#and the way I’m writing about those things too

[mylovesstuffs]

OT13 reaction to their s/o cutely asking for kiss

Request: hiii my love🥹🥹 i love your writing so so much (。･ω･｡)ﾉ♡ i have a request for you if you’re up to it!! how would svt ot13 react to reader asking (cutely) for kisses? only if you’re up to it ofc!! i feel like your writing style would suit something like this so well eeeee sjkshak ♡＾▽＾♡ i hope you have a lovely day !!! (´▽｀).。ｏ♡

A/N: It may not be perfect and up to expectations, but I really hope you like it.

Content: Fluff and me cussing because I got no self control, sorry.

Seungcheol: He’d immediately melt, his heart practically liquefying at the sight—your cuteness. Seriously, this man has no defenses against it. His gaze soften with that soft, lovesick gaze of his. He’s way too in love to even pretend like he's cool about it. His hand finds the small of your back as he pulls you closer, his warmth enveloping you completely. He’d plant a featherlight kiss on your forehead—because god forbid you think he doesn't appreciate you being this adorable, then, his lips brush yours, soft and deliberate like he’s savoring every second. His other hand tilts your chin up just slightly, and the kiss deepens—not rushed, but slow and intoxicating, the kind that leaves you feeling weightless. He’s totally aware of the power you hold over him. You're the softest, most lovable thing he’s ever seen, and he’s fully prepared to kiss the hell out of you whenever you ask (•̀o•́)ง

Jeonghan: This man. This Man. He wouldn't give in so easily, because where's the fun in that? The moment you looked at him with those big, pleading eyes, he'd tilt his head, smirk tugging at the corners of his lips like he's got all the time in the world to tease you. And he does because he's Jeonghan, and your patience is his favorite thing to toy with. He'd wait until you started to pout, yes, the pout, and then it's game over. His smirk would break. And then, boom-attack mode activated. He'd lean in, catching you completely off guard as he kissed you everywhere. Forehead, cheeks, nose, lips-this man's got zero chill when it comes to your cuteness. You'd barely have time to breathe before he's back for more, because yeah, he's a menace, but he's also so fucking whipped.

Joshua: Joshua fucking Hong. He's a soft yet calculated menace (evil twin for a reason) who knows exactly how to make you melt. He'd glance at you, his ears turning the most adorable shade of pink, before reaching out to cup your face so softly. And then, The kiss. It'd be so gentle, so sweet, but Joshua isn't done. He'd pull back just slightly, only to press pecks all over your face. You'd think he's finished, but then-bam-he's back for your lips again, It's enough to make you want to scream into a pillow, because how is this man real?! He's soft and teasing and completely ruining you all at once, and he's smiling so sweetly the entire time, like he doesn't know he knows the chaos he's causing.

Jun: Before you could even blink, he’d lean in, his hands cradling your face and start smothering you in kisses. And I mean everywhere. Your cheeks, your forehead, the tip of your nose—nothing is safe from his assault of affection. You’d be giggling uncontrollably because, how do you not laugh when someone is this aggressively adorable? And when your giggles turn into that breathless kind of laughter that makes your cheeks hurt, Jun would pause for just a second, giving you the softest look ever (ಥ﹏ಥ) before diving back in for more. Seriously, are you kidding me? This is the cutest shit ever.

Hoshi: Soonyoung would have zero chill like a tiger. Like, none. You’d ask for kisses, and this man would scream, “KWON SOONYOUNG WILL DELIVER!” And then, boom—couch tackle. I’m not kidding; he’d literally throw himself at you like it’s a wrestling match, his weight knocking you back into the cushions as he grins like an absolute madman. He’d pepper your face with so many pecks that your cheeks would be flushed, your hair a mess, and your stomach would hurt from laughing so much, but does Soonyoung stop? Absolutely not. He’s all-in because of how cute you are. I mean, come on. This man’s kisses are a fucking serotonin boost (｡♥‿♥｡)

Wonwoo: Wonwoo would literally freeze, like his brain just blue-screened. You’d watch as he blinked at you, clearly trying to process how cutely you asked. The way his ears would start turning the tiniest bit pink. But then, oh my god, the smile. That shy, little barely there smile would creep onto his face, and it’s game over for you. He’d lean in so carefully, as if you might shatter, and place the softest fuckass kiss on your lips, pulling back just enough to whisper, “You’re adorable,” ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! Sir? Hello?? And the way he looks at you after, like you just handed him the moon? Yeah.

Woozi: Flustered Woozi is a whole mood, and you’d get front-row seats to the show. The moment the word ‘kisses’ leaves your lips, he’d stammer, his face turning about twelve shades of red faster than you could blink. It’s adorable, but also, Jihoon? Get a grip, bro. He’d try to act all nonchalant, but you know he’s losing his mind. Shit, this is red too. BUT no matter how flustered he gets, he can’t resist you. He’d finally lean in, quick as lightning, pressing a shy kiss to your lips before pulling back. He’d then grumble something like, “Don’t ask like that, it’s too much,” while still avoiding your eyes because you’re TOO cute, and he can’t handle it. Honestly, Woozi being this soft is enough to make you (us) want to sob (｡T ω T｡)

Dokyeom: Oh, Seokmin. Sweet, sunshine Seokmin. His face would light up like a goddamn Christmas tree the second the words leave your mouth. “Of course!” he’d exclaim, already grinning from ear to ear. He’d lean in with all the drama of a lead in a romantic K-drama, his hands cradling your face as he starts peppering sweet, playful kisses across your lips and cheeks. He’d be giggling the whole time, because your cuteness is literally too much for him. Honestly, are you fucking kidding me?! The way he’d pull back just to give you that soft, adoring smile before diving back in for more? Yeah, you’re ruined. Completely and utterly ruined ♡

Mingyu: He lives for riling you up. The second you ask, he’d shoot you this cheeky smirk, leaning closer like he’s trying to interrogate you. “Oh? You want kisses from me? Is this a bribe?” he’d say, all smug, because he’s that guy. And before you can even start protesting because seriously, who bribes for kisses?!—he’s already scooping you up like you weigh nothing (show-off) and smothering you in kisses. Like, everywhere. Your cheeks, your forehead, your nose—hell, he might even go for your hands if he’s feeling extra (which he is). “I’m kidding,” he’d whisper in between kisses, his voice all soft and warm. “I’d kiss you all day if you let me.” And the way he’s looking at you? Like you hung the damn stars in the sky? Yeah, Mingyu wins. We all lose. Someone call a medic, because this is too much.

Minghao: Minghao would give you the look. You know, the one that’s equal parts of amusement and disbelief, like he’s genuinely questioning you? “Kisses, huh?” He’d make you repeat yourself. Not once, but twice. Because apparently, your cute little request wasn’t enough for him the first time. The audacity! But oh, when you finally repeat yourself, all shy and adorable, his smirk would soften, and he’d lean in to place the most deliberate, gentle kiss on your lips. And then he’d just pull back, shrugging like it’s no big deal like he’s completely unfazed. But don’t let that fool you—inside, he’s melting, because how are you this fucking cute?! And honestly? Same, Minghao. Same.

Seungkwan: Sweet, dramatic, extra Seungkwan. He’d gasp so loudly you’d think you just insulted his entire family tree. “Aigoo, you want kisses from me? What are you, a baby?” he’d exclaim, all mock-offended and ridiculous. But then, you pout. And here’s where the real magic happens. Because Seungkwan? This man would immediately crumble. Before you know it, he’s absolutely peppering your face with kisses and in between, he’d be muttering something like, “Why did I tease you? I’m such an idiot. You’re too cute.” He’d pull back just to check if you’re smiling again, and when you are? More kisses. Because Seungkwan doesn’t half-ass anything, especially when it comes to you.

Vernon: The moment you ask him for kisses, Vernon is the type to get caught off guard so easily, it’s kind of adorable. “Oh, uh… sure?” he’d say but he’s secretly dying inside, because how could you be this cute asking for a kiss?! Vernon would lean in as if he’s got it all under control, but you just know his heart is doing somersaults as he places the softest kiss on your lips. When he pulls back, laughing a little, he’d look at you with that adorable grin of his, completely charmed by your cuteness. “You’re cute for asking like that, though,” he’d say, shaking his head. Because, really, how the hell did you get so cute, and how are you making him feel this flustered over something so simple?! You’ve got him wrapped around your finger, and he knows it.

Dino: Okay, can we just talk about how freaking excited Dino would get? He’d practically bounce in place, heart eyes and filled with excitement, as if you just offered him a lifetime supply of ice cream. It’s honestly ridiculous, and you’d probably start laughing at his reaction, which would make him even more fluffy. He’d lean in quickly, planting an exaggerated kiss on your lip. “You’re the cutest thing ever!” he’d shout, and you’d barely have time to process before he’s back again, giving you another kiss, this time on the cheek, because he can and also, he’s obsessed with how you look when you ask. Dino would be so so fuzzy.

[youvebeengalindafied]

This is all @polyarmy and @fiyeroba ‘s fault for making me sad about Glinda again so now I’m posting my whole Glinda Meta here (originally an obnoxiously long dm sent to @gamorahww who is a patient saint)

You’ve asked for it, and now you get……The Glinda Meta™

First: I have been obsessed w/ Glinda's character for like 15 years. She is my roman empire. But I also really LIKE her as a flawed character - something that the fandom has always seemed to be a little uncomfortable with.

She is, to me, what Jane Austen once wrote about Emma:

“I am going to write a heroine whom no one but myself will much like.”

Full meta character analysis under the cut. Uh. Strap in.

(This gets a lil long sorry, but PLEASE HEAR ME OUT -)

To me, the interesting thing is what actually - ACTUALLY - motivates Glinda to act the way she does is so much greater and deeper than a simple desire for success/fame/popularity.

Like obviously in literature/critique of narrative, we have this idea of protagonists vs supporting characters. Supporting characters might have philosophies or goals that drive them (think Nessa and Boq) but those philosophies and goals are usually not developed into self-contradictory nuance the way a protagonist's motivations are. They’re just facts about the character.

And in my option, a big problem in the wicked fandom is that everybody seems to treat Glinda as a supporting character whose motivations are easy to digest. To most fans, she's either the girlfriend who is there to support Elphaba's story by being "loving but conflicted." Or to critics she's entirely selfish and cruel (even as she's fun and interesting), and therefore a semi-antagonist

But if you step back and treat Glinda as a true antihero protagonist of Wicked (for the sake of the mental character study), you see that she's not actually motivated by love or popularity or even success....what drives her is desperation.

Glinda sees her world as a place that cannot be changed and will only work to destroy those who cannot correctly operate in it. And she is SO DESPERATE to avoid that. Elphaba's fate is actually her worst fear - she cannot break away from society and leap to a new fate, because she is the ultimate cynic who thinks there is no way that could possibly work. In fact, it's an enormous testament to her love (however you want to intepret that) of Elphaba that she's even willing to consider leaving during Defying Gravity. For a brief moment, her immense, incredible faith in Elphaba is almost enough to overcome her complete desperation to survive the horrible world she thinks she's in.

And that obviously means that she's not as noble as Elphaba or as brave as Fiyero as a character - she cannot make the choice to leave when both of them do at different points - but that's because she's the most "human" character in the story. Most people are not brave enough to become international terrorists, even in the face of great evil. We might join in a developed cause, but to knowingly walk towards what is likely one's death to change a system you know you’ll actually have very little effect on...that takes a very special kind of person. And while Glinda is a GOOD person, she is too much a cynic and too desperate to survive her crazy world to become that impossible standard of the Rebel or the Hero. She's just a flawed, scared girl, in circumstances she never dreamed she’d be in.

And then the craziest thing happens:

Rather than showing Glinda that she should have been brave and done what E and F did, the narrative instead goes and basically confirms all her darkest fears: Elphaba rebels...and her revolution fails, and Glinda loses her best friend to bitter hatred and insanity for most of Act 2. Fiyero decides to leave and do the right thing by going with Elphaba....and he is almost immediately murdered in a horrible, violent way as punishment for it. This can only reinforce for Glinda that the State/the System/the World is all-powerful, and she must bow to it.

But that's the most fascinating moment for her character, because the very moment she realizes the absolute overwhelming power of the system (March of the Witch Hunters) is also the very moment that chooses to die rather than perpetuating it. She leaves the City to approach Elphaba - whom Glinda thinks POSSIBLY WANTS TO KILL HER - and BEGS Elphaba to not die. Begs Elphaba to stop her self-sacrificial madness. Begs Elphaba to allow Glinda to sacrifice herself instead ("Then I'll go, I'll tell everybody the truth!" "No! They'll just turn against you!" "I DON'T CARE!" - this girl who is entirely motivated by survival is straight up throwing it all on the line ready to walk to her death at the hands of a mob with wide open, unblinking eyes)

And obviously, in doing so, she is making the same choice that Fiyero did earlier in the story, But the huge difference is that Fiyero is a classic case of a "dead from the beginning" character, and he does not have the same motivations as her. He starts as a nhilist already embracing death in Dancing Through Life and his character is not somebody who is desprate to survive - his character is driven by a desperation for a faith. And Elphaba (and her cause) is his faith that he happily martyrs himself for.

By contrast, Glinda is terrified of the system that is trying to kill her, and she is desperate to survive it. She sees the way it takes everything form her, again and again, destroying everything she loves - Elphaba, Fiyero, her own sense of goodness…

(And she is extremely genre-aware that she is in a tragedy: her world isn't fair, and she knows that Elphaba will fail. She knows this will all go wrong.)

But Glinda still has such strength of character that she - in the end - overcomes all of her fear, all of her weaknesses, and humbles herself at the pyre to join the people she loves so much in their fate. She both offers to die for Elphaba and she takes up Elphaba's work and dedicates her entire life to it, consequences be damned. And that comes from a place of ultimate love and goodness, despite all of her flaws and all the temptations dissuading her.

Because Glinda is not Elphaba or Fiyero - she isn't a starry-eyed optimistic rebel or a man with a obsessive, loving faith. She is just a girl. Just Emma. And she is extremely flawed, and has so many fears that push and pull at her in a way the other main characters do not experience. But despite being so painfully, humanly defective, her goodness allows her to do the right thing in the end.

tl;dr - the greatest thing about Glinda’s character is that she is flawed, and she is weak and makes all the wrong choices. But in the end, she humbles herself completely - to the point of offering her own life for Elphaba and taking the whole weight of the world on her shoulders despite all her fear - because she is ultimately good.

And thus in the end, she becomes the person that Elphaba so clearly sees her as throughout the story: good, caring, and able to make real change in the world. She will now try desperately to fully live up to Elphaba's incredible faith in her. And it's so heartbreaking and tragic, but also one of the best character arcs ever.

So I guess it's less "wants to stay safe in her bubble" and more "she sees no option other than to stay safe. The State/System is all-powerful and there is nothing she thinks she can do to change that. But the beauty of the character lies in her decision to step out of that bubble anyways."

—

BONUS: Glinda’s flaws in relation to her relationship with Elphaba

(Or why Gelphie is a devastating ship (romantically or not) but not in the way you think)

This section dedicated to the SJB/AA performance that just BREAKS ME.

Elphaba basically sees Glinda through some WILDLY rose-tinted glasses (which is just. such a fascinating insight into elphaba’s character). Which is why a good chunk of the fandom accepts it as fact that Glinda is ~not actually all that flawed~ or is somehow being forced to make the decisions she is (she is not. the narrative point of Fiyero’s character is to prove that lol)

Glinda is very much complicated and does make some truly terrible decisions. Elphaba just sees and believes the good in her, despite everything she does (because it’s also a fact of the story that - either platonically or romantically - she’s clearly a little in love with Glinda. (The passes she gives that girl…)). I don’t think her weird thing about Glinda is particularly rational, but it is undeniably all-consuming.

And that makes their relationship feel VERY human. Their flaws don't make them unworthy of each other’s love and respect and friendship. Elphaba's love of Glinda is pretty crazy in light of how much Glinda’s morals and choices differ from her own, but that’s the kind of love that real, sometimes illogical people have. Anybody trying to prove the logic or compatibility of the characters is kinda missing the point - it doesn’t make sense, and THAT’S how you know it’s love.

(Brief aside: similar to Elphaba’s obsession with Glinda, Fiyero is also irrationally obsessed with Elphaba. I mean, she kinda sucks at the whole revolution thing (she's trying!!) and he's clearly starry-eyed ignoring a LOT of her flaws lol. In contrast - for better or worse, Glinda does see Elphaba's flaws and calls them out, just as Elphaba sees Fiyero's flaws and calls him out. It’s a nice little circular relationship)

But…but….is it gay???

Sure. I think so - but I’m a lesbian who has shipped it since I was a preteen lol. But that’s also NOT THE POINT, and focusing on only the romantic angle of their relationship REALLY ignores just how layered and complex it is.

Taking off my squee shipping glasses for a minute: they’re fundamentally just two people in some version of an EXTREMELY intense relationship. I honestly think Glinda reads as a little terrified of how insanely intense her relationship is with Elphaba. She fears walking down that road and fully falling into that intense, all-consuming love. (And we literally learn why later through Fiyero’s ‘death’ and Elphaba’s insanity - love makes you do some crazy things, and Glinda can’t afford that in this world.)

Regardless of whether you interpret them romantically or not - it’s clear they’re very intense about each other and Glinda is very afraid that Elphaba is her weakness. Unfortunately, Elphaba is also her soulmate and the love of her life, and she’ll always come back again. That fact will ruin Glinda’s life in the end, but it will have been worth it for all the love that was there

[bbyg4rl]

i'm your JJ ✧

cw: JJ x Kie's sister!reader, fluff, slight allusion to sex, happy ending !

summary: JJ cant avoid his feelings for his friend's sister anymore. inspired by this request.

a/n: this lowkey so cute thanks i started kicking my legs while writing LMAO hope this is what u expected anon <3

You were just grabbing a glass of juice and making your way back to your room when your sister, Kie, stormed into your room behind you.

"I'm having JJ over tonight. Don't come out of your room."

"It's my house too. I'll come out if I want to" you shot back.

"Just don't, okay? you're annoying enough as it is" she replied, rolling her eyes as she walked out.

time jump

you buried yourself in your pillows trying your best to drown out the sound of the movie playing downstairs. you could faintly hear your sister make excuses to JJ about why you weren't hanging out with them, claiming you "weren't feeling well". The lie made you want to storm down and snap at her, but every time you reached for the door handle, Kie's words struck you like an alarm clock, the words froze you for a reason you couldn't quite discern and sent you back to your bed where you resumed trying to muffle the sounds of the tv.

suddenly, there was a knock at your bedroom door, you half-expected Kie to be on the other side, ready to take more shots at you but you were surprised to see JJ, he softly opened the door, searching for your face in the messy room. As soon as he spotted you, he rushed over and sat on your bedside, his hands gently reaching for your face.

"Hey, mama. how you feelin'?"

"Shouldn't you be downstairs with Kie?" you replied sarcastically.

"Don't answer my question with another question y/n. besides, your sister can handle herself for a little while. I'm here to check up on you, babycakes" he said, smiling at you as his hands combed through your hair.

You couldn’t help but smile at the nickname. "Thanks for checking up on me, JJ, but I’m fine. I just wanted to stay in my room today" you replied softly.

You didn't quite understand why you were covering for Kie. Maybe a little part of you felt guilty for feeling what you felt for JJ, especially since you knew Kie had a thing for him. She made it painfully clear, dropping hint after hint, but somehow, JJ seemed oblivious. His attention never strayed toward her. His eyes were always on you, never missing an opportunity to admire you, darting to you every time a joke left his lips.

Your train of thought was interrupted by JJ's calloused hand stroking your cheek.

"You're not really a 'stay in' kind of a person, mama. Tell me what's wrong, you know you can tell me anything. I'm your JJ"

You shot him a wry smile, "You're cute, JJ"

"You're just stating the obvious, baby" he quipped, flashing one of those smirks that always made your stomach flip.

"Why do you even wanna know what's wrong? You want me or something?" you teased.

"You have no idea how much I want you" he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

"What?" Your eyes widened. Did he just say he wants you?

"Just come on down, babycakes" he said, cutting off any chance for a reply as he slipped his hands under you, lifting you bridal style. Before you knew it, he was carrying you downstairs.

You felt Kie's eyes boring holes into your back as JJ placed you on the couch beside Kie, pulling a blanket over you and settling in beside you. Your heart raced, waiting for an outburst to tear its way through your sister, knowing how much this must be killing her.

The three of you quietly settled in to watch the movie. That is, until you noticed JJ’s hand slowly inching closer to yours, eventually resting on top of it, his thumb occasionally swiping across the back of your hand.

As the movie went on, your mind wandered, You couldn’t help but notice how close JJ really was to you, his hand on top of yours, his knee brushing yours, his shark tooth necklace rising up and down on his chest with every breath he took.

An idea popped into your head, The movie wasn’t all that interesting anyway, it wouldn't hurt to spice it up now, would it?

you slipped your hand from under his and scooted closer, thigh pressing against as his. His breath hitched as you adjusted your blanket to cover his legs before resting your hand on his thigh, dangerously close to the growing tent in his shorts.

"Y/n" he whispered, voice strained, not daring to look at you.

"Hm?" you responded feigning innocence, as you moved your hand higher before abruptly pulling it away and standing up.

"I'm gonna get more popcorn" you declared, only then noticing that Kie had fallen asleep in her spot.

Grinning to yourself, you made your way to the kitchen, thoughts of JJ swirling in your mind. You were rummaging through the cabinets when you heard JJ’s heavy breathing behind you.

"What was that, Y/n"

"What was what?"

"You know what I'm talkin' about, mama." he growled, his tone low and agitated as his hand snaked around your waist pulling you into him.

"Don't do that again " he murmured, pressing a small kiss to your hair before walking back to the living room.

Your face flushed as you stood there, stunned. The difference between the JJ who had come to your room earlier and the man that had just pulled your ass into him excited you. He wasn't usually this bold with you, but lately his resolve seemed to be breaking and his control was faltering, his obsession with you becoming harder for him to hide. Not that it was ever really hidden.

Finally, you found the popcorn and returned to the living room. The rest of the night passed in relative silence, with only quiet glances exchanged between you and JJ.

When it was time for him to leave, he shot you a smirk and gave Kie a quick side hug before heading out the door. You made your way to your room and flopped onto your bed, only to hear a knock on your window moments later.

It was JJ, with a shit eating grin plastered to his face. You opened the window to let him in.

"JJ? I thought you left-"

Before you could finish, his lips were on yours.

Pulling away slightly, he looked into your eyes. "I couldn't leave without kissing you, I can't pretend no more, baby. I need you"

You smiled, pulling him back in for another kiss. You’d been waiting for this moment for so long. He slowly led you to your bed, laying you on your back as he climbed on top, his hands rested on your sides, as he deepened the kiss, his knee between your legs, teasing you.

You cupped his face, pulling it back to look at him. "What am I gonna tell Kie?"

"Tell her I’m your JJ."

check out my other works ! masterlist

[am-i-interrupting]

Helllooooo!!! I was wondering if you could maybe write something of Silco x Reader where reader suffers from headaches and he gives them a shoulder/head massage 👀 it’s can be fluffy, sensual, sexual…. However you want!! Xoxo!!!😘

Scattering Tension

With Silco’s busy schedule and chaotic life, one would assume he was the one who needed the constant care in any relationship. Did he need to be pulled to bed? Yes. Did he need to be reminded to eat? Occasionally. However, that was not the case.

He was actually a very attentive lover. He was in touch with your and your body seemingly better than you were. He would be able to spot the signs before you and drag you away to rest before things got bad.

Today was one of those days. You were unable to focus. Everything just went through one ear, around the boiling pain, and then right out the other.

The pain was behind your eye. It carved through the tissue into your brain. You could feel the blood rushing through your veins and the pain pulsed with it. It wounded its way into your teeth. The muscles of your jaw pulled tight. That tautness went down the back of your neck and into the tissues of your shoulders.

You felt a pair of cold, long fingers press into your temples. The pressure forced apart nerves. A moment of relief was granted to you as they no longer bounced against one another.

You leaned back. A soft chuckle was given in reply.

Two fingers pressed against your temples. Another two curled at the connection of your jaw. The knuckles dug into the tight muscles. A thumb was behind your ear. It was soft and caressing in comparison to the pressure of the other fingers.

“You work yourself too hard,” Silco’s voice said.

His chin brushed against your hair but you could still smell the smoke and ash on his breath. It brought you comfort.

You wanted to give some witty reply about a pot and a kettle or something of the sort but the knuckles which worked your jaw were too nice to part with. Instead you simply groaned.

The fingertips at your temples moved further down. They rubbed at the soft tissue until they met the hardness of your cheekbone. They passed beneath your eye and down.

The knuckles left your jaw but not before circling up one last time to the place at the top where your muscles were gathered. A final, hard press was given to them like a farewell kiss.

You were made aware of every piece of gathered muscle, tissue, and even the veins which rolled between and through as Silco’s hands wrapped around your neck. His thumb pushed and a hum left you. The tension was slowly ebbing away. A tide of pain and pleasure came to you as it did.

“You’re too good at this,” you said.

His hands flattened. He gathered up your skin and grabbed. The flat of his hand rolled at the back of your neck. His fingers pushed into the underside of your jaw.

“What can I say? I’m good with my hands,” you could hear the sly, pleased grin on his face.

You couldn’t even retort. His was right. In all the underlaying ways he was implying, he was right. He was a man who knew how to use his hands and use them well.

[cybrasigilism]

Touch (Player 124/Nam-gyu X F!Reader ONESHOT)

warning: smut | not proofread | lowercase intended | masturbation | JOI | hand fetish if you squint | reader has female genitalia | this is my interpretation of this character, please be respectful even if my opinions on the character differ from your own

character: nam-gyu (player 124)

A/N: had this one on my mind for a minute, i’m just looking for any excuse to write about him i fear. it’s funny to think about how reluctant i was to write for him and now he’s one of my favourites to write for, but anyways ENJOY KISS KISS MWAHHHH (AGAIN THIS IS WRITTEN IN POINT FORMAT BC I FEEL MORE CONFIDENT GETTING MY IDEAS OUT THIS WAY)

MDNI! 18+ content below the cut, readers discretion is advised

➤ it’s hard to believe how nervous you were the first time nam-gyu suggested this, for you to masturbate in front of him, but looking back you truly had no idea how much you would come to enjoy it.

➤ he would have you sit between his legs, back to his chest while you touched yourself. you could feel his breath hitch at every little sound that escaped your lips. shivers went up your spine whenever he rubbed his hands up and down your arms, telling you how hot you sounded right then

➤ his absolute favourite thing to do was to talk you through it, telling you exactly how he would please you if it was him fingering your cunt instead. he would even come as close as grabbing your wrist and guiding your hand himself, but most of the time he will simply sit back and instruct you on how to jack yourself off

➤ he really likes to egg you on through the process too, he’ll taunt and tease while you try so hard to make yourself cum

“bet you wish that was my hand between your legs, huh? you wish those were my fingers fucking your pathetic pussy, don’t you?”

“come on you can do better than that! you must not want to cum that badly if that’s all you’ve got”

“do i need to remind you how you like it, is that it?”

➤ he’ll give you a hint of praise, only to go right back to calling you his “dumb little slut”. he pulls you right in by saying how good your doing for him, how pretty you sound— but in the end he’ll go back to his way, not that your complaining.

“fuck this is all your good for isn’t it. being a dirty little whore for me, isn’t that right?”

“don’t hold back now, you and i both know you like being treated this way; how wet you get when i boss you around like this.”

➤ he’ll definitely touch you in other ways, mainly trying to distract you from bringing yourself to release. he’ll grope your tits, pull your hair back and kiss your neck, squeeze your thighs; anything to get you all the more hot and bothered

➤ to expand on the praise point, some things he’ll say include:

“such a good girl, doing exactly as i say”

“shit— you sound so pretty when you do that”

“yeah, do it like i showed you fuck”

ıllıllııllıllıllıllııllıllıllıllııllıllıllıllııllıllı

happy nam-gyu day!! (1/24) i just want to thank you guys again for all the support on my page, i’m truly blessed and forever grateful :)

as usual, any advice/constructive criticism on how i can improve my writing is appreciated and requested! have a fabulous night/day lovelies 🤭

tags: @gongyoosgf @strangelife122 @kouzih @gabbystinks

[girl-lostconnection]

unsweetened lemonade anon here again! (my anon tag can be 🍓, if you do those!) i just have so many ideas!! sorry for spamming you 😣

like they start dating at the beginning of their senior year (or the british equivalent ?) and everyone is like… “wot.” because they’re used to these two being so small, defensive and awkward. but nerd!reader has grown into herself and starts recycling her clothes to make them nicer, and punk!simon is working at a macca’s part time and making a bit of money, and he starts thrifting for himself and finding her secondhand jewelry. omg you’ve actually created a monster with this AU (me.)

AGHHHH they’re like two mangy dogs finally getting adopted and bathed and taken care of 🥹 and nerd!reader writes her own book and the first page says

“to that boy from school. i wish you well.” and simon keeps that damn book with him always. omg i’m so sorry but it’s so cute to meeeee

Sure thing, 🍓 anon! And don’t apologise, im so happy to talk about these two and you just give me another opportunity to do so. So feel free to hop on and share whatever comes to your head.

Also

Anon, what have you done. What have you done, anon, im tearing up at these two. And the book???? Stop, im gonna full on cry.

God, the way Simon would TREASURE it. The way he’d hold onto it, bringing it with him everywhere and reading it and keeping it as close to himself as possible.

But if we push my tears aside for one sec, imagine tall awkwardly wide and lanky Simon bringing Nerd!Reader second hand jewellery like he’s bringing them the game from his hunt.

The way he’d loom close by the first time he does buy them something because it’s really nothing special and he found it at the tiny thrift store and it’s just a small thing. Nothing flashy or expensive, probably a bracelet with charms he thought would look nicely on them.

(He’s too embarrassed to buy them a ring because he’s definitely gonna think too much about it and end up making them a weird proposal. He then would proceed to crawl away and roll under his bed, asking the ground to swallow him (im sorry))

And Simon who’s working as a butcher apprentice and finally starts eating a little bit better because his boss sees the way this big lad comes into work and everyone in the neighbourhood know of Simon’s dad so he just starts writing off some things here and there.

Nothing much because Simon is prideful and allergic to anyone taking pity on him and he would rather starve, but here it seems harmless and it’s just small things here and there. So he takes them and he proudly brings them to Reader the first time it happens.

The same way dogs/cats would bring you a small animal they caught, literally smirking with how satisfied he is. It doesn’t dawn on him until they ask that…he has no idea what to do with it. Simon doesn’t know how to cook meat — his mom usually did it. But with the way Riley-senior looms around the house he doesn’t want to bring it home.

So Reader offers to cook it at their place and later just packs it up carefully in neat containers and gives Simon the bag to bring it home to his mom and Tommy. So they can all eat without Simon’s dad finding out about the meat.

God, im gonna go spin in my chair and come back with something more coherent.

Wait for me, anon, im gonna bring you something decent, you brought me such good idea seeds I could grow fanfic sequoia in three days with it.

[yougavemeyourheartyouknow]

This takes place after the Cancun fic :3 MDNI, explicit mentions of sex.

—

“Then my manager said I’m not allowed to do any more song writing for the album because I already have 14 tracks and that’s ‘a lot’ for an album apparently…”

“He’s acting like he couldn’t just make deluxe albums.”

“Thank you!”

You let out a huff as you brought up your water to your lips, watching your hairstylist pull away from your hair for a second to let you sip on the drink.

“He’s always telling you something, I think it’s because you’re his youngest client. He probably sees you like a daughter.” Jessica spoke, making you hum as you closed your bottle and put it back on the counter.

“Probably.” You shrugged as she went to turn the chair slightly as she resumed her work.

“Oh how was your vacation?” The question from the hairdresser had made Miguel tense up in his seat on the other side of the private salon room. Eyes immediately start to stare at the back of your head through his sunglasses as if trying to mind read your answer before you said it.

The Cancun trip.

You both haven’t discussed it, not to Miguel’s lack of trying. He wasn’t expecting you to be so dead set on the whole ‘we never speak about this again’ thing. He didn’t say a word during the rest of the trip. But the second you were back in your penthouse, he attempted to bring it up when helping you unpack, but the second you understood where the conversation was going, you’d simply walk out of the room.

You continued to do so each time he tried to bring up the heavy conversation, you simply walked out of the room each time. After the 4th or 5th time he finally got the message, that you were serious about never bringing it up again. So he dropped it.

“It was good.” You said curtly, making Jess roll her eyes at the vague answer.

“Just ‘good’? What are the details! You’re always telling me all the deets after a vacation, what no hot guys catch your eyes at the clubs?” She pushed the subject, making you let out a playful huff of air.

“Well…” Miguel forced his eyes on his phone again, but his ears stayed focused on your voice. “There was someone… I didn’t catch his name.” You half lied, eyes wandering to the ceiling as Jess began to sweep up the clipped hair from the floor. “We hooked up after the club.”

“Was he good?” You could heard the smirk in her voice as she asked the question.

Good? I think he ruined me for all other men.

“It was okay.”

Okay!? Miguel couldn’t help but scowl as you said those three words. Just okay? You were losing your goddamn mind on my-

“He was big though.” You added. Making Jess snort, not noticing the way you made eye contact with Miguel in the mirror.

Despite the nonchalant look on your face, something in your eyes was telling him you were downplaying it for the sake of it. You weren’t going to rave about the man like he wasn’t 10 feet away from him. Still part of him wanted you too.

Fuck yeah I am.

—

Taglist: @ladysimp @juneonhoth @Tatatida @auro-a @Avis15 (join taglist)

[distant--shadow]

Okay, I have three (3) thoughts about the state of cr's talkback shows atm and I've decided to write them in your ask box. Feel free to ignore:

I think the quality of the questions in the fireside chat was strongly linked to 4sd and, mainly, the tower of inquiry. As much as I like the idea of having a section where evergreen questions can be asked, they really lean towards the “what if the world was made of pudding?” genre of questions and I think that - combined with the attention that gets drawn to the questions by the Jenga game and the milque-toast-ness of the other questions on 4sd - has encouraged the fandom to discuss and focus on those questions more than we used to.

I also really miss the fact that talk machina had a presenter (who, for the sake of clarity, was fired for obvious reasons and I’m not, in any way, advocating for him to come back). The fact that both the presenter of 4sd and order of questions in the tower of inquiry and deep dive sections are random, means that whether the cast elaborate on their answers is up to chance. I feel like, with the cast being more detached from the fanbase than they used to (for good reason) there really should be someone on screen who knows what questions were answered in the past and can guide the conversation so that they don’t spend 10 minutes discussing “think about this AU” questions and then only give in-depth character analysis a single sentence before being distracted by a joke or running out of time. To be clear, this isn’t a criticism of the cast at all, you can’t both give really good, in-depth answers to questions while also coming up with your own follow-up questions and staying engaged in and shaping the discussion as a whole. I’d say Dani is the obvious pick for a presenter but I think her interests are more in the shippy/fanon side (which is fine, I’m not trying to police how anyone interacts with the show) so I’d prefer her questions to be interjections rather than the whole thing.

This campaign has had a significant percentage of it’s talkback shows taken up by overlap with other stuff (party splits, vox machina and the mighty nein getting their own eps, overlap with calamity and downfall etc.) and, in an ideal world, I’d want them to do separate that stuff out and do extra shows about that, rather than letting it eat into valuable question answering time for bells hells.

All this to say: if cr wants to make a talkback show specifically tailored to me, I'm down with them flying me out to America so I can host my new talkback show called “AU? No thank you!” where we exclusively talk about bells hells and all hypotheticals are banned. Nobody but me would enjoy it but I'm the main character of my story so...

appreciate you engaging and putting your thoughts out there via my inbox!

I agree with most of this, I can respect what they were trying with 4sd but yeah it did not deliver the meat that talks did, and I would love to have a simple discussion show like that back (at one point I would have suggested dani as host too, but if anything these fireside and 4sd eps have proven that she is way too fanon-brained/shipping inclined and I personally, can't stand when she interjects without being asked for an answer (though correcting lore is a different case and pretty much always appreciated))

I can deal with a little amount of what if the world was pudding type questions, but ultimately yeah, it does come across as "so what if we got a different story than the one you chose to give us?" there are cases when yeah maybe it wasn't as conscious as a decision or another factor where yeah, I would like to know the alternative, but i agree with ya there.

I will also say that yes, I do think the shape of the questions selected is in part to match the more laid back and goofy vibes of 4sd, the evergreen questions and such really are not a good choice and absolutely there wa sso much going on during this campaign that reaaaallly broke up the momentum (momentum which still managed to feel oppressive), but i would say I do also think an amount of it is just how modern fandom is, to sound like an old guy yelling at a cloud. so many things come into play here, parasocial stuff, attention spans, isolation and selfishness, populatiry contests within fandoms and how that births popular works/notions from fanon being perceived as canon law, etc etc.

as I keep saying, I want people to make, I want people to have fun, but it's a yeowch from me when that feeds back into the source material, or at least spin offs of it. I do think it is a case of both parties being somewhat guilty, ask baby questions get baby answers, if people engage with fanservice and it gets views then they're gonna cater to that because they need eyes on them to exist as a company. I'm really not the person to be doing the write ups about this, but i do think it's important to share my opinions on my most beloved piece of media, in some ways especially because I create so much "content" for it.

I've pretty much always felt like an outsider within fandom space, and whether that's because of what I want out of it, what I want to see for my favourite characters, or my behaviour, or my work - I don't know, but i do know that for years of watching this show I kept well away from the fandom space or even sharing my drawings caus I didn't want it to hinder my experience and enjoyment of watching, and when the stuff I've been trying to avoid is seeping it's way into the actual shows then yeah, it is something I wanna speak out on.

[telesilla]

So something came up on Bluesky, a question:

legitimately why are you here (on social media)? i am asking myself the same (other than because of addiction).

And it’s kind of wild, because when I did the math, it is literally 30 years since a very cold night in January of ‘95 when I figured out how to venture from the safe and tame world of AOL out into the wilds of USENET. I spent several hours on a newsgroup dedicated to the works of one of my favorite fantasy authors from my teen years, having a discussion about magic and Christianity with a software engineer in Rotterdam and it was like, oh this is a new thing. I was seriously struggling in those days, figuring out my identity and also the mental illness was coming to the surface more and more, but I knew I’d found a new and important place.

In the last 30 years, I’ve experienced the best and worst of the Internet. I’ve started two relationships online that led to marriage—one disastrous and one happy—and I’ve been through countless flame wars and endless wanks. I have met some amazing people and, to paraphrase, some insufferable people who also met me. And I’ve written. 3m+ words of fiction and who knows how many words of just me talking to people and, sometimes, just yelling into the void. Before February of ‘95 I had never finished a story, because why bother? Writing on paper is hard for me and I only got my PC that Christmas and anyway, I’d told myself stories my whole life. But now…now, I had someone to share them with.

The Internet is younger than I am, but it fits into a long line of brilliant human inventions, from the spoken word, to writing, to printing, to instant communications like telegraphs and telephones, each one seemingly requiring faster and faster adoption. We’re still dealing with the ramifications of instantaneous communication and that was over 100 years ago. No one reading this will be alive when we are able to look back and see how the Internet and social media shaped us as a species.

It’s so easy to look at Elon throwing a Nazi salute and think, “the Internet was a mistake” but tbh, it’s too late for that. I’m sure at least one person looked at the violence and chaos of the Reformation and thought, goddam Gutenberg, this is all your fault. And idk, man, maybe I’m just a naive optimist, but right now, on a cold January night, when the world feels dark, Mongolian horse ranchers are bonding with USAmerican horse girls, and people are watching videos of snowball fights in New Orleans, and someone somewhere is coming out to their online friends using words they might not have had when I was born, and all around the world conversations are happening between people who would never meet face to face—so many flickers of light. Maybe, just maybe, the real Internet is the friends we made along the way.

Happy Internet Anniversary to me.

[altcomix]

The Dancing Plague, Gareth Brookes, 2021, Published by SelfMadeHero 

I was stunned with how good this book is: a historical fiction set in the 16th Century, told in a style reminiscent of 16th century illustration. Brookes writes a narrative about a woman named Mary, who is touched by God and is labeled possessed by the Devil. She inspires a Dancing Plague at many points in her life. This is based on historical records of the time. 

None of it is explained, it works as a sort of Christian magical realism.

Brookes uses pyrography (burning the paper) throughout the book, and embroidery to help illustrate the visions and magical aspects. 

As a reading experience, it is challenging. We aren’t used to comics that read this way, and for the first third I was not sure exactly what I was following. He also shifts back and forth between 1508 and 1518 or so, which was disorienting. If a book has a chapter set in 1918, then the next in 1908, yeah, those are ten years apart, and very different years. But the difference between 1518 and 1508 seems like ten minutes, from the perspective of a reader in the 21st century. Once I got adjusted to his rhythm, I was all with it though. 

Often when I read something recreating a past era or even a foreign culture, it puts your own understandings into relief. You recognize some things as being very human experiences, and other things as being very arbitrary evolutions of a society. I’ve been living in a foreign country for twenty years, so maybe I’m more sensitive to the experience than others. Here, he writes of how an area dealt with a plague beyond their comprehension. We lived through one of those too, in 2020. People didn't take it well. These folk don't take it well in very different ways.

All in all, this is great example of comics as art rather than comics as product. The major difference? Brookes’ ambition. He’s not producing this for likes on Instagram or to expand his base. Maybe he is, I don’t know the guy. But this is a good book, not like anything I’ve ever read. 

[unicyclehippo]

Hey, Ollie, you mentioned AGES ago that Show Me the Way Home (Avatrice) had a second chapter, it just wasn't perfect yet-- do you think you'll ever post it? Or is that officially an abandoned fic?

its not abandoned, i actually did some minor editing on it the other day. the problem is that its a very seasonally locked piece in my mind & also im lazy & also a perfectionist & also i want to watch wn again before i keep writing it bc i need to rmbr what the characters are like & basically any one of those obstacles are enough to shut me right down so.

it actually is a four part story & if u want, i can share a little with u now? maybe that'll make me feel better for not posting it yet lmao

thursday 22nd december

// 6:55 //

Beatrice stood by the doorway of her apartment, phone in hand and duffel bag at her feet, and wished she was already at her parent’s holiday home. 

It wasn’t that she thought their reunion would be simple or pleasant; it was more that today had started hot and was getting hotter and her parents kept their home at a crisp twenty-three degrees at all hours of the day and night, environmental impact be damned. As the humidity clung to her, a bead of sweat rolling down the back of her neck, Beatrice’s thoughts drifted to the crystal blue pool and the ocean wind that would blow up from the cove and she checked her phone again for any word from her driver. 

Camila’s voice travelled from the kitchen. ‘Maybe you should take the can opener with you. I mean, what if you need to open a can and you don’t have one? There might be beans. Baked beans, cannellini beans, red kidney beans.’

‘I’m sure my parents have one. They do have a kitchen. And a personal chef.’

Camila heard her. The apartment was too small for her not to have heard but she continued listing off every tinned item she could think of. 

‘Lentils, obviously. Diced tomatoes, crushed tomatoes, peeled tomatoes, puréed tomatoes.’ There was a long pause. Beatrice wondered if Camila was reading the labels of what they had in the pantry; if she was, those lentils had been there for a very long time. ‘Tinned peaches.’

‘I think those come with a tab now,’ Beatrice pointed out. She kept her voice mild, not really wanting to draw Camila’s attention to her hiding place by the door. 

At some point over the last few days, the nerves buzzing under Beatrice’s skin had jumped ship and now Camila was the one pacing the confines of their apartment. She’d picked over every inch of the house in search of things Beatrice might need—which ranged from the useful, like the good phone charger she’d “found” (definitely hadn’t stolen out of her room a month ago) to what could be charitably called not useful, like the can opener—and now she stood at the end of the hall bearing the can opener and a dark frown befitting a serial killer. 

Beatrice cleared her throat. Carefully, she said, ‘I really don’t think I need it.’

Camila looked down at her weapon. ‘Oh. Right. No, sure, of course not.’ She tossed it backward into the living room; it missed the couch, landing instead on the floor with a loud thud, the sound of their rental bond being instantly halved. Beatrice winced. Camila seemed not to have noticed, though, and with her hands now empty she returned to chewing nervously at her thumb nail. She scanned the living room, hawkish, before fixing her attention on Beatrice once more. 

‘Can I help you?’

‘Are you sure you want to do this?’

‘Camila…’

‘Because you don’t have to. You know that, don’t you? It’s not your only option—you could come home with me again! My parents would love it, we’d all love it, I promise. And you wouldn’t be intruding at all, I swear. The boys ask about you all the time and when you’re coming to visit again.’

‘They’re very sweet.’

‘Sweet! When they want something, sure! They’re still hoping you’ll teach them how to throw people—they bring up your match with Conner every time I call home.’

‘Tell them I’ll think about it.’

‘That can be your Christmas present for them. And Pop, he says you’re the only good one of the bunch.’

‘It’s because I don’t talk.’

‘I know. Poor guy. Christmas in a household of me’s. It’s so loud we have to mime everything for him.’

Beatrice smiled. ‘He turns off his hearing aids.’

‘What? That sneak!’

‘Don’t tell him I was the one that dobbed him in.’

‘It’ll be the very first thing I say—then you won’t be his favourite anymore and the rest of us will have a fair shot.’ Laughter shone in her eyes; it faded a little as she stared at Beatrice, gaze flicking down to the duffel at her feet. ‘I’m serious, Bea. You could call up your parents and tell them you’re not coming anymore. I’d prefer you tell them to go fuck themselves but.’ She sucked in a breath, shook her head. ‘Bea. Don’t waste your time on them. Spend your holiday with people who want you around. Who love you.’

It was a tempting offer. Of course it was.

From the day they met, Camila had been Beatrice’s friend; from the second, her sister. She’d gone out of her way to be all that a sister could be—kind, understanding, supportive, deeply irritating—and offered it all without cost. Her family was just the same. 

Beatrice remembered last Christmas fondly. The singing, the laughter, her chair squashed up to the end of the table next to Camila’s, the friendly chatter, the elbows bumping, the squabbles breaking out, the yet more guests arriving and pulling up a chair, the pass the salt, pass the butter, pass the damn water would you I’m dying over here, where’s the champagne, Arthur we don’t need another bottle of champagne it’s not even midday for Christssake, Beatrice do you want a second serve help yourself sweetheart, when do we open the presents. It had been loud, sometimes overwhelming, and wonderful all the same. 

But. 

Beatrice shook her head. 

Camila sighed. ‘I had to try, obviously.’

‘I know. Thank you.’ She set her hand on Camila’s wrist and squeezed. ‘I appreciate it, very much. Please tell them… Please tell everyone I miss them and that I’ll see them soon.’

‘You mean for your surprise birthday party?’

Beatrice smiled. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’

‘Good. Because mum’s going to need a menu from you—’

‘I thought we agreed we’d buy the food, Camila, I’m not making your mum cook for me.’

‘She likes to cook for her kids. Unless you want me to tell her you’d prefer eating a stranger’s food over hers?’ Beatrice scowled at the bold threat. ‘That’s what I thought. Pick what you want and I’ll tell her. Better yet, text her yourself.’

‘If I know your mother, she has something in mind already.’

‘More like eleven somethings.’ 

They shared an identical grin. Camila’s mother had a small habit of going overboard for parties and events. A buzz broke the moment. They both glanced down at Beatrice’s phone. 

Mr. Morris I have arrived

Beatrice Thank you. I will be there momentarily.

Beatrice nodded. This was it. She slid her phone into her pocket. ‘Mister Morris is here. I should go.’ To Camila’s suddenly stricken expression, she soothed, ‘It will be fine, Camila.’ And, because she was not completely oblivious to Camila’s concern, ‘I will be fine.’

‘I know that. Of course I know that. But I want—you don’t have to be just fine. You should be having fun. You’re my best friend, Bea, I want you to be happy.’

Beatrice paused. She struggled for a moment to think of a way to explain the purpose of this holiday to Camila, explain her purpose, in a way that she would understand and accept. 

‘It means so much,’ she began, carefully, ‘to be welcome in your family. But they will always be your family.’

‘Bea…’

‘You and they are all beyond generous.’ She held up a hand to stop Camila interrupting. ‘I know they love me, and I love them. I do love Christmas with your family. It’s always wonderful and comfortable and fun.’ She paused, considering her words. ‘But this is - this is about me,’ she admitted with difficulty, and was rewarded for the effort when Camila softened. ‘I want to go. I need to find out whether I have a place with them or not. And I’ve been so uncertain of how it might turn out that I haven’t tried. But this invitation is an opportunity. One would like to make the most of.’

Camila grabbed both of her hands and pulled her close. Very intensely, she said, ‘Okay.'

'Okay? Just like that?' Beatrice asked, doubtful.

'Yeah. I’m not going to say I understand because I don’t. It honestly makes me furious and a little bit sick to think of you going back to them. But I love you and I trust you and I want you to call me if you need anything. And whatever happens, Beatrice, you always have a place with me. Always.’

Beatrice smiled. Shifted so that she was the one holding Camila’s hands. Her friend wouldn’t let her go willingly and there was a big part of Beatrice that wanted to let herself be held tight and give in to her friend’s protectiveness, to be bundled safely up into Camila’s terrifying little car and trundling off to visit family. 

It was hard to pull free. 

Beatrice stepped back and opened the door.

‘There’s no need to fret, Camila. I’ll have Ava with me, remember?’

‘Yeah. I know. It’ll be great, you’ll see.’ The tightness around her eyes told Beatrice she didn’t quite believe her own words. ‘And you’ll call me.’

‘Every day.’

With one last hug, Beatrice picked up her bags and left. 

// 7:03 //

The town car waited for her outside the apartment. It was sleek and black, washed and polished; the only evidence of the recent storms were faint specks of grey mud deep in the tyre wells.

Beatrice stopped at the bottom of the stairs, observing the car and its driver—Mister Morris, patiently stood at the kerb—and swallowed around a lump in her throat. He looked the same as when she had left. A little more silver in his hair.

He might not have changed much but she had. Now that she was grown (or perhaps, now that she was not in that household), she found herself full of questions—where was it that Mister Morris had driven from? Where did he live? Had the storms been bad on his side of town? How had he passed the time? Had they lost power? (She and Camila had huddled in their living room—it was, Camila had insisted, the perfect weather for a marathon of gory slashers—and the rain had hammered against the windows with frightening strength but had done no damage. She knew others had not been so fortunate.) Most pressing of all, how had he been? Questions that could not be answered by hiding.

Beatrice gripped the strap of her duffel and, setting her shoulders, marched to meet him.

‘Good morning, Mister Morris.’

‘Miss Turner,’ he greeted her, his smile small but true. ‘A pleasure to see you again. How are you?’

‘Quite well, thank you.’ Then, keeping her tone light and brisk, ‘And yourself?’

‘Very well, Miss Turner. Very well.’ It looked as if he wanted to say something more but then he only smiled and cleared his throat. ‘Your luggage, Miss?’

‘I can see to it myself.’

Beatrice stashed her duffel in the boot then folded herself neatly into the backseat. Mr. Morris retook the driver’s seat. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Beatrice fixed her eyes on the headrest in front of her.

‘We have another stop to make, Mr Morris.’

‘Yes, miss. Do you have the address?’

‘I do.’ She ran a finger along the inside of her watchband, rubbing away the sweat that had gathered there. She made it a notch tighter, then loosened once more. ‘They are - That is to say, she is my—’

Mr. Morris met her eyes in the rear-view mirror. His were green and kind. The kindness did not make it easier to say.

‘She is my girlfriend.’ 

‘Yes. I know.’

‘Oh.’

‘Though your mother used slightly different terminology. Companion, I believe she said.’ He kept his eyes locked onto the rearview mirror. When Beatrice glanced into it again, he said warmly, ‘Congratulations, miss. That’s wonderful. I’m very glad to hear it.’

When she had been younger, there had been a stretch of time where running away had seemed very appealing. Each time she attempted it, Beatrice had never made it further than the park four streets from her home. She’d been too pragmatic, even at ten years old, but she’d also been stubborn so Beatrice had say there in the swing until someone noticed; whomever did notice, it was always Mr. Morris who collected her. She was reminded of it as he started the engine. The sound of its growl scared old memories out of hiding—she remembered how the plastic swing creaked, the feel of the metal chain in her little hands, how the gravel of the park entry had crunched beneath the town car tyres. How the headlights had washed over her and away with the tilt of his park and how invisible she’d felt when the lights turned off. Like a ghost haunting the playground.

Beatrice stared thoughtfully at his back, remembering how he would climb out of the car and sit next to her on a too-small swing until she’d been ready to return.

‘Thank you, Mr Morris.’

He nodded. Then, ‘I do still need her address, miss.’

‘Oh. Yes, of course.’

[infinialtairs]

Jade and Pey'j are always ready to fight back! Mess with one of us? You're going to have to mess with both of us! 📸🐗

Sily artwork of them hanging out! but also I have a little surprise for all jade and pey'j fans... I have finished write a full google document for Jade and Pey'j characterizations! along with backstory and trivia for my own version of designs for them ^^ Keep in mind that I'm not a writer and I won't claim as such, I simply wanted to write down my own interpretations and ideas onto them. I'll just copy down ALL 7 PAGE texts onto here so...If you don't want read any of it, feel free to skip

Captain Laserhawk: Jade and Pey���j Rewritten

! Disclaimer ! 

This takes both Beyond Good and Evil version and Captain Laserhawk version into one somewhat coherent version of them as I’m not a fan of how Jade and Pey’j were treated in the series and I simply just write my own takes on the characters and ideas of more in depth into their characters. You can disagree, or dislike my takes on them and you can also give a suggestion or your own opinion on them. I only seek to approve my skill in writing my thoughts and ideas through words.

Synopsis

Jade and Pey’j - the only remaining part of a family who are striving for a fulfilling life in a dystopian world with many deceptions easily hidden behind closed doors and TV screens. They both managed to live in a garage where Pey’j does the repairs of vehicles and as well as creating his own little projects of inventions of which he never shared them into the public eye, only to Jade.

Jade

Jade is quite a spontaneous journalist, martial artist, cyclist, and a person with so many side hobbies that she sometimes pursues, even if she’s not exactly good at a lot of them. She can be a gal friend at parties or a cry on the shoulder when someone’s in need, she's a little too empathetic at times with how she reacts with others struggles and often feel the need to always be helpful and supportive. Despite all the hobbies she has been trying out, she isn’t the best example of a patient person, she will always try to learn everything in a single day and then getting overwhelmed or frustrated when something doesn’t go her way. As a journalist she often writes articles about covers essentially what the Face of Eden Rayman talks about in his show, but with a Jade’s touch - her own perspectives and opinions. She also covers smaller topics that seem to fall deafen on people’s ears and some conspiracy theories that she may not entirely believe in, but she's a very curious person and fascinated by those out of reach theories.

She’s very close with Pey’j ever since her parents passed away in the Wasteland war when she was a teen, and with how much her parents trusted Pey’j - a boar hybrid against all odds, she knew she wouldn’t be alone in the cruel world of Eden. She often helps Pey’j with the repairs and sometimes even does the work for him whenever Pey’j gets sick or overworked. One thing she always does and loves on a daily basis is taking photos of everything she comes across as interesting, maybe mostly taking funny pictures of Pey’j in his vulnerable state. She wants to keep memories with Pey’j as she regrets never taking any photos of her parents and wishing she could remember her memories with her parents. But as long as she and Pey’j are there for each other, She’s content with the family she currently has as Pey’j adoptive uncle.

Pey’j

Pey’j is opposite of Jade in a lot of ways - he’s stubborn, grumpy and often disrespectful towards strangers. He just gets tense around people who he doesn’t know and especially his promise to Jade's parents to always look out for their daughter, it only made him more overprotective towards Jade. Beneath all of the tough and blunt manner, he’s caring and sympathetic. Pey’j will open up about his personal upcomings as a boar hybrid, his family, his hobbies, and of course bragging of Jade’s talents, he’s also the pure example of terrible but in own charming ways of humor, somewhere between dad jokes and dark comedy. Pey’j has always dreamt about becoming an inventor for Eden, inventing technologies to help those in crisis instead of relying on a government that seeks more of the loyal and control than provide support for the citizens. But alas he has a lot of difficulties and responsibilities to even begin chasing his dream, so he’s sticking with what he has been doing for decades - repairing vehicles and gadgets for cheap prices for good qualities. 

Pey’j often cooks meals and gives out supplies to the homeless people as advised by Jade, since she’s always busy and staying up late writing journals and cases and in her own words “You gotta work with your communications too, old fart!”. Pey’j hasn’t all been too interested in relationships or even had a mind crossed about “marriage” and “having his own kids” due to his own fears of not being able to offer enough on the table, Pey’j believes that he has better things to do in his own opinion. Beside doing mechanics and inventing his small projects. Pey’j is also on occasion curious with hobbies, in particular chess has been his favorite pastime, usually he plays it with Jade or sometimes his acquaintances if in a right mood. Pey’j will deny being competitive about chess but each time he loses a game of chess, he will insist for another round until he personally wins! It can take from another 30 minutes to many hours depending on his bad luck.

Backstory

Jade’s parents as any others who were previously citizens of the USA see their country turning into a dystopian country now known as “Eden”, with no longer 50 states but 5 Mega Cities divided. They weren’t thrilled or accepting of the changes, with far advanced technologies and AI intelligence. Despite it all Jade’s parents made sure that their first born child would have a good life in a very new world that they also have to navigate through together. Jade’s parents were working hard in their jobs as one unexpected day coming across a troubling boar man hybrid out in the streets, clearly in some distress Jade’s parents decided to help out the hybrid and upon learning about the boar hybrid name “Pey’j”, they weren’t sure about this so called “Pey’j” with the news uprising about “Hybrids will take care of your pesky workflow and we as Eden community are grateful for that!” but they gave the benefit of a doubt as they were the only family remaining and alone with their daughter Jade. Maybe perhaps they could use some help.

Jade’s parents and Pey’j came along very well, with Pey’j skilled talent of repairing their old equipments around the house and become quite like a uncle figure to little Jade which gave Jade’s parents a relief that they could be a family - a fullfit family that may not seem big or exciting but all it mattered that they weren’t going to leave each others behind. Jade was quite a reckless child for both Pey’j and Jade’s parents, always hyperactive and was more into sports, bugs, and many other interests all at once! But Jade studied pretty alright at minimum in school and even took an extra class of material arts, both her own choice and a skill that Jade’s parents thought Jade would incredibly need in the future. Around the time Jade entered into High school, Jade’s parents had been fired from their original jobs due to some complications and the terms of services that they didn’t agree with. They have hidden that fact from Jade and Pey’j to avoid any unnecessary stress on their family, so with desperate attempts and tired of Eden’s corporate policy, they joined the DedSec organization to protect against corrupted ways of Eden. Jade’s parents both worked as hackers in coding into TV stations over Eden before eventually the event that they all were expecting for… ”The Wasteland War” as Eden militaries sent out missiles and soldiers towards wasteland and so Jade’s parents were rushed to quickly message to Pey’j about the situation and ask for a promise to protect their daughter Jade if they weren’t making it out alive. As the news broke out about the now abandoned Wasteland all across Mega Cities, Pey’j knew that Jade’s parents sadly didn’t make it due to no contact or logs ever since that sudden text and so Pey’j made sure to take care of Jade and support her as much as he can in his garage. Jade knew that they couldn’t afford to attend any college or universities but Jade did lots of freelance commissions on photography specifically before then switching to write journals and articles of niche topics around Eden. Jade and Pey’j were living somewhat sustainable living conditions despite all odds until an unexpected interaction with unidentified individuals in the alley not far from Pey’j garage as they were trying to capture Pey’j and Jade with Pey’j fell first defeated. Jade tried her absolute best to fight back but quickly grew weak and got cornered before getting knocked out cold.

Jade and Pey’j woke up in odd white room with a wrestler trying to break a metal locked door and a cyborg still sleeping out cold on the mattress, with absolute no clue where they were or what to do before eventually a woman walked in or “Warden” as they later found and that they were all being held captured and hidden from outside of the world in Supermaxx, with needing to obey the missions at hand or else their head explodes with discovering they do indeed have bombs inside their heads. Jade and Pey’j along with the others into a group as Warden calls it “The Ghosts”, they knew the stakes they had in a sudden shift of lifestyle but currently Jade and Pey’j will work it as long as they are always sticking by their sides.

Trivia

(This is mainly trivia about my own design version of Jade and Pey’j and doesn't always match up to either Beyond Good and Evil nor Captain Laserhawk versions so keep that in mind.)

The brown jacket that Jade wears is gifted by Pey’j as a first present she ever got from her adoptive uncle. It used to be too big for her before eventually once growing up she’s constantly seen wearing that jacket.

Pey’j red eyes gadgets were invented by himself to read and analyze better as once he got older, his eyes just weren’t as good in eye sight as in his youth.

 Jade has two different styles of fingerless gloves. Her left glove is green, more geared up for cycling and her right glove is a simple black thin fingerless glove. She did have at one time both green geared up finger gloves before during once in her practice of learning to ride a bike she lost her right fingerless glove upon falling over and Pey’j gave her a replacement for a simple black fingerless glove.

Pey’j has a right cut off tusk due to one intense gang fight he had along before he met Jade or Jade’s parents. He always loves re-telling that tale and expresses his anger.

Jade and Pey’j have almost shared birthdays. Jade’s birthday is 24th of May and Pey’j - 23rd May. They do an annual special two days of sharing both of their birthdays together and as such both receive presents twice as such and make trips. Their favorite go-to place is carnival.

Jade’s camera is borrowed from one of the commissioner’s job but later was gifted by them and such Pey’j has added features into Jade’s camera to make it one of its kind including ability to zoom in and out almost infinitely, loads of filters built in and one of Jade’s favorite - a stunt that gives anyone within her range a temporary blindness, although comes with limit of usages she can do.

Pey’j’s wrench has been modified and had different looks many times to make the perfect wrench with multi-purpose as ever! Currently his wrench has been modified to weigh slightly heavier than average wrenches to carry a heavy and quick swing. Pey’j’s wrench has even functionality to act as a power source for example to use as a flashlight, to charge up equipment, without a lot of storage of power. He’s still in development for that perk.

Funny story. When Jade was 16, she asked, begged even Pey'j for earrings for “that cool rad look to show off!” Jade’s own quotes. Pey’j reluctantly agreed but he was at first adamant about putting the earrings himself and so he tried to do his first practice to his own ears. It didn’t go well as planned with him having two permanent little holes in his ears and he eventually agreed to let Jade go to the professional. Jade still make jokes about it to these days, not of one Pey’j’s proudest moments.

Jade’s hairstyles had so many iterations before she settled in her now iconic bottom shaved pixie cut. She has only let her hair grow once when she was around 8, Jade's parents weren’t looking carefully and Jade was messing with lighter and managed to burn half of her hair. To say Jade’s parents were mortified and angry would be an understatement. Jade later had to shave her whole hair for six months.

Pey’j boots are actually jet boots that he modified way more recently than his wrench, allowing him to float a few centimeters into the air - before then falling down, but this comes in handy for combat for ground pounding!

If you have read all of this...holy shit that's insane of you and I really appreciate that you took your time about two characters that I just wanted to give more love for them... ^^' Feel free to write your feedback, suggestion, idea or even mistakes if I have made any about it! Like I said before I want to improve on writing down ideas and thoughts into words more coherent and clear in the future.

Thank you for reading once again! 🫶

[floralscented]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤBETTER BIRTHDAYS — vampire!dean

slowly, dean is learning to love his birthdays again, after going for decades without letting himself.

not what i intended to write, and not as good as i wish it was, but to be fair to myself i have sickness. and i'm NOT missing out on my beloved baby's birthday! if logistics don't make sense, i don't care. that's fiction baby! vampire!dean is just rent free so it was inevitable.

it wasn’t supposed to be possible.

it was one of those things that dean came to terms with when he’d been turned so long ago — a family? was not something that was personally in dean’s cards. he’d have an infinite life, yes, but any family he wanted would have to be made or created, and not in the way that he’d ever get a chance to hold something so small that was part him.

dean forgot often that the impossible seemed to happen a lot around him.

there was a moment when he thought that being with you was a fate destined for doom. but every step of the way, you’d helped convince him that decades of isolation did not equate to deserving said isolation, and slowly, he’d let you make a home in his heart.

you accepted him for what he was. you trusted him with all you had; let him into your heart, your house, and every room that was deigned yours. no secrets, you’d promised.

it was a promise you held true to, because on a day he’d always remember, june 27th, you’d sat him down and told him that you were pregnant. and, on top of that initial shock, you were three months along.

he’d used the word impossible over and over throughout your pregnancy. this was not something for dean to pour his hope into and get attached to. it had to be a mistake; it had to be a misunderstanding — something.

but on dean’s birthday, a day he refused to celebrate anymore because of how many he’d had, a day that you took into your own hands and made him celebrate anyway—

a little boy was born.

a son with his hair, his face, and your eyes. so human and so real that it stole his breath away, unable to breathe at all even if he wanted to try again.

and it only got more chaotic from there. the little boy was an absolute devil; just as dean had been before sam was born, and before his father sank into a depression that drowned both of them. cassius winchester was a little force with sharp teeth and an affinity for crawling after him everywhere that dean went.

everything about cassius was impossible. that was why he’d been given the name, after all; helmeted warrior, it meant, so nothing could take him, so nothing would try to. now that dean had him, it was not going to be so easy to pry him away.

it was cassius’s third birthday, which meant it was dean’s… he’d lost count, really. either way, it was an incredibly special day for you. your two boys, one grown and one anew, and while you didn’t fit the mold when it came to the family dynamic that your boys painted, you certainly made up for it with your enthusiasm.

“blood in the icing?” you’d asked dean the moment he stepped downstairs, cassius balanced on his hip. “would that make it any more edible for you? for cassy?”

dean, taken aback for a moment, raises his eyebrows. “what would you eat, then?”

“i’m sure a little iron in my diet won’t hurt me.”

his scoff is an amused one, his eyebrows furrowing when he feels a sharp nip on his fingertip. in cassius’s mouth is dean’s finger, gnawing on it like it were nothing more than a teething toy.

his lips quirk up. he hasn’t genuinely grinned in so long that it feels almost foreign all of the time to do it now, since he met you, and even more since cassius. “on second thought, it might not be a bad idea.”

you stop the stand mixer to glance up at them, your eyes glimmering with that look that dean always refused to address. so much love for one person always made him feel on edge, like one day it would all fall away, like everyone else he’d loved prior. his fears had never once deterred you. perhaps it was why he, too, loved you so fiercely.

“he finally learned how to use those little teeth?” you ask, circling around the kitchen island to stand in front of dean and cassius, your expression alight. “what a milestone, my love. and on your third ever birthday.”

it certainly was a milestone. cassius had not let up his biting, little pinches that were certainly going to leave his finger raw for a few hours while it tried to heal. already, dean was planning on tossing all of the teething toys in the house away; he did not care for them like he cared for dean’s pointer finger.

you press a kiss to dean’s cheek, cassius’s forehead, before turning back to the slightly/less-dusty kitchen again. it’d been practically gray before you, but you had to eat, didn’t you? the scattered leftovers of human and forest creature in the boxed refrigerator did nothing for you. but you stop quickly, your eyes widened when you spin back around.

“wait!” you say on a gasp, grabbing something from underneath the countertop. two somethings. very shiny somethings. you jog back up to dean, looping the string of one underneath his chin and planting the birthday hat securely on his head, and doing the same for cassius, albeit with a smaller one. “happy birthday, my boys.”

dean tries to not let it affect him so deeply. how long had it been since his birthday felt like something to be celebrated and not a burden? there were so many years of those feelings that he did not understand yet how to react in instances like this, in the sheer warmth that you and cassius’s joy brought to him.

you were well aware of dean’s affinity for privacy. he was reserved, had made a home in the reservation, and would not leave it, not when he was so comfortable. so you did not call upon his sired to come celebrate — especially not them, when he was only beginning to heal the self-deprecation that came from their being there.

you did, though, dust away his hallway of their paintings, and uncover his painting supplies again. it was special to him, after all, and a hobby he’d locked away for too long after realizing the solace he found in keeping memories forever was embedding him into the past.

the paints and the blank canvasses were neatly wrapped in your room, along with a smaller box — dean’s present pile. there were more toys wrapped in a pile next to it, toys that cassius was far too spoiled already to need, but deserved anyways.

dean is not amused by the blindfold you put over his eyes as you led him to your shared room. or really, he was incredibly amused, but not so much to find out that all it served for was a dramatic way to lead him to his gifts while cassius napped downstairs.

“there are much more fun things that we could do with this blindfold,” he grumbles from in front of you, “there are much more fun things that we have done with it.”

“it is okay to be selfish and accept gifts sometimes, dean,” you say back, lightly kicking open the door with your foot to guide him inside.

dean is at his most shy and timid, somehow, on his birthday. as if he could make himself invisible and shrunken enough to be forgotten about, as if this day was not as equally about dean as it was cassius. “you are well aware of how little birthday gifts i’ve gotten over these years, aren’t you?”

“that is why i’ve got you three today.”

he can’t see, but he can hear the rustling of wrapping paper. shifting around, moving him as you so please, until he’s sat on the edge of the bed, and you are sitting at his feet in front of him, can feel the warmth of your humanity seeping into his legs.

something heavy lands in his lap.

“you may take it off,” you hum, and dean is not surprised to see that when he does, you are wearing a smug grin that makes you all the more beautiful. “go on. open it. that’s why gifts exist; to be opened.”

“i have not gotten a birthday gift in a while,” dean says with a huff, lifting his eyes as he tears into the wrapping paper to meet yours, “but that does not mean i need the process explained—”

his words die in his throat.

his paints. the ones that created life out of people he’d long killed. his heart falters. his mind blanks.

“this—” you pat the biggest gift behind you; flat and hollow when your hand touches it, “is some of the canvases i found too. i was just thinking— well, about how you paint everything you love in case it leaves.”

dean can’t even find the words to respond. his eyes stay locked on yours with a vulnerability you rarely see. “but i’m not leaving. and cassius is not leaving. and i think a family portrait for the front entrance would look lovely, don’t you?”

his swallow is thick and unnecessary, but he feels the lump in his throat and simply can’t help it.

instead of addressing your words, or the paints in his lap, or anything, he looks at the third present sat in your lap. his voice is raw when it comes out. “what is that one?”

dean’s paintbrushes, he assumes. fits the theme, would complete the puzzle.

your lips curl in a little grin. “those are cassius’s building blocks and perhaps a toy train. i can’t spoil everything.”

the attempt at lightening the mood works. he sets the paints aside and leans forward, lifting your chin with one finger and reaching into your lap with the other of his hands. “i meant this, little devil.”

there is no explanation or comments from you this time, as he opens it. it was hasty, the way he tore in, feeling light and airy like he did as a child on christmas. it’d been a long time since dean had felt so free.

it was not paintbrushes as he assumed, though. for the second time in one evening, you’d shocked the words out of him.

impossible, his mind begins to repeat again, but it’s quieter. less insistent. the voice of his subconscious had already been proven wrong once before.

a pregnancy test with two lines sits in the little jewelry box you’d tucked it away in.

the lump in his throat is tight, heavier. his mouth opens, closes, opens again, and no words come out. dean is left holding a pregnancy test between his fingers like it might break, left staring at the one person who heard his cries for company and answered with a family.

a family. how long had it been since he let himself dream? of this, of you, of anything?

“i know it is yours and cassius’s day, but i figured…” you don’t even need to finish the sentence for dean to get it. this was something that he’d wanted desperately, a secret he shared only with you. his childhood was bleak and unforgiving. all dean wanted was a chance to start anew and make it better.

here it was, in the form of a stick and a woman and a toddler.

he is more ginger with the pregnancy test than he was with the paints. as much as he appreciated the sentiments being brought back up, painting sam and judas had pulled all of the fun and the peace out of the hobby. he had no intention of digging back into the part of himself that loved the art of creation, in any way.

but now, in his head, there’s the grant entrance of his manor. and above the fireplace is you next to him in acrylic, a little cassius painted onto his hip, and a little baby in your arms. it would be updated every time his children grew. it would be updated every year, maybe even, so he could have multiples of you in the dresses he loved so dearly, and to see the progression of his kids. his family.

the hand on your chin moves to the back of your neck, tugging you up and into his arms. his eyes close, breathing you in slowly. he’s always loved the warmth of your livelihood, and it felt that much more intense, knowing that there was another life now, too.

“you have a talent for making a man forget he doesn’t deserve this,” he whispers into your throat.

you grasp at the sleeves of his coat, the grin on your face evident even as its buried into his chest. he can feel it, the pull of your lips, your smiling mouth in his shirt. “i hope to foster that talent, then. to become an expert in bringing you a lifetime’s worth of better birthdays.”

dean doesn’t know how to tell you that these years with you have done plenty. this was all he needed — you and the family you brought to him — to have better days and better birthdays.

so he stays silent and holds you to him, letting himself slip away into this life that felt more and more like a wish come true with every passing day.

and it is only when the sounds of little footsteps start stomping up the stairs toward your room, toward his presents, that dean’s eyes lift up to meet the sleep mussed little boy babbling to himself — and the big brother t-shirt you’d had him in, only now noticed.

notes. i literally woke up just to write this quick asf & post it PLS. if it sucks my bad. i'm just a girl. happy bday my pookie beloved baby waby!!!

tags. @titsout4jackles @moonstruksandco @starzify @ultravi0lence14 @itzavahere @sagegreen17 @bruceewayne @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @deansbeer @blushpinkdoll @warpedless @sabrinasopposite @k-slla @deansbite @foolinthera1n @honeyryewhiskey @angelblqde @whyyouegg @bluemerakis @fallbhind @florchids @figthoughts @beausling @chevroletdean @mccartneyqp @bluestrd @sthefferrete @rubyvhs @tortureddarkstar @aileenunfiltered @frosttbitessam @theosaurous

[i-dared-myself]

Uncomfortable

Stray Kids x reader

Requested by anonymous: hello, ash! would it be good if i request something, pls? i was thinking of a 9th member au with skz, could you maybe write a compilation of scenarios in which the reader is made uncomfortable and how the guys help her through it? idk if you'll do this, i hope it's not too much!

You love your job, that much you were certain of. You love your fans, as well. You work so hard in every dance and every song.

So when you step out on stage your heart swells in pride to see the thousands of Stays. Knowing that your group went from nothing to this is incredible.

And they’re all here to see you.

Well- not just you. The other members are just as, if not more, important than you. 

But at any given moment, thousands of eyes could be on you.

You had done many concerts before this. You had preformed more times than you could count. It had never bothered you before, and yet here you were.

You stand there in your concert attire, makeup and hair done. You look good and you know it, but what if people online didn’t think so? What if you were being recorded right now because there was a hair out of place?

“Hey.” Felix ducks down, using his body to cover the two of you from the crowd. “What’s going on?”

You force a smile, gripping at your shirt. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

Chan says something into a microphone, and the crowd roars. You make a move to join the others, but Felix’s hand wraps around your wrist gently. He tugs you back to him and looks you in the eyes.

“You look good,” he says simply. He smiles and his freckles scrunch up in the Felix-way that makes you want to grin as well. “We all know that.”

Your voice seems to catch in your throat as you try to respond. You cough. “But… What if I do something wrong?”

“You’re won’t, first of all,” he firmly says. “And secondly, we mess up all the time. Stay still loves us. It makes us human and that’s what they love about us.”

You nod slowly and take a deep breath. “Yeah. The best memes are made when we… Yeah.”

Felix releases you. “Ready?”

You trail after him to the group, smiling as brightly as you can. After a minute it turns into a genuine expression, and you know you love your job.

The concert goes by with very minimal mistakes. You have as much fun as you hope the fans do, and the guys all collapse into a pile next to you when you’re done.

“Gimme,” Hyunjin rasps to Jeongin. The younger man gets the message and hands him his water bottle.

“Good job, everyone,” Chan praises. He stretches out his joints and groans. 

“Getting too old for this?” Seungmin arches an eyebrow teasingly.

Chan scowls and levels a finger at him. “Watch your mouth.”

You’re covered in sweat and feel sticky. You check the time and notice it’s very late. “I want to go shower at the dorms. Are we leaving soon?”

“Yeah, let’s go.” Chan does a head count for some reason before guiding the group to the van. You clamber inside and pull your phone out, wanting to see what everyone thought of the concert.

“You did great,” Minho mutters quietly. His voice is low enough that only you can hear it. 

His words make your stomach tumble. You don’t get told often that you did good. Everything always what you could’ve done better. What someone else could have done better.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You really aren’t in the mood for recording, but you sit patiently as your makeup is applied and your hair is manipulated. You’re given a set of clothes and once you put it on, you exit the changing room and rejoin the others.

“Uh,” Changbin begins, averting his eyes, “that’s an interesting outfit.”

You’re confused, but look down at yourself for the first time after rushing through getting dressed. It’s definitely the most revealing thing you’ve worn for recordings, and you’re not sure if you feel comfortable with that. 

You’re not one to judge those for what you wear, but this is different. This is your job. This is where you’re supposed to be professional, and you have to wear… this.

It has what can only be described as a boob window. You tug it up uncomfortably, before down again when some of your stomach is shown.

The miniskirt is just as bad, to a level where you want to hide. You’re used to having to wear clothing similar to this, but never this bad.

Changbin adjusts his T-shirt. “Uh… Are you good with that?”

You nod.

The stylists know what they’re doing, right?

It would be rude to question them, right?

You walk to Hyunjin’s side and stand in place next to him. The set of instructions for the shoot are given, and all you can focus on is your outfit.

“That’s interesting,” Hyunjin says, unable to hide his disdain. His upper lip curls before he smoothes out his expression. “That’s… Wow.”

“I know.” You swallow and fiddle with the fabric again. “Is it that bad?”

Hyunjin nods. “Yes. Very.”

You curl into yourself, shoulders slumping. “Thanks, Hyunjin.”

“The colour compliments your eyes,” he mutters once he catches the look on your face. Hyunjin hooks an arm over your shoulder to pull you closer to him. “I think you look good.”

“But she’s not comfortable,” Seungmin bluntly says. He gives Hyunjin a dirty look. “Obviously.”

“No! I’m fine!” You wave your hands in a desperate attempt to gather their attention before they went rampaging to the stylists. “They worked hard!”

“Yeah, but do you want people to see you in that?” Seungmin questions. When you falter over a response, he sighs. “Boundaries are important, even at work.”

Hyunjin hums. “He’s right. And that shirt is ugly anyways.”

Jisung approaches, scowling slightly. “Aren’t we starting soon? Where are the others?”

“In a little bit. They’re still finishing preparations.” Jeongin leans down to touch his toes. 

“Hey.” Seungmin pokes Jisung. “Give her your shirt.”

Jisung flinches back, clutching at his torso. “What? Why?”

“She doesn’t like hers.” Hyunjin pinches the material of Jisung’s clothing. “Too much skin.”

“I’m not wearing anything under this shirt.” Jisung winces and rolls out his shoulders. “Do we…”

Jeongin scoffs. “Wow. You’re not going to give her your shirt? You just want to stare at boobs, don’t you? You’re so misogynistic.”

“That’s not what that means.” You press a hand to your forehead. “Jeongin-“

“Fine then!” Jisung huffs. He strips his shirt off and flings it at you, putting his hands on his hips defiantly. “Happy? I love women!”

The staff all stare at him in confusion, while a couple of them shield their eyes with their hands.

“Jisung-“ You hold out his clothes, but Seungmin blocks you.

“Put it on!” Seungmin orders.

“But what about me?” Jisung pouts. “I can’t just be half-naked for the recording.”

“I mean, you could…” Hyunjin trails off. “Stay would love it.”

You step into a changing room, returning with Jisung’s shirt on. You hand him yours, which he struggles to put on. He keeps sticking his arms through the boob window, and Jeongin has to help him dress.

“It’s horrifying,” Hyunjin announces once Jisung is finished. 

“I think you look good,” Felix vaguely says as he walks past. He’s staring at his phone.

“Which one of us?” Jisung puffs out his chest in what’s clearly an attempt to make you smile.

It works.

Felix glances up, eyes widening. “Are you allowed to wear that?”

“They put her in it, so it’s their fault.” Hyunjin shrugs and runs his tongue over his front teeth. “What about the miniskirt?”

“I’m not wearing that!” Jisung hisses. “This is bad enough!”

“Felix!” Hyunjin sings, chasing after the other man. Felix looks back over his shoulder before sprinting away.

So when Chan returns to the group, Changbin following closely behind, he taps his chin.

“The stylists are getting very… unique,” he carefully says. Chan’s eyes flick over Jisung in your shirt, and Felix, who had been wrestled into the miniskirt. 

You frown, wearing Felix’s baggy pants. “Sorry. I can- I can put it back on if you want.”

Chan waves a hand, expression softening. “It’s fine. The camera we needed for the water scene broke anyway. We’re going home.”

Felix grumbles to Changbin about the stupid skirt as they trudge off to the van. Chan catches your arm before you can leave with them.

“And I’ll tell the staff that you aren’t okay with those clothes for filming,” he assures you softly. “Tell us if you’re ever uncomfortable with something, okay?”

“I will,” you promise him.  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Long days were normal. Many long days with a lack of sleep were not. Chan usually tried to give everyone enough rest and time to themselves, but the last couple of days had been stressful.

So you find yourself with nine hours of sleep in the last three days. You have no idea how you’re even functioning, let alone cheery enough for a fan meet.

You’re seated across from a girl with curly brown hair. Her gaze keeps darting from your face, down to her lap nervously.

As you uncap your pen, you smile as warmly as you can. Considering the circumstances, that is. The lack of sleep and pure exhaustion were really getting to you.

“I- I saw the clips of your latest concert,” she nervously says. “I- You’re very good.”

“Thank you.” You scribble your signature out on what she wanted before sliding it across the table. “Anything else to sign?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “I- You and Felix are close.”

Your tired brain couldn’t tell where she was going with this. So you hum. “Yeah. We are.”

She seems giddy at that. “R-Really?”

“Yeah. We all are.” You look over to your right, where Changbin appears in deep discussion with a fan about… bald eagles?

“But like… Close i-in which way?” She crosses one leg over the other.

You still can’t understand what she’s saying. It’s not wise of an idol to interact with someone and have no clue what’s happening, but here you are.

“Uh, a lot,” is all you respond with. “Do you have a favourite song, or album?”

“But Felix g-grabbed your arm the other day.” Her head ducks down again as her cheeks flush. “I- I saw videos of it.”

“Oh!” Your eyebrows shoot up with the realization. “Um- Have you ever been to one of our concerts before?”

“You l-look happy together.” She ignores your question.

“So… Chk Chk Boom?” you weakly say. “It’s pretty good, right?”

She doesn’t seem to get the hint. “He smiles at y-you often.”

“Did I hear someone talking about me?” Felix teases as he bends down. He props his elbows down on the table, some of his hair falling into his face. 

“What are you doing over here?” you ask in bewilderment. Isn’t he supposed to be doing his own signings?

“I figured you could use the company.” 

Which is code for: You needed help so I’m here.

You relax into your chair, leaning back. “I appreciate it.”

“So what were we chatting about?” Felix asks, more alert than you for some reason. You blame it on the energy drinks he chugged with Jeongin.

The rest of the meeting goes by smoothly. When everyone loads into the van, Changbin makes room for you in the seat next to him.

“You okay?” he gently inquires. 

You nod and let your eyes flutter shut. “Just miss sleeping.”

Changbin chuckles lowly. “Yeah, so do I.”

“Don’t worry, everyone will get their naps,” Chan calls from the front. “Our schedule is free for the next week.”

Jisung whoops, and Hyunjin covers his ears and whines from beside him. 

“That means actually sleeping,” Chan sternly says. “Jisung, I’m talking to you. Don’t binge an entire show in a night.”

Seungmin rolls his eyes. “We all know he’s going to do it anyway.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Minho ominously mutters.

Everyone side-eyes him.

“What are you going to do?” you warily question him. 

Minho’s eyes glint. “That’s for me to know and for him to find out.”

Jisung clears his throat. “I think I’m going to bed early tonight. Anyone else doing the same?”

You shake your head and sigh. “No, I have a live to do.”

The others all murmur their excuses, while Minho narrows his eyes at you. You shift nervously under his gaze.

When you get off to your room, you make sure to brush out your hair. When prop your phone up and sit on your bed, tucking your legs beneath you.

You greet the fans as they come pouring in, making sure to touch on the topic on the fan meeting. You talk for a little bit about how grateful you are for everyone coming, before moving on to just chatting.

It’s always odd doing a live by yourself. There’s no engaging with someone else, and you have to either read off comments, or come up with conversation.

You’re too tired for the latter, so you go with the former.

“Aw, my hair looks nice?” You beam at your phone, reaching up to your head. “Thank you very much.”

You read over a couple more rolls of comments on the screen before settling on another one to respond to. “No, I won’t give you spoilers. Nice try, though.”

You scrunch your nose up and adjust how you’re sitting. Everyone is going on about a new meme of Jeongin falling out of his chair. Some are asking you to recreate it, while others are asking if he’s okay.

“Yes, he’s fine,” you answer breezily. “It takes more than that to hurt him. He’s tougher than he looks.”

And time goes on. Your eyes are getting heavier and heavier, but you don’t want to turn it off. The more content you give them now, the less they’ll talk about you and Felix.

If any shipping gets too popular, you have to do damage control and-

“Hello, Stay!” Minho waves with both hands as he pops into frame. He blinks a couple times as the comments scream his name before his lips curl into a smile.

“What are you doing here?” You scoot over in case he wants to sit with you.

Minho remains standing. “It’s getting late. Do you know what time it is?”

There’s a string of people talking about air fryers, now. Others are warning you to run.

You straighten. “No, sorry. Is it really that late?”

“It’s past midnight,” he scolds gently. “It’s bed time. I already have Jisung sleeping, and it’s your turn.”

“But…” You don’t know how to voice your concerns. It feels as if speaking your worries aloud will make them true.

Minho says the goodbyes to your phone before shutting the live off. He scoops your phone up and slips it into your pocket before lifting you over his shoulder.

“Minho!” you shriek as he marches out the door. “What are you doing?”

“Rumours come with the job,” he says. He bounces you once, cutting off your protests. “The amount of times I’m shipped with Jisung is immense, but we’re fine. These things happen.”

“Yeah, there’s lots of that stuff.” You go limp and let him dump you in the bathroom. As soon as you’re on your feet, he hands you your toothbrush.

“See?” Minho raises an eyebrow. “You’ll be fine. And even if it does get out of hand, I’m sure Hyunjin would be glad to do something to get the attention off you.”

“You’re right,” you say around the toothbrush in your mouth. Minho waits patiently for you to spit into the sink before you’re back in his grasp.

“I don’t see why you made such a big deal about this,” you grumble as you change into pyjamas. His back is to you as you do so. “Why was Jisung so scared?”

He smirks at you, facing you again. “Wanna find out?”

You stare at him momentarily before sliding beneath your sheets. “Good night.”

“Good night.” Minho pulls the blankets up to your chin. He walks to the door, holding up your phone. “You’ll get this back in the morning after a chat with Chan about positive thinking.”

You groan and throw your head against the pillows. “You really are cruel!”

Minho laughs before flicking your lights off. He shuts the door softly.

Taglist:

@velvetmoonlght

[scoutofmymind]

Mama scout mi Reina! Would you be open to writing an AU of Luigi? A little supernatural ish perhaps 👀

Saw You in a Dream — { Luigi x Reader }

Content: NSFW— MINORS DNI dream-kissing lol, yearning, some pining I suppose, reader is an uninspired artist, Luigi is a figment of her imagination.

Wc: 4,153

Notes: ONEIRIX™ is a dream enhancement supplement designed to intensify and prolong REM sleep experiences.

AN: I DO plan on continuing this if requests for it are abundant. I have many, many ideas for how this story could go, but I will tell you, it’s a lil…. Twisted hehe. Also, my darling anon, I know this isn’t really “supernatural” but in hopes of not writing 10k again and learning when to stop, I must note that more supernatural elements will be tied in if this is requested enough for a continuation. Love you xox

"What's wrong with old-fashioned, regular dreams?" You stare across the table at Bailey, who leans forward with an almost evangelical intensity, her blue eyes gleaming with the same fervor as when she pitched her start-up ideas or insisted everyone try CrossFit. "Is nothing sacred anymore? Do we have to optimize and upgrade every last human experience?"

"No," Bailey says, drumming her fingers against the table, her half-eaten omelette growing cold. She keeps shaking her head as if your resistance personally offends her. "These are revolutionary — they're going to change the way we think, bitch." The words come out with practiced casualness, like everything else about her these days.

She flicks a small pink baggie across the table, four obsidian-black pills rattling inside like tiny meteorites hurtling straight toward your earth.

"No." You slide the baggie back with a single finger, as if even touching it too long might leave a stain. "I don't need another vice."

"It's non-addictive." Bailey leans in, her voice dropping to that silky-smooth pitch she used to use selling timeshares in Miami. Despite her earlier promise that she wasn't working for them, you catch that familiar gleam in her eye — the one that surfaced with every pyramid scheme and side hustle she'd dragged you into. "I just need you to experience it. Just once."

The baggie sits between you like a dare, its pink sheen catching the diner's fluorescent lights, making the black pills inside gleam like wet ink.

"It could really inspire your art." She slides a journal across the table — black, unmarked, expensive-looking. "I've filled this thing with ideas already. It’s only been a week.”

She's found your weak spot now.

Those late-night calls, the wine-soaked confessions about your creative drought, the mounting pressure from your agent — it's all ammunition. "This could be your saving grace," she adds, and the words sink their hooks in deep. Your fingers twitch toward the baggie, career desperation beginning to outweigh your better judgment. “I’m dead serious.”

"Fine." You snatch the baggie and shove it deep into your purse, somewhere between old receipts and forgotten lipliner, secretly hoping it'll vanish into that void where hair ties and spare change go to die. "Give me the pamphlet. You clearly don't need it." You thrust out your hand, and Bailey practically glows as she slides over the sleek Oneirix packet, its metallic lettering catching the light like a sign you're choosing to ignore.

The pills had disappeared into your purse's black hole until Bailey's FaceTime lit up your phone the next afternoon. There she was, sleep mask pushed up like a crown, her face dewy with her latest hundred-dollar moisturizer. "So, did you try it?" Her grin was expectant, eager — the same look she'd worn pushing juice cleanses and crystal healing.

You glance at your desk, where half-finished canvases gather dust and untouched notebooks mock your creative drought.

Last night had been your usual routine; an hour-long shower where you'd solved all of life's problems and remembered none of them, three episodes of that show you're still trying to convince yourself you enjoy, and quality time with your artistic inadequacy.

"Not yet." You mumble around a spoonful of ice cream, your attention split between Bailey's glowing face and whatever's playing on Netflix — neither getting your full focus.

"Girl," she clicks her tongue, and you can hear the judgment dripping through your phone speaker. "Go get them — are you scared?" The question hangs there, pointed and precise, like she's daring you.

You hate how well she knows you, how easily she can press that particular button.

Being called scared has always been your kryptonite, ever since she first met you at that high school gallery opening where you'd been too anxious to mingle.

"No." Your face twists into a scowl at her accusation. "I just forgot." You hit pause, abandoning both your show and melting ice cream to dig through your purse.

You find the baggie too easily, the pamphlet's glossy surface catching the light as you unfold it, its clinical text stark against the dark background.

ONEIRIX

DREAM ENHANCEMENT SUPPLEMENT

FOR INTENSIFIED & PROLONGED REM SLEEP EXPERIENCES

The instructions read like any over-the-counter medication.

One tablet, 30 minutes before bed, standard warnings about machinery and other medications.

"Okay." The pamphlet lands on your counter, its unread warnings fanning out like discarded playing cards. "Will it make me tired, or do I already have to be—"

"Oh, it knocks your ass out." Bailey's voice drifts from your abandoned phone, tinny and distant. You wrestle with the baggie's seal, the plastic refusing to cooperate until it suddenly gives, spilling one glossy black pill into your palm. "It works a hell of a lot faster than thirty minutes, too," she adds through a yawn.

You swallow the pill, and before you can even contemplate moving from the kitchen to your bed, a heaviness seeps into your limbs like honey dripping down glass.

Bailey's already drifted off on FaceTime, her gentle snores creating a strange duet with your own as consciousness slips away once you make it to the couch faster than falling.

The transition is jarring — not the usual soft fade into nonsensical dreams, but a sharp snap into awareness. You know you're dreaming, the way you know your own name, the way you know the sky is blue. It's like someone's turned up the saturation on reality, made everything clearer and brighter than it has any right to be.

This isn't the usual dream-fog where your brain accepts that your childhood home has suddenly sprouted wings or that your teeth are falling out at a gallery show.

This is different.

This is aware.

You wiggle your toes in the grass — actual, individual blades tickling your feet, not the vague suggestion of grass that usually populates dreams. Your manicure catches the sunlight, that specific shade of dusty rose you picked last Tuesday, tiny chips and all.

The rings on your fingers still catch when you twist them, that familiar nervous habit following you even here. Everything about you is preserved with photograph precision, dropped into this impossible elsewhere.

"Jesus," escapes your lips, the word carried away by a breeze that feels too perfectly warm to be real. The butterflies dance overhead like confetti caught in reverse, their wings painted in colors that might not exist in the waking world. You watch one land on a nearby flower, and you can see every detail of its wings, every tiny pattern — the kind of detail your sleeping mind has never bothered with before. "This is fucking-"

“Hey.”

The voice cuts through your wonder, and you spin, heart somehow racing in this dream-that's-not-quite-a-dream.

He's there, solid as the ground beneath your feet — no dream-logic shimmer or fade around the edges. Tall, with shoulders that could carry atlas's burden, and features that seem carved rather than grown. His smile plays at the corners of his mouth like he knows a secret you don't, but it's not threatening. If anything, it pulls at something in your chest, a curiosity that feels dangerous in its intensity.

"Hey," you echo, the word coming out softer than intended. Your eyes sweep the meadow, searching for other dreamers or figures or whatever they might be called here. But it's just him, just you, just this perfect pocket of perpetual summer afternoon stretching out in all directions.

"S'just me." His hand extends between you like a bridge, and you notice how the sunlight catches on his knuckles, creating shadows you could count. No name follows, just that smile deepening into dimples.

"Your name?” You tilt your chin down, adopting the pose of someone who's seen too many crime documentaries to trust a nameless stranger, even in a dream. Your eyebrows arch high enough to feel the stretch — another impossible sensation that feels too real.

"Seems you haven't decided yet."

"I haven't decided?"

He shrugs, the gesture rippling across those shoulders like a wave, and something flickers in his expression - like a TV losing signal for just a moment. "Yeah." He blinks, and you can see him searching his own mind, coming up empty. "Haven't decided yet."

Your eyes travel his form like you're memorizing a sculpture. The elegant taper from broad shoulders to narrow waist, the careful strength in his forearms, the way he holds himself — somehow both completely at ease and coiled with potential energy. His eyes meet yours with that puppy-dog hopefulness that seems at odds with his imposing frame, that half-smile still playing on his lips.

"Lu—ee-" The sound stretches between you, and you can taste the wrongness of it. Your head tilts, and suddenly it clicks. "Luigi."

Luigi nods, a slow, knowing motion, and reaches behind him. The wallet arcs through the air, and when you catch it, the leather feels warm, like it's been sitting in summer sunshine. It falls open in your hands, and there it is — Luigi Mangione, printed in stark bureaucratic certainty. "I thought you'd say that."

The urge to gasp, to stumble back in shock, rises and falls like a wave. Reality — or whatever version of it this is — reasserts itself with the gentle persistence of tide coming in. Of course you knew his name. Of course you did. Just like you knew the exact shade of his eyes, the precise angle of his jaw, the way his right dimple is slightly deeper than his left.

There’s a reason he feels familiar.

You made him.

"Well, Luigi," The name feels like syrup on your tongue as you pivot, bare feet finding their path through grass as the sun drapes over your shoulders like a tailored shawl, warming without burning, perfect in that way only dreams can manage. "I'm sure you know who I am."

Luigi falls into step beside you, a flag leaf dancing between his lips as he walks.

His presence feels as natural as your shadow, a complement to your movement rather than an intrusion. "Of course," he says, and his voice carries the same gentle warmth as the sunlight, the same easy invitation as the wind that plays with your hair.

The grass gives way to reveal a pond that looks like liquid mercury in the sunlight. "I've been waiting awhile for you — seemed to have run out of ways to pass the time."

You stand at the water's edge, watching swans carve elegant paths across the surface, their reflections perfect mirrors in the still water, and in the distance, ducks conduct their quiet conversations. "Are you saying you're bored of everything here?"

"No," Luigi's fingers brush your sleeve, gentle but insistent, like a breeze that knows where it's going. As he steps forward, wildflowers burst into existence beneath his feet — first violets, then daisies, then flowers you've never seen before, in colors that shouldn't exist. "I'm saying it gets lonely doing the same thing everyday on your own."

Luigi continues forward, leaving his galaxy of flowers behind, but you find yourself frozen, watching the way the light catches his silhouette.

"How many times?" The question escapes before you can catch it. "How many times have I been here and left?"

He pauses mid-step, and for a moment, the whole dreamscape seems to hold its breath — the swans pause their gliding, the breeze stills, even the wildflowers stop their eager blooming. When he turns to face you, his smile carries a gentleness that makes your chest ache.

"It’s been so long, but — " he pauses, and somehow the words don't sound like an accusation. "Sometimes for seconds, sometimes for hours. Sometimes you remember me, sometimes you don't. But you always come back eventually. And I'm always here."

You swallow, “How long has it been?"

His laugh drifts through the air, light and melodic. "Long enough that I've watched these trees grow from saplings." His bare feet shift in the grass, toes curling against the earth. "Long enough that I've named every swan on this pond, then named their children, and then their children's children."

The wildflowers continue once again their blooming beneath his steps — first soft pinks, then deep purples, then blues that seem to glow from within. Each petal unfolds with deliberate precision, creating a trail that marks his path across the meadow.

You notice how he holds himself, the way his shoulders stay perfectly squared, his posture too fluid, too precise for someone who's supposed to be just a figment of your dreams. "So I looked different last time?" you wonder, trailing behind him again, catching the slight nod.

"We were both younger then." Luigi turns back to you and grins, reaching out to squeeze your shoulder. “I’ve really missed you."

His voice carries the warmth of old sunlight, that rare sincerity that can't be fabricated — something in his presence that felt secure, anchoring, his nature as gentle as summer rain.

But the look in his eyes betrayed what his smile tried to hide — he knew you didn't remember him, and that knowledge lived somewhere deep and wounded inside him.

You could see it now, in the careful way he held himself back, how his initial greeting carried just enough warmth to be kind but not enough to overwhelm. Your memory of him had been burning away like lit matches with each passing year, while he'd been trapped here, holding onto every detail of who you used to be.

Luigi lead you further into the meadow, another pond materializing somewhere further into the deep but Luigi seemed far too familiar with this terrain, and you trusted each turn, “Have I given you different names?”

He shakes his head with a laugh, soft and bittersweet, almost as if he couldn't imagine wearing any other name than your Luigi. "No." He scrunches his nose, a gesture so achingly familiar it feels like déjà vu. "One time I almost thought you were going to, but — nope. Always some variation of Luigi."

The questions dance at the edges of your consciousness like autumn leaves in a wind, but somehow the answers are already there, settled in your bones like old truths. Why he lets you choose, how he knows when recognition lights your eyes and when they stay dark with forgetting — it's all written in a language your mind has forgotten but your heart still speaks fluently.

"I saw you for a minute somewhere near the streams last winter." His voice softens, eyes distant as if watching memories drift past like leaves on water. "It was only for a split moment — but I knew it was you, even though you'd changed."

Your heart twists with a horrible dread, sharp and cold as winter frost, weighed down by the certainty that he'll slip through your fingers like morning mist the moment you wake. "How do I make myself remember?" The words fall soft as prayer between you both, your knees brushing as you sit beside him.

He turns to you with that gentle patience that speaks of having heard this same desperate question from your lips a hundred times before, in a hundred different dreams.

He draws your hand into his lap with practiced ease, his fingertips ghosting over yours like butterfly wings — a gesture so deeply ingrained it speaks of countless similar moments, his soul remembering the map of your hands better than your own mind does. It doesn't feel strange to fall back into these rhythms with Luigi; everything has felt as natural as breathing since you landed here, like slipping into a dance your feet never truly forgot. "I know parts of me remember you," you whisper into the space between heartbeats, watching his fingers trace invisible patterns across your skin. "I know you feel familiar.”

Luigi nods slowly, pressing your palm to his cheek with a gentle sigh that carries the weight of a thousand forgotten moments. "We never learned how to make you remember," he murmurs, his voice wrapped in forced lightness that can't quite mask the undertow of grief beneath. "Always a toss up."

You swing your feet from the mossy ledge where Luigi sits, the ancient stone cool beneath you both.

He leans back on his palms, wearing a smile that's equal parts joy and resignation — a man who's learned to find peace in fleeting moments.

There's something heartbreaking in how he's already accepted that this too will slip through the sieve of your memory, but still treasures your presence like water in a desert, grateful just to have you here at all.

"I'll remember this time." The words spill out like a vow, fragile as spun glass but burning with conviction. Even as you speak them, you know they might shatter come morning, but something feels different here — each detail crystalline and alive, from the whisper of wind in the leaves to the warmth of his shoulder against yours.

This doesn't feel like the usual gossamer threads of dreams; it feels like stepping through a door into somewhere achingly real.

"Mm." Luigi's shoulder brushes yours, a gentle pendulum of contact, and though his hum carries years of gentle disbelief, he can't suppress the smile that softens his features. "All that matters is that you're here now, I think."

You nod slowly, watching your legs paint pendulum shadows against the water below. "Is there anyone else here?" The whisper slips out conspiratorial and soft, your eyes scanning the peaceful landscape as if its emptiness might be deceiving.

"No." Luigi shrugs, tossing a stone into the pond where it breaks the surface in perfect ripples. "You thought up a couple weird little-“ he scrunches his nose, lost in the memory of your previous creations — specifically those tiny Trojan warriors you'd accidentally willed into existence, who'd turned the peaceful fields into their own private battlefield. "It's just never worked out." He turns to you with a glimmer of fond exasperation, pressing a knuckle into your thigh. "You've got a rather dangerous imagination."

You swallow the question rising in your throat, deciding some doors are better left closed — for the sake of whatever fragments of sanity you still possess.

If there are any left to guard.

"Dangerous," you echo in a whisper, fighting back a bubble of laughter that threatens to spill over. "Well, scratch that, then.”

"It's always been you and me here." Luigi nods slowly, his voice taking on that particular texture of someone guarding something precious. "Outsiders make me nervous."

From that careful admission, you piece together a history of well-intentioned mistakes — multiple attempts at populating this sanctuary that ended in ways that left shadows in Luigi's voice. Each failure seems etched in the spaces between his words, a collection of experiments gone wrong. "That's fair," you murmur, reaching for his hand with gentle curiosity. He surrenders it without hesitation, letting you trace the lines of his palm like a map of all your shared disasters.

There's something profoundly real in the way his skin warms yours, in the faint calluses and subtle creases — too detailed, too imperfect to be mere imagination, yet too perfect in its imperfection to be anything else.

"How is the gallery stuff going?" His question floats between you, and for a heartbeat, confusion sparks — how could he know about the gallery?

But the answer settles over you like dawn breaking.

Of course he knows.

He knows the way your hands shake before each opening, the doubt that pools in your stomach when you face a blank canvas, the elation of a perfect brushstroke. He knows your fears dressed in their Sunday best and your dreams in their rawest form.

You made him.

Crafted him from stardust and loneliness, shaped him from the clay of your subconscious until he became more real than reality itself — your most perfect creation, yet the one you can never quite remember come morning.

"I haven't been inspired in — god," you trail off, turning to truly see him, and the dormant artist in you awakens with a sudden, fierce hunger. The sunlight plays architect with his features, gilding each detail you'd unconsciously perfected; those midnight curls catching light like cut obsidian, the almost-symmetrical beauty marks dotting his cheeks like carefully placed stars, the classical slope of his nose that Renaissance masters would have wept to capture.

Your fingers twitch with phantom muscle memory, aching to translate him from this dream-reality to paper, to make permanent what feels so ethereal. "So long." The words fall soft and wondering, as if you've suddenly remembered how to speak a forgotten language — the language of creation, of beauty, of art itself.

Luigi hums softly, nuzzling your shoulder with a familiarity that sends your thoughts spiraling backward through time. "Well, let's get you inspired," he murmurs, his breath warm against your neck, and suddenly you're wrestling with questions you've been too afraid to examine.

The intimacy of the gesture opens a door to memories of your teenage self — those raw, lonely years when you were all sharp edges and desperate yearning, underwhelmed by fumbling high school romances and overwhelmed by feelings.

You created him then, in those twilight hours between childhood and adulthood. A friend first, undoubtedly — a sanctuary in human form when the real world felt too abrasive to bear.

But now, feeling the casual tenderness of his touch, you wonder about the blurred lines in your shared history. If perhaps you'd written more than friendship into his DNA during those hormone-soaked nights, those moments when loneliness wore your resistance thin.

You melt into his warmth, drawn by a gravity as familiar as breathing, like a desperate moth to a flame you've danced with a thousand times before. "How do we do that?" The question hangs deliberately innocent, though electricity already hums beneath your skin with anticipated answers.

Luigi's response is immediate and devastating — the warm, wet slide of his tongue painting a deliberate path up your neck. Time stretches as he savors you, the gesture somehow both predatory and reverent.

"Maybe we could jog your memory, too." His voice drops to that particular octave that makes your bones liquid, left hand claiming your chin while his right arm becomes a band of heat around your waist, orchestrating your body until you're straddling his lap. "I remember exactly the things you like the most," teeth graze your pulse point as his hands span your back, fingertips pressing into your spine like he's playing music only he knows the notes to, "and the things you hate."

"How do you know those things haven't changed, Lu?" Your fingers find sanctuary in his curls, each strand impossibly soft, and the breeze carries the essence of August - sun-warmed grass, distant thunderstorms, ripening fruit. The scent of endless summer, bottled in this perfect moment.

"I guess there's only one way to find out, don't you think?" The question unfolds like a flower between you as Luigi tilts his head back, studying you through heavy-lidded eyes.

His lips part, pink and promising, an unspoken dare wrapped in velvet invitation. And you — you who have always been more poet than pragmatist — surrender to the gravitational pull of him. You lean in like a sunset chasing the horizon, drawn to the heat of his mouth, the shared breath between you becoming sacred thing.

His tongue moves against yours with practiced poetry, his lips a tender geography you're rediscovering. Every nip of teeth is precisely timed, a choreography written in muscle memory and want. Just as his hands find the warm skin beneath your shirt, reality fractures — a void tears through the dream like ink spilled across a watercolor.

The darkness swallows everything, sudden and absolute.

You jolt awake with violence, heart thundering against your ribs. The familiar couch cushions press against your cheek, mundane and mocking. The real world crashes back into focus with brutal clarity; the hum of the refrigerator, the tick of the wall clock, the morning light cutting through back scatter.

Each detail feels like a betrayal, a reminder that Luigi exists only in that liminal space between sleeping and waking, where longing takes shape and wears a face you crafted from starlight and need.

"No." The word escapes as a soft, desperate plea. Your hand reaches for the sketchbook and pen with the urgency of someone grasping at smoke, at fragments of a dream determined to dissolve.

And there he is — Luigi materializing before you like a miracle answering desperate prayers, your artist's eye already translating the divine geometry of his face onto paper before memory can steal him away.

You are the faithful at the altar, he the vision you're determined to make tangible.

The alarm screams again, reality's insistent hammer against your temple. "Fuck off!" you snarl, jabbing at the screen with unnecessary force, brows knitted with the particular fury reserved for things that dare interrupt worship.

The real world can wait.

Right now, there are curves of ink to capture, beauty marks to map, and the precise angle of summer sunlight in black curls to remember.

Hey, I think you were right about the pills

You text Bailey after lunch.

Holy shit

[faderifter]

“Anders did nothing wrong” isn't meant to be taken literally; though it is discussed explicitly on occasion, the general unspoken understanding among Anders fans is that this refers to the ways in which BW and the fandom tried to vilify him for his political actions+beliefs (and sometimes sexuality), not that he is literally perfect and above criticism. I’m very ready to admit his faults, especially when it comes to Merrill, though I’m not as ready to write him off as a bad person or asshole as some people.

The one fault I’m unwilling to recognize, though, is his approval of returning Fenris to Danarius. Not because it’s the most indefensible and I’m coping to uphold an idealized idea of his character, but because I think it’s just one of many cases of bad writing fuelled in part by BW’s shitty politics, not faithfulness to characterization. In centrist/liberal media radical characters are often flat-out villains, or begin righteous and go too far - they become antagonists by threatening a status quo the protagonist must then fight to uphold. This is the well-intentioned extremist trope. The villain’s use of violence is aligned with disorder, justifying the use of heroic violence to enforce the laws of the land, which ostensibly champions pacifism, but tolerates structural violence. The narrative focuses on the innocent who suffer under the force of change and ignores the innocents who suffer under structural violence. Any suffering in the means delegitimizes the end. Sometimes writers will accidentally make “the other side” too reasonable, and rather than rethink their entire plot and message and characters, they try to muddy the waters or delegitimize their cause by forcing in something indefensible (or creating a strawman) regardless of whether it’s believable or consistent with the character they created. This is how you get your puppy-kicking socialist characters.

Anders approving of selling Fenris back into slavery is incongruous with the character they established. JusticeAnders especially is explicitly anti-slavery. Even if I bought that Anders would make an exception for Fenris (I don't), I really don't buy that Justice would tolerate it. DA:A

Justice: I see that your feline companion remains with you.

Anders: He seems happy enough. Isn't that right, Ser Pounce-a-lot?

Ser Pounce-a-lot: (Meow!)

Justice: To enslave another creature does not seem just

Anders: He's not a slave! He's a friend. And he's also a cat.

Justice: A cat that lacks freedom." //

Justice: I believe you have a responsibility to your fellow mages.

Anders: That bit of self-righteousness is directed at me?

Justice: You have seen oppression and are now free. You must act to free those who remain oppressed.

Anders: Or I could mind my business, in case the Chantry comes knocking.

Justice: But this is not right. You have an obligation. This basically prohibits a "freedom for me but not for thee" explanation of his approval, now that Justice and Anders have merged. DA2:

"(The Bone Pit, outside the mine entrance, Act 1) "Generations of slaves died in that mine. I can still hear their cries for justice." -Recognition of slavery as unjust //

Anders: Did you ever think about killing yourself?

Fenris: I could ask you the same thing.

Anders: I'm serious. To get out of slavery, to escape Danarius... don't tell me you never thought about it.

Fenris: I did not. To kill oneself is a sin in the eyes of the Maker.

Anders: You... believe that?

Fenris: I try to. Some things must be worse than slavery.

Anders: Some things are worse than death. Some people read this as callousness or cruelty, but I see this as an attempt at reaching out and relating to Fenris, knowing by act III Anders is planning his own death & giving away his belongings. "Some things are worse than death" refers both to slavery and mage oppression. Anders frequently connects his experiences with Fenris' and attempts to appeal to him that way. Anders views the circle as slavery. He doesn’t like Fenris, but he does see their oppression as something shared. They’ve both suffered the injustice of having their freedom denied to them.

Anders: You ever going to stop harping on the mages here?

Fenris: No.

Anders: They aren't what you saw in Tevinter.

Fenris: The moment they are free, mages will make themselves magisters.

Anders: They're slaves! You should want to help them.

Fenris: I don't. //

Anders: I just want to know, what do you say when people have questions?

Anders: What's your answer when someone asks, "so if Andraste preached freedom and ended slavery, why do you lock up mages and keep them as slaves?"

Sebastian: No one ever asked that.

I don't believe the Danarius approval is in keeping with Anders' character. Either the writers were trying to force a message that their narrative was too weak to support, or, benefit of the doubt, they were careless. It's a choice that isn't much of a choice outside of roleplaying; it would be highly unpopular with players and the game punishes you through hits to approval and loss of a companion for betraying Fenris. Why would anyone choose to do so? A couple approval points creates some incentive, and Anders and Fenris don't get along, so it defaults to him. But Anders views slavery as an intolerable injustice and he would never approve of enslaving Fenris