#because it's so different from my usual stories

[no-blastbeat-no-applause]

A little while ago I wrote a little something about that. I just finished translating it into english. Here are my thoughts:

Wimp

Thoughts on the patriarchy and why this crap sucks for men too

Queen Energy

I mindlessly let Instagram videos wash over my mind. A sketch wakes me from my pleasant torpor:

A woman dressed in a negligee talks to her husband. She orders him to have sex with her immediately. He says he is tired, he has just come home from work. He doesn't feel like it either. She is not interested. She becomes more direct and aggressive in her statements and demands. All of this culminates in her forcibly shoving a cookie into his mouth, repeating her order and expectantly marching off towards the bedroom.

The comment column is rolling with laughter, congratulates the woman and agrees with her demands. The comments reads something like:

"Her story, her rules, her empire." "Queen energy! This is the vibe we all need!" "Taking what's hers like it was always meant to be"

She should take what she needs; her husband should be a real guy and get it for his wife if and when she wants it.

So the point is: he's a wimp if he doesn't put himself and his needs first. He's not a real man because he doesn't jump when his wife is in the mood.

Let's imagine the gender roles reversed. A man comes home and tells his wife to wait for him naked in the bedroom because he wants to have sex. Regardless of her wishes and desires. Most people would find this behavior unacceptable. And rightly so.

Here though, sexual harassment is portrayed as a joke. Neither the producers nor the recipients seem to be fazed by this.

Such scenes suggest that men always have to be ready and willing. This stereotypical expectation completely ignores the fact that men are also people with boundaries who want to say "yes" or "no". However, in our society - as the comments column impressively shows - they are often denied this choice. Men are not even given the opportunity to prioritize their own wishes because their "yes" is taken for granted. If they do try to set boundaries, they are met with a lack of understanding, rejection, ridicule or even violence. This creates a burden that is subtle but always present.

The video and its comments make fun of a man whose freedom of choice over his own body has been taken away, making him yet another victim of patriarchy and toxic masculinity.

First naked and then alone in the corridor

I was 12 when my mother drove me and my ten-year-old sister to our pediatrician. Everything started as business as usual. The doctor asked us general questions, she took our blood pressure and did what doctors do.

Then something happened that I still remember vividly today. As a burgeoning teenager, I had to get naked from the wais down and lie down on a couch to be examined. My mother and sister both stayed in the room. I was embarrassed. I found it downright agonizing.

The doctor plucked at my penis for several minutes. I didn't know where to look. My face turned bright red and my hands got wet. I was suddenly terribly aware of how my kneecaps felt under my skin.

Then it was finally over.

But now it became particularly irritating: it was my sister's turn. She was facing something similar - with one important difference. I was asked to leave.

Don't get me wrong, I had no interest in participating in my sister's gynecological exam. I just wished that the same consideration had been given to me, a little boy.

My feelings were not ignored, no. No one here had even bothered to take an interest in whether I had any. I was treated with the same respect as the couch in the treatment room. The question of my dignity was about as important as that of the desk.

But that was nothing new for a 12-year-old. After all, I learned to swallow my feelings before I even started elementary school.

"Are you a man or a mouse"?

Of course I'm a man, I'm already four! I suppress every feeling that my environment deems too much or inappropriate.

I've learned that „Indians don't cry.“* Neither do boys. I'm not supposed to make such a fuss and pull myself together.

It eats into your brain. It stays. For almost 40 years and it's still there.

How my tongue got bitten

My aunt was celebrating her sixtieth birthday. The whole thing ended in her favorite pub. We danced, sang, drank and enjoyed ourselves. I chatted with old acquaintances on the edge of the dance floor.

Suddenly, a woman snuck up on me. She started to dance at me aggressively. I found it quite flattering at first. The stranger danced very closely with me, focusing only on me. She made me feel wanted.

But after a while I became uncomfortable. She took it for granted that I would return her advances. She waited for me in front of the toilet. She gave me no opportunity to move without her. She put her arms around me and kissed me on the dance floor.

I didn't want to be seen like this by my family. It was impossible to talk to my friends, my aunt was at the other end of the pub. I told the stranger that I wanted to talk to my family, but she wouldn't let go of me. I spoke to friends, but she pushed her way in.

I could have said "No!" at any time, walked away and enjoyed my evening, sure. But I have internalized the lessons of my youth: my feelings are not important and I have to make my body available, regardless of my own wishes.

I only plucked up the courage to tear myself away when the stranger bit my tongue painfully, because: I didn't kiss her the way she wanted me to.

But even then, at the end of the night, my "No, I don't want that anymore" was met with a complete lack of understanding. She was offended that I was not responding to her wishes. She had never cared about my consensus or my needs.

I was now in a similar role to the man in the sketch: my feelings were put on the back burner in order to offer a woman what she wanted at that moment.

Neither the lady in the sketch nor the stranger at the pub inquired about the wishes of the men in question. None of them asked for consensus. None of them took what they were explicitly told seriously, because they, like all of us, have internalized these toxic patterns of thought and behaviour.

As a farewell, I got a contemptuous "wimp" shouted after me.

And why all this?

I am well aware that the people who suffer most from patriarchy are, of course, those who do not appear traditionally male to society. Women, intersex and trans people, all non-cis-hetero men, should by no means be ignored here. My perspective, however, is that of a cis-het man.

We men are taught that our feelings are not important. We have to be tough and endure instead of being vulnerable and talking openly about our needs. Our bodies are common property. We learn to accept assault and laugh it off.

• The woman in the negligee wants sex? Then go ahead! No matter what the man wants.

• The boy is ashamed to be looked at naked by three women? He shouldn't behave like that!

• A stranger decides you're her plaything this night? Fuck your wishes and your family!

If we don't conform to the norms, we are wimps. We are considered unmanly. We're not real guys.

We need to recognize the harmful influence of sexism on men.

While patriarchy generally privileges men, it also subjects us to restrictive gender roles that harm us.

Even those who are considered the most powerful in the patriarchal hierarchy suffer from it.

The supposed masters turn themselves into the oppressed.

Toxic masculinity harms us and everyone around us.

Sometimes I do wonder if men actually get sexually assaulted and abused at a similar rate that women do but a lot of them just don’t know that’s what’s happening to them

[mentalhomosexual]

‎‧₊˚✧[𝘚𝘬𝘻 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘷𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 ]✧˚₊‧

ᯓ★ Pairing: Straykids x Fem reader

ᯓ★Tags: cumming inside,Minho calls reader a slut, just smut with no plot, they're all horny idk ���🏽‍♀️

˖࣪ ⊹𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘯⊹ ࣪ ˖

────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────

Chan could always tell when you were ovulating...imo I feel he would be the kind of boyfriend that would like to keep track of your cycle so he could know when he needs to buy you snacks and spoil you completely rotten BUT when it comes to ovulation that's a different story. He loves to tease you and see how riled up you get, like coming behind you and kissing your neck, knowing how much you love it, he whispers into your ear, pressing his clothed bulge against you but the moment you start to press back and softly moan he pulls away, leaving you hornier than you already were. :'(

Don't worry though, he'll fuck you after. And he's rough. he knows that's how you like it when your ovulating, your face pushed into a pillow as he pulls your hips back to meet his.

"Fuckk..it feels good doesn't it baby?"

˖࣪ ⊹𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘰⊹ ࣪ ˖

────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────

He knows that your ovulating but he makes you wait for it, he pretends not to notice your lustfull gazes at him or your lingering touches, he can't help it he just loves to tease you, but he can only deny you so long before he wants you just as bed. He fucks you relentlessly. Face shoved into a pillow with your ass up, you love being fucked dumb by him, wheather you're ovulating or not. Harsh slaps to your ass as he tells you how much of a slut you are. True paradise. 🤌🏽

"Such a slut aren't you? want me to breed your pretty pussy, baby?~"

˖࣪ ⊹𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘣𝘪𝘯⊹ ࣪ ˖

────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────

He secretly loves it. You get so worked up just seeing his muscles. he makes sure to wear sleeveless shirts and tank tops around you just to see you fight back demons, he lets you do whatever you want because he knows how rapid you become during ovulation, he lays back with an arm behind his head as you ride him. He tells you how beautiful you are ontop of him and you swear you see stars...maybe one baby wouldn't hurt ? 🤩

"so pretty baby—fuck, you feel so good"

˖࣪ ⊹𝘏𝘺𝘶𝘯𝘫𝘪𝘯⊹ ࣪

─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────

Of course, Hyunjin would give you whatever you wanted during ovulation. He secretly likes it too, 🤫. He's hitting it from the back, your fucked out moans filling the room, your turn your head back and start mumbling words.

"What's the matter baby? Talk to me" he grins as he sees your face, your practically drooling on yourself.

"Mmm...take the condom off...wanna feel all of you~" you whine, He grins at your request, he does as he's told before immediately sliding back inside you, your eyes rolling back at his quickening pace, the tip of his cock kissing all your sweet spots. This was a surprise to Hyunjin because you're usually so on top of using protection and judging by the way you're rolling back to meet his thrust, moaning and whining like a baby and telling him to fuck you raw...oh you're definitely ovulating, it turns him on seeing you so desperate for his cum like this.

"Such a nasty girl, huh? Wanting me to fuck you raw"

He says lowly as he leans down and kisses your neck, You nod as you push back against him more.

"Oh my goddd...fuck I'm gonna cum, baby please~" You whine as you bury your face into the pillow.

"Please what?" He teases, leaning up against the shell of your ear, whispering into it knowing full well what you're asking for, He just likes to hear you say it.

˖࣪ ⊹𝘏𝘢𝘯⊹ ࣪ ˖

─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────

This sex addict doesn't even notice a change. You two fuck so often that when you randomly want to go a couple more rounds than usual he thinks nothing of it.

"pleasee~ want you to fuck me againnn" you whine as you claw at his back, you've both cum like 4 times already and he's becoming sensitive but like I said, He doesn't stop. Overstimulating himself in your pussy is like a dream to him, he could do it for the rest of his life and die happy.

"Mm, gonna milk me fucking dry aren't you, baby?~"

˖࣪ ⊹𝘍𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘹⊹ ࣪ ˖

─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────

He would be a obvious to it at first, as he cuddles with you he notices that you groan when his head shifts on your chest...he look at you with his cute little concerned face before speaking

"What's wrong? Am I hurting you?" He asks softly, you chuckle and Shake your head

"No you're fine, my breast are just a bit sensitive..I'm ovulating" you admit and it all strarts to make sense why you've been so clingy and sensitive lately. His cheeks flush a light pink.

"Oh, I'm sorry, love" he apologizes as he pulls you closer to him, he kinda feels bad for not noticing sooner. He apologizes by burying his face in between those beautiful thighs of yours, eating you out till you cry 💖

"You always taste so good angel, cum on my face one more time, yeah?"

˖࣪ ⊹𝘚𝘦𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘮𝘪𝘯⊹ ࣪ ˖

─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────

He knows something is up when you become extremely clingy. It's something you always tend to do when that time comes around. You sit straddled on his lap as you softly make out, he doesn't question nor deny you when you're like this, who is he to turn down mind-blowing sex? He listens to everything you babble to him as he fucks into you.

"You want me to cum inside of you? I wanna hear you beg for it first~" He chuckles menacingly at your pathetic high pitched pleas.

˖࣪ ⊹𝘑𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯⊹ ࣪ ˖

─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────

This nasty boy operates as if he can ovulate too. It doesn't matter what you're wearing or how you look, he's gonna get rock hard just looking at you. You're doing laundry, throwing the clothes in the washer and you feel him sneak up behind you, already feeling his bulge press on your lower back.

"I just wanna bend you over this machine and fuck you right now" he whispers into your ear, nibbling on the lobe, you feel him push into you more, you bite your lip as his hands come up to knead your breast, you sigh in pleasure before pushing your ass against him.

"Then why don't you do it then?~" you grin as you turn you head back to meet his gaze, you certainly don't have to tell him twice, he fucks you like there's no tomorrow, like he'll never see you again. It's enough to leave your legs wobbly for a couple days but it's worth it

"Can you feel me deep inside you, baby? Gonna let me cum inside of you?"

© property of mentalhomosexual, do not repost or copy this work. Always ask permission before taking inspiration

[petermorwood]

Once there was a bookshop.

Its name was "Dark They Were And Golden Eyed", the title of a Ray Bradbury short story.

I'd seen it advertised in the back of my "Conan The Barbarian" comics, black-and-white UK reprints of the US originals which came out on the same day - Thursday, I think - as a two-hour first period history lesson (9AM-11AM).

So I bought my weekly Conan on the way to school as a pleasant back-of-the-class distraction from such A-Level delights as "Metternich and the Congress of Vienna" or "Bismarck and the origins of the Franco-Prussian War" or "Causes and Consequences of the French Revolution".

I was getting into fantasy at that time because British publishers were bringing it out like there was no tomorrow - Robert E. Howard "Conan" stories from Sphere, Clark Ashton Smith "Zothique" stories from Panther, and the Michael Moorcock book-of-the-month club from Mayflower.

Dark They Were was a sort of holy grail, because London wasn’t exactly round the corner or even a mere long train ride away as Dublin might have been, and my parents weren't willing to let me make a trip like that all alone. (I also suspect Dad had checked a map and found that Dark They Were was in the heart of Soho, a place with Other Kinds Of Bookshop.)

*****

I finally went to London after getting A-levels good enough for Uni, despite my History result not being what it might have been (no idea how that happened). :-P

Dad was right about the Other Kinds Of Bookshop, a couple of which I duly investigated and found to be educational, although not in the way intended. Even though the places I ate and drank and the books and records I bought on that same trip are long forgotten, I can still remember it.

Despite having at least my usual allowance of critical-faculty-blunting late teen hormones, the shops outweighed it with their air of furtive sleaze, like the carpet in a seedy bar that sticks to your shoes - except this was an all-body experience. They certainly filled me with desire, but that desire was for a long, hot shower.

So much for the main attraction of late-'70s Soho...

*****

Far more attractive was my discovery, just a short walk round the corner from DTW, of 58 Dean Street Records, which specialised in soundtrack albums.

I'd been buying soundtrack LPs for years, so what with DTW and 58, I was well laden on my way home, and none of those purchases needed hidden from the parents, either... :->

Despite that, Forever People in Bristol was an even more important SF bookshop, at least to me. For one thing it was easier to reach, less than an hour away when visiting an old school friend who at that time lived in Cardiff.

For another thing, I'd become a keen fan of fantasy anthologies, which were like samplers or tasting menus for different writers - you could call them selection boxes,and Irish / UK readers will know what I mean by that.

FP was where I found imports like Offutt's "Swords Against Darkness" series and DAW's "Year's Best Fantasy" series. I'd already got the first two in Carter's "Flashing Swords" series as UK imprints...

...so the instant I saw the US-import Number 5 I nabbed it.

A bit later, back in Belfast, I found a novel by one of those writers in Queen’s University Bookshop.

It was set in the same world as the short story and though the cover was, er, a less than accurate summation of the contents, those contents made for a fascinating read.

I met that writer twice, at SF conventions in 1985.

Then at a couple more in 1986.

After that came Boskone in 1987...

And the rest is history.

(Pedantic writer note: this has two typos. There's no apostrophe on Authors' - unless it's short for Authors Have A Wedding and I doubt that - and there's an extra O where I don't need it, a first but far from last instance of having my name misspelled in print...)

Happy soon-to-be-38th Anniversary, loved!

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

First off let me start with. I am so happy that I found your blog. The writing you do is so amazing the details that you put in stories really make me feel like I’m there. You are such an amazing writer. ❤️❤️❤️ Can you please bring my thought to life. Sebastian sallow x reader. They have been friends for since 5th year. The reader has fallen in love with him over the years and it the last day of the 7th year the reader and Sebastian are laying in out by the black lake just talking about different things and reminiscing about different memories over the years then they are quiet just looking at each other in a peaceful state and Sebastian slowly start moving closer like a magnet is pulling him in. He kisses the reader and pulls away quickly and starts apologizing profusely but the reader just shuts him up by pulling him back in to the kiss

Memory Lane | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Thank you so, so much for your support and for such a lovely compliment, I'm just... AH I'm so flattered ;.;

This prompt really inspired me, and I really enjoyed expanding this out. Like this is just... ah, SO many feels! Like I felt so wistful and nostalgic writing this, but then it was so fluffy and sweet, and then there is of course, a happy ending just like you asked!

thank you for the wonderful idea and for trusting me with it!!!

Words: ~3,500

Tags: Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, Fluff, Fluff Again, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Romance, Coming of Age

The sun hung low over the Black Lake, casting everything in hues of gold, the water reflecting back a shimmering version of the sky. A warm breeze rolled across the grass, stirring the trees at the water’s edge, and carrying with it the promise of change.

Sebastian stretched out on the grass, hands tucked behind his head, staring up at the sky. He wasn’t sure how long the two of you had been out here. An hour? Maybe two? Time moved differently today—slipping between his fingers even as he tried to hold onto it.

He turned his head slightly to glance at you, to trace the way the late afternoon sunlight kissed your skin, turning you golden at the edges. You had pulled your legs up slightly, bare feet grazing the grass, one hand resting lightly against your stomach, the other mindlessly toying with blades of grass.

You were wearing that pretty blue sundress—the one you had worn a handful of times over the years, usually on Hogsmeade weekends when the weather was nice. It clung to you in the way it always had. But for once, Sebastian wasn’t thinking about how it framed the plush curves of your body, how the neckline dipped just enough to make him forget himself. No—right now, all he could think about was what it meant.

Your wand was nowhere in sight. No uniform, either. No more robes, no more house colors, no more tie knotted at your throat. Because there was no need for them anymore.

It was such a simple thing, and yet his stomach twisted.

It’s over.

This place, these moments—the quiet stretches between classes, the familiar scrape of chairs in the Great Hall, the Undercroft filled with whispered plans and spells flickering in the dark—it was all slipping away, vanishing like smoke curling from a snuffed-out flame.

And you—Merlin, you—would walk out of the castle tomorrow, just like he would, and he had no idea what happened after that.

“You’re quiet,” you murmured.

Sebastian exhaled a laugh through his nose, trying to shove the feeling down. “That’s twice today you’ve pointed that out.”

You hummed, amused but unconvinced. “It’s rare.”

He felt you shift, propping yourself up on your elbows. When he glanced over, your were studying him the way you always did—curious, observant, like you could see straight through him to the things he wasn’t saying.

Sebastian rolled onto his side. “Alright,” he said, forcing some levity into his voice. “What’s your best memory of the last three years?”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “That’s a hard question.”

“I’ll allow a top three, if you’re struggling.”

You smirked, shaking your head. “Generous of you.”

“I try.”

You glanced up at the sky, thinking, as your fingers tapped against your stomach, the warm breeze teasing strands of your hair across your face. “Alright… let's see…" you hummed thoughtfully, a smile pulling on your lips. "Well, I'll never forget that night at the Three Broomsticks last year."

Sebastian’s brows lifted, a slow smirk pulling at his lips. “Oh, that night?”

You hummed, amused. “You know exactly which one I mean.”

He did.

He could still see the dim candlelight, smell the rich scent of butterbeer mingling with firewhiskey, hear the warmth of your laughter cutting through the noisy hum of the crowded tavern.

It had started off as a Saturday spent in Hogsmeade, nothing particularly special about it at first. Just the usual browsing through shops and eating too much candy. That night, the two of you snuck off to the Three Broomsticks long after curfew, claiming your usual booth near the back where you could talk in peace.

But that night had spiraled into something else entirely.

Sebastian could still see the flush on your cheeks, hear the unrestrained laughter spilling from your lips after he, five drinks in, had stood on his chair and, with absolutely no shame, started belting out a horribly off-key rendition of Odo the Hero.

The entire tavern had turned to watch. Patrons had been egging him on, slamming their fists against the table in time with the beat. And you?

You had tried—really tried—to keep a straight face, but the moment Sebastian dramatically grabbed a butterbeer bottle as a makeshift microphone and turned to you, winking mid-chorus, you had completely lost it, howling with laughter, and for a brief, exhilarating moment, Sebastian had thought, this is it. This was the moment he wanted to live in forever. Just this. You, beside him, always.

Of course, the moment had ended rather abruptly when the bartender had finally had enough, marching over and dragging him off the chair by the collar of his robe.

Now, lying beside you in the grass, Sebastian stared at your profile, watching the way you smiled softly at the memory.

"Certainly one of my best vocal performances, wouldn't you say?" he mused.

You scoffed, shaking your head. “Sebastian, you forgot half the lyrics and improvised the rest.”

“I made it better.”

“You rhymed ‘hero’ with ‘butterbeer-o.’”

“Creative license.”

You laughed, and Sebastian swore he felt the sound of it in his ribs. Light and warm and real.

"One of mine," he said after a beat, "is when we when we snuck out to the Astronomy Tower in sixth year."

Your lips twitched, eyes still fixed on the sky. “You mean when we stole a telescope."

Sebastian huffed a laugh, propping himself up on his elbow. “Borrowed a telescope. With every intention of returning it.”

You turned to him, amusement dancing in your gaze despite your dry tone. “It’s still in the Undercroft.”

“Is it?” He feigned surprise, lips quirking. “How irresponsible of us.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I still can’t believe we didn’t get caught that night.”

Sebastian couldn't either.

He had always been good at slipping past prefects, at charming his way out of trouble when necessary. But that night had been different.

That night, you had pulled him by the hand through the castle, your laughter echoing in the empty corridors, and for once, he hadn’t been thinking about getting caught.

He had been thinking about you.

About the way your fingers had laced through his so easily, the way your smile had glowed under the moonlight when you finally reached the top of the tower.

He remembered the way you had sat cross-legged beside him, chin resting in your palm as you peered through the pilfered telescope, murmuring about constellations in that soft, content way you always did when it was just you and him.

But Sebastian had barely looked through the telescope that night. Couldn’t have cared less about the stars. Because, for him, the moment hadn’t been about what was in the sky. It had been about the way you had leaned against him, absentmindedly close. The way the night had felt endless, the two of you murmuring about everything and nothing, the warmth of your shoulder pressed into his. The way he had wanted to kiss you then—so badly, it had hurt.

And yet, he hadn’t.

Because he hadn’t been sure. Hadn’t been sure if what he wanted was something you wanted, too.

Now, looking at you, a year later, the last golden light of the evening painting you in soft warmth, he wondered if he had been an idiot.

No—he knew he had been an idiot.

"We probably should bring it back," you continued, letting out a sigh. "You know, before we leave and nobody even knows the Undercroft exists."

"Or," he said with a smirk, "we could leave it there. A relic for some unsuspecting student to stumble upon in a hundred years. Let them wonder why a perfectly good telescope was abandoned in a hidden room beneath the castle."

You snorted. "They'll probably assume it's cursed."

Sebastian smirked. "Even better."

That earned him a soft laugh, and he closed his eyes, letting the sound of it settle into his chest.

Then, after a moment—

"Alright," he murmured, voice quieter now. "Your next memory?"

You hesitated for a moment before answering, your voice dipping into something softer, something thoughtful.

"The day we met," you said finally. "Fifth year. My first Defense Against the Dark Arts class."

Sebastian huffed a quiet laugh; he’d never forget that day.

He had noticed you the second you stepped into the classroom—new, unfamiliar, carrying yourself with a quiet confidence that masked the careful way you took in the room. Assessing. Measuring. Cautious, but not uncertain. And gorgeous.

Everyone had been curious about you—the new student arriving in the middle of their education, something that almost never happened at Hogwarts. The murmurs had started before Hecat even entered the room, speculation thick in the air.

Sebastian had been curious, too. Not that he would have admitted it.

And then, you were paired off for a duel. With him.

Sebastian had smirked, rolling his shoulders as he stepped onto the platform, self-assured as ever. He had never lost a duel before.

And then—within seconds—everything changed.

Because you weren’t just skilled.

You were dangerous.

You met every spell he cast with effortless precision, deflecting with ease, dodging before he had even finished casting. And when you struck back, it was fast—calculated, efficient. He barely had time to block before you broke through his defenses.

And then, with one perfectly timed sidestep and a flick of your wand, his own was ripped from his grip.

It clattered to the floor. Silence filled the room. Sebastian had just stared. Stunned. Disarmed.

Beaten.

And after that? He had spent years trying to reclaim that loss.

It had become a ritual—Sebastian versus you, in class, at Crossed Wands, in secret training sessions that stretched long into the night.

And yet, after all that time, after dueling exams and real combat experience, he had never managed to best you.

Not once. Not even now, when he was the one becoming an Auror.

"You know," Sebastian muttered playfully, "I will get you back for that first duel."

You turned your head toward him, amusement flickering in your gaze. "Oh? Still holding onto that loss, are we?"

Sebastian smirked, rolling onto his back and closing his eyes. "I’ve just been biding my time. Waiting for the perfect moment to take my revenge."

You let out a soft hum, lips twitching. "So what I’m hearing is that you’ve spent the last three years failing to beat me and now you need a dramatically timed rematch to soothe your ego?"

Sebastian scoffed, squinting up at you. "It’s not ego—it’s justice. Balance. The universe can’t just allow you to get away with this forever."

You grinned, shifting so you were mirroring his position, laying beside him. "And tell me, oh-Auror-to-be, when exactly do you plan to reclaim your honor?"

Sebastian opened his mouth, ready to quip back, but something about the way you were looking at him made the words catch in his throat.

The waning golden light clung to you, soft and warm, making the edges of you glow. Your expression still held traces of amusement, but beneath it, there was something quieter, something weightier—like you were trying to memorize the moment, like you knew it was slipping away too fast. Just like he knew it was slipping away too fast.

Sebastian felt it like a stone in his chest, heavy and sinking.

His smirk faltered.

"Tomorrow," he said. "We can have our rematch then."

And he needed you to agree. Because tomorrow, you wouldn’t be here. Tomorrow, you would walk out of these castle gates, out into the world, and after that—after that, he had no idea what would happen.

Sure, you’d promised each other a million times that nothing would change. That you’d write, that you’d visit, that you’d always make time.

But promises were easy. Promises were words spoken in stolen moments when the future still felt distant, when the weight of goodbye hadn’t yet settled into your bones.

And Sebastian knew—he knew—that the world had a way of pulling people apart, no matter how much they swore it wouldn’t.

That was what he was afraid of.

Because after tomorrow, there was no routine. No house tables in the Great Hall. No sitting beside you in class, no sneaking into the Undercroft, no excuse to find you. After tomorrow, the only thing tethering you to each other would be choice.

Would you choose him? Would you make time for him? Or would the days slip by, growing longer and longer between the times he saw you, until one day you were nothing more than a distant memory, a name on a letter, a familiar voice fading into something far away?

You turned your head toward him, your gaze steady, unreadable at first. And then—slowly, softly—you smiled.

"Alright," you murmured. "Tomorrow."

Sebastian’s chest tightened.

His throat felt thick, too tight, like if he tried to say anything, the words would catch and betray everything he wasn’t ready to admit. So instead, he forced himself to look away, dragging his gaze from the warmth of your expression and back to the sky above—the same sky that had once been brilliantly blue was now dimming into twilight.

Time was slipping.

The sun had set. The stars were taking its place. And tomorrow was one step closer.

Sebastian had spent years running toward the future—chasing after it, desperate to shape it into something he could control. Always planning, always scheming, always moving forward.

But now, he wanted to stop. He wanted to hold onto tonight, stretch it out indefinitely, keep you here beside him just a little longer.

Sebastian swallowed against the ache in his throat. "Alright," he said, voice quieter now. "Your last one. Your best memory."

You hesitated, just for a second, and then—

"This."

Sebastian turned his head sharply, meeting your gaze.

Your face was close, too close, your eyes warm but certain, no hesitation in them. You said it as if it were obvious, as if there were no other answer you could have possibly given even though this wasn’t nostalgia. This wasn’t a distant memory you could reminisce about years from now.

This was now.

Sebastian blinked.

"What... but— but that's not how this works."

"Why not?"

"Because—" He gestured vaguely between the two of you, grasping for words, for something solid to hold onto. "You’re supposed to pick something that already happened, not—" He broke off, exhaling sharply, because you were still looking at him like that.

Like you were waiting for him to understand. Like he was being dense.

"Sebastian," you murmured, and your voice was softer now, patient, like you were leading him toward something he should have seen all along. "I could have picked any number of things. Our duels. Quidditch matches. Sneaking through the castle after curfew. Or even that time you nearly got us eaten by a very territorial hippogriff—"

"That was not my fault—"

"But the thing is," you cut in, smiling, "those memories don’t stand out just because they were exciting, or dangerous, or something we weren’t supposed to be doing." Your smile softened. "They stand out because of you."

Sebastian blinked, caught off guard.

"It doesn’t matter if it was something thrilling, or reckless, or quiet—like right now," you continued. "It’s not about what we were doing. It’s about who I was with."

His throat went dry.

You held his gaze, unwavering. "Because as long as it’s with you, it doesn’t matter what we’re doing. It’s always going to be my favorite memory."

Sebastian felt something shift inside him, like the air had been knocked from his lungs. Because he knew, knew, you weren’t just talking about the past.

You were talking about tomorrow. And every day after. You were telling him—without a single doubt in your voice—that you weren’t going anywhere. That you had already chosen him.

The silence stretched, and he stared. Openly. Unapologetically. In a way he never had before—never let himself before.

Because suddenly, all of it—all the stress, all the gnawing uncertainty, all the weight of tomorrow that had been pressing down on his chest for weeks—just... lifted.

Like the world had let him breathe again. Like the twilight wasn’t a countdown anymore, wasn’t a time bomb ticking away the last moments of something he couldn’t bear to lose.

It was something else now.

It was the eve of something new. Something just beginning. With you.

And Merlin, wasn’t that all he had ever wanted?

And the more he thought about it, the more he realized—

He had been leaning in.

Slowly, unconsciously, like something inevitable had already set itself in motion.

Merlin, you were closer now, and Sebastian's fingers twitched against the grass. He should say something. Should tell you everything he’s always felt.

But words felt useless, pointless when your lips were so close to his, when he could feel your breaths mingling with his own, and before he could second-guess himself, before he could hesitate—

He closed the distance.

His lips met yours.

And everything else ceased to exist.

Because God, the way you felt—

Soft and warm, lips pliant beneath his, tasting faintly of honeyed cream, still sweet from the slice of cake you’d shared earlier in the Great Hall.

And fuck, he wanted more.

More of this, more of you—more of the way your lips parted ever so slightly beneath his, more of the way his heart was slamming against his ribs like it had been waiting for this moment all along.

But then—

What the hell was he doing?

His eyes snapped open. His breath caught in his throat. His fingers twitched against your cheek, and then, before he could think, before he could stop himself—

He jerked back.

His breath came fast, chest rising and falling as though he had just run across the entire castle. His hands were still hovering midair, like they had just now realized they no longer had anything to hold onto.

His mind was blank. Then racing. Then blank again.

"Shit."

His stomach dropped, panic clawing up his throat.

"I—Merlin, I’m sorry," he blurted out, voice higher, breathless. "I shouldn’t have—bloody hell, I didn’t mean to—"

You blinked at him, still dazed, lips parted, breath unsteady.

And Sebastian was spiraling.

Shit. Shit.

What had he just done?

He had kissed you.

You.

"That was—" He exhaled sharply, raking both hands down his face. "That was out of order—I wasn’t thinking, I—"

"Sebastian."

"I just—I don’t know what I was—" He let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head. "I mean, I do know, but I wasn’t thinking, and now—now it’s—"

"Sebastian."

You were sitting up now, eyes locked onto him, but he was still spiraling, still freaking out because—

"I—bloody hell, I’m sorry, I—"

You grabbed the front of his shirt and yanked him back in.

Sebastian barely had time to register what was happening before your lips crashed into his, firm, unwavering, silencing every frantic thought in his head in an instant.

He made a startled noise in the back of his throat, but then—then he melted.

Because there was no hesitation now. No doubt.

You wanted this. You wanted him.

And fuck, did he want you too.

His hands shot to your waist, gripping the fabric of your dress, pulling you closer, desperate to make up for the lost seconds he had spent panicking.

The kiss was deeper this time, hungrier, something that tasted like relief. Like finally.

Your hands fisted in the front of his shirt, anchoring yourself against him, and Merlin, if that wasn’t the hottest thing he had ever felt in his life. The need, the want in it—like you couldn’t bear the thought of letting go either.

And when you finally pulled back for air, just enough for your forehead to rest against his, your lips still brushing his, you smiled.

"I lied," you whispered, voice warm, steady. "I think this might be the best memory."

Sebastian let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh, his grip on you tightening.

"You," he started, voice hoarse, eyes flickering down to your lips, "are going to be the death of me."

"I don’t mind being your final act," you murmured, teasing but with something real beneath it.

And that—fuck, that—

Sebastian didn’t stand a chance.

[gul4bjamoons]

✩ scoops of doubt; 

         aurélien tchouaméni ────── 

     grabbing ice cream after a meal is a cherished tradition for the two of you, but the sweetness fades when a single comment sends your emotions over the edge.

⭑  wordcount : four thousand four hundred sixty-seven.

⭑  notes : not sure if you guys will like this fic as it is more sensitive, but i wanted to write about a topic that everyone struggles with to some extent: body image. everyone’s body is beautiful and comes in different sizes; as for this story i picked a reader on the chubbier end and will be diving into some insecurities that they could face. i tried my best to display this topic in an appropriate manner and and as always, my dms are open if you ever need someone to talk to, though i'm not a professional. <3

warning : body image struggles

˙⋆✮ masterlist.

Going out with Aurélien was always special, and tonight was no exception. You both enjoyed taking turns picking places for your date nights, and no matter where you dined, you always ended up at your guy’s favorite ice cream shop afterward. This summer evening, it was his pick—a hidden gem that his teammate, Federico Valverde, had strongly recommended. After just a few bites, it was obvious that the footballer had made the perfect choice.

The night was filled with the usual tender smiles and exchange of dishes. Each of you stealing bites from one another and debating whose choice was the superior one. It was silly, but it made the meal feel more like an adventure in itself.

“Okay, so I definitely picked the best dish this time,” Aurélien grinned, as he leaned over to offer you another bite of his meal. “I knew you’d love it.”

You raised an eyebrow, teasing him. “Oh really? Are we going to keep a tally of who picks the better dish? Because, overall, I’m pretty sure I’m winning right now.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Oh, no. You definitely think you are, don’t you? But you can’t deny that this is a strong contender.”

You pouted, taking the bite he offered. "Fine, you win this round. But next time, I’ll make sure to pick something even better."

He leaned back, giving you a playful, mock-dramatic look. “This is war, then. Prepare for the next round.”

You both laughed, enjoying the easy rhythm of the conversation. The little games you played over shared bites of food made the whole experience feel so much more fun.

“So,” Aurélien started, swirling his wine in his glass. “If I win this little food battle we’ve got going, what do I get as a prize?”

You tilted your head, pretending to think it over. “Hmm, well, what kind of prize do you think you deserve?”

He leaned in with a teasing smile. “A kiss, obviously.”

“A kiss, huh? ”Your lips curling into a playful smile as you raised an eyebrow. “Well, I guess I could be persuaded,” you teased, a flirty spark in your eyes.

Aurélien leaned in close, a teasing smirk on his face. “Come on,” he whispered.

You let out an exaggerated sigh, playing along, and your thumb grazed his cheek as you leaned in like you were going to kiss him. But, just before your lips met his, you quickly swiped your thumb across the side of his mouth, wiping off the sauce he’d missed earlier. His eyes widened, and he groaned in disbelief, clearly disappointed. 

“Oh, come on!” he muttered, though he couldn’t help the small smile that crept back on his face. 

A mischievous laugh escaped your lips as you watched him, his mock frustration only making the moment more delightful. The soft glow of the candlelight danced across his face, highlighting the amused sparkle in his eyes. It was as if you guys were in your own bubble of happiness.

You savored the moment, the rich flavors of the meal dancing on your tongue as you made your way through the courses. Aurélien’s rants about training filled the space between you, his voice blending with the clink of silverware against plates. It felt almost dreamlike—the way the world outside faded away as you both sank deeper into the rhythm of each other’s company. You both finished your plates slowly, savoring the last few mouthfuls, reluctant to leave the comfort of the cozy Italian place. 

“I’m gonna run to the bathroom real quick before we head out.” Your boyfriend stated as he squeezed your hand to signal his departure.

You nodded, watching as Aurélien stood and melted into the crowd, his tall frame effortlessly disappearing toward the restrooms. Left to your own thoughts for a moment, you took a slow sip of your drink, letting your eyes drift around the warm ambience. As you glanced over the dessert menu, you pondered your options. You knew you’d both end up at the ice cream shop later—it had become a tradition—but maybe you could share something here first. It seemed like the perfect compromise. After all, the idea of a sweet Italian pastry was tempting. A crisp cannoli? Or a velvety tiramisu? You couldn’t decide, so you waved down the waiter, hoping for a little guidance.

“Excuse me, could you help me choose between the cannoli and the tiramisu?” you asked, flashing a smile. “Which one do you recommend?”

“Oh, another order?” The waiter raised an eyebrow. “Well, the tiramisu is world-class, but after all that, I doubt you’d even fit in your dress anymore.” He chuckled as he answered you.

The words hit you instantly, meant to be playful but coming across with an edge that caught you off guard. You froze, a flush creeping up your neck as the comment sank in. For a moment, you weren’t sure how to respond. 

A wave of self-consciousness washed over you, and instead of anger, you felt a rush of awkwardness. Was that really necessary? You opened your mouth to say something, but the words never came.

Finally, you let out a small, nervous laugh, trying to brush off the discomfort. "Uh, yeah... can I just get the check, actually?" you said, offering a tight smile as you reached for your drink, hoping the awkwardness would pass. 

The waiter nodded, clearly unaware of the effect his words had, and turned to go. You sat back in your chair, fiddling with the napkin in your lap. You shook your head slightly, trying to push the feeling aside. You felt silly for letting the situation impact you like this. Nothing had seemed overtly wrong. Just… a bit strange. But then again, it could have just been in your head.

Although the waiter left, it felt like every eye in the room was suddenly fixed on you, each gaze heavy with judgment. Of course, you knew this wasn’t true—logically, you understood no one was staring at you—but that didn’t stop the feeling from washing over you like a cold wave. Your body suddenly uncomfortable in the chair, too much for the space around you. The fabric of your outfit felt suffocating now—clinging to you in ways that highlighted every inch. You wished you could just disappear.

Your stomach twisted, the pressure growing unbearable, the feeling of nausea even crept in. Every breath felt like too much effort, too loud, as if just being alive was drawing in too much attention. Your arms crossed over your torso instinctively, hoping you could somehow hide yourself from the world. But nothing helped, the ache was deeper than anything you could physically conceal. Your thighs pressed against the seat, and you could swear they expanded under the weight of your thoughts, a cruel trick of perception that only fed the panic rising inside you.

The heat clung to you, pressing down on your chest, its weight making each breath feel shallow and strained. It was like being trapped inside the very furnace that had just baked your pizza, the warmth heavy and stifling, consuming everything in its path.

You managed to steady yourself before Aurélien returned, but the floor beneath you betrayed every shift. Each small movement sent a sharp creak reverberating through the silence, an intrusive sound that seemed to echo your every restless gesture.

As Aurélien came back, the waiter dropped the check off. Your boyfriend’s focus immediately shifting to it, his hand instinctively reaching for his wallet. He sat down across from you, as he placed down his card. 

You tried to hide the faint tremor in your hands and the nervous habit of tugging at the hem of your dress, hoping he wouldn’t notice. It was a silly plea when you considered the fact that Aurélien had been trained on the pitch to detect even the smallest shifts in movement—to read the slightest twitch of a muscle or the faintest change in posture. It was second nature to him, a skill honed over years of relentless focus.

So, of course, he noticed.

“You okay, mon amour?” he asked gently, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. He wasn’t demanding, wasn’t pushing, just offering you a space to speak.

You swallowed, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Mhm, just tired,” you muttered. 

Aurélien didn’t press further, but the eerie quiet between you lingered once he stood up from the table as he thanked the waiter. He reached for your hand as you both moved toward the door, his grip warm and steady, though his fingers tightened slightly, as if sensing something was still off. You followed him outside, the streetlights cast long shadows across the pavement.

As you approached the car, Aurélien opened the passenger door for you, his usual confident smile back in place, though there was something in his gaze that seemed to weigh you down even more. You sat down staring out the window, the city passing by like a blur as he drove, you hoped for a reprieve from the heavy feeling in your chest.

With dinner finished, the next step in your routine should have been a trip to the charming little ice cream shop nearby, a tradition that had started on your first date. It was a small, unassuming parlor where, with complete confidence, he had declared he could figure out your favorite flavor just by looking at you. Of course, he was wrong—but his confidence had made you laugh so hard your stomach ached, and in the end, you picked that flavor as your new favorite.

Yet tonight, the thought of ice cream twisted your stomach in a different way.

“Aurélien… I’m not really feeling it tonight,” you said in a hushed voice, trying to sound as neutral as possible. 

Aurélien shot you a glance, brow furrowing. “Not feeling it?” he echoed, as if the words themselves were foreign.

You nodded. “Yeah, I don’t think I’ll get any ice cream”

His face fell slightly, a small frown tugging at his lips, but after a moment, he nodded. "Okay."

Instead of heading toward the ice cream shop, he smoothly made a U-turn at the next light.

“Wait, did you not want anything either?” you asked, blinking at him.

He glanced over at you with a half-smile. “It’s okay. Ice cream doesn’t taste nearly as good unless I’m sharing it with you.” He paused for effect, his grin widening. “I mean, have you ever tried chocolate chip cookie dough all alone? It’s just... sad."

You let out a soft chuckle, your shoulders relaxing a bit. "You’re ridiculous."

He just shrugged, eyes still on the road. "Hey, I swear the flavor will grow on you one day."

You looked back out the window, resting your head against the cool glass, feeling the weight of your earlier thoughts lighten just a little. 

Then, his hand reached for yours, his grip warm and steady. His thumb traced gentle circles on the back of your hand, a quiet, soothing motion—one that seemed to soothe something deep inside you, though he was unaware of what.

When he pulled into the driveway, he turned to you, opening his mouth as if to say something. But you were already unbuckling your seatbelt, reaching for the door handle before he could voice his concern.

“I’m gonna go change,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper. You didn’t wait for a response, slipping out of the car and into the house, where the warmth should have been comforting but only felt suffocating.

Aurélien lingered in the entryway, watching you disappear up the stairs, his frown deepening. This wasn’t exhaustion. This wasn’t just a passing mood. This was something deeper, something festering just beneath the surface, something eating at you from the inside out. And he knew. He always knew. 

But he also understood you wouldn’t talk until you were ready. With a quiet sigh, he leaned against the doorframe, dragging a hand down his face before slowly removing his shoes, giving you the space he knew you thought you needed.

Upstairs, you hurried to the bedroom, the door swinging shut behind you—or so you thought. You barely noticed it remained slightly ajar, too preoccupied, too desperate to strip yourself free from the weight clinging to you.

Your dress pooled at your feet, as if even the fabric was eager to rid itself of you. Shedding you like an old skin—but unfortunately, this was no simple transformation. You didn’t even spare it a second glance before tossing it onto the chair in the corner. Your heart hammered in your chest, beating so fast you could feel it in your throat.

Your hands reaching for one of Aurélien’s shirts—the one that always offered solace in ways nothing else could, especially when he was away, swallowed by the distance of football and travel. But just as you were about to pull it fully down on yourself, your gaze flickered to the mirror.

And everything stopped.

The reflection didn’t greet you with kindness. It didn’t soften its edges, didn’t smooth out the harsh truths you spent so long ignoring. 

It stared back, merciless, cruel in its honesty, dragging your eyes down the lines of your body like an artist outlining every flaw with deliberate strokes. As if it’s not just your body that feels burdened, but your mind too.

Your stomach—softer than you wanted, pushing outward when you wished it would vanish instead. The skin stretching slightly, smooth with a few faint lines marking where it met your waistband.

Your chest—felt fuller than before, both physically and emotionally heavy. The discomfort pulling at your spine, making every movement feel strained. 

But worst of all? Your thighs.

You let your shirt slip, falling softly over your figure as your hands instinctively found their way to your thighs. Your fingers pressed into the warm flesh, grasping, as if to test reality. You felt the resistance of how they refused to shrink, to yield, no matter how desperately you willed them to. Each inch of flesh that you grip only deepens the chasm between who you are and who you wish to be. There’s a sense of helplessness in the way your fingers meet the soft curve of your thighs, like you’re at war with your own skin. 

You want to recoil, to pull your hands away, but they stay, as if your own touch has become a punishment. You close your eyes for a moment, trying to block out the reflection in the mirror, but even with your lids shut tight, it’s as though the image is burned onto the back of your eyelids. The feeling doesn’t go away, not even in the dark. It lingers, clinging to your skin like an unwelcome shadow that refuses to leave.

You wanted to sever off the parts that wouldn’t obey. 

Your breath hitched, nausea pooling in your stomach. The mirror made a mockery of you, highlighting every insecurity, every whispered doubt, every cruel thought that lurked beneath the surface. You crossed your arms over yourself, dread curling around your ribs like barbed wire. A sickening thought sank its claws into you:

Why would he want you when you look this way?

The thought struck without warning, a tightening coil cutting off the oxygen to your lungs.

Would he still trace his fingers over your skin with that same reverence? Still hold you, still love you, when you felt like nothing but a burden too heavy to carry? If you couldn't even love yourself, then how could anyone else?

The faint sound of movement drew your attention, and a chill swept through you. You spun, and there he was—Aurélien Tchouaméni, standing in the doorway, his eyes shadowed with something you couldn't quite place. His heart silently shattering as he watched the person he loved more than anything crumble beneath the unbearable weight of their own reflection.

He had seen everything.

Your arms yanking down the shirt, a pathetic attempt to shield yourself from his gaze, but it was too late. His expression was no longer just concern—it was heartbreak. For you. For whatever cruel battle you were fighting inside your own head.

“Mon amour,” his voice was quiet, hesitant, as if afraid to startle you.

You wanted to say something, anything, but your throat had closed up. Embarrassment burned through you, hot and suffocating. You felt exposed, vulnerable in the worst way, like every insecurity you tried to hide had been laid bare for him to see.

Tears welled in your eyes, but you blinked them away. "I—I’m fine…really I—"

“Amour…” he interrupted gently, stepping inside the room, closing the distance between you both. “Please, don’t try to hide from me.”

You shook your head, averting your gaze. “I can’t—” Your voice cracked, and you swallowed, shaking your head harder. “Please... just give me a minute. I don’t want you to look at me when I’m like this.”

Aurélien’s expression faltered, his brows furrowing as the hurt on his face became undeniable. He reached out, his voice barely above a whisper. “Like what?” he asked, stepping closer, his heart in his eyes. 

“Like this— I’m a mess,” you whispered, gesturing at yourself like your own body was something disgusting, something shameful. “Like—like I take up too much space. Like I’m too much. I—I don’t feel like—"

The footballer sighed, stepping back, running a hand over his head. His jaw clenched, and his whole body tensed.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath. His hands curling into fists at his sides. “Who made you feel like this?” His voice was quiet, his protectiveness beaming through.

“Who?” he asked again, not taking your silence as a response.

You could hear the barely veiled frustration underneath, but not at you—never at you. It was anger at whoever had planted this seed of doubt in your mind, at whatever had made you believe that you were anything less than extraordinary.

You swallowed, shaking your head. “Well the waiter,” you finally admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “He made some stupid comment, but… it’s not just that.”

“Tell me you’re joking,” he said, his posture stiffening.

You let out a shaky breath, shaking your head. “I wish I was.”

His fingers curled into fists at his sides, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “If I’d heard it—” he exhaled sharply, reigning in his anger. “I would’ve said something.”

“I know,” you sighed. “But it’s not just about what he said. It’s how I’ve been feeling for a while actually.”

Aurélien exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face before stepping closer, his hands hesitating before cupping your face. His thumbs caught the next tear before it could fall. "Amour… I love you so much," he whispered, his voice trembling. "Please, just talk to me about it."

The weight of his words unraveled something in you, and before you could stop it, a sob broke free from your throat. Your knees buckled slightly, but Aurélien caught you as you stumbled, his arms scooping you up, strong but delicate. His warmth enveloped you entirely, and for the first time all night, you felt at ease as you laid in bed.

“I hate that you feel like this,” he murmured against your temple, pressing a lingering kiss there. “I hate that someone made you doubt how incredible you are.”

You let out a choked laugh, but it held no humor. “It’s not someone, it’s me,” you admitted, voice trembling. “It’s how I’ve felt for a bit.”

His hold on you tightened, his jaw tensing against your hair. He was quiet for a long moment, and when he finally spoke, his voice was raw. “Still, I wish I could just make it all go away. You shouldn't have to carry this alone. I’ll carry it with you.”

More tears slipped down your cheeks as he peppered your face with kisses. His lips brushed over your skin in the softest, most reverent way. But then his hands found your thighs, gripping them firmly, kneading them as if committing them to memory. His fingers traced over the softness of your stomach, his grip both possessive and tender.

“Mon amour,” he whispered, voice husky, thick with emotion. “Do you know how perfectly you fit against me?” 

Like you were made to be there, pressed into him like the missing piece of a puzzle.

A shiver ran down your spine at the sheer conviction in his voice, the way his hands never wavered as they caressed you, he was worshiping every inch. He pressed a hot, lingering kiss to your jaw, then down your neck, his breath fanning over your skin.

“I love being suffocated by your thighs,” he murmured, nipping playfully at your skin, earning a startled laugh from you despite the tears still clinging to your lashes.

You swatted at his arm, pushing at his chest. “Aurélien!”

He grinned against your skin, placing one last kiss to your temple. “What? I’m just telling the truth.”

You sniffled, hands clutching at his shirt, the fabric bunching between your fingers. “I just don’t feel—”

“Shhh,” he interrupted gently, cradling your face again so you had no choice but to look at him. His eyes were burning with something fierce, something unshakable. “You are enough, mon amour. You always have been. And if you can’t see it right now, that’s okay—I’ll remind you every single day.”

A broken sob escaped your lips, but this time, it wasn’t from sadness alone. 

It was from the overwhelming love, the sheer depth of what this man was offering you. A love so pure, so unwavering, that for the first time, the voice in your head telling you that you “weren’t enough” quieted.

Aurélien exhaled, resting his forehead against yours. “I don’t care if we have to stay up all night, but I’m not letting you go until you understand how much I love you.”

You let out a wet laugh, sniffling. “That might take a while.”

His lips quirked up, but his eyes were still serious. “Then I hope you’re comfortable, because I’ve got all the time in the world for you.”

Another moment of silence passed, your ears pressed to his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat. He took a deep breath, then smiled—this time lighter, with something familiar in it.

"You know what we need?" he asked, his voice soft but certain.

You blinked up at him, still sniffling. “What?”

“Ice cream.”

You let out a scoff, shaking your head. “I just said I didn’t want any.”

“And I just decided that’s unacceptable,” he said, guiding you toward the door. “Come on, we’re going.”

You gave him a half-hearted glare, but he simply grinned ear to ear. “I’m not taking no for an answer.”

A small smile broke through your haze of sadness. “Fine. But no more strange flavors!”

-

The drive to the ice cream shop was quiet, filled only by the soft hum of the music playing in the background. Aurelien’s hand never left yours, his touch a steady reassurance, grounding you in the present. Every now and then, he’d steal a glance at you, a soft smile tugging at his lips, as if he were silently reminding you that you weren’t alone.

When you stepped into the familiar little shop, the soft chime of the bell above the door echoed in the stillness, and for a moment, the weight pressing down on your chest lifted just a little. The warm scent of freshly made waffle cones filled the air, wrapping around you like a gentle embrace.

Aurélien made a show of examining the menu, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “I think… I’m going to pick for you, just like our first date.”

You arched a brow, crossing your arms as you challenged him. “Oh? And what makes you think you’ll get it right this time?”

He smirked, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Because I know you, mon amour.”

A few minutes later, Aurélien handed you a cone with a knowing grin. The flavor he picked wasn’t just good—it was perfect. Honey Vanilla Bean.

“You know, I really wanted to go with blueberry,” he admitted with a teasing smirk. “But I figured… you deserve something like you. Sweet, comforting, a little bit of warmth when everything feels cold.” He paused, feigning exasperation. “Also, I really didn’t want to get yelled at over an ice cream scoop.”

You shook your head in disbelief, holding back a grin. “Alright, fine. You win.”

His grin was smug as he bumped his shoulder against yours. “So, can I get my prize now?”

With a playful glint in your eye, you stood on your tiptoes and pulled him in, pecking his lips. The moment was brief but full, the sweetness melting between you as his fingers brushed your waist, holding you steady.

Hand in hand, you wandered outside and settled onto the curb, the cool night air wrapping around you like a quiet embrace. Aurélien pulled you closer, his warmth a contrast to the gentle chill. 

Aurélien nudged you with his elbow, holding out his own cone. "Here, try some of my chocolate chip cookie dough. I even got star-shaped sprinkles on it."

Rolling your eyes as you leaned in, ready to taste it, but just as your lips parted, the ice cream dripped on to your face. Your eyes widened in shock as he burst into laughter.

Before it could roll off your body, Aurélien leaned in without hesitation, licking the ice cream off your face before pressing a brief, puckish kiss to your lips.

“There, crisis averted.” He announced smugly, pulling back with a satisfied smirk.

You shoved him away with a mix of laughter and disbelief. "Eww Aurélien, what is wrong with you?!"

He grinned, completely unfazed. "Oh, plenty, but you still love me."

You rolled your eyes, but as you looked at him—at the man who had spent the last hour trying to hold you together when you felt like you were falling apart—you felt your heart flutter.

“I do,” you whispered, leaning into his side.

His arm tightened around you, holding you securely in his arms as his cheek rested against your hair. “Good. Because I love you more. Every single part of you.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you actually believed it.

© gul4bjamoons

[waynes-multiverse]

They are crazy addicting lol! And I've seen so many start doing them like this after you, and it's cool to read everyone's different takes (and how much we all agree for some 😂). Comparing Jackles characters also reminds me of college and writing papers lmao

Oooh this is so true for Dean. He's only had like, what, two real relationships in his life? With Lisa, I feel like we got a sense that they were loving partners, but the show didn't dive all that deep into what their relationship actually looked like romantically. (One of my biggest gripes honestly. Outing myself here: I shipped Dean x Lisa hard back in the day and was heartbroken when they broke her and Dean up and wrote her and Ben out of the show the way they did. 😭)

Right lol?? I feel like he wouldn't know that all these sweet little things he does just because he's generally a kind, caring, good human are actually swoon-worthy 😍

And I loved Lisa and Dean, too! I just felt her entry and exit were both a bit surprising lol. I do think they had a loving relationship, but Dean mentioned he wasn't really there mentally because of Sam. But I hated how they wrote her out and portrayed it all. Makes me cringe during rewatches when I see them interact because I know how it'll all end 😂🙈

What a lovely turn in the ending though!! He decked out the Dean Cave, I love it!! 😍 That's a big gesture he could 100% pull off. 💕

One of the things all my fics have in common is that Dean always decks out the Cave for date night. But I think that's just totally something he'd do 🥰 (That, and taking you for a drive in the Impala, either to an outdoor movie theater or some viewpoint where teens make out lmao)

LOL "old school" is an understatement with this guy for sure, but it very much tracks that he'd go all out for V-Day. He's got money to burn, and I feel like he'd enjoy trying to impress his girl with all the fanfare of a beautiful night out. (I explored that idea in Lost on You for sure.)

Yup, exactly! It's like a staged event for him, he goes all out and uses every opportunity to brag lol (And I so can imagine SB in the 80s was 100% that guy. Just look at that fucking cocky smirk 😂)

💀💀 omfg you nailed him there. 💯 😂

I mean, the king can't eat with the peasants 😂😂 (Ben is just generally so fun to write because I usually go with the most extreme thing I can think of and it'll fit 🤣)

omfggg Ben. So accurate, and somehow it's still sexy 😅 (there might be something wrong with me. It's fine.)

Lmao girl, there's something wrong with all of us. I can't even spell the word feminism when I'm writing or reading him 😂💚

I also like the contrast between Dean's card and SB's card at the end -- Ben's not asking questions. He's more straightforward and demanding that you're his. 👌🏽🫠

Aww, glad you agree! I could definitely see Dean be more his insecure self in that regard, while Ben marks his territory with his dick 😂🤷‍♀️

It's the "Are you sure you want to date me?" vs. "How could you not date me?!" lmao

LMAO I loved this entire section for so many reasons -- Beau's southern charm and chivalry, the good dose of realism coming from the reader, plus that one at the end making me cackle. 🤣

For some reason, I figured Beau would totally overdo it, and my God, the pressure the poor reader is under 😂😂

But she did find a way that went beyond blow jobs luckily 😂 And I would absolutely love a cabin getaway with Beau. I did give them a lake cabin in Polaris. Couldn't even imagine him living somewhere else (except maybe a ranch lol).

Very on-brand indeed that he's the one you can't quite pin down (at first). 😅 His job really would make things difficult to make a relationship work, even with the reader soldiering through and trying to be unaffected that she thinks he won't be around for Valentine's Day.

Russ was actually based on a personal story when my husband (then 4 months boyfriend) was still in the military abroad and surprised me with a visit 🥰 But yeah, I had only gotten a quick text and then sulked all day till that moment 😂

I loved ALL of these HCs, Wayne, but I'm torn between Dean and Beau on this one. So very sweet for this hopeless romantic!~ 💞

So happy your hopeless romantic heart enjoyed them, Alex! And thank you for starting an awesome new tradition here! 🥰🫶

Headcanon: Valentine's Day 💕

(Dean Winchester // Soldier Boy // Beau Arlen // Russell Shaw – Edition)

Prompt: How would your favorite men surprise you for Valentine's Day?

Pairing: Dean Winchester x reader // Soldier Boy x reader // Beau Arlen x reader // Russell Shaw x reader

Warnings: +18 for some language and spice, tons of fluff, a smidge of angst

A/N: Something sweet to sweep you off your feet for the most romantic day of the year 😉 Happy early Valentine's from me, my loves 💖 (And big thanks to the lovely, amazing @zepskies 💜 for starting this trend in the first place. It's addicting 😂🫶)

Dean:

Dean isn’t big on Valentine’s Day and romance. Not because he thinks it’s an unnecessary holiday invented by greeting card companies, but because he genuinely doesn’t know how to be romantic.

You’re aware of this and don’t care if he surprises you with a big gesture. Because truth is, Dean’s romantic when it comes to the little things.

You don’t care if he brings you flowers because he brings you your favorite take-out order when you so much as mention that you’re hungry.

You don’t care if he gets you a card because he gets up in the middle of the night and saunters all the way to kitchen to bring you a glass of water when you tell him you’re thirsty.

You don’t care if he gets you chocolate because he creates personal mixtapes for you with songs you said you liked during random drives.

He listens to you. He holds open doors for you. He protects you. He keeps you calm. He takes care of you when you’re injured. And he loves you with every fiber of his being.

So, really, you don’t care if he makes a big deal out of one random calendar day a year or not. It doesn’t prove his love for you – the little things do.

However, you’re still sweetly surprised (and moved to tears) when you find the Dean Cave dipped in the warm glow of fairy lights and candles.

He’s picked out your favorite chick-flick and your favorite snacks.

He opens his arms with a big, cheeky grin and invites you into his snuggly embrace on the couch.

There’s a box of chocolates on the coffee table, a few of them half eaten, and a note that reads: I’m not a smart man, but I know what love is. Be mine?

You smile and kiss his scruffy cheek. “Always.”

Flustered, he smiles, cheeks tinged pink, and kisses your crown. “Happy unattached-drifter-Christmas, sweetheart.”

Soldier Boy:

To say Ben’s old-school when it comes to romance would be an understatement. While the rest of the year his bedside manners leave much to desire, he strangely shines on Valentine’s.

Mostly, because he knows sex is a given on this holiest of holy days. No sickness or period can stop him.

If you accidentally died, you’re even sure he’d pull a full Weekend at Bernie’s and have a night out with your corpse.

First, he surprises you with a delicately wrapped gift on your bed: a tight-fitting, beautiful emerald evening gown and the matching lacy lingerie set.

Of course he got you underwear, even though he won’t mind if you don’t wear anything at all under that dress.

He then takes you out to the fanciest restaurant in the city, where he reserved a private room away from all the other commoners.

His attention is only on you.

He praises you all night long and gives compliments as if he's never done anything else his entire (long) life.

He orders the most expensive bottle of wine and the best steak and makes sure you know that it is.

He encourages you to play footsie under the table with him before he slips the heel off your foot, and your toes massage the growing bulge in his slacks.

He holds your hand in public and protectively guides you goddamn everywhere with a palm on the small of your back, showing you off like arm candy – the trophy wife.

Sure, you could protest and critique his… traditional views.

You’re not a fucking award he’s won for bad acting!

But your cheeks flush furiously every single time he brags boisterously about you to anyone who will listen. And those who don’t listen are forced to listen.

But you can’t deny it feels good to be so wanted, so desired.

When you come home at the end of the night (with a fucking horse-drawn carriage no less), Ben can barely keep his large hands from roaming your curves. You know he expects his reward now for being the best possible lover ever.

On the kitchen island, you also find a huge bouquet of red roses waiting for you. You can barely appreciate its beauty before the zipper in the back of your dress slides open. Well… rips open.

Between the thorny stems, there’s a card attached, too. It doesn’t read “Be Mine,” however.

Nope, it says, “You are mine.”

And you know he fucking means it.

Beau Arlen:

Your favorite cowboy sheriff will pull out all the stops as soon as the calendar on his desk reads February.

He doesn’t wait for D-Day either. Every day for thirteen days straight, there’s a little surprise waiting for you when you get home.

Your favorite flowers, your favorite meal, your favorite movie, a framed picture of you and him from your first vacation together, a necklace you saw in an antique store you mentioned in passing…

Some might say he’s a little overcompensating.

But Beau has made mistakes in his past, especially on the relationship front, and will be damned if he hasn’t learned from them.

So, he will make sure you feel wanted and loved till the day he dies, even though you keep repeatedly telling him he doesn’t need to make a fuss about Valentine’s Day.

Really, you’re good with picked flowers from the garden.

But Beau’s stubborn and won’t be discouraged. The southern gentlemanliness is rooted deep within his heart and soul.

This day is all about his endless love for you.

Honestly, the sheer amount of everything makes you even slightly uncomfortable. It might sound dumb, but how could you ever compete with that level of commitment?

There ain’t enough blow jobs in this world to make up for his devotion to you.

But on the big day itself, you are actually the one who surprises him with a romantic weekend trip to a cabin in the mountains and excellent fishing spots close by.

You know the biggest gift you could give him is some peace and quiet, time for himself, and a listening ear because he will surely talk the entire time about God and the world while you’re stuck on a boat with him.

But on the night itself, when you give him your gift, he’s actually speechless. Tears brim in his green eyes because you thought of him.

He’s moved, and it moves you.

Because, after all, to you, there’s no bigger gift in this world than his smile.

Russell Shaw:

You don’t expect much when Valentine’s Day looms in the distance. In fact, you don’t expect anything at all.

You’ve only been dating Russell for a couple of months now, and you barely ever see him. Your time together mostly consists of text messages, late night phone calls, and the occasional video chats.

You know his job is complicated. You know he can’t be around as much, even though you direly wish he could.

On the morning of the dreaded day, you receive a simple text message:

“Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetheart! I’ll call you later!”

You hate to admit it, but you feel a little disappointed – disenchanted even. You don’t want to make a big deal out of it because it’s a stupid, unimportant almost-holiday.

All day long, you curse the greeting card companies and the poisonous claws of consumerism for making you care in the first place.

You’re a strong, independent woman. You shouldn’t need a man to give you flowers, gifts, or attention to feel appreciated.

Still…

As you park in the driveway after a long day at work where you watched your colleagues fawn over the bouquets they received from their partners, you feel disheartened when you still haven’t even gotten your promised phone call.

Russell always leaves you wanting more… That can both be a good thing and a very bad one.

But as you close the car door, your phone vibrates in your pocket. You all too keenly pull it out and pick up, almost dropping it because your hands are jittering with excitement at this point and your heart is pounding furiously.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Russell greets you on the other end, the deep timbres of his voice sending immediate shivers down your spine. “You home yet?”

All your worries and sorrows are instantly forgotten when you hear the big smile on his freckled face that he’s surely carrying.

He’s worth it, you remind yourself, even when it’s not easy. Life is not always rainbows and butterflies.

“Uh, almost. Unlocking the front door as we speak,” you tell him.

“Sorry I couldn’t call you sooner. Was stuck on a plane. Long flight,” he says mysteriously. You don’t even ask at this point. You know he can’t tell you.

“No worries. I was busy, anyways,” you lie and hope he buys your nonchalance. “Anywhere interesting you are now?”

“You could say that, yeah…”

“Well, if you hold on a second, I’ll slip out of those clothes and make your evening even more interesting with some pictures,” you tease flirtatiously and push the door open to your dark apartment.

The light switches on by itself, though. You blink in surprise before the phone falls out of your hand when Russell beams broadly at you.

“As much as I love getting your dirty little photos, I think I prefer the real thing tonight,” he says slyly.

“I can’t believe you’re here!” You surge forward into his strong arms so forcefully you almost tackle him to the ground, your hands slinging around his neck. If you could keep him caged there forever, you’d be fine with it.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetheart,” Russell says with a warm chuckle and claims your lips in a searingly passionate kiss that shows you just how much he’s certainly missed you too. “Wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

Hope you enjoyed these little snippets, friends! Do you agree with these? 😉

I legit stole Dean's half-eaten box of chocolate and the Forrest Gump note from another fic of mine. I couldn't resist. I can totally see him doing something silly and cute like that 😂

Happy Valentine's 💕

☕️ Ko-Fi🩵 Tag List

TAGS:

Forevers: @alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@mxltifxnd0m @lacilou @feyresqueen @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444

@syrma-sensei @perpetualabsurdity @deans-baby-momma @yoobusgoobus @jessjad

@hunter-or-the-hunted @k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways

@muhahaha303 @ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith

@nesnejwritings @samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02

@thebiggerbear @star-yawnznn @thej2report @spnaquakingdom

Other lists that apply: @snowayumi @deans-baby-momma @corruptedcruiser

[love-and-deepspace-wiki]

Random Facts: Caleb

Home Tour, Part 2:

Good morning, class lol. Let's kick the analysis series off with Caleb's living room! This post will also explain the "unknown area" listed in the first post and then very briefly touch on the kitchen.

The Living Room:

Throughout the main story, Caleb's living room is depicted in various stages of decoration. The first depiction (left) is shown when the protagonist first enters his home. They give us a panning shot of it, so I've stitched the image together as per usual. This initial depiction is what I used for my floorplan sketch. But over the timeline of the story, we're shown various additions (right) to the decoration:

An apple pillow

An animal pelt rug

Additional books on the upper shelf

A lamp on the lower shelf

A large poster

A round table with a dish of apples

For this next part to make sense, I'd like to point out the following living room details because they're very important:

The couch style, cushion configuration, and the lap desk attachment

The layout of the far right corner (diagonal step, window and curtains, "coat rack thing", fireplace, bench/seat)

The "coat rack thing" and pile of packages in the foreground

The "Unknown Area":

In the "Captive Bird" portion of the Main Story, we get two scenes that occur in the "Unknown Area": scene #1 (when Caleb is treating the protagonist's wounds) and scene #2 (when Caleb and the protagonist argue). Based on what we can see in both scenes, I'm 99% confident that it's just the living room shown from different angles/perspectives.

Remember those important living room details? If we look closely at the background throughout scene #1, we can see some of those same details. This suggests that we're seeing the farthest side of the original living room depiction. Here are those details captured in still shots:

At the end of scene #1, when Caleb walks across the room, we can see the following additional features of the room:

Windows and a slanted portion of the wall to the right of the TV table

The TV table with a TV, a lamp, and a rubix cube

Windows to the left of the TV table

In scene #2 (if you pause and screenshot a billion times), we can see an almost 360 view of the area. In addition to the new details this scene reveals, it also shows common elements shown in scene #1 and the initial living room depiction. We start facing the windows from the farthest side of the living room depiction. Then, as we turn left, we see the diagonal wall, the TV table, and the windows on the other side.

As we continue turning left (images ordered 1-4 below), we can see a hallway, stairs, another fireplace, another room, and "two seat" side of the couch. The configuration of the cushions and the lap desk attachment directly match the living room depiction. We can even see the pile of packages.

(Images below have been brightened for maximum visibility)

Theorized Floorplan:

So, after all of that detective work and taking the above analysis into account, here is my theorized floorplan for the living room.

Bonus Detail:

As a bonus detail, when Caleb says "I'm about to leave. It'd be nice if we had a meal together", he's pulling the protaganist towards that "other room". Based on that clue and other supporting evidence I'll cover in the next post, it seems to suggest the "other room" is actually the kitchen. Buuuuut we'll cover all that soon!

[jessicas-pi]

So, given that I actually have an AU where Anakin and Ahsoka secretly co-authoring a trashy obitine novel is a major plot point, it seemed pretty obvious to me what the setting was gonna have to be for my fic for @sabezraweek's Sabezra Day! I had it all planned out. It was gonna be set in this hilarious No-Order-66 AU, and Luke and Leia and Mara and Kata and Shin were all Ezra's friends in the Jedi Temple and they all totally shipped sabezra and went so far as to write a play based on the Trashy Obitine Novel for the Bi-Annual Jedi Theater Night as an excuse to make sabine and ezra play the leads (and therefore kiss) and...

...well, needless to say, I did not come anywhere near to finishing that fic. So instead, here's a bit of a really old WIP, from an entirely different AU, wherein Sabine and Ezra watch (a holofilm adaptation of) Anakin And Ahsoka's Top Secret Trashy Obitine Novel! (Yeah, the Trashy Obitine Novel is a running gag in my fics.)

------

Ezra sits with his knees pulled up to his chest as he waits for Sabine to get the holoprojector set up.

He’s wearing his dumb Loth-cat pajamas again. He has others, but it’s pretty much tradition by now. He wears the Loth-cat onesie, she wears her hideous green-and-purple pajamas with glow-in-the-dark stars, he’s the one to gather the blankets for the fort while she gets the snacks, they always take a selfie… they have a lot of traditions for Movie Night.

It’s a whole thing now. Once every month, they have a not-sleepover in her room. (They’ve only had six so far, but he hopes this is a tradition that will last until they’re old and pruney.) It’s awesome, because for that single night, they get to be just a couple of goofy kids staying up until exactly 3am. They forget about the Rebellion and about the Empire and about everything they lost and just have fun.

That’s turning out to be a little harder than usual for Ezra today, though.

It’s Empire Day.

It’s been nine years since he lost his family. They’re gone; gone and dead, and he knows that now. But the ache remains, and he’d been prepared to stay shut up in his room all night, except Sabine barged in and threatened to throw him over her shoulder and carry him fireman-style to the blanket fort if he didn’t get moving already.

Ezra knows she’s trying to make light of it all, but he can’t help noticing the worried glances she keeps giving him. In the end, it’s more for her sake than for his own that he decides he just won’t think about it anymore tonight.

So he thinks about something else.

The story behind tonight’s holo is pretty wild. Hera sent the rest of the crew on a supply run into a market town a week ago, and Ezra… okay, maybe he got a little distracted, because he ended up wandering into a spooky old secondhand shop run by a guy (looking back on it, Ezra is 99% sure he was a Jedi) and his creepy wife, where he saw a holofilm case with Mando’a writing—he couldn’t read it, but he could recognize the letters—on it, and as it turned out, not only was it a Mandalorian holofilm, it was also a very very banned Mandalorian holofilm based on a book, and the book was based on, supposedly, a true story. The maybe-Jedi claimed to have known the real-life version of the male lead of the story.

(Honestly? Ezra believes him.)

Anyway, he bought the holo for Sabine (for no reason, really, except maybe a little bit because it would make her smile), and he did not expect the reaction he got (which was her nearly falling over from laughing so hard.) Then she told him that she had read the book and it was just completely terrible, we’re totally watching this next movie night.

Sabine nudges him over and sits down next to him.

“What do I need to know about this?” he asks, as the beginning credits start to appear.

“It’s a Mandalorian holodrama called Tigaanur Te Ka’ra. It’s very loosely based on a novel written during the Clone Wars. Apparently, the film was pretty controversial, because it was a more traditional Mandalorian studio that made it, but a couple of the heroes in this are Jedi. Which is also why I’ve never been able to get my hands on it. I’ve heard it was different—better, than the book.” She makes a face. “It couldn’t be worse. I couldn’t get through Chapter 39. I had to skip it.”

Ezra grins at her. “I didn’t know you liked novels.”

“Guilty indulgence. I bought Touch The Stars because the Mandalorian main character was named Sabine, and she had Jedi friends.”

He breaks into a grin. “Hey, like us?”

Sabine turns her head and stares at him with exaggerated vacancy in her eyes, like she’s having flashbacks or envisioning something horrible, and says distinctly: “There were a few differences.”

He gets enough of the vibes of her tone to understand more or less what she’s hinting at.

“You, uh. You don’t need to elaborate.”

“I won’t.” He clears his throat awkwardly. “So, is this going to have, um…”

“A racy scene that Kanan or Hera will inevitably walk in on even though it’s only twenty seconds long and the entire rest of the holo is nothing they’d blink twice at?” Sabine offers, filling in the awkward blank.

“Yeah.”

“Heck no. Mandalorian holodramas don’t even usually have kissing. We Mandos show affection by going to war at each others’ sides, and sometimes bonking our heads together.”

Then the holo starts, and it occurs to Ezra that he doesn’t speak any Mando’a and this film has no subtitles.

“What’s happening?” he whispers as the opening scene plays out, showing a bunch of Mandalorians sitting around a table. (Ominous music plays whenever one of them talks, and a mysterious sort of wind-chime motif follows a different one around. Then there’s a heroic melody for a third Mandalorian. Villain, love interest, hero, Ezra decides.)

“Peace conference. Never ends well.”

Sure enough, about three seconds after Sabine says that, Bad Guy Mando whips out a blaster and starts shooting. The Wind Chime Mando jumps up on the table and starts swinging a lightsaber—the Jedi in disguise?

The fight scene lengthens on gratuitously, until finally Wind Chimes grabs Hero and does a jump that Ezra is pretty sure even a Jedi Master couldn’t pull off that carries them out through the stained-glass ceiling.

They escape, and then they stop, and argue, and argue, and argue more. Finally, Wind Chimes rips off her helmet to yell at Hero better, and Ezra notes that she looks a little ragged. Her curly red hair is falling out of its braid, and her face is sweaty-looking. (She’s also stunningly gorgeous, because of course she is. But she is worse for the wear, which is surprisingly realistic for a holodrama.)

Ezra glances over at Sabine and is surprised to see that she’s sitting forward a little, watching with rapt attention. She can understand the dialogue and he can’t, which explains some of it, but she looks invested.

The movie continues on for another two hours—he wonders just how long Mandalorian holodramas are, because they’re not even close to coming to a plot resolution—and from what Ezra can put together, the story goes something like this:

Beni is the name of the red-haired lady. She’s a Jedi Padawan who disguised herself as a Mandalorian to attend the peace conference for… some reason. She rescued Tian, aka Hero Mandalorian, and Beni, Tian, and Beni’s Jedi Master, Quinn, are traveling to an important place that they have to get to so they can do something important.

There’s also been, like, six musical numbers.

Yeah, Ezra’s not really sure what’s going on anymore.

[greenwitchfromthewoods]

family time. l Frankie "Catfish" Morales

Summary: you came back from your parents in a really bad mental state

Warnings: angst, toxic parents, crying, emotional crisis, mentioning therapy, guilt

A/N: this is something i've been wanting to write for a while now. remember that what you feel is important and don't be afraid to ask for help, even professional help.

your feedback is very important to me and I want to thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. I secretly hope you like this story.🖤 sorry for all the mistakes

[my masterlist] [Frankie Morales masterlist]

He knew something was wrong even before the first words left your lips. Even the grating of the key in the lock was different. You took off your shoes differently, and the bag you had in your hand fell to the floor with a dull thud.

"Hi, honey." Frankie's large hands cupped your face, and familiar lips brushed yours. "I missed you."

You didn't answer. The only thing you did was snuggle into his broad chest and cling to him so tightly that for a moment he wondered if you had decided to crush his ribs. The smile disappeared from his face, and soon he was stroking your back, trying to understand what had happened.

"Long trip?" he asked. 

You had spent almost the entire last week at your parents' house, but if Frankie could be honest, he could see that you didn't feel like going there at all. Your mother had once again reproached you for not visiting them and not caring about your parents at all. With the look of a scolded child, you packed your bag and went to do your unpleasant duty.

"That was horrible." You mumbled quietly, your shoulders relaxing slightly. "Next time, please remind me to break my leg so I don't have to go there."

"Hey, hermosa." Frankie sighed and with no small effort, he pulled away to arms' length, his sweet brown eyes staring at you intently. "What happened?"

A quiet sigh escaped your lips. There was everything in it.

"What could have happened?" You asked rhetorically, freeing yourself from his arms and dragging yourself towards the living room where you collapsed on the couch. You grabbed one of the pillows and held it tightly to your chest like a shield. "It was like usual. I went there, from the moment I stepped inside I felt like a child who came home with a bad grade. First there was dinner, because I definitely can't cook and only my mom knows how to prepare meals." Frankie sat down next to you, rested his arm on the headrest and listened to you carefully with a small wrinkle between his eyebrows. "Dad noticed a scratch on the bumper of the car so he said that I can't drive and I shouldn't..."

"But I was the one who had the meeting with the shopping cart." Frankie interrupted you, surprised.

"Oh! I didn't tell them that." You snorted, shaking your head. "I didn't want to give them a gun before the evening news. But don't worry, they remembered you."

Frankie gulped. Your parents were...specific. He would be lying if he said he liked them, but he never spoke ill of them. Even when you were spilling your grievances and tears, Frankie just listened and patted you on the back. He didn't want to tell you that, but he had felt from the beginning that this trip wouldn't bring you anything good.

"I shouldn't have gone there at all." You said quietly as if you were reading his mind, your gaze fixed somewhere on the wall opposite "I always hope that it will be different, but I always come back broken into a thousand pieces..."

"Baby..." Frankie carefully brushed the hair away from your face and noticed how you bit your lip trying to stop yourself from falling apart "Maybe next time I'll go with you?"

You chuckled "Better not. As much as I would appreciate it, they... I don't want to talk about it, Frankie. I'm sorry."

"Hey," he moved closer, a warm hand resting on your knee and squeezing it lightly "You have nothing to apologize for, you didn't do anything wrong. We can talk about it when you feel up to it."

You nodded. He kissed your temple, inhaling your pleasant scents

He knew you so well that he knew that what you held inside was eating you alive. Despite everything, he didn't ask or push. Frankie knew that when you were ready, you would finally tell him everything, and he would be ready to listen and give you everything he could.

So for the next two days you pretended that everything was fine, even though you were clearly devastated. It wasn't until the third day passed and Frankie brought freshly washed and folded clothes to the bedroom that he heard a quiet sob from behind the bathroom door.

"Sweetie?" he knocked on the door "Are you okay?"

"Y-yeah, I'm fine..." you replied trying to hide your sobs, it squeezed his heart.

"You don't sound like it." he replied "Will you open the door, please?"

The lock creaked softly and Frankie pushed the door open slightly. Although he expected you to eventually crack, he wasn't prepared for the sight. Something sank inside him the moment his eyes landed on your face. 

You had only just managed to take off your clothes, which were now lying on the tiles. You stood before him in your underwear, make-up turning into black spots under your eyes, your lips swollen and eyes red, your hair a mess.

"What's wrong with me?" you groaned and more tears rolled down your cheeks. "No matter what I do and what I don't do, I'll never be good enough for them... And I try so hard and..."

"Hermosa, please..." he tried to touch you, to show you that he was with you, but you pulled away and Frankie respected that immediately.

You gasped for breath between sobs, the heat rolling through your body, and the bathroom was becoming more and more claustrophobic. Only him standing before you seemed as real as ever, his soft brown eyes staring at you with a mixture of fear, sadness and concern. 

"I'm trying, Frankie..." you finally said in a shaking voice "Every day. I keep trying to meet their expectations, but I can't do anything to reach the bar they set for me. Why? Why can't they see that?" you sucked in a breath, he knew you were trying to hold back a sob to finally get it all out of you. He'll accept it, bear it, he'll do anything for you. "Ever since I was a kid I've always been not enough for them. Not smart enough, not talented enough, not pretty enough... They kept repeating it, and their words have seeped into my brain, that I'm no longer able to think about myself differently. And I read all these smart books, listen to these podcasts that tell me it's bullshit. I know the fucking theory, but I can't... Fuck!" 

You pressed your hands to your eyes and sat on the edge of the tub. You didn't see, but you heard and felt Frankie move closer, then crouched down in front of you, his arms wrapping around your legs. Warm lips brushed your thighs.

"I thought time would make it easier. But I'm still on some invisible leash. I feel guilty... I feel inadequate and..." your voice broke.

"Say it, hermosa." he said quietly.

He knew you had to get it out, only then could you feel better. No matter what the words were, once you said them you'd get them out and then he could do something about it.

"I feel unworthy of love..."

Something sank even deeper in his chest.

"I was driving here to you, wondering why you were even with me when I was like this. You deserve someone who isn't as fucked up as I am and... I'm sorry."

Your hands rested where Frankie had kissed you just a moment ago, your nervous fingers twisting, and you tried to calm your breathing. Only after a few seconds did his warm voice break the silence.

"Can I say something, honey?" you nodded and greedily grabbed his fingers when his hands touched yours. "I won't lie, your parents are fucked up. No, listen." you opened and closed your mouth immediately. "When I met you, I thought nothing good would ever happen to me in life. And here I am, living with the most wonderful woman I've ever met in my life. You're beautiful, smart, quick-witted, funny and sassy. I love every single thing about you, even the things that piss me off sometimes. And you know why? Because it's you."

The grimace that appeared on your face was probably supposed to be a smile, but new tears rolled down behind it.

"I'm angry that these people make you feel this way. Parents shouldn't do this, I don't know why they can't see how amazing you are, but it's not your fault. None of this is your fault."

"They want what's best for me. Maybe if I..."

"If you had a daughter, if you saw her the way I see you now, would you tell her it was for her own good? I don't think so. That's not love, honey. That's some sick ambition, and you shouldn't care about it."

"They're my parents, Frankie. I can't help but care."

"You'd be surprised to know how many people in the world feel the way you do, and how many have cut themselves off from people like that in order to heal."

You knew he was right. Deep inside you knew that Frankie was telling the truth and you would say those words to anyone who was in a similar situation. But when it comes to you...

"I told you once that I went to therapy, remember?" he said after a moment of silence, you nodded "Maybe... Maybe you should think about meeting with someone to talk, to sort things out in your head. You know, honey, that I will always listen to you, but a professional can teach you, give you the tools to deal with it."

You looked at him with resignation. "Won't you think I'm crazy then?"

"Oh, please!" he smiled and placed a hand on your cheek, his thumb stroking your damp skin. "It takes a lot of courage, that's what you told me, remember? I want you to feel better, and if it can help you, then I totally support you in this."

"Thank you."

Now you managed to smile, weakly but it was a success. Frankie stood up and brushed his lips against yours. You stood up too and snuggled into him, the strong beating of his heart calming you down, grounding you. A sense of security and peace slowly began to fill you. You already knew that even if you didn't get rid of these thoughts as quickly as you wanted, this guy would be with you despite everything. He didn't judge you, he didn't criticize you, he didn't say you were overreacting. What you felt was real and important to him, he wanted the best for you.

"I love you, Frankie." You whispered, hugging him even tighter.

He smiled, kissed the top of your head, "I love you more, hermosa."

"I think... I think I smeared my mascara on your shirt."

"Never mind." Frankie chuckled, "But I can draw you a hot bath, bring you a glass of wine and..."

"Will you join me?"

You pulled away and looked at him. God only knew how much he loved you, and in moments like these he felt it in every cell of his body. 

"Always." he replied, pecking your lips, "Always."

☆☆☆☆

Thank you for your time.

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 10

˗ˏˋ slow dancing ˎˊ˗

"Late night melodies have a way of slipping past your defenses. And maybe that's why he chose 2AM to show you a side of him you weren't supposed to see."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 4.5k

content: electric guitar discussions, griffin being a crackhead like his dad, tiny moments, late night melodies, comfortable silence

✧ author's note ✧

FIRST OF ALL! I CREATED A PLAYLIST OF SONGS FMU!JUNGKOOK PLAYS ON HIS ELECTRIC GUITAR to make him feel more human and lived in. Go check it out! You can play it whenever he’s playing the guitar.

Hello everyone! ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ Currently writing this from the past since I'm scheduled to be stuffing my face with gyros in Greece right now. Which, honestly? Living my best tourist life with my partner. (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ

I know I said chapter 10 might be delayed because of the trip BUT Wednesday night hit different and suddenly my brain went feral. You know how it is - either write nothing for weeks or channel an entire novel in one sitting. There is no in-between. (；一_一)

Here's the thing about this chapter though - I'm actually proud of it? Which never happens, so cherish this moment. It's finally time to plant some seeds (about time, right?). ٩(◕‿◕｡)۶

Listen, I know I'm absolutely unhinged about slow burn. Like, genuinely concerning levels of commitment to dragging out emotional development. I kept second-guessing if 50k words in was too early for their first Moment™, but you know what? They deserve this tiny crumb of softness. (`･ω･´)

Before you get too excited - remember who's writing this. Your resident slow burn demon. What I consider a huge development, you'll probably read and go "... that's it?" (╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻ But I promise, if you pay attention to the vibes, there's something special here.

Quick question! I've sprinkled about three of Jungkook's trauma events throughout the story so far. Any theories? Some of you perceptive souls (looking at you, Koopsy) have probably figured them out, but I'm curious what everyone else thinks! ψ(｀∇´)ψ

See you next weekend! Mwah!

P.S. Written at 5AM running on spite and caffeine. If you spot typos, no you didn't. (￣▽￣*)ゞ​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

I am sorry but listening to THIS on the second part is MANDATORY. It’s the song Jungkook’s playing. So, you better listen to it or I’ll get mad and stop breathing and there will be no more fuck me up for you bitches. 😤😤😤

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Your hair's a fucking mess and it's all his fault.

You tug at your oversized pajama shirt as you emerge from your room, trying to look less... well. Less like you just had your roommate's tongue down your throat.

The living room's exactly as you left it, except now Jungkook's manspreading in the armchair like he owns it, arguing with Yeji about—wait, what?

"—can't seriously think the Stratocaster is better for metal," he's saying, gesturing with those stupidly nice hands of his. "The humbucker pickups alone—"

"The clarity though?" Yeji cuts in, looking personally offended. You've seen that look before—usually right before she launches into a thirty-minute rant about music theory. "You get way better note definition with single coils, especially for complex riffs—"

"Yeah, if you want it to sound like a tin can—"

"Excuse me?" 

God. Two guitar nerds in one room. This is literally your worst nightmare.

Irya's sitting between them on the couch looking thoroughly entertained, phone in hand. "Jimin!" she calls out suddenly. "Check the one I just sent you!"

Jimin glances up from his own phone, that soft smile playing on his lips. He's claimed the other end of the couch, as far from the guitar debate as possible. Smart man.

The doorbell rings, and before you can even think about moving, Jungkook launches himself out of the armchair like an overcaffeinated jackrabbit.

"I got it!" He's already halfway to the door, and you roll your eyes so hard they might get stuck.

"Whatever." You grab one of the bean bags from near the big window, dragging it to the other side of the coffee table. As far from the armchair as possible, because you know exactly where he's going to sit when he gets back.

"Just saying," Yeji continues like the pizza interruption never happened, "if you're going to shit-talk Fender, at least have a decent argument."

"Oh, I've got arguments." You can hear Jungkook fumbling with his wallet at the door. "Want me to grab my guitar? I can demonstrate—"

"Please, god, no," you mutter, dropping onto the bean bag. The last thing you need is an impromptu concert from either of them.

"Pizzaaaa," he announces, kicking the door shut behind him. He's somehow managing to balance four boxes, and you definitely don't notice the way his arms flex under the weight. "Who's hungry?"

You end up sharing your calabrese with Jimin because he's literally the only person in this room with taste. Plus, watching him take small, careful bites makes you feel better about the way you just inhaled your first slice like some kind of starved animal.

Everyone else claimed their own pizza—Yeji's practically mainlining her extra spicy diavola, Irya's defending her hawaiian from Yeji's judgmental looks, and Jungkook...

God. Jungkook.

He's sprawled in that armchair like it's a throne, one leg thrown over the armrest, decimating his meat lovers' like he's getting paid for it. And it's annoying. Everything about him is annoying. The way he tears into the crust with those stupidly white teeth. The way his throat works when he swallows. The little appreciative sounds he makes that are way too similar to—nope.

Not going there.

"Want some?" He catches you staring and holds out a slice, cheese stretching obscenely. "Since you keep looking over here."

"I'm not—" You break off as a string of cheese snaps. "I was judging your eating habits."

"Uh-huh." He takes another bite, and you hate that you notice the way his lips curve. "Sure, phoenix."

"Fuck off."

"Make me."

Yeji makes a gagging sound. "Do you two ever stop?"

No. You don't. That's the problem. Whether it's fighting or fucking or whatever the hell happened in your room twenty minutes ago, you just... don't stop. Can't stop. Won't stop.

And maybe that should worry you more than it does.

"Pass me a napkin?" Jimin asks quietly, and you grab one gratefully. Away from thoughts of Jungkook's mouth and what it was doing to you earlier and—focus. Pizza. Friends. Normal things that don't involve your roommate's tongue.

Except he's right there, existing in your peripheral vision like some kind of extremely annoying sun. Being all... present. With his hair still messed up from your hands and that mark on his neck that your friends definitely haven't noticed but you know is there and—

"Phoenix." His voice cuts through your spiral. "You're staring again."

"I'm plotting your murder."

He grins, slow and knowing. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

He's still chewing. Like, unnecessarily loud? Who taught this man table manners, a pack of wolves? 

You watch him demolish another slice with the same energy your mom attacks Facebook conspiracy theories. It's giving feral raccoon energy. No, worse—it's giving mukbang YouTuber who's about to get canceled for something weird. The way he's manspreading in that chair like he's about to start a podcast about cryptocurrency—

And then you see it. Griffin, the little menace, has somehow gotten onto the coffee table (again) and he's sniffing at—fuck, is that garlic bread?

You're out of the bean bag before you can think, nearly falling on your face in your haste. "Griffin, no—"

But Jungkook's already moving too, pizza forgotten, practically launching himself out of the chair. "G, don't—"

You snatch Griffin away from the bread just as Jungkook reaches for him, and for a second you're both frozen there—you with an armful of disgruntled cat, him with his hands outstretched and something raw and panicked in his eyes that makes your chest tight.

"He can't have garlic," you explain, which is stupid because obviously Jungkook knows this, it's his cat. "It's toxic for—"

"Yeah." His voice is rough. He swallows, hands falling to his sides. "Yeah, I know."

The silence stretches for a beat too long. 

Something's off about his reaction—it's just bread, right? 

But there's tension in his shoulders, a tightness around his eyes that wasn't there before.

"He's got this thing about human food," he says finally, aiming for casual but missing by a mile. His laugh sounds hollow. "Always goes for the stuff that'll fuck him up."

You raise an eyebrow, absently scratching under Griffin's chin. "What, like a death wish?"

"More like bad judgment." He reaches for Griffin, and you notice his hands aren't quite steady. "Likes the wrong stuff. Just like his dad. Don't you, buddy?"

Griffin just purrs, completely unbothered by all the drama he just caused. Jungkook checks him over anyway, like he might have somehow eaten the entire loaf in the two seconds you weren't looking.

"Devil cat," you mutter, but you find yourself reaching out to scratch Griffin's ears anyway. "Always trying to unalive himself with human food."

Jungkook's quiet for a moment, just watching you pet Griffin. 

Then, so soft you almost miss it: "Thanks."

You blink. "For what?"

"For—" He cuts himself off, nonchalance sliding back into place. "For not letting him add 'bread thief' to his criminal record."

But there's something in his voice, in the way his fingers keep checking Griffin like he needs to make sure he's still there—

"Yo," Yeji cuts in, "can someone please explain to my girlfriend why pineapple on pizza is a crime against humanity?"

"It's not a crime," Irya's saying, waving her slice of hawaiian like a weapon. "It's culinary innovation."

"It's fruit on pizza." Yeji looks personally wounded. "That's like putting ketchup in coffee."

"Don't give him ideas," you mutter, watching Jungkook from the corner of your eye. He's settled back in the armchair with Griffin, but something's... off. The casual sprawl looks forced now, mechanical. His phone's out, thumb scrolling without really seeing.

Weird. 

"Some people actually do that," Jimin offers quietly. "The ketchup thing."

"Those people need therapy." Yeji steals a piece of pineapple off Irya's slice, examining it like it's evidence in a crime scene. "Like, immediately."

You should probably join in. Make some quip about food crimes or Yeji's weird vendetta against fruit. But you keep getting distracted by the way Jungkook's shoulders are still tight, how his other hand hasn't stopped checking Griffin. Like he needs to make sure he's still there.

Doesn't make sense. He was fine ten minutes ago, being all loud and annoying about guitars. What changed?

"Speaking of crimes against humanity—" Irya starts.

"We are not discussing the mint chocolate incident again."

"It was one time!"

Griffin shifts in Jungkook's lap, and you catch the slight flinch in his fingers. The way his eyes snap to check what the cat's doing. It's so different from his usual careless energy, from the way he usually lets Griffin do whatever the fuck he wants.

"Phoenix." His voice makes you jump. Caught staring. Fuck. "Take a picture, it'll last longer."

The words are right—that usual cocky bullshit—but the delivery's wrong. Flat. Like he's reading from a script of himself.

"What, and boost your ego more?" Keep it casual. Normal. Whatever's happening, he clearly doesn't want to talk about it. "Pretty sure that's like, directly against the Geneva Convention."

He tries for a smirk, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Didn't know you were so concerned about war crimes."

"Only the ones happening in my living room."

A ghost of his usual grin, there and gone. Then he's back to his phone, shoulders a hard line under his t-shirt. You watch him tap the screen exactly four times, precise and measured. Since when does he do anything precise?

"Y/N?" Jimin touches your arm. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just..." You gesture vaguely at your half-eaten slice. "Food coma."

But you keep watching. Can't help it. The way his jaw clenches every few seconds. How he's barely touched his pizza since the Griffin thing. The slight tremor in his fingers when he scratches behind the cat's ears.

He just... trusts the wrong people sometimes, you know?

What the fuck was that about?

"Earth to Y/N!" Yeji's voice cuts through your thoughts. "Back me up here. Pineapple on pizza—yes or no?"

"What? Oh, uh." You force yourself to look away from Jungkook. "Definitely no."

"Thank you!"

"Traitor," Irya accuses, but she's grinning. "I trusted you."

Trust. There's that word again. You glance back at Jungkook, but he's not even pretending to listen anymore. Just staring at his phone, one hand buried in Griffin's fur like an anchor.

Something happened here. Something you're missing. But the more you try to piece it together, the less sense it makes. It's just bread, right? Just Griffin being his usual chaos gremlin self. So why does Jungkook look like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop?

"Hey." Jimin's voice is soft. Private. "Sure you're okay?"

No. Yes. Maybe. You don't know why you're so fixated on this, why you can't just let it go. It's not like you care. It's not like—

"I'm fine." You reach for another slice. "Just tired."

But you can't quite shake the image of his face when you caught Griffin. That raw panic, like he was seeing something else entirely. Someone else.

“Alright I’m so done with this. We are watching Love Island.” Yeji jumps in.

“Since when do you like reality shows?” Jimin asks, smiling.

“Since, uh, never.” She replies, defensively. “I just like seeing stupid people doing stupid shit.”

And that’s how you end up watching Love Island reruns, because apparently that's what your life has devolved into. Jungkook disappeared to his room twenty minutes ago, taking Griffin and his weird mood with him, and you're trying very hard not to think about either of them.

You're failing spectacularly, but whatever.

"You good?" Yeji nudges you with her foot. "You've been weird since the whole bread thing."

"M'fine." You bat her foot away. "Just tired."

She gives you that look, the one that says she knows you're full of shit, but before she can call you out on it, the front door opens.

Yoongi trudges in looking like he's been through seven circles of hell and maybe a Walmart on Black Friday. His beanie's askew, dark circles under his eyes more pronounced than usual—classic post-studio energy. He stops dead when he sees your little gathering, letting out the longest, most defeated sigh you've ever heard.

Then he takes off his beanie, hanging his keys, and—

"You're fucking joking." 

Yeji practically launches herself off the couch, dislodging Irya from where she was curled into her shoulder. What the—

Yoongi freezes. Turns. Very. Slowly.

"........."

"Mint????" Yeji's voice hits a pitch that probably only dogs can hear. "What the actual fuck?"

Yoongi closes his eyes like he's praying for strength. "Please god, no."

Hold up.

You look between them—Yeji vibrating with chaotic energy, Yoongi looking like he wants to evaporate on the spot. Since when does your anti-establishment new possibly best friend know your lowkey famous producer roommate?

"Wait." You sit up straighter. "You know Yoongi?"

"Know him?" Yeji's still staring at Yoongi like he's either Jesus or a sleep-deprived hallucination. "He produced my track six months ago and then ghosted everyone like—"

"I didn't ghost." He dumps his bag on the counter with maybe more force than necessary. "I was working."

"For six months?"

"Yes."

You regard both of them slowly. Because yeah, you knew Yoongi was Mint—Hoseok had dropped that bomb like it wasn't a whole thing. But Yeji? Your anarchist, fight-the-system best friend worked with him? 

"Hold up." Irya's sitting up now too, eyes wide. "You're telling me this is the guy? The one who made that track that almost got you banned from three venues?"

"It was one track." Yoongi's already heading for his room, clearly done with this conversation. "Six months ago."

"It was fire though!" Yeji calls after him. "Could've been more if you hadn't—"

The door closes with a very pointed click.

"Well." Irya breaks the silence. "That was fun."

Another door opens and Jungkook peers out, probably drawn by all the noise. "Was that Yoongi? What's with all the—"

"Did you know Yeji worked with him?" you demand, because apparently this is your life now. Finding out your friend and your roommate have secret music history.

He blinks. "With who?"

"Our roommate? Mint PD? Ring any bells in that empty head of yours?"

"Oh." He shrugs, leaning against his doorframe. "Yeah, but I didn't know it was your Yeji."

"She's not my—wait." You narrow your eyes. "How many Yejis do you know?"

"Wouldn't you like to know, phoenix?"

"It’s not like Yeji is a super common name in New York." 

His grin is insufferable. "Sure about that?"

"God, do you ever shut up?"

"Only when I'm sleeping." He stretches, all casual arrogance. "Sometimes not even then."

"Gross." You turn to your friends. "You guys don't have to leave just because he's being... himself."

But Yeji's already getting up, collecting their stuff. "Nah, it's late. Plus, I need to process the whole Mint thing. That was weird as fuck."

"Text me the story later?" Irya asks, helping gather the pizza boxes. "I want to know everything about this track that got you banned."

"It wasn't banned," Yeji protests. "Just... strongly discouraged from ever being played again."

Jimin helps clean because he's literally an angel walking among mere mortals. You walk them to the door, hyperaware of Jungkook still hovering in his doorway like the creep he is.

"Text me," Yeji mutters as she hugs you goodbye. 

The door closes behind them. When you turn around, Jungkook's gone, door clicking shut like he was never there.

Typical.

You stare at his closed door for a moment, thinking about garlic bread and panic and things that don't make sense.

Whatever. Not your problem.

You're going to commit a murder tonight.

Your friends left hours ago, and you've been trying to wind down—reading, scrolling through TikTok, attempting to be a functional human being who sleeps before their 8AM class. But someone apparently decided 2AM was the perfect time to practice his goddamn electric guitar.

The electric guitar riffs pierce through your wall for the hundredth time, each note a personal attack on your sanity.

Who the fuck plays at 2AM? Who? What kind of sociopath—

Another chord progression. Louder this time.

You grab your pillow, smothering a scream into it as your nails dig into the fabric. Eight AM class tomorrow. Eight. Fucking. AM. And this absolute waste of oxygen is out there having his main character moment like he's the star of some teen angst movie.

Fuck him. Actually fuck him. And fuck past you for fucking him in the first place. Yeah, okay, he's hot. Fine. But does that really balance out this? The constant noise and the attitude and the way he acts like the whole world revolves around him? 

The guitar gets louder, like he knows exactly what you're thinking.

Pain in the ass doesn't even cover it. Pain in places that don't have medical names yet. Pain in the fucking soul.

You snatch your phone off the nightstand, fingers flying over the keyboard:

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚝 𝟾𝚊𝚖 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 🖕🏻

The guitar stops. Thank god. Thank every possible—

A low chuckle filters through the wall.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗 𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚞

Your blood pressure spikes.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚜𝚝𝚐 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚗 𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒 𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙻 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚡?

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚜𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚛 𝚞𝚙 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞,𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚑

A pause. Then:

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚢 𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛

You actually growl.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚘𝚏𝚌 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘 𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚌 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚢 🙄

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝟷𝟸??

Another chord rings out. Deliberately slow. Testing.

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚗?

You: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚛? You: 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚔𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚢?

The guitar stops. Complete silence. Maybe you went too far, bringing up—

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚒 𝚊𝚖

Your heart definitely doesn't skip. Absolutely does not.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚖𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛? 🙄

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍

You stare at your phone. At the wall separating your rooms. At your reflection in the dark window, hair a mess and eyes too bright.

This is stupid. This is so fucking stupid.

𝐘𝐨𝐮: 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚞𝚑 𝚑𝚞𝚑

𝐊𝐮𝐤𝐨🖕🏻: 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍

Fuck.

Fuck.

Your feet hit the floor before you can think better of it. And isn't that just the whole problem? You never think better of it. Not with him.

So yeah, you make it to his room. Where the devil sleeps.

Your eyes sweep over his walls, taking in all the black and red and—yep, exactly what you expected. Some alt-boy Pinterest board threw up in here. Black wooden bed with those lumberjack pattern sheets, gaming setup that probably cost more than your tuition, wardrobe that's definitely hiding at least three identical black hoodies.

No windows. Makes sense. Vampires and all that.

He's sprawled on the bed like some renaissance painting gone wrong, all long limbs and messy hair like he's been rolling around like a dog marking its territory. The guitar sits easy in his lap, familiar. Natural. 

Not that you notice. Or care.

His eyes flick to you, that insufferable smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He doesn't stop playing, just watches as you hover in his doorway like—nope. Not finishing that thought.

"Didn't think you'd actually come."

"Didn't think you'd actually know how to play." You step into his space, ignoring how the air feels different in here. Heavier. "Yet here we are, disappointing each other."

He snorts, fingers still moving over the strings. Something slower now, almost melodic. "Always so sweet, phoenix."

"Always so annoying, rogue."

But you find yourself moving closer, drawn by the way the notes fill the space between you. It's... not terrible. Actually kind of good, if you're being honest. Which you're not. Obviously.

"What?" He catches you watching his hands. "Surprised I can do something besides annoy you?"

"Mostly surprised you can do anything besides game and be a pain in my ass."

His grin turns wicked. "Pretty sure I do more than that to your—"

"Finish that sentence and die."

He laughs, low and warm, but goes back to playing. Something different now. Softer. You hate that you want to ask what it is.

"Didn't take you for a musician." The words slip out before you can stop them.

His fingers stutter on the strings. Just for a second, barely noticeable. But you notice.

"No?" His voice is carefully casual. Too casual. "What did you take me for?"

"I don't know. Professional asshole? Chief Expert in Being Insufferable?" You comment, flicking a small plushie on his bed. "First Chair Fuck-Up?"

He huffs a laugh, but something's off about it. Like earlier with Griffin. That same weird tension.

"Used to play in a band," he says after a moment. Still not looking at you. "Back in high school."

"Let me guess—My Chemical Romance covers?"

"Nah." His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Original stuff. Mostly."

You wait for more, but he just keeps playing. That same soft melody, over and over. Like he's trying to get it right. Or trying to forget something else.

"It's good."

The words surprise you both. His hands freeze on the strings, eyes snapping to yours.

"The song," you clarify, because apparently your mouth's just doing whatever it wants now. "It's... not horrible."

He stares at you for a long moment. Something shifts in his expression—that cocky mask slipping just slightly. Then:

"Want to hear the whole thing?"

And maybe it's the late hour. Maybe it's the way he's looking at you, all quiet uncertainty beneath that usual swagger. Maybe you're just fucking tired.

"Yeah." You slide down to sit on his floor, back against the bed. "Show me what you got, rogue."

He starts playing something different. Not that angry teenage angst from earlier—this is... softer. More careful. Like he's showing you something he doesn't usually let people see.

Not that you care. Obviously.

The melody wraps around the room, settling into the spaces between your breaths. Your eyes track his hands, the way his fingers move over the strings with a gentleness you didn't know he possessed. It's... nice. Which is annoying. Everything about him is annoying, including the way he makes this look so effortless, the slight furrow in his brow as he concentrates—

Wait.

You know this song.

The notes hit something in your chest—a memory you didn't know you still had.

Your mom's old radio, the one she kept in the garden.

This exact song came on while you were planting flame lilies along the back fence. Then the storm hit—one of those sudden summer downpours that turns the whole world grey.

But instead of running inside like a normal person, your mom just... laughed. Turned the radio up louder, John Mayer's voice competing with the thunder. Grabbed your hands, still covered in dirt, and pulled you into a clumsy dance right there in the rain.

We're slow dancing in a burning room...

You'd both ended up soaked, mud-splattered, spinning in circles while the rain poured down. She'd sung along, completely off-key but not caring. Just you and her and this song, the rest of the world washed away in the storm.

The memory feels wrong now. Too bright. Too clean. Like looking at an old photograph and realizing all the edges have been carefully trimmed, the shadows cropped out.

Because that was before, wasn't it? Before the schedules and the expectations and the constant, crushing weight of—

"Is that—" You cut yourself off, but it's too late. He glances up, catches you staring.

"What?"

You blink. Jungkook's watching you, hands paused on the strings.

"Nothing."

His fingers hover over the guitar. "No, what were you gonna say?"

"Just..." Fuck it. "Pretty sure that's 'Slow Dancing in a Burning Room.' Right?"

Something flickers across his face. "You know Mayer?"

"Unfortunately." You pick at a loose thread on your sleep shorts. "My playlist's not just WAP and Carpool Karaoke, contrary to what you probably think."

He huffs a laugh, but it sounds different. Less cocky asshole, more... something else. His fingers start moving again, picking up where he left off. The notes fill the silence between you, and it's... peaceful? Is that the word? No, that can't be right. Nothing about him is peaceful.

And yet.

"Do you sing too?"

His hands freeze on the strings. Just for a second, but you catch it. The way his shoulders tense, how his jaw ticks slightly before he forces that easy smile back.

"Nah." He starts playing again, but it's different now. Mechanical. "That's... that'd be embarrassing."

There's something in his voice. Something raw that makes you think of earlier, of his panic over Griffin and bread. But before you can chase that thought, he's already shifting gears.

"What, you offering voice lessons, phoenix?"

"As if." You roll your eyes, but you clock the way his fingers are slightly less sure on the strings now. "Just thought maybe you'd want to torture me with your whole package of terrible talents."

"Oh, I've got plenty of talents to torture you with."

"Gross."

But he's relaxing again, that weird tension leaving his shoulders as the conversation drifts back to familiar territory. Safe territory. He keeps playing, and you definitely don't notice how the melody gets smoother, more confident, like maybe he needed the distraction of your bickering to find his rhythm again.

Speaking of distractions—you glance around the room, frowning. "Where's Griffin?"

"Thought he was with you."

"What?" You blink at him. "You never let him sleep with anyone else."

"Well." He sets the guitar aside, stretches like some oversized cat. "You can now."

"I can... what?"

"Have him." He shrugs, but there's something careful in the movement. "For the night. If you want."

You stare at him. He stares back, that almost-smile still playing at his lips.

What the actual fuck is happening right now?

"Who are you and what have you done with my asshole roommate?"

He laughs, and just like that, the weird tension breaks. "Aw, you think I'm yours? That's cute, phoenix."

"I think you're a pain in my ass," you correct, but it lacks heat. Maybe because you're tired. Maybe because he just played something beautiful and shared his cat and you don't know what to do with any of it.

"Only sometimes." He stretches again, shirt riding up. You definitely don't look. "Other times I'm a pain somewhere else—"

You throw the nearest object (a pencil) at his head. "And we're back to normal."

His laugh follows you as you leave, hunting for Griffin. You tell yourself the warm feeling in your chest is just satisfaction at finding new ammunition for future arguments.

He's actually good at something. Who knew?

And if you catch yourself humming "Slow Dancing" as you search for the cat... well. 

Nobody has to know.

next | index

⋆｡°✩ taglist✩°｡⋆

@cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @jimineepaboya @somehowukook @stuti2904 @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7

© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[homewardskies]

Deities For Beginners

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Okay... I've been seeing a lot of misinformation and misconceptions regarding deities, so I'd like to contribute a little bit to the conversation. Fyi, this is from the perspective of a polytheist, not a witch!

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

"How do I talk to the Gods/how do I start working with them/how do I ask to work with them?"

Honestly, you don't know, and you don't need to. A lot of people start out obsessed with direct communication and instant gratification. All you need is intention: start praying. Paganism is about building connections and relationships. Those take time. You will learn your Gods. You don't need them to magically manifest in front of you, and I honestly don't recommend divination to "talk" to them, at least until you have enough experience to discern actual interactions from nothing at all.

"Is [insert God] mad at me?"

Have you caused terrible harm to someone intentionally? Have you shown unprecedented levels of hubris? No? Then they aren't. This question is usually a result of the questions from earlier. Just because you don't feel them during your first ritual, or life throws something at you, does not mean the ancient forces of the universe have it out for you. Take your time, recenter yourself, and remember that the Gods hear you and they are there.

"Oh you worship [insert God]? Aren't they...evil?"

No! Hope that helps! Jk jk. The myths are stories that allow us some degree of historical context for how the original practitioners viewed the Gods and what their practice was like. Through their cultural lens, we get a decent picture of what the Gods are like. However, that does not make the myths literal depictions of the Gods, and it's actually a major red flag to treat them as such.

"Are all the Gods just the same few Gods viewed differently by different people?"

So, this is the soft vs. hard polytheism question, and honestly, I personally find soft polytheism (all pantheons are the same God/few Gods in different forms) to be problematic. Are Wodin and Odin the same? Yeah, you could argue that they share a common origin. Are Zeus and Odin the same? No, and you really can't argue that.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Anyways. These are some of the more common questions I'd like to answer. I would love to elaborate if needed! Also, if anyone has other questions, I'll answer to the best of my ability.

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Valentine's double trouble

Heyy guys, I hope you enjoy this Lando x reader x Oscar, since there was a tie on the poll between both of them I decided to include both :) If you want to read more stories of mine here's my masterlist.

Being McLaren’s photographer meant I spent an absurd amount of time with Oscar and Lando. They were always around, always teasing, always hovering a little too close when I was reviewing pictures or adjusting my camera settings.

I wasn’t blind—I knew they both acted a little differently with me, a little softer, a little more protective. But I chalked it up to friendship. Maybe I just didn’t want to read into it too much.

That is, until Valentine’s Day.

I’d just arrived at the motorhome when there was a knock at my door on my office's door. When I opened it, Oscar stood there, shifting awkwardly, a box of chocolates in his hands.

His lips twitched into a nervous smile. “Hey. Uh… I wanted to give you this.” He held out the box, eyes flickering to mine. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Something warm unfurled in my chest. Before I could thank him, another knock sounded.

I blinked, confused, and when I opened the door wider, Lando stood there, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other holding a bouquet of orange flowers. His face brightened when he saw me—then dropped slightly when his gaze landed on Oscar.

“Oh,” he said, forcing a smile. “You’re here.”

Oscar stiffened beside me.

Lando’s grin sharpened as he turned back to me, stepping inside. “Anyway, this is for you.” He held out the bouquet. “Figured you deserved something nice today.”

I hesitated, glancing between them. Oscar’s grip on the chocolate box tightened just slightly.

"Thank you," I said softly, accepting both gifts. The tension in the room was palpable, like an unspoken challenge lingering in the air.

And from that moment on, I started to notice it.

Throughout the evening, they kept finding excuses to linger, offering things that felt too thoughtful to be random. Oscar appeared with my favorite coffee, completely unprompted. Lando conveniently had a spare hoodie when I mentioned feeling cold. A knock on my door later that night revealed a beautifully wrapped perfume from Lando, only for Oscar to show up moments later with a plushie of my favorite animal.

It was so weird that I might have brushed it off as a coincidence if it weren’t for the way they kept glancing at each other when they thought I wasn’t looking.

By midnight, my room was filled with gifts, and they were standing outside my door, voices low but heated.

“She liked it,” I heard Oscar murmur, his voice edged with quiet confidence.

“Yeah?” Lando replied, just as firm. “So did she when I gave mine.”

A pause. A breath.

Then I opened the door.

They both turned to look at me, mid-stare down.

I leaned against the doorframe, tilting my head. “Are you two seriously standing outside my room at one in the morning?”

Oscar cleared his throat. “I—”

Lando rubbed the back of his neck. “We were just—”

I folded my arms, raising an eyebrow. “Just what? Competing over who gives me the best Valentine’s gift?”

They both hesitated. Lando exhaled through his nose, then glanced at Oscar before looking back at me. “It’s not just about the gifts.”

Oscar nodded, jaw tightening slightly before he sighed. “We both like you.” His voice was quieter this time, more hesitant. “And we’ve liked you for a while.”

My lips parted, but no words came out. Heat crept up my neck.

Lando watched me closely, his usual teasing demeanor replaced by something more serious. “I thought maybe you’d notice… but then I saw him acting the same way, and I realized we were both waiting for the right moment.”

My heart pounded.

Oscar took a small step forward, his gaze flickering over my face like he was searching for something. “I didn’t want to say anything because I thought you might like him instead.”

Lando scoffed. “Yeah? Same here.”

I swallowed. This was too much, too sudden—but at the same time, something about it made sense. The stolen glances, the lingering touches, the way they always seemed to look at me when they thought I wasn’t looking at them.

I felt my face heat even more as I toyed with the hem of my sleeve. “I…” I hesitated, then bit my lip. “I like both of you.”

Oscar’s breath hitched.

Lando blinked. “Wait. What?”

I laughed softly, suddenly feeling both flustered and relieved at the same time. “I like you. Both of you.” I looked down for a moment before lifting my gaze. “So instead of fighting over me, why not just… share?”

Silence.

Then, something shifted.

Lando smirked, but there was something darker behind it, something intrigued. “Oh.”

Oscar tilted his head, a small, amused smile playing on his lips. “That’s an interesting idea.”

I stepped back, fingers trailing across Lando’s wrist, then ghosting over Oscar’s hand as I moved. The air between us thickened, the weight of the suggestion settling in.

“Well?” I murmured, voice dripping with invitation.

Lando’s smirk grew.

Oscar exhaled, gaze dark and knowing.

Neither of them hesitated.

The door clicked shut behind them.

And let’s just say… Valentine’s Day ended with more than just chocolates and flowers.

[lyn31]

Zayne Immediate Disorder (Extended)

Summary:

After the Prison Warden, Zayne, of Linkon City help you get away from the prison, yes indeed, what a mess. You thought he'll do the same not long after you get out, oh but how wrong you are... He has different plans in mind.

Ao3 link

Extra/Part 2

CW: Drug use (Frenzy Enhancer), Light dom/sub.

Notes:

Disclaimer: The first half on this fics are mainly from Zayne's new card, Immediate Disorder, which another reason why it's so long.... and I also use some of the line here and there to match the "canon" a bit more but the rest are all mine :) So if you don't want to get spoiler, even when it's not all here, better read his story first, but if you don't mind, go ahead and enjoy! And I would like to thank all my friend for helping me with feedback, I appreciate it very much! :D Shout out to @ccelestara You help me a lot girl!

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

Your flight is delayed until this evening. Thanks to the delay, you receive a call from your ex-subordinate. It’s about the Warden.

All of Linkon is in an uproar because of it.

The Warden, Zayne, is the SSS-Class Praedator, Galen—the serial killer authorities have been pursuing for years.

As the perpetrator was responsible for multiple deaths, Zayne’s trial will take place with all of Linkon watching. A new era is on the horizon, and his execution will mark its beginning.

Why would a serial killer, whom they couldn’t catch for five years, only be exposed now? Unless… You pause, lost in thought.

You take a sharp breath, suddenly struck by a realization you don’t like. Inhaling deeply, you leave your home, slamming the door behind you with more force than intended. Your pace quickens until you break into a run.

You need to see Zayne one last time. You need to hear the truth from him. You need to know—can he truly end everything without regret?

And then without you realizing it, you arrive.

Though no longer an enforcer, flashing your old badge is enough to get you past the unsuspecting guards. You navigate the prison’s corridors along a path you’ve walked countless times before. You make your way to the second floor.

Zayne has shut himself away in the interrogation room—the very same room where the two of you once said your goodbyes.

You push the door open, and there he is—the familiar figure you haven’t seen in a long time.

Hearing you enter, he turns around. His hazel eyes widen for a brief second before settling back into their usual calm gaze.

“I recall you saying you’d be on a plane this morning.”

Holding back a snort, you say, “So you deliberately waited until this evening to release the news. That way, I wouldn’t find out?”

“Your presence here means my plan has failed.”

“Your plan?” Your throat tightens. Your fists clench so tightly that they start to hurt.

“You never intended to survive this. You’ve been planning to end it all… including yourself.”

Looking at you quietly, he says. “Every TV channel, newspaper, and radio station are announcing it. A new era will arrive with the next dawn. Linkon is finally on the right path. The murders and crimes of the past must be erased.”

Zayne shifts his gaze to the side before looking back at you.

“I thought you, as an enforcer, would understand that criminals must be punished for their past deeds.”

Your chest tightens for a brief moment before you speak, your voice steady but weighed down. “The criminal has been punished. The Praedators and ordinary people get to live in peace. Linkon City will enter a new era. But what about you?”

Without waiting for his answer, you take a step closer.

“Zayne, have you gained anything from this?”

Another step. Your fists clench tighter, your breathing grows unsteady. The faint space between you disappears, and your shadow bleeds into his.

“Don’t you want anything in this life? Stop talking about Linkon, the virus, and the solution. I want to know about you, Zayne. Have you ever wanted anything for yourself?”

You release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Zayne watches you for a moment. His voice lowers. “Are you here just to ask me that question?”

You take another step. Now, you’re so close you can practically feel his breath on your skin.

“What if I said yes? Would you answer me then?”

Just as you reach for him, he flinches. A groan escapes him, and his brows furrow.

“You should go,” he says breathlessly, avoiding your gaze.

“No, I won’t leave until you answer me. But Zayne… are you?”

You reach out again, this time feeling the heat of his skin before he pulls away.

He’s  about to go into a frenzy.

“I told you, you should go.” Zayne’s breathing grows ragged. His chest rises and falls rapidly, rattling the chains around his clothes.

“No. I refuse.” You turn toward the door and lock it.

Walking back to him, you scan the room. The interrogation tools from your last visit are still here—including the muzzles and chains.

“They say that when a Praedator goes into a frenzy, the desire to have what they truly want overwhelms them.”

Stepping closer, you ask, “Zayne, have you ever gone into a frenzy before?”

“No.”

He starts to take a step back but stops, steadying his breath. He looks at you. “I know how to control myself.”

“You implanted an activator in yourself, didn’t you?”

At this, his brows furrow slightly—his frustration breaking through his usual stoic expression.

“But that doesn’t mean a Praedator like me won’t harm the person standing in front of them.”

“I won’t become a Praedator.”

“You’ll die.”

“You already ‘killed’ me once before.” The corner of your mouth curls up. “You accused me of trying to assassinate the Warden. I never got the chance to see if I actually could.”

As you speak, you grab a chain from the wall.

"Do you always have to restrain yourself?" You wrap the chain around his wrist.

He scoffs. "Is that what you want me to do?"

"No. At least, that's not what I want right now."

Zayne point out with his gaze at the muzzle on the wall. You take the muzzle and carefully secure it around Zayne’s head. He doesn’t resist.

You hesitate for a moment, watching him. He allows you to restrain him without a fight. A strange feeling settles in your chest—confusion, concern. Why is he letting this happen? That’s what you instinctively think, but you know the answer already.

Then without a word, Zayne grabs another chain and hands it to you. His gaze sharpens, and his breathing grows ragged.

Fastening the chain around his wrist, you hear his low, breathless voice. "If you’re trying to break someone’s chains… don’t be afraid of the danger they’ll bring." Even in this situation, you can still hear his teasing tone.

Trailing your finger from his wrist to his chest, you push him back toward the interrogation chair.

"Wasn’t I supposed to die here anyway?" You smirk hearing your own question.

Near the chair, on a small table, something shiny catches your eye, reflecting the faint light that manages to seep into the closed-off interrogation room. You head toward the table and just miss when Zayne tries to grab you. You push him back down before continuing toward the table.

"You should leave while you still can," He warns, his voice low and more breathless than before.

You pick up the syringe filled with orange liquid from the table—the Frenzy Enhancer and you walk back toward the chair. Zayne’s intense gaze follows your every move.

"You’re only going to hurt yourself more by fighting to stay in control, you know."

Slowly, you place a hand on his shoulder. He shudders under your touch as you trace your fingers from the leather strap on his shoulder to the choker around his neck. Then, with a swift motion, you grab his jaw, forcing his head back to expose more of his neck.

He groans, his eyes flicking to the syringe in your hand.

"…Frenzy Enhancer? You’re going to use that on me?" He scoffs, but you can hear the amusement in his voice, laced with something unreadable.

"Yes. The Warden should be well aware of how it affects the Praedators."

The corner of his lips curls up. He doesn’t even bother hiding his amusement now. His gaze dares you, challenges you.

Without hesitation, you sink the needle into his heated skin, injecting the drug. He groans, and his breathing quickens even more than before. His skin burns even hotter beneath your fingers.

As you step back to give him some breathing room, you say, "Stop holding yourself back. You need to confront your true self."

His breathing grows heavier, each inhale pressing harder against the leather strap bound across his chest. The belt creaks under the pressure, groaning, straining to contain something unstoppable.

His muscles flex, his body straining against the restraint. His breath turns into low, guttural sounds, his entire frame trembling with suppressed force.

Then—a sharp snap.

The leather gives way, splitting apart as his chest heaves forward. The torn strap dangles uselessly at his sides, his breath ragged and uneven. His gaze lifts to you—dark, unrestrained, filled with something dangerous.

Involuntarily, you swallow hard. Slowly, you walk to his other side. His eyes follow your every move, scanning you like a predator sizing up his prey. His gaze sweeps over you—sharp, deliberate, assessing every detail. You meet his eyes, and in that moment, you know.

Taking a bold step directly in front of him, you place your hand on his thigh and kneel right in front of him, your fingers tightening just slightly as you quickly spread his legs apart. His breath hitches, a low gasp slipping past his lips, his chest heaving harder.

"Don’t worry…" you say, your voice calm yet full of intent, "I’ll take good care of you."

His eyes darken, his smirk widening, full of danger and amusement.

"You want me to submit…"

Before you can move, you hear the chains rattle; the sound growing louder as his hand shoots out, gripping your waist and pulling you onto his lap. The sudden shift in position takes you by surprise, and you gasp, your breath hitching in your throat. His lips brush against your ear, his voice low and dangerous. "Let me take what I desire first."

The air shifts—sudden, electric. Then his lips crash into yours with fierce urgency, stealing any coherent thought you might’ve had. You freeze for a split second, your heart hammering in your chest as his breath mingles with yours. The heat from his body sears through the thin fabric between you, making you shiver. His fingers dig into your sides, possessive and firm, as he deepens the kiss, pressing you against him with a force that leaves no space between you.

A soft moan escapes you before you can stop it, and it seems to only spur him on. His teeth graze your bottom lip, the sting making your body react before your mind has time to process. The pull of his kiss shifts from desperate to coaxing, urging you to match his intensity. You reach up, your hand slipping into his hair, fingers tangling in the strands, pulling him closer, desperate for more. The urgency inside you flares, a sharp need that only grows as he deepens the kiss. You’re not sure where he ends and you begin—every nerve in your body is alive, and it's all him.

His other hand tangles in your hair, tugging lightly, sending a different bolt of electricity straight down your spine, and you can feel your whole body arch into him, your chest tight with anticipation. Every touch, every pull seems to unlock something inside you, the heat pooling in your stomach, burning, aching for more. You don’t want to stop, don’t want to pull away.

The kiss is messy and consuming, like he’s starved for it, and you feel that hunger mirroring your own. His tongue sweeps past your lips, claiming everything he wants, but it's not just him—you're just as lost, just as hungry for him. Every breath you take is laced with desire, every beat of your heart screaming for more, and yet, you’re caught in a whirlwind of want, unable to think, unable to pull away.

When he pulls back, his lips hover close, and you can see a wildness in his eyes, filled with raw desire. His voice is barely a whisper, but carries an edge that sends a shiver down your spine. "You should’ve known... submission can be dangerous."

Your pulse is still racing, your breath uneven, and your body tingles with the lingering heat of his touch. You place your hand on his bare chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall beneath your palm, matching the frantic beat of your heart. The raw intensity of his gaze makes your insides tighten with anticipation, a strange mix of fear and longing that twists deep inside you. Then, instinctively, your hand slides up his forearm, fingers grazing the firm muscle, needing to ground yourself.

“Where’s your Activator?” you ask, your voice a little breathless. You try to steady yourself, but it betrays the rush of desire coursing through you.

The moment the words leave your mouth, you catch the glimmer of a smirk that tugs at the corner of his lips, a knowing, teasing expression that sends a jolt through your chest. With a ragged breath, he leans in closer, and before you can react, he grabs your wrist, guiding your hand back to his chest, pressing it against him with an urgency that makes your heart race even faster.

“Why don’t you… touch me and find out?” he murmurs, the words carrying an invitation—and a challenge—that makes everything inside you tighten in hunger. The electricity between you crackles yet again as if he knows just how much you’re aching for him, how much you want to feel him under your fingertips.

Without missing a beat, you move your hand, slowly at first, tracing the curve of his collarbone, your fingers grazing his skin as you feel him tense under your touch. The air between you thickens with the tension. You follow the path down his chest, lingering on his abs as a soft groan escapes him, the sound igniting a pulse of heat between your legs. You catch his gaze, locking onto it, and the rawness of his desire fuels the embers of your own. Your pulse races, your body aching to feel more of him, but you hold the moment—enjoying the power of teasing him just as much as he teases you.

He breathes out in frustration, his voice a low rasp. “You’re teasing me… It’s still not enough…”

So you don’t stop. Your hand keeps moving, creeping below his waistband, your fingers brushing ever so lightly against the growing heat beneath his pants. His breath catches, and your lips curl into a soft, teasing smile. As you raise an eyebrow, you sense the tension shift in him, but he doesn’t back down. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, a silent challenge in his eyes, before leaning in, his lips brushing your ear as his breath sends a shiver through you.

You let out a shaky breath, closing your eyes as his kisses trail down your jaw, down your neck—his lips warm against your skin. Every touch, every kiss from him yet again sends that jolts of electricity that you start to familiar with yet still very exhilarating, making you want him even more. And yet, when your hand continues its descent, feeling the evidence of his desire, growing more demanding beneath your touch, you know he feels the same way as you.

A low groan escapes him when his lips move to your earlobe, nipping it just enough to make your body tremble. You almost lose your focus, distracted by the sensation, but your hand keeps moving. Your fingers graze lower, slowly, but with purpose, pressing against him just enough to make him gasp.

His hand grabs your chin, tilting it upward, and his lips hover over yours for a brief, teasing moment before he nibbles your bottom lip. He pulls back slightly, and his gaze darkens with amusement. “What will you do next?”

Oh you know what you'll do next. With a quick, decisive motion, you push him back, watching the way he almost falls against the chair's backrest. The glint in his eyes tells you he enjoys the challenge just as much as you do, and you feel a surge of excitement at the thought of making him wait.

Your hand moves swiftly from his chest to his waist, fingers finding the firmness of him between his legs. The sudden contact makes him shudder, and you smile as his eyes glaze over, fixating on your chest. Before he can lean in, you push him back again, your other hand placed firmly on his chest, eyes locking with his, silently telling him to wait for his turn.

The moment you break eye contact, a rush of heat floods through your body. No matter how hard you try to play it cool, it’s impossible to ignore the fact that you’re perched on his lap. The heat between your legs only grows hotter, and you have to fight the urge to grind against him. You try to regain control—at least to mask your reaction—locking your gaze with his once more. His want is undeniable, simmering in the charged air between you, and the thrill of holding onto even a sliver of control sends a surge of adrenaline through your veins.

You keep your hand on his chest, fingers brushing over his skin, sending small shocks of electricity through him. You don’t break eye contact. Every small movement, every slight press of your hand on his chest makes the tension grow thick and suffocating, but you relish in it—holding him at bay just a little longer. You feel the control shift, your power growing with each moment you keep him waiting.

Focusing back on the task at hand, you press your palm against him, feeling the heat radiating through his clothes. Slowly, you begin to move your hand, applying enough pressure to tease, but not enough to satisfy. His breathing sharpens, chest rising and falling beneath your touch as he tries to keep his composure.

“Do you like that, Zayne?” you whisper, glancing up at him. His response is a ragged exhale, his knuckles turning white as his grip tightens on the armrest.

You keep the slow rhythm, dragging your hand up and down, making him twitch under your touch with every stroke. Each pass, each movement makes him shudder, even so, you hold back, savoring the power of the moment.

You pull your hand back, the sudden absence making Zayne’s gaze snap to you, his eyes burning with need. You feel the tension in the air shift yet again, but you don’t give him the release he craves. Instead, you grab his choker, tugging him closer. His eyes widen slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. For a brief moment, your gazes lock, tension crackling between you like a live wire. His jaw tightens, and his fingers flex as he tilts his head, silently inviting you to continue.

“You want to break it, don’t you?” Zayne’s voice is breathless, a dare in every word. The challenge hangs between you, a crackling tension that sets every nerve in your body alight with excitement.

You push him back with deliberate force, watching as he leans fully into the chair. The satisfaction of making him wait, of holding the control, sends a rush of heat through you. The choker snaps free in your hand, and you stare at it for a beat, your heart pounding as the moment stretches out. Without a word, you toss it aside. The silence between you deepens, thick and charged with raw tension.

“Patience,” you murmur, your voice low and commanding, each syllable deliberate. Your fingers work the muzzle loose, and as it falls away, he just stares at you—breath ragged, eyes wild with hunger. A mix of nerves and excitement coils in your stomach, sharper than you expected. Even though it’s an open muzzle, seeing him without it now sends a thrill through you.

A slow smirk curves your lips. “Much better.”

He exhales a shaky breath, a grin tugging at his lips. “Impressive,” he says, his voice rough with both admiration and something darker.

“But it’s my turn,” he grunts, the words thick with intent. His grip tightens as he surges forward, claiming the moment with a desperate intensity that steals the air from your lungs.

Before you can react, Zayne’s lips are on yours again, urgent, but this kiss is slower, deliberate—a demand as much as a plea. His lips trail down your jaw, your neck, the curve of your collarbone, every touch igniting a new wave of heat inside you. His tongue flicks against your skin, teasing and tasting, before his teeth follow, nipping just hard enough to make you gasp, your body instinctively arching into him as your hips grind against his thigh in reflex, finally. A low grunt rumbles in his chest, his grip tightening on your waist, urging you to do it again. Heat floods through you, a shuddering breath escaping as the friction sends a fresh wave of pleasure coursing through you.

His hand finds your wrists, yanking them behind your back with swift ease, and you gasp at the sudden restraint. The vulnerability of it, the way he controls you without hesitation, sends a sharp thrill racing down your spine. His grip tightens, holding both your wrists effortlessly with one hand, while his other settles firmly on your waist, fingers digging into your skin as he keeps you locked in place.

His eyes lock onto yours, dark and commanding, as he urges your hips to move again, guiding you with slow, deliberate pressure. "Just like that," he breathes, his voice thick with desire. A shiver courses through you, each roll of your hips sending a rush of heat that leaves you breathless, your body tightening in response to his touch.

Zayne’s mouth is relentless, teasing you with soft, lingering kisses just above your exposed skin, his tongue flicking over the fabric of your shirt, tracing slow, deliberate circles. You shudder, your body reacting, but he refuses to give you what you want. His grip on your wrist behind your back remains firm, the restraint heightening every sensation, making your pulse race even faster. Every near-miss, every brush against your skin makes your body ache with want—his refusal only fuels your desire, making you want to push back against him, to make him feel the same urgency you do.

Then, at last, his lips close around your hardened peak, sucking gently at first, then harder. His teeth graze you, sending a sharp pulse of pleasure straight to your core. You cry out softly, your body trembling in his lap, your wrists straining against his grip, the rawness of the moment pushing you closer to the edge.

Your soft cry draws a ragged groan from Zayne, his breath unsteady, his grip tightening as he struggles to maintain control. But it’s slipping—you feel it in the tremble of his hand on your wrist, in the roughness of his kisses, in the ferocity of his desire.

And then, as if he can’t hold back any longer, Zayne snaps. The hand on your waist jerks away, his fingers wrapping around the chain on his wrist with a brutal tug. The metal gives way with a harsh, violent snap, fragments scattering beside you, the sound almost deafening. His hand is back on you instantly, roaming over your waist with an urgent, almost frantic need that sends a shiver through your entire body. Everything shifts. His control is shattered, his restraint gone, and in that instant, all that’s left is the hunger that burns between you.

His gaze burns into you, intense and untamed, his breath uneven as he draws you between his legs. One hand tangles in your hair, yanking you closer, while the other seizes your waist, guiding you down to the floor with a force that leaves no room for resistance. The raw urgency in his movements, the primal need that drives him now, sends a thrill of excitement coursing through you. Even in the moment's chaos, there’s a flicker of control—just enough to ensure you’re steady beneath him, but it’s the kind of control that makes your pulse race, knowing he’s ready to push you past any limits.

His voice drops, low and thick with heat, as his eyes lock onto yours. “Now, there’s only one thing left to do.” His voice is ragged, barely restrained, each word tumbling out like a need he can no longer contain, sending a shiver straight through you. His gaze never wavers, his intensity pressing down on you like a weight, leaving you breathless and craving what comes next.

For a moment, you do nothing but stare back at him, breath catching in your throat as you feel the weight of his gaze. It’s a challenge, a silent command—and you can feel your body respond to it, every nerve alive with anticipation.

You swallow hard, your eyes dropping to his waist. “So that’s where the Activator is…” you murmur, the words are soft but thick with meaning. Zayne follows your gaze, then drags his eyes back up to your face, to your body, his gaze darkening as he notices the hardened peak beneath your shirt.

Without hesitation, he leans down, capturing it with his mouth. His tongue twirls around you, his lips warm and demanding, making you gasp at the sensation. Your body writhes beneath him, your heart pounding in time with the pulse of need that rises in you.

But you don’t forget what you’re about to do. Your pulse quickens as you shift your knee, pressing just above his waist, feeling the twitch of his body against yours. His breath hitches, muscles flexing beneath your touch, and despite the flutter of nerves in your chest, you smile at his reaction, fully aware of the effect you’re having on him. The tension thickens, the unspoken challenge between you both only growing stronger.

You let your foot graze lower, brushing against his arousal in a teasing move that has him groaning, his grip on you tightening just a fraction as he fights to keep control. The moment his eyes snap open, wild and raw, you know it’s only a matter of time before both of you lose yourselves completely in the overwhelming tension between you.

His breath catches, a deep grunt rumbling from his chest, and his eyes flash with an intensity that makes your body ache with need. “Become my prisoner… or my master,” he says, voice low and deliberate. Each word tastes of a challenge, an invitation—and you feel every ounce of it.

The wicked smile that curls on your lips matches his as you reach up, wrapping your hand around his neck, and pulling him closer. The heat of his breath against your skin sends a shiver through you, and the connection between you becomes even more undeniable, more electric.

“You can never… leave me,” he murmurs, his voice rough and unsteady as his lips brush over yours.

The kiss starts slow, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. The pressure between you—too much, too overwhelming after everything that’s led to this moment—pushes you both into something more. The kiss deepens, urgent and desperate, a clash of lips and tongues as you both crave the release that’s been building.

His hands tighten on your waist, pulling you closer, his body molding to yours as your mouths crash together again and again, hungry for more. Your hips instinctively grind against him, a steady rhythm driven by raw need, and the weight of his body above you only fuels the urgency. The heat, the tension, the desire—every inch of him presses you against the floor, every movement igniting a fire that spreads through your body.

Zayne’s fingers trail down your spine, gripping your hips harder, holding you in place as he pushes you into him with more force, guiding your grinding motion with growing urgency. You can feel the heat radiating between you, the pulse of desire making every second more intense than the last, every touch heightening the ache that has taken over you both.

Breathless, Zayne breaks the kiss, his forehead resting against yours for a moment. His chest rises and falls heavily, his eyes dark with hunger. His hands move lower, gripping your thighs, guiding you—slow but sure—as his lips find yours again in a kiss that’s fierce and insistent.

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

Winter returns once more.

As you watch the light snow falling outside your window, it dawns on you: another year has passed since you and Zayne last parted ways in that interrogation room.

In the aftermath of that day, you walked away alone. The bitter truth that you couldn’t take him with you… You’d known that all along.

Even when he confessed that you were what he wanted, it wouldn’t have stopped him. Zayne has always been this way. Deep down, you’ve known it from the start.

After moving to this small town, you severed almost all ties with Linkon City. You made a conscious effort to avoid any news about him. You convinced yourself that if you didn’t see anything about him, you wouldn’t think about him anymore.

Then this morning, someone mentioned that a new doctor had opened a small clinic called Akso just a few blocks away. The moment you hear the clinic's name, your thoughts immediately go to a certain vet clinic with the same name—and a familiar doctor who became the prison’s warden. The person you’ve been trying to forget for a year. Zayne.

So, of course, you rush home, snatch your pet turtle from its cozy sunbathing spot, and dash off to Akso.

Arriving at the clinic, you push open the door, breathless from your frantic run. After a year apart, the silhouette you’ve yearned for stands right before you.

He turns to you with his usual calm demeanor. “What is it?” he asks, though the corner of his mouth twitches ever so slightly.

Without a second thought, you place your pet turtle on the nearest table and rush toward him, wrapping your arms around him in a crushing hug. Then you pull back just enough to crash your lips against his. Before he can even react, you pull away again, eyes wide, your cheeks burning.

He chuckles softly, his eyes glinting with amusement.

Avoiding his gaze, you scoop up your pet turtle and cough lightly. “Dr. Zayne, I think my pet turtle might be sick. It’s been really lethargic. It doesn’t even want to sunbathe anymore. Can you take a look at it?”

Trying to hide your embarrassment—and your excitement—you straighten your posture and meet his eyes. His amusement is obvious. He’s trying not to laugh.

“Miss, this clinic only treats human patients,” he says, his smirk growing wider.

Your face burns up again. You bite your lower lip and close your eyes, mortified...

That’s when you hear his footsteps approach. You open your eyes to find him standing right in front of you, gently taking your hand in his.

Then, something rare—a smile curves on his lips, soft and unguarded. It’s fleeting but real, and you can’t help but mirror it. Your heart skips, and for a second, the tension feels lighter, almost electric. You suppose he’s just as excited as you.

You clear your throat, trying to regain a bit of control. “...I see” His smile grows, contagious and impossible to ignore.

“Well,” you say, this time with more confidence, “I think I’m coming down with something. Would you mind giving me a check-up?”

He holds your gaze, bringing your hand to his lips. “I don’t think this is how I’m supposed to treat my patients.” His voice drops slightly, warm and low, the flicker of desire in his eyes unmistakable.

He steps closer, his breath warm against your ear. “But for you… I might make an exception.”

Your heart races as he pulls back, his smirk sharp and teasing. He releases your hand, turning toward the hallway.

“Follow me, Miss,” he says, the slightest smirk playing at his lips.

As you follow him, your pulse quickening, you realize this is the treatment you’ve been waiting for—especially with Dr. Zayne.

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

Notes:

Pstttt there's another extended of the extended version! here

[crest-fallen-0]

Ok this is a bit insane so hear me out but -BSD fandom. I’ve always had this hc of Dazai’s inhumanity, one which is very unpopular. For years. But hear me out, it’s what makes him so compelling.

Inter-dimensionality is something that BSD interacts with frequently. There is a consistent reappearance of reality’s moldability in a meta way, making the reader a literal part of the plot. “The book” is the literal text of BSD.

If the book exists as more than a janky mechanic within the story, then there is some level of shallowness and distortion about their world. Things like death aren’t always permanent, premonition and uncanny future telling are possible, and the concept of the book implies the existence of a destiny in the plot, (or a predetermined outcome), sometimes paradoxically. What is written will happen, and what will happen will be written. The concept of time and of consequence literally exist as an object within this universe. ‘Fate’ or ‘destiny’ can be physically held.

Dazai has been criticized for always knowing things, for having an unreasonable level of foresight about the plot. This is usually attributed to his smarts, but it goes a bit beyond that, and beyond pattern recognition. A good way to see this is to compare him to Ranpo. The two seem to be operating with different tools. Ranpo is almost a little unsettled by Dazai (and Fyodor).

Dazai shows a level of emotional premonition and mastering of reality that’s freaky.

My theory is that this “plot armor” is an actual type of tool used by characters within the story, is their sort of connection with the fabric of the shallow universe (or the pages of the book). This is another layer of interaction with reality that Dazai especially (although sometimes others) have.

Add this to Dazai’s character traits, especially in the manga. He sort of deftly moves the pieces, and we get the sense that this is purposeful. He doesn’t seem to ostensibly do anything besides make outrageous plans which always work, he cannot fight reliably nor really deduce well on the spot (or he never does this out loud), yet, whenever he is around, everything sort of peacefully moves where it should. He has to be forcefully removed from the plot in order to cause the maximum amount of drama in more arcs than not. I think we’re supposed to believe that Fyodor (who is the only one approaching Dazai in this otherworldly aura), against the ADA (without Dazai) would win, and Dazai against the DOA (without Fyodor) would win. Ranpo can see things, but he is ultimately sort of helpless to this progression, whereas Dazai and Fyodor sit above. Everything is in their game of chess.

I believe Dazai is also emotionally unrealistic for a human portrayal, and this is where I’m gonna get flayed, especially because I don’t have the space to go into every detail (maybe later). He seems emotionally distanced from every but a select few characters. His relationship with Atsushi feels a bit groomy (as in the creation of a tool rather than sexually).

I feel Dazai is fundamentally bored. He is a character, despite all of his control, of unfulfilled desire. He wants to die, he desires it in his pursuit of pleasure, but he cannot, in an unsettlingly supernatural way (when removed from the bit). He says, “Everything worth wanting is lost the moment I obtain it.”

He is ultimately active, and acting (in a fundamental sense), but he wants to be acted upon. He enjoys being yelled at, causing anger, he seems to preen under fury, he likes to flirt with the edge, and it never seems to quite take him. His plans are outrageous because they always seem to deliver him into the arms of death, just from something to pull him away at the last minute (often Chuuya) .

Anyways, don’t murder me, just scroll pls TT.

[honey-dewwrites]

Okay Imma say this one lil thing and then I'm going to bed cuz its low-key way pass my bedtime, but I'm having ptsd flashbacks of this fanfic I read like years ago. It was set during those ten years in-between the hidden inventory arc and JJK 0 where Getou and Gojo meet again and it was about how sometimes, people that Getou would get close to would make the mistake of thinking that they could replace Gojo in some way and usually that would end with them not being seen or heard from again. And then I thought about another fanfic where Gojo and Getou would meet up once a year and how during one of those meet-ups Gojo confronts Getou because Getou cheated on him( even though they weren't talking/seeing each other for obvious reasons).

Anyway I say all this to say; Pop Star Gojo x Rock Star Getou except they are exs and Getou and Gojo keep having their relationship thrown in their face because seemingly Getou has moved as he’s been spotted with multiple different people and Gojo has been spotted with none. No one knows why they broke up either, and both parties are surprisingly tight-lipped about it, keeping the whole reason behind it under wraps. The fun part would be that the people Getou is seeing somehow think they’ve got the one up on Gojo because they are sleeping with his ex and some even speculate that the reason behind their break up was because Getou cheated and that makes some of the people Getou sleeps with feel special in some way.

So the whole story would probably be going back and forth between the past and present in order to fully paint the picture of why they didn’t work, why they broke up and then how they get back together, because I’m a softie and all of my stories need to have a happy endings.

Anyway, yap session over. Goodnight 💤

[c-jay-s-head-canons-only]

This is my idea. We don't see it in the show, but for an AU I think it'd be pretty great.

The Silver-Eyed Warriors (Official Information from the RWBY Wiki)

Silver-Eyed Warriors are an ancient lineage of legendary warriors who possessed special abilities through the usage of their eyes. Their power destroys Grimm and is believed to originate from the God of Light.

With most of the information on the Silver-Eyes largely rooted in myths and legends, true accounts or knowledge of their powers are difficult to find.

The most consistent of traits among these stories are that the eyes themselves are special, and the people who possess them are fighters of unprecedented prowess.

Silver-Eyed Warriors are a lineage group whose origins predates the establishment of both Huntsmen and Kingdoms. According to legend, those born with silver eyes are said to be destined to lead the life of a warrior. Silver eyes themselves are an extremely rare trait in the modern world.

Silver-Eyed Warriors have powers that are fueled by strong desires to preserve life.

As preservation is considered an extension of creation, Silver Eyes work against Grimm, as they are manifestations of destruction. Legend has it that Silver-Eyed Warriors are able to strike down Grimm with a single look.

Exactly how the powers manifest is not known beyond the fact that blinding streams of light, almost resembling wings, or a radial flash of light can come from the wielder's eyes.

Because the power can only activate in the presence of Grimm, it is difficult to train to use outside of in the face real danger.

However, one can create a state of mind to tap into when the power is needed.

Silver eyes have small white lines in the iris, which is a detail that no other eyes have. This serves as a good indicator of the difference between silver and gray eyes.

Personal Head Canon

(My own ideas begin here)

However, several centuries prior, they were born in abundance.

When the Brother of Light saw that the Brother of Darkness had created the Creatures of Grimm, he knew he had to act fast; and unto his human creations, he bestowed this power. Upon the meeker few were these powers secretly distributed – Eyes of Silver Light, they were once known – and the instruction of how to use it as well.

The power varied from human to human, as – although made equal – not very many of them could take the mental and physical strain of the Light. Many of those who had, often suffered from fainting fits and in the worst cases, entering a state of comatose not waking for any period of time.

Although plentiful once upon a time, the most able Warriors who wielded the Light were few in number. Despite having been provided with instruction to use the power, not many were able to so easily; people being so different as they are (instruction for one may work, but not for another).

This meant that even though there were many humans born with Silver Eyes, the majority of them lived with their power lying dormant, and didn’t truly know how to use them.

It wasn’t uncommon to find anywhere from two to three out of ten people who knew the significance of their eyes’ powers, and those of them who didn’t know would lead decidedly boring lives, always thinking deep down that they were meant for something more.

Importantly, the potency of those who could effortlessly use the Silver Light also varied – this would usually be indicated by the shade of silver their eyes were. The brighter the shade, the stronger the effect.

As previously explained, activation of the Silver Light varied from person to person, however, those who tried it out for the first time noted that they’d had to find their truth (the heart from where all power comes) before moving forward with the power readily available. This did include creating a state of mind where the Light could be instantly tapped into.

When activated in the face of ‘Darkness’, the Creatures of Grimm are stopped dead in their tracks. The manner of how depends on the user eyes – as previously stated – the dullest shade of silver will gradually petrify the Grimm, whereas the brightest shade will instantly incinerate them.

Those who are in between – the Pure Silver Eyes – are given more leeway; the ‘varying shades’ are only able to “Petrify or Petrifry”.

PSE’s can easily do both, though the choice is sometimes affected by the wielder’s emotions at the time of its use. Should the wielder feel agitated or enraged, the Grimm will either be turned to stone from the inside out, or stripped-down atom-by-atom to ashes.

The Acolytes of Silver Light

The Acolytes of Silver Light were a mysterious group that vanished long before the start of The Great War. They were a famous band of nomads who, no matter where they went, seemed to have no trouble when wandering around outside of the Four Kingdoms. They seldom carried weapons, apart from the odd dagger or – oddly enough – a slingshot. Although, it was not unusual to see them defending themselves with a walking stick if push came to shove.

It was rumored that they lived predominantly in Eastern Vacuo, though traces of their home base, if they ever had one, have never been found. They were a strangely elusive people, and tended to keep to themselves; often walking around wearing simple clothes under cloaks with long hoods that extended down to or sometimes past their noses, or even masks made from bone or Grimm Ivory to hide their eyes.

Now, this is highly subject to speculation; but it is more than likely that the Acolytes were actually Silver Eyed Warriors of varying shades, who simply travelled wherever they pleased. Most people believed this, as the only troubles they ever seemed to encounter were Bandits or Pirates – the usual story the nomads would use upon entering a village if injured.

The Acolytes were also notoriously peaceful people, they never asked for trouble and even accepted any Faunus into their group. They defended themselves with their wooden walking sticks, and each member had one of their own. They believed in pacifism and ridding desire from one’s heart – despite this, they remained compassionate to all they encountered.

Grimm Searing Blades

According to Legend, there exists a place where the Light of the greatest Silver Eyed Warriors was distilled into an oasis, creating the purest water on Remnant. Some Huntsmen and many Priests dubbed it ‘Silver Water’, and pilgrimages are sometimes carried out to this elusive oasis simply to collect small vials of it.

The distillation process remains a mystery, however it is likely that simply shining the Light into the spring thoroughly purifies it into what most religious people would consider ‘Holy Water’.

It remains unclear whether or not the Acolytes of Silver Light began this tradition later on, but it is plausible that the effectiveness of these weapons was mostly attributed to their defense against the Creatures of Grimm. While these weapons were effective on their own, they were truly flourishing when in the presence of a Silver Eyed Warrior, regardless of what shade they possessed; as the Light directly from its source was fiercely potent.

Naturally, this was only possible when utilized against The Creatures of Grimm, as Human opponents would simply be blinded by the light and not injured. Over time, their reputation built up, Huntsmen began calling these weapons: Grimm Searing Blades, and they were highly sought after before The Great War.

According to Another Legend, when the sword: Crocea Mors was being forged, it was tempered in Silver Water, and the blade itself was further blessed to never dull by Priests and The Acolytes of Silver Light; hence why the Creatures of Grimm seem to begin disintegrating even if the blow they take is glancing. Interestingly, the Shield was also tempered in Silver Water, and exhibits an ability similar to that of a Silver Eyed Warrior when Aura is pumped into it.

Although this is hardly a surprise, as tempering of steel weapons in Silver Water was instrumental for creating the tools to combat the Grimm, which was long before the Rise of the Maidens. Although it is interesting to consider that Crocea Mors might be the very last Grimm Searing Blade left on Remnant.

Factually, the only Grimm Searing Blades that existed before The Great War were three swords once owned by a noble family – Exalted Descendant, Fallen Avenger, and a blade of which the name has since been forgotten. The whereabouts of these blades remain unknown, but it is possible that the Arc Family did in fact possess this weapon at one point; whether they still have the relic remains to be seen.

I do intend to make Crocea Mors one of these blades

If crocea mors was a magical sword what abilities would it have?

Concept. Crocea mors is a fairy weapon in the same vein as the knights of the round table.

Having been forged for the arcs it fuses with their soul allowing them to bring it fourth from their aura at will and return it to their souls for easy transport.

The sword is all about standing out and so it boosts the inherent charisma of it's weilder acting as a badge of office. Then makes all physical parameters match the newly enhanced charisma.

The more self confident the more powerful you become.

Any other ideas?