#debates about posting this for a day and in the end I said f with it

[giulzart]

As I’m finishing working on the little comic I have thoughts about Violet so I’m ramble about her. I’ll put it under cut so you can ignore me if you want hehe

Violet is such a funny mess. She is usually chill and cool, throwing jokes and occasionally flirting just for fun. But then you put her in a room with Seven Lawless and she becomes the most uncool and not chill person in the room.

When she saw them in the crowd at the BTOB, in my headcanon, she almost stopped singing from the shock, but she got herself under control and instead her voice just pitched higher and got a bit nasally.

The only time she was able to be zen around them was when she first got to the party. It’s easier to pretend because she’s already in her persona. She does her best to keep it up and she’s surrounded by the band and that gives her more sense of security, I think.

After their post audition party reunion and the things Seven says, Violet looses all of her cool and her mask drops whenever they are around. She has three years of pent up anger, heartache and guilt swirling inside and with Seven constant poking, she can only take so much until she snaps right back just as harsh.

From then, she’s completely thrown off her game like:

Oh Seven is sleeping with Avina? That’s so cool and I’m so not bothered by that at all. Did I mention that I bunk with Rowan? No? Apparently I didn’t tell Rowan either.

Oh, Seven was probably listening to my -pathetic- attempt of a phone call with my parents? I’m so chill about that I bang my head against the ceiling cause I’m so thrown back I forgot i was actually sitting down.

Again, we’re doing our first official photoshoot, I literally spend my time looking at them like a fricking creep and of course they notice. And the moment we are close to each other, I can only make a stupid comment about how I like the scent of their stupid gum.

Violet turns into an idiot with a crush and she can’t hide it. At all.

I love it cause in my head she is quite good at keeping a persona, especially off stage. Like she keeps up a facade almost all the time (except when she’s with the band and Orion, even though she isn’t completely herself when she’s around him yet) and she’s the most herself when she’s on stage, funnily enough. But maybe I’ll get into that another time.

Also, I just love the exaggerated comedic reactions you can have. Violet is quite extra and dramatic so it fits. Anyway, I love my messy baby and I can’t wait to mess her up even more (affectionate) hehe

[hollandorks]

haven

battinson! bruce wayne x f! reader

chapter fifteen

Summary: After the sudden deaths of her mother and grandmother, y/n is forced to return home to Gotham…and to the man who broke her heart three years ago. Back in Bruce Wayne’s inescapable orbit, she vows to get to the bottom of her former best friend’s new cold personality. But Bruce’s secrets aren’t what she’s expecting.

a/n: Will I remain posting regularly? That remains to be seen by everyone, myself included....Because every single time I say something, I end up accidentally not posting for weeks. Anyways, enjoy!

Series Masterlist

word count: 2.7k

Two nights later, all Bruce could think about was that Alfred had been right. 

He should have told y/n the truth while he had the chance.

“Where are you going?” 

A full day had passed since y/n found the picture in the elevator, and she half-expected Bruce’s voice to be a dream when she turned around. She hadn’t slept much, except for a brief few hours where her body literally had shut down and forced her into unconsciousness. Fear was her constant companion, but now, when she turned to see Bruce standing behind her with his arms crossed, anger cut through the fog of fear like a spear of flame. 

She mirrored his stance and crossed her own arms. “I’m going to let it slide since we’re all stressed, but try to boss me around again and see what happens.” 

Both of their jaws were clenched tightly shut. 

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. She could practically hear the words come out of his mouth, That’s not an answer. 

“I asked Gordon to come up,” she finally said, caving, though the anger still simmered below the surface. The nerve that Bruce Wayne had to barely be home, to barely care about her, and still try to boss her around all the same. She was this close to punching him in the face or pushing him down the stairs. Or maybe she would pour ice cubes in his bed next time he was asleep. “And if you’re going to bother me every single time I’m next to the fucking elevator, think again.”

Bruce relaxed marginally, completely ignoring her barbed comment–which was probably for the best. She had no energy left to really fight, anyways. 

Most of that energy had gone towards a preliminary article she had just submitted about the Gallo family. She hadn’t released any details about her involvement with them, merely reporting the fact that they were trying to make a move on Gotham. 

She had debated doing the article at all. Was it better to pretend like nothing was happening? Was it better to keep her head down and wait for it to resolve itself, whether because of Gordon and the Batman or through the Gallos finally getting to her? 

But then she realized that the people of Gotham deserved the truth, or at least as much of it she could get away with. She was already a target, but she didn’t need everyone else knowing that. 

So she had simply decided to send an article to print that Gotham was on the brink of another mob takeover, just like all of the business with Falcone and Maroni and everyone else who had corrupted their city. 

If only half of the city shared her views, y/n knew that they wouldn’t be happy with someone else trying to worm their way into their city. Gotham might be a shithole, but it was their shithole. 

The moment she had hit send, it had hit her. 

She didn’t want to be a sitting duck. She wanted to do something about it. She wanted those bastards gone. She wanted the work Bella Real and the Batman and cops like Gordon had done in the last year to stick–or at least have the chance of doing so. 

She had called Gordon, told him she wanted to talk over some things, that she needed company anyways. 

And now there she was, staring down the man who had broken her heart, waiting on Gordon to arrive on the elevator behind her. 

“Gordon and I are going to have a private conversation,” she said pointedly as the elevator doors slid open behind her. 

“Y/n,” Gordon said in greeting, but she still didn’t turn around. She and Bruce were still in the middle of their standoff. “Mr. Wayne. Good to see you again, at least under more…normal circumstances than last time.” 

She raised an eyebrow at Bruce. She could tell he wanted to argue, wanted to stick around and stick his nose even further into her business. But after a long silence, he inclined his head and said, “Detective,” before turning and disappearing back the way he had come. 

Once Bruce was safely out of earshot, she gave Gordon her full attention and said what had been on her mind the past couple of hours. Or, if she was being completely honest, the past several days.

“I want you to use me as bait, and I don’t want you to argue about it. I want you to help me actually figure out how to get rid of these motherfuckers.” She crossed her arms again for good measure.  

Gordon sighed, long and loud. She expected an argument or a lecture or a combination of the two. But instead, all he said was, “We better bring our other friend into this discussion.” 

–

“Absolutely not,” was the very first thing the Batman said when she laid out her plan. 

“Yeah, well, as I like to point out to certain other people in my life, you’re not the boss of me. I’m going to do something stupid with or without your help, because I am fucking sick of this. Alright? I can’t live like this.” She shivered as a particularly brutal gust of wind cut through her. 

They were on top of the signal tower. She and Gordon had decided together that it was easier to smuggle her out than it would be to smuggle Batman in. Besides, she didn’t want those two parts of her life mixing. God forbid Bruce find out what she was up to. She was arguing with him enough already. 

Not to mention the fact that she didn’t want to disappoint Alfred, or cause him any more stress than she already had. 

The smuggling had taken a willing female detective–a nice woman in her late thirties name Lori Ayers–trading places with y/n. They were relatively the same height and build luckily enough, and Detective Ayers was already assigned to the security on Wayne Tower. An outfit switch, a fake detective badge, and lots of praying later, and there they were. Y/n had asked Gordon and Ayers if she could have a gun, but both of them had practically shouted no in her face. 

Gordon held up his hands, ever the peacekeeper. “Listen, man, I’m not saying we should put her in any unnecessary danger, but–” 

“The whole idea is unnecessary danger!” The Batman cut in. His voice echoed in the darkness of the night around them. 

Gordon continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “–but all I’m saying is that we aren’t any closer to catching these guys. None of us are. So if we can do something we know will draw them out…why not do it?” Gordon gave her a wry look. “And, like she said, it’s probably better to have us for backup before she does anything stupid on her own.” 

Y/n gave Batman a triumphant look as if to say See? I’m right. 

She studied him while he worked his jaw in annoyance. Was he sick of looking out for her? Because she was certainly sick of needing to be looked out for. She wanted to end it. 

“Fine,” he said, the word a growl he spat out. She tried to resist pumping her fist in the air, she really did. He gave her a Look with a capital L that had her lowering it immediately. “But let me just��let me follow this last lead, alright? If it doesn’t pan out, we’ll make a plan. Give me tonight before you do anything stupid.” 

She nodded eagerly. “Great, fine. I needed to get out of the house anyway.” Gordon was also giving her a Look. “What?” she said a bit defensively. 

“You’re awfully upbeat for someone who wants to offer herself up for bait to the mob.” He raised one dark eyebrow above the frames of his glasses. 

She shrugged. “Well, I have cabin fever, so this helped my mood immensely. Plus, the end is in sight. It’s about to be over, one way or another.” 

Later, when she thought back to that moment, she would wonder if she had jinxed it. Or maybe she was simply jinxed all along, one thing leading to another, leading to its inevitable end. Leading to the only possible way it could play out. Her luck, ever since stepping foot back in Gotham–and even before then, ever since Alfred had knocked on her apartment door–had been nonexistent. 

“One last lead,” Batman repeated, holding her gaze steadily for once. Something ran through her like an electric current at that look. Like he was trying to tell her something. 

“One last lead,” she said, crossing her heart for good measure. “I promise I’ll be good.” 

Gordon chuckled like he didn’t quite believe her. “Alright, let’s get back.” 

“I’ll follow you,” Batman said, interrupting her thoughts of how she was going to get Gordon to sneak her past Bruce and Alfred both. She hadn’t told either of them she was leaving, and she didn’t want to think about what they would say to her if they found out. It would only make her life that much harder. 

Her ride back with Gordon was mostly quiet. 

“Where did you get this fake badge anyways?” she asked when Wayne Tower’s doors finally came into view. She toyed with it, noting all the ways it looked like the real deal. Maybe she could hold onto it…just in case. 

“Confiscated it from a kid caught forging all kinds of stuff, including badges she used to get classified materials.” 

She. Interesting. Sounded like somebody y/n would like to hang out with. 

She didn’t say any of that out loud, however. All she did was hum and put the badge back on her belt. 

“And no, I won’t give you her name,” Gordon said. Their eyes met and they both laughed in tandem. 

“Fine, fine. I might be able to find it on my own anyway.” She winked. 

They parked in an alley where Gordon or the other detectives on stakeout duty usually parked. As they stepped out into the cold air, Gordon’s phone rang. 

“Just a second,” he said, stepping further towards the mouth of the alley. “I have to take this. Don’t move.” He pointed at threatening finger at her. She held up both hands in surrender. 

He needn’t have worried–the sound of an approaching motorcycle reached her ears as Batman pulled into the alley behind them. The noise reverberated off of the building walls for a moment before abruptly shutting off. Gordon locked eyes with him, inclined his head, and then answered the phone while striding towards the street ahead. 

“So,” she said casually to Batman as he stood broodily in the shadows. “Think I could have been a detective in another life?” She struck a little pose in her smart, borrowed business suit and trench coat, imagining the fake badge glinting in the low light. 

Batman made a noise that could have been a scoff or a laugh. “Sure, except you would have been fired for repeatedly breaking the rules. And laws.” 

She laughed delightedly. “You’re probably right.” She definitely had chosen the only profession that suited her nosiness and penchant for getting into trouble, something Bruce had pointed out years ago. 

“I’m definitely right.” 

They were closer together than she expected, the toes of their shoes almost touching. She wasn’t sure how that had happened. It was if they had both been drawn in by the other’s gravity, invisible and inevitable. He stared down at her for a moment before, of course, turning his face away. 

“There you go again,” she murmured as she memorized the line of his jaw. “Scared to look me in the eyes.” She reached out and poked his stubbled cheek gently. He froze, but didn’t make a move to step away. 

“I’m scared for you,” he said in an equally soft voice that sent shivers over her skin. “I don’t want you to have to offer yourself up. I don’t like thinking that I might not be able to keep you safe.” 

Y/n felt each of his words sink into her like rocks in a deep lake, sinking down and down and down until they settled at the bottom, heavy in her stomach. She was staring up at him now, their breath mingling, and he was finally, finally looking back. 

She opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out. 

Instead, she did the next best thing. 

She stretched up onto her toes and kissed him. 

He went so still she immediately knew she had overstepped–and had overstepped badly. She quickly pulled away, face on fire, eyes straining to find anything to look at other than the rejection in his eyes. Stupid, that was so stupid. Just because he wanted her safe didn’t mean that he wanted her to kiss him. 

But before she got too far, his gloved hand caught her arm and tugged her closer. And then he was kissing her.

She inhaled deeply, her stomach doing somersaults in a way it had never done before. She was flying above Wayne Tower yet still somehow firmly rooted to the ground. It was like she could finally breathe again and yet somehow she was gasping for breath. His lips were gentle. One of his hands cupped her elbow while the other splayed across her upper back. She wished he had his gloves off, like that moment in another alley on another night. She wanted to feel his skin against hers. 

Then he was gone, a full step away. 

She couldn’t help it–her fingers traced her lips in a daze. 

They were staring at each other, both breathing slightly heavier than they had been before. 

“Alright, let’s go,” Gordon called from behind her somewhere. She couldn’t bring it within herself to care if he had seen or not. Her and the Batman were still staring at each other, in their own world, a seismic shift between them. 

“Goodnight,” she said, her voice low and raspy with want. 

“Be safe,” was all the Batman said as he watched her go. 

Gordon didn’t look at her like he had just seen them kissing, but she felt as if it were written all over her face. 

“Crime never sleeps,” he said to her as they walked the short distance to the doors. His head was constantly swiveling, searching for danger, and she knew a certain vigilante was watching from the shadows as well. 

Her entire body was electric, every nerve ending on fire, heat settling in her face and chest and lower, too. 

For once, she wasn’t wondering about who the Batman was. Her mind had been rendered totally blank by one kiss. She wasn’t even thinking about how he wasn’t Bruce Wayne, like every other kiss of her life. 

Instead it simply felt…right. 

She blinked and they were somehow inside. 

“Blake, can you escort Detective Ayers upstairs? I have to go to a crime scene.” Gordon gave Blake a long, searching look. Y/n knew that the moment the security guard looked up, he would recognize her. 

Sure enough, he did. His face did something complicated before he realized what Gordon said and stammered out, “S-sure. This way, Detective, um, Ayers.” He hit something on the computer keyboard, scrambling, having to hit whatever button it was a second time. 

“See you later,” Gordon said to her, the words full of meaning. 

She turned towards him and nodded. “Goodnight.” 

It felt stupid, pretending to be someone else in the lobby of her home, but they still didn’t know who had breached security two nights earlier. She knew it was better to be safe than sorry, but Blake knew who she was. What was to stop whoever worked for the Gallos from recognizing her as well? She imagined their pub, Maverick’s, covered in hundreds of stalkery photos of her. 

Gordon waved over his shoulder as she and Blake stepped into the elevator. As soon as the doors slid closed, y/n relaxed a bit. Everything was almost over. 

And she had kissed the Batman.

A smile grew on her face before she could stop it. 

When she glanced up, Blake was watching her. 

His upper lip and his hairline were beaded with sweat and he was much paler than normal. 

“Are you okay?” she asked, wondering if maybe he was sick. Something in her gut shivered with warning. 

“I’m so sorry–” he said, the words choked. “I’m so sorry. They have my sister.” 

That’s when she saw the glint of a needle in his hand.

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[babydin]

Make A Wish - REQUEST

ANON REQUESTED: But what if Sarah never died? And Reader was married to Joel pre-outbreak but when the outbreak happened they (Reader and Sarah) got separated from Joel and he was convinced they had both died. But then they reunite in Jackson.

- Joel Miller x f!reader - 18+, minors DNI! - Joel is dad, references to violence, domesticated af, angsty, fluff, pre-outbreak, post-outbreak, time-jumps. - 2490 words  - Comments/likes appreciated. Requests are open! A/N: I had some song inspo with this one in the way of Zambezi by Rationale (released under Tinashe). I also headcanoned that the Miller brothers are (at least) half Latino seeing as they had two Latino actors play them. Fight me on it.

Do you remember the day the soldiers came with all their guns? 'Cause I remember begging you to leave my love, "Just run! Past the river, don't you dare look back for me my love. I will come. I will come, because you're the one."

 You knew what you were getting yourself into. Your mother thought you were insane but she didn’t know Joel Miller like you did. He was 4 years divorced when you met him with the sweetest little girl. He made it clear from the outset that he was a single father, and Sarah’s mother had left when Sarah was a baby and she wasn’t coming back “I’m tellin’ y’now because girls tend t’ cut an’ run the second they find out I’m a twofer.” he explained on the first date your best friend had set you up on. “Sarah is my number one, she is my top priority.”

You hadn’t intended to date anyone who ‘was a twofer’ as he put it, but the way he spoke about his daughter, and the way his face lit up when he did, you knew you wanted to give him a shot.   You dated, you married after two years of being together, and you had 8 years of marital bliss as a perfectly happy family before the world turned on its ass.

OUTBREAK DAY

You find Joel and Sarah in the kitchen making dinner. The Clash are playing from a vinyl record in the next room and they’re both so into it; You remember Joel telling you that Sarah had been a fan of the Clash since she was a baby.

“You should be sitting down doing nothing, birthday boy.” You tell him, swatting his rear end playfully as you lean over his shoulder to see what he’s fixing. Of course it’s a chili con carne; he was half Texan half Latino.

“And leave the cookin’ to you two? Yeah ‘cus that’s how I wanna spend the rest of my birthday… dead.”

“Hey!” Sarah drawls.

You pinch his sides and it coaxes a ticklish squeal from him.

Sarah goes to set the dinner table, singing to Joe Strummer's ongoing debate about whether he should stay or whether he should go.

There’s an almighty bang from somewhere and it’s enough to make Joel put his spoon down, “Sarah?”

You both turn around to go into the dining room but Sarah’s on her way back with a fist full of cutlery to ask the same question.

“What the hell was that?” Joel asked, “Did you drop something? Did something fall?”

Sarah shakes her head, her ringlets bounce as she does and her eyes are full of fear.

Joel’s trying to figure out if she means that or if she’s saying no because she’s scared to say yes. The second bang answers his question.

“What the fuck?” he mutters, and goes to the front door to see what’s going on. Sarah finds comfort in your arms and you rub your hand over her back and tell her it’ll be okay. You can hear commotion outside and you put one hand over Sarah’s ear and press her into your chest so she can’t hear.  You can hear Joel talking to the neighbors but you can’t hear what he’s saying, then suddenly there’s a PA urging people to stay inside.

Joel comes back after a few moments, “Military jets,” he says from the hallway as he makes his way back through the house “they just sonic “they just went supersonic, there’s somethin’ happenin’.” he doesn’t come back to you, he goes straight to the living room and turns on the TV. You don’t fully listen to what is said but you hear the words ‘risk to life’ and ‘infected’.

“Jesus fuckin’ christ.”

You jump nearly out of your skin and cling tighter to Sarah when the door bursts open and Joel’s brother Tommy runs through the house “Joelie! Joel!” He finds the two of you in the kitchen and then Joel joins you all.

“What the fuck is going on man?” Joel begs the question, leaning in to turn off the stove. The chili is ruined now, he’s sure of it.

“There are soldiers everywhere, they’re telling everyone to stay inside, but the infection is spreading like wildfire here, if we stay we ain’t got a chance in hell Joel, we have to get out of town.”

You feel Sarah’s body tremble and there’s a slight moisture that falls on your shirt and you realize she’s silently crying. If you squeeze her any tighter she might suffocate but you do anyway, just to try and shield her from the horrors that are unfolding. She had started calling you Mom when she was 9 years old, and you loved her like she was yours from the day you met,  “We can’t just leave. We can’t–” You look at Joel desperately.

Joel looks at you, and he looks at Tommy. You can see he’s torn, he needs to keep his family safe and right now he doesn’t know if leaving is the safest option or staying put is.

Should I stay or should I go? 

“Alright, let’s go.” He says finally. “Go upstairs, throw some stuff in a bag.”

“Hurry up.” Tommy adds.

  You punch him in the chest as you walk past him, holding Sarah’s hand to lead her upstairs to help her pack a bag. You try to keep her talking to distract her from the screaming, and the gunfire from the situation that has escalated outside, through the window you see a faint glow of flames and you wonder how the hell you’re even going to make it out of the town. It’s difficult for a 14 year old to whittle down the most important things in her life to one rucksack, it’s difficult for you to decide what from your 10 year relationship with Joel means enough to survive the apocalypse. Because that’s how it felt. You take your wedding photos, you take childhood photos from Sarah’s life; things like that can’t be replaced but other shit can.

You both head back downstairs and you throw Joel his bag. The vinyl has stopped and it’s now skipping but it doesn’t feel like there’s time to lift the needle. You just leave the house and cram into Tommy’s truck. Something down the street catches Joel’s eye and he gets back out again.

“Joel!” you and Tommy both yell at the same time Sarah cries out “Daddy!”

“I’ll catch you up!” he yells back.

“The fuck you will.” You mutter under your breath, getting out of the truck too, “Joel Miller!”

He stops and turns around, “Run.” he orders, looking over your shoulder at his crying daughter in the back seat of the truck, “I’ll find you.” he looks back at you, “I promise I’ll find you.”

There are soldiers surrounding you who start to scream at you to get back inside your house, their guns aimed to tell you that their threats are serious.

“I’ll find you.” 

FOUR YEARS LATER

You knew what you were getting yourself into. You knew what you were getting yourself into when you fell in love with Joel Miller and his four year old daughter. Your mother thought you were insane and maybe she was right. What you didn’t expect was for a bunch of mutant mushrooms to eat away at people’s brains and turn them into, well, there was no easier way to say it than zombies. You didn’t expect Joel to be missing, presumed dead, and to raise Sarah mostly by yourself. The people of Jackson were helpful people, they were in a tight knit community because they had no choice but to be. Where else were they going to go in a world of nothing? It had been four years since you last saw Joel. Four years, nine months and twenty nine days to be exact. You made a point to count the days because you didn’t want Sarah to ever miss a birthday. She was turning 18 now, and if the world was normal she’d be getting excited to make plans for college and register to vote - because Sarah Miller was very opinionated and had a good head on her shoulders, and she definitely would not have let her voice go unheard - but the world wasn’t normal. So you woke as you always did, tucked up together in a double bed, the morning sun illuminating the room with a golden glow and the two of you stretching like a couple of lazy house cats. “Happy birthday, baby!” You croak, pulling her closer. The older she got the closer your relationship became, it might’ve been pathetic but she was your best friend and you hoped you were hers. She wasn’t a child anymore, she was an adult (although it pained you to admit she hadn’t been a child for a long time). “Thank you.” She smiled sleepily and scrubbed her eyes. She wouldn’t have known if it weren’t for you counting down the days. “What’s your birthday wish this year?” You ask. Sarah sighed and looked over your shoulder at the photograph on your nightstand of you and Joel on your wedding day, six year old Sarah who had been a flower girl, tucked onto his hip as you all smiled into the camera. A perfect picture of a happy family. “Him.” It’s been the same wish for the last four years, and you wish you could fulfill it for her. “I know, baby. I miss him too.. More than anything actually. I don’t miss going to the movies, or grocery shopping, or parent-teacher conferences or any of the boring, mundane stuff that just doesn’t exist anymore. At least not in the capacity that it used to… I just miss him.” In an attempt to lighten the mood a little you add, “I made a cake for you last night, you want some for your breakfast?” “For breakfast?!” “It’s your birthday! And you’re an adult now.” The day passes by as the days often do, slowly and unspectacularly. On slow days nothing happens in Jackson, occasionally bandits come and try to raid the dam that powers the town but their missions are always shut down quickly by those appointed to secure it. You and Sarah are tending to the patch of vegetables you have in your front yard when you hear a voice from the entrance of the town echo “Stop right there!” Both of you look up. You can’t see what’s happening but you wish people would stop pointing their guns. You can only assume someone has wandered through the forest and found the town, the guard on the gate has stopped them in their tracks. Understandably, newcomers aren’t welcomed warmly in fear of infection. You see the person set down a rifle, and a backpack and their hands disappear from their side to, you assume, rise in surrender. You strain slightly and hear a gruff voice speak but you cannot make out words and no matter where you position yourself you cannot get a good look at the newcomer.  The guard yells for Tommy, who is always close by and your interest is piqued. You rise from your knees and your eyes scan for where Tommy is going to come from, when you find him you watch him, you study his face and you watch it fall. He points a finger at the guard, “Put your fucking gun down! Don’t you dare! Don’t you shoot!” he picks up his pace, he jogs, he runs. You start to walk and you hear a second voice yell for Tommy. It’s the newcomer’s voice. It’s familiar somehow. The two men come into view, locked in a tight embrace, you can only see Tommy but you keep walking towards them, you barely hear Sarah calling out ‘Mom’ from the swirling in your head. “Tommy?” You ask when you’re in earshot. The newcomer pries himself out of Tommy’s grip and his head snaps in your direction. A lump forms in your throat and your chest heaves so much you feel as if you could throw up. Joel. It’s him. It’s really him. He’s got flecks of silver running through his hair now, maybe a few more wrinkles. Patches of darkened skin from wounds he’s gained over the years, and a few small fresh purple bruises. You haven’t seen him cry since Sarah moved up from Kindergarten to big girl school and she was gone all day and he didn’t know what to do with himself. You thought he’d be better when she went from middle school to high school but he was just as bad then. But he was crying now. He was sobbing in such a way you wondered if he’d been alone for these years apart; you didn’t ask, it didn’t matter. He was here. You could hardly believe it. Your eyes filled with tears of joy; you had dreamed of the day that Joel might be returned to you, although you had given up hope of that ever happening, you had imagined yourself being the same sobbing mess that Joel was but you weren’t at all. Your body was vibrating with delight, and your smile was so big your cheeks were hurting. “Hi.” you whispered. That was all it took for him to drag you into his arms and squeeze you so tightly that it almost winded you. You took all of him in again, the feeling of his body against yours, his arms wrapped around you, the smell of him in your nose. “I thought I’d lost you forever.” he whispered, “I thought you’d—” he couldn’t finish that sentence, but you knew, because you thought the same of him.  “You said you’d find us. You did.” Us. Joel’s eyes open and scan the surroundings over your shoulder, you hear him sob and he pulls away from you and he runs towards her. His baby girl. Sarah starts crying as she jumps up into his arms, her limbs wrapping around him like a koala bear. It doesn’t matter how old she gets, she’ll always be his baby. You approach them and hear Joel whispering “Look at you,” as he brushes his hand over the back of her head, “my little girl, look at you.” Sarah dropped down so she could look at him too, your arms wrapped around Joel’s middle as he studied her face so carefully, his fingers delicately mapping out her features, “You’re all grown up,” he says in a chuckle, but with a hint of sorrow in his voice. “I wished for you.” Sarah tells him, her voice has more childlike innocence in it than you’ve heard in a long time. “Today is my birthday, Daddy. I wished for you.” Joel put one arm around you so he could embrace the both of you, “I always knew you were magic, babygirl.” “Are you staying here with us? Are we going to be a family again?” “No.” you answer before Joel does, much to the surprise of your husband and daughter, “Not until he’s had a shower.” Joel breathes out a sigh of relief and kisses your forehead.

[inkedtae]

iii. howlin’ ⇾ bgc. [M]

chapter three : ringin’, howlin’ ⤑ ❝ chan gazes up at you, eyes gleaming with that unidentifiable emotion as he declares, “i am pathetically in love with you.” ❞

⇽ prev. | masterlist 

⌁ pairing; alpha!bang chan x alpha!reader (f.)

⌁ genre; established relationship, secret lovers, werewolf au, soulmate au, angst, smut, 18+

⌁ word count; 19.1k

⌁ warnings; switch!chan, ass enthusiast!chan, big dicc!chan, (chan is also a total simp for reader), switch!reader, (reader is highkey thick/curvy), rough sex, break up sex, handjob, oral (f./m. receiving), degradation, some masturbation, daddy kink, praise kink, size kink, dirty talk, biting, knotting, hair pulling, choking, lots of cockwarming, spanking, cum play, a bit of spit play

⌁ 🎧 now playing... ✩

❥ prefer ao3? keep reading here

❥ a special thanks to fleur ( @editsbyfleur ) for making this lovely banner for me and to my girl jen ( @anobodyslove​​ ) for editing and beta reading this monstrous fic for me! you are amazing and i am so lucky to call you my friend 💕

You don’t want to open your eyes. Last night is a lump in your throat searing through all your emotions.

When you returned from Chan’s apartment, you debated about going out to get some air. There’s a twenty-four-hour convenience store just around the corner. They sell those stale honeybuns you like and piping hot tea that always burns your tongue. Sometimes it’s all you can afford, and life post-college is not as lucrative as you were once promised. Chan would always offer to take you somewhere fancier. You always refused, preferring the sturdy walls of the rotting convenience store. You wanted to go last night but didn’t want to risk him following you.

Instead, you laid in bed all night, folded into yourself and hidden under the sheets. You tried to stop crying, but every inch of you only craved him. Though you knew the party would prevent him from checking on you, a part of you hoped you were wrong. You hoped he took what you had said seriously, leaving the safety of Changbin’s room for yours.

He never did.

You coil into yourself again now, trying hard not to throw up. You swallow that lump thickly and take a deep breath. Everything hurts. All over, your body tingles with dull pain. Parts of you are shattered for not having been touched and others from being overstimulated. Your clit seems to be experiencing both, faintly aching. You’re not exactly turned on but not turned off either. The underside of your stomach cramps too, spreading a silent discomfort around your torso.

There is a little pounding in your trembles, heaviness to your bones. You can practically feel the energy drain from your body with every thought of him. He’s not here to cuddle you to sleep, to coddle all your worries away and soothe every twinge of pain. He’s not here to be yours. Why are you still craving him? You know he doesn’t deserve it.

You screw your eyes tight and allow your exhaustion to take over.

Slowly, emptiness consumes you.

— — —

Rain falls. You hear the muted patters against the window.

Chan loves the rain. He’d call you over and sneak you into his room, with snacks and a movie ready. He’d insist you sit on his lap or lay between his legs as he held you. He’d laugh quietly in your ear, lips tucked against your earlobe, during all the funny moments and hold you tighter during all the sweeter ones. When something dangerous flashes on the screen, he’d pull you closer. He’d never said it, but you knew he would never let anything bad happen to you. That little tug of your body towards his was proof enough.

Even with this faint pang of pain in your stomach, further soiling the taste of your own tongue, you still crave some chocolate-coated popcorn.

You slowly open your eyes. Light peeks through your curtains. It’s a bluish-grey, dimly illuminating the room enough for you to know it’s not quite the end of the day yet. You’re not sure how long you’ve been sleeping. It almost feels as though it hasn’t even been five minutes since you had fallen back asleep.

Unwrapping yourself from your sheets, you search around your bed for your phone. You can’t remember if you fell asleep with it beside you or if you put it  on your night table. You pat your mattress down around yourself, until you feel it wedged under your back. You pull it out to check the time only to find it’s dead.

With a sigh, you reach out to put it on the charger. The overdue stretch releases some of the tension in your fatigued muscles. You take it as a moment to lay back and further stretch your arms and legs out, slowly turning your wrists to crack your stiff bones. It doesn’t sound as satisfying as it feels. Your body isn’t as heavy anymore though, some degree of energy returning to you.

CRASH!

You sit up to the sound of  glass breaking. A flurry of whispered demands exchange between your roommates. It’s always something with them. If they are not breaking furniture, then they are rearranging it. You once walked in after work one day to find that they redecorated the living room to make a maze.

“It’s a livable maze!” Jeongin corrected, popping out from somewhere in the middle.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You can live in it!” Seungmin excitedly added, peeking out of the makeshift door they made. It wasn’t lost on you that they had used the clean sheets you washed the night before.

You crawled through their weakly structured tunnels, trying to convince them that this was a terrible idea the entire weekend. Minho eventually lost his patience when he stubbed his toe on the edge of the couch. He couldn’t see it under layers of wrinkled bed sheets. The maze collapsed as he walked right through it.

You rub your temples, drawing out of the memory. You attempt to calm yourself down with the reassuring fact that they are probably trying to clean and something must have slipped out of—

SMASH!

Twice in less than a minute is concerning.

Pushing off your covers, you scoot out of bed. You throw on a hoodie and some shorts as their hushed voices become sharper. You shuffle towards the door. Silence settles when you open it. A myriad of scents wash over you, intensifying the ache in your temples. Between what smells like baked cookies, you can sniff out the mixed scents of all your friends.

Your eyes take a moment to adjust to the light. You rub them with the heel of your palm when you pop your head out of your room. Seungmin looks down the hall at you. Still in his pyjamas, he hugs a pastel green mixing bowl against his chest, his other hand clutching onto a silver whisk.

“You guys okay?” you ask, voice groggy.

Seungmin nods, parting his lips to reassure you when you hear Changbin’s sing-songy voice instead.

“Good morning!” he calls, triggering a chorus of ‘good mornings.’ However, his voice carries on an all too long melody. A sudden thump silences him, not a moment too soon, giving your ears a second of peace.

A smile plays on Seungmin’s face, cute eyes gleaming with amusement before he corrects. “It’s almost five.”

Your eyes widen. You figured you were out for a while but didn’t think you slept that long. Have they been trying to be quiet this whole time or did they just arrive?

You shuffle down the hall to properly gauge who exactly is here,  nostrils too overwhelmed to distinguish specific scents.

The living room has been redecorated into a makeshift bedroom. With the couches pushed back and out of the way, Changbin and Jeongin have lined up four blankets and pillows as beds. You raise a brow and turn towards the kitchen to ask what’s going on, but your words get lost as you catch Felix sweeping up broken glass, Hyunjin washing dishes and Seungmin dumping a whole pack of chocolate chips into his bowl.

“Did I miss something?”

“You mean besides the whole day?” Seungmin teases.

“Or a comb?” Jeongin adds with a little smile as he walks by you to the kitchen.

Your friends snicker, their gazes lingering over your bed-headed hair.

On any other day, you’d probably tease them back. Changbin is wearing a shirt that’s two sizes too small and Felix obviously let his clumsiness get the best of him. The lingering ache in your stomach, however, dims your humour. You barely manage a smile as you grab a seat on the barstool, in front of the island.

Jeongin studies your expression, once playful gaze softening. He flashes a little smile when you catch him staring as if silently asking if you’re okay. It’s not like you to not toss a harmless insult back, or fall silent after receiving one. A part of you wants to tell him everything’s okay, but it will only pique everyone else’s interest and you cannot avoid all their questions or watchful gazes at once. Remaining silent might be your best option right now.

After returning the smile, you pull your attention away from Jeongin and onto Changbin as he seats himself beside you.

“We’re going to be staying here for the night,” he explains.

A chill runs down your spine. We? Who exactly is “we?”

Changbin… Jisung…

You gulp at the thought of Chan spending the night here. Smelling him so close, hearing his heartbeat through the walls… His voice and laugh are enough to make you giddy with excitement on a regular day. When you’re this frustrated with him, it only chips away at your confidence and pride. You’re going to yearn for him all the more. You won’t be able to take it, especially with this many eyes around. What makes it worse is the thought that if things were still blissfully uncertain, this would’ve been the perfect opportunity to sneak off together.

You take a deep breath as your friends slip back into their previous conversations and tasks. You just need to calm down. Maybe they might not have to stay and whatever the issue is with their apartment can get easily worked out. If all else fails, you can visit your parents for the night. Gaining some more distance from Ch— the situation might be best for the both of you, as heartbreaking as that conclusion sounds.

Stripping your tone of panic, you try to casually ask, “What happened to your apartment?”

Changbin exchanges a confused look with Jeongin and Felix. A little smile plays on his lips when he looks back at you. “Did you not hear what I said?” he asks with a little chuckle.

You look between your friends, realising they may have been talking to you this whole time and not each other. Even Hyunjin, mid-rinse by the sink, looks at you over his shoulder.

Eager to recover, you rub your eyes and force a yawn. “Sorry, still sleepy,” you excuse, “What’d you say?”

The guys seem to buy it– except for Seungmin and Jeongin. You never can get anything past your roommates, their gazes sharp and expressions blank as they study you.

“I was just saying Chan’s in heat,” he repeats.

Eyes widening, brows shooting up, you gape at Changbin. How is that even possible? Males cannot go into heat.

“No, he’s not,” you dryly chuckle.

“The blue moon messed with everyone,” Changbin shrugs.

“Sensory issues, irritability, impulsivity, overactivity, heat reversals,” Felix lists, disposing of the glass he broke. “Didn’t you see it online?”

An image of Jeongin breaking off doorknobs flashes before your eyes. He’s been having trouble controlling his strength, Chan once mentioned. Seungmin’s been up all hours of the night, with energy to burn. Felix and Hyunjin wore earplugs for nearly the whole week. Jisung and Changbin have been short-tempered, rough housing every chance they get. You and Minho almost passed out a few times due to scent exhaustion. And Chan— moody, impatient, suddenly intensely active — is now holed up in his apartment, suffering and in heat alone.

Is this why you’ve been aching? When you were researching mates earlier in your relationship, you found that if a bond is strong enough, you can subconsciously share emotions, even symptoms of sickness or heats. Your wolf must have known he was in pain, you realise. Your wolf sensed his discomfort, mildly experiencing his symptoms, and was trying to tell you.

You blink back tears, avoiding your friends’ gazes. Why didn’t he call? Why didn’t he tell you? Yes, you’re mad at him, but being in heat is hard— extremely painful if not properly tended to. If the roles were reversed, you wouldn’t even need to call him; he’d already be there for you. It doesn’t matter how upset he’d be, he’d drop everything to make sure you’re okay.

He should’ve called. 

Why the fuck hasn’t he—

“My phone’s dead,” you think aloud.

Maybe he did try to tell you but your phone’s been dead and considering you lashed out at Minho last night (who you still need to apologise to), no one has been brave enough to wake you up.

You get up, rubbing the smeared mascara and eyeliner from under your eyes. “I’ll be right back,” you say, making your way to the door.

“Where are you going?” Changbin asks. He stands from his seat with you.

“Um,” you hesitate. “There’s this drink that Chan likes. He told me before that it helps when he's feeling sick. I-I think they have it across the street.”

“Minho and Jisung already went out to buy him stuff,” Seungmin replies after putting the brownies in the oven. “You don’t need to worry about that.”

Great.

You should have seen that coming when you didn’t see either of them arguing. You keep your hand on the doorknob as a nervous sigh escapes you. “Yeah, yeah, that’s good,” you nod, pausing to swallow your nerves. “The thing is that I also forgot something in, um, the car— my car so I, um, I have to leave anyway.”

A nervous chuckle tumbles out of your lips as you open the door.

Jeongin leans over the island countertop to get a better look at you. His eyes linger on your bare feet as you step out of the apartment. He flashes a little suspicious smile, asking, “What’d you forget?”

“My…. charger?”

You catch them sharing glances.

They’re onto you.

You know it.

They know it.

Panic suffocates your chest, your heart pounding faster, working harder to calm you down. Maybe there was a better excuse to try, or a better way of handling this, but you don’t really care any more. Chan’s behaviour does not deserve your presence but you know he would never leave you aching and alone like that. He’d try to help any way he can, any way you’d let him. At the very least, you need to do the same, right?

I just miss him, your wolf whispers.

The conclusion loops in your head, festering your stomach with pathetic shame. You try to push the thought away, rubbing your brow and exhaling heavily but it continues to spew the truth little by little. It’s barely been a day and you’ve spent it sleeping because being this conscious means you have to be aware of just how far away Chan is and just how badly you want him.

“You can use mine,” Jeongin suggests.

You ignore him, already out the door. You don’t trust your voice not to betray you. The weight of it sits heavy in your throat already, clawing at your oesophagus. No matter how many times you try to gulp it away, it remains with the undeniable truth that you don’t want to leave him, that you don’t want to play a game of ultimatums.

The click of your apartment door shutting echoes in the hallway. You stare at the one across the hall, recalling the way you pushed it open last night after flirting with Kai. Straining your ears, you try to pick up the sound of his voice. You can only just hear the faint beat of his heart and the spray of the shower. You wonder if it’s breaking as much as yours.

You take a step forward.

How will he perceive you after last night, after he might have tried to call you? He’s stuck in heat, emotions awry and high. You don’t know if he’d be upset or relieved. Would he even want you here? Is this a good idea?

Your hand hovers over the doorknob.

You should at least try, right? You should walk in there and try to offer some help. Whether he takes it or not is up to him. As long as you did what you think is right, what he would do for you if the roles were reversed, then you can walk back into your room guilt free.

With a turn of the knob, you take a deep breath and open the door.

A hot wave of pure cedar and peppercorn burns your nostrils. Stumbling to regain your balance, Chan’s scent,  overpowered by adrenaline and drenched in frenzied pheromones, knocks you back. You reach for the door frame to keep yourself stable. An appetite for him grows, festering in the base of your stomach. Every inhale makes you clench. Your core, wet and aching, tightens and relaxes in anticipation as if preparing for his length. 

Heart hammering, you turn your head away from the apartment and take a deep breath. The scent is still thick, your attempts at avoiding it useless. It almost smells as though he hasn’t gotten off at all, still pent up with desire and frustration. Along with reversing the cycle, the blue moon must have strengthened it too, forcing a week’s worth of arousal in twenty-four hours. 

And it’s not going to get any easier standing here with the door wide open. With his alpha pheromones at their peak, you’re sure they’ll eventually attract someone’s attention.

Wiping the drool from the corner of your lips, you let out a shaky breath and quickly enter his apartment. You make sure to shut the door behind you, carefully leaning your back against it. 

He’s in the shower now, the muffled spray of the water greeting you. 

Good– it gives you some time to get yourself together. You shut your eyes and try to remember that you’re just here because it’s the right thing to do. This doesn’t change how you feel about the way he’s been acting. This doesn’t change how serious you were— are.

You lick your lips before a hushed profanity escapes you. Your chin is still wet with your saliva. You hurriedly wipe it away with the back of your hand, panting like a starved dog.

How the fuck am I going to get through this alive?

With the squeaking turn of the tap, the shower stops. Your attention snaps down the hall, to the muted sound of the glass door as it screeches open. You hear the drips of water fall on the floor from his naked body, the soft pads of his feet as he shuffles through the bathroom. If you try hard enough, you can catch the soft ruffle of his towel against his curls.

And then you hear it, a soft groan, a silent squelch. You push yourself off the door and take a couple of steps towards the bathroom, eager to hear more of his frustration and what it has manifested itself into.

You should probably say something, right? Announce yourself? He might be your mate, but eavesdropping on him getting off is still wrong…right?

“Fuck…” Chan moans in a hushed tone.

You clamp your hand over your mouth to hold back your own sounds. A shiver rushes down your spine. Brows furrowing, eyes watering, you press your thighs together. Feeling dizzy with lust, your knees almost give out. You reach out to the nearest wall and lean against it to stabilise yourself.

The bathroom door squeaks open and you catch Chan’s nearly naked frame through the narrow crack of the ajar door. His buff chest gleams with fresh drops of water, curly hair damp and pushed back. His scent is not only stronger now, but wet.

It is not the potent scent of arousal that shatters you, however. Rather, it is his swollen face. Dark circles, tear-stained cheeks, red tint of his pale skin, brittleness of his dry lips– he is broken. 

Your wolf shudders. Needing to shield him from any further pain, you want to wrap him in your embrace. You want to engulf him in your scent, knowing the smell of you will at least ease the tremors of his aching heart– you can hear it thudding in his chest, beating fast and almost uneven. You want to run your hands along his broad back and strong arms, soothing his nerves long enough to lay him down and finally relieve that throb between his legs. 

Your instincts rage against your stubbornness, brewing storms of guilt deep in your chest. You hold your ground, however, curling your hands into fists.

Chan takes one deep breath and snaps his attention to you. His eyes are bloodshot, drowning with disbelief and remorse. 

Your knees buckle, throat dry. 

While Chan is to blame for your drastic words, your chest still festers with guilt, knowing you haven’t made this any easier. You edged him last night, only to leave him blue balled and begging. You ignored him all day too while he suffered alone. Not even his hand is cutting it anymore, you realise, noting the abandoned attempt to jerk off a couple of seconds ago. This is your fault.

Forcing yourself to stand straight, you start, “I—”

The slam of the door cuts you off.

You stand still for a moment, stunned and confused. Sure, you didn’t expect him to run into your arms. Some relieved acknowledgment might have been nice though. Had he not been thinking about you? How else had he been able to get off? You remember the countless nights when neither of you could risk sneaking out to see each other but were rendered a mess of horny emotions. Chan would call you once he was sure everyone was sleeping. He couldn’t get off until he heard your voice.

And now, he can’t even stand to look at you, hiding away in a humid bathroom.

The click of the lock draws you out of your thoughts.

“What are you doing here?” he asks through the door. His voice is strained, no doubt tired from moaning and growling.

The thought of him doing so in your ear makes you tremble. Breath shaky, you inch closer towards the door.

“My phone was dead,” you begin.

His silence reminds you just how useless that explanation is without context.

“So, I didn’t know. I didn’t see your texts. Changbin actually just told me. They’re all staying across the hall, but you probably already know that,” you chuckle, twisting the hem of your shirt. “So, my phone died and I just…” you trail off, realising you’re repeating yourself.

You can hear Chan’s rapid heart beat on the other side of the door and his little huffs and puffs as he tries to calm himself down. 

Suppressing a defeated sigh, body now aching from the fragility of his voice, you shut your eyes and swallow thickly. You take a step closer, now almost pressed against the wood. With a part of your lips, you’re about to tell him you came to help.

“I didn’t text,” he admits in a mutter, voice heavy with regret.

“Oh.”

Maybe he doesn’t need you after all. Maybe you’re the one too attached to him and can’t let go. You could barely last a day before running back into his arms, foolishly thinking they would be open for you. Blinking back tears, you swallow thickly.

“I just didn’t think it was fair,” he explains. His voice strains, almost breaking.

You pause.

“You made yourself clear last night and you were right,” you hear him shift his weight before he continues, “I don’t deserve to call you mine when I’ve been treating you this way.”

Though you want to hate it, you’re relieved to find that your assumptions were wrong. Of course, you don’t want Chan to get hurt, but a little toxic part of you is almost glad your harsh words have made an impression. You’re glad you’re not the only one craving his presence and yearning for his touch, his scent, his being intertwined with yours.

“We don’t need to discuss that right now. I just came to help you through this heat. And—”

A muted growl cuts you off.

You can hear the pound of his heart clearly now, the rush of blood coursing through his veins as his wolf’s nails scratch at the door.

Shit, can he smell you? Is it driving him crazy?

You try to fight the silent satisfaction that beams in your chest, biting back a smile. Are you just that horny or purely insane to feel this much excitement about his torture? There’s just something about being in control and knowing that he needs you, that you are essential to his survival.

“I think it would be best if you left,” he finally sighs.

It would be, you should reply before leaving.

You just cannot bring yourself to follow through, let alone utter the words. There’s a muted twinge of pain in your pelvis and vague nausea in the pit of your stomach. The scent of his pheromones only intensify the discomfort in your bones. When you try to swallow your desires away, you feel a vacancy in your throat that just begs to be filled and tested by an all too wide girth. Your entire body craves the satisfaction of an earth-shattering orgasm spilling in your mouth, leaking from the corners of your lips.

Even if your life depends on it, you cannot not find the ability to leave. So, you latch onto that pathetic, measly reason that brought back you to his apartment.

“Would you leave?” You ask. “If I was in heat and you were upset with me, would you leave me here alone?”

Silence.

You merely catch little hisses followed by a thick gulp. He’s in unimaginable pain and would rather endure it than let you help him. Maybe your words have stuck; maybe he is really starting to believe you when you say you’re leaving. And being here could undermine it all, yet he doesn’t let it. He knows you were serious last night and must be considering your presence as obligatory.

And it is. But, you cannot ignore the lingering pain below your stomach and your wolf won’t let you forget just how much you love him either. He’s your best friend. He’s the person you feel safest with, someone who wouldn’t care about anger when he knows you’re hurt. So, even without certainty from your wolf that you belong together, you’d still find your way back to him.

“Let’s pretend everyone knows,” you whisper. “Let’s pretend we didn’t fight.”

“I want everyone to know,” he says, pausing to inhale deeply, “I—”

“Just open the door,” you plead.

The lock clicks, but the door remains closed. You hear a little shuffle, a nervous heart beat.

“Are you sure?”

“When it comes to you, I’m always sure,” you whisper.

He opens the door, peering at you from the crack. One look and he shakes his head, about to shut the door again. “This is a bad ide-”

You push it open with all your strength. He stumbles back; you rush forward. Arms wrapped around his neck, you press yourself against his wet body and let your lips collide.

Your heart raptures. His breath gives you life. The deprivation of his essence reminds you that you have probably found each other in every lifetime. Your love collides like planets, aimlessly floating, yearning to become one.

Chan cups your face, his hands shaky yet firm, like he cannot believe it himself but wants to. You can almost feel the ache of his body radiate onto yours. It makes you quiver with want as your legs press together.

His nose brushes against yours when he breaks the kiss, breath rapid and lips wet. He searches your eyes for even more certainty, desperate to ensure that this really is what you want. His gaze then flickers back to your lips.

Kissing him was a mistake, you realise. It was too intimate, too magical. You feel obligated to help him through this unusual heat in honour of your friendship and bond. And that should be where it ends. You cannot let yourself get lost in world-altering kisses.

So, before he can close the gap between you again, you dive towards his neck.

You planned to plant open mouthed kisses under his jawline as he flexes it for you. However, you stupidly forgot just how strong his scent is around his neck. It’s where the majority of it seeps out and intoxicates you. The moment your nose is smothered against his skin, you cannot control yourself.

Your eyes widen, pussy clenches as your arousal stains your inner thighs. Digging your nails into his biceps, you moan loudly and drag your tongue over his sensitive skin. He smells so good but tastes even better. You feel the vibrations of his growls against your tongue, eyes rolling back as your face flushes with pride.

Chan urgently pushes you back against the wall. You don’t have time to tell him that he needs to rest, quietly grunting from the impact. He’ll only further torment himself if he attempts to take control– you know from experience. 

In a breath, however,  he has pushed your shorts down and spread your legs, cupping your pussy. He chokes on his next intake of air and you’re not sure if it’s because of your wetness, or the intoxicating heat of it all invading his senses. But Chan is on his knees. He smothers his face between your legs, growling the moment the tip of his nose presses against your clit. The sinful sound of his slurping, the rushed drag of his tongue, makes you tremble. You tangle your fingers in his hair, resting one of your legs on his shoulder.

He grips onto your ass, pushing your pelvis up in his face. Starved, you’d think it’s been weeks since you’ve had a taste of each other and not mere hours. Shaking his head, he slurps on your arousal as his nose rubs against your clit. You squeal, toes curling. His warm tongue glides up and down between your folds before he latches around your clit. He harshly sucks, flicking it with the tip of his tongue. A loud moan tears through your throat as you throw your head back. He’s usually not this rough when you’re standing, knowing you can’t hold yourself up for very long. He doesn’t seem to care this time, even going as far as nibbling on the little nub only to lick the sting away.

“Ch-Chan,” you start, only for his finger to slide inside you.

“Cum on my tongue,” he mutters against your clit, voice raspy and slightly frayed.

You can’t find it in you to tell him to slow down. He’s the one who is overstimulated, cock painfully hard between his legs. He’s the one in heat. You shouldn’t be the one showered with attention this aggressively.  

However, with his fingers deep in you, slighting curling forward, you seem to forget how to speak. All you think about, all you feel are his long fingers, his hot mouth. You throw your head back. Your moan cracks into a high pitched whine as you cum. Body shaking, hips jutting out against his face, you gush all over his mouth.

Chan wastes no time replacing his finger with his tongue, reaching deep inside you to gather every last drop. He growls, sinks his fingers into the fat of your ass, forcing you to stay still against his face.

It’s then that you realise, while he may be aching under that thin towel and so urgently craves the comfort of your care, he needs this right here– your body, your heat, your taste. He needs to feel you melt in his hands, to react to his touch.  And while you desperately want to give him whatever he needs, your placating alpha merely wanting to satisfy all his urges, you don’t think you can endure another second of this overstimulation.

“Chan,” you cry, tugging at his hair to push him away. “P-please!”

He flattens his tongue and slowly drags it up your folds before finally pulling away. He gives you a second to catch your breath as he gets back on his feet. Chest heaving, he towers over you, chin and cheeks glistening from your arousal. His nose is particularly shiny from the way he shoved it against your clit. He brushes it against yours, hands gripping your ass. You catch a strong whiff of your thick scent. He spanks you, smirking when you whine.

You part your lips, about to suggest continuing in his room. You can lay him down there and ride all this frustration out of him.

However, Chan is not interested in leaving the hallway just yet. He pulls your shirt up and off then turns you towards the wall. You already know what he wants, having been caught between his frame and the wall multiple times before. His favourite position is your face against any hard surface, preferably standing, with your ass perked up behind you. Spreading your legs, you arch your back the way he likes and press your face to the wall. 

Chan lets a hard hand come down on your ass once, twice, lowly chuckling as you jolt forward and whine from the impact. He quickly rubs the stinging skin, then pushes your cheeks up to align himself. Lips attached to your shoulder, he sloppily peppers your skin in wet kisses and pushes himself in. You feel his jaw drop against your neck; the deep groan he emits resonates down your spine. You squirm, gasping from the stretch of his thick length.

You remember thinking you were so naïve for believing you can take him the first time he fucked you. He asked you if you were sure three times and you begged him to just push himself in already, not able to properly see him in the dark car. Your eyes rolled back, just like they do now. You lost your voice then too. It happens every time. Your pussy aches for it, but he always fills you more than you expect. You always think you’d get used to the stretch, the depth he can reach, to the mere speed he adopts. You never can, however, especially when you're standing. Your legs weaken, trembling from the stimulation. It’s even more exhilarating in the shower, all wet and slippery. Chan has to pay extra attention to keep you from falling, usually holding you firmly against him.

“Fuck,” he groans, lips pressed to your earlobe. He draws back a couple of inches and pushes into you again. Wrapping his arms around your waist, he must feel your knees buckle from the depth of his voice, the agonisingly slow progression of his thrusts.

“I can cum in you right now,” he confesses.

You pathetically whine, whimpering like wounded prey. “Please!” you find yourself moaning. “Please, daddy!”

You swear you feel his hips quiver before his thrusts snap into action. They smack against your ass, practically applauding your pussy. His moans fill the spaces between the claps, loud, feral and breathless. And with his lips pressed to the shell of your ear, you feel each wave vibrate down each vertebrate and settle into your bones. His gruff groans embed in your flesh like a tattoo, forever scarring you as his. Others may not know but, as much as you want to, you cannot deny that every part of you belongs to him. From the way he grips onto one of your breasts and buries himself in you, there is no denying he belongs to you either. And it makes the thought of having to leave him even more heartbreaking.

So, for the sake of his heat, you pretend you have been bitten. You pretend you have been marked as his mate, solidifying the bond between you and becoming one. You pretend you aren’t disappointed and let yourself sink into this feeling of finally belonging. Pushing back against him, you throw your head back against his shoulder and cry out his name. Your voice is practically a squeal, trembling and desperate– just how he likes it.

Chan cups your drenched core. A low growl rumbles from his chest and against your back. He smirks, your earlobe between his teeth as he tugs. The constant simulation gathers tears in your eyes. You shutter against him, scratching at the wall.

“Cum with me,” he whispers, voice raspy. “Cum on my cock, princess.”

Your moans cinch at the base of your throat. You screech as your orgasm tremors through you. Chan hums a pleased moan as you gush around him, pussy flexing with each wave. He suddenly keeps you extremely still, his finger still rubbing fast circles around your clit though. His cock twitches before unloading. You feel it move against your walls, his warm cum curling your toes.

His groans are loud and fraught. He pulls out only to forcefully thrust himself back in, keen on draining every drop in you.

You lean against the wall, limp. Breathes jagged, you try to push his hand away from your clit, the ongoing simulation proving painful.

“Stop squirming,” he gently orders, trailing sloppy kisses along your shoulder blade. “You’re going to fall.”

You can only manage a whine, nudging his hand away again. He finally yields. Your hips still quiver though.

Chan quietly chuckles against your shoulder. “You should have told me it was too much,” he murmurs, not nearly as breathless as you.

Your chest heaves. You shoot him a playfully pointed glare over your shoulder, sighing, “You can’t be serious.”

He just laughs, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He swallows breathfuls of your scent, allowing the familiarity and comfort of everything you are to calm his erratic heart. Showering you with small kisses, he mutters against your skin,“God, you’re so cute. Lemme carry you.”

“It’s oka– Ah!” you begin.

Chan pulls his still hard cock out, the spark of friction cutting you off with a gasp. His arms remain firm around you to keep you steady, and you don’t realise how weak your legs really are until he shifts back half an inch and you wobble against the wall. He carries you like a bride in his arms, smirking to himself at the damage he’s caused. 

Your inner wolf simmers with irritation, resonating a peeved growl from the pit of your stomach. His face glistens with your arousal, skin scenting of your peach, sandalwood scent, and he still has the audacity to smirk like he’s ruined you, as if a little buckle of your knees can be any indication.

“Put me down.”

His arrogance wavers at the sound of your velvety voice, at how it brims with authority. The playfulness that once twinkled in his gaze darkens. He tongues his cheek, like the rise of your alpha has threatened his own. Mischief now gleams in his eyes and drops you on his bed.

You squeal, bouncing on his mattress.

He bites his lip but chuckles anyway, tilting his head to admire your curves.

“I told you to stop doing that!” You want to sound annoyed, grappling for your previous control. However, upon the sound of his deep laughter, you cannot swallow your own. 

“You like it and you know it,” he replies, crawling over you.

You hate it when he’s right.

A comfortable silence settles as you lie back for him. His face hovers over yours, and your noses brush. He leans down to meet your lips and you turn your head. You feel his brows furrow against your cheek, his lips place a chaste kiss to your jaw.

Chan whispers your name, but you shake your head.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“I—”

“Please,” you plead, turning to face him again. Your attention flickers down to his lips. His hot breath fans over your face. “That’s not what this is about.”

Chan sighs, rolling off to lay beside you. “I don’t want to do this then.”

You sit up on your elbows to find him rubbing his face. His curls are still wet, muscular body laid out before you. You swallow thickly at the sight of his erect, pink tipped cock, glistening with your recent orgasm. When you glance back up to try to meet his gaze, you find he is fighting off a knowing smile, already staring at you.

“It kinda looks like you do.”

“You’re just as eager.” He says it like he has you figured out, but you weren’t even trying to hide it.

You rest a hand on his chest. He rubs your closest bicep, once firm fingers now so delicate on your skin.

As your hand trails down his abdomen, tracing every ridge, you ask, “Are you sure you don’t want this?”

He swallows thickly, throat bobbing. He moves from your arm to cup your cheek. He thumbs your lips, smirking when you lean into his touch. “Rest for a minute,” he gently commands. “I can smell how sensitive you are.”

You press your thighs together, biting back a hiss from the pressure.

He only smiles.

Then, his composure wavers as your fingers reach his pelvis, tracing his v-line until you reach his cock. His hips jerk at your touch. You’re about to giggle when his hand falls from your cheek to your neck. He glares, tightening his fist. You hold him properly in your hand and begin pumping him.

“Why do you always insist on testing my patience?” He asks, sitting up to tower over you. “Why can’t you just behave? Don’t you want to be my good girl?”

“Yes!” you beseech. Your voice trembles with desperation.

His gaze softens. He places his hand over yours, stopping your movements on his cock. “Babe—”

You shift on the bed, removing yourself from him. Chan sits up when you crawl between his legs. He pauses. Brows furrowed, lips in a pout, he tries again, saying your name only to be cut off by your hands on his knees. 

You push his legs further apart. 

His breath hitches. You watch lust cloud over his eyes as they flash a dark red. You scoot closer. Hand wrapping around him again, you smother your face against his shaft. You start at the base and inhale deeply. Eyes rolling back, you drag your tongue up his length.

His thighs tense, chest constricts with a sharp breath.

Lips around his tip, you suck the remnants of his orgasm and oozing pre-cum. A small ‘pop’ sounds when you pull away and a string of salvia still connects your lips to his throbbing tip. You pump him a couple of times, watching as he tries and fails not to squirm in his seat. He fists the edge of the unmade bed, face scrunched up in pleasure. You hold his wolfish gaze as you spit on his length, rub it against him and then dive back around him. You start slow, knowing oral with Chan is more of a marathon rather than a race. You have to pace yourself, take him in batches. Not only is he long, but thick too. He feels heavy in your hand alone, your jaw already aching.

He lets out a throaty groan. He pulls back your hair with both hands, tangling his fingers on either side of your head. Gripping tight, he attempts to guide you into a quicker pace. You let him, hollowing your cheeks and unleashing your tongue around him.

Chan throws his head back. He inhales sharply and hisses as he looks back down at you again. “Ah, baby,” he moans, petting your hair back only to get a tighter grip on it. “Mmm, that’s my good girl.”

He sounds needy already, claiming you in a growl. You feel the words rumble from his chest and against your tongue.

It spurs you on. You twist your wrist with every bob now, moving faster, testing your limits as you take more of him in. He moans your name and you gag. He tugs on your hair and you drool. When he shoves you further down on him then you’re prepared for, you force yourself to take it, violently fighting against your gag reflex. He trembles from the vibration, warming his cock a second longer in your throat before pulling you back by the grip on your hair.

You heave, tears fall freely down your face. Chan takes his cock out of your hand and smacks it against your tongue. Wet, it splatters saliva and cum around your face.

“Breathe, babe,” he quietly moans. You can only just make out a smirk through your watery vision.

You wrap your hand back around him and dive under his shaft. You take his balls in your mouth, catching the faint sound of his toes curling, and suck. Rotating your wrist, you jerk him off to the rhythm of your suction, tight and fast.

“You fucking slut,” he growls, eager to move your hair out of your face.

You moan at the insult, using your other hand to wrap around the base of his balls and gently squeeze as you suck hard.

Chan cums. It seems to catch him off guard as he jolts in place and gasps rather than growls. His thighs tremble beside you as another rope shoots out and over your back. You pump him faster, swallow between harsh suctions, and moan with him. The bed squeaks and shifts as he falls back.

You start to slow your movements when he roars, his alpha prominent in his voice, “Don’t fucking stop, you little cunt.”

Smirking, you resume your quick pace. Chan groans on the bed, humping your hand as his orgasm continues. He coats your hair and back with his cum a couple more times before he sits up again. He grabs onto your hair and yanks you away from his balls. They drop from your mouth with a wet ‘pop.’

That sound is starting to become one of your favourites, but then Chan croaks your name.

He leans your head back and replaces your hand around his cock with his own. “Stick out your tongue,” he orders, jerking himself off.

You do as you’re told, holding his gaze. His hand moves from your hair to your face. He caresses your cheek for a second, eyes darkening as his wolf shines through. He then holds your throat in his fist, groaning when you let out a frayed whine. He parts his lips to degrade you no doubt but gets cut off by another orgasm – courtesy of the heat. Cum coats your tongue, shoots around your lips and cheeks as it twitches frantically.

“Swallow,” he demands, the grip around your throat tightening. He smirks when you gulp against his palm. The sight of you being so obedient must have done something to him because another rope of cum shoots over your face.

You shut your eyes with a gasp. Your tongue swirls around your lips to lick off whatever missed your mouth. Chan lets go of his cock long enough to collect the cum over your eye and cheek. He shoves his thumb in your mouth, a quiet moan rumbling in his chest as you suck and swallow.

He repeats his actions until you’ve swallowed all his cum. 

The tip of his erection pokes your chin, summoning your attention. Ensnared by the heat, it pulsates against your skin, hot and needy. You recall all the times you begged him to eat you out when you were in his position just desperate to cum, cum, cum all over that handsome face. You’re not surprised to find he is experiencing the same thing, with his endurance strengthened and sex drive intensified. 

“Do you want more?” You ask, hoping to bait him into begging. 

He sighs, lips breaking into a tired smile. “Not here,” he shakes his head. “Stand up for me?”

“Say please,” you say anyway. From the way you catch a hint of his wolf’s intimidation in his gaze, you can only assume the mischievousness of your own has surfaced on your features.  

Swallowing thickly, he concedes to your alpha, muttering through gritted teeth, “Please.”

You smirk and stand. However, your reign of control flatters as you find that your legs are still weak. He put a substantial amount of his strength into his previous thrusts in the hall. While you can usually keep up, the spiked dose of testosterone due to the heat has amplified his power. 

He wraps you in his arms, pulling you into his chest, before you can even reach out to and stabilise yourself against the bed. He kisses the top of your head, the act no doubt out of habit, and you regret to find that you melt into him. He does it again, and again, guiding your bodies towards the door.

As you make your way down the hall, his hands run down your back before grabbing a handful of both cheeks. You bite back a moan, risking a peek up at him.

A knowing smile plays on his lips. And his eyes gleam with pride and adoration. His grip becomes soft, hands cradling you against him.

You flicker your gaze down at his lips, so full and sweet. You don’t realise you’ve been tracing them with your thumb until you feel the cold tile of the bathroom beneath you. The humid steam from Chan’s recent shower still lingers, dampening your skin.

“Didn’t you just shower?” You ask as he leans over you to turn the tap on.

Chan smirks down at you, tonguing his cheek when you stiffen at the proximity of his lips over yours. “Yes,” he breathes, making a point to fan his hot breath on your face.

You gulp, unable to avert your gaze from his lips no matter how loud you mentally shout. Digging your nails into his shoulder, you attempt to recenter yourself, perhaps even work up the strength to create some distance between you long enough to remember that this is out of obligation and nothing more.

“So why—”

“Because I fucked my hand thinking about you,” he starts helping you into the shower.

He falls quiet for a moment, watching the warm water spray down your hair, over your body.

You lean your head back, letting the water wash away the despair and anguish of loving someone who cannot love you. You run your hands through your hair. Your eyes flutter shut. You embrace the heat, the comfort of the thickening steam. He knows how hot you prefer your showers, and endures them even if they’re “scotching.” His skin would gleam a bright red once you’re done and he’d sulk about it until you kiss every last blotch. You’d tell him to just set it colder next time, but he never does.

You’re not sure why someone, who would burn for you, is so content with hiding you. If his love for you is so strong he can stand for hours under “scotching” water, why can it not endure the withering judgement of his family?

Chan traces the outline of your breasts. You look back at him, his touch drawing you from your thoughts. He cups them gently, thumbing your nipples.

“I want to feel you clenching around me this time,” he whispers, brushing your nose with his.

He squeezes once, twice, and by the third, he uses his grip to shove you against the wall.

You moan the moment your back meets the cool wall, arching into him to escape the cold.

“I want you against this wall,” he lifts your right leg to rest it over his shoulder, “folded all pretty,” he lifts the left to rest it on his other one, “moaning and whining, just like you always do.”

You whimper.

His lips hover over yours, breath hot.

You shiver against him, unable to escape the cold of the shower tiles now.

He makes this so easy. He holds you so close, rubbing his shaft between your folds, nudging your nose with his own. He peppers delicate kisses under your jaw. He grazes the skin with his teeth. His fingers dig into the fat of your ass, keen on holding you up. You almost lose yourself hearing him quietly moan against your neck. His lips are so close to your pulse, you can almost feel the vibrations of his voice echo with your heartbeat.

He makes it so easy to love him, it takes everything in you to snap your eyes open and pull yourself out of the familiarity of the act.

“Fuck me,” you whisper, voice smoky and breathless.

Chan pulls himself away enough to meet your gaze, noting the slight influence of your alpha in your voice. His eyes still gleam a deep red.

You stifle your dominant wolf for a moment, yielding to his, as you try again. “Please? Please fu—”

Your breath hitches, words failing, as he pushes into you.

Chan tries but fails to hide his smirk. He watches your face scrunch in pleasure, your brows furrowing, nose slightly wrinkled and jaw slack, tonguing his cheek to suppress a cocky chuckle. He can’t help himself for long, however, breathing a little laugh as he dips his head to lick the drool now dripping from the corner of your lip.

Barely holding it together with how deep he reaches already, you cannot resist the loud moan that tears through your throat at the feeling of his warm, wet tongue dragging across your skin.

Your toes curl, legs trembling already.

Chan notices, throwing his head back to allow a full-fledged laugh to echo in the steamy room. The vibrations resonating off his chest and against yours are not doing you any favours either, your orgasm already gathering.

Your face grows hot, eyes water from the sheer embarrassment of your pathetic stamina.

“Stop laughing at me!” You attempt to order. The words are frayed, however, croaking with the thick impression of desperation and amatory.

It’s enough to snap him out of his egotistic stance and ram his hips into yours.

You scream– You tangle your fingers in his hair, gripping onto his messy, curled strands and scream. The pressure of his girth pushing through your tight walls, pulsating. The speed of his thrusts, the slam of his body, hips moving out and up right into you, so deep, so—

“Not yet,” Chan warns through a rogue growl.

You want to obey, you really do. You screw your eyes shut, hold your breath, and even clench tightly, eager to keep your orgasm at bay. But all it seems to do is encourage it.

The force of his hips become so strong now, your legs begin to bounce further and further along his shoulders until they’re just dangling over his forearms. You try to resume the position he so keenly put you in but cannot find enough strength to hold off your orgasm and move your legs at the same time.

Chan doesn’t seem to mind anyway. His pace, his force, even his depth does not falter. He moves just as aggressively, determined to use every hidden inch of you.

Your whiny moans stagger with each thrust, each one raising in pitch. Tears sting your eyes again. Your voice breaks. Cedar wood and peppercorn, wet and thick, invades your senses as you gasp for a breath.

You meant to say something— maybe his name, maybe even the beginning of a sentence you never intended to finish. But your words cinch at your throat, your breath hitches and fails, and your voice hits an octave you don’t think Chan would have been able to hear were he not a werewolf.

Your orgasm gushes around him. You only just hear the wet smacks of skin on skin as blood rushes to your head and disorients your mind. There’s a ringing in your ears; your vision blurs. You feel so light, your head so empty.

Chan holds you up, engulfing your body in a tight hug as he continues. You’re not sure how long it takes him but he eventually finishes, shooting ropes of warm cum deep inside you. His head nuzzles deep in the crook of your neck, inhaling and licking your scent as he rides his high, using you like a cocksleeve.

Then, he helps you stand. Your legs wobble, sore, and he holds you close. For a moment, you forget where you are and how you got here, you forget the heartbreak and arguments, you forget the regretful realisations and troubled truths. For a moment, it’s just you and it’s just Chan, and it’s just another shower.

It’s just mates.

And then the water runs cold.

There is something off about the smell in the hallway. It doesn’t merely linger with notions of someone in heat. Due to the effects of the blue moon, Minho can detect hints of desperation, despair. It’s as though there’s a strong yearning in the air, salty like tears and bitter like sweat. He cannot pinpoint it to an apartment though, the scent flooding the entire floor.

“Chan needs to open a window,” Jisung mutters.

Minho adjusts his grip on the grocery bags. “Maybe he’s not the only one,” he wonders aloud. “We aren’t the only wolves in the building.”

“Why is the smell only here then? Why didn’t we smell it when we came in or got on the elevator?”

Minho swallows thickly. He has known Chan for almost ten years. And while Chan does his best to hide his burdens and worries, Minho can always tell when something is off. There is always a certain rigidness in his posture or sharpness in his voice. He doesn’t smile as easily and there’s a tiny yet prominent crease between his brows.

Given the effects of the blue moon, Minho can also smell it. He can smell anxiety, uncertainty, misery. He can smell hints of fear, desire, and something pure, something whole.

“I’m telling him to open a window anyway,” Jisung sighs.

“Don’t bother him. He’s going through enough.”

“It’s a quick knock,” Jisung argues, “I won’t even go in.”

Minho rolls his eyes.

The smell intensifies around the apartment door. Minho begrudgingly realises that Jisung might be right. Chan does need to crack open a window.

Discomfort brews in his chest at the fact that this also means that his friend must be suffering. This does not smell like the usual mess of chaotically erratic and eager nerves, though. This smells of pain, regret and… heartbreak?

What is going on with his friends lately? Chan is experiencing a soul-trampling heat. You locked yourself in your room since last night. And you snapped at him this morning. He noticed you left the party hastily last night only to rush back and hide in your room. He asked Kai what happened, having caught glimpses of the two of you dancing earlier that night, but Kai was just as confused. Worried, he gently knocked on the door to check on you, and you barked at him to get the fuck out of your room. In all the years Minho has known you, you have never once spoken to him like that.

Minho and Jisung share a look as they stand before the apartment door. Minho sets the bags down. Jisung holds his fist up at the door, about to knock.

“Chan! P-please!”

Minho stiffens. Jisung spares a sidelong glance at him.

Is that—?

“Fuck, I can cum in you right now.”

“Please! Please daddy!”

Minho can feel the blood drain from his face. “What the fuck,” he whispers, taking a step back.

Jisung’s jaw drops. He frantically points at the door, looking between the thick wood and Minho. “That’s—”

“I know.”

“With—”

“I know,” Minho repeats in a hiss.

He should have known, shouldn’t he? You’ve both been acting weird, disappearing at similar times, having one-on-one chats that seem to end the moment someone else walks into a room. Your behaviour yesterday at the dome was an oddity in itself. You drove twenty minutes to see him after you knew everyone would have gone. And the smell in the air when Minho walked back in there… God, were you two fucking in there too?

Jisung holds his head, eyes wide, breath heavy. “I need to tell someone,” he whispers. “I need to tell everyone!”

Minho snaps his attention back to Jisung, watching him pace by the door. “Are you insane? They clearly don’t want anyone to know.”

“But we do know!”

“And that’s why no one else can know.”

“But—”

“Jisung!” Minho whisper-yells, cutting him off. “What if that was you and, I don’t know, Hyunjin?”

Jisung pauses.

“Would you want all your friends knowing and talking about it behind your back?” Upon Jisung’s silence, Minho nods over to his own apartment and continues, “Now we’re going inside and pretending like nothing happened.”

Sighing defeatedly, Jisung shuffles towards the other door. He crosses his arms over his chest and quietly asks, “Can we at least agree that this is crazy?”

Minho rubs his face. “Sure,” he mumbles before opening the door.

The smell of freshly baked cookies and brownies only momentarily refreshes Minho’s senses. He reveals in this sacred second of serenity before the collided smell of his friends’ pheromones attacks once more.

“Jesus, shut the door,” Changbin whines, covering his nose.

“I prefer Jisung.”

Minho glares at Jisung’s stupid joke, closing and locking the door.

“Someone tell Chan to open a window,” Seungmin says around a bite of his cookie.

“He’s definitely opening something,” Jisung whispers under his breath.

Minho shoots him a cautious glare as Felix asks, “What?”

“Nothing,” Minho reassures.

Jisung rolls his eyes. He inhales deeply before walking over to where Felix and Seungmin sit in the kitchen. Minho carefully watches him, straining his ears to listen to their conversation.

“Well, did you?” Jeongin asks.

Minho turns to find Jeongin standing in front of him, a concerned look on his face.

“What?”

“Did you see ____ on your way up here?” Jeongin repeats. “She went down to get her charger from the car like twenty minutes ago.”

Sparing a quick glance at Jisung, Minho replies, “No, we didn’t.”

Jeongin rubs the back of his neck. “I’m worried about her,” he quietly confesses, “She’s been acting weird lately.”

“I haven’t noticed,” Minho lies.

“Really? She literally yelled at you this morning.”

Minho catches Jisung shifting his weight from the corner of his eye. Keep it together, he thinks before turning back to Jeongin.

“Maybe it’s the blue moon,” Minho shrugs.

Jeongin nods. He looks at the ground, rubbing down his neck to his shoulder again and again.

Minho bites his lip. He squeezes Jeongin’s arm and offers a small smile, “It’s going to be alright. She just needs some spac���”

“Chan and ____ are sleeping together!” Jisung suddenly shouts.

Everyone is on their feet, walking towards Jisung or looking at Minho for confirmation.

“What?”

“Where?”

“How do you know?”

“Where are they doing it?”

“Are you sure?”

“Guys, where are they doing it?” Changbin repeats.

“Why? Are you trying to watch?” Seungmin sarcastically questions. “Who cares where they’re doing it? Why didn’t they just tell us they’re dating?”

Changbin furrows his brows, shaking his head. “Someone tore my mattress and Chan told me it was a couple from the party last night.”

“Did he say which couple?” Felix asks.

“No…” Changbin trails off as his terror settles over him.

Trying and failing to hold back his laughter, Minho shares a look with his friends. They’re all failing to contain themselves, merely stifling their amusement and averting their gazes.

That bout of fear in his eyes morphs into anger as Changbin clenches his fists.“It’s not funny!” He insists, stomping towards the door, “I’m going to kill them!”

Minho tries to stop him but Changbin is determined to get through, pushing around his friends. He yanks the door open, stumbling back from the scent. He regains his anger quickly, however, about to storm across the hall when your scream, only just muffled by the door, echoes around the room.

No one moves. Not a breath can be heard. Whatever humour once lingered between the group of friends disappears.

Changbin slowly shuts the door. 

The lock clicks. 

He stares at it for a second longer before turning around and returning to his place on the couch, muttering, “I think they’re busy.”

“Maybe it’s not what we think,” Felix interjects, defusing some of the awkward tension. “Maybe she’s just helping him through the heat?”

“He did leave around the time she was in heat a few months ago,” Jeongin agrees. “He said something about a trip to the beach.”

“What does it even matter?” Minho wonders aloud. “Who cares if it’s just for the heat or if they’re dating or if it’s just sex or whatever. Who cares? Why would they hide it from us?”

Jisung shrugs, “It’s awkward to talk about. I mean think about it— they know what the other does when they’re about to… you know…” he trails off as a chorus of disgusted groans erupt. “See! No one wants to talk about that.”

“Don’t be gross, Jisung. No one but you is that perverted,” Changbin chastises. “It’s obviously about Chan’s parents. They have been on his ass about marrying an ‘obedient omega girl’ for as long as I can remember.”

“What century is this?” Jeongin chuckles.

“They’re purists,” he continues. “It’s a whole religious or survival-type thing for them.”

Minho hides his shock with a bite of his lip. He didn’t know purists still existed, much less that Chan’s parents are believers. 

“How can it be both?” Hyunjin asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Because they are not worshipping anything. They just participate in a ritual of ancient practice,” Changbin answers. 

When Hyunjin’s face still reflects his confusion, Felix explains instead. “You know how, like, no one can find a mate anymore,” he asks, continuing when Hyunjin nods, “Purists think that if they mate an alpha with an omega, they can appease the moon into blessing our kind with mates again. So, they don’t worship the moon. It’s just an ancient belief our ancestors had.” 

Hyunjin furrows his brows. “But what about people whose mates are not werewolves? How do they explain that?”

“They don’t,” Changbin sharply replies. Minho notes the tension in his shoulders, the disapproval in his eyes, and wonders how many times Chan has spoken to him about his parents. 

This time Chan’s growls, distant across the hall, slightly tremble the walls, only just cutting through the conversation.

Seungmin snatches his phone. Minho parts his lips, about to tell him not to call or text when loud music fills the room. It mostly drowns out the travelling sounds from across the hall.

Looking around the room, Minho shares an uncertain look with his friends. “Let’s just get through the night,” he calls over the music, “And talk to them about it tomorrow.”

This should ease his mind, but Minho is only left with more questions. If you two are together, why were you dancing with Kai? Is that why Chan left in the middle of his set or why you locked yourself in your room all day? Whatever is happening must be more than sex — or at least smells like more.

Minho crinkles his nose at the thought.

Chan lathers his shampoo into your hair, his fingertips delicately pressing into your scalp. He runs his hands through the strands when rinsing. He then drags a vanilla-scented, foamy loofa in circles around your torso, arms and between your legs. You hold your breath as he carefully avoids the apex of your thighs. His eyes ever-so slightly gleam maroon at the scent of your sensitivity.

You meant to tell him that he doesn’t need to do this. You are more than capable of cleaning yourself. But your legs still tremble and you find yourself clutching onto his broad shoulders in a weak attempt to stabilise yourself.

And he’s just so gentle. He cradles your body close, brushing his lips against your forehead. He holds you like you might shatter at any moment. He holds you like he might lose you under the spray of the hot shower, like you might dissolve between his fingers. Your wolf whimpers deep in your gut at the thought of losing this. You were missing his tender touch all alone in your bed last night.

Still, you refuse to meet his gaze. You refuse to be lulled back by the sight of those big brown eyes and red tipped ears. You refuse to forget that this is an obligation— (the word becoming meaningless the more you mentally repeat it.)

The water cools again. Chan reaches behind you to adjust the settings once more. His scent screeds from under his arms.

Breath hitching, wolf whining, you sway into him. Fuck, you just need an inch of distance to gather yourself. If you continue to nuzzle into him outside the context of a heat-fuck, he might start to believe that all is forgiven.

“I need to lay down,” you mutter, peeling yourself off his chest. His scent consumes you once more, only it's wet. It’s in the air. It’s dripping from his shoulders, his torso, his pelvis, racing down his strong legs. It’s intoxicating, breath-taking, you stagger over your next inhale, nails piercing into his skin.

Chan shuts off the tap. He maintains a hand on your waist as he reaches some towels. He wraps his thick, grey robe around your shoulders.

You regrettably meet his gaze. He’s tilting his head down, attentively scanning your features for a sign of discomfort.

If he had bitten you, he’d be able to read your mind and know that you are struggling to contain yourself around him. He’d know that you’ve been gripping, by the fangs of your teeth, onto your anger, your disappointment, your heartbreaking realisation that he doesn't love you.

“I want a regular towel,” you whisper as if hoping he won’t hear it.

Chan bends down to properly meet your tearful eyes. “Are you sure?” he gently asks. “You like how comfy my robe is.”

Correction: you adore how comfy it is. It’s like being wrapped in a cloud of Chan. You would often dream about that robe when trying to fall asleep some nights when you’re particularly missing him. You’ve stolen it all of three times, cuddling into it before he would come over and take it back.

“How am I supposed to get clean?” he’d ask.

“I like you dirty.”

You’re about to ask for a towel again but find yourself already stuffing your arms into the robe. You curse the muscle memory of being in this position countless times before. His scent completely engulfs you and you stop trying to fight it. If this is going to be the last time you wear his robe, or let him dote on you, then you might as well enjoy it, at least while you still can.

Chan ties it tight around you, letting you lean into him as he reaches for another towel to wrap about his waist. You make it a point not to look down, feign interest in the wall tiles.

You expected him to help you out of the shower. You just didn’t think he’d lift you again. The strength of his wolf makes it effortless, but you thought he’d be exhausted after cumming as aggressively as he did. You can still feel the vibrations of his growls echoing in your bones.

“I’m gonna ruin your sheet,” you try to warn as he lays you back on his bed.

Chan smirks, “Promise?”

You can’t fight off the heat that rushes to your cheeks. You sink down into his soft pillows, remembering their comfort on stormy nights when he’d sneak you in and you’d cuddle to sleep. Things were so simple then. A secret was just a secret. Sex was just sex. 

Now, as you lay on his bed, drenched in his scent with him lying beside you, you wish you could return to those moments where loving you was not a burden.

It was easy once, wasn’t it? You remember that it was easy for him to sneak glances at you across the room, and risk teasing you in front of the others. His eyes would light up when you enter a room. You always thought that gesture alone would get you caught. When did being yours become so hard for him?

How many times do I have to tell you I love you for you to believe me?

The question echoes, distant yet loud.

Did he mean it? Was it just another symptom of the blue moon?

Hints of vanilla body wash fuse with his musky cedar scent. The spice of the peppercorn and freshness of linens soothe you out of your anxiety. For a moment, eyes fluttering shut, you pretend this is normal. You pretend that you spent the night here, that the guys are in the other room trying to stay quiet while you sleep in after an eventful night with Chan. You pretend that you always wake up in his bed, stretch out his clothes, and flirt shamelessly in front of your friends.

For a moment, you were never a secret. You hold hands, share food, go on dates within the county lines and kiss in supermarket aisles. It’s just you and Chan. No one else matters.

Thump.

The front door shuts.

You rub an eye open, sitting up. The room is illuminated pink and blue by the triangle lights above Chan’s bed. A blanket drapes over your robe-wrapped body.

You look through the gape of the door to find Chan, in black briefs, pacing around the kitchen. You’re about to push the blanket off you, curious to see what’s going on, when he quietly enters the room.

“Oh, you’re up,” he says, offering a gentle smile. Handing you a bottle of vitamin water, he adds, “Did I wake you?”

You accept, careful not to touch his hand.

“How long was I out for?”

Chan shrugs, “About two hours.”

As you open the bottle and take timid sips, the robe that was once securely tightened around you, begins to drape off your right shoulder. You notice Chan staring over the rim of the bottle. He tongues his cheeks, eyes becoming distant in his usual unidentifiable stare.

His heat must still have a tight grip on him.

“You alright?” you ask as you cap the bottle.

Chan nods slowly. He then circles the bed to lay down beside you.

You settle back against the pillows.

“You always smell like jasmine, sandalwood, and honey,” Chan announces. “It bothered me so much when we first met. I would get so nervous around you. I thought it was my wolf protecting me, like it was trying to warn me against you or something.”

You remember that first week in the apartment. Chan always sat farthest from you. He avoided your gaze. He talked to you only when he had to and usually used your friends as messengers.

“Jisung told me you have trouble trusting people.”

“Jisung needs to learn to keep his mouth shut,” Chan jokes, tucking an arm under his head.

You resist the urge to laugh. None of this changes the fact that he hurt you, that he couldn’t even promise to tell your friends about your relationship. Even if he sees how wrong he is now, even if he apologises, it does not change anything.

You are still a secret. He is still ashamed.

Your wolf whimpers deep in your chest. You roll your eyes at it.

“Why are you telling me this?”

Chan sighs. You hear him swallow before he asks, “Do you remember when you started dating Jeremy?”

You cast him a sidelong glance, brows knitted in confusion. “You hated Jeremy.”

“I hated Jeremy,” he agrees. “I hated it when you laughed at his jokes, I hated it when he held your hand, when you hugged, when you kissed, even when you touched. It made me sick. I hated him so much, Changbin had to ask me not to go bowling with you anymore because I made him too uncomfortable. Do you remember that?”

“God,” you smile at the reminder, falling back into your memories, “Friday night bowling was insane.”

Jisung and Hyunjin bickered. Minho kept trying to do trick-shots, which never worked and always mildly injured anyone who made the mistake of standing too close. Changbin shouted, Felix danced, Seungmin playfully mocked anyone in sight, and Jeongin always missed his turn, too distracted by his friends’ antics.

Chan always sulked. He lingered behind Jeremy, watching him bowl and then made a comment about his form. You noticed that Jeremy always stiffened around him, but you thought that was a normal interaction when it came to Chan. It was how you often reacted to his presence. You always stiffened when he entered a room or deigned to share a few words with you. When he bowled, however, you froze and gawked at how he sucked his cheeks as he pondered or rolled his shoulders back before finally taking his turn. You hadn’t realised that you were reacting to the bond or that Jeremy was threatened by Chan’s overbearing behaviour.

One Friday, Jemery bowled his first strike and Chan flipped him off. 

“He’s just competitive,” Changbin had to reassure Jeremy. 

You coddled his ego all week, repeating time and again that Chan was just a protective friend.

“Friday night bowling was torture,” Chan affirms through a little chuckle, pulling you out of your memories.

You turn to him. He’s already looking at you. 

“Chan—”

“I didn’t realise how much I liked you until I fucked my pillow, thinking about you,” he confesses. “I watched Jeremy take you home one night and couldn’t stop thinking about walking over there and just pulling you into my arms instead. I wanted to kiss you in front of him. I wanted to bend you over the nearest table and show him how to properly fuck you. I knew from the way you talked back, he had no idea what he was doing.”

You bite your lip, pulling your legs closer towards your body.

Chan spares a glance at the gesture. A notion of a smirk tugs on a corner of his lips.

“I realised that all I ever thought about was you. You’re the only person I wanted to see. I would ask Changbin to check on you and stand nearby just to hear about your day. I felt pathetic. I even followed you around the apartment whenever you came over because I couldn’t get enough of your scent.”

You lick your lips, turning to look back up at the ceiling. “What do you want me to do with this information?” you ask, voice level, tone distant.

“I…” he trails off. “I just thought—”

“This won’t change my mind.”

“I’m not trying to!”

“It’s over!” you shout, sitting up as you look towards him.

He doesn’t move, jaw tight.

You sigh and dig the heel of your palms into your eyes.

“It doesn’t hav—”

“It does,” you cut off, sparing a glance at him over your shoulder. You rest your hands back in your lap, repeating, “We’re done, Chan.”

There is a beat of silence before he asks, voice raspy, “So, this is it? This is our last heat together? Are we even friends after this?”

Of course, we are, you want to say. You’re my best friend.

No one sees you like Chan does. He silences a room when you want to speak, he memorises your favourite colours, scents, textures and randomly gifts them to you. He’d send you things that remind him of you, once sharing a playlist he curated with songs he’d know you enjoy. Even before you started dating, he’d buy your favourite drinks and leave them in the fridge for you. He’d make sure you’re eating and even offer to drive you places. Though still standoffish, he’d let you corner him and talk his ears off about whatever bothered you that day.

“We will never stop being mates,” he adds in a faint whisper, as if thinking aloud to himself.

That sounds like your problem– the words are on the tip of your tongue, fuelled by rage from the injustice of it all. You’re the one who let me down first!

However, heartbreak arrests your voice. 

Do you even have the strength to be in the same room after this? Will you be able to look at him without your legs giving out?

Maybe you can try distracting yourself with someone else instead.

The thought leaves a foul taste in your mouth. You’re not sure you can stomach the scent of someone else. 

Oh god… what if he finds someone else….

You tremble, clenching tightly onto the blanket. How quickly will he move on after this? Do his parents already have another girl picked out for him? They’ve already tried to set up blind dates multiple times before. You’ve overheard enough phone calls between him and his parents to be sure.

“I see,” Chan whispers, taking your silence as an answer.

You swallow thickly as your eyes water. Shoulders slumped, head hanging, you draw in a deep breath, inhaling the comfort of his scent. The bed shifts with your exhale.

Chan sits up beside you. He brings a gentle hand to the small of your back. You feel the tips of his fingers trace delicate circles up and down, round and around your skin. And you hate how it makes your wolf flutter. You try and fail to fight the desire to lean back into his touch.

You meet his gaze, parting your lips to say something— anything, only to find tears gathering in his eyes as well. Skin flushed, lips full, wet and ears pink-tipped, he’s devastatingly beautiful. You wrestle every last nerve in your body to not take back what you said.

“I love you,” Chan whispers. His voice wavers with sincerity and regret.

Leaning in, you meant to only kiss him goodbye. You meant for your lips to momentarily press, and your parting to be official.

But those soft lips taste of his salty tears and your heart can’t help soaring from the bittersweetness of them. You break the kiss to lick at those tears again and again. You don’t realise you’re moaning until Chan pulls you onto his lap.

You straddle him because it’s muscle memory and nothing more, you tell yourself. You straddle him because you will never straddle him again after this. You straddle him to hold him close one last time, to feel his heart hammer against yours as your fated blood courses through your veins as one.

His tongue draws yours back into a kiss. You run your hands through his damp hair, gently tugging on his half-curled strands. He moans into your mouth like he did during the blue moon. His fingers press against the fat of your ass, pulling your hips down against his.

Hard, thick, his clothed erection rubs between your folds. You clench, instantly dampening the soft cotton of his briefs. He quivers with you. A deep growl crawls from the base of his chest and resonates against your tongue.

You can’t help your moan. You can’t help the jut of your hips towards him, again and again, chasing the opportunity to hear that growl one more time, to feel it.

He only groans, however.

Wolf determined, you pull off your robe. Chan breaks the kiss at the wave of your freed scent, now unobscured by the thick robe. He buries his face in your neck, sucking on the sensitive skin before grazing it with his teeth. His hands find a place on your breasts, cupping and squeezing them as you continue to rhythmically dry hump him. Cradling his head with one hand, your other drags along his back, leaving jagged, reddish lines in their wake. You then dig your long nails into his shoulder and steady yourself for a forceful thrust, putting your wolf’s strength into it.

Chan whines. He shudders under you, whining your name in a croaky voice that unravels something primal deep in your gut.

Your hips halt.

Looking down at Chan, you expect to find pride in his eyes. It took him a while to submit to you at the gym last night. He challenged every order, attempted to hide every shiver. Egotistic and cocky, he teased you for as long as he could. You expected him to be chewing on his lip to hold back a smirk, to be regarding you carefully, silently cautioning you from mentioning this again.

Brown eyes, big and round, sparkle as he peers up at you. His chin glistens from your spit, lips blotchy from your kiss. His ears flame red, shoulders slump as you graze them with your nails. His arms wrap around you, pulling you closer against him.

Defeated? Regretful?

You’re not sure what causes such a shameless surrender. And with his cock throbbing beneath you, you don’t have time to find out right now.

Lifting your hips, you order, “Take’em off.”

His hands tremble as he lets go of you. Confusion creases his features.

“What?”

“Now.”

Chan attempts to maintain your severe stare while looping his thumbs around the waistband to wiggle his briefs off. His breath hitches before he can kick them off his ankles, attention now consumed by your hand wrapping around his throbbing erection.

You thumb his oozing tip; Chan gasps.

You squeeze his shaft; Chan crumbles, breathlessly moaning your name. 

He grabs onto your thick thighs, nail-beds whitening from the pressure of his grip, and cranks his neck back to let your lips hover over his.

The suggestion of putting him in this position, at the mercy of your whims, was non-negotiable before tonight. He would have spanked you for it. He would have cuffed your limbs to the four corners of the bedposts and held a vibrator against your clit, teasing you closer and closer to your orgasm only to take it away when you were ready to let go. He wouldn’t have stopped until you were sobbing, promising never to bring it up again.

In truth, you would have only brought it up to receive a punishment that severe. You love the way Chan dictates order, commands control, especially when he wields it over you. The sheer thought has you biting your lip.

However, the Chan under you, allowing himself to remain locked under the cage of your thighs, fosters alpha tendencies buried deep within your gut. A pleased growl festers in your chest at the sight of him so willing, so broken.

“Where is the hard-headed alpha who wouldn’t let me tie him up?”

You don’t recognise your own voice, yet resist the urge to blink your surprise. You are well aware that it belongs to your alpha, but have never heard it sound so steady, so sure. While dark, the femininity of your voice cuts through like shattered glass— sharp and faintly lethal if injected in the bloodstream.

A trail of saliva leaks from the corner of his lips. You’re not sure he notices, or perhaps he just doesn’t care. He gawks at you, throat bobbing as he thickly swallows.

You run your free hand through his hair, softly scratching his scalp. You watch those big brown eyes flutter at the gentle gesture. Core clenching, you bite your lip to force back a moan.

Chan’s eyes snap open as you tug on his short strands. Astonished pride swims within his gaze as you stare him down.

“I-I just want whatever you w-want,” he finally answers in a breathy whisper.

“You’re the one in heat.”

“Not anymore,” he replies, shaking his head. “I don’t think so anyway.”

You hold his shaft between your folds, grinding against his length. Chan shivers, brushing his nose with yours.

“You don’t have the overwhelming urge to fuck me anymore?” You tease, pointedly nudging your nose with his. “Should I stop—”

“No!”

You remember that voice, that degree of pathetic desperation. You bite down on his bottom lips and pull as you align his length with your needy hole.

“Please,” he attempts to utter as you suck on his lip. You let go of it with a ‘pop.’ Eager to taste your tongue, he pulls the swollen lip into his mouth, eyes fluttering shut.

You tsk at him, lightly shaking his head with the grip on his hair. “There’ll be none of that,” you chastise. “Open your eyes.”

He wordlessly follows orders.

Because he’s been so forthcoming, and you really cannot deny your desires for much longer, you sink down on his cock. Exchanging breaths, you gasp into each other’s mouths.

Chan lets out a throaty moan when you completely seat yourself on his lap again. You can tell from the way his shoulders tremble, he’s doing his best to resist the urge to jut his hips up into yours.

As the neon lights in his room cast a reddish glow, the realisation of his beauty hits you all over again. His eyes sparkle with adoration, hot face flushes with desire. From his lips down to his chin, his skin glistens with unquenched hunger. 

You tease a roll of your hips.

He sets his jaw, rasping moans.  

You brush a section of his hair back towards his ear, the same way he often does to you. I love you too, you want to tell him. I love you so much, I’m debating on being your secret for eternity if it means I get to always be yours.

Instead you still your hips, resisting the urge to smirk when he quietly whines, and ask, “Did I ever tell you why he broke up with me?” 

Chan furrows his brows. “Jer—”

“Yes,” you quickly cut him off. “Did I ever tell you what happened?”

Chan shakes his head. He wraps his arms around your waist, smothering your breasts against his chest. He pecks the point of your chin and asks, “What happened?” like his needy cock isn’t buried deep within you.

You kiss his temple, petting back his hair before resting your arms on his broad shoulders. Then you rest your forehead against his, noses brushing, lips grazing as you confess, “I moaned your name.”

Chan blinks.

“I was trying to cum. He’s really sloppy and it was hard. My eyes were closed the whole time I guess,” you explain, voice shaking as his cock throbs against your walls. “I-I tried but I couldn’t stop thinking about you. It only felt bearable when I thought about you.”

His hips shift and you reactively clench around him. Chan groans, throwing his head back.

You whimper at the fullness, at the sudden onslaught of his scent seeping from his neck. Hands steady on his shoulders, you nudge him back onto the mattress.

He complies, unravelling himself from you to lay back onto his pillows. A smirk finds its way on his lips and he looks up at you.

“We should’ve done this more often,” he muses, tucking both arms under his head. “You look so pretty on top.”

Maybe it’s the overwhelming wave after wave of his scent, or that reawakened egotistic voice of his, but you decide that the time for words is over.

Gripping onto his waist, you lean forward and arch your back. Up and down, you bounce on his cock. Your ass smack, smack, smacks down on his thighs, pussy clenching around his thickness with each brush of friction.

“Oh my god,” you whine, letting go of his wrists to shift your grip up to his chest. “You’re so fucking b-big!”

Chan, hands freed from your hold, grab onto your ass, helping you find a steady pace.

“S-slow down,” he says, trailing his grip up to your hips. “I don’t want this to end.”

If you cum, you’d have to leave, you realise. Because this is over, this fuck will be your last. You’ll never get to revel at his size anymore, never get to whine his name or dig your nails into his skin.

You stop your thrusts and roll your hips around his.

Chan sits back up, pressing himself against you again. He hugs your waists and peppers kisses along your cheek and down your jaw. You write out his name with your hips as he licks at your neck.

“You misspelt my name,” he teases.

“Did not!”

“It’s a-n not u-n,” he corrects.

Putting your wolf’s strength into it, you grind harder onto him, respelling his name again and again. His legs tremble beneath you, growls turning into low chuckles.

Peeling himself from the crook of your neck, Chan gazes up at you, eyes gleaming with that unidentifiable emotion as he declares, “I am pathetically in love with you.”

You stop.

Chan holds you tighter. “I know it’s over,” he rushes to add. “I don’t deserve you, ____. I should have told them sooner. I should have told them when we found out that we’re mates. You shouldn’t have had to threaten me.”

You furrow your brows. “Wait,” you push his hair back to properly search his eyes. “What do you mean ‘told them sooner?’ Di-did you tell your parents about us?”

Chan swallows thickly.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does!” you shout, slightly leaning back.

The gesture causes his tip to hit a new angle. You cannot fight the strained moan that tears through your throat from the jolt of pleasure. You can hear him fight back a chuckle as he tries to keep you still.

“Do we have to talk about this now?” He asks.

Breathless, you ignore his question to pose your own. “When did you tell them?”

His cock pulsates at the new angle, making you tremble. This really isn’t the time for this conversation, but you don’t think you’ll be able to cum without this information.

Here you are, sitting on his cock for the first time, believing that it will also be your last. You are freely dictating your desires, allowing yourself to completely lose all inhibitions if it means you get to experience his cock before walking away from this forever. You’ve been wondering how to be friends, how to be around him after this and this entire time his parents knew.

You can’t continue without knowing how long they have known. Why did he let you believe they haven’t? Does he resent you for forcing him to tell them? Does he regret it?

“I called them after you left last night,” he confesses. “You were right about everything and I couldn’t live with myself knowing I have been treating you like shit.”

Tears gather in your eyes.

“I was gonna go after you but I got so sick out of nowhere. I wanted to throw up and eat my weight in chicken at the same time. Then I got so hot and cold. I couldn’t even move!”

You nod, knowing that feeling all too well. The tingle of your nerves, numbing your limbs the moment you lay down. Nausea overwhelms you and cannot possibly eat but you’re famished all the time. Clothes seem heavy but you’re too cold to lounge around naked. You usually become extremely active before becoming completely immobilised by your desperation to be filled though.

“That’s how it starts,” you confirm. The first week of your heat was jammed into a few hours for him. “You should have called me.”

Chan shakes his head. “I didn’t want you thinking I only told them because of the heat. You deserve more than that. You always have. ”

Swallowing thickly, your lips quiver as you ask, “Why did you let me end this? Why didn’t you tell me this when I told you it was over?”

“You were exhausted with me,” he shrugs, “and I wasn’t going to force you into something you didn’t want.”

His eyes water and, as he allows a smile to tug on the corners of his lips, you finally realise what that look in his gaze is. Once unidentifiable, you see it clearly for what it has always been: devotion, passion, worship.

You cup his face as tears fall down your cheeks. Chan leans in with you, eager to collide your lips. Your stomach flutters with delicate petals of heat. They bloom up into your chest, warming your body with a sense of comfort, familiarity and security. His tender kiss is a promise of protection, a declaration of devotion as his tongue glides along yours. You exchange breaths, share moans and grasp onto each other’s limbs.

Chan keeps one arm around you while the other rubs your thigh. You trail your hands from his face down to his back. As your hips begin to grind once more, you scratch at his back.

He hisses into the kiss.

You fight off a smile, arching your back to recreate that previous angle that made you breathless. Lifting your hips, you resume your shallow bounces on his desperately throbbing cock. His tip pushes against that soft spot deep within your core.

“F-fuck!” You whine, breaking the kiss to throw your head back.

Chan groans his pleasure and amusement. He drags his hands over the valley of your breasts before cupping your right one as he continues to support your back with his other arm. Despite his soft touch, he squeezes it firmly and sucks on your taut nipple.

His name trickles out of your mouth in a breathless moan. You sneak a glance down at him to find he is already looking up to you, the impressions of a smile on the corners of his lips. You push back his hair and he moans, vibrating his contentment against your sensitive nub.

“D-do you still want me to go-o slow?”

Chan releases your nipple with a wet pop. You tremble against him.

“I want you to bite me.”

You pause.

Chan tsks, and puts his hands on your hips. He moves your hips back up and down against himself. “If you stop again, I’m putting you on your back,” he threatens as he juts his own his up to meet yours.

Too stunned by his previous statement, you let him bounce you on his cock. You grip onto his shoulders, brows furrowed as you whine from the delicate friction.

“I can’t t-think—” you try to tell him.

“You don’t need to think,” he grunts as your breast brushes up on his tear-streaked cheeks from the force of every thrust. “Just bite me.”

You shake your head.

Those brown eyes are gleaming with notions of red. He’s drunk off the pheromones, possibly relieved by the fact that, based on your kiss, you are reconsidering the break up. He might even still be coming down from his heat. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.

“You don’t mean it.”

“Please,” he begs, voice breaking into a croaky rasp. “Please bite me, ____.”

Your breath hitches. You can feel his cock twitching. Is he just saying this because he wants to cum?

“Do it on my bicep,” he then adds, silencing your doubts, “I want it where everyone can see.”

You don’t remember summoning your fangs. However, judging by the way Chan doesn’t seem too surprised to see them, you assume your own eyes have been glowing red for a while.

“You’re sure?” You find yourself asking, gaze dancing between his left bicep and his face.

“A hundred percent,” he smiles.

You move your hair to one side, out of your way. Chan lays back down onto the mattress. You cease your thrusts to grind against him, recalling his previous threat. Grabbing a hold of his wrists, you hold his arms over his head.

Chan patiently watches you lean over him. Your heavy breasts jiggle against his face with every roll of your pelvis. The sight, the sensation of his thick girth pulsing against your walls for as long as it has, makes your toes curl. Remnants of the heat must be the only thing extending your stamina and endurance enough not to have cum yet.

As your teeth sink into his skin, a pang of euphoric anguish emits from your fangs. It resonates deep in your flesh, down to the marrow of your bones like the droning ding of a clock bell. All you hear is the hammering of hearts; all you see is the collision of veins, the entanglement of souls. You don’t mean to draw blood, you’re not sure if you’re even supposed to, but the taste of it solidifies authority over the foreign sensation coursing within your system.

Chan’s loud howl suddenly cuts through the powerful fog. His consistent withering beneath you pulls you out whatever trace you’ve fallen into. You retract your fangs to suck on the wound, licking away the blood as his wolfish genes quickly heal the area.

When you pull away, you find that you have stopped moving your hips, but you must admit that you are too consumed by the sight of the bite to care. Even healing, you can precisely make out your fangs between the other teeth marks now embedded in his flesh like a tattoo. It’s a pinkish red against his pale skin, blotching into a deep maroon as it attempts to heal.

His chest rises and falls steadily as you sit back on his lap. The jolt of friction between your hips snaps his eyes open. Red eyes meet your own.

Chan turns you over in a breath. He has you on your stomach in a blink. You don’t even feel him pull out of you. He just perks your ass up and shoves himself back in again.

“What did I fucking say,” he growls smacking your ass, “about stopping, you little slut?”

You whimper, wolfish nails tearing through his sheets. I was biting you, you want to shout. You were making sure he didn't bleed out. You don’t even remember stopping.

However, his thrusts are too forceful. He’s fucking the words right out of your mind.

Eyes rolling back, your body quakes. The knot in the base of your stomach, twisting and gnawing at you with every grind you previously rolled now becomes undeniably prominent. It grows as you moan, as he groans, craving—

“More please,” you weep, cheek smothered into the mess of pillows beneath you. “I-I need more!”

Chan tangles his fist in your hair. He uses his new grip to pull your back into his chest. One arm wraps around your middle, keeping you steady as he continues to pound into you. His other hand gathers your hair away from your shoulder. Lips soft, he kisses the nape of your neck.

You whimper, fangs poking out from your lips.

Maybe it's the smack of your ass against his hips, the wet squelch of your wetness, the thick scent of your sex, the heat of his breath on your sweaty skin. Maybe it’s the way he growls your name like a pitiful worshipper, thanking their lord for a blessing.

Whatever it may be, it manifests something primitive and carnal within him to snap.

And then you feel it— the blissful sting of a bite.

In the crook of where your neck meets your shoulder, Chan sinks his fangs into your skin. Where biting invoked sovereignty, being bitten provokes subjugation. An ache of euphoric agony pulsates from the infected area. Your muscles contract and relax with every breath Chan takes, your body submitting to the will of his. Your system almost resets as if a wave of ice water has splashed over your nerves. Heartbeat hammers, blood rushes to his pace, fogging your senses with him, him, him.

Chan retracts his fangs, licking the wound as you whimper in his arms.

You don’t realise you’re falling face first back into the bed until Chan readjusts his grip around your waist. He kisses the stinging bite wound, shushing you between your tremors and whines.

You wonder if you just came, the high of your climax rushing to your head and smothering your senses. You grip onto the rails of the bed frame, which were once knocking against the wall from the force of his hips, and sob his name between moans.

“It will hurt more if you don’t stay still,” Chan whispers, pulling you back into his chest.

The fullness of your core finally registers. You didn’t cum once, but twice. Chan had already cum with you, perhaps while he was biting you. And now you are locked in this position, both exhausted and weak, because he’s knotting.

You’ve never knotted, not with Chan, not with anyone. You thought it was as rare as finding a mate, knowing it does not occur unless both wolves are deeply connected and in the throes of their most primal instincts. 

“H-how long—”

“Just started,” he cuts you off, lips pressed against your neck.

“Is it supposed to hurt this much?” You ask, voice frail.

You feel Chan nod behind you as he inhales breath-fulls of your scent.

“I think so,” he groans. He rubs around your breasts to help soothe your trembles. “Just relax, baby.”

“You first,” you joke.

Chan breathes a laugh, summoning a smile to your lips. 

A comfortable silence settles over you. You want to turn to look at him, to press your forehead against his and stare into those dark, maroon eyes as he throbs and throbs and throbs against your sensitive walls. But even breathing sends sparks of lightning pain through your pelvis. All you can do is lean back into him as he licks and kisses your bite wound. 

“It already looks so pretty,” he whispers between wet kisses. 

You quietly moan before replying, “You didn’t let me get a good look at yours.” 

“Yeah, well you edged me last night,” he argues, “and warmed my cock for nearly fifteen minutes just now.”

“You were being cryptic,” you chuckle, only to quietly hiss at another pang of pain.

Though he’s smiling against you, Chan attempts to soothe you. He kisses behind your ear, tightens his grip around your waist, and gently rubs his thumbs against your skin.

You allow his scent lull you into steady, full breathes, and distract you from the faint stimulation of his pulsating cock deep inside you. Eventually, the twisting pressure against your walls gradually relaxes. A relieved sigh escapes you as your shoulders slump.

Chan swallows thickly. He takes his time pulling himself out of you and guiding you back onto the bed.

You clutch onto the soft comforter, curling your knees into your chest. Your bones still tremble, muscles still stiff and worn. The bed shifts behind you. You hear a shuffle of the sheets before a blanket drapes over your shaking frame.

Chan wraps his arm around you, pulling himself closer. “I will love you for eternity,” he sighs, kissing the bite wound. Then, in a near whisper, he promises, “I’ll make sure everyone knows it.” 

There is no room for doubt in his tone, words definitive. 

You rest your hand over his. Chests raising and falling in tandem, you reply, “That’s all I ever wanted.”

— — —

It smells of coffee and brunt blueberry pancakes. You wrinkle your nose, eyes squinting open.

Bright sunlight peaks into the room. A light breeze blows through the curtains. Sitting up, you look around at the torn mattress and sheets beside you. Despite the state of the bed, however, the room is tidy with your clothes folded neatly on Chan’s desk chair. A little smile plays on your lips. It’s just like him to clean up after a rough night.

Heavy breathes, hasty touches and whispered confessions, last night resurfaces to the forefront of your mind. You drift between contentment and relief at the memories. Reaching back, you graze your fingers over the wound. The indents of his teeth are still prominent and slightly tender to the touch. There is an obvious dip where his fangs pierced through skin. A part of you thought it must have been a dream, so you brush your fingers over the bite again and again. 

Still, it remains, faintly painful and heavy with promise.

You stand up, despite your stiff muscles and sore legs, to examine it through the mirror.

“I don’t want to discuss this anymore,” you hear Chan sigh in the other room.

Rubbing your eyes, you reach over to the chair for your clothes. You open the bedroom door while putting on your hoodie, expecting to be greeted with light notions of your chaotic scents from last night. However, with every window in the apartment open, candles lit and the smell of breakfast on the stove, you can barely make out Chan’s scent alone.

“Whatever,” Chan mutters as you shuffle down the hallway.

His bare back greets you, standing over the stove. He hangs up his phone, tossing it aside as he tends to his over cooked pancakes. 

Though you are sure you know, you still ask, “Who was that?”

Chan turns to face you, a sweet smile hovering over his lips once he takes in your dishevelled frame. “Not important,” he shrugs. 

You chew on your lip, twirling the hem of your shirt, before asking, “How upset are they?”

He lets out a little sigh. Turning back to the stove, he flips the last of the blueberry pancakes onto their plate then switches the stove off. You watch his back flex with each tense movement as he tries to gather his thoughts. You know this is serious, but you can’t help getting lost in his muscles. 

Then you notice it– the fanged wound on his bicep. Your knees buckle, breath hitches at the sight.

Chan snaps his attention back to you at the fraught sound, brows furrowed. It takes him a minute, but his eyes soon lock on the crook of your neck. A little knowing smile tugs on his lips. Exhaling deeply, he then confesses, “They’re furious,” he slides the finished plate on the kitchen island, “but I think it’s mostly because I avoided their calls yesterday.”

You’re not so sure that’s true. 

You don’t know Chan’s parents very well, but remember running into his mother for the first time a couple of years ago. She was dropping off a box of his old swim medals, chatting with him and Changbin in the living room. You came over to borrow Changbin’s foam roller. Your muscles had been particularly stiff that weekend and he told you to come by and grab it when you had time. It took all over two minutes but felt so much longer. The moment you walked in, Chris stopped talking mid-sentence and stared at you. 

“Oh, sorry,” you nervously chuckled. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” 

“What did I tell you about apologising?” Chan asked, voice strained but firm. 

His mother blinked at him. 

Changbin rolled his eyes. He, like that rest of your friends, has gotten used to Chan’s abruptness with you. If anything, that was Chan being polite. 

“It’s in my room,” he said, nodding towards the hall. “Please don’t touch anything else.”

You hurried to grab the roller, the muted shuffles of your steps so loud against the silence of the living room. When you emerged from the hall again, Chan was already staring, as if he followed your frame to and from Changbin’s room. 

His mother was less than pleased.

“They just need time to adjust,” Chan reassures, pulling you out of your thoughts. 

“They never liked me,” you say with a slight shake of your head. 

Chan sighs. “They suspected that I had a crush on you. My mom always thought I acted weird whenever you were around.”

You smirk. “You did act weird.” 

“And you’re going to stand there, smelling like me, and tell me that you didn’t act weird around me too? Which one of us was caught sniffing laundry?” 

Your face burns, blood rushing to your cheeks. The memory of Chan finding you in his room, gripping onto a hoodie from his dirty hamper that was drenched in his sweaty scent flashes before your eyes. You tried to explain it away by saying that there was a terrible smell around his apartment and you were just hunting it down. The truth was you were about a week away from being in heat and he just smelled so fucking delicious.

Your knees wobble under the fixation of his darkening gaze at the reminder. Practically diving for the stool, you take a seat in front of the island and stare at the plates of food to avoid his cocky gaze. Eggs, waffles, jams, cheeses, and three types of pancakes clutter on the counter.

Desperate to change the subject you ask, “Feeding an army?”

Chan, ever so merciful, lets it slide, tonguing his cheek. “Something like that,” he jokes, reaching for the coffee pot. “Bin, Lix, Minho,” he lists as he grabs your favourite mug, “I got like six missed calls from Jeongin asking to see us when my heat’s over.”

Only now, as you watch Chan pour the coffee and splash in some creamer, do you realise that you told your friends you’d be right back hours ago and never returned. True, your excuse was weak and maybe a part of you did want them suspecting something out of spite for the way Chan had been treating you. But, you did not want them knowing that you left to have sex with him across the hall.

“Do you think they know?” you ask as he sets the cup in front of you.

Chan scratches the back of his neck.

Shit, you think at the sight of  his nervous look. “Please tell me they didn’t hear—”

You’re cut off by the front door opening. Jisung marches in with his chest puffed out and brows furrowed. He looks around as if inspecting the area before his gaze falls on the display of food. His eyes sparkle with intrigue, stern persona falling as he announces, “There’s breakfast!”

“Is everyone decent?” you hear Changbin ask.

Jisung seats himself beside you, already fixing himself a plate as he hums his confirmation.

Your friends spill in, attention consumed by the food. You get up from your spot to give them more space and linger beside Chan. He wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you into his side.

It takes a minute, but Minho is the first to notice, rolling his eyes. Seungmin catches the gesture and looks over at you. He suppresses a disgusted snarl, muttering, “You’re both sickening.”

You sip from your coffee to keep from laughing as Chan shifts his weight beside you. There’s no doubt in your mind, from the exasperated sigh that escapes his lips, he’s glaring at the pair of them.

Felix bounces his brows at Chan, much to his embarrassment and your amusement. Jeongin lets out a nervous chuckle and shakes his head, commenting something about how you’re both more dramatic than Hyunjin.

Jisung looks between you, takes another big bite of his eggs and mumbles, “I’m trying to eat.”

Hyunjin flickers his attention between the pancakes and waffles, completely oblivious to Chan’s gesture or your friends’ reactions.

Changbin sets his plate down. He stands before both of you with his arms crossed. “Which one of you ruined my bed?” He asks, glare bouncing between you.

You untangle yourself from Chan, burying your face in your cup as you walk towards Minho. Chan shifts his weight. He scratches the back of his head and lets out a little, uneasy chuckle. “So listen—” he starts, only for Changbin to cut him off, diving into a long lecture about respecting others' property and owing him the cost of a new bed.

“Why didn’t you tell me,” Minho whispers, pulling you away from Changbin’s theatrics.

You turn to find hints of betrayal swimming in his eyes.

“I didn’t like lying to you,” you reassure, “He just wasn’t ready.”

Minho nods. He averts his gaze to his plate before finding a place at the dining table by Hyunjin and Felix.

You furrow your brows, sensing his disappointment. He always makes sure you’re the first to know anything that happens in his life. Guilt festers in your chest. You make a mental note to talk to him about it later, you owe him that much at least.

“And if I catch you in my room again,” Changbin threatens. He points at you as well, tearing your attention away from Minho. “I will kill you.”

You roll your eyes. “Grow up, Binnie. It’s not like you were using it right.”

His face falls as your friends laugh. Clenching his jaw, he replies, “It’s my room.”

“Not that night, it wasn’t,” Jeongin jokes.

As laughter fills the apartment, you catch Chan’s gaze. There’s that look again— pure admiration and devotion.

Get over here.

You blink as his voice echoes in your mind like the chime of a fateful bell, ringing, howling.

note; please do not leave hate towards me or any other readers. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my work.

[hyperfixatedonthisnow]

Nikolai Lanstov SFW Alphabet

*Not my GIF

Anonymous ask: the alphabet one, can you do a romantic SFW alphabet? Like how Nikolai would be in a relationship. If you have enough time (and you want to) can you also do the normal NSFW one as well? Like how Nikolai is as a physical lover?

Sorry for the wait anon, but here’s the SFW version. NSFW hopefully coming (pun fully intended 😉) in a day or two! This was my first time at one of these alphabet posts, I found the templates here on tumblr. It kind of goes without saying that these are just my head canons based on the books/Netflix show, and you are of course free to disagree with them😊

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?) - Nikolai is very affectionate, particularly with close friends and lovers. He didn’t get a lot of affection growing up, so he craves it as an adult. He always keeps things appropriate in front of other people, just hand holding and causal touches, but when you’re alone he can’t keep his hands off you -

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?) - Nikolai is a great friend, he’s warm and kind, and unfailingly loyal. He’s a bit of a joker, so his best friend needs to have a good sense of humour. Nikolai is willing to go to the ends of the earth to help his friends and would lay down his life for them without a second thought -

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?) - Nikolai definitely likes to cuddle, especially in bed, and he’s happy to be the big or the little spoon depending on what his partner prefers -

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?) - Nikolai wants to settle down eventually, he’s a bit of a wanderer but he longs for a family of his own. He’s always been neat and tidy, although growing up in the palace with servants meant he didn’t do much cooking or cleaning as a child, but years in the army/at sea mean he’s picked up at least some of the basics. He can probably make a meal out of very little, but whether it would be edible is up for debate -

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?) - Nikolai hates goodbyes, he’d rather not break up with a partner and for that reason he’d probably put it off as long as possible. He struggles with feelings of not being “enough” and puts a lot of pressure on himself to be a perfect prince, so if he were to end things then I think it would likely come from a place of thinking his partner “deserves better”. Nikolai wouldn’t want to draw things out, but he is a talker, and he would want to say the “right” thing, so for a breakup he’d have a speech planned ahead of time.

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?) - Nikolai goes all in when it comes to commitment, and he’s no stranger to a hasty proposal. Once he’s found his one, he would see no reason to wait on getting married -

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?) - Nikolai is more than capable of being gentle both physically and emotionally. He puts on a front to the world - the tough privateer and the charming prince - but underneath all that, he’s just a boy wanting to be loved. Once he lets down his walls, he’s all soft touches and sweet words -

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?) - Nikolai is a big hugger. He’s not afraid to pull a friend in for a hug, either in greeting or as a way to offer comfort. He gives good hugs, the kind that make you feel warm and fuzzy -

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?) - Nikolai wears his heart on his sleeve, as soon as he knows he’s in love with you he’d have no problem saying it out loud -

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?) - Nikolai is a bit of a flirt himself so he’d be a total hypocrite if he got upset over his partner doing the same. That being said, he does get jealous occasionally - particularly if someone touches his partner in a less than casual way. He also won’t stand for anyone making his partner uncomfortable, so anyone pushing their luck will earn themselves a sharp word from him -

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?) - Nikolai is a fantastic kisser. He likes to kiss you as often as possible, just a peck on the lips in public, and a lot more sensual in private. He likes when you press a kiss to his temple especially if it’s combined with your fingers running through his hair, usually when you’re cuddling together -

L = Little ones (How are they around children?) - Nikolai is great with kids. He’s patient and kind, and he has endless energy to chase them around. His fun sense of humour makes him a hit, especially with the little ones. He wants children of his own someday, and he’d be a loving and attentive father, giving his kids all the affection he himself never got as a child -

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?) - He’s a busy man and an early riser, but on the rare morning he can sleep in he loves to cuddle with you and feed you breakfast in bed. Sometimes he wakes even earlier, just so he can admire your sleeping form in the light of the sunrise before he has to start his day -

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?) - Nikolai has trouble sleeping, he has a lot on his mind. His favourite time to talk is late at night, when you’re cuddled up in bed together and the rest of the world is safely shut out -

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?) - In some ways he’s an open book, but he also tends to spend a lot of his time trying to be whoever other people want him to be. He would be slow to really open up to you, but once he felt safe enough to actually drop the act and just be himself, he’d share everything with you -

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?) - Nikolai is generally a patient guy, he’s a smart strategist and knows the value of waiting to get what he really wants. Sometimes he can be impulsive and act rashly, usually when it comes to people he loves being put in harm’s way -

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?) - Nikolai pays attention to the tiny details and remembers them all. This is partly because of his people pleasing tendencies- the easiest way to be who people want you to be is to study them, work out what they like and then be that person - but it’s also because when he loves someone, he wants to know all of them. He wants to know everything about you, every little mundane detail is fascinating to him -

R = Remember (What is their favourite moment in your relationship?) - Nikolai’s favourite moment would be when you finally confessed your feeling for each other. It’s a moment he would hold onto in bad times, knowing that he loves you and you love him in return is such a big thing for him, he would never take that for granted -

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?) - Nikolai is very protective of the people he loves, and he would never want you in danger. He would lay down his life to protect you or any of his friends. Words of affirmation make him feel safe and loved -

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?) - Nikolai puts a lot of effort into dates, anniversaries etc. He’s a romantic at heart and very observant, so he’s a great gift giver too. Day to day, he’s very busy, but he’d still try his best to make you feel loved and appreciated -

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?) - A bad habit of Nikolai’s is getting lost in his projects, whether that’s saving Ravka or his newest invention. Even when his current fixation is completed, he’s straight on to the next one. His mind is always working a mile a minute, and he finds it hard to switch off or rest –

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?) - Nikolai looks good and he knows it too. He takes pride in his appearance and his clothes. It’s important to him that he look polished and put together, and it’s a kind of armour for him, an image he projects to the world -

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?) - Nikolai loves with his entire being, and once he’s found his true love, he wouldn’t feel whole without them. If you absolutely had to be parted for any length of time, he would give you a token to hold on to and if you gave him something in return, he would treasure it until he could be reunited with you -

X = Xtra (A random head canon for them.) - Nikolai is great at card tricks. He saw a magician as a child and was obsessed with figuring out the secrets behind his tricks. Once he learned them, he practiced for hours until he perfected the performance -

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?) - Nikolai has no time or patience for prejudice. He wants a united Ravka, where all its citizens can live happily and peacefully, and that includes Grisha. He values loyalty, and one thing he would not easily forgive from a partner is a betrayal -

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?) - Nikolai is a bit of an insomniac because he lives such a stressful life, but when he does fall asleep, he’s generally dead to the world for a few hours. However, he does talk in his sleep and has been known to sleepwalk from time to time -

[kakashixhatakesxwhore]

SHIKA FIC PLEASE!

thank you to this one person who was interested in my stupid little roommate!Shikamaru hcs (they're here, if you wanna see 'em) - here's the meeting, the warming up and the conversation of co-signing.

450 Autumn Avenue

Pairing: roomate!Shikamaru x f!Reader

Summary: Two dealers, destined to be together, are both very nonchalant and fickle with affection.

W/c: 5k

Warnings: Drugs (heavy references and consumption), profane language, I wanted another profiterole, Modern AU (it's about 2004)

A/n: this is so self-indulgent, but i love this with all my heart so lmk if you want more

Masterlist💿

The breeze had a sugar coating as it wafted down the street, from the bakery on Main. It was decadent and, even four hours after close, it was still strong in the night air. You remembered swearing to yourself that you would buy a pastry before your class the next day; maybe a chouquette, or perhaps a canelé... no, you wanted a profiterole. You knew you would only get five, but you considered buying ten, for the sake of entertaining your gluttony toward the choux pastry.

With your mind wrapped in a sugar-y daydream with a chocolate coating, you leaned against a lamp post casually and regarded the drifting stars with a reverent gaze.

A glance at the clock tower told you that your last customer had twenty minutes before you dipped.

Another minute passed, and you brought your silver cigarette tin from your pocket. You hated buying pre-rolled cigarettes; rolling your own smokes was therapeutic, you could mix a little extra herb in there, you were folding your own filters - there were so many pluses, you couldn't even think of a minus (other than time consumption - but, therapy).

"Sorry to keep you waiting."

You sparked your Clipper and lit your cigarette before turning to your customer with a blank face.

It didn't stay blank for more than a second, because your lip curled as soon as your eyes landed on the unknown man standing with Kiba. You dragged your cigarette, debating your options.

"I'm sorry," you hummed, not taking your eyes off of the aloof noiret beside your charge. "You must've mistaken me for someone else. I don't know you."

"Oh, stop it. Shikamaru's not a cop," Kiba snickered quietly, taking a step toward you. Your eyes flickered to his face, and he smiled confidently, whispering, "He's a plug too, don't ya know."

"Why are you putting my business in the paper?" Shikamaru chided, suddenly invested in the exchange.

He was finally looking at you, so you looked at him. Your eyes connected with his, and you were instantly consumed by the gorgeously mixed hues of brown in his eyes. The pigments in his irises swirled as his pupils fluctuated in size, eventually ending up quite large because of the darkness.

The dim lamppost that you were all standing under was surely doing him no justice, and you suddenly felt the urge to see his eyes under unadulterated sunlight.

"Well, you're a small fish compared to her." Kiba's teasing laughter broke you out of the trance, but not Shikamaru.

Offhandedly, you mumbled, "I've been looking for a new green pusher-"

"Then I'm your man," Shikamaru said loosely before he could stop himself. Eyes widened, you focused on him again and Shikamaru's lip quirked in a smile as he said, "I've got every kind of green you can imagine. So much green that I've got purple and gold."

"Let me finish the ounce I'm working on..." You trailed off, beguiled by the previously sleepy man, who now stood before you with a bursting liveliness. "I don't buy off randos, usually."

"Then let's sesh," he suggested brashly. "Two birds, one stone; you can polish off your shitty, old weed and get to know your new plug in the same breath."

Your eye twitched slightly, shocked that this man was speaking to you like he was trying to pick you up at a bar. You weren't entirely opposed to it.

Slowly, you looked him up, then down, and hummed, "We'll see."

Giving his friend a strange look over his shoulder, Kiba stood in front of Shikamaru, obscuring your view, and smiled at you, "Anyway, have you got anything for me?"

Without reaction, you put your free hand in your pocket and hooked your cigarette onto your lip. Kiba pulled a small wad of cash out of his pocket. You snatched it, and replaced it quickly with a small dime bag of five pressed pills. Shoving the money in your pocket, your eyes scanned the area, and you relaxed somewhat.

Then you saw Shikamaru steal the bag out of Kiba's clutch and inspect the pills in the open air.

"What'd you lace these with?" He asked with a knowing lilt.

The fucking gall. The gumption. Where was the decorum?

You couldn't believe you were being so brazenly accused of something so shady... and by a fellow dealer, no less. Green plugs were never the most professional, but rude? That was new.

You spat, "Nothing."

"Mhm, right," he murmured, turning the small bag over in his fingers.

There was that knowing lilt again. Like he was seeing through your veil, despite there never being one in the first place; like he knew you at all.

Who the fuck was this guy?

You pulled the cigarette from your lips and sneered, "I lied. They're pressed with louee."

A moment of silence settled over the small congregation on the sidewalk, and Shikamaru's eyes lifted to meet yours, as if he were trying to peer into your soul to judge your statement.

His energy crackled, debating your retort seriously.

"What's... louee?" Kiba chimed in hesitantly, feeling the thick smattering of tension in the air.

Without breaking his piercing stare, Shikamaru hissed lowly, "Speed."

"Mhm. And why, oh why, would I ever waste good louee on some bullshit M purchase?" Tilting your head to punctuate your words, you smiled strangely and looked at Kiba. "Enjoy your perfectly pure product. I wouldn't take 'em all at once, but have some fun with it."

Dipping your head, you started down the avenue you had been standing in the middle of for nearly an hour. You were already fantasizing about your warm apartment when that audacious asshole stopped you dead in your tracks.

"Let me get your number, ah?"

You looked over your shoulder with a quirked brow.

Shikamaru smirked pseudo-confidently and scratched the back of his neck. "So we can hook up later 'n' smoke, or whatever."

"Oh, yeah?" There was a little tingle in your chest as you smiled, "Y'wanna hook up with me? "

Putting your cigarette between your lips, you drifted over to the nearest wall as he tried to form a proper response. He couldn't - only noncommittal syllables fell from his pretty lips.

From inside your jacket, you procured a pen and tore a corner from a page in your pocket notebook.

You scribbled your number down, but not your name, as the two men drew nearer to you. Lowly, you started on the usual spiel that your new customers got. You were sure that Kiba would have read him the Riot Act for you, but he was such an old customer that he probably would forget the smaller details.

"Don't text me about anything; I'll delete your number and make sure to never get back to you, if you do. Call me between five in the early eve and two in the morning if you want to get ahold of me; not before, and certainly not after. I'll give you an hour to meet me, but-"

"I never knew chick dealers had so many rules and regulations," Shikamaru interrupted with a condescending laugh. "Remember, you're the one who wants to buy off me."

"Alright, nevermind," you shrugged, crumpling the paper and slipping it back into your pocket with a sweet smile.

You looked at the two men for a moment. Kiba seemed smug and Shikamaru looked... regretful?

It almost made you laugh as you told him, "I've got a thousand other connections - I don't need to take your shit for some shoddy leaf."

"I bet you'd change your tune if you tried my herb," Shikamaru argued quickly, looking like he was trying to cover up the sliver of hurt with bravado.

You looked at Kiba and asked, "You ever sesh with this prick?"

"All the time," Kiba nodded, seemingly happy to contribute something to the conversation. "His shit really will get you blitzed, and he has a few cool pieces of glass."

"See, sunshine?" Shikamaru added, quick to steal your gaze back. "My references are in order."

Normally, you'd have wished them both a goodnight, washed your hands of it all, and walked away then and there. But, you could still smell that sweet bakery air, and the stars were twinkling so brightly, you felt as if you were under a spell.

"Meet me at Other Delights, tomorrow, then, at ten after four."

"Awfully specific time," Shikamaru chuckled lowly, a small grin stretching across his lips.

Your eyebrow quirked and you couldn't help but smirk as you asked, "Does that not work-"

"It works, it works," he assured you before you could even finish the question. "I've got a class at two that'll probably end at the perfect time for that."

"A class? Not one at U of K?" To your surprise, Shikamaru nodded slowly, and you mumbled, "Not an antiquity class, surely?"

His smile immediately deepened. "It surely is, girly." Shikamaru chuckled, "If I get there on time and see you, maybe we could sit together."

"Christ, I didn't bring you along to flirt," Kiba groaned, trying to walk away, but lagging for his friend. "C'mon, we got what we need - she doesn't like stragglers."

"Too true, Kiba, thank you," you grinned, taking a step away. "G'night, boys. Have some fun."

On the way home, you mind wandered. It weaved strange patterns, but always came back to the same subject; Shikamaru. No matter how hard you tried, he was the one thought that wouldn't leave your mind.

It wasn't in a very smitten, or even sexual way - you just thought about him.

What would he get at the bakery? What was his major? Did he prefer tea cakes, or pastries? Was the antiquity class his elective or a required course? Would he get a drink with a sweet, or just one or the other? Did he find the class as interesting as you did?

You couldn't get that man out of your head, and you knew he was different from the rest.

Shikamaru was much the same, except he could instantly admit to himself that you had caught his fancy. Kiba had warned him about how much of a knock-out you were, but he never thought a woman really could be so beautiful that he'd forget what planet he was stood on.

But there you were.

The next day, Shikamaru came early to the university and was the first in the lecture hall - properly ready to never be late again.

Would it be lame to save a seat for you? Was that too try-hard-ish?Should he have sat closer to the front instead of the dead back?

People had started to funnel into the lecture hall; a hundred faces, except the one Shikamaru wanted to see.

Where the fuck were you?

His eyes kept flickering to the clock above the door. Your time was thinning, and Shikamaru started to wonder if you were even going to show up.

That'd be embarrassing...

Then, on cue, the door was pulled open and you stepped inside in auditorium.

The two TAs for the class were close behind your black-clad form, and seemingly locked in a jovial conversation. Well, they were smiling like idiots, while your face remained straight. Just before you started ascending the stairs to the rows of seats, you gave Kotetsu and Izumo a small smile that didn't reach your eyes at all, then turned to start the climb.

They were clearly over the moon about whatever you had said. Maybe you had organized a deal with them, though Shikamaru would've never even considered selling to TAs. Maybe you were bold like that, audacious.

Debating on waving you over, Shikamaru didn't need to do anything to garner your attention. 

Rightfully so, he thought smugly as you locked eyes with him from across the lecture hall.

It was like you had a sixth sense, able to find him without any search. It had to be fate, that Kiba had such a fit dealer, and that you would be perfect for Shikamaru. He made a good choice, going along to Kiba's deal.

"Afternoon," Shikamaru hummed with a small smirk as you took the seat to his left and smiled at him.

Pulling your bag onto your lap, you started rifling through it for your books and sighed, "Hello."

"How are you?" He couldn't take his eyes off of your side profile, finally clear in the light of the classroom.

"Fine, I suppose - my stomach hurts, but nothing new." You pulled out the class' golden textbook, a blue notebook, a purple pen, and then angled yourself toward Shikamaru to ask, "How are you?"

"Hungry for a sweet," he chuckled lowly, trying to goddamnedest to be cool. "Are we still on for that, after class?"

A subtle, but beautiful, blush dusted along your cheeks and you dipped your head a little. Then you nodded slowly, and Shikamaru couldn't contain the smile that ripped across his face.

"Perfect - I'm buying."

The bashful expression on your face melted in an instant as your nose scrunched. "I can pay for both of us."

"What?" He teased. "You think I'm strapped for cash?"

"Well," you snickered. "I don't think you make half as much as I do, that's for sure."

"Bitch, please," Shikamaru laughed, almost offended. "I've probably got more customers, who buy more frequently and more product, than yours."

With a playful glint in your eye, you sneered quietly, "We're forgetting whose product is worth more."

"Again, who moves more product?" He retorted.

To Shikamaru's joy, you leaned closer to him, and lowered your voice even further. "I sell five different chems, all worth at least one thousand yen a hit - what you make on a busy Friday night, I make within an hour on a Tuesday."

You smelled divine - did you just shower? No, it had to be your perfume, wafting toward Shikamaru in the proximity you shared. He was disappointed he missed it the night prior, but was so grateful he was close enough now. Floral, and sweet, with an undercut of assorted smokes. 

You smelled like home, Shikamaru remembered distinctly thinking to himself, though you didn't live together yet; the idea wasn't even so much as a twinkle in anyone's eye.

"Okay," he mumbled. "Whatever makes you happy."

"I'll buy us ten- no, twenty profiteroles to split - that'll make me really happy," you smiled, sitting back in your seat immediately. Closing your eyes, you fantasized in a hush, "And a box of macrons, and a whole mille-feuille, and two slices of a treacle tart." Then your eyes fluttered open and locked with Shikamaru's as you asked, "Do you like cream with treacle tarts, or custard?"

Was there a wrong answer? 

Maybe.

"Mm... custard," Shikamaru replied honestly, a little afraid that he should have lied.

Luckily, you smiled, "Good. Me too. I think cream fucks with the integrity of the tart, especially ice cream."

Thank God. He grinned broadly, "You really rock with desserts, huh?"

"Most important course of a meal," you nodded. "Why? Haven't you got a sweet tooth?"

"Not one as ravenous as yours, it seems," Shikamaru joked. You scrunched your nose a little, but chuckled under your breath. "What's your favourite sweet treat, sunshine?"

"Why?" You hummed. "Wanna surprise me with it, one day, and win my heart, you shameless flirt?"

No one who knew Shikamaru properly would have ever called him a flirt, let alone shameless. But... he never saw a point in hiding his emotions, especially not now.

Finally, the most gorgeous women he'd ever heard tell of was beside him, and he didn't have to lie or force himself to smile. Every woman, young or old, stranger or family, was always so bothersome to Shikamaru; every woman, except for you. You didn't bother him at all.

"And if I did?" He asked boldly.

You snickered and smacked his shoulder lightly. "I'd eat the pastry, but it takes more than a bit of sugar to win me over."

In that moment, the professor strolled into the room and right up to the blackboard. With a piece of crisp white chalk in hand, he launched right into the lecture, hardly putting his case down before scribbling a timeline onto the board. 

Shikamaru found out that you were quite the diligent student. Your notes were substantive, and your eyes never strayed from the front of the class. You didn't ask questions, and you sure seemed to think that most of the questions other students asked were just time-wasters. Under your breath, you'd mumble two or three succinct words that would answer each question - then sat patiently as the prof took ten minutes to answer each question.

The class took too long. Shikamaru could hardly focus on the Mycenean Period; not when a girl so gorgeous was beside him, and not when he had a kinda-sorta-date with her after the class.

Mercifully, as the clock struck four, Sarutobi packed it away and assigned next week's seminar reading.

"Do you ever do the readings?" You asked Shikamaru as the two of you slipped out the back door of the lecture hall.

Traipsing down the stairs, he chuckled, "Not usually. Maybe if I'm bored."

"If that's the case, you should read the next chapter - it's riveting."

"Whatever you say, girly," he hummed, unconvinced that antiquated history could be riveting. "So, what do you do other than sell, and school? Or is that just about it?"

You contemplated you answer then shrugged, "I play my saxophone... but, after that, you've got my days down to a T."

"Christ - selling, schooling, and saxophoning?" He summarized. You nodded. "Where's the flavour? The zest?"

"My saxophone is pretty zesty," you snickered. "I'll give you a show one day, and you'll eat your words."

"Oh, yeah, Careless Whispers would really knock my socks off."

"Man, fuck you; I play the baritone sax."

That meant nothing to Shikamaru, but he mindlessly questioned you.

That lead to a zealous rant from you, explaining how Careless Whispers is played on a tenor saxophone, with an alto saxophone portion, and, while you knew how to play both saxophones, you only owned Big Bari, as you so lovingly referred to it. 

The rant lead the two of you right up to the bakery doors. 

With a wide, relaxed smile, Shikamaru swung the glass door open for you and followed you in as you were wrapping up a bit about soprano saxophones.

Finally, in front of the sweet treats of Other Delights, you went silent - and Shikamaru almost wanted to walk out of the bakery and circle the block with you a few times. He wasn't ready for you to stop speaking. The air felt vacuous and so empty.

"Hello, missus," the man behind the counter greeted you warmly with a toothy grin. His eyes flickered to Shikamaru then back to you as he asked with an odd tone, smile wavering, "Is today really the day you choose to break my heart?"

"No," you giggled. "I'm just bringing you a new customer - you should be happy."

"Ah, so long as I still have a chance to snatch you up, I am overjoyed," he smiled, eyes twinkling at you. "What'll it be today, missus? Fifty profiteroles and a liter of chocolate milk?"

To Shikamaru's distress, you actually laughed. He hadn't made you laugh like that. Not yet.

Well, fuck this guy. Stupid asshole with a smarmy mug. He didn't deserve you. 

"How's about twenty? And..." You looked over the display case, unaware that both men were staring at you intently. Without looking at him, you bumped your hand against Shikamaru's and asked lowly, "Would you share a thing of meringue with me?"

"'Course." Was that an actual question?

Your gaze flickered back up to the man as you pulled your wallet out of your bag. "Okay, twenty profiteroles, and a box of baked meringues."

"No problem, missus," the man responded, eyes flickering to Shikamaru again. "That'll be fourteen thousand."

You started collecting bills, stopped at fourteen thousand, then shook your head and drew another couple of bills. You gave the man the stack and he counted it quickly, before giving you a very flat look.

"No," you said plainly.

"Miss-"

"No, stop it, Haruki - I can't use your discount."

"It's for friends and family, of course you can," he said kindly.

Despite the slight blush on your nose, you shook your head. "Give it to someone who deserves it."

The argument ended there, and Shikamaru realized he had some serious competition.

The thought of giving up didn't even flit past his mind, though; he knew you were different, that you were meant to be his, and no bakery clerk would get to Shikamaru so easily. He was determined, in a way he'd never been before.

After a second, the man had collected all the pastries you'd ordered, then gave them to you in a pretty, pink box. He gave you a parting wink and you dipped your head, taking the box and leaving with Shikamaru in tow.

"You two fucking, or something?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I think it's a fair question; he definitely wants a bite out of you."

Face flushing bright, you shoved Shikamaru lightly and shook your head adamantly. "Don't be fucking gross - I'm a regular there."

"I'm just being real," he hummed as you started leading him down the street. "Where are we going?"

"My place," you said casually. "So we can smoke, and have some milk with all this sugar."

Bet Haruki's never been over, he thought smugly.

"Sounds wonderful."

And wasn't it ever.

Your bachelor's apartment was spunky as Hell, and the perfect place to cut loose. Old posters adorned your walls, with paintings and pictures mixed into the fray. It's to cover that ugly Spackle paint, you said, as if your decor needed defense. 

The two of you dug into the pastries, and you flicked on the television. You had a cable package that included every big channel, and, when you tuned into CBS for the tail end of a re-run episode of your favourite soap opera, Shikamaru wondered if you could be any more perfect.

Yes.

From the second you pulled your rolling tray out from under the table, Shikamaru knew he needed to be in your life until he died. You were a gift from the Heavens, he reckoned, as you popped a whole profiterole in your mouth. He'd never seem someone roll up so tightly, or with such precision, even while your hands shook.

"You're like a fucking doctor," Shikamaru wowed as you passed him a roll-up. "You should roll for me, then I could sell pre's."

"I'd be expecting a cut, and I doubt you'd be so inclined," you teased, already rolling another joint.

Snatching a Clipper off the table, Shikamaru chuckled, "You make a point, Doc."

You barked a laugh, then got a hold of yourself quickly, scared to spill the weed out of your joint.

Shikamaru's heart soared, and he knew he had to make you laugh again, or else he'd never know peace.

Waiting until you finished the second joint, Shikamaru then sparkled yours and his at the same time, with the same flame. You both blew cherries, then leaned away from each other and into the couch.

At the stroke of five, your cellphone began to ring, just as The Young and the Restless turned over to the nightly news. You sighed heavily, and flipped open your phone.

"Er... three," you said.

Then you nodded and pulled a pad of paper toward you on the table. You scribbled T400 μg onto the page, made sone affirming noise, then snapped your phone shut. Not even a second passed before your phone began to ring again. You repeated the number three, then wrote L500 mg E on the page, hanging up again.

Dragging the roach of his joint, Shikamaru asked in an inhale, "When does your line stop blowing up, usually?"

"Well, it's a Wednesday - so I might get five or six more calls throughout the night, but they usually get way spread out after the prompt ones," you answered, hooking your roach into your lip and standing up. You gave Shikamaru a strange look, then asked, "Y'won't rob me if I get the orders ready, eh?"

"No promises," he chortled, and you chuckled, shaking your head as you drew over to the bookshelf in the corner of the room. "I've been meaning to ask you anyway-" Shikamaru crushed the roach's cherry into the ash tray on the table, then looked up at your turned away form as you fiddled with some box. He took that as a go-ahead, so he continued, "-do you really sell louee, or were you just yanking my chain last night?"

"Fuck no, I don't sell Crystal Meth - are you insane?" You snipped, pulling the box from the shelf and crouching over it on the floor. "No, I only sell hallucinogens; your regular E, Acid, Psylocibin, and then Ket and Angel Dust to customers I really fuck with."

"How much do you skim off your stash?" When you gave him an incredulous look, Shikamaru put his hands up in defense. "Hey, I smoke my own shit. I'd never buy off someone else when I have such a surplus."

You pursed your lips, looking back at the box that you had gotten open now. It was filled with packets of pills and bags of dust, from what Shikamaru could see. 

"I probably steal a trip every weekend, at least," you admitted. 

"Well, I hope you invite me this weekend."

You snickered at his statement, but then realized Shikamaru was serious. A look of debate washed over your face, and you mumbled, "I trip alone."

"Scary endeavor," he replied. "Ah, it's chill - you don't have to invite me this weekend, but the next... oh, I'll badger you then."

You got your orders ready - four tabs, and five pressed pills - then got more calls throughout the nightly news.

You were busy, tearassing around the apartment, but you were a gracious host. So gracious, that in your busy-ness, you were still playing Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy when the programmes came on after the news. After that, the game shows turned to shitty sitcoms, and the two of you spoke over the laugh tracks.

Conversation flowed between you and Shikamaru, as you consistently rolled joint after joint for him and yourself.

Eventually, you started rolling joints to share, and sank into the couch beside him - just as it was time to turn the channel over to Adult Swim, just in time for Futurama.

Shikamaru had ascended, and was convinced he was given a slice of Heaven, in your company.

Finally, one in the morning rolled around, and you had to go out to make your deals. 

You loaded up your coat pockets with dime bags and a knife, then ushered both you and Shikamaru out of your apartment. You offered to walk him home before you had to stand around, then he offered to stand beside you for the night.

To Shikamaru's joy, you took him up, seemingly as unwilling to let his hang-out end as he was. 

The very next day, you bought a fresh ounce off of Shikamaru and brought him back to your apartment again to repeat the steps of the previous night. 

And, despite your ardency in your solitary trips, you asked Shikamaru the day after that, if he wanted to come over on Saturday and pop a roll with you. Immediately, he accepted and asked how much a single pressed pill was - you couldn't bring yourself to charge him, not when he would be tripping with you. 

Within a few weeks, it all became a habit.

On regular days, he was at your apartment every second he could be, doing homework or just shooting the shit; on Thursdays, you'd buy a fresh ounce off of him and take him back to your place to smoke through it, together; and, on Fridays, you'd ask him to come over that night or the next, and then give him whatever the substance of the eve was, for free. 

You never saw the appeal of tripping with other people - they were all so very cumbersome  - but, not Shikamaru. He never encumbered you, unlike every other person you'd come into contact with.

He never left before Futurama, and would usually spend at least half an hour with you on the street, every night.

The routine didn't even slow down when exam season rolled around.

Finally, after a tiresome second year, you and Shikamaru finished all of your exams, submitted all of your essays, and closed out your academic years with respective 3.50 and 3.75 averages. That meant; it was time to celebrate.

And who knew how to celebrate better than you two?

"You fuck with Zappa?"

"Mostly - pre or post Apostrophe?"

"I was actually going to play Apostrophe."

"Whatever floats your boat, sunshine, but if you're taking requests, I'd vote for Hot Rats."

"You fuckin' weirdo."

"Don't get all mean, just because my music taste is superior, and you know it."

All you could do was stick your tongue out at him as you pulled Hot Rats out of your record crate instead of Apostrophe. You stood and opened the lid of your record player, missing it the first time as it warped before your eyes. You took the vinyl out of it's sleeve and slotted the disc on the tray, turning on the machine and lifting the needle onto the first groove.

The drums for Peaches En Regailia began, followed closely by the piano, and you took the spot next to Shikamaru on your couch.

"What's this, anyway?" He asked once you were beside him, picking up a paper from your coffee table.

You took it and sighed, "Rent increase notice. I don't even know if I want to stay here, honestly - especially not if I have to pay an arm and a leg every fuckin' month."

"I wish I could say I get you, but, as you know, alas, I'm still in the comfort of my childhood home."

"Eugh, comfort - and you don't want out? I moved out as soon as I graduated secondary."

Shikamaru shrugged, his dinner-plate pupils glued to the ceiling. "'Course I want out, but I don't want a place as small as this - no offence - so I'd have to get a roommate. That's a whole mess of planning, and meeting new people-"

"I could stand a roommate," you interjected, almost confused as to why you were saying that. 

Slowly, Shikamaru turned his head to look at you. Your eyes connected, and you were instantly sucked into his soul - going on a small trip into the communal consciousness in the room.

After a long while, Willie The Pimp already playing, Shikamaru asked you, "Do you... want to get an apartment, with me?"

"A two bedroom," you clarified. Shikamaru gave you a blank look and you snickered with a nod, "Yeah, I guess I do want that. We're great friends, we get on like a house aflame, and neither of us are terribly messy. Plus, imagine the merger - the business opportunities." You paused for a second, drawing a breath, and you asked, "Would you want that too, or am I shooting in the air?"

"You must be fuckin' joking," Shikamaru laughed, standing up. "C'mon, let's go get a paper and check the rental adverts."

You laughed loudly, "It's nearly six in the morning, and my lease doesn't expire for a month, as is."

"The papers will be hot off the press, and there's no harm in being prepared."

"Why don't we go in an hour or two? Y'know, when the sun's up and we're less... on Acid."

"Touché - but I'm watching the clock."

It only took one week to find the place.

450 Autumn Avenue. Unit 2.

The complex was aptly named The Avenue, and held exactly thirty-seven units. You and Shikamaru were taken to one of three basement units. It might not have seemed so luxurious on paper, but the second the two of you stepped into the unit... you knew.

The building had no central air, so the basement would be a haven in the blazing Summer's heat. No one was below you, so you two could dance, and jump, and fall over, without any guilt.

But, the crowning jewel of the unit was the lay out. 

The bedrooms were deadly small. You each could fit your beds in there, and your dressers, but there was hardly enough room for a chair otherwise. One was slightly bigger, and Shikamaru gave it to you without complaint - but neither of you particularly cared about the bedrooms.

It was the living room that sold the two of you. It was huge. Spacious as Hell. 

So, the two of you jumped, and co-signed a year's long lease for the unit. 

And that's when the fun really began.

[jerzwriter]

BOOPED!

Carolina's phone would not stop "bleeping"! But when a friend helps her get to the bottom of it, she and Trystan are in for some startling discoveries about each other.

Book Boop: Crimes of Passion (post Book 2) Pairing: Trystan Thorne x Carolina Rose (F!MC) Characters: Luke Watanabe Summary: See above Rating: Teen Words: 2.150 A/N: All right, so I may have been a total party-pooper with the "boops," but that got me thinking how my OTPs would have handled them... and that led me here! I hope you enjoy it! Participating in @choicesaprilchallenge24 - prompt - "You're not going to believe what I just found."

*Bleep*

*Bleep*

*Bleep*

The utter silence of the Ginovesi Detective Agency’s offices was rattled each time Carolina’s phone “bleeped.” Trystan eyed the phone warily, glancing between it and Carolina every time it went off. For a woman who demanded complete silence when they were focusing on a case, she was doing her best to ignore it, but Trystan knew it was only a matter of time...

“¡Ay, Dios mío!” she cried out... and there it was. “¿Qué carajo es esto?”

Taking the phone in hand, she frantically tapped away at it, but the bleeps kept pouring in, and with each new arrival, Trystan watched as his girlfriend became more unhinged. “¿Qué es esta mierda?”

That’s when Luke entered the mix. Slinking into the office with his hands nonchalantly stuffed in his pockets, he slouched into a chair with a half smile.  

“Oh no. I heard nothing but Spanish coming out of you from way down the hall. This can’t be good.”

“It’s not!” Carolina spat as Trystan debated whether her frustration was utterly adorable or good cause for him to evacuate the office as quickly as possible. “I can’t get this fucking thing to stop bleeping!”

There were many things Trystan could have said or done, but as was often the case for the former prince, he reclined in his chair and chose chaos.

“It seems one of her former suitors isn’t taking the hint and won’t let go easily,” he smirked. “While I may no longer be a monarch, I still have some pull. One phone call to Lydea, my love, and I will have that man relieved of his testicles. Give me a name and number,” he winked. “I assure you, the bleeps will stop within the hour.”

Carolina glared at him with anger in her eyes, but despite her desire to remain cross, his stupid grin managed to do her in.

“Bold of you to assume it’s a he, your highness,” she derided. “There is a far greater likelihood that it would be a she. So, someone will be deprived the pleasure of performing an orchiectomy today.”

“An orchiectomy...” Luke queried, pulling up Google on his phone, but Trystan pushed it aside.

“Spare yourself the pain, man. It’s the art of relieving someone of their balls.”

“Ouch!” Luke shuddered. “Of course, I can see how the inability to do that would cause some Drakovian guard to fall into a deep depression, but still... ouch."

Trystan turned back to Carolina with a shrug. “It’s OK, love. They can remove body parts from women as well.”

“That’s so good to know,” she laughed. “But I’m afraid this isn’t as salacious as a spurned lover trying to get me to bend to their will.”

“Then what is it?” Trystan asked. “Your phone’s been going off all day, and I’ve never heard that notification tone before.”

“It’s,” she began, stopping herself as four curious eyes stared at her, eager for a response. “It’s... nothing. I’ll just turn the sound off my phone.”

“GASP!” Luke mocked. “During work hours! When you could potentially miss... something?”

It would have ended there for Luke, but Trystan wasn't done. Realizing something was amiss, he closely watched his love, not about to let her off the hook.

“Why don’t you just turn notifications off? What’s so embarrassing? Is it... Facebook?” he chuckled.

Carolina was an animal entrapped in a corner, desperate for an escape, but when it became clear that none existed, she surrendered. Burying her face into her hands with a languid groan... she confessed.

“I freaking wish! It’s .... worse!”

“Worse than Facebook?” Luke said with feigned horror. “What is it? Your old OKCupid app?”

“No!” Carolina said, throwing a pencil his way.

“Your old FarmersOnly account!!!”

“What?” Trystan snickered.

“I didn’t have a FarmersOnly account! Well, I did... but it was just a joke to frighten Uncle Tommy! Besides, I deleted that long ago!”

Trystan turned to Luke in confusion. “What... what’s FarmersOnly?”

“That’s unimportant, “Carolina interrupted. “It’s... it’s my Tumblr. I haven’t used it for longer than I can remember; I didn't even know it was still on my phone. But I’ve gotten like seven hundred notifications today, and I have no idea why!”

“So,” Luke shrugged. “Turn the notifications off.”

“I can’t! I forgot my password... and before you say it, I don’t remember what e-mail I created the account with. So I can’t reset it.”

“So,” Luke shrugged again. “Just delete the app! Problem solved.”

“But the detective in me needs to figure this out," she sighed. "Who knows why this is happening? When I go home tonight, I’ll try to remember what e-mail accounts I had circa 2016. Maybe I can figure it out.”

“It was probably something like myglitteringlittlenyyankeepony@ yahoo.com or something like that,” Luke laughed.

“More like LinaJeterClubPengin@hotmail.com,” she tittered.

“Dear Lord,” Trystan groused. "Both sound dreadful, but can we circle back to something potentially even more embarrassing? You had a Tumblr account?”

“Oh, shut up!” Carolina defended. “It was 2016! All the cool kids had a Tumblr account!”

“I didn’t,” Luke announced.

“I said cool,” Carolina retorted. Still, Trystan was undeterred.

“What on earth did you use your Tumblr account for? Were you in a fandom?”

He had intended to let it go, but when Carolina’s cheeks turned brighter than any apple he ever witnessed in a Cordonian orchard, he knew the quest was just beginning. Raising a brow in wicked delight, he teased. “Yesssss....”

“I was into Divergent,” she said, raising her hands. “Big fan... The Hunger Games, too.”

“All right,” Trystan nodded with a smile. “I can see that....”

But now it was Luke’s turn to incite, “Really? Because I could have sworn you once told me you used to write fanfiction for Princess Di.....”

“Obviously, you’re mistaken!” Carolina shouted. “Katniss! Katniss x Peeta, my OTP! That’s why I was on Tumblr!”

“Wait,” Trystan interrupted. “Princess Di? Were you into Princess Diana?”

“No,” Carolina spat. “Luke is just losing his mind, that’s all!”

“Oh, come now, princess,” Luke chided. “Is this the foundation you want to build your relationship on? A throne of lies?”  

“No,” Trystan smiled gleefully. “Thrones of lies are bad. Very bad."

“I believe they are,” Luke chuckled. "I'm sorry, Carolina. It’s confession time.”

Trystan slunk over to Carolina’s side, playfully nudging her with his shoulder. “Time’s up, dear. Tell me the truth, or I’ll have to employ ancient Drakovian torture measures to get you to speak!"

“Yeah! And not the kinky ones you’re into!” Luke grinned.

“Fine,” Carolina exhaled with disgust, her voice barely a whisper. “I was very into... The Princess Diaries."

Trystan’s lips began to curl, the dimple in his cheek becoming more pronounced. “I’m sorry... what?”

“The Princess Diaries! OK!! I used to love The Princess Diaries!”

“In 2016!” Luke scoffed. “Weren’t those movies popular in like... 2004?”  

"So?! I was a little behind the times. I was a nerd... so sue me! My Tumblr was all about The Princess Diaries... are you satisfied now?” She asked, hiding her face in shame.

Trystan rubbed his chin in delight as he allowed Carolina to sweat it out, thinking of the best way to torture his prey.  

“The Princess Diaries! This all makes so much sense now!”

“What?” Luke wondered aloud. “That she always had a soft spot for monarchy scum?”

“Well, yes,” Trystan responded. “ But, seriously... how long did you have these fantasies about being a long-lost princess, my dear?”

“What! Never! I’m a Boricua from the Bronx! A freaking badass, bisexual Boricua from the Bronx! Being a princess was nothing I aspired to!”

“Yet you were writing Princess Diaries fanfic?” Trystan tsked. “Then... you relentlessly pursued me.”

Horrified, she slammed her hand on the desk. “I DID NOT!!! You know I didn’t!”

“I’m not sure what to believe anymore, Carolina. Right now, I’m feeling sort of cheap and used.”

Luke howled with laughter. “In fairness, there’s nothing cheap about you, Trystan. Used? Sure, I can see that. But cheap? No way.”

“Thank you, Luke,”  Trystan acknowledged.

“Don’t mention it.”

But Carolina wasn't smiling. “I never had some monarchy fetish! I just liked the stupid movie! It was escapism for me, OK? But you know damn well you being a royal was a detriment to me, not a bonus! I wasn’t all, ‘Oh, now I need to land this guy!’ you know that!”

“I can't be sure anymore. I think I have to have this investigated to make sure your intentions with me are pure!”

“You know that’s not a bad idea,” Luke nodded as he typed away on his laptop. “I do know of a good agency that could help you.”

“LUKE!” Carolina yelled, so flustered that she hadn’t noticed her phone stopped bleeping several minutes before.

“Relax... princess...” Luke teased. “I just hacked into your Tumblr. The bleeping should stop now.

“But... how?” She asked, immediately catching his sarcastic stare. “Yeah, don’t bother answering that.”

Trystan stood over her shoulder as she opened the app. “700 notifications? Seriously, why the hell did I get all these notifications today?”

“It looks like they were having some kind of a “boop” thing for April Fools? I guess it’s like the old Facebook poke? Everyone seems to be sending boops.”  

“But why?” Carolina asked, dumbfounded. "Don't people have better things to do with their time?"

“Look,” Luke chirped. “I'm capable of doing a great many things, but making sense out of anything that happens on Tumblr.... that’s asking too much...even of me.”

“True,” Carolina mumbled. 

“He makes sense,” Trystan nodded in agreement. “Now, let’s read some of your old fanfic.”

“Oh, hell no!” Carolina insisted. “There’s no way!”

“Please?” Trystan begged, with puppy-dog eyes in full effect.

“All right, fine! But only on one condition!”

“Name it!”

“You show me your old Tumblr... and don’t lie and tell me you didn’t have one. We both know you did.”

“Sorry, my love,” Trystan shrugged. “But I didn’t.”

The couple turned to Luke when he sighed again. “Do you really want to start this relationship sitting on a throne of lies, Trystan? Or should I call you PlayfulPrince315.  Dude! Using your actual birthday? I know you were a tween then, but still, you should have known better!”  

“Playful... Prince?” Carolina beamed. “OK, Mr. Playful, what were you doing on Tumblr?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” he winked. “I was searching for beautiful want-to-be princesses from the Bronx.”  

“Nah,” Luke laughed. “Minecraft. He was into Minecraft.”

“Really?” Trystan asked, dragging a hand down his face.

“Hey, I outed Carolina, and she’s my best friend. You knew you weren’t safe.”

“Minecraft?” Carolina said with mock disgust. “Tell me it wasn’t Minecraft porn... please?”

“WHAT?" Trystan asked in shock. "Was that even a thing?”

“Sadly, it was,” Carolina laughed. “I’m sorry, but I need to know if you were into that. I don’t care how long ago it was; I am not marrying any man who once got off to Minecraft porn.”

A devilish grin slowly spread on Trystan’s face as he stepped confidently toward Carolina.

“Marry... you say?” His grin miraculously grew wider. “Have you been thinking about marrying me, Carolina?”

“I... uh, I...” she couldn't have been more grateful for Luke jumping out of his seat.

“Well, I think I’ll leave you two alone. You can handle this conversation without me.”

He headed toward the door, but not before handing Trystan a scrap of paper. “Here, this is your Tumblr password, Playful Prince. You two can figure out your weird pasts alone.”

“Oh, like you didn’t have weird things in your past!” Carolina yelled after him.

“At least they aren't archived for prosperity on Tumblr,” Luke grinned. “And I’m relieved to say it doesn’t look like Ruby has to deal with that, either. But I can’t wait to tell her about the two of yours.”

Luke whistled as he exited, turning one more time before shutting the door. “Oh, and Playful one? You got 200 fewer boops than Carolina... and you’re royalty, man? Embarrassing! Just... embarrassing! I don't think she should consider marrying you!"

Trystan turned to his blushing girlfriend. "So, back to that marrying thing.... how often does that cross your mind?"

"Uh, you know what," she said, reaching up for a soft but passionate kiss. "Why don't I tell you all about FarmersOnly instead."

"Uninterested," he beamed.

"All right," she said, pulling out her phone. "Then let's say I allow you to read 3,500 words of angst I wrote about Princess Mia and Prince Harry circa 2016?"

Trystan's eyes lit up. "Seriously?"

"Here," she said, handing him her phone. "Go through my whole masterlist. By the time you're done... you'll forget anything else."

Trystan slunk back into the chair, tossing his feet on the desk for comfort. "Don't count on it," he winked. "Don't count on that... at all."

@choicesficwriterscreations

Tagging others separately.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Markos Moulitsas (kos) at Daily Kos:

In the wake of Robert F. Kennedy Jr.’s exit from his failed independent bid for president, Republicans were giddy at his endorsement, and that (re)endorsement of former Rep. Tulsi Gabbard a few days later. In their minds, it was but the beginning of a flood of Democratic defections to Donald Trump. That never happened. But Republicans sure are defecting to the Democratic ticket!  It’s hard to understate just how excited conservatives were. 

"We now have a trio of Power Rangers who can swoop right into the middle of the rival party and convince traditional Democrats that it's OK to leave a party that left them,” a senior Trump adviser told conservative outlet Just the News, founded by former Washington Examiner editor John Solomon, back on Aug. 24. The quote was so ridiculous, that this “senior Trump adviser” was too embarrassed to put his name on it. The third “Power Ranger” is Elon Musk, who is an independent.  "I think that the Trump people should package Tulsi Gabbard and Robert F Kennedy Jr, together, and they would—as joint former Democrat witnesses about the corruption of the system—be devastating,” said former House Speaker Newt Gingrich on the “John Solomon Reports” podcast, apparently with a straight face. 

“[I]t shows you that today's Democratic Party is leaving these people behind. Today's Democratic Party is so radical, so dangerous, so progressive, that there are millions of Democrats who are leaving that party every day," said Republican National Committee Chairman Michael Whatley to Just the News. "We're seeing thousands of them that are coming our way.”  Yeah, no they’re not. In fact, their endorsements only serve to remind voters of how weird and creepy Republicans are.  Kennedy was funded by right-wing donors in order to take votes from the Democratic ticket, and was so batshit crazy that he repelled weirded-out Democrats and ended up taking votes from the Republican ticket. He would’ve stayed in if any Democrats were actually interested in what he was selling. 

[...] Musk, long lost to the fever swamps of the right, isn’t attracting any Democrats anytime soon. On Sunday, Musk tweeted “interesting observation” at an incel posting that women and “low T men” shouldn’t be allowed to vote. “Only high T alpha males and aneurotypical people (hey autists!) are actually free to parse new information with an objective ‘is this true?’ filter,” the weirdo wrote. “This is why a Republic of high status males is best for decision making. Democratic, but a democracy only for those who are free to think.”  Not really the sort of thing any campaign should be associating with, even if this is the sort of material Sen. JD Vance might embrace. Gabbard hasn’t damaged Trump by association this past week simply because she hasn’t said anything publicly. She’s supposedly helping Trump with debate prep, playing the role of Vice President Kamala Harris. But nothing in her history suggests she’ll attract traditional Democrats. She lost the plot a long time ago. 

Kamala Harris has oodles of GOP endorsements, such as Adam Kinzinger. Donald Trump, on the other hand, has very few Democrats endorsing him.

[vidreview]

VIDREV: "Plagiarism and You(Tube)" by Hbomberguy.

[originally posted december 7th 2023]

i didn't initially plan to do a full VIDREV for this one. it's a long video that speaks plenty for itself, revealing a veritable cottage industry of video essayists who've found great success in brazenly stealing the works of marginalized creators. it's an infuriating watch, especially as someone who has put a lot of work over a lot of years into getting better as an essayist. at a moment when the gormless profit-chasing business degree havers of the world are pretty unambiguously winning in every avenue imaginable, it's gratifying to see someone like Hbomberguy use his significant platform to at least make a dent in that trend. i had a few gripes, sure, but i didn't figure they were worth the trouble. of course now it's been out for a few days, the video already has over 6.8 million views, and people are still talking about it on every single social media website of note. watching that discourse evolve from afar has sharpened some of the round edges on my aforementioned gripes, and given me reason to think that maybe weighing in isn't a totally fruitless endeavor. and besides, what's the point of having a video essay review blog if you're not gonna review what is arguably the video essay of the moment? ahhh, there's a Faustian bargain if ever i heard one.

in this post, i'm going to be critical of Hbomberguy's "Plagiarism and You(Tube)" on a few fronts of debatable importance. but first, i want to make it clear that i am genuinely grateful to Hbomb for putting so much time and effort into this investigation. plagiarism is a serious accusation that requires commensurate evidence, and Harris's got that covered in spades. the case is made so much harder to deny by the frequent juxtaposition of a plagiarist's voice-over with the original plagiarized text on screen reacting to minor trail-covering alterations. these sections occupy the bulk of this video's near 4 hour runtime, and while i have some issues with that length, i understand that the deluge of evidence is precisely to make sure that none of the plagiarists in question can continue dodging accusations the way they have done previously. in this process, Hbomb lays out a consistent playbook utilized by all manner of plagiarists, and (hypothetically) gives viewers the tools and awareness they need to better spot plagiarism in the future. this matters because, as he rightly points out, youtube isn't a fun little hobby site for posting silly cat videos anymore, there's real money to be made on the platform and virtually no oversight to protect creators with ethics and integrity (i wanted to pull a direct quote here but alas, you can't ctrl+f a video). it's an open question as to how or whether we can fix this problem, but we don't get to that conversation until we acknowledge that plagiarism is a legitimate, widespread, materially harmful phenomenon online. none of what i have to say in this review is meant to minimize its broad success in calling attention to a very real problem!

that said…

in the days since its release, i've seen a lot of back and forth over what this video is about. on one side you have folks calling for the blood of James Somerton and others mentioned in the essay, saying "fuck these people specifically." yet on another side, many insist that you're missing the point if all you see is more drama for the drama mill. "this is a systemic problem" they say, "that's what the video is about." i'm inclined to agree more with the latter than the former, as Hbomb does consistently circle back to talking about the unpaid victims of plagiarism, ending the video by explicitly highlighting underrated queer creators and even saying outright that he doesn't want the end result to be limited in scope to just retribution against these specific plagiarists.

and yet, when i see a meme like this one:

i can't help but think… is that what the video is about? is someone who just sees the drama missing the point? yes, certainly, Hbomb says as much, but how much does he actually say it compared to everything else? what's the proportion of (to be overly reductive) "drama content" to "systemic criticism"? because it seems to me that anyone who only/mostly gets "wow fuck these people in particular" out of this video has done nothing less than take the video in aggregate. the bulk of its runtime is spent detailing very specific acts of plagiarism, and while yes, as i said above, this abundance serves a very real purpose, it shouldn't go unacknowledged that the tone of these sections is often one of ridicule and mockery. i don't mean that as a criticism in and of itself, to be clear. you can draw a line from here directly backwards through all his "Measured Response" videos, dude cut his teeth on knocking overconfident hacks down a peg, a bit of ridicule and mockery is to be expected. but that does ultimately mean that Hbomb spends most of the video saying "fuck these people in particular," in a tone of voice he honed through many other videos devoted to saying "fuck this guy in particular", only occasionally stopping to add that "plagiarism is popular and insidious and even creators you trust might be doing it" before moving onto the next scornworthy particular guy. so it kind of doesn't matter that one is "the point" and the other is "missing the point" because he's genuinely saying both things, and he's saying one of them significantly more often than the other. you can't tell me the dunks aren't at least part of the point, and if they're part of it then they can and will be misconstrued by some as the whole point. the entertainment and spectacle of knocking these plagiarists down a peg is an indulgence that, while certainly earned, does exist in concrete tension with the systemic arguments that are meant to take priority. now, some of this does come down to how internet culture has shifted in the last decade to facilitate a much more aggressive style of engagement overall, which Harris cannot control no matter how often he says "don't harass the plagiarists." there isn't really a perfectly right way to go about this, and under the circumstances i do think he did far better than others might have done in his stead.

but even still, i think this misapprehension is made worse by the essay's conclusion, which in my opinion largely fails to tie the whole thing together into the systemic argument that supposedly is "the point" some viewers are missing. Harris commendably points out how the so-called AI revolution is at its core an act of automated civilization-scale plagiarism, and that future instances of plagiarism may be harder to catch precisely because of this technology. frankly i wish that perspective had taken up a solid 10% of the runtime rather than a couple paragraphs at the very end, seeing as on balance it's the far bigger and more likely threat to the livelihoods of people watching than old-school direct plagiarism, but that's me. what really bugged me was the brevity with which he discussed possible solutions to the problem. he rightly points out that youtube implementing a plagiarism reporting system would just be another tool for bad faith actors to silence marginalized creators on the platform, and then… he kinda gives up? he shrugs his shoulders and says, well, for now, just talking about plagiarism and spreading awareness of it is enough. for as well-intentioned and, generally speaking, true as that is, it bugs me as an essayist because i believe that a big part of the job is or ought to be expanding the audience's ability to imagine what's possible even if you aren't 100% sure about the answers yourself.

these are all very much "how i would have written it differently" criticisms, so they aren't particularly worth much, but i do feel it's odd that he doesn't even broach the subject of federal regulation, platform control, unionization efforts, or even just good old-fashioned consumer activism. virtually every website that the creative economy hangs on is a venture-capital backed corporate venture, and their ad-driven models for profiteering at a moment when wages are stagnant and layoffs are happening everywhere is, like, the reason this is such a problem. to address plagiarism as a systemic issue, we need to understand the systemic enablers of it as a behavior. if creators weren't getting such a small slice of the revenue pie, if we had more control over the platform and what rises to the top, if the companies that owned these platforms were beholden to federal regulations, if the government increased arts funding and gave out grants to independent creators that involved third-party quality checks, if online video creators had any manner of collective labor power, if the cost of living was lower by way of public healthcare, free education, mass public transit, and affordable housing, then this would be a drastically different conversation. these are not non-sequitors! this is as much an economic problem as it is a cultural one, so any proposed solution that stops at changing the culture is necessarily incomplete and doomed to fail.

look, i don't expect Hbomb to have the answers. nobody has the answers. but i think it's a bit short-sighted to leave so many possibilities unsaid when the one concrete possibility discussed is immediately (correctly) written off as a bad idea. it leads to a conclusion that feels iffy, a bit defeated, lost at sea, and that's an infectious mood. if the first step to solving plagiarism as a systemic problem is to encourage talking about it openly, i think it's equally important to at the very least gesture in the direction of the many possible avenues for a systemic solution, no matter how impossible or ridiculous they might seem in the current political climate. in point of fact, i think it's of utmost importance to include these possibilities precisely because they seem impossible, otherwise we will forever be trapped in a world of insufficient half measures, meekly reifying the conservative austerity of the liberal order because it's easier and safer than taking a wild shot in the dark.

again, i want to stress that this is a deeply subjective criticism. i'm an ornery Marxist, of course i have these kinds of gripes. and it's easy to get lost in criticizing what isn't there, which as an exercise generally tells you more about the critic than the object being criticized. so, to close out, i'm gonna shake my fist a little at something that is there.

there's a moment at about one hour thirty-five minutes in where Harris turns on some colored lights to get that patented blue-purple Bisexual Lighting, and then he says this:

This is a whole style of video now, and by "style" I mean one person did it first and then a bunch of boring people ripped her off. Stealing from lots of places is inspiration, but stealing from one place is plagiarism… unless you call it The BreadTube Style, and then it's fine. I don't even know what a BreadTube is, I just woke up one day and was told that I was in it, and that people hated me for being in it. I don't even know what it is!

i understand where this jab is coming from-- the whole BreadTube scene was a melodramatic nightmare, on account of being an audience-invented genre which that audience (and later creators who emerged from that audience) often inaccurately treated as a coherent movement. i understand the frustration expressed by a lot of creators in that first generation of left-ish essayists (Hbomb, Lindsay Ellis, Dan Olson, Contrapoints etc) with the atmosphere of that moment, and certainly don't begrudge them a desire to distance themselves from it and ridicule its shortcomings.

but this brief little jokey aside left a bad taste in my mouth. the creator he's talking about being "ripped off" here is obviously Contrapoints, who brought a colorful theatricality to her early work that elevated it above being something she shot for cheap in her apartment. this went hand in hand with her Socratic style of essaying, giving her characters a strange and vibrant world to occupy. i don't want to say she "did it first" because, let's be real, Natalie Wynn did not invent the idea of using dramatic lighting on the internet. but she was certainly the first person i saw on youtube doing it in video essays, and yeah, a lot of people followed her example including me!

but that's not the same thing as plagiarism, is it? this whole video is an extensive exploration of what genuinely counts as plagiarism: taking someone else's words and pretending that they're yours. style is almost never part of that conversation across the whole 4 hours, except where it involves use of prepackaged assets like transitions and stock footage, which Hbomb deliberately notes is fine and normal except when people act like they're the ones who invented it (this particularly comes up in the Legal Eagle section). by the terms of this joke, Abby Thorne of PhilosophyTube falls under the category of "boring people" who were "ripping off" Contrapoints even moreso than those who just lit videos like her, because she even does the Socratic-style dialogues! but somehow i don't think Harris would call that plagiarism. if the concern re: bisexual lighting in BreadTube is attribution, all i can say is that Natalie Wynn is one of the single most discussed and cited creators in the whole field. virtually everyone i can think of who "ripped her off" back in the day openly acknowledged being inspired by her at every possible opportunity. of course that's just my own biased recollection of the history, so who knows, maybe there are people out there acting like they did it first. but unlike most of the other victims of plagiarism provided in this video, Natalie Wynn is not wallowing in obscurity. her work is IMMENSELY successful, to the point where she's arguably the closest thing to a household name you can get from this space.

now, i'm sensitive to a joke like this because i always felt like if anything Natalie got too much credit for "inventing" the so-called "BreadTube style". her use of colored lights was striking and unique, yes, but it was also rudimentary and not particularly complicated. i worked in film lighting for enough years to see this "style" as equivalent to late 1910's era silent films blindly grasping at the bare fundamentals of montage that have become the backbone of all cinema. it's good, but it ain't Citizen Kane. i really hoped people would take Natalie's baseline not as a concrete template, but as a challenge to get even more ambitious and filmic with their lighting setups! instead things have stagnated, and we've kinda circled back around to a very slightly more colorful version of the standard pre-Contrapoints look. this is by no means to play down the work that Natalie did, because i know from my own years making video essays that it is NOT easy or simple to set up even rudimentary lighting that looks good. but come on man, have some perspective. she's a philosopher, not an electrician!

what's worse is that later on in the video, Hbomb talks about how many creators were inspired by AVGN to do twists on his formula, and why this was a good thing. near the end, when he's very rightly shouting out many underrated queer essayists, he spends a good chunk of time celebrating the spirit of remix that is so unique to the internet, insisting that there's a real tangible difference between plagiarism and inspiration. this is good! i agree with him! which is why it's so bizarre that there's this one aside that equates using bisexual lighting to plagiarism! it's a disarmingly hypocritical moment in an otherwise relatively on-point video, and its presence kind of weakens the rest of the essay for me (especially if you're sensitive to how near this comes to being all-out drama youtube, as clearly even Hbomb is by his own admission in the video).

the last i'll say is that i find it frustrating when a creator in Hbomb's position tries to act like BreadTube wasn't A Thing. no, it wasn't A Thing the way quite a lot of people thought it was (including many who called themselves BreadTubers). but these creators were often collaborating with each other to make guest appearances, read quotes, etc. certainly they mentioned each other often enough, which couldn't help solidifying in the audience's mind that there was indeed A Thing happening that involved multiple people with similar creative & political goals, regardless of whether or not that was the creators' intent. it wasn't formal, and it certainly wasn't A Movement (the lack of an articulated ideological spine is a BIG part of why things went sour the way they did), but they were happy enough to play along before Drama blew the whole endeavor to smithereens. and notably, successive generations of creators (like Sophie From Mars, Jack Saint, Lily Alexandre, CJ the X, and yes, also me again) saw the BreadTube genre as a place where interesting things were happening, where the kinds of things they/we wanted to create were encouraged and supported vociferously. it's no coincidence that a LOT of up-and-coming trans creators doing very BreadTube-y things got a huge boost from guesting on Hbomb's DK64 Nightmare Stream in 2019 (including me again, haha, oops), because there was A Thing happening even if most people were wrong about what, exactly, it was. none of this is to say that Hbomb should call himself a BreadTuber-- god no, i hope no one does that ever again, i'm embarrassed that i did back in the day! but this history does exist. mostly i just think this joke would've been better left on the cutting room floor.

okay, i think that's enough criticism for one day. one thought i had coming out of this is that i wish more video essays would publish concurrently with a written version on a dedicated website. not just a transcript but an article-format version. i wonder sometimes about the difficulty of indexing video essays, of getting their contents into a historical record that can be printed out and put into a library. but anyway, all my gripes aside, it's a good video and you should go watch it! preferably in chunks over a day or two!

[horizon-verizon]

https://www.tumblr.com/horizon-verizon/756487959478452224/condal-truly-said-that-he-sees-daemon-as-someone?source=share

Usually when a work of fiction, or any topic in general, is discussed, it's only expected for people to come up with theories of their own. The next step is to validate a theory by weighing them against valid sources and, in the case of fiction, the canon and then debate on its plausibility.

But when one has to outright disregard canon and alter several details about it in order to fit their interpretation, then it ceases to be a discussion related to that topic and goes into fanfiction territory. This is precisely what Condal is doing with the show and, specifically, for some reason, with Daemon.

Had Condal been a fanboy lurking on tumblr or in Reddit spaces and said stuff like Daemon teleported into the Vale to smash Rhea's head with a rock or that he arrived at the Riverlands after the Battle Of the Burning Mill and didn't do much during the war, he would either be ignored or downvoted or called out because the aforementioned events cannot be refuted even with the now misused excuse of F&B being an unreliable narration. They happened on specific dates, in a particular sequence and were witnessed by people. Daemon was present in the Stepstones at the time of Rhea's accident and Rhea being alive for nine days after that without mentioning any foul play rules out the possibility of an assassin. Regardless of what people personally thought of B&C within their closed doors, it did not affect Rhaenyra's position among her allies in canon or hindered their efforts to raise an army.

Unfortunately, Condal isn't just some biased fanboy harboring elaborate canon defying fantasies but the showrunner in charge of adapting F&B and its characters. And, there are several instances in which one can see his and Hess' bias permeating through the script, not just with Daemon but with other characters too. The characters on the show aren't the ones GRRM wrote but what C&H want them to be.

Though, with Daemon, it's amusing because they didn't even spare the smallest of details such as Daemon capturing Harrenhal and House Strong's 'not so inconsiderable wealth' which is expressly stated in the book and had to make a point to say twice on the show that Larys had the gold moved out and it is an empty castle.

One would think Condal feels personally aggrieved by this fictional characters. Hess does too, for different reasons. But in Condal's case,specifically, I just can't help but feel he is one of those disgruntled fans who dislike Daemon just because he sincerely supported Rhaenyra instead of opposing her just like how he probably begrudges Rhaenyra for not giving up her claim in Aegon's favour.

So, ultimately, it all boils down to Rhaenyra.

I do wonder how GRRM fumbled the bag once more with the showrunners. One would think he would be more cautious after what happened with D&D.

@deus-sema

And people wonder why people have called HotD not an adaptation but fanfiction? Hmmm....

And I agree that Ryan feels like one of those fans--who seem to be the very dim majority of "book" fans who just skim--who resents Daemon for being at her side and for her claim even if they won't admit to themselves; this has been a point people have said many times as and after S1 ended. Too lazy to pull up examples & posts I reblogged or made right now.

[writing-in-verse]

Negative Space

This is a One-Shot scene written with inspiration from @garvalhaminho's post reblogged by @ti-bae-rius. I hope you all get something out of this little thing I decided needed writing.

Negative Space

The wind was blowing across the frosted mountain peaks, twisting through the trees and crags. It picked up snow as it went to give the impression there were indistinct wisps or spirits dancing across the unclaimed wilderness beyond the Scholomance. 

Livvy watched the improvised performance from the parapet atop the northern wing of the building with a sense of detachment; the wind simply flowed through her these days, her dress didn’t flow in the wind like it should, the numbness she expected to feel in her fingertips never came. 

"If you weren't already dead I'd think you were about to jump." I turned to see Tom, his spectral form stood a few feet back, head cocked to the side as if considering me carefully. 

"Just admiring the scenery," she said. "You really picked the most beautiful part of the Scholomance to haunt." 

"Well the dusty corridors were overcrowded and the stuffy library shelves reminded me of exams," he replied. "I didn’t die just to be reminded of my failing grades." Livvy laughed despite herself. 

Tom was good at that; brushing aside the tension like the frost on the old, single-pane windows in Ty's room. 

"Are you not helping your brother study?" he walked over and sat on the edge of the roof with his back to the world. "Or is he off on an adventure, solving world-ending problems like they're extra-curriculars?" 

"He's with Anush," she said, sitting down next to him. "They're studying, preparing for their final assignments." 

"Is that what we're calling it?" he asked. "Back in my day it was just called making out." Livvy smiled again, the thought of a teenager saying 'back in my day' was never not funny to her. 

“So, what brings you up here? Other than to keep me company, of course,” Tom said. He watched as she threaded her fingers together, waiting for her to say what was on her mind. 

"Do you ever feel... Separate from others?" she asked. "Not just in the obvious, ghostly sense?" 

"Well that's the simple answer," he said. "I suppose among other ghosts I'm not annoyed about being, well, a ghost. At least, not yet." 

"It does feel like part of haunting a place is to be very angry about haunting that space," Livvy agreed. “I’m sure you’ll get used to these views. Eventually.”

“I don’t know, I sometimes get to see the Aurora Borealis without other people to ruin the experience.” He nodded sagely to himself as if settling the debate for the next century. 

Livvy took a deep breath. Or, at least she impersonated taking a deep breath: ghosts didn't breathe and, beyond the sound and the look, there was no intake of air and Livvy couldn't feel her lungs fill with oxygen like she used to. Another thing that felt like a foregone conclusion to feel, another thing she was still surprised she didn't. 

"When I see Ty look at Anush, his whole face lights up, when I see them kiss I watch as his whole body relaxes into it. It's as if he's keeping something inside him that can only be let out by that physical contact. As if he needs Anush more than anything in the world." 

"Are you feeling... Jealous?" Tom asked. There was no judgement in the question, more like checking a map to see if he was following the right trail. Livvy shook her head. 

"I don't know how I could be jealous of my brother," she explained. "He raised me from the dead, I don't think I have to worry about being sidelined." 

"That's a fair point." Tom laughed. Livvy had told him about how she died, how Ty had gone to such trouble to bring her back, how it hadn't quite worked how he expected.  

In turn Tom had told her how he died; he'd fallen off this very roof - not intentionally, he'd assured her - just an overly cocky teenager who thought he could keep his footing. They never found his body, so now he warns other potential climbers of the very fatal tripping hazard. 

"It's not that I'm feeling some intense emotion when I look at them. It's the opposite." Livvy looked at him "I feel nothing, more than nothing, as if there's some space inside me where the things they're expressing should live in me but just don't." 

"So, maybe you're not into guys," Tom suggested. "Or not the same guys as your brother?" 

"I thought that too," she said. "but there are many people here who love or are attracted to a whole variety of people and I'm just... Not.

"It's like, I can feel an empty space where these feelings or whatever should come from but it's just empty." 

Tom was quiet for a moment, considering his words with care. 

"Remember when I told you I picked the name Tom after I died?" he asked. Livvy nodded; she'd told him Tom was a nice name. 'picked it myself,' he'd quipped.  

"Well, I wasn't planning to call myself Tom before I died. In fact, I didn't even know I wanted to be anyone other than the person I was when I died. At least, not consciously. 

"It wasn't until I died, until I had the space to see the boxes me and my friends were put in, that I didn't much like where I was placed. I also realised, as a ghost, I could choose what boxes to put myself in and there was no one who could argue with me. I think I would have made that choice had I not fallen head first off the Scholomance battlements, but being a ghost let me make that choice a little faster." 

"I think I'm pretty happy being Livvy," she said with a grin. Tom laughed a loud, cackling laugh. 

"My point is," he said. "Maybe you don't have to fall in love or be attracted to anyone. Maybe, being a ghost has given you space to see for yourself if you want that without the weight of expectation bearing down on you." 

Livvy thought about this for a while, not sure what to say about any of it. Tom, for his part, let her sit and think in the quiet companionship only a fellow ghost could offer. 

The wind had picked up while they talked, what was a strong breeze had become a light blizzard. Livvy couldn't see far across the snow swept roof and the beautiful mountains were hidden from her once more. 

"Right," Tom said as he stood. "I'm going to wander around, see if any would-be adventurers have picked the worst weather to scale the battlements."

"Thank you, Tom." Livvy looked up at him and smiled. 

"Thank you for the chat," he said. "It was nice."

 He turned and walked across the roof, his spectral form quickly lost in the snow. 

There was no indent where he'd just been sitting, the snow remained undisturbed, there weren't even any footprints to mark his path. He'd simply disappeared into the night.

[misspearly1]

When Two Worlds Collide Series

Chp1 || Chp2 || Chp3 || Chp4 || Chp5 || Chp6 || Chp7 || Chp8

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader x Arthur Morgan 

Chapter One: The Hidden Antique

WC: 4.9k

Warnings: 18+ Content. Minors DNI. Friends to Lovers. Flirting. Little bit of fluff. Eventual Smut. Arthur doesn’t make an appearance in this chapter. A little background and build up in the story first. 

AN: Ok, my loves. This is pretty much an introduction and a lead up to what happened (in relation to the kinktober crossover fic). Starts off with Joel, then Arthur will eventually make an appearance. I’ve broken up the story because posting large works can be a little difficult on tumblr (it crashes terribly lol). I hope you enjoy the first chapter though. Thank you!

You’ve often wondered about the evolution of a yard sale; like where did the idea originate from and who came up with it? Or why does it feel so exciting to sift through second hand goods, looking to buy something that catches your eye? Perhaps it’s because you can sometimes come across antiques hidden amongst the cluttered pile, and finding something that’s not only expensive, but lavish, decorative and useful too, is very exciting indeed. 

These questions spring to mind this afternoon when passing through a neighbourhood adjacent to yours. You were in the process of driving home after a long day at work, but stopped the car with a sudden burst of joy when seeing a yard sale sign. They always said one man’s trash is another man's treasure, and while you’re not a man, you do believe in that saying and felt it was worthwhile to take a look through the household goods laid out across the front lawn. 

Of course, it looked messy and disorganized with the chairs, tables and even the sidewalk bestrewn with clutter, but you have a little experience with locating the valuables amongst the household junk. You have a keen eye for these things, and it paid off really well too because not even thirty minutes after you stopped the car, you managed to bag unopened box of fairy lights to place around your home somewhere, several scented candles to use for those nights you’d love to take a relaxing bath, a summer dress with the price still attached which is perfectly timed since the summer season is here and many new books to read as well.

But the most valuable item that you bagged today is the mirror. A hidden gem, you might call it, as the mirror was buried behind an attics worth of trash. It’s body length in size, oval shaped and sturdy, embellished with finely hand carved details in the wooden frame and it would fit perfectly in the corner of your bedroom. Even the stand it came with was worth a pretty penny. The whole piece is a vintage antique and highly valuable.

Having said that however, you didn’t want to hustle the man selling the item and told him that it was worth more than the asking price, but he already knew. Josh Sinclair — the seller — reassured you that the price was right for him. He just wanted to get rid of the damn thing as it had been collecting dust in his grandpa’s attic for years, and the reason he drove the price down is because it’s plastered with a heavy layer of soot and black paint.

According to Josh, his grandpa tried to burn the mirror years ago, but failed with the attempt and just painted it over instead. Frankly, you wouldn’t have taken any interest in buying the thing if you didn’t know how to clean it up and bring it back to a good condition. It’s not something you’re planning to sell once you restore it. You want to keep it in your home.

Though, you still didn’t feel comfortable with the asking price and debated a little more with the man, and in the end, you both settled on forty bucks and now it's yours. You paid for your other items then took them to your car before opening the trunk and folding the back seats down. After a struggle and muttering a string of curses under your breath, you dusted your hands off and turned to look at Josh, still feeling guilty for how little he was taking. The mirror is worth thousands. 

Reaching into your pocket and pulling out another thirty dollars, you presented it to the man for all of his help. “Here, take this — please.” You persisted and quickly explained. “This mirror was worth so much more in its prime. I feel bad taking it off your hands for only forty dollars and you did all the heavy lifting anyways.” You smiled, hoping it would seal the deal and to your relief, the man didn’t refuse your offer and accepted the extra cash. 

“Thank you, Y/N… Thank you.” He replied gratefully, holding your eye contact for a moment as he nodded with appreciation. You returned the nod and began walking around the car to the driver's door. He opened it for you and waited till you were sitting inside comfortably before shutting it. After you had turned the key in the ignition, you opened the window and looked up at the man with another smile as he said goodbye. “It was nice meeting you. Come back anytime you see me having another yard sale, ya hear?” 

“I sure will. Thanks, Josh.” You beamed. When he stepped back and gave you ample room to drive away without the worry of squashing his feet with the tires, you looked in the rear-view mirror and watched his figure gradually get smaller while driving down the street. You think about how his face and personality will always stick in your memory. He has bright ginger hair, pale freckled skin, a large birthmark over his right eye and he was so kind, sweet and patient with you too.

You’ll never forget your interaction with Josh because it was nothing but a pleasure and you’ll certainly be coming back again when he next hosts a yard sale. Maybe next time, you could even invite Joel Miller to tag along with you. He sure likes a yard sale just as much as you do. In fact, it was only a few weeks ago that Joel dragged you to the flea market near town to buy some decorative items for his house as he was in desperate need of your ‘expert opinion’. But to be quite honest, you don’t think the man really needed your opinion at all. He had that covered all by himself. You just think he just wanted your company for the day, and you didn’t mind at all because he’s become someone that you enjoy spending time with. And of course, he is really handsome too. 

Joel is your neighbour. He lives next door to you and often spends most of his free time sprucing up his home interior after only just moving into the neighbourhood two months ago. He has a brother named Tommy, a chunky brown Labrador named Rex and a fluffy white Persian cat named Felix. The man's house is warm, welcoming and chaotic, especially with the exciting activities that Rex and Felix get up to. You often watch them from your back porch playing in the yard. They’re so cute together, but you miss them dearly as they’ve been staying at Tommy’s house for the last week. 

While Joel has been busying himself with the home décor ever since he moved in, he’s recently taken it upon himself to put his skills to use and just fully renovate instead. His daily work and passion is carpentry after all, which means his house is currently looking a little worse for wear with the scaffolding poles set up, the bags of cement along his front porch and the large yellow industrial dumpster placed on his front lawn. The place is simply too messy and dangerous for Rex and Felix to be around. They can’t even play in the backyard anymore as it’s covered with even more waste that needs to be discarded. 

For the longest time, you have thought about getting a dog for yourself and yearned to have that connection that Joel has with Felix and Rex. You love to watch him interact with the little guys. They’re more like his babies rather than pets and sometimes he just sits out back and plays the guitar for them while you eavesdrop from next door. Sometimes he even sings for them, albeit it’s very quiet and only a few words here or there, but the notion of singing to his little fur babies is most adorable. 

Clearing your mind as you pull into your street, you look upon the eyesore that is Joel’s home and laugh sweetly when seeing the man scratching the back of his head as he stood on his front lawn. He looked a little frustrated and confused while overlooking some building plans with his buddies, as if he were trying to figure out what the next best step was. But that focus and concern etched on his face was distracting to say the least as you try to drive without staring at him too much. It’s dangerous to gaze upon him like this while behind the wheel. 

You snap out of your ogling and focus on the road, keeping Joel and his buddies in your line of sight as you drive carefully. The house may look like an eyesore right now, but you know that once it’s all said and done, it’s going to look perfect. Joel and his brother do most of the work themselves, but some of their work friends pitch in to help whenever and wherever they can. It’s really rather generous and thoughtful of them. You adore that he has friends like that, and secretly hope their generosity extends to his neighbour with the big heavy mirror in the backseat of her car. 

Parking your car up in the driveway and hopping out, you walk around the back and open the trunk. “Hey.” You waved to Joel as he looked in your direction. He said something to his friends before making his way over, no doubt telling them he’d just be stepping away for a moment. They all smirked and whispered amongst themselves, watching the man like a hawk as if he were approaching his crush, and the mere thought of you being his crush made your cheeks burn. 

“Hey, doll.” Joel greeted you in that thick southern drawl as he approached. “You need some help with the groceries—wait… What’s all this?” He cuts himself off to ask, his tone sounding slightly offended. “Did yer go back to the flea market without me, girl?” 

“No, Joel. I would never.” You barked out a laugh and shook your head at the man. “There was a yard sale in the Sunlight Grove neighbourhood. I stopped the car and bought a few things. Look –” you pointed a finger. “–I even bagged this really cool antique mirror.” 

“Oh yeah, that is cool.” He agreed, then furrowed his brows a little upon noticing the thick soot and black paint on the mirror. “You can fix that, right?” 

“I hope so.”

Reaching for the cardboard box filled with your candles, books and fairy lights, Joel reaches for your summer dress and pulls the straps around his neck, laying the clothing over his chest before turning to his friends with a loud whistle. “Hey pretty boys… Come help me with this thing will yer.” He asked, oh so politely. You and his friends laugh at him plenty, your smile growing bigger and wider over his sense of humour before he turned back to face you and winked. “This dress works a charm. I can see why you bought it, darlin’.”  

“That's actually not why I bought it, but thanks Joel.” You giggled and shook your head at him again. Turning away and heading towards your porch steps, you quickly mount the stairs and open the front door then place the cardboard box of goodies to one side momentarily as you help the guys out however you can. Joel didn’t even lift a finger. He just left his buddies to do all the heavy lifting while leading them into your house. He was even swaying your dress around flirtatiously which earned himself a couple catcalls and wolf whistles. 

“Getting real comfortable wearing that, aren’t you?” You pointed out and teased, to which he returned the playfulness confidently, “Oh yeah. M-hm. Why? You think it looks pretty on me?” 

“Oh yes. It’s very pretty, Joel.” You nod seriously without any trace of a lie in your tone. It actually did look good on him. The pattern and colours paired so well with that dark brown head of hair of his and that deep summer tan on his skin. You often spend every morning reminding him to put sun cream on before heading out to work, sometimes even texting him on your breaks and reminding him to add another layer. He needs that protection, but boy does he look good with a nice golden tan.

“Hey um...” You snap out of your mindless gazing once again. “Do you have any WD-40 in your garage? It will help with removing the paint and soot off the mirror.” 

“Yeah, sure. I got a couple cans you can take.” 

After the mirror was gently placed in your lounge, you grabbed an old sheet and placed it underneath before heading outside with Joel and the guys. You walked towards his garage and thanked him for letting you take a can of WD-40 as well as borrowing a scraper and some industrial cleaning wipes too. “I wanna get started on the mirror right away, but I’ll come back later and bring a couple beers for you and your friends.” 

“Will yer be wearing that pretty dress when you come back to see me with those beers?” He grinned and gathered a sarcastic round of applause from his friends as they all mocked him jokingly. “That’s some next level flirting right there, Joel.” One of his friends said, his words making you stifle a laugh, yet hearing him confirm that Joel was in fact flirting with you made you smile a flattered kind of smile. 

As they continued to laugh and jeer at him, you rolled your eyes at their remarks and replied loud enough for them to hear. “Yeah, sure. I’ll wear the dress just for you, Joel.” You throw him a little wink before turning to walk away, the sight of his smile making your stomach flutter and your heart skip a beat. He looked so shy in that moment when his friends honed in on him, as if they were revealing some big secret about how he feels about you. It’s no secret that something is slowly forming between you and the man, but it’s still too soon to assume that it’s more than just friends. 

You like Joel’s company. He likes yours. And that’s all there is to it for now. 

Upon entering your house and releasing the breath you didn’t realize you were holding, you made your way into the lounge and got to work right away with restoring the mirror. You have a few tips and tricks up your sleeve when it comes to restoration, and WD-40 is just another trick you’ve learned to use along the way. It works wonders for a lot of things around the house too. You used up the last of your own supply the other week when cleaning your bathroom mirror and shower doors, lifting the stained fog straight off the glass. 

With a little music playing from your stereo, you took your time removing all the dirt and grime from the mirror bit by bit with gentle scrapes and wipes. It was actually really rather relaxing and enjoyable. You lost track of time as the hours rolled by quickly, and before you knew it, the cicadas and crickets had alarmed you that it was night time outside. You didn’t even notice the sun going down. You were so invested and focused on the mirror instead. It looked a hell of a lot better though. You’ve made a big dent in the progress and can actually see yourself in the reflection now. All that’s left to do is remove the soot and paint from the crevices in the wood. 

Reminding yourself of those beers you promised Joel and his friends, you exited the lounge and made your way into the kitchen, then retrieved a four pack of cold Budweiser's from the fridge before heading toward the front door. That summer dress was left hanging on the coat hooks along the wall, and the half-hearted you made to Joel crossed your mind as you contemplated whether or not you should actually wear it for him. 

After a moment thinking about it, you set the beers down on the cabinet and reached for the dress, deciding to fulfil all of your promises. Even if you weren’t being serious earlier, you concluded that there really wasn’t any harm in wearing the piece of clothing for him. Besides, you wanted to see how it looked and felt on your body anyways. 

You were just in the middle of taking off your sweater when there was a knock at the door, the sound so sudden and startling that it made you gasp and jump on the spot. “Who is it?” You called out. 

“It’s just me, doll." Joel answered reassuringly from the other side. You quickly pull your sweater back over your head and hold the dress behind the door as you open it, greeting him with a surprised look on your face. “Hey. I was just about to come outside with those beers when you knocked. It gave me a fight.” You laughed bashfully, noticing the way his eyes dropped to look at your clothes. 

“Sorry ‘bout that, darlin’. I came to tell you that me and the guys are going out for dinner. You wanna come with us? They keep badgering me to check out that new diner in town so I thought we could go out instead.” He explained, but his words went right over your head. You didn’t even hear him at first. You were too caught up on the fact he looked at your clothes, checking to see if you’re wearing that dress for him, and the way he looked a little disappointed that you weren’t was saddening. If he had just knocked on your door a few minutes later, then he would have seen that you were wearing it for him. 

“Um.. It’s okay, Joel. Don’t worry about it,” you stammered. “I’ll keep the beers for some other time instead. Have fun with the guys…” you pause midway through your sentence with the sudden realization that he actually offered you to go out with him and his friends. You didn’t hear him, and it’s too late now to fix your mistake. He already began nodding with acceptance of your answer, and there was yet another disappointed look in his eyes. “... Y'all stay safe out there too,” you quickly add, finishing your sentence. 

“We will.” He nods, then holds your eye contact for a few moments while shuffling on his feet awkwardly. You could see that he was hesitant on deciding whether or not he should lean in and kiss your cheek goodbye, so you took a step forward and prompted him to. He finished closing the gap, and you watched as he closed his eyes when leaning in to plant a chaste kiss on your cheek. His lips were soft and plump, pressed against your skin so gently before he stopped back. It was bliss, and you yearned to feel it again.  

“I’ll see yer sometime tomorrow, darlin’." He said with a deep smile that displayed his relief and joy. You know that he saw you holding the dress when he leaned in to kiss you. And you can see with your own eyes that it made him feel less rejected and more optimistic that something was still there between you and him. 

“See you tomorrow." You muttered and threw a goodbye wave to his friends waiting for him in the car. They all waved back and quietly said their goodbyes too before one of them opened the back door for Joel to hop in.

You probably should have closed your front door and got back to what you were doing at that point, but you didn’t. You instead waited for him to look at you through the backseat window, and you’re glad that you waited too because when Joel’s eyes met yours, he blew you a kiss and still wore that same joyous smile.

It was as if he could hardly wait to see you tomorrow.

Later that night while laying in bed, the entire house shrouded in darkness and complete silence, you open your eyes the moment after you hear a noise echoing through the walls. It sounded like metal clanging against metal, and it was so faint and barely noticeable at first that you wondered if one of your neighbours were watching something on their TV so loud that you could hear it from here. 

You didn’t roll over and close your eyes right away and instead chose to focus on those noises to pinpoint their location. You know Joel is home and laying in bed right now because you were awake at the time when he came back from dinner with his friends. They were so quiet and respectful of how late at night it was, not wanting to disturb your sleeping neighbours. 

As that metal clanging noise subsides and is replaced with several men hooting and yelling as they ride horseback, you assumed that someone couldn’t hear the old western movie they were watching and finally rolled over to ignore it. Although you could hear the movie and all of the sound effects, you didn’t mind all that much as you’re used to something playing during the night anyway. Sometimes you even play some music on your phone and turn the volume down low just to have that background noise while you sleep. 

Now that you're facing the direction of your window however, you narrow your eyes with focus and just make out the waving beam of light coming through the blinds. It was Joel signalling you. He occasionally does that whenever he sends you a text and you don’t reply, but since your phone was under your pillow, you slip your hand underneath to retrieve it and read his text. 

‘Darlin’, you’ve left your TV playing downstairs. I can see your living room lit up with light,’ he wrote and you quickly text him back, replying: ‘Joel, I shut everything off before I came to bed. Are you sure it’s my TV?’ 

You look at your window again and focus on the gaps between your blinds, noticing that he had climbed out of his bed now to look through his window and check. ‘Yeah, sweetheart,’ you received a text from him, then another one shortly after. ‘It’s definitely your TV. I can hear that it’s a western movie too. I didn’t know you like that sort of stuff :).’ 

Overlooking how happy that little smiling emoticon made you feel, you couldn’t shift the anxiety in your stomach and decided to just go downstairs and check. Maybe you forgot to turn your TV off after all and you’re worrying over nothing. You quickly shoot another text to Joel before climbing out of bed, ‘Yeah. I like that sort of stuff :). I’m gonna head down and shut it off though. It’s really late and I don't want any complaints from the neighbours, lol.’ 

Exiting your room with that worry still gnawing away at your gut, you grabbed your metal baseball bat just for precaution and started making your way downstairs. You definitely remember turning everything off and you’re finding difficulty in rationalizing how your TV is even on right now, but as it turs out, Joel was right all along. There was a western movie playing in your living room. You could hear the movie as you walked down the stairs and see the bright flashes of light flicking across your walls. 

With another text from Joel chiming through, you look down at your phone and read what the man wrote. ‘What does 'lol' mean?' He asked, and it made you giggle before he quickly sent another text. 'Maybe we could watch a movie together sometime? I’ll bring the snacks and even cook dinner for you.’ His offer made you smile as you think about what it would look like to cosy up on the sofa together.

You entertained the thought for all of two seconds before lifting your head to look at your TV in the living, and seeing that it was shut off instantly brought that panicked feeling back to your stomach by tenfold. 

You stood still, frozen in place with fear as you realized where the source of those sounds and bright flashes of light were coming from — behind you in the mirror. It was displaying a series of images and producing sound, and it’s physically impossible that it could even do that, yet you could see those images in the reflection of the black TV screen and hear the sounds over your shoulder. There was a group of men riding horseback yelling as they shot at the sky. It looked so surreal. You couldn’t believe what your eyes were witnessing and your hands began to tremble so violently that you dropped the baseball bat to the floor below. 

A flood of text messages came through your phone from Joel, no doubt asking what that clattering noise was or asking if everything is okay. You don’t know for sure. You couldn’t even look away from the TV screen to look at your phone right now. You were too afraid to take your eyes off what you were seeing in the reflection. There was a man lying against a rock around the edge of a campsite, a dark cowboy hat on his head pulled down as he slept peacefully before the next image took over and was replaced by a large oak tree on a hill. 

You eventually gathered enough courage to turn around and take a proper look at the mirror. It’s as if you were looking into a TV, the sight unbelievable as it was only hours ago that you saw your own reflection, not what you’re seeing now. There’s no possible explanation as to how it's possible, and despite how afraid you are, there is also a sense of curiosity to know more as well. You continue to watch and drink in the displayed images, watching them cycle through like a slideshow. 

The first image was of workers hammering giant nails into an unfinished train track, hence the noise you heard earlier of metal clanging against metal. And the next image was a wide shot of a small town and the land surrounding it, a place that looked to be over one hundred years old. You’re almost certain you saw a big wooden sign over a building that said ‘Saloon’. 

But before you could see the next image, your attention was torn towards your front door with Joel pounding his fist against it urgently. “Y/N, open up,” his voice demanded through the wood, “Is everything okay in there, doll? I heard a commotion and I’m worried. C’mon, I need yer to answer me.” 

You could hear that concern in his tone and watched as he twisted the handle with force, damn near ready to break the thing before his knuckles began rapping at the door again much louder now. “I’m coming.” You called out shakily.

Walking towards the door and unlocking it, you stepped back as he pushed his way inside and reached out to hold your arm. “What’s wrong, girl? Did someone break in?” He questioned instantly and pulled you close, almost moving you behind him actually, as if he were shielding you from whatever spooked you inside the house. You looked like you had just seen a ghost, and your state of shock worried the man, so it’s no surprise he’s acting so protective right now.

“No — no one broke in." You managed to utter, then pointed a finger in the living room as you fully stepped behind him now and held onto his bicep. “It’s that mirror. Something’s wrong with it.” He looks at you with furrowed brows, as if he couldn’t believe you were so alarmed over a mirror, but his expression softens when he realizes that you’re being genuinely serious. You looked like a deer in the headlights.  

Joel decides to take a look by peeping his head inside your living room and sees for himself that the source of light and noise isn’t coming from your TV like he expected. He turned back to look at you with a mildly confused expression and reached past you to shut your front door. “I ain’t ever seen a mirror play a movie like that before.” He said with bewilderment, then stepped into the living room with you to investigate. As he takes a closer look though, he now fully understands why you were so alarmed in the first place and asked: “How the fuck is it doing that?”

“How the hell should I know?” You retort, your voice laced with as much concern as his. Moving towards the mirror together cautiously, you stick to the man’s back like glue and remain close as he scans the object with his eyes and searches for answers. 

“I can’t see anything that can explain it,” he mutters cluelessly, “There’s not even a little projector at the top, speakers or a power button to explain how this is possible.” You nod in agreement with him and feel a whole hell of a lot safer that he’s seeing what you are seeing. It was reassuring and validating your reactions that he, too, found it so bizarre and inexplicable. You couldn’t find a rational explanation, and neither could he. 

However, curiosity got the better of Joel as he reached out to touch the mirror. It didn’t feel right and you had a horrible feeling in your gut, but before you could even think about stopping him or voicing your concerns, he was sucked inside with so much force that he yanked you in there with him.

You screamed and yelled while falling into a seemingly endless void of darkness. It was no longer than two seconds really, but it felt like an eternity before finally breaching the other side and landing on tall blade of grass with a soft thump. You were beneath a tree... a large oak tree.

And it was the very same oak tree you had seen earlier. 

Next Chapter

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[the-selfship-corner]

Canon S/I Selfship Ask Game!

Original Post Here!

Using Kasumi for this :)

✍️: Overall, how does the fandom trait you? Are you a beloved character, or hated? Are you popular, or a minor side character? Anything in between?

I’d say Kasumi is a beloved secondary character. Not quite as small of a role as a side character, but not important enough for a main character either. I like the think she’d be a fan favorite.

📝: How would your story in canon go? How would you influence the events of the original story?

Kasumi would have transferred to U.A. under recommendation. Her appearance wouldn’t change much of the main storyline, but it would change small things like how Bakugo acts later in the series. She would probably have her own side arc.

🤪: What is your trait that fanon would exaggerate?

The fanon would exaggerate her quirk, Angel, and probably draw her as some immortal being with six wings, floating eyes, and a halo.

🥰: How would someone who loved you portray you?

They would portray her as a sympathetic, kind person.

😡: How would someone who hated you portray you?

They would probably portray her as an emotional crybaby who obsesses over Bakugo.

👯: What canon character are you most similar to?

Probably a mix between Mina and Uraraka.

🌦️: Would you be accompanied by mostly fluff or angst fanfics? Both? Explain why.

There would probably be a lot of angst with Bakugo and Kasumi, mostly because of Kasumi’s backstory and Bakugo’s aggressiveness.

🏷️: What is you and your f/o’s ship name?

Katsumi :)

❤️: How popular is you x your f/o? Are you a rarepair?

Pretty popular. Most people either love it or hate it. Katsumi is almost canon, but never officially talked about. There’s plenty of scenes that hint to it, though.

💞: Aside from with your f/o, who else would you commonly be shipped with? Why?

Probably Kirishima. The two of them get along pretty well and have those similar bright personalities.

☕️: What are the most common plots of shipping fics between you and your f/o?

One rescuing the other from a kidnapping, one comforting the other from a nightmare, cuddling after Bakugos had a long day

🛌: What tropes show up in fics involving your ship?

Apocalypse, enemies to lovers, angst, fluff, villain x hero, married AU, breakup

🪐: What would be your most popular AU and why?

The most popular AU would probably be the World End AU, just because the designs are cool and Bakugo and Kasumi only have each other to rely on.

💘: Why would people love your ship? Why would people dislike your ship? How might it start debates?

People like the ship because Kasumi and Bakugo balance each other out. Bakugo teaches Kasumi how to stand up for herself more and get stronger, while Kasumi teaches Bakugo to have an open mind and try to be vulnerable with others. Some people dislike the ship because they feel Bakugo is too toxic for Kasumi, or that it’s doomed to fail due to the amount of stress on both of them. Some people may headcanon Bakugo as Aroace, while other avid Katsumi shippers would argue.

🙈: Why would your ship be thought of as cute/fluffy? Why would your ship be considered problematic?

The ship would be considered cute and fluffy because it shows a side of Bakugo the fandom wouldn’t see otherwise. He’s this really tough, hotheaded character, but when it comes to Kasumi, he becomes gentler.

🎞️: What ‘canon’ scenes would the fandom point to as evidence for the validity of your ship?

Kasumi and Katsuki were walking silently together after All Might lost his powers. Katsuki hadn’t been the same since that night. “It’s not your fault.” Kasumi said, seemingly out of nowhere. Katsukis eyes widened a little and he stopped in his tracks. He balled up his fingers into fists, knowing exactly what she was referring to. She turned to face him, putting her hands on his shoulders. “I can’t stand seeing you give up. The Katsuki I knew didn’t give up, no matter what.” Kasumi said softly. It was already dark outside. Katsuki didn’t say anything, he just looked down. “I know you’re angry at the world and yourself right now.. but…” She moved her arms slowly to hug him. “I think you’re pretty cool.” Katsuki stood there in shock for a second, before one of his shaky hands found its place on her back, just barely noticeable. After a few seconds, he pushed her away. He wiped his eyes. “Of course I’m cool… I’m gonna be #1..” His said, trying to go back to his snarky tone of voice, though a quiver could still be heard. He had that cocky smile on his face, though forced. Kasumi smiled.

💌: How would your dynamic be portrayed? What might people focus on most? Any misconceptions?

A misconception would be that Katsuki is abusive because of the way he acts towards other people, however, he’s never shown to be this way towards Kasumi. He’ll get a little snappy, but he’d never lay a hand on her. The dynamic would probably be portrayed as Ray of sunshine x angry gremlin. People would focus must on how they grow throughout the story together.

👀: How does your ship with your f/o influence both of your characterisations and the world? Would there be any interesting metas written about your dynamic?

Bakugos character would definitely be a little different. The way he treats situations would differ, how he treats people he’s fighting and people he’s saving.

[bluedalahorse]

My two thoughts of the morning:

Politics. I generally don’t post about them here, mostly because my job involves explaining politics and civics and the historical context for how all that plays out in the US. I explain that to an audience that’s half unwilling and bored people, and then maybe there’s a quarter very passionate and another quarter that likes to mock the passionate quarter by saying edgy things. I have to keep the peace between them and am not allowed to use language like “well, this comment in the debate was pretty racist and fucked up, and so was this one, and so was this one” and I have to do all that in like pristine civil language instead and conduct various surveys to find out if the even absorbed my explanations. And then I have to watch to make sure no one I explained stuff to gets into arguments or fights while they’re eating lunch or being outside together. Plus given where I live a significant portion of my audience have people in their lives, family mostly, who are experts in politics or civics or history in some way (or just close to it) and they will absolutely have Thoughts that they will share with me if they don’t like how I do my job. Despite all the weariness I express in this paragraph, I do think this is important work, and I’m glad to do it.

So after all that I come home and I do kind of want to come home and use tumblr to talk about which of my fictional blorbos has cute hair. I feel a little guilty for not talking civics and politics, though. Is that bad? I actually really enjoy reading my friends’ posts; they are able to use the language and sometimes humor I wish I could when I’m doing my For Money Work, and it’s nice and kind of cathartic to see that someone out there is actually allowed to use f-bombs when talking about this debate.

Anyway. I say all this on the bus to work as I’m thinking about how to cover last night, when all I wanna say is “this guy is obviously a fascist and the line about Haitian immigrants eating pets is straight out of the 1930s playbook and we should be fucking terrified but also we should get to work against him.” (Did I mention part of my work also involves explaining the US’s historical relations with Haiti, to said bored/passionate/trolling audience?)

I can do this. I’m not like, worried or anything, or upset. It’s part of my job even though it’s a little annoying. When I come back home at the end of the day, I am going to want to Fandom, though.

My second point is much more trivial. I was just thinking about how I’m like… I don’t tend to use terms of endearment on the internet, and the chain letters of affection sort of fluster me, and I don’t tend to type things like “hugs” because irl I only like hugs under very specific circumstances and I don’t want to assume everyone likes them. But, maybe I’m a fandom New Yorker (or at least, what Tumblr says New Yorkers are, when they talk about them being kind of gruff but willing to help you haul your stroller up some stairs.) Maybe I’m bad at terms of endearment and that kinda affectionate language but I would really like to help you develop your saraugust fic and beta it for you. Is anyone working on a saraugust fic they want a beta for? Or maybe something on the gen side? A solid character study perhaps? I promise you I’ve got your back.

[crof-fwf]

What the….?! and this alucín?

Okay, I can't blame anyone for looking for content on the "fun social network". However, the comments of a certain person have caught my attention. And it wasn't until my curiosity have rewarded me with something that really left me with "My honest reaction". And this was My honest reaction:

And specifically, this was the "compilation" of posts that prompted me (in these moments) to simply share my thoughts on his comments. NOTE: It seems confirmed that the user is probably CanonSeeker [yeah, "Ese loco del centro de la ciudad"] so the "exposure" to his twitter profile can be useful for Content Creators or simply fans who want to avoid him. So do not think about debating with him since it would be in vain,and in addition to wanting to talk about his comments.

Now yes, to the posts that I want to dissect

First the antecedent

"Everytime somebody triest to "FIX" RWBY" ?

Here he expresses himself on how the "Fanworks" of the "Fix Fic" category are based on misrepresenting every aspect of the canon.

Although here I will say that I have no references regarding "Fix Fic" in general beyond Celtic Phoenix's "Fixing RWBY".

I start about how he falls into the "generalization" that he gives to the "Fix Fic". And my comment is about how prejudiced he is when talking about said FanWorks.

Although, it may be that before I fell into this fandom there was a time when this type of FanWorks abounded but coming to sin the same or worse errors than those of the series or simply wanting to be pretentious.

But even so, it is not about invalidating that at the end of the day a "Fix Fic" can be considered a fic where the author has to be committed to fixing aspects of it without having to separate so much from the canon, being like a challenge for the author.

And now let's get to the subject.

This user has commented on suggestions to consider for a "Fixing RWBY" and here is the "short" list of suggestions that Dori/CanonSeeker has shared...

My quickest and most sincere reaction:

It is an exaggeration to consider this list as very long, but it is the specifications shown that are "eye-catching". So well lets see line by line the list. My points are mainly focused on the "Fix Fic" section. In which, from my perspective, a "Fix Fic" tries to stay within the events of the canonical series, while at the same time deciding to rewrite elements that were not satisfactory within the canonical execution or additionally add elements that do not try to unbalance of the canon. So, let´s begin:

"Try to focus on the female protagonists." "jaune is a side character. " "Do not make a cis white male have more of a role than them."

For a "Fix Fic" section it is somewhat understandable to keep what would be the main cast, but still it would not be bad to have to explore other characters (and yes, also include the male ones).

"Do not have a straight white male shame them for their actions."

I don't know what he mean by "shame". But if he mention it as a form of "consequence" for the cast for non-positive actions. I don't know what to say, that the team is can be "shame" by any character that doesn't fall into that category… and in case we take it into account I doubt that's the answer, because imagine if other characters [outside this "category"] "shame" the cast, and Doris/Seeker gets angry anyway, it only makes it more ironic.

"No straightwashing. " "keep bumbleby canon."

At this point I don't know what it means, since let's say that the "Fic Fix" is in charge of "fixing"… this "Ship", either due to the lack of growth, moments, or rewriting the "conveniences" of its development.

At this point I can't find a purpose for it because… "A Fix Fic" would not seek to carry out that type of "washing"

"And NO Fanservice. "

Short: If it turns out that he was always Seeker, then this would be… laughable.

But in no short: I think that such situations would not be necessary for a "Fix Fic"…

Don't make evil men "morally grey"

Here I have a question for my estemeed…. If there can be gray morality in the male antagonists or not?

And the answer: Honestly, it's ironic to settle for "cartoon" for the male antagonists but both the fandom and the series want to take it upon themselves to give depth to the female antagonists…

Don't have jaune or adam date anyone in team rwby.

Okay, and I ask again: Is a romnace necessary for a RWBY Fix Fic? And I want to apply this in general. Because if you are going to make a "Ship" in a "Fix Fic"... it would be with too much care and detail

Ruby is to be idealistic, and it shouldn't be a character flaw.

Doesn't the fact that a character has no mistakes make her a "Mary Sue"? and even more so for the fact that he wants Ruby to be idealized.

Yang is not a party girl, not alcoholic, and not a slacker.

From a "Fic Fix" point of view, ok, it's well aimed to NOT downgrade a character to be a "party girl, alcoholic, and a slacker."

BUT : ) , they can simply be aspects or defects so that there is a challenge or a purpose to overcome, but not reduce the character to what was mentioned

(But ironically to reduce it to half a Ship, there they are quiet)

Adam taurus is irredeemably evil. So is torchwick.

… I don't have anything relevant to comment except for the fact that you can make an "irredeemable" character, BUT : ) the same is how it is written / handled…

One (Adam) being able to offer more crumbs and (Roman) the other would be a "enough but I wouldn't complain if there were more"

Don't call it a rewrite or a fixit fanfic. Call it an AU. A fan AU.

In short: Depending on the story you write, as well as the one you want to "tell" is what would classify the "Fanfic" as an AU or "Fic Fix". As I said, the "Fic Fix" in the end would enter the category of FanFic but its purpose would be a more ambitious one. (in the sense of giving yourself as a challenge to "improve" the deficient aspects of a series)

That will show your respect to the show and its writers. And showing CRWBY writers Miles and Kerry that respect will cause others to give your work a chance.

And the only salvageable thing at this point is basically: "The impression", honestly you would cause a lot of distrust to most of the fandom by being "rude" with the CRWBY, but hey, it's not like it's not a guarantee that the fandom will give a chance to a "Fic Fix" for the same reason that the fandom is also very "defensive" when it comes to aspects of the series, to such a degree of humiliating or harassing the author because "he had ideas that could hurt the canon" . A good impression does not guarantee a positive reception from the fandom to your "fix fic".

And to give a quick conclusion: Apparently the "Fixed" version or idealized for Doris/CanonSeeker is the "over exaggerated" representation (or flanderization) of what RWBY is... And last: I know that I argue when it is a "Fic Fix", and in the case of an "AU" I will only tell you that: Have fun as you also have fun when structuring and making your AU story.

Now to "Mimir".

[kakashixhatakesxwhore]

Such Effort IV

Pairing: Hatake Kakashi x f!Reader

W/c: 2.9k

Warnings: Sooo much swearing (it's the inclusion of brother!Genma, honest), a bit of drug talk, Kakashi being jealous and lowk following our girl at the end

Summary Post 🔮🔮 Masterlist

Previous Part

"I love you."

He pressed a kiss to your forehead quickly as he walked by, sweeping through the kitchen. You smiled, turning to pick up the plate of sugar cookies you had made for your brother and his friends. Walking him to the door, you replied, "I love you too, Genma. Have fun."

"Are you sure you don't want to come with me?"

Narrowing your eyes, you debated the verity of his offer. When he asked you last night, to go out to an izakaya with him and his friends, you thought it was a complete joke. Plus, you were too concerned with Kakashi's torpid state to consider anything else - as far as you knew, last night, you could've still been by Kakashi's bedside tonight.

"I have to go to Ka- a patient's apartment to drop off a tincture," you told him, placing the dish of cookies into his hands. "So, unless you want to wait for me to get ready, then wait for me to make a pitstop-"

"Cripes," Genma interrupted, hanging is head dramatically. "Do you want to come out or not?"

"Give me a couple minutes," you grinned. A flash of brown darted across the corner of your eye and you turned your head to see Gerald, peeking out behind a wall. You smiled back at Genma, "Gerald can keep you company while you wait."

"I'm not playing with some rodent."

"He's just as good to talk to."

"Unfortunately, sweet sister, I'm not fucking insane like you."

You turned to go to your bedroom, calling behind you in a tone to match your brother's sickly sweet one, "It's hereditary, boring brother - the whimsy will infect you eventually."

Sighing, Genma shook his head and leaned against the wall, settling to play with his senbon against his lip. You always worried he would cut himself, or worse, fall onto it one day. But the idiot never listened to you. About anything.

With quite the hurry in your step, you went off to your bedroom and put on a nice black dress. It had long sleeves and a turtleneck, with a slimming cut to the dress itself. Every girl should have a simple black dress, they're quite the staple, you thought while smoothing the fabric over your hips in the mirror.

"Bitch, hurry up! I'm getting old out here!" Genma yelled, voice muffled some by the walls between you.

You gathered up the tincture of silver liquid that you spent the better part of an hour slaving away at, then came out of your bedroom with a huff, "You were already old, and don't call me a bitch."

"Bitch, bitch, bitch," he taunted. Beneath your skin, your blood started to boil as you slid on your sandals and picked up your cloak from the closet. Looking at the skirt of your dress, Genma hummed, "I will say, I like your dress, though."

"Yeah, like a bitch," you quipped, throwing the red satin over your shoulders before securing it closed and sliding the tincture into the pocket of your cloak. Brushing past Genma, you opened the door and said, "Well, c'mon then."

"Such a bitch," he sighed, following after you as you left the house. Giving him nothing more than a dismissive wave, you tried to not let his assholery affect you. Only a few paces away from the house, he asked, "Where's Kapatian's apartment, anyway?"

"What the fuck are you talking about now, you daft prick?" You asked, exasperated with your brother.

Sharply, Genma hissed, "Watch your tone. I'm repeating what you said earlier, about the pitstop you have to make."

"I said a patient's apartment."

"Then where'd the K come from?"

You smiled at your brother beside you, nudging his shoulder with yours. You couldn't help but giggle as you said, "Maybe the Shiranui Insanity caught up to you before you were even made aware."

As you walked down the street with Genma, the two of you squabbled. Bickering back and forth, hurling curse words and rude names. It was quite the distraction, as you tried to find Kakashi's apartment for the very first time.

His file, bullet-proof and under so much yellow tape it made your head spin, included his address. Nothing could have been more relieving after you had to jump through all of those hoops, but that relief quickly faded away as you continued to read his file. It was only fair, Kakashi had read yours, and his was heavily redacted anyway.

But what you could read...

Man, there was some horrifying shit in there.

"Can you just tell me who your fucking patient is, please?" Genma groaned as the two of you approached Kakashi's complex.

"No, and stay out here."

"Get fucked! Stay out here, she says! It's cold!"

Pulling open the door to Kakashi's building, you huffed, "Fine, then stay in the lobby."

"You've got me on the edge of my seat, and you expect me to wait down here? Nuh uh," Genma argued, following behind you as you opened the door to the staircase. Unable to stop talking, Genma added, "I'm dying to see who you worked an impromptu 48-hour shift at the infirmary for."

"God, Almighty, you are so nosey."

"What can I say? I live for the grapevine."

Mercifully, Genma just muttered to himself for the rest of your ascension of the stairs. When the two of you finally hit the fourth floor, your brother was too out of breath to speak. That was the most gracious victory you had been afforded since the morning.

As you lead your brother down the creaky hallway, you scanned the identical green doors for the number 44. It was at the very end of the hallway, facing the Eastern view the building provided.

"Can you please-?" You asked in a hiss, stopping in front of the door. Genma looked at you, realizing how close he was standing and took a step back. "You're pissing me off right now."

"Mind your manners," he whispered. "Stay professional while you're visiting patients."

"Bite me." You turned your attention to the door, raising your hand to knock, but it swung open before you got the chance. Eyes widening, you stuttered, "He-hell-hello!"

Hell, is what you wanted to say. Kakashi clearly had full control over his faculties, and he seemed so different from when you discharged him just this afternoon. This Kakashi didn't seem the type to hold your fruit for you; he didn't look like he would gaze up at you at all, let alone half as kindly as he had only a few short hours ago. Oh, no, this Kakashi looked mean, and suddenly, you understood every story Kasumi had told you.

It panged you. Kakashi had his senses about him now, fully. And he wasn't thinking about the two of you being lovers anymore, or so you thought.

"What are you doing here?" He asked, voice imposing and sharp as a razor's edge. Kakashi's revealed eye was trained on Genma, boring holes through his skull, not paying you a sliver of attention.

"My sister asked me to come with her. My little sister. My kid sister," Genma spat in response, trying to match Kakashi's stare but not holding a candle.

Leave it to Genma to try and challenge someone he knew he would never stand a chance against. For such stupid reasons too, always. Too protective, too hotheaded.

"Alright, this is not what we came here to do," you said with a soft clap, pulling Genma's attention to you. Kakashi maintained his gaze on your brother as you pulled the mixture from the pocket of your cloak. You extended it to Kakashi, but he didn't even look at it. Trying to capture his eye, you said, "It's all good to go. You need to- Kakashi- pay attention to me."

Like a shot, Kakashi's head snapped to you and his eye instantly softened. You could see, just behind his pupil, there was something on the tip of his tongue, but it never came.

"Okay, two drops down your throat, every two or three hours, for the next four days - got that?"

"I- mmph- I understand," Kakashi groaned, holding his hand to the side of him with the stab wound. Instantly, you came forward, batting away his hands. He hummed, letting you apply pressure to different spots. "I think you might have to give me a check-up, before you go. I'm in rough shape."

"Hey, hey, hey, now." Fucking Genma. "Y/n and I are running late as it is. The clinician is just as good for a check-up, if there's actually something wrong."

Feeling a prickle, you just sighed. Before Kakashi said whatever menacing thing he was gearing up to say, you shook your head at Genma, saying, "What happened to keep it professional?"

"Y/n, be serious-"

"Shut up," you simply said.

Genma's mouth stopped moving to create sound, now only twirling the senbon over the corner of his bottom lip. In a quick motion, you grabbed the plate of sugar cookies from him. "Hey-"

"Bitch," you said dismissively, stepping backward, into Kakashi's enveloping warmth. "I'll meet up with you at Kinka's, it's fine."

"Ugh, whatever, slut," Genma scoffed, turning on his heel to walk back down the hallway.

Feeling Kakashi lunge behind you, you blocked his way with your body. Backing you both into his apartment, you let the door fall shut as you turned to him, looking up with a smile.

"I'll kill him," Kakashi seethed, staring straight through the door.

You chuckled, putting the cold tincture against his chest to make him look at you. It did, and the imprint of a smile came through Kakashi's mask. You chided, "Not unless you want me to stop talking to you, forever."

"Why, though?" He asked you seriously.

Kakashi pulled you to his body by your waist and guided you through his barren, dark apartment to sit on the edge of his bed. There was nowhere else to sit in the entire room, except one, singular chair sat by a small table, or the floor.

"'Cause he's my brother, and I love him dearly," you answered honestly, putting the dish down on the bed and unscrewing the dropper cap for the tincture.

Letting your response hang in the air, you squeezed the top of the dropper a few times as Kakashi sat in front of you, mixing the liquid around and collecting a sizeable amount in the dropper, itself. You pulled it out, the narrow tube filled with glistening, silver liquid that caught the shreds of light in Kakashi's apartment nicely. You looked up at him, as he watched you intensely.

"Open up, Kakashi."

"Try again."

"Please, would you open your mouth for me?"

"Slightly better, but massive room for improvement. Try again," he purred lazily, though his eye glittered with amusement.

You sighed, "Open sesame?" Kakashi gave you a flat look. Shaking your head, you held the dropped up higher, finally giving in as you said, "Say 'ah' for me, pretty boy."

"Mm. Pretty boy," he repeated lowly, finally moving to pull down his mask and opened his mouth.

The second his hand came to his face, you looked away, letting him aim the dropper into his mouth, himself. When he tapped his tooth against the glass, you let two drops fall before you returned the dropper to the tincture. Out of the corner of your eye, you could still see his pale face, and so kept your head turned.

Silence clung to every molecule in the air, filling up your chest with a special brand of anxiety. Why Kakashi wasn't putting his mask back on, you had no idea - you already felt poorly enough about having seen his face this morning, while he was too drugged to care.

"Please, look at me."

His whisper was almost too low for you to hear, and too soft for you to believe.

"Hm?"

"Look at me like you looked at me this morning."

For safety reasons, Kakashi wasn't allowed to keep his mask on while in the infirmary. After your lead medic was done, you saw to it that the sheet over his body be kept right to the bridge of his nose. He liked that privacy, and you didn't want to infringe upon it.

And then he woke up. It didn't seem like privacy was even a thought in his mind this morning, smiling like a dope, carelessly, soaking up every, last drop from those painkiller-drips. It had warmed you heart, and you worried if that Kakashi only came as a byproduct of the morphine. You supposed you were wrong, as you turned your head slowly.

"You're very handsome, Kakashi," you mumbled, taking in the sharpness of his jaw like you had only a few hours ago. His perfect, slightly upturned nose, and his sculpted cheekbones. The mole under the left corner of his lip just tied his whole face together, truly establishing him as a work of art. "So, so handsome."

"Do you like me better when you can see my face?" He teased in a low tone.

You grinned, "No, sweetheart, I like you the same amount, all the time." A small smile ghosted over Kakashi's lips as he pulled at the loose fabric around his neck. You clapped, saying, "Okay, where are you hurting?"

"All over."

"Not helpful." And so obviously untrue.

"What can I say, I'm not a medic," he said with a shrug, eye darting to the plate that sat beside the two of you. "What's under the foil?"

"Kinako sugar cookies," you replied. Kakashi hummed hungrily and you took that as your cue to uncover them. Twenty white cookies stared up at you and Kakashi as his jaw dropped. You chuckled, "What? Are these your favourite cookies, or something?"

"I do love kinako powder in desserts," Kakashi acquiesced, picking up a cookie. "But... they're so... perfect. Did you... make these?"

"Yeah, when I got home after your discharge," you beamed, proud of your baking. Kakashi wowed, turning the cookie over in his hands before biting an edge frugally. You laughed, "There are nineteen more cookies on the plate, why are we rationing?"

"Because there are only nineteen left," he hummed deeply, closing his eyes as he took a larger bite. He looked at the top of the cookie again, smiling and asking, "Why the little men?"

"Oh, don't mind them," you sighed, picking up your own cookie. You looked at the imprint on the cookie with a small smile. "They're supposed to be ninjas, with the little headband ribbons behind them, fluttering in the wind, y'know?"

"I see it."

"I've only got the one sugar cookie press," you confessed. The way Kakashi looked at you put you at ease to go on, "It was my mum's. Like a lot of my stuff is." As you played with your cloak in your free hand, Kakashi motioned to it, mouth full of cookie. You chuckled, "No, my dad brought this one, and a matching cloak for Genma too, that he never wore... But this brooch, my bike, my mouse - they're all my mum's."

Kakashi smiled a bit, holding his hand over his mouth. Swallowing thickly, he asked, "Gerald is your mum's?"

"Was, yeah," you affirmed. Kakashi's eyes got a bit sad, but you smiled. Only you were allowed to be sad about what happened to dear old Mum and Dad. "She had a very keen eye for the finer things in life, and she passed that down to me - I hope."

"It's refreshing to hear someone have something nice to say about their parents."

"I'm glad you're refreshed," you teased, standing up from his bed. "Anyway, if you're doing alright, I should head out. Genma will be nicer the sooner I get to the izakaya."

"I should come with you," Kakashi said quickly, standing up even faster. Too fast for his torn up abdomen to handle, as he pressed a hand against his side and gritted his teeth.

Putting a hand on his shoulder, you rubbed a small circle until the pain subsided from his face. You shook your head, telling him, "You should stay here and rest." Kakashi just looked at the plate of cookies, sitting on the bed. "I'll leave them, if you wish. Including the dish."

"I like it when you rhyme for me, angel," Kakashi murmured, still not looking at you. "But you only have the one dish of cookies. I can't do that to you."

"Of course you can, pretty boy," you laughed, making him look at you with a dashing smile. You pursed your lips, biting back your own smile. "I've got a clan of sugar-cookie-men, at home. Please don't worry about me."

With his short nod, you smiled and turned around, going back to Kakashi's door. He followed closely behind you, heat coming off of him in waves. Smiling down at you, Kakashi looked at you as if he were studying every line in your face. It almost made you nervous.

"You have an appointment with Fujita-San at nine, tomorrow morning," you said lowly, trying to cling to this moment for as long as you could. Kakashi nodded. "And, remember to give me back my plate. I don't care if it's tomorrow, or in another seven weeks, just bring me back my plate."

"I was only gone for six weeks, and four days," he corrected you, voice reaching a crevice of your soul that you didn't know existed.

You shook you head, smiling lightly, "Yeah, only. Then you came to me, unconscious and incapacitated, for two, whole days and another night."

"I suppose you're right, my darling, I'm sorry," Kakashi hummed. "Thank you for taking care of me."

"Anytime, pretty boy," you grinned, opening the door. As you stepped you, you added, "I'll see you down the road."

"I know you will."

Later in the evening, as you and Raido danced an impressive duet in the middle of Kinka's Izakaya, you were too focused on the intricacies of the fast footwork to notice Kakashi's gleaming, silver hair in the crowd around you. And there was nothing else for him to notice, but another man twirling his angel.

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