#i figured that would be their first interaction

[blubunz]

JUST TONIGHT

— bodyguard! leon s. kennedy x f! model! reader

《MINORS DNI!》

Tags: porn with plot, maybe slowburn? slight slowburn, pet names, fingering, masturbation.

A/N: a real sucker for this AU i just want myself a man like this tbh. anyways I write this when I can't sleep even though I clearly have to wake up early tomorrow. (Okay it's afternoon now um WHY IS THIS SO LONG😭 I DID NOT EXPECT IT TO BE LONG)

Throughout your career, you weren't in need for a strong, brooding figure to protect yourself, you weren't fond of having anyone watching over you — it made you feel like you're just a weak girl, a damsel in distress who always needs a knight by her side.

And you are, you need someone to be by your side and protecting you from harm. Sometimes you do reckless things, and not to mention those times where you made stupid decisions that almost cost you your life if not for Lady Luck. But Lady Luck can't stay with you forever, and you don't want to be living on edge so constantly. It makes you look like a madman and, most of all, losing sleep, bad schedule and then it escalated to affecting your career and hard work.

And that's why he's here.

You've heard of him before, not on the news, but through whispers and rumors. Of all the things you've heard from them, you're surprised how Leon isn't on the news as much, maybe he's laying low, or maybe he's working for the government, all private and redacted matters.

So then, how exactly did you manage to hire him?

For one, you're curious enough to search him up. His name isn't hard to find, and you admit he looks good, perfect for modeling. The problem is that he hardly uses social media. If he does, then maybe he goes by some other names, or he doesn't post a lot. You found out about Claire Redfield though, at first, she doesn't leave much impression to you, but the pictures she posted have that same familiar face, albeit Leon is looking like a grumpy uncle who would give bad advice to his nieces in each photo.

Once you've decided that it was enough to go stalking people's profiles, you go and make a call using your fame and broad connections in and out of your industry. You got his number in your contact within two days, and your hands are shaking as you try to call him.

It's not that you're scared of socializing, it's just that you're hesitant of making this decision, of finally have someone to protect your life, of admitting that you seek help and reassurance.

But, the possibilities of death and dark thoughts fill your mind quickly enough, and you convince yourself you need this, for your own sake.

“Hello?”

“Is this... Leon Kennedy?”

It's been a month since Leon's been here. Truth be told, he doesn't care much about how people are falling in love with you, mainly just your looks and charisma. He's heard of you many times, so many times, you keep appearing on magazines, billboards, the news, advertisements and more. God, there was this one prime time of your life where your face was practically everywhere! Not that you're no longer famous, but that was the time where your life was endangered the most by how crazy your fans were — another reason why Leon is here.

Upon interacting with you during your own time, Leon found out you're not like how the media portrays you to be. He isn't a stranger to it, seeing famous people and important figures always having to smile and maintain a certain persona for the sake of the community. Sure, you have that bit of yourself in it, but when he escorts you hone, it's when he sees your fatigue.

Your shoulders slump as you sigh, putting your bag on the coffee table as the TV is playing some shows for white noise, you're scared of the quietness — having thoughts that might hurt yourself. Leon closes the door and locks it safely, carrying your bag up to your room.

He doesn't need to do that, Leon's aware his job is to protect your life, not servicing you like a maid ir servant, but he keeps doing so, helping you with the small things like carrying your belonging, to making meals for you.

“You can't sleep now.” Leon sighs, seeing you lying on the couch, eyes closing. He doesn't want to startle you, so he picks you up and carries you into your bedroom, seating you by the make up table.

This is a change of pace for Leon, everything he does has to be careful for you. No longer picking up guns to shoot bio organism weapons or anything of the sort, instead he's now attending to a young model. Two different lives, and Leon finds himself hard to adjust, remembering the times you joke about him acting awkward sometimes when you tried to talk to him normally.

Your name comes out of his lips, sounding sweet and calm. And your eyes open, lazily rubbing off your make up while Leon prepares the bath for you.

“You don't have to do that.” You say once he steps out again, smelling a bit of the bath bomb he put in.

“I know. But, protecting your life is my job, and caring for your bare minimum needs is included.” He explains, and you just nod, not quite sure if they're connected in your mind.

Still, you let him undress you. Your cheeks flush at the way his fingers hook under your top to remove it, oh the slight contact when his hand brushes over your tits or ass. And sometimes you find it crazy how it's you that's the one being attracted to someone, and not Leon, who never advances himself on you, he doesn't even react when seeing your body, you find it weird, but intriguing too when your looks being the most important aspect of your industry, you've gotten used to the attention and the reactions.

In reality, Leon is still human, he admits your body is attractive, he wishes to lay his hands on your body with a more intimate intent, with more sensuality rather than just helping you with undressing or carrying you, his eyes linger on your skin, seeing that your body isn't that perfect as they claim to be, and he imagines himself kissing your flaws, to be the only one seeing your most intimate areas. But he's worked long enough not to let his feelings get involved, he can't bare it not after—

“You can... let me go.” Your voice cut through his thoughts, and Leon lets you go, he didn't even notice he was holding you still, zoning out and staring at the back of your neck.

“Right, sorry.” He clears his voice a little, sitting by your bed to wait for you to finish shower. He brushes a hand through his hair, finding himself longing for some alcohol to drown out this feeling. And that's also a problem. You've said you don't like the smell that lingers when he drinks, making excuses on how it affects your own scent, and people won't find you as attractive. He just stops drinking when he knows he'd have to see you later, not quitting for good, just pausing to prioritize his job — and in within case, his job means you.

Stepping in the shower, you can't help but fantasize about Leon, you can't believe that you fell for him first, and now you're imagining his hand cupping your mound, squeezing you and rubbing your clit. You gasp, eyebrows furrowed with clear displeasure on your face — your fingers aren't enough, you need a hand big like Leon's, to feel those rough pads of skin trailing down your body.

Grumbling in frustration, you go ahead and finish showering.

Leon finishes checking over the securities and ensuring that no one was lurking near your home, he get back to the living room only to see you in your robe, making some tea for yourself.

“Tea?” You ask, passing him the cup before he could say anything.

“Thanks.” He swallows, eyes flickering to your form hidden under the thin silk robe painted by your favorite color, somehow seeing your body like this is much more arousing than when you strip down naked, it teases his desire, and it leaves him chasing that tantalizing image. You catch his lingering gaze, and your eyes twinkle with a hopeful glea. Maybe he likes you too? Even if he's attracted to your looks, you can work your way with making him love you fully. After all, he's the only one who sees you in your most vulnerable moments. He's special, and you let him know of that privilege.

You head off to your room, with him following behind. Leon helps you with closing the curtains and removing your robe, palms firmly rubbing your shoulders. You shiver, letting the garment pool at your feet before seating on your bed in just your lingerie.

Leon tucks you in, and every time he does things like this, he gives you that flutter in your stomach, god, it's always the little things that get to you.

“Goodnight—”

“Leon, wait.” You reach up, tugging on the sleeve of his shirt, and he looks at you with an unchanged expression.

“Yes?”

“Um...” You hesitate, will Leon find this weird? No, no, maybe you can make an excuse, saying that you're too paranoid. “Can you... stay in my room? Just tonight?”

Leon nods without hesitation or any questions. He sits by the chair near your makeup table and plans to just read something to pass the time.

“No, not there.” You say, your voice sounding abrupt as you try your best not to appear so needy. But you can't. You're just naturally so. “In my bed, please?”

Leon bites the inside of his cheeks to hold back his smile, you sound so cute with the little "please" as a cherry on top. He complies, sitting at the edge of your bed, a hand on your ankle.

“Is this good enough for you, princess?” He smirks, and you feel your cheeks flush. “Or do you want me to hold you close, hm? Protect you from the monsters, yeah?”

“That... That wouldn't be a bother.” You murmur, and Leon takes it to heart, taking off his jacket and crawling up to your side. Leon gets you on his lap, pushing your head against his shoulder.

“Better?” He asks, voice muffled from his lips pressed against your hair, smelling your shampoo.

You nod, hiding your flustered face in Leon's shoulder, that elicits a laugh from him and he brushes your hair. He rubs your back soothingly, feeling your body relaxes under his grip.

Leon traces his hand down to your lower back, kneeding your soft buttocks. You take a sharp inhale, subtly pushing up against his palm.

His eyebrow raises, smirking against your hair before rubbing your thighs, and you spread your legs open for him. Leon doesn't say anything and just watches your reaction. He can feel you breathing down his neck. Your heart picks up its pace in excitement.

“Do you like this?” He keeps the pace slow, rubbing up to the waistband of your panties.

“Mhm...” You nod.

“Want more?”

“Mhm.” You nod again.

He hooks his finger under the band, and pulls the garment down, enough to let his hand slide in, brushing just over the top near your aching clit.

The moment his middle finger presses against your bud, you moan, hips twitching against his palm.

“Have you been dreaming about this?” Leon asks, and you only whimper in response. His finger moves down, collecting your juices and pulling out, tasting your essence on his finger.

“Me too.” Leon admits, and he shoves his hand back to your cunt, pushing a finger through your entrance.

“I've been wanting this too. Even more, wanna feel this tight cunt around my dick instead.” He groans, the way your walls tighten around his finger is enough to make his cock leaking pre-cum. “Fuck— you're so tight already, hm? I bet you cum with just my fingers.”

You mewl, hips rutting against his palm, and Leon pushes another finger in, spreading your pussy open so that you can fit his cock.

“Oh, god, Leonnnnn!” Your eyes roll up as he pumps his fingers in and out of your cunt, juices drooling down his hand. “Mngh, f-fuck—”

“Good girl.” Leon whispers, kissing down your neck whilst your body trembles, shaking high in pleasure. “That's it.”

His thumb rubbing harshly against your clit, making your whines higher and higher, you sound so needy and desperate, an side of you that you don't want anyone to see — anyone but Leon.

Leon grunts, feeling your juices dampening his pants, right against his bulge. His cock throbbing in his pants, just aching to pound that tight pussy of yours. But he puts you first, making you cum and high in ecstasy.

“Mm, gonna cum, baby?” He coos, feeling your cunt clamping down his fingers. “Cum, baby, be a good girl and cum f' me.” He increases the pace and intensity of his thrusts, dreaming of them being his cock instead.

You moan loudly as you squirt against his palm, and your knees buckle, legs shaking and body trembling as you collapse on his body.

“Gooood girl.” Leon kisses your forehead, rubbing your back with a free hand while he sucks off your juices from his fingers. “Now, ready for the main event?”

You feel his cock twitches under you, and you can feel yourself heating up again. You gulp, wrapping your arms around his neck and grinding against his bulge.

“Yeah.”

[omgfangirlland]

The Shadows That Nurture 8

"What has been happening in Gotham?" Bruce being a dumbass that's what.

Ch9 has more of The Grayson family interaction and I think I will follow the timeline of the comics for the death of guardians- that way there'll be more time for Nolan's A+ parenting.

Masterlist || First || previous<< Chapter 8 >>next(TBC)

Gotham Heights has seen better days.

It’s been years since the rogues simply went mad, declaring war on specifically Bruce Wayne. It’s been years since Selina and Jason stopped talking to him, Catwoman did her best to avoid him while Red Hood seemed to revert to his Arkham Knight days, pure rage running through his veins.

Bruce doesn’t know what happened, what tipped all the rogues over the edge to deem Bruce Wayne, of all billionaires, enemy number one. He tried to look back and figure out what he did- if he said anything- as soon as he realized that they were teaming up and weren’t planning on stopping anytime soon but he found nothing beyond the media calling him a neglectful father to his youngest girl, which he found absurd. He loved Cassandra, went to every ballet show, and was so proud of her, so he didn’t bother to read what they were actually saying, deeming it as nothing but useless gossip. If only he glanced at the context…

Batman couldn’t keep up with the attacks, so everyone was out all year round, the man even having to ask Nightwing for help more than once or ten times. He didn’t like this. His kids still had school, and Damian still had so much to learn- fighting criminals nightly wasn’t helping set the no-killing rule into the boy and the sleepless nights weren’t helping his mood at school.

The man was getting tired. But the rogues did seem to take a day off every month, on the thirteenth. The first two months he didn’t recognize the pattern but by the third, he thought they were planning something big, and when the next day was just like the past two months his brain was racking with questions about the possibilities, fear running through his spine and making him so paranoid he could barely sleep.

It took him so long to find out where they all met on the thirteenth- it was embarrassing honestly, but he still did it. All rogues, separately mostly, would stop by flower shops, buying bouquets of lilacs and narcissi flowers. The next stop after the shop would be Gotham cemetery where each one of them would put a bouquet on a lady’s grave, a nobody, with no ties to them, the woman could barely keep a job as a waitress when she was alive. And the last stop would be Red Hood’s territory.

Batman knew that as soon as he and Robin stepped a toe on the territory, Jason would know, so while Bruce followed the main lead, Damien became the distraction. It took a while to find the rogues, and the image that was presented made him more confused than anything.

The rogues were in the alley between a hospital and an orphanage that opened about six or seven years ago, both walls of the buildings in the alley had big painted murals, both depicting Lady Gotham in the background while the foreground had soft, happy-looking people in different styles helping each other, “To a better community. To a better Gotham.” written at the bottom as a graffiti. He assumed the scribbles he couldn’t make out on the sides of the murals were the names of the people who drew them, though, a style predominated the others, it was safe to say that it was a collaboration.

Harley was making balloons for kids, mostly dogs, crowns, and swords as Grundy sat by her, holding the equipment and letting the kids climb him. Killer Croc and Bane seemed to be focused on bringing tables and chairs to set them down in an orderly fashion, as Two-Face and Riddler helped the older ladies carry the food. Penguin was busy talking to a nurse while his goons shared care packages to the patients and kids, all the while Ivy was reblooming the plants around the building. Mr. Freeze seemed stuck on ice cream making duties while also keeping the refreshments cold.

Batman had more questions than answers.

“This may be neutral ground, Bruce.” Jason’s voice behind him made Batman freeze before he slowly turned to face his son. “But you’re not welcome here.” His second oldest finished, his hands at his side, clenched tightly, itching to fight, to punch him.

“Since when is Red Hood territory neutral?” The older man couldn’t help but ask, but Jason didn’t answer him, instead telling him to leave once more. “Or I can just tell all the rogues down there who you really are. I’m sure they’ll be happy to kill two birds with one stone.”

Bruce frowned beneath his cowl as he felt Jason’s anger in his bones. They both worked hard to reconcile- but now the progress was back to zero once more. His inquiry about what happened between them both only seemed to anger the younger man even more, but Jason’s anger snuffed out as realization washed over him, laughter bubbling up instead.

Batman could only watch in confusion as Jason laughed at him. “You really don’t know, do you?” The younger man chuckled lowly, shaking his head as his shoulders slumped in defeat. “Goddamn Bruce, I know you deem protecting Gotham more important than your kids, but this is low even for you.”

“You’ve been missing a bird for almost six years, Batman. If you can’t connect the dots, then maybe it was the right decision to leave.” Jason turned his back to Bruce, walking away from the man. “I made mistakes. Like you. But when I came back, I rectified them, I don’t think you’ll be given the chance.”

“Leave. We’re being peaceful, fulfilling a promise we made to a kid. We can fight tomorrow.” Were his last words as he jumped down from the building, making his way to the little party as well while Batman’s eyes lingered on his back. Jason was just as exhausted as Bruce.

“You told him too much, kitten.” Selina purred from inside the orphanage, the kids inside too busy fawning over the fluffy cats she brought to pay attention to them. She was met with the blank mask of Red Hood. “And somehow, I’m sure it’ll still be a while until he figures it out.” Jason scoffed.

Batman sighed with defeat, calling Robin to the rendezvous point and telling the others to meet him in the Batcave, not giving them more of an explanation. He wasn’t missing anyone- he was sure. Dick, Jason, Tim, Barbara, Cassandra, Duke, Damian, even Stephanie- he just saw them, he just heard them. The drive to the Batcave was silent, Bruce lost in his thoughts while Damian was frowning, pouting really. 

Bruce made sure to count heads once more when everyone was present as he told and showed everyone what he discovered. “We should attack while they aren’t expecting us. They’ll surely talk then.” Damian was quick to interject, completely overlooking that Todd said there was a missing person. “No way!” Duke closed the idea before anyone had a chance. “There are too many civilians that will get caught in the crossfire-”

Cassandra could only watch as her family argued and tried to come up with a solution, as they tried to find out who Jason was referring to. Her brows furrowed behind her mask. He couldn’t be talking about- no. Bruce sent her away like he mentioned that one time to Alfred. Her little sister is safe in London- Bruce surely remembers... Right?

A few states over, Joker is laughing while he falls from miles in the air, three figures looking down at the crazy clown. Like Batsy hasn’t tried this trick on him before, they’re not even as intimidating, wearing those silly costumes. But then the ground kept coming closer and closer, his gleeful expression turning into a shocked frown. “Oh boy-“ The Joker gulped.

Tag list: @bat1212 @trashlanternfish360 @shycreatorreview @syrooo @a-lurking-fae @alittletiredcry @kittzu @plsfckmedxddy @blackhood1229 @nxdxsworld @leeiasure @dandelion-delusion @lovebug-apple @sillysealsies @tsxukikami @enchantingarcadecreation @alishii @d3nnji

A/n: Special thanks to @fightmebissh for putting the idea of murals in my head- I won't be able to let it go :))

Also- the flowers I specifically used for their meanings. Lilacs of shades of purple to reflect spirituality and a specific lilac color that is associated with one’s first love or the first time one feels love for someone, and Narcissi for rebirth and good fortune, awareness, and inner reflection.

I always feel like I'm forgetting something when I post these...

[starcurtain]

A Closer Look at the Phaidei Memory

I've seen so many people talking about this scene with Phainon and Mydei and making fun of how blatantly obvious Phainon is about his... respect for Mydei's... conspicuous body, but one thing I feel like a lot of people missed (or at least I haven't seen anyone discussing) is that this memory seems to come from very early on in their acquaintance.

Looking at it closely, it's clear that the two aren't particularly familiar with each other yet in this memory sequence. For one, Phainon questions things that he should easily know if he was well-acquainted with Mydei already.

First, very comically: "Do you even bathe, bro?"

And second, Phainon questions why Mydei isn't immune to the black tide:

This suggests that, up to the point of this memory, Phainon had not been in enough battles with Mydei (or at least close enough to Mydei) to see him be affected by the black tide. Apparently, this memory-Phainon-and-Mydei don't have years of rushing into battle side-by-side to defend Okhema yet.

It's also hilariously clear that the Phainon in this memory has absolutely no idea how to talk to Mydei.

Breaking this scene down, it's literally Phainon just trying really hard to strike up conversation, doing his best to try to crack the tough exterior and get Mydei to actually interact with him. He jumps around through topics rapidly--the baths, the black tide, their personal sparring--looking for anything that will catch Mydei's attention.

Meanwhile, we can tell that Mydei is not particularly familiar or comfortable with Phainon yet because his dialogue is so different from any of his other scenes in the game. Although Mydei is obviously not the game's biggest yapper, he does always have full sentences to contribute to other conversations and banters readily with Phainon whenever he's baited into it.

In this memory, he instead starts off polite but also completely aloof:

This is the exact sort of response you'd have to a vague acquaintance coming up and trying to talk to you like you're best friends. Phainon skipped at least four steps of familiarity here, and Mydei is obviously at a loss for why the conversation is even happening.

He responds by blatantly stonewalling, answering Phainon's (slightly pathetic) attempts to start an actual conversation in nothing but single word answers:

You can even see Phainon recognize how bad he's failing half way through the conversation, which prompts him to vocally declare that he's going to make a complete topic switch:

And this time, it works!

When Phainon brings up their personal duel or spar, whichever it was, finally, finally Mydei caves and engages in the conversation with him:

Which prompts Phainon to laugh (in relief? lol) and flat out crow about how he's finally cracked the code and figured out how to get Mydei to notice him:

Poor Mydei, however, did not seem to realize his slight display of interest was going to lead him into a full conversation, and he responds to Phainon's blatant invitation to keep talking with a confused:

Witness Mydei accidentally turning down Phainon's request for a date in real time.

The only thing that complicates the situation is what Phainon says late in the memory: that they've battled "all this time." However, looking at his earlier comments, this last statement may just be in a general sense, as in "two Chrysos Heirs who have been fighting the titans for years," especially as the rest of the line "How do you train? Would you consider teaching me?" once again indicates a lack of close familiarity.

(It's also possible this line is just poorly translated in English, and was actually meant to refer to their legendary ten-day-long duel: "We battled all that time, yet I never saw you fatigued." Given the rest of the lines in the memory, I think "dodgy translation" honestly makes the most sense here, and would also just have really funny implications: Phainon and Mydei didn't fall in love at first sight; they fell in comically-long-duel at first sight. Okay, maybe for Phainon it was both.)

Phainon's earlier statements in the memory make it clear that he isn't very experienced with fighting Mydei specifically, with the overall implication of the dialogue being that they've just had their first duel against each other recently:

So anyway, where I am going with all this?

I know a lot of people got distracted by Phainon's (accidental?) pass at Mydei in the first line, but I think taking a step back and looking at the scene as a whole, in context, makes it even more hilarious and off-the-cuff:

Phainon and Mydei aren't well-acquainted in this scene.

Phainon literally walked up on a guy he barely knows and the first words that fell out of his mouth were "Dan Nicky your bobbies." "I would know that body anywhere."

Even Mydei was weirded out at first!

Like, Phainon has absolute foot-in-mouth syndrome around his new "friend." He spends the whole conversation narrating his own attempts to communicate ("Ah, I see I am unwanted. Instead of leaving, I shall try another tactic. Is it working yet?" and "Yes, yes, yes, it worked!") like this is a remotely normal thing to do around a person you're not even close with yet.

You can see his puppy tail wagging. He wants to be friends with Mydei so bad.

He is actively making up excuses to try to get Mydei to spend time with him here--first the comment about "Yay, you're here!" at the baths like he expects them to bathe together, then the whole "Why don't we go somewhere and have a long conversation about the insights we gained from rolling around in the dirt together?" to finally just flat out asking Mydei to train with him.

It's so charmingly earnest, straightforward, and even a bit awkward that I think this scene is really under-rated by the fans. It's not just another example of Phainon commenting on Mydei's muscles--it's a glimpse into what they were like before they were close and just how much Phainon wanted to connect to Mydei, how willing he was to explore to discover exactly what Mydei would be interested in so that he could seize that common ground between them.

Really a masterclass in showing us fans characterization right on the cusp of changing, and for showcasing both Phainon's charming audacity and Mydei's surprisingly-reserved-around-strangers behavior.

And, since we know the future that memory-Phainon-and-Mydei are headed toward... we also know it worked! Mydei is smiling by the end of the conversation! He and Phainon are going to become vitriolic best buds--er, rivals--and Phainon is going to get all the spars he wants.

Persistence pays off!

[mortallydeepestobservation]

The Case of Us.

Summary: You and Namjoon are an unlikely pair, clashing from the start. He’s a seasoned detective, used to working alone and running on instinct. You, a rookie, fresh off acing your detective exam, ready to prove yourself. At first, you butt heads—your sharp, hardheaded approach grating against his calm, measured demeanor. But there's an undeniable pull between the two of you, an unspoken understanding that begins to form as you both tackle case after case. Through the chaos of the job, you rely on each other more and more. And though you're still figuring out the balance between the stubborn rookie and the seasoned detective, you both know one thing for certain—you're a hell of a team. A/N: Oh Hey everyone... So, I did it again—I got overwhelmed by life and felt the need to write... And you know the drill. (I ended up re-reading Chapter 4 of Holiday Pretense so many times that I couldn’t tell what was repeating and what was just my brain spiraling. And i guess I rage-quit for the day) So instead, I ended up writing something completely different. But this time, it's really random and far "into the story". Also, that pancake dialogue is loosely inspired by a conversation from "Castle"-oldish detective serries i love to this day. Call it a teaser if you will? (I wanna know if anyone would be interested in something like this.) (besides those 5 wips i have already lol. i need professional help 😓🥲) (thank you always @callmenoona25 for proofreading. love you) Pairing: Namjoon x f.reader Genre: detective/ thriller. neo noir(?) Rating: explicit. Minors do not interact. Warnings: Guns. Mentions of serial killers and bodies. Crimes. Corpses. police/detective lingo. Detective Yoongi and Jungkook being the best duo. (Also, if you know me. I tend to keep it light- not very gore. But i do have a genuine obsession with true crime/detective stories/criminology. So this might turn off some readers. proceed at your own discretion) tag list: @uniquetravelerone @sexytholland @codeinebelle @annyeongbitch7 @rpwprpwprpwprw @goldietigers294 @amarawayne @oneshallsmile

The dead of night. The scent of rain still clung stubbornly to the damp, heavy air, even hours after the downpour had stopped. Your tv was on, though it was on mute.

Then you heard it.

A sound—a shuffle by the doorway.

Instinct took over. The lights went dark in an instant, your hand moving with practiced ease to the gun at your hip. You gripped it tight, steady, breath held as you listened.

The sounds didn’t stop. The lock turned. The knob twisted.

Before the intruder could take a step inside, you struck—slamming your full weight against him, pinning him to the doorframe, gun pressed firm against his throat.

“Holy shit-!”

A familiar voice. Your grip tightened for just a second before recognition set in.

“Namjoon?”  you didn’t lower the gun.

“Who else would it be?” his tone was maddeningly casual, one hand gripping your wrist, pushing the barrel down to his chest, right above his heart. “Just— don’t shoot the face.”

Your pulse was still hammering in your ears, the rush of the adrenaline refusing to fade. You let out a slow breath, easing the gun off his chest but not fully lowering it.

Namjoon let out a short chuckle- half amused, half exasperation. “Nice to see you too,” he muttered, rolling his shoulder as if shaking off the impact.

“You could’ve called.” you shot back, eyes still sharp, scanning his face in the dim light. he looked tired, damp hair falling messily over his forehead, his clothes wrinkled like he’d been running all night.

“And argue with you over the phone?” he asked, rubbing at his throat where the gun had pressed, “I think it worked out better this way.”

Your gaze flicked to the door, still slightly ajar. “You picked the lock?!”

He shrugged. “Old habits.”

You exhaled through your nose, finally lowering the gun all the way. “What the hell are you doing here, Namjoon?”

His smirk faltered slightly. For the first time, you noticed the tension in his jaw, the way is fingers curled slightly over the damp paper bags he was carrying.

“I-” he took a breath, like the confession hurt, “I’m worried about you.”

You huff, incredulous, slamming the door shut behind him and locking it.

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can. Clearly.” he gestured vaguely towards the gun in your hand. “Doesn’t change the fact that as your supervisor and partner, I worry about you.” He moved with ease, setting the bags on your kitchen table, leaving a trail of wet footsteps all across your tile floor.

“Namjoon, I’m not a rookie anymore.”

Namjoon let out a quiet sigh, rubbing a hand over his face before leaning against the counter. “I never said you were.”

You crossed your arms, watching him. “Then stop treating me like one.”

His eyes flicked to yours—sharp, unreadable. “If you want me to stop, then quit making it so damn easy to worry.”

That shut you up for a second.

The weight of his words lingered in the space between you, thick as the humidity still clinging to the air. You glanced at the paper bags on the table, the edges crumpled from his grip. “What’s this?”

“Dinner.” He peeled one open, pulling out a takeout container. “Figured you haven’t eaten.”

You frowned, but your stomach betrayed you with a quiet growl. Namjoon heard it—of course he did—and the smirk that tugged at his lips made you want to shoot him just on principle.

“I was going to eat.”

“Yeah?” He arched a brow, flipping open the container. “What, exactly? Stale instant noodles? Maybe those grotesque granola bars you like to keep in your purse and only eat after they expire?”

You huffed but didn’t deny it.

Namjoon grabbed a pair of chopsticks and held them out. “Sit. Eat.”

“Is this standard procedure with all your trainees?” The sarcasm was thick in your voice, but you still took a seat across from him.

“Just the ones that get themselves targeted by serial killers.”

Your grip on the chopsticks faltered for just a second.

Then you scoffed. “That supposed to be a joke?”

Namjoon didn’t laugh. Didn’t even blink.

Your stomach twisted.

“I’m serious.” His voice had dropped, low and steady, the kind that sent a chill down your spine. “We need to talk.”

You eyed him warily, then set the container down. “About what?”

Namjoon exhaled, rubbing at his temple like he already regretted this conversation. “There was another one.”

Your fingers curled instinctively around the edge of the table. “Where?”

“Downtown. Two blocks from our last case.”

You didn’t need him to elaborate. Your mind was already connecting the dots, pulling up images you didn’t want to see.

Same M.O.? You almost asked, but you already knew the answer.

Namjoon watched you carefully, like he was waiting for the realization to hit.

It did.

“That’s why you’re here.” The words tasted bitter. “You think I’m next.”

His jaw tightened. “And you clearly agree. Why else would you sleep with your gun strapped to your hip?”

“I think you guys are overreacting.”

“Is that why you called the protection detail off? You were supposed to have uniforms watching you right now.”

“The captain is being absurd.” You take a bite of rice “Much like you are right now.” You argue between mouthfuls.

“You’re impossible.” He watched you with that usual superior look of his, that challenging glare that made your blood boil.

“So, what? You decided to break in and deliver takeout because you think I have a target on my back?”

Namjoon’s expression didn’t shift. If anything, his silence spoke louder than any answer he could’ve given.

Your stomach churned—not from the food, but from the implications hanging between you.

He wasn’t here just because he thought you were in danger.

He was here because he knew you were.

“I’m staying the night.”

You snapped. “Oh, like hell you are!”

Namjoon didn’t flinch. He just set down his chopsticks and looked you dead in the eye, his gaze unwavering.

“I’m staying the night,” he repeated, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

You shot him a look that could cut glass, but his expression didn’t change. There was something in his eyes—something you couldn't quite place.

“Not a chance, Namjoon,” you snapped, pushing yourself away from the table. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“No, you need to not get killed.”

The words snapped like a gunshot between you, sharp and final.

Neither of you spoke.

Outside, the rain threatened to start again, fat droplets tapping against the glass.

You held his stare, your jaw clenched and shoulders squared, the air between you so tense it felt like either of you might snap.

“Fine.” You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “But you sleep on the couch.”

Namjoon’s lips twitched into a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Deal,” he said, nodding in silent agreement as he slowly backed away from the table. He didn’t argue further—there was nothing left to say once the terms were set. “I also got us a bottle of wine to celebrate you finally taking an order from me.”

“You’re impossible,” you counter, using his earlier line.

You resumed eating, though the rice had lost its appeal. Each bite felt heavy, burdened by the tension between you. Every clink of chopsticks and scrape of ceramic against the table punctuated the silence like a metronome counting down the moments until something else would shatter the uneasy calm.

Namjoon didn’t respond immediately, his gaze drifting toward the kitchen counter, where the bottle of wine sat like a silent witness to the strange turn of events. He seemed content to let the silence stretch between you, his presence still an unspoken weight in the room.

The tension was thick, almost suffocating, but you didn’t care to break it. Not yet. The thoughts swirling in your head—the things you hadn’t said out loud—kept you rooted in place. The noise of the rain outside, once soothing, now only added to the discomfort that crawled under your skin.

Namjoon poured two glasses of wine, his movements slow and deliberate. When he placed one in front of you, you took it without a word. He watched you for a beat, his eyes searching, trying to gauge what was really going on beneath the surface.

You took a sip, the warmth of the wine doing little to ease the cold unease that wrapped around you. The day, the case, everything was starting to feel too close, too personal. And Namjoon’s silent presence wasn’t helping, no matter how much it was meant to comfort.

After a few minutes, Namjoon cleared his throat softly, watching you look down into your glass. “I don’t suppose you’d mind if I set up my gear in the living room?” he asked, voice low. “Just in case we need to move fast.”

You frowned, glancing toward the door where the muted TV light played over the wall. “It’s your turn to be my backup tonight,” you muttered, half teasing, half warning.

He raised an eyebrow. “You know I never leave your side—even if I’m on the couch,” he replied, a trace of amusement in his tone that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You shot him a sidelong look, then set your glass down. “Get your things, Namjoon. And for the record, I’d prefer not to have a detective rummaging through my living room,” you added, attempting to lighten your tone despite the unease creeping in.

He smirked. “I’ll try to behave,” he said with a wink that belied the seriousness behind his words.

Moments later, the quiet hum of preparation filled the apartment. Namjoon unpacked his duffel bag with the methodical precision of someone who’d been in high-stakes situations far too many times. You found yourself glancing repeatedly at the window, where the rain began to fall again in earnest, drumming against the glass like a ragged heartbeat.

“I’ll fetch you some blankets.”

“A few pillows too.”

You chuckle, “Do you want a facemask too?”

Namjoon looked up from his bag, a playful glint in his eyes despite the tension hanging in the air. “Only if it comes with a side of earplugs,” he teased, the corner of his lips twitching upward.

You rolled your eyes, standing up from the table and moving toward the closet “Yeah, baby boy needs his beauty sleep.”

You tossed the blanket and pillows onto the couch, but as you straightened up, the sound of the rain outside seemed to deepen, becoming almost repetitive in its heaviness. For a moment, neither of you spoke—just the low hum of the apartment and the soft drum of water against glass.

Namjoon broke the silence with a more serious note. “Try and get some rest. You’ve had a long week.”

You paused, turning to face him, your gaze met his, and for a moment, the usual banter was gone, replaced by something more sincere—something that tugged at the edges of your own quiet worry. You opened your mouth, but the words didn’t come right away, and you debated if you even wanted to let them out.

“Thank you.”

Namjoon’s gaze softened, the seriousness in his face fading into something just slightly softer.

He nodded slowly, as if accepting your gratitude, though his lips didn’t curve into a smile. There was something grounding about the way he held your gaze, like he understood more than you were saying.

“You don’t need to thank me,” he murmured, his voice low, but the words carried weight. “It’s what we do.”

You exhaled quietly, finally giving in to the tension in your shoulders. “Yeah, well... it’s still nice to hear.” You couldn’t stop yourself from adding, the soft edge to your tone. “Thank you for being here. And for dinner.”

“It’s no problem,” he said quietly, his voice steady but gentle. “You know I’ve got your back.”

“Yeah.” You still sigh despite yourself, pushing towards the bedroom “Goodnight Joon.”

Namjoon watched you as you moved toward the bedroom, his eyes soft, but there was a hint of something unreadable in them. He remained silent for a moment, just watching you before speaking in that calm, reassuring tone of his.

“Goodnight,” he said quietly, though his voice lingered in the space between you, grounding you in the moment.

You didn’t turn back, but his presence, quiet and constant, felt like a weight lifted, even just for tonight. The quiet murmur of the rain outside seemed softer, less oppressive as you closed the door behind you.

~~~

The smell of pancakes felt foreign in your apartment. The rich, buttery scent filled the air, its warmth cutting through the cool, damp atmosphere of the morning. You blinked a few times, trying to shake off the grogginess, your mind still hazy from sleep. It took a few seconds for you to process what was happening.

Namjoon.

You could hear the faint sound of him humming, the clink of utensils, the quiet sizzle of batter on the griddle. The peacefulness of it felt almost surreal after the tension of the night before.

Rubbing your eyes, you stepped out of the bedroom, the coolness of the floor beneath your feet grounding you back in reality. You walked toward the kitchen, where Namjoon was flipping pancakes like he’d done this a hundred times in your kitchen—like he belonged there.

He glanced up when you appeared, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, but it was the kind of smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. The weight of last night still hung in the air between you.

“Morning,” he greeted softly, the scent of coffee following the pancakes.

You blinked at the scene, still a little dazed. “Did you... make this?” You gestured toward the stack of golden pancakes, the syrup bottle, and the neatly placed plates.

“I wanted to make eggs. But they expired last year, and your bacon had something growing on it.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. We need to go to the precinct.”

“Will you relax? Just sit down and eat.”

You shot him a look, but he was already plating another pancake, as if he were completely unfazed by the chaos that had defined your life for the last few days.

“I’m serious, Namjoon. We don’t have time for breakfast. The precinct is waiting, and you’ve got a duty.” You gestured vaguely to the mess of plates and syrup bottles, your voice tightening slightly despite the absurdity of the moment.

He turned to you with an almost exasperated expression, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. “You need food. We both do. The precinct will be there when we're ready. In the meantime, we sit. We eat. You get a few minutes to breathe.”

You huffed in frustration but couldn't deny the logic behind his words. He was right, you were barely functioning on caffeine and adrenaline, and you needed a break—even if just for a few minutes.

“Fine,” you muttered, sitting down at the table. “But as soon as we're done, we're out the door. No more distractions.”

Namjoon gave you a nod, his tone still light. “Oh, I forgot the newspaper.” He turned off the stove and did his little half-jog to the door.

But as soon as he twisted the doorknob, the door slammed open against the weight of the body propped against it. A sickening thud reverberating through the apartment. Your heart skipped a beat as the sight of the corpse registered in an instant—its pale, lifeless face staring up at you, eyes vacant and unseeing. The air in the room felt like it had thickened, the weight of the situation crashing down on you.

Namjoon froze for a moment, his hand still on the doorknob. Then, without a word, he stepped back, his body moving with precision as he grabbed his cell and tossed it to you.

“Call the precinct.” He instructed, fetching his gun in an instant “And stay back.”

Your fingers trembled as you caught the phone, the shock still running through your veins. You barely registered the coldness of the device against your palm, too focused on the scene in front of you. The body. The blood that had pooled around it, seeping into the carpet like it was part of the apartment itself.

You fumbled with the phone, dialling the precinct, your breath hitching in your throat. The line rang once, twice, before someone picked up, their voice professional, unaware of the horror unfolding in your living room.

“112, what’s your emergency?”

“This is Detective Hwang, badge number 1209. There’s a body on my front door.”

The voice on the other end of the line shifted instantly, now alert. “Detective Hwang, stay on the line. Is the scene secure? Do you need assistance?”

“Yes,” you said, your voice tight as you tried to steady your breathing. “We have a body. It's… propped against the door. Get someone here immediately.”

“Understood, Detective. Stay where you are. Officers are on their way. Do not engage with the scene further.”

You glanced over at Namjoon, who was crouched by the body now, his gun trained at the door as he assessed the situation. He didn't flinch or pause, moving with the practiced calm that had always been his trademark.

It took less than 8 minutes for your apartment to be crawling with uniforms, CSU, and of course, Detective Yoongi and Jungkook.

“So,” Jungkook was talking to Namjoon, merely a few steps away from where you sat at the kitchen table across from Yoongi. “Wine glasses.”

“Yeah, Namjoon brought dinner and wine.”

Jungkook raised an eyebrow, glancing between you and Namjoon with a smirk. “Dinner and wine, huh? Cozy night in?”

Namjoon shot him a deadpan look. “It was supposed to be breakfast, too, until we were rudely interrupted by a corpse.”

Jungkook let out a low whistle, shaking his head “Pancakes?”

You glanced over at him, confused.

“So, nothing else happened?” Jungkook continued undeterred.

“Jungkook what are you on about?”

“Well, you know what they say about pancakes.” Yoongi replied, though his eyes were still glued to his notepad.

You narrowed your eyes, glancing between Yoongi and Jungkook. “Okay, I’ll bite. What do they say about pancakes?”

Jungkook grinned like he’d been waiting for you to ask. “Pancakes are the best way to say ‘Hey, thanks for that amazing sex last night.’”

You choked on absolutely nothing, spluttering as Namjoon let out the world’s longest sigh beside you.

“Oh my God,” Namjoon muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can we not do this right now?”

Yoongi finally glanced up from his notepad, entirely unbothered. “It’s a well-documented theory.”

Jungkook nodded, very seriously. “Classic post-hookup breakfast. Means it was so good that one of you felt compelled to whip up something warm and sweet the next morning.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again. “It was just breakfast, Jungkook.”

“Was it?” Jungkook teased, crossing his arms. “Because the way I see it, there are two wine glasses on the counter, Namjoon sleeping over, and pancakes on the table.”

Namjoon made a noise somewhere between a groan and a death rattle. “I hate all of you.”

You threw up your hands. “For the last time, nothing happened!”

Yoongi huffed, and Jungkook shook his head as he jotted down on his notepad “witness refuses to cooperate.”

You gawked at him. “Are you seriously writing that down?”

Jungkook nodded, scribbling dramatically. “Refuses to acknowledge the overwhelming evidence of post-coital carbohydrates-”

“Oh my god,” you groaned, dragging a hand down your face.

Namjoon, looking moments away from actual homicide, turned to Yoongi. “Please arrest him for obstruction.”

Yoongi barely held back a smirk. “Tempting.”

[jane-newby]

Why I love Caitlyn Kiramman (S1 & 2)

Decided to write this just because... and well I've seen a few "why I hate Arcane Cait" so I am writing why I think she's awesome.

1. I am a sucker for misfit characters. When Cait meets Jayce in the rain and solidifies their relationship by admitting she's a misfit too, my heart was sold. Of course, many of the Arcane characters are misfits, but Cait because of her birth into high society runs against many of the expectations and beliefs of her station. She gives off Sherlock vibes when it comes to social interactions and her skill of deductions/sleuthing.

2. She's an excellent shot. There is something about a girl with a great aim that I love (Hunger Games Katniss is the first that comes to mind). My favorite shooting scenes are from S2 in the Jinx/Sevika skirmish and the final battle when she takes on a sniper role.

3. Noxian training montage. After being kidnapped, knocked out and almost choked out, it was about time Cait learned hand to hand to combat. While I would have loved a longer scene it was nice to see 60 seconds of her Mulan-esque training session.

4. Badass Disney princess/prince vibes. She had a heart of gold and was in the pursuit of justice and truth ever since her Season 1 convo with Grayson ("What are you shooting for young Kiramman?") Cait spends most of Season 1 defending or attempting to save others (i.e. Jayce, Vi, the people of Zaun). She is willing to listen when she is in the wrong (aka conversation with Ekko and the Firelights) or understand the experiences of those she knows little about.

5. Cait and Vi’s Slow Burn Romance. “Will they won’t they.” A Romeo & Juliet aka other side of the tracks romance. Opposites Attract. Again I am a complete sucker for this romance trope. Step Up. Mulan. The 100. She-Ra. Miles Morales and Gwen (Please never compare Jinx and Ekko just because the ethnics match. They are not the same.) You give me two unlikely characters who go through the ups and downs of life and then finally consummate that relationship. I am down HARD. I like the tension. The tennis match of love and hate until they finally figure out they are meant for each other. Cait and Vi could have made love in a tree and I still would have happily rewatched because their love was multiple little scenes of looks, nicknames, rescues, fights, a kiss, and “I am down bad,” shower scene. What’s not to like?

6. Cait’s Character Development. From the fires of tragedy, a naive, eager, idealistic, bright eyed Young Kiramman princess develops into an older, wiser, humble leader. 

To me, her arc is about the passage into adulthood. An examination of that age old question “What does it mean to be human?” As the years pass, Cait clung to Grayson’s words–essentially her why, her purpose. But what happens when that purpose is challenged or marred by reality, by pain, anger? 

Cait’s purpose is immediately challenged when she finds out the Enforcer sheriff is corrupt and almost kills her in order to hide his sins. While it’s clear, there is no love between the two, Marcus’s corruption and her confrontation with Ekko challenge her belief in a system she joined in her pursuit of justice. Immediately, after, she attempts to broker an agreement that will help Zaunites but the Council selfishly rejects her proposal. You know the rest of the story.

Hours later she is kidnapped, tortured by the sister of her crush. Then the same sister drops a bomb killing not only people she knew, but her mom. Then at the memorial, another attack occurs presumably from the same sister–Jinx. The Council is eager to annihilate Zaun, but Cait attempts to be a voice of reason while grieving. Then when she has a chance to kill Jinx she fails and pushes/hits her girlfriend away. She loses her brother, and the only council member who notices she’s struggling. Her father is MIA. A known genocidal general begins to manipulate her. 

In a matter of months, Cait’s purpose is crushed by tragedy and a need for revenge. In season 1, Silco states, “There’s a monster inside all of us.” Cait’s monster rears its ugly head as she dawns the evil cloak, broods in dark rooms (thank you ep 4 beginning montage) and embraces oppressive tactics to fulfill her new objective. Cait’s conflict is not just an external manifestation but an internal one. Will she let bitterness take over or will she stick to her values of justice, truth, and kindness? We know that she has not fully embraced Ambessa’s ideologies, as she is constantly questioning Ambessa directives. Her conversations with Singed and her decision to spy on Singed’s actions also show that internal war. Ultimately, it is the decision to help Vi and betray Ambessa that led back to Cait’s core. She didn’t need to make a Youtube apology video. She chose through her actions to get back to a new, healed version of her purpose. Her last words in S2  “Are you still in this fight?” are a reflection of Cait’s own journey–to rise from tragedy and her own mistakes to make a difference even when pain, challenges, evil can make the journey seem impossible. 

Cait said it best in Season 2’s final memorial, Our only consolation for every loss we found some good, some light, worth gaining, worth fighting for. And though we are doomed to revisit the error of our ways, spark ever more conflicts, our story isn’t over.

And this is why I love Cait because of what she represents. A strong female character with quirks. A sense of justice. Love. A closet full of demons. Transformation. Humanity. And Badass shooting skills.

[lipstick-and-libraries]

Between the Lines

PT. 4

𓋜 Pairing: Minho (XO, Kitty) x fem! Reader

𓋜 Series: The Roommate Exchange

𓋜 Summary: When You and Minho are paired for a class project, unexpected moments of honesty and tension arise. Between late-night conversations and shared silences, you discover that some things are harder to hide than you thought.

𓋜 Notes:

Hello my loves!!

I know that I take a while to upload, however, i fully intend to finish this small series and still give you more than just 4 chapters, soo..what would you think about another chapter coming out directly after this as a thank you for everyone who so kindly supports my thoughts that I didnt expect anyone to see.

Anyhow, I hope you guys are fans of slowburn and heartbreak because from now on this rollercoaster will get a little more bumpy, love will do that to you, and especially to You and Minho <3

𓋜 Taglist:

@finnbbl

@literallysza

@knivesdoingcartwheels

@teaandbacon

@dragonwitchy

@formula1mount

@strayk1ds143

@uhsophiesblog

@iweirdthingsblog

@random-human02

@elizabethgracie

@verycoolmiyah

@mintydump

@shiiiii-okayyyy

@munsonsquinn

@tagakalat

@mirahyun

@cultish-corner

A special thank you to everyone on the taglist, i love you guys ꨄ

Please do let me know if i have forgotten you, i keep the names in my notes app so i shouldnt forget anyone but if it happens anyway i am deeply sorry

If you want to be added to the taglist, just put it in the comments, your reposts or in my asks, even if I havent answered I 100% have seen it and added you <33

Enough talking from my side though, enjoy you study date with Minho

The buzz from the creative showcase announcement still lingered around KISS like an unspoken challenge. Posters were plastered on every wall, reminding students of the looming event hosted by none other than Minho’s father—a showcase designed to highlight the best talents at the school. For most, it was an opportunity. For Minho, it was a reminder of everything he tried to avoid: expectations, vulnerability, and being seen beyond the carefully curated persona he presented to the world.

But none of that mattered right now.

Because Minho was staring at the name list posted outside his literature class, and there it was—bold and undeniable:

Group Project Partners: Minho & (Y/N)

He blinked, hoping his eyes were deceiving him. They weren’t.

“Wow,” Q’s voice broke through Minho’s silent panic, appearing over his shoulder with an amused grin. “Fate really isn’t subtle, huh?”

Dae chuckled beside him, leaning casually against the wall. “You’ll survive. Maybe.”

Minho shot them both a glare before shoving his hands into his pockets. “It’s just a project. No big deal.”

But it was a big deal. Because every time he was around (Y/N), he turned into the version of himself he didn’t recognize—awkward, uncertain, and far too aware of every glance, every word, every silence. She had this way of looking at him, like she could see past the walls he’d built, and it unnerved him more than he cared to admit.

The first meeting was scheduled for the library, an attempt to maintain some semblance of professionalism. Minho arrived early—an unfamiliar habit—but he told himself it was because he wanted to pick the best table. Definitely not because he was nervous.

He chose a spot near the back, where the shelves of books created a semi-private alcove. The table was sturdy, the chairs comfortable, and the lighting just bright enough to work without being harsh. He set his bag down, pulled out his notebook, and tried to focus on the assignment sheet. But his mind kept drifting, replaying every interaction he’d ever had with (Y/N), searching for clues on how to navigate this.

When she finally arrived, balancing her laptop and a stack of books, she gave him a polite nod. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Minho replied, sitting up straighter than necessary. He gestured to the chair across from him. “I figured this spot would be quiet enough.”

“Good call,” she said, sliding into the seat and setting her things down. She opened her laptop, the soft glow of the screen illuminating her face as she pulled up their assignment. “So, any ideas?”

Minho scrambled to focus. “Uh, yeah. Maybe we could… compare themes? Like, how the author explores identity or something.”

(Y/N) glanced at him, her expression neutral. “That’s vague.”

“Well, it’s a start,” he muttered defensively, crossing his arms over his chest.

She sighed softly, but there was no malice in it. “Okay. Let’s break it down.”

They worked in relative silence, punctuated by occasional questions and the awkward brush of hands when they reached for the same notebook. Minho tried to ignore the way his heart raced at the brief contact, the way her proximity made it hard to think straight. He wasn’t used to feeling this off-balance, and it frustrated him.

But the real shift happened two hours in.

Minho leaned back in his chair, frustrated with a section they couldn’t seem to crack. “This is pointless.”

(Y/N) raised an eyebrow, not looking up from her notes. “The project or your attitude?”

He shot her a look, but there was a flicker of amusement in her eyes that disarmed him. “Both,” he admitted grudgingly.

She set her pen down and tilted her head, studying him. “Why do you always act like nothing bothers you?”

The question caught him off guard. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve got this… façade,” she said, gesturing vaguely. “Like you’ve got everything figured out. But clearly, you don’t.”

Minho’s jaw tightened. “And you think you’ve got me all figured out?”

She shrugged. “No. But you make it pretty easy to see through the act.”

The words stung more than he expected because they were true. He looked away, his fingers tapping restlessly against the edge of the table. Before he could respond, her phone buzzed. She glanced at it briefly, then stood. “I need a break. Coffee?”

Minho hesitated, then stood too. “Yeah. Sure.”

The café near campus was quiet. They sat by the glass, sipping their drinks, the tension from earlier lingering like static. Minho stirred his coffee absently, watching the steam rise in delicate swirls.

“I didn’t mean to hit a nerve,” (Y/N) said eventually, her voice soft. She stirred her own drink, her gaze fixed on the swirling liquid.

Minho stared at his cup. “I’m just used to people assuming things about me, especially because my parents, well, mostly my father, aren't, well.."

He gets quieter with every word, his expression almost showing the hate he has for himself for even mentioning it, or hatred for his father, it was hard for (Y/N) to tell.

"I don’t usually care, but…”

She knew he wasn't going to continue on with the story about his parents, but (Y/N) let him, knowing that if he wanted to, he will bring it up again when he is ready to tell her.

“But?” she prompted gently, her eyes lifting to meet his.

“But you’re not ‘people,’” he admitted, his voice quieter than he intended.

She blinked, clearly not expecting that. A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Well, that’s vague.”

Minho laughed softly, the tension easing slightly. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

“You’re not as complicated as you think, Minho,” she added, her gaze steady.

And just like that, the air shifted again.

That night, back in his dorm, Minho couldn’t shake the conversation. He sat at his desk, staring at his phone, his thumb hovering over the anonymous blog app.

Dae was scrolling on his phone, and Q was fiddling with his headphones, oblivious to Minho’s internal turmoil. Without overthinking, Minho typed:

“How do you stop caring about what someone thinks of you when they see through you so easily? Asking for a friend.”

He hit send before he could regret it, then tossed his phone aside, burying his face in his hands.

The next project meeting was different.

They worked in her dorm this time, Kitty buzzing around briefly before leaving with a sly, knowing grin. Minho tried to ignore it, focusing instead on the papers spread across the floor. For whatever reason, (Y/N), decided to dress up. Not that it mattered, in Minho's Eyes, she, for whatever reason, wasnt physically capable of ever looking bad anyway. She always looked… effortless.

“Do you ever write just for yourself?” Minho asked suddenly, surprising even himself.

She glanced up, her brow furrowing slightly. Minho wondered what that look was about, but decided not to question it for now

“Sometimes. Why?”

“Just curious.”

She hesitated, then reached for a notebook tucked under a pile of papers. “I guess writing helps me make sense of things. Even if no one reads it.”

Minho nodded, understanding more than he wanted to admit. “Yeah. I get that.”

After a pause, she added softly, “It’s scary, though. Being honest on paper.”

“Yeah,” he agreed quietly. “But it’s scarier being honest out loud.”

Their eyes met, something unspoken passing between them. For a moment, the world seemed to narrow to just the two of them, the weight of their shared vulnerability hanging in the air.

"I..", Minho hesitated, his eyes flicking between hers and the wall behind her.

The Room was dim, light enough to see the papers, but dark enough to hide (Y/N)'s quick glance at the subtle twitch in Minho's jaw.

Which is exactly why her next movement caught him so off-guard.

She lifted her hand, placing it on his cheek and softly caressing his jawline with her thumb.

Minho was used to romantic affection and the touches that came with it, with this many people wanting to get atleast a part of you it was like a handshake at best, at least thats what he would usually think.

But this was...something else entirely.

His eyes went wide, looking at her without even attempting to hide it.

She chuckled, giving him a smile before leaning close to him, his eyes quickly switching from her eyes to her lips, only to repeat the same motion.

To his dissatisfaction, she only wrapped her arms around him tightly, rubbing small circles into his back. He hugged her back just as tight, without thinking about it at all

Minho was uncertain, but they almost felt heart shaped. Whether that was just his imagination, or reality, he didnt dare to ponder about it further.

She let go of him, resorting to only grabbing his hand and giving in three subtle squeezes.

Before either of them could break the moment by saying anything, Kitty burst through the door, dramatically complaining about Yuri, effectively shattering the tension.

But it didn’t matter.

Because the only thing he could think about, was how she didnt move her hand, not even by an inch, and to him, it felt like a promise.

[365emotionlessfaces]

The Aspiring Teachers Program

Part 5 WC:~1.4k

When you had first started at Willard R. Abbott Elementary, you did not make friends quickly. The only person that seemed to like you during your first few months was Janine Teagues. She was the only one who appreciated the pep in your step and the smile on your face. Your cheeriness seemed to irk pretty much all of the older teachers, the janitor, and the principal. Miss Schemmenti didn’t even learn your name for the first few months. Then when she did learn your name, she told you that she’s hated your name for years and you’d have to change it. She then refused to interact with you for two weeks before Barbara dragged her into your classroom one afternoon, the redhead looking like a kid in the principal’s office.

After that day, you had been welcomed to join their lunch table, by Barb and Barb only, Melissa had made sure to let you know. It only took a month of lunches together before she started to soften up to you. Now, two years later, you’d consider her one of your best friends, and hoped she considered you a friend, at least. Janine had become a trusted confidant over the past couple years, and you had spent a lot of time with her outside of the walls of the school. She knew a lot about you, including the feelings you had for a certain redhead. You couldn’t help yourself. You’d had a thing for redheads ever since you can remember. Her spicy attitude only made her that much more enticing.

You appreciated Janine more than she knew. She helped you cope with not being near family after you made the move from Lansing, she was the first to have open arms at Abbott, and definitely made you feel welcome in Philly. She was also the only person in your life that you had told about this one woman you had fallen for at this camp thing when you were nineteen.

Tonight was the night of the field trip to the Franklin Institute. You had brought a duffel bag to work full of the things you would need, not wanting to return to your apartment before the trip began.

The day began like any other. You walked into the break room to see Melissa and Barb intently watching the morning news. The second pot of coffee was brewing, but your coffee was already sitting on the table, so you took your seat between the two women. After a few minutes, Melissa shifted her body to talk to you, and you felt her knee rest against yours under the table.

“You ready for tonight?” She asked as you sipped your coffee.

“Yep! I even brought a couple of stuffed animals, in case any of the kiddos get scared,” you replied with a smile.

“Oh, that’s smart! I wish I had thought of that!” Janine said as she entered the room. “This is my first overnight field trip, well, not my first one if you count the one we took to the Mütter Museum in first grade. Oh, and the one we took to the National Constitution Center in fifth grade. But it’s my first overnight field trip as a teacher, so who knows what could happen? This trip may just change all of our lives, you know?” You couldn’t help but chuckle at your friend’s ramblings.

“Yeah, I’m sure it will. Now, will you sit down and shut up? I’m trying to watch the news,” the redhead beside you pointed at a chair, and like one of Melissa’s little eagles, Janine sat.

You couldn’t help the smile that crossed your face. You liked when Melissa got bossy. She knew what she wanted and knew how to get it.

When the news had finished, and everyone was getting ready to head to their classrooms for the start of the day, Melissa, whose knee was still very much pressing against your leg, turned to look at you again.

“I’ve got some ziti in the fridge for lunch. Figured we could have somethin’ nice for lunch, before we eat whatever kinda sandwiches the Institute gives for dinner.” You just smiled in response. Once Melissa had found out that ziti was your favorite, she had started bringing it for lunch at least once a week. She’d never admit that she does it to see you smile, only telling people that ziti was her favorite and it was just luck that you and Barb enjoyed it as much as she did.

Ziti was not Barb’s favorite. In fact, she much preferred when the redhead brought in her risotto. Barb had attempted to relay this information to her work wife only once, as the redhead seemed to be in shock and when the woman had looked at you and then back to Barb with a look of almost panic in her eyes, Barb seemed to understand immediately. The woman backtracked, telling Melissa that ziti was wonderful, and would love for her to continue making the amazing dish.

“Ooh, yum! My favorite!” You exclaimed as you gathered your duffel and your coffee and began heading for the door. “I can’t wait!” You called out behind you, leaving the room full of coworkers and friends. Gregory and Jacob, who had snuck in quietly while the news was on, both looked at Janine before the three of them looked to Melissa. No one left in the room missed the stupid lovestruck grin on the redhead’s face, but even Barb wasn’t brave enough to mention it. In fact, no one had mentioned it any time that same grin appeared on the woman’s face over the past year. They all just looked on, waiting for the redhead to realize it herself.

When lunchtime came, you entered the break room and were immediately greeted by the best smell in the world: Melissa’s cooking. She had already warmed your food, and had it sitting on the table waiting for you. God, you could just marry the woman right now. You took your place between the two veteran teachers, and the three of you began talking excitedly about your plans for the field trip.

As your friends and coworkers entered, Jacob was holding a piece of paper that he was treating like a piece of gold he had just mined from the garden out front. Janine asked him what it was and he got that look on his face that indicated he was about to get really excited for something that no one else would share his enthusiasm for.

“I got invited to participate in the Aspiring Teachers Program!” He did an excited hand wiggle, the paper crumpling slightly as he did.

“They’re still doing that?” Barb asked.

“I did that once. Worst week of my life.” Melissa harrumphed out. Barb offered the redhead a knowing look, attempting to reassure her.

“I went to that once, too!” You piped up. “It was amazing! Definitely the reason I’m teaching,” you said before digging into the treasured food on your plate.

“It’s in Boston this year. I’m so excited. I’ve never been to Boston in the fall,” Jacob said wistfully.

“It’s a summer program,” you laughed out. Jacob looked at the paper again.

“Well, I’ve never been to Boston, so it’ll be a good opportunity for me to really open my eyes on what diversity could really look like.”

Janine’s voice called out from the couch, as she turned to look at you. “Wait, isn’t that where you met that-”

“Wonderful teacher who inspired me to follow my dream of inspiring children to learn?” You cut her off. “Yep. That’s the place,” you shot her a look, telling her to keep quiet with your eyes. You didn’t feel the two women on either side eyeing you suspiciously. Though they had questions, they both could read the room. It was not something to ask about right now.

You all returned to regularly scheduled discussions, plans for the rest of the school day, plans for the field trip, and even which parts of the field trip that had the grown adults excited to go. You finished your lunch, telling Melissa that this is the best one yet.

“You say that every time. I think you lying,” Mr. Johnson said from the coffee station.

“Nope, Mr. J, she just keeps outdoing herself,” you smiled at Melissa as you said it, and definitely noticed the redhead blush slightly.

“Thanks, hon,” was all she could muster as a reply.

“Of course! I wouldn’t lie about something so important,” you said sweetly as you cleaned your spot at the table. Gathering your things, you said your goodbyes and headed back to your class to finish out the day, once again leaving a room full of your coworkers to witness Melissa’s lovesick smile.

Part Six

[kiryoutann]

Before reading, please check series masterlist to read the warning(s), disclaimer, and to make sure you’re on the right chapter. Minors do NOT interact.

TW: DEPRESSION, SUICIDE ATTEMPT. If you are struggling with suicidal thoughts or tendencies, please seek help and support from a mental health professional.

This story is written from the perspective of a biased omniscient narrator, keep this in mind as you read and don't take everything they say as absolute truth.

Please proceed with caution and consider your personal comfort and wellbeing before continuing.

SUICIDE HOTLINE.

I want to die.

The distant echoes of departing trains continue to linger in the air, reaching your ears even as you ascend the steps to the sidewalk of the old, dour London city. Gray clouds loom low in the sky, but occasional wisps of warm sunlight manage to slip through the overcast, illuminating patches of England's capital city.

And yet, when it comes your turn to cross beneath it—the last remnants of that golden hue—you feel nothing. The sun is gone, leaving you alone with yourself.

I want to die. You want to die, yet the way you stride leaves an impression that there remains a purpose to your existence—a reason to stay alive. Looking up, you see the neoclassical architectural building that you have long been familiar with. You push the large heavy doors to enter the Metropolitan Opera building.

The dim hallway of the opera house washes you over with old nostalgia. It reminds you of those early days, when you were just a wide-eyed girl fresh from San Francisco, full of newly lit aspirations. Determined to prove to herself that she wasn't what that old voice had always told her she was.

In the past, everything felt so gray—the streets, the buildings, even the sky above. But now, looking back, you realize you may have taken that time for granted. Compared to the supposedly better present, the past now appears in hues of bronze, still working towards perfection. Not yet gold—you haven’t gotten what you want, but you never lose sight of your stage, of your dance. Ballet remains both your agony and your solace.

But now, the world has been washed in muted colors, worse than gray. Ballet has shockingly intertwined with this foreign concept—distant, irrevocably severed.

Reality has transformed into an almost dreamlike quality, trapping you in the haze of your own creation. Yet, like a phantom that knows not when to end, you carry your feet toward the dressing room reserved for the prima ballerina. The door loomed before you; your hand reached for the handle, turned it, and pushed with a creak on its hinges.

(Was it ballet that had become nothing to you, or was it you who had become nothing to ballet?)

Your eyes immediately landed on the figure sitting in front of the vanity. Claudine, the woman who had taken your place as the Swan Queen, perched in the chair that should have been yours. Her eyes widen as she caught sight of your reflection in the mirror, but her surprise was short-lived as a smirk slowly spread across her red lips.

Claudine turns her body to face you. “Well, well, look who it is. Did you forget your way to the bathroom, darling?”

Much different from the last time you saw her, she looks radiantly happy. She adjusts her seat, making herself comfortable on the cushion of a chair that clearly does not belong to her. But that doesn’t mean it’s yours, does it? Sure, Claudine wasn’t the first choice—but the director still chose her to replace you. It was glaringly obvious that the role of the Swan Queen was no longer yours; you were simply the wrong choice, a mistake.

Tomorrow’s Swan Lake performance will be starring Claudine. Not you. Last week, you were still able to gloat and say that nothing would happen, and yet, something did—you blew your performance, delivered a shitshow, and the director launched into a long, angry sentence before discarding you. Sending you home.

(“You need to go home.” in a voice that doesn't belong to the director.)

Suddenly, the door opens wider; you see the director standing in the doorway. “Claudine, we need to—“ he begins, but his words trail off as his gaze meets yours.

A look of surprise flashed across his face as he took your presence. You could only imagine how unexpected your sudden appearance must have seemed to him—a ghost materializing after days of radio silence. He furrowed his brows, glancing at Claudine as if silently asking if she's seeing this too. Turning back to you, you felt the intensity of his eyes as he scanned you from head to toe.

Henri calls your name, then asks, “Are you alright?”

For a moment, you hesitate. “The world is covered in a gray haze” is the only description you can come up with—the only way to tell them, but you wonder if they will even understand what you mean. Maybe the issue lies in your own eyesight, tinting everything so dull and lifeless. Soulless. “The world is speaking a language I no longer have the strength to comprehend,” you want to scream it from the rooftops. Everything is moving on and leaving me behind, and I don’t know why.

“Are you alright?”

Such an easy question, yet so hard to answer. You're certain that nothing is alright, but you're not hurting as much as you were that night in that unfamiliar city, are you? No more hyperventilating, no more shortness of breath. Objectively speaking, you seem fine. And yet, you're not sure you can carry on if the future will continue to feel this way.

So instead, you simply nodded, eyes empty but staring back at him as you utter the words, “I’m fine. I was just about to leave.”

You didn’t wait for a response, turning around the way you came and walking back down the long hallway. Yet, the hallway seemed strangely altered, as if it had undergone some sort of magical transformation while you were inside the prima ballerina’s dressing room. The dim corridor was almost deformed to the point where you couldn't recognize it. Or perhaps the world was perfect, and it was your own sight that had become deformed.

Looking around, you wonder if it was all real—if the walls were as solid as they seemed; if the golden rays of sun were genuine, or if they were mere props in a stage production. Do you even exist? Or are you just a microorganism barely clinging to life and yearning to be something you're not? The exit seemed far away, and something begged you on its knees for you to stop, for you to turn back.

There is no turning back for you. You are deformed—you are lost in a place that no longer wants to recognize you. Where do you turn back? How do you turn back? The answers you demand are nil, and you… return to resignation, to surrender. There is no turning back for you.

London never really rests, even when the evening wears on with uncertain weather. The hesitant sunlight casts a slanting gaze on the upper half of a three-story building. While the middle section to the top is constructed from a rugged red-hued brick, the ground floor was painted in a bolder crimson, with old-style serif fonts for the name of the establishment. It's a flower shop. A couple exits, the woman smiling graciously at her lover while holding onto his hand, cradling a bouquet of freshly cut blossoms.

Walking opposite you is a family of four, laughing as they enjoy their stroll. You turn to see a career-driven woman striding purposefully, probably to meet her next client.

Everyone had a purpose, a direction, a sense of belonging. And standing amidst this bustling city, you felt alien, empty—a specter, a ghost among the living, treading this path simply because it’s the only one you knew, but it seemed to have no end in sight. It felt like you had lost something, everything. Your infinitesimal place in this world is now entirely erased.

(Who are you?)

Your life is yours to live, but you are not its main character. Everywhere you tread, you carry the setting sun; the colors fade in your presence. Doom creeps closer, dripping and seeping into your nailbeds—unfortunately, you have a habit of biting them. Now it is in your blood, pumped through your body, settling in your organs and muscles.

Who are you?

Nobody's daughter, nobody's lover. No longer a prima-ballerina.

As you descend the stairs that lead down to the subway, the sound of the departing train echoes through the station. You stand in the spot you’ve occupied countless times before—the safe line where other passengers wait for the next train. Taking a deep breath, your heart throbs painfully as the acrid scent of cigarette smoke enters your lungs. You turn to see a man leaning against the wall, his lips wrapped around the glowing embers.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block out the memory that the smell reminded you of. Looking for a distraction, your gaze fell upon the yellow line that served as the boundaries where you should stand. It was a simple thing, but it carried a clear meaning—don't get too close to the edge of the platform; back away or find your doom.

However, from your dull vision, the vibrant hue had faded, leaving behind a lifeless grey that blended effortlessly with the rest of the platform. Another line meant nothing. You lifted your gaze and landed it on the train tracks.

The steel of the rails glints in the dim light. Just one step, one final fall, and it would all be over. No more empty apartments to face, no more tiring tomorrows. A funeral won't be necessary because by the time you're gone, there will be no part of you left in this world.

A cough sounds from behind you, breaking through your loud thoughts. Turning, you see a woman probably in her thirties in a bright floral dress. Averting your eyes to another source of voices, your gaze lands on a man and a girl next to him—a father and daughter. You end up glancing around at the people around you, all waiting patiently for the next train to take them to their next stop or home.

How would they react to such a spectacle?

The image of their horrified faces, their clothes stained with the crimson of your blood. And what about the train engineer? They would be the first and the last to look you in the eye, to witness your final moments before your demise. The ending you obtain will linger as a scar you leave on them—an impact that will stay, haunting them for weeks, perhaps even months or years to come.

And you…

You couldn't do that to them.

The second consideration is too late when the train squeals through the tunnel, signaling its arrival. The train has arrived; you are hyper-aware of your standing right behind the yellow line. A stream of people begins to board the tube, and so do you. Taking a seat, the window across from you serves as an uncomfortable mirror forced up against you. You avert your eyes from it, not wanting to face your own faint reflection.

As the robotic voice of the tube's announcement echoed through the carriage, urging the passengers to “step clear of the doors,” the father and daughter took their seats across from you. The little girl, no more than five or six years old, straightens her gaze to meet yours.

There, you find your younger self. To her, you are just a weird grown-up with tired eyes, but to you, she is that little girl you once were. The bright-eyed girl with simple dreams—to eat ice cream with Daddy, to coax Mommy for a furry friend, to be the brightest star for her parents. To be the greatest ballet dancer the world has ever seen.

The girl who loves blue so much, but Mom forces pink on her. You remember your childhood photo framed in the closet back home before you left San Francisco for good—a photo of you and Mom at your first ballet recital.

“My little princess, you’re going to be the greatest ballet dancer the world has ever seen.”

And yet, hours later, submerged in the warm water that should have melted your tension away and untied the knots within, reality proved otherwise. Those dreams, once so vivid, are now gone—abandoned, for your heart has shrunk in size as you've grown. The bright-eyed girl was no more—so was Daddy, so was Mommy. Ballet, too, dismantled in your own hands. Your identity is destroyed and-

And what does that leave behind, then? An empty body? A vessel for a rotting soul? A very unlovable being roaming the earth, manipulating anyone she can find to stay; to act as a blind lover, because who else could love a deformed creature like me?

You let yourself take a deep, trembling breath, and as you did, a tiny echo of pain stabbed at your heart. The tears finally came. But, as your cries reverberated through the bathroom, the numbness returned, as if in an attempt to shut out the shame of hearing your agony. Reaching out, you made a gentle swirl in the water, watching as the small waves lapped against the porcelain of the tub, creating another smaller one that disappeared in a split second.

By the time you stepped out of the bath, your fingers were wrinkled. Wrapping yourself in a towel, you walked to the sink. You grabbed your toothbrush, smearing the minty paste across the bristles. Finally, you lifted your gaze to the mirror, the reflection of your tired face greeting you.

The woman gazing back at you seems like a complete stranger—you can hardly fathom that she is the person that little girl grew up into. The sight of your own face caused another tear to fall, but this time, you felt nothing but the throbbing headache that wrecked your brain. Your eyelids felt heavy—all you wanted to do was sleep.

After your nightly routine was complete, you slipped into the comfort of your pajamas—an oversized t-shirt and a pair of worn sweatpants. You turned the doorknob and stepped out of the bathroom. Walking to the kitchen, you decided to quench your thirst before actually going to bed. You opened the cabinet, searching for a clean glass.

As your hand clutched the glass, your gaze drifted to the bottle of bourbon beside it. You scrutinized the amber liquid for a good two minutes before closing the cabinet door with a soft click.

Turning on the tap, you let the cool water fill your empty cup before bringing it to your lips and taking a sip. You drained it to ease your dry throat. Placing the glass in the sink, you stared at it, contemplating something. You shook your head, reluctantly pulling yourself away from the kitchen and into the bedroom.

Despite the tightness in your skull and the burning ache of your eyelids, falling asleep proved to be a challenge. You lay there, tossing and turning, desperate for a long-lasting close of eyes. But your mind couldn't cooperate; instead, it was fixed on that day—the day you had visited him. The what-ifs come next, a chorus of “if only” that creates more space for questions and regret. What if you hadn't gone that day? What if you had given him the time and space he needed, trusting that he would come back to you just like he always had before?

What if you had become an easier woman to love? What if you hadn't been made like this—a shameful woman who claws for love in every kindness that others show you? Who had made you this way? Was it your parents and their inconsistent showcase of a tainted version of “love”? Or were you born with this never-ending hell?

Why doesn’t he love me? The words echoed, a persistent refrain that refused to be silenced. Why did he leave me? And you’re left wondering who you’re asking—that man or your father?

With a sudden jolt, you rise from the bed, your feet hitting the solid floor beneath. Wrenching the doorknob harshly, you made a beeline for the bathroom. You pulled open the cabinet, grabbing at everything you could, shoving the various pills and tablets into your mouth. The bitter taste slowly spreads as it all melts on your tongue.

Stumbling out of the bathroom, you walk quickly to the kitchen, eyes landing on the other cabinet – where a bottle of that amber liquid is stored. You open it roughly, downing the contents, feeling the burn of the alcohol searing your throat.

You set the bottle down, turning to leave the kitchen to return to the bedroom. Sitting on the edge of the bed, you blinked, sweeping your gaze one last time around the room. You laid back down on the mattress, pulling the soft blanket up over your body. The ceiling looked bland, all white with a dark spot where it had once leaked.

Reaching out, you grasped the lamp on the bedside table, flicked it off, painting the room black.

SUICIDE HOTLINE.

[dragqueenstarscream]

hey, its me again, back with more Starscream thoughts, so you just know things are about to get uncomfortably real and introspective! Again, prefacing by saying that a lot of my analysis is based on my own eerily similar experiences to Starscream, so I'm not 100% sure how much of this actually rings true and what is just me projecting.

I have entirely fallen down the StarOp rabbit hole thanks to you, at a speed I never could have expected. When I first finished TFP and started browsing the tags, I'd see the occasional StarOp post and at best be like "alright, sure" and at worst a little confused on where it was coming from, given the infrequency of interactions between the two after like, early season 1. But since I sent that first ask in it just clicked and like.

Before, I was always of the opinion that Starscream joining the autobots was something that could never really work from a character perspective, not just because of his dependency on Megatron like I talked about last time, but like, even if Megatron was completely out of the picture I never felt like the full on redemption and becoming a functioning member of post-war society that becoming an Autobot would entail would particularly be desirable to Starscream (if even possible for reasons both in and out of his control.)

I sorta felt like any good ending for Starscream would have to entail him moreso escaping the narrative than anything else, given the extent to which he's stuck in this cycle almost on a cosmic level, with how he's unable to escape it in any universe, any continuity, which of course ties into wider thoughts on how this franchise seems uninterested in letting Starscream ever escape that cycle. A sort of El Camino style ending, where leaving behind everything you know and running away to Alaska is considered a good ending, all things considered. That naturally led to me shipping him with Knockout, given their chemistry and the fact that they were this close to running away together, it just felt like the most compelling option, narratively speaking.

But now that I've caught onto the StarOp agenda, I've sorta cracked the code and realized that you can make a compelling and believable path to Starscream becoming an Autobot by having him getting together with Optimus initially be on a subconscious level an outlet to recreate the cycle he was in with Megatron purely because he's used to it and doesn't know how to live without it.

Outside of the obvious ideological and moral differences, Optimus and Megatron have a lot in common, especially from the perspective of Starscream. They're both big, strong, masculine figures, and natural-born leaders that effortlessly compel those around them to fight for their respective causes. They both radiate power in a way that I imagine you can almost feel when around them (and in a way I know it, because that's often how it felt being around my personal Megatron, it's why it was so easy to fall back into his arms over and over.)

All this to say, when Starscream gets with Optimus, he's not escaping the cycle, he's changing his target. If he became an autobot he would instantly become the most dedicated autobot, not out of any ideological reasoning or particular desire to be good, but out of an intense loyalty he effortlessly placed in Optimus. But of course, the loyalty phase is only half of this cycle.

This next part I'm heavily basing on what I've realized about my own experiences, so bear with me for a second, (I also doesn't think it exactly applies to TFP as much as it does some other continuities, G1 maybe but I haven't seen much of G1 so idk for sure) but I feel like sometimes Starscream almost tests Megatron in a way when he feels like Megatron's priorities are drifting away from him, (since remember, he needs to be the most important bot in his life, Starscream is desperate for Megatron to be as obsessed with him as he is with Megatron.) so Starscream will sort of do something stupid, maybe he comes up with some harebrained scheme that's probably not gonna work, or he makes some tactical or administrative decision entirely based on what he's feeling on an emotional level, to see "will Megatron back me on this?"

because Megatron does stuff like that all the time, he's far from being a better tactician than Starscream, (notice how the moment Starscream leaves in season 1, the decepticons stop winning like, at all until he comes back?) and he makes rash decisions out of anger all the time, and Starscream goes along with all of it, every single time, so it's only fair that Megatron lets him get away with doing something kinda stupid this once. and when Megatron inevitably doesn't, either because it would work against the Decepticons own goals, or purely because he doesn't want Starscream to think he has power over him, (and despite how good he is at hiding it, Starscream does have power over him in a lot of ways, I might talk about that some other time.) Starscream lashes out, betrays Megatron, and leaves, because once again all the loyalty he gave to Megatron got him nothing in return.

and let's be clear, Starscream doing this is toxic as fuck, but at the same time of course it is, it's almost impossible not to become toxic in an environment like this. And that really comes back to bite you when you get out of that environment, but on a base level still have these habits and base level impulses that might have helped you survive back then but are terrible for the actually decent people you've surrounded yourself with now.

With that, we cut to today, where Starscream is an autobot and he tries to pull one of these "tests" on Optimus because the honeymoon phase is over and Starscream is instinctually ready for things to start getting worse, maybe they had like, one minor argument and Starscream instantly assumed the worst. and I imagine Optimus "fails" the test, says "no, I'm not backing you on this, I'm not gonna let you do that", but unlike Megatron who does so while prioritizing his own ends and his control over Starscream, Optimus is saying no for moral reasons. And I imagine he tries to explain that to Starscream, but that answer isn't hitting him properly because again, Starscream's only thinking in loyalty.

Everything Optimus thought was progress on Starscream's part in living up to autobot ideals was really just newfound intense loyalty to Optimus, his growth was really just him doing what he thinks Optimus would want him to do and what he thinks would gain him Optimus's loyalty in return. and, from Starscream's perspective, it didn't work, so he's thinking "obviously Optimus doesn't care about me at all, fuck him, I'm out of here." so he makes this big display of betraying the autobots and running away.

and from there, it's the question of if Optimus sees through what this is really about. The other autobots are probably no help in that regard, they all probably fall into one of two groups, the "At no point in time was I not 100% sure that this inevitably was going to happen" group, and the "I mean, I had hope for him, and it seemed like he was doing good, but I'm still not that surprised" group.

But of course, Optimus isn't Megatron, he does care about Starscream and wants him to know that, so I imagine he actually tries tracking down Starscream to have an actual conversation with him to try and figure out where his mind has really been at these past few months, and if he catches on to even a little bit of the subtext of what I've been saying here, he's gonna be like "oh shit, there is a lot more we need to work on than I thought."

and yeah, Megatron fucked up Starscream in ways that its gonna take years to properly unpack, so Starscream is lucky to have found quite possibly the best person to help him through it in Optimus. It's gonna be a rocky road, but Optimus is in for the ride.

and I do think this relationship could eventually become healthy, and I like reading fics where they've managed to make it healthy, but I do think at first it really wouldn't be, and as someone with the autism that makes you obsessed with themes and motifs and subtext, the process of seeing it become better, of seeing Starscream have to unlearn these old harmful defense mechanisms, THAT is really what makes my brain vibrate, especially because I've had to go through that same process myself after finally getting away from my personal Megatron for what I'm thankfully certain now is the final time.

also kinda realizing a lot of this kinda sounds like borderline personality disorder, which. that might be something I have to look into in regards to myself, damn. anyways, yeah, thanks for letting me kill the vibe again, appreciate it! I'll probably try and keep these shorter in the future, I imagine it's kind of a lot to suddenly have 1500 words of deep character analysis with hints of traumadumping suddenly thrown in your askbox lol. If this actually was a bit too much then I'm sorry, you can tell me to dial it down a little if you want.

and this, right here, is why starop is my favorite transformers ship.

you really hit the nail on the head with this one. when done well, it's not only cute and fun to explore, but it's also a deep dive into starscream as a character and what could possibly lead to a redemption arc. sure, you don't need starscream to fall in love with optimus to redeem him, but how that would actually play out is so fascinating.

sure, i love aus where starscream is an autobot spy the whole time. yes, i love aus where they were in love in the past and got separated. but the idea of starscream replacing megatron with optimus in his mind fits him so well, because, as an abuse victim myself, it's easy to find yourself drawn to people who remind you of your abuser.

and that's where optimus' kindness sets him apart, because when starscream pushes back on him, optimus doesn't do what starscream expects. he doesn't lash out or hit him or verbally berate him. he responds with honest concern, trying to figure out what's wrong.

and that kindness, that sincerity, is something starscream doesn't even realize he's been missing the entire time.

i do believe they have the potential to be healthy, but the fight towards them actually becoming healthy and helping starscream get out of his toxic mindset is part of what makes these two so damn compelling.

always happy to have another starop fan.

(also you don't have to worry about toning it down lmao, gods know i ramble like a maniac about my favorite things. i'm not gonna be the one to judge)

[soluversworld]

4 days with Ren!- Ren x G.N Reader

(Clickbait Titl-….!!!

Words:8000

Genre: Fluff

Summary: — you encounter Ren, a seemingly shy and awkward stranger who enters your bookstore. At first, his nervousness and fumbling words leave you uncertain about his intentions, but as the interaction progresses, you begin to notice subtle, yet familiar traits about him. His nervousness, his playful yet shy demeanor, and the blue eyes all hint at something deeper, but it isn’t until later that you realize the truth—

( Reader is a g.n!)

EXTRA: Let me know if I continue this! This is kind of a heart-felt shit so don’t worry.

Reader can be a idiot at times, Since we don’t know Ren’s real name. His real name is taken as [REDACTED]

I’m sorry for the delay! I scarped this so many times, I really started to feel stressed about this..

[[MORE]]

“Eh? You… wanna marry me…?”

The memory was hazy, but vivid enough to make your heart flutter even now. It had happened when you were both just kids, playing together on the playground like any other day.

[REDACTED] had tugged at your hand with uncharacteristic urgency, his dark hair falling messily into his wide, nervous eyes. He told you he had something important to say.

Then, out of nowhere, he dropped to one knee before you. His small, trembling hands held up a ring—crafted clumsily from what looked like tin foil, the kind of thing only a child would painstakingly make. The other ring sat snugly on his own finger.

Your heart skipped a beat as you stared at him. His earnest expression, the slight shake in his voice, the sincerity in his gesture—it was all too much. Your cheeks burned as you cupped them instinctively, trying to hide the blush spreading across your face.

He looked so nervous. So hopeful.

Your lips parted to say something—anything—but you froze.

You’d always liked him, hadn’t you? Even then, there had been something about [REDACTED] that made your chest tighten. You didn’t fully understand it back then, but now it was so clear.

Before you could gather your courage to respond, the moment shattered.

“Hey! What’re you doing to them?!”

Leon, ever the self-appointed protector, charged onto the scene. With one swift motion, he smacked the little ring out of [REDACTED]’s hand, sending it tumbling into the dirt.

The entire playground fell silent.

“Don’t worry!” Leon declared loudly, puffing out his chest. “I’ll protect you from weirdos like him!”

Your heart dropped as you saw the way [REDACTED] flinched. His hands hovered where the ring had been, his gaze darting to you for reassurance.

“But, Leon…” you started quietly, the protest barely leaving your lips.

It was too late. [REDACTED] scrambled to pick up the ruined ring, his shoulders shaking as he clutched it tightly. Tears streaked down his cheeks, but he didn’t say a word.

He turned and fled, his quiet sobs fading into the distance, you stood frozen, guilt twisting in your stomach. You wanted to chase after him, to tell him it was okay, that you didn’t care about Leon’s interruption or the rumors about his family. You didn’t care about anything except the fact that he had been brave enough to bare his heart to you.

But you didn’t. You let him walk away.

All you could do was watch his retreating figure and whisper softly to yourself, too late for him to hear:

“I would ve said yes…”

“But Leon!” you repeated, louder this time, frustration bubbling up as you watched [REDACTED] disappear.

“What?” Leon shot back, his arms crossed defiantly. “I just saved you! That guy’s weird, and you shouldn’t hang out with him!”

“You’re so mean!” you snapped, stomping your foot. “He wasn’t doing anything wrong! He just wanted to—” You stopped yourself, suddenly feeling too vulnerable to explain. “You’re always ruining everything!”

Leon puffed up like an offended balloon. “I’m not ruining anything! I’m protecting you, dummy!”

“I don’t need protecting!” you shouted, tears pricking at your eyes. “You’re just a big, mean bully!”

Leon’s cheeks flushed pink as he huffed and looked away, his pout making him look even more childish. “Fine, do whatever you want! But don’t blame me when that weirdo does something weird!”

You narrowed your eyes at him, crossing your arms in a perfect mirror of his stubborn stance. “I will do what I want! And stop calling him weird!”

“Whatever,” he grumbled, kicking a pebble with his shoe. After a moment, his voice softened. “But I’m still gonna keep an eye on him, okay? Just in case.”

You hesitated, then nodded, your earlier anger fading into relief. “Fine. As long as you’re not mean about it.”

Leon gave a reluctant shrug, muttering something under his breath about “always having to be the grown-up.”

It wasn’t until later that you realized how little it mattered. Days passed, then weeks, but [REDACTED] never came to see you again.

At first, you waited eagerly, sitting on the swings after school, hoping he’d show up like he always did. But he didn’t. You told yourself he was just busy, that he’d come by soon.

But he didn’t.

Maybe he was avoiding you. Or maybe it was his family. The whispers about them had only gotten worse. You’d overheard adults saying things they thought kids couldn’t understand. Things that made your chest ache and your fists clench.

You waited until the hope in your heart shrank into something fragile and brittle. Until you couldn’t hold it anymore, and one day, you cried. You cried because you missed him. Because you couldn’t fix whatever had gone wrong. Because you never got to tell him how much he meant to you.

And [REDACTED]—he was out there somewhere. Maybe he wanted to come back. Maybe he didn’t. You didn’t know.

All you knew was that the boy with the messy black hair and the trembling hands had slipped away from your life.

And even though you were just a kid, you felt like you’d lost something you might never get back.

You remembered again..Didn’t you?

Stifling a groan with the rim of your coffee cup, you fumbled for the remote wedged between the couch cushions and turned off the TV.

There was no way you were letting some grim headline ruin the start of your morning—especially not today. Today marked your first day back at work since earning that hard-fought promotion.

Sure, working at a library, organizing and sorting through shelves of books, wasn’t exactly the dream job you’d envisioned growing up. It wasn’t even close to the top of your list when you decided to move back.

But the pay was good, your coworkers were warm and welcoming, and the library’s location couldn’t have been more convenient—just a short walk from your apartment.

And on the way, there was this cozy little bakery that served the best shortcakes and croissants you’d ever tasted.

You sipped your coffee with a soft smile, thinking briefly about how much [REDACTED] would’ve loved that bakery.

It was a fleeting thought, but one that lingered, curling in the back of your mind like the steam from your mug.

Why was it still so easy to think about him?

Even now, after all this time, you couldn’t shake the feeling of unfinished business. Regret? Guilt? Maybe a little of both. You’d wanted to give him a chance back then. You really did. But life had gotten in the way. Or maybe it wasn’t life.

Maybe it was you.

You swallowed hard, setting the cup down on the table with a soft clink. Maybe you were the problem. Maybe he’d moved on, forgotten all about the mess you’d left behind.

And yet, the thought of him still made your chest ache. You wondered what he was doing now, where he was, if he still remembered you too.

Maybe… just maybe… you’d see him again.

It still beats living in the city, though. Honestly… you weren’t even sure why you left your hometown in the first place.

The fast-paced, hustle-and-bustle lifestyle of the city just wasn’t what you longed for when staring out your window on sleepless nights. The people there were always rude and indifferent, making you feel like a stranger in a crowd.

It was nothing like Corland Bay. There, everyone felt like a close-knit family, and the air smelled of salt and sea rather than car exhaust and pollution.

Sure, the local crime rate had been creeping up lately, and there weren’t as many exciting places to visit, but that didn’t bother you much. Your new job kept you busy, and you’d take a quiet evening alone at the beach over a night in a crowded, shady bar with people you barely considered friends. In fact—

bzzt bzzt!

Setting your mug on the table, you reached into your pocket and pulled out your phone. A notification from Moth, your online friend, lit up the screen. Their username always brought a small smile to your face.

Tapping the screen, you opened the message to find an adorable sticker of some anime character giving a thumbs up, accompanied by a short, cheerful note:

“Good luck today!”

Moth had always been adamant about showing their endless support for you. Even after five years of friendship—filled with cursed memes, late-night video calls, and discussions about the most random topics—they never failed to brighten your day.

And even though you would never admit it out loud, you were truly grateful to have someone like Moth in your life.

Pulling up the keyboard, you began to type a response to their message.

…How will you respond?

It really was considerate of them to send this message—especially given the contrasting time zones—so you decided to send back a quick:

“Thank you! :)”

Moth “btwww! did u see the latest AoG ep?? i heard Haruko got an outfit change!!!!”

Moth “spoil it for me. did he really change his hairstyle as well?”

Moth “or was it really just his sorceror outfit?”

Attack on Giants—or “AoG,” as Moth liked to call it—was a popular anime series you and they had recently become obsessed with. Haruko, one of the main characters, was a sorcerer known for his shy and airheaded demeanor. Lately, his hairstyle had sparked debate in the fandom, and Moth was clearly eager to discuss it.

Now that you thought about it… what hairstyle did Haruko have in the latest episode?

Moth “cuz it’s like… almost 9:30 where you are rn”

Moth “right???? or am i just dumb and got the time zones mixed up again lol”

Glancing at the time displayed on your phone, your eyes widened in alarm. It was 9:30—nearly time for work. Letting out a string of curses, you leapt to your feet, nearly knocking over your coffee in the process.

Cursing under your breath, you toss your phone onto the couch and rush to your bedroom. Work wasn’t going to wait for you, and you’d already pushed your luck with timing this week. But as you throw open your closet, your fingers linger over your usual outfits. Today didn’t feel like a typical day—why not switch it up a bit?

Your eyes dart to the newer pieces you’d been collecting lately, leaning heavily into an emo-gothic vibe. You’ve been obsessing over the style lately, and while it wasn’t your usual go-to, the mix of dark tones and edgy accents had been calling your name.

It wasn’t like anyone at work would say much—libraries weren’t exactly fashion runways, after all. And besides… the idea of blending the “softie” energy you adored with a bad-boy edge gave you an odd sense of satisfaction.

Pulling together your outfit, you settle on:

A loose, oversized black sweater with slightly distressed hems, layered over a plain dark-gray shirt for texture. Slim-fit black pants with subtle zipper and chain details that didn’t scream “rebellion” but hinted at it. Chunky platform sneakers that added just enough height to feel bold without overdoing it. To tie it all together, you add a choker with a small pendant and a pair of simple silver rings. You glance at yourself in the mirror, adjusting the choker slightly and ruffling your hair for a casual, messy look. Softie lover with a bad-boy phase? Yeah, that checked out. With a small laugh, you grab your bag, sling it over your shoulder, and head for the door.

You lock up and start walking to work, you feel a small thrill of confidence creeping in. The outfit wasn’t just a look—it was a mood. And today, you were determined to make it through with your head held high.

“Seriously… When will that lazy bum of a landlord do something about this?” you mutter, fiddling with the stubborn lock on your apartment door.

You wiggle the key again, sighing in frustration. “I swear I’ve complained about this at least four times this month…”

“Hey there! Looking good!”

You turn to see Violet, your ever-cheerful neighbor, practically glowing as she juggles her apartment key in one hand and balances yet another potted plant on her hip with the other.

Resting on her hip was, indeed, another plant. You can’t help but wonder where on earth she was going to put it this time. Her balcony was already a mini rainforest, brimming with lush greenery and various flora. At this point, you’re almost convinced she’s converted her whole apartment into a greenhouse.

Not that you’re complaining—her plants do a fantastic job of masking the occasional smell of smoke or burnt food that wafts out when you attempt to cook. The floral, earthy aroma is a blessing in disguise.

“Love the shoes, by the way! The color reeeeally compliments your aura this morning,” Violet gushes, beaming at you.

A small laugh escapes you as you glance down at your platform sneakers. “Thanks, Violet.”

“You’ll have to let me peek inside your closet someday,” she says, winking. “I’ve been looking for some new inspiration lately. Especially with winter right around the corner… Ahh, I’m getting excited just thinking about it!”

Her enthusiasm is contagious, and you find yourself smiling despite your earlier frustration with the lock.

“Oh! But back to you!” Violet’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts, her growing smile as bright as ever.

“Yeah, it’s nice to see you too!” Violet chirps, her smile never faltering. “I’d usually still be at the flower shop at this time, so it’s nice to finally be able to catch up with you like this—especially when our schedules align!”

She adjusts the potted plant on her hip before adding, “Speaking of! You should stop by my place the next time you’re free. I’d love to introduce you to this little guy’s family.”

You glance at the plant she’s holding, raising an eyebrow at the thought of meeting its “family.” Before you can say anything, Violet’s eyes light up, and she leans closer.

“Oh, I almost forgot! I’ve been meaning to ask you this, but… When were you going to tell me that you were seeing someone?”

You blink, thrown off by the sudden topic change. “What?”

“C’mon! Don’t act like you didn’t just have a guy over last night. I saw him leaving when I took Cathy out for a walk.”

For a moment, your brain stalls. The fact that Violet takes her plants—her named plants—out for nighttime strolls is peculiar enough, but the idea of someone leaving your apartment completely derails your thoughts.

You shoot Violet a concerned look, and she immediately picks up on it.

“You… don’t remember? Don’t tell me you were drunk or something!”

She lets out a huff, abandoning her attempt to unlock her own stubborn door. Setting the plant down carefully, she saunters over to you, her expression a mix of curiosity and mischief.

“Tall guy? Wearing a dark slasher hoodie? Probably into either alt fashion or bondage with the crazy amount of belts and loops wrapped around his leg?”

Violet tilts her head, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Oh, and he had dark black hair. Pretty striking, honestly.”

Her words make your stomach lurch. A memory flashes through your mind—soft laughter, small hands grasping a silver ring, and a promise made in the naivety of childhood. Could it be… him? The boy who disappeared from your life so long ago?

Without thinking, you stammer, “I-It’s my boyfriend!” The words leave your mouth before you can stop them, and your voice cracks just enough to make you cringe inwardly.

Violet blinks, surprised, then smirks knowingly. “Ohhh, really? Your boyfriend, huh? Well, now I definitely need to meet him. You should introduce him sometime.”

You nod frantically, hoping to change the subject. “Y-Yeah, sure, I’ll… I’ll do that.”

She beams, her curiosity seemingly satisfied for now. “Great! Well, I’m off to raid some dungeons in that MMO I told you about. Gotta carry my team, as usual.”

With a giggle, she scoops up her potted plant and waves as she heads back to her apartment. “Later, go with your mystery-dater!”

You wave weakly, watching her retreat. As soon as she’s out of sight, you scratch your head in frustration. “What the hell was that?” you mutter under your breath.

Not all dark-haired guys could possibly be him. What were you even thinking? That kid—the one who gave you that ring, who promised you the world in the way only children could—was nothing more than a distant memory. You haven’t seen him in years. Childhood romance? Seriously? You shake your head, letting out a huff.

Still, the thought lingers longer than it should, tugging at the edges of your mind as you lock your door and finally head off to work.

You shake your head again, groaning as the realization sets in. “God, I’m such an idiot!” You can’t help but say it aloud, even if you’re just talking to yourself. The more you think about it, the dumber it seems.

Why did you even react like that? Just because some guy with dark hair left your apartment, it doesn’t mean it was him. It’s probably just some random guy. You never even saw his face, so why did you feel the need to defend him like that? Just a few words from Violet, and suddenly you’re out here saying it’s your boyfriend. Your boyfriend? Really?

It didn’t help that you got flustered, making the situation even weirder. Your head feels heavy, and you want to slam your palm against your forehead in frustration. You’re staring at the door as though it’s the culprit here, like the very existence of it will somehow make everything less awkward. But deep down, you know that’s not the case.

This is dumb. You’ve known him for how long? The answer is years—and all you’ve got to show for it is a bunch of fragmented memories and a ring that’s gathering dust somewhere. You didn’t even know if that kid—no, that person—is still out there, or if he’s even remotely the same. Yet, here you are, thinking maybe you’ve let some weird twist of fate drop him back into your life in the most awkward way possible.

Exhaling sharply. The room feels suddenly smaller, your thoughts cluttered with questions that don’t have answers. What does this even mean?

“Seriously?” you mutter again, this time with a crying emoji look on your face, as if to signal just how messed up everything has become in the span of a few minutes. You stare at the wall, your mind reeling with the possibilities. Could it be that someone’s been in your house without you knowing?

The idea doesn’t sit well with you at all. You have a pretty strong feeling that you’d notice something off about your apartment. Yet, even as you mentally search for clues, everything seems… normal? You don’t remember anything being out of place, no missing items, no strange smells. Just the same old messy, cozy apartment where you usually keep to yourself.

But what if you missed something?

What if this guy—whoever he is—had been sneaking around your apartment when you weren’t looking? What if he’d been here for more than just that one night, slipping in and out like some shadow, while you thought nothing was amiss? The thought sends a shiver down your spine, your heart racing at the very possibility.

It makes sense, doesn’t it? People break into places all the time, right? Or maybe he didn’t break in—what if he just slipped in? You remember how relaxed you’ve been, how easily you let your guard down after getting used to living alone. You’ve never been paranoid or particularly cautious. Maybe that’s the issue. Maybe you’ve been too comfortable.

The more you think about it, the worse it gets. You try to shake off the thoughts, but they persist, like dark clouds following you no matter where you go. You can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong, even if you can’t quite put your finger on it.

You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting there when your phone buzzes again, but it startles you enough to snap you out of your spiraling thoughts. You grab it instinctively, desperate for something to take your mind off the wild ideas plaguing you.

The message is from Violet, which only makes you feel more like an idiot. Seriously? Why is she messaging you now?

Violet

“Heyyy! I almost forgot to mention something! I was just thinking… If you’re not busy later, I could swing by and help you with that lock issue. I can’t stand when things like that get in the way, and you’ve been dealing with it for a while, huh?”

You stare at the message, considering it for a second. Help with the lock? You could definitely use some help. You haven’t been able to get it to work properly for ages, and it’s becoming a hassle. But now, you’re not even sure if you want anyone over. Not after what Violet said.

The nagging thought creeps back. What if someone has already been in here? What if they’re waiting for me to slip up again?

You rub your face with your hand, fighting the urge to get paranoid. Stop it. You’re overthinking this, you try to tell yourself, but it doesn’t help. Violet’s just being nice. She doesn’t know anything. You’ve got nothing to hide, right?

Your fingers hover over the keyboard, undecided on whether to reply. You don’t want to sound weird or like you’re flipping out. You’ve barely seen Violet more than a few times when your schedules happen to align. But you can’t deny that there’s something unsettling about this whole situation now.

Maybe you should talk to her. You should’ve just talked to her earlier, told her you’re fine. Instead, you defended someone you don’t even know, let your own stupid reaction make things weird, and now you’re overthinking everything. You let one stupid comment spiral out of control.

You take a deep breath and start typing.

You

“Thanks for the offer, but I’m okay for now. It’s just one of those things, y’know? Maybe next time though!”

You hit send before you can second-guess yourself. Maybe it’s better to leave it at that. Besides, you’ve got enough to handle with work and your apartment, and you’re not sure you’re ready to let someone into your life, especially with all the confusion swirling around.

For now, you’ll deal with it alone.

“Oh!”

She looks surprised for some reason before her expression softens into a warm smile. She tilts her head slightly, beckoning you closer with a subtle nod.

Elanor, one of your co-workers at Corland Bay Library, is one of the few people here who actually gets things done. She’s a bit scatterbrained—infamously so—but she more than makes up for it with her kind and doting attitude toward everyone.

Still, her nurturing personality can feel… overbearing at times, and you’ve learned to step away every now and then just to catch a breather.

“Sooooo?” she starts, her tone light and teasing. “How does it feel to no longer be the one in charge of stacking books all day long?”

Before you can respond, she adds, “Although… You’ll still have to work the front desk from time to time, unfortunately.”

You offer a polite smile, shrugging slightly, before making your way past her. Rounding the corner, you duck down and slide your bag under the desk. You start pulling out your belongings, preparing for the day ahead.

The familiar chime of the library’s front door rings out, signaling that another patron has just entered. You glance toward Elanor briefly, figuring she’s got it all handled. She always does, even with her scatterbrained tendencies.

For now, you focus on getting your things organized, letting the quiet hum of the library settle your earlier frustrations. The bookshelves, the faint scent of paper and ink, the low murmur of distant conversations—this place has always been a refuge, even on your busiest days.

Still, there’s a nagging thought in the back of your mind: the strange conversation with Violet..

Elanor

“Looks like he’s back again.”

Elanor chuckles softly, inclining her head toward the person she’s talking about.

“You know, that new guy. I don’t know when he started showing up here in the Bay, but he always comes in and rents the books you put on the display window.”

Her voice takes on a teasing tone as she continues, “And if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he has a little crush on you.”

She pauses for dramatic effect, adding with a playful grin, “Because he was staring. A lot.”

You snort, rolling your eyes as you push Elanor’s office chair so she’s facing the other way. Without another word, you turn your attention back to the papers in front of you, trying to shake off the heat rising to your cheeks.

What is with everyone today? you think, frustrated. Smiling too much, gossiping, meddling in business that isn’t theirs—it’s like everyone is conspiring to test your patience.

And as if the morning hadn’t been chaotic enough, the thought of a potential intruder still lingers at the back of your mind. It’s a problem your deadbeat landlord probably won’t do anything about, no matter how many complaints you’ve filed.

You sigh heavily. Maybe I should just buy a stronger lock on my way home. Or even an alarm system. But then another thought strikes you: Would the stores even still be open by the time I get off work?

The realization only adds to your frustration, and you rub your temples, trying to will away the tension building in your head.

Elanor

“Would you look at that… Loverboy in aisle 8 needs some help, it seems.”

She nods toward the flashing red light above the bookshelves, the signal for staff assistance.

With a sigh, you reluctantly rise from your chair. Of course, Elanor isn’t going to help him herself, and you already know she’s grinning like a Cheshire cat, thoroughly enjoying your predicament.

Refusing to glance back at her, you begrudgingly head toward aisle 8. You can practically feel the smug energy radiating from behind you as you weave through the shelves.

Turning the corner, you’re met with a broad figure standing with his back to you. He’s wearing what has to be the comfiest cardigan you’ve ever seen. The stranger hasn’t noticed you yet, so you awkwardly clear your throat and shift your weight from one foot to the other.

“Ahem!”

The guy flinches at the sound, startled, before turning around.

“Ah-!”

When he finally faces you, you’re momentarily struck silent. His soft, doe-like eyes and towering height catch you off guard, and you’re left staring for a beat too long.

So this is the guy who always checks out my book recommendations? you wonder. He fits the cosy literature-lover vibe perfectly.

But it’s his pink hair that really throws you off—it immediately reminds you of Haruko, the anime character you’ve been obsessing over with Moth during your late-night video calls. Even the cut and style of his hair look eerily similar.

Is this a coincidence? Or is this hairstyle trending, and I’m just the last person to know?

You take another good look at him, craning your neck slightly to get past the sheer height difference. There’s something else, too—he looks like a near picture-perfect version of the male lead from Always With You, a webcomic you’ve been devouring lately.

Your thoughts spiral into comparisons, imagining this guy as the real-life version of the dreamy love interest from the story.

You’re so lost in your imagination that you don’t notice his sheepish movements until he scratches his jaw, seemingly trying to snap you out of it.

“Woah… You look…”

His quiet murmur barely registers in your distracted mind.

“But I thought you preferred softer clothing…? That’s why I…”

His voice trails off, leaving you blinking as you try to figure out what he’s talking about.

Realizing how spaced out you must seem, he quickly clears his throat, his face tinged with cherry-pink embarrassment.

“Ahem! Um… S-Sorry, I hope I’m not bothering you.”

He shifts on his feet, glancing at the books around him as if searching for a lifeline.

“I was just looking for… Uhh…”

The sound of his voice pulls you back to the present, and you mentally shake yourself out of your daze. The words spilling from his lips tumble out softly, and you can’t help but notice how they match his gentle, uncertain demeanor.

Suddenly, you feel a wave of self-consciousness. What is wrong with me? Pull it together, Y/N!

Your gaze flickers up to his face again, drawn irresistibly to his big blue eyes. They’re impossibly soft, like a watercolor painting, but there’s something hauntingly familiar about them.

And then you see it.

A glint of silver catches your eye—a ring hanging from a delicate chain around his neck. Your breath catches in your throat. That ring. That simple, unassuming band… It couldn’t be, could it?

No, it’s not possible…

A ring. Dangling from a chain.

Your breath hitches.

No… It couldn’t be. But as your eyes dart between the ring and his face, the realization slams into you like a tidal wave.

Those eyes.

The boy.

The boy.

Your legs feel like they might give out as you stare at him, your heart racing faster with every passing second.

It’s him.

But it’s unmistakable. The memories come rushing back, flooding your mind like a tidal wave.

The boy.

The boy from your childhood.

The one who used to run with you through the sun-dappled park. The one who’d promised, with a shy, earnest smile, The one who gave you a ring just like that before vanishing from your life, leaving behind nothing but a bittersweet ache in your heart.

And now here he was, standing right in front of you, wearing the very thing you thought you’d only ever see in your dreams.

You can feel your heart pounding in your chest, the rhythm chaotic and overwhelming. Those eyes—those impossibly blue eyes—stare back at you, still soft and warm, just as you remember.

He’s taller now, broader, more grown-up. But those eyes? Those haven’t changed. Not one bit.

Your mouth opens, but no words come out. Your throat feels tight, your thoughts scrambled. You’re struck between disbelief and certainty.

It’s him. It’s really him.

Your chest tightens as your gaze drops to the ring again—the one on the chain around his neck. And then, lower, to his hand.

A second ring sits snugly on his finger, in the spot where a wedding band would be.

Your mind reels, the pieces clicking together, faster than you can process. Tears threaten to spill as your heart twists painfully in your chest. You’ve found him.

After all these years, you’ve finally found him.

But—what’s with the pink hair?!

You feel like the biggest idiot in the world. Not because you’re suddenly self-conscious about your messy hair or the way your cardigan doesn’t quite match your outfit. Not even because you spent the past five minutes spacing out like an awkward weirdo.

No, you feel like an idiot for not realizing it sooner.

But you weren’t wrong about those eyes. Not then. Not now.

You blink rapidly, willing yourself to say something—anything—but all that comes out is a stammered:

“I—uh…”

He tilts his head slightly, his brows knitting together in mild concern. His voice, soft as ever, pulls you from your spiraling thoughts.

“Are you okay?”

Okay? How could you possibly explain that your world just flipped upside down because you’re standing face to face with the boy who disappeared from your life, only to return looking like he stepped straight out of a daydream?

You swallow hard, gripping the edges of the book cart in front of you for stability. Your gaze darts back to the ring for a moment, as if needing further confirmation that this isn’t just some cruel trick of the light.

But it’s there. Just like those eyes.

“It’s… nothing.” Your voice is quieter than you intended, almost lost in the vast silence of the aisle.

He seems unconvinced but doesn’t press you further. Instead, he gives a small, uncertain smile, shifting awkwardly on his feet. The motion causes the ring to glint again, mocking you with its undeniable truth.

You were an idiot.

But not about this. Not about him.

His voice pulls you back to the present, and you hastily try to make sense of the words tumbling from his cherry-tinted lips. Watching him struggle to find the right words makes your heart flutter with sympathy, and you offer him a reassuring smile, nodding encouragingly.

At that, he takes a deep breath and tries again.

“…I need some help. I—I’m looking for a specific book, you see, but…”

Aaaaand there it is—the sleeve-tugging. The endearing awkwardness in the way he shifts nervously, almost as if he’s in a scene straight out of one of those anime shows you and Moth were always obsessed with. You can’t help but think, Moth is going to lose it when I tell them about this later.

The stranger in front of you inhales shakily once more before speaking again. This time, though, his voice is steadier, more confident, and there’s a fire in his eye.

“…Do you have any books on native flora? The best I’ve found are on generic wildlife, but nothing on Corland Bay’s plants.”

Native flora? The first thought that crosses your mind is to introduce him to Violet—she’d love to help. But then you snap back to the present, chuckling softly to yourself as you step closer to him, scanning the shelf beside him.

He almost seems to flinch at your sudden proximity, but he doesn’t move away. In fact, he leans just a little closer, his head tilting towards yours. You don’t notice it at first, but his breath hitches when your scent reaches him, and for a moment, the air between you feels heavier.

“No, you’re definitely in the right aisle. Those kinds of books are just… more hidden, I guess.”

You step past him this time, making your way over to the lower section of the shelves. Your fingers skim over the spines of the books absent-mindedly, until you find exactly what you’re looking for. You pull it out, giving the cover a once-over before holding it out to him.

“Is this what you’re looking for?”

You barely notice how his gaze trails over your form as you adjust the book in your hands, your focus more on the misplaced cookbook on the shelf than the stranger behind you. You wonder if this book is really that interesting or if he’s just that into nature. Either way, he takes a tentative step forward and reaches out, pulling the book from your grasp with his shaky fingers.

He flips through a few pages, his eyes darting quickly over the contents, before giving a satisfied nod.

“Y-Yes! This was exactly what I was looking for! Thank you…”

You smile, relieved that you were able to help.

“I’m glad.”

Then, to your surprise, he suddenly adds with a soft laugh, “Haha, you’re like an angel sent down from heaven or something. You’re so helpful. Kind, too.”

Your eyes widen, unable to fully process what he just said. The words hang in the air, a bit too sweet, a bit too much for your heart to handle right now.

“…What?” you stammer, not sure if you heard him correctly.

“W-What?”

He seems mortified, his face flushing as he stammers in embarrassment. “Oh! I—I didn’t—Did I say that out loud? I didn’t mean to! Ugh, that must’ve been so weird… I’m so sorry!”

The sight of him about to crumble into a ball of nerves makes your heart clench. You quickly raise your hands in a reassuring manner and give him a gentle smile.

“Hey, it’s fine! No need to freak out. I just… I wasn’t expecting someone to say that about me, is all.”

He looks at you, still flustered, but with a relieved smile. “R-Really? Well, I think it’s true for what it’s worth.”

“Um… Thanks?”

You figure that’s your cue to leave before things get even more awkward. You offer him one last friendly smile and glance subtly back toward the reception desk, hoping for some excuse to break away. But the eccentric man shows no signs of moving. Instead, he just stands there, staring down at you expectantly.

Did he want to continue the conversation? It seems unlikely since he hasn’t said anything—he just… watches you.

Awkwardly, you clear your throat for what feels like the millionth time today and gesture vaguely toward the reception desk behind you, hoping that’ll be enough to send him on his way.

You both just stand there, locked in an awkward silence, staring at each other. It’s as if the world has slowed down, the only sounds being your heart thumping in your chest and the soft shuffle of his feet on the library floor.

“…Uh. Y-You shouldn’t stare at me like that,” you say, trying to break the tension, your voice coming out more softly than you intended. He looks at you like a good boy, all wide-eyed and unsure, making you feel even more self-conscious.

“Especially when it’s with a stranger you don’t know,” you add, puffing out a little sigh of frustration. God… You mutter under your breath, cursing yourself for even thinking about it. You never should’ve said that. Not when your almost childhood fiancé is standing right in front of you.

Nevermind, you tell yourself, swallowing your thoughts before they spill out any further.

He blinks at your words, clearly caught off guard, but instead of retreating, he straightens up slightly, a sheepish smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Actually… Now that I think about it, you haven’t told me your name yet,” he says, almost as if the realization had just dawned on him.

You sigh, feeling a mix of amusement and annoyance at how easily he shifts back to normal.

“Oh! Haha, I guess you’re right.”

You’re overthinking like an idiot. Your mind is racing, completely trapped in the realization that this is him. How did you not see it sooner? Those eyes. Those damn blue eyes. You didn’t even tell him anything about yourself, and yet here he is, standing right in front of you. Your heart nearly stops when he almost says his name as Redact—but you hold that damn smile like a minion, forcing your cheeks not to puff up in pure disbelief.

You can’t look away. You can’t stop staring at him. Is this really happening? Is this just some twisted dream? There’s no way—no way it could be him, right?

But then he speaks again, effortlessly breaking your spiral.

“Do what? Anyway! You can just call me Ren if you’d like,” he says, giving you a soft, almost amused smile.

Ren? Wait, what? Is it really him? Was he even flirting with you just now? Your mind whirls even faster, trying to process everything all at once.

“Is it alright if I call you Y/n? Although… Angel does suit you just as well, haha,” he adds, the tone of his voice making your heart race even more.

What. The. Hell. Just happened? Were you imagining things? Were you really just caught in some weird flirty moment with someone who looked like… him?

But then you gather enough courage to ask, your voice a bit more unsteady than usual.

“How did you know my name? I don’t remember telling you.”

Ren’s smile only grows. “Silly, it’s on your name tag.”

He reaches forward with that graceful, fluid movement and gently flicks the name tag that you somehow forgot you were even wearing this morning.

“Oh,” you mutter, realizing the awkwardness of it all.

For a second, you almost feel relieved. Maybe it wasn’t him after all—maybe it was just your mind playing tricks on you.

But no. Those eyes. They never lie. You know exactly who you’re standing in front of. The boy. The blue eyes. You can’t deny it any longer.

It’s him. It’s really him.

Ren’s voice cuts through the air, almost playful in its tone.

“Say, are you busy later? I’d love to thank you for helping me find this book.”

Seriously, what is up with this guy? One minute, he’s shy, barely able to string a sentence together, and the next, he’s boldly asking to spend time with you. It’s almost like he’s testing the waters, trying out different sides of himself to see which one you respond to better.

You hesitate for a second before replying, still trying to process everything that’s been happening.

“Actually, I’ll be busy this afternoon,” you say, trying to keep things casual. “Need to buy a new lock for my apartment.”

Ren furrows his brow at that.

“A new lock? That doesn’t sound good. Can I ask why?”

You pause for a second, mulling over whether or not you should tell him. But, it doesn’t seem like there’s any harm in it. He’s a stranger, but what’s the worst that could happen? It’s not like he’s going to show up at your door and test the lock himself.

“Apparently, someone broke into my apartment last night, and I didn’t even notice. I don’t think they stole anything, but still. It’s creepy,” you say, feeling the unease creep up on you again.

You shrug slightly, trying to brush it off as casually as you can.

“I figured it’s better to be safe than sorry, you know?”

Ren looks genuinely concerned, his gaze softening as he listens.

“Stay up all night if you have to. Really get the edge on them,” he says, an odd but kind suggestion.

You can’t help but laugh at that. There’s something about his words—so unexpected yet sincere—that make it hard not to warm up to him. He seems more relaxed now, his usual awkwardness replaced by something far more comfortable. Maybe this is the side of him you like better.

“Yeah? And who’s gonna be the one to beat the guy up at 3AM?” you joke, though the thought of it does make you feel a little safer, somehow. “Because last I checked, I’m not really the type to go around throwing punches at people I don’t know. And definitely not before the sun is up and shining.”

Before you can even finish your thought, Ren speaks up, his voice steady and confident.

“I could do it for you,” he says without missing a beat.

You blink, not sure if you heard that right.

“You?” you ask, clearly surprised. “But— I mean, we don’t even know each other that well, and…”

Ren shrugs, unfazed.

“That’s fine,” he says with a grin. “I could tell you aaaall about myself on the walk there.”

Your eyebrows furrow as you take in his words, and you can’t help but feel your heart skip a beat. There’s something about his confidence, something different from the shy guy you met moments ago.

“My whole life story and everything,” Ren continues, his grin widening. “Where I was born, the school I went to, how many cute librarians I’ve met…” He pauses, then adds, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, “Which happens to be one, so far.”

You open your mouth to say something, but before you can, Ren seems to pick up on your reaction—your discomfort, or maybe your surprise—and quickly backtracks.

“Ah, well,” he stammers, clearly realizing his words weren’t exactly what you expected. “What I meant was… You know, you’re really…uh…nice. And helpful. Really helpful. Sorry if that sounded weird.”

You pause for a moment, your mind racing as Ren’s words continue to echo in your head. He could really help me out… You bite your lip, fighting off the unease that comes with letting a near-stranger into your space. But… he did seem strong, and the idea of not facing this alone makes the decision easier.

“Actually… you could come by my place,” you say, surprising even yourself. “I mean, you seem strong enough to handle anything if, y'know, something goes wrong. Plus… you did offer.” You give him a small, reassuring smile, hoping he doesn’t take it the wrong way.

Ren’s eyes widen slightly, clearly surprised by your suggestion. But just as quickly, his expression shifts to one of eagerness, almost too eager. A wide grin spreads across his face.

“Yeah? Sure!! Of course! I’ll be there!” He practically beams, his earlier shyness vanishing. It’s like a switch flipped, and now he’s practically bouncing in place.

You can’t help but smile back at him, but a small voice in the back of your mind nags you. What are you doing? You barely know this guy. Still, the idea of him coming over… it almost feels right. Maybe you’re being a bit of an idiot, but at this moment, you don’t really care. You nod to yourself, deciding to just go with it. He might be exactly what you need.

But then, just as you’re about to say something else, the sound of heels clicking across the floor interrupts you. You turn, and there’s Eleanor, walking up to the desk with that ever-sweet, slightly apologetic expression on her face.

“Hey, uh, your boss is here,” she says, clearly noticing the way Ren’s mood shifts instantly.

Ren’s smile falters just a bit, and for a second, you think you see something close to irritation flash across his face. But just as quickly, it’s gone, replaced by a polite smile. He shifts his gaze back to you, his posture still tense.

“Guess I’ll see you later?” he says, voice a bit lower than before.

You feel a pang of disappointment, but quickly shake it off.

“Yeah, I’ll see you,” you reply, still smiling. “Take care of him, Eleanor.” You give her a pointed look, making sure she knows to keep an eye on him while you’re gone.

With that, you quickly turn on your heel, not wanting to linger any longer. You’ve already made your decision. Time to move on. You wave a quick goodbye to Ren, your heart still pounding, and make your way out, hoping that whatever this is… doesn’t turn into something you’ll regret later.

Poor Ren, though. You can’t help but feel a little bad leaving him with Eleanor—poor soul. You can only imagine how that conversation is going to go.

You hurry out of the store, a strange feeling pulses in your chest—like something you’ve forgotten is suddenly coming back. Your mind keeps flashing to Ren, his words, the way his eyes shifted when you suggested he come to your apartment. Wait a minute…

You stop mid-step, your breath catching. It can’t be him… But as you replay everything in your mind—the soft, nervous demeanor, the blue eyes that glinted with something familiar, the awkward charm—Oh my god. It hits you like a lightning bolt. You weren’t an idiot! You did know him.

Ren was the boy who confessed to you all those years ago. The one Leon had scared off, That was him. The memories rush back. The shy, stuttering confession, the flushed face, the way he’d stood in front of you, unsure of how to make himself heard.

He was your childhood almost fiancé —the one who slipped away from your life without you even realizing it. You could hardly believe it, but now everything made sense. The way he’d been so eager to talk to you, his sudden confidence after the awkwardness—it was like he had been waiting for this moment, for you to recognize him.

You gasp, your heart racing. Ren No, Redacted. He’s been here this whole time.

You turn around, the impulse to rush back almost overwhelming, but then your feet freeze. What are you going to do? Run back to him and admit everything? Or would that make it all worse?

But before you can make up your mind, the voice in your head interrupts, a soft laugh escaping your lips. Screw it. You found him. Your childhood crush, who had somehow slipped through your fingers and now stands before you again.

This is it.

[baudouinette]

(WIP) First page of some panels representing the wedding scene in HCW (in the following panels to these, which I haven’t started on yet, Baldwin does something rather cute if I say so myself 🥹)

I’m currently writing the two chapters before the wedding, but I’m also writing some of the wedding because I could not wait as I already had so many drafts and concepts in my notes app for it ✨😭🫶🏼)

This is a big deal for me, drawing panels. I never could before. With or without references. So far I’ve done this without (that’s why the top one is looking very messy and raw. I will reference some Holy Sepulcher photos and period-accurate cathedrals to make it make sense, architecturally speaking). Besides drawing without reference, with this style in particular I mostly struggle to figure out how many panels and which exact actions/scenes need to be drawn and how to arrange them.

Every time I tried to do this, I would soon give up from frustration. I have found the key to my improvement in art:

PATIENCE

Weening myself off references might result in frustration at first, but I realized, just giving myself a little more time to re-do or reshape what I have only just first drawn (that usually looks crap) gives the chance to actually improve (duh). I also realized eventually, after reshaping as much as necessary, the drawings end up looking kinda better than with reference (or at least have more of a personal touch and style)

PRACTICE

PATIENCE

If you are also an artist and struggle with something and would like to share some mutual support message me! I’m open to talking on discord, where I can be more interactive with people individually, as opposed to larger social media which I can’t browse or use much other than to post my creations, to avoid internet addiction 😞

[polarimiufy]

part 1

you can't get your eyes off of Damian Wayne.

Damian Wayne was the volunteer at the animal shelter you were working at.

he had been there long before you arrived, with nothing in your name. you weren't from Gotham. you had no parents, no relatives, no friends and just graduated from university. moving into Gotham wasn't in your plan but you had hoped you could find a fresh start there.

when you met him, the first thing you noticed was his viridian eyes. the second thing you noticed was the frown he had on his face. he narrowed his eyes at you.

"who are you?"

you were taken aback by his deep voice. you fumbled a bit before introducing yourself.

"hmph." he turned away from you before walking straight into the staff room. you could only shoot an incredulous look at his retreating figure.

you later learned that his name was Damian Wayne, he was the son of the infamous Bruce Wayne, and the heir of Wayne Enterprise. you scoffed at this. he's rich, so what? didn't rich people learn about manners?

despite your internal reservations about him, you smiled at him when you met his eyes and he looked away. you tried not to wilt. you just wanted to be nice.

oftentimes, you asked Damian for help around the shelter. you weren't familiar with the place, and Damian had been volunteering there for long. besides, this was your chance to get to know him better. everyone knew him as the Bruce Wayne's son but to you, he was a mysterious figure. you quite liked looking at his eyes, not that you will admit it to him.

Damian was...interesting. he didn't social much with the staff members. he mostly interacted with the animals there. maybe he was like you. you noticed he liked to talk to them.

having no one to talk to in this big city, you could only find comfort in the animals at the shelter. you talked to some of your staff members sure, but no one understood what you felt. you felt abandoned, just like the animals here before.

your favourite part of the day was getting to look at the newborn kitties at the shelter. they were so small, so tiny and vulnerable you couldn't help but love them.

when you sensed someone looking at you, you turned your head to see Damian Wayne. he was currently occupying himself feeding the dogs. you noticed his ears were slightly red.

— ♡ —

you never thought that you would meet Robin but Gotham always has surprises for newcomers like you.

you had known about their existences, of course. even in your old city, there were also superheroes. Robin was...well, to put it simply, you liked him. he offered to walk you home, which was nice. you thought he would immediately leave after getting the job done.

"tt. what were you daydreaming about?"

you flinched when you heard a voice next to you. it was Damian Wayne.

"Damian! you scared me," you smiled wryly. "nothing. uh, i met Robin yesterday."

he raised one of his eyebrows, so you elaborated.

"i got too caught up cleaning the shelter so i missed my bus and had to walk home."

"it's dangerous to walk around late at night. don't go home late today," he chided you before walking away.

huh...where have you heard that before?

[snowballseal]

My Dearest

Part 3

LaDS Zayne X Foreseer!Reader

Prologue / Part 1 / Part 2

Summary: Zayne awakes and has no clue where he is, only to be greeted by who he believes to be an angel. You are no angel, though, and you find yourself struggling with the fact that this human seems...different. Different enough that you chose to learn his name.

Word Count: 2841

Note: So I lied about the parts being smaller haha... Lots of inner dialogue in this bit, but finally, we get some interaction :3 Foreseer!Reader tries to be mean, but who can be truly mean to Zayne? Enjoy the flip flopping POV

---

When Zayne wakes, surrounded by warmth and silence, his first thought is that he must be dead. There is no other explanation, no alternate ending for the last memory he holds, that of falling unconscious in the snow outside of the infamous tower of Mount Eternal. 

That’s what he thinks, at least, until he attempts to sit up. Pain shoots down his spine to every nerve ending like ice, sharp and jagged, drawing a rushed breath from his lungs.

He’s not dead. Not yet, at least. Death would not hurt like this, or so he hopes.

Taking a few breaths, eyes clenched shut, Zayne holds himself impossibly still until the pain fades. Only then does he crack an eye open and blearily survey the room. There must be a clue as to where he is.

Except the room around him is near empty, seemingly untouched. As if no one has lived in it for years. The walls are made of a light stone, near white if not for the shadows of age. The sound of a fire filters through the blur of his fatigue, quiet and crackling from an undecorated hearth. And the warmth surrounding him is from a decadent layering of thick pelts, the furs softer than anything he’s had the privilege to touch, a luxury he has never known.

It all leaves two questions buzzing in his head. Where is he? And who, of such high standings, would allow him to lay on such fine linen in this state?

“It would seem you are finally awake.”

Zayne jolts, eyes widening a fraction when they land on the figure now hovering in the entrance.

Perhaps he is dead. 

How else could he rationalize the angel standing before him?

Cast in ethereal warmth from the low light of the fire, you peer at him from the shadowed entrance to the room, your features carved so delicately into a mask of righteous indifference. Your eyes cut through him, sharp and cold, piercing into his very soul. Decadent furs, even more luxurious than the pelts laid over him,  drape around your form like a great set of wings, unblemished and snow white. Every breath, every slight shift in your posture, bleeds with such regal grace.

Like a statue one would bow before in complete devotion. An untouchable god. He has never seen anyone quite so beautiful.

The intensity of his hazel gaze makes it near impossible for you to breathe. They trace over you, heat dancing across your skin in their wake, and you find that you’ve never once had a man look at you in such a way. With greed, with arrogance, with hatred, yes. But never with such…reverence.

And that is somehow more unsettling.

“Do you know how to speak, mortal?” You ask in hopes of breaking the thick moment.

The man flinches, as if torn from his thoughts, and he winces at his own movement. Your brow furrows imperceptibly. He must be in a great amount of pain. The journey to your Tower is no doubt a harsh one, even for the most experienced soldiers.

“My apologies. Where- where am I?” His voice is low and raspy, but not unpleasant. Briefly, you wonder if you will find anything unpleasant about this man, besides the intensity with which he still looks at you.

“You are in the Tower of Thorns,” you answer coolly. Shock flickers across his features, as if he weren’t expecting such an answer.

“The Tower of…” You can almost see his mind processing your words, the meaning of them. Then his eyes go wide again, meeting yours with a certain hesitation. It would seem he is faster than most mortals, even in this state. “Then you must be the Foreseer…”

“Indeed, I am,” you hum, fingers lacing at the small of your back, scrutinizing him. “I found you near death outside of my Tower, and I was curious as to what kind of foolish mortal would brave such a journey only to risk dying in the end.”

The man grimaces. While your words are not unkind, in fact your tone holds more genuine curiosity than judgement, he can’t help but feel foolish, just as you said. He presses himself up, slower this time, and settles with his hands in his lap, his fingers curling into the comforting down of the pelts. Your eyes can’t help but follow the movement, noticing the abundance of scars on his hands. Strange.

“I- I apologize, for imposing, Foreseer,” the man hesitates, his jaw working harshly as he thinks his words out slowly. “I realize my actions have likely caused you undue burden.”

Yes, certainly strange.

“I merely did not wish to be left with a corpse,” you explain curtly, dismissing his apology as you begin to turn away, only to pause halfway in the shadows, seeming to waver. Your voice pitches lower, gravely serious, “This is my home, mortal, and as such, I would appreciate if you would respect it. You may recover here, within the walls of the Tower. I will provide you food and medicine, and in return, I expect you to keep your distance. Do not overstay your welcome, and do not disrupt my peace. Do we have an understanding?”

Zayne blinks. While your tone is near apathetic, he can hear something soft hidden beneath it, something almost…vulnerable. It draws him in, an innate curiosity creeping into his chest.

“Yes, Foreseer.”

You wait for a long moment, your gaze boring into his, as if you’re trying to search the depths of his soul. As if you’re just as curious about him and he is about you. The thought alone sets every fibre of his being alight with a strange warmth.

And then you’re gone.

The room falls quiet apart from the still crackling fire, as if you had never been there, though the faintest chill remains in your wake. Zayne’s eyes linger on where you once stood, his mind spinning from the onslaught of new information.

He’s in the Tower of Thorns, the home of the Foreseer, the demigoddess said to hate humanity more than any other. Rumors of your cruelty are not sparse within the human kingdom.

And yet…

A small flash of light draws his attention for a split moment. Runes flicker above the table beside his bed, fading slowly as the magic dissipates. In their place, sits a bowl of stew, steam rising from the surface. The heavy scent of meat hits him like a rock, as well as a painful clench in his stomach.

He’s starving.

Hands trembling, he snatches the bowl, the heat almost searing against his skin, but not unwelcome. The first taste is like heaven, a low shuddering breath escaping him. It’s nothing lavish, just a simple stew with sparse flavor, more broth than anything. Exactly what he would recommend to someone recovering from illness.

Ah.

The realization settles in his chest with a certain weight, making him slow down. His thumb rubs absentmindedly over the smooth, silver handle of the spoon.

Everything about you seems carefully crafted to communicate a cold disinterest, an air of judgement to keep others at a distance. Yet you offer him a warm place to stay, and food to eat, food intentionally chosen to not upset his neglected stomach.

It is more kindness than he has been offered in months, perhaps years. Even his own kind has not treated him with such…humanity. Yet you, a demigoddess of such overwhelming power, have taken mercy on him. Without even knowing him.

Gratitude lodges in Zayne’s throat like a stone. As well as a new resolve.

With this second chance at life, he will devote every day, every second, every breath to you. It is by your grace that he is still alive, and he will certainly lay down what is left of himself for you.

If you will allow it.

---

Sharing your home with another being is odd. Despite attempting to keep your distance and keep to your typical routines, you find that you are keenly aware of his presence. As if the Tower itself is changed by his breath, his warmth. It’s a ridiculous thought, but one you find yourself mulling over in your mind as you pretend to ignore him.

A task that becomes more difficult, you might add, as he regains his strength and begins to wander through the winding halls of your Tower.

Try as you might, you can’t help but watch him in secret. The taste of your own hypocrisy is bitter, but the curiosity in your veins is unyielding, demanding to be satiated. Though watching him only seems to sprout new questions.

Not many humans take the time to admire the home you’ve found, not as you have. Yet this man does. He spends hours in each room, sharp eyes seeking out every detail, as if to store it in his memory. As if he wants to remember his time here with precise clarity.

The man also takes care of him better than you expected, based on your first impression. He washes himself daily, unlike most humans, keeps his hair neat and short, and his frustratingly handsome face clean shaven with a razor he found in the kitchen.

But perhaps the most peculiar thing, is that he seems to gravitate towards you, usually ending his day in close proximity to you. And while he tries to respect your wishes, never coming too close, you find yourself hopelessly aware of that warm presence. Every day, wherever you spend your time, you can feel him watching, feel his curiosity burning the back of your neck, just as intense as your own.

Yet, you cannot let him know that, lest the distance grow shorter. Because the closer he becomes, the easier it will be for him to hurt you.

So, it comes to a head a week after he first awoke, when you’re perched on your throne, attempting to read your book, while he wavers on the very edge of your vision, standing at the entrance of the stairs he descended more than an hour ago.

“Is this your understanding of keeping your distance?” Your voice echoes through the grand room, sharp and clear with disapproval.

Zayne winces, realizing he’s been caught. His fingers curl hesitantly into the sleeves of his new robes. The ones you had left him after he first found the strength to take a short walk. They are much warmer than any clothes he ever possessed, and that is the only reason you left them. It was merely too pitiful, watching him shiver in the cold air of the Tower, like a pup left without its winter coat. 

“If you wish to disobey me, at least do so with more courage,” you scold with a low sigh. “I am not one to lose my temper easily, but this game of cat and mouse you are playing is wearing my patience quite thin.”

“My apologies, Foreseer, it was not my intention to upset you” he murmurs, and takes a few steps away from the wall in hopes of appeasing you.

You shut your book, the pages coming together with a quiet snap. Face as impassive as ever, you appraise him silently, brow raised a fraction. He doesn’t hold your gaze this time, casting his hazel eyes down to the shoes you gave him.

The new clothes do suit him. He almost looks like he belongs here, now.

You shut that thought away, turning your eyes to the large windows that line the hall.

“You are forgiven. This time. Now, is there something you wished to say?”

He shuffles his weight, not quite hesitating, but thinking out his words, just as he did before. What a strange mortal indeed.

When he does speak, his voice is steady, “I wish to thank you.”

You blink.

Did you mishear him?

Against your will, your eyes flicker back to the mortal, meeting his now determined gaze. It’s a stark shift from the meekness you just witnessed, which leaves you all the more confused.

The man takes a step forward, expression far too open, far too earnest, “May I come closer, Foreseer?”

For the first time in what feels like an eternity, you waver.

But a demigoddess cannot show such weakness.

“You may.”

You watch, brow furrowed, as he covers the space between you. His gait is confident and somewhat refined, leaving you once more with the impression of royalty. Only those of high standings carry themselves with such grace. Again, you’re left wondering. Who is this man? Why is he here?

Zayne stops several feet from where you sit, still hoping to respect your desire for space, and before you can inquire of his intentions, he drops to one knee in a fluid motion, his chin touching his chest from how low he bows his head. Your eyes go wide, grip tightening around the book still in your hands.

“I wish to clearly express my gratitude,” he repeats, voice firm yet muffled by the collar of his cloak. “I am…undeserving of the mercy you have shown me. I owe you my life, and I will do whatever is within my power to repay this great debt.”

An unyielding knot forms in your throat. You are so taken aback by his words, and unwillingly softened by the honesty behind them.

How does this man keep catching you off guard?

“You may stand,” you rasp out, unable to hide the discomfort in your tone. 

The man glances up, hesitating before rising back to his full height, those hazel eyes glinting with something you can’t place. Or perhaps you simply do not wish to name it.

“I accept your gratitude, but there is no need to feel such a way. It was merely Fate.” The lie slips past your teeth with a considerable amount of effort. You do not lie often, but right now it feels as though you need something to protect yourself. To hide behind, as though you’ve been laid bare by his profession. “Now, if that is all you wanted to say, please leave me. I wish to be alone.”

“Of course, Foreseer. As you wish.”

And just like that, he takes his leave. No argument, no pushing. Your nails dig into the leather bindings of your book, unease clattering in your chest as he steps into the stairwell.

“Mortal.”

He stops, turning back to you with an inquisitive expression.

You hesitate, the words on your tongue yet they somehow feel too heavy. Out of place. He doesn’t move, expression unchanging, unassuming, waiting. It somehow gives you the strength to spit them out.

“Tell me your name.”

The man seems to perk up at that, still so much like an innocent pup, mirth dancing across his face. And for a split moment, a devastatingly handsome smile pulls at his lips.

“Zayne. It would be my honor if you would address me as such, Foreseer.”

Zayne. You roll his name over in your mind, finding that you quite like the sound of it. It suits him far more than you hoped it would.

“Very well, Zayne. Now you may be dismissed.”

“Thank you. Have a good evening, Foreseer.”

His shoes hardly make a noise as he ascends the stairs.

Only when you can no longer sense his presence do you settle back into your throne, the tension dripping from your shoulders. Dealing with mortals has always been exhausting, yet this one seems to sap every drop of your energy with his continuous surprises.

Zayne.

The image of him bowed before you, the purest vision of humility, is burned into the depths of your mind. Has a mortal ever willingly bowed before you? Unwillingly, yes, you always make sure they know their place, but you have never met a man so ready to lay aside his pride, just to express his gratitude of all things. Not to ask anything of you. Not to deceive you in some way.

Unless he is simply playing out some long plan. The thought rests bitterly on your soul.

But the look in his eyes held no hint of such deception.

Your mind races as you try to comprehend it all. His actions. Your actions. You permitted him to come closer. You broke the one rule you set out for yourself. Keep your distance. You’ve never struggled to stay away from the mortals.

So why is this man, Zayne, so different?

Why are you so easily swayed by his straightforward, yet earnest nature? And why was he so persistent, only to express his gratitude? It makes no sense to you, and there is nothing more frustrating than not being able to make sense of something.

Even the entertaining humans come to you for a reason. And in exchange for their amusing stories, you hold back your contempt for humanity and their greed.

That is not the case here, because no matter how much you wish to, you cannot find an ounce of contempt against this man. Zayne.

And such a realization leaves you feeling terrified.

---

When I say that this man would absolutely worship the one he loves, this is what I mean. This is why this story has me in a chokehold, because I can't get over the idea of such reverent adoration coming from such a stoic man.

Anyways, hope y'all enjoy! Thank you for reading :3

Tag List: @pirana10 @antivanblessing @animecrazy76

[hollowed-theory-hall]

Do you think if Harry met a younger version of Tom Riddle before he became a murderer He would save him? Do you think you would feel empathetic for him? like Sure, he's kind of a little s***, but he's just a little kid that, at the age of 4, probably just wants somebody to adopt him and feel loved. He definitely doesn't get that at Wool's orphanage, and I think Harry would understand that. I think Harry would see another hungy orphan who gets hurt for having magic they don't even know about. I think he might see another kid that the world failed.

P.S. I FUCKING LOVE YOU'RE WRITING it helped me get out of art block 😭

Anyway, have a lovely day❤️

First off, can you please not censor yourself, tumblr lets you say whatever you want, if you want to say "shit" say "shit" like you said "fucking" later in the ask. Or any other word for that matter. There is no reason to censor yourself on tumblr (this isn't tiktok or youtube) so please do yourself a favor and don't censor yourself. Just say what you mean.

Second, thank you very much 💕 glad I could be of help!

Third, as to your questions, well, I talked about tommary/harrymort here. I like the concept of time travel tommary when Harry goes to Hogwarts with Tom. it's a trope I used to enjoy immensely and I still like it as a concept. But again, I'm talking about when they're both at Hogwarts. I'm not the biggest fan of Harry going back in time to raise Tom (including the not romantic iterations of this trope). It just, never really vibed with me and I have no interest in exploring it personally.

But, could Harry show empathy to a young Tom? 100%. Harry is willing to show empathy and forgive a Lord Voldemort in his 70s after all the murders, so a 4-year-old Tom who's still innocent would be no problem.

I think Harry would struggle, though, to look at the innocent child and envision the dark lord in his head. It's not that he'd be mean to Tom, I don't think so, but he'd constantly be on the lookout for Tom turning evil. He'd expect it to happen — which is not great for a parental figure, all in all. I just, don't think the balance of that dynamic is going to be amazing, even if Harry is willing to show empathy and forgive Tom, it doesn't erase everything that happened from his mind. (Which is why I prefer them when Tom is older and maybe already murdered Myrtle, he isn't innocent, but Harry doesn't feel innocent either and it's a more equal, push-and-pull dynamic that is very explosive. Tommary/Harrymort is a pairing I like only in very specific flavors. Even when it's platonic/familial and not romantic I'm quite picky about it, lol).

Like, I think Tom would turn out better with a time-traveling Harry as a caregiver, but it depends a lot on how old Harry is when he goes back in time, what was the state of the world he left behind, why he went back in time, how he did it, etc. Becouse all these things could really make a difference in how Harry interacts with a young Tom and how he goes about raising him.

[ask-postcrash-curly]

fine!

“I don’t need trauma therapy from death itself”

yes, yes you do, and as a omnipotent, all knowing, omnipresent being, i am fully capable of offering such things, if only to define abuse. i hope not to bring distress, im not here for that. im here for solace.

abuse is defined as knowingly causing harm or distress. let’s use for an example the moments leading up to that one thing that happened. (it’s hard to talk about because it needs to be talked about.) your heart is beating louder and faster than it ever has. i heard it. you reach him after the walk (or light sprint, if we’re being real) from medical, and he’s already in a defensive state. his arms crossed, his back to the wall, and when given the opportunity to talk, he goes after you, your dignity, your leadership, he’s bashing you, basically. he silences you, what can you say? you can’t. you stand there in a state of freeze. (as in fight, flight, that shit. if i’m a therapist, we’re busting out the therapy talk.) it’s almost as if you leave your body, just until he stops. just until you know you’re safe. you don’t know if he’ll get physical, no way to know he won’t.

aaand then he’s gone, he’s walked into the cockpit, and you’re hyperventilating. your heart hurts from the way it’s been beating.

i won’t go further than that.

that is abuse, bud. and even by that one interaction, you can tell it’s not the first time that happened. if he’s fine treating you the way he is now, he must be comfortable with it already.

i only wish i could deliver comfort. i physically don’t exist, and yet i do, so let my hand on your head not hurt you, but keep company.

it’s fine. there’s nothing we can actively do right now, the only thing you can do is try to keep yourself not miserable.

the people care, mr curls. stop being a sad little capitalist and take a mental walk, and take these songs. they’re nice.

- 🖤

Wh— Of course I was panicking! I didn’t know how he would react! Obviously not well! It— it was just words. He didn’t so much as insult me. l could have talked back. I should have talked back. I wasn’t in danger, yet. And even if I were, I’m the captain. It’s my job to face the danger before it can reach the rest of them. I wasn’t unsafe. Even if he had gotten physical about it, so what? We’re evenly matched. If anything, I’m stronger. I had nothing to be afraid of except what he would do if I left him leave. (And I did.) I wanted the conversation to end because he was telling me things I didn’t want to hear. Not because he was— No, you’re wrong. It was words. All just words.

I’m not good with confrontation, that’s all. I way upset about Anya and worried how he’d react. That’s the only reason why I— And that was barely a confrontation anyway. He didn’t raise his voice. He was so calm by the end of it.

…

It can’t be abuse. It’s just words. He didn’t even yell, so how could that be abuse? Hell, that’s nowhere near the worst thing he’s said to me. …No. No, he never did anything like this before— It wasn’t— I could fight back before. It wasn’t the same as this. I never expected he’d hurt me like this. He was good at hiding how he felt about me. He got insecure sometimes, yeah? Got angry if he felt abandoned. If I said something too out of line. He never just— I never thought he liked seeing me hurt for the sake of it until he hit me when he knew I was in pain to begin with and he knew I couldn’t stop him. Wouldn’t have minded if I could have stopped him.

…Thanks.

“Not miserable.” Hah. Best I can do most of the time is “not actively suicidal.”

I don’t mean to. I never wanted to stay on this path. I figured I’d be happy as long as I got to fly. Just a few short hauls, then onto bigger and better. Real work. I was up here. That was supposed to be enough for a while. Space seemed endless back then. Now it’s empty. Makes me empty too. Whenever I’m on Earth it’s moved on without me in a million impossibly fast ways. I felt like I was losing my mind sometimes. As if no one else noticed or cared that my life is slipping by. As if they thought this job meant something real. I’m no capitalist. I know exactly how fucking little it matters. And that I know matters even less.

The people care. What is there left of me to care about? I’m not talking about what’s outside.

You’re right. I— I need to get out of my own thoughts.

…

They’re nice. Thanks. Sorry I don’t have specific things to say. I can’t… put the words together. But I mean it. Feeling a little better now.

Don’t like the last one much though.

[thefrontmanscockwarmer]

Pretty Scars

Player 001 x reader [SMUT]

You stood breathless on the other side of the door. Your back pressed against it, In Ho’s hands on either side of your head making sure the door stayed closed. Your lips just inches apart as you stood in each others space.

“Sorry I was so close” he said as you heard the door lock. You looked him up and down, really admiring his face. When the PA system called 2, he grabbed your waist and ran with you in his arms. Throwing you in the room before coming in himself to make sure the door was going to be closed and stay that way, no need for random players.

“It’s no problem” you take a deep breath. You locked eyes for a brief moment before looking away from him.

“Hey (y/n), what’s with the scar on your eye?” He asked, as he watched you turn your head of out embarrassment.

“Oh that?” You touched your scar mindfully. “It’s nothing”

“No no, it’s something” he grabbed your jaw roughly to get a better look. You peered up at him with big doe eyes. “What is it?” You could feel his breath ghost your cheek as he spoke.

“It’s just something I got when I was younger.” You tell him. His hand still grasping your jaw, eyes unbelieving. You folded under the pressure, “my father smashed a beer bottle on my head head when he got drunk and that was the only cut deep enough that I have to get stitches on”

“Oh” he said pensively.

“It’s not something I like to talk about… I’ve had it since I was little. It’s ruined my face” you give a half laugh.

“No, it’s ruined nothing. (Y/n), that scar on your eye doesn’t make you ruined. You are beautiful regardless, no marking anywhere on your body could ever make you ugly.” Young il said. “Never forget that”

“Yeah… I guess” you shrug. “My father told me it made me ugly. Ruined me” you repeated.

“Is he still alive?” Young il asked. “Your father.” You nodded. He made a face of determination. You exited the room at the sound of the unlock. Your conversation hidden within the walls of room 24. Hidden but never forgotten.

Time skip: night

You laid in bed, eyes open and glassy. Unable to sleep. You snaked your hand into your pants, hoping an orgasm would put you to bed. As you circled your clit you saw a dark figure approaching you. You ripped your hand from your pants as Young ils face came into view.

“Oh sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” He blushed faintly. “I couldn’t sleep and was wondering if you were up so we could talk”

“I’m up, heh, not sleeping anytime soon” you admit scooting over.

“Obviously” he rolled his eyes, looking you up and down, before sitting, “Would you like help? I might be able to provide a more… interactive and better sleep inducing experience” he said enticingly.

As you sat on the bed, Young Il's fingers began to dance across your skin, sending shivers down your spine. His touch was gentle at first, but it quickly became more insistent, more demanding. You felt a surge of excitement as he slipped his fingers beneath underneath your sweatpants, his fingertips tracing the curve of your waist.

You leaned back, letting out a soft moan as his fingers delved deeper, exploring the contours of my body. Young Il's eyes locked onto yours, his gaze burning with intensity as he worked his magic. His fingers moved in a slow, sensual rhythm, building the tension inside you with each passing moment.

“Oh Young il” you moaned quietly.

“Yeah? Does that feel good?”

You began to ride his fingers, your hips moving in time with his touch, you felt the pressure build to a peak. Your breath came in short gasps, your heart racing with anticipation. Young Il's eyes never left yours, his face set in a fierce expression of concentration. Trying his hardest to please you.

The world around you melted away, leaving only the pair of you, lost in this sea of lust. You were consumed by the feeling of his fingers inside you, stroking and teasing and pushing you closer to the edge. Your muscles tensed, your body arching upward as you reached for that elusive peak.

And then it happened – a wave of pure pleasure crashed over you, sending you tumbling into orgasm. Your body shook and trembled, your silent cries echoing through the air as Young Il's fingers continued to move within you, drawing out every last drop of pleasure. He withdrew his fingers from you, licking them clean. A light hum echoing through the space around you as he savored your taste.

As you slowly came back down to earth, you met Young Il's gaze once more. His eyes were still burning with intensity, but now they were tempered with a sense of satisfaction and pride. He laid beside you, looking down on you. A smile stuck on his face.

“You feel better?” He asked, pulling you into him. You cuddled your body into his comfortably.

“I feel fan-fucking-tastic” you respond happily. Tracing light circles on his stomach. He chuckled, sending a flutter through your stomach.

“I’m glad i could satisfy you, maybe you’ll finally be able to sleep” he responds. Watching as your eyes drooped lowly. He placed a gentle kiss on your head before wrapping another protective arm around you.

Taglist

@christinamadsen @sebbymybaby21 @player279achlys @galaxygurlll @whamzou @watasinekoru @angelofthorr @whamzou @macnbree @squidgame-lover001