#While writing this I've been rewriting it time and time again

[buttercupshands]

MHA didn't create some miracle way of helping others. It was never promised to be this way. And when it came to villains...

Spoilers for manga all the way to chapter 423.

The only way to get anything in life in MHA was to be born "normal" like everyone else and that way of thinking never left Izuku with Toga getting the same treatment she did before from everyone from her family to her "normal" classmates. It was Ochako who helped Toga even if just a little by lifting the weight of all the feelings that Toga had.

She couldn't save Toga the way one could save a civilian by saving them from harm. If it worked that way Dabi would've saved Toga even before Ochako could apologize for failing to notice Toga. She was so lazer focused on saving everyone else, that she was just another villain to stop, not a human.

Even if by the end of it Ochako helped Toga to deal with her grief, acceptance as it was wasn't something possible when a quirk makes you want to drink someone's blood from jealousy.

We got a bittersweet ending with Toga, in which she probably died from blood loss just like her double did in MVA. If it wasn't for Twice she would've died back then.

Giving away her blood for Ochako wasn't a redemption or a way to save Toga in the end, more as it was her being true to herself until the very end.

Just like Twice chose to stay with the League even if Hawks offered him a way to survive that battle. He refused and died protecting his friends who accepted him instead of choosing to betray them and accept Hawks' offer.

After Twice's death... It was a matter of time that more 'active' LoV members would join him as well. As sad as it is, we now can return to Izuku.

Who, after his time OFA-AFO quirk space, now wanted to help a "crying boy" he saw in Tenko just as before with Katsuki in chapter 1. He didn't forgive Tomura and didn't excuse the way he chose to solve his problems.

It didn't mean that Tomura would survive in their battle, even if Izuku didn't see killing others as a way to solve problems. He didn't understand Tomura, but he still wanted to try, and try he did.

The rest of this post was nothing more than a contextual prologue to understand that it's not the first time a hero failed to save a villain and in Twice's case we know that he died and his death was the reason Toga started thinking about her own possible death and Dabi finally revealed himself as Toya.

The goal of saving a "crying boy" never was an end-goal for Izuku in the Final arc, since helping Tomura deal with his feelings just left him hollow with a goal that clashed with Izuku's. As being a hero for villains meant destroying the world for them to help them live freely.

But that was before AFO resurfaced.

Sadly after that Tomura who was talking about making his own choices for a while now stopped doing that. Even if he still had a goal of helping villains and only villains, Tomura was almost gone. And his goals were now unreachable.

Izuku helped Nana who in turn kept Tomura from fading away entirely. In MHA there were countless situations where Izuku's help affected people by helping a different person to keep hope, All-Might being the first one and Nana being the last one at the moment.

Hollow after Izuku helped him to get rid of his hatred Tomura could do the only thing he did - accept the situation as it was.

Accepting AFO as his Sensei, accepting Stain's ideals and Overhaul's deal was the way he solved his problems. Just like Izuku had a problem of understanding something outside of his norm, Tomura was accepting too many things, which lead to his downfall after accepting AFO's quirk.

Just like Twice could've given up everything that he had for his friends so did Tomura.

With Izuku helping as much as he could let Tomura to finally rest as he wasn't really living ever since waking up in the hospital. With his body now affected by AFO's wishes instead of his own until the end.

In a way Izuku didn't succeed in his wish for Tomura to stop ever since PLF war arc. As he "kept fighting to destroy" no matter how hard Izuku tried to stop him.

The only thing he succeeded in was changing Tomura's mind about himself, instead of viewing himself as a monster he accepted that he was a human just like Izuku said. A "crying boy" who couldn't really destroy Izuku's hands in the end.

For a group of Villains who weren't supposed to get profiles of their own at the start of the series, League is slowly fading as the most memorable group that there was in MHA, getting backstories, their own Villain themed arc all the while being as human as anyone else.

As sad as their story is they were not "unlucky", they didn't need a happy false ending where they would need to change to be normal - they chose to live this way and they lived it to it's fullest.

[magnusbae]

"surprise i have feelings and you just hurt them" is so good

Thank you anon-dearest! 🥰🥰🥰

As I was given free reign, and also was too unreasonable for self control—I didn't only write it way longer than it should have been (250w per prompt LOL) I also fully rewritten in afterwards :')

Obikin || 1,500w || Obi-Wan & Anakin formed a new Force Bond and Obi-Wan has to deal with an increase in Force Migraines poor man

▾▾▾

“Surprise, I have feelings and you just hurt them.” Anakin spits the words out angrily, punctuating each word with a sharp hand gesture.

There’s heat rolling off of him in waves, it’s a tangible thing in the Force to anyone who is even mildly attuned to it. Even small living organisms would try and stir clear from someone so prominent in the force while they’re emitting such waves of emotions. It’s unsettling to all who is untrained, unable to recognize where and why the thing they are sensing is coming from. To someone who had even just begun their training, this would be a deafening roar. As for Obi-Wan, who had happened to share a somewhat-training-but-not-bond with said individual…. It’s destructively overwhelming.

There’s a pulsing migraine building up at Obi-Wan’s temples, swiftly spreading in pulses of pain through his forehead and head, blearing his vision in a way that is usually reserved to extreme battle fatigue. Obi-Wan’s patience is not only thinned out, but fully gone by this point. The pain, and the previously failed mission do not help. Anakin’s need to prove himself had cost them an important battle and speaking of Anakin’s feelings is truly not the thing they should be concerned most with—

“I think it’s hardly a surprise Anakin” he hears himself say more than he actually thinks through the words, he hardly manages to care as much as he probably should given how violate Anakin anyways is. “You are, more than less, hammering them against the minds of anyone unfortunate enough to be within the standard hour distance from us.”

Anakin’s mouth snaps open, there’s blotchy redness across his cheeks, he seems to not find the words to describe precisely how angry Obi-Wan’s word just made him. Silencing Anakin would be a feat to be commended on a normal day, if only that was true for his Force Signature as well. A fresh wave of emotions crush against his battered shields, straining them beyond their capacity.

The moment he feels the first crack run through, is the same moment they collapse completely.

Anger, hurt, betrayal, and…

Obi-Wan’s mind is momentarily blinded by the whirlpool of emotions washing over and sucking his own mind in. There’s too much of it, all at once, all different. The indignant anger, the vulnerable hurt, the deep sense of being abandoned and uncared for, the—

Obi-Wan whimpers silently. It’s a sharp exhale more than anything, yet it’s more than enough to alert Anakin. He might have found it endearing, how quickly Anakin’s attention had shifted from himself to him, if not for the crushing wave of new emotions, even more absolute in their intensity.

Worry, anxiety, fear, anger, confusion, fear, worry—

Obi-Wan feels like he might lose his mind within them.

“Stop,” he snaps at same time as Anakin had reached out for him. The boy pulls his hand away as if hit. Obi-Wan should care for this, care for how he feels more than how he himself feels at the moment….

Hurt, confusion, anger, hurt— anxiety, fear— fear—

Anakin’s emotions spiral into a deeper, more violent vortex of darkness, a never ending cycle, one emotion swallowing the tail of its predecessor, being reborn into the next one, each time bigger, stronger.

Oh Force. Obi-Wan thinks in desperation.This is too much.

“Master?” Anakin’s Force Signature is dripping fear, there’s an urgency to it that centers Obi-Wan enough to realize, with great shame, that his own pain started bleeding through their not-quite-training-bond— or…Force Bond, if he was honest enough. Call a Bantha a Bantha.

“Master, what is wrong, why are you…?” he reaches for him again, stopping quickly and retrieving his hand away. Anakin opening and closing his fist draws Obi-Wan’s attention. He looks like he’s about to blow up, and that, Obi-Wan knows, is something that would certainly echo even louder in the Force.

“Anakin please,” he reaches out to him, despite the inherent risk of touch increasing the intensity of the Bond. He must balance the boy long enough to give himself the opportunity to gather his shields into anything resembling those of a Jedi Master. That, or leave. He is not pained enough to be that cruel. Doesn’t ever plan to be. He braces himself instead.

“Dear One,” his knuckles touch Anakin’s cheek briefly, the word of endearment is strained, forced to some degree. It’s the one that never fails to get a reaction, uncover a meeker, more gentle side of Anakin. “You are deafening me” he gives the Bond a light, barely there nudge.

Anakin jumps at that as if zapped. Eyes wide, his face shifts through a number of complex thoughts, faster than what could register or broadcast emotionally through the Bond.

Suddenly, the storm is gone. What Anakin calls shields and Obi-Wan chides as only a suggestion of such is now a durasteel tight and not leaking anywhere. The silence that follows is deafening in its own right. He has to muffle the groan of relief, not wanting to rile Anakin again

“Thank you.” Obi-Wan smiles, pained. He knows that the migraine will only worsen now that it was set off, he still can appreciate not being radiated by a small sun through it, though.

“Excellent shielding, Padawan.” He sounds sarcastic even to his ears, even though he doesn’t mean to be. Anakin doesn’t react to it, looking more troubled than angry now, a deep crease between his eyebrows.

“I’m…” Anakin bite his lower lip, still fuller than most despite him well and truly out of his teenage years. Obi-Wan should not be noticing those things. “I didn’t mean to…” his cheeks are darker now, he looks ashamed. The aftertaste of Anakin’s emotion’s linger in Obi-Wan’s mind. Guilt. The last clear emotion Obi-Wan managed to decipher. Guilt for hurting him.

“I know.” Obi-Wan says curtly, he hopes that not unkindly. “I’d appreciate it if we could discuss the matter when I’m a little less…” he gestures at himself with what he hopes is the appropriate amount of self deprecation. There’s many reasons for Anakin’s lack of control, not all are good, but he still is a knight, still is learning.

There’s not a single good excuse for his own lack of mastery of himself.

“Obi-Wan, the Bond—” Anakin starts, disregarding Obi-Wan’s request in favor of what to his mind, is no bound far more urgent. The Bond. It had taken months for Obi-Wan to notice, the budding start of something new, growing in a different place than the long severed training Bond, developing over the months spent on joint missions on this endless war.

It seems that, as Obi-Wan had suspected, Anakin had managed to miss it out entirely.

“Not now, Anakin.” Obi-Wan’s voice sharpens, he should feel more guilt for the way Anakin’s shoulders jump up and tense.

“Fine, whatever…” Anakin mutters, looking away, glancing back and then away again. “Feel better.” He says with more hesitation than such a simple wish should warrant for. This time, Obi-Wan feels the full extent of guilt. He was too strict with him, those past few months were strained beyond what either one of them had wanted. He needs to speak with him, properly, make amends, properly.

Not now though, not while his head is splitting into two and his Force Signature is shaking after Anakin ground it so relentlessly. Knowing that Anakin didn’t mean to, doesn’t change the reality of things, his Force Signature can be downright oppressive if left unchecked. It’s not so felt when he himself is in the state for proper shields, however the repeated missions, the lack of sleep and the loss of the recent planet… were factors that are hard to ignore.

He needs to rest. He needs to meditate. Then he’ll be fine.

Obi-Wan refuses to acknowledge, even now, that what would bring the most immediate relief would be severing the Bond. Today showcased just how dangerous it is, how out of control it is, how out of Obi-Wan’s control it is. It all makes sense, any one following logic would have done it. A bond developed without their conscious choice in the matter, one that is not appreciate for Jedi to have.

The only thing that makes sense, is to end it. Yet this is the only thing that Obi-Wan will not do, is unwilling to do. He will not severe another Bond with Anakin. The consequences of the first time still too fresh in his own mind. Both for their relationship and…himself.

“Thank you, Anakin.” he says politely, hoping that he looks more collected than what he feels like. He refuses to think of this further for today. Giving Anakin the barest of hand waves, he turns and walks off.

He needs to rest. He needs to meditate. Then, he’ll be fine…

[moonlit-tulip]

It's often noted, in discussions of the Death Note anime, that it's much weaker than the manga in its rendition of post-timeskip events partly for pacing reasons: the pre-timeskip parts of the anime adapt ~6.5 manga-volumes in 25 episodes, while the post-timeskip parts adapt ~5.5 in 12 episodes, so a lot more important detail-work is lost and the whole thing ends up feeling kind of perfunctory.

Much less often noted as far as I've seen, but nonetheless also true, is that the Death Note anime removes some important characterization-nuance from Light, starting right near the beginning, whose presence elevates the manga to be substantially better than the anime even before the time-skip.

In particular: the Death Note manga is, at its core, a tragedy in classic "character who has everything falls into ruin due to a fatal personal flaw" style. Light is a brilliant student who, in the future ahead of him, has the potential to do practically whatever he wants. He's driven to ruin by the fatal flaw of unwillingness to admit, either to others or to himself, when he's made a mistake. This flaw is an essential piece of his characterization, in the manga. And the anime pretty much entirely skips over it.

As portrayed in the manga, Light's decision to become Kira—which ultimately leads to his downfall—is made in the following way. First, he finds the Death Note, and is led by morbid curiosity to write a name in it, killing someone. Then, still not really believing it, he kills a second person too. At which point it hits him that he's killed two people. And at that point, after a viscerally-horrified breakdown about what he's done, the inability to admit mistakes kicks in, and he proceeds to rewrite his own value-system such that it yields the result that killing those people was actually okay, and in fact morally good. Because the alternative would be for him to acknowledge himself as having made a terrible mistake, and that, more than anything else, is something he's unwilling to do if he can see any other option at all. And then, having convinced himself that those two murders were good, he proceeds to reason that, if they were good, then doing more like them is good; and thus he becomes Kira, leading eventually, far down the line, to his ruin. The anime, by contrast, substantially deemphasizes this flaw of his, portraying him as much more calmly put-together through that series of events and thus making him come across as having been tempted in becoming-Kira-ward directions all along.

Similarly, in the anime, when Light leaks a bunch of information to L about his identity by using non-public information acquired via police channels, he declares that actually this was deliberate as a means of baiting L out so he can kill him, and the anime presents this declaration pretty uncritically. The manga, by contrast, presents it as an extension of that same character-flaw: Light is unwilling to admit to having actually just straightforwardly messed up, and therefore makes up a new plan to view himself to have been following-all-along, thus leading him to take more risks in his game against L going forward and thus, once again, helping him along the path to ruin.

Et cetera.

Compared with the manga, then, the anime's version of Light's characterization ends up less interesting. And, moreover, it introduces a plot hole, when the Yotsuba arc comes around! It makes it much less clear why an amnesiac Light would be so straightforwardly aligned against Kira. In the manga, this is pretty clear: a Light who never killed anyone wouldn't have rewritten his values to consider killing people to be good, and therefore would look at Kira as straightforwardly evil. And, in fact, his amnesiac self has trouble taking the possibility of his having been Kira previously, even as the evidence starts building up, because becoming Kira would be a mistake according to his value-system of the moment, and this leaves him having a very hard time contemplating the possibility of its having in fact happened! Whereas the anime, by deemphasizing Light's big flaw, makes his amnesiac-self's differences from the way he is for most of the story up to that point come across as much more out-of-nowhere, much less narratively well-founded.

So, overall, the people who talk about the Death Note manga as superior to the anime specifically post-timeskip strike me as somewhat understating things. The manga is superior to the anime pre-timeskip, too, via that extra layer of characterization and a resulting improvement both in character-interestingness and in plot-coherence. And thus I consider the manga to be very much the definitive version of Death Note from start to finish, despite the anime's relatively-higher popularity.

[mercy-burning]

Exposure

AKA: a gentle rewrite/edit of Part 1, plus the rest of the story.

Pairing: therapist!Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Summary: After a year of self-inflicted social isolation, a rather intimate suggestion from your therapist turns your life on its head and opens up a whole new world of cliche, sexy possibilities... Category: SMUT (18+) Content: Themes and discussions of sexual trauma surrounding a painful sexual encounter, power dynamics, masturbation, dubious consent, voyeurism (unbeknownst to reader), Spencer is a perv, fingering, oral sex (fem. receiving), dry humping. Word Count: 9.6k (I had to cut her down, y'all, it was getting ridiculous and I'm sorry flsjdlksdk)

MASTERLIST

It is finally here. I have finally tackled the beast and finished Exposure the way the fanfic gods intended. I initially wanted this story to be what is is now and what you're about to read, but back when I wrote it the first time, I had ZERO self control and decided to just post what I had without finishing the rest, and I split the story into two parts... And then part two never saw the light of day. I have felt so bad ever since for abandoning the story and leaving you without a conclusion. I hope you'll forgive me and that it hasn't been too long for you to still care and read this now. And if you weren't around to read the original first part of Exposure, I hope you enjoy this brand new story that totally didn't exist before just now... ;)

———

ACT I: Homework

"And what about your sexual relationships?"

You freeze like a deer in headlights, unwilling to budge no matter how loudly his horn is blaring. Even as he asks again, your name a gentle coax on the surface of his tongue, you remain perfectly still.

"Did I strike a nerve?" he asks sweetly with a tilt of his head.

"U—Um... I..."

"It's important that you're up-front about these things with me... It's more than acceptable and valid if you don't feel like telling me everything right away. But if there's something wrong, I'd like to know. That way we can at least find somewhere to start. Does that sound alright?"

"Um... Y—Yeah, I guess so..."

He asks again, and you find it extremely difficult to look him in the eye.

Or to look at him in general.

You knew eventually you'd have to talk about your sex life, but in all honesty it had been forced deep into the back of your mind during the other sessions— You know, when you were laser-focused on literally anything else while trying not to think about how attractive you found your therapist and how fucked up that was.

Doctor Reid always makes sure to speak slow and concisely, which, when combined with its smooth tone and the way he looks at you with his pensive, hypnotizing eyes, tends to be absolutely fucking deadly. And his hands— the way they glide beautifully across the notepad he writes in, or how they flex and tap on his knee or on his chin from time to time, his focus trained solely on you...

He'd been dangerously distracting from the get-go, but now, on the topic of your sex life? You can't even entertain looking in his general direction.

So, with your eyes glued on your lap, you mindlessly count the number of tiny flowers printed on your skirt and answer the best you can. "I don't... I don't have frequent sexual relationships."

You wonder if he'll ask you to speak up, but he doesn't. Instead, he asks, "How frequent would you say they are?"

"Um... Well... I've only ever had sex once," you continue quietly, still training your eyes on your skirt.

"Are you... embarrassed about that?"

"No," you offer more firmly. Defensively.

He pauses. "That's good. There's no reason to be." And after you don't say anything in response, counting seven excruciatingly long seconds, you hear him continue. "How long ago was the encounter?"

You hesitate a little longer, but he doesn't push it. Eventually, intimidated by the silence, you sigh and quickly blurt, "About a year ago."

There's another pause, and you would assume he might be writing something down, but the room is too silent. Not even the soft scratch of pen to page dares to interrupt the tension you're feeling.

"And how did you find your experience?" he asks then, your eyes jumping to his face as if to make sure this is actually real and he's actually in front of you right now, asking you what you think you just heard. Your heart speeds up and your hands start to sweat.

"I—I'm sorry?"

He clears his throat, and yours contracts in a gulp. "Did you enjoy yourself?"

"I... I don't... Why is that relevant?"

"You're coming to me once a week for counseling because you said you've found yourself shying away from other people, where a year ago you were a normal adult with normal interests in socializing and being around others. And you're unsure of what steps to take to get back to a normal routine. Correct?"

"Yes..."

"Every session so far, we've gone through your upbringing, your family life, school, friends, your first jobs... All up until now. Everything is perfectly fine, and yet we still can't seem to figure out why you've strayed from your habits. The only topic we haven't discussed is your sexual and romantic relationships."

You remain silent, eyes having dropped back down as he spoke, the flower pattern on your skirt suddenly becoming more like a dizzying optical illusion by the second.

Doctor Reid continues. "And judging your body language, I see that you haven't looked me in the eye once since I brought up sex. My guess is that something happened during your first time that—"

"Look, honestly I don't think that's relevant to my situation, I haven't had sex since then because I don't want to, it has nothing to do with this."

"It's okay if it does," Doctor Reid encourages. He is gentle as always, though if you hadn't known any better, you would think he sounds amused. "That's what I'm here for."

You glance up at him briefly, seeing a soft smile lighting the air between you. It briefly filters some of the embarrassment you're feeling, and with a sigh, you adjust in the chair and look off to the side.

"No. I didn't enjoy myself."

"Do... you want to tell me why you didn't enjoy yourself?"

You blink, feeling your chest tighten and your stomach churn at the memory. "It's stupid."

He calls your name gently, sympathetically... "I promise you it isn't... We don't have to discuss it now if you don't want to, but it's not stupid."

Thankfully he lets you mull it over in the silence for a while, giving you time to gather your emotions and thoughts. And eventually, without looking directly at him, you begin to open up.

"He hurt me... I—It wasn't... bad or anything, like he didn't do anything I didn't want to... I just... I—It hurt. Really bad. Like, I don't think I'd ever felt that kind of pain before."

"Did he, um... Go too hard? Do you think maybe that's why it hurt you?"

You let out the loudest breath of air, embarrassment and exasperation filling your lungs with every breath you take. "Yeah, that was part of it, but like... He was also kind of big, and it didn't feel good going in at all... And I know it's supposed to not feel great at first, and I thought it would get better, but... I—It just got worse, and worse, and I felt like I was getting torn apart from the inside out, I..."

Tears are steadily streaming down your face now, your throat incredibly tight and ears pounding as you try to find the strength to speak.

"I... I never want to do that again."

A box of tissues is dropped into your lap after you take the time to gather yourself a bit, and you mumble a small 'thank you' as you wipe your face. Doctor Reid is more than willing to let you take your time, and you couldn't be more thankful.

It's also great to know that it doesn't seem like he had been embarrassed for you or ready to laugh. In fact, his tone is still as smooth as ever, and incredibly warm as he speaks to you, aiming to help you work through this confidently and logically. It's an effort that comforts you more than you'd ever be able to express.

"Do you think that experience had an effect on the way you socialize somehow?"

"I... Maybe. Sure, I mean... I'm at that age where the people I hang out with all want to hook up, and if we're not trying to go home with someone, then we're not having a good time. It's... It's a lot of pressure, especially when I think about the fact that people like sex... I mean, like... That was awful, and people act like it's the end-all-be-all to enjoyment, I... I don't know..."

"Sure... You had a bad experience, and it's normal to retreat after experiencing that kind of pain... But it was only one time. You never know, maybe your partner just wasn't the right partner for you."

You shake your head intently. "No. No, that's not..."

There's a decent pause before Doctor Reid speaks again. "I want to ask you something... And this might be a bit personal, so I apologize if I push any boundaries..."

He waits for you to object, but you don't, silently giving him the go-ahead and wondering what else he could possibly ask you that hadn't already been beyond the boundaries of a deeply intimate and personal conversation.

"Have you ever masturbated before?"

Dear God, you suddenly feel like you have to throw up. "What?"

"Well, before you had sex... Did you ever... Explore what you like on your own?"

"Um... Y—Yeah, I guess so..."

"You guess so?"

You sigh, trying not to roll your eyes for fear of crying at any sudden movement. "Yes."

"Okay... In your exploration, did you ever try anything penetrative?"

"Do I actually have to answer that?"

"Of course you don't. If you're uncomfortable we can move on, but... I really do think this is going to help..."

You sigh again, then swallow hard as you look at his face once more, only to see him as he always has been— sincere and pensive and understanding. And then, as if that look is designed solely to pull information out of you, you can't help but continue.

"No... I've... only ever done clitoral stimulation."

"And what about after your first time? Have you masturbated since then?"

You pause, throat dry. The word comes out of you with resistance, its fear and indignity rising to the surface of your tongue like sandpaper. "No."

Then he pauses. And as you glance up at the clock to see your time is nearly up, you're pretty sure you know exactly what he's going to tell you, that sinking feeling returning to the pit of your stomach. Each breath feels like a stab to the chest.

Sure enough, he speaks and you close your eyes like shielding yourself from his words will prevent them from taking any meaning. You can hear the sympathy in them anyway, and you feel foolish for even attempting to hide.

"Before I see you next week, I suggest you try masturbating again. Maybe watch some pornography or read some erotica... Whatever you think will get you more comfortable with your body and your sexuality... And we'll see where you end up."

The whole situation is so ridiculous, you can't help but laugh, though there's not an ounce of humor lacing the sound. "Do you really think this is going to help me get over my... fear of sex, or whatever this is?"

He smiles softly at you, and despite the poor relationship you've been having with sex, it brings a low simmer to the pit of your stomach that scares more than excites you. "It's a good start."

It's a good start...

"It's a good start," you whispered when you got home that night, right before getting under the covers and letting your hand wander...

It worked, too.

You'd expected it to take way longer than a week to get back any sliver of libido. And it was definitely hard at first, but by the time your next session with Doctor Reid came around, you'd been masturbating regularly every day.

Though, it seems his instruction may have worked a little too well.

Once you were more comfortable with your own body again, you couldn't stop the images of his face as they danced in beautiful flashes behind your eyelids. Scenarios were acted out in your dreams, his presence melding with yours and replacing those you'd watched and read, and it created a new sense of anxiety once you realized that you'd have to see him again in a few days...

And now that you're here, only seconds away from the moment he'd walk through the door, your stomach twists and your heart leaps.

You almost think maybe running out the door is a good option, but then he's waltzing through it with that seasoned swiftness that only adds to his charm and intimidates you further.

"Good afternoon," he greets with a warm smile, taking the seat in front of you.

"Hi, Doctor."

"How was your week?"

You clear your throat, obviously not very good at hiding anything. "Fine."

"Just fine?"

"Yep."

He only waits for you to continue. You hate when he does that...

Because it works, getting you to talk every damn time. "Still not inclined to do anything out of my normal social routine, but I'm... better."

"How so?"

Feeling his gaze on you makes your heart lurch. "Um... I'm more... comfortable... with my body, I guess..."

"So you took my suggestion, then?"

You can only muster a nod, words dying in the back of your throat and evaporating into nothing. You're still not looking at him—not directly, anyway.

"You still seem... reserved."

"Well, I'm talking to my therapist about my masturbation habits..."

Thankfully he seems to understand, nodding with a small laugh that aims to lighten the mood and make you more comfortable around the whole situation. After all, it is only the start of your session this week, and a whole hour and a half of awkwardness wouldn't suffice.

Even still, what he says next doesn't ease your mind much at all.

"Do you mind elaborating a little?"

"I don't know how much more elaboration you need," you half-scoff, clearly defensive over your privacy— And with every right to be so, considering most of your thoughts had been about him.

"Well, let's start with how frequent you've been with it."

That you could do. "Um... about every day for the past week?" And right before I left the house...

"Good. How many times a day?"

"Once." Twice, sometimes three...

"Okay..." He writes things down, and then pauses before asking his next question. "Have you tried any new techniques?"

"I'm sorry?"

"I mean other than clitoral stimulation."

"No."

He must have sensed the unease in your punctuation, because he leans forward. "Let me be clear. My questions on the topic are thorough and perhaps a bit boundless, but I am not expecting you to be ready to have sex right away. You should always be allowed to go at your own pace, and I will always encourage you to do so, I hope you understand that."

"Right..." There's an awkward pause, but you want things to keep moving, so just to keep him talking, you clear your throat and continue, "So, um... What's the next step then?"

By the look in his eyes, you realize it had probably been the wrong question—and way—to ask. Even after just explaining that you could go at your own pace, the way you spoke to him could have easily been interpreted as a newfound confidence to push forward.

Currently, under his watchful gleaming eye, you find yourself feeling anything but confident. In the past week, unfortunately, that much hasn't changed. Especially after he tells you, "We're going to make sure you've actually been doing your homework. Come with me."

———

There's just something about you that Spencer can't seem to understand. It's something beautiful and alluring, and more than anything it's incredibly wrong. Because he surely shouldn't be taking you to a separate room in the building where they interview mental patients while others watch from behind one-way glass and take notes.

But here he is anyway, leading you into the room and trying desperately not to kiss or touch you in the meantime...

"W—What do you want me to do, exactly?" you ask in that timid way of yours. It's almost innocent, like you truly don't understand why he's brought you here rather than confirming your suspicions. And somehow that only makes him want you more.

"I would like for you to watch yourself masturbate in front of this mirror here." He opens the door and urges you inside as he follows. You survey the space as your hands fumble nervously, and he continues. "It's a form of exposure therapy. My hope is to get you not only to feel your pleasure, but to see it... The act of seeing yourself that way is a good effort to boost confidence and embrace sexuality. The room is soundproof, it's camera-free... Whatever you do in here will be completely private."

"I—Isn't this like... This... I..."

Spencer reaches out and touches your shoulder, and when you look at him like a lost puppy, he nearly caves. "I understand your reservations, and you are more than welcome to decline... But I really do think this will help you. You're completely safe here, it's important for you to know that."

He's speaking to you in that slow, collected way that always gets you to open up to him, and it proves itself useful once again when you finally nod and agree to do his assignment. He smiles tamely, though the images that grace his brain of what might transpire soon are anything but. The pit of his gut is a raging wildfire, and you, though deeply unaware just yet, are the fuel that feeds and flourishes it.

"What do I do when I'm done?" you ask.

He reaches into his pocket and gives you a pager. "You can page me with this. I'll be in my office, so by the time I get to you, you should have enough time to get yourself situated. Is that okay?"

"You're... Leaving me alone?"

The question almost knocks the wind out of him. To play it off though, he offers a small, breathy laugh. "Did you want me to watch?"

"That's not what I meant! I... I just mean... Anyone could..."

"Like I said, this room is completely safe and soundproof. I've booked it for your session today, so no one will be here to use it..." He thinks for a moment, suppressing a grin to the best of his ability when the words come tumbling out. "There is a room right next door if you'd prefer I stay closer though, just in case."

"Y—Yes, please..."

Spencer smiles and hands you the pager, trying not to linger too long when his knuckles brush the inside of your palm. "Okay. Page me when you're done, and I'll give you a few minutes to collect yourself. Okay?"

"Okay," you offer with a nod and a small smile. Your nerves have calmed, and maybe this helps Spencer feel better about what he's about to do, but regardless of his ulterior motives, he truly is glad you're making progress.

He leaves and shuts the door, locking it and making quick work of sliding into the small door next to it. After locking that one as well, he switches on the light and settles in, seeing that you've only just sat down on the small couch in the middle of the room.

You both lean back at about the same time, you into the couch cushions and Spencer in the spinning desk chair. It doesn't take but a single movement of your hand down to the button of your jeans to make him hard, and the sight has him even more determined to make you feel the same way about him that he does you.

It's set in stone the moment you slide the denim down your legs and spread them wide, right in front of him. He watches as you take a deep breath and rub yourself through your panties, little pieces of your hesitation crumbling away by the second, and he just knows he's going to fuck you properly.

When, he doesn't know. But it will happen, that much he's sure of.

In the meantime, he settles for fantasy. Spencer opens up his own pants and just loosens them enough to get his dick out, and all the while his eyes are trained solely on you.

He doesn't start moving his hand until you slide your panties down as well, fluttering your eyes closed the moment your finger makes contact with your bare clit. In that moment, Spencer is glad for the soundproofing, because if you'd actually heard the way he groaned out just then, he would have been doomed. He spits on his hand and starts to glide it softly over himself, matching the speed of your own as it languidly explores your body.

All he can think about is how beautiful you are... He should be thinking about how wrong this is, or how you probably don't feel the same attraction to him that he so obviously feels about you, and doing this is only making his crush worse...

But damn it, you're just so captivating, and he can't stop.

And he doesn't.

No, Spencer doesn't even give a second thought to sighing out your name and imagining you in front of him—closer than you are now—with your head tilted up and your pretty eyes batting up at him while he fucks your throat. He mindlessly whispers praises in between low whines as his speed and pressure increases, and he's so close to coming.

He can hold out, though. He can wait for you. He wants to wait for you. He wants to watch you come undone before he even thinks about getting there himself.

But of course, as they say, you don't always get what you want.

It's not like it's his fault, though. You're the one who's losing yourself in a fantasy, using his name on your lips as a plea to aid you in the most intimate form of pleasure...

"Doctor Reid," he can hear you whine as you squirm and bring yourself closer to bliss.

He can't help it, then. His name desperately falling off your tongue sets off the explosion that ripples through his insides. His hand falters, and he releases the most pathetic sound he's ever made right as he comes all over his hand. You're calling his name again, in broken chants getting higher and higher in pitch until you're incoherent, and he's just a sticky, flustered mess.

He sits there and watches you reach your climax, still gently stroking his cock with a lip between his teeth. Your eyes squeeze shut and your mouth hangs open, and your legs, while still wide, are wavering and tensing. His eyes travel down to your hand as it strokes and circles, and he wishes more than anything that it was his.

In fact, the thought gives him an idea for another session...

ACT II: Awakening

The amount of time you've spent the last month watching porn is extremely embarrassing. It's not even just to get off anymore, either, though the relief is nice. Still, the act itself doesn't embarrass you so much as where your mind goes when you do it. You're purposely watching videos where the men have slim builds and curly hair so you can squint and imagine who you really wish you were watching...

It's wrong and dangerous and probably illegal somehow, and still, it's a better place than you were in months ago... So you can't really complain, can you?

Yes, really, you can; You still have to see your therapist while regularly having sexual fantasies about him. Which would be fine if you didn't have to talk to him about your sexual habits every session...

You almost think about cancelling today, but despite the overwhelming amount of time spent thinking about sex and how much you actually want it, you figure that means this therapy is helping. Yourself a month ago would be absolutely petrified at the idea of watching some girl get railed on screen repeatedly, vivid flashbacks of your first and final experience of sex surely to barge in and render the porn and its purpose useless.

So, despite the potential awkwardness, you end up in his office right on time.

Doctor Reid is already there, standing next to a small fold-out bed in the middle of the room with the rest of the furniture moved out of the way. It almost looks like a completely different place.

"Oh, am... Did I get the wrong time?"

He calls your name brightly, turning to see you. "You're right on time, actually. Come on in. I want to talk about your next step... I assume you've been keeping up with your homework?"

You swear then that you must still be in your bedroom, watching porn on a loop, weary and orgasmed out, because you can instantly feel the setup here; It wouldn't be hard to put the pieces together. The cliche nature of it all makes you think you might just be blurring reality and fantasy, your legs weak as you make your way over to him.

"Yes, I have..." you confirm cautiously, though the back of your mind is already battling over whether or not to be excited or scared, or both, at the prospect of this 'next step'. Is it something you're really willing to do? Is it in the realm of comfortable possibility?

Doctor Reid smiles at you, and, Yes, you think finally, it is.

"Well, you've done really well lately, and I'm proud of you for taking this journey in rediscovering your sexuality. It isn't an easy feat after going through what you did, and your progress is something you should be very proud of."

Admittedly, the praise is nice. It's comforting. Genuine. You really have progressed in embracing your sexual desires, though the thought of trusting someone enough to respect your boundaries and understand your reservations to the act itself is nearly sickening.

Unless, of course, that person is your therapist. Then it's not so hard to imagine.

Your body warms at the implications, and suddenly you're nervous all over again, your eyes trying not to eye the bed in the middle of the room. Through a deep breath, you tell him, "Thank you. What's on the agenda today?"

The small laugh that escapes him has you weak in the knees again. "Eager, are we?"

Oh, there's no way he's not flirting...

Right?

You shrug and offer a smile. "You did renovate your office rather... drastically... Excuse a girl for being curious, Doctor."

"Touché," he replies. His syllables are slow and smooth, and when his eyes bare into yours, reality and fantasy have moved past the point of blurring— they've full-on collided, creating this new atmosphere of thick, palpable debauchery that promises to alter the course of your life forever.

You want to jump his bones now, before something changes your mind, but you can't move. The possibility of misreading the situation is far too humiliating to make any sudden movements or declarations of desire.

"Please, sit," Doctor Reid invites, and you calm a little. Your limbs are still on fire with each muscle that moves, until you're seated on the bed, looking up at him and trying not to give yourself away.

Just in case.

If he can tell what's going on in your brain, he doesn't let on. Still, there's something that lives in his gaze, something knowing and all-consuming that calms your nerves like a weighted blanket as his voice plunges you further into this fantastical reality you've created together.

"Like I said, it seems that you've been succeeding at rediscovering and maintaining a healthy sexual appetite. How does that make you feel?"

"Um... Really good, actually. I think I've come a long way, and it's all because of you."

It hadn't been intentional to phrase it that way, but as soon as the words leave your mouth and his lips quirk into a gentle smirk, you avert your gaze, clutching the edge of the bed. "I mean, your suggestions and your kindness have been extremely helpful..."

"That's what I'm here for," he says, amusement lacing his tone, but disappearing quickly as he continues. "Now, I know it's only been just over a month, and it's still absolutely imperative that you do this at your own pace. So if you find yourself feeling like you're not ready to move forward when I ask you this, you are not obligated to agree. Is that understood?"

Your heart is beating wildly within the confines of your chest, daring to and desperate for escape. "Yes, Doctor."

His tongue darts out over his bottom lip as the honorific trickles sweetly off of yours, and then he clears his throat, taking a step closer to you. "Do you trust me?"

"Yes." There isn't a single ounce of hesitation in the meaning of the word or the speed at which it leaves your mouth. It's not even a second thought.

"My hope for today's session is to get you to a place where you're comfortable with trying different techniques. And if you don't mind, I'd like to assist—to show you some new pleasure points and help you discover what you like. Is that something you're willing to do?"

You nod slowly, words feeling impossible, which brings a small smile to his face.

"Okay, a few rules. This is a very vulnerable thing. So you need to use your words. I'm not comfortable moving forward unless you explicitly say so, so I ask you again; Do you give me permission to help you experiment?"

"Yes."

Firm. Some might even say confident. The word rings sharply in the air for a few moments before Doctor Reid nods and responds quietly, "Good."

He walks over to you, slowly until his knees are barely touching yours. You feel yourself becoming a living current of electricity at the sheer closeness of him, never mind that he hasn't even touched you. You can only imagine what it will feel like when he does, the thought making you fight the urge to clamp your thighs together.

"Do I have your permission to touch you?"

Touch me how? you want to ask, but you realize it wouldn't matter; You'd let him touch you in any way he pleased. So instead, you tell him, "Please."

His eyes rake slowly over your figure then, possibly considering his next move, but then he simply nudges your knee with his leg, the most brief form of touch but still electrifying all the same. "Will you hold your right leg out for me?"

Not quite what you would have expected, but you do as he says, extending your leg as he rests his palm under your ankle.

"Are you familiar with erogenous zones?"

Your heart leaps. "Yes. I know the concept."

He considers this before slightly swiping his thumb along the side of your ankle. "Are you familiar with your erogenous zones?"

"I can't say I've ever thought about it, so... Probably not, no."

"Hmmm."

Honestly, you figure it wouldn't even matter where he touched you; The fact that he's taken an interest in your sexual desires and putting them to the test with an attentive, hands-on approach is more than enough to get you hot and bothered. The sheer presence of him alone makes your whole body pulse with writhing need.

Still, you let him explore, trying not to prove impatient. It's incredibly difficult when the denim of your jeans slowly becomes nothing more than a claustrophobic obstacle to his attention. Everywhere his fingers brush, heat radiates, but you know it could be stronger. You try your hardest to focus on his questions and less on the signals your body is sending you, violently and utterly whorish. You'd never been this way before, not even by yourself, and you're becoming less and less patient by the minute

Doctor Reid seems to notice this as his knuckles brush the inside of your palm, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "Are you relaxed?" he asks quietly, keeping his head low but lifting his eyes to meet yours. Something about the sight stirs in your stomach.

"Yes."

"You don't sound very convinced."

You can't help but succumb to the bout of nervous laughter that's been dancing in its cage in the back of your throat the whole session. His fingers halt their gentle discovery of your body but remain rested in your palm, every nerve ending threatening to explode. "Well, I don't know if relaxed is really the right word, but... I'm... Good."

He hums pensively, pausing to tilt his head. "You've been responding rather enthusiastically to just about every touch..." If he's amused by this, you can't tell, but the words feel like a prideful observation regardless. "I suppose that means we can move this along..."

When his eyes meet yours again, you nearly whimper.

"May I kiss you?" he asks.

His knuckles start moving slowly against your palm, and your entire arm lights up with excitement at the contact, as does your heart. Suddenly the room feels cold yet hot at the same time, a deep chill crashing through your body like a tidal wave. Your nipples are painfully hard against the fabric of your bra, and you feel it in your bones.

You've never been so turned on in your life.

You nod, then stop yourself, remembering his rules. The word sounds utterly wanton as it gently squeaks past your lips, but it's the best you can do to give him permission short of reaching up and pulling him down to kiss him yourself.

"Please..."

He surprises you again by stepping forward and lifting your arm to his mouth. Sticky honey eyes trap you in their gaze as his lips replace his knuckles on the inside of your palm, soft and warm in every aspect. He takes his time, grazing his nose along your fingers and then your wrist as he drops the gentle pressure of a kiss along every centimeter of skin he explores. It's thorough and attentive and gentle, and you're mesmerized.

Eventually he's kissed his way up your whole arm, and it feels like you've been in this bed for hours, something slowly awakening inside you at his every touch. The excitement bubbling in your bloodstream starts to boil over when he reaches your collarbone, using his hand to slip under the strap of your tank top so he can kiss you there.

Responding to his touch has become second nature at this point, so your head leans away and gives him room to start kissing your neck, to which he does happily.

Where Doctor Reid's kisses had been kind and curious in their pursuit, they've now grown indulgent. His lips part, lavishing the skin at the side of your neck with a warm, wet caress that makes your toes curl and your fists clench. His hand comes up to drag the pad of his middle finger down your throat as his tongue darts out and laps at your skin, and you moan.

Your hips grind and your thighs clench, a disastrous wave of heat flooding through you, and he sucks gently on your skin for a second before sighing.

"There it is..."

You pout when he pulls away, but he strokes your hairline and doesn't go far. "How are you feeling?"

"Really good," you breathe through a nervous smile.

"Are you turned on?"

Obviously, you want to exclaim, but given his thorough and affirmative nature, it makes sense. You also force yourself to remember that he's your therapist and not a guy you've taken home for the night. He's a professional, despite how unprofessional in nature this particular situation is on paper; He's not going to move the process along based on an assumption, no matter how obvious your reactions might be.

"Very," you tell him confidently, a proud gleam in your eye as you look up at him. The twitch of his grin does more than excite you— it urges you. "You turn me on, Doctor Reid..."

"Is that so?"

"Mhmmm."

He leans and his breath is hot in your ear. His voice comes in low and seductive. Curious. Careful.

"Then I'd like you to show me. Will you touch yourself for me, love?"

The pet name makes you clench around nothing, and you whimper at the way it stings. At this point it's physically painful to keep lying there at his mercy without any sort of stimulation, so despite how embarrassing and desperate it might be, your hand is slipping under the band of your sweatpants with ease as you sigh out. "I'll do anything..."

The back of his knuckles tease your neck as you slowly circle your clit with your middle finger, and you don't have to do much wandering to gather your wetness either. Everything is warm and wet and ready for release, which doesn't go unnoticed by Doctor Reid.

"I can hear how wet you are," he muses brightly, his throat caught in a groan as his lips hover over your neck. "That's good."

"Uh-huh?" you whine out, his praises bringing you closer to nirvana.

"That's really good... Are you close already, baby?"

You can't help but moan at the name, a white-hot pool of pleasure filling up in your gut as his lips attach to your pulse-point. "Yes, Doctor..."

"Mmm," he hums into your skin, continuing to kiss you. His hand strokes your forehead as your own makes quick work of your clit. It won't be but a matter of seconds before you're coming undone. "How long can you go between orgasms? Do you know?"

"I... usually wait... ten minutes at least..."

Doctor Reid licks softly at your neck before he asks, "Have you used a vibrator or a toy?"

You laugh involuntarily, clenching your legs as your orgasm approaches and wishing you had your vibrator right now. You bought it after your third session. "A vibrator. A cheap one... But it works."

"Nothing wrong with that," he mumbles amusedly into your skin, trailing his kisses up to your jaw. It takes everything you have not to turn your head and take his lips with your own, just to taste his warmth as you come undone—to whimper and whine into his mouth with every wave of pleasure that crashes through you, and—

God, that's exactly what's happening...

Your body shudders blissfully as Spencer kisses you, and the moment doesn't even feel real. His mouth is gentle but coaxing, helping you through your orgasm with a sense of accomplishment, like his kisses are a reward. At least, it certainly feels that way. It doesn't help that when you finally come down, slowing your breathing and removing your hand from your pants, he rests his forehead to yours with a final gentle peck on the mouth and an affirming, "Very good, sweetheart."

You can't help but feel like he takes note of the way you flutter your eyes closed at the nickname; there's a pause in his movements before he returns to them, lightly trailing his knuckles over your neck until his touch disappears completely.

Even though you just came moments before, his next sentence nearly gives you a second wind, your eyes snapping open and your cunt throbbing with want.

"Has anyone ever eaten you out before?"

"No," you tell him truthfully, and he studies you with a look in his eyes that tells you he isn't surprised to hear the unfortunate news. Embarrassed suddenly at his pity, you try to shrug it off. "Men seem to be pretty notorious for being bad at it though, so I didn't hold it against him... My ex, I mean..." You huff a nervous laugh, seeing Doctor Reid stare at you blankly. "I figured it would save us both the trouble."

"There's nothing troubling about it," he mumbles, more to himself. But then he straightens and inhales, back to business as his gaze cements into yours once again. "Would you be willing to let me do it?"

Even more embarrassing than the fact that it hasn't been done before is the speed at which you respond, "Yes." The word is sharp and desperate, loud and true, and you swear you see Spencer's eyes glow. "Please..."

It's hard to tell what he's thinking exactly—ever the professional he is—but aside from lack of a smile or any other indicator of eagerness, his eyes give his emotions away on a grander scale. They're practically fucking you already as he saunters around the bed, their intensity settling deep in the pit of your stomach. Suddenly you're convinced you could come just by his stare alone.

"May I?" he questions, gently tugging at the ankle of your leggings.

"Yes."

"Lift your hips for me, sweetheart."

After a sentence like that, you aren't sure how you have the strength to do it, but you manage, hot flashes coursing through your entire body as his nimble fingers grip the waistband of your leggings and slide them over your hips, then your thighs. His skin is hot against yours, even with as little contact as there is; a simple brush of the knuckle over your knee might as well be a branding iron, claiming you as his own.

He doesn't even have to instruct you, your legs falling wide open once they're free from their fabric confines.

At this point you aren't even embarrassed anymore. You might even be proud of it— how badly you want him to touch you and taste you and show you just how good another person could make you feel. In an odd way it makes you feel important. Cared for.

Your cunt throbs at the intensity of all these emotions and feelings.

It doesn't help when Doctor Reid settles between your legs, making himself comfortable and looking up at you through his eyelashes. The sight is just as overwhelming as everything else.

"You're absolutely sure you want this?" he inquires softly, almost like a plea.

Your vocal cords feel like they're made of rope, the words climbing out of you with burning calluses and a determination to see it through to the end. You've never wanted anything so badly, and you tell him precisely that.

The confirmation seems to please him, a beautiful lilted sigh escaping him as his nose comes in contact with your underwear. It rests just above your clit, his breath hot against you.

His hands come up from under you then, gripping your thighs to keep you steady as he presses an open-mouthed kiss to your clothed cunt. The gentle pressure makes you moan and squirm, his fingers gripping your thighs even tighter, and you sigh his name.

He keeps going, taking his sweet time to explore what areas get reactions from you, though he's quick to learn that every touch, every kiss, every gentle probe of the tongue... all of it is slowly undoing you to the point of madness.

With a hooked finger pulling your panties aside, Doctor Reid sighs into your thigh.

"Are you ready for it, pretty girl?"

All you can manage is the most whiny, whorish "Uh-huh," to the air. It echoes brightly and rings in your ears long after the moment, time seeming to stop right as his tongue comes in contact with your dripping heat.

The sensation is hot and sharp, and never ending. After what seems like forever, the tip of his tongue finally comes up and swiftly flicks your clit before he repeats the entire motion, like a wave crashing over the shore, and that's when your body finally releases all its tension.

You hadn't even realized you were so tense. Your fingers release their grip on the thin sheet beneath you and your chest sighs of relief, and that's when you feel yourself finally start to breathe. Head spinning, the sensations happening below you are coming into sharp clarity.

Spencer's tongue is relentless, leaving no crevice untouched by pleasureful curiosity. But you barely even have time to wonder if he might be enjoying himself more than you are, because all thought at all completely disappears the very moment his lips gather around your clit, sucking softly as he groans.

"Ohhhh my god..."

You're unable to keep your hips from grinding into his mouth. Still, he persists, cycling between sucking and licking and kissing, and it takes everything you have not to reach down and thread your fingers through his hair.

"You taste so fucking good," he sighs, coming up for air for a second. Then he kisses you again and repeats himself. "You're so good..."

This time you do reach down for his head, brushing the stray strands away from his forehead as he looks up at you. He pauses his ministrations, and his tongue's absence is sorely missed in feeling but a pleasure to the eyes as he runs it over his bottom lip in a slow, almost predatory nature.

"I'm going to slowly add a finger, is that okay?"

The thought admittedly panics you, flashbacks of pain and disappointment and embarrassment barging in and nearly ruining the moment. But Spencer can tell, his head tilting into your thigh again until it makes contact. His hair tickles and sends a shiver over your limb as he uses his hands to rub gentle, reassuring circles into your skin.

"We don't have to. I can keep doing it just like this if you prefer. Whatever you want, sweetheart."

The words shoot straight to your core, which sparks the realization that your previous encounter with sex was nothing like this at all. Not only in situation, obviously, but in feeling as well. You were excited to do it the first time, sure, but the build-up was pretty much non-existent. And now here you've been, pining away at this man for weeks, reawakening your libido and engaging in the longest game of foreplay known to man.

You have this very moment to show for it, your entire body humming with want and your worries slowly melting away under Doctor Reid's careful yet eager exploration.

Where there had once been an absence of communication and genuine care, now rests a bright and blossoming excess of it, in every touch and every pull of his eyes. It burns through you like a shot of whiskey, growing in sizzling warmth as it reaches every limb.

It's this new, odd and exciting comfort that urges you to tell him, "It's okay. You can do it."

You expect him to sigh in relief, grateful for your permission, but if he feels it he doesn't show it. Gentle hands continue caressing the underside of your thighs and he looks up at you. "You're sure?"

"Yes. I want it. I want your fingers inside of me, please."

Between the desperate emphasis in your nodding and the way your eyes are practically begging him, you've sealed your fate, a soft gasp reaching your throat when his middle finger slides through your opening and sends a rush of excitement over every plane of your body.

He doesn't enter you, but simply glides, up and down, like he's trying to soothe you.

"Tell me if it's too much, okay?"

"O-kay..."

Your breath shakes on the last syllable, his fingertip slowly disappearing inside you. He takes his sweet time, one knuckle, then two, and then he's fully inside you, and it's not nearly as painful as the last time somebody had been there.

"Fuck, you're so warm..." His eyes search yours for a moment before he sighs and lowers his head. "So beautiful..." And then his mouth is on you again, his compliment muffled by the essence of your pleasure, and your head is thrown back in an instant.

As his finger kindly allows you to adjust to its residence, experimentally moving in and out, his tongue continues to lap at your clit, and both sensations together are a bit odd but not unwelcome. You're slowly getting used to the fullness, yet something in you aches for more...

Maybe it's in your sighs, or the way your hands claw at the sheets, or perhaps he simply just knows you that well, but either way, Spencer knows.

He adds another finger, slowly and without an ounce of resistance from your body, and when you sigh out this time, it's of relief. You smile through it, allowing yourself to revel in the feeling of something new and erotic and exciting. Every whimper that falls from your lips is prideful and maybe even a bit exaggerated, but it's entirely worth it if only for the encouragement it seems to give Doctor Reid to keep going.

After a while of letting you get used to the feeling, he pulls back and twists his palm up before he enters you again, slowly as he says, "You're taking them so well... I'm proud of you, love..."

His fingers are in as far as they can go, and then they curve up just right, and you gasp.

"That feel good?"

"Uh-huh..."

"Yeah?" he coos proudly, starting a rhythm with his fingers that has you crying out in unbelievable pleasure. You're quickly reaching a peak again, every sensation from the fullness of his fingers and the way they twist and curl inside you to the sounds he makes as he kisses and sucks at your clit sending you into overdrive.

Dizziness starts to swarm you and your body can't handle it. Rather than fight this tight, new feeling brewing at each stroke of his fingers, you embrace it with deep breaths and cries out into the air, and then it snaps inside you.

Doctor Reid manages to keep your legs open as he works you through it, though you're not sure how you haven't crushed him yet. Everything feels tight and sharp and blindingly good—it feels like something that would take an army to keep from closing in.

Still, he does it, holding you open and groaning his way through your orgasm. Your hands instinctively reach out to keep him there, clutching at his hair and holding on for dear life while you tremble and clench around him.

Galaxies dance vividly behind your eyelids for what feels like eons as the pleasure bursts through you like a display of shooting stars, until eventually it subsides and your body feels extremely tired.

"Mmm, see? No trouble at all." He removes his fingers and continues to lazily make out with your cunt through small aftershocks of overstimulation, and then he's gone.

He gives you a few moments to collect yourself before he asks, "How do you feel?"

"Tired," you sigh with a smile, relaxing back with your eyes closed. You feel like you could take a nap. "But good. Very good."

His momentary silence intrigues you, so you flutter your eyes open and see that the heat in them hasn't subsided. In fact, it burns through him brightly as he prowls up the bed and climbs over your body until you're face-to-face. Something hard and hot and familiar rests firmly against your thigh and you choke on a whimper.

"Have you ever tasted yourself before?" he inquires, his voice barely above a whisper.

You swallow and prepare yourself. "No."

"Would you like to?"

And then without a second thought, your hands bring his face down to yours, and you embrace the subtle tang of your pleasure on his lips. He groans into your mouth, low and warm as his hips rut into your thigh.

The action sends you into overdrive, and suddenly you want to ask if you can return the favor, but Doctor Reid seems to have other ideas.

A finger delicately makes its way past your lips, seamlessly replacing his tongue, and you open your eyes again, nearly falling apart at the sight of him. The man is wild, eyes desperate for release as you suck on his finger, and then he adds another.

You clean him of your essence, sensual and enthusiastic in your maneuvers in a newfound confidence that wouldn't even exist now if not for him. So you treat this act as a reward to him, an act of gratitude, regardless of whether or not this session is technically all about discovering your likes and dislikes. If anything, you've learned that you like pleasing him. And so—if the constant friction between his bulge and your thigh is any indication—you'd have to say that his goal for today's session has been achieved tenfold.

"God, you're perfect," he huffs as his movements stutter and his hips still. You moan around his fingers, gliding your tongue in the space between them, and when he finally comes, he's choking out your name.

His weight gradually comes down on top of you, his fingers sliding out of your mouth and resting on your chest as he finds his composure. And then he's kissing your neck and your jaw, and each hot caress of his mouth at your pulse point feels like a reward of its own, an intimate form of affection made specifically for you.

Your name sighing past his lips and into your skin is proof enough of that; the lust is still there, sure, but it's laced with something else. Something softer.

As the breathing between the two of you slows, you comb through his hair with your fingers and sigh. An odd, pleasant feeling swirls around in your gut.

"Thank you, Doctor Reid."

"Mmm, you're very welcome," he murmurs into your skin, still nestled into the crook of your neck.

"For everything," you clarify. "A month ago, doing something like that would have felt impossible to even imagine, but... You make me feel safe, and cared for. And more importantly, you don't make me feel like I should be ashamed. Like there isn't actually something wrong with me. I don't know how to thank you enough for that."

When he pulls away, you almost think you might have scared him off, but the look in his eyes is anything but fearful. In fact, they practically shine like a glimmering lively lake as they search your own.

"There is absolutely nothing wrong with you. You're beautiful, and bright, and curious... And as long as you remember that, and you hold onto it, you will be just fine—no matter where you go, or... who you go to."

You shake your head, that feeling in your gut growing exponentially and the words flying out before you can stop them. "I don't want to go to anyone else. I only want you."

The look in his eyes deepens, almost a little melancholic in their intensity, close enough to that fear you were worried about earlier to make your heart beat faster.

"You don't mean that," he says, and you want to cry. Hell, you might, if that feeling in your stomach is speaking for something.

"Like hell I don't," you counter, cradling his head in your hands. "You're the first person I've actually wanted to be around in so long, and... Maybe it's twisted, maybe it's not right, but if there is anyone that I need, it's you. I won't even be your patient anymore if that makes up for it, I just want to see you. I trust you. More than I would trust any stranger."

When your name exits his lips, this time it's a gentle warning. Authoritative. But still sweet. Maybe even a little disappointed. "The purpose of these more... interactive sessions was to get you comfortable with trusting people with your body as much as you do... Seeing me and no one else would, in the end, defeat that purpose."

All feeling in your bloodstream curdles and starts to wither away with rejection. Embarrassment fizzles behind your eyelids as you close them, forming into tears that you try and will away until you're out of his sight. "You don't... actually want me..."

He tenses at your exclamation, and sighs. "That is absolutely not what I said. Look at me."

"Then... what?"

Spencer remains professional, but there's something hiding behind his eyes that longs to get out, you can see that. You can feel it too, as prominently as you feel your heart beating in your chest.

"As your therapist, it is in both of our best interests that I recommend you to try a night out. You don't have to sleep with anyone or do anything you're uncomfortable with, obviously, but... Based on what we've accomplished today, it is my professional opinion that you're ready for the next step."

So you're kicking me out, you cry dramatically in your head, even though you know it isn't true. Still, there's something inside you that doesn't want to let go— that can't. This connection you have with him is something strong and beautiful, something valuable. Something profound. You're not going down without a fight, until he is kicking you out of his office.

Your fingers glide down the side of his face and your eyes sharpen, studying his face with lustful reverence.

"And what are your thoughts as a man... and not my therapist?"

While you'd intended it more as a plea, your words seem to challenge him. Gone is the liberal professionalism, replaced with a familiar sly desire that ignites your heart and fills you with hope.

"As a man... it's impossible even trying to deny you..."

The words excite and warm you all over. You hum, nudging your nose to his and thinking aloud. "Mmm. After my hour is up and the day is long over... Maybe I should wander back to the parking lot and let a man take me home... As my therapist, d'you think that would count as a night out?"

You're relentlessly teasing him now, but he seems  alright with it, laughing dryly above you as his hands clutch your shirt and his hips shift firmly into your thigh again. "Haven't you gotten bold," he muses lowly, his mouth inching closer to yours.

"What can I say... You're very good at your job, Doctor."

"Mmm, you make it easy, love."

His lips are on yours soon after that, and with each tick of the clock your kisses grow hungrier.

Nothing escalates, but for the next fifteen-or-so minutes, your body remains buzzing with the ever-present energy of him, the knowledge that his presence has altered the course of your life forever, and the hope that the feeling is mutual.

Though, if the way he holds you and kisses you means anything, there is nothing to worry about in the slightest.

You leave his office that day feeling lighter, and while you're a far cry from where you were when you started seeing Doctor Reid, you're certain that by tomorrow you'll be a completely different woman.

[northern-passage]

what have i been up to?

i decided to do a little check-in type post just to let you all know what i've been working on. i know things have been quiet here, mainly because i'm just not as active on social media as i used to be (but especially here)

i have been working on tnp, though. i've been rewriting chapter 2 (what was previously chapter 1) and i know a lot of people complain about rewrites but the fact was simply that i had written myself into a corner; when it comes to IF, when you have a lot of stats and branching and variations to track, you get to a point where it simply does not make sense to try and force it, and i really needed to go back and fix my coding and cut a lot of variables. which is what i've been doing, and many of you have seen how that's changed the game so far with the rewritten prologue (now chapter 1).

with that in mind, i've also done a lot of worldbuilding. again, you've seen some of this if you saw the pantheon post i made a while ago (though some of that has changed already, too, along with more edits to chapter 1 😅) and i've put a lot more thought into the setting, how the world "works" and the different relationships between countries and cultures, etc.

i will be yapping about all of that under the cut if you're interested, but if not, just know i am still working on the game. i do not have an estimated timeline for an update, but i am trying very hard to get chapter 2 out this year.

anyways, my rambling:

one of the main changes will be how Gael and Adrania function. Gael and Adrania remain similar in essence but the relationship has changed, as has the source of their hostilities. i've also put a lot more thought into the way gender roles would work in this world, something that i've previously been a bit wishy-washy on. reading more fantasy and studying lectures on the craft and understanding the way oppression works in the real world has allowed me to brainstorm a better, more realized world with tnp.

that being said, i still stand by my original goal with this project, which is that i'm not really interested in writing violent/graphic misogyny, transphobia, or homophobia. but i am interested in exploring the way empires hold power, and for tnp, that has always been through money and trade. even in the very first iterations, the major cities like blackwater and king's harbor are designed with very clear and purposeful class divides, i've just put a lot more thought into how this would actually work.

and there is also the influence of the gods; when your major religious figurehead is revered as a "mother," as well as the enforcer of justice, what does that mean for the world and the women in it? when you have gods that are genderless or genderfluid, how does that change societies perception of trans people, and gender as a whole?

i struggled when i started tnp about how to depict gender in this world, and originally i simply chose not to give it much thought, and i used a lot of anachronisms rather than actually trying to explore what transness and gender within the context of tnp would look like (i think this was my biggest mistake with Lea at the start. if you remember that you're a real one lol). and i think that's a cop out and simply not how any society would work. Adrania is an empire; people will be forced to comply to various roles and expectations in order for this empire to retain control.

so this led me to 1. reimplement the tolls, something that was present in my very first draft but got scrapped before publishing for the first time. it's easy to control people when you have papers and tolls to track them (or restrict their movements if they don't have the "correct" papers). 2. expand on the relationship between Gael and Adrania. where did these two countries come from? when did they split? how has Adrania managed to grow in power while Gael has not? and how has the plague exacerbated the hostilities? etc. we'll see a lot of this explained in the next chapter (as well as some edits made to chapter 1 again), with Adrania's trade agreements and how they exclude Gael specifically.

and finally, what gender roles are people expected to play within society? if Adrania's main god is a woman (okay, a wolf, but you get it) and a mother and also known to be a ruthless dispenser of justice, what does this mean for Adranian men and women? if their god of death is genderless and also commonly represented as a god of dreams and transitions (from life to death and wakefulness to dreams and from one gender to another or beyond) how does this impact the trans people in this world? if the god of war and harvest is sometimes a woman and sometimes a man, who benefits from elevating one depiction over the other?

lots of fun questions! which i think has led to some interesting changes in the game which makes the world feel more real. it also gives me a reason (not that i "needed" one but, ya know *gestures vaguely*) for all of the women i have in combat leadership roles: Keres, Hadrien, and Merry, just to name a few, and why someone like Redwine would be disliked and challenged as a political, landowning leader instead (and ultimately replaced by a man). while all the warrior gods are women (Wolfmother, the Moon, Stormbringer), Adrania emphasizes the male depiction of the Sun, which leads to this divide of men seeking landownership and more administrative political roles, versus women who, outside of motherhood, make careers as generals and captains and knights.

with trans people, there are similar expectations, of course, but they are also pushed towards more spiritual roles due to their perceived kinship with the death god as well as the Sun (and this also means that while motherhood is revered in this world, there is a looser definition here than in our world, due to transness being acknowledged, accepted, and an integral part of society. what "motherhood" is and what it means to people will be explored heavily in game, you just have to trust me on this one!) obviously there is a real history of trans people being seen this way, and it's something i've turned over in my head for a while. beyond the spiritual, though, trans people are seen in every other role as well, and we'll see some trans people who have little to no relationship with religion or the death god (like Merry, Lea, Clementine, Rodrick, and Rafe) and others that have an actively hostile relationship with it (Noel. lol) and including the potentially trans mc, we see a diverse depiction of trans people, as hunters and watchers and captains and healers and bards, etc. i'm hoping this still gives a well-rounded, multi-faceted look at how trans people live in this world without pigeonholing them solely as "divine oracles," or othering them from their cis counterparts.

overall, i feel that i've matured as a writer since i started tnp and i want that to reflect in the world as well. rereading the original demo made me cringe and a lot of it just felt very childish and flat, and i feel like i really didn't have a strong enough grasp on the fantasy genre, nor the skills and knowledge required to do proper, intensive worldbuilding at the time. now i think the story and setting and characters have grown a lot and i'm more capable and confident to do the things that past me couldn't. anyways thanks for reading all this, this post was just an excuse for me to talk about everything because i'm dying keeping it all to myself LOL. i look forward to catching back up to chapter 3 and finally sharing it all with you eventually!

[im-ovulating]

Ok so since you volunteered...EEEEE🤭🤭

I've had this thought on my mind for a while...how do you think a relationship with Alec,Paul, and Embry (separately please) would be/how would they react if they were in a relationship with reader who is slightly more traditional. She likes to cook and clean for them, and she likes to make their plate and hand it to them (paul and embry only for obvious reasons, lol).

Reader is more traditional in this way that she enjoys it but still modern and a feminist because she doesn't do it because "she's a woman and that's her job" or "it's her place" bullshit sje does it because it's a sinple way she shows affection and that she loves them. If you can add in them defending reader and getting all protective when someone says something like "you're lucky man... to have a woman who knows her place, " and they're just like "stfu she doesn't do this because of your misogynistic ideas she does it because that's how she shows love and loyalty"

(A/n: Before anyone asks- yes, yes I do think that Alec's is funny. I laughed writing it so that's all that matters lmao)

(I feel like I got a little too cookie cutter with Paul and Embry, but what can you do when you're already on your 3rd rewrite?)

Word Count: 908

Summary- Request above^^

Warnings: Misogyny (not from the boys), Decapitation in Alec's lol

Age Rating: None

Alec, Paul, Embry (separate) x Fem! Reader: Tradition

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

Alec:

"Say it again." Alec's fangs are bared inches from the lower guard's face as he pins him to the wall.

He had been making his way through the halls towards your shared quarters when he heard one of the new guards commenting about you. Normally he would have left it - it's a new guard, he's going to be killed in a few weeks' time anyway after all (Caius simply doesn't have the patience to deal with newborns), but this time was different.

It was different because it wasn't the usual comments about you being human; it wasn't the comments on what it must be like to be mated to one of the elite guards. No.

It was a comment about your more... traditional habits. The way you let him take control on most things, the way you tend to pick up around the castle despite there being lower vampires in the coven that tend to that.

What had made the normally calmer of the twins snap were the words, "At least the human knows her place is serving men."

"SAY IT!" He snarls, voice echoing off the stone walls of the castle.

"I-" The newborn starts to stammer. Before he can even start his second word, Alec's grip on his neck tightens, forcing a web of cracks to shoot up the guard's neck and splinter his face.

It only when his fingers dig in enough to finally snap the guard's head clean off that he steps back, eyes nearly black and wild and his chest heaving with unnecessary breaths. As a final disrespect, he boots the decapitated head down the hall, relishing in the sickening crack when it hits the far wall.

You round the corner just in time to see Alec standing over the headless body, his eyes slowly fading from pitch black to their usual crimson.

"Are... are you alright?" you ask hesitantly, approaching him carefully.

Alec nods, pulling you close. "I couldn't let him speak about you that way," he murmurs into your hair.

"What way?"

He just shakes his head, breathing in your scent to calm himself.

Paul:

At the first pack bonfire you've been invited to, you're busy helping Emily serve food to everyone when you overhear an older member of the tribe talking to Paul. "You're a lucky man," he says, nodding in your direction. "Having a woman who knows her place. It's rare these days..."

Paul's reaction is immediate. His body tenses, eyes flashing with anger. "Watch it," he growls, his voice low and dangerous. "Y/n doesn't do shit to fit a dumbass outdated role."

The man backs away, surprised by Paul's intensity. You feel a warmth spread through your cheeks, touched by Paul's defense of you.

Later that night, as you're cleaning up together, Paul wraps his arms around you from behind. "I'm sorry about earlier," he murmurs into your hair.

You turn in his embrace, meeting his eyes. "Don't be. I loved how you stood up for me."

"I just hate when people assume things about you," Paul says, his brow furrowed. "You're the most kickass woman I know. You take care of me because you want to, not because you have to."

You reach up, smoothing the wrinkles between his scrunched eyebrows. "And because you don't do it yourself," you jab, lightly.

A small snort leaves him and he leans down to kiss you gently. "I love you, baby."

"Love you too."

Embry:

The calm and peace of Emily's house is quickly broken by the whooping and excited shouting of the pack as they come clamoring in. When they catch the scent of all the food you and Emily have been making, they rush into the kitchen, crowding around the table.

You smile, watching as the boys' eyes light up at the sight of the feast. As always, you take pleasure in preparing a plate for him, carefully piling his plate full. When you hand Embry the plate, his fingers brush yours, and he gives you that warm, appreciative smile that never fails to make your heart skip.

"You don't have to do that," he murmurs, but his appreciative smile tells you he loves it.

"I know," you reply, handing him the plate. "But I want to."

"Thanks, babe," he says softly, just for you to hear.

As you both sit down, one of the newer, younger pack members makes a comment. "Man, Embry, you're lucky to have a girl who knows her place."

The temperature in the room seems to drop. Embry's eyes flash dangerously, and he's on his feet in an instant. "What did you just say?" he growls.

You place a calming hand on his arm. "Embry, it's okay."

"No, it's not. Listen to me and listen good," he addresses the newcomer, his voice low and intense. "She doesn't do this because of some outdated, misogynistic idea of a woman's 'place'. She does it because that's how she chooses to show love and care. It has nothing to do with obligation and everything to do with her heart. So keep your ignorant comments to yourself."

The teen manages to stammer out an apology and as the tension slowly dissipates, Embry sits back down, his hand finding yours under the table. You squeeze it gently, a silent thank you for his defense. In that moment, surrounded by the warmth of the pack and Embry's unwavering support, you're reminded once again why you fell in love with him.

[isa-beenme]

Whispers of Secrets and Starlight

Thinking yk FOR THE FAR FAAAAR future, do we want smut or can I do it like, with not so many details (not gonna leave you hanging just not very descriptive)

Also, I'm curious about how I'm gonna approach the rest of this 😔

Again, I've been writing this for WEEEKS but just now I started to build it in order and unite a scene with another, so don't be shocked I'm writing this fast (bc I'm not, it was already done hihi

Warnings: Use of Y/N, ACOTAR rewrite, female main character, Tamlin is not even here, we are at 20% book following, chatacter death, Amarantha still alive for a while, a tiny little bit of gore (not very detailed, but It's for the greater good), Rhysaaand 😝

Whispers of Secrets and Starlight - Masterlist

Chapter 6: The Chase

You couldn't sleep. The air in the cell was too heavy, thick with damp stone and fear and the promise of tomorrow.

You sat against the wall, knees tucked close to your chest, staring at the crack of faint torchlight beneath the door. Days had passed since the last ball — since Rhysand had kissed you senseless in some dark corridor, his body pressing yours against the cold stone, hands mapping every curve through your dress while the Court was distracting themselves with something else.

You could still feel the phantom imprint of his fingers on your waist. The ghost of his breath against your lips.

You didn't know what hurt more — the ache on your feet from staying so long on those shoes or the ache blooming deep in your chest. Would you ever feel him like that again? Would you ever see the way his violet eyes darkened when you whispered something in his ear — or hear the little growl that always slipped from him when you pressed your body against his under the guise of another dance?

You squeezed your eyes shut. If you let yourself think about tomorrow — about what would happen if Feyre and you failed — you'd start crying. And if you started crying, you didn't think you'd ever stop.

A soft rustle broke the silence. You opened your eyes to see Feyre sitting up across the cell, wrapped in that new blanket Rhysand got you days ago. Her face was pale in the dim light, hollowed out with exhaustion. But her blue-grey eyes were clear when they met yours.

"Can't sleep?” she whispered. You shook your head.

Feyre crawled across the cold stone floor, wrapping the blanket tighter around herself as she settled by your side, separated by some metal bars. She leaned her head to your side, inviting you to do the same, just like she used to back in that little cottage, when winter winds howled through the cracks in the walls and neither of you knew if there'd be enough money for the next day.

"I can't believe we're still alive," she murmured.

You huffed a laugh — soft, breathless. "I can't believe we've survived this long without killing each other."

Feyre's mouth curved. Silence stretched between you, it felt heavy, but not uncomfortable. You both clung to the warmth of each other.

After a long while, Feyre shifted against you. "You... you and Rhysand..."

Your stomach flipped, heat rushing to your cheeks. "What about us?"

Feyre's nose scrunched. "I see the way he looks at you."

You couldn't help it, a small, smug smile tugged at your lips. "And how about the way I look at him?"

Feyre made a disgusted little noise in the back of her throat. "Like you want to climb into his lap and never leave."

You laughed, covering your face with your hands — because she wasn't entirely wrong. "Gods, you have no idea."

Feyre peeked at you through your fingers, horrified. "You're actually enjoying this."

You bit your lip — heart pounding — as your mind flicked through every stolen moment you'd shared with him. "You weren't there the first time he kissed me away from people's eyes," you whispered, voice barely audible. "It was after that first ball... in one of the corridors when he was taking me back to change. He pushed me against the wall, I don't even remember what we talked, but suddenly there were hands in my hair, lips on my neck—"

"STOP." Feyre clapped her hands over her ears.

You grinned. "Or last week... when he dragged me onto that balcony, away from everyone, and made me sit on his lap the whole time—"

"I will literally throw myself into the Wyrm pit." You chuckled — but the sound died in your throat as the memories crashed into you.

His mouth on yours — hot and slow and desperate. His hands sliding up your thighs beneath the slit of one of those dresses he made you wear, his breath ragged against your ear as he murmured how dangerous this was, how much he hated you for making him want you this much.

You'd never been touched like that before — not in centuries. Not since the last time you'd let someone see who you truly were. And Rhys... He didn't even know the half of it.

You swallowed hard, staring at the wall across from you. "I don't know what I'm going to do if I never get to be with him again."

It was the first time you'd admitted it out loud — how deep he'd carved himself into you without even trying.

Feyre's face softened. "You... you really care about him."

You blinked fast — trying to chase away the burn behind your eyes. "I don't know what I feel. I just... When he is with me, I feel like I can breathe again. We don't even need to do anything, just him holding my hand, or being next to me… I don't know."

Feyre was quiet for a long time. Then she muttered, "That's disgusting."

You snorted, swiping at your eyes. "When I was your age, I thought the same thing."

Feyre stiffened slightly against the wall.

You felt her head lift, those sharp eyes narrowing in the dark. "Wait... how old are you?”

Your face dropped. You should've known she'd figure it out eventually with the little hints you'd let slip, the way you always seemed to know more about Prythian than you should.

You tried to play it off, shrugging casually. "Try to guess."

Feyre's brows furrowed. "Nesta always said you were twenty-eight... but if you're half-fae—" Her eyes widened. "Is it a lot?"

You bit your lip. "Depends on what you consider a lot."

Feyre squinted at you, trying to do the math. "Two hundred and something?"

You smirked. "Double it."

Her jaw actually dropped. "Four hundred—?"

"Four hundred and forty-six," you interrupted quietly.

The silence that followed was absolute. You could practically hear the gears turning in Feyre's head — all those years you'd spent playing the older cousin, the human distant family friend, when there were generations of Archerons between the two of you, and you were hiding the truth in plain sight.

Finally, she croaked, "That's… you look like you are less than thirty”

“Well, that's like thirties for faeries, so I think your guess is good?" You grinned. "Something like that."

Feyre's mouth opened, then closed. She stared at you for a long moment— And then both of you burst out laughing. You clung to each other, giggling uncontrollably into the quiet dark. It was half hysteria, half exhaustion, but it felt good. It felt like home.

When the laughter finally faded, Feyre wiped at her eyes. "All this time... you were always there. You could be free in your fae form but you were closed like a normal human, always looking out for me."

Your throat ached. "I'd do it a thousand times again."

Feyre's fingers curled around yours — small and warm. "I love you."

You blinked fast, squeezing her hand tight. "I love you too."

The silence stretched — softer this time. Eventually, Feyre whispered, "I'm scared I can't figure out the riddle."

You glanced down at her — at the fear flickering beneath her tired eyes. "It's okay."

"No, it's not." Her voice cracked. "If the last trial is worse than the others and I can't figure it out... we'll lose."

You shifted closer, pressing your forehead to hers. "We haven't lost yet."

Tears slipped down her cheeks — but she nodded. You held her until she fell asleep against your shoulder, both of you wrapped in the same thin hope, clinging to each other like you could keep the whole world from falling apart with just your hands.

Tomorrow would come. But tonight —

Tonight, you would just be two sisters, huddled together in the dark. Waiting for the dawn.

☆

The third trial began like a death sentence. Seven faeries on their knees, one from each court. Bound. Trembling. Innocent. You felt Feyre's panic like a blade against your ribs, slicing deeper with every heartbeat as Amarantha drew out the rules.

"Kill them." She showed you the blade. “This is your last challenge, half-breed.” You couldn't even feel the panic of her finding out.

Feyre was begging before the words even fully left the bitch's mouth, with her voice raw, hands clutching against the arms of the Attor that held her away. "Please, there has to be another way."

But there wasn't. Not unless she solved the riddle. Amarantha smirked, that twisted pointed crown glinting atop her head as she leaned forward on her throne.

"Would you like to hear the riddle again, girl? Since your little human brain seems so... lacking?"

Feyre's face crumpled. You could see the panic rising, feel it crashing through her mind. And something in your chest snapped.

Without thinking, you reached through the guards and grabbed her face. "Hey. Look at me."

Her wide, glassy eyes locked on yours. You squeezed her softly — steady, warm. The way you'd done a thousand times before, in that little cottage, when the world was cold and unfair and neither of you had anything but each other.

"Remember what I always told you, when you were growing up?" you whispered. Feyre's brow furrowed, breath hitching. "That... when all of your sisters were married off and we were left alone…" You brushed a kiss over her forehead, voice breaking. "You and I could do whatever we wanted to. Trust me just this one more time. I would do this for you a million times again."

Her lip wobbled. But then her brows knitted deeper, like something was tugging at the edges of her memory. Because that's not what you used to say. Feyre's eyes flicked over your face, searching, flickering, remembering.

“When all of your sisters are married off and we are left alone, I swear, Feyre, we will do whatever we desire.”

Your heart stopped. The room tilted, every breath turning sharp and electric. The Attor takes you away and shoves the blade in your hand. The first fae on the line started crying desperately. Feyre's eyes widened, her mouth parting as the pieces clicked into place.

"I can bind two souls or shatter them apart

A weapon, a blessing, a cage for the heart

I bloom in silence, yet scream when denied

What am I, when truth cannot hide?"

Feyre's desire to survive and save Tamlin was a weapon against the curse. Your desire to defy fate and save Rhysand was a blessing given by the Cauldron. And Amarantha's twisted desire for power was a cage for the numerous hearts that tried to be free.

"The answer... the answer is desire." Feyre said suddenly, looking at Amarantha’s face while shock ripped through her.

And then it all happened in a heartbeat. The curse physically shattered as the magic ripped through the air like a silent scream.

For one precious second, everything paused.

Feyre turned to you, her face breaking into something wild and disbelieving and happy. She was going to run to you. You could see it happening, her feet stepping forward, arms outstretched, eyes shining with the promise of survival. But then Amarantha moved. It was like watching the world crack open in slow motion.

The High Queen lunged from her throne, her shadow swallowing Feyre whole. And before you could even scream there was a sickening snap. Feyre crumpled to the ground lifeless. Blood pooling beneath her golden-brown hair. The scream that ripped from your throat didn't sound like it belonged to you.

It sounded ancient — something buried so deep in your bones that you'd forgotten it existed. The sound of your true self waking up after three hundred years you spent running away from your truth. Amarantha was saying something — laughing, gloating — but you couldn't hear her. You couldn't hear anything over the pounding of your own blood in your head. Over the roar rising inside you.

All you could see was Feyre's body on the floor, the little girl you'd sworn to protect, the only piece of your heart you'd ever let yourself keep. Dead. And something inside you broke open. Power surged through you, burning ancient and terrible. You felt your bones stretching, your heart splintering wide, and felt the world tilt as three hundred years of buried magic snapped its leash. You hadn't just been hiding your power all these centuries. It had been growing. And now nothing was holding it back.

You barely registered your own body shifting — your nails sharpening into claws, your vision sharpening to pure, predatory focus. Your skin shimmered with the deep, starless darkness of the Night Court.

But it was the wings that made the room fall silent. Not the delicate, membranous wings of lesser faeries. These were something close to Illyrian wings. Dark and curved and lethal. Amarantha's smile faltered.

"What are you?" she whispered.

You smiled, sharp and slow and full of teeth. "Your nightmare."

And then you were moving.

You hit her like a storm — shadows exploding from your hands, slashing through the air. You were everywhere at once, a whisper of black mist, a flicker of claws, a blur of ancient power that had been asleep for far too long. Amarantha screamed, clawing at the shadows ripping into her flesh. But you were faster. You fell on top of her on the stars that took to her false throne. A throne that tried to resemble the grandness of the one in the Hewncity, your home.

You took the spiked crown that fell from her head, you looked at her desperate eyes while she tried to free herself from the magic that tied her body to the ground. You saw her eyes begging for a quick death. But when Feyre begged she didn't listen. So you grabbed a handful of her hair and wrenched her head against her own crown — pushing it until it reached her skull.

For Lucien, who lost his eye years ago when trying to bargain, you slammed her face down onto the jagged metal.

For your cousin, your sister in your heart, who had endured too much of her games, you slammed her again holding for a few seconds.

For every faerie who had died under this mountain, the crown reshaped and grasped her skull.

For Rhysand, who had bled and suffered in silence to keep everyone in his home alive and secure, you slammed her head against the steps of the stair.

For your best friend and your mom, who died three hundred years ago because of the consequences of a war none of them participated in and the broken ego of stupid males who were lured by Amarantha, you clawed her neck and ripped it open.

For you, the girl who had buried herself in grief for hundreds of years and forgotten how it felt to be free, you threw her severed head on the other side of the room.

By the time you finally stopped — gasping, shaking, hands slick with her blood — Amarantha's body was nothing but a broken, mangled heap. The mountain was silent. No one dared move. No one dared breathe.

Except for Rhysand. He got closer behind her body, staring at you like he'd never seen anything so beautiful and so terrible in his entire life. And through the bond snapping wide open between your souls, through the shock and the awe and the soul-deep ache all you felt from him was pride and relief.

You staggered back from Amarantha's corpse, chest heaving, power still crackling in your blood. You slowly came down from that beast form to your normal fae body. But all you felt was our heart breaking.

Your heart was breaking—

Because Feyre was still dead. You dropped to your knees beside her, shaking hands brushing over her hair, her cold cheeks.

All you could see was her. Your cousin. Your little shadow. Your sister in every way that mattered. Lying there on the ground, her neck bent at a horrible angle. Eyes wide open. Empty.

No.

No, no, no—

Someone was screaming. It took you too long to realize the sound was coming from your own throat. You were shaking. Gasping.

The world was still spinning from the aftermath of your magic — that ancient, night-court darkness you'd unleashed on Amarantha. But it hadn't been enough. You'd ripped that bitch apart, you'd smashed her skull into her own crown, separated her head from her body. And it still hadn't been enough. Feyre was dead.

A hand touched your shoulder, tentative, cautious. Lucien. His face was pale beneath the blood and dirt, that ruined eye flicking between you and Feyre's body.

"We... we have to—"

"No." The word was a snarl, ripped from your throat — sharper than any blade.

His hand jerked back like you'd burned him. You couldn't look away from her.

You couldn't breathe around the crushing weight in your chest. "Please," you whispered. "Please, don't leave me."

And then Rhysand was there, dropping to his knees on your side. His face was pale, his hands shaking, but his fingers closed around yours.

He squeezed.

"We're going to fix this," he whispered. "We're going to fix this, little mouse, I promise."

You clung to him, sobbing into his chest as the other High Lords began to rise.

And through the glowing bond between your souls, through the grief and the pain and the blood still drying on your hands — you felt his voice echo deep inside you.

"You're free now."

"There must be something—" The voice was deep, rough — Tamlin.

You didn't even glance at him. But the others — the High Lords — were already looking at each other, their faces pale and drawn. You saw it in their eyes before any of them spoke. Hope. Desperation. Relief. The quiet knowledge of what could be done, but only if they all agreed.

Your heart lurched. "Please do it."

Tamlin looked at you as if it was the first time, horrified by the way you looked.

"Do it." You snarled again, turning to look at all of them. You felt Rhysand's body go rigid by the desperation in your voice. If they didn't agree you know he would invade all of their minds and make them do it for you.

"She's one of us now. She saved our lives. And I will not let her die." They hesitated. Of course, they did. Because this wasn't done. This shouldn't be done. A mortal girl — a human — Turned into High Fae.

But you saw it, the flicker of guilt in Tamlin's eyes. The grief on Lucien's face. The exhaustion in Rhysand's. He was the first to step forward.

He knelt by Feyre's side, fingers brushing her cold hand, so gentle it made something in your chest crack wide open. A curl of midnight power whispered from his fingertips, sinking into her still body.

Then Helion.

Then Kallias.

Then Thesan.

One by one, the High Lords approached, each of them pressing the smallest seed of their power into her heart. You watched as it shimmered beneath her skin, tiny fragments of power blooming in her veins. Still not enough. Not enough.

You surged forward, barely aware of your own movements, until you were crouched at her other side, your hands framing her face. "Come back." Your voice was barely a breath, ragged and breaking. "You hear me, Feyre? You come back to me. Like when we were hunting, you remember? I would let you go away from me but you had to come back."

Your magic flickered — that old, buried night-court darkness rising in your blood. Ancient and feral. You'd hidden it for so long. Buried it so deep you'd almost forgotten it was there.

But now you called it — letting it pool in your palms, letting it pour into her along with the power of the High Lords. "You can't leave me."*

A crack — so faint you almost missed it — echoed through the bond between you and Rhysand. And then—

Her chest rose. A shallow, broken breath. A choked sob wrenched from your throat. Her eyelids fluttered, just barely.

"Feyre?" Another breath. A little stronger this time. Her fingers twitched beneath yours.

And then those blue-gray eyes opened, glazed and unfocused, but alive. You collapsed against her, sobbing into her hair.

Her voice was barely more than a whisper, broken and slurred. "We did it... right?"

You choked on a laugh, half-hysterical, half-sobbing, pressing your forehead against hers.

"Yeah." Your voice cracked. "We did."

Her eyes flicked to yours. But she smiled. And something inside you, something that had been broken for three hundred years, finally, finally began to heal.

☆

You didn't know how long you stayed like that, clinging to her hand, listening to the fragile rise and fall of her breathing. It was Lucien who finally peeled you away, murmuring something about needing to rest, needing to clean up.

You barely remembered the room they brought you to. You barely remembered stripping off your blood-soaked clothes or scrubbing yourself raw in the cracked marble basin. You scrubbed at your hands until your skin was raw. The copper scent of her blood wouldn't leave, no matter how hard you tried. It was under your nails, buried deep in the creases of your palms. Amarantha's blood. Your own blood. The weight of every life you'd taken in your years alive.

You'd killed her. You'd ripped her apart with your bare hands. And you hadn't regretted a single second of it. But now… now the rage had burned itself out, leaving only the cold, hollow ache beneath. Your claws were gone. Your wings were gone. You looked like yourself again, only... brighter. Sharper.

Your reflection in the basin flickered, catching on the faint, shimmering glow beneath your skin. Still hald-blooded, but fae. After years of hiding. After years of pretending… You didn't have to pretend anymore. You were free.

A knock sounded at the door. You flinched, heart leaping to your throat, but when the faerie servant stepped in, she carried only a small bundle of clothes.

"I thought you might want to change," she murmured.

She laid the garments on the bed and slipped out without another word. For a long moment, you just stood there, staring at the two dresses neatly folded side by side.

One was soft green — light, airy, stitched with delicate gold thread. Spring Court.

The other was midnight black — simple and elegant, with glimmers of silver at the cuffs. Night Court.

You swallowed hard. You didn't even realize you'd reached for the black one until it was already slipping over your skin, the cool fabric clinging to your still-damp body like a second shadow. It fit perfectly.

☆

Feyre was still sleeping when you found her. Lucien sat by her bedside, his russet eye flicking to you the second you entered.

He looked like hell — bruised, filthy, still healing. But the way he looked at Feyre… You'd never seen so much relief on his face. In the years you shared together as friends when you were running away from your court you never saw him so focused on someone else.

He didn't say a word as you crossed the room, pressing a soft kiss to her brow. Her breathing was steady. Alive.

"We did it, right?” Her voice was barely more than a breath at the moment.

Your throat closed.

"Yeah," you whispered. "We did."

Lucien's eye stayed locked on you the whole time.

"You can go, let the stress run out," he murmured. "I'll watch her."

The mating bond was pulling, taut, and relentless now that it was recognized, it was dragging at something deep in your soul. He was waiting for you. So you thanked Lucien and followed that golden thread.

☆

The balcony was half-shattered from the years of poor use, marble cracked, the railing crumbled, but Rhysand stood at the edge like he barely noticed. He was in full High Lord regalia after the meeting, black, silver, night-dark suit. But his wings were out, spread wide behind him, catching the cold breeze. You didn't think he'd ever looked more beautiful.

His head turned the second you stepped through the archway, those violet eyes locking onto you, tracing every inch of you in that black dress.

The bond sang between you, sharp and bright and undeniable now.

You knew.

He knew.

And both knew that the other knew too.

But neither of you said it. Not yet. Instead, he smiled, soft and tired, the kind of smile that felt like slipping into warm water after too many frozen nights. "You clean up nicely."

You huffed a quiet laugh, coming to stand beside him at the edge. "You don't."

He chuckled under his breath, low and rough. But then his gaze swept over the broken landscape, the ruins of what the time Under the Mountain did to the outside world stretching out beneath the night sky.

"Are you going to fly home?" you asked softly.

You glanced at his wings, those beautiful, powerful wings he'd kept hidden for so long.

"I would." He exhaled slowly. "If I wasn't so damn anxious to see my family again."

Your heart squeezed — because fuck— you wanted to go with him. You wanted to see Velaris again. You wanted to stand on Sidra's shores and feel the sun on your face one more time. You wanted to walk through the Moonstone Palace and watch him light every corner with his power. You wanted to go home.

But...

"I can't leave Feyre." His face softened. You stared out at the wreckage, hands curling over the crumbling ledge. "There's still so much to teach her. So many people to help. I need to make sure she is making the right decisions for herself."

Rhys nodded, like he'd already known you'd say that. And of course he had, he, better than anyone, understood the necessity of sacrificing your own happiness to protect the ones you love.

He was quiet for a long moment, then reached out slowly, brushing his fingers over yours on the stone. "I trust you."

Your breath caught. "You do?"

"I always have." He turned fully toward you then — dark and regal and endlessly patient, even when the bond between you was screaming to be claimed. "Take whatever time you need."

Your chest ached, because you could feel the weight of those words. The choice he was giving you.

The choice he'd always give you. "And if I don't come?" you whispered.

His mouth curved, soft and secretive. "Then I'll call in that bargain your cousin made and drag you back home."

Your breath caught a laugh, and his side of the bond thrummed at the sound of it. But there was no malice in his voice. Only warmth. Only hope. You didn't even realize you'd moved until his hand was sliding up your cheek, until his thumb was brushing the corner of your mouth.

You leaned into him, into the quiet strength of him, and let your eyes flutter shut as he dipped his head. This kiss was slower. Softer. Like a promise whispered between two souls who had already waited too long. You felt him shudder against you, felt the way his fingers clenched in your hair, the faint tremor in his wings as they curved around you.

He pulled away first, pressing his forehead to yours. "Come home to me."

Your throat closed around the words that tried to rise “I will.” You whispered, touching your nose to his, breathing the same air as him.

But not yet. Not yet.

Instead, you pressed one last kiss to his mouth, lingering, aching, and whispered “I can't wait to fall in love with you.”

He smiled at you with so much hope you could barely handle it. “I already did” was the last thing he said before vanishing in his shadows.

And the whole time you stayed in Feyre’s bedroom, the whole time you watched her heal and pack her few things to go back to Spring Court, you felt that bond pulsing steadily in your chest. Waiting for him. Calling you home.

Taglist: @rcarbo1 @raisam @itsinherited @romantic1stories @nebarious @mystirica-18 @willowpains @xelladarlingx @lucilia9teen @lifetobeareader @hjgdhghoe

[webslingingslasher]

j be honest, are there no uni updates bc frat peter gave u the ick too (my frontal lobe kicked in and now im a changed woman) JDJDJDJD

no i've been slowly rewriting it and i am back into the BEGINNING era of frat!peter and it's been so fun to write tsksksks HERE'S A SNEAK.

---

The front door slams shut. You and Ethan look up at the same time. Parker’s staring at the scene, Ethan drops his hands and leans as far into his side of the swing as possible. “Heading to class?” Parker blinks, your cheeks feel like they’re on fire. You pray to any God listening that Parker doesn’t think you’re trying to move in on his friend. Parker answers Ethan's question. “Yeah.” 

“I’m meeting you at Katye after, right?” 

“Yeah.” You’ve come to learn that Parker isn’t a man of many words. Unless you have him in the bedroom. Oh God, you’re thinking about him kissing you again. You swallow hard, the memory replays while you stare at their doormat. It says ‘Welcome to our MotherFuckin’ house.’ You wonder if it’s custom made. 

“Cool. I’ll ask Tarrent if he wants to tag along.” You finally look up- you swear Parker immediately diverts his gaze from your chest. He was definitely checking out your cleavage while you weren’t paying attention. “Hey.” It takes you a second to realize Parker’s talking to you. You struggle to speak for a moment. “Hey.” Parker looks down at his phone, you feel a little bubble pop in your gut. He’s the one that talked to you first, now he’s checking his phone as if he’s making time for you. 

“You’re coming to Sig on Friday, right?” You hesitate. You’re trying to play it cool. “Maybe.” 

“What can I do to turn that maybe into a yes?” Parker’s asking you to come. Ethan nudges your elbow, he sees the opportunity Parker’s offering. Good to know you’re not entirely delusional. “Promise me a pack of NÜTRL’s?” It’s the best thing you can think of- Sigma Nu is the only frat you’ve visited that didn't have them. 

“Variety pack or a certain flavor?” Oh, he’s actually going to do it. And he’s asking for your preference. “I like the pineapple ones best.” Parker grins, your heart speeds up. “Done. See you Friday."

[sophieinwonderland]

The Plurality of... Bill Cipher (The Book of Bill)

Spoiler Warning for Gravity Falls, The Book of Bill, and the nature of reality as you know it

Hello dear reader.

I recently found in my possession a strange book with no explanation as to how it got there. A bizarre tome known only as The Book of Bill.

I recognized the name and imagery from someone else's memories. Bill Cipher, a character from Alex Hirsch's hit series Gravity Falls.

It honestly seemed too perfect. I've been doing this "Plurality of..." series where I look at plurality in media. And an important part of Bill's shtick was possession.

It seemed simple enough. I can read the book, learn a bit about Bill and his possession, and then write an article about his plurality. But the reality was anything by simple, with far more than I bargained for.

And by the end of this post, this book will have driven me to break a fundamental rule I've held sacred through my "Plurality Of..." series.

What is Plurality?

Before we begin, I should explain what plurality is for anyone new here. Plurality is a term for being multiple in one body in some way.

We call the body's occupants "headmates". These can be anything from alters in dissociative disorders to spirit guides bound to a mortal, to... yes... even literal demonic possession.

Yeah, even being possessed by a demonic triangle from a 2-dimensional universe is a type of plurality. If there are multiple self-conscious agents of some kind there, it's plural!

Time To Get Weird!

(Art by magentasnail)

Let's catch you up on the basics real quick. Again, there will be huge Gravity Falls spoilers.

In Gravity Falls, Bill Cipher is a yellow a 2-dimensional triangle demon bent on causing chaos.

Through the series, Bill makes deals with multiple characters to possess their bodies. This includes both gaining full control over the body of protagonist Dipper Pines for an episode, and more interestingly, sharing control over the body of Stanford Pines for an extended period of time.

Bill's possession of Dipper left Dipper outside his body like a ghost. But his deal with Stanford is much more plural in nature, where they shared control, with Bill only controlling the body in his sleep.

Obviously real plural systems don't have headmates controlling their body while they sleep like this, but the experience can be seen as analogous to dissociative identity disorder, where it's common to experience blackouts and "wake up" in situations unsure how you got there.

That's all you really need to know about Bill for the time being.

With that out of the way, it's time get weird and dive straight into the Book of Bill!

The Book of Bills

As I begin reading the Book of Bill, I'm given a warning from Stanford Pines that the book will rewrite itself based on the mind of the reader. This seems silly, and I of course dismiss the idea out of hand. Surely there's no way a book could change itself based on who's reading it.

As I venture further into this tome, I find the occasional point of interest. References to Bill living in people's brain, him being an idea, etc.

I stop briefly to ponder that. Why does Bill refer to himself as an idea? Isn't he canonically a being from a physical 2-dimensional world? Him being described as an idea is peculiar, but something I tuck away for the future.

The first thing I find that really piques my interest in regards to plurality is the multiple times that it's just referenced that there are multiple Bills in Bill's head. Such as when Bill refers to "the voices in his head" teaming up.

In the plural community, there's a concept known as median system.

A median system is typically a system which has separate parts that are less distinct from each other. There's a pretty solid case that Bill, having a bunch of Bills in his head, could be considered a median system on his own.

In fact, the book itself actually depicts communication between multiple Bills, in the form of an interview.

And throughout the interview, there are times where the Prime Bill seemingly gets annoyed at the interviewer's questions. As if they are actually different people. While this could be Bill simply duplicating himself and pretending for comedic effect, it could just as easily be that both Bills are headmates in Bill's system.

Bill being a median system is a pretty interesting direction.

As I read on though, the book dragged me down yet another rabbit hole, and raised an important question.

Does Bill Have A Dissociative Disorder???

Let's talk about dissociative identity disorder. There are two main criteria for DID. Criterion A is the presence of two or more distinct personality states. You know, like those Bills in Bill's head.

The second is memory loss.

Recurrent gaps in the recall of everyday events, important personal information, and/or traumatic events.

This is what was on my mind when Bill was describing how he was uniquely gifted with the ability to see into the third dimension, and wanted to teach others this same skill.

But when he tries to recount it... this happened...

To me, this sounds exactly what was described in criterion B. This is also called dissociative amnesia.

And it's not just this one-off example. Bill actually references later that he dissociates (his words) and "wakes up" later after a conquest.

With everything we know, it seems incredibly likely that Bill has DID, or at least a related disorder.

Bill is what he eats

Okay... wait...

So Bill can ALSO imprison the souls of those he eats inside himself, and they can apparently take over Bill's body too???

What actually is going on here? Is this one of Bill's powers? He can just eat entire universes and then whatever he consumes becomes a part of him? Or maybe it's something else...

Maybe if we looked at this less literally and consider the previous hints of Bill having a dissociative disorder then perhaps what is going on is that Bill is introjecting these people.

Maybe whenever he enters somebody's mind, some piece of them remains...

I would love to speculate more on this... But this is the only mention of it in the entire book!

At this point, I begin to reflect on the words at the beginning. Maybe it was true that the book was changing itself to give me what I wanted. Little hints of plurality to keep me reading, to ensnare me in its vicious trap and ultimately drive me to madness.

And the worst part was, I was falling into it anyway. Because I had to know, even if this was a trap, I was in it to the very end. My thirst for knowledge and understanding unquenchable.

Even if I knew I should stop here, there was no going back.

Stanford Pines, Bill's Perfect Host

At last, beyond all of the misdirects that were put in my way, I arrived at the reason that I started on this journey.

Stanford Pines.

I need to say that when I started this journey, planning to delve into what the plurality of Bill and Ford might be like, I never imagined that it would be handled so... Beautifully.

I mean that genuinely!

I love the relationship of these two characters in the book!

They are both very out of place in their own ways. Both are aware of things in their world that are denied by others, leaving them ridiculed and ostracized for it. They manage to form a genuine friendship. Even if Bill was using Stanford the whole time to achieve his Weirdmageddon.

The two compliment each other surprisingly well. Bill provides Stanford with a friend who can get him out of his comfort zone, which is something that I think Stanford really needed.

There's a really fun part of the book where Bill just gets Stanford mind-drunk, which is apparently something he can do.

Bill fills a role in Stanford's life that nobody had since he lost contact with his brother. While Stanford had friend in with Fiddleford, his lab partner, and we do get to see parts of that friendship in the book, they are more like work acquaintances.

Alas, it wasn't meant to be. Because in the end, Bill is still an evil demon who was bent on bringing about the Weirdmageddon and was manipulating Ford the whole time.

And when Stanford found out, he tried to shut Bill out. This led to Bill trying to communicate through sticky notes to get Ford to stop ignoring him. He would front in the body at night while Ford slept, and they carried on a conversation through these sticky notes.

Wait... Sticky notes?

This is such an interesting choice for the character! Especially after so many hints of Bill Cipher having some sort of dissociative disorder.

Why?

Because sticky notes are an actual method that real DID systems use to communicate with their alters, as seen in this post from the NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness) website.

It's fascinating how, if you were to try to depict how headmates with strong dissociative barriers might communicate, this is one of the ways you would want to do that!

Is this coincidental? Maybe. But the talk of dissociation earlier suggests the author also has at least some basic knowledge of dissociation and how it works. And, perhaps, plurality as well?

Overall, this whole section with Bill and Ford was fantastic, and it was well-worth the read for that on its own.

The End?

I suppose this is the end. I found what I wanted. I got the content I was after. A cool plural story of a guy and his headmate from another dimension who wants to take over the world.

Through all the strange distractions and hints of Bill himself having headmates that seemingly went nowhere, I got more plurality in the book than I expected.

And yet, as I turn the final page of the book, I feel unsatisfied. Unsettled.

"Is that it?" I think to myself.

This is Gravity Falls, a show built on mysteries, and looking deeper than the surface. Surely there has to be more. Right?

What if... all the plurality in this book, is obscuring something deeper? Or maybe hinting at something deeper...

And then... I see it!

After the final page, I come to the About the Author section.

Which means it's time to talk about...

The Plurality of... Bill Cipher Alex Hirsch

Yes, I am going there!

In the beginning, I promised that this post will require me to break a rule I've held sacred through these posts.

That rule... is to never speculate on the plurality of the author.

But, Alex Hirsch, at least in a fictional sense, hasn't exactly shied away from the idea of being "possessed" by Bill. This dates back at least a decade, with him making Tweets like this one.

"Bill Cipher" even did an AMA on Reddit through Alex, playing it off as Bill possessing Hirsch while he slept.

It's a pretty open secret in the Gravity Falls community that Alex Hirsch is "possessed" by Bill. At least in some meta-fiction way that may not be canon to Gravity Falls but isn't quite real either.

And were my analysis to stop here, I wouldn't really be saying anything new or valuable. A lot of this was covered by MatPat on Film Theory.

But there's something I want to go back to that confuses me in this book.

That Bill Cipher... is an idea?

Let's bring this full circle, back to the beginning of the book where Bill mentions that he's imaginary and describes himself as an idea.

These are such weird lines because Bill didn't seem to have originated from people's minds within the narrative of Gravity Falls.

His story is of being a being from a literal flat world. So why then, does he describe himself as an idea? Why does he describe himself as imaginary???

Bill Cipher as Alex Hirsch's Tulpa

While Bill being an idea doesn't make sense if he's speaking as a being from a 2-dimensional world that's real to him, it does make sense if we consider that the Bill talking to us, who wrote the Book of Bill, is a tulpa sharing the body of its creator.

Before going on though, we need to answer an important question. What is a tulpa? The r/tulpas subreddit gives its own answer to this in its FAQ.

The simplest way to describe a tulpa is simply another person who was created intentionally/unintentionally through repeated interaction and shares a body and mind with their creator. A more complicated definition can go as follows: A tulpa is believed to be an autonomous consciousness coinhabiting a brain with their creator, often with a form of their creator's initial choice and design. A tulpa is entirely sentient and in control of their opinions, feelings, form and movement. They are willingly created via a number of techniques to act as companions, muses, and advisers. Tulpa forms can either be visualized in the mind's eye, or, with practice, seen as a hallucinatory figure using a technique called imposition.

And let's stop there on the line about being created as muses, because this is something that's found repeated throughout both The Book of Bill and Journal 3, with Stanford referring to Bill as his "muse."

It's a curious term that doesn't appear in the show, but was added to the lore in these two supplemental books.

The FAQ goes on to explain that while tulpas are often considered to be intentionally created, there are also accidental tulpas that can arise through imaginary friends or from writing characters.

Is it possible to accidentally make a tulpa? Yes - many people join the community after realizing they have had tulpas all their lives, but without knowing what they were called. These "accidental" tulpas often arise from imaginary friends and writing/roleplay characters.

On the point of roleplay characters, something I also haven't mentioned yet is that Alex Hirsch didn't just write the character of Bill Cipher. He WAS Bill Cipher. In the show, Bill is one of the characters Hirsch voices along with Grunkle Stan and Soos.

Writing tulpas and how they come about are discussed a bit more below:

Is this a new phenomena? No, it's a practice that goes back in recorded history at least as far as the Greek philosophers. The present name of the phenomenon is derived from the word used by Tibetan monks in the early 20th century. There's also evidence to suggest dedicated prayer can lead to the development of 'religious tulpas' in the minds of the particularly devout, and on the secular end, writing techniques similar to tulpa development techniques can and have resulted in writers creating accidental tulpas from their characters. Having a tulpa is nothing new, although it's gone by many names throughout the course of history and does so even today. However, we believe we are one of the first groups to address this practice as a psychological phenomena rather than a magical, occult or divine experience.

Tulpamancy and Attention

There was another passage from the book that I found noteworthy.

At the end, Stanford describes what truly sustains Bill isn't power, but attention, which Stanford describes as Bill's "lifeblood."

It's even underlined for emphasis.

Why is this important? Well first, this line goes back to the weird lines earlier suggesting Bill is an idea.

But more importantly, feeding on attention is something which is actually a pretty popular philosophy in tulpamancy. That tulpas feed on and are sustained by the attention of their hosts.

How do I give my tulpa energy? Tulpas are sustained by attention, and energy is a convenient metaphor for this. So, you can give your tulpa energy by interacting with them. It is also possible, through no shortage of work and time on the part of host and tulpa alike, for a tulpa to grow beyond this need and to learn how to sustain themselves.

How much attention/energy/interaction does my tulpa need? During the creation process you should aim to interact with your tulpa daily, anywhere from a few minutes up to a few hours, and narrating to them as and when you can. After they're fully vocal and active, the bare minimum is just acknowledging their existence, but spending time talking to them and interacting with them is very much the point of bringing them into existence. Just don't ignore them, and you'll both be fine.

On Parallels in Writing

Adding another layer, it's likely that Stanford Pines is at least partially based on Alex Hirsch himself.

One point of trivia is that Alex Hirsch has a twin sister, and Gravity Falls was inspired by vacations they would take as children. Dipper and Mabel being based on Alex and his sister is pretty well-known. But towards the end of season 2, it's revealed that their Grunkle Stan is a twin himself, with his brother being Stanford Pines, the author of the journals.

During this part of the story, it starts creating a parallel between the relationships of the younger and older twins, with Dipper (who is based on Alex) bonding with Stanford over how much they have in common. Both are nerds who are into writing and science and uncovering the mysteries of the world. Both are a bit socially awkward as well.

And while not much attention is drawn to this particular connection, both had experiences of making deals with Bill that let Bill takeover their bodies at different points.

Based on the parallels between Dipper and Stanford, one might speculate that Alex based Dipper on his younger self, while Stanford was loosely based on himself as an adult.

The personalities of these two characters are also the most likely to create a tulpa based on the psychological profiles of most tulpamancers.

In 2016, Dr. Samuel Veissiere, a psychiatry professor at McGill University, found the following in his study of tulpamancers:

From coding of qualitative interviews collected in large surveys, the most common tulpamancer profile to emerge is one of a highly cerebral, imaginative, highly articulate, upper-middle class, formally educated person with many consistently pursued interests, talents, and hobbies, but limited channels of physical social interaction. Typical tulpamancers are confident about their talents, but are quite modest and socially shy. They possess – or have cultivated – a high propensity for concentration, absorption, hypnotisability, and non-psychotic sensory hallucinations.

The psychological profile of tulpamancers fits both Dipper and Stanford to a t. And many of these same traits could just as easily be true for Alex Hirsch if these characters were meant to be stand-ins for himself.

Is Alex Hirsch trying to tell us that he's plural?

In the end, this is just a theory. And it's one that I feel nervous making because plurality is so deep and personal. That's why I've avoided speculating on the plurality authors in the past. Even when the writing feels so true to the plural experience that it's hard to imagine that someone who isn't plural wrote it.

So why am I making an exception with this one?

Well, in this particular case, I think that the breadcrumbs are being left intentionally, and if he is plural, then he expects somebody to follow them. I'm not worried that I would be outing somebody who didn't want others to find out.

With Alex Hirsch's love of codes and clues and mysteries, if he were plural, I have to imagine that the hints weren't accidental and he would be wondering if anybody would follow them.

And if I am completely off base and he's not plural, I think that he would still appreciate the theorizing anyway. 🤷‍♀️

But if these are intentional clues that were left behind to hint at a real life plurality, one might ask why.

Why would he want people to know about it, and hint at it in this way?

Well, I think the Book of Bill might have an answer to that too.

Shame is a powerful emotion. But it grows in the dark. The more I've tried to hide my past with Bill, the more hold it's had over me.

Perhaps this line is meant to reflect Alex Hirsch's own feelings. Because many plural systems have felt this same way about their plurality, having hide their relationships to their headmates.

The actual end now

Finally, we come to the real ending of this.

This is, again, just a theory. I don't want anyone taking it as fact. I admit that I could be completely wrong about everything that I've said here.

But if nothing else, it's at least fun to imagine that Alex Hirsch does have a Bill Cipher tulpa in his head that has been acting as his muse this whole time. And it would give a new meaning to the gag of the Weirdmageddon intro saying Gravity Falls was "created by Bill Cipher" all those years ago.

Thanks for reading, and if you have your own muse that you think might be more than a simple muse, be sure to read my guide on how to know if your imaginary friend is sentient.

And if you like this post and want to see more like it, you may want to check out The Plurality of… Avatar: The Last Airbender or The Plurality of… IF

[magic-shop-stories]

Hi! How are you doing? I hope you're doing fine! ✨️💜

I've read all your headcanons so I was hoping if you could accept my request. ✨️

They have been dating reader in secret but their relationship gets leaked (You decide how for each member) and it could be angst?

Thanks you for taking time on reading my ask and hopefully writing my request 💜

Have a nice day! ✨️

💌 Reply:

Hi there! 💜 Thanks so much for your kind message and for loving the headcanons! Absolutely adore this angsty request... I appreciate you sending this in, and hope you have the loveliest day too! ✨ - also I'm sorry for the late reply, but I hope its what you wanted and imagined 💜

-c-

BTS (OT7) x Reader Secret Relationship Leaked 

NAMJOON

-“Not all rainbows need an audience.”-

HOW IT LEAKED

starts with a demo track

Namjoon had been working on a solo project

= raw, unfiltered piece titled “Monochrome Rain” 

inspired by the quiet mornings he spent with you

= the way you’d trace constellations on his back while he scribbled lyrics

= the way your laughter harmonized with his piano’s minor keys

he accidentally uploads an unedited version to SoundCloud, in a sleep-deprived haze

track includes a voicemail snippet of you whispering:

“Come to bed, Joon-ah. The stars can wait.”

fans dissect it within minutes

metadata reveals the recording date

= a night BTS was supposedly in Tokyo

ARMYs cross-reference his old VLives

finding the exact moment he’d glanced offscreen, smile softening as if someone had called his name

hashtags trend: #NamsSecret, #WhoIsShe

by dawn, Dispatch has your name

HIS PUBLIC REACTION

Stage Persona

at press conference for the new album, he’s asked about the leak

adjusts his glasses

CEO-like mask sliding into place

“Music is a diary. Some pages are meant to be read aloud; others… are written in ink that fades.” 

room erupts in chatter

he doesn’t flinch

Weverse

posts a photo of a stormy sky

captioned:

“Not all rainbows need an audience.” 

ARMYs debate if it’s a metaphor or a confession

Damage Control

lets Big Hit release a vague statement about “private matters."

insists on no lies

“I won’t call her a ‘friend.’ She’s… more.”

HIS PRIVATE REACTION

he’s in his studio

staring at the chaos of papers and half-empty coffee cups

when you walk in, he doesn’t turn around

“They’ll dissect you."

voice hollow

“Your childhood photos, your family, the way you pronounce ‘bibliophile’… They’ll say you’re why the album’s delayed.”

you reach for him

he pulls away

pacing like a caged animal

“I knew this would happen. I’m… I’m not safe. I’m a curse.” 

his voice cracks on the last word

suddenly he’s 19 again - rookie leader who apologized for existing (too loudly)

Breaking Point

at 4 a.m.

drags you to Namsan Tower

city lights blurring through his unshed tears

“I wanted to protect you."

rasps, gripping the railing until his knuckles bleach

“But I’m just… a man who loves too loudly in a world that demands whispers.”

you kiss his trembling hands

he collapses into you

he's muttering into your hair like a prayer

AFTERMATH

Professional Life

Album

releases “Monochrome Rain” as the title track

rewrites the bridge

new lyrics gut you: 

“Love, a language too heavy for my tongue / I bite the words, let them bruise my lungs.”

Interviews

when asked about the “mystery muse” he smirks

“Art thrives in shadows. But if you listen closely… she’s in every breath.”

Personal Life

New Rules

no more lazy Sundays at Han River

instead, he rents a secluded cabin under a fake name

“Kim Namjoon? Never heard of him”

buys a vintage typewriter to write you letters

unsigned

Guilt

starts therapy

scribbles in his journal

“How do I love her without devouring her?”

Quiet Rebellion

wears your scarf to the Grammy’s

tucked under his suit

lets it slip during his red-carpet twirl

quotes your favorite poet in his acceptance speech

LITTLE THINGS ONLY YOU SEE

Nightmares

wakes up gasping

clutching your wrist

“I dreamt they… they took you.” 

lets you hum “Moonchild” 

until his heartbeat steadies

Playlist

makes you a mixtape titled “For When the World Feels Heavy” 

filled with Mitski and Epik High

hides a voicemail at the end: 

“I’d burn it all down for you. Just say the word.”

Ritual

every anniversary, he plants a tree in your name

“Roots are the original secrets, they grow deeper when no one’s watching.”

JIN

-“My only partner is this mic! And Jungkook’s credit card.” -

HOW IT LEAKED

a stray sticker on his water bottle during a Weverse Live

a tiny cartoon heart you doodled as a joke

fans zoom in

reverse-image search it

trace it to your Instagram story from months ago

within hours, screenshots of your matching couple bracelets (yours engraved with “Worldwide Your Handsome”) flood forums

Dispatch digs deeper

= a blurred photo of Jin leaving your apartment at dawn, a bouquet of peonies in hand (your favorite, bought after a petty fight)

headline reads: “BTS’s Jin: Secret Romance with Non-Celebrity Partner Exposed!”

HIS PUBLIC REACTION

Deflection with Humor

at a fan meeting, a fan shouts:

“Oppa, are you dating?!” 

Jin smirks

flexing

“Why? Are you proposing? Don’t make Worldwide Handsome choose!” 

crowd laughs

his grip tightens on the mic

VLive/Weverse Damage Control

hosts a mukbang

casually showing his bare wrists

“Bracelets? Too flashy! I’m a simple man... just give me kimchi and WiFi.” 

fans notice his pinky ring

= yours, borrowed and never returned

he waves it off

“Family heirloom. My grandma’s ghost will haunt you if you ask again!”

Company Statement

BigHit issues a vague denial

Jin insists on adding more

“Please respect my personal life. I’m still the same guy who forgets to water his plants!”

HIS PRIVATE REACTION

Night of the Leak

cancels your dinner date

citing “group stuff"

you find him at 1 a.m. in the kitchen

stress-baking songpyeon with twice the usual sugar. 

"It’s okay...” (you)

slams the rolling pin down

“It’s not.” 

his voice cracks

“They’re calling you a gold-digger. A distraction. I should’ve… I should’ve been smarter.”

Breaking Point

avoids you for three days

throwing himself into rehearsals

on the fourth night, he shows up at your door

hair messy

holding a Budae-jjigae pot

“I couldn’t sleep...”

mumbles

“Kept thinking… what if they hurt you? What if I’m not enough to protect you?” 

you hug him

he clings like you’re the last life raft on the Titanic

AFTERMATH

Professional Life

Fan Interactions

starts ending lives with:

“Love yourself! And… maybe don’t stalk your bias’s water bottles?” 

ARMYs laugh

tho the subtext stings

Variety Shows

hosts tease him about dating?

he leans into the joke

“My only partner is this mic! And Jungkook’s credit card.” 

later texts you: 

“Miss you. Will make it up to you with jajangmyeon.”

Personal Life

New Rules

no more public dates

rents a private karaoke room weekly

dedicating “Epiphany” to you off-key

“You’re my real audience" 

he grins, cheeks flushed with soju and sincerity

Guilty Pleasures

sneaks your photo into his selcas

hidden in phone case reflections

“Inside joke, with myself. Because I’m hilarious.”

Quiet Rebellion

Gaming Nights

livestreams under a fake account (“EatJin_SecretSnack”)

teaming up with you

“Noob_Queen? Just… a fan. A very talented fan.”

Food Wars

brings you to his favourite’ restaurants, introducing you as “my taste-tester”

chef friends side-eye him

"Seokjin-ah, why is she wearing your jacket?” 

he chokes on kimchi

LITTLE THINGS ONLY YOU SEE

Notes

slips handwritten jokes into your bag

“Why did the scarecrow win an award? Because he was out-standing in his field… just like you.” 

signed: “Your (secret) Worldwide Handsome.”

Protectiveness

buys you a panic button disguised as a keychain

“For my peace of mind. And don’t lose it... it’s Gucci!” 

Vulnerability

falls asleep on your lap after concerts

murmuring

“Jin tired. Just… let me stay here, okay?”

YOONGI

-“My music speaks for itself. If you’re looking for gossip, you’re in the wrong room.”-

HOW IT LEAKED

a producer’s slipup

Yoongi had been collaborating on a track for an indie artist

during a late-night studio session, he’d left his phone unlocked

voice memo plays accidentally over the speakers

= your voice, soft and sleep-heavy, murmuring

“Yoongi-ya, come to bed. You’ve been at it for hours.” 

other producer, thinks it’s part of the song

includes the clip as an “authentic, intimate vibe.”

track drops

fans dissect it instantly

within hours, the audio snippet is isolated

looped, and compared to your voice from an old YouTube video where you reviewed his mixtape

hashtags like #WhoIsSUGAsMuse and #AgustDGF trend

Dispatch digs up a grainy photo of you two from a year ago

= Yoongi’s hand brushing yours under a café table

his face unreadable

his thumb tracing your knuckles

HIS PUBLIC REACTION

Cold Silence

ignores all questions

at a press conference, when asked about the “mystery woman,” he stares the reporter down

“My music speaks for itself. If you’re looking for gossip, you’re in the wrong room.”

Defiance

releases a remix of the track a week later

your voice amplified and distorted into a haunting echo

title? “No Comment.”

ARMY’s Clues

notices he starts wearing a black ring on his right hand

a subtle symbol

fans debate if it’s a coincidence or a middle finger to speculation

HIS PRIVATE REACTION

he’s in his studio

jaw clenched

deleting hundreds of hate comments aimed at you

when you walk in, he doesn’t look up

“You should leave."

mutters, voice gravelly

“I’ll call you a cab. Don’t… don’t come here for a while.”

you freeze

“Yoongi, we knew this could...”

he snaps

slamming his fist on the desk

“I told you I’d ruin it. I’m not... I’m not built for this.” 

his anger cracks

revealing the fear beneath

“They’ll eat you alive. And I’ll just… sit here. Useless.”

Breaking Point

disappears for two days

you find him in Daegu

in the tiny studio he built in his parents’ garage

walls are covered in scribbled lyrics

half of them about you

he’s asleep at his desk

head pillowed on a notebook open to a page titled “Ways to Disappear.”

when he wakes, he doesn’t apologize

just hands you a cup of instant coffee 

“I’m not good at this. But I’m not letting go.”

AFTERMATH

Professional Life

Music

writes a diss track aimed at the producer who leaked the clip

“You want a story? Here’s one about betrayal and bitch-made moves.” 

buried in the second verse is a line only you understand fully

“Her voice is my compass... you just noise.”

Interviews

when probed about “romance” he deadpans

“I’m married to my work. But my work has trust issues.”

Personal Life

New Rules

no more midnight walks

installs blackout curtains and soundproofing in ALL rooms

“Our world starts here” 

nodding to the tiny couch where you now sleep most nights

Guilt

starts donating anonymously to anti-paparazzi charities

when you ask why, he grumbles

“Tax write-offs.”

Quiet Rebellion

learns ASL to communicate with you during events

“Love you” 

signs it under the table at the MAMAs

eyes locked on the stage like he’s bored

writes your name in tiny Hangul letters inside his Grammy trophy

“So they’ll never know who I’m thanking.”

LITTLE THINGS ONLY YOU SEE

Nightmares

wakes up in a cold sweat

clutching the collar of your shirt

“Dreamt they… found you. Took you.” 

lets you play his own “First Love” on the piano until he stops shaking

Playlist

makes you a mixtape titled “For the Bad Days” 

filled with angry rap and a single hidden track

= a lullaby he hummed into his phone at 4 a.m.

Ritual

every month, he buys a new plant for your apartment

“They’re quieter than people."

names them after lyrics he’ll never release

J-HOPE

-“Love… is the reason I dance.”-

HOW IT LEAKED

a moment of unguarded tenderness

happens during a live dance practice stream

Hobi pauses to adjust the camera angle

“Gotta make sure they don’t see...” 

before cutting himself off

but the mic picks up your voice offscreen

teasing

“Hobi-ya, your shirt’s inside out… again.”

clip goes viral

dissected for its intimacy

= the way his shoulders relax at your voice, the fond exasperation in your tone

fans stitch it with old content

= you wearing his hoodie in a 2018 Vlog, him slipping you a candy during a concert rehearsal.

by midnight, #Hope’sSecret trends globally

HIS PUBLIC REACTION

Mask

at the next fansign, he cranks his sunshine dial to 200%

laughs off questions

“You know I’m married to dance, right?” 

his smile strains at the edges

posts a mirror selfie captioned “Alone but not lonely 💜”

a lie so glaring it aches

Damage Control

volunteers for extra schedules

flooding social media with dance covers

ARMYs praise his “relentless positivity”

you see the desperation beneath it

- he’s trying to outrun the storm-

Interview That Breaks Him

reporter asks him:

“Is love a distraction from your art?” 

Hobi’s smile falters

“Love… is the reason I dance.”

clip trends again with edits of him glancing offstage (as if searching for someone)

HIS PRIVATE REACTION

cancels your anniversary dinner

you find him in the practice room

shirt drenched

dancing to “Blue Side” on repeat

when you call his name, he whirls around

eyes wild

“Why did I... Why did I let myself need you?” 

his voice cracks

“I’m supposed to be… strong.”

Breaking Point

avoids you for days

then shows up at your door at 3 a.m.

trembling

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I keep... I keep ruining things.”

collapses into your arms

repeating “I’m sorry” like a mantra

= as if guilt could be scrubbed clean by confession

Fear

confesses in whispers

“When I was a trainee, they told me joy was my only currency. What if… what if they decide I’m bankrupt?”

AFTERMATH

Professional Life:

The Choreography: Creates a solo piece titled “Eclipse.” It’s all sharp angles and abrupt silences, his body folding inward like a flower denied light. Fans call it his “most raw work yet.” Only you know it’s about the nights he cried in your lap.

The Lie: Refers to you as his “cousin” in interviews. Laughs too loud, adds, “We’re super close!” The first time he says it, he vomits afterward.

Personal Life:

New Rules: No more public dates. Instead, he rents a secluded dance studio under a fake name. Teaches you choreography at 2 a.m., his hands lingering on your waist like a secret.

Guilt: Buys you endless gifts—designer bags, rare vinyls, a necklace with a hidden sun pendant. “You deserve everything,” he says, as if materialism could offset the loneliness.

The Quiet Rebellion:

Wears mismatched socks to rehearsals—your inside joke. When teased, he grins. “Fashion is chaos, right?”

Slips your initials into his next album credits under “Special Thanks to My Sunrise.” ARMYs assume it’s a metaphor.

LITTLE THINGS ONLY YOU SEE

The Ritual: Every morning, he texts you a sunrise photo. No words—just light. On bad days, he sends two.

The Playlist: Creates a secret SoundCloud titled “For Her.” Filled with jazz covers of BTS songs, slowed down and soulful. The bio reads: “Love is a dance no one else hears.”

The Tattoo: Gets a tiny sun behind his ear. “So even when I’m performing… you’re with me.”

JIMIN

-“If I had someone… I’d want to protect them. Even from me.”-

HOW IT LEAKED

a humid night in Seoul

Jimin’s live stream starts innocently enough

cozy, post-concert wind-down where he’s draped in a oversized sweater

hair damp from the shower

answering fan questions with sleepy charm

exhaustion makes him reckless

when a comment asks: “What’s your ideal date? 💜” 

he smiles absently

gaze drifting offscreen to where you’re curled on the couch

“Hmm… Rainy mornings. Someone who steals my hoodies. And… dancing in the kitchen at 2 a.m.” 

his voice softens

a secret slipping through

“Especially if they’re terrible at it.”

you laugh, unaware the mic catches it

a bright, familiar sound that ARMYs recognize from a cameo months ago

clip goes viral within hours

“WHO IS SHE?” 

next morning, a blurry paparazzi photo of Jimin’s hand brushing yours under a café table floods forums

your linked pinkies labeled: “Proof.”

HIS PUBLIC REACTION

Mask

next fan sign, he’s all dimples and sparkles

laughing off questions

“Dancing in the kitchen? I was just… describing a drama plot!”

tho his smile doesn’t crinkle his eyes

he signs an album with “Love is patient” 

Social Media

posts a mirror selfie half shirtless

captioned: “Focus on the gains, not the rumors 💪🔥.” 

comments explode with “He’s deflecting!!” and “Protect him!!”

Stage Persona

at concert, he performs “Filter” with razor-sharp precision

hips snapping like he’s punishing the world for looking too close

during the ment, he whispers:

“Love… is a mirror. Sometimes it’s kinder to look away.”

HIS PRIVATE REACTION

cancels your date

citing “schedule conflicts”

then shows up at your door at 3 a.m.

eyes red-rimmed and hair tangled

“I’m sorry... I’m so sorry...” 

he chokes

collapsing into your arms

“I didn’t… I didn’t mean to… ”

fists his hands in your shirt

voice breaking

“They’ll hate you. They’ll say I’m yours and... and that’s dangerous.”

Guilt

avoids touchfor days

flinching when you reach for him

practices until his feet bleed

screaming at mirrors

“Control it. Control.”

when you bandage his blisters, he sobs

“Why won’t you leave? I’m ruining you.”

Turning Point

you find him in the studio

slumped over the piano

playing a mangled version of “Promise” 

he freezes when you enter

“I rewrote this for you” 

he whispers

“But now it’s… a cage.” 

you sit beside him

pressing a melody into the keys

= your song

the one he hummed while making breakfast

he crumbles

“I’m scared...” 

admits it, forehead against yours

“But I’m more scared of losing us.”

AFTERMATH

Professional Life

Comeback

releases a new solo track - “Veil” 

with lyrics about “hands that fit too perfectly to hide” 

dances with a blindfold during the choreo

fingers brushing empty air where you’d stand

Interviews

when asked about dating, he tilts his head, coy

“If I had someone… I’d want to protect them. Even from me.”

Personal Life

New Rules

no more public cafes

instead, he rents out entire movie theaters under fake names (“Mr. Park and… Mrs. Pancakes?”)

learns to cook your favorite dishes so you never have to risk takeout

Quiet Defiance

starts wearing your ring on a chain under his stage outfits

lets it slip during a jacket adjustment

smirk daring the cameras to notice

Healing

therapy

journals: “Love isn’t a sin. Fear is.”

takes you to Busan

introduces you to his parents as “my peace” 

his mom cries

his dad hugs you, asing how you like your coffee 

“You better deserve him” 

but slips you extra cake

LITTLE THINGS ONLY YOU SEE

Nightmares

wakes up gasping

clutching your wrist

“I dreamt they… they took you.” 

lets you hum “Serendipity” until his heartbeat steadies

Playlist

makes you a mixtape titled “For When the World Feels Heavy” 

filled with H.E.R. and old Bolero covers

hides a voicemail at the end

“I’d burn it all down for you. Just say the word.”

Ritual

every month, he lights a candle and deletes one hate comment aloud

“Your words don’t own us.”

TAEHYUNG

-“I wanted the world to see you like I do… but not like this.”-

HOW IT LEAKED

a photograph on his private blog

one he never meant to share

Taehyung had been curating a series titled “Light in the Cracks”

= glimpses of his world through fractured mirrors and sunlit dust

one image stands out

= a shadowy silhouette of you dancing in an empty studio

backlit by golden hour

your figure blurred but unmistakable to anyone who knows you

caption reads: “My favorite kind of magic: the unseen.”

fans zoom in

your necklace is a tiny moonstone pendant he gifted you on your first anniversary

matches the one in his latest live

ARMYs stitch timelines

tracing your shared glances at concerts

the way he’d hum “Sweet Night” when you entered a room

by midnight, your Instagram is flooded with comments

“Is this V’s muse?”

HIS PUBLIC REACTION

Artist’s Gambit

doesn’t delete the photo

he posts a follow-up

= a close-up of wilting roses

captioned:  “Beauty is fragile. Handle with care.” 

fans dissect it as a plea for privacy

Press Play

at a movie premiere, reporters ambush him

“Is love your new inspiration?” 

he smirks

adjusting his beret

“Love is always my inspiration. Next question.”

Social Media Silence

archives all personal posts except the roses

changes his bio to “Guardian of galaxies.”

HIS PRIVATE REACTION

he is in his darkroom

red light casting shadows as he develops film

when you find him, his hands are stained with chemicals

trembling

“I’m sorry...” 

whispers, voice raw

“I wanted the world to see you like I do… but not like this.”

shows you a contact sheet of stolen moments

= your laugh caught mid-frame, your hand curled around his wrist, a tear he kissed away

“These were just for us, now they’re… theirs.”

Breaking Point

3 a.m.

he drives you to Daegu

speeding through backroads until you reach his gradparents old farm

sits you under a persimmon tree where he wrote his first song

“Hyung once told me love is a secret you plant."

murmurs

dirt under his nails as he digs a hole

buries a film canister of your photos

“Let’s grow it here. Where no one can dig it up.”

AFTERMATH

Professional Life

Artistic Rebellion

next photography exhibit features distorted self-portraits

= mirrors shattered and rearranged

he centerpiece?

= a single rose encased in glass

titled “Unreachable.” 

critics call it “melancholic genius.”

ARMYs know better

Music Clues

releases a jazz cover of “Someone Like You” 

with modified lyrics

“Don’t forget me, I beg… but forget the world.”

Personal Life

New Rituals

learns calligraphy to write you letters in Daegu satoori

sealed with wax stamps

signs them in red ink

Guilt & Protection

hires a bodyguard for you

then fires them when you protest

“Fine. Then I’ll protect you myself.” 

starts taking Krav Maga

“For art."

Defiant Love

wears a silver ring on his thumb

your initials etched inside

lets it “accidentally” face the camera during a fansign

quotes Pablo Neruda in a Weverse reply

“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul.”

LITTLE THINGS ONLY YOU SEE

Midnight Piano

plays “Winter Bear” on loop when he’s anxious

fingers stumbling until you sit beside him

 “You’re my melody...”

mumbles

resting his head on your shoulder

Sketchbook

fills pages with your eyes

...“the left one’s brighter when you lie”

hides it under his bed

lets you find it with a sticky note

“For your eyes only.”

Code

develops a tap system for crowded events

three squeezes = “I love you” 

two = “Let’s run” 

uses both excessively

JUNGKOOK

-“You said… you wanted normal. And I… I couldn’t even give you that.”-

HOW IT LEAKED

happens during a live

Jungkook, half-shirtless and sweaty post-workout

rambles about his gym routine

you call out from the kitchen

“Kookie, did you eat the last mandu?!” 

he freezes mid-flex

eyes widening like a deer in headlights

live cuts off abruptly

but not before 2 million ARMYs hear his panicked: “Uh… no?” and your laughter

fans dissect the clip frame by frame

someone enhances the background noise

isolating your voice from a BTS fanmeet Q&A three years prior

by midnight, your Instagram is flooded with side-by-side comparisons of your hands

visible in an old VLOG and the “mystery girl” in his live

HIS PUBLIC REACTION

Silence

Jungkook ghosts social media for 72 hours

unprecedented for the man who once posted 10 gym selfies just a few days before

Deflection

returns with a thirst trap video captioned “Focus on your gains, not my snacks.” 

comments are disabled

Protective Fury

when a paparazzi shoves a mic in your face, he snarls

“Touch her again and I’ll end you” 

voice so low it trends as “Demon Jungkook.”

HIS PRIVATE REACTION

Immediate Aftermath

he’s a mess

you find him in the gym at 3 a.m.

punching a bag until his knuckles split

“I ruined it.”

chokes, sweat and tears mixing on his face

“You said… you wanted normal. And I… I couldn’t even give you that.”

Breaking Point

that night, he crawls into your bed

shaking

“I’ll quit."

whispers

“Fuck the fame. Let’s move to Jeju. I’ll fish. You’ll… sell seaweed. We’ll be nobodies.” 

you laugh

he’s dead serious.

Guilt & Growt

buys burner phones

creates coded playlists (“Strawberry Milk” = I miss you; "Banana Milk" = I love you)

forces himself to watch the leaked clip 100 times

“To remember how stupid I was.”

AFTERMATH

Professional Life

Music

releases a solo track

“Seven (Silent Nights)” 

lyrics about “loving in the dark, counting heartbeats instead of stars.” 

ARMYs sob

you know it’s about the nights he held you

terrified of dawn

Interviews

when asked about “dating rumors” he just smirks

“I date my dumbbells. They’re very loyal.”

his knee presses against yours under the table later

Personal Life

New Rules

learns to cook mandu from scratch and YouTube tutorials

leaves them on your pillow with Post-its

“Proof I’m learning.”

Symbolic Gestures

gets a tattoo of your initials under his ribcage

“So even if they take everything, you’re here.”

LITTLE THINGS ONLY YOU SEE

Nightmares

wakes up clawing at his chest

convinced your initials vanished

makes you trace them with your finger

until his breathing steadies

Chaos

drags you to Namsan Tower at 4 a.m.

both of you in disguises

“We’re tourists! From… Canada!”

Softness

whispers “I’m sorry” into your skin every time he kisses you

= a mantra, a prayer, a promise

[creepswrites]

MASK OF HATE | Michael x Reader

a long awaited rewrite of my favorite fanfic i've written... i've come far since my first time writing it and i'm so so happy to be able to recreate my pride and joy!! if you want to see the original, here it is! but i'm thrilled to rewrite it and i hope you all like it :)

MICHAEL MYERS X FTM!READER (he/him)

SUMMARY: The jumpsuit he wore made you think that maybe there'd been an accident with a car or something? You weren't sure. It wasn't likely he'd gotten himself out this far with a wound that bad but you couldn't really think straight to work out logistics. A man was injured and he needed help and that's all you could focus on at the moment.

WARNING: graphic depictions of violence & injuries

NEXT

The smell of wet earth enveloped you as you made your way back home. The earlier afternoon rain had let up long enough for you to walk home from work, a long day spent at the farmers market and plant nursery. It was rewarding work and one of the few jobs you'd actually wanted to be hired at. Your family had moved here a few years ago and you'd fallen in love with the town instantly. You and your father lived on the edge of town, more in the woods than the city itself, but not too far that you had to go out of your way to go to work. Even after you graduated, you still hadn't moved out. Why would you? You helped pay rent, shopped for groceries, and could tend to your garden.

It was, as far as you were concerned, the perfect location. A lovely little house surrounded by trees and bushes of flowers, overgrown with vines, and a stepping stone path that led to the front door. The house itself was covered in a dark brick with the inside a beautiful white with dark wooden floors that smelt of books and fresh fruits and vegetables. And sometimes the smell of rain leaked in when you left the windows open.

So no, you had no intention of moving.

Today was one of those days where you'd get the house to yourself. As the current chief of police, your dad was known for working late nights and leaving you to your own devices for a few days. With Halloween coming up, the police were on edge. Rumors were circling in the station that Michael had escaped again but couldn't confirm yet. They were avoiding telling the public until they were sure.

You always enjoyed walking home more than you enjoyed driving. It gave you a chance to think while enjoying music in your headphones, hopping along to the beat. You were weighing your options for dinner in your mind as you got closer to home when you felt a sense of wrongness wash over you. When your song came to an end, you lowered your headphones to hang around your neck as you scanned the nearby area with scrutiny.

The smell of iron reached you in a soft breeze that brushed your clothes and skin. Coyotes weren't unheard of but you didn't exactly have a way to defend yourself if they got any closer. Not to mention there was the chance your cat had gotten out.

You picked up the pace, grimacing when the smell grew stronger and stronger. Had your head not been on a swivel, you would have missed the way the bushes shook. You froze, swallowing hard as a man stumbled out of the treeline and onto the paved street towards you. He was tall, dressed in a dark blue jumpsuit and a white Halloween mask that rang a bell in the dark recesses of your mind. But you were too prioritized by the gunshot wound in his side that bled copiously, staining the jumpsuit in dark blotches.

"Are you okay?" You gasped, watching the man stumble for balance. He just made a grunting sound so you rushed forward to catch him by the shoulders. "Oh fuck, okay, uh, I might have a first aid kit at home. It's not far, c'mon." You said, trying not to panic. God knows how this dude was even standing with how much blood he'd already lost. But you slung his arm around your shoulders to practically drag him along. He was silent, which unsettled you slightly, but you didn't have the time to be unsettled. This man was possibly dying and that was far more important to you.

Did you need to talk to him to keep him awake? You were worried that if he did collapse on you, you wouldn't be able to move him. "How'd you even get an injury like that?" You tried, jostling him a little. The size difference was glaringly apparent like this but you did your best to move him. "You're lucky I live near here. Don't want to imagine you bleeding to death out here in the woods alone."

The jumpsuit he wore made you think that maybe there'd been an accident with a car or something? You weren't sure. It wasn't likely he'd gotten himself out this far with a wound that bad but you couldn't really think straight to work out logistics. A man was injured and he needed help and that's all you could focus on at the moment.

The walk home felt like hours but you finally pulled him up to the back door, kicked the rickety old screen door open with your foot, and practically dropped the man on the floor against the counters. No way were you carrying him up the stairs, especially not when he could track blood all over the carpet. You threw your bags aside and ran upstairs to the bathroom, hurrying past your cat Mayhem who cried in hunger. "Later." You said quietly as you began rifling through the cabinet under the sink. "I should clean this out later."

First aid kit in hand, you tore down the stairs again and came to a stop in the awning of the kitchen. The man was slumped over where you'd left him and you took the brief moment to get a better look at him. Dirty, brown work boots that were covered in grass stains and wet mud had left a small trail of dirt alongside the blood drops. The jumpsuit was mostly clean except for what looked like oil stains and the blood on his side. As you approached him, you noticed blood staining his sleeves in streaks too. Odd. You made a mental note to check his arms when you were done.

You knelt down in front of him, close enough that you could hear his frantic breathing. Like he was attempting to stay awake. "Can you tell me what happened?" You asked softly, clicking open the first aid kit and reaching for the zipper of his jumpsuit. When he flinched away, you froze. "I'll need to unzip you in order to take care of your wound."

He stared at you. Or you assumed he did. The black voids of the eyeholes left much to be desired.

"Just give me a nod." You sighed.

A moment passed but he finally nodded. A small little motion that you would've missed if you hadn't been looking. You gave him a little smile and unzipped the jumpsuit to his waist, careful to avoid brushing against the wound as much as possible. The black tank top underneath had ridden up slightly which made your cheeks warm. Stuffing that down, you helped him carefully shrug his sleeves down so you could better see the damage.

It was hard to see what had happened with how much blood covered his skin. So you reached into the kit, using one of the little sanitizing wipes on your hands before grabbing the disposable gloves. "Okay, uh, I'm not exactly a doctor so just let me know if the pain is too much, okay?" You gave him a nervous smile before hiking the tank top up more around his chest to let you wipe down the skin with a clean wet wipe.

The amount of blood was almost ridiculous. But you were eventually able to make out what was undeniably a gunshot wound. "Who the hell shot at you?" You mumbled more to yourself than to him. But he still gave you a tilt of his head as though answering. "At least the bullet went all the way through," You sighed, looking between him and your supplies as you tried to figure out what to do. "Okay. Let's… see what I can do."

You didn't know anything about gunshot wounds, much less how to clean them. But you'd helped patch your dad up when he stuck himself with a fishing hook so you figured it couldn't be that much more difficult. Anything was better than letting it get infected. "Sorry," you said softly before giving his hand a squeeze, "This is gonna suck."

And you poured the hydrogen peroxide on both ends of the wound, wincing at the pained grunt he let out. You kept apologizing as you fumbled around for the needle and thread, also dousing that in the peroxide before you tried to stitch him up. Sewing had never been a skill of yours but it was the best you could offer him. At least until you could get him to a hospital. You pressed gauze at either end of the wound before wrapping him tightly in bandages. "I think the wound is supposed to drain? I think I remember hearing stuff about that. We'll have to keep an eye on it to make sure it doesn't get infected." You tried to give him a reassuring smile and sat back to view your handiwork. It was probably sloppy, yeah, but at least it was cleaned and covered.

It could've been much worse.

"Can you pass me one of the wipes?" You asked, holding up your bloodstained hands and giving him a toothy grin. "I don't wanna stain everything with blood."

He offered you a blank stare before reaching slowly into the kit and handing you one of the little packages. You tore it open and got to scrubbing. "I'd give you a sucker for being a good patient if I had any. Would you take dinner and a shower instead?" You scooted back to clean up more, letting him stand on shaking legs. "My dad shouldn't be back till late. But he should be able to drive you to a hospital once I explain-"

At that, he shook his head violently no. "No, what?" You paused, brow furrowing. "No hospital?" He gave you a nod. "I'm not exactly a doctor. Your injury probably needs more than my below average sewing skills and half a bottle of peroxide." But still, he shook his head. "Fine. Okay. No hospital." You sighed loudly, giving him a quick once-over. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

He tried to pull away but you finally saw it: a spot on his opposite shoulder where he'd been just grazed by a bullet. More a flesh wound than anything, but you'd missed it in your stitching him up. "Alright, c'mere mister," your tone was light as you raided the kit for more gauze and bandages. "Got anything else you're hiding from me?" You gave him a playful smile as you wrapped and cleaned his wound. "It doesn't look too bad. I'm way more worried about the gunshot wound." You trailed off. "I wasn't kidding about dinner and a shower though. My dad's got clothes I bet could fit you. Though the pants may be a bit short." He gave you a calculating look as you shrugged. "At least until I get your jumpsuit washed."

The two of you just stared at each other for a while. His head tilted slowly in confusion and you couldn't help but snort. "What, you think I'll just patch you up and throw you out? Not a chance. C'mon," you took his hand and led him towards the stairs. Mayhem had ventured downstairs and began to sniff you both over, hissing at your guest despite your soft scolding.

Once inside the bathroom, you tossed the first aid kit back in as the man took a look around the small space. White tiled floors and faint, floral wallpaper framed a huge mirror, spanning the distance of the smooth countertops. You pride yourself on keeping the bathroom clean, so you only winced slightly at the dirt on the work boots that left a small trail of dirt behind. "I'll get you some clothes if you want to get undressed. I don't mind washing your clothes for you." You gave him a smile, sidestepping him to slip back out into the hall. "A shower might help you feel better. Just try to avoid getting your bandages too wet."

You left him in the bathroom and slipped down the hallway to your dad's room. A rifling through his dresser earned you some plain sweatpants and an old, black shirt you knew he wouldn't miss. Worst case scenario, your guest bled all over the shirt and you'd have to throw it out.

Heading back towards the bathroom, a realization came to you. "Hey, I'm sorry, I don't think I introduced mys-" You froze in the doorway, words dying on your lips. The man had his back to you and had shrugged the jumpsuit off the rest of the way, his boots laying near the doorway by your feet and the blue material like a puddle around his ankles. His shoulders were broad and you could make out tiny scars that littered his forearms and shoulders. His mask had remained but that wasn't what surprised you.

He didn't have underwear on.

Your face felt like it was on fire as you slammed fresh clothes down on the counter, pointedly not looking at him. "Alright, here's your clothes, bye!" It felt like your words slurred together as you slammed the door behind you, leaning against it with an embarrassed sigh.

Once you heard the water turn on, you went downstairs to clean up the kitchen floor, grateful the blood hadn't dried too much yet.

Mayhem, having decided you'd spent long enough fussing over your guest, began to complain and shout for his dinner. "Alright, you needy thing, c'mere." You scooped him up and pressed a kiss to his fuzzy head. "Let's get you fed and then see about feeding our guest, yeah?"

Mayhem meowed, as though enthused only about the coming tuna.

The man took his time showering but you didn't really mind. He certainly needed it. Plus, you could empathize there - showers always made you feel much better too. In the meantime, you'd snuck back upstairs to grab his clothes and toss them into the washing machine. When you'd gotten a good look at his clothes, you recognized the auto mechanic company logo on the jumpsuit. "L. Smith?" You'd wondered aloud, frowning to yourself. "Pretty sure I'd tutored his kids when I was a junior…" But he didn't look anything like Lawrence Smith. "Maybe it's just a common name," you had mumbled. Something about this whole situation felt off but you couldn't exactly place why.

You shook your head slightly and sighed, trying to dismiss a nagging feeling you had in the back of your mind. Sparing a glance down at Mayhem, who brushed against your leg insistently, you frowned. "You don't think this is Michael Myers, right?"

Big yellow eyes blinked up at you and you sighed, chewing on your lower lip. Not much about the Myers case was made public beyond his crimes and his mugshot. Your dad had refused to divulge anything to you about the case and you'd only managed a quick peek at crime scene photos. Nothing about the way the man had been dressed or anything like that. Besides, it had been so long since that night that any details you could have seen have been lost to time.

"Impossible." You decided with a shaking sigh as you opened the can of tuna, not even believing your own words despite their conviction. "There's simply no way."

The sound of thunder outside was a welcome distraction from your thoughts. The rain had always been peaceful to you, the smell of wet earth and the chill breeze from the window had you relaxing. You smiled, whistling for Mayhem to come get his dinner and slipped past your hungry cat into the kitchen once again.

Cutting the vegetables and boiling pasta was peaceful, a wonderfully monotonous task you could just get lost in with the soft white noise of the rain. You would have missed the sounds of the shower turning off if you'd been any more zoned out. You had just taken the tomatoes out to cut them up when you heard heavy footsteps behind you.

You glanced over your shoulder and took him in. The sweatpants had stopped just above his ankles, which you had expected. What you hadn't expected was the way his broad chest filled out the shirt, struggling to hug around his biceps. You turned back around to hide your swooning, biting your lip hard to keep yourself from smiling like a fool. He'd put the mask back on but you couldn't even bother to give it a thought.

Swallowing, you cleared your throat. "Are the bandages alright?" You asked, turning your attention back to the tomatoes. He didn't say anything but, then again, you hadn't really expected him to. "Pasta's boiling right now so dinner should be ready in a few minutes if you want to sit down." You gestured to the nearby dining room table with only a few chairs pulled up. But you didn't hear him move. The feeling of eyes on the back of your neck made you tense for a moment but you brushed it off. If he needed something, he'd let you know, right?

As you reached for a knife, his hand shot out and covered yours. You weren't even aware he'd gotten that close and you jumped in surprise. The eyeholes of the mask bore into you as you turned to look at him once again. "Do you… want to help?"

He just tilted his head, as though bewildered by your offer.

You move your hand aside to let him grab the knife, stepping to the side to give him room at the cutting board. "You just have to make them into small chunks. Try and get them around the same size, I'll get the garlic going." You hummed, your fingertips barely grazing the extra knife before he grabbed your wrist tight, jerking your hand back. A surprised yelp left you as you stared wide-eyed up at him, noticing the way he white knuckled his own knife.

Something about this was very wrong.

Swallowing back your terror, you held eye contact with him, the two of you locked in a standstill. The room was silent except for his heavy breathing, barely audible over the pounding storm outside. Soft bluish grey light cast shadows on his face, making the eyes of the mask seem like bottomless pits. Everything felt frozen in time as the two of you stared at each other.

You were the one who broke the tension, reaching over with your free hand to uncurl his fingers from your wrist as casually as you could. Anxiety pounded through you when you heard his breathing hitch. "Don't worry," you gave him a weak smile once you were freed, "I have every confidence in you." You said, giving a weak gesture to the tomatoes laying on the cutting board. You slowly moved towards the stove to set about roasting the garlic cloves, trying to appear as calm as possible while he continued to stare you down.

You only let your shoulders drop when you heard him start slicing.

Making the rest of dinner didn't take long, especially with your guest's help. He seemed unwilling to leave you alone now, hovering around you as you finished cooking and plating dinner - pasta with garlic sauce and dried tomatoes - and only retreated to the living room when you'd reassured that you were right behind him. He took a seat on the couch and you caught him staring at Mayhem comfortably sprawled out on his favorite chair.

"His name is Mayhem," you told him as you sat beside him, setting two water glasses down before digging in. "He won't bug you, he knows he's not allowed on the couch."

The man's head turned slowly to look at you, letting you get a brief sight of one of his eyes: a blue-green color that looked almost hazel in the darkness of the mask. You held in a soft gasp and turned away, trying to push the idea that the man was pretty from your mind. You hadn't even seen his face for crying out loud! Much less gotten his name.

Instead, you just clicked the television on. "Anything in particular you wanna see?" You asked around a mouthful of food. "We've got movies too but I dunno if you like horror." You hummed, setting your plate down briefly to shuffle over to the drawers in the tv stand, leafing through VHS tapes. "It's almost Halloween though," you smirked, "But, judging by your mask, you knew that."

His eyes were boring holes into you again but you just chuckled to yourself. While you pride yourself on being good at reading body language, his ramrod straight posture and silent staring was like gazing at a white canvas. But maybe that's one of the reasons you liked him so much: he wasn't complicated to understand, when he needed to be heard.

You pulled out a particular VHS and flashed it to him. "Do you like cartoons?" You asked, dangling 'It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown' for him to see.

He nodded then - so clear and obvious that you didn't waste any time popping the tape in and sitting back down alongside him. You kept your eyes glued to the screen as you ate, hoping that would be enough privacy for him to comfortably eat. He'd have to give you his name later, at the very least, but you felt the urge to give him some semblance of privacy as he ate. So you kept your eyes off him and the two of you ate in amicable silence, both your attentions rapt on the little cartoon. He ate like he was starving for it and practically chugged the glass of water when he was done, which made your heart hurt a little.

How long had this guy gone without eating or drinking anything?

"There's more in the pot if you want. Help yourself." You said softly, bumping his knee gently with yours to get his attention. He'd tensed up slightly at the contact and you momentarily scolded yourself for that. He was clearly not good with touch, but it had just felt natural to do for him.

But he didn't seem to hold it against you and just stood up, retreating into the kitchen with his plate. You watched him with a slight smile on your face. He was, no doubt, intriguing. His mysteries had you utterly fascinated and there was so much you wanted to ask. But a part of you feared the answers, paranoid your suspicions would be proven correct.

He would have killed you if that were the case, right?

The two of you continued watching movies once you'd learnt he hadn't, in fact, seen most horror films. "Well obviously I'm going to show you 'The Thing,'" you'd said as Charlie Brown came to an end. "It's one of my favorites, I think you'll like it." His staring didn't bother you anymore so you took his silence as agreement when the movie began playing. The night continued like that, the two of you watching movies together. Horror films seemed to intrigue him and you swore he jumped a little at some of the visceral body horror moments. But the two of you had cozied up just a little. He'd finally sunken back into the couch and had tolerated you scooting closer to him.

You were halfway through Frankenstein when you heard the phone ring in the kitchen. "Be right back," you whispered to him, feeling his eyes on you as you walked away. A quick glance at the clock revealed it was nearly midnight and you frowned. Your dad should've been home by now and your guest didn't seem in any hurry to go home. Didn't he have somewhere to go?

Regardless, you stepped into the kitchen on socked feet and plucked the phone off the receiver. "Hello?

"Kiddo? Oh thank god you're alright!" Your dads voice sounded monetarily relieved, letting out a sigh as he spoke. "You should've called me after you saw the news." He said, once again becoming frantic. "Lock all the doors, keep Mayhem inside tonight, and-"

"Calm down," you cut him off, "What's going on? I haven't even seen the news, I've been watching movies with-"

Your dad wasted no time cutting you off as well. "Just stay inside, okay? Keep your eyes on the news and just- just stay safe. My pistol is in my room in the bedside table if you need it."

A sinking dread began to settle in the pit of your stomach as you twirled the phone cord. "Just tell me what's going on!" You became equally frantic, running your hand through your hair in frustration.

He was silent for a moment before sighing. "Look, I'm not supposed to tell you. This is strictly police business. But the last thing I want is you digging into this yourself-"

"That was one time-!" You protested.

But he ignored you. "There's a killer on the loose." His words were like a gunshot to your chest. "We nearly caught him this afternoon but he managed to escape. We're- we're not sure where he'd gotten off to so I want you to stay inside and call me if you hear or- or see anything strange."

A lapse of silence passed and you can tell your dad was about to hang up but you quickly squeaked out. "What's his name?"

"I'm not supposed to tell you." His voice had a finality to it. He didn't plan on telling you.

You knew how to play him though. You faked a sniffle and a sob. "Dad, please, I- I need to know what I'm up against! W-what if he gets inside?"

Despite his voice being barely a whisper, it was deafening to you. "Michael Myers."

Instantly, you sobered up. Your fears were confirmed and you felt your blood run cold. Michael Myers was sitting in your living room in your dads clothes after you'd had dinner together. He'd been fascinated by Charlie Brown and had jumped a little at the chest defibrillation scene in The Thing. The Boogeyman of Haddonfield had helped you cut tomatoes and let you tend to his wounds.

You were still alive. As terrifying as this revelation was, you were curious why he hadn't killed you. You didn't know Michael Myers to be very forgiving or benevolent…

Wrapping up the call with your dad, you practically slammed the phone back into the receiver, your back still to the living room. You steadied your resolve and forced your hands to still when you turned back around. You nearly slammed into him when you did. He'd been eavesdropping and the idea that his mercifulness would end made you talk before he could move. "Seems we're locked in tonight." You managed a smile and a shrug. "Dad says it's too dangerous to go out tonight so at least it'll just be us two. If you want, I can set you up on the couch to sleep when you're ready."

He continued to stare at you and you swore he almost seemed…surprised.

You sidestepped him to head back into the living room and he let you, though he was hot on your heels. "Means you and I get more movie time though." Grinning up at him, you sat back down with a soft "oomf" and looked up at him expectantly. If you just acted like everything was fine, maybe he wouldn't kill you?

It seemed as good an idea as any.

Eventually he rejoined you on the couch after staring at you for a few good minutes.

You knew. And you had a feeling he knew that you knew. But what could you even do? It wasn't like you stood a chance against him if he decided to attack you. In fact, a part of you felt almost guilty for withholding your newfound information from him. He was literally a serial killer and you didn't want to make him think you were against him.

Which bewildered you. Why would you feel bad? You knew, logically, you should call your dad back and tell him Michael was here and let him and the rest of the force come try and catch Michael before he ran you through with a knife.

He'd extended trust to you though. You recognized that. You didn't want to betray that, especially since you didn't know who the last person he trusted could have been.

As the movie came to an end, you decided to take a risk. "Want me to make popcorn, Michael?" You kept your tone light and casual as you stood and stretched.

You didn't even get two steps in before he was up, grabbing your wrist tight and spinning you to face him. You kept your smile light and tilted your head the way he liked doing. "I think I have M&Ms if you want me to mix those in too." He continued to stare and you finally sighed. "I already knew. I, uh, had my suspicions before we made dinner. But dad called and confirmed it, basically." His grip tightened but you brushed it off. "I'm not going to tell anyone." You finally admitted.

His posture remained rigid, like he expected a fight. You felt your heart break a little. Has he ever had anyone be kind to him ever since that night? "Do you know about doctor-patient confidentiality?" His blank stare was an answer in itself. "When a doctor treats a patient, that patient has the right to keep their information private. Including their name." You placed your free hand atop his in what you hoped was a comforting gesture. "So, since you're technically my patient, I don't have to tell anyone anything." He still seemed confused and you just let out a soft sigh. "I'm not gonna rat on you, is what I'm saying."

He seemed to consider this before giving you a slow nod.

A part of you was relieved. A fair trade, you thought as you went into the kitchen to make popcorn. You patched him up and fed him and, in exchange, he didn't kill you.

The two of you wound up watching movies late into the night, with you adding soft commentary as you munched on popcorn and M&Ms. By 2AM you were fading, your head lolling to the side and bumping against Michael's shoulder in your attempts to fight off sleep. He was warm and, despite knowing who he was, you felt safe.

So you'd nodded off.

The next time you opened your eyes, you were being shaken awake by your father. "Get up," he whisper-yelled as he turned off the tv, a quick flash of the movie menu disappearing as soon as you saw it. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

You hummed, yawning and rubbing your eyes. "Early." A glance at the clock confirmed it was nearly 6AM. "Sorry, guess I was up watchin' movies." You sat up and looked around a little before your sleep-addled brain immediately recalled that Michael Myers had been sitting on your couch last night and you looked around.

As your dad herded you upstairs and past the kitchen, you noticed Michael's boots were gone. The dishes had been left atop the table but yours had been placed in the sink as though to hide the fact there had been two people here. Once of the knives from the block was missing too, but that didn't surprise you.

If your dad's weary expression was anything to go by, Michael had escaped before he'd gotten home. "'m headin' to bed," he grumbled, "You should too." He said before shuffling into his bedroom, closing the door with more force than intended. You nodded to empty air before retreating into your bedroom, noticing Mayhem lazily dozing on top of your messy bedsheets.

Your bedroom was dim and cool, the morning light just starting to shift the pitch black sky into a dark tealish blue color. Raindrops still covered the window, indicative of the storm that must be still going. You frowned and went to close your curtains to avoid being blinded by the sun once it rose but you paused just before you could yank the fabric closed.

There, across the street, only visible thanks to the streetlight he stood under, you could see Michael Myers staring up at you.

Dumbfounded, you smiled and gave him a little wave, swaying on your feet as you tried not to swoon. You wanted to believe he wouldn't hurt you, seeing as he had ample opportunity to do so and had instead laid you gently down on the couch to sleep when he'd decided to leave. But the realistic part of your brain reminded you, as you closed your blackout curtains, that it should be more concerning that you'd become a fixation of his.

You'd heard of Laurie Strode and how she was assumedly his previous fixation, seeing as he'd stalked her for a while before deciding to take action against her friends. She'd been terrified of him for years and continued to lock herself in her house for the past two years to protect herself against him. Despite her fear of him, she'd yet to move out of Haddonfield.

There wasn't any point in trying to figure her out though. She was of no help to you. You couldn't tell anyone about what was going on or risk yourself or Michael.

You were far too tired to think about any of that for now and just flopped down into bed, freezing when your hands brushed an unfamiliar texture. After scrambling around under your stomach, you held up Michael's tank top. He must have left it for you when he'd gone to change into his jumpsuit. You felt your face heat up at the implications of him leaving his shirt for you, opting instead to shove it under your pillow with your cheeks burning.

The memories of him in the tshirt filled your head as you fell back asleep.

Crunching dry, brittle leaves beneath your boots, you made your way into town for work. You always liked the walk, especially with how beautiful Haddonfield got in the fall. A gorgeous watercolor painting of oranges, browns, and reds, touches of yellow and green giving pops of color. Despite the tragedies that had happened two years ago, Halloween decorations were still up in full swing, the town determined to celebrate no matter what. There was even a small festival at the farm nearby, complete with haunted houses, hayrides, and pumpkin patches. Halloween spirit was everywhere and you loved it. It'd always been your favorite holiday, even before a certain man fell into your life.

As you approached the plant nursery you worked at, you mulled that over. The police hadn't caught Michael yet but were working round the clock. And although you hadn't seen him in person since he'd stayed over a few days ago, you'd seen glimpses of him. Enough to know he was definitely stalking you. While you should logically feel afraid, you instead felt… oddly comforted.

You stopped beating yourself up over why. You knew why. Michael Myers was the most dangerous person alive and he was looking out for you, in a way. You felt safe with him watching you. So you played the game and pretended not to see him. It was easier to play along anyways and, as far as you knew, he hadn't killed anyone since he found you. No one your dad talked about at least.

So you'd been spending more time in town or out in the woods, hoping that entertaining him would keep him from killing. At least, you hoped so.

It didn't help that you still found yourself fascinated by him.

You'd stopped beating yourself up for that too. Most people you knew were predictable, bland, or boring. They had routines and patterns that were easy to predict. But Michael wasn't like that. You never knew what he was thinking or how he'd behave. He was interesting, unique, and unpredictable.

You liked that. Maybe that was sick or twisted of you, but it was true.

"Helloooo?" Your co-worker's soft voice pulls you from your thoughts. "Did those blackberries do something to you?" Kalei snorted, nudging you gently. "You've been staring at them for, like, ten minutes now."

You responded with a yawn, rubbing your eyes. Despite having only been at work for a few hours, you were ready for it to be over. "Sorry, jus' haven't been sleepin' well." You slurred as you tried to give her a smile.

"Bad dreams?" Kalei asked, frowning slightly as she set her own blackberry plant aside. Working at the plant nursery had been your idea, more interested in working with plants than people. But Kalei was a good friend and always looked out for you. It was nice to have company while taking care of the plants.

You chewed on your fingernail and gave her a little shrug. "Just been… thinking about a guy, I guess."

They let out a shocked gasp. "A GUY?!" Kalei squealed, ignoring your desperate attempts to shush them. "Tell me everything RIGHT NOW, oh my god!" 

You blushed, trying to get them to quiet down, flustered at the idea of Michael listening in. "It's not anything serious! Just, um, met this guy and he's… interesting. I like him." You blushed at the childishness of your own words, focusing on your plants to avoid meeting Kalei's eyes.

They gave you a nod. "Well, as your workplace bestie, I am obligated to give him The Talk."

You chose to not mention the fact there were only five total employees counting you both. "Kay, it's Illinois. I doubt he'd be interested in me, available or not." Which wasn't untrue. Even if Michael was interested in you, it likely wasn't anything beyond obsession. At least the obsession went both ways, you thought to yourself with a private smile.

"Well, regardless, I have a duty to fulfill." They beamed at you, hands on their hips. "You're a cute guy and, if I didn't have a partner, I'd take you out sometime." They ignored your snort and continued. "If this guy screws you over, I'll kick his ass for you."

If only they knew, you chuckled to yourself as you left Kalei to attend to a customer. Michael wasn't exactly great "bring-home-to-the-parents" boyfriend material. Much less introduce to your co-worker. When you'd finished helping the customer, you froze at the sight of movement in the tree line across the road. Standing in the tall grass and brush, you swore you saw Michael standing there…

As far as you were aware, he stayed close by to watch as you finished your shift. You hoped that as long as he was watching you, he wasn't out killing someone. Hopefully. For all you knew, he could be supernatural.

But you'd let him watch you. The whole rest of your shift, the walk home, and as you got in the car to go shopping. While you usually got vegetables and fruits from the plants at your work, you still needed to get normal groceries at the store. So you parked around back to be a little more secluded and went inside.

It was a cute little supermarket, clean linoleum floors and shelves lined with food. You didn't need much but you definitely needed to refill your medkit and find a proper first aid book, just in case. Thankfully, it was relatively empty that day, meaning you had free reign of the aisles to explore and take your time shopping.

You knew Michael wouldn't come in the store but you didn't doubt he was waiting for you outside.

So when you finished loading your grocery bags into the trunk of your car, you didn't feel surprised when you heard footsteps approaching you. Michael was definitely taking a risk being out with you in public but you hadn't exactly spoken to him in a few days and you were itching for the chance.

Turning around, however, you were met face to face with an unfamiliar black ski mask. Definitely not Michael. The stranger grabbed you by the arm before pulling out a knife, his head on a swivel. "G-gimme all your cash! Now!" He hissed, jerking you aggressively.

"I don't have anything on me." You said calmly. Your dad had always prepared you for situations like this so you didn't worry too much, even with the glint of his knife in the corner of your eye.

"D-don't bullshit me! I know you j-just got outta there. G-gimme what you've got and I'll b-be on my way!" He spat at you, pulling you closer to press the knife against your neck.

You caught the faintest of movement in the shadows of the alleyway behind him but you kept your eyes on him to prevent the guy freaking out. "Okay. Let's just calm down," you said, keeping your movements slow as you reached for your hip, pretending to go for your wallet. The guy kept looking around frantically as though expecting something to jump out at him. Police, most likely. But when you saw the white face of a familiar mask over his shoulder, you felt a sense of calm settle over you.

"C-c'mon!" He hurried you, jerking the knife again to threaten slicing your throat.

At that moment, you jerked back as hot blood splashed across your face. Michael had effortlessly slashed the guy's neck open from behind, bright red falling like rain against the concrete below. You closed your eyes as the choked gurgles of the mugger's voice faded to silence and his body hit the ground. It was like you were frozen in place, unable to make your muscles move as you listened to the sounds of Michael killing the man. The vicious stabbing sounds made your skin crawl and you turned away from the scene entirely to check yourself over.

You hadn't gotten blood anywhere besides on your face, which was good. Easier to clean.

This was inevitable, you reminded yourself. That man wanted to hurt you and Michael was doing you a favor. Still, you tried to steady your breathing, bracing on the trunk of your car as he dragged the body away, presumably to hide it.

You heard Michael start to approach you and you let out a breath you didn't know you'd been holding. His footsteps could be silent, almost supernaturally quiet, so if he was making an effort to be loud, you knew it was his attempt to make you feel better. To let you know he was coming.

He stood in front of you now, covered in fresh blood and gripping his knife tightly. You were thankful for the setting sun that cast dark shadows over you two, obscuring the bloodsoaked Michael from view on the streets. You noticed the body slumped against the wall a little ways away and you swallowed back bile. "T-thanks." Your voice was soft and you cleared your throat. "For saving me."

It was only an assumption that he'd killed that guy to protect you. He didn't have to. He could have just let you die or at least be robbed. You were confident in that assumption though. He wouldn't risk your game ending so soon. 

On some level, he wanted you alive.

The blood on your face was beginning to dry uncomfortably and you desperately wanted to go home. You gestured to your car and gave Michael a tilt of your head. "You coming?" He seemed to weigh his options in his head before casually making his way for the passenger seat after a brief deliberation. "What's the plan if we're caught?" You asked him with a raised eyebrow and climbed into your own seat.

Turns out, once the cops got wind of the body, they were very easy to avoid. Predictable, you thought as you gripped your steering wheel tighter, careful to not draw attention to your car as you drove through the windy roads that led to your house.

You got Michael inside, shoving the grocery bags onto the kitchen counter as Mayhem came around the corner, meowing for attention and approaching Michael to give him a curious sniff.

It was then that you remembered stories your father would tell you about how Michael would kill animals for fun as a boy. How he'd leave the dead bodies of cats and birds in his locker at school to terrify the other kids. You weren't sure how truthful the stories were but you felt a heavy pit of anxiety when Michael looked down to acknowledge Mayhem.

"If you hurt Mayhem, I will turn you in." Your voice was steady despite the way you trembled. His head snapped up to look at you and you could feel the glare behind it. "I mean it. T-this is one thing I'm not bending on. He's my kitty and I won't let you hurt him."

Michael was still for a moment, letting Mayhem rub against his boots and yowl as though expecting the man to feed him. Slowly, ever so slowly, he bent over and let his fingers brush against soft black fur. The motion was gentle, like either you or the cat would lash out should he make a mistake. Mayhem loved the attention, purring and rubbing against his fingers more, which made you smile.

He was usually an anxious cat so seeing him this comfortable with Michael made you smile. You set about making up Mayhem's dinner while Michael tried to navigate petting him. He was shockingly gentle despite clearly never having pet an animal. "Did you have pets as a kid?" You asked as you scraped food into the bowl.

He didn't answer but you didn't really expect him to. His hand was still, just letting Mayhem rub all over it and meow at him. It was endearing, you thought as you set the bowl down and let Mayhem go to town on it. Michael's head tilted curiously as he watched and gently stroked his back once before standing back up.

"I think he likes you," you giggled, scritching the cat behind the ear.

Michael just watched the cat before slowly standing back up and heading back into the living room. You followed him, tugging on his sleeve gently. "Want me to wash your clothes?"

Your words trailed off when you noticed Michael was looking at a photo of you with your dad at your graduation party. A tired sigh left you when the man tilted his head. "I don't… want to talk about that." You mumbled, crossing your arms over your chest. "It's not like it's easy to plan for your own dad's murder." The words were heavy in your mouth and you forced yourself to look away from the photo.

Ever since your mom had died, you knew your dad had been different. She'd died in childbirth with you and all your dad's friends would whisper about how that changed him drastically. He'd always been distant with you, especially as you'd grown up. When you'd hear stories about him before your mom died, he sounded like an entirely different man: happy, enthusiastic about life, and excited to be a father.

But then your mom died and he retreated inward. As though the whole thing was entirely your fault. He didn't want to parent you on his own and therefore you had to grow up taking care of yourself instead. 

"Whatever you have to do," you swallowed, turning away from Michael entirely and your voice hollow, "Just make it as painless as you can."

It wasn't like there was an easy way to ask him to kill your dad painlessly. You tried not to dwell on how easy it would be to let him go. It wasn't exactly like he'd ever been there for you anyways.

"So. Your clothes. I, um, still have your shirt and the sweats you borrowed are clean, if you want to change." You changed the topic quickly, ignoring the way he stared at you. The last thing you possibly wanted was pity from the Boogeyman. "Either way, I'm going to go wash my face before someone sees me."

You went upstairs to the bathroom, leaving Michael to his own devices downstairs. You opened drawers at random until you found the wet wipes you kept stashed for when you wore makeup. Some good hard scrubbing and scented lotion and it's like you were never there, all evidence flushed down the toilet and out of sight. You sighed, staring at yourself in the mirror as the events of the day hit you, leaving you feeling winded and exhausted all at once. You were complacent in a crime now. It wasn't just you hiding Michael from the cops, you'd let him kill a man in front of you.

Trying to argue with yourself that it was self defense was pointless. No use in lying to yourself.

When you opened your eyes, unsure of when you'd closed them, you met Michael's eyes where he stood in the doorway of the bathroom. "Oh, sorry, do you want to shower?" Before you could even move to leave, he unzipped the jumpsuit, leaving you speechless.

You gasped in horror at the state of his chest. The black shirt was gone and left his bandages on display, dirty and stained with reddish-brown blood that mixed with ugly yellow pus from the drainage of the wound. It reeked of infection even a few feet from him. "Michael!" You hurried to him to get a better look, feeling sick for the second time today. "Christ, you should have come to me before it got this bad! With how wet it's been… Take these off and sit down on the edge of the tub. God, this looks awful."

Michael sat, watching you with amusement. At least you assumed it was amusement. Though you couldn't find anything funny about this. "I should have stitched you," you mumbled as you reached for your first aid kit and began sterilizing a pair of scissors, "Or at least looked up what to do."

Swallowing back your squeamishness, you cut him free of the bandages, practically retching when you got a better look at his wound. It had somehow gotten worse, a painful red and oozing pus. "Oh my god, Michael." Your voice was barely a whisper. "I'm so sorry."

He tilted his head and you almost wanted to smack him. How he wasn't in any noticeable pain was bewildering to you.

You began to undress him, uncaring of any potential nakedness, and he grabbed your wrists tight when you reached forward to take off his mask. "Michael, this infection could kill you. I need to see if you're running a fever. So either let me touch your forehead or I'm touching your neck." 

He stood quickly, stumbling slightly as he grabbed the bloodstained knife from where he'd apparently set it down on the counter. But you didn't back down. "Be mad all you want, this is really fucking infected and I'm not letting you get worse." You sighed, racking your brain to come up with an idea to placate him. "If I close my eyes, will you let me take your temperature?" 

Slowly, his shoulders fell. Which confused you. You'd seen his mugshots, you knew he wasn't disfigured or anything like that. So his insistence at not being looked at confused you but now was not the time to be worrying about that.

Prettiness aside, you needed to help him.

So you shut your eyes and held out your hand. A minute passed without Michael moving and you briefly worried he'd left the room entirely. Before you could open your eyes, you felt his fingers encircle your wrist and press it to his neck. You felt him swallow and you tried your best to focus on how hot his skin felt and not how this was an incredible show of trust. Goosebumps erupted across your arms as you cupped his neck gently.

His skin was soft and feverish and you felt your heart clench.

"You're definitely running a fever," you sighed. "I'll look for a sewing kit or something to stitch you up but I want you to shower and get all that gross off first. Don't scrub too hard, okay?" Before you could retract your hand, his grip on your wrist tightened. "Are you-?"

He lifted your hand, letting your fingers graze his bare cheek. You felt Michael lean into the touch momentarily and you reacted quickly, holding his face gently. He was burning up so hot you weren't sure how he was even standing in this condition. When was the last time anyone had taken care of him? Or the last time he was even sick?

Judging by his height, he was likely slumped against the bathroom counter. The idea made your heart clench. Despite every instinct in your body telling you to pull away, you ran your hand up the side of his face in a gentle, soothing motion. Your fingers ran through tangled hair, soft and curly, before sliding down behind his ear to rest back on his neck. "You'll be okay," you said softly. "The fever will break and you'll be back on your feet in no time."

Having had enough of being touched, he took you by the shoulders and moved you aside, careful to not let you stumble and fall. You kept your eyes closed when you heard the shower turn on and the curtain shift as he stepped inside. Only then did you open your eyes.

What... was that?

You looked down at your hand like it offended you before shaking your head in bewilderment. He'd never fail to surprise you.

You figured out pretty quickly that that instance of seeking your touch was the extent that Michael wanted you to touch him. He barely tolerated you checking him over for fever symptoms, opting instead to lounge in your bed like he'd been exorcised of a demon.

For the past few days, you'd done your best to keep Michael's presence in your house a secret. With your workaholic dad's late hours, he usually just came back home, ate a frozen dinner, and passed out in his bedroom before waking around 9AM to stumble to work and repeat the process all over again. So, provided Michael kept quiet, there wasn't any worry. You'd taken a few days of sick leave from work to take care of him, citing a head cold. Now you just had to hope that the police would continue their dedicated search even if people weren't dying.

You wondered, as you sat on your bed with a feverish serial killer half naked and asleep beside you, if hoping he recovered soon made you a bad person.

Probably.

But god he was a bitch when he was sick.

He kept the godforsaken mask on, which you had expected. But when his fever rose to 102 you had kind of hoped he'd take it off for the sake of wanting to cool down. He was persistent, you'd give him that.

You were getting the hang of his body language too. It was subtle but you'd begun to notice the slight shifts in his stance or the way his hands would twitch without a knife in them. At first you'd assumed it was just you projecting but you'd grown confident you could understand him now. Being sick definitely made him more expressive too.

Though, right now, you wanted to strangle him. "Michael, it's chicken noodle soup." You sighed, rubbing your temples. Trying to feed him was like dealing with a picky toddler sometimes. "It's chicken, noodles, carrots, and broth. All things I've fed you before." You could feel his glare at you and you were half tempted to get your own knife to speak his language better.

The infection was running its course, which was the only reason you had so much patience with him. His bitchiness was a byproduct of his fever and you had to keep reminding yourself that he probably hadn't been sick before.

That didn’t make you want to clobber him any less.

"If you eat the fucking soup I'll go buy you pumpkin pie when you feel better." You tried, glaring him down. "Because the sooner you eat this, the sooner you'll get better. And then you can go back to slaughtering the town."

He seemed placated by that. You turned your back to him so he could eat and you let out a silent sigh. You knew him well enough to know he liked that soup, he just wanted to be a jackass about it.

Later that afternoon you yet again threatened him with violence when he refused taking medicine. You weren't surprised he wasn't interested, seeing as he grew up in a hospital. But you were outgrowing your patience with him. You did smirk a little when you realized he absolutely wanted to throw you across the room for all but forcing the antibiotics down his throat. But once it was down, you softened. "C'mere, sleep will do you some good."

Michael glared at you but let you sit next to him against the headboard of the bed as he laid down. You'd learnt he was definitely a stomach sleeper and you could tell by his huffing that the heat underneath the mask was beginning to frustrate him. You jerked your head away when he ripped the mask off, throwing it with a growl and face planting onto the pillow.

"It's okay," you said softly, keeping your gaze straight ahead and fighting the urge to look down at him. "You don't feel as feverish today, you should be back on your feet in a day or two." You heard him grumble and you giggled. "Want me to rub your back? Might help you sleep."

He was silent. But he didn't immediately lash out so you kept your movements slow and purposeful. Like approaching an anxious, abused cat. He didn't know touch that wasn't associated with pain and you had to be careful to avoid startling him or overstepping. Your fingers made contact with his back and you slid your palm over his upper back, rubbing in slow, soothing motions.

Maybe it was exhaustion, the fever, or resignation to your touch but you swore you felt him relax.

Michael's skin was tacky to the touch and incredibly warm but that didn't deter you. You hummed a soft lullaby, keeping your movements slow and gentle. He looked painfully human and you were choking on the urge to care for this man. This strange, silent Boogeyman who'd fallen into your lap and sought you for care and food and attention and it made you want to cry.

If it weren't for his murderous hobby, you'd be infatuated with the sleeping man. The slow rise and fall of his chest made something in your own clench painfully as you continued to rub his back. You'd only known each other for a short time and yet you both had extended a lot of trust to each other. Most people met him with hostility or violence but you'd met him with kindness. A kindness he was unfamiliar with and must have been a welcome change. Either that or he just liked your cooking and bedside manner enough not to kill you. You weren't too picky about his motives.

You'd be lying if you said you weren't fond of him regardless.

The sound of the front door opening was like a bucket of ice down your back. You crept from the bed, carefully shutting the door behind you and heading downstairs, meeting your father's tired face. "You're back early."

"I'm only on my lunch break," he sighed as he shrugged his coat off, "Didn't feel like packing one so I figured I'd come check on you." He was giving you a strange look. "Are you okay?"

You watched him go into the kitchen as you loitered on the stairs, watching him through the awning closest to the steps. "Yeah, just been a little under the weather." You feigned a cough and sniffed. "Getting better though."

Your dad hummed as he opened the fridge. "Michael Myers killed a man at the store the other day." He reached in to pull out a sandwich you'd made for yourself at lunch and hadn't gotten around to eating. Trying to feed Michael was a laborious task.

"Really?" You raised your eyebrows, crossing your arms over your chest. "I didn't hear about it in the news."

He watched you with a painfully blank expression. "Correct me if I'm wrong but… I think you were out shopping before you fell ill, am I right?" Your dad took a slow bite of his sandwich, poorly trying to act casual. "The store clerk said a man was following you outside the store."

Fortunately, you were a better actor than your father. "I didn't see anyone."

But, of course, he didn't believe you. He never did. "Son, a man was killed by Michael Myers the day you went out and now you've been hiding away since then." His cop voice grated on your nerves. It felt like he never stopped being a cop, even with you. Every conversation with him felt like navigating a maze to try and hide yourself from him. You hated it.

"The weather has been getting colder and I work outside. It's really not that surprising."

"Have you seen Myers?" He got sick of beating around the bush, his hands on his hips as he leveled you with an unimpressed look. "Is that why you've been hiding out here?"

The word "hiding" made your hackles raise. Like this wasn't the same man who'd told you to lock the doors and windows when he first informed you of Michael. "Nope." Your smile was fake and bitter and you could see the way he flinched. "Hard to miss a man walking around in a Halloween costume." 

"Kid-" He tried to placate you.

But you weren't interested. "I'll be back to work in a day or so, don't worry."

He seemed remorseful now. "If Myers is stalking you, you can talk to me. You know that, right?"

An awkward silence hung in the air. Your dad seemed to deflate and he ate in silence, pretending to not see you. "Have you talked to Laurie Strode yet?" You asked as you picked at a stray string on your sweater sleeve.

He swallowed and shook his head. "We're hesitant to let her know what's going on until we're certain he's still after her. Dr Loomis has been working with us to try and find him as soon as we can." He scratched his chin in thought. "Maybe I should make a statement soon, what with Halloween approaching."

You gave him another acidic smile. "You'll find him, I'm sure. You're very dedicated."

Your dad gave you a helpless look. If you were five years younger, you might have apologized for being so curt with him. But you weren't sixteen and craving your father's approval anymore. You knew that the family charade you both put up was only because you helped around the house. He wasn't home enough to give a shit who lived there anyways.

He didn't even know the killer he was hunting was asleep in your bed, stitched up with your string and your soup in his stomach. You had no intention of telling him, partially out of spite at this point.

You hoped Michael got better soon.

Lucky for you - and unlucky for Haddonfield - Michael was back on his feet a day later. He was still a bit warm but you knew it was fruitless to try and keep him inside any longer. He had to make another appearance in town anyways or else he'd risk you both. If people paid too close to timelines, your sick leave corresponding with his disappearance would be too suspicious.

But his stitches came out easily and his wound had healed decently. "Next time, come back before your bandages get too dirty." You'd smirked at him as you zipped his jumpsuit up. It felt too close to a wife sending her husband off to work for the day and the thought made your face warm.

You managed to get a few days of relative peace, especially once your father was occupied by Michael killing again. It had also been a few days since you saw Michael and you hoped that was just because his bandages were holding up well. The last thing either of you needed was another sick week.

Currently you were heading home after spending the afternoon reading at the park. Your little bag bumped against your hip as you hopped along to the music coming out of your tinny headphones. It was unlikely Michael had been watching you, since you didn't feel his eyes on you, but you still felt like taking a break from the house for a minute.

The sight of a cop car parked haphazardly along the sidewalk made you freeze. It had hit the curb slightly and looked like the driver had been in a hurry to get out. The door was wide open and you lowered your headphones slowly, the frantic voice over the radio better. The voice was staticy and it sounded like whoever it was was running but their words were crystal clear. "All units respond. Multiple fatalities reported on Orange Grove Ave. Suspect has been identified as one Michael Myers. He is armed and extremely dangerous. Shoot to kill, I repeat, shoot to kill. Over."

You felt your stomach drop and your head whipped around. Orange Grove Ave was just ahead so you took off like a shotgun, sprinting down the street. The only sound was that of your shoes hitting the pavement as you tried to come up with a plan. If they hadn't seen him yet, you just needed to get an opening for him to escape. You knew of Michael's unnatural ability to vanish if your eyes weren't on him.

Desperately, you didn't want him to get shot again.

You rounded the corner onto Orange Grove with a sharp turn, your eyes immediately spotting a second cop car. "Fuck!" You hissed to yourself as you picked up the pace. You should have gone looking for Michael sooner. Should have left for the park earlier in hopes of catching his attention. Anything, anything to have avoided him getting caught.

When you got closer to the car, you noticed a cop hanging halfway out of the car. His head had been smashed in, a puddle of gore, blood, and brain matter leaking steadily down the side of the car door. You felt like throwing up but you held it in when you spotted his partner. A young man, likely fresh on the force, clutching his gun as he pointed it down the alleyway. His trembling told you all you needed to know.

The officer gave you a quick glance, fear obvious on his face. "Get back!" He called to you.

You ignored him and looked down the alleyway. Michael stood there calmly, hanging back in the shadows between the two buildings. Another cop lay before him and you watched with horror as Michael's boot made heavy contact with the cop's skull, a wet, sickening crunch echoing out in the small space.

"Get down and put your hands in the air!" The rookie said, hands on the gun shaking as he kept his eyes on Michael. An idea came to you. It was stupid, reckless, and dangerous.

You lunged for the cop, knocking his gun from his hands and sending him stumbling.

He didn't even have time to do anything but look at you with horrified eyes before Michael descended on him. He grabbed the rookie by his collar and lifted him effortlessly before running him through with his knife, spilling his guts on the sidewalk in warm waterfalls of blood. You scrambled backwards to avoid being caught in the spray but Michael gladly covered himself in the fresh gore. The rookie's lifeless body hit the floor with a heavy, empty sound and Michael turned his attention on you.

You scanned the nearby area and spotted a little path between two houses overrun with grass and brush. Without a second thought, you took off towards it and just hoped Michael was behind you. Other members of the force would be on their way and you both needed to disappear. You ignored the scratching of sharp branches against your arms and hands, only wincing when a particularly sharp one sliced a thin cut across your calf.

But you didn't falter. You kept running through the town, your heart pounding hard and pumping pure fumes through you as you ran. As soon as you broke into the treeline of the forest, you collapsed to your knees and let yourself catch your breath.

A hand gripped the back of your shirt and for a brief second you feared you'd been caught. But Michael dragged you towards a tree, pinning you to it and holding his bloody knife close under your throat, the blade digging into your skin. "Wait!" You struggled against his grip, kicking out at him with your heavy boots. "What did I do?! I got you out of there without getting shot!"

You could see his eyes this close. Hazel, like you'd suspected. His eyes were narrow with hate and anger as he glared you down. But you stopped struggling and that only seemed to make him madder. "I wasn't just going to let you get hurt!" You hissed, reaching up to grab the hand that held your collar tightly, keeping you rooted in place. "I don't see what you're so angry about."

He didn't like that answer. The knife pressed in and you gasped when you felt a stream of your own blood run down, wetting his fingers. "Stop," you pleaded, clawing at him frantically. "Stop, please, I'm sorry."

That wasn't good enough for him and held you tighter. Tears welled up in your eyes and fell, mixing with the blood. Pain shot through you when Michael yanked his knife away, taking a few steps back and letting you slide down the tree as you gasped for breath. Your hands gripped at your neck, slightly relieved it wasn't more than a surface cut. Blood started to stain your hands, falling in rivulets down your arm and leaking over your elbows only to stain the grass beneath you a muddy red color.

His head tilted as he watched and you wanted to spit at him. "Y'know, I kinda thought we had a partnership going on." Your words were choked as you glared up at him. "Was I wrong?"

That seemed to get to him. He straightened up and stared you down. You got up on shaking legs and stumbled away from him and towards the forest. His footsteps were loud as he followed behind you and that only served to make you angrier. The walk home was silent and he stayed a few feet behind you the whole time, never getting closer nor straying. The only sounds were the twigs crackling under your shoes and you were too rattled to feel or think much of anything. Your only goal was getting home.

You kicked the back door open and stormed inside and upstairs to the bathroom. You stared at yourself in the mirror and wanted to smack yourself for your infatuation with a killer who didn't care about you. The cut was, thankfully, small. And hopefully the amount on your arms could convince your dad you were just handling a blackberry bush at work or something. The one on your leg could be hidden under pants until it healed. So you began rooting around for bandages and ignored Michael standing in the doorway.

"I help you get away and you try to kill me?" You growled, glaring at him in the mirror. "I could have let that cop shoot you and I didn't because I fucking care, Michael." Tears threatened to fall again and you swallowed them back when he gave you a tilt of his head. "I get you aren't good with feelings and- and maybe this is just you needing me to clean and feed you but I wanted to help you." You dabbled your neck with a cotton ball soaked in hydrogen peroxide and hissed at the sting. "If that's all you want me for then fine but I need to know where we stand."

He watched you bandage your neck, his shoulders set tight as he waited for you to finish. He set the knife down on the counter and reached for you but you flinched back. "Wash your hands." You mumbled and stepped back more to give him access to the sink.

The water ran for some time as the two of you watched the blood swirl down the drain and out of sight. Once the water ran clear, he pulled his hands out and reached for you again. You wanted to run but were backed up into a corner with no way out.

He covered your eyes with one and you frowned in confusion. "What are you-?" He took your wrist with his free hand and held it to his face again, silencing you. His face felt wet and that concerned you. "Are you bleeding somewhere?" You tried feeling around for any cuts but he shook his head no. "Was it raining?" Another no.

So an idea came to you. A dangerous one if you were wrong. "Were you… crying?"

He nodded. Your heart broke.

You pulled him in for a hug, keeping your eyes closed as you just held him. He dropped the hand from your eyes to hold your hip, leaning into your touch like he did when he was ill a few weeks ago. "What happened?" You tried, holding his face with both hands.

Michael just shook his head helplessly and bumped your foreheads together. Oh. Oh. "Were you… worried I was turning you in?" No. "Was it because I was there while you were, uh, hunting?" No. You chewed on your lip as another dangerous thought came to you. "You were worried I was going to get hurt."

His jaw clenched as his throat worked around a growl. The Boogeyman of Haddonfield couldn't afford to feel anything. He doesn't. As far as anyone is concerned at least. Yet here you were, defying all odds and earning Michael's favor. His protection. His care. And the idea of losing you had terrified him, causing him to lash out at you for willingly putting yourself in danger. Emotions had run high and he'd acted out. He hadn't known what else to do but scare you back. 

"I'm sorry I worried you," you said softly, stroking your thumbs over his cheeks and wiping the moisture away as you kept your eyes closed. "I was worried about you too. I heard the police radio mention shooting you on sight so I went looking for you." His grip on you tightened slightly and you sighed. "I know that you're used to people shooting at you or- or attacking you. But I'm not used to hearing about it."

You finally admitted to yourself and him: "I don't want you to die."

After a moment of silence, he pressed your foreheads together. You felt his breath ghost over your skin and your noses bumped together awkwardly. You hooked a hand behind his neck to just hold him and he squeezed your hips tight. "I don't want you to die," you gasped into your shared air. He made a muffled sound and this felt so much more intimate than any kind of kissing you'd done in the past. You just stood there in each other's spaces, sharing air and warmth and closeness that you hadn't had with someone else in a long time. You couldn't imagine how it felt for him.

"We're in this together now, okay?" You said softly, your eyes fluttering open to meet his. Pretty, you thought absently. But you already knew that. Brown ringlet curls, one eye injured from his fight with Laurie Strode, and a light dusting of freckles across his nose. His face looked damp and you brushed under his eyes with the hem of your sleeve. Despite that, his face was expressionless even though you could see conflict swirling in his eyes. You couldn't imagine how he was feeling. "We'll look out for each other, yeah?"

He gave you a slow nod and you smiled. Your foreheads pressed together again and you felt his shoulders relax as his eyes closed. Trust. You both trusted each other and were partners in this now. You accepted you'd be complacent in his crimes going forward and he'd learn to accept your care in time.

Just you and your Boogeyman against the world...

[carawenfiction]

I hope this isn't a bother. I know you aren't accepting asks anymore, so please ignore if you don't want to read 🙂

I love your story. It was my second IF ever, and it helped set the tone because it's amazing. I am so glad you wrote it. I truly love your characters. I know you aren't writing it anymore, but if you ever want to post any details from the rewrite or just random snippets, they would be devoured. I love all of the romances, but Quaiel was especially intriguing. I would love to write stories about them, but I don't want to be too far off your original thinking.

Again, please don't feel like you have to respond or care about any of this. I just appreciate your book and all your characters. I hope you have a lovely holiday season. Thank you for all your hard work.

Hello again everyone <3 thank you for this ask and all the other asks expressing concern about my well-being and asking me about potential other writing projects. And thank you to those who have sent me enthusiastic asks about the world and characters of TSS. I know it's been a long time since I was active here so the fact that I'm still getting messages and asks at all is pretty shocking to me, but makes me very happy.

I wanted to make an update here and let those who still follow me know that I'm actually in the process of writing a new IF. It has a published demo, though I won't reveal the title just yet since I want to get some more of it done before sharing it with everyone here. I feel incredibly guilty about the state I left TSS in even though I knew it was the right decision for me, and I want to make sure that I've got more to show for this new project to regain some trust that might have been lost with the long time waiting and then the cancellation.

As for TSS: while it won't be continued, the story and characters have stayed with me through the years. The reason I haven't released any snippets or my planning for how things would go is because I've been considering, if I've got enough time, to maybe rewrite the story at my own pace (it would be a very thorough rewrite and many things both storywise and characterwise would likely change), make it a complete story instead of a trilogy and release it for free. I'm still not making any promises, though - this is a very huge maybe. But it's something I would really like to do when and if there's a good opportunity to do so.

Absolutely feel free to write stories about Q and any of the other characters! I'd love to read them if you do. Part of what I love when it comes to writing is how the creativity of one person can ignite creative sparks in other people. It's honestly magical.

Take care of yourselves and thank you for sticking around <3

[staybabblingbaby]

Soulmate Garden AU Ch.2 (Anemone) a3d2

[Caution: These are not full fics, or even full parts of fics for some, these are part of my writing progress archive!]

Concept: Growing up, you knew Soulmates weren't all that they cracked up to be. So when, on your 18th birthday, your skin is painted with a garden of flower buds, you resolve to hide it from everyone. Who had ever heard of someone with 8 soulmates, anyway?

Or; Reader has 8 soulmates and no issue avoiding all of them. It's up to SKZ to show her that while every soulbond might not be made of fairy tales, theirs certainly could be.

Word Count: 4,218

Notes: I don't feel like the summary completely matches this story anymore. I'm also not really satisfied with this chapter, but I'm too tired to really get into a whole bunch of drafts and edits, I've just really been feeling poorly lately. The archive is for writing progress anyways, it's fine. I'll probably rewrite this whole chapter if I ever get to where I'd be comfortable posting finished versions to Ao3. I'm also just not fond of my writing style somehow. It feels too formal, doesn't flow enough. Problem is that I really talk like that lmao. Idk, I'll figure it out.

Dividers by @saradika

Warnings: She/Her Reader

Leave me comments or questions or anything! Love hearing from folks <3

Masterlist <3 | Prev Part | Next Part

Bangchan clambered into the van behind Felix, Minho and Jisung loading into the row in front of them. It always felt a bit weird to not spend some time swapping seatmates around based on who was clinging to who at the moment, but on days like today it was easier to just board the vehicles as quick as possible.

He's ended up with a relatively quite combination of their cluster today, and Chan was grateful for it as he settled into his seat with a pained grimace.

He wasn’t sure when it had started, but a persistent on-and-off pain had been roaming around his back for the last twenty minutes as they’d said goodbye to Stays and prepared to leave the venue. He’d be more worried about it, except the sharp, needle-like, pains would settle into a gentler ache before kicking back up again.

As it was, Chan was pretty sure he’d pinched a nerve or strained something and would simply rest when he got back to the hotel. Maybe call up the PT. For now, as three of his soulmates settled in around him, Chan was content to leave it be.

Well, almost. Another twinge of pain makes him wince as he twists to buckle in, and Chan decides that maybe it’d be a good idea to know what he was working with. For comfort’s sake, if nothing else.

“Felix,” He prods the blond next to him, “Can you look at my back for me? I think I pinched something.” He motions toward his lower back, where the majority of the pain had been accumulating.

Felix immediately nods his acceptance, their group’s resident massage expert always willing to lend a hand. Especially if it let him lay hands on his very well built soulmates.

Chan scooches forward and rotates around, balancing with his hand on the headrest of the seat in front of him. He helps Felix shimmy his shirt upwards, struggling with it where it gets caught in the seat-belt.

Chan ends up stuck struggling on his own as Felix chooses that moment to direct his eyes and hands to the afflicted area.

“There’s your first issue,” Felix tuts, “You’ve left your concealment tape on. You’ll give yourself a rash one of these days, hyung.”

Chan gives a sheepish smile from where he’s managed to trap himself in a cloth prison. His head is free, and the shirt his appropriately bunched up over his shoulders and around his neck. Unfortunately, he hadn’t managed to free his hands, so he’s got a bit of a t-Rex thing going on right now. It’s fine.

“I forget it’s there,” he confesses with a whine, “I can’t see my own back, y’know?”

Felix rolls his eyes at their oh-so-glorious leader, carefully peeling the thin material away from Chan’s skin as he scolds, “You still need to take it off. We sweat way too much to not at least change it after a performance.”

He’s bunching up the extra-strength tape to maybe toss at Jisung in the front seat (maybe Minho, if he’s feeling very brave), when he spots something off.

More than half a decade into having found each other, the members of Stray Kids were intimately familiar with each other’s soulmarks. Every drop of color, every line, every curve.

So when Felix looks at the freshly uncovered canvas on Chan’s back, familiar trees, bushes, and rocks painting a forested landscape that describes their impact on their eldest, something new immediately catches his eye.

There, on the fallen log that bridged two banks of a crystal-clear creek, was a moss blanket and a cluster little shelf mushrooms. They added life to the previously defunct object, a little bit of color that couldn’t have been said to be missing until it wasn’t.

The closer Felix looked, the more he saw. A mushroom here, a mossy patch there. Little signs of life and decay that he could have sworn weren’t there the last time he looked.

He looks to Jisung, who’s blissfully unaware.

As the first of their cluster to paint Chan’s skin with color, he was the most familiar with their leader’s mark. Jisung had been too young for his own mark to have appeared when he’d met Chan, but that didn’t stop him from influencing their eldest’s. They all knew he’d spent a lot of time studying Chan’s mark (and Changbin’s when it had appeared, already partially colored in) while waiting for his own.

If there was anyone who’d be more than certain of a change in their soulmarks, it’d be Jisung.

Felix swiftly removes his hands from Chan’s back, earning him a little noise of confusion from the prone man, and reaches over to poke Jisung harshly in the side.

Jisung immediately flinches away from the offending fingers with a loud yelp, attracting the attention of Minho, who’d been peacefully scrolling on his phone. Jisung swiftly fixes Felix with an offended glare, ready to retaliate, but is cut off before he can even try.

“Look at Chan’s mark for me.” Felix demands.

“My mark?” Chan echoes, baffled and alarmed. “What’s wrong with my mark?”

“Nothing, hyung,” Felix assures, “I just need to check I’m not seeing things.”

A series of furtive, silent, and, on Felix’s part, urgent, gestures are exchanged before Jisung finally relents and leans around the back of his seat, grabbing Minho’s for balance as the van departs.

Jisung lazily traces his eyes over Chan’s soulmark. All of Stray Kids had huge marks, but Jisung privately thought that Chan had them all beat. His mark spanned his entire back, not an inch untouched by the image. From shoulder to hip was an oil painting of a mark, filled in from what used to be a desolate landscape to what was now a thriving forest.

Jisung used to think it was so overwhelming to be part of such a mark. To be loved so much, and so deeply. It was evident in every brushstroke of the image on Chan’s skin, and in every action of the man himself.

These days, he found great comfort in it.

He’d gotten so lost in thought as he studied his soulmate’s mark that Jisung had almost missed what had caught Felix’s attention in the first place. But sure enough, his eyes catch on the same log that Felix’s had.

“Oh.” He whispers to himself. “Oh.” He says again, as Minho shoves his head under Jisung’s arm to look himself.

“No, yeah, that’s different.” He confirms, Minho nodding against him, having already spotted it for himself. The two of them find their eyes glued to tiny mushrooms, only sparing a moment to glance at each other before returning their gaze to Chan’s skin, each with their own racing thoughts.

“I thought so.” Felix nods to himself.

“What?” Chan questions, becoming more alarmed by the second, “What’s going on? What’s happened? What’s wrong with my mark?”

Felix lays his palms flat on Chan’s back and begins to rub gentle, soothing, circles. Any changes to a soulmark were stressful at the best of times, and they all knew how much Chan treasured his.

“There’s nothing wrong,” Felix soothes, letting the warmth of Chan’s mark resonating with his touch calm them both as he searches for gentle words.

“It’s just,” He begins hesitantly, “Well, the good news is that you haven’t pinched or strained anything.”

“Good news?” Chan echoes, “Is there bad news?” He lets a nervous giggle fall from his lips even as he relaxes into Felix’s hands.

“Not necessarily?” Felix says uncertainly, “It’s just. Well. Your mark has changed.” He pauses a second and pulls out his phone, quickly snapping a picture and then passing it around so Chan can see. “Something’s been added.”

Felix lets the implication of his words sit untouched in the air as the three of them wait for Chan to process what this means.

Ironically, Chan was the least familiar with his own mark out of all of them. His and Minho’s both resided on their backs so it stood to reason that the two of them didn’t see their marks very often. So it was no surprise that it took Chan several, very long, moments to spot the tiny changes.

When he does, Chan pulls in a deep, stuttering breath. The pain is already fading out to an ache now that it’s been acknowledged and Chan isn’t sure how he feels about the extra confirmation.

He carefully pulls his shirt back down, breaking his soulmate’s line of sight like they hadn’t already burned the image onto their retinas. He doesn’t remove his eyes from Felix’s phone.

“I...” He trails off, “I have another soulmate?” His voice is filled with wonder as he marvels at the picture of his mark. He looks up at the rest of his soulmates currently in the van with awe. “We have another soulmate?”

“Yeah,” Minho whispers, voice choked with emotion, “Yeah it looks like it.”

Felix doesn’t wait for Chan to fully turn around before he’s pulling their leader into a bone-crushing hug, giddy, disbelieving, laughter spilling out of him even as tears prick at his eyes.

“Oh my god!” Felix celebrates quietly as Chan wiggles to return his hug just as tightly. “Oh my god.” The other man agrees.

Even as his soulmates celebrate around him, each feeling their own storm of emotions, Chan can’t quite grasp the reality of the situation.

Stray Kids was a uniquely large soul cluster. From the beginning, when it had become evident that Hannie wasn’t his only soulmate, it had caused issues. Then came Bin, and the rest had followed like dominos. Each time their circle expanded he’d thought “this has to be it, right?” and each time there was a little voice in the back of his mind saying, “No, not yet.”

The issue was that that feeling, that little voice saying ”not yet”, the knowledge that they weren’t complete, had never gone away.

By the time they had all met, none of them could spot anything obviously missing from their marks. All of them were completely colored, lines drawn, images complete. And yet, every one of them felt that hollowness of an incomplete bond.

They’d talked about it a lot. Individually, as a group, in pairs and in quartets and seemingly endless combinations. It was hard, as the years went by, to ignore that nagging feeling.

Chan would always remember Jeongin crawling into his bed in the middle of the night, crying and apologizing for not being enough. Could never forget taking Jisung to a rage room so they could both break down their feelings or drinking with Changbin and wondering if it was wrong for them to be so greedy as to want more when they already had so much.

After so many years, they’d begun to wonder if they were just broken. If they didn’t have another soulmate out there after all, and it was all in their heads.

It had been hard. It was hard.

And now that little blank space in his soul was painted with someone else’s colors and Chan felt whole in a way he wasn’t sure he’d ever experience.

It kind of made him want to cry.

He wanted to cry even more when Felix innocently asks, “So what were they like?” An unmatched eagerness in his eyes as Chan pulled away.

That one guileless question triggers a realization in Chan that has his groaning in despair and slumping forward back onto Felix’s shoulder.

“I don’t know.” Chan mumbles into the shoulder of the slighter man.

“What was that?” Jisung questions from where he and Minho were still turned toward him, obviously as curious as Felix.

“I said I don’t know!” Chan wails, wilting further into Felix’s frame.

“How do you not know?” Minho questions incredulously. Felix gasps as he connects dots he’d been too excited to before.

“I didn’t even know my mark had changed before now,” Chan explains miserably, “I don’t even know exactly when the pain started.”

Jisung sucks in a hiss of air, sympathy splashed across his face. “Oh geeze,” he breathes out, “How many people have we met today alone?”

“Ok, well,” Felix interjects, “Not ideal, but we’ll figure it out!”

Minho turns his incredulous stare onto the optimistic man.

"How are we going to figure it out?" He demands, "Because there were tens of thousands of people in that stadium and I know every single one of us shook dozens of hands tonight."

Felix wilts a little bit even as Jisung comes to his defense, "We kind of have to figure it out, hyung," he points out, "And soon. We're back to Seoul soon."

"Okay but how?" Minho challenges, "And don't give me any 'with the power of love and fate' crap."

"We might have to rely on fate." Chan shrugs, dejected. "It's not like I have a description or anything to give out."

"It'll be okay Channie hyung," Felix pats Chan's back lightly from where they're still entangled together, "It'll have to be."

The van descends into silence as the four of them contemplate their new situation. After a few minutes Chan leverages himself up and out of Felix's embrace to frown aimlessly at his knees.

"Well," Felix breaks the silence, "We don’t have any more shows after this, and we have some days of break time, right?”

“Right,” Chan confirms, “We have tomorrow off and then we’re returning to Seoul to start working on the next album.”

“But officially,” Felix hedges, “We have, like, an entire week off, don’t we?”

“Not quite, but sure,” Chan hesitantly agrees.

“Well, we know they were in town for the concert at least,” Felix continues, “So as long as they didn’t leave the city immediately after, I mean, there's seven more first contacts to go, right?”

“Are you saying we should spend our break wandering around trying for first contacts?” Jisung asks, “Because I’m all for searching for them, but I don’t know that aimless wandering is gonna help.”

Chan holds up his hands to halt that conversation before it could devolve into a bigger debate.

“Let’s shelve that for now, and meet up with the others at the hotel,” He suggests, “We should discuss this as a group anyways.”

He receives a variety of agreements and the four of them settle in for the short remaining drive back to their hotel. He absently hands Felix’s phone back to him and retrieves his own from his pocket to ask the others to meet them in his room.

Chan looks out the window, post-concert fatigue all but a memory. As the buildings pass by, he can’t help but hope that their mystery soulmate was looking for them too.

You reaffirm your decision to never ever meet your soulmates as Taylor loads you into the car, arm wrapped protectively around your shoulder the whole way.

It was one thing when your stupidly large soul cluster was just an idea. Knowledge you held, but unactionable in any way.

It was another when you had evidence, in the form of little white flowers burning with warmth on your skin, that they were real, physical, people.

Even worse when you knew that they were a group of very famous musicians.

You hadn’t actually been sick when you’d texted Taylor, who’d thankfully managed to get all of the autographs he’d wanted before he’d checked his phone to try to find you, but you were getting there. Anxiety had nausea creeping up your throat like molasses.

You’re beyond grateful when your roommate doesn’t question your sudden illness, the both of you well aware that you were hale and hearty when you’d left the house.

Taylor just buckles you in like you’re something precious and fragile and takes the wheel.

The two of you drive in silence the entire way home. It’s not awkward, but you can’t deny the weight of something heavy in the air. The buzz of the concert still lingered between the two of you, and it only made the silence stifling and itchy.

When you pull into your apartment complex neither of you speak for a long moment.

“Sorry for ruining the day.” You murmur to the air in front of you. Taylor just reaches over to pat your thigh and unclip your seatbelt.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” He assures, “Don’t sweat it.” He hesitates a moment before continuing.

“I’m not gonna push,” Taylor begins gently, “But you know you can talk to me, right? Whatever happened, I’m not gonna judge. I just wanna be here for you.”

“What makes you think something happened?” You mutter mulishly. Taylor just gives you a look that has you sinking into your seat.

“It’s nothing. I’m just being dramatic.” You admit. He bumps your shoulder with his and climbs out of the car.

“It’s not nothing if it makes you feel something.” He tells you as he goes. The two of you walk up to the apartment in silence, contemplative this time.

You think about telling him as the two of you separate to wash the concert off of yourselves. You think about it as you take turns using the bathroom and as you make dinner side by side. You think about it as you settle in front of the couch at his feet as his hands automatically pull your head to his knees, his fingers digging into your hair just how you like.

You want to tell him, you decide. You do. It's just that. Well...

Your sister was right, in a way. You’d known Taylor for over a year now, but the two of you didn’t really know much about each other. You really were just roommates.

You didn’t know what his favorite color was. You didn’t know the names of his parents, or if he had any siblings. You barely knew what he did for a living. He’d only ended up your roommate by virtue of you responding to his “roommate wanted” ad with full willingness to be murdered on the spot.

At the same time, the two of you knew everything about each other. You knew how he took his coffee in the morning, that he preferred his eggs dry and over-seasoned. You knew the bands he liked and the games he played. You knew his hobbies better than you knew your own sometimes, and more about his friend’s drama that you ever wanted to.

You know the important things, you think.

You know that every word you tell him in confidence will be clutched tightly all the way to the grave.

“I met my soulmate today.” You confess, your cheek pressed to his knee, half-asleep.

The words somehow feel like they were snatched from the darkest depths of your soul as they spill from your lips. You make no move to take them back.

Taylor’s hand, to his credit, only pauses for a moment. Then he treats your hushed admission like any other comment made while you nod off to dramas the both of you know you only watch for him, resuming the soothing movement of his hand and humming lightly to acknowledge you.

You think it’s that casual treatment that lets you find the courage to continue.

“Well, one of them anyway.” You mumble. Taylor hums his interest, but doesn't take his eyes off of the screen and doesn’t stop petting your hair.

“I don’t want to meet them. There’s so many of them and only one of me, y'know? I don’t even know how to love myself, how am I supposed to love eight other people?” Taylor says nothing still, his eyes glued to an episode of a drama you know the two of you have already finished three times over.

“I’m scared I’ll fuck it up. I’m scared they’ll fuck me up.” Your voice cracks as you breathe life into one of your deepest fears. You realize as you say it that you’ve never voiced these thoughts aloud before, even to yourself.

Tears prick at the back of your eyes when you admit, “I’m not ready for them. I don’t think I can be.”

Taylor finally gives in to the seriousness of the conversation and hauls you bodily up onto the couch. You go willingly, but with rag-doll limpness. He rearranges you to his liking and you find yourself in Gossip Position, sitting criss-cross facing him.

“First of all,” He starts in, his usual levity giving way to a seriousness you rarely see from him, “Don’t be mean to my best friend. I’ll hit you.” You ignore his threat in favor of the warm feeling in chest at hearing him call you his best friend.

Take THAT Ma! No friends your glorious behind.

“Secondly, you are literally the most loving person I have ever met in my life. You would fit the entire world in there if you could,” He pokes your chest, right above your heart, for emphasis, “So I’m not that surprised you have more than one soulmate.”

“I have eight though,” You argue, “Isn’t that weird?”

Taylor just shrugs. “I mean, yeah. But weird is basically your brand, so...” He trails off with a teasing smirk.

You shove him a bit in retaliation, but he just grabs your wrists to still you and continues speaking before you can argue.

“I don’t think eight soulmates is enough for you, honestly,” He muses, “I mean it when I say you’re the most loving person I know. I think you’d even try to take care of Danny if he needed you to.” The mention of Taylor’s very creepy second cousin sends a shiver down both of your spines.

The worst part is that you can’t even argue with him.

“But you know, even with eight soulmates, you don’t have to be with them.” Taylor suddenly switches tracks to reassure you, “They’re your soulmates sure, but you’re your own person. They’re for you, it’s not like they are you. You can live without, if you really want to.”

The two of you let that statement settle for a moment. He’s right, you know all too well. Still, the thought leaves a wad of uncomfortable and complicated feelings lodged in your throat.

After a moment’s pause, you break the silence.

“I have too many years of trauma and not enough therapy money to unpack everything I’m feeling right now.”

Taylor cracks first, and giggles come pouring out of the two of you. The joke wasn’t even funny, but you guessed the two of you had been serious for far too long.

Some minutes later, when the giggles finally die down and you return to watching Taylor’s show, you find yourself with your head on his shoulder.

“Whatever you decide, you know I’m here for you, right?” Taylor quietly picks up where the conversation had left off.

“Sure,” you agree, “Like I was there for you when you cried over a boy I told you wasn’t shit.” You completely deserve the elbow to the side you receive for that comment.

“Shut up, I’m being cheesy!” Taylor scolds with a laugh.

“I’m lactose intolerant!” You complain, but obligingly fall silent.

“Seriously,” Taylor insists, “I’ll be here every step of the way. Whatever you need.”

You wrap your arms around the one of his that you’re leaning on and give a gentle squeeze to show your appreciation. “Thanks Tay.” you murmur.

“Of course. You got me front row tickets to a SKZ concert, we’re ride or die whether you like it for not!” You poke his side to scold him for not being serious after just insisting that you be, but end up having to fight for your life when he immediately retaliates by trying to tickle you.

It takes the two of you quite a while to calm down again, Taylor smug in his victory. He holds your ankles in his lap like trophies of war as you stare at the ceiling. The quiet creeps back in quickly, so you speak.

“I’m just not sure what I want, I think.” You tell him, “I don’t want to meet them. But at the same time, I really do, y’know?”

Taylor nods, “Just let the universe do its thing.” he suggests, “If you’re meant to meet them now, you’ll meet them regardless of what you want. But after you meet them, it’s all up to you.”

You nod along, humming your acceptance of his advice. He’s right, again. You can’t really fight fate, even if you desperately want to. But even within that large restraint, you’re a human being with free will. The world is your oyster and all that.

You let your thoughts fade out and just listen to Taylor yap about the drama on the TV as he finally tunes back into it.

It’s nearly dawn when the two of you decide to turn in, post-concert jitters having deserted you and heavy conversations having taken their toll.

“Did you manage to get their name before you bolted?” Taylor asks out of nowhere as you’re walking to your respective rooms. “Your soulmate’s” He clarifies at your confused look.

“Oh, I didn’t need to.” You answer absentmindedly, already opening your door and dreaming of your cozy sheets. “It was Bangchan.”

You close your door on his gawping face, blissfully unaware of the crisis you’d just sent him into.

Perma Tag List: @Mbioooo0000

[hestzhyen]

Oofuri and AbeMiha in the Year of Our Lord 2025?

Help I've fallen into a time warp and my mind's back in 2007/2008 obsessing over extremely passionate baseball dorks again.

They care so much about each other, it's crazy.

And the growth both of them go through to overcome their personal shortcomings is so wholesome.

I was re-reading to catch up, and... wow...

The "guy talk" is one of the best parts about this manga.

Neither Mihashi nor Abe have had a first love yet, huh. And while Mihashi likes women in nurse uniforms, Abe doesn't have anything specific in mind- he doesn't even have fantasies he uses as "material". While they're devoting themselves to each other for the next three years to become one in mind and body. Slowly coming to understand each other while being so passionate about the other guy that they cry over him at least twice each.

Um.

Yeah, the brainworms are back in full force after laying dormant for about 17 years. AbeMiha, my beloveds... I'm rewriting a fluff one-shot I did for them back in 2007 and enjoying the nostalgia (and seeing how much I've improved since then). These silly creatures are still just as charming as I remember them being.

Enjoy this moldy out-of-context screencap from my hard drive.

I wonder if it's because Oofuri is a seinen and not a shounen, but there's a lot of skinship and typical teenage boy banter about sex too. Tajima full-on strips Mihashi at the pool in front of their teammates to show them his uncut dick, for Chrissakes. And Mihashi and Abe always get paired off together; they're explicitly told to cook breakfast for everyone alone to bond together, sleep in the same hotel room, are always trying to understand each other and communicate better...

I love them so much.

I know it's not as fruity to the Japanese, but even so, the ship was hugely popular for a while for good reason. The handholding and mutual devotion alone were kind of a big deal. I don't know where the relationship is at in canon right now (I have over 130 chapters to go to catch up, yikes) but I don't think that teased romance with Shinooka has gotten very far with either of them.

Or maybe it has, I genuinely don't know! It's hard to get a feel when the fandom is basically on life support. A series that has been around for about 20 years will naturally see people cycle out, especially when it comes to creating fan works and shipping, but I feel like I'm walking through a ghost town mostly filled with time capsules from a different era. So many dead LJ groups and broken links to shrines that fell into the abyss long ago... does a series this long need a perpetual anime to keep interest up? Or was it the long hiatus that cooled things off? Both?

Still the gayest and most wholesome battery as far as I'm concerned.

Anyway, I'll do my small part to give back by fixing up that old one-shot and see what I'm feeling like when I catch up. Maybe I'll write a "why ship this" essay like I did for HakuHiro too, who knows. Depends on how active the brainworms are and for how long. For now I'm just enjoying the good times and extremely technical matches all over again. The Nishiura boys are all so precious and AbeMiha are the most precious of all.

[divab0dy]

Giving hamzah or art their first handjob🙈🙈💋

Hands on Learning

contains: smut MDNI!!! sub!art, virgin!art, hand job obv, lmk if there's anything else

authors note: okay i really wanted to write this about hamzah but i cannot picture him getting his first hj at his big age. art is pathetic tho i could picture him getting his first kiss at 35. maybe i'll write something similar with hamzah tho!! also side note this is like the worst thing i've ever fucking written so lmk if you want me to rewrite this😭

art had been the sweet kid, always in the shadow of patrick when he came around stanford. dragging art to parties of a school he didn't go to, forcing art to talk to people, guiding him on how to do so. sometimes with patrick feeding him information and things to say, it felt like the people he talked to were more of patrick's than his.

you were the first one who felt like his. he had met you at a party that he didn't go to with patrick. in fact he didn't even tell patrick about you until after he asked you out. he did this all on his own. you were also the only relationship that had ever gone anywhere besides a first date and kiss at the end of the night if he was lucky.

you were in his dorm, making out on his bed, sat up on your knees, next to him, tilting your head down to kiss him. this happened very often, but it never seemed to lead anywhere, he always had some work to do, or something for tennis to be at. you knew he was lying but couldn't quite understand why.

this particular time he seemed to be letting it go on longer than others, his hands wandered down your waist to your hips. you pull back slightly and move to put a hand on his thigh, but stop when you feel something plush. you pull back all the way, realizing that he has a pillow in his lap.

you laugh and he returns with a chuckle, his far more nervous than yours. "sorry," he breathes.

"it's okay. are you nervous?" you rest a hand on this pillow.

"yeah... sorry," he looks away as he speaks.

"do you not want to..." you trail off.

"no! no i do! i just..." now he's trailing off.

"we don't have to do anything you don't want to," you reassure.

"okay yeah... i mean i really want to... i'm just nervous," he sighs, his eyes meeting yours again.

"why don't you let me take this," you tug at the pillow and he allows it. you remove the pillow from his lap and notice how he's tenting in his black tennis shorts.

you kiss him again to distract him, placing a hand on his thigh to hopefully help calm his nerves. he jolts when your hand meets his thigh, not your intended reaction. you push your tongue past his lips, intruding in on his mouth as his does the same to yours.

you move to sit on his lap while he's distracted in the kiss. he reacts instinctively, pushing his hips up into yours and groaning into your mouth. you swallow his moans and return with a few of your own.

he pulls back, "i've never done this before," he blurts.

"never done what?" you reposition yourself, away from his cock, straining through the think material of his shorts.

"i'm like... i'm a virgin," his eyes can't seem to meet yours, his hands suddenly fiddling with the hem of his shirt.

"that's okay... what have you done before?" you try to keep your voice sweet and sincere.

"really nothing... just hmm. just making out." he still can't meet yours eyes.

"we can start real slow of you want," you bring your hand down to rest on his thigh, next to his crotch. you're trying your best to keep your voice light hearted and calm, hiding the fact that you want to tear him apart and eat him alive.

"yeah... i'm really hard," he laughs at his own sentence. is he high? you think to yourself. surely not, you've been with him all day. he's just that out of it from a simple touch.

"okay, you wanna take these off?" you look down to where your fingers are hooked on the elastic of his shorts. he lifts his hips, and you lift yours in turn so that he can shimmy out of them. "yeah boxers too, good job." he's feeling exposed and embarrassed all of a sudden as he tries to tug his shirt down, even though he just purposely exposed himself. "can i touch you?" and boy do you want to do more than touch him. this is a mouth watering, jaw clenching, pussy throbbing sight.

"please," he sighs, his hands gripping at your thighs, trying to ground himself. he feels like if he doesn't hold on, he might drift out the slightly open window of his dorm, into the sky and away forever. you spit on your hand and bring it down to his cock, gently wrapping around the base. he shudders and closes his eyes, he's trying so fucking hard to last more than a stroke. you begin gentle, loose handed, slow. his hips are immediately.

"oh fuck... your hands so soft... feels better." he's so out of it. his eyes are squeezed shut and he's bucking into your loose grasp, body all tense.

"better than what?" you wonder out loud.

"better than my hand, so much better," his hands are gripping tightly at your thighs, rolling the plush flesh in between his fingers and thumbs.

"yeah? you want me to go faster?" you smile at him. he nods. "why don't you open your eyes and look at me hm?" you're voice has a sweetness to it that you didn't even know you had.

his eyes snap open and they're filled with desperation. "mm feels good," his head rolls back and hits the wall. you speed up and his body only jolts more. he's desperately rocking his hips up into your hand. any thought he had before of not wanting to finish early has gone out the window, now he's only chasing pleasure, pure primal instinct. you grip onto his cock tighter, bringing your other hand to play with his tip, fingers dancing around the redish-pink area in circles. it's like you know exactly how to drive him insane, how to touch him just how he needs you to.

"you close artie?" you whisper, kissing his neck.

"so close, so fucking close, gonna cum," he stutters out. you can barely make sense of his words.

"it's okay, you can cum," and with that you grab his balls, giving them a light squeeze, tracing the seam with your thumb.

he's cumming in an instant, all over. your hands, your wrist, his chest, his thighs, dripping down to his balls, you name it. it's everywhere.

"fuck 'm sorry, i meant to... i meant too." the clarity is hitting but at the same time he's never felt so good in his entire fucking life. not even close to that. he can't speak properly and he's still twitching all over.

"i wanted to last longer" he shudders, moving you off of him and pulling up his shorts.

"it's okay artie, you did real good." you smile, cupping his cheek with one hand.

he blushes, embarrassed, but melts into your touch.

[lcvesjj]

Bad Omens - Deacon Kay x Fem!Reader

Based on the song “Bad Omens” by 5SOS

This is part of my ‘song fics’ series :)

Summary : You'd always come in second place to Annie. Maybe you were right. This relationship was a mistake and you should've listened to the warnings. Since he'll always love somebody else..

Warnings : angst, angst, angst & once again angst. no happy ending, breakups, (Deacon gets back w Annie), in this fic Annie & Deacon don't have kids !!!, heart break, talks/mentions of cheating?

NOT BETA READ!

A/n : the fanfic writer curse has really been kicking my ass recently :’) so I wasn’t posting any fics for a while bc of it. But anyways enjoy and as always this is just based on my interpretation of the song/lyrics :) (yes I am incapable of writing a happy ending currently🥲) I might rewrite this someday since I'm not 100% happy with how this has turned out.

word count : 672

song fic masterlist

regular masterlist

Honestly you should've seen it coming. You always knew you'd come second place to Annie. Deacon's high school sweetheart and “one true love”

Deacon always talked about her a lot since they were still good “friends” Even his coworkers would talk about her a lot. You knew you could never compare to Annie, since she was prettier and smarter and just- more Deacon’s type….

You tried your best to get along with Deacon’s friends, since you loved him so much and you wanted this relationship to work out. 

One day you decided to visit Deacon at the SWAT HQ and bring the team some cookies. Walking towards the HQ kitchen you overheard Deacon talking about you. Pausing you stood still listening in to what was being said. 

“I mean I love Y/n but- she's just not Annie yknow? Annie was always so happy and sweet while I feel like recently Y/n has been pulling away from me. What if she's cheating on me?” Deacon said aloud. He had no idea you heard him. You could feel like crying and your heart dropped to your stomach hearing his words. The man you loved so deeply just accused you of cheating on him.

Quickly turning on your heel you rushed out of HQ still holding the plate with cookies you brought. Getting into your car you drove away towards a nearby beach to sit and think.

You always felt like you were in second place in David's life, but hearing him accuse you of cheating just made you feel even worse. Maybe agreeing to this relationship knowing how much he still liked Annie was a mistake...

Deciding to pull out your phone you sent him a quick text saying “We need to talk. It's important.” Before putting your phone on ‘do not disturb’ and driving home. 

Deacon was already waiting at home for you with a worried look on his face and upon seeing you he started asking a million questions as to where you were. 

“I think we should break up.”

You interrupted him, Deacon's face fell and he looked hurt and confused. “But I thought-” You just shook your head no. “This isn't working. I'll never be first place for you. It'll always be Annie since she's your first and only true love. I overheard what you said at the station and I just can't keep doing this. I can't keep on feeling like I'm less important to you.” You said while wiping away a few tears. 

“Y/n sweetheart….that's not true. I love you and you're my number one girl. Annie is just a friend to me. I've known her for so long it wouldn't make sense for me to just cut her off suddenly.” Deacon said while frowning. 

“I'm done. I'm sorry Deac, I'll go pack my things now. I'll come grab the rest of my stuff tomorrow.” You said while heading further into the house and towards your shared bedroom before grabbing a bag and packing some essentials while Deacon just watched with pure heartbreak and anguish written all over his face. “But we can still be friends right?” He asked nervously to which you shook your head. 

“I think it's for the best if for now we don't contact or see each other for some time.” You replied while zipping up your bag. “I'm sorry David.” You said softly while kissing his cheek one last time before heading out of the door. 

It wasn't fair to either you or Deacon. You knew he always loved Annie more. I mean she's perfect…

-

A few weeks later Deacon and Annie started to date again and seeing their new photos on the social media platforms you were still following Deacon on, you felt like crying. You always knew it would probably end up like this. You'd get your heart broken and Deacon would end up with Annie. But at least you broke the cycle of constantly getting your heart broken every time Deacon sang praises about Annie right…?