#WHY DOES HE ACT LIKE THAT. WHY WOULD HE SAY THAT.

[victusinveritas]

Story below the cut to avoid a paywall.

There was no explanation, no warning. One minute, I was in an immigration office talking to an officer about my work visa, which had been approved months before and allowed me, a Canadian, to work in the US. The next, I was told to put my hands against the wall, and patted down like a criminal before being sent to an Ice detention center without the chance to talk to a lawyer.

I grew up in Whitehorse, Yukon, a small town in the northernmost part of Canada. I always knew I wanted to do something bigger with my life. I left home early and moved to Vancouver, British Columbia, where I built a career spanning multiple industries – acting in film and television, owning bars and restaurants, flipping condos and managing Airbnbs.

In my 30s, I found my true passion working in the health and wellness industry. I was given the opportunity to help launch an American brand of health tonics called Holy! Water – a job that would involve moving to the US.

I was granted my trade Nafta work visa, which allows Canadian and Mexican citizens to work in the US in specific professional occupations, on my second attempt. It goes without saying, then, that I have no criminal record. I also love the US and consider myself to be a kind, hard-working person.

I started working in California and travelled back and forth between Canada and the US multiple times without any complications – until one day, upon returning to the US, a border officer questioned me about my initial visa denial and subsequent visa approval. He asked why I had gone to the San Diego border the second time to apply. I explained that that was where my lawyer’s offices were, and that he had wanted to accompany me to ensure there were no issues.

After a long interrogation, the officer told me it seemed “shady” and that my visa hadn’t been properly processed. He claimed I also couldn’t work for a company in the US that made use of hemp – one of the beverage ingredients. He revoked my visa, and told me I could still work for the company from Canada, but if I wanted to return to the US, I would need to reapply.

I was devastated; I had just started building a life in California. I stayed in Canada for the next few months, and was eventually offered a similar position with a different health and wellness brand.

I restarted the visa process and returned to the same immigration office at the San Diego border, since they had processed my visa before and I was familiar with it. Hours passed, with many confused opinions about my case. The officer I spoke to was kind but told me that, due to my previous issues, I needed to apply for my visa through the consulate. I told her I hadn’t been aware I needed to apply that way, but had no problem doing it.

Then she said something strange: “You didn’t do anything wrong. You are not in trouble, you are not a criminal.”

I remember thinking: Why would she say that? Of course I’m not a criminal!

She then told me they had to send me back to Canada. That didn’t concern me; I assumed I would simply book a flight home. But as I sat searching for flights, a man approached me.

“Come with me,” he said.

There was no explanation, no warning. He led me to a room, took my belongings from my hands and ordered me to put my hands against the wall. A woman immediately began patting me down. The commands came rapid-fire, one after another, too fast to process.

They took my shoes and pulled out my shoelaces.

“What are you doing? What is happening?” I asked.

“You are being detained.”

“I don’t understand. What does that mean? For how long?”

“I don’t know.”

That would be the response to nearly every question I would ask over the next two weeks: “I don’t know.”

They brought me downstairs for a series of interviews and medical questions, searched my bags and told me I had to get rid of half my belongings because I couldn’t take everything with me.

“Take everything with me where?” I asked.

A woman asked me for the name of someone they could contact on my behalf. In moments like this, you realize you don’t actually know anyone’s phone number anymore. By some miracle, I had recently memorized my best friend Britt’s number because I had been putting my grocery points on her account.

I gave them her phone number.

They handed me a mat and a folded-up sheet of aluminum foil.

“What is this?”

“Your blanket.”

“I don’t understand.”

I was taken to a tiny, freezing cement cell with bright fluorescent lights and a toilet. There were five other women lying on their mats with the aluminum sheets wrapped over them, looking like dead bodies. The guard locked the door behind me.

For two days, we remained in that cell, only leaving briefly for food. The lights never turned off, we never knew what time it was and no one answered our questions. No one in the cell spoke English, so I either tried to sleep or meditate to keep from having a breakdown. I didn’t trust the food, so I fasted, assuming I wouldn’t be there long.

On the third day, I was finally allowed to make a phone call. I called Britt and told her that I didn’t understand what was happening, that no one would tell me when I was going home, and that she was my only contact.

They gave me a stack of paperwork to sign and told me I was being given a five-year ban unless I applied for re-entry through the consulate. The officer also said it didn’t matter whether I signed the papers or not; it was happening regardless.

I was so delirious that I just signed. I told them I would pay for my flight home and asked when I could leave.

No answer.

Then they moved me to another cell – this time with no mat or blanket. I sat on the freezing cement floor for hours. That’s when I realized they were processing me into real jail: the Otay Mesa Detention Center.

I was told to shower, given a jail uniform, fingerprinted and interviewed. I begged for information.

“How long will I be here?”

“I don’t know your case,” the man said. “Could be days. Could be weeks. But I’m telling you right now – you need to mentally prepare yourself for months.”

Months.

I felt like I was going to throw up.

I was taken to the nurse’s office for a medical check. She asked what had happened to me. She had never seen a Canadian there before. When I told her my story, she grabbed my hand and said: “Do you believe in God?”

I told her I had only recently found God, but that I now believed in God more than anything.

“I believe God brought you here for a reason,” she said. “I know it feels like your life is in a million pieces, but you will be OK. Through this, I think you are going to find a way to help others.”

At the time, I didn’t know what that meant. She asked if she could pray for me. I held her hands and wept.

I felt like I had been sent an angel.

I was then placed in a real jail unit: two levels of cells surrounding a common area, just like in the movies. I was put in a tiny cell alone with a bunk bed and a toilet.

The best part: there were blankets. After three days without one, I wrapped myself in mine and finally felt some comfort.

For the first day, I didn’t leave my cell. I continued fasting, terrified that the food might make me sick. The only available water came from the tap attached to the toilet in our cells or a sink in the common area, neither of which felt safe to drink.

Eventually, I forced myself to step out, meet the guards and learn the rules. One of them told me: “No fighting.”

“I’m a lover, not a fighter,” I joked. He laughed.

I asked if there had ever been a fight here.

“In this unit? No,” he said. “No one in this unit has a criminal record.”

That’s when I started meeting the other women.

That’s when I started hearing their stories.

And that’s when I made a decision: I would never allow myself to feel sorry for my situation again. No matter how hard this was, I had to be grateful. Because every woman I met was in an even more difficult position than mine.

There were around 140 of us in our unit. Many women had lived and worked in the US legally for years but had overstayed their visas – often after reapplying and being denied. They had all been detained without warning.

If someone is a criminal, I agree they should be taken off the streets. But not one of these women had a criminal record. These women acknowledged that they shouldn’t have overstayed and took responsibility for their actions. But their frustration wasn’t about being held accountable; it was about the endless, bureaucratic limbo they had been trapped in.

The real issue was how long it took to get out of the system, with no clear answers, no timeline and no way to move forward. Once deported, many have no choice but to abandon everything they own because the cost of shipping their belongings back is too high.

I met a woman who had been on a road trip with her husband. She said they had 10-year work visas. While driving near the San Diego border, they mistakenly got into a lane leading to Mexico. They stopped and told the agent they didn’t have their passports on them, expecting to be redirected. Instead, they were detained. They are both pastors.

I met a family of three who had been living in the US for 11 years with work authorizations. They paid taxes and were waiting for their green cards. Every year, the mother had to undergo a background check, but this time, she was told to bring her whole family. When they arrived, they were taken into custody and told their status would now be processed from within the detention center.

Another woman from Canada had been living in the US with her husband who was detained after a traffic stop. She admitted she had overstayed her visa and accepted that she would be deported. But she had been stuck in the system for almost six weeks because she hadn’t had her passport. Who runs casual errands with their passport?

One woman had a 10-year visa. When it expired, she moved back to her home country, Venezuela. She admitted she had overstayed by one month before leaving. Later, she returned for a vacation and entered the US without issue. But when she took a domestic flight from Miami to Los Angeles, she was picked up by Ice and detained. She couldn’t be deported because Venezuela wasn’t accepting deportees. She didn’t know when she was getting out.

There was a girl from India who had overstayed her student visa for three days before heading back home. She then came back to the US on a new, valid visa to finish her master’s degree and was handed over to Ice due to the three days she had overstayed on her previous visa.

There were women who had been picked up off the street, from outside their workplaces, from their homes. All of these women told me that they had been detained for time spans ranging from a few weeks to 10 months. One woman’s daughter was outside the detention center protesting for her release.

That night, the pastor invited me to a service she was holding. A girl who spoke English translated for me as the women took turns sharing their prayers – prayers for their sick parents, for the children they hadn’t seen in weeks, for the loved ones they had been torn away from.

Then, unexpectedly, they asked if they could pray for me. I was new here, and they wanted to welcome me. They formed a circle around me, took my hands and prayed. I had never felt so much love, energy and compassion from a group of strangers in my life. Everyone was crying.

At 3am the next day, I was woken up in my cell.

“Pack your bag. You’re leaving.”

I jolted upright. “I get to go home?”

The officer shrugged. “I don’t know where you’re going.”

Of course. No one ever knew anything.

I grabbed my things and went downstairs, where 10 other women stood in silence, tears streaming down their faces. But these weren’t happy tears. That was the moment I learned the term “transferred”.

For many of these women, detention centers had become a twisted version of home. They had formed bonds, established routines and found slivers of comfort in the friendships they had built. Now, without warning, they were being torn apart and sent somewhere new. Watching them say goodbye, clinging to each other, was gut-wrenching.

I had no idea what was waiting for me next. In hindsight, that was probably for the best.

Our next stop was Arizona, the San Luis Regional Detention Center. The transfer process lasted 24 hours, a sleepless, grueling ordeal. This time, men were transported with us. Roughly 50 of us were crammed into a prison bus for the next five hours, packed together – women in the front, men in the back. We were bound in chains that wrapped tightly around our waists, with our cuffed hands secured to our bodies and shackles restraining our feet, forcing every movement into a slow, clinking struggle.

When we arrived at our next destination, we were forced to go through the entire intake process all over again, with medical exams, fingerprinting – and pregnancy tests; they lined us up in a filthy cell, squatting over a communal toilet, holding Dixie cups of urine while the nurse dropped pregnancy tests in each of our cups. It was disgusting.

We sat in freezing-cold jail cells for hours, waiting for everyone to be processed. Across the room, one of the women suddenly spotted her husband. They had both been detained and were now seeing each other for the first time in weeks.

The look on her face – pure love, relief and longing – was something I’ll never forget.

We were beyond exhausted. I felt like I was hallucinating.

The guard tossed us each a blanket: “Find a bed.”

There were no pillows. The room was ice cold, and one blanket wasn’t enough. Around me, women lay curled into themselves, heads covered, looking like a room full of corpses. This place made the last jail feel like the Four Seasons.

I kept telling myself: Do not let this break you.

Thirty of us shared one room. We were given one Styrofoam cup for water and one plastic spoon that we had to reuse for every meal. I eventually had to start trying to eat and, sure enough, I got sick. None of the uniforms fit, and everyone had men’s shoes on. The towels they gave us to shower were hand towels. They wouldn’t give us more blankets. The fluorescent lights shined on us 24/7.

Everything felt like it was meant to break you. Nothing was explained to us. I wasn’t given a phone call. We were locked in a room, no daylight, with no idea when we would get out.

I tried to stay calm as every fiber of my being raged towards panic mode. I didn’t know how I would tell Britt where I was. Then, as if sent from God, one of the women showed me a tablet attached to the wall where I could send emails. I only remembered my CEO’s email from memory. I typed out a message, praying he would see it.

He responded.

Through him, I was able to connect with Britt. She told me that they were working around the clock trying to get me out. But no one had any answers; the system made it next to impossible. I told her about the conditions in this new place, and that was when we decided to go to the media.

She started working with a reporter and asked whether I would be able to call her so she could loop him in. The international phone account that Britt had previously tried to set up for me wasn’t working, so one of the other women offered to let me use her phone account to make the call.

We were all in this together.

With nothing to do in my cell but talk, I made new friends – women who had risked everything for the chance at a better life for themselves and their families.

Through them, I learned the harsh reality of seeking asylum. Showing me their physical scars, they explained how they had paid smugglers anywhere from $20,000 to $60,000 to reach the US border, enduring brutal jungles and horrendous conditions.

One woman had been offered asylum in Mexico within two weeks but had been encouraged to keep going to the US. Now, she was stuck, living in a nightmare, separated from her young children for months. She sobbed, telling me how she felt like the worst mother in the world.

Many of these women were highly educated and spoke multiple languages. Yet, they had been advised to pretend they didn’t speak English because it would supposedly increase their chances of asylum.

Some believed they were being used as examples, as warnings to others not to try to come.

Women were starting to panic in this new facility, and knowing I was most likely the first person to get out, they wrote letters and messages for me to send to their families.

It felt like we had all been kidnapped, thrown into some sort of sick psychological experiment meant to strip us of every ounce of strength and dignity.

We were from different countries, spoke different languages and practiced different religions. Yet, in this place, none of that mattered. Everyone took care of each other. Everyone shared food. Everyone held each other when someone broke down. Everyone fought to keep each other’s hope alive.

I got a message from Britt. My story had started to blow up in the media.

Almost immediately after, I was told I was being released.

My Ice agent, who had never spoken to me, told my lawyer I could have left sooner if I had signed a withdrawal form, and that they hadn’t known I would pay for my own flight home.

From the moment I arrived, I begged every officer I saw to let me pay for my own ticket home. Not a single one of them ever spoke to me about my case.

To put things into perspective: I had a Canadian passport, lawyers, resources, media attention, friends, family and even politicians advocating for me. Yet, I was still detained for nearly two weeks.

Imagine what this system is like for every other person in there.

A small group of us were transferred back to San Diego at 2am – one last road trip, once again shackled in chains. I was then taken to the airport, where two officers were waiting for me. The media was there, so the officers snuck me in through a side door, trying to avoid anyone seeing me in restraints. I was beyond grateful that, at the very least, I didn’t have to walk through the airport in chains.

To my surprise, the officers escorting me were incredibly kind, and even funny. It was the first time I had laughed in weeks.

I asked if I could put my shoelaces back on.

“Yes,” one of them said with a grin. “But you better not run.”

“Yeah,” the other added. “Or we’ll have to tackle you in the airport. That’ll really make the headlines.”

I laughed, then told them I had spent a lot of time observing the guards during my detention and I couldn’t believe how often I saw humans treating other humans with such disregard. “But don’t worry,” I joked. “You two get five stars.”

When I finally landed in Canada, my mom and two best friends were waiting for me. So was the media. I spoke to them briefly, numb and delusional from exhaustion.

It was surreal listening to my friends recount everything they had done to get me out: working with lawyers, reaching out to the media, making endless calls to detention centers, desperately trying to get through to Ice or anyone who could help. They said the entire system felt rigged, designed to make it nearly impossible for anyone to get out.

The reality became clear: Ice detention isn’t just a bureaucratic nightmare. It’s a business. These facilities are privately owned and run for profit.

Companies like CoreCivic and GEO Group receive government funding based on the number of people they detain, which is why they lobby for stricter immigration policies. It’s a lucrative business: CoreCivic made over $560m from Ice contracts in a single year. In 2024, GEO Group made more than $763m from Ice contracts.

The more detainees, the more money they make. It stands to reason that these companies have no incentive to release people quickly. What I had experienced was finally starting to make sense.

[indecisiveavocado]

Uh yes it is not.

Apartheid resistance was mostly peaceful. There was definitely the occasional act of "violence" (?) but looking at this list it was usually highly targeted (e.g., military bases, power stations) and not typically directly harming civilians. If we take its rate of 12 every 4 years, we get ~3 per year. Apartheid lasted for 46 years, which works out to 138 attacks over all of apartheid South Africa. And again, these are mostly either clearly targeted at militaries or things like cutting power lines. And for a while I don't think there was much of a movement, so this is almost certainly an overestimate.

In contrast, even in the relatively quiet years of 1993-1995 (3 years), there were 14 Palestinian suicide bombings, which killed a total of 86 civilians (Internet Archive link). That works out to an average of ~4-5 a year (and, again, these were quiet years. In 2000-2002, there was an average of 20 per year, 60 total. In 2003 there were 26; 2004, 15 (note that they say terror attacks but it's clear from the full version they mean suicide bombings). Counting all things I would consider sensible to count (suicide bombing, stabbing/attacks/grenades, and car bombs, again using the full version), from 2003-2004, there were 64 attacks. Adding those from 2000-2002 in we get 124. Adding in 1993-1995, we get 138.

In other words? In a total of 7 years, a small subset of attacks [most were rocket fire etc] in Israel equaled that of disturbances I project (probably generously) that would have been caused by black people in South Africa over all of apartheid.

So yes, they are different.

And by the way--they're not kidding when they say Israelis, although it may include others, such as 1 Swiss, 8 Chinese, 2 Indians (no, not Native Americans), 12 Thai, 1 Eritrean, 7 Romanians, 4 Bulgarians, 6 Ukrainians, 1 Ghanan, 3 Ecuadorians, and 3 American diplomatic people. Also Zvi Kogan and twenty other Israelis killed abroad, who for these purposes does not count. So 69.

I also think (although I am here relying on Ctrl+f) that there were 259 sergeants (of some type), 29 lieutenants, 41 majors, and 16 captains killed, for a total of at least 345 military people killed.

Since they say 1513 people were killed, this means 1099 people were presumably civilians.

By my count the number of civilians killed (not counting Hamas's attack on October 7) who are Arab over ~25 years is 48 people:

Wael Ghanem, 32, killed driving home to the place his family was from, in the West Bank; he was killed by shots close to the head, i.e., they could see him and he could probably have protested.

Shahada Dadis, 30; lived in East Jerusalem, was driving to Jenin on company business. His van "bore a Red Crescent symbol" which is two cues: a) that he is medical personnel and b) that he is not Jewish (the equivalent is the Red Star of David). Why? Seemingly, he was using a rental car with an Israeli license plate.

Policeman Ahmed Mazarib, 32, of a Bedouin village (Bedouin are the only group that has been recognized by the UN as being indigenous to that area); he stopped a terrorist for questioning, one assumes because he was suspicious in some way (bomb, maybe), and was blown up for it.

Although not Arab but presumably Muslim (being Turkish) was Cengiz Soytunc, of an international peace-keeping force in Hebron, despite their car being clearly marked with the letters indicating that. They said they were observers and thus unarmed and were still shot at. I won't count him in the official toll though.

Suheil Adawi, 32, mentioned to be from an Arab town and with I believe an Arab name; waiter at a restaurant his family managed.

Iman Kabha, 26

Maysoun Amin Hassan, 19

Kamar Abu Hamed, 12 (!); she missed her bus and was waiting for another when a bus driving by exploded, killing her.

Maryam Atar, 27; Muslim Arab, exactly who they claim to stand for

On the same note, Ghalab Tawil, 42, a Palestinian janitor (at a hospital, incidentally, although it was a bus bombing that killed him). He took the job so he could be closer to his daughter Iman, 13, who had leukemia.

Hassan Ismail Tawatha, 41, of Jisr a-Zarqa, which Al Jazeera called a Palestinian town (who am I to argue with their eminent expertise, they of the dictatorship that uses migrant slave labor and whitewashes its reputation by bribing to host the World Cup?)

Shafik Kerem, 27, from the West Bank, i.e., Palestinian.

Mutanus Karkabi, security at the Maxim restaurant of joint Arab-Jewish ownership

Osama Najar, 28, cook at Maxim

Samer Fathi Afan, 25, security guard; Bedouin

George Khoury, 20, Arab from a distinguished family.

Hafez al-Hafi, 39, Muslim Arab, killed trying to pull his son free from rubble

Khalil Zeitounya, Muslim Arab, 10 (!); his father died exactly ten years prior to him.

Salem al-Kimlat, Bedouin (I should note: almost all Bedouin are Muslim), 28, security guard.

Ibrahim Kahili, 46. Bedouin, co-owned a transportation company, father of five.

Munam Abu Sabia, 33, father of an eighteen-month-old baby.

Salah Ayash Imran, 57, Palestinian working in the Gaza strip (at the time Israel had not yet pulled out; a Chinese worker, 46, was also killed)

Muhammed Mahmoud Jaroun, Palestinian working in the Gaza strip, in the same attack that killed Salah.

Jamil Qa'adan, 48 years old; the family rejected the "apology" offered by the organization behind his killing.

Hussam Fathi Mahajna, 36, murdered in an attack in Jordan at a luxury hotel. [Given it was from Al-Qaeda, it's possible it was just another attack not targeted at Israelis; in recognition I will not count this.]

Marwan Abed Shweika, 35, of [presumably East] Jerusalem, driving in the West Bank

Fatima Slutsker; I'm not counting her as she was an immigrant. She was a Muslim however.

Hani al-Mahdi, 27, Bedouin

Salah Shukri Abu Latyef, 22; Bedouin

Ouda Lafi al-Waj, 32; Bedouin

Jidan Assad, Border Patrol Captian, 38

Youssef Ottman, 25, security guard

Mahmoud Abu Asba, Palestinian living in Palestine. 48

Ziad Alhamada, 49, Bedouin

Nadin Awad, 16, Khalil's daughter, Bedouin

Khalil Awad, Bedouin, 52

Sharif Suad, 35, Bedouin

[12 Arab kids]; so, taking into account the ones who don't count, this is number 46

Arab (presumably) Muslim, Muhammad Yasser Naim, 22

Safaa Qaat Awad, 50

Note that is ~4.3 percent of the total.

(I'd also like to highlight the murder of Father Georgios Tsibouktzakis, a Greek Orthodox monk. Although he was not Arab, he was, I'm going to conjecture, pretty hard to confuse with a Jew. He worked at a monastery and was shot while driving on a road. That was it. That was his crime. He was 34.)

left: east jerusalem, palestine, 2021.

right: johannesburg, south africa, 1956.

they will tell you it's not the same.

[dodgeballstuckonthegymceiling]

Imagine yet another scenario with the Player being a parental figure to Doey or specifically, the three kids that make up Doey ( Matthew, Kevin and Jack ). The Player just being an absolutely doting parent with as much affection and attention the kids want 🥹🫂

This ask reminds me of these drawings by leydraw. If you have the time, maybe check it out! Also, this takes place while the Player is still in the factory.

If you like my work, please consider commissioning me or leaving a tip on Ko-fi (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

Mathew, Kevin and Jack & parental Player

★ You want to give them all the hugs, so you do. Matthew might act like he’s too "grown-up" for being babied, but don't be fooled. He adores every moment of it. Kevis is shyer and still unsure of you, if you try to touch him, he might get upset. So good luck there. But Jack? He soaks up every bit of love the Player has.

★ He finds some scraps of food? "Oh, good job! It's very kind of you to think about others." You say. Patting Doey on the back for his efforts. Every little accomplishment is met with praise. Because sometimes It's the little things that matter.

★ The Player’s soft spot for Doey quickly grows into a bond. Over time, Doey’s guard lowers. Though he’s naturally self-reliant, he starts to see the Player as someone who he can ask for help. Each time you tell him you're there for him, he believes you a little more.

★ After seeing everything he does for the Safe Haven, you make the decision to step up and help. He shouldn't need to take care of everyone by himself. Not anymore. So, you start to clean up the rooms whenever Doey isn't looking.

★ He sees cleaning the Safe Haven as "his job" and feels guilty if you do it for him. If he catches the Player tidying up without him, he’s immediately defensive. “Hey, that’s my job! You don’t have to do that!” Panicking ever so slightly.

★ Jack loved you from the beginning. From the first time the Player showed him kindness, he was attached. And he’s not afraid to show his need for attention, saying things like, “Can I sit with you?” or “Look what I found! Isn’t it cool?” Whenever Jack feels scared, he holds your hand.

★ Whenever the player tells Jack about the world outside the factory, his imagination runs wild. Thinking about all the animals, food and places he has vague memories of. “I think... I remember the smell of pancakes, what real?” he asks softly. Unsure what memories are his.

★ Mathew warmed up to you after Jack. Even as Jack ran up to the Player with open arms, Matthew hangs back, watching from a distance. Still wondering if the Player’s kindness is genuine or just an act. Over time he begins to realize that you genuinely care. If you hadn't, why would you have stayed?

★ Despite acting older than he really is, Mathew still wants the Players attention. He tries very hard to present himself as the mature one. But you know better. A simple “Good job, Matthew!” can make his day, even if he just responds with “Oh! Um, thanks.”

★ Kevin is the last to accept you. He didn't like you at all, because you were an employee. But the more the care you show, the more Kevin lets down his guard. He doesn't even realize how much he likes you until he finds himself feeling jealous over Jack and Mathew.

★ “Maybe they’re not all bad,” he begrudgingly admits to himself. Kevin might not openly seek the Player’s attention, but his actions speak louder than words. He starts lingering nearby, pretending to focus on something else but clearly hoping they’ll include him.

★The first time Kevin lets the Player hug him, it's after a particularly rough day. He approached you looking for support. Grabbing onto your shirt and refusing to look in your eyes. Though he’s initially stiff, he slowly relaxes into the embrace. Finally, allowing himself to trust you.

[lemonlover1110]

𝐈𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐚

Toji Fushiguro

[Chapter 2] Overthinking

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Pairing: Knight!Toji Fushiguro x Princess!Reader

Chapter Warnings: Suggestive Content, Minor Sex Talk

Story Summary: This is what'll get Toji killed... But how can he reject her when she looks up at him with such beautiful eyes? A man that's been to war won't be killed by the edge of a sword but rather the lips of a woman.

He shouldn’t lay a finger on her, but he’ll do anything that she asks him to. She’s his princess, he has to follow her every word.

No taglist

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi - Bluesky

“What?” Toji almost pinches himself to check if he’s dreaming. A weird dream that it would be– But no, you’re right in front of him. You’re right in front of him, asking him to have sex with you. Alert eyes check nearby, watching out for any witnesses. Once he realizes there’s no one nearby he speaks again, “Don’t repeat it.”

“What’s your answer?” You ask, looking up at him with wide eyes and he laughs. That’s his response, a laugh; it ticks you off.

“Princess, are you a cuck?” He responds, and you furrow your brows in confusion. 

“What’s a cuck?” You answer without skipping a beat. He almost wants to burst into laughter but he’s too nervous to do anything else but stare at you. 

“I’ve got a good head on my shoulders, I’d hate to see it rolling on the ground.” He tells you, and you look just as confused. He can’t talk to you in riddles… Though he isn’t speaking in riddles, he just has to be direct with you. He clears his throat before saying, “No. I won’t have sex with you, princess. Good night.”

“Why not?” You question, as if the answer isn’t obvious. It’s not obvious for you, you don’t see an issue with it. Luckily, Toji has the common sense that you lack. 

He won’t answer the question, instead he turns on his heel and leaves you. He’ll search for your night guard, and let this die down. He’s sure that clarity will hit you tonight, and you won’t mention this again. A princess that’s so high and mighty asking to have sex with a man of his status? You have lost your mind. You let the stupid nobles get to your head.

“Toji, where are you going?!” You yell after him, and if embarrassment wasn’t slowly settling in, you’d run after him. You end up scoffing, slamming the door to your room shut and staring at it frustratedly… Did you just get rejected?

No, he didn’t hear you right. You didn’t just get rejected.

You feel… Offended? Mad? No, no. You’d feel offended if Toji had rejected you but he wouldn’t do that. Toji would never refuse an order from his princess.

You stare at the door, and your nails dig into the palms of your head. That son of a bitch rejected you. Oh, you could scream. But you're mature enough that you can suppress it and act like a true princess.

There’s something off with you, and Toji notices immediately. You’re not being your usual self…

“Why are you all dressed up, princess? You do know we’re just staying in the castle, right?” Toji asks as he escorts you to the dining room for breakfast. He does it on purpose to get the bickering started— He wants to completely gloss over the proposal from last night.

You were vulnerable, and of course your friends got to your head. He wants to show that he didn’t take things seriously, and he truly believes he’s doing a good deed. But things aren’t easy like he wants them to be. You aren’t easy.

There’s no ‘Of course someone of your class doesn’t understand the basis of looking good at all times’ and no ‘If I wanted you to speak, I would have ordered you to open your mouth’; instead, Toji is met with pure silence. You don’t even look back to glare at him.

“You’re just staying in today, right? You didn’t tell me about anything else.” He speaks again, continuing to break the basic etiquette. He should not be speaking to you unless spoken first. But that has never been a thing between the two of you. Toji gets to break a lot of rules because you’ve never cared for the rules in the first place. 

“Toji.” You finally speak, and his eyes lighten up. Only to realize that you’re in the dining room, and his presence is no longer needed. The king doesn’t like the guards to join during breakfast which usually ends up with Toji being shunned to the kitchen with the help.

“Enjoy your breakfast, your highness.” Toji tells you before walking away. He goes to the kitchen, sitting down at the table that’s for him. He’s already had his breakfast, so he isn’t necessarily hungry– But the aroma of the food grazes his nose, and his stomach growls.

“Aren’t you going to eat anything, Toji? I know you have a long day ahead of you.” Mayu walks up to him, holding a bowl of oatmeal. She wears a bright smile on her face, happy to bump into Toji first thing in the morning. Unfortunately for her, Toji just isn’t in the mood. 

“I’m good.” He answers, even when his stomach gives it away. She sits with him, knowing that she should continue her duties but her attention is on something more interesting. Someone more interesting.

“Are you upset with the princess?” She asks, a hint of mischief in her eyes. No matter how much she tries, she never hears a single bad word about the princess from Toji; but considering that last night they were cut short, she feels like his feelings have changed.

“Why would I be?” He responds, not even bothering to look her in the eye. He fails to see the frown that comes to her face when he answers. That’s not what she wanted to hear, but she won’t get too bummed out about it, she guesses it’s part of his job.

“What did she need last night?” She continues the one-sided conversation, and Toji tries his best to remain composed. You absolutely did not ask him to have sex with you. You didn’t even look at him. Nothing happened. Who would even believe him if he told the truth either way?

“She needed me to kill a spider.” He lies, and she begins to laugh. Before she can even begin to ridicule you, Hanako walks over to the table.

“Care if I join you two?” The old woman smiles, and Toji points to the chair across from him. Mayu ends up sighing, but she ends up faking a smile. Hanako begins to eat her breakfast, and Toji stares at her. 

The woman that’s across from him has been like your second mother, and it makes Toji wonder if she knows. Did you end up telling her anything this morning? Toji has figured out that you two are close, but how close are you exactly?

“Do I have something on my face?” Hanako questions when she notices that Toji is staring her down. She always ensures that not a single hair is out of place, but she was in a bit of a rush this morning.

“No.” Toji ends up saying. His eyes search for a clock, needing to know how much he has left before he follows you around for the day.

“Ignore him, Hanako. He’s acting weird.” Mayu ends up saying, offering a smile to the woman. Hanako raises her eyebrows in curiosity, but she won’t dare pry. She won’t ask about Toji’s private life, it isn’t her place. “Ever since the princess interrupted us last night, he’s been out of it.”

“The princess?” The woman nearly chokes on her food. Hanako wipes the corners of her mouth with her napkin before asking the obvious, “What were you two doing?”

“Well we were–” Mayu begins but Toji glares at her.

“It’s not because of the princess.” Toji cuts her off, and Hanako clicks her tongue.

“I’m not asking because I care about your feelings, sir.” Hanako replies. “I want to know how to deal with the princess.”

“She’s not a child, she can handle two adults making out.” Toji argues before he bites his tongue. He regrets opening his mouth the moment he makes eye contact with Hanako. He’s right, you aren’t a child and being sheltered is what led you to ask such an inappropriate question last night. But perhaps saying those words to Hanako isn’t the smartest move.

“You are going to apologize to the princess, sir, and you are going to make it good!” Hanako begins to scold him, and he sighs. He has to deal with this and with an angry princess… It’s going to be a long day.

Work today is pure torture. He thought that the obnoxious parties were the worst that the job had to offer, but this is it. You’re acting like proper royalty and not engaging with him whatsoever. Toji didn’t know how much he enjoyed the bickering until he realized how boring the job is without it.

He’s following behind you as you take a stroll through the garden. A garden that’s so well loved and taken care of because of you. These walks aren’t unusual, but the silence that accompanies it is. He doesn’t even understand the point of the stroll when you’re not conversing with anyone.

“Your highness, are we expecting anyone?” Toji asks, the deafening silence getting the best of him. You don’t even look back at him, instead you keep walking. You keep walking as if he didn’t exist.

Toji sighs, at the very least wanting to know where you’re headed. You’re walking around like a headless chicken. Sure, the garden is nice but there’s these pesky bugs that love to get all over Toji. Plus, it’s warm out and his uniform doesn’t help.

“Will you go inside and get my basket?” You ask when you come to a sudden stop. He frowns, confused why you even ask the question until he lowers his gaze and realizes that you’re by the strawberries.

“I can hold them.” He answers, and you scoff.

“It wasn’t a suggestion, it was an order.” You respond, slightly annoyed that he’s defying what you say. Toji never dares to defy your wants– Except right now… and last night.

“I can’t leave you without supervision.” He argues, and you furrow your brows. You cross your arms and finally turn around to face him.

“I’m safe within these walls, am I not?” You question, and Toji sighs. This isn’t the bickering he wanted.

“My job is to watch you, and I’m not taking my eyes off you. You can order me to do whatever you want but I’m your knight, not your maid.” He ends up answering, and you roll your eyes at him. You miss the simpler days where you didn’t need a knight, alas, that isn’t your situation now.

“Fine. Cradle your arms.” You order as you get on your knees to grab the fruit that’s ripe enough to collect. It’s finally strawberry season. Toji crouches down and cradles his arms, just as he was ordered.

He’s watching as your gentle hands pick the strawberries apart one by one. You bring one to your lips, slowly biting down. The juice drips down your chin, goes down your neck and eventually reaches your cleavage– Toji has to tear his eyes away as sweet temptation consumes him.

“Do you want one?” You end up offering, grabbing a big strawberry and holding it in his view. He should refuse, but you’re finally speaking to him. He won’t risk making the situation worse, instead he bites down on the sweet fruit. You chuckle, your thumb going over his chin to clean up the juice that drips down. “They’re juicy and sweet.”

“They cheered you up.” He comments, making you roll your eyes.

“Let’s go back inside.” You stand up, dusting off your dress. “Perhaps the strawberry I fed you rolled around in the dirt before I picked it…”

“I’m still honored.” He teases as he slowly rises. He didn’t even realize the amount of strawberries till he had to maintain balance to keep them from falling. Toji’s eyes remain on the fruit that he holds, making sure that not a single one falls over.

“Good morning, princess.” Toji hears, his eyes darting up to see the fellow knight that walks by. He smiles brightly at you, waving your way. Toji clicks his tongue, rolling his eyes at the lack of courtesy from the knight.

“Good morning, Sir Ino.” You respond, and the sudden stop of Toji makes a couple of strawberries fall to the ground. His brows furrow as he replays the scene in his head… You remembered the knight’s name, you never remember any of the staff’s name unless you’re close to them.

“Hi, Toji.” Ino waves at Toji as well, only to be met by a harsh glare. Toji ignores the knight and follows behind you again, picking up a bit of speed since he’s fallen a couple of steps behind.

“Your highness, how do you know Sir Ino?” Toji questions, as if he has any right to ask you the question. You quickly remind him of his place by ignoring the question. Of course, you’re not going to give in so easily.

Toji knows that you’re still upset with him so he’ll try not to overthink your lack of words. And the man never gets into his head about anything, but it’s weird that you know someone’s name. Toji isn’t special, he knows he isn’t. The question you asked him last night was because he was the first man that came to your mind, and now that he’s rejected you he fears that you’ll attempt to go to someone else for help.

“Put them in the kitchen. Tell the staff I want strawberry shortcake tonight.” You order as you enter the castle. 

“Where will you go, your highness?” Toji asks, wanting to know where exactly he needs to go after dropping the strawberries in the kitchen.

“I have my piano lesson, remember?” You remind him, and Toji’s eyes almost widen. If there’s one person that he doesn’t trust you around is that damned piano teacher that makes you giggle like a fucking schoolgirl.

“Here, I have to go.” Instead of doing the task himself, Toji dumps the responsibility of the strawberries to the first maid he sees. A bunch of strawberries fall to the floor as he lets them go in the arms of an unaware maid. He doesn’t take his gaze off you as you begin to walk to the piano room. “Princess wants a strawberry shortcake tonight. She likes it extra sweet.”

“Princess, don’t get too far ahead! You know the king doesn’t like when you’re locked in that room with Mr. Kong alone!” Toji yells, nearly running to catch up with you. He feels like he’s going to die early, and he knows who to blame that on.

He’s ignored again, but this time he understands. This has never been something that he’s cared about. As a matter of fact, he usually stands outside to not hear the awful music you claim you play. He has no ground to stand on.

“No smoking indoors, Mr. Kong.” Toji can’t believe he’s setting rules, but apparently this is what he gets paid for. This is the man that Toji has left you alone with for so many times– The idiot is leaning against the mahogany piano, smoking a cigarette while gawking at you.

Worst of all, you’re smiling. Giving the man a soft look while you listen to his instructions. Toji, who is supposed to stand in the corner without even being heard, grabs an ashtray and snatches the cigarette from the man. Toji makes stern eye contact with Shiu as he puts the cigarette out.

“The king won’t be too happy if he smells that awful stench.” Toji comments, a passive aggressive smile coming to his lips.

“Sir Toji, it’s weird seeing you in the room.” Shiu smirks, crossing his arms as he stares at Toji. “Does the king know that you’re here?”

“Does the king know that you’re flirt–” Toji begins before his eyes land on you. You’re staring at the piano keys in shame. Toji rolls his eyes before staring back at Shiu, “Don’t light another one up or I’ll put it out on your neck.”

Shiu ends up chuckling before turning his attention back to you, “Let’s get back to work, your highness. Where were we? Before we were so rudely interrupted.”

Toji’s annoyance grows as he watches Shiu work with you. No wonder your piano skills don’t get any better, the fool isn’t teaching you anything, he’s just flirting with you. And what ticks him off is the fact that you’re welcoming about it– But it’s not your fault. You’re just naïve and don’t realize that you’re being flirted with.

“Can we play? Or is that against the rules too, sir?” Mischief is written all over Shiu’s gaze. He wants to stir the pot, and it works.

“Would you like me to speak to the king? The princess’ piano skills are still awful and you’ve been with her for the past two years… You’re not making much progress.” Toji points out, and you nearly bury your face in your hands out of sheer embarrassment. 

“You dare insult your princess–” Shiu is about to respond but you stand up, getting their attention. You grab Toji’s wrist and drag him out of the room, placing him outside of the door before walking back inside to continue your lesson.

You don’t have to say a word, but Toji won’t dare walk back inside.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Toji?! Who the hell do you think you are?!” Your voice is loud and clear as he follows you to your room. You have to get ready for lunch, and on the way to your room you’ll give him a piece of your mind. You can’t keep your thoughts to yourself considering how he embarrassed you. “Since when do you care about the fucking rules?! For the past– God knows have long, you’ve left me with Shiu without an issue.”

“Shiu! That’s my issue! He’s your piano teacher, not your buddy! He’s Mr. Kong to you!” Toji argues, forgetting his place. 

“Why do you care?! You’re so annoying!” You yell. “What the fuck is wrong with you today?! Why do you think you have some sort of authority over me?! Talking to me as if you don’t know your fucking place!”

“What is my place, princess?! Do you care to remind me? Or should I remind you what you told me last night?!” He responds as you get to your door. It’s the first time he brings it up and he’d feel bad if you weren’t acting the way you are. He swore to himself last night that he would never bring it up. You were vulnerable, he doesn’t want to hold it against you– But he’s definitely had a change of heart.

You look around the place, watching out for anyone before lowering your voice, “That was a mistake. Completely forget that.”

“Good.” Toji answers, looking around the place as he thinks his next words carefully. You’re not going to give up that thought from last night, you’ll just search for someone that’s willing. Whether that’s Toji, Shiu or Ino. 

He shouldn’t get involved in this mess.

He’s not going to die by the lips of a woman.

“But if that’s what you want, I’ll do it.” Toji says, a frown coming to your face as confusion takes over you.

“Huh?” You respond, and Toji licks his lips before looking around the place one more time. He can never be too safe.

“If you want me to have sex with you, I’ll do it.”

[petrichoravery]

Hello lovely! if your taking requests maybe spencer reid x reader hurt comfort. Where reader just needs spencer to take care of her. Maybe just letting her know she’s not being a burden. Totally cool if not!

Have a great day ☕️🍪

summery: you're lacking energy and Spencer is your sun. (Or, what the request says)

word count: 1,4k

what to expect: spencer reid x reader, established relationship, mental health issues (no specific diagnose but depression is mentioned and heavily implied), bashing of toothpaste ad music (unbiased), mention of nudity, but it's in no way of sexual nature

a/n: My first request wohoo!! Thank you for your req, lovely. You didn't specify why r needed taking care of, so I went the mental health route, I hope that's okay! I hope you have a great day, too<3

────── ༊*·˚

You couldn't feel the blanket under your fingers as you traced the fabric until your fingers went numb. You had no idea how long you've been here, like this. Curled into a ball on your couch, the TV was playing an ad about toothpaste.

Why is it that toothpaste ads always had the most annoying music?

But your muscles betrayed you, refusing to even move an inch towards the remote. In a constant loop of your movement along the blanket.

The door clicked open, but the usual rush of oxytocin and dopamine wouldn't come, you just stayed in the puddle of your misery.

Muffled, you registered Spencer calling out that he was home, but your mouth wouldn't form words. Frustrated, you stayed silent.

A figure crouched in front of you. You hadn't realised he has crossed the room already.

Spencer said your name softly, quietly, "What can I do?"

You didn't answer. Not because you didn't want to, you physically couldn't. Like your brain had shut down all contact with your mouth.

"I'll just change out of my clothes and make us tea, okay? I'll be back before you know it."

You were able to convince your head to nod. You hated how he was talking to you, all soft edges and careful treading.

He lingered, unsure if he could leave you in this state. "I'll be right back." He repeated, more to convince himself than you, before standing up from his crouch.

Half-heartedly, you thought about grabbing his sleeve and making him stay. You watched him leave the room.

Spencer does come back before you know it, you felt like four seconds or a lifetime had passed. He made you sit up and you reluctantly obeyed. It seemed like your body wanted to listen to Spencer more than you. You fault his brown eyes.

A mug with tea was pressed into your hand. "Drink. I cooled it down with a little water." He said softly.

Only then, when your throat bobbed around the gulps, you felt the migraine that had been forming behind your eyes and soon your body was coming back from rigor mortis.

Voice hoarse, you said, "I'm sorry."

"None of that." He said sternly. (Hah, sternly. As if one look from you doesn't make him melt like a snowflake in your palm.) "I'll prepare the shower and get you new clothes, okay?"

When you gave him a look, he laughed. "I'm not trying to seduce you. It's actually proven that showering and changing your clothes can make you feel better when you're feeling down. Kind of like an external change."

You don't believe that it would actually change anything, but you humoured him anyway (Spencer knows best, after all), letting him walk you into the bathroom. He peeled of your shirt and pants with gentle hands.

It's refreshing, the way he looks at you. You're naked in front of him and there isn't one speck of lust in his eyes. Just worry and love.

"Do you want to shower alone?" At your nod, he steps back a little. "I'll see you in a minute." Pressing a kiss to your cheek and forehead, letting his lips linger there for a little.

A laugh escaped you. "You're acting like I'll be gone forever."

"Might as well," he smiled at you. "I haven't seen you all day and now you're disappearing again."

"I'll be quick." You promised.

When he left the room, you stepped into the shower, letting the warm water wash away your sorry. Spencer was right, showering did help—though the word showering might be misleading, you just let the water cascade down your back until your muscles began working on their own again.

And you kept your promise to him, finished after ten minutes. You slipped into the sweat pants and Spencer's shirt that he had placed folded up on the toilette for you.

You stand in front of the mirror, pulling the t-shirt over your nose and smelling his scent.

After taking the moment of quiet that wasn't filled with self-doubt, but filled with so much love, you open the bathroom door. You found your boyfriend preparing a snack plate in the kitchen.

"Spence, you really didn't—" you startled him.

He turned towards you, his gaze lingering on you in his shirt, wet hair. "I wanted to." He reassured, turning back to cut the fruits and vegetables. You hugged him from behind.

After a while he is finished with preparing the snack and he turned, hugging you back.

"Bed? Or do you want to stay on the couch? We could watch a movie, your pick." His hand smoothed over your back.

"Bed." You mumbled, hiding into Spencer's chest. He welcomed you and you stayed like that for a little.

"Come on." He said, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. You let him kindly manhandle you into bed and don't even protest when he insisted that you had to eat a piece of apple (mumbling something about how they're packed with manganese, which is said to a lower the risk of depressive episodes).

He set the plate down on the bedside table and, finally, laid down on the bed next to you, the bed dipping with his weight, pulling you towards him like a magnet, you felt a little less rotten.

Spencer's pinky brushed yours to tell you if you want to touch him, you could, but there was no pressure to do so.

You rolled towards him, letting him wrap his warms around you. Both of you stayed like that for a while before either of you said anything.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Silence for a moment, and then, "There wasn't any trigger. I was fine one minute and the next…I was on the couch watching trash TV."

"There's not always an obvious reason for feeling down. But," he didn't know how to continue the sentence without making it sound like a lecture. "Did you go outside at all today?"

You frowned at him. "Yes."

He soothed the lines with his fingers, before brushing them along the side of your face and letting his fingertips tangle in your hair. "Good, because being out in the sun will increase your brains level of serotonin."

"I know that." The snap in your voice was barely there, but Spencer was, well, Spencer.

"I know you know," he mumbled, pressing a kiss to your eyebrow to soothe you. No bad intentions behind his statement. "Just reminding you."

"I'm sorry." You said again, this time for snapping because of such a silly thing.

"We talked about that, love. There is no need to apologise. I like taking care of you."

"It's not just that…" You struggled to find the words for your feelings. You felt like the biggest load and didn't want him to have to carry it, worrying him like that, making him care about you after what would have had to have been an exhausting work day. And now you were even snapping at him.

So you tell him just that.

"You're not a burden—don't look at me like that, I know you were thinking it. I promise, you're not making me do anything. I'm here on my own accord and I’m staying." He said firmly, but his tone was gentle. He was good at that, getting his point across without sounding like he was scolding you.

Still, you didn't believe him. "When you came home, I ignored you." Your voice cracked a little.

Spencer's hand cradled your head against his chest, hugging you tightly. "No, you didn't. There are many reasons why you aren't able to speak when you're in that state. You could be processing your emotions and feelings, or you're disconnected from your emotions. The latter is a normal symptom when a person is experiencing depressive episodes."

You stayed quiet, tucked into Spencer's arms. Safe.

"Point is, I know you weren't ignoring me. And I knew you would talk to me at some point, there is a difference."

"Thank you." You mumbled, pulling back a little so you were able to look at Spencer.

"You're welcome," he pecked your lips. "I love you."

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

It's like a balm to the wounds you have been licking in vain for all your life.

How lucky you were to have him now. What you must have done in a past life to deserve him, you have no idea, but you won't question it, in case there had been a mix up. He was yours now and you're not letting him go.

──────────── ༊*·˚

thank you for reading!!! please remember that reblogs are the only way to promote fics on tumblr. feedback is appreciated:)) here is a link to my masterlist in case you want to check out my other stuff<3

[adelliet]

Joel Miller X f!reader

IN CONTROL

Summary: Joel comes back home really pissed, not even telling you why. You decided to tease him a bit and make him loosen up a bit, which worked, but does he deserved it?

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, strong language, dom! Reader (at the beginning), sub! Joel, handjob, fingering, mutual masturbation, eye contact sex, unprotected sex ( p i v ), lowkey aftercare

A/n: Hey! I apologize if some phrases or parts aren’t grammatically correct or don’t make sense, English isn’t my native language! <3 Anyway, enjoy!

You sensed it the moment his foot stepped into the house. He was mad. But not the usual kind of mad—where he explodes, complains about what pissed him off, then calms down and laughs again. No, this was different.

You greeted him softly, trying to be kind, but you didn’t get an answer. Just a barely audible grunt. This is gonna be challenging.

Sitting in the kitchen, sipping your coffee, you watched as Joel stomped angrily toward the couch and threw himself onto it. He didn’t even look at you, not even a quick glance. Nothing.

“Do you want a coffee? Or tea, or something?” Your voice was gentle, sweet, coaxing him to talk, to face you.

“No.”

No? His tone was cold, sharp, almost indignant—and he didn’t even say thank you? You understood that when he was angry, he wasn’t in the mood to act all soft and sweet, but basic manners shouldn’t require any effort.

Even though it frustrated you, you refused to let it ruin your mood.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” you asked, sitting beside him, your eyebrows furrowed as you gave him your best puppy-dog eyes.

“Nothin’.” His response was flat, his gaze never meeting your concerned face.

You took a deep breath, trying not to snap and instead keep yourself calm. Fine. You can play this game too.

“Alrigh’, I’m gonna take a shower,” you informed him, getting up from the couch and heading straight to the bathroom. You didnt even care if he was looking at you or not. You decided to let him cool down a bit by giving him some space alone.

After your shower, you stepped out, and it didn’t take long to realize that there were no towels left. Right. You had washed them all today. Well, at least this would make Joel think about something other than his anger.

“Joel! Could you bring me a towel, please?” you called out, your voice still sweet. You hoped he heard you, because you really didn’t feel like repeating yourself.

While waiting, you spent the time grooming yourself in the mirror, tying your hair up into a cute ponytail.

Suddenly, the door opened, and there he was, a massive man standing in the doorway, completely filling the frame.

You looked up at him, smiling as you took the towel from his hands, lipsyncing a silent ‘thank you’ in return.

Joel froze for a moment, clearly stunned, his eyes locked onto your naked, wet body. He looked mesmerized, but after a second, he cleared his throat, turned around, and without a single word he left, shutting the door behind him.

You couldn’t help but grin. He wasn’t exactly subtle about the obsession he had for you. You knew he was probably replaying the image of you naked over and over again, acting like he hadn’t seen you naked a hundred times before. Still, it was cute.

After wrapping yourself in a towel, you stepped out of the bathroom, fresh and clean.

“I’m going to lie down, I’m pretty tired,” you said before heading upstairs and disappearing from Joel’s sight.

You grabbed the first shirt you could find, not so coincidentally, Joel’s dark brown one, and slipped it on before crawling into bed. You let out a content sigh. Finally, the cool sheets and the most comfortable bed in the world.

Grabbing the book you’d been reading, you picked up right where you left off. But after just a few pages, the soft creak of the door opening caught your attention.

Joel peeked through the small gap he had made, then exhaled when he saw you.

“I thought you were asleep,” he said, explaining his mysterious way of entering, before jumping into bed after you.

He looked much more relaxed now, calmer. Like he had washed all his anger away somehow, being the dear old Joel again. But you won't break that easily.

Now, it was your turn.

He was lying on his stomach, both hands reaching for your legs. His fingertips brushed against your skin before he started stroking it softly, tracing small patterns.

You ignored him.

That didn’t stop him. He let out a quiet purr and placed a soft kiss on your ankle.

Nothing.

It didn’t get a reaction out of you. Or rather, not on the outside. Inside, you were already burning with need, and if you weren’t so stubborn, you would’ve tossed that stupid book aside long ago and pounced on him like a wild cougar.

But you stuck to your statement, letting him suffer for now. With a stony expression, you kept your eyes glued to the words on the page.

Joel, however, was undeterred. His eyes stayed locked on your face as he pressed another kiss a little higher up your leg. Then another. And another.

He trailed kisses all over your skin, not leaving a single inch untouched. Your body, unfortunately, betrayed you, a quiet giggle slipped from your lips.

You felt Joel’s smirk against your skin as he continued his path upward, his lips never stopping. His other hand massaged your other leg, slow and deliberate.

He was too good at this. His hands were always so skilled, rough yet soft at the same time. A combination that never failed to make your heart race and create a waterfall between your legs.

Even though his touches tickled and distracted you, you held your ground, refusing to soften. That’s why you stopped giggling as quickly as possible and refocused on your book.

“You smell so good,” he hummed between kisses, his hands slowly trailing higher.

He skipped over the part of your body covered by his t-shirt, aiming straight for your neck, but you dodged him.

He paused, considering his next move.

“Honey, I need you,” he murmured, dazed from kissing you, before making another attempt at your neck.

You dodged him again.

“Baby, please,” he whined, dropping his head onto your stomach, looking up at you through his lashes, his eyes full of need.

Without hesitation, you covered his face with your book. A bit rude, but undeniably brilliant. “Babe,” he groaned, hugging you and lazily caressing your leg with one hand.

He was trying hard, and for a second, you almost felt sorry for him, until you remembered how he had acted when he came home.

That thought reignited your resolve, and you steeled yourself once more, unyielding as a wall.

“No,” you snapped sharply. Joel sighed, finally realizing what this was about.

“I’m sorry, honey… I didn’t mean to upset you,” he murmured, his voice like the whimper of a guilty puppy. But your expression remained the same, emotionless.

“Please,” he whined, his hand slipping under your shirt, sneaking between your lower back and the mattress. Before you could even take a breath to protest, he grabbed your ass firmly, so hard that a low murmur escaped your lips, your eyes squeezing shut.

That was your limit.

You shut your book and set it aside.

Joel’s lips curled into a satisfied smirk, thinking he had finally won you over. But he was wrong.

“You want me, Joel?” Without hesitation, he nodded.

“And do you think,” you leaned in, stopping just inches from his lips, “you deserve it?”

He completely ignored your question and went in for a kiss, but you pulled away.

“I don’t think you do,” you teased, slipping out of his grasp. You were about to climb out of bed, but before you could, his hand wrapped tightly around your wrist, refusing to let go.

“Please,” he pleaded, looking devastatingly good while doing so, but you weren’t about to give in.

You yanked your arm free and walked around the bed. His eyes followed your every move, forcing him to roll onto his back while still lying down.

“If you really want me,” you mused, dragging a chair from the nearby table and placing it infront of the bed, “you’re gonna have to earn it.”

Joel’s eyes never left you. You sat down with a devilish smile, crossing your leg over the other. You both stared at each other for a moment, and Joel had no idea what you were planning.

“Take your clothes off,” you commanded, leaning back in the chair.

Joel hesitated for a second before he began undoing his shirt and pants, tossing them aside carelessly. Now he was only in his boxers, which perfectly outlined the shape of his hard dick.

Your throat filled with saliva as you sat up more comfortably, pressing your thighs together even tighter, to calm your throbbing pussy down.

You felt the heat spreading from your lower belly, slowly taking over your entire body. Your cheeks started turning red, but you still held your ground. “Take that off,” your voice wavered slightly, not as confident as before, but still carrying a hint of authority mixed with desperation.

Joel let out a deep breath, dropping his head for a moment. He shook it slightly before looking back at you, pure frustration in his eyes. Do you really want this? Do you really want to torture him like this? Yes, you do.

After realizing his pleading eyes weren’t working on you, he gave in and did exactly what you told him. He released his hard cock, that slammed against his stomach the moment he took off his shorts.

You took a deep breath, feeling the dampness between your legs seep onto Joel’s shirt, you couldn’t stop it. He was so big, every vein, every unshaven patch of him, perfect. Made just for you.

His eyes were filled with deep emptiness, as if they reflected the weight of the entire world. His brows were slightly furrowed, his forehead marked with faint lines of worry. His lips were slightly parted, yet no words came out, just a quiet, defeated breath.

His shoulders sagged, his posture slouched, as if even kneeling on the bed took too much effort. There was no spark in his gaze, only silent desperation.

The once strong, dominant, and fearless man, the one all of Jackson feared, whose mere sharp gaze sent shivers down the spine of anyone daring to hold eye contact, had been reduced to a pathetic mess, now kneeling on the bed, practically drooling over you.

He waited patiently, but it looked like it physically hurted him. He needed you, right here, right now, more than anything else.

“Touch yourself” you commanded with your chin held high and a sly look in your eyes. Joel exhaled, rubbing his eyes with his fingers. “Honey, I—” You didn’t even give him a chance to resign.

“Touch. Your. Self.”

He watched you for a moment, questions racing through his mind. Was this worth it? Should he just give up and spare himself the humiliation by you like this? But for you, it was worth it.

He slowly reached to his twitching penis, shivering at his touch, his gaze never left from your body. He carefully wrapped himself with his hand, his palms hot and sweaty. He groaned quietly, as he started lazily stroking himself.

It was pure torture for him, to see you and not be able to touch you, not to taste you. Every fiber of his being ached to grab you, to feel every inch of your body under his hands, but he couldn’t. All he could do was kneeling there, helpless, as you watched him, his breathing growing faster with every passing second and so did his pace.

For a moment he had to throw his head back and focus only on the feeling, the way his hand pumped, trying to imagine your tight wet pussy wrapped around his cock, instead of his own hand.

He snapped back to the present, his eyes scanning every inch of you. But you weren’t any better off, it was just as much torture for you as it was for him.

You wanted to feel him inside you, how deep he would go, how fast and hard he would pound into you, where his hands would wander on your body. Just from these images, your bottom started to tingle and your core clenched around nothing.

You couldn't take it anymore. You slowly opened your legs, revealing your dripping pussy. Joel's eyes immediately dropped down, watching as you traced your fingers against your folds, sighing whole holding eye contact.

The tension between you was unspeakable. The atmosphere was so thick it could be slices into milion pieces.

Your hips were moving along with your fingers, your breath getting louder with every second that passed.

Joel was nearing orgasm. His head was spinning and his balls were so fucking full. His tip already leaking with pre-cum, his hand movements slippery and absent-minded. If he could just feel you, just a little taste of your wetness, he would be happier right away.

,,Fuckk…” he groaned under his nose, his jaw dropped as he tightly shutted his eyes.

You pushed one finger between your folds, stretching your walls. Biting your lip, you let out a small squeak and kept your eyes fixed on Joel, while your finger curled inside you. Your other hand joined, making a small circles around your poking, sensitive clitoris.

Joel grumbled, the urge to watch you forcing him to keep his eyes open, but the need for relief was stronger. "Darlin' I-" his body tensed, every muscle was tight before he shuddered and soiled the entire sheets with his semen.

He growled really loudly from his lungs, before he finally relaxed and lay down on his back. Seeing Joel cum right in front of you moved you way faster to your edge.

You shut your eyes, slowly throw your head back and jumped on your fingers. Your teeth sinking into your lip, making a bloody mess on them. You whimper, your eyebrows furrowed and then, it suddenly hit you. The need to pee, the sudden cold that enveloped your whole body expcept the fire in your belly. A few more pumps and you released, cumming right on your fingers. Your juice seeped onto Joel’s shirt, the one you were still wearing.

Both of you were now trying to catch your breath, still in your places—you on the chair, Joel on the bed. But he didn’t give you much time, because his eagerness and desire for you had only grown stronger, after what had just happened.

He crawled toward you, the bed squeaking beneath him, so he couldn’t exactly sneak up on you completely unnoticed. But by the time you lifted your head and realized what was happening, you were already on the bed, pinned beneath him.

He wasted no time, covering your neck with his mouth. His beard tickled and scratched at the same time, creating a deadly combination you always adored. From the way he was aggressively sucking and biting at your skin, you knew there would definitely be bruises left behind.

But you didn’t mind. It was proof that you were his.

Your fingers, still slick with your own arousal, tangled themselves in Joel’s graying, wavy hair, tugging whenever he unexpectedly bit down. Each time, a gasp escaped your lips. It was music to his ears, fueling him to continue with even more intensity.

His hands couldn’t decide where to stay, roaming your body like he was trying to memorize every inch of your soft, clean skin. Finally having the chance to touch you, to squeeze you, he took full advantage. One hand slipped under your shirt, technically his shirt, and without warning, he cupped one of your breasts, rough and desperate.

“Joel-“

You purred, arching your back as you forcefully grabbed Joel’s face and crashed your lips onto his. He moaned into the kiss, his dick hardening again, as he started playing with you nipple.

He twisted it in different ways, took it between his thumb and index finger, gently squeezing it, careful not to hurt you. As a reaction to that, your whole body arched upward against Joel’s hot body, feeling his thick penis pressing against your inner thigh.

“I’ve been craving for this all day,” his warm breath brushed against your earlobe, sending chills down your spine. His hand never stopped teasing your nipple, while his other hand was planted firmly on the bed to keep his balance.

Despite how much he was teasing you, you gathered your strength and decided that tonight, he wouldn’t be the one in control. With a swift move, you wrapped your legs around his waist and flipped him onto his back, leaving him breathless and completely caught off guard.

“Woah, someone is-” Before he could finish his sentence while grinning devilishly, you interrupted him with a passionate kiss. He quickly responded, holding your head with his massive hand, his palm covering almost your entire scalp, while his other hand firmly gripped your hip, pulling you closer.

“I don’t think you earned the permission to control me tonight,” you whisper, your eyes full of hunger, your voice seductive and sly, while your lips, swollen from kissing Joel, are still pressed against his.

Your tongues were fighting against each other, lazily, even though no one really wanted to win. Your salivas mixes together, creating the most tastefull liquid, that both of you couldn't get enough.

The room was filled with both of your moans, that dissapeard into each other kisses.

Your ass, slowly, frantically, critically rubbing against Joel’s thick cock. You had to feel something, you yearn to feel him. Your chafing grew more intense, quicker and relentless, forcing Joel to stop kissing you and grunt through his clenched teeth.

“Fuck honey,” he sounds rough and hopeless, his eyes making it obvious, that he needs to be fucked, badly.

You adore his miserable face, his trembling hands gripped on your hips, their frantic pressure forcing you to stop moving and finally sink into him. His eyes sparkled with something you couldn't quite name, but it radiated desire, lust, and something much darker. Something like hunger and the thrill of the hunt.

For a moment, your fingers traced over his rough stubble, gently scratching him, before you decided to act. Your gaze dropped beneath you, as you adjusted yourself to drop yourself, without any unpleasant difficulty.

You wrapped his dick in your palm, not too hard but not to soft, making him gasp a little, before his tip touched your wet folds and steadily slipping between them. Finally, it felt so heavenly good to finally be filled, but he also make you remember how fucking big he is, that every time you doubt about making it fit.

And every time, he makes sure it does.

His eagerness refused to let him wait patiently, forcing him to lift his hips and push deeper into you, speeding up the process. Your eyes widened, a soft whimper escaping your lips, a breathless echo of his name.

“J-joel-“

You had to drop your palms against his hairy chest for some balance, claiming his veiny penis in. You bit your lip, trying to keep the moans inside but still, some of your cries slipped out.

Joel's jaw dropped while keep stretching your tenuous walls, until your pussy met his base, not leaving space for anything else. Despite your doubts, Joel proved to you, once again, that it fit.

It was all too much, and you didn't even start. The way you were so full of him, your wetness dropping on his cock, stopping on his balls, that longed to be emptied already.

You both waited, there was no hurry, no preassure, but you were both so aroused, that you couldn't wait any longer. When you got used to his length, you started, with Joel's help, moving smoothly back and forth. Initially slowly, to warm up, so that your persistent pulsating core would stop, but now, you were just tightly gripping Joel.

You listlessly threw your head back and closed your eyes, focusing all your attention only on Joel's cock, that was unintentionally rubbing against your weak walls.

"Mhm yeah, that's it," Joel growled, his eyes glued to you. He watched your every move, every twitch in your face, every shiver, he memorized it all, so during moments alone, he could remember this, remember you.

You were careful, slow and deliberate, but you enjoyed every moment you felt his tip twitch inside you. Your gaze met his, the weight of the eye contact was incalculable. It was so intimate, so romantic, so pleasurable. But you wanted more. You needed more.

Your ass begun to move faster, Joel's hands slid to your fat halves and gently slapped them, making you squeak. His playful slap gave you energy to speed up your pace. You used all your leg muscles to ride him, feeling his cock caressing your silk insides and poking your cervix from time to time.

“Jesus Christ baby,” he sigh, finally give in and drop his head onto the mattress. Your senses were evaporating away, the unyielding urge to take him deeper tickles your brain. Your body instinctively, out of necessity, began gently changing the direction, moving up and down and damn, this position will take you both to the grave.

Your gasps grew more ragged, the wet slapping sounds echoing around you, locking you into an invisible cage.

The heat between your legs was burning and you felt your muscles losing its strength, your lungs having lack of oxygen. Joel noticed it immediately, grabbing your ass firmly and making you jump on him, uncontrollably, rhythmlessly but damn hard.

He pulled himself fully out of you, before he firmly thrust into you with his full strength. Every time he sat you down, your throat automatically let out a wheezing breath, your breasts shift with gravity, just like your already tousled ponytail.

Joel clenched his jaw, still holding your weight, helping both of you reach your orgasm. The air around you both feels thick with anticipation, each breath syncing with the rhythm of your movements. The soft slapping sound of skin against skin fills the space, adding to the sensuality of the moment. The warmth of his body against yours, mixed with the heat from the room, creates a charged, almost intoxicating atmosphere.

It’s a heady blend of desire, closeness, and something deeper, making everything feel intimate and undeniably sexy. The way your bodies move together, the soft sighs and gasps, only heightens the intensity, making each second feel drawn out yet impossibly perfect.

Joel feels every movement, his body tense beneath the pressure as he holds you steady, his grip firm yet careful. His mind is a blur of sensation and restraint, every exhale heavy as he drinks in the sight of you, your skin, the way you move, the warmth between you both. The air is thick, heated, filled with the quiet sounds of breath and the rhythm you’ve fallen into together.

You feel his hands grounding you, his touch sparking waves of pleasure, yet there’s something else beneath it. Something softer, something unexpected. Every motion pulls you deeper into the moment, where instinct and connection intertwine.

It’s intoxicating, the way your body responds to his, the way every shift and sigh draws you closer. You feel strong yet vulnerable all at once, lost in the wild rhythm you’ve created.

“Mhm you're so fucking tight baby~” Joel groan, squeezing your ass, his nostrils flared with every thrust, his brows furrowed as he bit down hard on his lip, trying not to cry out your name across the bedroom, not wanting to seem weak.

The tension builds between you both, every movement pushing you closer to the edge. His grip tightens, fingers digging into your skin as his breath turns ragged, each thrust becoming more desperate, more precise. Your body trembles, heat coiling tight in your core, every nerve alight with sensation.

“Joel, oh god,”

You feel it before it happens. That dizzying moment of surrender, where pleasure overtakes everything else. Your gasp catches in your throat, your body tightening around him as a wave of ecstasy crashes through you, leaving you weightless, breathless, completely undone.

Joel follows right after, a deep, guttural groan escaping his lips as his body shudders against yours, lost in his own release. His hands hold you still, as if grounding himself in the moment, in you.

The world fades into nothing but heat, heavy breaths, the air between you thick with satisfaction and something unspoken, something deeper.

You collapsed dazedly onto Joel, your chest rising and falling rapidly, as you buried your face into his neck. You were both quiet, trying to catch your breath and let the moment settle. The whole room smelled like sex, even Joel, even you.

After a few minutes, Joel regained his strength, lifted his head, and realized he was still inside you. With a sigh, he let his head fall back onto the pillow, staring at the ceiling for a moment.

“You were in control until now.”

His voice was rough, wrecked, hoarse from restraint, yet thick with the remnants of pleasure. Slowly, he pulled himself out of you, a low growl rumbling in his throat as you let out a tired sigh, a deep sense of emptiness settling in.

“Let me take care of you now.”

You could listen to him for hours, lost in the gravelly warmth of his bedroom voice. The last thing you wanted was to leave the bed, but Joel had other plans. He wasn’t about to let you stay like this, not when a mix of him and you was still slipping from between your thighs.

Noticing your exhaustion, he carefully scooped you up, holding you against his chest like you were something delicate, something precious. Your limbs felt heavy, spent, but his warmth made it easy to sink into him as he carried you to the bathroom.

“Shall we take another shower?” Joel asked, and you just let out an annoyed purr, resting your head against his chest. You felt the slight tremor in his body as he chuckled softly.

“You’ll rest after, I promise.” He pressed a gentle, reassuring kiss to your forehead before carrying you both into the bathroom.

[kikis-writing-service]

Can't stop thinking about Katsuki having a history of failed relationships. It's never difficult for him to attract people. They fall for him easily—drawn to his looks, his unflinching honesty, his blunt approach to everything. "It's refreshing," they always say. "It's so rare to find someone who won't lie to you."

His hero ranking certainly doesn't hurt either. People are naturally attracted to power and success, and Katsuki has both in spades. They love telling their friends they're dating one of the top pro heroes, enjoying the status that comes with the association.

Initially, they appreciate his attentiveness—how he notices details about them, remembers their preferences without being told twice. They admire his passion; the way he gives everything to his hero work extends to his relationships too. Katsuki doesn't know how to be halfway committed. He puts his entire self into whatever he does.

That's always how it begins, but it never lasts.

All those traits his partners once praised become what they resent. His honesty? Now it's "too harsh," "too cutting." They ask him to tone it down, to not be so blunt all the time. "You don't have to be so honest about everything. Sometimes small lies are better."

His attention to detail becomes irritating, especially during arguments. "Why do you have to remember everything?" they complain. "You're being petty. Focusing on things that don't matter." They grow to resent how he remembers every word they've said.

His passion, once exhilarating, now "suffocates" them. "I need space," they say. "You're too intense." As if he knows how to be anything else.

"If you're not going to give it your all, what's the fucking point?" he asks. They never have a good answer for that.

The first few breakups, Katsuki fights back. He tries to compromise, catching himself before saying something particularly harsh, attempting to filter his thoughts. But it feels like a betrayal of himself, like he's putting on an act. Inevitably, in moments of stress or fatigue, the filter slips and his full personality comes roaring back. The disappointment in their eyes hurts him more than he'd ever admit.

"This is exactly who you fell for," he reminds them, voice rising with frustration. "You don't get to act surprised now."

After enough repetitions of this cycle, he stops fighting. When they break up with him, he simply nods, jaw tight. "Good riddance," he mutters, though something cracks inside him each time.

Sometimes he wonders if Deku and the others have it easier. Deku with his endless empathy, or Kirishima with his straightforward warmth. People don't seem to tire of them the way they tire of Katsuki. Maybe he's just fundamentally too difficult to love long-term. The thought pisses him off, but he can't dismiss the evidence: a string of relationships, all ending the same way.

So he gives up on relationships entirely. "They're a waste of time," he tells anyone who asks. But deep down, he longs to come home to someone.

And then he meets you.

You're different, though not in any dramatic, obvious way. You're just as straightforward as he is. You commit fully to everything that matters to you. You take his words at face value, never searching for hidden meanings that aren't there.

The first time he snaps at you in public—a sharp, caustic comment that would make others flinch—you just laugh and snap right back with equal force. No hurt feelings, no wounded looks. Just acceptance that this is part of the conversation.

He notices how you don't pull away when he gets worked up about something trivial. Instead, you match his energy. He finds himself waiting for the moment your expression changes, for the familiar look of exhaustion to creep in. But it never comes.

He’s sworn off relationships, but he feels himself falling. And it terrifies him so he fights against it.

Sometimes, when these thoughts overwhelm him, he'll pick a fight or pull away, testing the boundaries of your patience. Waiting for the inevitable moment when you realize he's too much work, too difficult, too Katsuki.

But you handle it without flinching. You don't try to change him or tell him he's too much. You accept that this is just how Katsuki is. Your acceptance only deepens his fear.

And it's because you're different that he can't bring himself to hope for a future with you.

He's dealt with losing people before. He's recovered from those breakups and moved on. But losing you? He's not sure he could survive that.

But so far, you're still here. And each day you stay makes the prospect of you leaving all the more unbearable.

[fixatedonwriting]

My dad had a drug store in Mississippi in the 70s and 80s, and I worked there off and on starting when I was about ten or eleven. It was an incredibly tiny town, so everyone knew my parents. They also knew me and my younger siblings as the small creatures who lurked behind the showcases. Which did not prepare them to have to deal with us actually working up at the counter.

So I'm ten or eleven. (Can't remember which. I'm old.) And this young Black guy comes in. He's acting pretty normal until he clocks the fact that none of the adult women who worked for my father were currently on shift, and that I was the only person standing there.

So he does this little dance where he starts to leave and then comes back. Leaves and comes back. Leaves and comes back.

Finally, I call out in my best "Daddy taught me this was called 'customer service'" voice: "Hey! Can I help you?"

This forces him to slowly walk up to the counter. Like it's the last place he wants to be, but he doesn't want to weird out this elementary school kid by rushing out the door.

So he gets right up in front of the counter and gestures for me to come a little closer. When I do, he whispers something I can't quite hear.

"What?" I ask in a very loud voice that causes him to cringe.

"I said," he whispers, "I need some mumble, mumble."

"What?!" I ask again, even more loudly and high-pitched than before.

This makes him shuffle around a bit while shaking his head. He is clearly having a very bad day.

"I said," he whispers, dragging out each and every word, "I need some con-dom-z."

"Oh," I say, more than a little confused because I'm pretty sure we don't sell any condoms. I know this because I've freaking grown up in that store, and if there was a product in it, I'd either seen it or shelved it. So I'm about to tell this guy he needs to go elsewhere.

But while I'm standing there, wracking my poor, little mind, this guy's face has gone into full "My lord, why must I suffer this way?" mode. I decide I can't send him away like that, so I do what any customer-service-child would do.

"Dad!" I yell. "This guy says he needs some condoms!"

Cue customer wrapping his hands around his head. Like if he wasn't in public, he'd be in full-on fetal position.

My dad emerges from behind the pharmacist's partition, takes one look at this poor fellow, and says, "Why don't you come on into the back? We'll get you taken care of."

Dude doesn't says anything, but quickly nods and follows. Later, he scoots right past me on his way out with a brown paper bag in his hand.

My dad comes up with him and stops to hand me a pad of the store stationery. He doesn't say anything, just looks at me sort of red-faced.

I look at it, back at him, then at it, and back at him again.

He sighs and finally says, "For when someone asks for something like that in the future. Just write it on the there and pass it around the partition."

"Okay," I say, not quite understanding why there's all of this emotion in the room, but willing to take this on as yet another part of my training.

The bell rings over the front door, and my dad starts to go back to where he stocks drugs, counts pills, and types up labels. But partway around the partition, he stops and looks back at me.

"Please don't tell your mother," he says before slipping away.

And that is how I learned we sold a bunch of stuff behind the partition that I never knew existed. From that day forward, I used that pad for condoms, sex toys, and all sorts of other products 1970s/80s Mississippi wouldn't allow us to display on the shelves.

I'd like to think it isn't that way anymore.

But I have a feeling that somewhere out there, there's another customer-service-child holding onto a pad.

[kneelbeforeclefairy]

What I think is most different and most striking about Sunrise on the Reaping is how CYNICAL it is. To some extent we knew it was going to be. This is a midquel. That the reapings go on and the Hunger Games only ends 25 years later is a forgeon conclusion. We know nothing that happens here is going to work.

The book is about implicit submission, and why, with numbers on their side, the many submit to the few, even when the few are unjust. And it's because, the book seems to say, numbers aren't ENOUGH. the Newcomers alliance is much bigger than the Careers. They should be able to team up and defeat them easily. But they don't. Eighteen of them are killed outright, because the Careers have the strength, the skill and the training. And that's just that.

Plutarch asks why the tributes don't overwhelm the Peacekeepers during training, and Haymitch is rightfully outraged at the privilege of this question. Why don't they? Because they probably couldn't kill them all, and even if they could, what good would it do? It wouldn't stop the Hunger Games. It wouldn't change a thing. No one would even know about it outside that room, because the Capitol would change the narrative. Just like Katniss and the Star Squad can't REALLY take on the Capitol single handed and assassinate the president, the scrappy alliance of kids can't really do any real damage to the system the Capitol has in place. All they can do is choose if they want to die now or later. So why don't they, if there's no difference to them, as Plutarch asks. Because, as Snow puts it. Hope. The slight chance that one of them will come out of it. And, more cynically, the hope that if they are good tributes and obey, their families will be left alone. If they choose to rebel and choose to die now they guarantee retaliation against their families and perhaps their entire district. We see that even in the tributes that attack the Gamemakers in the arena. They rise up, they break that bond of implicit submission--and they die bloody for it.

Why don't they rebel? Because they don't have the privilege to lose.

Even Lenore Dove, the Joan of Arc of Twelve, fails to do any real damage or have any real effect. All she does is get herself a reputation for being a trouble maker, and eventually get herself killed. Was she killed as part of the retaliation against Haymitch, or was her punishment because she's a rebel, and that's what happens to rebels? (and Snow hates covey girls.) but she fails because she IS alone. She focuses on small, symbolic acts that do nothing, but that she hopes will rally the people to action.Unfortunately, the people of Twelve don't want their lives to get any worse, and they don't have the privilege of spending time and energy on revolution the way a teenager girl whose family doesn't need her income to survive does--sadly, Twelve will remain this way, in an uncanny valley where they're beaten down enough to need change, but not enough to have NOTHING to lose. They are not one of the districts that rise up. So acting alone does nothing, teaming up does nothing. How does one fight an enemy with better technology, better weapons, and better organization? Beetee's plan doesn't work out. Of course it doesn't. Could it ever? Was it just borne out of grief for his son? And even if it had, then what? What was the plan? Haymitch's poster gets edited away. The Newcomers fail. Lenore Dove dies. The most you can say is Haymitch himself becomes too important to kill, like Beetee, and Snow let him live to fight another day, but so destroyed that he no longer WANTS to.

So, then, what WORKS?

The answer is, quite cynically, Plutarch's version of the world. Numbers mean something, there are more of US than there are of THEM , but that isn't enough. You need weapons, you can't bring a knife to a gun fight, you need EVERYONE on your side. You need organization, not just a series of disconnected rebellions, and you need an Army, provided by Thirteen, as problematic as they are. The timing just needs to be right. And most crucially, what I think Plutarch and everyone involved here learned is that victory belongs to those who control the narrative. Those who control the flow of information and tell their story. And it's not Plutarch, for all his cameras and his propos and his idea behind The Mockingjay, who eventually does that well.

It's Haymitch.

Who learned to tell a story and sell a narrative with himself and the Newcomers. Who tried to paint his poster in the arena only to see it rewritten in front of him. Who won't make that mistake again. When it's time for the deciding factor in the revolution, it's Haymitch who creates the Mockingjay-- and is he also using Katniss and her image? Yes. but he at least sees Katniss and the human she is inside it, unlike Plutarch who hasn't changed much from the man who makes a grieving family do reshoots over and over so he can get his footage, while congratulating himself for letting Haymitch have his goodbye.

When Katniss sets off the spark twenty five years later, the world is ready. The work is in place. Plutarch, Haymitch, Beetee, everyone can say GO , and this time it'll work. So buckle in, and wait for the Long Game, even though only Plutarch really has the privilege to wait, the rest of them don't have a choice. It's cynical. It's awful. People die. The lone rebels and the plucky girls and the alliance depending on its numbers all fail. Plutarch motherfucking Heavensbee, the richest of the rich the privilegedest of the privileged, pulls off the revolution, takes the credit, and lives to see the end of it, without ever once examining his own privilege, and unpacking the fact that despite his head being on the right side of history, he's never managed to see the Districts as PEOPLE . (and you could argue, ANYONE as people. ) But it's just the only way.

But this book isn't the middle of the series. It's the end. How awful would it be to read if we didn't know that Katniss and the Mockingjay rebellion would eventually succeed. We know that despite the cynism of a failed revolution and all its players, that one day it WILL work out. This book is called sunrise on the Reaping....the sun rises on a world where this is inevitable. But one day it won't be.

[ptej1980]

I am a firm believer….

This is not a bump, it is not a different path it is an uncomfortable pebble in our shoe.

I love breaking it down because we have so much evidence to back up the Lukola connection and this is why we are all still here.

Now…..ask yourself some questions

Would you as a person stay in a relationship for a year with someone who.

1. Consistently, touches, hugs, looks at, talks about, heart eyes and is unhinged with.

The way Nic and Luke were with each other on the WT and then at the SAGs it is just too much evidence to the contrary. You will never convince me that they are in relationships with other people, especially Luke when he acts like that with Nic.

That man wears his heart on his sleeve, he did when he was with Jade and Sophie. You see the same behaviour with Nic. The Antlukes can not come here and tell me that he does not act the same because it is a new relationship, ummmm NO. If there theory is true they had been together since end of 23. So not new, just not together. He is a hostage in a situation he can not get out of.

Nic is clever, she is chronically on line, she sees what people say. She knows that no one is buying it. On X everyone is laughing at the pics, and People magazine for mentioning Nic. Just like the JD article mention Luke.

I draw your attention to what matters

1. Public opinion -Recent SAG awards, everyone’s still focused on N&L and that narrative not budging. People circulate and continue to spread Nicluke content.

2. The rings, explain away that….we can’t they are connected to Season 3 and Luke and hardly leave Nics hand worn in the Engaged/Married position

3. The Polaroids- have been on Nics phone since Australia. And seen on her phone as recent as two weeks ago. They are posted on her grid.

4. Chaos week - and the fact that Nic comes to Luke’s defence.

5. The only significant other on each person’s IG grid is Nic and Luke. 🐜 has removed every trace of Luke even in tags, Luke’s PR team has wiped everything and continues to monitor Wiki pages to scrub.

6. The subtle shipping of cast, crew, media, and industry. Shonda, Netflix, Ryan Wheeler, Jack Murphy, make up artist.

We will just have to be patient. BAFTA nominations get released end of next week. I am sure we will get a repeat of the SAGS

People who are in love or have been in love know that they would do anything for them. I have been married for 20years to my best friend. And the way Luke acts around 🐜 does not say LOVE. It says angry, upset and uncomfortable. Embarrassed even.

If you do not agree scroll on, take a breather read a good fan fic. But if you ever need a chat send me a DM or an ask because I am never moving.

[deadrobinthoughts]

† underlined : jason.

⋆˙⟡ "You have given me a thing I could never have imagined, before I knew you. It's like I had the word 'book,' and you put one in my hands. I had the word 'game,' and you taught me how to play. I had the word 'life,' and then you came along and said, 'Oh! You mean this.'"

⋆˙⟡ request: no, i'm just coping. jason using literature as a love language. ↦ kalico note: i have nothing to say here.. but i did notice i had to make a jason banner.. i really have no solo jason requests??? + p.s: yes, there are several meanings to the a.s byatt quote - it was simply teasing because the quote acknowledges that passion can lead to destruction.

jason todd is a complex creature that has never been able to rely solely on words to communicate. he wasn't raised in softness, being taught how to verbally express everything he feels — even now, he struggles with the vulnerability that comes with it, all of it feeling incredibly foreign.

that's not to say he never communicates, no, but there are times when he can't find the words. feels like his own will just fuck things up. so, he uses the only thing he knows will convey his thoughts; classic literature.

"i love her, and that's the beginning and end of everything."

you weren't sure how to act when he said those words

quiet, muffled against the crown of your head

you weren't entirely sure he was looking for a response

jason, on the other hand, thought you were asleep

it was a confession, one he hadn't been fully ready to say outright

"i would rather spend one lifetime with you, than face all the ages of this world alone."

he just says it out of nowhere

sitting on the couch

almost like he's just reciting the words for fun

you, on the other hand, are staring at him

it takes a second to process

"are you.. are you flirting by quoting lord of the rings?"

he doesn't confirm or deny that

"i have waited for this opportunity for more than half a century, to repeat to you once again my vow of eternal fidelity and everlasting love."

you're in the kitchen

his arms around your waist, forehead down against your shoulder

it makes you think, going over the words for a moment

"do you think we were in love in our past lives?"

he chuckles at the question

he turns you around, careful

"i'd like to think i've been following you through each one."

you can only look away when he gives you that little grin

"if i had a flower for every time i thought of you, i could walk through my garden forever."

it's on the little card of a bouquet this time

just sitting on your counter

he's nowhere to be found

you just smile, tucking it back into the little plastic holder

you wonder if he'd like getting flowers, too

"take me with you. for the laughs, the luck, for the unknown. take me with you."

you can't help but laugh reading this one

nothing too loud, just amused

"i'm leaving for too days, dummy."

he absolutely does not care

he didn't care scribbling it on a sticky note

why would he care now?

"long enough-"

"perhaps it is our imperfections that make us so perfect for one another."

you saw this one coming

he'd seen you upset

upset over stupid things

your brain messing with you, as it does so often

he'd comforted you in the moment

but seeing the note stuck to the bathroom mirror?

it almost made you want to cry again

"i know from experience that poets are right; love is eternal."

he quotes this one after you ask him something he doesn't want to hear

that inevitable conversation

the "what if something happens to me?"

the "what if you don't come home?"

there's nothing much he can do to soothe those thoughts

the world doesn't work that way

but he kisses your forehead, whispering the words

a promise of sorts

no matter what happens, he is going to be loving you

"i would rather be happy than dignified."

it's after a fight

not even really a fight

an argument that left you both uneasy

it comes in the form of the book

highlighted for you

a way of apologizing

because words don't always work

"i love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul."

this is one you hear him mumbling under his breath

something that catches your attention

something that makes your stomach twist

"jason?"

he doesn't look up immediately

dealing with other voices that he's trying to shut out

it's a simple question that makes you understand

"you're here for it all, yeah?"

"i cannot let you burn me up, nor can i resist you. no mere human can stand in a fire and not be consumed."

it's scribbled in a card for your anniversary

you look between him and the card a few times

reread it once or twice

you click your tongue

"are you trying to tell me that our love is destructive?"

maybe he didn't think that one through

"there’s nothing in all the world i want but you and your precious love. all the material things are nothing. i’d just hate to live a sordid, colorless existence because you’d soon love me less and less and i’d do anything — anything — to keep your heart for my own. i don’t want to live—i want to love first, and live incidentally… don’t—don’t ever think of the things you can’t give me. you’ve trusted me with the dearest heart of all—and it’s so damn much more than anybody else in all the world has ever had."

this is the one is said after a mission

after nearly losing his life for the second time

after potentially leaving you to deal with the world alone

you don't respond to it

you simply let him have his time

he doesn't let you go for a while

"i’m so damn glad i love you – i wouldn’t love any other man on earth – i b’lieve if i had deliberately decided on a sweetheart, he’d have been you."

it's the first time you respond using his own little language

you say it with a smile

a little over exaggerating

even going as far to tap him on the nose

for once; he has no quotes

no words

no jokes

he's simply looking at you in a way that says he loves you

for the simple fact that you did that specifically for him

[tamamita]

Firstly, I'd like to make it clear that it was a letter that was not sent.

Irrelevant; whether he sent it or not does not obfuscate Herzl's intentions and what he meant.

while many Zionists at the time, including Herzl and Jabotinsky often referred to the creation of the state of Israel as a colonialist project. They were calling it colonialist to garner support from Western powers who could help with their plight, and because colonialism was popular at the time.

This is deception, why would you promulgate this antisemitic conspiracy theory upon your own people, like hello, is this really the argument you wanna make? That the Jewish Zionists tricked the Europeans into creating a state for them? Don't you understand what sort of ramifications it would have for the Jewish people to deceive the imperialists into creating a state for them? I'm not buying this.

To call upon the Europeans to act as beneficiaries for the founding of a state as a bulwark against the Barbarians is a textbook example of imperialism and colonialism, because that's what Herzl intended to do! Why do you think the colonialists would support them, if not for colonialist reasons? Do you seriously believe that all this rhetoric was just to fool colonialists into supporting them?

With that said, I have mentioned before in der Judenstaat that Herzl depended on the Europeans for the establishment of a Jewish state in ASIA as a wall of defense for Europe. Furthermore, we can corroborate the meaning of colonization based on Herzl in his book:

Should the Powers declare themselves willing to admit our sovereignty over a neutral piece of land, then the Society will enter into negotiations for the possession of this land. Here two territories come under consideration, Palestine and Argentina. In both countries important experiments in colonization have been made, though on the mistaken principle of a gradual infiltration of Jews. An infiltration is bound to end in disaster. It continues till the inevitable moment when the native population feels itself threatened, and forces the Government to stop the further influx of Jews. Immigration is consequently futile unless based on an assured supremacy.

The Society of Jews will treat with the present masters of the land, putting itself under the protectorate of the European Powers, if they prove friendly to the plan.

-Der Judenstaat

Here he references the first Aliyah as a failed colonial experiment, as it caused discontent among the native population. Thus, he clearly states that the colonization of Palestine can not happen unless on assured supremacy, which is to say, through the protection of the European powers. If the colonizers prove to be friendly towards the society of Jews, they will defend them against the native population and successfully colonize Palestine.

What is the plan? To settle Palestine with the homecoming Jewish people.

Sorry, need I remind you the last time this happened? Perhaps you're familiar with Liberia and how that backfired. Despite it being an attempt at returning former African-American slaves to Africa, the native population were ultimately alienated and are currently experiencing apartheid, since the African-American immigrants refused to assimilate with the native population, bringing their USamerican culture with them with the US acting as their beneficiaries. Liberia is considered a colonial state no less different than the Zionist state. We're seeing the exact historical ramifications as a result of these "homecomings". Do you think Liberia was a successful "land-back" project?

I'm pretty sure taking land back that you once had isn't mentioned in any explanation of colonialism.

Land back from whom??? The native population who already lived there?? You don't get to co-opt an Indigenous American movement that has consistently spoken out against the Zionist project.

As for Jabotinsky, the dude literally wrote an entire manifestation justifying colonization and making references to previous colonial ventures. He was being very sincere with how he wanted to colonize Palestine. I have NO idea why you would even invoke his name. Either way, let's put colonization into context:

There can be no voluntary agreement between ourselves and the Palestine Arabs. Not now, nor in the prospective future. I say this with such conviction, not because I want to hurt the moderate Zionists. I do not believe that they will be hurt. Except for those who were born blind, they realised long ago that it is utterly impossible to obtain the voluntary consent of the Palestine Arabs for converting "Palestine" from an Arab country into a country with a Jewish majority.

My readers have a general idea of the history of colonisation in other countries. I suggest that they consider all the precedents with which they are acquainted, and see whether there is one solitary instance of any colonisation being carried on with the consent of the native population. There is no such precedent.

-The Iron Wall.

It is clear what the supposed meaning of colonization here, given that Jabotinsky was a contemporary of Herzl. There is no way that you can conclude that both Herzl and Jabotinsky differed in how they defined the terminology, especially given the fact that Jabotinsky referenced Hernan Cortez, Pizarro and the pilgrim fathers in the very next paragraph and both concluded that the native population wasn't welcoming to the settler colonizers. Jabotinsky even mentions the fact that regardless of phraseology, Herzl and his meaning of the term colonization bear no other understanding than what they specifically wanted to do, colonize Palestine. Like I don't know what to tell you!

And it made no difference whatever whether the colonists behaved decently or not. The companions of Cortez and Pizzaro or (as some people will remind us) our own ancestors under Joshua Ben Nun (referencing the Amalekites), behaved like brigands; but the Pilgrim Fathers, the first real pioneers of North America, were people of the highest morality, who did not want to do harm to anyone, least of all to the Red Indians, and they honestly believed that there was room enough in the prairies both for the Paleface and the Redskin. Yet the native population fought with the same ferocity against the good colonists as against the bad.

They [The Arabs] feel at least the same instinctive jealous love of Palestine, as the old Aztecs felt for ancient Mexico , and their Sioux for their rolling Prairies.

-The Iron Wall.

I pray that not a single zionist fuck gets to know peace ever again

[dearwhs]

the ultimate 10 steps to confessing (jaehyun's idea) ★ hts — 한태산

★ genre: 80% crack, 10% fluff wc: 2.4k warnings: nothing, down bad loser taesan... watch out

꒰ ☆ ꒱ notes: TAESAN'S FIRST PASS? WE CHEERED. FINALLY OUT FRM THE DRAFTS + its lacking cute scenes but ure gonna ijbol i hope

★ part 1 here !!! > 10 steps to NOT fall in love (100% works?)

꒰ ☆ ꒱

remember jaehyun's "what about 10 steps of confessing to yn now?"—well, that thought is flying over taesan's head now, messing him up, contemplating. is jaehyun's suggestion really a good idea?

probably not. definitely not. you're just his crush. it's bound to fade, right? well, despite failing all the 10 steps of how to NOT fall in love. why's he still in denial?

okay, maybe ever since that day—acting like your parent or something, being concerned about you—you lived inside his head rent free. he'd replay the moment you two shared that now he's openly smiling in front of jaehyun whenever he thinks about you.

safe to say we lost taesan to you. you had him wrapped around your fingers.

maybe he really needs to do something about this crush thing. his actions? not normal. he's experiencing all the symptoms you'd get when you're crazy in love—and the smartest move he could do to fix whatever this was? ask jaehyun for help. after all, he's in this mess because of their silly bets.

which is as to why taesan is now in jaehyun's habitat, cause he cannot bare to see you right now. he's afraid he's heart would go badum badum again 'til it explodes.

now, taesan's face is buried on the pillow, groaning. and what is jaehyun doing? laughing. mhm, he's laughing over taesan's despair because this is a side he never saw in their years of friendship ever, like EVER. he'll even take a video if he can, but you know what'll happen if he does... maybe that wasn't part of his best ideas yet.

"hey, taesan. i'll help you, dude. i've got an idea. " jaehyun grinned, nudging taesan's shoulder.

taesan just looks up at him thinking, he's up to no good again, isn't he?—either way, he's so lost that he just accepted his faith under jaehyun's hands. here goes nothing.

"the ultimate 10 steps to confessing!" (jaehyun partially plagiarized taesan's first plan), after hearing that? taesan didn't even bother to argue on why they're doing this 10-step thing again, but instead he's just hoping whatever this plan was, it better work.

and again, just like that, "the ultimate 10 steps to confessing" has been reborn. let's just hope it works.

꒰ ☆ ꒱

Jaehyun's Ultimate 10 Steps To Confessing!

STEP 1: admit you like her

– first step, stop being in denial. pretending to be all cool when she passes by doesn't add aura, taesan—the moment you're gone, he'll smile like a freak IN PUBLIC (which is an automatic -800 aura for our fake emo).

– okay, easy! he just gotta admit he likes you. except, he's outside the apartment mumbling to himself as he takes out the trash, "i like–" you got this "i like h–" — "you like?" yup, of course you were there, accidentally creeping up behind him.

– despite being caught off guard, he just plays it off, coughing. "oh, i like pancakes." (in fact, he doesn’t. STEP 1: PASSED! even if he didn't admit it—his actions did, let's cheer!)

꒰ ☆ ꒱

STEP 2: start acting normal

– according to jaehyun, taesan's normal mode is currently turned off. because recently, he had been so conscious of his actions when you're around. it's like he's overlooking things—is he staring for too long? should he look away?– or does that makes him look weird?

– you'd be in a convenience store eating out—his treat. you're rambling to him how you did so well on your quiz, you'll subconsciously high-five him. you don't know the impact that high-five had caused to him, cause the moment your hand touched against his, his hands just freezed in place, literally. once he noticed his hands were paused up in the air, he just awkwardly plays it off as scratching his head, "why is my head suddenly itchy, haha." (STEP 2: failed...?)

꒰ ☆ ꒱

STEP 3: stop overthinking EVERYTHING

– after over-reading his actions detail by detail—he's slowly latching now over yours. even searching on google, "what does it mean for someone to..." yep, he's cooked. (he needs to be stopped..)

– curious what made him head to google?— it was the way you said good morning to him, earlier. somehow, he caught the fact that your voice was two notes lower than usual. did it even make sense for him to notice that? maybe. he is studying music, after all. (STEP 3: failed, once again…)

꒰ ☆ ꒱

STEP 4: planning the actual confession!

– so, at this point, jaehyun thinks taesan had finally calmed down (which i don't think he did) and is finally ready to plan the confession: their og plan.

– though, taesan's a little bit stuck on step 3. he ended up questioning himself—what if i mess up?— like what if you laugh at him? what if he ends up messing up? what if you ignore him forever, or worst.. what if he confesses to the wrong person!? (okay, maybe the last bit is unlikely, but we can see how bad his overthinking can get.)

– jaehyun pats taesan's back, "it'll work as long as you follow my steps, okay man?" he said with determination in his voice.

– oh, jaehyun's the biggest taeyn shipper—now listing all the steps using his pencil with bite marks (we don't talk about that – jaehyun) and a dream.

꒰ ☆ ꒱

STEP 5: figuring out your interests (secretly...!)

– easy! — "what's your favorite..." he said, for the 30th time, practicing his words as if he was reading a script, even putting efforts on his facial expression. (which he had never done—well, not until now)

– upon entering the bus, someone yells your name, and of course, it was taesan—you automatically sit on the chair he saved for you, right beside him.

– you two sat quietly—well, not until he broke the silence (little did you know, he'd been practicing in his head), "sooo, what are you into these days?" wincing at his own voice as soon as the question came out, trying his very best to awkwardly not look away—like he usually does.

– you pour your interests all over taesan—the cafe you've been currently obsessing over, your new favorite drink, your favorite band: guynextdoor, you spilled everything. and taesan? he just nods as if he understood everything your mouth blabbered.

– in reality, he didn't. though, he now has an idea! you like this new cafe, new drink alert for the nth time, and guynextdoor—which he considers that band his enemy for now for owning a place in your heart. (STEP 6: a somewhat success—back to researching he goes.)

꒰ ☆ ꒱

STEP 6: drop little hints

– how is this in any way useful? well, according to jaehyun, if you drop little hints, maybe, just maybe, you'll notice, and then you and taesan get together and live happily ever after. but, i wish it was that easy, jaehyun. i wish. still, taesan does it anyways.

– first thing he does? he tries to compliment you—keyword, tries. "hey. i um, like your handwriting," — "thanks!" it was unusual, but you appreciated whatever that was. him? he's whispering under his breath, did i do okay? was that obvious?

– taesan told jaehyun—it made him slam his own face, because how could you fail COMPLIMENTING??? he told you to try again. (he's locked in)

– at this point, he's showering you compliments everyday, when you see him outside the apartment, when you're on campus, wherever you are, he'll make sure he gets to throw you at least one compliment. he hopes you don't find it too weird, though. (STEP 6: passed...)

꒰ ☆ ꒱

STEP 7: learn from the professionals (aka kdrama)

– jaehyun wrote this idea, cackling to himself, "this is the best step yet," he's totally just not gonna make taesan watch kdrama with him—totally. according to jaehyun, you could never go wrong with kdramas!

– now, jaehyun and taesan are slouching on the couch. taesan's arms crossed, squinting at the television, "so, if i surprise her with flowers, it'll make her like me...?" he muttered in confusion, jaehyun just pretends to nod—he's too busy giggling at the kdrama in front of him.

– then, as they were watching, the male lead spouts their usual cheesy lines, "i've loved you from the moment i saw you,” which made taesan groan, covering his face with a pillow. “no way i’m saying that without cringing.” he'll totally use that scene as a reference. (STEP 7: might work)

꒰ ☆ ꒱

STEP 8: TESTING THE WATERS

– okay, for this, they had to make sure what you think of taesan before going all in. he needs proof that you're comfortable with him or something, so that he won't fall flat on his face scarring the rest of his life with this confession. so, what's their plan? simple. they decided to test the waters with totally not so obvious questions. they'll try their best to fish out your reactions at the mention of someone secretly admiring you—or if your face lights up when taesan is brought up.

– you'll be walking around campus with taesan, and... jaehyun who coincidentally bumped into you two. he casually started the conversation with "so, what do you guys think if, um, someone you know secretly likes you? or uh if they confesses?"—that made taesan's eyes size up because that was NOT in their plan (sadly, he wasn't informed), you gave jaehyun's thinking a thought, "hmm, i guess it depends? if they're sweet and romantic, i'd fall for that."

– jaehyun nods, trying not to hold his grin as he stares at taesan who's quietly biting his lips to stop himself from giggling, mentally taking a note: sweet and romantic, got it. (STEP 8: HAPPY TAESAN AND A SUCCESS)

꒰ ☆ ꒱

STEP 9: going all out >:)

– it's time to prepare taesan's confession. taesan's in jaehyun's little jungle, avoiding you for now to not spoil or slip anything about the confession. in reality, he knows he'll fold if he sees you next door.

– jaehyun's step are pacing back and forth, thinking of the greatest way to confess to you, "what about... you accidentally fall in her arms and confess?" "what? no." "hm, what about you write her name using those drones stuff?" "no? i'm broke." "broke and unromantic? tsk." — taesan just glared at him before stuffing his face on a pillow as jaehyun continues his little brainstorming, not until taesan randomly gets up after getting an idea.

– "wait, she said she wanted something sweet and romantic, right?" taesan suddenly mutters, his eyes lighting up. "and… i kinda know what she’s into, so… maybe we can combine those?" jaehyun just blinks, "i liked my suggestions better, but i guess yours could work. (STEP 9: CHECK!)

꒰ ☆ ꒱

STEP 10: CONFESSION TIME

– they're basically prepared now, flowers? check! chocolates? check! plushies? check! all they've gotta do now is to execute it well—hopefully.

– taesan and you are walking, heading back to the apartment after an exhausting class today. the sky fading from orange to a beautiful purple, casting a soft glow on the environment—it's as if everything came out from a kdrama which is perfect. everything seems to be going to plan.

– the plan was simple: he'll ask to hang out in your place for a bit, then casually pick up your guitar to play a song you've been practicing lately—not knowing he was also getting guitar lesson from the guitar master sungho, then after that, jaehyun will pop up with the gifts. simple and easy, right?

– as you two arrived, he instantly heads for your guitar, "mind if i play something?" you just checked up on him from over the kitchen, "sure, go on." okay, just relax, he can do it. jaehyun's voice enters in his head, "don't mess it up."

– so far it had been going so well, you two were vibing, sitting next to each other, locking eye to eye with the sweetest smiles—it made a somewhat romantic atmosphere. all are going according to the plan, until "TING" his finger caught the wrong string which caught him off guard, making him continuously go off tune—okay, he messed up a little, flustered taesan just slowly puts down the guitar, glaring at his hands for betraying him 'til the guitar slid, clattering on the floor. this is awkward.

– what made it worst? the creaking sound of the front door opening, "CONGRATS TO TAESAN, MY MAN!" it was jaehyun putting on the biggest smile, holding the gifts taesan prepared, even wearing sunglasses indoors... wrong timing, jaehyun, wrong timing...

– the room was insanely silent—you could only hear the flowers and chocolates rustling. you blinked at jaehyun, taesan blinks at jaehyun, and well, jaehyun just blinked, "i saw you through the window proposing..." taesan just slammed his face, "i was apologizing for knocking her guitar down."

– taesan stood up, facing your way, "yn, i like you. i'm sorry this confession thing turned for the worst. it didn't really go my way- but i swear if you give me a chance, i'll properly confess next time-"

– your laugh escaped your mouth, you couldn't barely hold it anymore. "wait, why are you laughing-" you cut him off as you grasp for air— you couldn't stop smiling your cheeks started to hurt, "taesan... you've been too obvious. i've known for a while." which made him look down as he scratch the back of his neck, deeply embarrassed.

– "i like you too, just so you know." he immediately looks up, "really?" that sent him straight to fully crazy in love final level, if you could only hear his heart going crazy to the point that it might actually jump out, and suddenly, ta-da, pretty pink petals started falling down, the same as the one in dramas—except it doesn't make sense at all, well, since you're inside... it was actually just jaehyun sprinkling the petals, "sweet and romantic!"

– taesan couldn't stop himself from laughing at the fact you liked him too despite the ridiculous, awkward, and gone wrong confession. he realized that maybe it wasn't so bad at all, but rather memorable. he ended up leaning closer next to you, holding both of your hands, "i'll make it up, i swear," with the sweetest tone as he squeezes your palms. (STEP 10: it all worked out)

꒰ ☆ ꒱

if you liked this, a like, reblog, or comment is highly appreciated, thank you! ><

[ofeliaxoxo]

A prompt for you: Charlos, jealousy

Yesss jealousy trope of all TIME unironically my favourite scenario

Hope you enjoy this! Wrote it a bit on the fly because I’m sick in bed ignoring responsibilities

He’s not even gracious in victory. The usual post-win glow is absent, no movie star smile pulled back to reveal his perfect teeth. The nice way his eyes crinkle up, so you can believe in it, the whole idea, how lovely he is.

Charles, Carlos could say, give me a smile. You’re so beautiful, you’re so talented. You beat us all today. Why do you look so angry?

“Congratulations,” he actually says, keeps the jealousy out of his voice although only the stupidest idiot could imagine it not to exist. “That was a great drive, mate.”

“Thank you. You too, you have done well.”

Oh?

“You were very happy, no? I saw you celebrate it with Alex.”

God. Like being told, no come on, you did a good job too, upset with himself as a child about second place. And he was, no, he is happy. They managed P4 and P5, a ridiculous result, practically a win, leagues ahead of where he thought he’d be this year. James nearly cried, hugged Carlos close and said I can’t believe it and then shook his head, taking it back, insisting that he knew they would succeed.

So he is happy, even though here Charles is, sodden with champagne, the actual winner of everything.

Maybe he’d seen when they’d gotten out of their cars and Carlos, without thinking about it, had pulled Alex in, squeezed him, thumping him on the back, trying to impart some of what he was feeling into his teammate. Alex swayed pleasingly when Carlos thwacked him, giggling, whole face scrunched up in delighted amusement the way it does.

Carlos likes him, the way he laughs so easily, gets stuck on his words and then enjoys it when Carlos leads them back into the path charted out for them by the cue cards.

And then a photo with the team, their names in big letters, Carlos and Alex, P4 and P5, all the mechanics with their fists raised in the air, cheering in victory although really there was no victory. But Carlos is happy, isn’t going to lose the feeling.

And now Charles, red and obvious against all the Williams blue.

Alex hasn’t left, has just stepped into his own garage instead of outside where everyone is milling around, where Carlos had been gathering himself.

“Yes, a good result for me and Alex, for the team. We are happy.”

Interview mode. Charles won’t notice, anyway.

“You and Alex work together well.”

“Do you want me to go and get him? I think he is not busy.”

Charles has got his podium cap in his hand. He always makes these things into a huge show, much bigger than anyone else, every time, curtsying and waving and simpering at the crowd like an actress being given a present.

“No, I - no. I am going. I wanted to invite you, to come tonight.”

Sitting at Charles’s table, partying for Charles’s win. He doesn’t have to, anymore, no one could ever expect him to. The galling thing, the disgusting little twist, is that he wants to. Would be happy there, in the circle. Carlos can see himself, sitting next to him, close close close, the nearness of Charles’s face, the thickness of his eyelashes, the smell of his cologne, how fun he is when he’s in a good mood. How Carlos could drape an arm across his shoulders, let it fall heavy on the hard muscle there.

“Sorry, we are flying this evening. And I think there will be dinner with the team, first.”

James’s obvious delight to look forward to. Carlos and Alex are turning the team around.

“You are flying together?”

He must’ve had too much champagne on the podium. Or the rocky battle with Max in lap fifty has scrambled his brain. He’s seriously not acting right for someone who should be floating, shouldn’t even be listening to what Carlos is saying.

“Yes. Are you ok, Charles?”

“Charlie! Come to show us what a real winner looks like, I assume,” Alex is here again, with a reassuringly cheerful grin. He comes up to stand by Carlos, unworrying in his personal space.

Finally, the pretty laugh, for Alex, the glance down and then back up. Does he know he does it?

“I will see you later, mate,” he announces, claps hands with Alex, turns to leave, makes sure to remind Charles he is the best, to see if that will lift his inexplicable mood, “enjoy your party, eh, Charles, don’t go too crazy!”

[soluversworld]

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

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

Genre: G.N Reader (Angst!)

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

Trigger Warnings (TWs):

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

Mental Instability – Implied unhinged thoughts, intrusive urges.

Obsession & Fixation – Thoughts circling around a past encounter.

Content Warnings (CWs):

Dark Poetic Themes – Romanticization of violence and chaos.

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

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

You're a killer.

Not just any killer—a serial killer.

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

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

You're a killer.

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

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

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

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

And yet.

You are a fucking liar.

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

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

Turn the page. Who’s next?

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

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

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

It’s fictional. STOP.

And it gets worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then.

Someone’s watching you.

The air shifts. The hairs on your neck rise.

What the fuck.

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

Eh.

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

Footsteps. Yours. Handprints. Also yours.

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

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

And then—he arrives.

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

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

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

Because it seems like you left.

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

But you didn’t leave.

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

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

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

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

“Talk.** Now.**”

You keep him pinned.

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

But then—his breathing.

It changes. Too heavy. Too shaky.

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

AH—????

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

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

Oh.

Oh, what the fuck.

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

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

But he’s still fucking flustered.

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

Almost makes him faint. Almost does.

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

Oh.

What the hell was he trying to clean up?

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

He goes limp.

You sigh, irritated. Tear the mask away.

And pause.

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

And his face?

...Pretty.

Too pretty.

And somewhat familiar.

What the fuck.

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

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

Hah.

Darlin’, he was being nice.

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

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

Nah.

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

And wouldn’t that be interesting?

Too hot to kill.

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

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

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

Oh, Y/N.

You showed sympathy.

You’re a saint, aren’t you?

Why the fuck was he trying to clean the mess?

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

You don’t care. You won’t care.

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

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

You need to sleep. For your work.

You had… a dream.

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

Innocent. Loved you.

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

You can’t see his face.

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

His voice—soft, bright, hopeful.

You don’t get to answer.

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

He’s crying.

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

You couldn’t say anything.

You didn’t.

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

And you watched.

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

Your older self watched.

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

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

Then—

A sound.

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

Yeah. You woke up.

Congrats.

You’re the beauty of gore.

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

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

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

What a fucking name.

Hideous.

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

And this case? This crime?

It’s years old.

What the fuck.

Maybe people are just dumb.

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

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

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

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

And the dumbest part? This case is years old.

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

But you know the truth.

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

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

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

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

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

Grey bubble. They’re typing.

Moth

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

Moth

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

You scoff. Baby stays the same.

You type back so fast your screen almost cracks.

"HHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE"

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

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

Moth

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

…Oh. Oh, shit.

FUCK.

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

WHY?

Fuck it. You’re emo.

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

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

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

Oh shit.

Work.

Oh no.

Oh no no no.

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

…You wink at yourself in the mirror anyway.

"Time to cause problems."

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

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

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

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

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

"New plant?" you ask, because duh.

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

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

"Nice."

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

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

You snort. "You wound me."

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

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

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

Then she dropped a bomb.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Violet hums, unconvinced. "Weird. "

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

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

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

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

…Unless—

Oh.

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

They were stupid. In which case, easy kill.

They were a detective.

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

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

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

Oooooh. Fuck.

Yeah. That’d be fun.

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

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

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

And then—

“Oh!”

Elanor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then—again.

Elanor.

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

“Looks like he’s back again.”

Your fingers freeze on the paper in front of you.

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

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

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

Pause.

“Because he was staring. A lot.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

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

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

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

Aisle 8.

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

Of course.

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

And then—there he is.

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

You clear your throat. “Ahem.”

Flinch.

He turns.

Stops.

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

Pink.

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

You stare.

He stares.

Somewhere, distantly, reality stirs.

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

“Woah… You look…”

A beat.

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

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

Why he what?

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

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

And you—oh, you—

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

How’s that?

Not about this. Not about him.

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

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

He takes a breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This the one?”

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

Then he flips through the pages, scanning, searching—

And stops.

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

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

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

Your heart stumbles. Your lips part—

“…What?”

His expression shatters into pure, unfiltered horror.

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

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

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

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

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

You sigh, shaking your head. “Sure.”

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

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

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

Your stomach twists.

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

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

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

“Haven’t I?”

A pause.

Then, smoothly: “Red- Ren.”

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

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

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

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

Until he tilts his head, expression sobering.

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

“I could watch your place.”

Your breath catches.

You blink at him. “What.”

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

You stare.

He meets your gaze, unwavering.

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

Instead, you hear yourself say:

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

Ren smiles. “Only if you say yes.”

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

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

You smile. Evilly.

Heheheheh.

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

Wouldn't lie… those blue eyes—

They’re similar.

That man.

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

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

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

Ugh.

Stop.

Ugh.

You smile a little.

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

And oh, how you love it.

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

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

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

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

[arcadia-of-pluto]

LADS! Idol Group AU — Y/n

(Banner Art — @/AngyeFdez on X)

Before I officially start on the drabbles/prelude, I just wanted to present the Y/n's for this drabble series! There's going to be six in total, one for each love internet and then one for the polycule.

For poly Y/n, the others will have a purely friendship-type of relationship while in the solo ones, poly! Y/n will be a normal manager and, often times, middle-man for their relationships.

I haven't completely fleshed them out just yet, but I thought I might as well post what I have so far and gauge how y'all feel about it!

I'll also reiterate here the nicknames for each Y/n;

Zayne's Y/n — Petal

Sylus's Y/n — Kitten

Caleb's Y/n — Pipsqueak

Rafayel's Y/n — Cutie

Xavier's Y/n — Starlight

Manager Y/n — Grey

(If I'm honest, Grey came from an old bts fic I read where Y/n was referred to as that instead of Y/n. I couldn't think of a better "name" and I just wanted to let that be known!)

💙🐁🐭💙⚘️🥀💙🐭🐁💙🥀⚘️💙🐁🐭

Zayne's Y/n

Y/n has been with her group since she was 15. From trainee to debut. She was always the poorest of the four, the butt of the joke, but she tried her best to get along with the other three girls. She was the youngest, so she was already at a disadvantage, but she wanted to prove to them and the higher-ups that she was a good addition to the group. However, the group wasn't gaining enough publicity and so her manager decided they needed to have one of the girls act out to get eyes on them.

To be the ‘Wildcard’ and have more people talking about them, and that role was unsurprisingly given to Y/n. At first, Y/n wasn't aware of this. She'd be confused and panicked whenever tabloids would post about her having a “night out” with another guy when she was just hanging out with one of her cousins. Or when she had a class reunion and was photographed leaving the bar with her friends. But eventually, the team sat down with her and explained everything. Because she was being portrayed as a “problem child”, the group was becoming more popular.

People were keeping an eye out on the group for her, to see what she'd get herself into next. Y/n didn't want to ruin her image to put her other bandmates up on a pedestal, but what else could she do? (Her group could be called BILY – Because I Love You). 

Anyway, idol x idol and maybe her manager decides to take it up to the next level and tells her to get close with someone from the most popular idol group at the moment, which is LADS. She only listens to her manager, because maybe someone at UNICORNS INC could help her become a soloist, she can't stay with her group any longer because it's absolutely ruining her image. Every single video, it's “she has such a good voice, it's a shame she acts the way she does”, “if she wasn't such a good dancer, she would've been kicked from the group”, “what's all the hype anyways? She's not even that good looking”, “BILY deserves better! #Y/nleavethegroup”. (It's the best idea I have right now.)

She'll be 19 when LADS is first formed (while Zayne is 22) and when the official drabbles begin, she'll be 24 while Zayne is 27.

❤️🐈‍⬛🖤⛓️🖤🐈‍⬛❤️⛓️❤️🐈‍⬛🖤⛓️🖤🐈‍⬛❤️

Sylus's Y/n

I'm not sure why, but I want his Y/n to be a stripper turned actress. Like she's always had big dreams, but she's doing what she can to make money so she first meets Sylus at the N109 Zone while she's a waitress and a stripper and he's a rapper in Onychinus. As he works his way up through the ranks of Onychinus, she's by his side every step of the way. They're not exactly friends, but they're not strangers either. Right before Sylus leaves to pitch his idea to UNICORNS INC, he tells Y/n about his plans and she encourages him.

She even hits his shoulder with a smile and says, “When you make it big, don't forget about me, y'know?” And while he's off training with his new group, she also gets scouted, but for a completely different industry. Acting.

So his Y/n is basically just actress x idol

I know this one has significantly less writing, but it was the easiest to explain. The other Y/ns, including this one, will be of similar age to their love interest until we get to poly! Y/n whose age will be more in the middle.

💚🐰🐇💚🍂🍃💚🐇🐰💚🍃🍂💚🐰🐇

Caleb's Y/n

For this au, Caleb and Y/n won't be step siblings, because outside of the games, I can't justify pseudo-incest. (I have a step brother and don't wanna screw him — my sister, on the other hand, did 🕴 /srs)

Instead, Caleb was taken in by Y/n's grandma, Josephine. Josephine didn't really want to take Caleb, but Y/n insisted. Josephine worked at an Orphanage, that's how she adopted Y/n, and whenever Y/n sae Caleb, noticed how quiet and distant he was compared to the other children, she couldn’t help but be reminded of herself. So an 11-year old Y/n begged Josephine to take in the 13-year old Caleb. Josephine didn’t even have to adopt him! She could just be his guardian. After she took him in, Y/n grew close with Caleb, learnt his story about how he was separated from his parents, and dove into research and news articles to find his parents. She found nothing.

Besides their last name Xia.

So Caleb continued to live with them, even getting a part time job during school since Josephine paid more attention to Y/n. She didn't even give Caleb an allowance, but Y/n didn't know this. Even when he graduated college, Y/n was the only one there for him. (He went straight to college after highschool graduation at 18 and graduated college at 19. He was volunteering at a local air base to get a feel for if he wanted to work there, shadowing employees throughout college, and eventually he got to flying.

So he technically has two years of experience whenever he gets into his accident at 20.

Again, Y/n was the only one to show up at the hospital for him. (So childhood friends to lovers, but also she's the one who tells the agents, Tara, Jenna, and Simone, about Caleb and to scout him.) 

But also slowly becoming a Josephine disliker. Put her in an old folks home and be done with it 😭

💜🦊💜🎨🖌💜🦊💜🖌🎨💜🦊💜🎨🖌

Rafayel's Y/n

Rafayel's Y/n will be a fan. But she's actually been a fan since his old Tidus days, whenever he revealed his very first artwork (which she immediately bought once he sold it). She's on the richer side of life. She's always gotten what she wants, but she knows the struggles of the lower class.

Her and her mother used to be dirt poor, always scraping by for their next meal, but when Y/n turned 11, there was someone at their doorstep. An agent from UNICORNS INC. They were looking for one Miss “M/n” and it appears your father, who you never knew at this point, had been looking for your mother this whole time.

Your father was elated to learn he had a successor to his company, but also a daughter. A sweet child that he could spoil and now he has his beloved wife back.

Y/n saw Rafayel's first work at 16 (he was 17) and knew she had to have it, but it wasn't for sale. Not until two years later, when Rafayel (Tidus) was more famous, did he sell it. So at 18 (him 19), she was in a huge bid war until she finally won the painting. She has it hung up in her apartment. Then, a few months later, Rafayel dropped from the public eye. (He was doing this idol training with the others, this training went on for a few months before they went to the public to reveal their group).

💛🦢🪺💛🌉💛🪺🦢💛🌉💛🦢🪺💛🌉

Xavier's Y/n

What if his Y/n was someone he had a crush on in college, they slept together at a party when they were drunk (they both remember) and she got pregnant? 🤔 So they'll be parents at 18/19 and when Xavier is 23, the baby would be around 4 years old. Okay, okay.

The two had a mutual crush on each other during college, but neither ever reached out. They were mostly acquaintances, working together on projects and one-sidedly fighting for the top ranked student. Y/n was trying to be number 1, always falling short, and Xavier wasn't even trying. He would usually not nap in classes she was in, but a few weeks after the party, she dropped out. So Xavier lost his motivation to stay up in his classes and that's what led to him being kicked out of college.

Y/n dropped out because she was embarrassed. Her and Xavier weren't dating, she had a crush on him, and now she's pregnant. She's downright mortified. She can't tell him that he's suddenly going to be a father because what if he just says he doesn't care or that he wants nothing to do with her? She's too nervous and anxious of his reaction to even be around him, so she left college and got a job at Linkon's local bookstore. She practices writing while pregnant and after she gives birth, she publishes her first book.

By the time her and Xavier are both 23, she's a best selling author and a mother to a lovely 4 year old daughter named Margot (child of the light). So his Y/n will be one night stand/single parent?

Don't ask why my mind jumped to college pregnancy, hidden baby type stuff for Xavier, but I am extremely attached to Margot

🩷🦭🩷📃✒️🩷🦭🩷✒️📃🩷🦭🩷📃✒️

Poly! Y/n

In the non-poly drabbles, Grey / Y/n will just be their manager. She'll be helping them with their relationships and being completely professional.

In the poly drabbles, Grey / Y/n will also be their manager, but they'll be trying to win her heart. They all know they like her and they're trying to get her to realize it.

The other Y/n's will be present, but Pipsqueak will just be Caleb's childhood friend who called in a favour to get him scouted, Petal will be the troublesome member of BILY who comes to them for help, Cutie will be a rich fan who helps them out with money troubles and the face behind their social media account, Starlight will still have Margot but her and Xavier's college crushes have since went away and they're close friends (Margot comes over to play with Grey and Xavier, and Grey loves it. She would sit there with a smile and say, “I can't wait to have ours…” And “Margo can be their big sister.”) And Kitten will be Sylus's actress friend who helps Rafayel dip his toes into the acting business and is close friends with Grey.

Since Grey's mother was a stripper who worked at the N109 Zone and slept with her clients, which led to her getting pregnant. Grey's mother ditched her and so she was raised by the strippers of the N109 Zone (similar to MaoMao from Apothecary diaries being raised by the sex workers).