#because seeing him over a screen is better than not seeing him at all

[clockwayswrites]

Birb.... back?! Part 36

masterpost am sick, be kind

finally unstuck this!

By later afternoon, Bruce was officially worried. Even with Lian put down for a nap, Danny was no where to be found. Bruce had been telling himself that Danny was making himself scarce because of the active toddler, but even that felt flimsy with how fondly Danny spoke of his own niece. Though of course, that was without wings in play.

Maybe Danny was trying to avoid having his feathers pulled on.

Maybe Danny was afraid of himself.

“Alfred, have you seen Danny?”

“No sir,” Alfred said as he looked up from the dinner he was preparing. “Perhaps he went with Master Damian to help at the animal shelter?”

Bruce shook his head. “I’ve already checked. Tim, Cass, and Steph are still out. Duke just got home. Dick went with Jason, much to Jason’s annoyance.”

“He did remind to text me as much, as they may not make it back for dinner,” Alfred said. “But it remains that I have not seen Danny. He never came round for lunch, either.”

Bruce gave a little hum to show he heard the concerning news. That was far more than simply avoiding a toddler. He went over to the phone in the kitchen that Alfred still insisted on having and pulled down the false panel next to it. On the revealed screen, Bruce went through the biometric log in process: meant to be as quick as it was secure. As soon as he was in the system, Bruce activated the infared camera for the Manor and surrounding land.

Him and Alfred in the kitchen, Lian in her room, various pets, Duke in the study having just come up from the Cave…

There.

Bruce closed out of the system, made sure it was all the way out, and closed the panel up before he headed off. The only other human sized signature (and at least it was human sized), was in the guest wing. It was tucked away in some shuttered an unused lounge. It had to be Danny.

Not wanting to startle Danny, Bruce gave a soft knock on the door before he opened it and slipped inside. The room was still in that way only a room that hadn’t been used for decades could get. The furniture was cloth covered, the valuable and useful items all moved to other rooms where they would be looked after. The rest was just there like ghosts of Wayne Manor past. The only disturbance to the room was the drape of the window seat, just barely pulled back where it was pushed open by Danny’s knees.

“Danny?” Bruce asked. He worked to cross the room as carefully as Danny had. Not a cloth was disturbed.

“Do you think Alfred would have the time to drive me back to my apartment before dinner?” Danny asked. His voice calm in a way that felt detached. He didn’t look towards Bruce. “I should… get back. I should check on my plants. I should do some work. I’m sure that in this case Lucius would understand me keeping some awkward hours, but I should get back to it.”

Bruce continued to slowly cross the room. He sat against the arm of a cloth covered chair across from the window. Danny was back lit by the light, making him hard for Bruce to see. “I’m sure Lucius would understand you taking more time if you need it.”

Danny just gave a soft hum.

“If you really want to go back home, I can drive you back,” Bruce said. “Though I assure you that there’s no rush to leave from our side.”

“You’re supposed to be spending time with your granddaughter,” Danny said. There was an off warble to his words.

“She’s napping and will be out for another hour at least. Structured rest time is apparently very important for toddlers,” Bruce said, still amused at the lecture that he had gotten from Jason on it all.

“Structure helps them know what to expect so that they can better cope with the day at an age where they are constantly experiencing new events and sensations,” Danny parroted back. Apparently he had some lectures of his own.

“Your sister and niece,” Bruce said with a little nod. “You can of course do whatever you feel most comfortable doing, but I did a bit expect to see you around with Lian some today.”

That was the wrong thing to say, by Danny’s slight flinch, or maybe the right thing to say for getting to the bottom of what was wrong.

Danny wrung his hands. “I didn’t… Jason didn’t…”

When Danny seemed unable (or at least unwilling) to continue, Bruce reached out his hand. It felt like reaching across a divide. It was a relief when Danny reached back.

Gently, Bruce curled his hand around Danny’s, mindful of the overly sharp fingernails. He brushed his thumb over the dusting of fine feathers there. A thousand variables spun through his mind about why Danny was continuing to change now and what could be done about it.

“Jason is worried I could hurt Lian,” Danny explained in that same detached voice. “And when this happens… it’s easy to see why he fears that.”

“That’s less about you, I think, and more about things that Jason fears most,” Bruce said. “When Jason… when he was dead to us, it was because I failed him.”

“Bruce—”

“No, it’s true,” Bruce said with a shake of his head. “I was trying to protect him. Protect him from the world and the ugliness of things and his own anger… but I did it poorly. I didn’t know I needed to explain myself or where to even start. And that led into him trying to find his birth mother and—well, everything else. Lian may not be his, not yet, but it’s really just time. And I think that Jason’s biggest fear is to fail to protect her. It makes him overly cautious.”

“But is he wrong?” Danny asked.

“Yes,” Bruce answered without hesitation.

Danny snorted. “Such easy belief.”

“When did this happen?” Bruce asked. He ran his fingers over Danny’s taloned fingers to make it clear what he was asking.

“…when I got how afraid of me Jason was.”

Bruce “When you saw yourself as a monster because of it. Perhaps a bit of a self fulfilling prophecy then?”

Danny gave a tired little snort. “You and my doctor would have a grand time talking about the psychology of this whole change.”

“Well, I’m a fan of psychology. It helped save my relationships with my family,” Bruce said. “But for what it’s worth? This? Your hands? That doesn’t make you a monster.”

“Doesn’t it?” Danny asked.

“No,” Bruce said before he brought the hand up to press a kiss to it. “Now, if you really want to go home, I’ll take you, but don’t go because you’re running.”

Danny gave an over the top sigh. “No?”

“No,” Bruce said with a little smile.

“Okay. I’ll stay at least through the night,” Danny agreed, “but I do think that I should go back tomorrow. I should check on my plants, check on work, take some time to just… think.”

“That sounds like a much better plan. As does getting out of this room.” Bruce stood, Danny’s hand still in his. “Alfred would hate to know that you were in a room that wasn’t properly set up.”

“Oh, well, for Alfred then,” Danny said as he stood and let Bruce lead him from the gloomy room.

“Of course, for Alfred.”

[kingkaisen]

CRUEL — Satoru G.

♡ — 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: He screwed up. He knew he was going to die soon. Desperate to hear your voice just one last time, Satoru decides to call you.

♡ — 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓: 18+ only || heavy angst, character death, descriptions of blood and injuries, brief mention of smut, canonverse, friends to lovers…

♡ — 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2K

♡ — 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: (Spoiler warning) just to clarify, this does not follow the way Gojo died in the manga!

As Satoru Gojo stared at the bright stars in the night sky, a sad smile formed on his blood-coated, dry lips.

This death was cruel.

Not just the nature of it — his internal organs scrambled to hell, holes decorating his body, or rather, what was left of it, leaving him no choice but to lay in a pool of his own blood that turned the back of his messy white hair crimson red — but the one thing Satoru often silently prayed to a god for, to the universe, to whoever was listening, was to not die alone. Please.

But no one was around. Even the uncut grass surrounding him that would serve as his place of death was void of insects.

How cruel.

It was his fault.

A team of the strongest special-grade curses and curse users he had ever seen ambushed him in what was clearly a thoroughly planned attack. After all, they couldn’t beat him with their own strength and power. Satoru Gojo was the strongest for a reason. But they knew about his weakness: you, his best friend.

One of the curse users started spouting off personal information they had gathered about you. Your full name. Your address. They even bothered to mention how you’d often go to the grocery store every Thursday evening.

Next came the threats — the brutal, unspeakable death they wanted to subject you to.

Satoru should have known better than to lose his temper. He knew — he knew — those bastards just wanted to get him all riled up, but his better instincts fled his exhausted brain and nothing was left except burning rage.

Adrenaline worked in his favor at first. He killed them all.

But he was careless with his own life, leaving himself open to attack. And now, here he was, paying the ultimate price. Dying, and dying alone.

Cruel.

Satoru didn’t understand why he was searching around for his phone at first, patting his ripped, wet clothes. The thing was bound to be broken or soaked in his own blood by now, rendering it useless, but it was worth a shot.

Pulling it out of his right pocket made him all too aware that most of his right leg was missing. But he couldn’t think about that right now. His final thoughts wouldn’t be centered around great concern over his own body, or rather, what was left of it. They would be centered around you.

His blurry blue eyes stared at the cracked phone screen he held above his face. His finger clicked the power button, and when he saw that dull screen flicker to life, he figured that perhaps, in some sick twisted way, his prayers had been answered.

Trying to find your contact was pure hell. He could hardly see, which pissed him off greatly, because he wanted to soak in every photographed detail of the picture you and him took at the Cherry Blossom Festival last spring that served as his home and lock screen.

It would be his last time seeing that bright smile of yours. It would be his last time remembering the sweet treats you both shared. He’d always let you have the last bite.

“Why didn’t I kiss her that day?” Satoru thought. “Why haven’t I kissed her at all? What the hell is wrong with me?”

A tear rolled down Satoru’s bruised cheek. The thought of dying without having kissed you was unbearable. He had found himself in the perfect First Kiss Scenarios several times but chickened out at the last minute, thinking that he had time . . . time to build up the courage to ask you to be his. To turn a friendship into something greater.

But it was too late now.

It wasn’t fair.

He couldn’t die yet, he couldn’t. He fucking couldn’t. He didn’t want to. Not when he hadn’t yet told you he was in love with you. Not when his lips haven’t touched your soft ones in a deep, passionate kiss. He imagined it quite often. Pulling you close, his hands either on your waist or cradling your breathtaking face. The kiss would last until your lungs burned from a lack of significant air, or until both of your unwavering urges to smile interrupted it.

He hadn’t touched your body beyond the regular, friendly ‘hey, how are you?’ hugs and your cuddling sessions on the couch during monthly movie nights. What would it have been like? To have your warm figure underneath him, your faces inches apart, as you moaned his name softly?

Perhaps, having sex with you would spell the difference between hooking up with someone versus making love, because when he closed his eyes at night and imagined your first time together, those sinful thoughts were lust-filled, that much was true, but at its core, they were romantic. He vividly pictured the sight of your stunning eyes. Holding your hand during. Running a warm bubble bath for you afterward. All of those little, heart-warming things; he imagined it more than the sex itself.

But it was too late now.

It wasn’t fair.

At the very least, he hoped he could hear your voice one last time. You truly loved to ramble. Hearing you go on, on, and on about whatever crossed your mind was one of the circumstances that made him fall for you, as it always made his heart skip a beat.

Now, he wanted to hear you go on, on, and on about whatever crossed your mind as his heart started to give out.

Satoru dialed your number, pressed the speaker button, and rested his phone on his slow-rising chest. He waited. After a couple of rings, your voice, filled with blissful unawareness, came through his phone.

“Damn it, ‘Toru. Your phone call made me lose my game,” you said playfully. “What’s up?”

“Sorry.” Satoru’s voice was hoarse. Lower than usual. Lacking its usual enthusiastic tone.

“You okay?” You asked worriedly.

“I’m fine . . . just woke up from a nap . . . is all.”

“At this hour? It’s almost time for bed!” You paused. Satoru could hear you sip something — must’ve been another cup of that new, flavored tea you purchased last week and raved about on a daily basis, he guessed.

Continuing on, you said, “Well, anyway, if you want some company, you could come over and spend the night. You were coming over tomorrow for dinner anyway.”

“I won’t be able to make it.” A string of blood slipped from Satoru’s mouth as he spoke.

“Oh, well, no worries. You’re still coming tomorrow then, right? I got everything we need to try to make noodles from scratch. You wouldn’t believe how long the line was at the grocery store today. This lady tried to cut in front of me, claiming she had ice cream or something, and I was like, boo-fucking-hoo, I have ice cream too. I let her cut in front of me though ‘cause she handed me five dollars. That’s just how long the line was. People were paying other people to get in front of them. Let that sink in. Crazy, right?”

That was right. It was Thursday. Your favorite shopping day. If Satoru had the energy, he’d smile at the thought of you strolling around a store, smiling happily at the sight of your favorite snacks being on sale.

“Tell me more about . . . about your day,” Satoru asked weakly. He wanted to hear your voice. He had to hear you ramble to him, just one last time. God, he loved it more than anything.

“Hmm,” you shuffled around a bit. “Well, I didn’t do much. Aside from grocery shopping, I spent some time playing that game I told you about, walking around town, um, that’s about it I think. Oh! I found this cute shop selling mochi! I bought you some. It was a brand-new shop too. It still smells like fresh paint in there. The owner was nice as well. There was this other place selling lemon milk, which sounds kinda gross, but it’s basically just creamy lemonade I think, but I could be wrong. I think I’ll let you waste your money and try it before I do, just in case it’s disgusting. But yeah, that was my day. How was yours?”

“I’ve had better days. I don’t really . . .”

Satoru was cut off by his own choking. He coughed, then coughed again, coating his chin with that crimson-red fluid.

“‘Toru? Are you sure you’re okay? Are you sick or something? Is that why you took a nap?”

“Don’t you worry about me,” Satoru whispered.

He wasn’t certain you heard him at first, as you were quiet for a brief moment.

“No, no, I’m gonna worry about you. I’m always gonna worry about you,” you said. This time, it was Satoru’s turn to meet your words with silence.

“‘Toru?” You called out.

He tried to speak. He wanted to. But he could only cough and choke. Choke and cough.

“Okay, I’m on my way to your house. You sound horrible, like when someone’s drinking water and it goes down the wrong pipe, you know?”

“I’m not home,” Satoru responded.

“Where are you then?”

He could hear the worry in your voice.

“Satoru, where the hell are you? What’s going on?”

He coughed. More crimson-red.

“Okay, that’s it. I’m checking your location. You’re scaring me right now.” You paused for a moment, and when you spoke again, your voice was distant. Satoru gathered that you had put him on speaker as you checked your phone for his whereabouts. “You’re . . . it looks like you’re in the middle of nowhere. I’m on my way. What exactly happened? Were you walking to the store or something and passed out? When I get there, you’re going straight to the ER, I don’t care if you just have a small cold-”

“I’ll be dead by the time you get here, sweetie.”

The silence that followed his words snapped his slow-beating heart into pieces, because just as his heart was shattered, your world was as well, and he couldn’t stand being the reason for your suffering.

Another tear fell from his blue eyes, splattering onto the grass below him.

“I’m sorry. I’m so . . . sorry. I just wanted to keep you safe-” Satoru coughed again.

“You’re messing with me, right? This is some sort of prank or-or sick joke?” Your shaky voice softened. “Right?”

Satoru stared at the luminous stars above. They reminded him of you. Bright and pretty.

“Look up. The stars are bright and pretty like my sweetie,” he once said to you amidst a late-night walk.

You gave him a goofy grin that matched his own, swatting at the hand he pinched your cheek with. “Stop it, that’s the cheesiest shit I’ve ever heard. And it doesn’t even rhyme.”

“Yeah it does, depending on how you say the word pretty. I’m the poet-in-the-making here.”

“It doesn’t rhyme, you fool.”

The corner of Satoru’s lips twitched as if his soul wanted him to smile at the memory. But he refused to waste his dwindling strength on smiling. He needed his strength for something else right now: to tell his sweetie the truth.

Because, damn it all, he refused to die without you knowing how he truly felt about you. It was the best he could do, seeing as he would never, ever get the chance to kiss you.

How cruel.

“Listen . . . I know we’re just friends, but . . . I’m in love with you. I wish I told you sooner, sweetie. But I kept it to myself ‘cause . . . I didn’t wanna fall in love with you. Loving someone means having someone you could lose, and the thought of losing you killed me . . . I couldn’t handle it. But now, there’s nothing about you that I don’t love. You don’t know what your smile does to me. And I could listen to you talk for hours, nonstop. I’m pretty sure I already have. I love hearing your awful jokes, and hearing you sing, even when you’re out of tune. It still sounds perfect . . . to me. I love the little frown you make when you can’t make decisions . . . the way your eyebrows would pinch together . . . then you’d always a-ask me. What milk to buy . . . if you should mop first or do laundry first . . . what to have for lunch. God, you’re just so-” Satoru coughed. Crimson red.

“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. I know you never believe me when I tell you that, but you are. My eyes weren’t prepared to handle the sight of your pretty face the first time we met. I had a headache for three days. Three days. I swear it’s the truth. That’s just how gorgeous you are to me. And I wish I could see you one last time. No . . . no I wish . . . I wish I could’ve kissed you. I’ll never get the chance now, not in this life at least. I don’t know h-how any of this . . . afterlife mess works, but I hope . . . I’ll get to see you again. I really . . . I really . . . I re . . .”

His words were becoming incomprehensible. His eyelids felt heavy. The twinkling stars above seemed less like stars, but blobs of fuzzy light.

“Satoru? Please, keep talking. I need you to keep talking,” you said.

He could hear the rumbling engine of your car through the phone.

“. . . Trying,” Satoru mumbled, though uttering that word? It took more energy than it should have.

“This can’t be happening. Not you, ‘Toru, not you. I can’t lose you. I-I won’t be able to handle it . . . I can’t handle it.”

He heard you sniffle as you started to cry. He could imagine the tears streaming down the soft cheeks he wanted to stroke and kiss so desperately.

“Satoru?” You called out urgently when he didn’t respond.

“I’m here,” he whispered, but the words that rolled off of his red tongue were so low, you couldn’t hear him. He wanted to scream it, but he couldn’t speak above that pathetic whisper so easily carried away by the brisk wind.

How cruel.

“Come on, Satoru! Don’t do this to me. Please don’t do this to me,” you cried. “Please don’t die, don’t do this to me . . .”

Satoru closed his eyes — an act that wasn’t of his own choosing.

It felt as if he was falling asleep. Falling asleep while floating in a pool or lake. But, in reality, he was dying in a pool of his own blood.

—

“‘Toru!”

The loud shout of his name made his eyes snap open.

Just how much time had passed?

He wasn’t staring at the stars above, but at you, his sweetie. Your face was right above his.

His breathing sped up. His heartbeat quickened at the sight of you, and more and more uncountable tears fell from his eyes. The sight of you alone was quite literally taking his breath away.

“Oh my god. I found you,” you fell to your knees in the blood-soaked grass, pulling his head in your lap as gently as you could. “The ambulance is right behind me. They can fix this, right?”

“You’re . . . here,” Satoru whispered. You leaned down, turning your head to the side until your ear was practically pressed against his lips, trying to hear his barely audible words. “I won’t . . . die . . . alone.”

“That’s right. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere,” you sniffled. You turned your head, your eyes staring at his lips.

You kissed them without a thought. Damn the blood, damn it all — this was not how you wanted your first kiss with your best friend to go, but you knew from his confession that it was his dying wish. You could feel Satoru use his little energy to kiss you back with as much passion as a dying man could. Your tears splattered against his cheeks.

When you pulled away and moved back a smidge, your face only an inch away from his, you whispered, “And I love you too. Do you hear me?”

His messy white hair — no, it was practically red now, crimson red — shifted as he nodded weakly, his hair tickling your face.

“Can you . . .” Satoru paused. You turned your head yet again, almost ear to lip. He tried to speak once more. “Can you . . . talk to me?”

“About what?”

“Anything,” he coughed. His blood sprayed across your cheek and nose. Crimson red. “Hurry. Sweetie, please hurry.”

His eyelids were getting heavy. Call it a feeling from his impaired gut, but he gathered that when his eyes closed this time, they wouldn’t open again. The faint sirens he heard in the distance couldn’t save him.

All he wanted now was to hear his sweetie ramble on, on, and on.

“Do you remember when we-we went on that trip to the beach together a few years ago?” You stroked his forehead with your trembling fingers, staring into his glassy eyes. “That stupid seagull took my sandwich, and you tried to avenge me, but the seagull won that fight. I’ve never seen someone run away from something so fast in my life. Remember that? You, um, bought me a new sandwich afterward and spent our entire beach trip trying to fight a bird. You wouldn’t hurt it for real, even though you could have. You’re too kind for that, even if it did yank your hair at one point. You probably didn’t get a chance to notice how beautiful that beach was, though. So vast and blue. I couldn’t help but imagine what it would have felt like to get married there. When I had that thought at the time, the only person I could imagine as the groom was you. That’s when I knew I was in love with my best friend. I knew that I’d . . . life . . . you . . .”

Satoru could no longer understand the final words you would ever say to him. He couldn’t hear you anymore.

His eyes closed. He couldn’t see you anymore.

The last thing he felt was your hand shaking his shoulder as if trying to awaken him from death itself, but as his chest rose and fell one last time, he couldn’t feel you anymore either.

How cruel.

♡ — @sad-darksoul @priv-rose @yihona-san06 @keriaonmarz @thequeenofcurses @he11okitty-mari @luvvmae @underworldsheiress @notgoodforlife @levisfavoriteteashop @insomniacbehaivour @preciousamethyst @kxmorrx @iwanttohitmyself @ellaumbrella1 @lil-apple-pie @prettypixigrl @averysmolbear @starstoru @starlightanyaaa @dolphin1135 @ioveartfilm @filhadaanarquia @blackdxggr @jaegergirl @gunslxtz @he11okitty-mari @deadrevenge @koikohib @http-bell

[planet-hwa]

BAD BOY FACADE CHAPTER 7 — 산

. . . ⇢ previous chapter  ◦  series masterlist word count 4.1k

warnings     swearing, overthinking, smoking

❝ and tell me why does my heart burn when i see your face ❞ 🎧 now playing   heartburn ; wafia

“Dude, where the hell have you been?” Mingi asked, watching as the door to Wooyoung’s den, aka their casual hangout spot in the back of his parents yard, opened and gazing his eyes over San’s bruised body. “Shit, you look like… well, shit.”

“Fuck off, I look better than you on a good day.” San scoffed, Mingi’s eyes widening in offence but not returning with an argument, because he knows he’d lose.

San flopped his tired body down onto the leather couch, closing his eyes and throwing his head back, it was still throbbing from the heavy punches of the previous night. Wooyoung was quick to notice the bandages wrapped around his hands, curious as to where they came from. He knew San never cared if he got hurt, let alone if his injuries became infected from the lack of treatment he’d give them, so seeing him with cleaned cuts and tight wrappings was definitely suspicious.

“We went by your house but your mum said you didn’t come home,” Wooyoung mentioned, his eyes still wary and glued to San’s hands. “Where’d you get those?”

San lifted his head and squinted his eyes at the boy, before following his gaze onto his hands, the memory of you wrapping them for him returning. But he couldn’t tell Wooyoung it was you, so all he said was. “Just from a friend.”

“That’s not possible, we’re your only friends.” Jongho chimed in, the sarcastic comment earning him the finger from San, Mingi laughing squeakily on the sideline before returning to shoveling food into his large mouth.

Wooyoung, in his unusually sober state, could easily read that San was lying. He had a feeling he knew exactly where San was as well, because he happened to end up out the front of a familiar house too, but he would never let that slip. Wooyoung pinched at the bloody fabric of the bandage, causing San to wince and flinch his hand away, rubbing it soothingly and death glaring at the oreo-haired boy.

“But seriously, where were you?” He lowered his voice, not encouraging the engagement of the other two boys, who feasted on the food Wooyoung’s mother brought in for them.

“I just told you,” San snapped slightly, lowering his head against the back of the couch once more. “With a friend.” Wooyoung hummed sceptically.

“That ‘friend’ didn’t happen to be Y/N, right?” San’s head snapped to face the boy, watching as Wooyoung’s eyebrow cocked up at his quick reaction. “Seriously dude, what is your obsession with this chick?”

He rolled his eyes and ignored the question, not wanting to bring any more attention to the topic. But Wooyoung was always persistent, and could never leave well enough alone. He poked and prodded at San with questions about you before the boy finally snapped.

“And where did you go after, Woo?” San taunted, a slight smirk curling on his lips — he also had a suspicious feeling about how his friend’s night ended.

“Home.” Wooyoung quickly answered, leaving no room for suspicion.

But if he wanted to push San, he was gonna push back. “Oh really, whose home?”

Wooyoung stood up in a haste with tight fists, drawing the attention of the two other boys. He stared down at San, intense aggression held in his gaze before storming out of the den. The three remaining boys watched as he slammed the door, hard enough for it to shake the room, Mingi and Jongho returning to feast in silent confusion. San rolled his eyes at the two boys, as well as at Wooyoung’s attitude of not being able to take what he dishes out.

Finally with a sense of privacy, San pulled his phone from his pocket, checking for any notifications only to be met with a blank screen. His brows furrowed in confusion, definitely expecting to have received at least one message from you, maybe checking where he went and how he was feeling — but there was nothing.

Truly, what did he expect though? He was the one who left before you woke, though he quietly observed you before leaving, before making a swift exit like he usually would with a one time girl. Yet, you weren’t a one time girl, the two of you didn’t sleep together. He didn’t know what you were exactly, these feelings were ones he was discovering for the first time, and he didn’t know how to handle them.

So, he did the thing he was best at.

Ignoring.

________________________

Waking up with the absence of San next to you was a bit of a shock. The clothes he borrowed were folded neatly on the floor, along with the blankets and pillows he slept with on the mattress which he tucked underneath your bed. It was like he was never there.

You grabbed your phone and glanced at the bright screen, scrolling through your notifications in search of a message from him, but there was nothing. As you started to get ready for school, you couldn’t help but think about why he left without any notice. Maybe he was in a rush, or maybe he felt unwelcome — maybe he regretted showing up at your front door in the first place. If your brain didn’t overthink every scenario with negative impact, it would probably come up with a reasonable solution, but it can’t do that.

You picked up the clothes he borrowed, the scent of his cologne having rubbed off on them and was traveling into your nose, before throwing them into your laundry and packing the pillows and blankets away. The sound of a honking came from outside, glancing out your window and Yeosang’s car in the driveway and hurrying down the stairs. You climbed into the front seat, throwing your bag on the floor before turning to Yeosang, who held a shocked expression on his face.

“You will not believe who showed up at my house last night.”

For the entire drive to school, he explained the whole story of the prior night and the unexpected visit of a certain person, but you weren’t paying too much attention. In your defense you were thinking about your visitor, who you were keeping to yourself for now because you know exactly how Yeosang would react. He would remind how much of a bad person San is, according to him, and how he would just use you and leave you to rot once he got bored. And although that may be true, you needed to find that out for yourself, even if you got hurt.

So the second you arrived at school, your eyes were scanning the courtyard for San, catching a quick glance of the back of his head walking into school with his clique. As if he could feel your gaze on him, even from afar, he turned his head and met your eyes instantly. Your soft expression turned to a confused one the moment he avoided the contact, acting as if he never saw you. It tugged at your heartstrings a little more than you would’ve expected.

Maybe this was the side of him Yeosang warned you about — his true self.

But it made no sense: how can the kind, soft spoken and respectful boy from last night turn so cold? Yes, his motto seemed to be ‘sleep with the girl than ignore her existence’, but the two of you didn’t even have sex, not even sleeping in the same bed even after you offered; an offer that he denied.

So why was he ignoring you?

The only thing you could do was ask him in the homeroom, where his designated seat was right next to you, making you completely unavoidable for him. When the bell indicated the time to go to class, you wandered to your seat, quickly noticing the absence of your seat partner. The second bell rang as you prepared for the class, and there was still no sign of San. You had seen him walk into school, you knew he was here, yet he wasn’t in class. Was he really going this far to avoid you?

Your question was answered 15 minutes into the class, where the broad-shouldered boy entered late and quietly sat down next to you. He didn’t meet your eyes once, not muttering a single word to you. There was a pair of eyes watching you though, the feeling of them burning into the back of your skull tickled at the hairs on your neck, turning to see a deep glare directed at your table by Wooyoung. You weren’t sure why he was staring at you like that, but you noticed his glare switching between you and San with the same intensity.

Confusion was too weak of a word to explain the feelings you felt, it was far beyond confusion. There was a sense of hurt underneath it, along with slight distrust. After fixing up all his injuries and sharing a gentle yet intimate moment with him, all he wanted to do was ignore you. You remained quietly with yourself for the entire class, only sneaking glances at San who still refuses to give you any sort of attention.

It wasn’t until a few minutes before the lunch bell rang that a small piece of folded paper was silently slid towards you, a quick glance was enough to notice the blurred writing underneath. You didn’t touch it, your silent way of showing that San had upset you, and he picked up on it. Glancing between you and the untouched piece of paper, he sighed lightly but loud enough for you to hear it. Once the bell rang, he was quick to leave the classroom and give you the privacy of reading his note. And once he was out of your sight, you finally brought your attention to it, written with the pen he always secretly steals from you (with and without your knowledge).

‘meet me under the bleachers during lunch’

So now he wanted to talk to you, after ignoring you for the past two hours?

It made you angry in a sense, that he didn’t want to acknowledge you in front of people but it was okay if you were alone and hidden from the rest of the school. It also made you reluctant to even meet him, waiting to see how lunch would go first.

You exited the classroom shortly after, discarding the note in the bin on your way out and making your way towards your designated trio spot, Seonghwa and Yeosang already in place. As you made your way through the courtyard, you noticed the lack of stares from earlier in the week, after your humiliation caused by Yunho and Hiraya’s declaration of love for each other. Though a few people still whispered and murmured when you’d walk past them down the hall, you noticed that most of it was because of pity for you and not in a teasing or degrading way.

“I can’t believe he showed up to your house in the middle of the night!” You heard Seonghwa gasp as you sat down next to him. “What did he want?”

Yeosang paused for a second, staring and swirling his fork through his food before stuttering out an answer. “Oh, I uhh, I’m not sure. I didn’t let him talk much.”

Knowing Yeosang a long time meant you picked up on the little ticks from when he would lie, and you noticed his eyebrow twitch just before he spoke. You also knew that it was extremely unlikely for him to turn away anyone, especially Wooyoung, in such an unstable state. And although Yeosang didn’t specify his appearance, you noticed the bruises on his face earlier this morning in the homeroom, the same one that matched San’s face. And considering the state that he showed up at your house in, you could only imagine what a physical and emotional wreck Wooyoung was to go to his ex’s house. But you weren’t going to poke and prod at Yeosang for answers, especially since you didn’t plan on telling him about your guest either.

“I heard that he and his gang got into it with the White Guardians.” Seonghwa claimed, glancing over at the table of four before redirecting his eye contact back to the two of you.

“Yeah, he was pretty bloody and bruised when he showed up.” Yeosang remembered the image of his ex in such a state and caused him to wince slightly. “But that’s a usual Friday night for them.”

“Who are the White Guardians?”

Seonghwa was shocked that you hadn’t heard of them, but then again, you’re not from the side of town that they enjoy to torment and tease. And yet, no matter what side of town you were from, everyone knew of the drama between the two gangs. How they used to work together, exchanging drugs for information until the inevitable end of it all. Seonghwa was quick to catch you up on everything, though your attention was being drawn away once again by a fierce set of feline eyes that glared from across the courtyard.

San watched you intensely, noticing the absence you held in your group’s conversation. It was like the two of you were having a conversation between the far eye contact you held, picking up on the way he nodded his head towards the exit. Before you could process what was happening, he quickly stood up and walked out of the busy courtyard, sending you another indicating glance before exiting.

You knew he was headed to the bleachers, where he wanted you, but how could you leave without causing any suspicion. Your only thought was to come up with a ridiculous excuse. “I just remembered, I have to talk to Ms Waltz about… something.”

“Oh, really?” Yeosang whined, knowing lunch times were the only periods during school that the two of you shared. His attempt at pleading puppy eyes was shut down with your haste to leave. “Fiiine~ we’ll see you next break.”

And with that lame excuse, you left the courtyard without any indication of a lie and headed straight for the football field. In all honesty, you weren’t sure if it was the best idea to see San, but you were desperate for an explanation. Whether or not he was going to give you one was completely up to him.

As you ducked under the bleachers, the scent of cigarettes filled your nose, an intoxicating smell coming from the boy who waited for you. You watched as he held the dart between his two fingers, turning his head from you to puff out the toxic smoke.

“Hey princess,” His voice was soft, holding a sultry undertone. He held the cigarette out to you. “Want a puff?”

Your face cringed at the smell, never holding a liking to cigarettes. “I’m fine, thanks.”

Shrugging his shoulders with a ‘suit yourself’ attitude, he took one last puff before discarding it on the ground, twisting the tip of his shoe into the bud. He leant up against the barricade, crossing his bandaged hands under his arms and gazing his eyes over you. There was a silence held between the two of you, slightly awkward yet with a sense of comfort, until one of you finally plucked the courage to speak.

“Why didn’t you message me?” 

“S-sorry?” You were confused and shocked by his question.

Why would you message him when he was the one that left?

Did he expect you to desperately chase after him like his previous girls?

 “San, you left without any explanation, and before I even woke up.” You explained, and he listened. “What did you expect me to say?”

He wasn’t sure, so he remained silent whilst thoughts rushed through his brain. You were right, and he knew it, having admitted to himself that his sudden and silent exit was wrong. He’s never had to think about all these things before, but with his new found and still confusing feelings towards you, he had to change his ways if he wanted to keep you around.

“Listen San, I’m not sure what you want from me, but I’m not going to let you treat me like all the other girls you lead on. If you only want one thing from me, then you can-”

Your words were cut off by his lips connecting with yours, hands gently cupping your face. It was just like last night; soft, plush and delicate — you couldn’t help but return the kiss. The kiss was deep, but withheld passion, just filled with emotion.

He pulled away slowly, letting his lips linger on yours for a few more seconds before resting his forehead against yours. “You’re not like the other girls, you’re… different, more important.”

“Then treat me like it.” You quietly demanded, a small pout holding on your face causing San to let out a chuckle at your cuteness.

“I will, princess.” He reassured, though you still held a small bit of doubt in the back of your mind.

You didn’t want him to publicly declare his feelings towards you, but you wanted to be treated with the respect you deserved. And even if you wanted to, you physically couldn’t. The both of you agreed on the fact that whatever it was between you had to remain private, for now, knowing the disagreeing teams of both your friends would be completely ignorant to the fact that two polar opposites could be together.

On your side, Yeosang would be so infuriated to find out your interest in San after time and time again warning you to stay far away from him. And on his side, Wooyoung would be so disgusted to think that his best friend could be intrigued by his ex’s replacement of him.

Sealing the deal of privacy with a kiss, though in a public space, there were no lingering eyes to have caught it.

Except the unknown ones of the principal, who had caught the two of you talking just before the bell rang.

Once the bell chimed, the two of you returned to the homeroom, at separate times to each other to falter any possible suspicions from anyone — especially in such a gossip filled school. It wasn’t even ten minutes into the class that the loud speaker rang through the school, a familiar name being called and all eyes in the class being drawn to the person.

‘Y/N Y/L/N, please come to the principal’s office.’

Ms Waltz was quick to excuse you, letting you make your way out with all eyes on you. It was rare for you to be called to the principal’s office, it was rare for anyone except misfits and troublemakers. So the classroom was quick to fill with ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ at the name of one of the top students being summoned. San watched with cautious eyes as you left the classroom, an uneasy feeling growing within the pit of his stomach.

As you entered the main office, the receptionist asked you to sit and wait until the principal was ready for you. Taking a seat on the small couch against the wall, your brain pondered all the possibilities for your summoned presence, it coming to no conclusions.

“Miss Y/L/N, you can come in now.” Mr Kim called, a gentle smile on his face as he held the door open for you. “Have a seat.”

Sitting in the freshly detailed leather chair, Mr Kim sat behind the desk and across from you. Your eyes moved around his office, noticing all the school achievements and trophies displayed in the cabinets behind his desk. All kinds of vintage books organised with perfection, along with a few unique sculptures they were leant against.

You started to feel nervous once you noticed no conversation being started, twiddling your thumbs together in your lap, legs beginning to bounce up and down lightly. Your brain still racked with anxious possibilities; bad grades, detention, suspension, expulsion. Before he could begin to explain, you blurted out a question. “Am I in some sort of trouble?”

“Oh no, no, no.” He reassured with a light chuckle. “You’re not in any trouble Y/N, I just wanted to ask you a few questions.”

“Okay…” You mumbled, caution still held within you.

“I’ve noticed that you’ve gotten closer with some of the new students,” He stated. “Particularly, Choi San.”

Your heart dropped, not out of fear but of relief. You truly believed you did something wrong. “Oh yeah, I mean, we’re assigned to sit next to each other in class.”

Mr Kim only hummed in response, but you could see his thoughts turning like cogs. He began to clear and stack documents that lay on his desk, leaving you to sit in silence waiting for him to continue. Clearing his throat, he finally spoke up again.

“Look, I’m not here to tell you who you can and can’t be friends with. I appreciate that you’ve been so welcoming to the students who transferred from Southside High.” Well, this doesn’t sound like it’s going to be positive. “But I do recommend steering clear of San.”

Great, yet another person telling you to be rid of San. From all the negative comments you hear about him, it would make sense to stay away — but you couldn't, no matter how hard you tried. And based on your small experiences with him, he didn’t seem as bad as everyone made him out to be. But, that could always change.

“Why should I ‘steer clear’ of him?” You asked with genuine curiosity, only being given reasons by people your own age, mostly Yeosang who had the experience of actually knowing him.

“You’re a very bright student with a big future ahead of you,” He advised, clearing his throat quickly before moving to a more negative outlook. “And San is a troublesome kid with a history of bad behaviour. I just don’t want you to get caught up with someone who can bring down your potential.”

You nodded quietly, processing the information being fed to you. Claiming that you understood him, he told you to think about what he said before dismissing you back to class. As you left the office, still unsure of everything the two of you talked about, you noticed San leaning against the lockers across from the door. Before you could ask him what he was doing, he cut you off with a demanding question of his own.

“What did he want?” His voice was low, almost in a growl, eyebrows furrowed deep into his forehead.

“I- he wanted me to stay away… from you.” You stuttered, eyes drifting to the ground before moving back to San’s face, a noticeable anger held behind his eyes.

“Fucking bastard.”

“San!” You whisper-yelled, holding his wrist tightly. “You can’t say that.”

“Oh please, he doesn’t care about me,” He scoffed, his eyes rolling as he glanced into the office. “He made that clear enough when he left us.”

New information, completely misunderstood. Your furrowed eyebrows now matched his, his stare still held on the office windows, almost like he was gonna shatter the glass with his mind. Still processing what San accidently let out in his anger, your mind began to piece the puzzle together, to a conclusion that truly made no sense to you.

“W-what do you mean?” You asked quietly, your thumb now rubbing soothing circles on his held wrist in an attempt to calm the boy down.

San didn’t even realise he released any indication of his hatred towards the principal, but now all he could do was tell the truth. “He’s my father.”

The silence in the hall was deafening. You didn’t know how to react, and before you could, the principal was stood at the door of the office, demanding the two of you quickly return to class. You glanced between the two men, both of them only holding stares on each other, almost as if you weren’t even there. But you could feel the tension burning in the air, and you weren’t sure if you wanted to be involved in this situation, at this very moment. You quickly bowed to the principal and wandered down the hall, returning to class in silence.

The two men remained still, San piercing daggers into him, and Mr Kim returning him with the same glare, all too familiar to San having seen it in the mirror. The sharp featured boy scoffed and mumbled an ‘asshole’ under his breath before following you into class, paying no more attention to his beloved father.

. . . ⇢ next chapter

author's note hey.... h-hey... how y'all doing... so how about we ignore the fact that i've been gone for over a month and enjoy a new chapter !! i'm truly sorry that i died, and thank you to the people who were asking if i was okay. i haven't had much time to write recently with my new job and being sick TWICE, and the fact that google docs decided to delete HALF of my documents so i've had to rewrite this entire chapter. but I will try and find any time I can to finish this series and fulfill requests <3

this is not proofread, so please let me know if there are any spelling mistakes.

✉ taglist @morethingsfandom  @solaris-amethyst  @felixs-voice-makes-me-wanna  @baby-stay92  @autieofthevalley  @liveloveseonghwa  @dejatiny  @mortal-advocate  @dreamsoffanfics @my-atiny-kookie-rkive  @dalsuwaha @nevieatiny  @woateez  @choizlover  @woosmaid  @yeosannie4  @auroras-colors  @mintchocosan  @jjongbearsies  @frzzenfrxg  @sanniebabes  @cyberpvnk-enthusiast  @eyesonlyformingi  @sannies-tiddies  @honeyjongie  @rainteez02  @robertsbbygirl  @mingisgf999  @atzz8  @moonlight-hwa  @chrryjoong  @sanhwalvr  @cloudysannie  @atxxzist  @choisansplushie  @starz-choisanii  @slowitdownmakeitb0uncy  @jerseygirlzzzxx  @mzngi  @sparda1234  @babigriin  @marvolos  @snapcracklen  @posseup  @justineasian  @amazaynaastha  @vixensss  @deltamoon666  @randajjjad  @m4n4-s4m4

written by planet-hwa™

[cryoculus]

— TRACK 01: NOT HIM ⟢

one day, you're watching your favorite band all the way from the stands, and the next you're standing on stage with them. life is a little surreal like that.

★ featuring; mydei x f!reader

★ word count; 7.7k words

★ tags; rock band au, found family, hostile acquaintances to friends to lovers, grief/mourning, angst, slow burn, eventual smut

★ notes; the mc has a twin sister that has passed before the story takes place. this is a bit important bc this is one of the anchors for her character throughout the whole shebang.

★ header art cr; sarhiyu on x & ig

TRACKLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

Catching up with Hyacine is easily one of the better parts of the month.

You show up early to your usual café, not because you’re eager but because it beats sitting in your apartment scrolling through job listings you don’t care about. Your phone still has a few open tabs: barista gigs, receptionist work, something at a copy shop that pays hourly. You close them before you walk in.

The place is the same as always—plants hanging a little too low from the ceiling, the smell of burnt espresso clinging to the corners. You order something basic, settle into a window seat, and pretend to read the menu until Hyacine arrives. She bursts in like a gust of wind, cheeks pink from the breeze, sunglasses pushed up into her curls. The second she sees you, she grins wide.

“Hey, stranger,” she says, sliding into the seat across from you. “Still alive?”

“Barely,” you say, offering a small smile. “You’re only twenty minutes late. I’m thoroughly impressed.”

“Time is fake and so are you,” your best friend says breezily. “Anyway, I come bearing chaos.”

Hyacine pulls up her phone, showing it to you. 

You don’t have to look at the screen for more than a second. The logo is unmistakable. Even with the rebrand, the glittered lettering, and the sleek new PR photo, your heart still stumbles over itself at the sight.

LOOKING FOR OUR NEXT LEAD GUITARIST No labels. No industry filters. Just sound. Send us your demo. Blow us away.

For a second, your brain doesn’t process the headline. Just the image—the sharp gold crown, the stylized flame behind the band name. Then the words sink in, and it’s like the floor shifts. You look at the headline again, rereading the announcement. ‘The Flamechasers Seek New Guitarist Following Hephaestion's Departure’.

Your stomach twists. The post blurs at the edges.

“Seriously?” you say, more to the table than to her. “He left?”

Hyacine nods slowly. “I don’t know what happened. The band didn’t post anything personal—just the formal statement. But it’s been weeks. They’re really looking for a replacement.”

You stare at the table. There’s sugar stuck to the edge of your cup. You press your thumb against it like it’ll distract you from the way your chest has gone tight.

The band’s frontman, Mydei and the lead guitarist, Hephaestion were like sun and moon. Fire and shadow.

They had a kind of chemistry that no one could fake or replicate. You’d watched them in endless loops: performances, interviews, behind-the-scenes clips dissected frame by frame. Hephaestion’s quiet steadiness anchoring Mydei’s wild spark. The way they played off the other, filled in each other’s silences, made music feel like a ritual.

Now it's just...gone. 

“This feels like rage bait,” you deadpan, more to offset the sinking feeling in your gut than anything else. “Please tell me this is rage bait.”

Hyacine's expression doesn't change. “If it was, I never would've bothered showing you.”

The silence settles amidst the din of the coffee shop. Any other person would probably brush off the news like something that was inevitable. But you're not like any other person.

Once upon a time, that band meant everything to you.

When you take a while to respond, Hyacine leans in, gentler now. “I know you haven’t been…in it since Erin passed, so I’m not trying to push.”

You flinch slightly at the name. She always says it softly, like the sound itself might break you. Sometimes it still does.

“I just thought,” she continues, “you’ve been playing their songs since we were all in college. You know every riff, every setlist. You ran their biggest fan site for years. Hell, you used to dream about this.”

You snort. “Yeah. Used to.”

She tilts her head. “Do you really think Erin wouldn’t want you to try?”

The necklace around your throat feels heavier now. The worn guitar pick rests against your skin, cool despite the warmth of the room. 

Your voice is quieter this time. “It’s not the same without her.”

Hyacine reaches across the table, fingers wrapping around yours. “It doesn’t have to be the same. You’re still here. You still love it. And you’re good. Better than good.”

You look back at the phone screen. At the image of Mydei with an almost blank expression, standing where Hephaestion used to be.

Maybe it’s madness.

But your hands are already itching for your strings.

The walk home is longer than it should be.

It’s not far, but you take the slow way, the long loop around the edge of the park where the trees are still bare-limbed and stubbornly gray. Okhema is trying to remember spring. The city’s never been especially good at it.

Your apartment smells like the tail end of rain and a leftover takeout container you meant to throw out yesterday. You toss your keys into the dish by the door and kick off your boots, standing there a moment too long. Like your body hasn’t gotten the memo that you’re back.

Hyacine’s words replay, not in order—more like flashes. Used to dream about this. You know every setlist. Better than good.

You walk into the living room and catch sight of the guitar case in the corner.

Still zipped. Still gathering dust.

You haven’t opened it in… months. Not since—

You sit on the couch instead, sinking into the groove left behind from all the nights you used to share it. You and Erin. Watching tour footage, livestreams, album drops. Staying up way too late dissecting lyrics like they were ancient texts. The Flamechasers weren’t just a band to the two of you. They were oxygen. A secret shared language when everything else in your world felt cracked and mean.

Back home—your actual hometown, the one you never mention—you both learned early how to be quiet. How to vanish when you needed to. Music was the only thing that made staying visible feel worth it. College had been your out, but the second you graduated, neither of you looked back. You moved to Okhema like it was a promise: no return addresses, no family drama, just you and your sister, and the lives you were building from scratch.

It worked. For a while.

The band soundtracked all of it. They played in the background of every meal you cooked, every piece of furniture you dragged up the stairs. Erin used to joke that if Mydei ever heard you play, he’d beg you to join them. You’d always laugh it off. But secretly? It meant something, coming from her.

She believed in your sound before you even called it music.

You glance over again.

The guitar case hasn’t moved.

Eventually, you stand. The couch creaks when you leave it. You cross the room slowly, crouch, and pull the zipper back.

It opens with a soft hiss.

Your guitar is still there, untouched. The strings are probably dead, but you're certain that you still have a few spare coils lying around in your closet. You lift it gently, holding it like something half-remembered. Then you sit on the floor, rest the curve against your knee, and—almost without meaning to—your fingers find the opening chords to Firestarter, the last track you ever played out loud.

The notes are rough. You’re rusty. But the shape of the song still lingers in your bones like it was waiting for you to find it again.

That night, you don't sleep. 

You just lie there, eyes open, staring at the ceiling while the muscle memory of Firestarter plays on loop in your hands.

You hadn't realized how much of it you still remembered. Not just the notes, but the little things: the fret slide Hephaestion always did live, even though it wasn’t on the studio version; the way Mydei would let the last word drop into silence, not reverb.

By morning, your fingers ache. And something in your chest does, too.

You spend the next day severely distracted. You click through job listings, type out a few cover letters you don’t send. At one point, you open the band’s website just to see if the audition deadline’s changed. It hasn’t, but you keep the tab open anyway.

It isn’t until late that you finally give in.

You clear a corner of your apartment that’s been used for laundry piles and stray mail, and pull your mic setup out of storage. The gear is dusty, but functional. The cable crackles a little when you plug it in.

You sit with your guitar in your lap and stare at the blinking red light of your audio interface.

You haven’t recorded anything since Erin's passing. You used to do it together, you on the floor, her on the bed, both of you laughing through takes and pretending you weren’t trying so hard. She’d cheer after every one, even the messy ones. Especially the messy ones.

Your thumb finds the edge of your pick necklace, rubbing it slowly.

You try to play. Stop. Try again. It takes you three false starts before you get through the first verse of Nightingale Static, one of their old deep cuts. It’s quieter than their stage stuff, meant for headphones and rainy days. Meant for this, maybe.

Your voice catches somewhere in the second chorus. Not badly—just enough that you hear it, feel it tighten the shape of the song.

You stop playing. Let the silence settle.

For a long moment, you don’t move. The cursor blinks steadily on the screen, waiting for direction. Part of you wants to delete the take outright. Pretend it never happened.

But instead, you reach for the keyboard. You name the file test1.wav and drag it into a new folder. 

You sit back in your chair and stare at it. Just a single track. A little rough, a little raw. It’s not enough. 

But it’s something.

Weeks later, you find yourself in a downtown studio that smells like old wood and the faint tang of metal.

Your guitar case hangs heavy at your side, the strap biting into your palm. Your heartbeat has moved somewhere into your throat, loud and constant.

You don’t remember the exact moment the email came in—just the chill of the train platform, the screech of brakes, and the way your phone buzzed like it had something important to say. You nearly missed your train reading it, and even now, it feels a little unreal.

We were impressed with your sound. We’d like to invite you to a live audition.

You shift your weight. Roll your shoulders. Try to keep breathing like it’s not something you have to remember how to do.

It’s happening. This is real.

The waiting area isn’t flashy—just a few chairs, a silent monitor scrolling through the band’s logo, and a water cooler that hums like it’s nervous too. You’ve been here ten minutes. Maybe twenty. You’re not checking the clock.

You don’t know what you expected. A line out the door? People tuning loudly, showing off? But it’s quiet here. Like even the air knows whose stage this is.

Then the door slides open with a smooth hiss. Someone calls your name in a subtly synthesized manner. 

You look up.

A figure stands in the doorway, sleek and unplaceable. Not quite human. They don't bear a face, yet their posture translates as polite regardless. There's a thin slate cradled in their arms, holding it like it’s weightless.

“They’re ready for you,” they say.

You nod and rise. As you pass, they offer a slight incline of the head—more gesture than greeting.

It’s only once the door shuts behind you that you remember reading the staff page the night you submitted your demo. Garmentmaker, it said. The automaton assistant to the manager. You hadn’t thought it would matter.

You adjust the strap of your guitar. Your fingers brush against the pick around your neck, worn through time but still solid.

Then you step through the next door.

The sound hits first—muffled laughter, the low shuffle of movement, someone strumming a riff you half-recognize. It smells like coffee and lemon cleaner and the unmistakable tangle of gear and sweat. 

They’re all here.

Mydei stands near the back of the room, a bottle of water dangling from one hand. Even at rest, he radiates energy—eyes sharp under tousled blonde hair, rings catching the overhead lights as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. The crown of the stage, even in a rehearsal hoodie.

Next to him is Cipher, perched cross-legged on an amp, chin in her hand, her other fingers idly tapping something into her tablet. She glances up as you enter, her expression unreadable but curious.

Anaxa is sprawled on the old couch, arms crossed, head tipped back like this is the last place he wants to be, but his eyes flick toward you, keen behind the pretense of boredom.

Castorice offers you a small smile—kind and steady. It eases the edge of your nerves just a little.

Phainon gives you a simple nod from behind the drums. You’re not even sure how long he’s been sitting there.

And there, standing beside a tall stack of labeled folders, is the band’s manager, Aglaea.

She’s tall, immaculately dressed, and makes eye contact like a statement. Garmentmaker floats off to her side, like some sort of sentinel. Aglaea doesn’t smile, but her nod is approving.

“Hello,” she says. “Thanks for coming.”

Before you can reply, someone nudges past gently—wearing heeled boots, two braided buns, and a blazer covered in embroidered stars. Tribbios, the one in charge of PR. You know her face from livestreams and photo ops. She beams at you like you’ve just walked into a party rather than a professional audition.

“We’ve heard the demo,” she says. “We liked the demo.”

“That’s good,” you manage, before your voice catches up with your heart. “I mean—thank you.”

“It’s not a final decision,” Aglaea cuts in smoothly. “This is to see how you play. How you listen. How you mesh.”

You stand there for a moment, the strap of your guitar snug across your shoulder, every eye in the room on you. The attention only makes you slightly queasy. Back then, you were the one watching them perform their hearts out on-stage, and now the same people are observing you like some specimen under a microscope.

Aglaea gestures toward the center of the space. “Whenever you’re ready.”

You nod, set your guitar case down carefully, and pull the instrument free. It feels heavier now, the weight of all your nerves coiling tighter, but you push it away. This is what you came for.

You don’t look at the others as you adjust the guitar, just close your eyes for a second and let the world fade.

The intro to Firestarter is still burned into your memory, just as sharp as when you first heard it. You’ve played it in your apartment, in the dark, alone. Now it feels different—like you’re stepping into something too big for you, but maybe not.

Your fingers find the first chords. The sharp, electric sound fills the space. You lose yourself in it—the riff building, the song catching fire just like it always did in your chest. The rhythm drives harder than it ever did when you were just a fan. You lean into it, eyes closed again, not thinking about the band watching, not thinking about anything except the music.

Your fingers move fast. The solo’s coming up, and you slide into it without hesitation, the notes sharp and precise. You’re not perfect. Maybe you’ll never be. But you’re real. 

When the final chord rings out, there’s a long silence.

You exhale, chest tight. The room is still.

Tribbios blinks first, a soft laugh escaping as she shakes her head. 

“You really are the real deal,” she says.

You stand still, holding the guitar, your hands suddenly a little too clammy. But you don’t break eye contact just yet. The others appraise you quietly. If there's any disapproval, it doesn't show on any of their faces. You're unsure of whether to take that as a good sign or not.

Finally, Aglaea speaks, her voice calm but intense. “You’re not bad.”

It’s not a compliment. But it’s not rejection either.

And then Mydei steps forward, a flicker of something in his eyes as he looks at you. He’s quiet for a moment. 

All things considered, his opinion weighs more than anyone else’s. You’re stepping into the shoes of his best friend, and even though the details of Hephaestion’s departure are murky, it’s clear you’re expected to fill a role that’s far bigger than just the guitar.

“Let’s see what you can do when we turn it up,” Mydei tells you flatly. He steps to the side, picking up a cable before handing it to you. 

You hesitate for just a second, but you’re already here, already doing this.

Wordlessly, you plug in your guitar.

“Have another go,” he says, his voice sharp, gaze set. “This time, with us.”

“Ehh, can she really keep up right off the bat?” Cipher comments skeptically. “No offense, newbie. You tore up Firestarter just like He—err... I mean, you did a good job. But playing well with a group of strangers on the first try is impossible.” 

These people aren’t strangers. Not to you anyway. But they don’t need to know that.

“Cipher, that’s rude.” Castorice shoots her a reprimanding look. 

Mydei shakes his head, already drifting back toward the mic stand. “No. Cipher’s right. If she can’t even manage that, we’re better off sending her home.”

It’s not cruel, exactly. Just...final. Like he’s already made up his mind.

The words land harder than you expect. Not because they’re unfair—but because they’re his.

You spent years holding on to that voice. Memorizing it. Trusting it. Back when his songs felt like the only things that understood you. Back when The Flamechasers were something like a lifeline. But right now, standing under fluorescent lights with your heart still hammering from the last chorus, all you can think is: so this is what it’s like to meet your hero.

And realize he doesn’t see you at all.

There’s a beat of silence before Phainon exhales through his nose and stretches his arms like he’s shaking the tension off his shoulders.

“Well,” he says, casually reaching for his sticks, “at least wait until we hear her completely bomb with the rest of us before making the call.”

Cipher snorts. Castorice mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like thank you. Even Anaxa gives a noncommittal grunt and adjusts the strap of his bass. The atmosphere tilts in mere seconds, subtle as a change in light. No one speaks, but something unknots in the air—just enough to get you back on track. 

When Mydei glances over at you again, he doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t stop you either.

So you grip your guitar.

And get ready to play.

You call Hyacine from the fire escape outside your apartment, where the paint on the railing flakes in little curls and the city sounds just far enough away to be tolerable. She picks up after one ring.

“Sooo, how’d it go?”

You lean against the wall, exhaling. “I got in.”

There’s a pause. Then a sharp inhale, like she’s just been yanked into orbit. “No way. No way.” Her voice crackles through the speaker. “Are you serious?”

“I did the audition. They said yes.”

Hyacine lets out a squeal so loud and sudden you have to pull the phone back from your ear before your eardrum files a complaint. “You’re in The Flamechasers. You’re—I mean, this is huge. This is everything!”

“Mmm, I guess so.”

For a moment, the buzz on the other end quiets, and you can already picture Hyacine making a face. “Why do you sound like someone died?”

You laugh, but it feels rehearsed. “I don’t know. Just feels weird, I guess.”

“Weird how? You got into your dream band. I’d be swinging from the ceiling right now.”

You glance across the alley, watching the way the streetlights pool in broken patterns on the asphalt. “They didn’t make a big deal out of it. It wasn’t some movie moment. It was just... ‘cool, see you next week.’”

Hyacine doesn’t respond right away. You can tell she’s trying to feel out your tone.

“Still,” she says eventually, “you’re one of them now.”

“Yeah.” You nod, though no one’s there to see it.

“Did they treat you okay?”

“They weren’t mean,” you say, shifting your weight. “Just professional. Mostly.”

You hesitate, biting your lip as you stare at the cracked pavement below. It’s hard to put into words, but Hyacine’s waiting for you to speak, so you let it out, reluctantly.

“Uh, Mydei. I don’t know. I get this feeling he doesn’t really...like me.”

Hyacine hums. “Are you sure?”

“Yep,” you sigh. “Even Anaxa was more personable, and that guy’s got a reputation for being difficult”

You lean back, staring at the fading light in the distance. There’s a slight hesitation in your voice as you continue. “It’s like I’m walking around with this shadow over my head. I know Hephaestion was important to him, but I feel like I’m just filling in. I don’t want to be that. Not for him. Not for anyone.”

On the other end, Hyacine is quiet, and you wonder if she’s trying to make sense of it herself. But when she speaks, her voice gives you the steadiness you severely lack at the moment.

“Hey, I get it. But I don’t think it’s Mydei’s intention to make you feel that way,” your best friend calmly explains. “He’s not great at showing excitement or warmth, but that’s his thing. You and Erin have sent me enough fanfiction to drill the idea in my head.”

That makes you groan. “It’s fanfiction for a reason, Hyacine. This... This is real life.”

“Just a reminder though, you’re not there to impress him. You’re there because you belong.”

You let that settle. It doesn’t feel untrue. But it doesn’t feel completely right either.

“I just don’t want to be someone’s replacement piece,” you murmur. “You know?”

“Then don’t be,” she says. “Be better.”

You smile faintly at that, soft and crooked. “You always make it sound easy.”

“Because you always make it harder than it needs to be.”

There’s a beat of silence that follows, then you can practically hear the grin in her voice: “I’m buying VIP soundcheck tickets to the next show, just so you know. I’ll bring a stupid sign and everything. Be so annoyingly loud that security will threaten to kick me out.”

You laugh, genuinely this time. “You better.”

“I’m proud of you,” Hyacine says, quieter now. “Really.”

The line stays open a while longer—quiet and companionable. But eventually, you hang up, exchange quick goodbyes and a promise to keep Hyacine posted about your life as a new rockstar (verbatim).

Inside, your apartment is dim, and the city buzz fades to a murmur behind your window. You walk past your guitar, still propped against the amp, and pick up the frame on your bookshelf—just a cheap one, slightly crooked, holding a photo of you and Erin from years ago. Summer sun. Matching grins.

You run your thumb across the glass.

“We made it,” you whisper. “Kind of.” 

And for a moment, the room feels like it’s holding its breath with you.

You’ve barely settled into the band before you’re thrown into the fire.

Today, it’s a promotional shoot. Tomorrow? Rehearsals. After that? Album prep, a benefit concert, and a million other events that you struggle to keep track of. The calendar on your phone looks like it’s plotting against you, and you can’t do a thing about it.

Tribbios calls out your name once, clapping her hands to get your attention. “Sweetie, you’ve got the bone structure of a legend but the posture of a haunted Aidonian child. Chin up. Guitar slightly to the right. Smolder, don’t sulk.”

You blink under the lights. “What does that even mean?”

She grins, already tweaking the angle of your body. “It means you’re the new blood in the band, and the fans need to see power in that stare, not ‘I just survived a landslide.’”

You were told that normally, Aglaea would be here nitpicking lighting and clothing choices with Garmentmaker’s help, but she’s drowning in press logistics today. Tribbios has taken the wheel in her stead, and clearly, she’s enjoying the ride.

You shift under the heat of the spotlights. Everything feels just a little too tight, a little too revealing. The eyes on you—real and imagined—prickle against your skin.

Across the room, Mydei lounges in a folding chair, unreadable as always. Arms crossed, gaze sharp, expression flat. Not disapproving but not warm, either. His presence is like static: impossible to ignore and impossible to read.

You look away first.

Phainon is chatting with Castorice near wardrobe, and the latter is already in full makeup, smiling like she belongs on every magazine cover ever. Anaxa has mysteriously disappeared, which you’re learning is a common occurrence, and Cipher hasn’t moved from her seat since she got here. When one of the staff asked her for “a little more edge,” she shrugged and said, “This is my edge.”

“Alright, team,” Tribbios calls. “Let’s start with the group shots. I want cool, I want mystique, I want posters on bedroom walls. Let’s make people obsessed.”

The shoot rolls on. You pose, smile (just barely), hold the guitar like it’s part of you—which, if you’re honest, it is. You’re hyperaware of every limb, every accidental glance Mydei’s way, every time the flash catches your necklace.

By the time it's over, your back aches and your cheeks hurt.

The next day, it's rehearsals. Phainon keeps things steady, patient, occasionally throwing you a thumbs-up when you nail a particularly tricky bridge. Castorice helps tweak your tone settings and recommends a hand cream to keep the callouses to a minimum. 

Later that week, you run through setlists for the charity gig with the full band. Anaxa doesn’t say much, but when he does, it’s always to the point and somehow, always correct, while Cipher tests synth loops just to see how weird she can get before someone tells her to stop (no one does).

And in every spare minute, you practice because no matter how long you’ve played these songs in your room, nothing compares to performing them with the people who wrote them.

You're not just filling in for Hephaestion.

You're not.

You tell yourself that again as rehearsal ends and Mydei lingers behind while everyone else packs up. His gaze catches on yours, distant and unreadable as always.

“You were playing Edge of Nowhere differently,” is the first thing he says to your face in days—eyes on the amp, not you.

You pause. “Differently how?”

“Hm. Doesn’t matter. It’ll do.”

There’s no compliment or critique. Just that vague indifference that’s been clinging to him since day one. He walks off before you can even respond, and you’re not sure if the interaction left you dumbfounded or pissed off.

Still, you linger under the low stage lights, pulse just a little tighter in your throat.

You were the fan who watched them from the front row countless times. The girl who never missed a single livestream or fan event.

Now, you’re shouldering Hephaestion’s legacy, Mydei’s silence, and your own ghosts all at once.

On quieter evenings, you prefer to unwind by putting a lighthearted show for you to watch on your laptop. Anything to get your mind off what you've been dealing with the band when you're clocked in. So, in essence, you shouldn’t be here.

You really shouldn’t be here.

And yet the cursor moves on its own, muscle memory guiding you through years of archived tabs until you’re staring at it. Your old fan account.

But it’s not just that anymore. Someone else runs it now—a fellow admin you trusted enough to keep it going. They're good. Too good, actually. The posts are more consistent now, the layout's cleaner. Comments are even moderated.

It’s almost like you were never there.

Except now…you are.

And they’ve reposted the band’s official announcement.

@TheFlamechasers: We’re thrilled to welcome our new lead guitarist, Diana, to the family. Big things ahead. Stay tuned. 🎸🔥 #TheFlamechasers #NewEra #DIANA

When you see the letters of your stage name printed beneath your introduction photo, you almost don’t recognize it.

You didn’t dwell much when Aglaea asked if you wanted to use a moniker. Too many things were happening. Too many people watching. Your real name felt too raw, too real. So you said the first thing that came to mind: Diana.

The heroine from one of those old soap operas you and Erin used to watch when life got too heavy. She was bold, dramatic, untouchable—everything you weren’t, but sometimes needed to be.

Soon, it’ll be on posters. In captions. On lips that don’t know who you are.

And maybe that’s the point.

You scroll through the comments. Most are hopeful, a few skeptical. No one recognizes you. No one mentions the years you spent archiving setlists, writing essays on Mydei’s songwriting patterns, moderating flamewars between Cipher stans and synth elitists. You’d made sure not to leave any traces of yourself. No photos or names. You never even introduced yourself as the one behind this account at fan meetups.

Erin had said it best: “They can’t hurt what they can’t find.”

But even if you know better than to start caring about what other people say, you take a nosedive anyway.

 

I watched that teaser three times and she didn’t smile once. That’s hot.

No public socials, no interviews, no fan presence. Where’d they even find her?

Calling it now—industry plant. Still rooting for her though 🤞

We don't care. Bring Hephaestion back.

MydEi LoOkEd So mAd next to her 😭 SYBAU 

Honestly, kinda sick of people comparing her to Heph. Let the girl play.

 

Your cursor hovers over the message box. For a moment, you consider chiming in—clarifying something, dialing the fans back a notch.

But then you think of Tribbios, already juggling ten fires with a cocktail in one hand and a stylus in the other. She hides how busy she actually is well, and the last thing you want is to give her another reason to work overtime.

You shut the laptop before temptation wins.

The studio’s been off all morning.

Maybe it’s the heat—barely tolerable even with the AC thudding in the ceiling—or the way Aglaea had to step out mid-meeting, muttering something about a last-minute brand deal gone rogue. Maybe it’s the fifth take of a song they’ve all played a hundred times, the stripped-down arrangement making every misstep feel louder.

You’re halfway through the bridge when Mydei cuts in.

“Stop.”

Not a bark, not even sharp. But it slices through the air all the same. You blink, fingers still curled on the frets. Castorice flinches like she thought he was talking to her. Anaxa, on the other hand, just shoots Mydei a look—a quiet, unimpressed arch of the brow, before turning back to the bass in his hands.

“You’re doing it again,” Mydei speaks again, and you can’t place the emotion in his words.

You stare at him. “Doing what?”

“That bend into the chorus. It’s not in the new arrangement.”

“It’s just flavor.” You shrug. “It works.”

“It worked when he played it,” he argues. “You’re not him.”

There it is.

You don’t flinch, but the air changes. Like pressure building before a storm. Mydei’s words hang in the room, heavier than they should be. The kind that don’t echo out loud, but somehow keep ringing anyway. The studio, which was already warm and close, feels suddenly ten times more stifling.

You meet Mydei’s gaze, steady as you can. “And?”

“So stop copying Hephaestion and start playing like you,” he says. Still not raised. Still not angry. But it cuts sharper than if he’d shouted. “If you wanted to play dress-up so badly, you should have joined a fucking cover band.”

His words land too cleanly for something so cruel. 

No one dares to move.

Not Tribbios, who had been flipping through notes on the couch a moment ago and now seems to have gone perfectly still. Not Anaxa, who’s said maybe five words all day and won’t waste a sixth on drama he didn’t start.

Your fingers tense around the neck of your guitar. It isn’t heat or nerves or even the sting of insult that makes you still—it’s the weight of everything that’s been holding you back. Of every time you’ve swallowed doubt just to belong here. The room hums with tension, thick and close, and still you don't look away.

“I didn’t join to play make-believe, Mydei,” you say. Each word lands slow, measured, like you’re forcing it past something heavy in your chest. “I joined because your music made me want to live.”

The silence that follows isn’t a reaction. It’s a consequence.

No clever follow-up from Cipher. Or a light joke from Castorice to soften the edges. Even Phainon doesn’t offer any words, sitting stiff behind his kit, drumsticks idle across his knees. The thrum of the amp is the only sound left, a low hiss like static under skin.

You don’t look away from Mydei, and he doesn’t look away from you. But something in his expression flickers—like he wasn’t expecting resistance, or maybe not like this. The edge in his gaze dulls for a second, but pride sets his jaw before anything real can show.

Eventually, Tribbios stands. Her tablet in hand, the usual whimsy glaringly absent.

“Take five,” she says simply. “All of you.”

No one argues.

Chairs scrape back. Footsteps shuffle. No one speaks as they file out, scattered. You stay rooted for a second longer, until Mydei brushes past you without another word, the edge of his sleeve catching yours like a ghost passing through a door.

Then you exhale, pushing down the feeling that wells in your chest.

And finally, your hands fall from the guitar.

The green room hums with low voices, guitar tuners, and the occasional nervous laugh. The setlist is taped to every available surface. Someone’s phone buzzes with a final reminder from the event organizers. There’s no spotlight here, just flickering fluorescents and the distinct scent of coffee and sweat.

Castorice and Phainon are trading stories—something about a show years back where a fan flashed them mid-set and got escorted out of the pit before the second chorus. You laugh at the right moments, adjust your expression just enough.

In just a month, you learned how to be in on a joke without giving away that you were in the crowd that night, only a few feet from the woman they’re describing.

As time inches forward, you can’t tell if it’s dread or anticipation settling low in your gut.

Tonight’s charity gig is your first public appearance as the new lead guitarist. A soft launch, according to management. No press conferences or interviews prior. But you know better. There’s no such thing as soft when the spotlight’s on. Expectations are high. So is the risk of backlash.

You’ve seen the forums. The comments. Heard the theories and the snide whispers that still orbit Hephaestion’s departure. He was beloved. Iconic. And worst of all, gone without warning. No explanation from the company. No statement from him. Which means the spotlight won’t just be hot—it’ll burn.

And when people don’t get answers, they settle for targets.

You’re the most obvious one.

Across the room, Mydei leans against the wall, arms crossed. He’s unreadable, as always—no nod, no glance, not even the ghost of recognition. But his silence feels volatile, like a fuse already hissing toward both ends. You two haven’t spoken since...that time during one of your rehearsals, and you tell yourself that it may be for the best. 

Though it doesn’t feel like it. 

Then Aglaea strides in, clipboard tucked under one arm. “Five-minute call,” she announces, tone clipped. “Live stream’s on a thirty-second delay, so if you screw up, pray it’s endearing.”

A few dry laughs ripple out. Not from you.

Your hands are steady. Somehow. You’ve stood backstage before, but not like this. Not as a name printed on the setlist. Not as Diana.

You draw in a breath. Let it go.

Five minutes.

Five minutes to become someone the world remembers.

But while you’re tightening a tuning peg that doesn’t need it, Cipher strolls past casually, then pauses beside you. She taps the headstock of your guitar like it’s a microphone and says, with mock gravity:

“By the authority vested in me as the weirdo of this group, I hereby declare Diana of Okhema a Flamechaser in full.”

It’s absurd. And you huff a laugh before you can stop yourself. Somehow, that alone is enough to loosen the coil of unease in your chest.

Castorice grins from her place near the amp cases. “Took you long enough.”

“Finally,” Phainon laughs. “Now we can really tear it up out there.”

Cipher claps your shoulder once, firm but not performative. “Ready to torch a few expectations?”

You nod. For the first time tonight, you actually are.

The lights don’t dim. They blaze.

It’s not a stadium setup—not even close. It’s a charity gig in an old converted theater, packed past safe capacity, where the house lights don’t quite know if they’re supposed to be ambient or dramatic. The crowd hums with that pre-show electricity, a thousand heartbeats syncing into one thrum beneath the soles of your boots.

You walk out with the others.

Anaxa keeps his head low but his stride loose, casual in that way that only comes with experience. Cipher throws a wink toward the crowd like she owns it. Phainon rolls his shoulders once and taps the side of his snare, eyes scanning the front row. Castorice is already smiling—less surprise, more awe, as if she still can’t believe they’ve held onto this magic for so long.

On the other hand, Mydei moves like a man who’s seen this show a hundred times and still hasn’t decided if it’s worth remembering.

As you set up your gear, Castorice glances over just before sliding in her in-ears. “You ready?”

You nod once, the adrenaline flowing like acid in your veins. She gives a small, knowing smile—then clicks her monitors into place.

That's when the music starts.

The lights hit you like heat, all at once—white and sharp and blinding. You can’t see the audience. From where you stand, they’re just a blur of movement, the rise and fall of bodies pressed together, the way light glints off hands held high.

Your heart kicks against your ribs.

You’ve stood in crowds like this. You’ve screamed for these songs until your voice broke, cried when the lights hit just right. You know exactly how it feels to be out there, watching the stage pulse with something bigger than you. But now you’re in it. Now you're the one holding the noise in your hands.

The first chord is yours. 

Your fingers find the frets before doubt can catch up. The amp hums to life beneath your touch, and the moment the sound hits the crowd, something shifts. It slams into you like something electric, something real. It doesn’t feel effortless, but it clicks. Like gears locking into place. Like you were always meant to be here.

Cipher’s already locked in, her synths sharp and sure, threading the edges of the song like silver wire. Phainon keeps the pulse steady, not just playing the beat but commanding it. Castorice flanks your other side, her rhythm work clean and locked in, the perfect spine beneath the noise. Anaxa plays like the strings answer to him alone.

And Mydei—

You don’t recognize him, not like this. Rehearsal stripped him down; the stage builds him back up. He moves like he owns the night. The way he stalks the mic, how he throws his whole body into a single downbeat—he’s a flare set off in the dark.

He doesn’t look at you. Not once.

But it doesn’t matter. You’re here. And so is the music.

The solo hits sooner than you’re ready for—a breath too soon, a beat too fast. Your mind stutters. Hephaestion’s shadow flickers in the back of your thoughts. So do the fans who never wanted him gone. So does the version of you who once screamed herself hoarse from the crowd and thought, God, if I could just be part of this.

Then you step into it.

Not like him. Not perfect. But wholly, unapologetically you.

When the final note rings out and the lights swell brighter, the roar from the crowd is real. It’s not for the old you in the pit. It’s for Diana.

The one who made it to the stage.

The moment you clear the curtain, it hits you.

The roar of the crowd still echoes behind the wall, but back here it’s all breath and muscle and sweat—everything that kept you upright now spilling out in shaky exhales and uneven footsteps. Castorice is already unstrapping her guitar with a grin, and Phainon mutters something about the monitor mix being garbage, but even he’s smiling. Anaxa tosses his pick into the air, catches it, and gives you a look that is unmistakably approving.

And then Cipher barrels into you.

You let out a startled oof as she all but tackles you in a hug, arms locking tight around your shoulders like she’s trying to squeeze out every leftover nerve. “You slayed that!” she crows in your ear, bouncing on her heels and nearly knocking your guitar sideways. “I mean it, you murdered every single song. May the ghost of the entire setlist rest in peace.”

You laugh, a little breathless, and hug her back with the same force. It doesn’t feel real yet. Maybe it won’t for a while.

When Cipher finally lets go, your eyes sweep the room, and then you spot them.

Aglaea and Tribbios by the back wall, half-shrouded in shadow, arms folded like they haven’t moved once since the show started. You expect the usual nod, the clinical rundown, maybe a note or two about branding. But Tribbios just lifts her clipboard in a sort of salute, and Aglaea—she actually smiles. Not wide or soft, but definitely real.

Before you can process that, someone steps into your space.

“Miss Diana,” Garmentmaker says, voice warm and neutral in that uncanny way of theirs, “for you.”

They’re holding a bouquet. Dark calla lilies and marigolds threaded between waxy greens and two stems dyed the same soft lavender as your stage jacket. You blink. You haven’t held flowers since—

Your hand moves to the necklace at your throat. You run your thumb along the worn edge of the old guitar pick hanging there, tracing the faded design. Erin had picked it out when you were both freshmen in college. Told you one day you’d need a lucky charm.

Maybe she was right. 

You take the bouquet with careful hands. “Thanks,” you murmur.

“No need to thank me,” Garmentmaker replies. “It was a collective effort.”

You needn’t press for details to know what they’re talking about. 

Gradually, the group thins out. Back to the dressing rooms. The water cooler. The tangled wires and half-unplugged monitors. You’re left standing with your bouquet and your pulse still ticking in your ears. And then you hear quiet footsteps beside you. A towel being slung around someone’s neck.

Mydei.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there, close enough that you catch the scent of sweat and stage smoke. His hair—long, golden, sweat-dampened—hangs loose around his shoulders, catching glints of the overhead lights. A few strands cling to his cheek, curling where the heat hasn’t left him yet. His tank is half-shoved up from where he’d toweled off, exposing the red ink that traces his skin—sharp, intricate lines that wind from his ribs to the ridges of his arms like something alive.

There’s a faint flush to his face, but his expression is unreadable. Still composed. Still frustratingly distant.

But he doesn’t walk away.

You shouldn’t feel anything. Not awe, nerves, or this strange flicker in your chest. Not after weeks of cold shoulders, clipped feedback, and silence so sharp it could cut.

Yet, standing this close, post-show haze still clinging to your skin, you feel that old, stupid static humming under your ribs. The kind you used to get watching him from the pit, golden and untouchable. His tattoos catch the light as he dries his hair, red against gold, familiar in a way that makes your stomach twist. 

You remind yourself: he barely looked at you during rehearsal. Barely spoke. Nothing about his silence felt special then.

So why does it feel different now?

“You played like you belonged.”

Mydei says the words quietly, something meant for your ears alone, and it makes your breath catch. Not because it’s glowing praise. But because it’s the first olive branch. The first unguarded edge.

You turn to him, something already forming on your tongue—thank you, maybe, or some half-joke to match the heat in your cheeks—but the moment doesn’t last.

“Group photo!” a voice calls, sharp and cheery. One of the staff members, waving a camera in one hand and gesturing the band into a loose huddle. “C’mon, all of you, we need a thumbnail for the show vlog!”

There’s a shuffle of movement. Cipher loops an arm around your shoulders before you can protest and drags you toward the center of the group. You’re still clutching the bouquet. Mydei ends up right beside you, close enough that his arm brushes yours in the crush of bodies.

He doesn’t step away.

You don’t either.

The flash goes off twice. Someone cheers. You can still feel the weight of Mydei’s words lingering, tucked between the beat of your pulse and the strings still echoing in your fingers.

You played like you belonged.

You are not Hephaestion. You’ll never be him.

Because you are here, and he is not. 

TRACKLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

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[omgfangirlland]

Okay so to add to the superfam x neglected! reader! What if the reader is an absolute nerd with engineering (mechanical, computer, electronics, software, and robotics) and as they slowly grew comfortable with Lex Luthor, they just found themselves yapping away about the functions of the Omnitrix, interesting projects they're working on, and what they want to do yk. Like this girl went from quiet, demure, shy who is not used to attention to someone who could talk Lex's ears off for HOURS, and he isn't even mad??? All her ideas are pretty interesting and it's also nice to see her just be in her element. The superfam being regretful because they didn't know Reader could talk this much or be so bright about something. Lois feeling immense guilt because she got so used to the easy way of not having to worry about injuries because Jon, Kon, and Clark don't that she forgot her daughter didn't inherit any of the indestructableness

Also!!! As Reader slowly got used to actually have an adult pay attention to her and encourage her with her interests, plus the praise she receives with her hero persona, she just became more confident. Idk it's like 1 am and the drabble was too good

-🪻

I want to start with the Ben10 reader x Invincible- I don't really feel the vibe for it- like Debbie has bitten into Nolan for not being happy for powerless kiddie Mark, and she'd do it again, and Nolan honestly just gave "angry because I'm getting attacked" vibes. But it'd be funny to see how shocked Battle Beast would be to see a youngling of his race try and battle him :)))

Also- Dad!Lex honestly just gives PTA Mom vibes to me-

(This and the 3 other Tony Stark!Reader stories I read are slowly making me want to do a TS!Neglected!Reader x batfam, Bruce would lose it at his daughter being so much like Brucie and so little like Bruce)

I'M HAPPY Y'ALL LIKE MY RAMBLING!! Most of the time I feel like it has no rhythm or reason :))

Lex: My kid is a mastermind in robotics and alien tech, on her way to have a greater empire than mine- What can your monkey-brained son do besides chase a ball, Janet?!

You: I don't even go here... I don't even know this woman.

Like, once this man gets attached, he goes crazy. He has an important business meeting at the same time you have a school event? At best, he's video chatting from your school, screaming mid-sentence that you did great, or at worst, not even present in the meeting.

Because let's be honest- rich man who knows how to act and can provide proof of neglect vs an above middle class family who didn't even know where the kid was? The rich man wins.

And sure, you may hate it at first, think it's a ploy to get back at Superman, because why would an adult actually care for you? But instead of lowering the anti-supers measures he has in place, he triples them. He asks about school shit, nags you about homework, if you ate, "You shouldn't sit for so long in front of a screen."

It drove you crazy. And you started acting out- missing homework, having sleepless nights, arguing with him over the smallest shit, until he called you for a serious talk. You were ready for him to tell you to pack your shit and go- but he just asked if everything was fine at school. "Because this isn't you."

Your lip may have trembled, but you refuse to acknowledge that you cried, that tears were even a concept. After hugging, definitely not crying in his arms, you got better- even if he suspended you from hero activity for a year "because you should have just come to talk to him" but whatever-

And boy does all of this fuck with the family. Not every place is anti-super proof, so they hear you talking his ear off at the restaurant he takes you to for the weekly family outing, or to celebrate whatever you made that day. And it builds the anger and guilt.

Lois started stalking Lex, not what she'd call it, but she was. Because she knew you wouldn't be far away. And it was amazing to see you talk about whatever machine-thingy-robot- whatever it was. It hurt to realize what she's been missing, and it hurt even more to see you smile so brightly and proudly at the man who, for years, has tried to ruin the family.

And when Jon sees you out and about and tries to follow after you, wanting his sis back, he loses track of you. Lex just finds a note stating that the cloaking tech works, but after 30 seconds, it fried. He doesn't ask, he already knows. But if you told him, he would obediently listen.

Kon is straight up thinking Lex brainwashed you. He refuses to believe you're doing that out of your own free will and is actively plotting with Tim and Young JL.

It was eerie how much you resembled Kon in his early days as "the real, new Superman" but the difference was in the way you actually were strategic in your flirting. Just enough to charm, but not enough to insinuate a possibility of more. Not that Lex would allow anyone to sniff around you, he has a strict list of requirements for the ideal one, and he's sure no one will hit all of them.

Honestly- he may as well start creating an android, the perfect one, to be the right lover. You shut that idea down quick. "Feels wrong to create an android and take away its free will. There are so many movies and games about why that's a bad idea."

All he hears is to create an android with another main mission, and just let the thing fall in love with you on its own. He has mad confidence in your rizz, mainly because he thinks you are the prize, and anyone not seeing that is crazy or blind. (*caugh* the superfam *caugh*) You could also do no wrong in his eyes, could kill everyone, and he'd still be like "lil baby, innocent, sweet thing", but that's another discussion.

This man will need to take calming pills if you show interest in JL members, aliens like Rook Blonko and Ester, or the witch Charmcaster.

You and Lex:

[milanistvrn]

ೃ࿔*:･ jealous!matt x black!reader.

╭────── · · ୨୧ · · ──────╮

in which, after weeks of watching you grow close to chris, matt finally confesses that he could love you better—privately, honestly, and with everything chris never gave.

╰────── · · ୨୧ · · ──────╯

word count: 1k.

──────── ❝ boyfriend, ❞ dove cameron.

you never meant to get this close to chris. it just happened—slow and easy, like most things with him. he’s funny, always saying something stupid to make you laugh, always nudging your shoulder or leaning into your space like it’s natural. and you let him. because it feels good to be wanted, even if it’s never been said out loud.

the thing is, you notice matt more.

you notice the way he watches from across the room when chris pulls you into some dumb inside joke. you feel his eyes when you laugh too loud or lean too close. you see it in the way his smile never quite reaches his eyes anymore. he doesn’t talk to you like he used to—not unless he has to, and even then it’s clipped, distant.

you tell yourself you’re imagining it. matt’s just quiet. that’s how he is.

but something shifts the night you end up at the sturniolo residence for a movie night. you’re wearing a soft hoodie and short shorts, your braids tied into a low ponytail. your skin glows under the warm lights, lashes curled, lip gloss catching the light every time you smile. you didn’t dress for attention, but you feel it anyway—especially from matt.

you’re curled into the corner of the couch with chris. his arm is stretched behind you, not touching but close. you’re both sharing a blanket, knees brushing. he’s whispering dumb commentary about the movie and you’re giggling into your hand, eyes half on the screen and half on him. for a second, it feels like something more.

you glance up and catch matt staring.

he’s across the room, slouched low in the armchair, hoodie half-zipped, jaw tight. he doesn’t look away when your eyes meet. he just blinks slow, then gets up without a word and disappears into the kitchen.

you try to focus on the movie, but you’re not laughing anymore. you excuse yourself ten minutes later, something in your chest heavy and unsure.

the kitchen’s dark except for the light over the sink. matt’s standing there, back to you, hands gripping the edge of the counter like he’s holding something in. you almost turn back, but then he speaks.

“you ever gonna tell him how you feel?”

you pause. “what?”

he turns, eyes sharp but unreadable. “chris. you ever gonna tell him you like him?”

you frown, arms crossing over your chest. “i never said i liked chris.”

“you don’t have to.” he steps closer, slow, like he’s testing you. “it’s obvious. to everyone.”

“so what?” you snap, voice low. “why do you care?”

he stops a few feet from you, looking at you like he’s trying to decide something. “because he doesn’t see you. not really.”

your brows knit together. “matt—”

“you think he’s gonna take care of you?” his voice is rougher now, bitter. “you think he’s gonna make sure your flowers don’t die ‘cause you forgot to water them? hold your hand when you’re overthinking? remind you to put your bonnet on when you’re too tired to care?”

you swallow, caught off guard by the way he says it—like he knows you. like he’s been watching, paying attention to every little thing chris missed.

“he doesn’t see how your voice softens when you’re trying not to cry,” matt says, stepping even closer, “or how you always fiddle with your necklace when you’re nervous.”

you blink fast, heart thudding.

he’s in front of you now, voice barely above a whisper. “i can be a better boyfriend than him. i could do the shit that he never did.”

you can’t breathe. can’t speak. he’s too close, too honest, and it feels like the floor’s falling out from under you.

his gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes. “i’d show up for you. not just when it’s easy. always.”

you’re still frozen, unsure if this is real—if matt’s really saying this to you, like all this time he’s been waiting. wanting.

“you never said anything before,” you whisper, voice shaking just a little.

his jaw clenches. “you were too busy looking at him.”

you don’t realize your hand moved until it’s resting lightly against his chest, right over his heartbeat. it’s fast. nervous.

“so say something now,” you murmur. “if you mean it.”

he exhales slow, like the weight’s finally cracking open. “i mean it.”

the silence after is thick with everything you’ve both been holding in. you don’t kiss him. not yet. but you don’t walk away either. and when his fingers brush yours, you let him hold your hand.

for the first time all night, you feel seen.

a/n: this has literally been sitting in my drafts forever lmao, + the button divider was created by @bluestriips !

[pricegouge]

this is lifted almost directly from my dm's with @/quarterlifekitty earlier + barely expanded upon at all cause i'm lazy, but also i was right so i say again:

cw: implied emotional infidelity. MDNI

ex-husband!nik who lingers, after. knows exactly where he can find you, exactly when. (he told you that was dangerous, the habit.)

so he's always there, thursdays, wherever you are. payday; date night. he sits at the bar and watches as you giggle and clutch this new man's hand and you chat about your respective days.

he likes the way you squawk when the waitress says the bill has already been paid; likes the way your man scowls even better. he knows you won't turn to find him at the bar, smirking over the rim of a glass that cost more than your combined meals with this boy.

(knows this just as he knew where to find you, four weeks into this new schedule, because there had only ever been four places you'd liked, picky and thing, that your new beau could afford, and he'd already crashed all you other haunts in the weeks proceeding - the same reason you won't look him in the eye now, won't acknowledge as he sends an authentic burgundy to your table to round out the night.)

he doesn't leave when you do, spends the whole night right there at that bar, watching your table as fresh new lovers cycle in and out, talking you round in circles from the moment you left the restaurant, your number lighting up his screen so you can bitch at him, until the moment they kick him out because every minute he keeps you on the line is another minute you don't spend fucking this new fool on your prescheduled and preordained date night.

(honestly, you're welcome, and he'll see you tomorrow when you insist upon popping over to pay him back)

[hawkette-heather]

➶| Blood Ties

➶| Pairing: Stalker!Murderer!Kate Bishop X NewAvengers!Fem!reader ➶| Summary: Ever since Ghostface started their killing spree, it's been you, and the New Avengers' jobs to keep the city safe. But you don't have enough equipment, and so, you all venture off to Bishop Security. ➶| Warning: Heavy Obsession, [think of this as a backstory chapter] NOT PROOFREAD. Overall Series- Blood, Gore, Dead Dove, Non-Con, Murder, Alternate Universe where Kate is a criminal, mentions of victims, heavy obsession. ➶| A/N: This idea randomly came into my head a few days ago, and so I decided to make it! It'll be a series, probably 4 or 5 parts. Part 4 or 'A Quiet Kind Of Longing' coming soon [though there might not be a part 5, depending on whether I'm just going to finish it in part 4, or prolong it for a finish].

Word Count: 2K

➳

It all went wrong, all because of the Battle of New York. The destruction caused by Loki, and his Chitauri Army, caused Kate's penthouse to crumble. Eleanor, in a moment of adrenaline, managed to save 11 year old Kate. However, Kate witnessed her father, Derek's death, crushed under the rubble of their own home. It was what sparked her psychopathy, due to witnessing the traumatic demise of Derek. She remembers seeing Hawkeye shoot down the Chitauri coming at her, when she was inside her bedroom, the wall blasted open. It made her become obsessed, with archery. Days on end, with sleepless nights, and restless mornings, she would work out, and train. And train. And train.

Soon enough, she was winning competitions, after competitions, coming back home with gold medals every time. She became a master acrobat and marksman, as well as an expert swordsman, and martial artist. But most of all, she became stronger. Both in mind, and physicality. She became obsessed, with the idea, of becoming like the man who saved her.

Until, her mother was arrested.

She was 22, when her mother was dragged out of a car, and arrested for the murder of Armand Duquesne III. She had been lied to, all her life, from that point of her father's death. Eleanor wanted a better life for Kate, and decided to work for Kingpin- Wilson Fisk, ultimately killing Duquesne for him. And it...fully snapped Kate. The person to arrest her own mother, was her idol, Hawkeye, Clint Barton. And from that day on, the thought of killing everyone, making them suffer, as she did, burned into her mind.

And then her new obsession arrived...

After a few months, the New Avengers were appointed, by the government, with Yelena Belova, Bucky Barnes, Alexei Shostakov, Ava Starr, John Walker, and...you, the successor of late Scarlett-Witch. The moment she saw you, on the new, she knew, that you...would be hers. No matter what. And she would get what she wanted... all of this changed her, into nothing more, than a cold, sadistic, cruel murderer.

It started off as subtle. Following you around, taking photos when she could. During your missions, when you were saving New York from criminals, with the others. But soon enough, it went out of hand, as she embraced her new identity, as Ghostface, killing those, who she believed was...too close to you. Your boyfriend 'disappeared'. So did a few of your friends. Along with your college's English Professor. It was all so...confusing. Until, she started murdering more people, to satisfy her newfound hunger for bloodlust. And only then, did you realise there was a murderer. And that you, and the New Avengers had to find them, as soon as you could...

➳

"Any new updates on Ghostface?" Bucky says, walking into the room with a sigh, combing his fingers through his short, dark brown hair. You, and the others, are in the main control room, in the Watchtower, looking at screen, which is projecting a spot map, of where the last victims of Ghostface died.

You look over, shaking your head at Bucky, before Yelena speaks up, with a small groan. "We need more eyes, Bucky. We don't have enough cameras, and we need trackers. We aren't anywhere close to finding out the connection to all these murders." She says, her russian accent thick in her words.

Bucky gives Yelena a small, firm nod, before pulling out his flip phone, scrolling through the numerous contacts stored here.

"Do you remember Eleanor Bishop?" Bucky says. You raise a brow, at the mention of the former CEO of Bishop Security. "I think her company sells cameras, didn't they? All sorts of protection, and security."

"Are you sure we should get things from...her company? I mean-we could get things from the government-"

"We don't trust the government either. Didn't you see what Valentina did? It's one of the other. And I think we should play it safer." Bucky interrupts you, finding the business number of the company, and calling it up.

"Hello, this is Bishop Security, how many I help you?" You all hear the receptionist say, on the other line.

"It's the Avengers. We need to speak to the acting CEO." Bucky says. After a few seconds, of muttering quietly to a few co-workers, the receptionist speaks into the phone once more.

"We've booked you an appointment with Miss Bishop. Come as soon as you can, thank you."

Bucky disconnects the call, before looking over at Bob, who's sat on the couch, curiously listening in. "Can I come with? Alexei and the others are training. Not really in the mood to do that." He says, with a small laugh. Bucky's brows slightly furrow.

"Yeah, come." Yelena says, as she stretches her arms out, meanwhile you get your purple cloak from the peg near the door.

"Are we going now?" You say, a brow raised. Yelena sighs, rolling her eyes.

"Yes, Y/N. We can't be slow and steady, when they're a murderer on loose." Yelena replies, as she grabs her pistol, putting it in its allocated spot in her holster, while Bucky does the same with his holster. Bob gets up from the couch, slightly rolling his head to the side, before grabbing a beige jacket.

"We need to be quick. The sooner we get this, the sooner we can set it up, so we can monitor things everywhere." Bucky says, his voice authoritative, and direct, as the elevator opens, stepping into it, you all following in suit.

➳

"There you are. Please wait to be called. Miss Bishop is...a bit busy." The receptionist says, with a sigh, escorting you all to the grand office on the top floor of the Bishop Security HQ. You sit down, on one of the seats, before twiddling your fingers, playing with the purple magic appearing at your fingertips. Bob lets out a small laugh once more, watching as you harness more of the magic, letting it move about, hovering over your hand. The wait was almost excruciating, even though only being 20 minutes or so. And finally, a worker exits the office, his face slightly pale.

"Miss Bishop is waiting for you!" He says, almost nervously, before walking over to the elevator, in small, quick steps. Bucky gets up from his seat, being the first to open the door and step inside. You close the door behind you all with your magic, before walking over to the desk located in the back of the large, spacious room, where a figure, clad in a black tuxedo, is sat on an office chair, a golden nameplate reading 'Katherine Elizabeth Bishop, Acting CEO'.

"How can I help ya?" Kate says, clasping her hands together, and resting her chin on it. Bob gives Kate a small smile, as he sits down on the chair, while You, Yelena, and Bucky remain standing, the hood of your cloak slightly covering your face.

"We need some cameras, and hi-tech tracking devices. The best ones we can get. How much will that be?" Bucky starts, his eyes locked onto Kate. Kate gives Bucky a dashing smile, before looking over at you.

"Yep, we'll get you that. And don't worry, we'll cover the cost. After all, you're our heroes." She says, with a laugh, before continuing. "I'm guessing this must be to do with...trying to find Ghostface?" Kate says. Yelena nods, her brows furrowed, meanwhile your brow raises.

"Yes, it is." You say. Kate's gaze lingers on you for a little longer, with that same, dashing smile, as though trying to find your eyes. It's almost...unnerving, at her gaze on you.

"Alright! I need you to sign this paper, as you're buying some of our finest technology. The rest of you can go to...Debbie. She's outside. She'll show you to our tracking devices." Kate says, her voice enthusiastic, as she hands you a paper. You look over at Bucky, who gives you a nod, as if saying 'we'll be back', as he walks over to the door, Yelena besides him, with Bob getting up and giving Kate a timid wave as a thanks, before they exit the office, leaving you alone with the acting CEO.

You sit down where Bob was, before reading through the agreement. Kate's eyes remain on you as though enthralled, before she breaks the silence.

"Your boyfriend's dead, isn't he?" She says, a smile still remaining on her face. You find it...unusual. Maybe she's just being friendly. Barely anyone, but the New Avengers, know about your personal and college life.

"No, he just...disappeared. That's all. He's not dead.. Why would you think that?" You murmur, flipping the page of the agreement, continuing to read on. Dead....he's not dead- he can't be. Kate gives a small shrug.

"Oh- I didn't mean to be rude, or anything. I just heard a few of my employees talking about it. That's all." Kate says, as though unbothered by your stunned, tense expression, at her words, before grabbing a pen, moving to put it in your right hand, her fingers lingering on the back of your hand.

"You know...I would prefer it, if you'd take your hood off. Just so you can see better, right? Everyone already knows who you are." Kate says, her voice friendly. Your brows slightly furrow, before deciding to listen to her. After all...what harm could it do? She's just asking for you to take your hood off.

You comply, letting the hood of your purple cloak fall off your head, no longer obscuring your face from sight, as you sign on the dotted lines, where signatures are required. Kate's smile grows wider, at the sight of your face, no longer hidden.

"You're beautiful, you know that? I'm sure there are tons of people that would kill for you." Kate says. You're not sure if your ears are deceiving you, but you interpret that as...something dangerous, due to the way her voice lowered, into a low murmur. However, you just brush it off, thinking it was an awkward complement.

"Thanks, I guess." You say, as you set the pen down, standing up. Kate flashes her pearly whites at you in a charming grin, before taking the paper, and putting the pen back inside its holder.

"You can go now." She says. You give Kate a small nod, as you walk over to the door, before exiting. That whole encounter made you feel this...sense of...danger, floating around her. Maybe it's just because you don't trust her, due to being Eleanor Bishop's daughter. That must be it. You make your way to the elevator, before pressing the button going down, waiting for the doors to open and the elevator to come.

Meanwhile, in Kate's office...

Kate's grin slowly morphs into a...malicious smirk, as she watches the door close, hearing your footsteps slowly recede into silence. She moves her hand to her tie, before pulling off a small, microcam, with a laugh.

"Thanks for the new photo for my collection, Princess." Kate says to herself, before turning on the desktop computer, and logging in. She presses on an unknown app, before connecting the microcam to the app, instantly revealing the video, and the photos taken and stored. Kate plays the video, in which Bucky was asking about the cams, and the tracking devices, letting out a scoff.

"Pathetic, naiive people....they don't know Ghostface was right under their nose..." She says, before moving to the pictures the microcam automatically took, during your hood being up, and down. An obsessive, almost lovestruck expression washes onto her face, as she opens her files, scrolling through them, until she has a folder, named 'Y/N L/N'. Kate relocates the photos from the microcam, into the folder, letting the 2 photos join the other hundreds of photos she's taken of you.

Finally, Kate closes the folder, files, and the app, before picking up the microcam, and placing it inside the breast pocket of her tux jacket, before leaning back against her office swivel chair, with a content sigh.

"I'm going to get you...no matter what. None of you are ever going to find me. I'll do whatever it takes...to get you, Y/N." Kate says to her self once again, before a string of laughs escape her lips. It's as though she's insane, hooked on you... you've only seen her a few times, and this was your very first interaction with her. Her, on the other hand...

Has been stalking you for the past year..

[smolestbrein]

Like ... I just think the film isn't as deep as it think it is.

Look, Megatron is evil and I will not deny that. But I have to scratch my head at how he's really the only main character here.

Bumblebee?https://x.com/TFHypeGuy/status/1769212602800800250 Keagan was literally instructed to not sound like anything else but him. The film not only has Bee purely for the reason of popularity, but he's just a joke machine where the serious moments don't even come from his character but the writers realizing that he was there and needed to take it seriously. So now one of the central four is nothing more than a joke, where even the potential interesting angle of his clear mental instability only existing to make him funny.

Elita-One? Whatever the voice director was asking for, it was damn well wrong. Elita starts out really only has the second annoyed adult, but has so little dynamic with Orion that the climax of her going "you've always seen the better world" feels really unearned because they had the same dynamic as Orion with Byaverse Optimus. I really was also bothered by the High Guard recruitment scene (more on that).

Orion is the worst for me. For a guy who's supposed to be "loud" and a wild spirit, he's almost completely brushed off when the plot actually rolls in. Like yes he's trying to build the better world, but he feels largely un-impactful, and even his speech to the miners was kinda undercut by Megs getting fucking branded by Sentinel.

At every step after they find out about Sentinel, Megs gets all the strong moments whereas Orion kinda doesn't. He only gets one cool scene but it comes after Megatron getting branded. He feels like a peripheral protagonist (is that the right term?), where Megatron is the main character as Optimus is just the point of view he see him from. He barely has the emotions that Megs pulls on-screen.

Yes he defeats Sentinel's control over them, but the narrative inflection uses Megatron splitting him in half as the end of his era. An even is you want to say that's not the case, one should also have problems with the fact that Alpha literally fucking says "VALIANT SACRIFICE" for quite literally the worst time.

It's not "making abuse victims/oppressed people into villains because they dared to fight back and be uncivil about it" but it comes from that trope, the skeleton is still there despite every context in the film. The only guy who's "embodying" (or at the very least has the most screen time to that feeling) the anger of being robbed of his own rights is written to be a guy devoured by it and turns into a fascist that drives his planet to madness while the hero was given the fucking Excalibur of their world by their god for a sacrifice that was neither on his intention.

Like ... people really think the narrative thought that deeply for the foot-soldiers of Sentinel, the faceless drone coded mooks past them being fodder for fight scenes and kills? The story never draws upon them for the morality of slicing Sentinel down, it's just that Megs was going down the dark side and Orion wants to stop that.

And also, one of the dumbest statements I've seen also drive me nuts.

"D-16 was always clearly evil-" I have to stress this very clearly, one the main characters on the fucking poster is a glorified comedian cameo was straight up asked not to act as said character. Trying to stretch scenes where the comedy and joke is basically "Orion is a dumbass motherfucking idiot and D is the tired adult in the relationship." There's never any inflection or framing before or after to say this. Even the fucking script doesn't support this. I don't believe those scenes were that thought through. Even Cooley doesn't support it.

And that's just my problem, the character the most visible and focused emotions in the film is the one that wants bloody vengeance of the despotic, deceiving tyrant who mutilated the young as to create a social underling class to feed the greatest enemy of their people but that will turn him into the villain and the hero is a dude who only has one good scene and a few lines that should not be subtle or set-ups and also becomes their Arthur for taking a shot for the fascist.

Orion is just so under-baked. And I won't lie that real-life politics also influence my views on the film. So for the character with that visibility to be ham-fisted as becoming the the villain, with little to no actual power-hunger or even hidden evil past being a crash-out because he finds out his life is a lie for tyrant to hoard pleasures for himself, it feels off.

(And don't even get me started on the High Guard. These guys could've been a whole lot more interesting, but the come out of nowhere and only exist to give Megatron the Decepticon Army. The idea of a toxic mindset being implanted into Megs falls apart when you remember that Megs was already becoming more controlling like the hill scene. And he doesn't even get to lead them, Elita has more screen time as the leader of the High Guard/Decepticons than Megatron. Their characterization is nil for a fertile ground of soon to be Autobots, hell have some of the miners become Decepticons when they get their T-cogs back.)

Whatever drives Optimus isn't going to matter, because the story univocally goes with the idea that his sacrifice for fucking SENTINEL is what got him the Matrix. Because if the sacrifice was somehow because he was willing to die for D's innocence, then it just comes of as insulting for the story to insinuate that the main black-voiced character was becoming a villain because he was oppressed by the guy was basically a slave since birth (and yes Keagan will never fucking count as a character) and the guy telling him to "tome it down" is given god's divine cool card.

Orion is like stale bread here, he makes a good speech that should've been placed somewhere else in a film that gives him better scenes so he would be more impactful.

The politics of the film can't exist in the vacuum and I find it borderline propagandist in how it's own internal justifications are basically Thermian Argument. I know the damn context and characters, it just hits a little too close to certain things and sayings in certain funny parts of history when the oppressed were enraged over the pain they suffered. Too close for me to go "but the F-French Revolution" every time I think about it.

[peechglaze]

I’ve already seen so many viewers say ellie is too mean to joel or acting like a brat or a bitch when all he did was love her. but they are missing the point. joel BETRAYED her. ellie loves and trusts joel more than anyone, and he betrayed her. thats why its so painful for her to face what he did, BECAUSE she loves him so much. he lied to her and continued to lying. she knew something was off from the beginning and I think this episode did such an amazing job showing her resentment and distrust of joel grow over the years until she just couldn’t take it anymore. the physical pain on ellie’s face when she tells gail the truth (bella is insane). I also understand joel, and I think he tried his best for ellie. but ellie is also completely valid in her anger. and its just so fucking heartbreaking that they never got the chance to make things better.

You guys never miss 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

I actually was really worried this was going to happen the moment the episode opened and I realised that a lot of ep 6 was going to be from Joel's POV.

Which is fine, because I think Pedro absolutely killed it and it really helped us see Joel continue these patterns of selfish behaviour outside of this impossible big, morally grey decision he makes at the end of season 1.

But, and here's a rare criticism from me, having them from Ellie's POV like they are in the games would have also helped tremendously when it comes to understanding why Ellie is behaving the way she was, is, and will. It's a subtle shift, but when we focus less on how Ellie's words and actions effect Joel, and more on how Joel's words and actions effect Ellie, it makes a world of difference. Especially considering the fact that this is Ellie's story, right? I understand why they focused on Joel this episode, but with all the respect and love in my heart, he died. He's meant to be haunting Ellie and the narrative, not taking front and center screen.

And I get why they did, and I love the new scenes that we got from it. They actually did an amazing job at showing his overprotectiveness, especially as Ellie gets older and surpasses Sarah in age. The ways in which he truly doesn't understand her, despite how much Ellie puts herself out there for him to understand. How Joel, for as many museum birthday trips and guitars he can give her, keeps failing her in smaller ways too.

Like you said, Ellie is so angry because she loves him. She's been let down over and over again by him for so many years, and like how we're seeing now in the present day, she just couldn't take it anymore. She doesn't have the context that we do, the lingering shots of his regret and sadness when she walks away, the ways in which he seeks out help from others and the lengths he goes to to try and do better. Which makes it all that much more tragic when he inevitably does screw up again despite his effort and hurts her all over again.

Ellie was betrayed, what felt like twice on the same day. She watched Joel as he lied to her about Eugene, and her world crumbled into pieces when she realised how easy that was for him to do, how this wasn't the first time she's seen him do that. All of her suspicions were confirmed on her 19th birthday, when she had to drag home a man's corpse to his wife and watch as Joel lied again, but directly to Gail's face.

She couldn't let Gail go through what she had; the questioning, years of laying awake and wondering why that one detail makes no sense. Thinking about what she could have done or said better, why it had to be him, or her, or them.

But her telling Gail the truth wasn't just about Eugene. It was about Ellie telling Joel she knows. And you can tell this not just from the way she looks at him, but from what she says, too.

Season 1, Episode 9

"Swear to me that everything you said about the Fireflies is true."

"I swear."

Season 2, Episode 6

"You swore."

Not 'you promised', but 'you swore'.

Despite Joel's actions, Ellie was willing to try to forgive him. This is her telling Joel she loves him too. She doesn't say it out loud, or as clearly as he does, but this is it. She finally got the confirmation of his deceit that she's been waiting for him to confess to for years, and even after all of that, she's willing to try.

That's why Ellie is so angry in Seattle. That's what is stuck in her head as she hunts Abby down. She had that time with him taken away from her, time that they were meant to be using to fix their relationship.

Ellie is angry with him, because in this instance? Anger is love rewritten.

[sciderman]

Yk, I hate that adaptations keep making Peter a high schooler, and not just because it means he never evolves, but because the adaptations now also include wider Marvel, whitch usually (thanks to the MCU) is at the modern day stage with legacy characters and new age teen heroes, meaning that Peter is taking up Miles' spot and you can really tell when they put him next to someone like Kamala Khan or Sam Alexander who are Miles' pals. Tho Peter taking Miles' stuff is just a modern issue overall, just look at MCU whitch just stole and re-skinned Miles' personality, characters, story-beats, even the costume to an extent and then made it worse.

agree 👏

[earlgreytea68]

Okay. It's time for an AI rant.

My nephew is 13 years old. Whenever he writes a paper for school, I check it over and fix all of his mistakes for him. He said to me, "Maybe I'll proofread your paper for you in exchange," meaning one of the scholarly articles I write for work. I said, "Cool," and gave him the file. And he said, "Well, this is full of errors! See, you always say you have a lot to correct on my stuff, and look at all the stuff you got wrong!" And I said, surprised, "What? Where?" Because I'm sure there are typos in the draft I sent him, but not, like, that many.

And then he pointed to the screen and said, "Look at all the blue and red lines you have."

And I said, "Yeah, but those are wrong. Like, those are blue and red lines I'm ignoring because the computer is wrong." And then I paused and added, "You know you can't proofread a paper by just looking at the red and blue lines, right?" And he gave me the blankest look, because that clearly is EXACTLY what he thinks. And it became even clearer suddenly why, whenever I correct something on his paper, his immediate reaction is, "It didn't have a blue or red line."

There's a very good reason for that: THAT'S BECAUSE THE COMPUTER ISN'T SMART ENOUGH TO KNOW THAT IT WAS WRONG.

I am so tired of being sold the idea that computers are better than humans and so we should just outsource everything to them, which is clearly the lesson my nephew is absorbing in U.S. middle school. COMPUTERS ARE NOT BETTER THAN HUMANS. Like, maybe they are better at humans at crawling through rubble to find people trapped inside. They are also better at preserving things in a searchable format. Things like that. Very limited circumstances.

I don't want to sound alarmist but everything I hear about people using generative AI freaks me out. It's not just that I'm freaked out by people being like, "I use it to write novels!" (Although I don't see how they do, I have tried to have it write fiction for me and the output was truly terrible.) But I recognize my bias around creative writing and so no one needs to credit my views on artificial writing. But! Other things are alarming, too! "I use it to brainstorm x, y, or z." But...why? Why not just...use your own brain...to...brain...storm? The computer doesn't even have a brain to brainstorm with! And you might be like, "But it comes up with things that my brain would never think of!" So would other people! You could also brainstorm with other people! Or even through Google to see what other people have thought before you (not AI). Please don't belittle the wonder of thinking.

I just feel like the marketing around generative AI boils down to "Wouldn't it be easier not to use your own brain to think about things?" Everyone. No. It would not be. Please just trust me on this. I'm not just an old person who is out of touch with technology or something. I promise. USE YOUR BRAINS. IT WILL BE OKAY.

[sheisoverhere]

Peeta Mellark is an integral member of the four D12 victors. He is literally the sunset on the reaping! How is this not clear? I’ve never wanted to report people for bad literary analysis more and I’m only half joking. It has forced me to commit a cardinal sin: analyze in anger!

1. Him being chosen by absolute accident is the point. Not only does he represent every single other tribute who simply gets chosen because they live in a messed up country but he represents how even with some odds being in your favor (older siblings, merchant family, being white, being popular, etc.) you are still very likely to be victimized by the oppressive structure of Panem.

2. When Haymitch says, “But she was smarter than me, or luckier” - the luck is all the people around Katniss who created the circumstances for her to lead a successful revolution (her father teaching her to hunt, the arena having woods, Rue healing her with leaves, Thresh not killing her, Haymitch consistently giving her support, her mother teaching her aspects of medicine, on and on and on) and Peeta is the number one, most important part of her luck in the first book. She has someone in the games actively putting her life before his… are you kidding? There is legitimately no better luck than that.

3. Even if we take Katniss out of it, Peeta is so impactful as a victor because most of his scenes would not be cut/doctored. What’s there to edit out? Instead, the viewers get a full view of him loving a girl so selflessly, using trickery and strategy instead of violence, keeping himself alive through art, joking on literal death’s door, and sharing so much of himself with the audience it becomes harder for them not to see him as a real human boy. How rare do you think that is for the games? Haymitch and LGB are caricatures of themselves in the games, playing roles that flatten them down. Even Katniss becomes one dimensional on screen without Peeta (and Rue, of course). It is also heavily implied that he does not kill anyone during the games (in a straightforward way) and even if you count Cato or the girl from 8 or even foxface, it’s never him hunting them or seeking out a kill - again how rare do you think that is to see on screen for Games viewers?

4. I didn’t think this needed to be said but: Katniss dies without Peeta in the first games. a) she goes for the bow and dies in the bloodbath; b) she is hunted and killed by Careers; c) she is killed by game makers because there’s no love story angle to keep them from just burning her entirely; d) she dies from tracker jacker stings or Cato because Peeta doesn’t defend her or tell her to run… I could go on…

5. But even if she does win and wins alone - the victory means as much (I would argue less than) any other rebellious victor winning, certainly less than Haymitch’s win. The biggest rebellion for their games is that two of them win! This is legit the only thing that distinguishes them from any other sympathetic, kind child who would have won the games. Like if Haymitch or Finnick or Wiress winning isn’t jarring enough for the Games to end… why do you think Katniss killing Peeta and winning solo would be? It would not.

6. And finally, I cannot stress this enough: There is no peaceful end to the rebellion or the trilogy without Peeta. “Peeta’s a whiz with fires” (HG) for a reason! Collins, over and over, shows us how fire can get out of control and destroy even those who are innocent and who you love (Gale, Beete, Peeta’s family, Haymitch’s family). If everyone really burns, there’s no one to clean the ashes. The reason not everyone burns is because of people like Peeta who can coax the flames in a way that is nurturing and consistent. I mean…. “Peeta fashioned some kind of incubator” is such an obvious detail. Those goslings don’t hatch without Peeta, life does not go on in peace and joy without Peeta.

It is no coincidence that when Maysilee says Lenore Dove got the “jump on us all” (in being a rebel), she is referring to LD using orange paint to make protest art!

We must stop pushing Peeta Mellark out of the narrative! He is literally the sunset on the reaping!

[ickyuji]

ᯓ ᡣ𐭩 yuji using both hands to fuck himself after you send him what most would consider a casual selfie.

unabashed, head tilting back into his bed- hips canting up and up off the bed over and over the second palms of his hands meet the coarse pink hair dusting his pelvis. tilting his head to catch a glance of your pretty face. lips pouting, something you have a tendency to do in your pictures because you think it looks cute, and god- he prays every day you never stop doing it.

cock so hard it hurts, slipping the angry and red, mean head through calloused palms. wondering if your pretty, manicured fingers would feel better than the burn he feels now.

coughing out sounds of moans trapped in his throat, shaped like your name- hoping his roommates are out for the night. not having the foresight to check before opening your messages and reading over the; which one looks better? :3

text from you, a part of him begging you're sending him such cute images on purpose. at least then, it'd give him an excuse to fuck himself silly over your face- letting out an exasperated keen the second another one comes through.

this one, this one framing your face so pretty- eyes darting down to the fact that it looks like you're topless. a sliver of soft skin like a blessing, dropping one hand off his cock to bring his phone in closer.

panting exceeding their normal, lust driven tempo to groan out noises that sound like 'fuck, fuck, fuck' before he's done for.

his movements sluggish while he poses his phone downwards, just shy of kissing his leaky length. the juxtaposition of your face pouting at him through a illuminated screen and his viscous hand working over his cock just too good.

stomach tensing taught until he's spent- the first rivulet of cum landing right over your image. not daring to see where the rest lands because he's bucked his hips off the bed, squeezing his eyes tight and imprinting your face to the back of his eyelids while he cums over and over.

heart stilling to its normal pace after moments of clarity. dropping his phone off to the side and running a fist over his sweaty, blush hair.

having half the mind to wipe his phone off with his shirt- cringing over that decision later and sending you a message letting you know the last one is his favorite.

heart leaping out of his chest when you call him- happily blabbering about how happy you are he's picked that one. all the while his mind wanders off and wonders if you can hear the slick sounds of his shaky hand palming over his cock through the receiver.

[sixeyesonathiel]

shy girls suck the best!

fratjo x nerd!reader, fluff & smut, m receiving, overstimulation, whimpering toru. 3.5k wc, 18+ only, MDNI.

satoru gojo is experienced.

he’s cocky for a reason. he’s made girls scream his name more times than he can count, and he knows exactly how to make someone fold in under five minutes—ten if he’s playing nice. he’s all confidence, charm, and unearned a’s from professors who don’t want to deal with his antics. his reputation precedes him in every room, and he walks like the world’s already bent over backwards just to please him.

everything about him screams untouchable, and he’s used to people treating him that way. he wears his varsity jacket like armor, a walking billboard of fratboy glory, all swagger and smirks and lazy confidence that makes people gravitate toward him like he’s got his own gravity field.

but then there’s you.

the shy girl in glasses, always scribbling in your notebook with an absurdly cute pen, whispering apologies when you bump into people, hiding in the back row of class like you owe the world an explanation just for existing. you don’t talk unless spoken to, don’t make eye contact, and definitely don’t give satoru the attention he’s used to. it’s not that you’re cold—it’s that you seem like you live in your own quiet little world, and satoru’s never wanted to be invited somewhere so badly.

and maybe what undoes him first is that he sees you before you see him. you’re already there, present in the corners of his attention before he understands why he’s looking. he notices you one day during lecture, tucking your hair behind your ear as you underline a sentence three times with an intense little frown. it doesn’t seem like much. but something in him clicks.

at first it’s curiosity. then amusement. then it festers into irritation—because why the fuck aren’t you reacting to him like everyone else?—and then fascination. and then something deeper that coils in his chest and makes his throat tight every time he sees you. he tries not to care. he wants not to care. but you’re already rooting yourself in places inside him he didn’t know were hollow.

satoru notices you because you don’t notice him. not the way everyone else does. you don’t flutter your lashes when he smirks. you don’t laugh at his jokes like they’re scripture. you don’t even flinch when he calls you “baby” out of nowhere—just blink at him like he’s an equation you don’t understand. it bruises his ego. and for some unholy reason, he loves it.

the problem is, you’re not immune to him at all. you’re just hiding it better than anyone ever has.

because what he doesn’t know is—you’ve always had a crush on him. from the very first time he walked into class, sleepy-eyed and bright-smiled, wearing that damn jacket like it belonged on a movie screen. you just figured he’d never notice someone like you. so you admired from afar. watched him flirt with others, watched the way he filled a room with laughter, memorized the cadence of his voice like it was part of your playlist.

your crush was harmless. private. something you never expected to act on. you played it safe. after all, guys like satoru gojo don’t fall for quiet girls with awkward posture and color-coded notes.

but maybe that’s what draws him in—the absence of performance. the quiet genuine way you exist. no theatrics. no games. just you, completely unaware that you’ve started haunting his every thought.

it starts small.

he catches himself watching the way your hands move. the way your nose scrunches when you’re deep in thought. the way you roll your pen between your fingers when you're anxious. it becomes a loop, a soft little addiction. he remembers details he shouldn’t. what color post-its you use. your preferred snack during study sessions. your favorite seat in the library. you don’t change. he just tunes in.

and then, one day, he realizes he’s rearranging his life around yours.

he starts showing up everywhere you are. loiters in the library, conveniently always around during your shifts at the campus café, makes excuses to sit next to you in class. offers to carry your books, asks you about calculus even though he already passed it. satoru gojo, golden boy of his frat, reducing himself to extra tutoring just to see you smile. it’s humiliating in theory, but it feels like worship in practice.

and it’s not just your smile. it’s the way you get passionate when you talk about obscure theories. the way you light up when you don’t think anyone’s watching. the way you stammer when he gets too close, but don’t pull away.

you don’t feed his ego. you feed something softer. quieter. something he didn’t think he had in him. he tells himself it’s because you’re innocent. because you’re shy and sweet and you deserve to be treated right.

he wants to be good for you. slow, patient, gentle. he holds doors open. he listens. he lets you rant about your thesis for forty-five uninterrupted minutes and actually understands it. he even looks up the books you reference, reads them just to impress you. he takes an annotated copy of your favorite book. he starts writing your name in the corners of his notebook like some love-struck high schooler. you haunt him in the best way.

and then—you kiss him.

it’s after a late-night study session. the campus is quiet. the lights in the library flicker like they’re caught between timelines. your voice shakes when you say “thank you for walking me back.” you pause, fidget with the strap of your bag. and then, like you’ve been gearing up for battle, you rise onto your toes and kiss him.

it’s chaste. hesitant. warm. like you're afraid he'll vanish if you lean in too much.

you pull back like you’ve done something wrong, but satoru’s frozen, staring at you like he’s just been baptized. you’re blushing so hard he can feel the heat radiating off your skin.

“you… sure?” he whispers, voice ragged, leaning in like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

you nod, barely audible: “i’ve read… a lot. i think… i wanna try. with you.”

and he short circuits.

he thought he’d lead. thought he’d ease you into it, kiss your forehead, hold your hand like a gentleman. but then your hands are on his chest, pushing up under his shirt—the varsity jacket creaking as it shifts on his shoulders, the cotton brushing your fingertips. your eyes are searching his like you’re looking for confirmation that he’s real. you study every reaction like a research project. when he shivers, you smile, barely-there, and go back to tracing the line of his abs with trembling fingertips.

it’s not even mischief.

it’s curiosity. slow-burning, chest-aching, and barely held together by your own hesitation. the sort of yearning that tastes like nervous giggles and the edge of something terrifyingly new. you pause between touches like you're checking your hypothesis, calculating the way his muscles tense under your fingers. each brush of your skin feels like a question he's too dazed to answer properly.

“does that… feel good?” you whisper, lips barely moving, as though you’re scared to break the spell.

“f-fuck—yes, baby, yeah,” he gasps, throwing his head back, one hand clutching the edge of the couch like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

your lips trail down his throat, each kiss a trembling prayer, following a path only you can see. his skin is fever-hot, tasting of mint and salt, boyish charm unraveling under your mouth. when you press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to his collarbone, his pulse jumps, a twitch rippling beneath your lips. his breath catches, a sharp stutter that makes his chest lurch, and his hands hover, fingers flexing like he’s afraid touching you will break the spell.

satoru gojo—fratboy, golden boy, untouchable—is quiet. too quiet. his eyes are hazy, pupils wide and unfocused, lips parted like words have abandoned him. his varsity jacket is bunched at his elbows, leather creaking, shirt rucked up to his ribs, abs clenching under your trembling fingers. he could take charge, flip this with a smirk—he’s done it countless times, effortless and expert. but now? he just watches, reverent, like you’re a deity he’s too awestruck to approach.

he’s known mouths. polished ones with perfect rhythm, greedy ones that took without giving, bold ones that knew every angle. but yours? it’s hesitant, new, like you’re crossing a threshold you’re not sure you’re worthy of. the way you look at him—eyes flickering behind slipping glasses, wide with awe—shouldn’t hit this hard. shouldn’t feel this fucking intense. but your fingers, shaking as they tug at his waistband, send a jolt through him that makes his vision spark.

satoru’s hand grazes your cheek, a trembling brush of knuckles. “baby… keep going. please.”

you nod, glasses sliding, your breath hitching as your fingers slip under his jeans, easing them down. your eyes flick up, catching his—flushed, jaw tight, his whole body fighting to stay still. it hits you like a blade: he’s done this a thousand times, fucked girls who knew every trick, but you’ve got him like this. trembling. aching. satoru gojo, invincible, unraveling because of you.

guilt stabs your chest, sharp and fleeting. you shouldn’t have him like this, shouldn’t be the reason his hands clutch the couch like it’s his only anchor. he’s always cocky, untouchable, the center of every orbit. now he’s breaking, and it’s your fault—your lips, your touch, your fault. but the guilt only fans the heat in your core, makes your thighs press together as you lean closer, your breath ghosting over his skin.

satoru is used to being wanted. but not like this. not with this aching, earnest hunger that makes his chest tighten.

you press shaky, open-mouthed kisses to his hip, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of his skin. spit gathers at the corner of your mouth, a slick trail left behind as you suck softly at the sensitive skin just above his cock. he jolts, hips jerking before he catches himself, a low curse slipping free, his hands clenching until his knuckles bleach. the sound he makes—fuck, it’s a choked gasp, raw and ragged, like you’ve torn it from his core.

you shift lower, hands sliding up his thighs, fingers digging into the taut muscle. your kisses grow bolder, sloppier, your tongue dragging along the crease where his thigh meets his groin, leaving a glistening streak of drool that catches the dim light.

he tastes like heat and need, and the way his skin trembles under your mouth makes your own pulse hammer. you pause, lips hovering over his cock, spit pooling on your tongue, and glance up—his head is thrown back, throat bobbing as he swallows, a groan clawing its way out of him.

“holy shit—baby, you—fuck,” satoru gasps, eyes snapping open, blown wide as his hand grips the couch, fabric groaning under his fist.

you take him in your mouth, lips wrapping around the tip, soft and slick with spit that drips down his length. your tongue swirls, slow and deliberate, tracing the ridge as drool spills from the corners of your mouth, coating him in a wet sheen.

he’s hot, heavy against your tongue, and you hum—a low, vibrating sound that pulls a whimper from his throat. your fingers curl around the base, stroking in time with the bob of your head, slick with the spit that pools at his base, making your grip slippery. you suck, gentle at first, then harder, lips stretching around him as spit slicks your chin, a glistening trail dripping onto his thighs.

he’s panting, desperate, each breath a ragged plea. his abs flex, thighs trembling under your palms, and he’s biting back whimpers, trying not to overwhelm you. that restraint—fuck, it’s gorgeous, the way his jaw clenches, the way his eyes flutter shut like he’s fighting to stay grounded. he doesn’t push, doesn’t guide, just moans your name like it’s a prayer, raw and broken. “that’s it, baby—fuck—just like that—your mouth’s so fucking perfect—”

the satoru gojo is unraveling, and it’s because of you. the way you glance up, glasses fogging, eyes glassy with effort, lips shiny and stretched around him, spit dripping down your chin in messy strings. the way your tongue flicks, catching the sensitive spot under the head, makes his hips buck, a choked sob escaping.

your hand slides lower, fingers brushing his balls, tentative but deliberate, slick with the drool that’s pooled at his base. you cup them, rolling gently, and his whole body seizes, a string of curses spilling out as his hand fists the couch tighter, the fabric creaking under the strain.

he’s had every fantasy, every trick, but this—your mouth, slow and reverent, full of wonder, messy with spit that coats him like a second skin—hits like a fucking freight train. it’s too much, too good. he wants to last, to let you explore, but you’re too fucking intent.

you hollow your cheeks, sucking harder, tongue swirling in tight, wet circles, spit bubbling at the corners of your mouth as you take him deeper, throat tightening around him. he chokes, hips jerking as his control frays. “gonna—baby, gonna cum, wait, fuck—”

you don’t stop. your lips slide further, tongue flattening, taking him as deep as you can. it’s filthy—spit drips down your chin in thick strings, pooling on his thighs, your glasses fogging as breaths puff through your nose. you’re focused, watching his every twitch, adjusting when he gasps, slowing when he whimpers, like you’re mapping him.

his hand grips the couch, knuckles white, and he breaks with a sound that’s barely human—a shattered cry as he spills, hot and pulsing against your tongue.

you try to swallow it all, but it’s overwhelming—cum mixes with the spit already coating your lips, spilling past them in a slick, messy rush, dripping down your chin, onto his thighs, and pooling on the couch. you pull back, gasping, wiping your mouth with trembling fingers, but the slickness clings, smearing across your skin as your eyes stay wide behind crooked glasses. he’s trembling, chest heaving, shirt clinging to sweat-slick skin, pupils blown like he’s seen the divine.

you should stop.

you fucking should.

he’s wrecked, twitching, fucked out beyond reason. but the ache in your chest—the sharp, flickering guilt of breaking him—only makes you hungrier. you lick your lips, tasting the salty mix of him, and your thighs press together, a soft whimper escaping as you lean in again, spit still clinging to your chin.

“just once more?” you whisper, voice barely audible, like you’re afraid the words will burn you.

his eyes flutter open, unfocused, dazed. he groans, raw and low. “baby… you’re gonna fucking kill me.”

but he doesn’t stop you. doesn’t even try.

you start again, slower, your mouth softer but hungrier, lips wrapping around him with a reverence that makes him twitch instantly. he’s sensitive, still pulsing, and the second your tongue grazes him, he whines—a high, broken sound that makes your stomach twist. you suck lightly, lips gliding along his length, spit pooling at the base and dripping onto his thighs in slow, glistening trails. 

satoru buries his face in a cushion, muffling a sob. “s-sensitive—fuck, it’s too much—”

his thighs tremble under your hands, hips jerking as you kiss the tip, tongue darting out to lap at the bead of cum still leaking from him, your spit mixing with it in a slick, glossy sheen. you linger, savoring the taste, the way it coats your tongue in a sticky film, and he whimpers again, louder, his hand flying to his mouth to bite his knuckles.

your fingers slide to his balls again, rolling them gently, slick with the drool and cum that’s dripped down, making your touch slippery and warm. he arches, a desperate, “please—fuck—please—” spilling from his lips like he’s begging for mercy but craving more.

you don’t rush. your tongue traces every inch, slow and deliberate, swirling around the head before dipping lower, dragging along the vein with a wet, sloppy kiss that leaves a trail of spit in its wake. your breath is hot, teasing, each exhale making him twitch, and you pause to suck at the base, lips lingering as your tongue flicks out, tasting the musk of him through the sticky mess. his hand finds your hair, fingers threading loosely, not pushing, just holding—like he needs to feel you’re real.

you grow bolder, hungrier, your lips tightening as you take him deeper, throat fluttering around him, spit bubbling up and spilling over, coating his cock in a thick, glossy layer. you hum, low and vibrating, and he chokes, a wet, pathetic whimper breaking free.

your hand strokes the base, slick with spit and cum, fingers sliding in the mess, and you slide a finger lower, brushing the sensitive skin behind his balls, now slippery with the drool that’s dripped down. he jolts, a high, keening sound tearing from his throat, his hips bucking as his whole body trembles.

“baby—god—please—fuck, i can’t—” satoru’s voice cracks, raw and whining, as you suck harder, tongue swirling in relentless, wet circles, spit and cum mixing in a frothy mess that drips onto the couch. every noise is desperate—gasps, whimpers, sobs that he tries to muffle but can’t. his body arches, twitching like he’s unraveling at the seams, and you feel it: the moment he breaks again.

he cums with a wail, sudden and violent, hips jerking as he spills into your mouth. it’s messier, hotter, a flood of cum and spit that overwhelms you, spilling out in thick, sticky ropes that coat your lips, your chin, your glasses, dripping onto his thighs and pooling in the creases of his skin.

you swallow what you can, lips still wrapped around him, tongue lapping at the oversensitive tip through the slick mess until he’s twitching, a broken, “n-no more—please—” escaping as he clutches the cushion.

time slips. minutes? hours? you’re tugging his shirt, pulling him closer like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded. ten minutes later, he’s gripping the sheets, praying, fucked senseless by every move you make. you flinch when he whines too loud, hands flying to your mouth, eyes wide with guilt—but then you lean in again, bolder, hungrier, chasing every twitch, every broken gasp of your name.

he’s never felt so cherished and so destroyed at the same time.

every touch is careful, but determined. you’re hesitant but thorough, like you’ve read the same passage in a smutty fanfiction a hundred times and are finally getting the chance to test it out. and the worst part? you’re good at it. really good.

your mouth, your hands, the way you watch his face for every twitch of pleasure—it’s enough to make him lose all sense of pride. the way you keep glancing at his reactions, as if adjusting your technique in real time, is insane. terrifying. he’s never been studied so hard. he likes it. he needs it. he’s suffering in the best way.

he’s never had to hold back like this. never had to breathe through it. never felt this fucking sensitive. he’s gripping the cushions like a man possessed. he’s whispering your name like a prayer. he’s not even sure he’s still speaking coherent sentences. you’ve wrecked him. utterly and entirely.

you pull back, panting, your hands shaking as you adjust your glasses, eyes glassy and wide. your lips are swollen, chin wet with a glistening mix of spit and cum, and you lick them, tasting him again, a soft moan slipping free as your thighs press together.

satoru is ruined—sprawled on the couch, shirt clinging to his chest, chest heaving like he’s fought a war. his hand is still in your hair, loose, trembling, and he’s staring at you like you’re a fucking goddess.

“thought you were the innocent one,” he chokes out, breathless, watching you nibble your lip and adjust your glasses with shaking fingers.

“i still am,” you murmur, face tucked into his shoulder. “kind of.”

he huffs out a laugh, dazed and wrecked. he can feel your heartbeat against his ribs. he doesn’t want to move. his hands are still trembling from how hard he tried to keep it together for you—and yet, you’re the one who took the lead. you’re the one who made him forget how to function. you kiss the edge of his jaw, soft and uncertain, and it undoes him more than anything else.

satoru gojo, campus heartthrob, ruined by a shy nerd girl who reads too much smut on her kindle late at night under the covers. who probably has a secret ao3 account and bookmarked folders. who looks like a timid schoolgirl but fucks like she’s been studying him like a midterm exam. and passed with extra credit. honors. valedictorian. summa cum laude of making him lose his damn mind.

he’s never been so obsessed.

and you? you’re already pressing your forehead to his chest, voice small, eyes wide with want and something raw and messy and needy as you look up at him.

“can we… try again? i think i missed a step.”

he doesn’t know if he wants to laugh, cry, or propose.

he’s never been more in love. and all he knows is he’s done for.

[reignpage]

Summary: In which Chiropractor!Toji meets a very pretty client that he just can't help but want to loosen up a little more than usual. Warnings: porn with little plot, smut, 18+, mdni, penetrative sex, cunnilingus, fingering, dub con?, stomach bulge, doggy, wall sex, size kink, dirty talk, Toji talking you through it, lots of praise, personification of the pussay, f!reader, brief spanking, not proofread Word Count: 2.5k

���Alright, I’m gonna put my right hand on your hips and my left on your shoulder. You don’t need to do a thing; just give in to me, yeah?”

Chiropractor!Toji talks you through it. He has to. A) for liability issues, B) to put his clients at ease, C) because he likes the sound of his voice, and D) he likes the blush on his client’s cheeks, the nervous giggling, the shallow breathing, and the shy eyes. 

Chiropractor!Toji knows how he looks: big, tall, muscular and with a scar on his lips. He puts men on edge, threatening their masculinity and hurting their egos. To women, he’s forbidden fruit, that man they giggle to all their friends about, and when they book another appointment, they’re sure to specify that it has to be with him. 

Of course, he doesn’t mind. The ladies tip well, and they generally smell better than the guys. Being lusted over is great and all, but very rarely does he get a woman that actually gets his cock going. 

That’s why, when you come in today, he’s smirking, rolling his sleeves up, and making a mental note to put on a damn good show. 

Chiropractor!Toji listens to the moan that leaves your pretty lips when he bends your hips just right, forcing out a nice, sharp crack and alleviating tension you didn’t even realise you had in your spine. His large hands dig into the plush of your thighs, long digits sure to leave his imprints so you’ll remember him later. They’re dangerously close to the apex of your thighs, and he can see the way you press those legs together as if you’re painfully aware of it. 

Chiropractor!Toji brushes his lips against the shell of your ear. “Hold on tight, ’s gonna hurt a little but you can take it.”

You whimper when he pulls an arm back just as he pushes your shoulder blade forward, fixing the ache that had been there for weeks from poor sleeping habits. Immediately, you feel lighter, tingling from top to bottom from the firm but gentle hands he lays on you. 

“Y’r doing great, sweets,” he assures you. “Y’r body’s behaving real good for me.”

The room’s getting hotter and smaller, and you’re aware of every move he makes, every shuffle, every graze of his touch down your spine, your arms, your thighs. He’s bending you into all sorts of different shapes and positions, pushing your body to its limits, making you feel the soreness, the burn, before he lets you feel the relief of release. 

“Ya been looking at a screen for hours every day, haven’t ya? Yeah, I can tell. Y’r all tense and tight. God, doll, you’re way too tight. Good thing you came in today —breathe out for me one, two, three ngh! good girl— this woulda been bothering you a while, huh?”

Breathless and overheating, you smile. “Y-yeah. Sorry. I have an —oh! fuck that feels good— o-office job, so I’m always slumped at my desk.”

Chiropractor!Toji tuts, still working through the hard balls of tension in your back. “Tsk, that just won’t do. A body like this needs to be taken care of. Let me loosen you up, yeah? Let me work my magic and get all those knots out for you.”

Chiropractor!Toji has you all limp like a deflated balloon in no time. You’re just about to sit up and tip him for his quality work when you see him standing over you with a dangerous glint in his eyes. A heavy hand slides up the inside of your thigh through your leggings, thumb tickling the seam right against your clothed pussy. 

His hand is hot, and it's practically scalding with the way he's teasing your body. It's wrong, and you both know you're crossing a line, but the way he moves, smiles, and presses in just right has you growing lightheaded and suddenly, logic, reason, and shame fly out the window. 

“Y’know," he begins, head tilting to eye you under the clinical white light, "I offer a special service for tougher cases like you. You up for it?”

When you nod eagerly, you only have half a second to ponder whether you’re making a wise decision before you’re being wrangled onto your knees on the bench, leggings and panties yanked down your thighs, and a face stuffed in your pussy. 

“You been soaked this entire time? Dirty girl,” he growls into your leaking hole before he slurps your juices up, tongue slithering against your prominent clit, which pulses with your desire. Sucking that button with pressure that makes your back arch, he pushes two thick fingers inside, curling at the perfect time to make you cream all over his face. “God, you smell so damn good, ma. K-knew you would. Tastes even better too. ’s my lucky day a sexy client like you walked in, no?”

Pink tongue traces your slit, tip prodding at your clit. You're coating his tastebud, and his eyes roll back, thick cock weighing heavy. Palming his length to alleviate the ache there, he sucks and slurps to bring you to your orgasm quicker, so he can fuck another one out of you faster. 

Wailing his name and attempting to crawl away from the overwhelming pleasure emanating from your swollen cunt, you beg, “Wait! Toji, ah, too much! It’s too much, please!”

SMACK! 

Burning heat radiates on your left asscheek, tingling with the slap he laid there. Just as quickly, he sweetly soothes the skin in a way only he could. The pain had you squeezing down on his fingers, and he growled at the tantalising tightness you teased him with. 

Chiropractor!Toji warns, “Y’r not going anywhere, doll. Still haven’t worked out the knots inside this sloppy pussy so behave.”

He’s massaging your gummy walls, bullying that soft spot inside you and, like a hawk, watches the drops of your wetness coat the leather surface you’re on. Groping the smooth globe of your ass, he assures you, “Y’r doing great. Y’r doing so great. Yeah, that’s it, ride my face. Well done.”

"Oh shit, Toji, fuck, fuck, fuckkkkk!"

Chiropractor!Toji expertly draws out your orgasm with a thumb rubbing tight circles against your clit and a tongue shoved inside your cunt, scarred lip twitching at the deeply satisfied sounds coming out of both ends of your body. Laying a final peck on your twitching clit, he kneels behind you and shoves his pants down. 

A sigh leaves his shiny lips, head dizzy with the satisfying squeeze of his base and balls. God, he can't wait to feel your warm walls, wet and pleated, hug him, milking him for all he's worth. 

Looking behind you, you’re met with the godly sight of his chiselled torso, shiny with a thin layer of sweat, well-defined abs, sharp v-line, and dangerously delicious-looking treasure trail. He frees his cock, and the long, girthy thing leaks like crazy, all red and swollen at the head. A huge pair of balls accompany it, swinging when the man adjusts himself behind you, sending a cocky wink your way. 

“I know that look on y’r face. You thinking I’m too big, aren’t ya? Don’t worry y'r pretty little head, doll. Toji here’s gonna make it fit. Remember what I taught you at the start: breathe deep, in and out, and let your body relax. Y’r in good hands.”

He wraps it in a condom, gives it a tug or two, and then he’s lining up his cock and entering you. The stretch stings. Truly massive, your pussy’s being stretched to its limits as he thrusts his way in, forcing your gummy walls to accommodate his shape, moulding and shaping you to fit him perfectly. 

Chiropractor!Toji’s calloused hand climbs up your chest from under your shirt and cups a tit, squeezing and pinching like he’s doing a health check. “Got a real nice body, ma. Good for ya. Alright, I’m almost all in. Uh uh, don’t be complaining. You know, I wouldn’t give you m-more than you could handle, so inhale for me, yep, three, two, one, and exhale, good girl. Hnghhh, yeah, t-there you go. All in.”

Chiropractor!Toji doesn’t give you any warning before he’s pummelling inside you like your pussy owes him money. An unforgiving hand pushes down your back, creating the perfect arch so he can reach even deeper, and he rewards you with slow grind, really letting you feel the way his tip is hitting a delectable spot and making you see stars. 

His balls kiss your clit with just how closely pressed he is, and you're suffocating on his length, choking on it, and you find yourself drooling, pushing back into him. 

Then, he's thrusting like there’s no tomorrow again. 

“Ah, wait, Toji! You’re being too rough, I’m moving! Oh oh oh, fuckkkkk, yesss, harder!”

You’re being shoved forward, forced to crawl on all fours, with every rough barrage he forces inside, slipping and sliding with your brimming wetness and the steam on the leather. Deafened to your complaints, he smacks smacks smacks into you. 

The crowned tip of his giant cockhead is pulled all the way to the first ring of tight muscle at your entrance, greedy walls squeezing around nothing for just a second, and when you're panting, arms wobbling, he pushes all the way back in, practically kissing your cervix. 

“Ha, that’s it, take it like a pro, atta girl. Fuck, don’t clamp down on me -ngh- like that.”

In a wet blink, your hands are holding up your body from the floor, hips lifted by his strong hands as he continues to fuck you all while you’re upside down. He doesn’t seem to care, too busy watching your swollen lips swallow his thick length, desperate to gobble him up. "Look at 'er. Nasty thing, ain't she? Spitting and -hah fuck- d-drooling all over me. Pretty -shit so fucking tight, loosen up baby, there you go- p-pretty thing."

Chiropractor!Toji grows tired of your pathetic attempts to crawl away. Tutting, he spins you around with just one hand, carrying you up and letting all that blood flow right back down until you're deliriously lightheaded and in his arms. "Alright, alright, big streeetch for me, yeah there you go."

He shoves you against the wall, leggings all the way off now, and you have no idea where and when. 

Filling up your entire view, with strands of hair stuck to his forehead, beads of sweat running down his temple, and the lip he’s biting to keep from grunting too loud. The visual attack is too much, and you moan. “Gotta keep quiet, doll. Walls aren’t thin, but they ain’t soundproof either. C’mere.”

He’s covering your mouth with his, swallowing your whimpers and whinings, distracting you with his messy kissing and crude sucking. Arms wrapped around his thick neck, you can do nothing but cling to him and try to hold on while he shoves his length back inside in one smooth thrust, squelching much louder than your heavy pants now.

“Y’r still too tense; we gotta work on this mess, don’t we?” He thumbs your clit once more, licking a long and wet stripe up your neck. “Yeah, bounce on my cock, sweet thing. Ha, y’r pretty damn flexible, aren’t ya?”

Chiropractor!Toji thinks it’s absolutely hilarious the way you’re crossed-eyed, drooling and digging your nails into his back. It’s all the signs he’s looking for to know he’s working you in good. After all, when you’ve gotten a couple more orgasms out of this, he wants you to feel so fucked out that you’re practically dragging yourself out with noodles for legs. 

Swiping a tongue across his scar, he eyes the bulge he's fucking into you. Pressing down hard, he grunts when you clamp down so damn tight it knocks the wind out of his lungs. "Look how tiny you are. Y'r damn head's smaller than my bicep. Could snuff the light out of you right here, and you'd thank me, wouldn't ya?"

"Yes, God, Toji, you're soooo big. Fuck, more. Please!"

Chiropractor!Toji doubles his speed, making sure to angle his hips perfectly. When you throw your head back, he sucks at a sensitive spot on your neck, indulging in your sweet scent and heat.

Your eyes are wide open and a permanent O hangs your jaw low. “Oh! Toji, fuck, I’m gonna -ah ah, yes, right there- cum!”

“Go on, then. Show me how good I’m making you feel. Yeah, that’s it. Just like that. Ah, shit, so fucking tight, fuck!”

Chiropractor!Toji grunts when your pussy clamps down on him in irregular pulses, threatening to squeeze all his stored-up cum right out with you. You’re babbling expressions of gratitude, crying about how amazing his cock is, how full you feel, and how hot, hard, and big his body is. 

Pretty little thing has a size kink, clearly. 

"That looked like a good one, ha. Feel better? Hmm? Feel that tightness in your stomach go?"

It's a shame, he thinks, that his cum isn't painting your walls white; instead, it's pooling in the condom. Next time, maybe.

Chiropractor!Toji wrings out three more orgasms from you with enough time to spare in your session for final touch-ups. 

You’re a very satisfied customer, still riding the high of his magical cock with glossy eyes and lips, when he’s massaging any and every last remaining knot in your shoulders —clothes fitted right back on your body and sweat wiped from your skin with a towel he had prepared— before he sends you off on your way so he can clean up in time for his next client. 

“Ya did good, kid. Be sure to come back in a couple of weeks, alright? Your body’s a temple and it needs regular maintenance.”

Smiling, you hand him a wad of cash as a tip so large he whistles and grins at you. “Thank you for your help, Toji. Really. I feel so much lighter now.”

“Don’t mention it. Better not be hitting up any other chiropractors, while you’re away too. Trust me, nobody’s gonna take care of you like I do.”

A visit to Chiropractor!Toji turns from every couple weeks to every week, and soon you were seeing him every day — in his studio, in his car, his place, yours, and all over the goddamn city. 

He has a way of making you need his touch like a drug, like if you didn’t get a good pounding from him, you weren’t going to be able to sleep well at all, and you’ll be a zombie at work the next day. So, you don’t take that chance. You take him like a pill every day.

Though taking care of you has added a lot to his plate, he’s not complaining. Just like he said, women tip well. 

And you’re no exception. 

That's all it was. He's the maintenance guy who loosens all the knots your stressful life creates, and you're the woman he can count on for a generous tip. 

Neither of you mention the fact that you haven’t paid for his services for weeks now nor that he brings you flowers regularly, kisses your lips before he cums, and no longer offers his ‘special service’ to anyone else. 

The only happy ending Chiropractor!Toji's handing out now is the one he shares with you.