#and the problem has been sold to you in exaggeration

[sencrose]

— ALL (SIX) EYES ON ME

pairing: gojo satoru x f!idol!reader

tags: slight dubcon/yandere, idol AU, no curses AU, clothed/costume/mirror sex, body worship, sweat kink, armpit licking lol, praise, cunnilingus, pet names (princess, sweetheart, sweetie), satoru's just a little weird in this sorry

wc: 9.2k (ugHGUHGUHGUGHUGHGUHGU)

summary: Everything's lining up. The tickets to your first solo show sold out weeks in advance. Small problem: there's only one person in the audience.

a/n: i don't...? i don't know man. this is extremely self-indulgent, self-ship coded at times, and technically a reeeeally late birthday gift to myself lmfao. makes a lot of references to jp idol culture (once again). if you have any questions my ask box’s open! dividers by @/adornedwithlight. + playlist + ao3 link here.

It’s taken weeks of preparation but it’s finally going to pay off. Countless hours of rehearsal, dancing in dusty studios until your body’s on the verge of dropping, singing until your voice is almost hoarse, but not quite. You know your limits, and you’re not willing to break them before something so crucial.

On the dawn of your birthday, your obligatory solo live has been the only thing on your mind. It can’t be anything short of perfect, especially after the tickets sold out in record speed. The stakes have never been higher. At least when you sell out a venue as a group, you can rely on each other. There’s no one to catch you if you fall here, physically or otherwise.

The green room feels empty without your fellow members to back you up. It’s a bit unnerving, having all this space to yourself, the mirrors reflecting back to you, and just you.

The silence of the room gets to you, so the obvious course of action is to play your set list in the background. You know all of the songs well, singing along gently as you unpack your luggage. Ruffles and frills bounce out as soon as you unzip it. No matter how tightly you attempt to pack your outfit, it seems like it has a mind of its own.

Putting it on was an ordeal in the beginning. Too many straps, too much fabric, too much volume to get lost in. But it’s become a part of you in the past couple of years, a second skin of sorts.

The top, a cropped blouse with a sweetheart neckline, always goes on first before you do your makeup. That was a lesson you learned on your second live when you accidentally stained the collar with foundation. You tug on the zipper, which always gets caught in between a bulky seam, tugging a bit harder when you get there. From there you bring it over your head and awkwardly shift until it’s finally on. It fits snugly once you zip up the side seam, your curves emphasized by the ribbon lacing detail on the side.

Makeup is simple enough, just a bit more extra than your usual day to day. More exaggerated eyeliner, an extra pigmented blush, dramatic eyelashes you still haven’t gotten used to (seriously, it’s distracting when they’re constantly in your periphery). To finish it off, some glitter around the eyes so it sparkles extra bright like the stars in the sky under the stage lights.

Once you’re done, it’s time for the skirt, and it’s always heavier than you think it is. It’s a given though – several layers of circles coming together at the waist, and dozens of yards of ruffled lace hemming each edge. It’d be a scientific anomaly if it weighed any less.

You shimmy your way into the skirt, one leg at a time until the elastic cinches at your waist. With it secured, you jump a couple of times – half to test its stability, and half to just watch the hypnotic bounce of fabric. At this point, it’s customary to do a little spin around in the mirror, lose yourself in the swish of fabric moving like the waves of the ocean, encapsulated around your waist. It’s your favorite part, just watching everything come together, feeling like a real star – even if the venue barely fits a hundred attendees.

All that’s left are finishing details. A ruffly garter that hugs your thigh, soft satin gloves on your hands, and a tiara instead of your usual matching set of bows on your head. Last but not least, a pair of platform boots. It’s still something you’re adjusting too, the weight of them dulling your dance moves just slightly.

When you check your phone, it’s just a few minutes before call time. You neatly pack your casual clothes in your luggage and roll it off to the side before exiting the room. Everything’s so different when you walk the hall alone. It’s a bit lonelier, a bit longer – plain white walls converging to a point you know all too well. You know you’re getting close when the instrumental playing through the speaker gets louder, too loud to ignore, a sign for you to put in your in-ear monitor.

Then you make it there, on the back edge of the stage like you’ve done so many times before, though alone this time. Anxiety beats like a drum in your chest, and you can’t bring yourself to peek through the stage curtains. Curiosity killed the cat after all.

The background instrumental starts, a soft bump of bass rumbles the floor, rattles your body. It’s your cue to go. With the mic held close to your chest, you step out to the stage, bright stage lights blinding you momentarily.

“Good evening everyone! Thanks for coming out tonight, it really-”

Your voice involuntarily stops in its tracks when your vision comes back to you.

The crowd is empty.

Well, almost empty.

A single fan stands tall right in front of you, familiar azure eyes staring a hole into your soul.

You remember him – Satoru. Couldn’t forget him if you tried. His reputation precedes him. If you had to choose a fan who’s dedication bordered on deification, it would be him.

Your fellow members even had a silly nickname for him: Mr. Monopoly. For the frivolous amounts of money he spent on your merch, and how he monopolized your time at every meet and greet by buying out a dozen cheki tickets the moment a performance ended. In fact, there have been a handful of events where he’s the only fan you’ve spoken to.

Despite that, it’s not like he’s creepy or anything. In fact, he’s incredibly normal – from what you can see anyway. Never crosses the line, never goes beyond the casual small talk about performance quality, curious questions about the upcoming release. But something about how much time and money he spends attending your shows keeps you on edge. Someone who spends so much of his life tucked away in dingy live houses can’t exactly be a paragon of society.

But this can’t be right, right? Your heartbeat’s erratic, pounding so hard against your ribcage you’re scared it’s going to crack. Didn’t the venue sell out weeks ago? You remember the congratulations text your manager sent you, the way you bounced off the walls of your bedroom in excitement at the news. That wasn’t fake. And what reason would he have to lie?

Was this some kind of online troll campaign? There’s always a possibility, but you’re quick to write it off. You’ve never been the topic of any notable online conversation, positive or negative. For once, your habitual ego surfing escapades pay off.

The wave of Satoru’s dazzling penlights snaps you out of your mental spiral, albeit still shaken.

“Um, it really means the world to me.” The words come out shakier than before.

You’re a professional.

It’s the only thought repeating in your mind, a hamster running on a wheel with no end in sight. You hope it rings true.

“Anyways, since it’s my birthday,” you continue, your voice still unstable. Your eyes wander around the room only to confirm nobody else is here, save for your manager, who’s also playing the role of bartender for tonight. The reality of the situation sinks in a little more, your heart dull and heavy.

“I thought we could get started with a solo cover of one of my favorite singles.” There was originally more you wanted to say, but your words elude you. Everything comes out cold, monotonous. “I really hope you enjoy it. Thank you.”

Satoru cheers and you swear it nearly bursts your ear drums, roaring like a tiger’s battle cry.

The instrumental starts, a hum of stringed chords hits your ears and you break into your starting pose, a smile beaming on your face despite the hurt in your heart. You know this dance like the back of your hand, but it feels uneasy performing in an unfamiliar setting. Lost somewhere in the in between; not quite alone in a dance studio, but not performing to the crowds you’ve grown used to.

There isn’t the usual weight to your moves, slightly deflated like a balloon that’s been left out for hours. The irony isn’t lost on you, singing about staying strong in the face of adversity under the soul crushing weight of disappointment.

You can hear him inhale, suck in dramatically like a child preparing to hold their breath underwater, only to let out a barrage of chants. The usual calls, about you being his favorite, about how cute you are. If this was backed by an army of fans, it would inspire you. But for the moment, it’s a bitter reminder of what could have been. It’s hard. You don’t want to be ungrateful, but you were expecting a bit more for your big day.

It happens before you realize it, glassy eyes forming tears when you blink.

The slight moistening of your eyes doesn’t go unnoticed by Satoru, and his calls start to change. He’s improvising, his words customized solely for you. Clapping in triplets, shouting lines of encouragement at the pause between lyrics. From woo woos to ‘you can do it!’, from oo-ah oo-ahs to “I’ll cheer you on”, from hey heys to “my oshi’s the best!”

It’s hard to not feel touched by his efforts. You’ve grown as a performer, him as a supporter, alongside each other. It warms your heart a little. You’re caught by surprise when you hear yourself giggle in between the lyrics. To be acknowledged is its own reward. What originated from sadness morphs into something else entirely. A fire in your heart, rekindled. Even if no one else showed up, Satoru would always be here. And maybe that’s enough for you.

It’s common practice to choose a spot in the audience to look at, not making direct eye contact with anyone. But nobody tells you what to do when you’re performing to an audience of one. How do you stop yourself from being pulled into Satoru’s form, so bright and radiant he lights up the room?

The song finishes with a flourish, and you hold your pose for a moment just as you’ve practiced. You finally recollect yourself, chest visibly rising and falling from exhaustion.

“S-sorry about that.” You take a moment to wipe your tears as best as you can with the back of your arm. It’s hard not to mess up your makeup, and you can only hope there aren’t trails of black falling down your cheeks. You sniffle, careful not to do so in the mic, but you’re sure he hears considering he’s only a few feet away. “As long as someone’s here, the show will go on. So let’s have lots of fun tonight!”

He cheers at that, lifting his penlight and spinning it around in his hand. A single star in the endless night sky.

“The next song is something I haven’t performed in a long time.” You walk around the stage, your eyes never leaving Satoru’s gaze. “I don’t think I’ve performed it since debuting.”

Satoru gasps upon hearing, humming like a bee from excitement.

“So if you know it, I would love to hear you sing along.” You set your arms down to your side, turning around to face the back of the stage. This song was from the beginning of your journey, a bit more experimental and leaning on the side of cyber pop. Buzzy synths and blocky eight bit pads echo throughout the room, and it rumbles throughout your body. Something about it is more intense than you’re used to, the way the instrumental has no choice but to bounce off the walls and back into you. How it shakes your very being.

It’s easy to get lost in the stage backdrop, an endless sea of black. But when you turn and see your lone fan, lightstick in hand, it’s as if you’re a lost ship guided home by the draw of a lighthouse’s lamp.

Even if you haven’t performed this routine on stage in a year, it feels right. Like this was how it was always meant to be performed. Singular rhythmic claps, Satoru’s roaring voice piercing through your in-ear monitor.

As soon as the first words leave your lips, it brings you back. Back to a time when you and your group were still starting off. To the nearly empty rooms on a Friday night, to the countless hours you’d spend standing on busy streets handing out flyers to promote your show. The first time you ran into Satoru.

Late afternoon in Akihabara. Spring had just come in full bloom, bringing along a litter of cherry blossom petals on the pavement and the accompanying hordes of tourists. It had been a long day, then again, most of those days were long days. The heat always found a way to get to you when you’re standing in your costumes for hours at a time, competing alongside all the other dressed up girls promoting their respective maid cafes and idol groups. Then there were the faceless crowds ignoring you every time you gestured for them to take a flyer, to come to your show. It was the pinnacle of demoralizing work, really.

Satoru was just a faceless being until he stopped in his tracks, the first and only person to talk to you that day.

“Is this tonight?” he asked, his glasses slightly pointed downward just enough so you could see that magnificent blue of his eyes.

“Y-yes. It’d be great if you could come cheer us on,” you responded with a smile.

He took the flyer without a word, folding and putting it in his pocket and you assumed that was that. You didn’t actually expect to see him again. But you did.

When he came to your performance, you didn’t pay him much mind, and you assumed he did the same with you. He stuck out like a sore thumb, choosing to stand towards the back of the room and avoiding the handful of fans at the front, arms crossed as if he didn’t want to be there despite paying for the (admittedly hefty) entry fee.

Yet at the end of the show, he lined up at the counter. Bought only a single cheki ticket to meet with you, to tell you he enjoyed the show, that he looked forward to the next one. You didn’t believe him, but sure enough he showed up at the next concert. And then a single ticket turned into two. And then three, four, until it snowballed into the dozen ticket minimum you recognize him by today.

And now he’s here. Cheering you on so enthusiastically you can practically feel the passion oozing off of him. Oh, how times change.

The song’s over before you know it. It takes you a moment to return from your trip down memory lane.

“Wow, what a throwback, huh?” you sigh dreamily, reminiscing on the past, on how far you’ve come. “I think it’s actually my first time hearing anyone mix to it.”

Gratitude rises and swells in your heart like a river during a rainstorm, nowhere to escape but your lips. It overrides any rational thought in your brain. The words spill faster than you can catch them. “Thank you for being here, Satoru.” With that, you break the number one taboo of addressing anyone directly in the audience.

“Anything for you,” he says softly, smiling and tilting his head just slightly. He doesn’t need to shout or project his voice any further, he knows you hear him. Maybe it’s just the lighting, or your mind playing tricks on you, but you swear the whites of his teeth glimmer.

Heat darts to your cheeks, feverish, and it’s not from the oppressive stage lighting. Your next words do nothing to help.

“This next song,” you pause, “is a love song. Kind of.”

Satoru responds, a scandalous and elongated, “Ooooh?”

Your rehearsed speech falls apart with the reaction Satoru gives you. It wasn’t this awkward when you were practicing it in the mirror, but this feels too direct of a conversation. Expectant, adoring eyes look up at you, waiting with bated breath.

“I, I mean it’s more about following your dreams,” you continue, flustered and taking long, aimless steps across the stage before turning back to face him, “there’s love in that, right?”

“There is!” he says, waving his penlight in the air side to side.

“I’m glad you agree. Well, if you know this song, I would love to hear you sing along.”

That goes without saying. As soon as the instrumental blasts through the speakers, Satoru’s chanting his heart out. A hope intertwined that you’ll listen to him, hear him for who he really is.

Satoru’s energy shows no sign of declining, his voice still as thunderous as when the show started. Your voice guides him along, an adventure navigating between chiptune keys and artificial strings, until it reaches the bridge. A flurry of sugary sweet synths buzz, racing to a climax together. Satoru inhales to prepare for the speech to come.

“I have something to confess!”

This is far from the first time you’ve heard this speech, it’s a staple of the culture after all. But this is the first time it’s been so clear. No one else to muddle his voice. Satoru, and just Satoru.

When he’s the only one in the audience, you decide to indulge him. Bending down on one knee, cupping your hand behind your ear.

“Tell me, tell me!” you exclaim back, voice as sweet as the melody playing through the speakers.

“My oshi really is the cutest!”

It’s a back and forth, and it feels much more like a conversation than it normally would. The words bounce between the two of you so naturally, like a tennis ball during a rally.

“Really really?” You play into it, faux shock weaved into your tone.

“I like her, I like her, I really do love her!” Satoru chants it rhythmically, trance-like. Each syllable is aimed crystal clear, an arrow with startling accuracy shooting you in the heart.

“Do you, do you?”

“I’ve found my princess!”

It’s hard to pose, but you manage to give him a little curtsy before pointing at your tiara. With Satoru chanting his affections to you, you truly feel like royalty tonight.

“Did you, did you?” you respond, tilting your head with a smile.

“She’s my reason for living!”

No matter how many times you tell yourself that the two of you are practically relaying a script, you think there’s a morsel of truth behind his words.

“Is she, is she?”

“Let’s walk through this life together!”

It shouldn’t have such an effect on you, you’ve heard it plenty of times before. From other concerts, from larger crowds. But it does. It has you smiling so wide your cheeks start to ache.

That’s new. When was the last time that happened?

“Let’s go, let’s go!”

Maybe you’re crossing a line when you extend your arm further, his lips so close to the mic you can feel his breath on it. Not that Satoru seems to mind. If anything, his eyes sparkle a bit brighter, his smile eclipsing any doubt in your head.

“I love you!” Satoru yells so loud the volume of it makes you wince. For just a fraction of a second, your smile drops before you place it back on, a well-worn mask. If you didn’t know any better, you would assume this was a real confession.

“L-O-V-E Y-O-U!” It's just how the call ends, but it feels like he’s spelling it out for you with intention in every letter, just in case you didn’t hear him the first time.

With the end of the chant you’re thrown into the last chorus, getting off the floor and resuming your choreo. Satoru resumes to the usual chants, as if he wasn’t yelling something reminiscent of a love confession.

A kick and a pose and that marks the end of the third song of the night. Something about Satoru’s cheers are electrifying, static shooting through every fiber of your being. It takes you a moment to catch your breath before taking a bow.

“And now for the last song of the night,” you pant into the mic, breathless.

“Ehhhh?” A long, high-pitched whine, as is customary when the night’s almost over.

“I know, I know. It’s always sad when things come to an end, isn’t it?”

“But let’s make the most of this together! I want to hear you put everything you got on the line!” you scream into the mic, as if there’s more than a single pair of ears to take in your words.

Satoru cheers wildly at that.

“And I hope I’ll see you at the next event!” you exclaim, waving your spare hand before getting into position.

A guitar riff, followed by a soft bass announces your last song of the night. The notes dance on your skin and you welcome the sensation, taking them in and returning them ten fold. The ruffles of your skirt brush against your thighs as you roll your hips, entrancing like a bird’s mating ritual.

You thought you’d never get sick of the view of a crowd, but there’s a new contender rising in the ranks of your favor. As you circle around the stage in preparation for the chorus, Satoru also seems to be planning something. As soon as the words leave your mouth, Satoru mirrors your dance, penlights shining brightly in hand. Every jump, every sway of your hips, he meets you there.

You’re supposed to be the star of the show but he’s caught your attention, outshining your glow.

As the last chorus makes its round, the words escape a bit more desperate, dancing the line between singing and wailing. Despite everything that’s happened, you’re having fun, maybe some of the most fun you’ve had performing thus far. You’re not sure you want this to end.

With his hands armed with penlights between his fingers, he swipes swiftly across the air, as if he’s cutting the space in between. One, two, three large circles in quick succession before kneeling on the floor, pose akin to an over-dramatic archer. From there on, every spot he hits in the air is calculated, as if he’s aiming for a bullseye on a dartboard before his hands move down to his side. Then, a pulse of motion before he aggressively spins his lightsticks in the air. Swinging low, left, right, left, bringing up his lightsticks past his head, before repeating the motion all over again.

It’s silly. He’s silly. It’s another side of him you haven’t seen before, despite him being such a dedicated fan. Maybe the crowd was just a distraction from seeing Satoru for who he really was.

Maybe it’s a good thing they aren’t here.

That breaks your train of thought. You know you shouldn’t be thinking of him like this – it’s unprofessional. This doesn’t stop the thought from lurking in the background, from reappearing on the surface when you meet his gaze, see the way he smiles for you and–presumably–only you.

As the instrumental fades, you shoot your hands up, gently bringing them down with a graceful flair, pausing when they reach hip height.

Even after a performance of his own, Satoru still cheers with the same momentum from the start of the night. His energy truly knows no bounds.

“Thanks again for coming, I really appreciate it,” you breathe into the mic heavily, your exhaustion now catching up to your body.

“I really had so much fun performing today. I hope we’ll see each other at the next live!” You thank your single fan of the night with a 90 degree bow, before running to gather supplies for the meet and greet session. And knowing Satoru, he will be participating.

As soon as you finish speaking, Satoru’s quick to walk to the counter, as if there’s a tangible chance anything is going to sell out. An exchange of words and bills and he comes bearing a handful of tickets – his usual.

Before you’ve even finished setting things up, Satoru walks up to the stage. There’s no need to wait to be called up when you’re the only performer here, him the only fan.

He waits patiently as you grab a small table and a pack of paint markers hiding behind one end of the stage.

“Thanks for coming, Satoru!” You reach out to grab his hand.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” He meets your gaze.

“How did you enjoy the show?”

“Do you even need to ask?”

“I guess not,” you chuckle, “I’m glad you had fun.”

You gesture your manager to come over, and he speedwalks over with an instax camera in hand.

“I know it’s your birthday, but could I ask for something?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Could I…” he trails off, a contemplative look painting his face as he chooses his next words.

“Yeah?” you ask, raising an eyebrow and gesturing for him to continue.

“Could I put my arm around you for this one?” he asks, with newfound confidence.

Your ears perk up at the question. “You’re not gonna post it anywhere, right?”

“‘Course not. You have my word.” He pats his hand against his chest and gives you a reassuring smile.

You give a contemplative glance to your manager holding the polaroid camera, who gives you a shrug.

“Okay, but only this once.”

Then you break a second taboo, letting a fan touch you past a fleeting handshake, the connecting fingers of a heart.

His arm wraps around your waist and you do the same to him. It’s no surprise he’s warm, which makes sense considering he’s been dancing around just as much as you, if not more. However, it is a surprise you’ve never noticed how nice he smells. Then again, live venues aren’t exactly conducive to scents that aren’t sweat and dust.

With a bright flash, the polaroid hums as it prints out the photo. Satoru doesn’t linger, even though you think he would. And when his touch leaves, you almost wish you savored his warmth a bit longer before shaking the thought out of your head.

Every other pose he asks for is within the realm of normal. Several different hand heart variants, cat paws, the occasional silly pose thrown into the mix. It almost feels like a couples shoot. Almost. Pose after pose, flash after flash and you’re left with a handful of polaroids to sign, laid out in a messy array on the table.

“What was your favorite part?” you ask.

At this point, you think you have him figured out. Though Satoru has been to several shows, his answer usually boils down to a few options when you sift through all the embellishments and wordy rambles. Your performance, your outfit, your energy, and –

“Having you all to myself.”

That catches you by surprise.

For the first time since the beginning of the night, your composure cracks. It takes a moment for your mind to catch up with the situation and attempt to put a smile on your face again, but your voice comes out cold and distant.

“Huh?”

“How’d you like your birthday gift?” he asks, ignoring your confusion.

“Gift? Like performing?” you ask back, shaking the paint pen to get ready to sign the polaroid. You look back at him with a wavering smile. “It was fun.”

“No, no, not that.” Satoru waves his hand in front of his face and shakes his head. “Your first sold out live! I bought all the tickets.”

Your hand seizes in the middle of writing, a growing blob of paint forming where the pen is pushed down against the film. There’s no air to be found in your lungs, as if the entirety of the concert hits you all at once. When you find it in yourself to look at him, he stands there with his usual innocent smile painted on his face, patiently awaiting your reaction.

You clear your throat before finally speaking. “Really?”

“Really,” he says with ease, almost prideful at the fact.

The idea of him spending thousands on selling out a show seems implausible, but then again it is Satoru. If anyone were to do something so ridiculous, it would be him.

A nervous laugh escapes you, your mind a whirlwind of thoughts. It feels like you’re on a tightrope, a delicate balance to toe between professionalism and fanservice.

“You like me that much?” It’s a true, honest question. You finally lift the pen off the film, frowning slightly at the pool of paint on the picture.

“Of course!”

You don’t know how to respond to that. There’s no training guide on handling situations like this, but there really should be. You choose your next words carefully, falling back on something safe, distant.

“Thank you for your continued support.” The words come out hesitantly, robotic, like you’re reading off a script.

“Anything for you,” he responds warmly, seemingly unaffected by your tone.

If you heard this at one of your usual concerts, you wouldn’t have paid it much mind – just one of those casual comments a fan says to their oshi. Now, his words have some weight. It’s not something you feel comfortable holding.

But a twinge of guilt hits your heart when you look at him, when he still smiles with admiration on his face, like you’re the one who hung the moon and stars in the night sky. Maybe you’re being too harsh on him; different fans show their support in different ways after all. Hell, you’re sure some of your members would kill to have a fan like him.

Regardless, it’s still hard to shake off the uneasiness that plagues your chest, even harder to come back from a conversation like this.

“Have you considered doing more solo activities?” Satoru asks, ignorant of the thoughts that plague you.

“Eh?” You jerk at his words, not expecting him to carry the conversation. “Not really,” you respond while drawing an assortment of random doodles across the polaroids. The usual decorations, hearts, sparkles, confetti, what have you.

“You really should, I’d be the first to cheer you on!” he says with a smile that puts the sun to shame and that twinge of guilt hits you again. Here he is supporting you in earnest, and you’re judging him for it.

“Would you now?” you attempt to joke but it comes out a bit shaky.

“Of course!” he exclaims, your unease going seemingly unnoticed.

“Well, if I ever do, I’ll be looking forward to seeing you there,” you respond with a soft smile before moving on to labeling the pictures with the date and your signature.

“You promise?” He holds out his pinky, waiting for you to reciprocate. You take a moment to ponder before raising your hand to meet his.

“Promise,” you reply, intertwining your pinkies together. The visible glee on Satoru’s face is a sight to behold. Part of you wonders if he only shows this side of himself to you.

“Oh, I think they should be dry, but still be careful with them.”

“I know, I know, wouldn’t let anything bad happen to them.” He holds them gingerly as you hand them off to him, as if he’s holding a newborn puppy in the palm of his hands.

“Have a nice night, Satoru.”

“You too. See you soon!”

----

The activities of the night catch up to your body when you make it to the green room, plopping on to the vanity chair. If you landed any harder or the chair was any cheaper, you’re sure it would’ve broken from the way you tossed your dead weight onto it. You spin around aimlessly on the chair, staring up at the ceiling as a form of decompression. All you need is a moment to recollect yourself after the emotional roller coaster of a night.

A knock on the door and your back immediately straightens, posture prim and proper as can be. Your manager opens the door, barely peeking through to greet you.

“Hey, good job tonight,” he comments, opening the door fully once he sees you’re just lounging around.

“Thanks.”

“I’ve finished closing up, so just turn off the lights when you head out.”

“Yup, got it.” You give your manager a thumbs up and a smile, and he takes it as a sign to leave.

Before he has the chance to close the door shut, you grab his attention, a question burning in your head. “Hey.”

“Yeah?” he responds, opening the door again so you can see him face to face.

“Was the concert really sold out?”

“Yep,” he states matter-of-factly, “you should get your cut by next week.”

The pay is the last thing on your mind.

“Okay.” It comes out hushed, strained.

“Anything else?” he asks, tapping his fingers against the door.

You ponder it for a moment, but you’re not sure you want to bring up your concerns to him, if it’s worth the fight. What are you supposed to say? The walking piggy bank that sponsored the entirety of your performance makes you just a tad uneasy? But then again, he’s probably just a nice and honest fan. He might have an interesting way of showing it, but at the end of the day he’s proved himself to be harmless. You don’t see a solution that doesn’t lead to an extreme, and you don’t necessarily want to punish him for his support. So you bite your tongue, letting your thoughts stir and simmer.

“No,” you sigh, resigned.

“Alright, then,” he says, none the wiser, “have a nice night.”

“You too.”

You plop back onto your seat with a groan. The desire to relax for another moment outweighs the desire to get out of your costume. It’s easy to find yourself lost in thought, daydreaming about being back home, taking a nice hot bath to relax your sore muscles.

There’s another knock on your door.

“I’ll be out in a few, just give me a moment-”

The door opens with a slow creak.

It’s not your manager.

“Oh, Satoru!” you say, shock coursing through your body as you jump up from your seat, “What are you doing here?”

“I just wanted to see you off,” he says, as if it’s normal for him to be back here. Didn’t your manager close up? He would’ve seen him and kicked him out, right?

“I thought we said our goodbyes earlier,” you respond, voice an octave higher than usual. It only comes out when you’re trying your best to defuse a situation. “You know, at the meet and greet portion?”

“I know, I know,” he says, waving his hands as if he’s shooing away your comment, casually walking towards you.

You don’t think he actually knows.

“But we had such a good time, didn’t we?” he asks, taking another step forward to close the distance between the two of you.

“I mean, yeah! But there’s a-”

“What if we let it continue?” he interrupts, “your birthday isn’t over yet.” He glances over at the clock and your eyes follow. 10:12pm. The second hand moves slower than you’d like.

“It’s your special day isn’t it? Let me treat you.” His body presses closer against yours. The pressure makes you more aware of his height against yours, of the muscular build you feel through the thin layer of fabric.

You can’t bring yourself to look at him, not this close. “I’m not sure if this is a line I should cross, Satoru,” you mumble, an attempt to convince yourself to abide by the silent oath all idols take when they first get on stage and declare themselves entertainers – be as innocent as possible. No male friends, no dating, and certainly no hookups.

“You don’t have to cross anything,” he says, voice low. His face is dangerously close to yours, and your heart skips a beat when you realize just how beautiful he is – the tufts of white carefully brushing across his forehead, the glint of sweat that makes his skin glisten, and those hypnotic crystalline eyes of his, glimmering with devotion just for you. “I’ll cross it for you.”

Without any warning, his lips press against yours, and it’s nothing like what you expected. Nothing like the crazed, enthused fan you’re used to seeing. It’s gentle, sweet. The taste of melon soda sits on his lips.

The moment your lips part to say something, Satoru takes the opportunity to slip his tongue in, teasingly pressing against yours. His hand grabs yours before you can react, fingers intertwining until it represents something romantic. You feel your defenses slipping as his other hand grabs your chin to deepen the kiss.

You hate to admit it, but he’s a good kisser. Somehow, it comes so naturally with him. A dance shared between the two of you, except there’s no stage platform keeping you apart. He’s right here, not an inch of space to be found between your bodies. Everything about him overwhelms you – his gentle hand holding yours, the softness of his lips, the way he nearly whimpers with every kiss, needy and desperate for more.

Satoru’s knee pushes against your thighs, pressing to split your legs apart until your crotch rests on top of him.

“Let me spoil you,” he pleads, out of breath.

It’s far from the end, it’s just the beginning. A love letter to each part of your body, delicately inked with the utmost care.

His lips bite the tip of your right glove, gripping the fabric before pulling off to reveal your bare hands. The sight sends heat rushing to your core, seeing him hold the glove between his lips before spitting it out. When you cover your face with your gloved hand from embarrassment, Satoru meets you there. A soft nip at your finger before peeling the other glove off your hand, eyes looking up at you with something dark, something low. You don’t recognize it.

Once your hands are bare, he holds them gently. No excited death grip like the first time he held them at a meet and greet.

“I’m so lucky I get to hold these cute hands of yours.” Open mouth kisses from the tip of your fingers, slowly making their way up your forearm, your bicep, until he meets your shoulder.

“W-wait, Satoru, I’m still kinda sweaty, let me-”

“You think that bothers me? I love every part of you.” He drags his tongue up your forearm again before kissing and sucking on the skin. “And I really do mean every part.”

Over the months, you’ve learned that Satoru is many things, but he’s not a liar. The way he explores every inch of your body is filled with admiration. You feel it in the way he leaves messy kisses on your skin, nearly moaning when he licks the sweat off you.

When he brings your arms up, you pick up on what he’s going to do next and rush to get your words out. “W-wait, S-Satoru it’s kinda gross, isn’t it?”

“Not to me,” he says it like it’s an undeniable truth, “but if you think so, then I’ll just have to clean you up, right?” As if to prove his point, Satoru flicks his tongue before dragging a stripe against the curve of your underarm. From there he licks the droplets off of you like a man at the brink of dehydration who just found an oasis. He’s messy and wet, leaving nothing behind but his spit as he licks up anything and everything perspired from your body. “Tastes sweet to me.”

With that he goes in for the other side, once again lapping at your sweat like it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted. Even when he’s licked up all there is to be savored, he’s not finished until he leaves sloppy kisses, sucking and nipping at the skin. He bites a little too hard for your liking, earning a yelp from you.

“Sorry, couldn’t help myself, you taste so good,” Satoru’s quick to apologize, looking at you with a cheeky smile, “wanted to have a bite to myself.”

And then he’s squatting onto his knees, hands delicately massaging your thigh as he looks up at you to ask, “could you lift your skirt for me, sweetheart?”

You comply, bringing up the hem of your skirt. Since you haven’t started your undressing process of the night, you’re still wearing your safety shorts. Satoru doesn’t seem to mind, basking at the sight of your upper thighs he’s only caught glimpses of when you jump on stage.

“You don’t need this with me.” He pulls on the hem of your shorts, swiftly bringing them down to your ankles, as if he’s unwrapping a present with a pull of a bow.

You’re not sure if it’s a good or bad thing that you can’t see him under your skirt, getting lost in the layers of crinoline and ruffles that blend in with his hair. It adds a layer of anticipation, being unable to see what exactly he’s doing, though you’re not sure if you would be able to look at him even without the barrier of the skirt.

Satoru starts low, plush lips pressed against your ankle, tongue tracing up your calf and leaving a wet kiss on your thigh. One moment you feel a hint of teeth around your garter, and the next you feel it loosen and fall to your feet.

Feeling too exposed, you instinctively press your legs together – not that this stops Satoru.

His tongue presses against the seam created from your thighs pressed against each other, and a soft moan slips from your lips.

“If you want more, you’ll have to open up,” he pants breathily, planting another open mouthed kiss on your leg.

There’s an aching want growing in your core, burning hot unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. When he looks up at you, you recognize the way his eyes glimmer with determination. You think you can trust him to tame it. And though Satoru was the first to cross the line, you aren’t any better.

You hesitantly shuffle your legs apart, unable to meet his eyes, waiting nervously for what’s to come.

Satoru is quick to take the opportunity.

He dives in, tongue pressed against the cotton of your underwear. His tongue rolls against your clit through the fabric, and you desperately wish the thin layer wasn’t there.

“Working so hard for me,” he coos, talking directly into your pussy, “you deserve a little treat.”

You want to protest that you’d work hard even if he wasn’t there, but you’re not sure that’s true anymore. The only sound that leaves your mouth is a whine as his tongue ghosts over your clit.

The wet sounds that echo throughout the room fills you with embarrassment, and you’d be regretting it if it didn’t feel so damn good. You don’t remember the last time you felt like this. Satoru’s just too skilled, his tongue pressing flat against your clit before flicking and you respond with a choked back whine.

It shouldn’t matter, you’ve crossed the line already. But there’s something about letting him hear you like this that sets your face ablaze.

Satoru’s fingers press against your folds through the fabric, spreading them apart before his tongue hones in on your clit. Each drag of his tongue draws shapes onto the bundle of nerves with intention. If you could think properly, maybe you’d be able to make out the letters, another confession of his love to you.

Only once your underwear is thoroughly soaked with a mix of his spit and your arousal, does he pull the fabric to the side. Your breath hitches at the sudden exposure, the cold air of the room fanning against your skin. The sensation doesn’t last long as Satoru’s face enthusiastically presses into your cunt. Everything about it is too much; the way his nose presses against your clit, his tongue lapping messily between your folds.

A finger slips in with little resistance around the ring of muscle and you can’t hold your moans back anymore.

“You like that?” he asks.

You give him a shy nod.

“Then lemme hear more of you,” he says, before planting his face back into your pussy.

The sounds get louder as he practically makes out with your pussy. Lips pressed against your clit before a sliver of tongue makes its way out, teasing you with a flick.

Satoru slips in another finger and you groan at the fullness. You knew his hands were large, you’ve felt them before countless times during your post-concert handshakes. Maybe you should’ve taken a longer look at them, analyzed them more thoroughly. The thought never crossed your mind that he would use them like this, knuckles deep into your cunt.

The way he explores your body scares you. How he knows where to press to get a reaction, how to hook his fingers to get you to lean into his touch. As if he absorbed anything and everything there is to know about you through your fleeting moments together. His fingers curl and hit a spot that has you weak in the knees, leaning back onto the counter to find balance.

“Wait, please,” you whine, high pitched and needy. It gets harder to keep your skirt up for him, legs weak from his ministrations.

“Hey, I said keep it up, didn’t I?” he pauses, taking a moment to look up at you from the ruffles.

“I-I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about, gorgeous. Just wanna see your face when you cum on my tongue.” With that, he goes back in, far more aggressive than before. His fingers move faster, drawing out wet squelches from your pussy with each pass. The noises he makes are far too lewd for your ears, slurping and groaning as he laps at your clit. This is more the Satoru you recognize, the one you saw earlier tonight. Satoru, who loses himself in the heat of the moment, who eats you out like a man starved.

It’s obvious you’re close with how much your legs tighten. Satoru senses this too, his pace intensifying to get you there.

“Let it all out for me sweetie,” he pants into your cunt between flicks of his tongue. That winding coil in your core snaps and the grip around your skirt tightens as you cum on his tongue. You can’t hold your moans back, letting them messily spill from your mouth as a warm pleasure rushes through your body.

Satoru doesn’t stop, even after the moans have left your body and your muscles have started to relax again. Your heart races at the realization that he wants more.

“Please, please, please, it’s too much-”

“It’s okay, I know you can do it,” he coos, far too sweetly for what he’s asking for you,“lemme give you another, ok?”

Your legs tremble, muscles spasming as his tongue works around your clit in earnest, swirling around the nub as his fingers continue to press against your g-spot. He doesn’t relent when you hand grips onto his hair – if anything it encourages him to go harder. Whatever it takes to get you closer to clenching around his fingers and moan for him in that saccharine voice of yours.

And it works – almost hurts when you cum around his fingers a second time without so much a break. You can’t stop yourself from moaning his name, nearly on the same level of adoration he gives you during your concerts. Satoru seems to be getting a kick out of it, his breathing becoming more labored the more you call for him.

When he takes his fingers out, you wince at the feeling, still sensitive from your orgasms. Your legs threaten to give out on you, but Satoru’s quick to wrap his hand around your waist.

“You did so good for me,” he rushes in to kiss you, and the taste of melon soda barely lingers. You taste yourself– a bit bitter and salty–on his lips, on his tongue when you open and entice him to take you.

Satoru pulls on the elastic of your skirt, raising it up until it’s past your waist. The hem of your skirt now barely covers your exposed pussy, the ruffles brushing it against it as you shift.

He turns and bends you over the vanity, the mirror’s lights shining brightly in your face. It’s not that far off from stage lighting — white rings reflected back in your pupils as you stare back at your reflection.

“You know how cute you are?” he whispers into your ear, so close you can feel the warmth from his words. “Look what you’ve done to me.”

You can’t exactly look back to see it, but you feel it. Something solid pressed against you, wrapped in the cotton of his pants, sliding in between your wet folds. It only takes a moment for him to free himself from the confine of fabric, to feel something hot and heavy and real pushing against you.

“You don’t know how long I’ve dreamed of this,” he says, cockhead sitting on top of your folds. Just feeling you, skin to skin, earns a visceral reaction from him. He can’t stop himself from moaning at the warmth of your cunt, even when it’s just the tip sinking in.

Satoru savors every moment of pushing himself into you, hands shaking as he searches to hold yours. The sound you let out once he bottoms out is foreign to your ears. It stretches you out so much you regret not turning around to get a good look at it.

Satoru starts slow, but you can feel the restraint in his movements. A languid roll of his hips as he fucks into you, littering your neck with kisses. You attempt to tell him not to bite, but all you can let out is a sweet moan when he does.

The drag of his cock against your walls is dangerously addictive, like you could be hooked on this forever. And though it feels good, it’s not enough. His strokes are teasingly slow, as if he wants you to ask for more.

Again, Satoru stumps you by showing how much self control he has. If his wotagei was anything to go off of, you were expecting something frenzied and manic. But you do see a part of his passion reflected in his actions. In the way his words leave his tongue, honeyed and sweet. In the way he fucks you with a tenderness you weren’t sure he would ever be capable of.

“Feelin’ good?”

“Mmhm,” you nod, attempting to hold your voice back from sounding any lewder.

Satoru’s eyes watch over you through the reflection, corners of his lips upturned as you lose yourself into him, voice nothing but dulcet moans. A rush of red rises to his cheeks, making him burn brighter than before.

“God, you’re going to be the end of me,” Satoru groans, his chest pressing against your back until there’s no space left between your bodies, the heat radiating off of him making it feel like you’re melting. With the way he’s rolling his hips into you, you might as well be. Each drag of his cock makes you dizzy, makes you wish you threw your ideals to the side far sooner.

It just feels too good; part of you wonders if this is how lovers do. Maybe not in this particular location or situation, but in the way his hand reaches over to yours. Fingers finding each other and intertwining once again, as if this was always the way it was meant to be. Something drums up in your heart – you don’t want to let go. Desire unfurls in your chest and you want to live in the moment, but you also wish you could bottle it up and save it forever, especially when his soft lips gently kiss your neck before biting to leave yet another mark.

As sweet as it is, you think you’re getting a bit greedy. You want to see more, want to see the Satoru you’ve come to appreciate in all his frenzied affection. With the way he’s moving so slow, he has to be testing you, right? A way to make you say the magic words just so he can hear them, the tone and pitch of your voice, the way you enunciate every syllable so sweetly, commit them to memory. Or maybe he thinks you can’t handle it, in which case, you want to show him you can. A way of thanking him for his years of support.

You don’t do it on purpose – you just can’t help it, looking at him all doe-eyed and a slight pout to your lips. “S-Satoru, harder,” you whine, and something breaks in him. Any ounce of self control goes out the window as soon as you mutter those words.

“Whatever you say, princess,” he mewls, arms wrapping around your lower waist.

His fingers search for your clit, flipping through the layers of ruffles before pressing onto the bud. Within moments he’s playing with it like it’s all he’s ever known, until he has you whining and wincing from his touch. Drawing rough shapes around the bundle of nerves until your muscles squeeze around him.

He starts fucking into you harder, the sound of skin slapping far too loud to ignore. Your hand grips onto his harder, skin balmy from the sweat and heat emanating from both of you.

“You like that, princess?” he asks in a huff, barely able to contain his lust.

All you’re able to let out is a whimper and a nod, and Satoru takes it as a sign to continue.

You don’t recognize yourself in the reflection, tiara crooked, stage outfit unkempt, the debauched expressions you make as your number one fan fucks you senseless. But it doesn’t matter – there’s only one thing on your mind at this very moment, that hot tension in your stomach rapidly rolling towards its peak.

“S-Satoru, I’m, I’m gonna cum-”

“Cum for me,” Satoru growls breathily into your ear, gently kissing the shell before continuing, “let it all out just for me.”

When your climax washes over you, it’s far more intense than the others he’s given you tonight. Legs trembling as pure bliss rushes throughout your body, even as Satoru continues fucking you through it. It’s too much, moaning his name as a way to talk yourself through it. Every part of you is warm and fuzzy as pleasure runs its course.

Satoru isn’t far behind, he’d probably want this to last longer but he just can’t – not with the way your walls clench and squeeze around him. With a few more strokes he’s burying himself deep into you, huffing and panting as he empties hot, white ropes of his seed into you.

It takes a moment to peel away from him, and the second you do, he’s quick to tighten his grasp around you, to hold you in your arms just a bit longer.

Satoru gives you a kiss on the cheek, something gentle and chaste.

“Did you like your present?”

[ylangelegy]

all of the while, it was you ꩜ hyunjin x reader.

── .✦ 💌 reader uses she/her pronouns. includes: idol!hyunjin, café owner!reader, feelings realization, freeform, time skips, fluff, coffee shops & cafés, slice of life, skz ensemble.

── .✦ 🚏 i know the "i-had-no-idea-you-were-an-idol" trope is one of the oldest, most worn clichés in the book, but sometimes you have to release the corny fic into the world so it can stop haunting you 🙂↕️ the title is from landon pigg's falling in love at a coffee shop. originally posted on ao3, but then i orphaned it (lol) so here's its new home! ♡︎

── .✦ 📟 wc: 4,000+

She doesn’t admit this to Hyunjin until much later on, but when he walked into her café the first time, she had thought— as one usually does— that this ethereal boy should be a star of some sorts. A model, an actor.

Where others might have spoken up, she chose to keep it to herself. (A good choice, too. If she had said anything, Hyunjin would have never returned.)

He is shy, at first. He sits at a table far from the door and spends most of his stay doodling in his notebook.

Outside, snow begins to fall.  

Hyunjin gets on his phone to call Jeongin over. She steps out from behind the counter and lingers by the window. 

Separately, they admire the sign of the times. Hyunjin thinks of romance that can be painted. Her mind goes to warm drinks that can be sold. Briefly, the two share a glance.

They exchange no words— not a single pleasantry about the weather— but Hyunjin does offer up the smallest of smiles, which she returns. 

He goes back to his phone. She retreats to the kitchen. 

Neither of them have any idea of what was ahead. 

That day, they witness the first snow of the year together. 

Hyunjin becomes a regular. 

He’s never done that before. The most he’s been to an establishment is probably twice, thrice, before the place is overrun with fans and he has to find a new hiding spot. 

He doesn’t want to sound ungrateful. But there are some things he wants to keep to himself, and this caf�� is one of them. He doesn’t realize how often he’s gone until, one evening, the barista at the counter says, “Your usual?” instead of waiting for him to speak.

“Yes, please,” he says. He slides over the exact payment and sits at the table he likes the most. 

Through trial and error, he figured that the café had little to no people nearing its closing time. And so he only ever stopped by in the evening, usually after practicing stages and before heading home. 

She serves him his drink, his ‘usual’, and Hyunjin blurts out something that’s not his average ‘thank you’ and ‘please’. 

“What’s your name?” he asks, because this is not the type of café where the barista has a name card on their apron. He flushes and goes on. “It’s just— I don’t think I ever got your name.” 

She laughs kindly and answers. It’s a pretty name, Hyunjin thinks to himself.

“And you?” she inquires politely. 

There’s a seed of suspicion in him, a flicker of doubt. Did she really not know him? He had been tricked before by people feigning ignorance.

But her expression is curious, and earnest, and he decides to give her the benefit of doubt. 

“Hyunjin.” 

“Hyunjin,” she repeats, as though testing the name out on her tongue. A fleeting thought passes his mind: My name sounds safe with her. 

She smiles. “It’s nice to finally know you, Hyunjin. Thanks for always coming to my café.” 

“This is yours?” he says, a little dumbstruck. He had assumed she was just an employee. 

“It is.” There’s a proud gleam in her eyes. “It’s always been my dream to own one, and here I am.”

“It’s one of my favorite places,” says Hyunjin. He’s not even exaggerating; he means it. He adores the floor-to-ceiling windows, the intricate woodwork, the potted plants in every corner.

Her smile brightens, widens. She thanks Hyunjin and is about to say more when the bell by the door chimes. “Oh, a customer. I’m sorry.” 

“It’s no problem. Go ahead.” 

She rushes over to the counter. Hyunjin sinks a bit into his seat, doing his best to avoid the newcomer’s gaze. 

That day, Hyunjin learns how a name can make a world’s difference. 

One evening, Hyunjin asks her, “What kind of music do you like?”

She looks up from bookkeeping and tongues the inside of her cheek thoughtfully. She names a handful of genres, none of which might fit the bill for Stray Kids. 

Over the past weeks, Hyunjin had gotten to know her. Her love for coffee and baked goods. Her impulsive decision to move to Korea. Her loneliness, dulled only by the steady flow of patrons visiting her shop.

There are still some weeks where he thinks it’s too good to be true. To be undiscovered this long, to meet someone who didn’t know a thing about his industry, to strike up a friendship that had nothing to lose but everything to gain.

She asks a question of her own. “Do you have any pets?”

Hyunjin brightens at the opportunity to talk about Kkami.

That day, he remembers what it’s like— to be curious, to be known.

It occurs to Hyunjin, quite suddenly, that he won’t be seeing her for a while. 

The thought only comes as his plane is taking off.

He had seen her over the weekend. She sought his honest opinion on drinks she planned to add to her menu. 

At the time, he hadn’t thought of bringing it up. What would he say, anyway? I’m going on a worldwide tour.

Miserable, he fiddles with his phone until Changbin levels him a firm look. 

“There’s in-flight Wi-Fi,” he says. “Do you want me to get the password for you?”

“Yes, please.” 

Once connected to the internet, Hyunjin searches up the café’s socials and finds its number, which is effectively her number. His heart leaps out of his chest.

He stares at the blinking cursor in the KakaoTalk chat. He had never given out his socials to her out of fear she would realize who he was, what type of life he lived. Now, he was considering using his personal number to message her.

It feels like too much. Hyunjin places his phone face down onto his lap. He wasn’t going to text her. He shouldn’t. Right?

In the next two hours, he probably checks and puts down his phone a dozen times. Fed up, Changbin eventually groans, “Just do what you have to do already!”

Hyunjin, red-faced, picks up his phone. Changbin is right. He keys in a quick message to the café’s account and hits send before he can overthink it.

Hi, this is Hyunjin. I usually come on weekday nights. I might be gone for a while; I’m heading abroad for work. I’m just letting you know, so you don’t think I hate your coffee or anything. Stay healthy and don’t work too hard. 

He exhales in relief, only to be startled by a notification mere minutes later.

Hi, Hyunjin, she responds. You’re so funny, but also right. I would have been sad if I thought I lost my favorite customer. Stay safe, okay? Send me photos of nice cafés during your travels!

Another notification pops up. It’s weird to be messaging on the shop’s account. LOL. Here’s my personal number.  

Hyunjin can feel his heart hammering underneath his chest. He’s ecstatic to have her number, sure, and an excuse to message her while he’s away, but he’s mostly flustered by a small phrase in her text. ‘My favorite customer.’

It might be something she says to everyone; Hyunjin doesn’t care. He suppresses a wide smile from a Changbin eyeing him with open curiosity. 

That day, Hyunjin remembers what it feels like to have a crush.

Hyunjin makes good on her offhanded request.

She receives numerous photos of coffee shops and bakeries across the world. Look at this catacomb concept, he says of a café in London. I thought the menu here was good, he notes with a picture from Hanoi.

I want whatever job you have, she texts back after he sends a video of a patisserie in New York. You’re always going to such cool places.

He doesn’t respond for a couple of hours. She worries, briefly, if she had said something wrong. She brushes it off as the timezone difference.

He texts as she’s trying to whip up a new batch of croissants. It’s nice, you’re right, but sometimes I wish I had a job where I could just stay in Korea, he replies. I’ve been to all these places and I think your coffee is still the best. 

She wipes the flour off her hands so she can shoot back, You’re just saying that so you can get free drink next time. 

He sends a GIF of a cartoon cat crying. I mean it, he texts. I miss you. 

She nearly drops her bowl of batter when she sees what he said. Thankfully, he follows up with, LOL, sorry, sent too soon. *I miss your lattes. 

Riiight, she types, then erases.

If you miss me, just say so, she types, then erases.

I miss you, too. 

She erases that and sends instead, LOL. I’ll be sure to perfect it by the time you come back. 

That day, she burns a batch of croissants as she tries to figure out how she feels.

The answer reveals itself to her soon enough.

She’s just about to pack up shop when she hears the front door’s bell. She begins to instinctively apologize about being closed for the night when she sees who the guest is. 

Hyunjin, with two paper bags in his hands. 

“That’s too bad,” he says dramatically. “I guess I’ll have to give these away to someone else, then.”

She laughs; he grins. He places down the bags on a table and asks, “Think you could spare a few minutes for your favorite customer?”

“Of course,” she says without hesitation. “Give me a second.”

She flips the ‘OPEN’ sign to ‘CLOSED’, turns off online deliveries on her phone, and leaves all but one light open.

“I’m only willing to stay overtime for you,” she laughingly tells a Hyunjin who is watching her do her closing routine. “I can make you a drink, though…”

“No need.” He waves her over. “I got you some stuff.”

“You didn’t have to,” she says as she tries to peek into the bags. “When did you get back?”

“Yesterday. I went straight to my parents, though, before coming here.”

“How was all the traveling?”

“Tiring, fun. I’m glad to be home.”

She offers him a gentle smile. “I’m glad you’re back, too,” she says. In the sparse light of the café, it’s hard to tell for sure, but she thinks she sees Hyunjin blush.

He shoves one of the bags forward. “Here are some decorations for the café. They’re nothing fancy, and it’s still up to you whether you want to put them up…”

Hyunjin trails off as she brings out one decoration after the other. She’s overwhelmed. They’re all gorgeous and fitting of her café’s aesthetic.

“Hyunjin,” she says, awed. “I can’t possibly take these.”

But Hyunjin is shaking his head and already gesturing towards the other bag. “This one has a bunch of coffee packets I got from different places. I thought you might like them.” 

The thoughtfulness of it draws a disbelieving laugh out of her. “That’s it. You’re getting free drinks for a month,” she says seriously.

Hyunjin laughs, too. “That’s not necessary.”

“Oh, it is very necessary. This—” She gestures at all of Hyunjin’s gifts. “Is a really nice thing for you to do. Thank you, Hyunjin. Really.”

The smile on his face makes her pulse race. 

“You’re welcome,” he says. “Anything for my favorite barista.” 

That day, she concedes: She may have romantic feelings for this particular customer. 

It takes Hyunjin a few weeks after that to work up the courage to ask her out. 

When he found out her favorite Disney movie was putting out a sequel, he knew this was a golden opportunity. So, one evening, he asks if she’s free that weekend.

She says yes, because it’s her favorite film, but also— because it’s Hyunjin.

Neither of them refer to it as a date. It goes unspoken, is undeniable in its implication. They are two friends who are obviously attracted to each other. This was supposed to be the first time they meet outside her shop.

Hyunjin chooses a small movie theater and buys the tickets in advance. He texts her the details and she says she’ll be there.

Since immigrating, most of her time has just been going back and forth to her café and her apartment. She took cabs more often than not. She avoided tourist spots and malls, and only ever went out to do groceries or buy supplies.

So, that evening, when she decides to try taking the bus, it is her first time at the stop. She sends a text to Hyunjin saying she’s on her way, looks up from her phone, and sees him. 

Except it’s not him in the flesh. It’s him, on the bus stop’s LED screen. Nearly unrecognizable. 

The Hyunjin she knows wears dark hoodies and unbranded caps. The Hyunjin on the screen is dressed from head to toe in designer. She stares, slack-jawed, as text appears. ‘Hwang Hyunjin: Our Shining Star.’

A student sitting near her claps their hands. “Oh, are you a STAY, too? Is Hyunjin your bias?” they ask. 

She clears her throat. “Yes,” she lies, and the student nods excitedly.

“My bias is Felix,” the teenager raves. “I guess we’re both danceracha fans, ha-ha!”

The student boards the next bus that comes. It’s the same bus that’s supposed to pass by the mall where she has to go, but she stays rooted in her seat.

She finds herself doing inventory on what she knows about Hyunjin. He didn’t like talking about his job, only ever mentioning it in vague terms. It involved a lot of traveling. It was tiring, he said. But fun.

Her phone dings. Hyunjin’s message reads, Getting us popcorn. What flavor do you want? 

She looks at the text, then back up at the LED screen. Could it be a twin, maybe? No, she thinks. They had the same name. 

Instead of answering his question, she replies, Who are you?

Hyunjin responds with a sticker of a whale with several question marks over its head.

What’s a ‘STAY’? Who’s Felix? What’s a ‘danceracha’? Why do you have a poster at the bus stop?, she asks in a succession of texts.

She repeats, Who are you?

In the cinema lobby, Hyunjin feels his blood run cold. He can’t breathe, suddenly. In his excitement to invite her out, he hadn’t accounted for the dozens of birthday banners around the city.

He practically bolts out of the mall. He flags down a taxi that takes him back to his apartment, where Chan, Changbin, and Jisung are starting a new Netflix series.

“Hey, Hyune. I thought you’d be back—” Chan falters, then gets to his feet. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

Hyunjin hadn’t realized there were tears streaming down his face until Jisung pauses their show and Changbin rushes to grab a box of tissues.

“I think I messed up,” Hyunjin says, his voice barely above a whisper.

She goes home that night and resists the urge to search him up. She wants to hear it from him, who he is, and why he had been so keen to hide it. 

Hyunjin, meanwhile, fights back sobs as he admits to his friends what had happened. How badly he had wanted to be normal, for once, and how it was now blowing up in his face.

When she falls asleep, she dreams of a darkened movie house— one bucket of popcorn, shy fingers dancing around each other’s touch.

Hyunjin tosses and turns in bed for hours. Her texts glare up at him, unanswered. Who are you, Hyunjin? 

That day, the weather forecast is dreary. The rainy season has come early.

She hardly has time to think of Hyunjin.

The rain brings in more customers. Those seeking shelter from the downpour, those in need of a warm drink.

On Monday, two boys swoop in with ridiculously oversized umbrellas.

“Your blueberry cheesecake looks good,” the smaller of them says. “Can I have a slice and an iced coffee too, please?”

“An iced coffee in this rain?” The taller sniffles dejectedly. “Jisung-ah, that’s impractical.”

Jisung glances at her for support.

“I think iced coffee can be enjoyed in any weather,” she offers. 

Jisung looks pleased. “See, Minho-hyung?”

Minho rolls his eyes but smiles slightly. “I think I’ll stick to my hot coffee. One espresso, please,” he says, and she punches in their orders.

The one named Jisung shoots several looks at her throughout their stay. Minho is mostly indifferent. (Or, rather, more discreet in stealing glances.) They leave a tip in her jar on the way out, and talk about her on the way home.

On Tuesday, a boy wearing a baseball jersey comes up to the counter.  

“Do you make all these yourself?” he asks while looking at the menu.

“I do,” she says. “I came up with most of the recipes, too.”

His eyes shine. “Can I have an iced Americano with syrup for takeout? And—” He pauses, as though deciding on whether he should continue. “Do you mind if I watch you make it?” 

She grins. She enjoyed customers like this. She invites the boy across the counter and walks him through the machinery, the procedure, the ingredients.

“Thank you so much,” he says once it’s all done, when he has his to-go cup in his hand. 

“It’s no problem. If you ever want to learn more about making coffee, my door’s always open.”

He smiles. “Thanks.” Another thoughtful pause. “I’m Seungmin, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Seungmin,” she says as she gives her own name. 

On Wednesday, three boys come in at noon.

They all don name tags over their chests.

“Binnie,” she reads out loud. The three boys balk, as though surprised. She smiles sheepishly at their reaction and points at the tags. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to shock you.”

The one with the tag that says ‘Chan’ flashes her a lopsided grin. “We came from an event. Must’ve forgotten to take these off.” 

“No problem. What can I get you guys?”

‘Lix’ scans the display of pastries and asks, “How much for everything?”

She raises her eyebrows. “Pardon me?”

“We’re going to be feeding a lot of people,” Binnie explains. “Will it be an inconvenience if we take all of your food?”

“No, not at all,” she says quickly. “But it should cost around…” She does the numbers, lets them know.

Chan nods. “That’s alright. We’ll have it all for takeout, please.” 

Bewildered, she begins to pack all the food into containers and paper bags. This had never happened to her. She would have to close shop early.

“Please choose three drinks,” she tells them. “I’ll throw them in for free.”

They look surprised. “You don’t have to,” Lix says sheepishly.

“You guys bought out my stock for the day,” she says. “I’m very grateful, and I’d love to make you a drink in exchange.”

After more of her insistence, the three reluctantly pick out their beverages. She sends them off with bags full of pastries, and large coffees for each. 

On Thursday, a familiar boy chats with her about the rain.

As she’s making his order, she tries to place where she saw him. She serves him his coffee and tentatively asks, “Are you Jeongin?”

He draws back a bit and cautiously replies in the affirmative. 

“You came here once,” she’s quick to explain. “It was snowing.”

Jeongin nods. “Right. I’m surprised you remember.”

“You were with Hy—” She falters. “Your friend.” 

He looks almost amused. “Hyunjin,” he finishes, and she nods.

“Hyunjin,” she repeats through the lump in her throat. “Well, excuse me.”

“Sure.”

She ducks back over to the counter and opens her KakaoTalk. Still nothing. She considers messaging him, but decides against it. She wants answers. If Hyunjin can’t give her any, then how can their relationship progress any further?

That day, Jeongin makes a beeline for Hyunjin’s apartment.

The rain is so bad that barely any customers come.

She contemplates closing early when the bell rings, and in comes Hyunjin.

Despite his umbrella, he is drenched from head to toe. He tracks mud into her café and drips rainwater onto her floor. She stares, mouth agape, at the audacity of this man to show up after a weeks’ worth of radio silence. 

She’s about to tell him off when he blurts out, “I’m Hwang Hyunjin.”

“I’m part of a group called Stray Kids. Our fans are called ‘STAY’,” he says. “Felix is my friend, and ‘danceracha’ is the subunit we’re part of. I love dancing. It’s what gives me life.”

He goes on, “I paint. I’m trying to get into photography, too. I like cold coffee, romance films, and you.”

She starts at the sudden confession. “What?”

“I really, really like you,” he says breathlessly. “I want to keep coming to this café. I want to watch a movie with you. But— if we’re going to do that— you need to know who I am.”

“You’re a dancer,” she repeats awkwardly.

“Yes. I sing and rap, too.”

She feels dizzy. “And you like me?”

He’s suddenly nervous, can’t meet her eyes. “Yes,” he says, his voice barely audible over the downpour beyond them. “I do.”

The rain falls heavily on the roof, and it is the only sound for a few precarious moments, as the two people in the café hang in delicate balance.

She makes a choice, then and there.

“Let me get you a towel,” she says. “And what coffee do you want? Your usual?”

He smiles so wide that the storm outside becomes nearly irrelevant. “Yes, please.”

That day, they sit at his favorite table and make plans.

When she finally, properly meets all of the boys, she reels backwards in abject shock.

Hyunjin places a hand on the small of her back to steady her. The seven boys laugh at her reaction, though not unkindly.

“For the record, we hadn’t planned it,” Jeongin says. He passes her a drink.

Felix— whose tag had said ‘Lix’, then— helps take her coat. “I really liked your scones! Maybe one day we could bake together,” he says cheerfully. 

“Yes, of course,” she stutters. 

“Hey, Felix.” Hyunjin wags a finger in his friend’s face. It’s not threatening at all. “That’s my girlfriend!” 

“I just wanted scones,” Felix says defensively, and more good-natured laughter ripples through the room. 

The attention shifts away from the new couple as the boys begin to lay out food onto the table for Changbin’s birthday celebration. 

Jisung notices her dumbstruck expression and gives her a reassuring smile. “Are you surprised?” he asks.

“A little.” She grins back at Jisung. “You’re the one who likes cheesecake.” 

He laughs at the comment. “And your cheesecake is one of the best! I’m glad you brought it today.” 

Hyunjin interrupts their conversation to steer her towards the kitchen. 

He juts his lower lip out in a pout. “I don’t think bringing you here was a good idea,” he says, half-serious. “I’m worried they’re all madly in love with you.” 

The absurdity of it makes her giggle. “You’re insane.” She stands on her tiptoes and presses a cheek on to her boyfriend’s cheek. “I love you, though.” 

“Damn right,” Hyunjin says. He tries to steal another kiss but she laughs, ducks away. 

“We have to go back to your friends,” she says pointedly as Hyunjin wraps his arms around her waist. 

“Five more minutes,” he whines, and she can’t help herself. She smiles.

“Five more minutes.” 

That day, they are happy. They are known. And it is more than enough.

[pretentious-blonde]

birthday

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: steve never really cared for his birthday, his girl takes it upon herself to make sure he feels special. showing him how far he has come

warnings: none, fluff

a/n: steve likes madonna, fight me

The morning was quiet, still. The sun had just about emerged over the horizon as you stepped out of the car, balancing two coffees and a small paper bag in your hands. You had made the effort to get up early, driving a little further to visit the little cafe you knew Steve loved. He practically begged for you to let him take the detour every time, which you did. You could never say no to him. Not when he asked so nicely, pinching his eyebrows together in a sorrowful expression. Pitiful, truly. 

You got there a bit after it opened, just to make sure the croissants hadn’t sold out. Steve had a soft spot for chocolate. All sweet things really, especially in the mornings. He wasn’t particularly vocal about it, but after months of observing him ordering pancakes from the diner and never skipping dessert after date night, you figured he would appreciate the sugar. 

Standing at his front door, you reached into the plant pot, grabbing the spare set of keys. You were one of the few people he allowed to have this information. You did mention to him that the majority of people keep the spare set in a place like that, but he disagreed, telling you that at least it wasn’t under the doormat. 

It had been previously, until Dustin found it and entered his home without warning. 

You unlocked the door as gently as you could manage, slipping inside and removing your coat and shoes. Gently, you placed the small bag of gifts for him by the door. He could open them up later. 

You tiptoed up the long staircase, coffee cups wobbling in your hands as you made your way to his room. It was miraculous that you didn’t drop them in your efforts to keep quiet. The door was slightly cracked open, you could make out his silhouette in the dim light. 

He was sprawled out on the bed, one hand under the pillow and the other lying next to him. He always had a habit of sleeping on his stomach, limbs tangled in a chaotic heap, it looked as though he had a battle with his sheets whilst he slept. His broad back rose and fell in tandem with his deep breaths, hair tousled and messy, face half-buried in the cushion underneath him. 

The sight brought a smile to your face, it was endearing how peaceful he looked. He was usually so put-together, but this? He seemed almost boyish, relaxed, unaware of the weight of the world on his shoulders. It was a sight that was reserved for you and you only. It was something precious. 

You carefully set the cups and bag down on the bedside table, knowing it was time to attempt something impossible. Waking Steve Harrington up. 

You leaned closer to him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, shaking him ever so slightly. 

“Steve…” you whispered, trying the kinder approach to wake up the man. If Robin was here she would have just told you to open up the curtains, but you couldn’t do that to him. At least not today.

“Mmmph,” was the groggy response you earned, he shifted his legs under the covers, burying his face even further into his pillow. 

You had to bite your lip to stop the giggle from escaping. You decided to shake him a little harder, trying to rouse him from his slumber. “Steve, come on. It’s time to get up.”

Ever the drama queen, he let out an exaggerated groan, a rouge arm flailing out from under the cover to try to bat away whatever was disturbing him. “Too early,” he mumbled, voice thick with the remnants of sleep.

You shake your head as you laugh, deciding to change tactics. You poke him playfully in the ribs, which earns you another groan, this time more awake but definitely more annoyed. 

“If you don't let me sleep, I swear to God…,” his voice trailed off, but there was no real threat behind his tone. 

Steve was certainly not a morning person by any means. He had no problem waking up if he needed to be somewhere, but he was certainly not fond of being woken up without prior knowledge. You had lost count of how many times he slurred that he needed five more minutes when you stayed over, giggling every time he shushed you with his embrace. 

“Yeah, yeah, tough guy,” you tease, perching on the side of the bed next to him. “I brought breakfast.”

That worked a bit better, a small but noticeable reaction—a low but sleepy moan of appreciation, as if the promise of food might be enough to drag him out of bed. You waited for a few seconds to see if there was any movement, you huffed when there wasn’t, his face now completely hidden by his arm. 

You prodded your finger on his back once again. “Steve…”

With a melodramatic grunt of effort, he finally rolled his body over onto the side, amber eyes blinking slowly as they adjusted back into focus. 

“Oh…hey, honey,” he greeted groggily, rubbing a hand over his face as he fought against his fatigue, completely forgetting about his previous comments. His brown hair was a complete mess, sticking up in all directions. You grinned as you took in his dishevelled appearance. “It’s early…what are you doing here?”

“Did you forget what today is?” Your eyes widened, slightly suprised at his question. You couldn’t have got the wrong day, could you?

Steve furrowed his brows, seemingly still stuck between the realm of sleep and reality. “Day? What…oh.” The realisation was quick to dawn on him as his brain started to function. “My birthday, right.”

The reminder sent a wave of embarrassment through him, his lips turned into a small, sheepish smile as he realised his mistake. It never was a big deal to him, something he never really celebrated. Back in high school, he would just throw a house party, which would essentially just be a gathering filled with people who couldn’t care less about what day it was. 

His parents were hardly home, and even when they were, it was just a card handed to him when he woke up. He used to get some cash in them when he was younger, but it seems they even forgot that too. It wasn’t the money that mattered, they probably only did that because they forgot to get him a gift. But at least it was something. 

The last few years he honestly never remembered it. Only when it got dark, just him alone in the big, empty house he pondered celebrating it. But the idea just made him feel hollow. 

He glanced over to what you had placed on the side next to him, heart leaping when he recognised the familiar logo, he placed his hand on your leg as you continued to look down at him. “Thank you, honey…but you really didn’t have to.”

“Well, I did,” you gave him a stubborn look before crossing your hands over your chest, your expression not filled with any malice. “And I’m not done either. I have a few other things for you downstairs.”

His eyes grew bigger, his shock evident. He shuffled up, propping himself on his elbows as he stared at you. It was vulnerable, a look you rarely saw on him. 

“Ok, now you really didn’t have to,” he murmured, tone softer now. 

You waved your hand in front of him dismissively. “Just enjoy it, okay? I’m giving you the whole ‘breakfast-in-bed’ treatment here.”

Now that forced a grin on his face as he sat up fully, his movements still slightly sloppy. “Breakfast in bed, huh? You’re gonna make me spoiled.” You went to stand up but were immediately stopped by a pair of arms winding around your centre. “Where do you think you’re going? I’m not eating alone.”

You squealed in surprise as he dragged you up the bed, only releasing you when you were firmly settled by his side, under the duvet and everything. “Fine, fine. But if you get crumbs in the bed, it’s on you.”

He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, already tearing the croissant in half, not caring about the mess. “Worth it,” he smirked before popping a piece into his mouth, holding the other out for you along with the coffee. 

You rolled your eyes as you took a sip from the cup, nudging his shoulder with your own as you both ate. The morning sun was creeping through the cracks in his blinds, illuminating his features just right. He sighed as he leaned against the headboard, shoving the last piece of pastry into his mouth before gathering up the rubbish from the two of you. 

He slid out of bed, reaching above his head lazily, his shirt lifting slightly to reveal a slither of his toned stomach. He gave you a sly grin when he caught you staring at him, feeling a sense of pride. 

He loved it when he felt wanted, especially by you. 

“Careful, sweetheart. Staring like that could get you in trouble.” 

You grinned wide, leaning back against his headboard, making a deliberate display of looking him up and down. “Who me?”

He shook his head and chuckled under his breath. God, you were trouble. He made his way over to his wardrobe, pulling out a pair of blue Levi’s and a classic Steve Harrington polo. He tossed the clothing items on the bed, glancing over at you, his tone low and teasing. “If you keep looking at me like that, I might just forget the plans downstairs.”

You raised an eyebrow at his suggestion, holding in a sly grin. “Who says I mind?”

He tilted his head back with a groan, as he stripped out of his pyjamas, leaving him only in a pair of boxer shorts. He grabbed his jeans and pulled them up with deliberate slowness, knowing you would be watching his every move. “Oh, trust me,” he smirked as he reached for his belt. “I could make it worth your while, but…” He tugged on his shirt over his head, raking his fingers through his hair in a weak attempt to fix it. “I think I’d rather make you wait.”

“You’re such a tease, Harrington.” You glare at him playfully.

He raised an eyebrow, walking slowly over to where you were sitting. His arms were crossed as he leaned over you, lips purposefully brushing against your ear, sending a shudder down your spine. 

“I think you like when I tease you, sweetheart,” he whispered before pulling away. 

Your cheeks heated as you tried to recover, shifting your attention away from his comment. “Finish up in here, or you’ll be the one begging for attention later.”

He grinned devilishly, finally backing off and tugging some socks over his feet. He opened the door dramatically holding his spare hand out in front of him. “After you, honey,” he said, his voice now sickeningly sweet. 

You shoved the covers off with a giggle, smiling as you passed in front of him. Steve was close on your heels, placing his firm hands on either of your shoulders as you descended the stairs. As you reached the bottom, his eyes landed on the gifts you left by the door. He was overcome with a sense of tenderness at the sight of them, all wrapped up with cheesy wrapping paper. 

“Angel,” his voice now lacking the teasing tone present before. “This is…this is really sweet.”

You carried on walking towards it, picking them up before leading him to the living room. Pushing him down on the large couch and taking a seat next to him, your legs now brushing together. You were buzzing with excitement as you handed him the first package—a small box which he eagerly tore into. Paper falling away to reveal a tape. 

He looked closer at the label, in your swirly handwriting were the words ‘BMW Bangers’. It earned a full-bodied laugh from him. He deduced this was gonna be the new go-to when driving around with you. 

He turned it over to look at the tracklist, also written by you. He nodded his head as he read over it, all of his favourites seemed to be present, Duran Duran, Bruce Springsteen, Womack and Womack, and a few other hits. He paused when he spotted the last name causing a guilty smile to spread. 

“Madonna?” He asked in an accusatory fashion. 

You beamed. “Hey, I saw you singing along to her on the radio. You’re not slick.”

He shook his head, opened his mouth and began to protest. “No, you didn’t.”

“Yeah, I did.”

Steve huffed, pushing your head away from him in a teasing manner, turning the cassette back over in his hands. “Okay, fine. But you can’t tell anyone.”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

He looked at you then, eyes softer despite his teasing demeanour. “This is amazing, sweetheart. Seriously.” He tells you truthfully, he was itching for a reason to get in his car now. Wanting nothing more than to spend the day driving around with you in the passenger seat, singing along terribly. 

“I try my best,” you say cockily, planting a gentle kiss on the corner of his mouth.

With slightly pink cheeks, he placed the first gift down on the table and took the second from your hands, removing the wrapping just as carefully. When the present was finally revealed to him, his face lit up. 

“Oh man, look at this,” he said whilst rubbing his chin. In his hand is a framed picture of him and the kids, all with huge smiles at the pop-up Christmas market a few months back. He was looking mildly irritated, most likely with you insisting on a group photo of all of them. The memories of that day replayed in his mind over and over, it was one of the best holidays he had.

“Damn,” he laughed again, shaking his head slowly whilst taking in every detail of the image in his hands. “It’s like the cover of some crappy sitcom.”

“I know right?” You leaned in closer to him, eyes scanning over it. “The Brady Bunch 2.0. We could aim for a reboot.”

“Could be my big break,” Steve snickered. He was joking, but as his thumb brushed over the glass, you could see how much this meant to him. The family he never had. The family that chose him. That would always choose him. 

“Don’t let the kids see this,” he set the frame down gently next to the cassette. “Can’t let the little shits think I’ve gone all sentimental.”

“Steve, they already think that,” you tell him, tone light but honest. 

“My reputation is ruined,” he complained sarcastically, but he couldn’t deny how proud he was. How far he had come. “You know that Dustin even called me ‘dad’ the other day? It was an accident but…”

You chuckled at the idea of it. You couldn’t deny it though, Steve most certainly took on a parental role with the kid. Being the father figure he missed so much growing up, it was something both he and Dustin could relate to. You admired how deeply they cared for one another.

“Thank you. For—for all of this,” he rested his hand on your thigh, turning to face you fully. “Really, it means a lot.”

You brush his hand off as you wrap your arms around his midsection. He returns the embrace immediately, holding you close to his warm chest, resting his chin on your head. 

“You’re welcome,” you say, voice muted by the material of his shirt. “But, uh…don’t get too comfortable.”

He pulled back slightly, hand resting on the back of your neck as he held your gaze with curiosity. “Oh?”

“Well, I kind of… may have arranged for everyone to come over later,” you admitted, suddenly second-guessing your decision. “I mean, you didn’t have anything planned, so I thought maybe a surprise would be nice, but now I’m telling you, so it’s not really a surprise anymore, and—shit—I should’ve asked first—”

“Shh, angel,” he cut you off gently, placing a finger against your babbling lips. His voice was, calm, reassuring, laced with pure affection. “It’s fine. You’re fine. It’s perfect.” 

You blinked up at him slowly, taking in the familiar, easygoing grin that spread across his face. 

“I wasn’t exactly planning on throwing a rager,” he wrapped his arms around you again, feeling lonely without you pressed up against him. “You really went all out for me, honey. I love it.”

“Okay, good,” You sighed in relief. “I was worried I’d ruined the whole thing.”

“Nah.” Steve pressed a soft kiss to your lips. “You just gave me a reason to be excited about my birthday again.”

You felt your stomach warm at his words, his affirmation overwhelming you with a rush of affection. You glanced up at him one more time, only to find his gaze locked on the photo on the table. I guess now would be as good a time as ever to break the news. 

“Oh, by the way…” you began, a hesitant grin creeping onto your face. “Eddie is in charge of the food.”

“Eddie?” His face froze in stunned disbelief at your statement. “Eddie in charge of food?”

You nodded, choking down the giggle building in your throat at his expression. “Yeah, he said he could handle whatever barbeque you have. Thought you’d appreciate the help.”

“Absolutely not!” You laughed at his horrified expression, which only spurred him on further. “No way am I letting Munson anywhere near a grill. He’ll burn the place down!”

You burst out laughing at the thought, picturing Eddie dramatically waving a spatula over a flame, maybe even wearing a ‘kiss the cook’ apron. “Come on, Steve. How bad could it be?”

Steve shot you a deadpan look, truly baffled as to why you cannot see that this is a terrible idea. “Do you remember the last time he tried to cook at a party? We ended up ordering pizza because he set the stove on fire. Twice.”

“Alright, alright, maybe I’ll keep an eye on him,” you give in as he breathes a sigh of relief. “You can handle the burgers, grill master.”

“I like that better,” his body relaxing once more underneath yours. “No calling the fire department on my birthday. Please.”

You snuggled further into his chest, hiding the smile in the fabric. “Glad you like it.”

“I love it,” he tells you, gently placing his hand on your jaw, using his index finger to lift your face to meet his eyes, his smile was rich with adoration. The soft look was so intense it nearly took your breath away. He pressed his lips against your own, holding onto you for a little while longer. Until the inevitable chaos arrived at his front door in just a few hours. “I love you.”

[kirain]

Saw your comment on a post about Sound of Freedom and I came here to say.....shame on you. Shame. On. You. Since when is child trafficking a political issue? Since when is calling pedophilia bad a political issue? If you have a problem with this movie then maybe YOU'RE the problem. No better than the big Disney fat cats who tried to suppress this movie and keep it shelved. Or theaters messing with the ac and saying seats are sold out when they're empty. Shame on you! God's children are not for sale!

I wish people would do a little more research on this topic. If Hollywood and the "powers that be" didn't want this movie being seen, it wouldn't have been released in over 3000 theatres countrywide. It's being shown in major and minor locations all across America and Canada, and the vast majority of those locations aren't having any problems.

Case and point, my own mother and her friend went to see it last week and everything was fine. No issues whatsoever and the seats were packed. The movie isn't being "suppressed". This is all a marketing gimmick from the production company Angel Studios, a Christian streaming service. The movie is jam-packed with lies and only serves to glorify Tim Ballard, the man the movie is based on, and Christianity as a whole. I truly wish this wasn't political, but it is. They made it political.

Tim Ballard has provably exaggerated or fabricated many, if not most of his "rescues", and his organisation, Operation Underground Railroad, has been widely criticised by professional anti-sex trafficking organizations (including other Christian-based ones) for years. He has accumulated millions of dollars for his so-called "non-profit" organisation, and he runs several for profit organisations on the side. Most of this money is presumably pocketed by Ballard and his cohorts, as millions is unaccounted for and only a sliver goes to OUR. It's not about "saving children", it's about money and spreading Ballard's religious ideology.

This is compounded by the fact that Ballard, before he left the CIA, was almost always the last officer to arrive on any scene where child sex trafficking was involved, yet he somehow has hundreds of stories where he's singlehandedly rescued children. In fact, the "true story" the film is based on, where Ballard apparently saved a five year old boy—who, by Ballard's own account, ran up to him, hugged him, and begged to be taken away—didn't even happen. According to court receipts from the arrest and trial of Earl Venton Buchanan (the pedophile in possession of the little boy), Ballard arrived at the scene long after the boy was rescued and taken into custody, and he was barely involved. The documents can easily be found online under the San Diego incident reports.

Ballard was also caught lying about saving one particular girl named Liliana, the literal poster child for OUR. As it turns out, Liliana rescued herself by escaping her captors when she was seventeen and being trafficked in New York. Even more egregious, every time Ballard told her story, he would lower her age to garner more sympathy ... as if her being seventeen wasn't sad enough. In one instance, he claimed she was 14. In another, he claimed she was 11. Ballard also exploited Liliana's story as a reason for needing stricter border patrols and a better wall, despite the fact that she was being abused in America. There is no evidence to suggest OUR had anything to do with her rescue.

Ballard and his "organisation" have even ruined entire legitimate rescue operations in other countries and put children at risk, like in the Dominican Republic, where he endangered the lives of 26 girls by playing vigilante, being followed around by a camera crew, and causing a shootout that effectively traumatised the children he used as a prop to lure in buyers. His response to the mishap and rightful criticism by the Dominican police was basically, "Well ... you win some, you lose some."

The children were released without receiving any therapy or rehabilitative care, and Anne Gallagher, the leading global expert on the international law on human trafficking, said that OUR has an "alarming lack of understanding about how sophisticated criminal trafficking networks must be approached and dismantled" and went on to call the work of OUR "arrogant, unethical, and illegal". Those children easily could've been shot and killed. This occurred in 2014, but Ballard still insists that his "rescues" be filmed, and he even pitched it as a reality TV show. His reasoning for this, he says, is to "spread awareness", but we all know it's because he loves the spotlight.

Entire law enforcement agencies have actually cut ties with or even condemned OUR, such as Washington State Law Enforcement, as a result of Ballard's proclivity to conflate child sex trafficking with consensual adult sex work. Ballard and OUR regularly set up sting operations and lambasted the men who showed up for kink play, publicly branding them as pedophiles, even though the men in question were under the impression that they were meeting for sex with consenting, adult women. This led to several lawsuits against OUR, all of which they rightfully lost.

Ballard's means of gathering intelligence is also questionable, as he, by his own admission, sometimes consults psychic mediums for information on missing children and asks where they're being held captive. I genuinely wish I was joking about that.

The main actor in Sound of Freedom, Jim Caviezel, also has ties to the Qanon movement, and Caviezel himself is a hardcore conspiracy theorist. He believes that Donald Trump is "the new Moses" and that "liberals [literally] drink the blood of children". This is ironic, considering Caviezel and Ballard both met Trump several times, yet never pressed him for information regarding Epstein's client list. Moreover, Caviezel and Ballard both donate to the Catholic Church, which funds the largest child sex trafficking ring on the southern border and has a history of rampant sexual abuse of children. Even more insane, Caviezel admitted to watching child porn, to apparently "get in character" for the movie. He claimed that if Ballard had to watch it, it only "made sense" that he'd have to watch it, too. To "motivate" him to fight child trafficking.

...Alright, bud.

Surprise, surprise, both men are also outspokenly anti-LGBTQ+, despite the fact that children/teens in that community are statistically more likely to be trafficked. The majority of child trafficking is not the result of random kidnappings, as the movie would have you believe. The majority of children are actually recruited into sexual exploitation by a family member or friend/boss. The majority of those children are also not generally passed around in Mexico, like this racist, white savior-oriented movie would have you believe, but they actually either stay in or end up in America. America is, in fact, the largest consumer of child porn and child sex slaves this side of the globe (and nearly the largest producer), yet the movie depicts almost every pedophile as Mexican or some other non-white race.

At the end of the movie, Ballard comes on screen and asks people to donate/buy tickets for others, so that the movie can spread awareness. This is why so many seats in certain theatres are empty, despite websites saying the seats are sold out. Whether or not Angel Studios is also shadow purchasing tickets to boost sales can't be proven, obviously, but I wouldn't put it past them. These "conspiracies" have all served to market the movie and boost ticket sales.

As for Disney trying to keep the movie shelved, that's also a lie. Yes, Disney did technically shelve the movie when they bought Fox, since it didn't exactly correspond with its family-friendly brand, but they had no problem with the movie being released under a different studio. The actual reason Sound of Freedom was in "production hell" for five years was because Tim Ballard kept trying to milk donations. Despite the fact that filming wrapped up in 2018, he kept asking for more and more and more. He used people's faith and understandably emotional response to something as wicked as pedophilia to rake in millions. That's what Ballard is really about, money and stardom. In the movie, there's even a post-credit message where Jim Caviezel says the movie was held back to "maximize its distribution and raise awareness about child sex trafficking".

Translation: Ballard greedy.

Ballard himself admitted the accuracy of this movie "isn't important", and that he just wanted to get the movie out to "spread the word". By that, he of course means the Christian word��but why should fighting child sex trafficking be tied to religion? At the end of the day, Sound of Freedom is a vanity project, and it spreads incredibly dangerous misinformation. Stranger still, Ballard left the OUR just prior to the debut of Sound of Freedom, a fact he's neglected to mention in every interview regarding the movie. It's not clear why he left, but it seems that he fled after an internal investigation into the organisation began. That's not too suspicious or anything. My guess is authorities are trying to find out were all that missing money went, and Ballard doesn't want to be there when they figure it out.

By the way, that final line you hit me with; "God's children are not for sale", the line from the movie that Ballard claims a fellow agent whispered to him while on a case, as well as the title of the movie, which another agent supposedly said to Ballard after a giant rescue operation—those were lies, too. No agents ever said that to him. The police reports for those cases, as well as the agents Ballard supposedly quoted, all said he was the last to arrive on the scene and those conversations never happened.

Ballard cannot be trusted and Sound of Freedom is based on a lie. It's a scam. Everything he does is a scam. All he cares about is spreading his ideology, making money, and looking like a superhero. And this is only the tip of the iceberg. Look into his other companies, and into the ex-military soldiers and police officers who left OUR because of how poorly trained their people are when it comes to rescue operations.

Every sane person knows pedophilia and human trafficking is wrong, but giving your money to Qanon-adjacent, right-wing leaning, LGBTQ+-hating, Catholic Church-sympathising, fame-chasing, money-hungry, perpetual liar Tim Ballard isn't going to help.

The best way to help out is learning about the signs of child trafficking. Keep an eye out for any children that might be getting abused. If you suspect something, report it, don't be a silent bystander. Volunteer within your community to make sure the children in your area have food and resources, support LGBTQ+ youth, and watch the other adults around you to ensure they're not acting inappropriately. You can also donate to social programs that create safe spaces for children and even apply for jobs that specialise in these fields. Don't go to see a movie just because it aligns with your religious beliefs, feel sad for a little while, then sit on your ass and let Tim Ballard handle everything.

[mask131]

There was this sentence I found in a review of one of the episodes of "Hazbin Hotel" which perfectly summarized the problem there was with this show's reception.

The sentence was: "You can't do character development in songs".

Problem being, yes you can, and even more you must... in musicals.

Hazbin Hotel isn't just referencing musicals or being inspired by the classics of the American musicals: it was literaly designed as a stage-musical, just brought on screen in an animated form. I realized that myself upon watching the show, and this is one of the key differences that sets it apart from "Helluva Boss" for example: "Hazbin Hotel" is part of the entire "musicals culture" and if you are not used to Broadway or West End, if you do not know what the great musicals look like, if you do not know the conventions and tropes of musicals... You will lose something.

For example, look at the way the episodes are structured when it comes to songs vs non-song scenes. It follows the idea of what a song is supposed to be within a musical play: the songs are the key moments of the episode, the important sequences you cannot skip, they are the main feature people are supposed to remember - and as such they must contain plot twists, big reveals, character developments, character introduction and can even extend into full dialogues. Meanwhile, while the non-song scenes are important too, by a musical logic, they are of a "secondary" importance and are mostly here to introduce or conclude songs, to form bridges between the song sequences,to flesh out the characters (whose highlights and glowups however must be in songs) and to allow us to see everything the songs cannot bring.

I am slightly exaggerating of course, as always, but this is my point: "Hazbin Hotel" was very clearly conceived and designed with a "musical mindset". Hasn't Vivziepop shared thoughts years ago about how this project was originally supposed to be a stage musical? If so, then we can see this original intention has still been maintained throughout the incarnations of the project. This greatly explain why the reception of the show was a bit complex - unlike other projects like... I don't know, "Repo: The Genetic Opera", Hazbin Hotel hasn't been sold as "a cartoon musical", and myself I had to wait until the middle of the show (or maybe the two thirds) to get "Oh wait now musicee why it is structured that way... It is musical logic!"

[tiny-cloud-dragon]

FF7: Random Bits 02 - Chapter 1

I went to my old fanfiction.net page and started trying to recover my fics that I have posted there. I'm trying to get them saved on my laptop since they went bye-bye on my damaged external drive.

This is an AU where Zack never died, and it takes place after the events of Advent Children. The two idiots have started their own army for undisclosed reasons (aka I couldn't think of a good one, but thought it would be fun if they did).

[Setting: Zack and Cloud are out in the field, terrorizing,..er, training the new cadets.]

[Location: Training field, early morning. The new cadets are learning all about marching columns.]

"You call that a marching column?!" Zack snapped at the cadets lined up in front of him.

"Look at this, Cloud!" he continued in exaggerated disgust.

"They think that raggedy mess is a proper line!"

"I've seen circles with straighter lines." Cloud agreed quietly.

"You hear that?" Zack shouted at the trembling cadets

"General Strife has seen circles, circles, with straighter lines!"

"Your granny's back is straighter,"

"My granny's back is straighter, and she has scoliosis!"

A snort of amusement emanated from the group of new cadets, fluttering skyward like a bird breaking cover. The entire platoon, as one man, tensed up like a cable under strain.

Zack's glowing eyes pinned the offender with a sharp, disapproving gaze. The young man was suddenly treated to an unwanted close up of Zack's face. The term 'high definition' took on a whole new meaning.

"Did you just laugh at my granny, cadet?" Zack growled, the sound resonating all the way down the chain of evolution to snarl threateningly at the cadet's vestigial inner prey animal.

"S-s-sir, No Sir!" the cadet shouted desperately from his unwanted 4k view of his life going down the toilet. Tickets to the show must have been sold out because the rest of the platoon had somehow managed to take ten steps away from him without doing anything as offensive as actually moving.

"It sounds like he thinks your granny's back problems are funny." Cloud remarked casually.

"You think my granny's crooked back is funny?"

"Sir, NO SIR!"

"I should certainly hope not! She ruined her back spending years doing back-breaking work,"

"Hoeing," Cloud interjected.

"Hoeing every day!" Zack continued without missing a beat.

"Something wrong with hoeing, cadet?" Zack bellowed a mere hair's breadth from the young man's face as he tried and failed to hide a smile that was slowly crawling across his mouth like a sine wave.

"I don't think he likes hoes," Cloud said in that off-handed tone.

"You got something against hoes?" Zack demanded. "Do you know how many businesses would be shut down without hoes?"

"People would starve,"

"People would starve, cadet. Starve!" Zack shouted. "Have you ever tried to garden without a hoe? My granny can't grow vegetables without a hoe! You want her out there, with her crooked back, pulling weeds by hand so you can have fresh vegetables?"

"He's grinning like he needs more vegetables in his diet..." Cloud pointed out.

"Is that why you're grinning like that, cadet? Your guts have a hostage situation going on?"

The cadet's face went red under the strain as the laughter built up to critical levels and he desperately tried to keep the lid on it. The tendons on his neck stuck out like cords as his lips peeled slowly back from his teeth. Tears began streaming from his eyes.

"That's one heck of a bathroom war face."

"That's what happens when you don't like hoes," Zack continued mercilessly, "You can't grow vegetables, so you can't eat vegetables, so you get the dry butt-brownies! It's just wrong!"

"Irregular."

Zack turned away, deciding that the young man had suffered enough. The poor kid was still just a cadet after all. He made a low woof! sound and one his large mako-wolves appeared. Sparkling a faint blue around the edges, the wolf bellied up to its pack leader, waiting for his command.

The ability to summon a whole pack of the creatures was one of Zack's special abilities. It turned out that SOLDIERs could continue to evolve, and most gained a variety of unique personal abilities, along with the ability to take on an alternate animal form after gaining their wings and reaching the rank of 1st Class ELITE.

Zack looked down at the fawning wolf and said "Bring me a hoe!"

The wolf poofed away, and reappeared seconds later with Scarlet, who was not at all happy with her lunch being interrupted.

“No!” Zack said snapped, impatiently at the wolf , “A garden hoe!”

The mako wolf poofed away, taking an irately screaming Scarlet with him, and returned moments later with the correct item. Zack took it, and dismissed the wolf with a pat on the head and a "good boy!"

He turned to the trembling cadet and said "This is your hoe. You will carry it with you at all times. If an officer asks you why you are carrying it, you will respond with, 'This is my hoe! I love hoes, sir'!"

"And hug it," Cloud added.

"And you will hug that hoe, cadet! Is that clear?"

"Sir, yes sir!" the cadet replied in a carefully measured tone even though he was screaming internally.

"Now line up!" Zack ordered. The cadets snapped into a much better version of a tidy marching column. Good job, boys! he thought proudly, while maintaining the outward expression suggesting that the cadets had just barely avoided the grade of U for Unsatisfactory.

Zack stepped aside and relinquished command to Cloud with a flashy salute. It was his turn to observe and take notes on performance.

"Cadets, forward march!" Cloud moved the cadets forward and started the marching cadence.

"I'm a Barbie girl,"

"In a Barbie world!"

Zack relaxed into a comfortable slouch, recording the drill on one of their fancy new camcorders. All of their drills, exercises and activities were recorded strictly for evaluation purposes to determine what methods and techniques would work best for each group (and in some cases, individuals), and what parts of the program needed adjusting. It was definitely NOT so Zack and Cloud could watch them later in their quarters while eating snacks and laughing.

Zack caught movement out of the corner of his eye and he left the camera on its tri-pod, setting it to follow the tracker on Cloud's armband. Memory sidled up and went pssst! as it passed him a mental note. Oh, yeah, Him! Zack thought with a mischievous grin. The Inspector had arrived, and he already looked unhappy.

[madonnamadeofasphalt]

One of my favourite things in fiction is when a type of character that so often turns out to be a twist villain that you expect it turns out to not be villainous at all.

The Celebrity Hero, dude who looks like Superman in shining armor and is adored by everybody, and everyone is telling incredible tales of his exploits? He’s every bit as heroic and capable as people say, even if some of the stories are a bit exaggerated.

The Popular Girl, conventionally beautiful, constantly partying and crushed on by all of her classmates? She’s beloved not just because of her looks, but also because she’s genuinely the nicest person around.

The Royal Spymaster, a shady, queercoded fellow in a black cloak who has their little birds everywhere and probably does some dark magic in their basement? They’re the most idealistic and loyal protector of the people in the capital.

The Village Priest, a severe old man with a posture of a scarecrow, who looks like he’s never told a joke in his whole life? His fancy, Church-assigned residence is empty because he sold all of his furniture to help the local peasants get through a famine.

Bonus points if they turn out to be completely useless to the driving conflict and/or profoundly self-destructive because they don’t have a villainous bone in their body.

The Celebrity Hero is such a pure-hearted himbo that he’s easily tricked into believing the protagonist is a villain.

The Popular Girl, behind a smiling facade, is an absolute dysfunctional mess because she keeps making everyone’s problems her own and never opens up because she doesn’t want people to worry.

The Royal Spymaster outright refuses to believe the evidence that the king, whom they’ve known since he was a baby, has been scheming for years to backstab them because they’re one of the last obstacles on his way to absolute power.

The Village Priest is completely sidelined and a laughing stock of his horrifically corrupt Church, because he seems to be the only guy around who actually treats its tenets seriously.

etc., etc.

[julymarte]

Text post cause I'm gonna dive into mermay with a silly/not so silly brainstorming about ✨the fish✨ of course, as the other time this is not a fanfiction or anything it's just me taking notes of events I might draw in a scattered way that I can understand when drawing, it's not a narration of events

Today's prompt was.... Will Pravaal ever talk with his mother again? Would his mom ever send someone looking for him? Etc etc more under the cut

Context for those who might be new:

Pravaal the pink merman boy you can't have missed from my blog is the eldest (illegitimate)son of a high noble woman descending from a mildly discriminated minority (abyssals) and they don't have a good relationship. Pravaal's mother used to care for him for his very first years until her family started pressuring her to mend the mistake she made and reclaim the respect from her family...nobles of abyssal descent are obsessed with being seen well and accepted by pure blood high nobility so a child had outside a marriage with a man from another land that never came back...well, wasn't the best for her situation and instead of clinging to her son she distanced herself giving priority to her status. While his mother married a pure blood noble and had more children with him he was always mistreated,insulted, alienated until he had enough and ran away from home (not before stealing a bunch of precious stuff in retaliation including his signature earring) he was around 12 when he escaped...

Time setting: 2 years before the story circa

Scene: It's night (like night night) in the Silver Capital pravaal is about to exit the twin moons after a nice party night when he finds 4 men with light armor and the sea emblem pointing spears at him

P* startled but trying to keep the cool*: my my~ what do we have here? Did the hag finally decide to look for her lost child?

???: ugh where are your manners? This squalid place sure had left it's influence on you..and look at you what are you wearing?! That's highly improper..tch but what else could I have expected? Of course you would have joined that entourage of criminals like your father

P * genuinely surprised but his mood darkening*: to think you left your pretty perfect mansion to come find me after 10 years... What do I owe the honor of your presence,mother? * He'd do an over exaggerated bow with the hand twirls*

Narissa *annoyed but keeping an air of superiority*: I'm obviously not here for you, but for something you've taken from me *points at his earring* I want that back and if you won't be an obedient boy my guards will take it by force

P *snickering and looking at the guards as someone who would easily take them down*: you even threaten me?! For this earring? If it really mattered that much to you why wait all this time?

N* takes a moment to reply pondering if she should tell him or not*: I need it to complete the set, I will be wearing it at an important ceremony, my daughter has finally been matched with a pure blood high noble for marriage it's an important occasion for my family, it's my crest after all... It matters more to me than to you right?...so now... Hand it over and you won't get hurt

P: my sister is...? She's not even an adult yet and you already sold her out like that?!

N: it's for the greater good of the family, that is none of your business! You never were part of it, you only caused me problems and it's disappointing to see you just keep doing so.... Guards !

Guards:yes ma'am!

N: I want that earring at all costs I don't care if you have to wound him or worse

???: oi! oi! oi! What's with the commotion outside!? I was trying to entertain a small crowd there but if you keep going like this they will all come making bets here *the scruffy but charming man puts a hand on Pravaal's shoulder who recoils annoyed and mildly disgusted*

P: by the ancients if things couldn't get any worse...*grows increasingly irritated by the situation* go back there old man this doesn't concern you

Arvad: sheesh! What a bitter family reunion we have here...I just wanted to land you a hand boy don't give me the cold shoulder like that, ah and you Marissa are just as beautiful as the last time I sa-

Narissa: *she snaps, it runs in the family*YOU!!!! YOU ARE THE SOURCE OF ALL MY MISFORTUNE! DO YOU UNDERSTAND HOW MUCH YOU RUINED MY LIFE!? STARTING WITH* points at pravaal who looks at her coldly*..THAT!? AND ITS NARISSA! you pathetic man don't even remember my name *looks at him disgusted to which in response he just averts the gaze and spaces out*

P* raises his hands and turns around leaving* that's it I'm done I am NOT gonna get involved in this, no way I'm gonna stand here as you argue over how your life was ruined-

N: DO YOU THINK I HAVE FORGOTTEN?! GUARDS!! * Arvad jumps on the side startled by her loud yelling, the guards rush towards pravaal who summons his whip sword and whips it on the ground making them take a step back, serious look on his face he starts to take a few strps towards his mother*

P: I'm not gonna give it to you, you don't really need it do you? This is not an old family heirloom you could have commissioned a copy, I bet you probably already have one, not to mention why boasting the family crest when you aim to be part of another more prestigious house?...*snaps his sword again to keep the guards at bay who are simply pointing their sticks at him unsure of what to do, his mother stares at him coldly but starts sweating* the red moon district is a small place and people talk, especially at the twin moons *Arvad nods nervously sensing the tension* and I would have known if there were a bunch of sea guards buzzing around the capital but no you paid someone to sell my exact location... Why? * She grows a bit uneasy as he uses the earring to appear as his 12yo self and steps closer* Don't Tell me you DID actually come for me~ Aww maybe you still do have a heart deep deep down, did you miss me? Or do I still haunt your dreams?*flashes her a smirk to challenge her to reply to which he freezes in silence for a while,guards looking each other in confusion and Arvad taking the moment to sneak back to his small audience with a new story, noticing him pravaal..still as a baby boi sighs*

So?

N: fine! Keep the earring...I- I'm here cause of my daughter, she was wondering if you still were alive and I wanted to- to check, for her..no way in the pits of the abyss I'll let her taint her reputation before her marriage by setting foot on land!

P:... Wouldn't these guys have been enough? And why lie about the jewels?!...*sighs and releases the illusion turning back to his normal self* listen, whatever,I don't care ,as you see I am still alive that's it...but now don't ever show your face around here again...he ruined your life, I ruined it too by existing I guess, but you ruined mine as well and it's not less important than your pretty sorry story* she twitches a little hearing that, she tries to maintain a superiority look but she's more akin to a dog with it's leg between it's legs now* but.. you are right, my my where are my manners?! * Does the mocking fancy bow again* farewell mother, may I never see you again~

[obsessivelollipoplalala]

I’ve been thinking about the auction for ages, just turning it around in my head constantly. My instant guy reaction was to be horrified, and then people online made me think I was being unreasonable. And I just kept going back and forth unsure, but Brian’s message I think helped clear my head. And I think I’ve figured out what bothers me the most about all this. Because my first initial reaction was mostly just emotion. Mostly just “but that is awful!” Especially hearing about the fucking mustache comb. Like you KNOW what kind of freaks are out there. If Freddie hadn’t been a celeb I’d probably honestly say yeah sure sell it whatever. But he was a celeb, and there’s a plethora of weirdos who would want that. You have to take that kind of thing into account.

I’ll also be honest, I don’t actually give a fuck about the furniture and art being sold. Actually if it was the interior design stuff being auctioned off I probably would have shrugged. Like oh well. It’s just a couch, and a vase or whatever (very nice very expensive furniture and decoration but you know, they don’t represent Freddie imo). The clothes, the piano, the lyrics and photos, the very personal effects (mustache comb which I will never stop harping on) that’s what bothers me. It’s because it shows an utter disregard for Freddie’s legacy. Freddie is not only a famous and legendary musician, but classic and historical. He is one of the biggest musicians there will ever be in human history (and that’s not even an exaggeration in the slightest!), and you’re just selling his handwritten lyrics etc to the highest bidder with no regard for its historical value. I’m reminded of Indiana Jones. “It belongs in a museum!”

I don’t think anybody is saying to turn Garden Lodge into a Graceland. Freddie would have been horrified at that idea with how private he was. But to not offer Queen (the only her legendary musicians in this equation who will also be in/are in the history books) even some of the the lyrics…

I think for literal historical reasons it’s a problem to be selling these lyrics and some of these clothes to randos.

Also there is a way to display this stuff properly. Everybody it seems jumps to “well Freddie wouldn’t want a Graceland.” Like yeah of course not. But there is (maybe was, not sure it’s still up) a Nirvana exhibit, which Kurt Cobain’s family had a big hand in. And it displays some important objects for the public, including some of Kurt’s clothes (which were not nearly as flashy/high fashion as Freddie’s, albeit still iconic). And I also think of again, how gracefully Frances Bean Cobain (Kurt’s daughter) who has the majority of his estate, handles his legacy, and seems on very good terms with the other band members. The literal only hiccup I can think of isn’t even her fault. Kurt’s guitar was auctioned off after being stolen from her by her ex husband, and she fought to get it back.

Anyway, I think there was a way to handle this. To auction off some of Freddie’s goods, like furniture and stuff that isn’t actually important to his legacy, and still get a hefty price. Hell, maybe even sell a shirt or two that is a bit more important. But then handle the placement of the more important materials more delicately. Hell, you could still maybe even make some money depending on how you arrange where it goes.

Yeah, that's pretty much what it comes down to. I don't care much about the furniture and décor, either, and I think most people don't. Those are things that were irrelevant to his work, just things to fill up a house. I've been saying for weeks now that selling the things which directly have to do with Freddie's music, such as his lyrics, instruments, and stage costumes, is indicative of a complete and utter disregard for his life's work, impact, and legacy as a musician. It says a lot when randos who never know Freddie think, "Wow, his lyrics should be in a museum" but the woman who the media has painted as the Only One who ever understood Freddie saw no value in these items outside of dollar signs. It's just very disrespectful.

No one is arguing that the lyrics and costumes of Freddie's that are already on display at the Montreux museum or other exhibitions aren't what he would've wanted, so these people defending the auction with "BuT FrEDDiE WOuLDn'T HavE WanTED--"are just annoying.

And to me, what's equally scummy is how there was zero consideration for Freddie's living loved ones. That was one of my immediate thoughts when I first heard of the auction. Mary clearly doesn't view Freddie's lyrics, instruments, or costumes as part of Queen's larger legacy. It's both disrespectful to the band as individuals, and to Queen as a whole. It's like she really never gave a shit about Queen, Freddie's baby, and of course she certainly never gave a shit about anyone else in his life, no matter how close he was to them (and you could argue the closer they were to Freddie, the more she resented them). And it's the very personal items, too, not just the mustache comb, but the personal photos of the band hanging out in the pool or the photos of Freddie and Anita in kimonos at Garden Lodge which shouldn't be sold without asking those actually in the pictures first. It's shitty that the band and Freddie's other loved ones would even be put in the position of having to purchase photographs that they are in.

Anyway, the whole thing is really shitty to both Freddie's legacy as a musician and his loved ones. Plain and simple.

[rainbowdaisy13]

Public Service Announcement!!

DO NOT attempt Performance Art if your execution of it goes like this: giving up your Pride speech; getting in business with organizations like the NFL or the Chiefs; platforming, cheering on harmful behavior and helping men like Travis succeed; promoting toxic heteronormativity by straight washing queer history; getting young people to love and adopt these behaviors; making yourself look like you have no problem with a dictator taking reigns of you country in an election year; hanging out all over people who support him; clean up PR for people who married on a plantation and lied about not knowing it was plantation; bullies; people who use the topic of domestic violence to promote hair products; staying silent on an article that shames your queer fans by picking up on flags that are part of their history, getting a friend to back that article for you (bonus: don't do that when you let slide your fans trashing your real partner for what they perceived, was similar behavior; the only good PR you owe is to your partner - I'm not a Kaylor or LSK, but thought to add that one in case you guys are right). Performance Art can go wrong if: you don't stop the game at the right time, if you do it in a year like this, if you drag it too long.

Comparing this to Joaquin Phoenix's 'I'm still here' performance art is a crime. In no way does Joaquin pretending to want to be a hip hop artist instead of an actor equate to this other monstrosity. If Taylor truly saw this and thought to make her own, but more tone deaf and with higher stakes, where the queer community (that stands to lose many rights next year) is used as pawn in her silly game without consenting, she's an ego maniac who should be paid no attention. If her team and her privileged rich queer friends thought this was a good idea, then she's surrounded by an out of touch army. She should reenact the other part of Reputation: go underground and self reflect. Get in touch with reality. But oh wait, she never actually disappeared for a year if you look at her footprint in 2017. It was an exaggerated ploy to give Reputation an edge. The only time she locked herself in, was when all of us did, during COVID.

Ok I haven’t seen the comparison to Joaquin’s performance art yet and that is WILD on so many levels 😆 It reminds me of the type of high end art dealers who successfully sold that fucking banana taped to the wall for over 120K…..like if you smugly think it’s cool or funny that you believe Taylor is spending millions of dollars making this many years long high brow artistic documentary about the trappings of fame while climate change rages, while we are at the beginning of of the 6th great mass extinction, while world leaders dismantle systems of protection and support for marginalized communities left and right, while potable water becomes more precious than gold, than all I can say is both you and Taylor need a fucking reality check. IF she’s doing that for herself in a fun tee hee aren’t I so clever way, shes legitimately the most out of touch human on the planet

Very The Emperors new clothes vibes

“Each sees that the looms are empty but pretends otherwise to avoid being thought a fool.

Finally, the weavers report that the emperor's suit is finished. They mime dressing him and he sets off in a procession before the whole city. The townsfolk uncomfortably go along with the pretense, not wanting to appear inept or stupid, until a child blurts out that the emperor is wearing nothing at all. The people then realize that everyone has been fooled. Although startled, the emperor continues the procession, walking more proudly than ever.”

[fksleep]

‘ hc' habits

good habits:

sociable. he's easy to talk to and he's approachable. it's not difficult for him to make friends with any group, whether they're nerds, jocks, alternative, stoners, techies, outcasts, hustlers, gangstas, or whomever. although, he personally dislike hanging around the affluent crowds, he does have fun at exaggerating their social etiquette and watching them fall for his facade, when he's undercover.

listening (when he wants to) and studying. despite being a hothead who expressed the typical "bad boy" mannerisms when he was a teenager, you could never call him one-dimensional. just as he was street smart, he was book smart too. his studiousness could be attributed to his parents' strictness, but that'd be downplaying his natural penchant for building his understanding of subjects he's interested in. he's well-versed in interdisciplinary studies, including math, history, physics, materials/neuroscience, bio/neuromechanics, aerospace engineering, robotics/mechatronics, a.i., medical science, etc. under bruce's tutelage, he attained extensive knowledge on botany.

ambitious. piggy-backing off the above, while he has a fun with problem-solving, naturally in the detective field, teru desires to be a physician. he's good at crafting and working with non-western medicines.

regular workouts. before becoming batman, he was amazingly flexible and athletic. rigorous strength training, cardio, and frequent participation in various sports such as wrestling, baseball, swimming, diving, archery, and mountain climbing have been his therapy. if he wasn't so tunnel-visioned on medicine, then becoming a olympian would've had his heart.

protective. this seesaws over the borders of 'good' and 'bad' because while the first thought of possessing such a quality is appreciable, depending on the circumstances, he can be insufferable. it stems from all the losses he took in his life. the murder of his father, charlie's betrayal and untimely death, matt's near-permanent jokerization, working under dangerous corporate tyrants like derek powitz, the kidnappings of his loved ones, ace's abuse, and other life-changing events made him uncomfortable with his people involving themselves in a situations he believes he should be able to handle.

open-minded. for example, if he's seeing someone is willing to make an effort to change their life around, he's not above giving them a shot. the way he lived his own life years ago, there was a time he believed if it was possible he could make it to see twenty. he never liked talking about it, but if it helped him reach out to other troubled individals, he would (and has.).

humble. the city he protected sold him out and at times, have worked against him. it stung like hell, and it has added to the weight he carries in his soul, but to quote him, "small rewards are the best ones". if he helped at least one person live to see another day, and or was responsible for changing somebody's life around for the better, then he isn't looking for worship and public adoration.

bad habits:

emotional control. in his early batman days, it was his age, and traumatic experiences that affected his performance. it became progressively worse when his dna was spliced with vampire bat by dr. cuvier. while he has a better handle on it in presently as an adult, it's an affliction that keeps him mindful of his emotions.

judgmental. i mentioned earlier that he's openminded, he is, but there are still things out there he's biased against. first off all, jokerz. he understands how a problematic background can lead to dramatic and destructive decisions, but wearing clown makeup is... a choice. then, there's the chimera movement... i'll get more into this later.

vindictive. 'an eye for an eye can make the whole world blind', but teru will watch those who wronged him choke before his world goes black. he feels no remorse for the accidental killing of his father's murderer, nor for disfiguring mr. powers--the man who plotted it, in the first place. he doesn't shame himself for feeling absolved over the death of dr. abel cuvier, the geneticist responsible for teru's body and leaving him with an unchangeable condition.

vices. he's slowly weening off of cigarettes and caffeine consumption, and trying to tolerate the taste of miswaks and mushroom coffee to replace the need.

selfish. he's only human. sometimes he wants to tune out and get lost somewhere, far away from the expectations and drama. he may shut down, put his phone in vibrate, and decompress in whatever activity that gives him temporary joy.

disrespectful. he wasn't big on authority growing up. in his mind, there was no such thing as a good cop until he met barbara gordon. outside of his general opinion on law enforcement, he just has a mouth on him. it annoys people close to him and enemies alike.

argumentative. if he's passionate about a topic, the person on the other hand might be able to save themselves if they're able to come up with the most logical brain-busting response, it gives teru pause and a chance to reassess everything. it's not that he doesn't like to be wrong—he just believes in his heart.

i can go on, but stopping here for now.

@escapedartgeek + hc word/sentence prompt.

[jpt3391]

The Life of Oharu

Dang. That movie was one of the saddest movies I have ever watched. The atmosphere that Mizoguchi created of a lady in the 1600s who had fallen from grace, may be exaggerated a bit, but still holds applicable to how many of the women during that time were treated. Even his own sister, who we talked about the class before, was sold off by her father which I can only imagine the effect that had on him and the future works that he would create. It really puts into perspective the hardships that women had to face throughout their lives and how the patriarchal society functioned. From her father, to her “lovers”, and to the other men that she had to face, every part that brought her problems was because of men and how they viewed women as property, rather than human beings like they should.

The titular character, Oharu, is introduced in the first frames of the movie, but it takes a bit for her to show her face, similar to how she would hide her face throughout the movie when meeting others for the first time. I think that Mizoguchi shot that long scene to put us into the shoes of how other people would see her and long to look at her face. Eventually, the beauty that she tries to hide turns into a beauty that she hides because of the path that she walks now as a nun. I thought that, despite everything that she went through, it was a respectable thing that she did. She was shunned by the nun at first because of the misunderstanding that was caused by Jihei, speaking of which, how terrible was that nun for not being able to forgive her and be the better person to still want to take care of a woman that has been tossed aside so many times. I thought that was so sad, to have Oharu in that position and turning to another lady who is supposed to take care of you, still casts you aside for what a man has done to you. It’s not even her fault, and she has to take the brunt of the punishment. But going back to the chronological story, one of the shots that I found interesting was the slow pan that revealed who I assumed was the priest of the temple, standing above the older ladies as a representation of the social status that men had back then.

The importance of money, not just in their society, but in the modern world as well. The shot where they all turned as the counterfeiter showed off the spoils to the people at the brothel was a really good shot. When they all turned around, it was pretty funny to me

More subtlety in the statues as the women are still below them, but also in the shot of Oharu and the other men looking down at her. It just reminds the audience of the lowly status that women had before.

[foldingfittedsheets]

It’s been several years since I sold mattresses, though I still have friends in that industry. Back then, I bought this wildly expensive set of sheets. They’re made of tencel (like a fancy processed plant fiber), with a quilted top sheet that’s very soft and decadent. The fitted sheet has straps at all four corners to keep it snug on the bed, and the pillowcases are quilted, too.

The problem is that the quilted top has come apart from the bottom, making the luxurious and expensive quilted top sheet a nightmare to wash and use. It’s turned into a vast floppy bag of fabric.

Having grown more frustrated with this situation over the years I finally reached out to the company I’d bought them from to ask if I could buy a single top sheet. To help this process along I claimed I still work in the mattress industry.

To my surprise the regional Vice President of sales gets back to me almost immediately and says he’s sorry to hear it, and what mattress store do I own? Presumptuous, I think. But still, a good sign.

So I text my friend who owns a store. I’ve helped cover his location a few times on a freelance basis, and I know he carries their sheets. I say, “Can I lie to this company that I work for you?”

“Of course,” he says. So I send my little email with its exaggeration that I work for my friends store more often than is really the case. I then text my friend again.

“Wow,” I say, “it’s surprising that the regional VP of sales is the one handling this.”

My friend is upset. “What?! You can’t lie to him! I just had lunch with him, he knows you don’t work for me!”

At which point I say, “What! You told me I could lie!!”

He says he’ll send an email. I feel bad but not that bad because I did ask first. But within ten minutes the VP is back, even more genial than before. He fulfills a warranty claim that gets me two new top sheets for free since I’m a friend of a friend. It felt like I was part of the bedding mob, I swear.

[helenadurazzo]

Helena’s Fifiteth

For those who don’t know, Helena’s canonical birthday was on February 23rd 1973, making today her fiftieth irl. In honor of this, I decided to demonstrate what Helena’s life is like in the present

Also I am still debating a name for Vincent’s wife who appears in this story, I am open to suggestions and will edit the story once a name is decided

Erika -> 51-52

Helena -> 49-50

Vincent -> 24-25

Zara -> 22-23

Cato and Brian belong to @catohphm

As spring would be approaching in the next month, Helena knew her number of clients would once again, quickly increase as it did every other year. She had a couple of plants that either bloomed year round or bloomed solely in the winter, but for the most part, the coldest season tended to be the slowest for Helena and her motivation as well.

“You’ve been out here longer than usual for a winter’s day.” A familiar voice commented with a chuckle, “Happy Birthday, love.”

Helena turned around and smiled at her wife and welcomed her with an embrace and a gentle, yet loving, kiss. “I didn’t think you’d be back this quick, Eri.” Helena mentioned in a surprised but delighted tone. “You acted like that emergency at work was going to take you all day to handle.”

“It was just an exaggeration, I figured you would have guessed that by now.” Erika admitted. “I was a member of the Harpies before I became their manager, I’ve learned how to solve most problems pretty easily overtime. Plus leaving at the break of dawn certainly helped.”

She supposed Erika had a point since it was nearly noon now. “Well, your team is certainly having an excellent season.”

“Glad to know you are still rooting for us.”

“Your team still has many quidditch teams to beat before you can confidently claim victory.” Helena reminded her, “Including the Tornadoes.”

Helena watched as Erika only laughed at this, “The Tornadoes are only doing good this year because they are using Vincent to their advantage, after all, he certainly learned from the best.”

Helena chuckled “Whatever you say love.”

“That reminds me, I ran into Penny when I arrived.” Erika revealed. “She was saying something about how she was head to pick up an order of some ingredient she needed for her potions, can’t remember what it was on the top of my head so I figured I would ask you before I gave her the wrong thing.”

“I completely forgot!” She exclaimed as she pulled her wand out of her pocket and summoned a jar, “Luckily it’s a pretty easy fix.” She informed confidently Erika as she kneeled down in front of some icy blue flowers, gently using a spell to remove the petals and place them within the jar.

“What did she want?” Erika asked curiously, seemingly struggling to identify the flower petals her wife was gathering.

“These are permafrostine petals.” Helena explained, not taking her eyes off of her diligent work. “They are used in many advanced potions however they must be picked carefully. If even one of these petals would happen to touch a human’s skin, it would cause a severe case of frostbite.”

“How delightful.” Erika sarcastically commented. “Are you sure these petals are used in potions and not deadly poisons instead?”

Helena chuckled at her wife’s statement, “You’d be surprised by how many ingredients that go into potions can be considered poison if they are just by themselves. However, in combination with the accurate number of other non-poisonous ingredients, the elements of poison will cancel out, I don’t know much about the appropriate ratios.” Helena admitted, “that’s Penny’s expertise.”

Helena had learned from her mother to not advertise products that bloomed in such a limited timeframe. As her mother would say, there would always be one person rushing in with a desperate need for a material that so many other herbologists would have already sold out of. If Helena had waited even a week more to harvest the petals of these last few permafrostine flowers, they would have shriveled up and deemed useless. However, she did make an exception for a few of her clients such as Penny, although the two weren’t close as kids, she certainly always had a friendly relationship with her husband, as the two had known each other since they were young.

“There.” Helena confidently announced, mainly to herself, as she stood back up, securely holding the jar with careful hands. The glass was freezing yet not to a dangerous level and was simply that way due to the material within it. “That should be enough to last her for many months, if not the rest of the year.”

“Let’s head back to the house then.” Erika suggested, “We shouldn’t keep Mrs. Reese waiting forever.”

“You do have a point there.” Helena lightly chuckled as she linked her arm with Erika’s, looking into her eyes, and the two walked back side by side.

Helena smiled at the large, yet comforting cottage that she and Erika moved into a couple of years after Helena herself graduated from Hogwarts and the two decided to move to the next level in their relationship. It was also the home where they raised their two children in, although they had both since left to start lives and careers of their own, they were in their twenties after all. However, Helena made sure to always keep their rooms ready for whenever they decided to visit, although it became more sparse.

Her son was often traveling around from arena to arena ever since he officially became one of the three main chasers for the Tutshill Tornadoes, with his wife, traveling alongside him, eagerly attending all of his matches. Meanwhile, her daughter traveled, representing the ministry of magic to the governments of other countries, gaining recognition as an ambassador. She was immensely proud of both of them, however she did wish for them to be closer to home, even though she knew their traveling was part of the reason why they were successful.

Erika led the way into the house, Helena spotted Penny right away with her unmistakable golden blonde hair in a French braid, however she was pleasantly surprised when she saw her husband with her. “You didn’t tell me Cato was here.” Helena commented to Erika.

She listened as her wife chuckled mischievously, “I figured it was obvious.”

“Me and Penny got you a little something for your birthday.” Cato happily informed as he handed her a small, box that looked like it was carefully wrapped however Helena could tell by the appearance it was simply an illusion, something she enjoyed as she hated seeing wrapping paper all over the floor whenever her kids were young and opening up presents as much as she hated wrapping them.

“You shouldn’t have.” Helena smiled thankfully as she took the lid off and carefully pulled out what the box contained. Inside was a hand painted figurine of a flower, “It’s beautiful.”

“Glad you like it.” Cato replied with a smile before turning to Erika, “How have the Harpies been?”

“Good.” Erika replied with a smile, “the ladies are in a great position to win this season, although so are the Tornadoes who we face soon.”

As if on cue, the sound of travel by floo powder came from the nearby fireplace. Helena turned to see her son, dressed in a casual outfit and a light blue jacket, matching the Tutshill Tornadoes’ signature color. His hair was as curly as it was when he was a kid and his green eyes shone just as brightly. His wife appeared with the help of floo powder not to long after him.

“I thought you were going to be busy with quidditch practice!” Helena exclaimed as she embraced him, “It’s so good to see you!” She added once she took a few steps back following the embrace.

“I could not miss your birthday.” He assured her with a warm smile, before leaning over and whispering in her ear mischievously, “I’d say you were the best mother in the world, but I wouldn’t want to make mum jealous.” A statement which, Helena could not help but chuckle at in response.

“So the Tornadoes and playing the Harpies soon?” Cato asked Vincent as Helena exchanged a few words of greeting with her daughter in law.

“That’s right!” He cheerfully confirmed before turning to Erika, “I will make sure me and my teammates go easy on your ladies.”

“Trust me Vin.” She playfully replied, messing up his hair with her hand as if he was a kid, “I should be telling my ladies to go easy on your team.”

“Good to see you again Vincent.” Brian greeted him with a pat on the shoulder, “Good to hear you have been doing well, how is your sister?”

“Busy as always I am sure.” Vincent informed him, “As you can see, I am my mothers favorite as Zara did not make time out of her extensive itinerary to come make even a brief visit.”

“I’d hold my tongue if I were you.” Helena noticed Brian say as he motioned to something going on behind both her and Vincent.

Helena turned and to her surprise, there stood three familiar faces, her daughter was in front and in center while her parents were a few steps behind. Helena assumed they had to have Apparates in, with her mother assisting her father. Zara quickly came to embrace Helena, looking as beautiful as ever with her curly dirty blonde locks and green eyes that matched her brother’s. She then walked over to Vincent.

“Are you still sure you are the favorite now?” She smirked at him.

“H-How?” Vincent stuttered as Brian chuckled at his loss of words.

“Just a little planning on my part with our grandparents helping me out when it came to finding out the time and place of the festivities.” She informed him and playfully threatened, “Do not underestimate me again.”

“Alright alright you win.” Vincent gave in before giving a glance at his wife who gave a nod in response to their seemingly silent conversation, then he turned back to look at his sister, “or, at least that is what you think my dearest sister.”

“Vincent and I just found out we our expecting our first child.” She revealed, as Vincent put a comforting arm around her.

“That’s wonderful news!” Helena exclaimed happily.

“I figured so.” Vincent replied before smirking at his sister, “Especially since Zara is not anywhere near close to even considering starting a family of her own.” He teased

“Whatever, I’ll just be cool aunt Zara.” She informed him with a smile showing that she had not lost their rivalry yet.

“Define Cool.” He asked her.

As Helena watched her two children continue to banter as if they were young and not adults with their own careers, she looked over at Erika, Penny, and Cato, the last of which was the first to speak.

“You both are going to be fantastic grandmothers.” He informed her and Erika.

“I hope so.” Helena informed him

“Well I know so.” Erika assured her, as she put her arm around her. “Now how about that for a birthday present? Quite something isn’t it?”

Helena smiled, “It has certainly been a birthday I do not see forgetting in the foreseeable future.”

“I hope so.” Helena informed him.

“Well I know so.” Erika assured her, as she put her arm around her. “Now how about that for a birthday present? Quite something isn’t it?”

Helena smiled, “It has certainly been a birthday I do not see forgetting in the foreseeable future.”

[darkmaga-returns]

It’s voting day. Historically, that would mean that by some time early tomorrow morning we’d know who was going to be President, but they have already announced that counting the last few percent of the vote in a couple of states may take up to thirteen days.

A hallmark of totally normal not at all corrupt voting practices.

It’s actually hard to believe anybody can take this election cycle seriously, given how obviously and blatantly the 2020 election was rigged. That should have been the final nail in the coffin of American “democracy”.

They told you they were going to rig it, they told you how they were going to rig it, they rigged it live on television –  in front of your eyes…and then claimed anyone saying it was rigged was a “conspiracy theorist”.

2020 was the fakest “election” ever…

until now.

2024 is even worse, it is a complete nonsense. A fairy story. Just look at the candidates…

In the Blue Corner we have Kamala Harris. Probably the least real candidate ever to run for President, her entire campaign is a Psy-Op.

In the 2020 race she polled last in the Democratic primaries and dropped out very early. As of 2023 she was the least popular Vice President ever, and only got the nomination thanks to Joe Biden’s dementia.

No exaggeration – this woman is a disaster. She appears to have some form of substance abuse problem and probably quite a low IQ. She can’t talk without a teleprompter, rambles incoherently in response to the most basic questions, gives the same speech (with the same phony over-rehearsed gestures ) over and over again, campaigns with polar-opposite positions depending on the state she’s in, and, if that’s not enough –  during her time as AG of California she is known to have kept prisoners locked up past their sentences to use them as cheap labor.

But since the insane 2024 presidential carnival began this completely talentless, mediocre morally compromized nobody is being sold to us  as some type of super uber duper female Barack Obama. A brilliant tactician, awesome debater, all round bundle of charisma and “joy”.

It’s fake. Obviously.

[unamericannazidemocratparty]

Liberalism is an ideology of parasites, hypocrites, grievance mongers, victims, and control freaks. Like a tick, liberalism latches onto a victim and sucks him dry. Of course, a single tick can’t gorge itself on so much blood that it does to a dog what liberalism did to Detroit. It doesn’t turn the different parts of the dog against each other. The tick doesn’t tell everyone he’s a victim and that the dog is greedy if he tries to scratch it off.

You can’t be both a good Christian and a good liberal because they’re incompatible and liberalism makes no exceptions for religious beliefs. It demands to be placed first in a person’s life, even above God; a liberal who stands up for his Christian beliefs or who merely asks that Christians not be demeaned will be ostracized for it by other liberals. Churches that adopt liberal beliefs inevitably become such pale imitations of the truth that missionaries should be sent in to convert them to Christianity.

Liberalism is an ideology of tribalism and hatred. It works incessantly to undermine anything that truly brings America together -- like Christianity, the culture and love of country -- so it can try to rebind people together as liberal drones. Relatively minor differences of opinion between liberals and those who disagree with them are habitually elevated to encourage hated.

For example, there’s no logical, rational reason that…

…If you oppose illegal immigration, you must hate Hispanics.

….If you oppose Affirmative Action, you must hate blacks.

….If you oppose free birth control, you must hate women.

….If you’re concerned about radical Islam, you must hate all Muslims.

….If you oppose gay marriage, you must hate gays.

Yet, liberalism promotes those lies incessantly to keep people at each other’s throats. Liberals have to convince their supporters that they’re hated for who they are to keep them from asking uncomfortable questions about why liberalism fails and conservatism works. As long as you’re brainwashed into believing that you’re universally hated by everyone except liberals for something you can’t control, you have nowhere else to turn.

Turning people against each other, lying about your opponents and adopting an ends justifies the means mentality are all interwoven into liberalism. Most liberals aren’t evil, but liberalism is a darkness of the soul and the more fully a person adopts it, the more of an awful human being he becomes.

Liberalism encourages a habitual hatred of people who aren’t liberal. It exaggerates grievances, elevates victimhood, excuses laziness and immoral behavior, undermines success and it pours acid on the pillars that hold up our entire society. To paraphrase Thomas Sowell,

Civilization has been aptly called a ‘thin crust over a volcano’. (Liberalism is) constantly picking at that crust.

Liberalism seems to begin with the assumption that there’s an infinite amount of money, goodness, cultural resiliency and goodwill -- and that nothing people do can have a negative impact on it. We’ll have plenty of money no matter how much liberals spend. People will be good no matter how much evil liberalism condones. Our culture will remain strong no matter how much liberals denigrate it and discourage people from embracing it. There will be no long term consequences of pushing division and hatred, no matter how often liberals do it.

If only they were right about that or if their policies worked. Want to know the consummate liberal policy? It’s Obamacare. It was passed with all Democrat votes and sold to the public almost entirely with lies. Almost every problem with the law was predicted by the law’s opponents beforehand and was vigorously denied by liberals. The law hasn’t worked as intended, it has had disastrous consequences and is extremely unpopular. Yet, liberals STILL support it wholeheartedly and blame the people who begged them not to pass the law for the difficulties it has.

As Talleyrand would say, “They have learned nothing and forgotten nothing.”

That would be tolerable if liberalism confined its hatred, wickedness, stupidity and incompetence to liberal enclaves, but on top of all its other faults, liberalism is an ideology for control freaks. It’s not enough for liberals to bankrupt California and destroy Detroit; they have to centralize their policies to force the people who know better to suffer for their sins. After all, if people are given a choice, they may not choose liberalism and worse yet, they may prove to be bad examples by prospering BECAUSE they didn’t choose liberalism and that can’t be allowed.

However, the most unforgivable thing about liberalism is the sickening way it deceives people to destroy human potential. Liberalism comes in the guise of a friend offering “help” to desperate people. It’s the same sort of “help” a fisherman gives his catch; it just comes with a different sort of hook through the mouth. Liberals get people hooked on welfare and food stamps instead of teaching them to take care of themselves. They encourage people to think of themselves as helpless victims who can’t deal with the world without liberal help. Instead of helping the weak to become strong, they encourage them to be ever more sensitive and to look for new reasons to be offended. There are whole communities of people who’ve been voting for liberal policies for decades with nothing to show for it except poverty, crime, and decay. There are people on welfare today who would have had happy, productive lives if they had been pushed to take care of themselves. There are people who’ve been so convinced by liberalism that the deck is stacked against them that they’ve never tried to get their piece of the American dream. It’s wrong to do that to people. It’s sickening. It’s immoral.

Liberalism empties treasuries, blackens souls, and decimates everything it touches over the long haul. One day, unless the American people wise up to the damage liberalism is causing, it will eventually ruin this nation beyond repair. 🇺🇸John Hawkins 🇺🇸