. He was nervous as fuck, not knowing if you’d say yes. Hands gripped the edge of the counter, bottom lip between teeth, hoping the pain would hold back tears. It didn’t and ten minutes later, face now washed, teeth brushed, you walk out of the bathroom and the constant beeps are back, knowing you should be grateful for them, since they marked the fact that he was still alive.

An hour later, doctor and nurses, come and gone tell you the same thing as the day before, there was no change. Tommy and Sarah texted to let you know they were on their way, asking if you needed anything. A quick text back letting them know you were desperate for Starbucks and that you would Zelle money to him. Proficient taps to the screen of your new phone, the other one lost in the carnage of your wrecked car, had money sent, email checked before you put it on the charger. Body slid into the chair by his bed, hand taking his, head resting on his forearm.

“Hey baby. Tommy and Sarah are coming to see you. She’s not happy by the way, that she has to go back to school Monday but I think it would be good for her. Thank god I have as much PTO as I do but Rick’s been really understanding, letting me know I can take as much time as I need so I can be here.” A shuddering sigh, a sniffle taken before you look at him. “Joel, I really need you to wake up. I can’t do this without you. I am not as independent as I pretend to be. Maybe I was before you but now...It’s different. It’s your fault you know, if I’d never met you and Sarah…Let’s face it babe, if I hadn’t met the both of you, I’d still be living in a one bedroom, eating out of take-out cartons. You two changed my life and I can’t imagine it without you in it. So fucking wake up.” Nothing came from the body in the bed, hooked to wires and tubes, head wrapped.  

She must have fallen asleep, a hand on her shoulder, repeating your name, finally brought you out of a troubled slumber. “Tara, wake up.”

“Hey sweetie.” Standing, you hugged your step-daughter who is more yours than not. She was ten when you met her, eyes peeking up at you through a head of curly hair as she partially hid behind Joel. The two you of had been dating for eight months when he decided he wanted you to meet her. It was you had suggested pizza and Disney, wanting to make her feel comfortable in her home. Of course, you were an instant hit because how many women would cater to a ten-year-old? Four months later you moved in. Now she was fifteen, a sophomore in high school dealing with daily teenage angst and peer pressure. “How are you feeling?” Side air impact bags coupled with the fact that she always sat in the middle, meant she’d walked away with just some bruised ribs from the seatbelt.

“I’m ok. Just sore. Tara, when are you coming home? Uncle Tommy can’t cook worth a damn, I think he might be worse than dad.”

A slight chuckle rumbled in your chest. “I’ll come home tonight. Doctors were here earlier, no change, said I should go home, shower and eat real food so…”

Tommy came up behind you, giving an awkward hug and you wondered if he was taking this harder than you and Sarah. Joel was his big brother and even though Tommy could be the biggest pain the ass, it was still his brother. “He’s gonna be ok. Just give him some time. You both know how stubborn he can be.” You prayed that, that stubbornness would keep him around just a little bit longer. You wanted to grow old with him, watch Sarah go off to college, get married, have babies.

Turning, coffee taken from Tommy, you sat on the couch beneath the window, Sarah curling up next to you, phone in hand, scrolling through her Facebook, the annoying beeps taking up space in your head once more. Looking at Tommy, who was pacing like a wild animal, you asked about the job that was now on hold, him letting you know the client was more than understanding, guaranteeing they wouldn’t lose the remodel job. “Tommy, why don’t you go home. There’s nothing you can do here and the rental place dropped off the loaner yesterday so I can drive us home. You look like you are bout to lose it.”

Glaring at you, a mumbled yea was tossed over his shoulder as he left. You knew he blamed you. Not so much for the accident but for the fact that you all were in your car and not Joel’s truck. He’d been such a hurry to get home for soccer, he’d forgotten to put gas in the bemouth truck of his, so of course they took your car, the girlie car as he put it, with all the frilly things on the inside, courtesy of Sarah. Trinkets she bought you for Christmases and birthdays, things she knew you would never buy for yourself. Flowered hair ties around the gearshift, the car freshener from Bath and Body, the little flower key holder that went with the steering wheel cover. Things now lost, kinda like her husband. Feeling Sarah tense up next to her, you hold her tight, shaking your head. “He’s just scared honey. Like us and he doesn’t know how to handle it. No worries, okay?” A nod of her head let you know she understand, may not have liked it but got it.

Hours passed in silence, only broken the few times nurses came in, the look in their eyes spoke volumes if you paid attention and that was something you did. Always paying attention to every detail, it’s why you were good at your job, even though everyone wondered why you were an accountant, it was because of details and numbers. Things you knew were reliable, constant, predictable. This was none of that. A rumble of Sarah’s stomach was the clue that it was time to go, for now. “Come on baby, let’s get some burgers and get home. We’ll come back in the morning.” Nurses reassured you that if anything changed, they would call you but something deep in the recesses of your mind, you knew that call wouldn’t come tonight.

The drive home was nerve wracking, Sarah letting you know to order Doordash when she noticed how clenched hands and jaw were as you left the parking lot. “I think that’s a way better idea.” What you didn’t realize was how different home felt without him here as you stood in the kitchen, mail stacked on the counter, sink full of coffee cups and cereal bowls from the morning of, Sarah staying with Tommy.

“I’ll take care of it.” Was her response when she saw tears silently falling.

“Leave em. We can do it in the morning. Can you order while I shower? Order from where ever you want.” Gathering her close, you hugged her, a little tighter than normal but then what was normal at this point? Nothing. Not a fucking thing. It was okay though because she clung to you just as hard.

It was when you were in the shower, body on the floor, pulled inwards, hot water blasting your back that all the tears finally let lose. Gut wrenching sobs that would have frightened anyone who heard them, sounding as if your soul was being ripped out of your body. Your relationship with each other wasn’t something that either one of you had planned. It was pure coincidence that you had met each other. When the tears dried up, dehydration at it’s best, you scrubbed your body until you couldn’t take the pain anymore, it’s way of letting you know that you were still alive. Hey at least you felt somewhat human now, right?

Both of you were quiet during dinner, food was picked at until you decided you were done. It was after eleven when you both decided to call it a night, the hours from then til now, were filled with a movie that neither one of you could remember turning on. When two am hit and you were still wide awake, blanket and pillow were dragged downstairs, deciding the couch would be better, at least until he came home.

It was on the sixth day that he finally woke up, fighting the tube, panic filled eyes searching the room, one hand gripping his as the other pressed the call button. Suddenly the room was filled with too many people, and you were helpless as you were gently pushed out into the hall, door closed behind you. Sliding down the wall, the velvet ponytail holder violently ripped from your head, fingertips kneading your scalp as you waited and these days, your patience was running below empty.

Minutes felt like hours before the doctor came out, letting you know that yes, he was awake but there was a problem. Standing in front of him, bits and pieces of what he was saying sank into the gray matter of your mind. He didn’t remember the car accident. Thank god for small miracles right? But he also couldn’t remember his name, that he was married, that he had a daughter, repeatedly asking questions before the panic attack started, the need to sedate him and he was sleeping. “Come back later today but don’t bring your daughter, it can be upsetting to both of them.” The drive back home was a blur, the paperwork they’d given you on short term memory loss was still sitting in your purse, once again it was explained that it was from the TBI and it would only last a week, maybe two but there was a rare possibility it could last for months.

What the actual fuck? A million questions came up but the most important one was what would this do to Sarah? Now standing in the middle of the room you both shared, rage bubbled up and overflowed like the volcano you helped Sarah make for her sixth-grade science project. It erupted from your small frame, as one arm swiped everything from the top of the dresser, the fan picked up and slammed against the mirror, reflective glass exploding. Perfume bottles followed suit, leaving the space to smell like a cheap whore or an old woman, take your pick. Collapsing in the space, you lay there wondering who your wronged and why Karma and Fate did this now. Exhaustion must have laid claim after rage took a vacation because that is where Tommy found you two hours later.

He sat you on the bed as he took in the damage. “Sarah’s going to be home by four. She can’t see the room this way, please Tommy?” Nodding, he told you he’d clean up and have a new fan and mirror before then. Asking what caused the chaos, you told him what the doctors had said or what you could remember. “Is it permanent?”

“I don’t know.”

“Go back to the hospital. I’ll be here and we can talk to Sarah tonight.”

“Thank you Tommy. I’m sorry.” You were admitting to your part in this. You had to have some part, right? Maybe reminded him before coming home to get gas. Maybe not fighting him on driving your car so it would be you instead of him. It was a hell of lot maybe’s.

“Who are you?” His voice startled you from the far away place you’d gone while you sat in the chair next to his bed that now had the imprint of your ass on it.

“Hi Joel, I’m Tara.”

“Thirsty.”

“Hold on.” Flimsy Pepto colored cup was filled from the pitcher baring the same hue, plastic straw pressed against dry lips, he drank half before pushing the straw out of his mouth with the tip of his tongue.

“Tara? Tara? I should know you, right?”

“Yes, you should but there was an accident and things are fuzzy for you right now.”

“How do I know you?”

“We’re married. Have been. Three years in October.”

You’d wanted a Halloween wedding but he’d refused to actually get married on the holiday, said it was bad luck, so the 30th was a compromise along with the promise that you wouldn’t wear red or black, his desire to see you in white.

“I wish I could remember.”

“You will, just be patient, something you are not always good at.”

“Tell me more.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

“Okay.”

Hours passed as you told him about Sarah, Tommy, the life you’d built together, his job, your job, soccer practice, Sarah’s first school dance, your wedding…conversations peppered with questions, showing him photos that have taken up almost all of the memory of the new phone that now pinged with a text from Sarah, wanting to know how he was and when you’d be home. Texting back, you let her know he was awake, still not remembering, that you’d be home soon and to order pizza, there was fifty dollars in the coffee can above the fridge, tucked behind the fake plant.

“Sorry, Sarah was asking about you and wanted to know when I’d be home.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Joel, why are you sorry?”

“That I can’t remember anything.”

“You can’t remember everything right now. Give it time baby. Be patient.”

“I must have loved you a lot.”

“You did.”

“Think I will again?”

“Yes.”

"Good."

[a-random-hsr-sideblog]

A complation of my favorite HSR fics in sections of ships:

AvenCaeTio

A Mundane Life is a fic series that is very very fluffy! AvenCaeTio is already an established ship with a lot of domestic fluff in the first fic with implied references to coitus.

AvenCae

Golden Sands by Konbini_Kitty is my favorite AvenCae fic! The way they protray the ship is really really nice! Fair warning this fic is rated M so please please please mind the tags. This fic protrays AvenCae with them as childhood friends with Aventurine finding Caelus abandoned by Elio on Sigonia! This fic also updates every couple months so it doesn’t update often.

Another Konbini_Kitty fic! New Outfit is pre-relationship fic with Caelus feeling bad about not having more outfits, and after finding out Aventurine was texting him; he decides to ask Aventurine where he can get some new outfits for himself! TLDR: Caelus gets spoiled by Aventurine

Code Blue by Monohid is about Caelus inviting Aven out to drinks so he can comfort him; in the descriptions own words “after the entire Penacony mess, Aventurine sends Caelus a whole lot of very vulnerable and surprisingly honest messages. Caelus, feeling that Aventurine might need a nice relaxing evening, invites him for drinks” It is based off of Aventurine’s text messages! Sadly the second chapter of it is not out yet.

DanCae

A Dragon’s Mark by Zaphyrus is a DanCae soulmates au! It is set during Herta Space Station, Belobog, and the Xianzhou. It is relatively fluffy but more slowburn than anything.

Secret Admier by Pharaohbean is a DanCae fic with Stelle as the TB; Stelle is in a relationship with March but that is very much a side ship. In this fic Caelus is an Emanator of Destruction and hiding it as long as possible from everyone. When Dan Heng and Caelus met it was before Dan Heng joined the AE. The fic IMO is a 10/10 but everyone has their own tastes.

Home In Your Arms by SaltedPossums is a hurt comfort fic going a bit over the fight with Cocolia, and mostly focuses on the aftermath with the fight against Cirrus. I can not express this enough with this fic but MIND THE TAGS ESPECIALLY BECAUSE THE FIC GOES OVER THE TOPIC OF DEATH

Ravager Restrained, Doubt Unchained by Riverpuppy is a fic that takes place as the aftermath of 1.2. It has Caelus going Nonverbal to be able to process everything that has happened on the Xianzhou up to that update. The fic is a hurt/comfort!

CaeTio

Home is where the Family (Heart) is by Liulangzhe is a pre-relationship fic of Caelus realizing he has feelings for Ratio; high spoilers for the 2.4 Update.

The cons of owning a warp trotter by Do_Ray_Mi is a fic in its own words “4 times Bubbles got in between Caelus and Dr.Ratio and the 1 time it brought them together” it in its tags has a lot of made up lore and honestly was a pretty funny fic. The fic is Not Rated so please mind the tags.

Please give me decent to good AvenTio fics because I have been struggling to find one I like.

[snail-speed]

please let the little shithead flower be evil

[samble-movedd]

pmmm au time.

what if homura has loop induced ptsd. and not Just from the deaths. she's been in a timeloop literally for almost half her life (she's 14 and the loops lasted ~12yrs total). even if nothing bad had ever happened in the loops, being suddenly out of them has got to cause Problems.

homura on screen seems to have a "well, even if this loop goes wrong, i can always try again" thing going on, but she now has no ability to "undo" things. if she makes a mistake, she can't just go back in time and fix it. if something bad happens, she can't just redo it. her choices now Matter and things she or others do can't just be erased. homura can no longer afford to "test" things to check what the aftermath will be.

even in, like, a mundane social situation, this has got to be extremely stressful (especially considering her major social + general anxiety pre-looping). before if she messed up something (like warning madoka in a very awkward way), it didn't much matter since she could always try again. but now she Can't. that's got to screw you up.

[prince-liest]

inspired by a series of convos in the 3zun server and also my own recent camping trip:

please imagine mundane modern au nieyao going camping

meng yao is like twenty-three, freshly graduated from college after having to take a gap year to take care of his ailing mother. nie mingjue is in his thirties, and knows meng yao as the responsible young man who befriended his brother and is probably one of the driving forces preventing nie huaisang from having skipped too many classes to actually earn a degree. he's not technically meng yao's boss, but he works in the same organization and he thinks it's perfectly acceptable to mosey on over to meng yao's actual boss during the interview process and give them a stellar review of what he knows of meng yao's work ethic.

the fact that meng yao eventually (read: very rapidly) gets promoted to work at nie mingjue's right hand is... probably fine. it's not too strange. in fact, they're friends! good friends! good enough friends that when nie huaisang finally puts his foot down and downright refuses to go on the nie annual camping trip, citing that he is a "real" adult now (whatever that means) and that means he doesn't have to spend a week in the woods every year getting bitten by mosquitos and hunting down the nearest wifi connection if he doesn't want to, da-ge, maybe it'd be cute for taking photos if they just went for the weekend - well, then nie mingjue retorts that he doesn't see the point in driving all the way out to yosemite for a single weekend and invites meng yao instead.

meng yao, on the other hand, is thinking: hm. he is pretty sure he has seen this porno. a week out in the woods with his hot older boss who is also his best friend's big brother. you couldn't fit more tropes into it if you tried. maybe if there were debt collectors after him and nie mingjue was a mafia boss.

(there are no debt collectors. meng yao has made certain of it. he has been very financially responsible in the aftermath of his mother's passing.)

nie mingjue is a responsible hiker and at least somewhat aware that he's taking somebody with no experience on a camping trip, largely courtesy of nie huaisang. meng yao ends up dressed mostly in nie huaisang's unused hiking clothes, packing his things in nie huaisang's unused hiking backpack, and sleeping in nie huaisang's unused sleeping bag. he looks up the price of the socks that nie mingjue handed him and then decides not to look up any more for the sake of his emotional wellbeing.

they make it to yosemite. meng yao has looked up all the things to do in yosemite valley, but for some reason they end up driving way farther north through some winding mountain roads that make him wonder if the car is just going to... tip over the side and neither of them will ever be seen again. for some reason there's a random porta-potty around one of the bends that meng yao silently stares at as they pass. it takes several hours to arrive, but there's a surprising amount of gas left over in the car for how much time the trip took.

the camp grounds are a little...

"isn't this a little crowded?" meng yao asks. "why don't we go farther into the woods?"

nie mingjue looks at him like he's the strange one. this is how meng yao learns that you cannot camp just anywhere inside of a national park. apparently it's okay, because most people are respectful of the common spaces. also, there is no shower in this specific camp. nie mingjue brought wet wipes.

these are not the ideal circumstances for fucking in the woods, but meng yao is a trooper and he understands that sometimes reality is a little more complicated than not safe for work media.

it's fine. besides, they get there pretty early in the day, all-considered. and it's spring, so it's still cool enough to go hiking at midday. a waterfall sounds pretty romantic, he thinks, watching nie mingjue work some kind of eldritch magic with tent poles while taking mental notes so that he can prove himself competent should he ever need to set up a tent again in his life.

an hour and a half later, meng yao is soaked through with sweat and half-convinced that he's developed adult-onset asthma. nie mingjue is glistening attractively. for some reason the incline of the 'easy' hike to a nearby waterfall that they're on suddenly turned into a rock climbing challenge in the last quarter mile. the worst part about going down it is knowing that he will have to go back up on the way back. there aren't that many people around, but if nie mingjue is taking him here to fuck him, then meng yao is going to simply have to throw himself into the river rapids and drown. it would be a kinder form of death.

they get to the waterfall. it is spring, so the river is flowing so strongly with icemelt that it's too dangerous to truly swim. meng yao considers at least dipping in, but when he puts his feet in, the water is so cold that he decides that he likes having physical sensation above his ankles, thank you. nie mingjue smiles proudly at him and tells him that nie huaisang usually complains up a storm by this point and that he loves his brother but it's nice to be with a more appreciative partner. something in meng yao's chest squeezes a little bit.

it gets a little tighter when he realizes that he's finished all of his water and nie mingjue crouches down to show him how to use the iodine water tablets on the river water. they make the water taste strange, but meng yao is mostly distracted by the fact that nie mingjue's mouth was just on the lip of the water bottle that he's about to drink from.

he drinks, tilting his head back. his hands are shaky with exhaustion and some of the water spills. it's cool on his chin and throat and he doesn't bother brushing it away - he's so sweaty that it's probably impossible to discern what's sweat and what's water anyway. when he opens his eyes again, nie mingjue is watching him.

they hike back. by the time they arrive at camp, meng yao's legs have entirely turned into jelly and nie mingjue takes pity on him, sitting him down in a camping chair with a beer and going off to pick up dry wood ("why would I buy firewood when deadwood is free?"). he teaches meng yao how to start a campfire, stacking small twigs in increasingly larger sizes until there's enough kindling to set the big logs ablaze. meng yao finds himself shivering in the dark, pressed up against nie mingjue's side and leaning towards the flames. funny, how he thought he would never feel cooled down again just an hour ago. his face burns, and his back is only cold until nie mingjue offers him a blanket.

they absolutely do not fuck that night, nor any other night. but meng yao has fun: he hasn't felt so free to learn and mess up and explore since he was a kid, and the absolute newfound freedom that he experiences when he once asks if they could go look at something off a path and nie mingjue says yes - says, in fact, that the whole point of going off into the woods like this is being able to do and see whatever you want, as long as it's within legal boundaries - means meng yao basically forgets his initial plan entirely.

they nearly get lost on their next hike, missing a turn in the established path and only turning around when they reach what could best be described as a ravine. there are more waterfalls - meng yao didn't know there were this many waterfalls anywhere in the world. they move campgrounds a few times, too. apparently it's quite difficult to get seven straight days booked in a yosemite campground. meng yao sets up the tent the second time. some of the campgrounds have showers, wooden buildings with cool water and moths fluttering around the lights. the most delicious meal meng yao swears he's ever eaten is the cheese-filled sausages nie mingjue roasts over a campfire, combined with cup noodles that they cook using water from the same camping stove tea kettle they use for their tea in the mornings.

eventually, it is time to go home. meng yao hasn't washed his hair in two days and doesn't remember the last time he heard the ping of his phone demanding that he put out yet another fire at work. he'd been asked to keep his phone on and check his email when he can during his vacation, but most of the places they've been don't actually have service.

they drive back through the same mountains as before. the porta potty is still there. meng yao actually points out its strangeness this time, and nie mingjue laughs. meng yao smiles. he's been smiling a lot during this trip. he feels vaguely like a new person. it's fresh air and endorphins, nie mingjue says. good for the soul. meng yao is pretty sure it's nie witchcraft, too.

(or maybe it's endorphins. he certainly gets a hot flood of those when, dropping off meng yao at his doorstep, nie mingjue finally hesitates - and steps close, mumbling, "didn't wanna make you uncomfortable while you were trapped in the woods with me, but..." before kissing him. his hands are so big on meng yao's hips.)

(they do fuck that night. but not before meng yao drags both of them into his shower and scrubs himself from top to bottom. yosemite was great, but he has standards.)

[the-cu-genswap-au]

Definitely Mundane Tales From a Parallel Universe: a Captain Underpants generation swap AU!

premise: the kids are adults and the adults are kids! Benjamin "Ben" Krupp is now a 10-year-old starting fourth grade in the aftermath of a family tragedy, but that's just the start of his problems. Hijinks ensue when Principal Erica Wang abruptly assigns Ben to mentor new student Toilette Ree, who comes with troubles of his own. Meanwhile, Jerome Horwitz Elementary's new science teacher Melvin Sneedly finds himself at odds with both his students and an annoying duo of arts teachers with a love for pranks.... plus a bunch of stuff that happens next!

comics are posted on my main CU blog @warrior-of-waistbands and reblogged here

Chronological Archive (chapter order may change):

But Before I Can Tell You This Story: 1, 2, 3, 4

Wheels In Motion: 1, 2, 3, 4

Grim Foreshadows: 1, 2

[interlagosainz]

so . i suppose i am back ( still not particularly well, but i guess possibly losing your mind in reality fuels the creative process maybe ?? ) with something also in a futuristic au but like … i guess blade runner & inception aesthetics tossed together with an anastasia backstory & rich kids & businesspeople politicking ft. illegal things & like . way too many ‘ accidental fires ’ ? idk . i did say i was losing my mind & the pov doesn’t even give the full context . ( it’s max & carlos & charles, but the vibes are kind of angsty & rancid & don’t even @ me about relationship dynamics, whoops ? )

in hindsight, the disaster started when finally, there came a night when max verstappen got drunk in heaven. only, he’s not really in heaven — it’s just the joking nickname for the club on the 100th floor of this skyscraper, where all the floors below fulfill any desire you could have. some of what’s here is mundane, grocery stores with the freshest fruits & clothing boutiques to make you the most fashionable person around — others are the epitome of decadence & decay, of why pr teams are so badly needed. ( he’s smart enough to let other people find a fix for him, if he needs it that badly, at least. )

the mistake was letting lando drag him anywhere. the point of no return was letting him drag max here. ( he should’ve heeded the pr team’s advice, but he’d never been a fan of authority. )

the neon lights, sea of noises & lights, alcohol drenching his pressed shirt an hour in, alex tumbling into the pool with a giant splash before being yanked out by a disgruntled george, so many perfumes nauseatingly mixing together, lando somehow wresting control of the dj booth & cranking the sound up until he could hardly hear, until with the pulsing red lights & thundering beat, it seemed as though he was trapped right in the middle of a heart. ( he gets it, dimly, why people would give anything for a night here. it makes everything a haze, forgetting painfully easy. )

he is due to inherit the redbull conglomerate, who are involved in just about anything & everything, joked to have hearts that stain as black as the window tints on their tower that looms over the city almost menacingly — corporations who loom large in the public conscious & places you’d kill to get into. he takes a speeder to work & avoids traffic by simply flying above it all at dizzying speeds & swerving sharply around the neon lights & skyscrapers that comprise this city. he is max verstappen, he does not stray or doubt & yet —

perched on a barstool, dark coat draped around his shoulders & wide, unfocused eyes staring distractedly into the distance, rouge lips pressed against the rim of an overly colourful glass, something unreal made human — max has seen a ghost.

the sainz family is a taboo topic around these parts. once the founders of the most respected pharmaceutical & biomedical research company around, almost a decade ago, their tower burned down in a chemical accident & killed almost everyone inside, every member of the family included. alongside them, decades of research & innovation went up in flames & in the aftermath, the surviving employees all jumped ship. max remembers that day — the sky had turned artifically red, bleeding scarlet alongside the setting sun as the fire raged well into the night. he’d stood on his balcony, of the building he’d only moved back into weeks ago & watched the whole night & into the next morning, hands clenched into fists while jos watched on, something cruel & satisfied curling on his lip. he remembers reading the coroners’ report. he does not remember crying, but the sting hadn’t receded from his eyes for days afterwards. ( jos pushes him into the business, into colder things — he doesn’t fight it, this time around. )

the red bull conglomerate snatched up most of the surviving employees, because the sainz family had long been partners with them anyways. the rumours of what exactly was hidden in that tower though — the whispers of ducking government investigations, illict & lethal medication funneled down into the streets & most notoriously, pills that supposedly made you forget? those never went away. ( it’s nonsense. myths, stories spun by people who have nothing to lose by telling an impossible tale. or so they say. )

he isn’t so certain. but maybe it’s coloured by a childhood friendship with carlos, both of them growing up on the same enclave outside the city that redbull associated affluent families favoured, where the clocks went slower & everything seemed frozen in time, a little. the verstappens had a home there & so did the sainz family — & it was there that he met carlos, their only son, back when he was fifteen or sixteen & had wandered off his family’s property & into the lush orchards & meadows of the neighbouring one. ( he couldn’t be blamed — in the rare few trips he’d taken into the city, greenery was nonexistent & jos was no fan of gardening either. )

the first time, carlos had almost kicked a ball into his face in distraction & shouted there was an intruder. the second time, max gathered up the courage to march up the impressively long driveway & knock on the front door instead. the third time, the fourth — he forgot, after that. they started taking their lessons together while squabbling about formulas & diagrams, falling down onto the grass & blinking sun out of their eyes, carlos peeling oranges on the counter while singing so badly out of tune, the suspicious stares of their fathers from afar ( jos had never liked carlos or softer things in life ) while they laughed so much his chest hurt afterwards. smart & kind & warm — being around carlos was almost too easy, soothing the ragged edges of hurt & disapproval he didn’t even realise was there most times. ( he doesn’t realise until years later that carlos had grown up with almost no one except his family around, so isolated that not a single photo of him existed & no one else he knew had any recollection of him. it had been paranoia & in the end, it had perhaps been justified. )

max wasn’t in love, no, the same way he’d never grieved. ( liar, liar, liar. ) & it’s only afterwards, when he wakes up at lando’s with the taste of champagne in his mouth, that he asks. & lando, suspicious but flippant, laughs that finally max has succumbed to being lonely, that he’s come to steal another of lando’s friends, that he can’t believe max fell for an escort, for chili. ( he’s an escort for one of the most well-known agencies,lando laughs, so he’s nice to people like me for money & they like him a lot. that had sent him reeling. so he’s your friend? what’s his name? max had asked, praying lando hadn’t noticed how badly his voice is about to wobble. i’ve never hired him, we just met at the club two years ago,lando replies, he’s carlos. i don’t know his last name, i’ve never asked & he’s never said. the holographic photo display he projects at max is startling clear, bambi eyes & plush lips, eternally finding things a touch funny & — max almost throws up on lando’s sofa. )

carlos sainz, a name that curls around your tongue with the faintest hint of an ache. but that’s not the name he finds when he secretly goes digging, pulls some strings from people he knows cannot refuse him ( are nowhere close to repaying the debts they owe, because redbull are ruthless & resort to methods as dirty as everyone else ) & retrieves what he needs to know about the renault agency, about chili.

he’s still carlos. but this time, carlos merhi. that’s what the records say, shimmer of dark letters on an electronic screen. only member of the merhi family left alive after their street failed to survive a residential fire that had devoured much of it. ( a street that is being razed & integrated into a new redbull funded development. ) now, the most wanted escort in the city — the most beautiful thing to live nine levels below heaven.

a carlos who now doesn’t talk about his past, doesn’t remember him at all, smiles & laughs & easily leans into his hugs, makes feeling good way too easy. max has heard of it, trauma affecting memories. but to seemingly never say a word or make any hint of recognition ? either carlos is a devastatingly good actor, or something truly awful has happened. ( in a sick way, he’s almost glad carlos doesn’t remember, because then he wouldn’t be able to stand the guilt. )

max doesn’t want to think about it, the rumours about just what the sainz family knew. he doesn’t want to think about how he knows redbull was responsible for that fire because carlos sr had pushed back on every attempt to access the more cutting edge, radical research & they’d lost their patience in the end, & yet he’d still staked his life in their name, even if for years he’d thought his childhood friend was dead. he’s not a particularly good person by any means, they run this conglomerate like how you’d run the mob, taking out anyone & everyone interrupting their ambitions. but still.

he goes back, every week. transfers carlos exorbitant amounts of money, a paltry attempt at what he’s not even sure is a sorry. doesn’t ask for much of anything, sometimes plays games on the screen, sometimes just sits & stares at the skyline as he leans against carlos & tries to convince himself he’s not chasing the closeness they’d had all those years ago. lets carlos make conversation, take his mind away from the day, lets the past & its memories creep up a touch too close. afraid, almost, that it’s all just another trick of the light or sleepless night. rubs idly at his ring finger, hopes that no one realises there’s a few days too many where he doesn’t sleep at ‘ home ’ anymore. ( prays that carlos won’t remember, prays that he does & won’t turn his back instead. )

because there’s a reason this could be ruinous. he hadn’t understood why, didn’t know for what reason gp & hannah & adrian hadn’t called it all off screaming — keep your friends close, enemies closer, maybe. ( charles leclerc’s hand in marriage is not one he wants, but it’s the one he might have to take. ferrari & redbull, staring down mercedes & mclaren. it’d almost be cute if it weren’t his life being dragged from him, kicking & screaming. ferrari are older & more established, though losing that polish — he knows as long as they can expand their business, they don’t care for anyone who gets in the way. )

max knows charles too. intimately, since they were children, in the way you know a bruise, a scar, something ripe & bleeding & a mirror all the same. ferrari & redbull are at odds more often than not, one with a certain arrogance, the other a wounded pride — both with hubris yet afraid of being backed into corners by rivals unafraid to make public embarassments of them all. ( these conglomerates sell medicines & watch models stride across the stage by day, dabble in drugs & funnel money into illegal street races at night — everyone knows they are all virtually criminal enterprises cleaned up to look like proper businesses. )

they’ve tried undermining each other so many times, thrown wrench after wrench into each other’s plans & unhesitatingly exchanged barbed words across pristine tabletops. the comparisons are endless in the press & though it’s all nonsense — it still rankles max. ( screw destiny, being pre-destined, as if that had meant anything, or ever could. ) & now people up there are convinced that something could be scaffolded together from the combined force of ferrari & redbull together, tied by the prospect of a farcical relationship between their heirs & probably on the verge of disintegration every other day, because redbull liked to stab others & ferrari was good enough at stabbing itself sometimes.

he hates dealing with press. charles is good enough at it, armed with a charming smile & relaxes into the poses he needs to strike for the cameras. he can’t be bothered to change out of his standard-issue redbull shirt most days. charles probably has an army of people who make him look like a bit of a hapless model.

the nights max has dinners with charles under the guise of ‘ thawing the ice ’, he thinks maybe too much about painting an ugly bloom of bruises, something to stain the distanced perfection charles holds himself in sometimes. ( he eventually gives up on exactly how he wants to do it. ) the barely hidden reverence for ferrari ( a corporation ! max could laugh, if he weren’t so beholden to redbull for giving him something to do with life, the luxury he can now afford his mother & sisters ). it’s uncomfortable & the more time max unwillingly spends putting up this ruse, the more he feels like he’s spinning about, surrounded by funhouse mirrors while furiously trying to get away from it all. ( what sorts of ploys either of them have up their sleeves, he doesn’t know & even then, he is not, cannot be afraid. after all, if the thought of the dead didn’t scare him much anymore, what could ? )

but they are both prone to occasionally holding grudges. striding into uncertain futures, people who’ve been cruel & convinced themselves it was necessity. tied to families that loom above the rest, now to organisations that could care less as long as the numbers looked pretty & they won whatever turf wars were going on, both literal & metaphorical. people who could be softer & better in other situations, other times but — that’s the one luxury neither of them can buy back now. ( its a tidal force of something, a yanking that daniel side eyes & makes lando look at him like he’s gone mad, like they’re both afraid the other will call a bluff first. )

he attends events with charles by day & ignores the engagement rumours while insisting publicly he’s done with pointless fights, falls asleep with his hologram display in carlos’ bed at night. warm eyes, dark hair, a much envied beauty & a heart not his for the taking, not that he wants or could carry the weight of it anymore. charles & carlos — even the same name wound two ways, drenched in patterns of light & shadow dancing across the window. he cannot think about it anymore, not that it’s any safer to feel. ( like his moments aren’t scraped across his eyes, like he seems to be impatient & hot-headed but also can’t let any of it fade from his mind. )

in the divine comedy, dante wrote about hell having nine circles. perhaps max should’ve paid more attention in those literature classes he only ever wanted to escape from — because otherwise, he would’ve realised there was some irony in how the ninth circle was for treachery. ( that he may have been so much worse a judge of intentions, or that some people had somehow outplayed his hand for so much longer. )

( the complaint used to be that you couldn’t remember anything. now it’s that you can’t forget — not that it’s any less devastating. )

( tbh idk what i was going for with this but like . ephermerality of memory . people being kind of awful . lying versus omitting the truth versus keeping someone safe . slow thaws, a long ache . entanglements made fatal . or, as margaret atwood put it — we were ruinous together . but how else can we live, these days, except in the midst of ruin ? )

- charlos au anon <3

if you are scrolling down your page and see this ask, read it. this is an amazing au. i’m speechless. i wish i could read 200k words of this universe.

WE ARE BACK IN THE GAME IM SO EXCITED TO SEE YOU HERE. alright. let’s go. max, charles AND carlos? oh i’m fucking seated. im down. the sci-fi theme mixed with fantasy is one of my favorite things. you nailed this down we need more fics with crazy words building.

“joked to have hearts that stain as black as the window tints on their tower that looms over the city almost menacingly” damn charlos au anon, writing masterpieces in my ask again????

“he is max verstappen, he does not stray or doubt & yet—“ god how i love a yet— is one of my favorites things. the suspense. sitting at the edge of my seat waiting for more.

charlos anon au, if i had the money, i would sponsor you like the old times where the riches paid good money for artist to just do nothing except live by their art. i would give you money just so you could do nothing but write a long ass fanfiction of this idea because, really, what a masterpiece. i can’t get enough. this is my favorite setting for fics and you are brillaint in the way you describe and built the word and the relationship between the characters. this is Amazing. i read this almost 5 times because of how much i liked it. i gushed about it to my roommate. i said it before, but i need to say it again, i wish i could snuggle around your brain just to watch because it must be marvelous in there. all these ideas forming (you know those memes SHE SENT ME HER LOCATION TF IS THIS is me sending my location: charlos au anon’s brain)

“ blinking sun out of their eyes, carlos peeling oranges on the counter while singing so badly out of tune, the suspicious stares of their fathers from afar ( jos had never liked carlos or softer things in life ) while they laughed so much his chest hurt afterwards. smart & kind & warm — being around carlos was almost too easy, soothing the ragged edges of hurt & disapproval he didn’t even realise was there most times.” i got to say, you nailed down carlos. i love you talk about him in your ideas. always warm and kind, despite everything, after all, he is still kind. always.

yeah. right. max. that does sound like someone who isn’t in love, sure.

(also, versainz? way to get my heart. fucking love these two gremlin paired together).

CARLOS MERHI???? FUCK OFFFFFF. YOUR MINDDDDDD. OH MY GOD??????? “the most beautiful thing to live nine levels below heaven.” oh he is. he so is.

“either carlos is a devastatingly good actor, or something truly awful has happened. (in a sick way, he’s almost glad carlos doesn’t remember, because then he wouldn’t be able to stand the guilt.)” i need a moment to lay down. you do this every time. how do you pull this. you always make me feel too much that i need a break. but i can’t get a break because i want to keep reading. i can’t get enough.

“he doesn’t want to think about how he knows redbull was responsible for that fire” THE TWISTS THE REVELATIONS? oh this is fucking good. this is gold. i need a whole ass 300k of this. you have bewitched me body and soul with this one. you are getting better every time. i didn’t think it was possible was it was already fucking Great the last au, but you are doing it. i don’t know how but you are raising the bar every time.

“charles leclerc’s hand in marriage is not one he wants, but it’s the one he might have to take.” oh we got to charles. oh the plot is thickening.

“max knows charles too. intimately, since they were children, in the way you know a bruise, a scar, something ripe & bleeding & a mirror all the same.” fuck off charlos au anon you can’t just casually write this like it’s nothing. it’s everything. it’s something people would find in classical books and say damn. like dostoyevsky and dastiel fic writers are looking at you with envy right now. “because redbull liked to stab others & ferrari was good enough at stabbing itself sometimes.” do you get what i’m saying????? this is insane!

“screw destiny, being pre-destined, as if that had meant anything, or ever could.” oh i see you. i see the pre-destined thing. i do.

“we were ruinous together . but how else can we live, these days, except in the midst of ruin” charlos au anon. this was everything. i swear. this was. amazing. i can’t begin to describe how much i enjoyed every second of reading it (once, twice, thrice, and a bunch of times more).

(also i can’t add you or message you on discord for some reason??? so please you can find me as undertheceu if you want to ramble to me in there or just chat!! i would love to as i have much more i would like to say to you but i can’t right now because i’m in class!)

[tmsnetwork]

In case anyone has questions about the BradleyLaura Week themes and what some of the chosen ones mean, we’ve come here to clarify some of them. I do want to remind everyone of something I always have as a rule of thumb: YOU’RE FREE TO INTERPRET ANY THEME AS YOU WISH! So feel free to go wild. Now, without further ado, to the themes.

DAY 1: Fake Dating/Marriage

Characters pretend to be dating or married for some specific reason, which could range from needing to solve a problem, fulfill a condition, or to achieve a particular goal. This trope explores the tension, comedic situations, and romantic development that arises from maintaining this facade, often leading to genuine feelings between the characters involved.

DAY 2: Canon Compliant

These stories adhere closely to the established universe, characters, and events as they are presented in the original work. Fanworks in this category aim to expand upon or delve deeper into the canonical narrative, exploring untold stories, hidden perspectives, or further character development that aligns with what's officially recognized in the source material.

DAY 3: Jealousy

Focuses on the emotion of jealousy within relationships, whether they be romantic, platonic, or somewhere in between. This trope can drive the plot by creating conflict, misunderstandings, or realizations of deeper feelings. It's about how characters navigate and resolve these intense emotions and what it reveals about their relationships.

DAY 4: Domestic

Centers on the everyday lives, routines, and intimate moments of characters living together or spending a lot of time in each other's personal spaces. This trope highlights the comfort, challenges, and humor found in domesticity, offering a closer look at how characters interact in private, mundane settings away from larger conflicts or adventures.

DAY 5: Enemies to Lovers

This trope explores the journey from animosity and conflict to understanding, respect, and romantic love. It's about the development of the relationship between characters who start as adversaries, showcasing their growth, the breakdown of barriers, and how they come to see each other in a new light.

DAY 6: Headcanons

Fics or content based on fans' personal interpretations, beliefs, or theories about characters, relationships, or events that may not be explicitly stated in the source material. These can range from character backstories to hidden motivations, exploring areas not covered or specified by the original work.

DAY 7: Weddings

Revolves around the planning, lead-up to, or the event of a wedding. This trope can explore themes of love, commitment, family dynamics, and the stress and joy of organizing or being a part of such a significant event. Stories might focus on the couple getting married, the perspectives of their friends and family, or the aftermath of the wedding. It can also involve other people's weddings, outside the main ship.

BONUS DAY: Any AU (Alternate Universe)

Fanfics set in alternate universes reimagine characters in different settings, timelines, or realities from their original context. This could include modern AUs, historical settings, fantasy worlds, or completely unique universes with different rules and structures. AUs allow for creative freedom in exploring how characters might interact or develop outside their canonical environment.