#but in the version I was used to he does NOT then think of Little Bear as 'a savage'

[asterafroditis]

𐔌 . ⋮ be my valentine? ♡ .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☓┆Third Years x gn! reader

𓏵 1026 words

ᝰ.ᐟ headcannons, no pronouns used, fluff, a bit ooc(?)

First Years are done! Second Years are done, too! feel free to like, reblog, or comment!

ᝰ.ᐟ masterlist

I think Cater would act like Valentine’s Day is just another excuse to flood Magicam with cute posts and aesthetic gifts. He’d play it off like it’s all for the fun of it, saying things like “Gotta keep up with the trends, y’know?” But deep down, he actually cares a lot about making the moment special for you.

His gift would be trendy and well-presented, maybe something sweet with a cute aesthetic, but if you look closer, there’s an extra personal touch—something that shows he actually put thought into your tastes. If you bring it up, he’ll wave it off with a playful grin, but there’s a rare moment of sincerity in his eyes.

"Aww, you really think so? Heh, well, I guess I did put a little extra effort into this one. Don’t get used to it, though! You’re just lucky I’m such a generous guy—ahaha!"

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I think Trey wouldn’t make a big fuss about Valentine’s Day, but he’d definitely prepare something nice for you. He’s the type to keep things warm and genuine—no flashy gestures, just something that shows he cares.

His gift would probably be a homemade treat, something classic and comforting. He’d hand it to you with an easygoing smile, acting like it’s nothing special. But if you compliment his effort or say it means a lot to you, you might catch the faintest dusting of pink on his cheeks before he clears his throat and chuckles.

"Glad you like it. Don’t go expecting fancy things from me, though—this is just how I show appreciation. Besides, sweets always taste better when they’re shared, right?"

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I think Leona would act like he couldn’t care less about Valentine’s Day. He’d scoff at the idea, calling it a “pointless holiday for lovesick herbivores.” But despite all his complaining, he still finds a way to acknowledge it—just in his own Leona way.

His version of a gift is low-effort on the surface, like tossing a small trinket or snack your way and mumbling, “Here. Don’t ask questions.” But it’s too perfect to be a coincidence—it’s exactly what you wanted or needed. And if you press him about it, he’ll groan, pretending to be annoyed, but his tail flicks behind him in amusement.

"Tch. You’re overthinking it. Just take it and don’t make a big deal out of it… Hah? Smirking at me like that—what, you want me to spell it out for you? Keep dreaming, herbivore."

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I think Vil would treat Valentine’s Day as a day of refined elegance. He’s not interested in cheap, over-commercialized romance, but he does believe in meaningful gestures done correctly. If he gives you a gift, it’s going to be high-quality, well-thought-out, and suited perfectly to your tastes.

He presents it to you with effortless grace, watching your reaction with quiet satisfaction. If you gush over it or tell him he’s being too generous, he’ll smirk and tilt his chin up, as if to say “Well, of course.” But there’s something softer in his gaze, something unspoken yet sincere.

"Naturally, only the best will do. Did you really think I’d give you anything less? Hmph. It would be embarrassing if my significant other had poor taste, after all."

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I think Rook would treat Valentine’s Day like a grand performance. He wouldn’t just give you a gift—he’d turn the entire experience into something poetic, dramatic, and entirely him. You’d probably receive a beautifully wrapped present along with a handwritten letter overflowing with romantic prose.

His excitement is impossible to contain, and if you get flustered, he only leans in closer, drinking in your reaction with an adoring smile. There’s no need to question how much he cares—he makes it very clear.

"Ah! The look of delight upon your face is a sight more dazzling than a thousand sunsets! Mon trésor, it brings me endless joy to bestow upon you this humble offering of my affections! Ahaha! Do not look away—your blush is exquisite!"

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I think Idia would panic at the thought of Valentine’s Day. He’d overthink it so much that he’d almost consider ghosting you until it was over. But after an entire night of agonizing over what to do, he’d finally settle on something—probably an item related to your interests, carefully selected after hours of research.

Of course, he’d struggle to actually give it to you. He’d probably send it through Ortho or leave it somewhere with an awkward note. And if you dare bring up how sweet it is, he’ll go into full meltdown mode.

"I-It’s not a big deal, okay?! It’s not like I stayed up all night picking it out or anything—ahaha—oh, Great Seven, this is so cringe, I wanna bury myself alive!"

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I think Malleus would find Valentine’s Day fascinating. It’s a human tradition he’s never properly experienced, but once he learns about it, he takes it very seriously. He approaches it like an ancient ritual—deeply thoughtful, highly ceremonial, and just a little too intense.

His gift is something extravagant—maybe a rare artifact, an ornate piece of jewelry, or something imbued with a hint of his magic. He presents it with all the solemnity of a king bestowing a royal favor. If you tell him he didn’t need to go all out, he looks genuinely puzzled.

"Why would I not? This is a day to express deep affection, is it not? A mere trinket would not suffice for one as precious to me as you."

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I think Lilia would be completely unpredictable about Valentine’s Day. One year, he might go all out with the most extravagant (and mildly terrifying) gestures—singing dramatic love ballads outside your window at 3 AM. The next, he might hand you something utterly chaotic, like homemade food of highly questionable origin.

But beneath all his mischief, there’s sincerity. If he gives you a genuine gift, it’s something deeply personal—maybe an old keepsake with sentimental value or a charm infused with protective magic. And if you call him out on how sweet he’s being, he only grins.

"Fufufu! Did I surprise you? Valentine’s Day is so much fun! Now, come, my dear—shall we dance under the moonlight, or shall I prepare another culinary experiment for you?"

[earthlybeam]

Could you do elves with parter reader (established relationship but a new one) where the reader isn't used to being treated with kindness. Like maybe they were in an abusive relationship before that they haven't really opened up about and how the elves would react to them flinching/ expecting them to be angry over normal things/ being shocked at being treated with normal decency etc

Could you do this with Cirdan, Thranduil, Elrond and Gil galad

Thanks and love you work !!!

Thank you so much for your thoughtful and encouraging words, They truly mean a lot and are deeply appreciated. ❤️‍🔥🥺✨

Gil-Galad, Thranduil, Elrond, Cirdan version below.

🏵️𝓖𝓲𝓵-𝓰𝓪𝓵𝓪𝓭

The realization comes suddenly, like a cold hand gripping your chest. A mistake—small, perhaps, but still a mistake. You’ve forgotten something. An errand, a meeting, a task he had entrusted to you, and in the rush of the day, it had slipped from your mind completely. Your breath hitches. Your hands grow cold.

You stop where you stand, heart hammering, as if the very walls of Lindon might close in around you. A familiar dread coils in your stomach, tightening with each passing second. He will be disappointed. He will not say it outright—no, not in anger. But he will remember. He will store it away, bring it up later in those small, insidious ways that linger beneath the surface of kind words. A passing remark, a quiet sigh, a subtle reminder that your fault has not been forgotten.

You have lived this before. A breath stumbles out of you, and you brace yourself, already reaching for an explanation before he even knows there is something to forgive. “I—I’m sorry,” you blurt out, your voice too fast, too unsteady. “I didn’t mean to forget, I just got caught up in something, and I—” The words tumble out before you can stop them, desperate to explain, to preempt the reaction you fear is coming.

Gil-galad, who had been reading at his desk, looks up at the sound of your voice. His expression is calm, steady. He studies you with quiet intent, his sharp eyes missing nothing. But there is no flicker of disappointment, no tightening of his jaw or brief falter in his movements that might betray frustration.

You wait for it anyway. You wait for the sigh, the weary remark that will sit like a stone in your chest for days. For the cool silence that will follow, an unspoken reminder of your failure. You wait, body rigid, heart thudding in your ribs like a trapped bird. But it does not come. “It is forgotten,” he says simply. His voice is even, untroubled, as if the mistake itself holds no weight. “There is nothing to apologize for.”

For a moment, you do not understand the words. They should bring relief, should allow you to breathe again. But instead, you remain tense, caught between the instinct to defend yourself and the unsettling kindness before you. Your mind races, searching for the hidden edge in his tone, the faintest sign that his patience is not infinite.

Gil-galad sees it. His brow creases—not in irritation, but in something softer, something almost pained. Slowly, deliberately, he sets the book aside and rises, his movements careful, measured. There is no sharpness, no sudden motion to startle you. “Do you think so little of my love that you expect me to hold this against you?” His voice is gentle, but beneath it is something else—something deeply sorrowful.

You freeze. You do not know how to answer. He watches you—not with judgment, not with disappointment, but with the quiet understanding of someone who has long known how to read between the lines. He does not press, does not demand an explanation. But the way his head tilts, the way his hands remain at his sides rather than reaching for you—he knows.

“Love is not a tally of mistakes,” he murmurs, his voice a steady anchor against the storm in your mind. “It is not a weapon to be wielded against you.” The words land somewhere deep within you, in a place long locked away, where love had always been a thing to be earned, a fragile thing that could be taken away with the slightest misstep. You had been taught that love was conditional, that affection came with rules and unspoken debts.

But here he stands, telling you otherwise. He sees the wariness still clinging to you, the shadow of past wounds that have not yet faded. And he does not push them aside, does not try to pry them from your grasp before you are ready. Gil-galad exhales softly. Then—without hesitation—he reaches for your hands.

His touch is warm, grounding. He does not hold too tightly, leaving room for you to pull away if you wish. But when his thumbs brush lightly over your knuckles, his touch is firm, reassuring. “You are allowed to forget things, meleth nin.” His voice is low, steady. “You are allowed to make mistakes. I will not use them to wound you.”

Your breath wavers, something tightening in your throat. You want to believe him. Want to trust that love could be something as steady, as unwavering as the warmth of his hands against yours. “I do not know how to unlearn it,” you confess, the words barely above a whisper.

Gil-galad does not waver. His hold does not tighten, nor does he let go. Instead, he nods, as if this is the answer he expected. “Then let me show you,” he says, his voice filled with quiet certainty. And he does. Not just with words, but with actions. He never brings it up again. There are no lingering remarks, no subtle reminders, no shift in how he treats you. His affection does not wane, his patience does not fray. He does not make you prove yourself worthy of his love. He teaches you—not with grand gestures or sweeping declarations, but with something far simpler. With love that does not count your mistakes.

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

The evening air was cool, laced with the scent of the ancient trees that surrounded Thranduil’s halls. The gentle rustling of leaves in the canopy above created a soft, whispering symphony, and the glow of candlelight flickered against the polished stone walls of his private chambers. It was a quiet moment, one of the few where neither of you felt the need to speak. The weight of the world, the duties he bore, and the shadows you carried—none of it mattered here, not in this fragile bubble of peace.

You sat beside him, the warmth of his presence a steady thing at your side. This was still new, this closeness, and you found yourself treading carefully, as if one wrong step might shatter whatever it was that had begun to form between you.

Your gaze wandered, drawn to the way the candlelight caught in his hair, a silver cascade that gleamed like moonlight against his pale skin. There was an effortless regality about him, a quiet power in the way he carried himself. He looked untouchable, as eternal as the trees of his kingdom, and yet, here he was, close enough to reach for—if only you dared.

And then, without thought, he reached for you. A simple thing, an unthinking gesture—his hand lifted toward your face, fingers poised to brush aside a stray strand of hair that had fallen against your cheek. But before his fingertips could make contact, before you could even register what was happening, instinct took hold. You flinched. It was slight, barely a flicker of movement, but enough. The tension in your shoulders, the way your breath caught, the brief tightening of your jaw—you knew it was there, and worse, so did he.

Thranduil’s hand froze midair. His fingers, mere inches from your skin, lingered for a heartbeat too long before he withdrew, slow and measured, as though unwilling to startle you further. The shift in his expression was barely perceptible, but you saw it—the way his sharp, piercing gaze darkened, not in offense, but in realization.

Your stomach twisted. Foolish. You knew better. You had spent years perfecting the art of keeping such reactions hidden, of swallowing them down, of smoothing your features into something unreadable. But the body was treacherous, bound by instinct rather than reason. And now, you had given yourself away. You cursed yourself silently.

“I—” The word barely left your lips before you stopped, swallowing hard. What could you even say? That it was nothing? That it was a reflex? That he shouldn’t make something of it? He had seen the truth, and worse, he had understood it. The silence that stretched between you was not an empty one. It was heavy, weighted with something unspoken, something neither of you were quite ready to name.

Thranduil was not a man who acted carelessly. He did not fill silences with meaningless reassurances or rush to smooth over uncomfortable truths. He was deliberate in all things, and so, when he finally spoke, his words carried the weight of careful consideration.

“Who made you expect pain from something so gentle?” His voice was soft, but beneath it lay something sharper, colder—not toward you, never toward you, but toward the memory of whoever had instilled this reflex into you. The question settled like a stone in your chest.

You did not answer. Not immediately. Because how could you? You had spent so long swallowing the past, convincing yourself it was behind you, that it did not matter anymore. And yet, here it was, surfacing in a single, involuntary movement. It was humiliating, infuriating, and worst of all, undeniable.

Thranduil did not push. He did not demand explanations or force you to meet his gaze. He only waited, his patience as vast as the ages he had lived. Your hands curled into your lap, fingers pressing into your palms. “I—” The words tangled in your throat, a bitter knot of hesitation. You wanted to say it was nothing, that it didn’t matter, that he shouldn’t look at you like that—with understanding, with pity. But you could not force the lie past your lips.

His gaze remained steady, unwavering. And then, with the same deliberate care he always carried, he reached for you again. This time, there was no suddenness to it. No movement quick enough to startle. His hand moved downward instead of toward your face, his fingers brushing against your own, resting lightly atop your hand. A touch so careful, so measured, it was almost weightless.

But it was there. And it was yours to accept or to pull away from. You let out a slow breath, forcing your shoulders to relax, the tension unwinding just enough. You did not pull away. His hand lingered, warm against your skin, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a single, quiet motion. It was not meant to soothe or comfort, not an attempt to erase the past or fix what had already been done. It was simply a presence. A reminder that you were not alone in this moment.

“You are safe.” His voice was softer now, the earlier edge tempered into something quieter, something more sure. “Whatever ghosts you carry, they will find no hold here.” The words settled deep, slipping past your carefully constructed defenses before you could stop them. You had no response, no way to put into words the tangled emotions pressing against your ribs.

So you only nodded, allowing the weight of his words to settle around you. Thranduil did not ask for more. Not tonight. He did not need answers, nor explanations. He only needed you to understand one thing—he would never be a man you had to flinch from. And somehow, despite everything, you believed him.

📜 𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭

The library of Rivendell was a sanctuary of quiet, a haven of parchment and ink, where the scent of aged vellum mingled with the faint trace of lavender and candle wax. The golden light of late afternoon streamed through the tall windows, spilling warmth over the polished wooden floors, casting long shadows that danced with the flickering of the lamps.

You sat curled in one of the carved chairs near the window, your legs tucked beneath you, a thick, leather-bound book resting in your lap. It was peaceful here, the kind of peace you were still learning to accept, still hesitant to trust. But in Elrond’s presence, it was easier. He was steady—calm and patient, never demanding, never pressing. Even in silence, there was a quiet understanding between you, a newness to your relationship that felt like standing at the edge of something vast and uncharted. It should have been terrifying. But with him, it felt… safe.

At his desk, Elrond worked with quiet efficiency, the smooth glide of his quill over parchment the only sound breaking the stillness. He was composing a letter, his brow furrowed slightly in thought, though not in frustration. He had a way of carrying himself that spoke of wisdom and measured restraint, of power held carefully in check. With him, you never had to guess at his mood, never had to walk on uneven ground, wondering when it would give way beneath you. He was predictable in the way a river was—flowing steadily, unwavering in its course.

But then his voice rose, clear and commanding.“LINDIR!” The name echoed through the chamber, firm and authoritative, a summons rather than a reprimand. But the instant the sharpness registered, something inside you recoiled. It was not anger—your mind knew this. He was not speaking to you—you knew this too. And yet, the reaction was already set in motion before reason could intervene.

Your shoulders tensed, your hands clenching around the edges of your book. The breath caught in your throat, too shallow, too quick. A shiver ran down your spine—not from cold, but from instinct. Your heart pounded against your ribs, and in that brief, terrible moment, you were no longer in Rivendell. No longer in the warmth of the library, in the company of a man who had only ever shown you kindness. You had flinched. The moment was small, subtle—barely more than a tremor. Perhaps most would not have noticed. But Elrond did.

The sound of rustling parchment ceased. Silence settled between you, but you felt his gaze before you dared meet it. His eyes, sharp as a blade and yet impossibly gentle, flickered from your face to the rigid set of your shoulders, the way your fingers had curled so tightly around the book that your knuckles were white. You forced yourself to relax, to smooth over the moment before it could become something real. You knew how to do that—how to swallow down fear, how to dismiss your own reactions as nothing, how to pretend. “I was not angry,” Elrond said softly, his voice now a soothing contrast to the sharpness that had startled you. “Nor was my voice meant for you.”

The kindness in his tone was worse than if he had ignored it. Worse because it asked nothing of you but acknowledgment. Worse because it was patient. Worse because it saw you. You swallowed, shaking your head as if to dismiss the entire thing, trying to will your body into forgetting. “I know,” you murmured, forcing your voice into something steady, something dismissive. It was fine. It was nothing. Just a foolish reaction. You could move past it. You always had before.

But Elrond was not so easily deterred. He did not speak right away. He did not press, did not demand explanations you were not ready to give. Instead, he simply remained—watchful but not scrutinizing, steady but not imposing. And then, slowly, he extended a hand toward you. Palm up, fingers relaxed, offering rather than insisting. You stared at it for a moment.

The instinct to refuse, to pull away, was immediate. It had always been easier to deny comfort than to accept it, easier to pretend you didn’t need it. But Elrond’s patience was a quiet thing, unwavering and endless. He would not withdraw his hand if you did not take it. He would not be wounded if you refused. It was simply there, waiting, reminding you that you did not have to navigate this alone.

Tentatively, you let your fingers brush against his. His hand was warm. Steady. The contact was not possessive, not seeking to hold or control—only to anchor. The moment you accepted it, his fingers curled around yours, not to keep you in place, but to assure you that you were not lost. “I would never raise my voice in anger toward you,” he said, quiet and certain. “Nor do I wish for you to fear me.” The words settled in your chest, unfamiliar in their gentleness, in the way they asked nothing of you but to believe them. You wanted to believe them.

Your fingers tightened slightly around his, just a small shift—but it was enough. A silent acknowledgment. Not a promise that you would stop reacting this way overnight, nor that you could undo the years of conditioning that had taught you to brace for pain where there was none. But for now, in this moment, you allowed yourself to breathe. And Elrond, ever patient, simply remained at your side.

🌊 𝓬í𝓻𝓭𝓪𝓷

The wind carried the scent of salt and woodsmoke through the Grey Havens, crisp and familiar, whispering across the docks where Círdan worked. The golden light of the setting sun shimmered across the waves, gilding the wooden planks beneath your feet and casting long, gentle shadows across the shipwright’s steady form. The rhythmic lapping of the tide against the shore blended with the distant cries of gulls, filling the air with the quiet hum of a world in motion—one that Círdan had known for countless ages.

You stood nearby, watching him work with quiet admiration. His hands, calloused from centuries of shaping wood and weaving sails, moved with a certainty that spoke of experience beyond reckoning. There was something soothing about the way he carried himself—unhurried, precise, as though time itself bent to his will rather than the other way around.

Beside you, a small wooden box rested on the dock, filled with nails and tools for his latest vessel. You had been lost in thought, content to exist in this moment, basking in the peace that seemed to settle around Círdan like the tide at dusk. But in your distraction, you shifted your foot too suddenly, knocking the box from its place.

The sharp clatter of nails spilling across the dock split the air like a whip crack. Your breath caught. Too loud. Too sudden. Too much. The reaction came before thought—your stomach clenched, hands jerking up in instinctive apology, heart pounding as though the small mistake carried the weight of something greater. “I’m sorry,” you blurted out, already dropping to your knees to gather the scattered nails. “I wasn’t paying attention, I—”

The words tumbled from you before you could stop them, before you could even consider if they were necessary. You braced yourself for what would come next—a sigh of exasperation, a sharp look, quiet disappointment at your clumsiness. You had interrupted him. You had caused a mess. You had— Warmth. Not anger. Not even the slightest trace of frustration. Just warmth, as Círdan’s large, steady hands covered yours, halting your frantic movements. His touch was gentle, grounding, like the solid weight of the earth beneath your feet after too long spent adrift at sea.

“There is no need for that, meleth,” he said, his voice deep and steady as the waves beyond the harbor. His thumbs brushed lightly over your fingers before he withdrew, kneeling beside you with the same unshaken calm he always carried. “It is a small thing.”

But it did not feel small. Not to you. You swallowed hard, forcing your breath to steady, but the tightness in your chest remained. “I wasn’t thinking. I—I’ll be more careful next time.” Círdan’s keen eyes studied you, the depth of his gaze seeming to pierce through layers you had carefully built around yourself. When he spoke again, there was no scolding, no chastisement—only quiet understanding, something deeper than mere sympathy. “You apologize often,” he observed, his tone absent of judgment. Your fingers curled slightly around one of the fallen nails. “I don’t mean to.”

“I know.” He picked up a few of the scattered nails himself, placing them back into the wooden box with slow, deliberate movements, as though to show you there was no urgency, no cause for distress. “But there is no fault here. No harm done.” You nodded, but the familiar knot in your chest did not loosen. You knew he meant his words. Knew, logically, that he was not merely placating you, not holding back irritation that would emerge later. And yet—your body still braced for something that would never come.

A sigh left Círdan’s lips then, but it was not heavy with frustration. No, it was something softer. Something knowing. “I have done the same,” he admitted after a pause. His voice, usually so steady, carried a thread of something distant—something old, something worn but not broken. You glanced up at him in surprise. “You?”

He nodded, his gaze drifting for a moment toward the western horizon, where the sun’s light met the endless sea. “A long time ago, I apologized for things that did not need apology. For staying behind when my heart longed for the West. For burdens that were never mine alone to carry.” He turned his eyes back to you then, ancient and fathomless as the waves. “But those who loved me did not ask for my apologies. Just as I do not ask them from you.”

Your throat felt tight again, but this time, it was not from fear. Círdan reached for your hands once more, slower this time, giving you the choice to pull away if you wished. You did not. You let him take them, let his warmth settle over you like the tide washing away the debris of a long, storm-ridden shore.

“You do not need to apologize for existing,” he murmured, pressing his palm gently against yours. “Nor for small things that do not trouble me. You are not a burden.” It should have been simple. It should have been easy to believe. But the weight of those words, the sheer certainty in them, settled deep inside you like the first breath of fresh air after years spent beneath heavy waters. Círdan did not rush you to answer. He did not demand that you believe him in an instant. He only gave you time. And for the first time, you let yourself consider the possibility that he might be right.

[supernaturallyedsheeran]

Coffee With Dean

You flirt with Dean and he squirms under the pressure (version with Sam also available)

cw : fem!reader, fluff, no use of y/n summary : you flirt with Dean and he squirms under the pressure characters Dean Winchester, f!reader wc: 993 famdom: Supernatural

✧∘* ✧･ﾟ✨Masterlist ✨✧∘* ✧･ﾟ

You’ve been here long enough to notice the little things. The way Dean always seems to hover around you when you’re in the room, like a magnet being pulled in every direction. The way his eyes flicker toward you whenever he thinks you’re not looking, but he can’t seem to look away fast enough. And when you do catch him, there’s a cocky smile, a raised eyebrow, like he knows exactly what he's doing—and he likes it.

It’s funny, really. You didn’t expect this, didn’t expect the chemistry to be so... intense, so fun. The guy’s a walking contradiction: tough as nails, with a quick wit and a sharp tongue. But under that hard exterior, you can tell there’s something deeper—something that makes him more interesting than the constant cocky banter or the way he tries to hide his feelings behind his quippy remarks.

Tonight, though, it’s different. You’re sitting across from him in the kitchen, a cup of coffee between your hands, and you feel the heat between you two. The way his knee brushes against yours under the table as he shifts in his seat. The way his eyes—green, hard, but always warm when they find yours—are trained on you a little too intently. There’s something in the air tonight, something charged. Maybe it’s the exhaustion from hunting, maybe it’s the silence between you, or maybe it’s just you—and Dean.

You’ve been teasing him all night, throwing a few snarky comments his way, seeing if he’ll bite and, of course, he does. He always does. But tonight? Tonight you want more. You want to see just how far you can push him, just how much you can make him want you.

You take a sip of your coffee, looking at him over the rim of your mug, feeling the way his gaze slides over you like he’s memorizing every detail.

“So,” you begin, lowering your mug, letting your fingers brush the edge in a deliberate, slow motion. “Tell me, Dean... do you always get this distracted during a hunt?”

Dean’s voice drops a little, like he’s not entirely sure if you're messing with him or if you’re serious. “Distracted?” he repeats, and you catch the slight shift in his posture, the way his eyes flicker down to your lips and then back to your eyes. “I was just trying to focus on the job.”

You smile, knowing he’s trying to play it cool, but you can see the crack in armor. “Uh-huh,” you hum, leaning in just a little, your breath catching. “Sure you are. But I think something’s distracting you. And I don’t think it’s the hunt.”

You let the silence hang, thick with unspoken words, your gaze never leaving his. He shifts again, leaning back in his chair, but there’s something about him now—his jaw clenched, his eyes flashing, like he’s fighting the urge to just pull you closer and kiss you. He’s trying to play it cool, but you can see it. You can see the way he wants to break.

“What exactly are you getting at, huh?” Dean asks, his voice rougher now, tinged with something that makes you feel a little more daring.

You push your coffee aside, shifting your posture so that you’re leaning toward him, just enough to breath him in. His scent is intoxicating—leather, whiskey... You catch your breath and let your lips curl into a soft, teasing smile. “I’m getting at that you can’t take your eyes off me. And I’m wondering why.”

Dean blinks, a slight chuckle escaping his lips, though it sounds more like he’s trying to mask the tension in his chest. “What? You think I’m checking you out?”

You let your gaze flicker down his body, the movement slow, deliberate, and you watch him squirm under the weight of your attention. The slight shift in his posture, the way his fingers tap on the table—it's all so damn obvious now.

“Mm-hmm,” you drawl, locking your eyes with his again, your voice dropping lower, smoother. “I think you are.”

Dean opens his mouth to argue, but the words don’t come. Instead, he looks at you—really looks at you—and his lips twitch, fighting the smile that wants to break free. His eyes search yours, a mix of amusement and something else - and you know you’re winning this game.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he finally says, but there’s a slight hitch in his tone now, a crack showing as you dig in.

You laugh softly, leaning in just enough so your faces are inches apart. You can feel the heat radiating off him, can almost taste the tension hanging in the air between you two.

“Oh, I think you do,” you whisper, letting your breath graze his lips, teasing, just on the edge of too close. “But I’ll make it easier for you.” You let your hand slide slowly over the table, fingertips brushing the back of his hand, lingering for just a second longer than necessary. “I think you want me .... to know.”

Dean stares at your hand, his breath catching. He’s trying to hold it together, you can tell. But you also see the way his chest rises and falls, his jaw working as though he’s trying to decide whether he should give in or not.

“You’re trouble, you know that?” His voice is rougher now, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips, but his eyes are darker, heated.

You smile sweetly, letting your fingertips trace the lines of his hand, feeling the heat of his skin. “Maybe,” you murmur, your voice low and deliberate. “But trouble’s fun, don’t you think?”

For a moment, Dean doesn’t say anything. His eyes flicker between your lips and your eyes, and you swear you see his exterior crack just a little bit more. Finally, he leans forward, just slightly, his voice quieter, more dangerous now.

“I think trouble might just be exactly what I need right now.”

[ylangelegy]

take my word for it 🧭 junhui x reader.

when bitterness bites, novelty is nectar.

★ almost-lovers junhui x reader. ★ part of the angst olympics collaboration & my personal buzz (seventeen's version) project. ★ word count: 2.9k ★ genre/warnings: angst, childhood friends, idiots in love, right person/wrong time. obscene use of em-dashes (sorry), mentions of shenzen. based on NIKI's take care. ★ footnotes: this is an overdue update to buzz (svt's version), and my official entry to me & the bestiesss' angst collaboration 🫶 missing junhui hours are always open, i fear.

The first time you see Jun again, it’s been three years. 

You don’t realize how much time has passed until he’s standing in front of you, taller than you remember, sharper in the angles of his face, but with the same lopsided grin that once got him out of trouble with your teachers.

“You’re late,” you tell him, though your annoyance is betrayed by the smile threatening to fill your face. 

Jun snorts, adjusting his cap lower over his eyes, though it does little to hide the way they crinkle at the corners. “Nah,” he says. “I think I’m just on time.” 

He isn’t, you want to insist. He’s thirty minutes late. (Maybe years late, if you really think about it.) But there are only so many hours that you and Jun have with each other, and you don’t want to squander it with a petty argument. 

You’re standing outside a familiar café tucked into a quieter part of Nanshan, the same place you used to visit after school when Jun had big dreams and no schedule to keep him away. He used to drape himself over the chairs, drinking lemon tea and sighing dramatically about one thing or the other. 

Now, he’s here on a two-month film shoot. Slipping into your hometown like a whisper, never staying long enough to settle.

You push open the door, the bell chiming softly as you step inside. The place hasn’t changed much— same dark wooden tables, same warm scent of coffee and osmanthus pastries. It feels almost untouched by time. A sharp contrast to Jun, who moves with the ease of someone who belongs everywhere and nowhere at once.

The two of you take a seat in the corner. The air between you should feel heavy with all the things unsaid, but it doesn’t. Jun always knew how to make things easy.

“So,” he starts, stirring his iced coffee with a straw, “care to tell me just how much you missed me?” 

You scoff. What an opener. He keeps you waiting for half an hour, and the first thing he does is try and wheedle a confession out of you. 

“Not a lot,” you shoot back. I catch you on television plenty of times, you consider saying. You’re on the billboards I see on my morning commute. You’re right there, whenever I open SNS. How could I miss you? It’s like you never left. 

“Ouch.” Jun clutches his chest, feigning hurt. “I come all this way, and this is the welcome I get?” 

You shake your head, fighting down a smile. Like he’s never left, indeed. 

The conversation flows as it always has—effortless, like slipping into an old song. You talk about your job, your family, how your parents still ask about him like he’s their long-lost son. He tells you about the movie, about co-stars you only vaguely recognize, about how his director keeps yelling at him to stop using his “idol face” when he acts.

Time bends and blurs. It’s too easy to pretend nothing has changed, that he isn’t someone the world watches with hungry eyes, that you’re both still sixteen and untouchable.

Then, somewhere between the laughter and the nostalgia, the conversation stills.

Jun looks at you, really looks at you, and something in his expression shifts.

Don’t, you mentally beg him as you avoid his gaze. Don’t say what’s both on our minds. Don’t make it real. Don’t make me want— 

“Have you—” He hesitates, taps his fingers against the table. “Have you ever thought about leaving Shenzen?” 

You blink. “What?” 

You’re suddenly acutely aware of the shared language you speak and how it’s marred by minute differences. You, with your unburdened Mandarin; Jun, whose accent carries hints of all the places he’s been. All the people he has to be. 

He tilts his head and studies you like he’s memorizing something. “You always talked about going somewhere else. Trying something new.” 

The words feel like a physical blow to the chest. 

There’s no delicate way to put it. That ‘you’ who had dreamed of bigger things and faraway places was a distant memory. That was a version of you who hasn’t existed in a long, long time. 

That was a version of you that once existed alongside a starry-eyed Jun, but the stars in your friend’s eyes have long since burned out— snuffed by the weight of his responsibilities. 

You plaster on a smile. “Not everybody gets to chase their dreams, Junnie,” you say, trying to keep your tone light. 

His lips press together in a thin, disappointed line. “I know.” He glances away, around the café that once witnessed all your scheming, before he fixes that searching look back on you. “But you should have.” 

The words sit between you. Neither heavy nor light, just true.

A part of you wants to ask if he ever thought about staying. If he ever looked back. If he ever wondered what would have happened if he had been a little less brilliant, a little less meant for something bigger.

But you don’t.

Instead, you sip at your drink and ask Jun about Jackie Chan. About the twelve boys he calls brothers. About everything that has to do with nothing, just so neither of you have to deal with the suffocating elephant in the room. 

The night ends quietly as it began. Outside, the Shenzhen air is thick with the lingering warmth of spring, the streets humming with soft life. You and Jun walk together for a while, your arms brushing but never quite linking.

There’s a metaphor here somewhere, you think amusedly, and you fight the urge to tease Jun about it. 

For ten points, you almost ask him, can you tell me why we won’t just hold hands, Wen Junhui? 

At the corner where the roads split— his back to his hotel, yours towards home— the two of you hesitate. Jun grins, tilting his head. “Are you gonna say it, or should I?”

You shake your head, exhaling. “Take care, superstar.”

His smile softens. You used to call him that all the time, used to tout his impending stardom like it was as certain as the blueness of the sky. “Yeah,” he says. “See you around, alright?” 

You nod, but you don’t look back.

And Jun— Jun watches you disappear down the street before turning away, hands in his pockets. He whistles a tune neither of you ever got the chance to finish.

It’s been two years since you last saw Jun.

This time, you don’t meet at a café. There are no warm pastries or quiet corners, no scent of lemon tea curling through the air. Instead, there’s the sharp scent of rain-soaked pavement and the dull glow of a street lamp flickering above you.

You weren’t supposed to see him today.

You had known he was back— of course you did. His face was impossible to miss, plastered across the city on every advertisement, playing in every store you walked past. He was here for another movie, another fleeting return, and you had told yourself you wouldn’t reach out this time. Why say ‘hello’ if you would only be risking another ‘goodbye’? 

You spot him first, half-hidden beneath the awning of a convenience store, scrolling idly through his phone. He hasn’t noticed you yet. His cap is pulled low, his shoulders hunched against the drizzle, but it’s him. You’d know him anywhere.

You could walk away.

You should walk away.

But instead, you step forward, letting your umbrella tilt slightly so the rain dampens your sleeve. “Didn’t peg you for the type to loiter outside a convenience store like a delinquent,” you joke.

Jun looks up, startled, and then his face splits into a slow, disbelieving grin. “And I didn’t peg you for the type to stalk me.”

There it is. The first words exchanged in what feels like a lifetime. It’s like a Band-Aid to a bullet wound— a cut put there by Jun’s texts that have gone unanswered. Let’s meet up, he had asked you days ago, and you let the message collect dust in your inbox. 

A part of you dreads the thought of him bringing it up. Here, now. But Jun also knows better. Knows why the two of you can’t keep indulging each other. 

But fate seems to have other plans.

“You’re the one standing outside my usual store,” you shoot back with a half-hearted roll of your eyes. 

He laughs, soft and familiar, and suddenly the past two years don’t feel so far away.

“Guess that means I owe you something,” he says, nudging open the door with his shoulder. “Come in. I’ll buy you a drink.”

You hesitate. You shouldn’t. You should say something polite and leave, pretend you never saw him, pretend this doesn’t mean something. But then Jun lifts an eyebrow, tilting his head in that way he always does when he knows he’s winning, and you find yourself following him inside. 

You always did let him win, didn’t you? 

The store is nearly empty. The hum of the refrigerator and the occasional beeping of the cashier scanning items are the only sounds filling the silence. You make a beeline for the drink aisle, Jun trailing behind you.

“You still drink lemon tea?” he asks, side-stepping you. 

You nod. He plucks a can from the shelf without hesitation before grabbing a coffee for himself. 

You remembered, you think, and the thought must be clear as day on your face because Jun lets out a snort of laughter when he looks at you. “What kind of monster forgets their best friend’s favorite drink?” he quips.

There it is again. That careful, unspoken line. Best friend. Like a safety net stretched between you, always just enough to keep the two of you from falling. 

You don’t respond, just follow him to the counter where he pays, ignoring the way the cashier does a double take when she recognizes him.

Outside, the rain has slowed to a drizzle.

“You have somewhere to be?” Jun asks, handing you the can. 

In the corner of your eye, you can see the cashier fiddling with her phone. Probably trying to look up Jun. 

You shake your head.

“Walk with me for a bit,” he says, and it’s a plea as much as it’s a question. 

So you walk. Past neon-lit storefronts, past the murmuring voices of late-night diners, past streets that still hold echoes of your childhood. One of the few things that you still share.

Jun talks about the film, about how he barely has time to sleep, about how his co-star is absurdly talented and makes him feel like a rookie again. You listen, nodding in the right places, letting his voice fill the spaces between you.

He gives. You take. It’s always been this way. 

You’re in more familiar neighborhoods when Jun asks you, blunt as ever, “Have you been happy?” 

You don’t know how to answer.

You think about your job, steady but unremarkable. You think about your apartment, neat and quiet. You think about the life you’ve built, the one you never dreamed of but somehow ended up with anyway.

You think about how the only time you ever feel sixteen again is when Jun is standing beside you.

“I’m fine,” you say at last. “I have everything I need.”

Almost everything, you add in your mind as your free hand twitches at your side. The empty spaces between your fingers feel glaringly obvious, feel like some place where Jun could rest if he deigned to. 

Jun studies you for a long moment. Then he hums, low and thoughtful, and turns his gaze back to the road. The walk continues, but something has shifted. The silence is heavier, the air thicker. The distance between you is measured in more than just footsteps now.

You stop at the same corner as last time. His hotel. Your apartment. 

Jun shoves his hands into his pockets and rocks on his heels. “I leave in two weeks,” he says. 

“I figured,” you respond. Not unkindly. 

“Maybe we can—” he starts, and that mental litany starts up in your head once again. 

Don’t do this to me. Don’t do this to yourself. 

He hears it, he must, because he trails off and shakes his head like he’s ridding himself of wishful thinking. “Nevermind.” 

It’s the smartest thing he’s done tonight. You lift your can of lemon tea in a mock toast. 

Here’s to us, you want to say, the two biggest idiots in the goddamn world. 

Instead, you leave him with the usual. “Take care, Junnie.” 

His smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Always,” he shoots back. “Take it easy, you.”

Again: You don’t look back. 

And Jun— Jun watches until you’re gone before turning away, taking slow steps back into a city that no longer feels like home.

This time, it’s been four years. 

Four years of Jun slipping in and out of Shenzhen like a ghost, four years of you pretending not to notice. You’ve kept track, of course. Not through texts— those stopped after the last time— but through the city itself. His presence lingers in the posters at subway stations, in the muted sound of his voice filtering through a store’s speakers, in the occasional mention of his name in casual conversation.

You told yourself you wouldn’t see him again. That after the last time, after the rain-soaked streets and the unfinished words, there was no point in waiting for another return.

Your bags are packed, your ticket is in hand, and Shenzhen— the city that once held all your dreams and disappointments— is about to be nothing more than a place you used to belong to.

And yet, somehow, in this vast, transient space of the airport terminal, you find him.

Or maybe he finds you.

Jun stands near his gate, his hoodie pulled over his head. But you would recognize him anywhere. Even if it had been another four years. Even if it had been a lifetime.

He spots you. For a second, he looks almost startled— like he wasn’t expecting this, like he had finally convinced himself you weren’t going to be a part of this place he keeps leaving behind.

Then, slowly, that familiar smile tugs at his lips.

It must take a mammoth effort for him to weave through the fans dying to catch a glimpse of him, through the security detail who are paid thousands to keep him safe. He manages. He forces himself to. 

When he reaches you, his voice is softer than you remember. “You’re kidding.” 

You huff, shaking your head. “I wish,” you say. 

He glances at your suitcase, at the boarding pass clutched in your hand. His smile falters. “Where are you heading?” he asks, like the thought of a Shenzen without you is a travesty in its own right. 

You give him a tight-lipped smile. I can’t answer that, your grin says, and he seems to understand. It’s the only safeguard that will keep him from jet-setting to wherever you are, from walking through street after street in hopes of running into you. 

Fate can only do so much for you and Jun. It’s given you chances, given you hope, and yet the two of you continue to scorn it. 

“Why now?” he asks of your departure. His voice is careful but not unreadable. He wants to know if you’re running toward something or just running away.

It’s a little bit of both, admittedly. 

You shrug. “Figured it was about time,” you say instead. 

Time. You and Jun once had it in spades. He exhales, tilting his head like he’s processing the weight of the moment. With a humorless chuckle, he says, “Guess we really are bad at timing, huh?”

The announcement for his flight crackles overhead. A final boarding call.

Jun lingers, watching you, something flickering behind his gaze. He hesitates, like he wants to say something— something real, something that won’t disappear the moment he steps on that plane.

But you already know what he’ll say.

And you already know how this ends.

So before he can ask, before he can make this any harder than it already is, you step forward and do what you’ve never done before.

You reach for his hand.

For a second, Jun freezes. Then his fingers curl around yours, warm and familiar, like they were always supposed to fit this way.

You hold on. Just for a moment. Just long enough to let yourself wonder what it would have been like if things had been different. If you, if he had been different. 

Fate has given up. This is your fate, now— the meeting, the leaving. The loss.

You pull away first. Jun blinks, startled, and you can see the question forming on his lips. But you don’t give him the chance to ask.

“Take care, Junhui.” 

Not superstar. Not Junnie. He’s neither of those things anymore. 

He’s not yours anymore. (Was he ever?) 

His grip tightens around the handle of his suitcase.

With a small, resigned smile, he nods. “You, too,” he says quietly. “Take care.” 

And, this time— you both walk away.

🎧 BUZZ (SEVENTEEN'S VERSION) TAGLIST — @cherrylita @cookiearmy @cunfnxxx-blog

🏆 THE ANGST OLYMPICS TAGLIST — @lovetaroandtaemin @bokk-minnie @gyuhao365 @supi-wupi @rizzus @callmehoweveruwatblog @pleasetellmenow @giverosespls @seikwans @cookiearmy @mingumis @yuyuloverrr @chanranghaeys @starstrawb @catiekayy @choco-scoups @wonuilu @flickhurstyles @yayayayana @lizza2001 @bibblemiluvr @alyssa19123456 @skzbangchanniee @whoa-jo @brownbunnyb @sennasiempre @idubiluranghae @bvrin

[vethbrenatto]

Idk if you’d be interested but I just finished watching Crispy’s Tavern’s latest video on the ending of C3 and I thought it was a really good introspection on where he thought the ending failed and why!

thank you for the rec, it was a good watch! (linking here for people who are also interested)

there are 3 points I particularly agree with:

the treatment/exploration of the gods' nature feeling like a retcon. while the argument can be made that we just didn't fully grasp the gods' true nature prior to c3, so much of their treatment just does feel like a walkback of c1/c2. the video makes a great point of even TLOVM "retconning" sarenrae's attitude towards pike. this isn't necessarily a fundamentally bad thing, just something that makes it very hard for longtime fans/watchers of every campaign to connect with. of which i am one of many.

the consequences, particularly towards divine casters. i think the fact that the gods rebirth has no effect on divine magic is, uh, wild. but more than that, that there seem to be little social consequences. religion is one of the most divisive things ever. EVER. the fact that there are no immediate consequences for killing the gods (even if they are reborn) feels so unrealistic. i think it also feels weird to think about the divine casters specifically in the main parties. like what about pike? caduceus? there is no world where the c1 version of pike is just chill with this, and it feels sad that apparently c3 pike is.

the story not fitting the characters. BH would have vastly benefited from having a party member with a true divine connection, as opposed to FCG's vague finding of the changebringer or braius's fickle loyalty to asmodeus. the point that this vid makes about "what have the gods done for us?" being a point strong enough to justify BH not saving them is a great one, because there are so many people outside of BH that have been directly and strongly impacted by the gods.

[popcornforone]

The Lore

A Max Phillips Valentines Fan Fic

Bitey Maxie… for valentines… now we’re talking!

@happypedrohours are doing a valentines challenge this weekend & I took up the challenge, my Prompt of Max with heart shaped candies/chocolates. There was only one way to go with this so yes I went there.

Synopsis:- You are not bothered by Valentine’s Day to show your love, but Max has other ideas.

Word Count:- 4100

Warnings:- DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE UNDER 18!There is a lack of consent in this for lots of reasons, please in real life always give or receive consent before doing anything. PIV sex, drinking blood, alcohol, swearing, vampire lore & powers, drugging, stalking, controlling, boss & staff relationship, age gap (max is a vampire he’s like 200 years older than you in this story) manipulation.

Thanks for the read peoples. I hope you enjoy this.

Oooh as my poem got a lot of love last time, if you click here later this weekend you will get the poem version of this story.

“Ooooh isn’t it going to be romantic”

“I love this holiday”

“Wonder how many roses I will get”

You groan at the constant comments around the office in the lead up to Valentine’s Day. You have never been the kind of person,be it single or in a relationship, to enjoy Valentine’s Day. Yes it’s nice to get gifts & be doted on but you believe you don’t need a day to tell the person you love that you love them, you love them every day. Also there is currently the added bonus that no one in your office knows your in a new relationship. For lots of reasons you’ve had to keep it quiet. It’s been 6 months now, there’s been a few difficult conversations along the way so far but you know what to expect of each other.

As you sit there hearing Darcey talk for the 8th time that on Friday she has the day off & she’s sure her boyfriend will finally propose to her, you get a pop up on your screen.

My office with the reports in 10 mins.

“Always to the point” you mutter & start downloading last months sales reports to the usb drive. He is the only person in the world who hates using the cloud so this has to be done. You don’t mind it though. Means you know he’s not just skimming through the reports.

9mins later you knock on his office door & walk in closing it behind you.

“A minute early,” he says his back to you as he looks out the window at the grey busy city below. His Gucci suit being sleek & making his peachy arse, tiny waist & broad shoulders look emaculate. “Either that’s not good for sales, or you are getting too good at your job, guessing when I’m gonna ask for stuff.” He shifts back on his left foot before turning. There he is. Not a hair out of place. Looking as handsome as ever.

Your boss.

Your Boyfriend.

Max Phillips.

You always gulp upon seeing those eyes. Eyes so smouldering they could set a forest a blaze with one look. His hand smoothed out his blue tie. That large hand that makes you think bad things. & those lips, thin for now but blushing with life, the perfect way to end any day is to have those lips make contact, in lots of ways.

“Well that is why you hired me” you reply & wait for him to beckon you over. He might be your boyfriend & boss, but you are also his sub, & part of his supply of food. Max is a Vampire. Your obedience is rewarded with all sorts of things, but mainly mind blowing sex every other night. You’ve had so many orgasms in the last 6 months your world has truly been rocked. The two fingers extend & he does a come hither. You nod & walk across to him & hand him his usb. He grabs your hand, tightly & you gasp.

“Thank you darling” he then kisses your neck. You flinch a little. It’s the sore patch. It’s where he drinks from. You won’t let him drink while you have sex, one of the disagreements you’ve had, but on a Friday after you’ve dined & wined with whoever you have been out with, he will come over, drink from your neck so he can feel a little intoxicated too & then as you lie exhausted from being consumed yourself, he will devour your pussy until you can’t cum anymore.

“My pleasure sir” you say. He giggles a little, the glint in his eye even more shiney today.

He sits behind his desk & the two of you go through the sales reports. Despite you being his in almost every sense (he’s not agreed to turn you yet) he’s still very impressed with you, your work ethic, your charisma, your professionalism & the fact, that even though he is your master in lots of ways, that you will challenge him. No one has done that for over 200 years. He likes you feisty , because then he knows you’re being real & true. You wear your heart on your sleeve & that’s one of the reasons he adores you.

“That is actually all good” he says at the end of the review & chat”up 15% on last month that’s very reassuring, shows growth is continuing to get stronger”

“As I said Sir” you interject “we don’t need to grow at rapid speed just 12% each month for this year & then they will keep coming back & then recommend us”

“You’re so business savvy” he takes his large hand off the keyboard & strokes your chin. You try to not blush. “Your my little Angel”

“Max” you giggle unable to keep calm you know what thumb stroking usually means “we’re at work”

“&…”

“What if…”

“I’m in charge remember darling” the grip on your chin gets firmer. “If I wanted you under my desk every morning for a blow job, all

I’d have to do is snap my fingers & you’d be on your knees” your bright red, because you know it’s true. Power attracts you. His lore radiates. He pulls your face down, the eye contact intense, the sexual tension could cut through a coconut. Your kiss never materialises, as his phone rings. He answers it angrily.

“Fine fine fine” he says sternly before hanging up. “Sorry darling, rain check, new interns from the college, here to see if they want to work here”you are both disappointed but know you will get to continue later.

“Actual interns or a snack?” You ask he pulls a face of shock. Almost disappointed in your remarks, but you see the glint in his eye.

“Actual interns…” he then pauses & raises an eyebrow. “But the most Karen amongst them might be a nice little nibble” you giggle at him & take the usb back. “Hang on” you pause just before the door. “Remember I’m at a conference next week”

“Of course sir”

“Means a couple of nights away” he then pauses his face worried “including late home on Friday”

“&…” you reply.

“But it’s Valentine’s Day” he says. He’s shocked you don’t look sad.

“It’s just a day Max” you say softly. “I don’t need a certain day to be doted on” he then looks really shocked by this. In the 284 years he’s been alive he’s always spoilt the woman in his life on this day.

“You sure”

“Yes Max” you smile at him softly “my feelings won’t change for you they will be the same on Saturday as they will be on Friday” you nod & then leave his office.

Max sits back in his chair contemplating what you just said to him. Amazed you don’t want a fuss. He can read your mind, 9 times out of 10 he decides not to, but he had a quick feel around during that conversation & realised you weren’t lying. You really aren’t bothered. But that is going to make what Max has planned so much better. His mind planning only interrupted when the intercom goes to say the interns are in the lift to see him.

Valentine’s Day arrives.

After hitting your alarm on snooze, you see the message from Max on your phone.

I know i love you every day but today I felt like saying it, love you darling 💕

You reply saying the same back before getting in the shower. The hot steam making you wish Max was here, to touch you in lots of ways. Once dressed & in the kitchen making your coffee the door goes. You moan a little & hit the buzzer for whatever delivery this is to come up to your apartment, but your eyes are a delight when you open your eyes. A heart shaped cookie, with some small heart shaped chocolates on it & two roses with thorns still attached. The note that with it says “I bet this made you at least smile MPx” it had. Your dark heart which usually hates Valentine’s Day & the commercialism of it, starting to defrost a little. You decide to eat a chocolate as you head out to get the subway to work. As the last bit of chocolate melts on your tongue you feel wave of euphoria. Maybe it’s having something so sweet this early in the morning that’s woken up your senses, you’re not sure. But it’s making you bounce into the office this Friday morning. People notice how happy you are & are wondering what’s up.

When you get to your desk on your floor there is a pink heart shaped box, with a gold bow & a note. “Thought this morning was all you were gonna get? MPx” you untie the bow as some of your colleagues watch you. Those who aren’t then hear your squeal of excitement once it’s opened. A lavish selection of heart shaped chocolates & sweets sit inside & they smell amazing, making you lick your lips.

“Thought you didn’t do Valentine’s Day?” Danny asked.

“I don’t”

“& aren’t you single?” You blush at that.

“It’s complicated” you say. You’d love to shout out that you are getting railed by Max, but that would make things awkward. “But I have someone” you finish & you take a white chocolate heart & plop it in your mouth. “Oooh raspberry” you then offer the box to Danny “take one”

“But they are yours”

“I’m not gonna be able to eat them all Danny you take one for now & one for the journey” you offer innocently.

2hours later you suddenly realise the office is all around a much happier & nicer place. The usual mid morning slump never arrives. In fact, the entire office feels like it’s running on a different frequency, lighter, faster, buzzing with an energy that’s almost contagious. People are smiling, laughing, moving with an unusual ease. Even the usual grumblers seem… pleasant.

You lean back in your chair, watching as Danny animatedly chats with Sarah from accounts, his usual nervousness nowhere to be seen, he’s always had a crush on her. Across the room, even your perpetually stressed admin clark is grinning as she types away at her keyboard. It’s like someone has turned the volume up on life. It’s only when you realise that you’re tapping your foot at a ridiculous speed & that your fingers have been flying over your keyboard without you even noticing, that a thought creeps in.You glance at the open chocolate box on your desk.

Surely not?

Another bite of a heart chocolate sends a fresh wave of warmth through you, like you could take on the world. Your body feels incredible, light, sharp, almost euphoric. Your brain is firing on all cylinders.

Your phone vibrates. A message from Max.

“Feeling good, sweetheart?”

Your stomach flips. That bastard.

“What did you do?” You reply.The three dots appear.

“Hopefully get you loose”

You look up. Across the room, Danny meets your eye & grins, cheeks flushed. He winks.

“Oh fuck” you whisper & grab the box & run into Max’ office & lock the door behind you before calling him. He answers straight away.

“Darling”

“What’s in the chocolates Max?”

“Happy Val…” you interrupt him.

“I’m serious Max” you say sternly. “I passed them around the office”

“WHAT!” He screeches”why did you do that”

“Cos I’m not gonna eat 30 chocolates it would take me months”

“Fuck” he says “so how is erm… the rest of the office”

“Euphoric, In the most chilled Friday mood ever” you hear him tut.

“Well they have a mild aphrodisiac in them, just to let you inhibitions go” he chuckles. He’s drugged you & no also due to your generosity most of his staff.

“You think this is funny?” You state.

“I do, sorry daring. I didn’t want you stressing & I wanted you to have a nice calm day without me” he then pauses”wait where are you calling me from im guessing not the office floor”

“I ain’t that stupid Max” you scoff “I’m in your office, panicking”

“Bottom left draw of my desk” he says. His tone demanding even down the phone & you obey. You open the drawer & there is a bottle of champagne.

“Max”

“Take it home when you leave, enjoy it tonight, you deserve it baby” & then the phone clicks off, he’s hung up. Your stood there speechless & also very concerned you’ve just drugged the office with heart shaped chocolates. Well technically your boss has, your boyfriend has.

After the most relaxed Friday anyone has ever imagined, you go back to your apartment. Another bunch of red roses are waiting for you with a smaller box of chocolate & the note on the card says, “order a take away on me beautiful MPx” you blush & take them inside. After setting the roses in a vase & placing the smaller chocolate box on your kitchen counter, you flop onto the couch, phone in hand. Ready to let Max know what he might be coming back to at work next week.

“You do realise I am never trusting any food from you again, right?” His reply is instant.

“Oh, come on, darling. Didn’t you have the best Friday of your life?”

“You drugged an entire office.”

“Lightly. They’ll be fine. No complaints, right”You pause. He’s right. No one seemed upset. In fact, people left work happier than they ever have on a Friday. It was as if all the tension that usually hung in the air had dissolved. Still, you weren’t about to let him get off that easy.

“You’re a menace.”

“& yet, I’m your menace & you love me.”

You groan, tossing your phone onto the coffee table at his reply. He’s insufferable, smug & unfortunately, he’s right.

Your stomach rumbles, bringing your attention to the takeout menu you’ve grabbed, you know it doesn’t go well but a burger & champagne sounds good. As you place your order, your thoughts drift back to Max’s little surprise. The chocolates. The way they made you feel. That warm, floaty sensation still lingers in your veins, but now it’s mixed with anticipation. Because you know exactly what’s coming next. After all, he’s not the type to leave things at just chocolates & flowers.

As if on cue, your phone vibrates again.

“Enjoy your dinner, sweetheart. I’ll be seeing you soon”

Your breath catches. Max isn’t meant to get back until really late tonight. Is this all just a game to him? Playing with your emotions or is it just the heart shaped chocolates playing with your mind.

What you have no idea is that Max was never working away today, he’s been following you. He had been away for the rest of the week but he got back to his place last night. He watched you get the gifts on each occasion including putting a couple of mind control tricks on you, a little one every now & then doesn’t effect you, he even snuck into work to see how the chocolates were going down. He’s been watching you from outside your apartment feeling your aura, ready to strike at the moment you are most care free & relaxed. He wants a special Valentine’s Day himself. He wants you, & he knows by making you so calm & relaxed there is a huge chance you will let him drink from you when you have sex. He will need no mind controls tonight.

When you’ve finished eating & you pour another large glass of fizz, you hear a soft knock at your actual apartment door. Not the buzzer or the intercom. It’s deliberate & sends a shiver of both nervousness & delight down your spine. It has to be him. You slowly make your way to the door, is it nerves, fear, anticipation, lust, desire or all of the above that’s making your heart pound inside you? You can feel the tension as you unlock the door.

Max always has the devil in his eyes being a vampire but tonight it’s glowing. There’s an extra glint shining bright in those eyes. He knows he’s been naughty but he can’t contain his enjoyment of his teases through the day. He’s dressed to the nines as always spotless, the tie in his sleek jacket pocket, you can see the red poking out. Trousers that if he thrust, would show you which side he was dressing today. He’s smirking the only way he can.

“Surprise” he says cockily. You roll your eyes & tut in a sarcastic way. You step aside & he bows before entering. It’s a vampire thing.

“How was the late stay for the work thing?” You ask but you already deep down know he’s been spying on you. Something in your mind is telling you this.

“Erm about that” you sigh”oooh come on I wanted to have fun & you clearly have had enough of it, & I had to know if you really were enjoying yourself.”

“How often do you watch me max” not just a question for today but just in general.

“Not nearly as much as I’d like to, I’ve set my own boundaries. Trust me I could stand at the end of your bed all night watching you sleep & you’d have no idea”

“What” you say shocked.

“Joking” he says putting his hands up apologetically, but there’s something about he smirk that makes you think maybe he sometimes does. He then takes your left hand & kisses it. You blush crimson.”you know your better than any drug or blood to me”

Just being with each other intoxicates you both. No more mind games are needed tonight, no more alcohol or chocolates to let yourself go. Your combined auras are making the sexual tension so thick. As you rest a hand on him your certain even though you know it cant be that you can feel his pulse quicken.

“Max i…”

He doesn’t let you finish your sentence, his lips crash into yours, stealing your breath easing your soul, igniting the fire within your bones. He’s possessive as he pulls you into him. He knows you’re his in every way but that doesn’t stop him wanting to claim every last inch of you. You’d willingly be this man’s last meal if he asked you, his scent, his touch, his body, his mouth & those eyes that are are usually so soft now primal & wild, they all belong your man. No one else’s he’s yours.

His mouth leavers your lips, to your jaw, to your neck, to your throat, to where he likes to sip. He’s a man possessed. Too much to feast on. On such a beauty as you. He knows he should ask, he also knows he could use a mind trick but he wants you to willingly bring it up. The thing he wants most. His tongue flicks against the usual puncture holes, the teeth grazing, those prestige fangs starting to form. He lets out a small growl, it vibrates through your body.

“I want you”

“I know max”

“No I really want you in every way”

Your body melts & you moan as he softly starts to nip. It’s not painful anymore it’s arousing.

“Yes” you whimper.

“Sorry” he says & lifts his head

“ I said yes, take me to bed before I change my mind” you say & he lifts his head.

“Only if your sure darling & you must say black if it’s too much”

“Max i trust you with my life”

That’s all Max needs to hear.

Vampiric power is extraordinary in so many ways. In a flash he’s scooped you into his arms & carried you to your bedroom. You body feels like it’s falling in slow motion. In the time it takes you to get your jewellery off he’s gone & got some towels & a bottle of water & a few other supplies, incase things go wrong, although he keeps promising it never would, that he’d never hurt you, that it would make sex so much more enjoyable.

You’re excited as you both undress each other. You’re always excited for sex with max, but today it’s different. You’ve been drank before & after sex but never during it. This is a special treat & one that you know, now that you’ve opened Pandora’s box, he will expect more regularly.

After peeling away your clothes Max kisses every single inch of your skin. So full of life, so beautiful. He makes him more of a creature of a night than ever before. He’s savouring each kiss & touch. You moan as he sucks on your clit for a few minutes, your hands going into his hair. Your hips already rolling pushing his face further into your pleasure, as h gets you going.

“Fuck max”

“Don’t cum already baby” he giggles before his fangs then graze your nipples. He then pauses. He knows once he sinks his fangs into you & his penis, he will turn into an animal.

“Last chance darling” he says hopeful you still consent. Slight restraint in his voice. You pull him up so he can be near his usual drinking spot. Your hand traces over this jaw.

“I’m all yours max, in every way, yes I want this”

“Remember black” he says. He then very unromantic hits a timer next to your bed of 10mins, the longest the knows he can drink without doing any damage. You moan as he penetrates you slowly, filling up your cunt as he kisses you deeply. “I promise you will want this every night” he then licks down your throat, his hips slowly thrusting, you aren’t gripping the bedding yet but you can’t stop moaning already.

Finally his mouth as back at his supply. He sighs, licks & then softly sinks his fangs into your flesh. You’re gripping the bedding now.

Pleasure ripples through your body. You’ve never felt this high, you’ve never felt this happy. Sharp, hot, intoxicating, sexy, ritualistic. Your body arches as you moan pushing him into the air with you before you come back down onto the bed. It’s almost an out of body experience. Your own nails dig into Max to hold him in place, his growling & thrusts making each contraction of your cunt around his penis invigorating like you’ve been born again.

This isn’t just a drink, this isn’t just sex, this isn’t just a vampire & his partner being intimate, this is sacred. Each thrust sets off fireworks, each slurp has you both seeing stars. It’s binding you together in a moment of bliss.

Bzzzzz

The alarm goes off & Max to his word slowly removes his fangs from your neck, drops of blood fall onto where he drinks, your blood & his venom to seal the wound.

“Fuck baby” he snarls & then he picks his pace up. Those 10 minutes flew by, but the ferocity of both your orgasms makes you feel the same connection once again. Your body quivers in pleasure at your release. His face radiant & almost alive, from sweat blood & lust filled eyes.

“Perfect” he pants a few minutes later & lifts his head to look deeply into your eyes, moving a stray hair off your face. “How was it for you darling”

“indescribable”

“Is that good or bad?” You laugh at his response as your thumb traces over his lips. You suck your own blood off it.

“More” you say. Max looks shocked.

“M…more” Max is stunned his voice husky but it doesn’t take long for that smirk to return to his face. “darling do you have any idea what you just asked for” he murmurs as his hands cup your breasts & he slowly takes hold of you.

“Then show me Max” you challenge him.

“You greedy little thing” he says & he rolls back on top of you.

“Not really” you joke trying to lighten the mood as you get comfortable for round 2”I gave all of my chocolates away”Max laughs.

“Actually” he quickly leans over the top of his timer he had brought some chocolates upstairs with him. Those likely heart shaped chocolates which have caused all sorts of fun today. “Is one more gonna hurt” he says as he bites into his. He then feeds you the final chocolate. Your world exploding into colour once more. You tilt your head to the side.

“no it’s not baby”your practically vibrating with anticipation.

Slowly he pushes deep inside you, thrusting a few times watching your eyes glaze over from pleasure before he lowers his head to your neck.

“Happy Valentine’s Day darling” he whispers before growling in satisfaction as he sinks his fangs into the only sweetness he needs in his life.

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀 🔀

120 or 1k for 🔀:

---

Evan doesn’t really understand. They said his bone marrow was supposed to heal him. But it made him very sick, very fast. He dies quicker after it than he would have without it. 

Evan doesn’t understand. But his brother is dead.  

His brother is dead, and his mother hates him. She screams at him. 

“I KNEW IT! I KNEW YOU WEREN’T RIGHT! YOU’RE NOT HIM! YOU’RE NOT HIM AND YOU KILLED MY SONS!” 

She screams at him until he’s sobbing. Until Maddie has to pick him up and take him away from her. Until the doctors have to give her medicine that makes her sleepy. 

She never says it again after that. Doesn’t dare. Evan thinks it’s because she’s scared of how his dad will react; he thinks she’s lost her mind. But even if she doesn’t say it again, Evan never forgets. He never forgets what she accused him of. And he never, not once, feels like she loves him. Not for a second. 

2025

i. 

The skin on Buck’s stomach is burning. It feels like he’s developed a rash or heat blisters all of a sudden. The blade the imposter is holding against him hasn’t broken skin. It hasn’t even ripped his shirt. The point is just pressing into his stomach. He doesn’t know why his body is reacting so viscerally to it, nevertheless.

“Okay, hold up,” Buck pleads to the younger, rougher-looking version of himself.

“Shut up,” he snaps. His voice is a little different than Buck’s. “Take careful, slow steps back into your apartment. Don’t try anything.”

“Okay,” Buck agrees. He does as he’s told. He walks backwards into the loft, the imposter matching his steps. He closes the door behind him. 

Buck turns his head to look at Bobby and Athena. Bobby is rigid, wide-eyed and furious. Athena’s eyes are on her purse, on Buck’s counter. Did she bring her gun? No, right. She doesn’t bring her gun around in her purse. But maybe something? Something that can help?

“Who are these people?” The imposter demands. “Are they like you?”

“Like me?” Buck asks. “What does that mean?”

“Don’t play stupid,” the imposter nearly growls. “I know you can’t lie. I won’t fall for any tricks.”

Okay… So he’s crazy. Like crazy. 

“No one is trying to trick you,” Bobby says. “My name is Bobby. This is my wife, Athena. We’re just friends of Buck’s, okay? That’s all.” 

The imposter’s eyes narrow. “Buck?” 

Buck nods. “That’s my name. My nickname.”

The imposter wrinkles his nose. “That’s stupid.”

Well? Fuck. Okay then. Hold him at knife point and tell him his name sucks. Great. 

“What do we call you?” Athena asks calmly.

“My name is Evan,” he says.

“Okay,” Athena replies. “Evan. You came here because you want something, right? What is it that you want?”

“I want my life back!” He shouts, pressing the blade a bit more firmly. “You stole my life. My family. Give it back.”

“Uh…” Buck struggles. He’s wincing from the pain. “I-I’m sorry, but I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Evan, the imposter, narrows his eyes. “Yes. Yes, you do.”

“Something very strange has happened,” Bobby says. “We’re just learning about it. We don’t have any details, but maybe you do? Maybe you can help? Fill us in?”

“Why would I help you?” He demands. 

“Because we’re all confused, I think,” Athena says. “It sounds like you’re confused, too.”

“I’m not,” the imposter snaps. “I’m not confused! You stole me from my family and took my life! I was just a kid!”

Buck emits a low grunt of pain. It feels like a hot poker is being held to his skin. And, beyond that, he feels like he’s having some sort of nightmare. This is his story. His trauma. The thing that happened to him. He didn’t do it. He’s not the cause.

[pricegouge]

what would price do if fairy!reader escaped?

hi hi! I wasn't sure if you meant price from unlucky foot or the slightly softer version we were kicking around. I think I landed somewhere in the middle. more like here. if it's not what you wanted lmk

the worst part is the embarrassment of it all. it's not an emotion john was well-versed at, never one to have any need of it. he does what he does. it's not up to him how people take it if they can't see the sense in his actions. but losing a hobbled little creature who, without wings, could only manage a top speed of about two inches a second... people would say he'd become complacent. that he'd been fool enough to trust a fae. that's the part that nags at him, the misconception. he likes earning his reputation.

he'd done everything in his power to keep the little thing bound to his side - everything, that is, except find a docile and dull one. she's always been too clever, endearing herself to him. subtly, of course. she's not one to lay it on thick.

(except on his tongue, creamy and sweet. viscous like molasses. she coats his teeth, gives him something to seek out and suck on even when he's got her tucked safely in his pocket.)

it's how he likes her, unfortunately. perhaps an acquired taste, but he's had other sweets. the pretty little demurring ones who would cry all day, didn't like when he'd stroke the scars where their wings used to be. he might not always like this one's attitude (or her penchant for running, apparently), but he likes how responsive she is. especially liked how easy she was to train because of it, pavlov's dog drooling all over his tongue. he knows he'll never find another sweet fae like her so he tracks her down, easy enough considering all the precautions he's taken. she's cowering in a houseplant when he finds her, hasn't even made it off base. he pins her to the dirt with a blunt fingertip on her belly, imagines he can feel whatever she's got in place of ribs wilt, spread open for him. must not be proper bone because she barely even flinches. dissatisfying.

"you ever do that again, i'm handing you over to simon."

that does it.

of course, it's an empty threat. she never again gets the chance when he brings her to a jeweler the next day, gets her fitted for a proper collar. he's a reputable man, the craftwork of the chain which connects her to his belt loop understated yet impeccable. the lock that tethers her there is military grade, though.

[astro-vision-au]

His new ref is finally done! This design is less of an exact copy of AV! Puzzles and more of a, "trying to make a copy from memory" vibe.

With that being said, despite the fact people might think that he's just a sweetheart thanks to the recent Valentines event I can confirm he is a total bastard. Valentines day was an acception.

He only likes a small handful of people, everyone else he does not like, or stright up hates. He especially hates Mr. Puzzles and by extension all versions of Mr. Puzzles, Mr. Park and Starz are the only acception to this rule. [I can neither confirm nor deny the flowers he gave to the other au Puzzles contained hidden tracking devices that are to be used to hunt them for sport at a later date.]

Despite his small size, he has one power that makes him low-key, the strongest character in the entire story, and that's the fact that he doesn't follow any form of logic. The smg4 world runs on a form of cartoon logic. The logic Chonkzzles abides by is literally whatever the one he wants. It's not uncommon for him to pull things like pool noodles out from nowhere and start beating people to death with them.

He also doesn't like to be touched, especially by strangers. He only lets a small handful of people pet him, and even fewer are allowed to pick him up. There's only one person who he trusts fully, and that's Sag5, who made him. He acts as their "pet" of sorts, but he's more like a roommate who doesn't pay rent.

He does not speak in words. Rather, he speaks in Smol bean language, which is an actual language in Astro-vision that only three five known people can speak. It can be translated into English. He is capable of speaking English, he just chooses not to, why? I don't even know. However, most people would agree his voice when he speaks English is unsettling since it is far deeper than when he speaks in smol bean.

Unlike the other Puzzles, he can eat with his TV still on. In fact, he can't take his TV off, unlike the others. How does he eat? Bro, I think you can tell if you read this far. i don't even know how this mf operates, and I MADE him. He just... does. He will eat anything but his favorite food is KFC or McDonald's chicken nuggets.

In conclusion? This little fucker is the bane of my existence, he exists out of spite and every second he lives he coNTINUES TO TEST MY PATIENCE, HOW DO YOU OPERATE YOU INSIGNIFICANT-

Ahem, sorry about that. I hope you enjoy this... thing.

[hanibalistic]

I WISH YOU WERE NICER TO ME | BANG CHAN.

genre | minor fluff and angst / platonic au

synopsis | a con man and a computer addict make quite the freelance dream team.

word count | 6.1k+

warning | violence, drink spiking, smoking, alcohol / minor sexual themes, reader is mentioned to have small breasts / no attraction age gap (20!reader & 38!chan) / use of the nickname 'sweetheart' / mentions of dementia, criminal activities

note | chan's character seems tall because the oc version is 182cm. i will likely delete this here once i get the commission art back and switch the names out.

Chan waited until the nursing home was out of earshot to release your wrist. 

He yanked you forward and spun you around to face him. 

His eyes were red, like an uncured hangover, but a red eye has so many causes that you'd rather not narrow it so quickly. For all you knew, he could have been crying, if that was possible for a man like him.

You glanced at his accusing finger before returning your attention to his face. His hair was disheveled, and his face was bare, one less common than the other. He wore a suit, although the buttons barely clasped correctly, and his tie was loose.

He was unprepared enough for you to deduce that the phone call you asked the receptionist at the nursing home to give him was his alarm, and he woke up somewhere other than his home.

He rushed over. He must love his mother.

You knew he did. That's why you paid her a visit at the nursing home. You were curious about truths that would prove him a safe enough partner in crime, and the nursing home hadn't been a good sign when you first found out about it.

A man who cares so much about his mother wouldn't dump her in a nursing home, but a man who doesn't care wouldn't put her in one of the nation's most expensive senior care facilities either. 

There must be a bridge, or many bridges burned somewhere that required this level of security.

You needed to know what bridges they were. His mother wouldn't be the ideal candidate to seek that information from, considering her dementia. Still, you figured you could make a point showing up at a place he never told anyone about.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, his words barely punching through his gritted teeth and clenched jaw. 

"To visit your mom," you replied. "We were having a decent conversation until you barged in and demanded that I leave."

"No–no. No." He closed his eyes and brought his clenched fist to them. His chest heaved up and down as he took a deep, readying breath, and then he relaxed and turned back to you. He licked his bottom lip to rid his mouth of dryness. When his tongue retreated inside, it pulled his lips into a smirk. "I meant what are you doing here?"

"Why did you put your mom here?" you asked. "Why didn't you hire a caretaker and keep her at home?"

His lip twitched. "You can't figure that out on your own?"

"I can make a deduction, but until you tell me the truth, it will remain an educated guess," you said. "Since you are already here, I figured you'd be a good samaritan and tell me the truth."

"How does that information help you?" Chan asked. "You can't possibly use that to screw me over."

"I know where your mom lives. What do you think?"

"You little shit–" he grabbed your shirt collar and yanked you toward him, breathing down your face–"I swear to God if you try anything."

You stared at him. 

He wondered if your indifference to violence was a byproduct of abuse. But he didn't think you've ever looked at him or anything else any other way. Those bland eyes could cross the galaxy and crash onto Earth like a meteorite without making the news. So he thought you must be some version of a sociopath to never feel or express anything.

It wasn't enjoyable to meet someone he couldn't easily read for once, and it wasn't so much an ego destruction but rather discomfort.

Being able to read the room and the mood was what kept him alive. You wouldn't kill him yourself, but you could get other people to do it. A proxy, a hand, a conscience. That's what he was to you, too. Someone to do something.

"If you don't give me a reason to, I won't," you said. "Now, let me go before I scream assault."

Looking around the area, nobody was walking around at this time, but houses were everywhere inside this gated community. If you scream loud enough, some big-headed vice president might come running to your rescue.

He dropped you and wiped his hand on his pants. You pushed your glasses and adjusted them further by scrunching your nose, watching quietly as he struggled with his thoughts.

"What do you want?" he asked.

The nature of his job, or whatever businesses he dips his full weight in, forced him to impermanence.

He switches his phone number periodically, at unpredictable times, and always has more than three numbers under his belt. 

You could access the contacts and messages in the phones he currently owns but not the disabled numbers, so you were here to ask about that.

"Jesus, that's it?" 

He rubbed his eyes and stepped aside to lean his weight against the brick wall next to you. Reaching into his blazer, he pulled out a cigarette pack and crumbled it up after taking the last one out. He dumped it on the floor, and you watched it roll off the slope.

Your nose itched when he blew the first buff. You figured he was a chain smoker. He always smelt like a gross mix of smoke and perfume. 

Through the smoke and squinted eyes, you found his exhausted features. "I didn't think you smoked cigarettes."

He chuckled through his nose. "This will blow your mind. I drink, too."

"An alcoholic?"

"Not enough."

"Then who cares." You shrugged. "I thought you would be more of a cigar person."

"They're the same. One just has a better packaging and reputation," he said. "But yes, I am more of a cigar person."

"I'm learning a lot today."

"Yeah, well." He cleared his throat. "I don't usually talk to my clients this much. Most of them don't show up at my mother's nursing home."

"Most of them think you're an orphan," you pointed out. "You do a good job fabricating your past, but I suppose it'll be a hassle to get a gated community to welcome an outsider without credible wealth and even harder to get a multinational bank to cover your tracks."

He furrowed his brows. "You looked into my bank accounts?" 

"Just the statements."

"That's basically everything," he said.

"Hmm." Your hum was a disagreement, and you tilted your head. "Not really.”

You knew he manages four bank accounts, two of them being savings accounts with a questionable difference in amount, one of them being a regular checking account, and the last one was an account dedicated to his mother's medicine and life expenses.

He has two credit cards and uses them regularly—based on deals and percentages. Other transactions are done through bills to leave no records.

"That's more than the statements!" he exclaimed.

You hummed again; this time, it was in thoughts, and then you nodded. "I suppose."

He took a drag of the cigarette and sighed. 

He knew a minor scope of your capabilities based on the jobs you've paid him to do previously. Intel collection and anonymity were your specialty. It didn't make much difference that you decided to meet him in public, considering he has no records of what you have done nor the evidence to prove it.

It didn't make much sense for you to have the kind of money you do, but he was a man of no questions. He never asked about the businesses you dabble in or how you do what you do. As long as the envelope is thick, frankly, you could be a mass murderer, and he wouldn't care.

This discovery of you loitering around his financial secrets was only a decent surprise. You did it all on your own, too.

"You didn't need to come all the way here to find out who I worked with," he said. "You could have just asked me."

"I wasn't here only for you. I also came here to meet your mother," you said after nudging your head toward the nursing home. Ignoring his eye roll, you returned to the subject at hand. "Anyway, I didn't think you'll give away information just like that."

"You're right. I will lie to you," he said. "But there is always some truth in a lie. That's what makes them credible enough to be believed in. The rest is up for you to figure out."

You raised your brows at the mention of unnecessary hoops you must go through for some basic information. It wasn't as if you could do anything with them. Knowing whoever he ended on bad terms with wouldn't benefit you now, considering you have no alternative to his role in your operations.

You only wanted to know to take precautions or build a silent network. Whatever was suitable for your cause.

"You can give it to me straight," you suggested. "Cut to the chase."

"I can't think of one person working in this business who would do that." He laughed before peering at you. "Even you lie."

"I try not to," you said, not to defend yourself but to tell the truth.

"You should start getting comfortable with it," he said.

"I'll try my best."

"Mmhm." Pushing himself off the wall, he dropped the cigarette on the floor and stepped on it, cutting off its air as smoke released from his mouth.

You looked up at him once he neared, and you watched each other in a moment of dull silence before he reached a hand up to place it on your head. 

He didn't move, awkwardly keeping his hand in place as his body reminded him that he never knew how to be gentle with someone else, and it took over the wrongful instinct.

"You do whatever you have to do," he said. "As will I."

You blinked, glanced down in thoughts, then back up at him. Your movements were precise and observable, sometimes resembling a robot. 

Chan never knew people's facial features could move this way. It was mildly eerie, with the middle of the scale being a generosity granted thanks to your pretty face and young age. If you had been ugly and old, you would just be eerie.

"I already do whatever I have to," you said.

He shifted his weight and tried to feel for the cigarette under his feet. 

"That's great, sweetheart."

He shouldn't have thrown the cigarette away. 

You have never seen Chan in a simple shirt and sweatpants before. 

The existence of a dull attire propelled you to believe that he had a life outside of being a con man, which he must have, but you suspected that it was a seventy-dollar t-shirt and not an off-brand top.

You asked him to dress normally for today’s meeting, and he met the goal a little too perfectly. Even the foundation and minor contour were gone from his face, and his lips were more chapped than usual. 

"You look like you can be my neighbor," you commented.

“You live in a hellhole. Your apartment is four hundred square feet,” he said. “I would never.”

"You used to live in an apartment of that size," you said. "Back when you were still a child."

He rolled his eyes. "What else do you know about me?" 

"Nothing more than what I told you last time," you said. "Your mother mentioned an apartment estate. I assumed that was where you grew up."

He ignored you, but you were correct. He did grow up in a hellhole. The roof leaked whenever it stormed, the fuse sometimes blew if they turned on two electrical appliances simultaneously, and the walls were thin. 

At least the sex noises were arousing for him as a teenage boy, but the marital arguments and children screaming were the worst.

The environment was made somewhere tolerable by his mother being there. He loves her even though she has been callous, stressed, and overworked since his father’s dramatic departure. 

Chan never understood why his father had to be so dramatic about his romantic feelings. That man should have lied about falling out of love and cheating instead of actively pursuing a more desired life. 

"What are we doing here?" he asked.

"I have a job offer," you replied curtly before stopping him by tapping his arm.

A cold breeze brushed over his skin when you opened the locker. Several bags of frozen food landed in the shopping cart under his hands. He looked down and grimaced. 

The variety of your meal choices was mind-boggling—orange chicken, sweet and sour chicken, teriyaki chicken, and General Tso chicken. The whole coop. The last time he was in your apartment, he saw unfinished cup noodles and opened bags of cream cakes that should be refrigerated if not consumed.

You were intellectually well put together, but good heavens, you live like a toddler spoiled by a disastrous uncle.

"This isn't healthy," he commented as he began pushing the cart to follow you.

"I know," you said. 

"You have money. Why don't you order takeout from restaurants?" 

You pursed your lips in thought.

It was convenient, you liked to think. They were effort with a reasonable portion and were easy to consume with something else because they take up such little space. A full meal wouldn’t fit on your desk, and they’d require more attention to eat, so you would miss out on what was happening on the screen.

You were also making up for eighteen years worth of a strict diet your controlling mother imposed on you. It has been two years since you were free from the horrendously stale meals, and you did it by forcing your parents to cut contact by disappearing.

They never looked for you. Last time you checked, they had a newborn child.

Theoretically, you feared for that replacement, but you have never feared for anyone but yourself. You weren't sure if you could.

"I wonder why," you replied with a solemn tap to your chin, mimicking a thinking motion without forcing your face to move an inch. You then pointed down the aisle. "Hey, you might want to close your eyes when we get to the chips section."

Chan scoffed as he leaned his forearms against the cart handle. "Fine, don't tell me."

"I wasn't planning to." 

He rolled his eyes. "What is the job?" 

"A dirty cop," you said, reaching an arm up for a bag of chips on the top shelf. "Or, more accurately, his son."

"You don't mean to ask me to make conversations with a cop, do you?" He whistled softly as he went over your head to grab it for you. He grimaced at the packaging but threw it in the cart anyway. "Horrible flavor."

“It’s sour cream and onion. It’s a widely accepted flavor,” you retorted, focusing entirely on the row of crackers. “Also, I don’t need you to talk to him. I’ll do that. I just need an entrance pass to a club you frequent.”

"Which one?"

"The Inferno Lounge."

"There's a cop in there?"

“Multiple, but they don’t care,” you said. “They don’t record their reservations online; their guest lists are handwritten. I couldn’t change anything if I tried, so I need you to help me sneak inside.”

While the guest list was logged physically, the nightclub would upload its expenses and customers online at the end of the day. You spent several nights scrolling through the lists with chip crumbs at your fingertips, checking out anyone worthy of your interest.

Against your assumptions, most law enforcement officers who frequented the nightclub were old and experienced. Alcohol and private rooms were boldly (or carelessly) purchased with credit cards. As for drugs, even if they wanted to, you doubted the provider took smart payment.

When you passed the candy section, you picked up a cherry lollipop and unwrapped it, popping it in your mouth. You kept the wrapper in your jacket pocket, saving it for the register later.

Chan sucked on his front teeth, his lips jutted out in thoughts. 

You didn’t suggest letting him bring you as a plus one because that would create an association. If one of you gets in trouble, the other will get involved indirectly. It was good to take that precaution.

Turning his head to eye you up and down, he asked, "How old are you?"

"Twenty."

“Tell them you just turned twenty-one, and this is your first night out drinking. For good measure, ask them where the bar is, he said with a snap of his fingers. “They’ll let you in just like that. You don’t even need me there.”

"Dress skimpy but casual," he added with a chuckle. "Kind of like how you are now."

You glanced at your feet. You buy all your clothes based on comfort. The ideal items could be worn outside and to sleep, so you wouldn’t have to change.

"So, pajamas."

"Yeah." He nodded. "What do you plan to do?"

"Find the guy and take his phone," you said. "I just need to transfer some data."

"You don't need me for that," he pointed out.

"I don't," you said.

"Right." He smacked his lips softly. "Again, this could have been a text."

"It could have, but I wanted to ask you something," you said after pushing the lollipop to the side of your mouth. You shoved your hands in your pockets and turned to face him fully. "Your mom said something about a clinical trial the other day. What is that?"

He pursed his lips and felt them twitch upward into a smirk. He didn’t think about it too much at first, but a nurse at the senior home put him up to it. 

With the help of a selected group of patients, a famous brain surgeon at a metropolitan hospital was trying to find a way around a nearly impossible disease. He didn’t care too much about the cure, but rather, he’d like his mother monitored and checked on periodically, so he took her to the screening test.

She wasn't selected. He wasn't too upset about that.

Lowering his head, he ruffled his hair and stood up, sniffing, shaking the jitters out of his body. “It’s no big deal.”

 “It’s for her dementia.” You peered at him, biting on the hard candy. “I didn’t know they were doing research on the disease.”

"It doesn't concern you," he said. 

You wiggled your nose to rid of the oily glasses. You were biting down just a stick now, and you played with it using your teeth. "Fine, don't tell me."

You'll find out on your own.

The rest of the shopping trip was silent. Chan did not excuse himself and continued to walk the shopping cart around the store as you pushed more unhealthy food into the basket. He went ahead when you were at the cash register to buy a packet of cigarettes at the corner area. You waited for him by the automatic doors, stepping close to trigger its sensor whenever it closed, and walked out when you noticed he was paying.

“Are you going to be okay?” he asked, stuffing his thin wallet inside his pocket. 

“I hope so,” you replied. “I’ll probably live.”

“It’s a nightclub. When it comes to people your age, they don’t tend to kill you,” he said. “They do something else.”

You hummed in acknowledgment. Reaching into your shorts pocket, you took out another lollipop and unwrapped it, popping it into your mouth. Chan furrowed his brows when you pulled it past your lips and a soft pop. He was sure you stole that.

“Why don’t you old folks sleep with people your age?” you asked.

He noticed your tongue was red. He scratched the back of his ear with a grimace. “Is that a genuine question?” 

“All my questions are genuine.” 

“Then I don’t know,” he replied. “Haven’t had any trouble with women my age.”

“Yet.” You glanced at his appalled expression as you pushed yourself off the wall. 

Approaching him with a waving lollipop, you brought it up to his face and pressed it past his lips. He parted his mouth to welcome the sweet cherry taste, his teeth clamping down on the stick to keep it from sliding out. 

“Try this for a change,” you said. “It’s better than smoke.”

He hummed. He didn’t think so.

Your drink was spiked. It wasn't a surprise. Why else would they let a nobody inside an esteemed nightclub if not to take advantage of them?

The man who put the pill inside your drink did a horrible job of hiding it, or you were more perceptive. The dimmed atmosphere, loud music, and flashy disco lights would have made it impossible for anyone else to notice, but you did, almost too clearly.

However, holding onto the intention of not bringing attention to yourself, when the man questioned why you weren't drinking from the glass, you took a sip to get him off your back.

None of your observation skills mattered because you put yourself in the same position as those who would fall victim to such tricks.

If anything, you were in far worse shape.

Since the man continued to chase you down, which hindered your task to find the dirty cop, you talked him down over the loud music. The last you heard of him was a string of cuss words as his friends held him back from making an even bigger scene.

That alerted people of your presence, but you managed to fade into the background again until you finally came across your target.

You realized how terrible you were at pickpocketing. Even the drunk air couldn’t save you from being a suspect in thievery. 

You quickly became the center of attention again, except this time, it was to be arrested and not to sleep with. Or perhaps it'd be both. You never know at places like this.

The thirty minutes (for the drug to kick in) counted down while you stumbled around corners and through hallways. You suspected you were walking deeper into the nightclub rather than out of it, but at least the confusing layout must be as disadvantageous to you as it was to your pursuers.

"There they are!"

"Shit," you muttered and picked up your pace.

The hallways looked identical. They were decorated with a dark color scheme and stained with sensual lights flashing through tiny door windows. Bad vocals, cheers, chair creaks, and screechy moans all sounded like forks on a plate. 

Looking behind your shoulder when you heard rapid footsteps approaching, you turned back to face a dead end a few rooms ahead of you. If you turned back, you would only be met with your demise, so it has to be one of the few rooms present. You have to choose. Choose quickly.

"Aggressive much–" Chan paused. His eyes widened when he saw you. "It's you."

You clenched your fist and released the tension. Immediately, you reached for the switch by the door and dimmed the ceiling lights. Ignoring Chan’s confused questions, you brought the gadgets from your jacket before taking it off and throwing it aside. The next fabric to go was your tank, and you threw that somewhere on the table instead of the floor.

"Woah–slow down?" He laughed when you shoved him onto the couch and got on top of him, your legs straddling his thighs and your hands gripping his shoulders. He instinctively held onto your waist, his big hands warm against your skin. "Jesus, sweetheart. Are you into me?"

"Help me," you said quietly. "They're looking for me."

He raised a brow. The initial shock died down gradually, and he checked his surroundings. 

Two phones were lodged where your bottoms met; yours and the cop's, he suspected. Your skin was cold as ice, and goosebumps lined up your shivering arms, which he wondered if it was from the cold or fear. Looking higher up where your nipples perked, he realized he never noticed your chest was so flat.

Behind your shoulder was the hallway light. Chan barely had the chance to hear the commotion before the door bursts open. He didn’t need an explanation to piece the problem together. There wasn’t much that could happen in a nightclub besides the usual.

You squeezed your eyes shut and his shoulders tighter. Just as you were about to lean forward, hoping to hide your face somewhere in the crook of his neck, he slid his hands up your side and pressed his thumbs against the side of your breasts, pushing them together. 

Your back straightened into a soft arch, and a surprised gasp broke out of your lips. Chan peeked over your head at the intruder, one brow raised and his smirk almost condescending. “Are you staying for the show or?” 

Flabbergasted, the man apologized and slammed the door. You didn’t say anything at the sound of the door clicking shut. Instead, you picked up the phone and attached one end of the black cable to it. You grabbed the other phone, the one with a dirty screen, and attempted the same thing. 

Chan watched you miss the charging port several times before he took them from you, getting it right on the first try.

You turned his hand to show yourself the screen and tapped on it, your barely opened eyes darting around, trying to read the tiny words on each pop-up. 

"You're here," you mumbled. 

"I am." He shrugged. "I frequent this place."

"Pervert." He didn’t say anything back.

Your chest heaved with difficulty, and you were clumsier than usual. Chan tried to catch your eyes, but you were too focused on the task. Once he noticed a significant difference in your behavior, he touched your forehead with the back of his palm.

"Lightweight?" he asked.

You grumbled, "Drugged."

His hand dropped from your forehead, and he chuckled. “Tough luck.”

Once the phone showed that the transferring process had started, you sighed and dropped it on the side. You felt horrible, and trying to make sense of your bodily reaction made you feel even worse. Your brain was fighting too hard with your body just trying to relax.

"You're shaking a little," Chan pointed out. "It can't be the drug. It's supposed to relax you.” He poked your abdomen. “You’re not cold either.” 

You glared at him through your lashes. The ringing in your ears grew louder the more you fought the drowsiness. He watched you nonchalantly, without a smile or a frown. This wasn't too amusing to him, you supposed. He hasn't pushed you off either. If anything, he kept steadying you by the waist whenever you dozed off.

You couldn’t sleep before when you were on your feet, still running from the cops. But now that Chan was here, you figured you could take a breather. 

“I panicked," you said. “I feel fear.”

"That's alarming," he said. "You don't seem to feel anything at all."

You lowered your head, blackness fading in and out of your eyes. "Contrary to your belief, I'm not some sociopath without feelings."

"Lots of talking for someone so sleepy," he mused slowly, squeezing your cheek before he reached inside his coat pocket. 

He pulled out an old wooden box and opened it with a faint squeak. Inside were three cigar sticks. He took one out and carefully placed the box next to his leg on the couch. You watched with mild curiosity as he lit up the end of it before putting it between his lips, taking a long drag.

"Have you tried smoking before?” he asked. “This should help you calm down.”

You grimaced and shook your head. He smiled; somehow, this fact was amusing. Tipping your head up gently, with his fingers wrapped over your chin and jaw, he muttered for you to take a huff after he brought the cigar to your face. 

You sniffed, trapped on top of him, and lacked the inhibition to reject the suggestion, parted your lips for him to put the tip in. You inhaled, feeling the hotness spread over your mouth.

He released your face to let you exhale, his fingers grazing a line down your bare chest to your belly. You shivered at the feeling, puffs of smoke coming out in shock, and he recalled the way you reacted when he barely touched your breasts. 

Either you were correct that you do feel emotions, or your feelings were limited to how you biologically react to physical touch.

He has to admit the latter made you so much more tolerable.

"There you go, sweetheart. Good job," he said, pulling the cigar away. "But next time, maybe more smoke in your lungs and less in your cheeks."

You frowned. You reckoned if you had let it travel to your lungs, you would’ve gotten the harsh awakening you needed. But you didn’t; you kept the smoke in your cheeks, and it did almost nothing but make you drowsier. 

Blinking slowly, you looked up at Chan, who hadn’t tried anything inappropriate. You knew he had no ill intentions despite not avoiding your naked torso because if he had them, you would have felt it underneath you, and you would just have to bet that it keeps being that way.

Wiggling forward to get closer to him and find a better position for your numbing legs, you dropped your head on his shoulder and closed your eyes. You relaxed against him; the buttons on his shirt might leave a faint mark up your chest.

"Hey," he whispered as he peered down. "You're not sleeping on me, are you?”

“I want to sleep,” you muttered. 

“I already paid for this room.”

“You can have sex some other time,” you said. “I have to sleep now.”

“Can you at least sleep on the other side of the couch?” 

You didn’t respond and he knew he wouldn’t get you to even if you were awake. He rolled his eyes and threw his head back on the couch. If he wasn’t sitting on his coat, he might have taken it off for you to use as a blanket. He doubted you were cold, though. Your skin has grown warm, and your breathing regulated itself. 

Leaving the room with all the security cameras would be a hassle. You’d have to figure out how to hide your face to avoid getting him in trouble. As for the man who barged into the room, he was willing to take a bet that he could lie about your presence in the room. Plenty of people loitered the nightclub. You couldn’t be the only person with your hairstyle and body size.

Inhaling a puff of smoke, he watched them go up the ceiling after he released it. 

Flashes of his conversation with his mother after you left the nursing home captured his attention. He tried to deter her from talking about you, which he did, but it wasn’t after she mentioned that you seemed like a good person and told him to be nice to you. 

That’s how he maintains friendships, she nagged. But you weren’t his friend. You weren’t anything to each other.

You breathed softly atop Chan. He brought his hand up to your hair, hot air boiling out of his mouth into a tragic exhale when he couldn’t will himself to do something comforting. His hand slid down to your arm, where he squeezed gently, and finally, it stayed at your waist to keep you close and steady.

"You owe me, kid," he muttered.

When a woman came by to provide him services, he shooed her away.

The back of an alley was the last place Chan expected to find you. Seeing you beaten and bruised was less surprising, considering your inability to socialize.

“I thought I heard something,” he said, crouching before you. 

He scanned your face briefly—a pair of cracked lips, a nosebleed, a bed of grabbed hair, and spots of purple and yellow developing around your eye. You were holding onto your abdomen, too.

"Karma came and bit you in the ass or what?" he asked.

“Maybe,” you mumbled. “I met them when I was at the nightclub. One of them was the man who drugged me. I chewed him out in public, so I’m guessing that’s what he was mad about.”

"Mm," he hummed with intrigue. "You shouldn't have done that."

You rolled your eyes. The pain has gradually faded from being noticeable, but you continued to feel wrong somewhere, like a misplaced bone or a sprained joint. It felt heavy as the hit but not like a weight. You have never been beaten before, so you had difficulty explaining it to yourself, and the lack of knowledge agitated you.

"This wasn't my fault," you said. 

"That's not the point," he argued.

"Then what is?"

"Why would I know?" Chan shrugged. "I didn't get physically assaulted. You did. What did you learn?”

Nothing. You have learned nothing because there was no lesson to learn from events that otherwise shouldn't have happened. 

You could learn about natural phenomena, a dessert recipe, or even the making of a pharmaceutical drug. 

A petty man choosing to retaliate against a trivial matter has no value and isn’t natural. It has no reason to exist. It just did for some incalculable reason. Therefore, it was not worth even you, someone who must make sense of everything, to try to understand it.

The only thing the event shed light upon was that you were better than him, not because you put yourself above physical violence but because you wouldn’t be bothered by something so minuscule in the first place. 

You being better wasn't a learning lesson. You already knew that.

"Take me home," you said. "I will pay you the gas money."

"I have an electric car right now. Maybe later."

He scoffed light-heartedly as he grabbed your wrist and threw your arm over his shoulder. You pushed your weight up with his help and exhaled through the discomfort. Chan peered down your shirt and raised a brow.

"They just beat you up?" he asked. "They didn't try to touch you or anything?”

You pursed your lips. There was an attempt, but you couldn’t shut your nasty mouth up for so long that they decided they didn’t like you enough anymore. Whether that was a miracle was debatable; you thought you would be left with fewer bruises if you had stopped talking.

"No."

"Sweet," he whistled, "virginity preserved."

You clicked your tongue and pushed your palm to his face. The velocity wasn't enough, so you gave him a proper slap before a round of random violence ensued.

He tried to stop you verbally, insincere apologies leaving his lips. However, the more he spoke, the worse you felt. Suddenly, you understood your perpetrator's urge to beat you up. 

"Hey, stop it! Stop it!" He shielded his face for a while before reaching for your shoulder and harshly throwing you toward the wall. "What is wrong with you?"

Your back whined in pain when it hit the wall. Once you dropped to the ground, you lay there and did nothing more to stress your body out. 

Turned out you weren't so much better, after all. If anything, you were so much worse than everyone else.

Chan tidied and dusted his clothes with short strings of curses leaving his lips, complaining about his good deeds going to waste on you. Glancing at your lifeless body, he sighed and shook his head. You could do whatever you want. 

Stepping over you, he walked to leave the alley when his phone rang. He paused to pick it up. 

"Hello?"

The voice on the other side was feminine and firm. She introduced herself as a doctor, apologized for a mix-up in some examination results, and congratulated him on his mother’s acceptance into the clinical trial.

"Yes, no problem. I will bring her over next week as scheduled," he said. "Thank you so much, doctor."

The line cut without static. He pulled the phone away from his ear and squeezed it to ground his thoughts. 

There was only one person he knew who not only knew about his mother’s condition but could also switch around digital information like that—you.

Putting his phone away, he sighed and turned back around. He knelt by you and carefully slipped his arms under your side, adjusting his hands on your shoulder and hip.

"She was nice to me." You peered up meekly. "Your mom was nice to me."

No hospital, no police station. You were heading home, he knew. He swallowed a knot before hoisting you up into his arms. Your glasses were broken. He left it there.

He was warm, like last time, and safe, if you’d call him that. 

"I bet she was."

[laz-kay]

Having analysed both Brad Bakshi and David Brittlesbee's characters so heavily over the course of the last few years, I can safely say that my theory of them being endgame has solidified.

Now, "endgame" doesn't necessarily mean they need to become romantically involved. I'm saying this as a diehard BradDavid shipper (maybe the BradDavid shipper), but there's a strong probability we have - in fact - been queerbaited with these two mfs. Shocking, I know.

We know there's a female character making an appearance in a later episode, and she's - supposedly - an ex lover of Brad's. I, for one, am thrilled we're getting an insight into Brad's personal life, and I think people are losing sight of that. There is every possibility Brad and David are two straight guys, and I still believe - with this theory - they belong together somehow.

There have been far too many circumstances where David and Brad have found comfort in each other, have shown vulnerability with each other, and have shared interests. The parallels between their characters - despite them being completely juxtaposed versions of the other - are stifling.

Being together doesn't automatically constitute a romantic relationship. Maybe these two trauma-filled individuals deserve to have someone who listens to them, who helps them become a better version of themself, and makes their life that little bit easier.

Brad and David are opposite ends of the same spectrum. The spectrum here being "fear of rejection and getting hurt". They go about hiding this phobia is completely different ways. David - being the open book he is - forces us to think nothing else is going on underneath his surface. He lays it out for all of us to see so we needn't ask about his mental health or his greatest fears, because we believe we already know everything there is to know.

Brad, on the other hand, is ambiguous as fuck. He's an aloof guy who's masquerading as a sociopathic capitalist in order to keep people distant. Keeping people distant - and somewhat frightened of you - means there'll be no questions. No questions means no opportunity for vulnerability, hence no reason to get hurt by any of his colleagues.

Analysing from the first season, it's apparent how much the two have changed; how much they're moving along the spectrum towards each other. Evolving, if you will. David has become more closed off, and Brad - miraculously - has opened himself up to helping people without any ulterior motive/self-gain.

It’s almost as if their job roles have shifted too. David becoming more corporate based and Brad leaning towards creative because of Dana. All David seems to talk about right now is monetary value and how COVID was great because it gave the video game franchise so much revenue. And Brad, despite having money at the back of his mind at all times, does have the creative team at heart. Every financial decision Brad has forced down the team’s throats has somehow benefitted creative more than corporate. Battle Royale? The Casino? Playpennies?

It's as if they're closing in on each other somehow; becoming more like the other because it makes them a better person? Their initial plans of hiding their fears haven't worked, so why not try the mirrored response?

Look, they both come from abusive households, have a crippling fear of losing people close to them, and hate showing vulnerability. There's a lot that is different too, but it's become increasingly obvious that these two dorks need each other in their lives. As friends and companions.

When David asked Brad to help him move, I'm convinced he thought he and Brad were already best friends. Hell, they'd worked together for the better part of a decade, still shared an office at that time, consistently called each other during lockdown to play a dumb video game for a bet, and Brad even helped David find a girlfriend. I'd believe we were buddies if I were David.

Brad is never seen without a long sweater/shirt on. During "Quarantine" when he's on a solo call with David, we see him for the first time in a short sleeved shirt exposing his arms. Almost like a subliminal way of letting Brad express vulnerability without meaning to. He's very slowly becoming softer and more "David-ish", and that's probably a good thing.

Idk, man. I just think these nerds need to get a shift on and move in together or something. Sit and have wine nights and talk about their shared trauma because societal norms suck and men should talk more and have more friends. They need to look after each other, because it's quite clear no one else is/will for a while.

[toonheartz]

so as you might know, mickey's entering the public domain on january 1st

what if we did something really silly to celebrate?

i know it's really short notice but we can continue to do it even after the date because well, he's gonna be public domain! so what if...we all made "mickeysonas" and posted them with the tag #mickeysona?

kinda like how people made spidersonas and linksonas and sorasonas but more absurd, something that makes people think...why though

a sona is basically a representation of yourself, so in this case you'd be drawing yourself as mickey! or...mickey as you? minnies are also welcome :]

ANOTHER silly idea i had was to coin a term, a "mickey mouse", meaning an iconic or flagship character. like mario is nintendo's mickey mouse and pikachu is pokemon's mickey mouse. what if we literally just. started calling our main oc our mickey mouse. so show off your story's mickey mouse with the tag #mymickeymouse! will it catch on? probably not. but it would be really funny.

if you want to do either or want to see others do it, consider spreading this around!!

[disposal-blueeee]

( stereotypical mexican music starts playing

[fisheito]

If you tracked my eye activity on that bliss promo pic with the tops it would be something like this

Making a major stop at topper

Before crashing into a ditch (yakuya corner)

[arcticmist0324]

By the age of 30, everyone needs to have several fictional meow meows that they would gladly abandon every single one of their morals to defend.

[kandicon]

*writes the same exact headcannons in slightly different scenarios over and over again*