#danger noodle of hell

[grimgrinningghost456]

Yes yes yes. @bendy-n-stuff

Testing something

[hells-greatestdad]

Cont'd @hells-sirenqueen

[Text] okay. I'll be snaking my way over

He snickers a bit at his pun, in spite of the heaviness of everything right now. You have to have something to laugh at...

Shape-shifting into his snake form... since he has no arms in this form, it is instead his right fang that is missing.

Slithering across the house. It had been a while since he had used one of his animal forms.... wait. Would the door to the Study be open? He doesn't exactly have arms right now....

Wait. He has magic powers. It'll be fine

But by the time he gets there, he sees the door is open. And so he just slithers on in.

[bespectacled-bookwyrm]

The Emerald Crown

A seraph-class solar dragon. Colossal to the point of dwarfing The Storm Incarnate, he can be considered his antithesis in all ways.

Very little is known about The Emerald Crown, but there is some evidence to suggest that he was worshipped at some point in the past. Aside from murals and a few artefacts, very little has survived to prove his worshippers once existed.

Extremely volatile and prone to violence, it is believed that the scarring over his eye was caused by a past altercation with another dragon.

He commands light, and some speculate that a few kingdoms razed by Reshiram was instead his handiwork. The Emerald Crown's reasons for apparently doing so, however, remains unknown.

When adopting a human disguise, he goes by the name of "Ghetsis Harmonia". He can sway entire crowds with the charisma he wields, but there is a strong belief that his goals are far from benevolent. . .

I used Ghetsis’ Black and White outfit for inspiration here. I thought it fitting, especially since I'm going with a “light is not good, dark is not evil” contrast between dragon!Ghetsis and dragon!Colress. I also took some inspiration from peacocks with the feathers.

Thoughts? :)

[smidgen-of-hotboy]

@one-joe-spoopy you asked a few days ago about Miasma in my monster hunter au. It has taken me two days, but I've reached a point where I'm content enough to share my thoughts finally (and @esquemeencanta I haven't forgotten you Jove <3)

This is the tale behind Juno losing his original eye to Miasma. Sometime after this encounter he gets a new enchanted magical eye from Ramses O'Flaherty, finds out he's a changeling actually named Jack Takano, and after that shit storm, Juno gouges the magical eye out himself (almost dies trying). The continuation picking up with Hunter Steel and Hunter Glass is in the back of my mind. I've been fried trying to think of how Juno fights a monster he knows next to nothing about, and how he's supposed to do it alone (because ya know- he's stubborn like that)

! Obligatory guts, gore, blood, and violence and angst warning !

Juno works for the Hyperion Monster Hunter Association. He's brought Rita along with him and together they've been doing pretty well. Falco reached out a handful of times but after enough missed calls caught on that Juno wasn't going to come back to HCPD. By then, Juno had made a name for himself as a hunter in Hyperion. He was seeked out for personal jobs often enough that he didn't need to rely on the job postings from the HMHA. Sometimes though he still takes a posting.

There had been a few postings for a series of disruptions in the valleys down south of Hyperion City for a few months. Other Hunters had taken up the jobs and died trying to hunt down whatever monster was out there. Reports from the Cerberus Province were coming in:

Puddles of black gunk have been forming overnight. Anything that steps in it immediately sinks to the bottom. It is unclear if there even is a bottom to these pools.

Vehicles are being broken into and stripped for parts.

Earthquakes are being recorded, rumbling every few hours like clock work. This area is not known for experiencing earthquakes.

Other monsters have been found dead, disembowled and drained of their blood.

Juno takes the latest job request and gets Rita to look over some survey maps taken of the area. She finds that where the monster carcasses are turning up, there was a puddle of gunk there previously. She says she may be able to find out more if Juno can collect a sample. He obliges and returns to her a day later with a small jar full of gunk. His hands smell like burnt tar.

Rita runs a few tests on the jar of gunk and she finds that it has a mostly liquid state, but when disturbed it solidifies. A non-newtonian liquid. Like water mixed with cornstarch. It oozes slowly but seizes up when jostled. Rita makes a comment that she can't stand the smell, "it must taste pretty bad too. Don't know why any monsters would be getting so close to it." Juno unscrews the jar and sticks his finger in it. Rita watches horrified from her computer at their office as Juno proceeds to sniff the gunk (bad idea), and lick it (super disgusting idea).

Juno finds that even though the gunk smells bad, it tastes... okay. Little bit of a burnt wood taste to it, but nothing awful. It's almost sweet. Kind of savory. He goes around asking other hunters at the HMHA to try it and many refuse. The ones that do all come to the same conclusion as him: a little burnt, kind of sweet and savory.

One Hunter boldly takes the jar from Juno and spills it out over a table. Nothing happens at first as it slowly spreads out, but soon enough it's like the gunk has a mind of its own. It begins to almost crawl. It "oozes" across the table. Juno slams the jar back over it, the other hunter tries to frantically scoop it back into one mass. They eventually get it in a cup and back into the glass jar. Rita is not impressed when she hears about their sheer stupidity.

Juno brings the jar home and shows it to Ben. This whole time Ben has been hearing about the ooze from Juno and listening to his calls with Rita, but hasn't actually seen it. He looks at it in the jar and takes a good whiff ("Juno what the hell... you licked this? Gross... will I lick it? Yeah sure- when I'm dead! Put that lid back on or so help me.") Ben asks Juno what happens when it's introduced to heat. He says he isn't sure but according to Rita,

"In theory, it should just solidify. Non-Newtonian fluids cannot withstand extreme heat. The liquidity part evaporates. Just leaving the solid-ity part."

"I'm impressed. You listened to her."

Juno frowns. "I always listen to Rita."

"That's not what I meant. I meant: you listened to her, and you even sound like her now."

"... haha, very funny Benten... do you want to help me find out what happens when you introduce this stuff to fire or not though?"

Ben and Juno are both extremely smart in their own ways. They are also both extremely dumb in the same way. Ben lights the stove, Juno holds the jar with a pair of tongs, and they watch with bated breath as the gunk tries to hop out of the jar as it gets hotter. Eventually it stops moving altogether. And sure enough, when Juno removes it from the stove and lets it cool, it's solid.

Ben asks Juno what he's going to do and Juno simply says he's going on a Hunt.

"You can't be serious? Juno- this is dangerous. You're going to literally be playing with fire."

"I can handle it."

"Juno- I'm serious. Take this seriously."

"I am."

"Then you'll listen to me when I say, it'll make me feel a whole lot better if you take someone with you."

"You know that's not how this works Benten-"

"A Kanagawa hunter would be more than willing to work with you. Hell- what's her name Big Eyes would probably kill to work with you again."

"BENZAITEN! Enough! This is my job alright? I don't tell you how your recitals should be going or what stretches you need to be doing! You don't get to boss me around about how my Hunts go. End of discussion."

"Juno-"

"No. We're done. I'm going to bed, and tomorrow, I'm going on my hunt."

Juno goes to bed without saying goodnight. He wakes up and leaves for the office without eating or saying good morning. Ben calls but he doesn't answer. He calls Rita and Rita relays the message "just tell him I'll be waiting at home and- good luck."

Juno takes with him his pistol, shotgun, a flask of vodka, canisters of gasoline, a box of matches (Ben's brand), and an empty glass milk jar. He drives out to the valleys between HC and the CP to the largest black pool and starts pouring gasoline into and around it. He brought five of them with him. Rita said that his plan was dangerous. ("maybe we can get a hold of Ms. Cassandra and find out if-" "I'm not bringing Cass into this. This is my hunt. I'm doing it my way.") She made him agree that if she didnt hear back from Juno in an hour, she would call Juno, and if he failed to pick up she'd ask for assistance ("I ain't takin no as an answer Mista Steel." "You and Benzaiten worry too much." "Sorry Boss, but you're important to us.")

Juno stands back as he strikes a match and tosses it into the gas. He watches the pool erupt in flame. The ground trembles underneath him. Juno falls backwards. Something rises out of the pool... a monster.

Covered in black gunk, reeking of burnt tar, a monster on fire towers over him. She hisses and squeals. She would be beautiful if half her face wasn't torn off and the other half on fire. Black tentacles rise with her. She has a maw full of razor sharp teeth that go around and around in rings. In that moment, Juno knew he was fucked and would likely die. But if theres one thing being a Steel had prepared him for, its to not go down without a fight.

Juno brings around his shotgun and fires. He lands two bullets that lodge themselves in the monster. She hisses and growls, lunging at him. Her hands are sharp talons. They dig into his shoulders and drag him through the ground. Forgotten is the flask and jar. She rises again towering over him. He takes aim and fires another shot that embeds itself in her shoulder. She howls, a tentacle comes slicing through the air. He rolls out of the way in time and continues rolling as more trail after him.

He remembers the flask when it falls out of his coat. He takes hold of it and unscrews the cap, gulping a mouthful and holding it in his cheeks. With shaking hands he reaches for another match and lights it. He turns and spits the vodka into the flame, lighting a trail of flames that follows a tentacle of black tar. It spreads and the monster catches fire, screeching, leaving Juno time to unholster his pistol. He takes aim and fires off a few more rounds at her, slowly limping his way back where he dropped his shotgun and the milk jar. Finally, one of his bullets lands at her core. The monsters screeching turns to silent wailing.

Her size has shrunk as most of her body has caught fire, the rest is riddled with silver bullets. She clutches two appendages over her chest where the last bullet struck. Frantically trying to dig it out. She slowly tries to slip away as Juno grabs his jar and makes the dumbest decision he could've ever done: he runs towards her. He holsters his pistol, unscrews the jar and keeps the lid in one hand. The monster musters what remaining strength she has as both of the appendages over her chest shoot out. Two things happen at once:

One. Everything comes down to a singular point of pain. Juno feels it as his eye gets scooped out and he just about blacks out.

Two. He successfully scoops the monsters core inside the jar. The lid comes down on it, and monster screams as she shrinks to fit inside her small prison.

Juno has just enough strength left in him to screw the lid on. He blacks out shortly after.

(Ben calls Juno and then calls Rita when he can't reach him. He insist she call him right then and there because "something is wrong. I know it. Rita- listen to me. Call it' call it twin intuition, alright." Intrigued by this Rita calls Juno and when he doesn't answer her she calls in Cassandra.

Cass says she isn't in the mood to save Steel’s sorry ass. Ben takes Rita's comms from her to speak to Cass directly, "You owe me Kanagawa. I'm calling in your favor to me. And if you don't uphold our deal Cassandra, I will make your family's life hell." Rita has always liked Benten. That day she understood what Juno means by "Ben strikes the fear of Benzaiten into you".

Cass rides out to the valleys on her motorbike and finds a giant gaping hole in the ground. Beside it- Juno Steel. Cass turns him over carefully removing the milk jar. She sees his fucked up face and hauls him inside his truck. She tosses his shotgun in the backseat and straps the jar in next to her as she floors it back to Hyperion City. When Ben meets her at the hospital she apologizes and says she still owes Ben his favor, she shouldn't have brushed Rita off so quickly. All Ben does is tell her to leave. Rita promises to give her a call when Juno comes around.)

Juno wakes up in the hospital. He panics unable to see out of one eye. He tries to sit up and falls back groaning and grunting in pain. Something shifts next to him and he turns his head. It's Benzaiten. Bathed in golden light.

"Do you remember what Ma used to say, whenever she found us fighting? Fighting over the Andromeda costumes and Turbo toys?"

"Benten-" Juno wheezes and coughs. Ben turns and fills a glass with water. He carefully hands it over to Juno without a word.

"Ma used to say that we shouldn't fight. She didn't want us to fight because when it came down to it, there was only us in the world. She said- if we wanted to get flattened, we go and lie down in the road, but we aren't supposed to do that to each other." Ben smiles. At least Juno thinks he sees him smile. The sun glares behind him creating the perfect halo. An angel. Juno's angel.

"Ma said that when she was gone, we would have to rely on each other, and that meant we couldn't fight. We need someone else so that when we're not tough enough, they can be." He takes a shaking breath. Juno sips his water and parts his lips. Ben shakes his head and holds a hand up. "Save it, I'm not done.

"Ma said a lot of things before she died. She wanted nothing but the best for us Juno. She wanted us to look out for each other, wanted us to fight the big mean world together, and she wanted us to live. I know you never believed her. I know you don't believe her now- but she was ours. She was- Ma. And you're my brother. Ma is gone. Annie is gone. Oldtown is dying. Sasha left. Mick can hardly take care of himself. And you're all I have left Juno... I need you Juno. I need you to be alive for me because I can't be tough enough for this world. I want you alive... why can't you want that for yourself."

Benzaiten stands from the chair he's in and walks around Junos hospital bed. In proper light Juno can see the bags under his eyes and the tears streaking down his cheeks. He takes the glass from Juno's shaking hands and sets it aside. He pulls Juno against him and half folds his body over, half shields his twin.

The same mouth. Same hands. Juno broke his nose when they were still kids. Ben broke his ankle a year ago. Their noses are different. The way they walk has changed. But the one thing that no one could take away was their matching gaze. Their matching eyes.

(Ben leaves the hospital to visit Rita. She welcomed him inside her home without a second thought. She opens a window and sits down at her breakfast table while Ben takes a cigarette from his pocket and lights it. He takes a long draw and holds the smoke in his lungs for a long moment. He exhales slowly. His tears have long since dried. He thought he cried himself out at Ma's funeral. He was wrong.)

Juno goes back out to the site in the valleys a few weeks later with Cass. She took the jar and kept it to herself. When she saw Juno in the hospital she asked about it. He just said to turn it over to Rita and she'd take care of it from there (to this day Rita still has it in her personal office at home. The monster watches her work. She finds it easier to work when she has something to explain her thought process to and the monster is frequently subjected to that. When she's not home Rita keeps it locked up inside a safe next to emergency bac up shrimp crunchies.)

Cass and Juno explore the gaping hole together. (Cass pulled her weight as a Kanagawa and had the site quarantined off from other hunters and the public). They find a whole underground network of chambers and lab equipment. Journals and notes. Juno flips through a few pages and together this is what they piece together:

Doctor Miasma was a human doctor. She learned about fae medicine and was desperate to get her hands on it by any means possible. In order to get any though she needed to cross over. So. She did. She forcibly opened her own portals and exchanged parts of herself, constantly replacing whatever she lost. Her arms, her legs, half her face. Eventually she gave up the last thing she had to offer: her humanity.

Miasma awoke a monster in the fae wilds. She used intimidation to force them to open a portal for her to cross back home. She created her underground lab and stocked it with soup. She ran experiments on herself. With practice she honed her hunting skills and had her first taste of fae blood.

Shortly thereafter Miasma lost more than her body and humanity. She lost her memories. She lost her name. She forgot her title, forgot her research, and simply became a monster that consumed.

Some part of her must have remembered something though. She broke cars and stole parts from them trying to build a machine to harness magic and open portals. Even after giving up everything, Miasma was still trying to get back to the fae realm

Cass finds the rotting corpses of dead monsters. Their blood not yet drained.

Juno's seen enough and with Cass' help climbs out of the hole.

"Cass- you write the report."

"Huh? Why? This was your Hunt. I don't need the credit or the money."

"And I don't want the attention it's going to bring. Write it. If you have questions call Rita."

(Cass swears this will be the last nice thing she does for Juno. She writes the report and hands it over to the HMHA. The senior hunters of the association are confused why she's handing in the paperwork. She shrugs and tells them "Steel doesn't want to handle the guts." The Kanagawas come in and clean everything out. Cecil does a live stream special walking through "the lab of a monster". Juno reads the newspaper in the kitchen while Ben makes them breakfast. Life carries on.)

[j0them0971]

Lil guy. He's just a thirsty danger noodle. He's such a little man.

[sakuraszn]

﹒♡ CURRENT BOYFRIEND CHALLENGE

ft. katsuki bakugo

“Hey, can I record something real quick?”

Bakugo’s sprawled on the couch, hair still damp from his shower, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, and a spoon halfway to his mouth. He eyes you suspiciously over his bowl of spicy noodles.

“Tch. The hell are you planning?”

“Nothing bad,” you say, sliding into the seat beside him with your phone already recording. “Just a little TikTok thing. You don’t have to do anything. Just… exist.”

He grunts. That’s as close to “fine” as you’ll get from him.

You point the camera at yourself, making sure he’s in frame behind you. “Okay,” you begin sweetly, “so I’m here with my current boyfriend…”

Bakugo pauses mid-bite.

His head slowly turns. “…Your what?”

You bite your lip, fighting a smile, still filming. “My current boyfriend.”

The look on his face and the meanest side eye says you have three seconds to explain before I level this apartment.

He sets the bowl down without breaking eye contact. “Current?”

“Mhm,” you say, leaning into the act. “You know, just until I find someone better.”

You don’t even get a full breath in before he’s on you — not aggressively, but fast, almost knocking the wind out of you. He grabs your phone and points the camera straight at himself.

“The fuck does that mean, current?” he growls, eyes sharp but his voice low. “There ain’t gonna be a next boyfriend. You think this is some temp job or somethin’? You think someone else can handle you like I can?”

You snort-laugh, but your face is heating up.

“Aww katsu’ You’re cute when you’re possessive.”

“I’m always possessive,” he snaps, tossing your phone gently onto the couch and crowding you until your back hits the cushions. “Say that ‘current’ shit again. Go on.”

You lift your chin, pretending to stay cocky. “My current boyfriend—”

He kisses you. Hard. One hand gripping your waist, the other braced by your head. When he pulls back, your brain is static and your lips are tingling.

“Say it again,” he says against your mouth, voice husky. “I dare you.”

You blink up at him, dazed. “I… might need to start calling you my forever boyfriend.”

A smug, dangerous smirk stretches across his face. “Damn right you do.”

He kisses you again, slower this time. Hungrier.

Somewhere, your phone keeps recording.

2025 © SAKURASZN !

[ponderingmoonlight]

(y/n) gifting Geto sweets against the bad taste of curses

Pairing: Geto x reader

Word Count: 1,1k

Synopsis: Being used to the fact that nobody seems to care about how awful curses taste, Suguru Geto is absolutely blown away when you start noticing and bringing him candy after each and every mission.

Warnings: (y/n) has a really bubbly personality in this, pure fluff and no Geto going berserk

Thank you anon for your cute request 🤍

„Oh, there you are! I searched everywhere for you!”, you shout cheerfully, your steps hollering down the dark alley.

Suguru would recognize that oh so sweet voice out of a million, his heartbeat picking up in an instant. It’s you. You’re really here.

“What are you doing here, (y/n)?”, he questions softly.

“Well, I don’t know. I had to steal myself away since Yaga-sensei strictly forbid me to run after you again while you’re on a mission. He said something about getting hurt or killed…But that doesn’t stop me! I brought you something salty to eat!”, you announce proudly, stretching out your hand with a little package inside it.

“Did you really come all the way here just to give me that? You don’t have to gift me something to eat. And on top, you don’t need to get yourself in danger for something unimportant like that.”

“Oh, but it’s not unimportant! After all, swallowing those curses doesn’t taste good, right?”

His gaze meets yours. Suguru never talked with anyone about the breath-taking disgusting taste these things left in his mouth for hours, how it takes all his strength to not throw them back up in an instant. After all, no one ever asked him about this. It seems like it has always been enough that he was able to absorb them for everyone else.

“Why would you think that?”

But how…how on earth do you know? Even though Suguru talks with you a lot about everything and everyone, he never talked about this with you. Hell, not even with Satoru.

“That face you make afterwards, scrunching your eyes just the tiniest bit while pressing your lips together. And I mean, what would curses taste like? Certainly not like sugar and candy, right? And I guess it’s like garlic: you’ll have the taste in your mouth for hours! But at least garlic tastes good when used right. Man, I really want some garlic noodles right now… Are you in the mood to grab something to eat? I know you’re quite busy, but-”

Suguru can’t help but stare at you, the foul taste left on his tongue pushed into the background. You with your bubbly personality made of pure gold. You, who came all the way here just to give him something to eat. You, the only person walking on this earth who ever took the time to think about how it must feel to swallow a curse.

Just you.

“It’s like eating a vomit-soaked rag. That’s what they taste like.”

Your doe eyes dart towards him, reflecting nothing but compassion. Before he is able to think straight you’re standing right in front of him, hand pressing the little package into his much larger one.

“No one should have to taste something like this on a regular basis. But maybe…Oh, I have an idea! Let’s make a pact.”

“A pact?”, he repeats in disbelief.

What are you up to? And why is your smile suddenly as bright as the sun?

“A pact! I promise to always have something to eat for you when you tell me about your missions in exchange!”, you announce proudly.

“This doesn’t seem fair to me at all. You don’t have to follow after me just to give me something nice to eat.”

It seems so crazy, almost unbelievable to him that another human being would be willing to sacrifice its precious time for him. Don’t you understand that this promise would mean traveling after him every day and night multiple times? Don’t you understand that you are too good for that? Especially you, the ray of sunshine at Jujutsu High. You, the girl everyone talks about, the girl that even Nanami secretly adores. Why would someone like you take special care of him?

“What isn’t fair is that you have to go through something like this every single time. I really admire you, Suguru. Just the smell of something disgusting makes me gag. Just thinking about eating something that tastes so horrible multiple times a day…You really are a hero! And every hero deserves some sweets! Oh wait…Are you actually into sweets? I can bring you something salty as well.”

“Satoru prefers sweets-“

“But I’m not asking about Satoru”, you interrupt him immediately.

“I’m asking about you.”

He isn’t able to respond. No, Suguru is absolutely captivated by your kind smile and the way you still hold onto his hand, the package in his palm feeling sweaty just by one look into your innocent eyes.

You…you really noticed. And not only that, you really do care about him.

“Go ahead, take a bite! I wonder what you think. I was never really a fan of salty snacks, but these ones are really good”, you explain all too excited.

Hesitantly, he rips open the package and allows himself to get a taste. Oh, this feels like heaven on earth, the saltiness of what seems like crackers hunting away the stinging taste of vomit in his mouth. But what intrigues him the most is you. How you stand in front of him, swaying back and forth in excitement while your eyes follow every move of his mouth, literally glowing in joy.

“These are really good”, he finally confesses.

“Thank you, (y/n). Now everything just tastes good.”

And so it did every following mission. Instead of feeling disgusted by only the sight of a curse, Suguru somehow feel…excitement. Excitement because swallowing a curse means meeting you afterwards. Excitement because he’ll get to taste a new sort of candy or sweets almost every single day. Excitement because slowly but surely, he fell head over heels for your striking sight.

“Those are a speciality around here! I heard some of the others talk about that shop yesterday and thought you might want to try it as well.”

The candy melts on his tongue right away, making him wonder what you taste like while your pretty mouth happily keeps on telling him everything about that shop. It is so easy to get lost in your sight, lost in your talking, last in your personality.

��(y/n).”

He takes a step forward, putting the other piece of candy you handed him over in his pocket. Your eyes widen in the most delicate way, cheeks turning rosy just by one glimpse into the chocolate brown ocean of his eyes.

You always loved the taste of sweets on your tongue, how your nerves began to tingle just the slightest bit. But in this moment, you realized that tasting Suguru Geto was way better than that. He wraps his arms around you gently, pressing his lips against yours ever so slightly. You feel like fainting, flying, giggling. What a precious man he is, how long you imagined how it must feel to kiss your secret crush. But oh, the reality is so much better.

“I love you more than any candy on this planet.”

Tags:  @arehzhera @ploylulla @tzubaki @beatrexworld @kenstarsworld @dazaisdick @hellkaiserinphoenix  @lauv4chuuya @shadowfoxey @starlightanyaaa @sindela @kayleegomez @sunshine7queen @magalimachete @mokoartpost @gatitam @idontknow1123 @creative1writings @sanicsmut  @mynahx3 @sad-darksoul @chilichopsticks @hellkaiserinphoenix @chuyasthighs0 @ynackerman9499 @keepghostly @wxwieeee @lovelyluna1 @froufrousnowman @hidazinie @tomiokathedepresso  @gojosrealwife  @coffeeluvr96 @mahi-tamashi @weebotaku21 @chaoticwinnercupcake @lees-chaotic-brain  @risuola  @sugurulefttesticle @wordskeeper @baku2345 @polarbvnny @ruixrei @bam-bam-bam-bame-blog @lavenderdrxp @localhehecat @alicerhr @kayleegomez @itsmonicabc

[achromatophoric]

Bianca: *stares across the Quad in shock* Holy Hell. They’re actually cuddling in public.

Yoko: Yup.

Bianca: *turns to Yoko, incredulous* How?

Yoko: Enid got the bright idea to ask Addams if she’d be interested in simulating the experience of being slowly constricted to death by a giant snake.

Bianca: In those exact words?

Yoko: She actually said ginormous danger noodle, but Addams figured it out.

Bianca: Huh. Good on Enid, I guess.

Yoko: *proud nod* That’s my girl.

Bianca: *looks back over at the roommates*

Wednesday: Harder. And more hissing.

Enid: You got it, bessssstie~

Enid: *cuddling and hissing intensifies* 💕

Bianca/Yoko: 🙄😎

[huntingcupid]

PAPARAZZI WITH LARA RAJ

I'm your biggest fan, I'll follow you until you love me papa-paparazzi baby, there's no other superstar, you know that I'll be your papa-paparazzi

⌗ LARA — fem!reader, smut, dark, swearing, stalking, mentions of murder, possessive and jealous behavior, oral, somno, dub - con, etc...

⌗ CUPID — life is hell lately but stalker!lara :3

are you aware? — are you sure?, that very question that your friend asked you sent chills down your spine, you had previously told her that you had this feeling of someone watching you, following you even — it wasn't uncommon for teenagers to scare each other but you have had this feeling for a good month

every alley and street you pass you hear twigs or dry leaves crunching behind you, even steady footsteps but when you turn to look, no one is there, it didn't help that you got home from your part time job at 10 pm, cold gust of wind hits your face almost like its warning you

every turn, every move you made it was just a step closer to her, a second faster, you were practically giving yourself up, or at least thats what lara believed — i mean could you blame the woman?

who wouldn't fall for you, she was a frequent in the library you worked in, often times staying just to see you work, sparking up small talk, sometimes about your work or books you love — slowly lara found out every small detail about you

down to your schedule and friends, that's why she became paranoid when she saw you hanging out with megan, your co worker, her nails digged into the spine of the book she held as she watched you giggle with the woman

you look across the place feeling a pair of eyes on you, you see lara and she instantly smiled warmly at you, waving her hands, you wave back, confused yet didn't question anything

“yeah, uh megan when's your out?” you ask the girl, “oh my shift ends in like 20 minutes” megan replies — “awh, mine is at 45 more minutes, well you should get going then” you mutter, the girl nods walking back to her desk and cleaning up

you take a cart and put back some borrowed books, searching for their proper places when suddenly lara pops up beside you, “hey, can you help me get that book” lara says pointing to a book at the very bottom of the shelf, you bend down reaching for the book, when you hear a shutter of a camera, you turn quickly only to see lara hiding something behind her back

“uhm, here's your book” you mutter awkwardly, lara takes the book with a small grin on her face her hands brushing against yours, the rest of the library had already cleared except her, lara, the clock was ticking closer and closer to 10, lara had finally left, you start locking the doors and closing the lights and finally walking out

the night was cold, quiet and eerie, you heard faint rustling behind you but chose to ignore it, plugging in your earphones to listen to a podcast as you walked home

you take your usual turns and seemed peaceful, lara took note, she covered her whole upper body with her jacket, her face almost unrecognizable besides her eyes — she walked quietly behind you, making sure to not startle you like she did last time

she tsked as you barely looked around you, what if danger was following you? huh? — well at least lara was, she just wanted what's best for you and maybe that's her being a stalker and creeping around

you eventually made it home, removing your jacket and boots as you stepped inside your home-y apartment, its not much obviously since you barely fit all your things in the place but its better than what you had at home with your parents — lara follows suit entering barely making a noise and quickly rushing to your room, already knowing the place like the back of her hand, she hid in the closet waiting for the perfect moment

she knew your routine anyways, 1st you'd cook yourself noodles mainly instant ones with a hard boiled egg as a side, 2nd you'll take a shower — and forget to do your skincare but eventually remember, and finally get in bed and scroll till you fall asleep

with the first and second one being done all was left was for lara to wait until your eyes eventually gave in to slumber, you had an odd sense of fear as you scroll, hiding almost your whole body in your blanket even though it was barely that cold, lara noticed how couldn't she

maybe an hour later you finally fell asleep your phone still playing the video you last watched on a loop, carefully lara left the hiding spot, gazing at you as the moon cast a glow on you, god your beautiful, lara trailed her hand over your cheeks as she sat beside you, she watches as your skin warms her hands

“my pretty girl” lara murmurs, kissing the top of your head, she slowly peels off your blanket, smiling as she sees your matching pj set, the shorts barely did anything to conceal your ass which was a big win for lara, she pulls down the shorts marveling at your clothed cunt

“fuck i bet you wanted this hmm?, forgetting to lock your doors just so I can come in, right baby?” lara taunts your sleeping form, her fingers makes contact with your cunt, providing slight pleasure as she circles it, the barrier of your underwear the only thing stopping her from stuffing you full

you squirm in your bed, moving which alarms lara — “don't wake up yet” she whispers almost like you could listen, laras lips go to your neck kissing softly and nibbling on the warm skin, you whimper in your sleep, lara then pulls down your underwear finally getting to see your cunt

she uses her middle finger to spread your folds, your slick making it glisten under the moonlight — she pushes in her finger, then another scissoring it open, you moan and thrash your legs, lara held your thighs open, before lowering her mouth onto your clit sucking softly

“mhm perfect” lara hums as she sucks and fingers you at the same time, you eventually wake up feeling a tight knot in your stomach

you should've felt scared, you should've stopped her — yet you didn't, it felt too good, you wanted it but you couldn't just admit that

“l-lara stop” you whimper finally seeing the desi girls face, you weren't creeped out but you actually expected it, the girl was such a pervert and painfully obvious with her attraction to you, you moaned and bit your lip as your hands flew to her hair pushing her deeper

“if you want me to stop, why aren't you letting go?” lara husks probing her tongue in you, snapping that coil in your tummy, you cum onto her tongue, legs shaking and chest heaving

“fuck” you whimper out, lara only giggles lightly kissing the top of your head as she grabs a few tissues from your beside table and wiping you clean, “good girl, see you soon baby” she mutters before leaving she shuts the door close locking it

you breathe deeply, trying to understand whatever fucking happened, well till your phone dings with a notification

[lara 💚]: lock your doors baby, i don't want other people getting in when your sleeping

[lara 💚]: same time tomorrow?

you felt disgusted, disgusted that you wanted more despite how wrong it was

[you]: sure, next time inform me when your gonna trespass

[lara 💚]: I like it when you're sleeping, you're louder and cuter

wc: 1.2k words

thank you to my bby @danvazini for the idea (aka feeding into my delusions)

[valentinedrifter]

Snippets with Ningning: Pink

Ningning x Eunha

~2.8k words

A/N: Prompt by @woollypoison, Thanks for hosting, much love!

Enjoy.

Yizhuo doesn’t know why the fuck you’re dating that stupid bitch.

Like, seriously? Out of everyone, you’re in bed with her? The fucking pink-haired bitch with the most kissable Goddamn lips, thighs that could pass off as fucking earmuffs, and tits she could just squeeze like lemo-

Okay, so maybe she sees what you see in the bitch, but that doesn’t mean she has to like it. And what the hell does the slut have that she doesn’t?

She’s got a pretty good pair of lips that she knows could take your soul away if she ever got the chance to go down on you—nine out of ten recommended—and while her tits aren’t as big as the bitch has it, Yizhuo still has quite the set that can most definitely wow you when you get a hold of them. Oh, and her ass, her fucking ass can honest to God choke you out if she ever decides to sit on your face.

Shit, she had pink hair too for like, two months, so why didn’t you try anything with her? 

If she tried hard enough, she can be the cover girl for some fashion brand out there. She has class. Standards. Self-respect, dignity if she wants to push it, not like the bitch that everyone wants to bend over their desk.

Yizhuo’s smarter than the stupid idiot that can’t even do inferential statistics to save her life. She gets As on average, and she can talk your ass off about anything that wasn’t just about getting fucked on the daily.

She helped you understand what derivatives and limits are for calculus. And where was Barbie from Temu? Getting railed in the clinic, that’s where the hell she was.

Like, damn, she can cook real food. Not the instant noodle bullshit at the local convenience store or the quick sandwich that doesn’t even count. Yizhuo can cook the good shit. Hot pots, grilled pork, she can make salmon if you were into that. Food that’s made with love. Food you damn well deserve.

So what in the fuck is she missing?

Did she need to go back to dying her hair pink just so you can notice her? Did you like bigger tits? A fatter ass? Did Yizhuo need to make you lunch every damn day?

Was it because the free prostitute won the genetic lottery, because damn if the slut didn’t need makeup to look that fucking hot. 

It was bullshit. She should be the one bragging all over campus, not the dumb bitch that stole you under her nose. Stupid whore doesn’t even treat you right, because if that wasn’t enough, she’s also a toxic piece of shit.

Yizhuo knows the rumors. About how the slut sleeps with practically everyone, from the math nerd, the volleyball star, the history professor, the fucking janitor. The campus mascot even got lucky, while wearing the fucking suit. She doesn’t know how the logistics of that would even work.

Yizhuo heard from Lia that a teacher caught Pinky and the Dean with the door open. Not closed, not locked. Open. Judging from the fact that nothing happened, she probably slept with the teacher too.

There’s even that one time where the dumbass set off the fire alarm in the middle of a quickie. How the hell does that even happen?

Speaking of alarms, Pinky’s a walking red flag, a red alert, a tactical nuke type of danger that screams typhoon siren sounds out of her ass, and she wears it like a medal. Why she’s proud of it, Yizhuo will never know. She gives props for confidence though.

And don’t even get Yizhuo started on all the exes that the bitch got bored of, or cheated on, or destroyed a perfectly happy relationship for a quick fling. Bitch is playing eenie-meenie-miney-mo at this point with how high her body count is. She’s a certified cum dumpster that’s free Twenty-Four-Seven.

She’s surprised that the slut hasn’t gotten a disease from the amount of people that’s gotten in and out of her. 

You know all about it when she asked—totally not because she isn’t curious as to why you would try and date the walking condom—and all you had to say was-

“I don’t think she did all that.”

What the hell do you mean you don’t believe them, Yizhuo thinks, because everyone and their mother knows about what the hell the tramp’s done. Shit, the motherfucker has most likely fucked a mother too, if the rumor about her and the librarian was true; It probably is.

Was that it? Were you into bad bitches? Did you have that ‘I can fix her’ kink that always went wrong because this isn’t some movie that gives you those silly happy endings. 

Then again, you were optimistic like that. So innocent, so sweet, Yizhuo could just pinch your cheeks because of how cute you are-

Hold on, does she need to do that too? Start wearing tight tops, start fucking everyone she sees in a five meter radius, holy fuck does she need to fuck the janitor? 

She sure as shit wasn’t petty about it. Nope. Nada. No ma’am. She just doesn’t understand why you would look at someone like Pinky and not like her. 

She’s been with you throughout everything, the highs and the lows, the in-betweens, the break ups—which, your relationship with that bitch will definitely end up on—yet, you don’t even see Yizhuo as something more.

She’s trying to be supportive about it like she always did, but that whore is really making it hard for her to root for the both of you. But as your best friend, your confidant, she would endure.

But if she sees you with that bitch one more damn time, she’s getting a flamer somewhere—she’ll make one herself if she has too—and turn this campus into a fire hazard.

Truth be told, it needs the cleansing after everything the human fleshlight has done on every surface imaginable. Desks, doors, public benches. She probably needs to burn the statue in the middle of the main hall too.

Okay, so maybe Yizhuo’s going off the deep end, but she swears that this is an extremely reasonable crashout, cause at this point, the campus wants to be burned. After everything its witnessed, she can consider it consensual arson, and she’s just there to get it started. 

It would be so easy too. That Gauel chick from chemistry made some sort of homemade project last year, and she could probably make a copy-

“Hey!”

The shout made her snap her head so fast she got whiplash. Her mind’s still mentally noting all the things she needs before it registers who called her.

You. Standing there, all cute, that cheeky smile filling your face that makes her want to squeeze your face out because of how adorable you are. 

Yizhuo has to dig her nails into her notebook to stop herself from just grabbing you and shoving her tongue down your throat.

And you don’t even know that you’re using that smile as a weapon because damn does that make her filthiest fantasies overwrite everything that she was thinking of from the last ten minutes. Shit, that smile’s enough to get her in the mood when her thighs unconsciously press together.

It would be so damn easy to just, like, take you right here, in the library where anyone can hear and everyone can look. Yizhuo sees the vision forming inside of her mind. 

The way you’d wrap your lips around her pretty little fingers, throating two, no, three of them down and you’d fucking take it like the throat GOAT she imagines you are.

Then she would fuck your mouth with them while you’re on your knees, and you’d have your hands on her thighs, tears and spit spilling down your chest, messing up that snug little t-shirt you’re wearing.

God, Yizhou would suck the life out of you. First with your mouth after it's been thoroughly used by her fingers. She’d explore every single inch of that mouth, and she’d get sloppy with it too. Nip at your plump fucking lips, lick the spit that’s dripping down your chin. 

She’s getting wet at the thought of you moaning out her name.

She’d bend you over the table and spank that absolute dump truck of an ass you’ve got. Yizhuo wonders how much that juicy flesh would ripple every time she’d give each cheek a hard slap. 

She would even get a handful of it, and she’d burn the feeling of that big, fat ass into her memory if she could.

She’d yank those jeans down your legs, give you another hard slap on that bare ass, and she’d go to town on you. But she’d go slow. Use her hands to get you all worked up, make you beg for her to use her pretty little mouth. And when she does, Yizhuo’s gonna savour the look on your face-

Wait. Since when did you have pink hair?

That threw her out of her daydreams, because last she checked, you had blonde hair. Now suddenly it’s this light pink that’s oddly similar to the slut you’re dating.

You’re still looking at her. Blinking, smiling, like you don’t have a fucking clue what was going on in Yizhuo’s mind, full of intrusive thoughts and debauchery all because of two completely different women.

“Eunha!” Yizhuo tucks a strand of hair back, giving you—her—a timid smile. “I…thought you had class.”

Jung Eunbi. Eunha, to those who know her. Yizhuo’s best friend. Also known as the love of her life.

“The prof got sick, so I got some time to kill.” Eunha plops down the chair in front and crosses her arms. “And you have been avoiding me.”

“No I haven’t.” Yizhuo lies, smooth as hell, cause she’s done this too many times in the past few weeks, fiddling with the pen on the desk that she was supposed to be using to write math equations. “Professor Roh’s been swarming us with work. I swear she’s at that time of the month.”

Eunha laughs, giving Yizhuo those tingles on her stomach that she seriously cannot be having right now. “Everyone’s swarming us with work. Even professor Myoui, and she barely gives anything out.”

For a while, it was normal again. Yizhuo and Eunha, messing around as always. No problems, no avoiding, no reminders of who Eunha was meeting at the end of the day.

Well, except for her pink hair which-

“When did you dye your hair?” Yizhuo pretends to be curious but she’s really just fishing cause she knows that Pinky’s involved in it somehow.

“Like a week ago.” Eunha’s twirling the ends of her curls, and fuck if Yizhuo really just wants to tell her that she really shouldn’t be doing that in front of her, because even though the color’s a stark reminder of the slut she’s dating, she looks even prettier with it.

And Yizhuo really shouldn’t be imagining the things that she wants to do to Eunha again.

“I would’ve asked my best friend,” Yizhuo can’t help but look to the side for that. “For help but she hasn’t been responding to my texts lately.”

“Your girlfriend might get angry.” That was the shittiest excuse she could’ve given, Yizhuo lets the stray thought cross through her mind, but she might as well commit to the bit. “I was trying to give you space.”

“She doesn’t care.” Eunha says, shaking her head, chuckling. “She knows that nothing’s going on between us. And she knows we’ve been friends for like, forever.”

It felt like Yizhuo got shot and left dead in a ditch somewhere when she heard those words. Nothing, Eunha says. Friends since forever, Eunha says. Yizhuo’s been trying to get something going but she keeps pussying out of it.

Her fault, really. She’s let so many chances slip by and now this happens. Eunha taken away from one of the worst people Yizhuo can imagine.

The bitch not caring really did sound like her, to be honest.

Yizhuo was about to say something along the lines of ‘Why she’s still with her’ again but she didn’t have to, because the stupid idiot decided to do it for her.

“Baby!”

And there she is. The Queen Bitch of the campus strutting into the library, dressed like a cheap whore. Boxy glasses that had no lens, ponytail held up to the side, the school girl outfit with the short skirt and the top that showed off how big her tits are. That same shade of pink coloring her hair, just a bit darker than Eunha’s.

Uchinaga motherfucking Aeri. Giselle, to those who know her. And everyone fucking knows her.

“Gigi!” Eunha stands up, giving Aeri—Yizhuo is not going to call her Giselle for fuck’s sake—a hug.

Aeri wraps an arm around Eunha’s waist like it was supposed to be there, like she’s done it so many times. And she has. Just not with Eunha.

Yizhuo did not feel her eye twitch. 

Not at goddamn all.

“Miss me already babe?” Aeri leaves a kiss on Eunha’s temple, and Yizhuo really hates how it’s making Eunha blush.

“Just a little bit.” Eunha lets out this shy giggle that makes Yizhuo want to bang her head on the desk. “I-uhm, I dyed my hair pink.”

“Looking like a snack.” Aeri pulls back, enough to get a good look at Eunha, who’s looking down on the ground, cheeks becoming rosy. “Pink suits you.”

Yizhuo’s resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

“I wanted to try something new.” Eunha replies, glancing up to Aeri, quick, hidden. That one little gesture was enough for Yizhuo to realize why Eunha dyed it.

She looks away, her own cheeks reddening from anger, shame, insanity. Were they seriously flirting in front of her? It’s like she wasn’t even there, and the fact that she feels replaced by Aeri is like a punch to the damn gut.

What she wouldn’t do to be in that bitch’s place.

And suddenly Yizhuo hears alarm bells go off.

At first, it was a glance. Aeri’s eyes move away from Eunha to her, then her entire head turns, and she hears those sirens go off louder in her head.

Because now Aeri’s eyeing her up like a snack, licking her lips, eyeing her from head to toe. It is seriously making her feel unsafe in the quiet working environment she calls her second home.

She is not thinking what Yizhuo thinks she’s doing right now. Hell no. She’s seeing things.

Aeri’s gaze stays on her, tilting her head, bedroom eyes landing on her chest. Yizhuo should’ve worn a jacket.

Please, do not let her be serious, Yizhuo is hoping, praying that any deity out there can answer her. She knows it’s useless, but it’s worth a try anyways.

“Hey, Yizhuo.” Aeri starts, lips tugging upwards, slow, predatory, unsafe. “Can I call you Ningning? Eunha always calls you that.”

No. “Sure, I guess.” Yizhuo knew that was a mistake pretending to be friends with this bitch because Aeri’s smile got wider. 

She sees Eunha smile too, leading her and Aeri to sit down on the table, completely oblivious to the fact that her best friend is being eye fucked by her girlfriend. “Found Ningning here studying for Professor Roh’s exam and figured we could catch up.”

“Is she now?” Aeri drawls, hand on her chin, still giving Yizhuo that fucking look. 

“Lots of things to do, you know.” Yizhuo replies, looking down at her notebook, really hoping that Aeri can fuck off. Her prayers were…not answered.

“You think she’d be down to help tutor us?” Aeri asks her girlfriend—that’s so gross to think about—but her eyes are staying with Yizhuo.

Oh fuck no, is what Yizhuo would love to answer, but Eunha, sweet, innocent Eunha, makes that response impossible. 

“That’s a great idea!” Eunha beams and nods at her, excited at the prospect.

“I know, right?” Aeri grins. “I think it’ll be very educational.”

No it will not, Yizhuo thinks, but the words don’t come out. What does come out makes her want to throw herself out the window because she’s a sucker for making Eunha happy. The pout Eunha’s sending her way is killing Yizhuo inside too.

“I think I’m free on the weekends to help you guys out.”

Eunha starts going off about where they’re all going to meet up, what food they should get before studying, after studying. Yizhuo’s stomach is doing backflips at how adorable she is.

And Aeri? She’s smiling, joking, playing along, all while looking at her with this dangerous glint in her eyes. Yizhuo’s stomach wants to throw up at the idea of what Aeri actually wants to do during that day.

Yizhuo feels like she just got locked into a route inside of a dating sim. And she did not like where it was going.

Yizhuo also needs a shower. A long, cold, soapy shower.

And a very lengthy, in-depth discussion with Gaeul about fire.

[circeyoru]

Unwanted Soul = Requested

[Yandere!Alastor x Owner of his Soul!Reader]

The Request

Part 1 (here) — Part 2 — Part 2.5 (ask) — Part 3  — Part 4 — Part 5 — Part 6 — Part 7 — Part 8 — Part 9 — Part 10 (END)

You weren’t a powerful Overlord nor were you the weaker ones to have their souls owned by other demons to survive in this hellhole. You’re merely capable enough to get by your everyday life. Like always, you’d stay clear from any of ongoing battles or powerful demons that were out and about. Your keen 6th sense to pinpoint potential dangers was always your go-to during your outings

You kind of treated Hell as your paradise to shut-in in your room and read all the comics you want plus watch all the TV shows you want. You were one of the rare demons that get connection to the Earth realm where you can enjoy the guilty pleasures you spend your days doing. Of course, your death was a suicide as you saw no life ahead of you

But you really really should have stayed in that day. It started out as any other day in Hell and you were on your way to the usual supermarkets for the junk food and drink you love. Normally, it was uneventful, until you caught sight of a dying demon, no, ‘wounded’ would be the right word since demons would only demon by angelic blades, even you knew that. Still, the demon was heavily wounded

It must have been a good few minutes since you caught weaker demons attempting to take advantage of the weakened demon as easy prey. You immediately took out your notebook, scribbing a phase before tearing it out and blow on it lightly. The page turned to white sparkles before taking shape of a row of angelic spears around you, it launched at the weak demons before they could do anything to the wounded one

You took went to the wounded demon quickly as your spears faded to nothing after doing its damage. You held his limb hand and closed your eyes, visualizing your cozy apartment and the ground swallowed the two of you up. In the blink of an eye, you were back home, sighing in relief

Not even a moment, you were knocked to the ground and pinned down by your shoulders and thigh. You struggled a bit before you realized it was the wounded demon that was pinning you down with radio dials for eyes

Without thinking, you reached into your coat pocket and took out a piece of paper, slamming it onto his face and blew at it. The paper faded to nothing but sparks then the demon stilled before closing his eyes and slumping forward onto you. Unconscious. But you invited someone you shouldn’t have into your home

This had to be Alastor, the Radio Demon

You grimaced, eying Alastor on top of you sleeping like a harmless deer. You thought of throwing him back out into the streets, but you didn’t exactly have the heart to. You came to the conclusion of healing him as fast as you could then sending him on his merry way! Yes!

Noooo!!! Why is he still here!?!?!?!?!?!?!??????!!!!!

“My dear, you really should be taking more care of your diet. This is hardly filling or healthy for you.” Alastor eyed the cup noodle you were about to open up like you were holding trash “But it’s fast and gets my hunger sated.” You eyed back, “It’s not like I’m feeding you this. I cook for your meals anyways…” You continued roaming around the kitchen, rubbing a fork, and setting a timer for your food. Ignoring the closeness of Alastor. “As long as it doesn’t concern you, it’ll be fine. I’ll treat you better since you just healed up. These are my own indulgence.” “And I appreciate your hospitality, dear, truly, I do. The matter at hand is your consumption!” Alastor grabbed your precious cup noodle lunch away, “I shall take over your meals from now on.”

Yes, you have fully healed Alastor and he’s back to full health. No, you didn’t tell him to stay. In fact, the moment his wounds were all healed, you showed him the open door, waiting for him to leave. He didn’t exactly let you make him leave. He said he was staying to repay your kindness, but all he was doing was inserting him into your afterlife and really making it Hell

At first, he praised your unique power to summon anything you write with a gentle blow, especially the part where you put him to sleep the first time. Then he urged you to make a name for yourself, but you really just want to shut yourself in your room and indulge in your time-wasting hobby. You told him off and shut yourself in your room, but he would just appear through the shadows and apologise, saying he’d leave the matter

When that whole business was done, Alastor got worse. You’re positive some other demons would love to be treated this way, but you’re just weirded out. It started out small, Alastor making meals like he said, shifting your schedule to a healthier one. Then taking care of your needs whenever you are about to do something. Even as simple as getting a glass of water

Then it escalated to touches. A handholding here, maybe he’s lean into you while reading. Or he’ll lay next to you in your own bed. Shift closer to you while on the couch. Stare at you while you were busy reading manga or watching animes and shows. Plus you could feel him staring at you while you sleep from the shadows even though you told him not to

But the most unnerving thing was when you would go restock on your food and other supplies. Alastor being the gentleman would carry and pay for your stuff. That you’re used to and didn’t care since either way, you had your methods. It was what happens during the two of you walking

“Alastor…” You hugged your coat tighter as your lips pressed together tightly from the scene, your eyebrows furrowed from the tense situation you were in. You had just left the shop to get new books and volumes, only to be met with such a sight. “What…” “My darling, your timing is perfect.” Alastor threw away the torn body of what used to be a demon. The street was covered with a layer of thick red and black blood. Hellborns and sinners alike were all brutally ripped away by the fearsome Radio Demon. “These pest dares to look at you wrongly, surely they deserve a good, limb pulling.” He walked over to you with his ever-present smile, offering his clean hand. “Shall we head home, My Doe?” You feel yourself tense as you firmly told him, “Just because they stare at me a little long and spat out rude remarks, it’s not an excuse or reason to torture them like this. I’m… I don’t exactly mind unless they attack.” Alastor grabbed your hand and kissed it, “Dearie, why give them the chance to harm you when I can prevent it? You can name and point fingers, I’ll be your killer.”

Trapped was what you felt at home and anywhere, as long as Alastor was there, you didn’t like it. Those sweet romantic gestures and attention from him that you would only see in your books and shows left a bad taste in your mouth. 

At the 4th year, however, something changed. Alastor sold his soul to you as the ‘last’ act of pure devotion and loyalty to you. Since the contract was all by your rules, you made use of it

Limit Alastor’s powers because it scares you how much he could do and the destruction he could cause. Forbid him from devouring or owning souls because he does it so easily when he thinks you were wronged in any way. And most importantly, forbid him from disobeying your words, whatever they may be, that way, you can finally have peace

How Alastor was still able to be this unnerving, you didn’t know and you didn’t want to know. Somehow, the contract was something like a declaration that the two of you were romantically involved with ecah other? If it made sense. It didn’t, really

Alastor still stayed with you because he had told you a long time ago that his home was destroyed in a brutal battle, hence why you found him that battered. So you offered yours. You did manage to set some firmer ground rules with the contract’s help. Like no entering your room or throwing away your junk food

Though Alastor still plays a big part in your life just because. You had wanted a lover before, but Alastor had proven how bad a relationship could go, and you two didn’t even established anything! You love fiction, fiction is life or afterlife. You can just drown yourself in the world of fiction and never leave

That’s the basis of your power. It’s like summoning through writing and the faint blow from your lips. You have to be aware of the components though, the hardest to summon was definitely the angel spears. It was the day after extermination and a spear was stuck into a demon, you were curious and took it back with you. You studied it and tested it out, knowing its strength and limitations before actually attempting to summon it. Works well enough, since it was easy to study

In the blink of an eye, 7 years had already passed. While Alastor was out on buying new ingredients for your celebration dinner of surviving another extermination, you caught the Princess of Hell and her promotion on the ‘Happy Hotel’. A place that welcomes anyone, a place that gives anyone a chance. It sounds lovely, but you didn’t have the mentality and energy to help out

A foolproof plan came to mind. You could, no, should send Alastor there. He loves entertainment! He wouldn’t be bored there! The hotel is much bigger and there’s more people there for him to hang out with. Plus he would definitely get a room there since he’s going to be staying. Even when he disagrees, because you just know he would rather stay by your side, you can use the contract as a last resort

“My dear!” Alastor greeted the moment he came back from his little shopping. He gave you a peak on the crown of your head when he walked past you, then headed to the table to place the bags of items down. “Did you hear about that ridiculous plan the Princess told in the picture box? Hahaha! It’s sure to fail! No way in any universe would just a silly and childish thing happen! No, sir!” “I want to help her with it, it sounds like a good plan. It’s better than annual exterminations.” You spoke while coming over to check the things Alastor brought. “But you know I’m more of a home person and not the go-out and help-others type.” “Exactly, dearie, we need not care for such fantasy.” Alastor nodded along. “That’s why you’re going in my place.” You stated firmly without blinking or shifting in your spot, at the growing static, you looked up to see Alastor’s eyes turned to radio dial. Very rarely are those directed at you since he swore he’d never do you harm or wish you harm. “You’ll go and help the Princess to make it a success.” Alastor’s eyes shifted back to normal, narrowing as he asked, “Till how long, my dear?” You had to control yourself to hide a smile as you spoke, “For as long as it takes of course. You can’t rush redemption, right? And it’s the first of its kind too.” The static grew again, you knew Alastor was getting annoyed with such a wish (order) from you. “But this would take a long while. I’d be returning to check on you, yes?” “Oh, no. Can’t interrupt your work.” You said, carrying your pile of snacks to your little comfort corner and dropping it with huff, there was a skip in your step as you returned back to the table. “You can’t come back here nor see me when in the service of the Princess. Well, you can see me when I’m the one to approach you or call for you, that’s the only exception.” Alastor would have a frown on by now if it weren’t for his insistence on the power of smiles, “Who would take care of you? Who would watch over you? Who would tend to you? Who would protect you while I’m gone, sweetheart?” You laughed, “Don’t be so dramatic. I can handle myself. It’s just like before I met you,” You didn’t miss the radio crackling like it broke connection, “But this time, I have you as a backup should I need.”

Making Alastor leave you wouldn’t have been possible without the contract and the fact that his soul was yours to control. Very pushy but you had to do what you had to, it was all to regain that quiet and isolated shut-in life you love. Never have you missed the silence in your home and the void of a watchful gaze all around you

You squealed and smiled brightly, “Time to chill and laze around!”

Oh how the Radio Demon was fuming as he made his way to that ratchaed hotel. He shouldn’t have let you know of such a news. If that inferno picture box was broken, then you wouldn’t know. No, you have your phone, so that makes no difference. Maybe it was the fact that that cannibal chef was gone that Charlie had time to promote that idea of hers? 

This would be his first appearance since 7 years ago. He kept his presence gone from the public eye just to hide his connection and fancy towards you. If demons knew you had his soul, who knows what danger you’d be in? He can’t let that happen to you. No, you were the kind soul that saved him and gave him a place to belong. Truly belong

Never had he felt such a sense of comfort around someone so lazy and chill. The fact that you were average but powerful in your right that you humble yourself to blend in with others. To live your afterlife as you please and like without a care in the world. So long as your interest was sated

He just couldn’t help but want to be yours. You deserve it, after all

But now. Now he had to provide his attention and care to some princess’ dream! What joke is this?!

Were you sending him away because he wasn’t strong enough? You limited his powers to see if he could still be as strong as before. Was that the reason? What other demon held your attention? As far as he knew. You have no interest in forming connections. He was the first one you actually cared for and hosted your home for! You don’t even own other souls and you’re strong!

He was your only one. Only!

In front of the hotel, he knocked rhythmically, waiting patiently for the door to be opened and for him to introduce himself. He’ll show you. “Hel—” The door closed shut in his face before it opened again, “-lo!”

His ears twitched as he heard the ruckus inside. These souls don’t deserve your time and attention spent on them, he’ll deal with the problem like always and return to your side. He’ll show you just how powerful and cruel he is and can be

The door opened again and he introduced himself with his plan in mind. “Alastor! Pleasure to be meeting you, princess. Quite a pleasure!”

Note: I really really didn't mean to do this so long... I could have put it into 2 parts, but I was too lazy to. There was actually some more I wanna add, but then it will be a literal essay. Anyways~ How you like this one?

Circe Y.

Other Works: MASTERLIST

Taglist:

@aconfusedwonderland

@crowleysthings

@donustellaron

[777bae]

SPICY MACKLIN CELEBRINI

Summary :: A spicy noodle challenge goes horribly wrong when you and Macklin underestimate the heat. He laughs at your suffering—until karma quickly hits. Cue panicked water chugging, ice cube hoarding, and a fiery regret neither of you will forget.

Notes :: Came up with this idea after trying some spicy pot noodles with my friends and all of us literally DYING

Warnings :: reactions to extreme spice

Word count :: 1.2k

The moment you placed the ominous, bright red packet of Buldak noodles onto the kitchen counter, Macklin eyed it with the mix of amusement and apprehension usually reserved for people watching a horror movie, knowing something bad was about to happen but unable to look away.

“You sure you can handle this?” he asked, crossing his arms over his broad chest. His lips curled into a teasing smirk, his dark eyes filled with mischief.

“Oh, please,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes as you reached up to grab a pot from the cabinet. “It’s just noodles. How bad can it be?”

Macklin let out a skeptical hum, shaking his head. “I don’t know… I’ve seen some people lose their minds over this stuff.”

You shot him a look as you filled the pot with water and placed it on the stove. “I’m not ‘some people.’ I have a respectable spice tolerance, okay?”

Macklin didn’t even bother hiding his grin as he grabbed his phone, unlocking it with a quick swipe before positioning it against a stack of cookbooks on the table. “Yeah, yeah, sure. But if—and I mean when—you start crying, I wanna make sure we capture it in 4K.”

You glared at him playfully as he adjusted the angle, making sure the camera had both of you fully in frame.

“If we’re gonna do this, we might as well document it,” he said with a grin, pressing record.

The water in the pot reached a rolling boil, and you tore open the noodle packet, dumping the tightly wound coils into the bubbling water. As they softened and unraveled, you pulled out the sauce packet—thick, dark red, and positively menacing.

Macklin whistled low under his breath. “That looks like something a cartoon villain would drink for breakfast.”

You ignored him as you cut open the packet and squeezed every last drop into the pot, stirring the noodles until they were thoroughly coated in the fiery liquid. Almost immediately, the spicy fumes hit your nose, making your eyes sting slightly.

You blinked. “Okay, wow, this smells kinda… dangerous.”

Macklin leaned in for a whiff and recoiled so fast he nearly knocked over the phone. “That is not normal.”

“It’s fine,” you assured him, waving off his concern as you grabbed two bowls. “We got this.”

Famous last words.

Once the noodles were plated, you both took a seat at the table, chopsticks in hand, bowls still steaming like they had been cooked in the depths of hell. The little red light on the camera blinked steadily, recording every moment for posterity—and, more likely, for your eventual humiliation.

“Alright,” Macklin said, lifting his chopsticks and pointing them at you. “No wimping out. We eat at the same time.”

“Deal,” you agreed, mirroring his stance.

With synchronized determination, you both lifted a hefty bite to your mouths, the glossy red noodles glistening under the kitchen lights.

At first, it was fine. More than fine, actually.

The sauce was rich, packed with flavor—a little smoky, a little sweet, and pleasantly warm on your tongue. The noodles had a great texture, chewy and satisfying.

“Oh, this is actually really good,” you said, chewing happily.

Macklin nodded, swallowing his bite with ease. “Yeah, I don’t know why people freak out so much about—”

And then it hit.

It started as a slow burn, like a tiny ember sparking to life at the back of your throat. Then, within seconds, that ember grew into an uncontrollable wildfire, spreading rapidly across your tongue, up your sinuses, and down your throat.

Your breath caught instantly. Your eyes widened. Your lips tingled.

It was as if you had swallowed molten lava, and it was now making itself at home in every corner of your mouth.

Your fingers twitched.

Your whole body suddenly felt too warm.

You dropped your chopsticks onto the table with a clatter. “Oh my God.”

Across from you, Macklin let out a loud, exaggerated cackle, his whole face lighting up with amusement. “Oh, come on! No way! You’re already struggling?”

You frantically flapped your hands in front of your face, as if that would somehow cool down the inferno inside your mouth. Your tongue felt like it was pulsing. Was that normal? Probably not.

“This is—this is a mistake—” you wheezed.

Macklin leaned back in his chair, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “I knew it. I knew you wouldn’t be able to handle it. Look at you! You’re literally sweating.”

“I am not sweating,” you shot back, even though, yes, your forehead was beginning to glisten suspiciously. “It’s just—you wouldn’t understand, your taste buds are probably dead from all the disgusting hockey locker room food you eat.”

Macklin let out an obnoxiously loud, exaggerated laugh, the kind that made you want to reach across the table and shove his noodles straight into his smug mouth. “Excuses, excuses. Face it, babe, you’re weak.”

But then—mid-laugh—his face changed.

The amusement in his eyes flickered out like a candle in the wind. His expression twisted from smug satisfaction into pure, unfiltered panic.

Midway through inhaling, he suddenly jerked forward, his chest convulsing as his air supply betrayed him.

“Oh—oh no—”

You barely had time to register his distress before he made a strangled noise, his mouth falling open in sheer horror. His hands flew to his throat as if he were physically trying to claw the heat out of his body.

“IH-HOH MY GOD—”

You wheezed out a laugh, though it immediately turned into a violent cough as the spice continued to set your throat ablaze. Macklin, meanwhile, had fully lost control. He shoved his chair back so suddenly that it nearly toppled over, his hands flying to his temples as he began pacing around the kitchen like a man who had just seen his life flash before his eyes.

“WHAT IS THIS?!” he choked out, his voice an entire three octaves higher than normal.

You weakly slapped the table, struggling to breathe through the pain and laughter. “I—it’s—” You couldn’t even get words out.

Macklin stumbled towards the table edge like a man seeking salvation. “WATER.”

“WATER,” you echoed desperately.

At the exact same moment, you both lunged forward, snatching your glasses off the table and chugging the water down like it was the only thing keeping you from ascending into another plane of existence. The cold liquid hit your tongue, soothing it for one glorious second—

And then the fire came back angrier.

Macklin gasped so loudly you were pretty sure the neighbors would be concerned. “WHY IS IT GETTING WORSE?!”

“I—I think it’s—” You coughed, voice hoarse. “The water spreads the spice—”

Macklin looked at you with the purest expression of betrayal. “We’ve made a terrible mistake.”

Still gasping, you both staggered to the fridge, yanking it open like a pair of starving survivors raiding a supply drop. Macklin grabbed an ice cube tray and immediately shoved a cube into his mouth. You followed suit, sighing in relief as the cold numbed the burning.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then, Macklin started laughing—a deep, breathless, borderline unhinged kind of laugh.

“I can’t believe we did that,” he wheezed.

You let out a strangled chuckle. “We’re idiots.”

He nodded. “Biggest idiots.”

Your eyes flickered to the phone still recording on the table.

Macklin narrowed his eyes. “We are never showing this to anyone.”

You grinned. “Oh, I don’t know… your teammates might get a kick out of it.”

He pointed at you. “If this ends up in the group chat, I will get revenge.”

You simply smirked, already planning your next move.

But for now? You were just happy to be alive.

[unsteddie]

A little thing I was noodling earlier.

Steve becomes a cop because Hopper basically saw a lost party boy and made him a personal project. El was the chosen one of a cult they busted together and Hopper adopted her.

Steve leaves the force to become a PI because he can't stomach the system, he's so close to convincing Hopper to join him.

Remnants of the cult hire a gang to get her back. Eddie, a low level dealer for the gang, is their in after she's taken. It's a hard sell but between a kid being in danger and Steves pretty face he agrees.

Eddie's a classic bad decision but Steve is so gone on him. Insert that please please please song.

Idk the plan yet but it goes awry, and Eddie ends up beat to hell, but he's the one who got El out.

Hopper and Steve think they failed and possibly lost them both forever. They go back to the safe house to lick their wounds and probably make some suicidal plan for vengeance, but Eddie's there, with El playing the GameCube in their shitty little hide out. They're both beat up and dirty, but there's pizza, one completely demolished and one untouched.

Eddie doesn't even give them the chance to adjust he just taps El excitedly and says “do the thing!”

She turns to them and solemnly says “fuck the police” and Eddie fucking loses it.

[zuffer-weird-girl]

To say he was a dangerous, hatred and feasome man was a understandment... but no one asides from him and one person knew his dark secret.

Which was quite embarrassing to be honest, bit alas it was the true.

The thing is, he was scared of you sometimes.

Yes, you. The one who managed to cage his heart and make his mysophobic ass feel something asides from disgust for once in his damm life.

Now, to give contest to it, let's roll back a bit in time.

In the start of the relationship, you didn't know why on God's name you decided to steal a bite out of Kai's food.

But you did. And the look he gave you was not at all pleasant. In contrary, he threatened you. Yes, threatened to kill you. And you laughed.

He knew you were crazy but not THAT crazy.

Either way, you still managed to steal some bites out of his food every now or then and he kinda got used to it... well, sorta.

But the funny thing is that he is a VERY picky eater, so not only he didn't do the same thing to you because he was disgusted by it or because of his hygiene habits, is also because he genuily didn't liked some things you eat it.

Rarely he was interested on seeing what you were eating... rarely, but not impossible. After all you knew how to cook and he genuily liked some of your meals.

Although, one time, at dinner, you were craving some spicy noodles, so you got on the job of making it.

In your mind, your boyfriend was working, so you only made a portion for one.

While making it, even with the amount of spice on it, while taste testing, you frowned, not quite achieving the spicy sensation you wanted, so to make it better you decided to add a bit of spicy paprika and pepper sauce.

You finally achieved your goal and was pouring on a bowl to eat while watching something on TV until you jumped at the sound of the sliding door opening.

"Hi honey!" You gleamed in happiness at seeing his face while he only nodded "I thought you were going to work late today? Did something happen?"

"Not quite. Just miracously the old man decided that he could do some of that paperwork and talk with the other yakusa boss" he mumbled nonchalantly while taking off his mask with a sigh.

"I think it was because he didn't wanted you to death threaten his work friend."you snickered while he dead panned at you. "Did you eat anything asides from lunch earlier?"

"No. It was that or risking my health on accepting a tuna sandwich from rappa." He shivered with a face that screamed disgust and repulse "Please let's not talk about that."

You laughed a bit while getting some pans out

"Alright, want me to make something for you?"

"I honestly just want something light and just go to bed. This will do." He pick it up the same bowl you were about to eat.

It sounded out of character of him to simply pick anything to eat? Yes, but here is the thing. Kai loved you, so, he trusted you. He knew you were careful around the kicthen and whatever you cooked it was safe to eat.

He thought.

You let out a confused sound at his words until you looked a bit late to see your boyfriend picking some hashis and picking on it.

"Kai wait-!"

Too late. He eat it.

You saw everything. To the confused hum he let out, to his pale face getting red as a pepper, his golden eyes starting to tear up and even a bit of snot to drop from his nose... he almost sounded like a cartoon character that was about to let steam out of his ears.

He immediately dropped the bowl on the table to get water.

You didn't had time to tell him it would only make it worse.

He was panting and sweating like he had ran a marathon curses leaving his lips as you quickly got him a glass of milk and handed it to him which he gulped down like he was a starving man with a glass of water on the desert.

"What. The. Hell. Was that?" He breathed each word out angrily after he got himself together.

"Spicy noodles." You mumbled while waving a paper at his face "That bowl was for me, you fowl."

Usually he would glare at you for this, but this time you saw a look of pure horror on his face.

"You're actually telling me you were about to eat that cursed thing that looked like it came from the deepest parts of hell?"

You blinked before grabbing the bowl and simply eating with ease a mouthful of the noodles before a sad hum left you.

"What?" He muttered, about to get you a glass like you did to him.

"Is not spicy enough..." you muttered sadly.

Kai dropped the glass on the ground out of shock.

In resume. For the next couple of days you had to hear a mouthful of your boyfriends complains about how your spice tolerance shouldn't be normal, that you needed to check on that. His disbelief was clear.

But also his fear about learning the fact that his sweet angel could eat that cursed thing.

[jungkoode]

WE GREW UP SOMEWHERE ALONG THE WAY | 03

˗ˏˋmiki ˎˊ˗

Butterflies are stupid and his couch is stupidly comfy—so much so, sleeping there feels more like home than anything you've experienced in five years of careful independence.

next | index

—chapter details

word count: 8.2k

content: instant ramen as currency, professional artistic collaboration that feels decidedly unprofessional, Hoseok in glasses (devastating), meet Miki the cat-succubus, vulnerable positioning and careful touches, falling asleep during work sessions, Momo's official seal of approval, and the dangerous comfort of being understood by someone who used to know all your secrets.

Kiki Nation's discussion thread for this chapter.

✧ author's note ✧

It's finally here!!! I know, I know. This one took a minute. I sat with this chapter longer than usual because I really wanted to get the tone right—specifically the dialogue. There's this particular ache I was trying to translate, that bittersweet flavor of a reunion that almost feels like comfort, but doesn't quite fit right anymore because too much time has passed and neither of you are the same.

I wanted you to feel that dissonance she's sitting in—the "yes, but no, but… yes?"—that weirdly intimate kind of safety that feels dangerous when nothing's felt safe for the last five years. You know that unsettling familiarity when someone you used to know just was part of your life by default, and now you're seeing them again… changed? Sharper, older, realer. And suddenly you catch yourself wondering, if we'd met now instead of then, would things be different? Would romantic interest be on the table?

And you don't even realize you're mourning a version of you that never got to find out. That timeline that's already gone. She's not thinking that outright—narration never says it, because limited POV—but the vibe is there. She feels it. You feel it. I feel it. We are all just crawling around inside that ambiguous grief together.

Honestly, I think I did a good job (if I do say so myself) at making it uncomfortable in a way that forces you to just… sit with it. Am I a masochist for liking that? Probably. But also, this is literally my 10th slowburn. You're still here. Who's the real masochist. Be honest.

Unless this is your first story of mine—in that case, welcome. Come in. Sit down. The train to slow burn hell has already departed, and you're in excellent company. Ask for the peanut cookies. They slap. (Unless you have an allergy, in which case please do not. Or do. But also, I'm legally absolved of any consequences because you clicked past the author's notes and content warnings, which is basically a pact of zero liability. Sorry bestie.)

Anyway. Once again I've derailed. Shocking absolutely no one.

Also? That whole conversation about Miki? The ancient ones know exactly what I'm doing. You've seen the blueprint before. For the new readers: nothing in Kiki Nation exists without intention. Let that marinate. Digest it. There will be a pop quiz in your feelings later.

And finally… Momo. Sleeping on Y/N’s bag? That moment of being chosen by something small and vulnerable that doesn’t trust easily? Yeah, sit with that too. Sometimes acceptance comes from the most unexpected sources, and sometimes the smallest gestures carry the most weight.

That's all for now. See you in the next one. May Osaka's neon lights guide you forward. Mwah.

—read on

wattpad

ao3

The ramen packets are sweating in your hands.

You're standing outside Hoseok's door like some kind of convenience store offering sacrifice, holding two packs of instant noodles because showing up empty-handed felt weird but bringing actual food felt too much like you were trying.

The ramen splits the difference perfectly—practical, cheap, and just thoughtful enough to avoid looking like you care.

Which you don't.

Your phone buzzes against your thigh, and you shift the noodle packets to check the screen. The message thread from today stares back at you, a digital paper trail of your questionable decision-making skills.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (9:23 AM): 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢! 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗? (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ:･ﾟ✧

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (11:47 AM): 𝚂𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜. 𝚆𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (11:48 AM): 𝚂𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚊 𝚢𝚎𝚜! 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚜? 𝙸'𝚖 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐! 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚏𝚕𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚢𝚕𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (2:15 PM): 𝟽. 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (2:16 PM): 𝙼𝚎? 𝙼𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍? 𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚖, 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢. 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝙸 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚕.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (2:20 PM): 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:33 PM): 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚍𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛? 𝙾𝚛 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚛𝚢 𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔?

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:35 PM): 𝙸'𝚖 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗. 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚝.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:36 PM): 𝚂𝙷𝙴'𝚂 𝙱𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙵𝙾𝙾𝙳! 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠! ＼(^o^)／

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:37 PM): 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚜, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚎𝚗.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:38 PM): 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚜! 𝙸'𝚖 𝚜𝚠𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐!

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:39 PM): 𝙸'𝚖 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:40 PM): 𝚃𝚘𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎! 𝙸 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔 𝚜𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎! 𝚅𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚙! 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚖𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚍𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗!

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:42 PM): 𝙸 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚕𝚢 ��𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝.

You'd been replying between peptide copy edits, because apparently writing compelling marketing copy about anti-aging molecules is exactly as mind-numbing as it sounds. Davidson had spent the entire afternoon explaining the importance of 'consumer-centric biochemical messaging,' which is just corporate speak for 'make science sound sexy without actually explaining anything.'

At least you'd made a friend today. Sort of.

Yuki from accounting had appeared at your desk around lunch with a cup of coffee and a conspiratorial whisper about how Davidson once spent forty minutes in a meeting discussing the 'synergistic potential of collaborative ideation platforms'—which turned out to mean 'maybe we should use email more.'

She'd lingered by your cubicle, making dry observations about the office dynamics while you pretended to work on peptide enthusiasm, and for twenty minutes you'd felt almost normal. Like maybe you could actually exist in this corporate hellscape without losing your entire mind.

But now you're here, standing in front of Hoseok's door with instant ramen and a stomach full of butterflies that you're aggressively ignoring.

Because butterflies are stupid.

And this is just… helping an old friend with a work project. Very professional. Very normal. The kind of thing adults do for each other without making it weird.

Except your hands are definitely shaking slightly, and you can't decide if it's nerves or caffeine withdrawal, and the butterflies are doing some kind of interpretive dance routine in your chest that feels distinctly non-professional.

You shift the ramen packets again, plastic crinkling in the hallway silence.

Someone's cooking curry behind one of the other doors, and the building's ancient elevator is making that grinding sound that suggests it's one mechanical failure away from trapping someone between floors.

Normal Tuesday evening. Normal friend visit. Normal absolutely-not-a-big-deal modeling session for your childhood friend's pornographic manga.

God, when you put it like that, it sounds even worse.

You raise your hand to knock, then pause.

Because once you knock, this becomes real.

Once that door opens, you're officially Y/N-who-poses-for-hentai instead of Y/N-who-just-moved-to-Osaka-and-happened-to-reconnect-with-an-old-friend.

The ramen packets are getting warm from your death grip.

Through the thin walls, you can hear movement inside the apartment—footsteps, something being dragged across the floor, what sounds like Hoseok talking to himself in rapid Japanese.

Probably setting up his 'very professional workspace' with the same level of organization he applied to everything else in his life, which is to say, chaotic good at best.

Your phone buzzes again.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (6:58 PM): 𝙰𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛? 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢. 𝙸𝚏 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝙸'𝚖 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚎.

Shit.

You knock before you can change your mind, three sharp raps that echo through the narrow corridor.

The movement inside stops immediately, followed by the sound of rushing footsteps and what might be Hoseok tripping over something.

"Coming!" his voice calls through the door, muffled but distinctly flustered. "Just a second! Don't leave!"

The 'don't leave' hits differently than it should, like he's genuinely worried you might bolt.

Which is ridiculous, because you're here, aren't you? Standing in his hallway with convenience store dinner like some kind of domestic goddess of questionable life choices.

Although, to be fair, bolting is exactly what every rational part of your brain is suggesting right now.

The door opens, and there's Hoseok—hair messy like he's been running his hands through it, wearing paint-splattered sweatpants and a washed out t-shirt that's seen better days, grinning at you like you're the best thing that's happened to him all week.

"Capy!" He's slightly out of breath, eyes bright with what looks like genuine excitement. "You actually came!"

"I said I would." You hold up the ramen packets like evidence. "I brought dinner."

His grin somehow gets wider. "She brings food! She stays! She might actually be the perfect woman!"

"Don't push it, Ott."

But the butterflies are doing something complicated in your chest at the way he's looking at you—like you showing up with instant ramen is somehow the most wonderful surprise in the world.

Which is ridiculous.

But also kind of nice.

Which is dangerous.

"Well," you say, because standing in the hallway analyzing your feelings about his expression is definitely not what you're here for, "are you going to let me in, or should I just model in the corridor for your neighbors' entertainment?"

"Right, yeah, come in." He steps back, gesturing you inside with unnecessary flourish. "Welcome to my professional artistic studio."

You step past him and immediately forget how to function like a normal human being.

Because apparently, while you weren't paying attention yesterday through your alcohol-induced haze, Jung Hoseok went and got... attractive.

Not that he wasn't before. He was always decent-looking in that gangly, hyperactive way that made middle school girls giggle and write his name in their notebooks.

But this is different. This is grown-up attractive. This is the kind of attractive that makes you forget why you came here in the first place.

The grey sweatpants hang low on his hips, soft and worn in a way that suggests they're his favorite. His t-shirt is faded black with some band logo you can't quite make out—Radiohead, maybe?—stretched across shoulders that are definitely broader than they were at seventeen.

But it's his hair that really gets you.

You hadn't noticed yesterday. Too focused on the shock of seeing him again, the surreal experience of Jung Hoseok existing in your new reality.

But now, standing in the warm light of his apartment, you can see that he's grown it out. It curls slightly at the nape of his neck, longer than he ever wore it in school, and it's not the black you remember.

It's brown now. Cinnamon, almost. Like he's been spending time in the sun, or dyeing it, or just letting time change him in ways you weren't around to witness.

And he's wearing glasses.

Black, rectangular frames that perch on his nose like they belong there, even though you're pretty sure they didn't exist five years ago. They should look ridiculous. Sixteen-year-old you would have laughed yourself sick seeing Jung Hoseok in glasses. Called him a nerd, stolen them off his face, made some comment about four-eyes.

Instead, you're staring.

Like an idiot.

Because somehow, impossibly, they suit him. Frame his face in a way that makes his eyes look wider, more serious. Less like the hyper kid who used to climb trees to impress you and more like...

Well. Like a man who draws pornographic manga for a living and just invited you over to pose for him.

Fuck.

"You're staring at my face," he says, and there's amusement in his voice that makes heat creep up your neck.

"I'm staring at your glasses," you correct, because admitting you were staring at his face feels too much like admitting something else entirely. "When did you get glasses?"

"Oh, these?" He reaches up and pulls them off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "About two years ago. Turns out staring at tiny manga panels for twelve hours a day isn't great for your eyesight. Who knew?"

"You used to brag about having perfect vision."

"I used to brag about a lot of things." He squints at you without the glasses, and the gesture is so familiar—so purely Hoseok—that something twists in your chest. "Remember when I told everyone I could see individual leaves on trees from like a kilometer away?"

"You said you had hawk eyes. You made it your entire personality for like three months."

"Hey, I did have exceptional distance vision! I could spot your mom's car from six blocks away!"

"Because it was bright yellow and shaped like a brick. A blind person could have spotted it."

He laughs, that same too-loud sound that used to embarrass you in public. "Okay, fair point. But still. Peak visual acuity, right there."

"And now you can't see your own hand without assistance."

"I can see my hand just fine, thank you very much. It's the small print that gets me. And computer screens. And basically anything requiring detail work, which is unfortunately my entire career."

He slides the glasses back on, and you have to look away because the simple action shouldn't be that... noticeable.

"So," you say, holding up the ramen packets like a shield between you and whatever the hell your brain is doing right now. "Dinner?"

"Right. Food. Very important." But he doesn't move toward the kitchen immediately.

Instead, he stands there for a moment, looking at you looking at anything except him, and the silence stretches just long enough to become noticeable.

You both blink.

The butterflies in your stomach decide this is an excellent time to reminder you of their existence, doing some kind of acrobatic routine that makes you want to press a hand to your chest and tell them to calm the fuck down.

You look away first, studying the manga stacks like they're the most fascinating thing you've ever seen.

He clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck—a gesture so achingly familiar that you feel something crack in your chest.

"Kitchen's this way," he says, nodding toward the narrow galley. "Hope you're hungry. I may have accidentally forgotten to eat today. Time got away from me."

"Accidentally forgot to eat? How do you accidentally forget to eat?"

"Very easily when you're trying to perfect the angle of someone's... uh, shoulder blade. For artistic accuracy."

You trail behind him, checking the way he moves through his space—comfortable, loose-limbed, like he belongs here in a way you've never belonged anywhere.

"Shoulder blade," you repeat. "Sure."

"Hey, shoulder blades are surprisingly difficult to draw! There's all these muscles and the way the light hits them and—" He stops, glancing at you sideways. "You're going to mock me for caring about anatomical accuracy, aren't you?"

"I'm going to mock you for a lot of things, but anatomical accuracy isn't one of them."

"Wow. Actual respect for my craft. I'm touched, Capy. Truly."

"Don't let it go to your head."

"So," he says, nodding toward the kitchenette. "Hungry? We could eat first, before… You know. The thing."

"The thing?"

"The professional artistic collaboration thing."

"Just call it what it is, Ott."

"Fine. Before you pose for my dirty manga."

"Better."

You follow him to the kitchen area, which is basically just a counter with a hot plate and a sink the size of a soup bowl. He's already clearing space, moving art supplies and what appears to be a collection of empty coffee cans.

"Sorry about the mess. I wasn't expecting you for dinner when I set up my sophisticated meal preparation station this morning."

"It's instant ramen, not a five-course meal."

"Still counts as hosting. I'm being very domestic right now. Very adult."

You hand him the ramen packets, trying not to notice how his fingers brush yours when he takes them.

"If this is your idea of domestic, I'm concerned for your future."

"Hey, I'll have you know I've kept myself alive for five years. That's basically domestic mastery."

"The bar is on the floor."

"And I'm stepping over it with grace and style."

He fills a pot with water, and you lean against the counter, watching him move around the tiny space.

It's weirdly… hypnotic, the way he navigates the cramped kitchen, the familiarity of someone who's learned to live alone.

He glances at you over his shoulder.

"Do they look stupid? Be honest."

You frown. "The glasses?"

He nods.

"They look..." You pause, because good is not a safe word here. "They look like glasses. On your face. Very glass-like."

"Wow, Capy. Such poetry. I'm moved."

"You asked for honesty, not flattery."

"I asked for honesty. You gave me evasion."

He's not wrong, but you're not about to admit that the glasses actually work for him. That they make him look more... mature? Professional? Like he could be someone who does important things instead of drawing cartoon people having sex.

The water starts boiling, and he drops in the ramen noodles in the pot like he's performing surgery. You watch him tear open the flavor packets, stirring everything together with a fork because apparently he doesn't own proper cooking utensils.

"Gourmet dining at its finest," he announces, dividing the noodles between two bowls. "Five-star presentation."

"Michelin would be impressed."

"They should be. This is my signature dish."

You take your bowl and follow him to the low table, settling on the floor cushions he's apparently arranged for the occasion.

The ramen is exactly what you expected—salty, artificial, perfectly mediocre.

But there's something weirdly nice about eating it here, in his space, while he makes exaggerated sounds of appreciation like it's the best meal he's ever had.

"So," he says between bites, "how was day two of corporate hell?"

"Day two of wondering why I ever thought marketing was a good career choice. I spent three hours writing copy about peptides, and I still don't know what a peptide is."

"Sounds very important and scientific."

"It's anti-aging cream. Apparently peptides make your skin young forever, but only if you describe them with enough enthusiasm."

"And do you have enthusiasm for age-defying peptides?"

"I have enthusiasm for paychecks. The peptides can go fuck themselves."

He laughs, nearly choking on his ramen.

"There's the Capy I remember. Always so passionate about skincare."

"I made a friend, though. Yuki from accounting. She seems normal, which is a minor miracle in that place."

"Normal how?"

"Normal like she also thinks Davidson is an idiot and doesn't pretend otherwise. Normal like she brought me coffee without making it weird. Normal like she might actually be tolerable to eat lunch with."

"Look at you, making friends. Very socially adjusted."

"Don't make it sound like an achievement. I'm a perfectly normal, likeable person."

"You're many things, Capy. Likeable is... debatable."

You kick him under the table. "Rude."

"Accurate."

"I'm charming and delightful."

"You're sharp and terrifying. It's not the same thing."

"Sharp and terrifying are excellent qualities."

"For intimidating coworkers and small children, maybe."

"And for keeping annoying childhood friends in line."

"Is that what you're doing? Keeping me in line?"

The question comes out lighter than it should, but there's something underneath it that makes you look up from your ramen.

He's watching you with that expression again—the one that makes your stomach do complicated things.

"Someone has to," you say, aiming for casual and missing by miles.

"Lucky me."

The way he says it makes the air in the tiny apartment feel thicker somehow. Like you're both suddenly aware that you're sitting on his floor, eating instant noodles, about to do something that definitely falls outside the bounds of normal friendship.

You focus very hard on your ramen.

"This is good," you lie, because the silence is getting dangerous.

"It's terrible," he corrects. "But it's cheap and it fills the void."

"Poetic."

"I'm a man of many talents."

"Right. Speaking of which." You set down your chopsticks, trying to inject some professionalism into your voice. "How exactly does this... process work? The reference thing?"

He blinks, like he forgot why you're actually here.

"Oh. Right. The work thing."

"The work thing."

"Very professional work thing."

"Hoseok."

"Right." He runs a hand through his hair—the longer, brown hair that you're definitely not thinking about touching. "Basically, I just need to see how a real person would naturally position themselves in certain... scenarios. For accuracy."

"Scenarios."

"Character scenarios. Plot-relevant positioning."

"Uh-huh."

"Nothing weird! Just... you know. Natural body language. Realistic expressions. How someone would actually move in—"

"I get it, Ott. You need reference photos. You don't have to make it sound like a nature documentary."

"Reference sketches, actually. I don't do photos."

"Why not?"

He looks genuinely surprised by the question.

"Because sketching is more... interpretive? I can capture the feeling of a pose, not just the literal anatomy. Photos are too static."

"Huh."

"What huh?"

"Nothing. Just... that actually makes sense. From an artistic perspective."

"You sound shocked that I have artistic perspectives."

"I'm shocked that you explained it without making a single inappropriate joke."

"The night is young, Capy. Give me time."

And there it is—the grin that makes your chest do that annoying warm thing. The same grin that used to convince you to climb trees you couldn't get down from and steal candy from corner stores and lie to your parents about where you'd been all afternoon.

Dangerous then.

Dangerous now.

"So," you say, standing up and collecting the empty bowls before this gets any more domestic than it already has. "Show me this very professional workspace of yours."

He scrambles to his feet, glasses sliding down his nose before he catches them.

"Right. Work. Professional work space. Very legitimate artistic endeavor."

"It better be, Ott. Because if this is some elaborate scheme to get me naked, I'm going to murder you with your own art supplies."

"Noted," he says, grinning. "Death by paintbrush. Very avant-garde."

"I'm serious."

"I know you are. That's what makes it funny."

You follow him toward the work area (which is his bedroom), trying to ignore the way your pulse is picking up speed.

This is fine. This is normal. This is just you helping an old friend with a professional project.

Except nothing about this feels professional.

His bedroom is... not what you had expected.

You had been bracing yourself for some kind of stereotypical artist's den—paint-splattered walls, canvases stacked everywhere, maybe some pretentious black-and-white photographs of naked women he'd claim were 'artistic studies.'

Instead, it's surprisingly organized. Clean, even.

The bed is made, which is more than you can say for your own apartment most days. There's a proper desk setup against the window—not just a folding table, but an actual wooden desk with multiple drawers and a lamp that looks like it cost more than your monthly train pass. Art supplies are arranged in neat containers, pencils sorted by type, brushes standing at attention in glass jars.

"Wow," you say, because the alternative is standing there gaping like an idiot. "You actually clean."

"I'm a professional, Capy. I told you." He's moving around the space with that same easy familiarity, clearing some sketches off a chair. "Can't work in chaos. Well, I can, but it's not optimal for the creative process."

"The creative process," you repeat, settling into the chair he's indicated. "Right."

The desk is positioned so you're facing away from the bed, which is probably intentional. Less distracting that way. More professional.

Except now you can't stop thinking about the fact that his bed is right behind you, and that's somehow worse than if you could see it.

"So," he says, pulling out a thick portfolio from one of the desk drawers. "Meet Miki."

He opens the portfolio, and you're immediately confronted with...

Well. A lot of things at once.

The first thing you notice is that the art is actually good. Not just technically competent—though it clearly is—but genuinely engaging. The character designs are distinctive, the linework confident, the compositions dynamic in a way that draws your eye across the page.

The second thing you notice is that the main character is definitely not human.

"She has cat ears," you observe, because stating the obvious seems safer than processing the rest of what you're seeing.

"And a tail," Hoseok adds helpfully, flipping to a character sheet that shows the full design. "She's half-succubus, half-nekomata. It's a whole thing."

"A succubus." You lean closer, studying the character design. "Like, a sex demon."

"Technically, yes. But she's more complicated than that."

The character—Miki—is drawn in various poses and expressions across the page. She's definitely designed to be attractive, but there's something more nuanced in her face than typical anime girl proportions. Her eyes have an almost wolfish quality, but also a softness that makes you want to keep looking.

"She feeds on sexual energy," Hoseok continues, settling into his own chair and pulling out what looks like a script. "But unlike traditional succubi, she forms emotional attachments to her... food sources."

"Food sources."

"The people she feeds from. Usually it's supposed to be impersonal—take what you need, move on. But Miki keeps getting attached, which creates problems."

You flip through more pages, getting a sense of the story.

The art style is more sophisticated than you'd expected from hentai manga, with detailed backgrounds and character expressions that actually convey emotion beyond basic lust.

"So what's the conflict?" you ask, because despite yourself, you're curious. "She's a sex demon who catches feelings?"

"Basically. She's trying to figure out if she can have genuine relationships when her fundamental nature is predatory. Can someone love you if they know you literally need to feed off them to survive?"

There's something in his voice when he says it that makes you glance up at him. He's focused on organizing his drawing supplies, but there's a tension in his shoulders that wasn't there before.

"Heavy themes for porn," you comment.

"It's not just porn," he says, and there's a defensive edge to his tone. "I mean, yes, there are explicit scenes, but they serve the story. The sex isn't just gratuitous—it's integral to her character development."

"Okay, okay. I didn't mean to insult your artistic integrity."

"You did, but I'll forgive you." He grins, but it's a little strained. "The publisher likes it because it has crossover appeal. Female readers connect with the emotional stuff, male readers get the explicit content. Everyone wins."

You turn back to the portfolio, studying a page that shows Miki in what's clearly a more intimate scene. The positioning is definitely explicit, but there's something almost tender in the way it's drawn. The focus isn't just on the physical act, but on the characters' faces, their emotional connection.

"She's actually... kind of relatable," you admit reluctantly.

"Yeah?" His voice perks up with genuine interest. "How so?"

"The whole thing about being afraid someone will reject you if they see who you really are. That's pretty universal, isn't it?"

"That's exactly what I was going for." He leans forward, animated now. "She puts on this confident, seductive front, but underneath she's terrified that her true nature makes her unlovable. So she keeps people at a distance, even when she craves connection."

You study another page, this one showing Miki alone in what looks like a small apartment, curled up on a couch with an expression of profound loneliness.

"The cat thing," you say. "Why cats specifically?"

"Nekomata are traditionally shapeshifters in Japanese folklore. They can appear human but retain feline characteristics. It fits with her dual nature—she's caught between two worlds, never fully belonging to either."

"And the succubus part?"

"Succubi are also shapeshifters, traditionally. They appear as whatever their target desires most. So Miki is constantly shifting, constantly adapting to what others want from her, but she's lost track of who she actually is."

You flip to another page, this one showing Miki moving her hands in what you guess is a… cat manner? If that makes sense?

"So where do I come in?" you ask. "What kind of reference do you need?"

Hoseok clears his throat, suddenly looking less confident. "Well, the thing is... I'm good at drawing male anatomy. I understand how men move, how they express emotion physically; and I so happen to have a dick—"

"I'll murder you."

"—but female anatomy, especially in... intimate situations... I struggle with making it look natural."

You narrow your eyes now. "Natural how?"

"Like, how would a real woman actually position herself in this scenario? What would her facial expression be? How would her body language change based on her emotional state?" He's talking faster now, the words tumbling out. "I can copy from photo references, but they're all posed, artificial. I need to see how someone would naturally move, respond, react."

You look back at the manga pages, blinking.

"You want me to pose like her. In these situations."

"Just for reference! Nothing weird, just... showing me how the anatomy would work, how the positioning would look realistic."

"Hoseok." You set the portfolio down, fixing him with a stare. "These are sex scenes."

"Well, yes, but—"

"You're asking me to pose for sex scenes."

"For reference! For art! It's completely professional!"

"Professional sex scene posing."

"It's not—okay, when you put it like that, it sounds weird, but it's really not. It's just figure drawing with more specific requirements."

You lean back in the chair, processing this.

On one hand, it's clearly ridiculous.

On the other hand, the art is genuinely good, and you can see how having realistic references would improve it.

And on the third hand—the hand you're trying very hard to ignore—there's something about the idea that makes your pulse quicken in a way that has nothing to do with artistic appreciation.

"What exactly would this involve?"

"Basic positioning, mostly. Like, if Miki is supposed to be in this pose," he points to a page showing the character in a suggestive but not explicitly sexual position, "I need to see how a real person would naturally hold themselves. Where the weight would distribute, how the muscles would engage, what the facial expression would actually look like."

"And the more... explicit stuff?"

He shifts in his chair, suddenly very interested in his pencil collection.

"We'd work up to that. Start with basic poses, see how it goes. Nothing you're not comfortable with."

"Comfortable with," you repeat. "Right."

There's a moment of silence where you both pretend to study the manga pages, but you're actually trying to figure out if this is the stupidest idea you've ever considered or just the most complicated.

"The character," you say finally. "Miki. She's supposed to be seductive, right? Confident?"

"On the surface, yeah. But under it all, she's vulnerable. Scared. She uses the seduction as a defense mechanism."

"Sounds familiar."

"Does it?"

You ignore the question, flipping through more pages.

The story is actually engaging, despite—or maybe because of—the explicit content. Miki's internal struggle feels genuine, her relationships complex and emotionally fraught.

"How long have you been working on this?" you ask.

"About eight months. It's supposed to be a twelve-chapter series, and I'm on chapter six now. The deadline pressure is getting intense."

"And you've been struggling with the female anatomy this whole time?"

"Getting worse, actually. The later chapters are more... intimate. More complex emotionally and physically. I keep getting stuck on scenes that should be straightforward."

You study a page showing Miki in what's clearly a moment of distress.

"She's not what I expected," you admit.

"What did you expect?"

"I don't know. Generic anime girl with cat ears? Typical male fantasy bullshit?"

"And instead?"

"Instead she's..." You pause, trying to find the right words. "She's actually a character. With depth. With real problems that aren't just 'oh no, I'm so sexy and everyone wants me.'"

"That was the point. I wanted to create something that elevated the genre, you know? Something that used the explicit content to explore genuine emotional themes."

"And you think I can help with that?"

"I think you understand her," he says quietly. "The way you described her just now—you get what I'm trying to do with the character. That's what I need for the reference work. Not just someone who can hold a pose, but someone who understands the emotional context."

You look at him, really look at him, and see something you hadn't noticed before.

This isn't just a job for him.

This is work he cares about, work he's proud of, even if he's embarrassed by the genre.

"Okay," you say, before you can talk yourself out of it.

"Okay?"

"I'll do it. The reference thing. But we start small, and if it gets weird, I'm out."

His face lights up with genuine relief and excitement. "Really? You'll actually do it?"

"Don't make me regret it, Ott."

"I won't. I promise. This is going to be so helpful, you have no idea."

"Yeah, well." You close the portfolio, trying to ignore the way your heart is racing. "Just remember—I'm doing this for art. For your artistic integrity and professional development."

"Absolutely. Completely professional."

"Good."

"Good."

You both sit there for a moment, the weight of what you've just agreed to settling between you.

"So," you say finally. "Where do we start?"

"Basic expressions first," Hoseok says, pulling out a fresh sketchpad and selecting a pencil from his organized collection. "Just... be yourself, but think about Miki's emotional state."

"Be myself while thinking about a cat-succubus. Sure. That's totally normal."

"You know what I mean." He settles back in his chair, pencil poised. "She's guarded, right? Like she's always ready to run or fight. But she's also trying to appear confident."

You shift in your seat, suddenly hyperaware of your own face.

"How exactly does one look like a confident cat-succubus?"

"Just... think about how you look when you're trying to convince someone you don't care about something you actually care about a lot."

The accuracy of that hits uncomfortably close to home. "Rude."

"Accurate," he corrects, already sketching. "Tilt your chin up slightly. Yeah, like that. But soften your eyes a bit—she's not actually angry, just defensive."

You adjust your expression, trying to find the balance between aloof and vulnerable.

It's weird, being studied this intently. His eyes keep flicking between your face and the paper, analyzing, cataloging.

"Good," he murmurs, pencil moving across the page. "That's exactly the look I was going for. Like you're daring someone to get too close while secretly hoping they will."

"I don't look like that."

"You absolutely look like that. You've been looking like that since we were sixteen."

"I have not—"

"Don't move," he says quickly. "That expression right there—that's perfect. The little frown, the way your eyebrows pull together. She does that when someone calls her out on something true."

You hold the pose, trying not to think about what it means that he can read your expressions so easily.

That he's been reading them for years, apparently.

"Okay, now hands," he says after a few minutes of sketching. "Miki's very tactile, but she's also careful about touch. Like she wants to reach out but stops herself."

"How do I pose that?"

"Lift your hand like you're going to touch something, but pull back at the last second. Like you changed your mind."

You raise your hand, extending it toward an imaginary object, then curl your fingers back slightly.

"More hesitation," he says, not looking up from his sketch. "Like you want something but you're afraid of what will happen if you actually take it."

You adjust the position, letting more uncertainty creep into the gesture.

"Perfect. Hold that."

The pencil scratches against paper, and you find yourself watching his face as he works.

His expression is completely focused, serious in a way you rarely see. Behind the glasses, his eyes are intent, studying the curve of your fingers, the angle of your wrist.

"You're actually good at this," you say quietly.

"Don't sound so surprised."

"I'm not surprised. I'm just... I don't know. Seeing you work is different than I expected."

"Different how?"

"More professional. More... real."

He glances up at you, something unreadable in his expression.

"What did you think it would be like?"

"I don't know. Messier? More chaotic? You were always so scattered in school."

"I grew up, Capy. People change."

There's something in his tone that makes you study his face more carefully.

"Do they?"

"Some things change. Some things don't."

You're both quiet for a moment, the only sound the soft scratch of pencil on paper.

"Okay," he says finally, setting down the pencil. "That's good for basic expressions. Now I need to see how you'd naturally position yourself in some of the more... interactive scenes."

"Interactive."

"Like, if Miki is supposed to be sitting close to someone, or reaching for them, or..." He trails off, flipping through the portfolio to find a specific page. "Here. This scene. She's supposed to be leaning toward her partner, but not quite touching. Intimate but hesitant."

You study the page. It's not explicitly sexual, but it's definitely suggestive—Miki positioned close to a male character, her body language indicating desire but also uncertainty.

"So I just... lean forward?"

"Yeah, but naturally. Like you would if you were actually in that situation."

You shift in your chair, leaning toward where an imaginary partner would be sitting.

It feels weird and stupid.

"It looks forced," Hoseok says, frowning at his sketch. "Like you're posing for a photo instead of actually wanting to be close to someone."

"Because I am posing for a photo. Essentially."

"Right, but... here." He sets down his pencil and stands up. "Can I show you?"

"Show me how?"

"The positioning. It'll be easier if I demonstrate."

Before you can fully process what he's suggesting, he's moving toward you, and suddenly he's right there. Close enough that you can smell the citrusy notes of cologne that cling to him.

That has changed, too.

It's yuzu.

"Like this," he says, his voice quieter now. "If you were actually drawn to someone, you wouldn't just lean forward mechanically. You'd angle your whole body toward them."

His hands hover near your shoulders, not quite touching.

"Can I...?"

You nod, not trusting your voice.

His hands settle on your shoulders, warm and careful, adjusting your position.

"Turn slightly this way. Yeah, like that. And drop your shoulder a bit—you're holding tension here."

His thumb brushes against your collarbone as he adjusts your posture, and you both freeze.

It's barely contact. Just his thumb against the edge of your shirt, the barest hint of skin-to-skin touch.

But something electric shoots through you at the contact, making your breath catch.

"Sorry," he says quickly, but he doesn't immediately pull away. "I just—the positioning was—"

"It's fine," you manage, even though it's not fine at all.

It's the opposite of fine.

It's your childhood friend's hands on your shoulders and his face inches from yours and your heart doing something complicated in your chest.

"Better," he says, his voice slightly rough. "That's much more natural."

"Hoseok," you say, and his name comes out softer than you intended.

"Yeah?"

"You should probably..." You gesture vaguely at his hands, still resting on your shoulders.

"Right. Yeah. Professional distance."

Then he steps back, running a hand through his hair, and the spell breaks.

"That's the position," he says, settling back into his chair and picking up his pencil with hands that aren't quite steady. "Much better. More believable."

"Good," you say, trying to ignore the way your skin still feels warm where he touched you. "Professional artistic collaboration."

"Exactly. Very professional."

But when he starts sketching again, you notice the way his eyes linger on your face, the way his pencil moves more slowly across the paper.

This is fine, you tell yourself. This is just helping a friend with work.

The fact that your pulse is racing and your skin feels too warm and you keep thinking about the careful way he touched you—that's all completely irrelevant.

Professional.

Artistic.

Totally under control.

"Next pose?" you ask, proud of how steady your voice sounds.

"Right," he says, flipping to another page. "This one's a bit more... close contact."

And despite everything you just told yourself about staying professional, you find yourself leaning forward slightly, curious to see what he'll ask for next.

Hoseok's couch is, begrudgingly, comfortable.

The next pose requires you to lie on your side, one arm stretched above your head, the other curved around an imaginary partner.

"This is for chapter five," Hoseok explains, flipping through his reference sheets. "Miki's supposed to be in this post-intimacy moment, maintaining some of her feline independence."

You settle onto the couch, adjusting your position until it feels natural. Which is a task in itself, because it's not precisely roomy despite being comfy, and your own disastrous bun (which you ended putting up after hair kept getting in the way) is making it impossible.

The cushions, luckily, are softer than you expected, worn in a way that suggests this is where he actually sleeps most nights rather than bothering with the futon.

"Turn your face toward me slightly," he says, pencil already moving. "Good. Now soften your expression—she's content but still guarded."

The pose is comfortable enough, but holding it for extended periods makes your shoulder ache. You shift slightly, trying to maintain the position while relieving the pressure.

"Sorry," Hoseok says, noticing your discomfort. "This one's taking longer than usual. The lighting is perfect right now, but I know it's not easy to hold."

"It's fine," you lie, because the alternative is admitting that lying on his couch in a pose that suggests post-coital intimacy is doing things to your pulse.

The apartment has settled into its evening rhythm.

The neighbors' TV provides a muffled soundtrack through the thin walls, and the vending machines outside cast a familiar glow through the window. The dining room light is dim enough to bathe you in relaxed shadows.

"Tell me about her," you say, partly to distract yourself from the growing ache in your shoulder, partly because you're genuinely curious. "Miki. What happens to her in the end?"

Hoseok's pencil pauses.

"I'm not sure yet. The editor wants a happy ending, but..."

"But?"

"But I don't know if that's realistic. Can someone like her actually find what she's looking for? Or is she always going to be caught between worlds?"

The tone he uses makes you study his face more carefully.

In the lamplight, his expression is more serious than usual, no hint of playfulness this time.

"What do you think she's looking for?" you ask.

"Someone who sees all of her. The monster and the person. Someone who isn't afraid of what she needs to survive."

His phrase hangs in the space between you, loaded with meaning that neither of you acknowledges directly.

"That doesn't sound impossible," you say quietly.

"Doesn't it?" He looks up from his sketch, meeting your eyes. "When your fundamental nature is to take from people, how do you build something real with them?"

You're both quiet for a moment.

"Maybe," you say finally, "it's not about changing what you are. Maybe it's about finding someone who understands what you need and chooses to give it anyway."

Hoseok stares at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. Then he looks back down at his sketch, pencil moving with renewed focus.

"Hold that thought," he murmurs. "And that expression. That's exactly what I needed."

You maintain the pose, but your mind is elsewhere, turning over the conversation.

Because the way he talked about Miki felt less like discussing a fictional character and more like... something else entirely.

The evening promptly stretches on.

Hoseok works with unusual intensity, occasionally asking you to adjust your position or expression, but mostly just drawing with the kind of focus you remember from when you were kids and he'd disappear into his art for hours.

You find yourself relaxing into the couch, the warmth of the apartment and the gentle scratch of pencil on paper creating a surprisingly soothing atmosphere.

Your shoulder has stopped aching, or maybe you've just gotten used to it.

"Almost done," Hoseok says, but his voice sounds distant, like he's talking to himself more than to you.

The building settles around you with its familiar creaks and sighs. Someone's cooking curry in another unit, the smell drifting through the walls. A train passes in the distance, its whistle barely audible but somehow comforting.

Your eyelids are getting heavy.

The couch is stupidly more comfortable than your own bed back at the corporate housing, and there's something deeply peaceful about lying here while Hoseok works, the two of you existing in comfortable parallel focus.

"Just a few more minutes," he says softly, and you make a sound of acknowledgment that comes out more like a hum.

The last thing you're aware of is the gentle scratch of his pencil and the warm weight of sleep pulling you under.

You wake to silence and the unfamiliar sensation of something soft covering you.

The apartment is dark except for the glow from the vending machines outside, and it takes you a moment to remember where you are.

Hoseok's couch.

His blanket—the expensive one he splurged on—tucked carefully around your shoulders.

You sit up slowly, disoriented.

The dining room light is off, his art supplies put away.

No sign of Hoseok himself, though you can hear the soft sound of breathing from the direction of his futon.

Your phone shows 3:47 AM.

Shit.

You fell asleep during the pose session, and he just... let you sleep. Covered you with his blanket and went to bed without waking you.

The thoughtfulness of it makes something warm and complicated twist in your chest.

You fold the blanket carefully, setting it on the couch arm, and gather your things as quietly as possible. Your bag is on the floor by the door where you left it, but when you reach for it, you freeze.

Momo is curled up on top of it, a tiny ball of fur using your bag as a makeshift bed. She's never done that before—usually she stays in her cage or on Hoseok's shoulder, treating you with polite indifference at best.

But now she's chosen your bag as her sleeping spot, and when you gently move to pick up the strap, she doesn't scurry away. Instead, she opens one sleepy eye, looks at you with what might be recognition, and settles back into her nap.

You carefully extract your bag from under her, and she simply relocates to the floor, still unbothered by your presence.

It's a silly thing, really… But the way she chose specifically to sleep on that spot makes you absurdly feel like you're being accepted into the ecosystem of this tiny apartment.

Chosen.

You slip out as quietly as possible, closing the door with barely a click.

The hallway is empty, lit only by the emergency exit sign at the far end.

Your footsteps echo softly on the worn carpet as you make your way to the elevator, which thankfully decides to work at this ungodly hour.

Outside, Osaka at 4 AM is a different city entirely. The streets are mostly empty except for the occasional taxi and the dedicated salarymen stumbling home from late nights. The air is cooler, carrying the scent of rain that might come later.

You walk the seventeen minutes back to your corporate housing, your mind turning over the evening.

The conversation about Miki. The way Hoseok looked at you when you talked about finding someone who understands what you need. The careful way he'd covered you with his blanket.

And Momo, sleeping on your bag like you belong there.

By the time you reach your building, the sky is starting to lighten at the edges, that pale pre-dawn glow that means morning isn't far away.

You have three hours before you need to be awake for work, but you know you won't sleep.

Instead, you lie in your narrow bed and stare at the ceiling, thinking about the weight of his blanket and the sound of his pencil on paper and the way he'd talked about Miki like she was a real person with real problems.

Like she was someone worth understanding.

Your phone buzzes with a text.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:23 AM): 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑. 𝙼𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚞𝚐𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚜𝚞𝚐𝚊𝚛 𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚢.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:24 AM): 𝙰𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜. 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚞𝚕𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎-𝚋𝚞𝚝-𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝚆𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝.

You stare at the messages, something fluttering in your chest that you refuse to name.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:26 AM): 𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚍. 𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚐𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:27 AM): 𝚃𝚘𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎. 𝙼𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚖𝚞𝚐 𝚗𝚘𝚠.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:28 AM): 𝚃𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝙸 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚞𝚐𝚕𝚢.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:29 AM): 𝙼𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍. 𝙰𝚕𝚜𝚘, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚝𝚒𝚎. 𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎.

You reach up automatically, realizing your hair is loose around your shoulders. You'd had it up for the pose session, but it must have come undone while you slept.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:30 AM): 𝙺𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚒𝚝. 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚝 𝚙𝚊𝚢𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚎.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:31 AM): 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚎𝚎: 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚝𝚒𝚎. 𝙸'𝚖 𝚙𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (4:32 AM): 𝙶𝚘 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙, 𝙾𝚝𝚝.

𝐉𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐨𝐤 (4:33 AM): 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘𝚘, 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚢. 𝚂𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚜.

You set your phone aside and close your eyes, but sleep doesn't come.

Instead, you lie there thinking about the way he'd said 'sweet dreams' like he meant it, and the careful way he'd tucked the blanket around your shoulders, and the fact that Momo had chosen your bag as her sleeping spot.

Small things. Tiny gestures that probably don't mean anything.

But they feel like something anyway.

goal: 200 notes.

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[lloydskywalkers]

drywall

went to go work on raising hell and ended up missing Skylor, so!! I will always have so many emotions about s8/9 and the aftermath of it, here's another gallon of them.

Two months after they’ve taken back the city and the street lights are finally starting to work again, Lloyd shows up at the restaurant an hour past closing time, sporting a spectacular bruise and enough blood across his gi to make the Ninjago City Blood Drive team’s day. 

“Hi, Sky.” Lloyd waltzes — or attempts to, it’s more of a stumbling collapse — right in as if nothing’s amiss in the slightest. “Sorry, I’m, uh. Was in the neighborhood and I wasn’ sure…where else t’ go.”

Skylor, still frozen over a stained tabletop with her dishtowel in hand, stares at him. 

All things considered, she should be fully prepared for something like this. It should practically be in her restaurant’s training manual, that at some point you’ll end up confronted with a bloody, half-dead ninja in your door. But given how slow the past few weeks have been, coupled with the sheer exhaustion of dealing with the lunch rush and the dinner rush and the late-night somewhat-inebriated people rush, her guard is apparently down enough to leave her reacting with a simple, useless, “Oh god.”

“Tha’s my grandfather,” Lloyd says. There’s blood at the corner of his mouth — coupled with the bruising, Skylor thinks (hopes) it’s simply from split skin or a bitten cheek, instead of crippling internal bleeding. 

Crippling internal bleeding is enough of a concern to finally spur her into action, dropping her towel and rushing over to help Lloyd finish stumbling through the door. She spares a moment of thanks, that there’s even a door at all — repairs in the city have been slow, since Harumi’s brief reign of terror, and the insurance provider is still holding out on her. 

But the door was a good thing to prioritize, she thinks, bolting it firmly behind them. 

“Sorry, again,” Lloyd murmurs. His jaw is working in the tight way it does when he’s biting back pain, his bottom lip bruised and bleeding. Skylor’s stomach twists. 

You’d think, after all she’s been through, she’d be more accustomed to seeing the people she cares about in pain. That she’d be desensitized enough, to fight back the aching nausea and the gnawing desire to look away. 

Or maybe she’s just a coward. That would track, she thinks. 

“Shush,” she says instead, maneuvering Lloyd further into one of the nicer booths, careful of the blood that’s…everywhere. “What did you do to yourself this time, huh?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Lloyd grumbles, his voice steadier now that he’s sitting down. Unfortunately, he’s only paler under the yellowy restaurant lights, and the blood looks about ten times worse. “I just…slipped. A bit.”

Slipped. Skylor could smack him, if he wasn’t already hurt. 

“Lemme see, then.” She bends down to where she can tug the folds of his gi back, trying to trace the blood to a source. She finally finds it — an ugly wound in his left shoulder, several long gashes across his forearm. A knife, maybe. Possibly a sword, but it looks close-up and quick. It’d need to have been quick, for whoever was wielding it to land this many hits. 

Or Lloyd would have to be sloppy. 

Lloyd gives a stifled, shuddery exhale, a dangerous preamble to tears. Skylor pauses, just for a moment, and deliberates. 

She’s got Nya’s number, carefully keyed into her phone ever since she and Kai started visiting the noodle house. There’s no doubt in her mind that she’d want to know about this — and there’s less doubt that Kai would want to know. if anything, she’s surprised he hasn’t burst through the restaurant doors already, summoned by whatever sixth sense he has that goes off when Lloyd’s in danger. 

But Skylor also knows there’s got to be a reason that Lloyd came here, despite his claims. Just as there’s probably a reason he didn’t call Kai or Nya, or any of the others. 

And perhaps she feels just a little proud, that Lloyd’s chosen her to come to. 

It’s quickly lost in the blood that coats her hands as she begins patching the wound in his shoulder, but the feeling’s there nonetheless. 

It’s a nice feeling, being relied on. Being trusted. 

“Who got you this bad?”

She speaks up mostly to break the quiet. Lloyd isn’t quite like Kai, who likes talking simply to fill a space, but she knows he isn’t fond of silence, either. It’s one of the things they share in common. 

“No one.” Lloyd sucks in a breath as she draws the bandage tight across his shoulder, wrapping it beneath his arm and back over. His eyes close briefly as she ties it off, forehead scrunching up, before he lets out another shuddery exhale. “Some guy, uh — guy on the way home, near the subway. I had answered a call earlier, and I guess — ow, hey—” 

“Sorry,” Skylor winces, as she finishes dumping antiseptic across the slashes on his arm. “It hurts less if you aren’t expecting it.”

“That’s a lie,” Lloyd says, pointedly. 

She shrugs. “So, random subway mugger?”

Lloyd looks away, his cheeks darkening. It’s a relief, to see any color in his face at all. “Sort of.”

He leaves it at that, lapsing back into silence. Skylor looks down, focusing on the butterfly stitches she’s placing across his arm. Were it anyone else, she’d have panicked for actual stitches, but Lloyd heals with an uncanny quickness. She remembers Nya complaining about it, back during the Resistance — how Lloyd threw a fit when his skin healed over the stitches, and they’d had to cut him open all over again. 

She’d probably throw a fit of her own, to be fair. 

“Well, if you see him,” she says, reaching for the roll of bandages. “Point him out. I could use a punching bag.”

Lloyd’s lips quirk, a ghost of a smile. 

“Thank you.”

It’s quiet enough she might’ve missed it, if they were any further apart. Skylor doesn’t miss the meaning, either. She simply shakes her head, wrapping another layer around his arm. 

“I’m just glad you came to someone,” she says. “Instead of half-assing it yourself.”

Lloyd’s fingers twitch. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“Uh-huh.”

She can’t pretend she doesn’t understand. Her childhood is filled with fun little memories of patching herself together, hiding wounds from Clouse or her father in an attempt to convince them she was better than she was.

Not that the people Lloyd is hiding from are anything remotely like her father, of course, but there’s an overlap between people you fear and people you love, and trying to convince them you’re stronger than you are. 

“That should do it,” she nods to herself, surveying her work. She feels unusually proud of herself — Skylor’s never really stayed with a team long enough to have many chances to patch people up. It’s rarer that people are so open to her touching them, once they’ve learned what her power is. The ninja are an exceedingly kind exception, but it still makes her feel warm, being given this kind of trust. 

She glances up, eyeing her patient. Lloyd’s still pale, but it’s far better than the ashy color from earlier anymore. “Anywhere else?”

“No.” Lloyd stares at the strip of bandages across his arms, shoulders hunched over on himself.

“I have Nya on speed dial, you know—”

“Its just a few scrapes,” Lloyd rolls his eyes. “It’s nothing.”

Skylor sighs. “Lemme see.”

Lloyd grumbles, but he lets her grab his arm again, wincing as she dabs antiseptic over the smaller cuts. There’s nothing serious — just a few nicks and scratches, the kind you get from eating the ground mid-fight. He’s got one uglier scrape, but it’s about as nasty as a skinned knee, and easily eclipsed by the scar it bleeds through. 

Her fingers falter. She knows this scar — she was there when Kai struggled to patch the wound it once was, back on her father’s island. It’s an ugly, jagged scar, a testament to how Kai’s hands had shook as he’d tried to be gentle. 

In hindsight, it had been a terrible moment. Kai wasn’t sure if Lloyd had picked up the wound from the underground tunnels, Chen’s cultists, or his own brief slip into the madness of the staff. Lloyd wouldn’t say where it was from, even if either of them had been much for talking. And Skylor had been an awkward, purple-scaled fixture next to them, holding the medical kit while the others planned how to kill her father. 

And yet, it was the lightest she’d ever felt. 

Skylor bites her lip. 

She’s never told Lloyd, what exactly he’d meant to her. He likely has no idea, what he’d represented when she’d first met him. 

The son of one of Ninjago’s greatest villains — and people loved him. 

Kai loved him. 

If Lloyd could overcome the hurdle of his parentage and choose to live the way he wanted, if people could look past the dark stain of his legacy and love him anyways, then maybe—

He’d been hope, when she needed it most. And Kai had lived up to that hope, taking Skylor’s half-formed, frail dream and fueling it into a blaze.

Her eyes close, briefly, and she shivers. 

“Are you okay?”

Blinking her eyes back open, she comes face to face with Lloyd’s concerned expression. She shakes her head, looking away. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” Embarrassment pulls at her. “Just a bit of…aftershocks. You know.”

Lloyd frowns, clearly not knowing. “Aftershocks,” he repeats. “From…”

His eyes go wide, only for his expression to immediately crumple. “Oh.”

Skylor waves her hands. “It’s not bad,” she reassures him. “I can barely feel him — his power — anymore. Just pins and needles in my hands sometimes, that’s all. Totally…totally normal.”

She hopes. Garmadon’s power had burned, in the way bitter cold feels against your skin, so a bit of numbness is pretty decent tradeoff, if she says so herself. 

Lloyd looks down, expression shadowed and hidden. Skylor could curse herself — she knows better, than to bring up—

“Here.” Lloyd’s suddenly holding his hand out, looking at her earnestly. It’s an almost childish expression of sincerity, one that makes him look much younger — a little more like the Lloyd she met on her father’s island, who beamed when his father ruffled his hair. 

Her chest aches fiercely, and Skylor holds out her hand before she can hesitate. Lloyd takes it carefully in his own, and she watches in fascination as the low shimmer of green engulfs her fingers. Lloyd’s power is as gentle as he is — nothing like the ravaging purple storm that was his father’s. 

“Oh,” she says. “That’s nice.”

Lloyd makes a humming noise. “I’ve been practicing. H-his power doesn’t get along with mine, that much. So it kinda…makes room. For whoever’s stronger, at the moment.”

Skylor fights back a shudder. Realistically, she knows she shouldn’t feel ashamed, that Garmadon overpowered her — he’s Garmadon. The reminder of how his power felt still stings, though. 

It’s a reassurance, that Lloyd’s power is stronger now. His element, if you can even call it that, is probably the one she’s the least familiar with — she’s never tried to copy Lloyd’s power. She isn’t entirely sure if she could, or if she should. Dipping into Garmadon’s power was dangerous enough. Skylor isn’t stupid enough to pretend she has the willpower to meddle with the power of the FSM’s family much more than that. 

“It feels like cheating, kinda,” she finally says. “That fighting fuels his power. How are you supposed to fight back?”

Lloyd shrugs, letting her hand go. “You don’t. You get really good at dodging.”

Skylor leans forward, propping her chin up in her palms. “That’s stupid.”

“Well,” Lloyd’s lips twitch, just the slightest bit. “That’s Garmadon, so.”

His expression immediately fractures, and Skylor can spot the battle in his eyes as he tries to grasp for composure. Her teeth worry at her lip.

She should really call Nya, now. Or try to track down Kai’s number. Or anyone else — it’s nearly two hours past closing, the kitchen’s still a mess, and Lloyd’s blood is all over her dishrags. Lloyd himself is hardly in better shape, the ghostly pale of his skin reminding her horribly of when she first saved them from the Sons of Garmadon, and Skylor is—

Not enough. 

She ought to know that, by now.

But the fact still stands, that Lloyd came to her. A part of her clings to that, and another selfish, awful part of her, the part that festered on her father’s island for so many years, the part that still flinches beneath the weight of her last name — well. 

Misery loves company, is probably the best way to put it. 

“I should…I should probably get going,” Lloyd says, uncertainly. He doesn’t make any move to get up, though, still small and weary where he’s hunched up in her booth. 

Skylor stares at him, and thinks of sitting for hours on the edge of her father’s island, staring at the sun on the water until her eyes ached. 

“Hey,” she says, a bit breathless, twisting her fingers together. “Wanna go skip rocks?”

Quite fairly, Lloyd stares at her like she’s lost her mind. 

They end up on the rickety end of one of Ninjago City’s abandoned docks anyways, a mismatched selection of somewhat flat rocks spilling out of a Chen’s to-go bag. Lloyd’s left arm is tied up in a mangled sort of sling they fashioned from Skylor’s old sweatshirt, leaving him to turn a rock over in his right hand awkwardly. 

“So, funny thing,” he says. “I don’t, uh. I’m not very good at this.”

“That’s okay,” Skylor says, sifting through the rocks they’ve gathered. “I’m not, either.”

“Yeah?” Lloyd sounds hopeful. “I mean, you at least know the trick to it, right?”

“I don’t,” she shrugs. “I’ve never…I’ve never skipped rocks before.”

Lloyd stares at her. 

“It’s not that weird,” she huffs, fighting back the urge to hide. “I mean, I never really had the chance, but I aways thought — I grew up near the ocean, and all these lakes, so I always thought it’d be fun to, y’know, skip rocks, since I didn’t really have…anyone else, to…”

The rest of the sentence is about to turn even more humiliating, so it’s a relief when Lloyd interrupts her. 

“I haven’t either.” 

He immediately flushes. “That’s why I’m not good at it.’Cause I’ve never actually skipped rocks.” 

“Oh.” Skylor looks at their bag, then back up at him. “Well, cool. We’ll both suck, then.”

“How hard can it be, anyways?” Lloyd says, sorting through their rocks. “You just find a flat one, right?”

“Yeah,” Skylor says. “Then you sort of just, frisbee it. I think.”

“Hm.”

“You haven’t thrown a frisbee either, have you.”

“Oh, like you have.”

Skylor presses her lips together, snorting. “Was wondering when your snark was gonna show back up.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Do you not remember half the stuff that came out of your mouth, back at the tournament?”

“You would’ve been out of your mind too, if you had to herd the guys around then — also, bold words coming from you, ooh, how dare you call me a traitor, even though it’s totally dead-on—”

“That wasn’t even close to what I said, and also—” Skylor snatches a smooth rock before Lloyd can, hefting it up. “It’s not like I was gonna admit to you all I was a traitor. That defeats the whole purpose of betraying. Lying my way out of a corner was the smart choice.”

“You’d be surprised,” Lloyd mutters, as Skylor flings her rock across the water.

They both watch as it splashes sadly, sinking instantly like, well. A rock. 

“Okay,” Skylor cringes. “That was a warm-up.”

Several warm-ups later, neither of them have made any progress whatsoever, save to torment whatever fish are hanging out on this side of Ninjago City’s harbor with relentless rock barrages. 

“This is ridiculous,” Lloyd huffs, watching as his rock all but torpedoes into the water. “What’s wrong with us, that we can’t get one stupid rock to skip?”

“Maybe it’s in the wrist?” Skylor flexes her hand, angling it one way then another. She winds ups, throws the rock out, and — nope. 

“I think we’re getting worse,” Lloyd remarks as Skylor sputters, wiping the seawater that splashed up from her face. 

She can’t help but agree. They’re down to a few rocks left, and neither of them have made any progress, much less skipped a single rock. At some point, they give up altogether, seeing who can throw their rock out the furthest instead. 

“This one’s going…” Lloyd raises his arm, closing one eye and squinting as he angles higher. He finally pauses with his hand pointing upwards toward Ninjago City. “Right through that weird oval thing on Borg Tower.” 

“Don’t hit it too hard,” Skylor says. “They just got it back up last week.”

“I’m not hitting it, it’s going through it, weren’t you listening?”

“To you? Nah. I’ve heard you suck at public speaking.”

“Wow, after you forced me into the live broadcast and everything—”

As if to emphasize his distress, Lloyd takes a running start, hurling the rock forward. They watch as it arcs across the skyline, before plummeting somewhere in the harbor. 

“So close,” Skylor murmurs. 

Lloyd flops on the ground with a dull thump, legs sprawling in front of him as he leans back on his elbows. Skylor’s makeshift sling isn’t doing much at all anymore, though it looks like he doesn’t need it to.

That, or he’s hiding pain stupidly well. Which wouldn’t be surprising, if disappointing. 

“Defeated,” he mourns. “Overthrown by rocks.”

Skylor dusts gingerly at the ground before sitting next to him. “They sure got the best of us, this time.”

“Maybe it’s a learning curve,” he says. “That or we missed, like, the optimal rock-skipping development time.”

“Mmh. Maybe we need to recruit a teacher who actually had a decent childhood.”

“If you find someone, lemme know.”

They both laugh, breathless and hollow, because they’re not much else they can say, to that. 

Lloyd sits up suddenly, pulling his knees to his chest. His arms wrap tightly around them, eyes glued forward. Instead of asking, Skylor follows his gaze to the skyline of Ninjago City, the darkened scars left behind by Garmadon and Harumi painfully pronounced this late at night. 

It couldn’t have been longer than two weeks, could it? Their rule over the city?

It feels like years.

She can’t imagine what it must’ve been like for the others — can’t imagine what it was like, ending it. 

It pains her, but Skylor doesn’t remember much of Garmadon’s defeat. She’d thrown everything she had into controlling his power, and when it had snapped back on her, ravaging through her like a cloying poison, everything had gone dark and hazy. 

It kind of sucks, because she’d done all that just to miss the most important parts, but…it is what it is.

What she does remember, besides Nya’s steady voice and Dareth’s panicked yelling, is the blazing warmth that was Lloyd carrying her.

That and his painfully bony shoulder digging into her stomach. 

“I was trying not to get us crushed,” Lloyd mutters, cheeks turning pink. “Sorry my shoulder wasn’t up to cushion-y standards.”

“And I’m trying to say thank you,” Skylor sighs. “But seriously. Put something on those bones.”

“Meh meh meh,” Lloyd mocks. There’s a lack of his usual energy in the action, the dullness to his eyes only made worse by the bruise-like circles beneath them. But it’s still very Lloyd — a flash of the friend she knows. 

“I really do mean it,” she says. “Thank you. For carrying me out of there. For saving me.”

Lloyd stares at her with dark eyes. Not as dark as they were, back when he’d lost his power, but the glow is almost entirely absent.

“You shouldn’t—” he bites off, frustrated. He tosses the rock he’s holding, up and down. “It was never a question.”

He glances at her. “Besides,” and there’s the closest she’s seen to a real smile. “You saved us first.”

Not nearly soon enough, she thinks. 

She should’ve told him, should have asked — should have let him know how it felt to watch her father fall deeper into madness, told him what it felt like to lose hope — what it meant, to move on. 

To cut ties, before they strangled you. 

“How are you,” she says, as gently as she can. Then, because gentle doesn’t always get you through the walls they build— “For real. Not how people want to hear you’re doing, or the answer you think they want. How are you.” 

Lloyd stiffens. There’s a flicker of fear in his expression, his mouth moving on instinct. 

“I’m doing okay.”

Tremors lace through his hand where he holds the rock, shuddering fingers tracing over the rough surface. 

“Okay as I can be.” He looks down, the rock slipping from his fingers as his arms wrap around himself. “I know that isn’t the answer you want, but I don’t…”

He looks back up, the lights of Ninjago City misty in his eyes.  

“I don’t know what people want me to say,” he whispers. 

Skylor wishes he’d screamed it. Wishes he’d snap, wishes he’d find the anger where it simmers inside him and turn it outwards against the world, rather than violently projecting it inwards like a masochistic missile all the time. Anything at all, instead of this hollow brokenness. 

It reminds Skylor a bit too much of—

Well. 

“I know I — things are—” Lloyd swallows. He pauses, raising his hand to scrub at an already-bloodshot eye. “Everything happened so fast. It was like — like getting hit with a bus, then another bus, then she — put the bus in reverse and ran me back over, and I never really had the chance to…to…”

“To get back up?”

Lloyd nods. He picks absently at a bloodstained patch on the leg of his gi. “And I know that’s just a stupid metaphor, but getting back up is…it’s really—”

Lloyd’s pulling threads loose now, tugging hard enough that he’s likely to start unraveling holes in his gi. 

“Can I tell you something? Something that’s not…not so good.”

“Hey, you know me.” Skylor elbows him. “I’m an expert at not-good.”

Lloyd’s eyes are a little too knowing. “You’re really not.”

And she’d turn a mirror on him, if she could. “What is it, then?”

Lloyd looks away, one unusually-sharp tooth gnawing at his lip. 

“I know my dad — my dad I used to have — he loved me. I know he did.” Lloyd sounds, rather devastatingly, like he’s trying to convince himself. “But now that he’s…now that he’s like this, and after everything that happened, I almost wish — I almost—”

He cuts off, covering his face with his hands. “Never mind.”

Skylor stays still, her gaze fixed ahead on a dark spot in the city skyline. If it were her, she’d want—

Lloyd’s voice is a muffled whisper. “I wish he’d never loved me at all.”

Skylor lets out a long, shaky breath. 

Lloyd gives a dry, horrible kind of laugh. “That’s terrible, isn’t it? It’s so selfish, it’s — I’m a horrible person, for thinking that way. But it — it hurts now, to think that — that maybe, now that I’m different — and her — that even my dad—” 

“It hurts,” she murmurs. “To lose it. To think that it’s your fault.”

Lloyd brings his arms over his head, the bandages on his left arm a stark white in the dimness as he buries his face in his knees. Curling up, as if he can make himself small enough the world will finally forget he exists. 

Skylor’s…familiar. 

But then again, is she? 

She swallows. Her father was one thing, but if — if he came back now, after she’s worked so hard to move on — at the height of his madness, what would she do? 

She’s out of her depth, as she’s always been.

But there was a reason she answered the call so fervently, a reason she followed Lloyd without hesitation. Skylor doesn’t put much stock in the Green Ninja, doesn’t put much in any kind of prophecy. But she does care, very much, about Lloyd, and she thinks that’ll take her a bit farther.

“You know.” She looks down, running her finger over their last rock. “You were one of the first people that gave me any hope that I could change. That, uh, someone could love me.”

Lloyd startles, emerging just enough that she can see the green of an eye. “Huh? Me?”

She nods. “Back on my father’s island, during the tournament. I was convinced that…that after everything I’d done, with who I was, there wasn’t a chance I’d find someone who loved me.”

Lloyd frowns, lowering his arms so he can look at her fully. “But I didn’t — Kai was the one who reached out to you. He was the one that saw you. I didn’t…I didn’t really do anything.”

“Yeah. He did. But he reached out to you, first.”

Lloyd stares at her, eyes wide. Skylor smiles at him. “You were good. No matter how bad your family had been. And it…it had been okay, for you.” 

The mistiness returns to Lloyd’s eyes as he looks back to the skyline, his lip caught tightly between his teeth. 

“We’re doing okay, right?” Skylor pulls her own knees up to her chest. “You and me. I mean, we helped, a lot. We fought back for the city. You did a lot more than me, obviously, but—”

“Don’t say that,” Lloyd sounds pained. “Don’t compare it, like I’m — I do a lot more harm than good, sometimes.”

“You don’t say that,” Skylor snaps. 

Lloyd flinches. She bows her head, staring down at her feet. 

“We’re good,” she says, hating the way her voice wobbles. “We’re different.”

It’s occurring to her, how cold it is out here on the water. She hopes Lloyd doesn’t get home with a cold, on top of everything else. 

“We’re different,” Lloyd echoes.

“Yeah.” Skylor swallows. “That has to count for something, right?”

Lloyd makes a small noise, but it isn’t one of disagreement. There’s a rustling as he reaches for the bag, then holds out their final, sad rock. 

“Wanna give it the last try?” He gives her a crooked, half smile. “Make it count?”

Her fingers close over the rough surface, cold against the warmth of his hand. 

The brightness of the sun against water on her father’s island in her eyes, Skylor flings the rock as hard as she can, far enough that it’s swallowed entirely by the harbor darkness. 

If she tries, she can imagine it skipping, just once, across the freezing waters. 

She tells herself, it counts anyways.