#making claims about a piece of art and what it's doing or trying to do

[emeryleewho]

For a couple years now, I've been struggling with reading Big 5 books because I realized that the majority follow a very specific formula, and once you crack the formula, every element becomes predictable and kind of boring.

Last year, as publishers started leaning hardcore into AI (especially my publisher who has been trying to force AI on us for years), it really clicked for me that the reason they don't think AI books suck is because they've already been forcing a sort of AI-adjacent storytelling on authors. "AI writing" is just language prediction. Put a bunch of words together in the order they'll most likely appear in based on previously established datasets, and in a lot of ways, that was how I felt writing books for trad pub to buy. It felt like every time I sat down at my computer, I was just plugging pieces into slots to fill in the formula, and any time I deviated from that formula, I would be told that every deviation needed to be removed to make the story "clean".

I don't know at what point so many people who claim to love books completely lost sight of what stories are supposed to do, but last year, I told myself that if I don't want to be replaced by AI, I need to stop letting trad pub force me to write like one. And frankly, this is why I think media literacy is so important.

Every human made book--no matter how good or how bad--has something to offer because when you engage with it, *think* on it, you open yourself up to another chunk of the human experience. You're communicating with other people like or unlike you. Even books you hate inform your opinions. Even books you think are problematic help you better establish your moral compass. Every book has something to offer.

But if you can't tell the difference between a real book and ai content with a book aesthetic, you also won't notice the difference as real art and storytelling is replaced by ai generated slop that has nothing to offer because it doesn't come from *anyone*. It's just the book-length equivalent of pressing the suggested next term on your keyboard while you text your mom. The words mean nothing, there's nothing to engage with, and anything it makes you feel is based solely on your own projection, the equivalent of getting into a fight with yourself over something that could never happen.

Now, I don't think all trad pub books are bad. Like I said, every real book has something to offer. But I think the prevalent mentality overtaking trad pub of what makes a book "good" is not actually about writing quality and is entirely about how to generate the fastest, most formulaic story on the misguided premise that this will make the most money. At some point, authors, agents, and editors will have to push back against this or we're all set to be replaced because publishers have established audiences that are looking for formulaic and predictable stories, so why not let them be written by predictive text? Saves them a lot of money and completely cuts us out of the picture. I'm over it.

[glindyupland]

I just think it’s silly that so many people complain about Villain Amaya as “wasted potential” and that “we were robbed” like-

My pals, post canon fan fiction is right there. The desire to free her husband is right there. Either by touching an evil book while being too eager to remember the obsidian oil, or being possessed by contact (ie what she believes is true loves kiss) when trying to reason with him in the dungeon.

We don’t need a rewrite, we can have a continuation. Both can be true. Amaya is a complex character, she can handle it.

[befuddled-calico-whump]

it's kind of sad getting back onto DeviantArt and seeing the flood of "AI Artists". When I used to frequent the site back in 2014? 2015? you'd see all levels of quality and experience on your feed, and you could tell that the majority of artists put time and effort and heart into everything they posted

Now, it's just muddled with ai. And don't get me wrong, the robots can churn out some cool stuff, but it's kinda frustrating, especially when you know some bot-wranglers don't tag it as AI, and you don't know what's a work of actual effort, and what's just an amalgamation of stolen art blended together by a prompt

[tsukiida]

i just scrolled through my blog and i realised i have only two modes: weird pseudo-philosophical rambling. and absolutely unhinged yelling. AND I TELL YOUUUU IT'S SO FUNNYYYYYYY because i spent so long trying to curate my voice and sound like a normal, fun, easy to approach person back when i first made this blog!

then again it's been 3.5 years so i guess my voice changed naturally 🤨 i'm not smart enough for this 😮‍💨

[thingsidrawgohere]

Alright. I'm calling it done before it kills me. This is Second Head. It's an Art Book containing instances of the phrase "second head" in fanfics found on AO3. I'll explain much, MUCH more in the cut.

So when I say 'art book', I mean this is an intrinsic piece. I have no motivations aside from personal amusement and interest in outcome. A lot of money was lost/transmuted into free frustration in this project and I have no claims, obviously. I will prolly be the only person alive to read this.

THAT SAID. I have noticed in my years reading fanfic, there's a few linguistic shibboleths that arise in authors who also have experience in the mines. I think there's not a soul alive who hadn't wandered across a 'ministrations' when reading Narutos oral sexing. There's- Hold on. Here's some pix.

There's an impulse, I think, to in-group even when performing a creative act. A feeling that there are certain ways one Should go about the act, by virtue of seeing it performed that way. Especially so when 'training' at the act is often just Doing. Double Dog Especially when the act is exclusively for oneself with very little oversight. Which is to say, we make what we see and we make what we think we should make. At least, at first.

Now, I've been noticing 'grew a second head' (to insinuate surprise) in fanfic for some time. I've never seen it used Outside of fanfic. (Edit to add: I am not making the argument the phrase is from fanfic. Nor do I Believe it is from fanfic. Jesus Hopping Christ, people. That's not what this project is about.) That may speak to my own bad habits but it got me curious. So a friend and myself downloaded a mirror of AO3 from July of 2024. He did some code- Stuff to scan the mirror for "second head" and of the ~13 million works, ~70k (English) results were returned. That's a rounding error, honestly, but Far FAR more than I expected.

This book is 401 such examples that I personally selected for a variety of reasons. The number itself was arbitrarily chosen. Each page is separate fic, the roughly 300 words around our key phrase.

I don't think repetition or mirroring is a negative thing. I think it's quite charming. Nor do I think it's a sign of a 'bad' artist or 'bad' art. I think it's a signifier of personhood, of belonging, of enthusiasm. Of culture shared and wishing to share. I think it's real sweet. I always smile when I catch a 'grown a second head' in a work.

And it's really fucking funny when it's John Sherlock getting a sloppy toppy. Bless.

Edit: Fixed a very VERY funny error.

Edit: I am not making the argument that the phrase is exclusive to fanfic or, fucking forbid, FROM fanfic. I'm stating this Again because we skim here. Also- If you would like slamdunk my ass by stating the phrase predates the Internet or your GenX parents use it, please use 'sailboat' in your comment so I know you're specifically trying to kill me.

Edit Edit: You know what? Fine. I DO think this phrase came from fandom. I think ENGLISH came from fandom. I think YOU came from fandom. I think EVERYTHING came from fandom. The Sun, the Moon, the Seas- Fandom. Specifically Sonic Mpreg. The second head was Shadow the Hedgehog crowning. Congrats!

[blackpearlblast]

[ID: drawings of a golem animated by a palestinian flag painted on its forehead. it is seen: holding out its arms protectively in front of a crowd of children, the children also hold each other supportively; catching an air strike missile from the air and throwing it away or crushing it in its fist; turning its back so that a child can warm her hands by the earth oven built into its back, food in a pot is cooking on the fire and a boy holds a cup of steaming tea to his face and enjoys the aroma; clearing away rubble so a man can help up his wife who was buried underneath, she is clutching a baby to her chest; stooping down to look at a kitten a young boy is holding up to show it; and dissolving small flakes of clay from its finger into a glass of water, purifying it. end ID]

@fairuzfan asked people to create and share art for the strike. i wrote an artist statement and then set about trying to draw what i envisioned. artist statement below.

This golem is a protector that I wish I could gift to the children and adults in Gaza. The flag on its forehead is to show that love for the Palestinian people is an animating force for people fighting for a free Palestine all over the world, especially for those in Palestine who are trying to free themselves and their people. Love is the motivation for the call for a free Palestine, not hatred like people try to claim. It is very strong and fast and can catch air strikes out of midair and crush them to dust or throw them back in the direction they came from. It can lift all the rubble of a collapsed building very quickly so nobody can get trapped underneath. It has an earth oven in its back with an ever-burning flame that people can use to warm themselves and cook food and heat water to use to bathe themselves or make tea. Pieces of its clay can be crumbled up and mixed into water to make even the most brackish and unclean water pure and safe to drink.

The golem is always a bit of a tragic figure so I don't imagine it staying around forever once Palestine is free and it is no longer needed. I think it would use its great strength to help rebuild the destroyed houses, churches, schools, universities, hospitals, and mosques and then dive into the Jordan river and dissolve. It would clean the river of all pollution and make the water splash up over all the newly replanted fruit trees, causing them to grow big and strong. Its love for Palestine and its people can be tasted in the fruit they grow for generations.

I choose a specifically Jewish icon of protection because of how it feels to witness such horrors done in the supposed name of Judaism and the Jewish people. For many anti-zionist Jews, we feel like we are acting directly within the teachings of our stories and communities by opposing this genocide. It is difficult to understand how the very people and institutions who taught us these values now fight against them so fiercely. While obviously I would still oppose Israel were I not Jewish, the way I oppose Israel is directly informed by my Jewishness. I hope that someday, somehow, Judaism can bring as much joy and support to the Palestinian people as it has brought grief and destruction. That Jewish symbols used in the name of love and justice will bear more significance than the ones used in shows of hatred. Knowing the depth of the harm caused, I do not know if this is possible. But this artwork and everything I have dedicated myself to these past few months and continue to dedicate myself to in the future is born from this hope. I love you. Thank you for being on this planet with me. From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free! And it will be beautiful.

[maikaartwork]

Artists, let’s talk about Instagram commission scammers

There’s been a huge rise in commission scammers recently, mostly on Instagram. A lot of new artists don’t know what to look out for, so I figured this might help people.

How they begin

Usually the scammer will write to you asking about a commission. Something deceptively cute - mostly I encounter asks about pet portraits, with one or two photos sent. They’ll probably try to sell you a sweet little story, like “It’s for my son’s birthday”. They will insist that they love your artwork and style, even though they don’t follow you or never liked a single piece of your art.

What to look out for:

Their profiles will either be private, empty, or filled with very generic stuff, dating at most a few years back.

Their language will be very simple, rushed or downright bad. They might use weird emojis that nobody ever uses. They will probably send impatient “??” when you don’t answer immediately. They’re in a crunch - lots of people to scam, you know. 

They’ll give you absolutely no guidelines. No hints on style, contents aside from (usually) the pet and often a name written on the artwork, no theme. Anything you draw will be perfect. Full artistic freedom. In reality they don’t really care for this part.

They’ll offer you a ridiculous amount of money. Usually 100 or 300 USD (EDIT: I know it might not be a lot for some work. What I mean here - way higher than your asking price, 100 and 300 are standard rates they give). They’ll often put in a phrase like “I am willing to compensate you financially” and “I want the best you can draw”, peppered with vague praise. It will most likely sound way too good to be true. That’s because it is.

Where the scam actually happens

If you agree, they will ask you for a payment method. They’ll try to get to this part as soon as possible. 

Usually, they’ll insist on PayPal. And not just any PayPal. They’ll always insist on sending you a transfer immediately. None of that PayPal Invoice stuff (although some do have methods for that, too). They’ll really, REALLY want to get your PayPal email address and name for the transfer - that’s what they’re after. If you insist on any other method, they’ll just circle back to the transfer “for easiest method”. If you do provide them with the info, most likely you’ll soon get a scam email. It most likely be a message with a link that will ultimately lead to bleeding you dry. Never, and I mean NEVER click on any emails or links you get from them. It’s like with any other scam emails you can ever get.

A few things can happen here:

They overpay you and ask for the difference to be wired back. Usually it will go to a different account and you’ll never see that money again. 

They’ll overpay you “for shipping costs” and ask you to forward the difference to their shipping company. Just like before, you’ll never see that money again.

The actual owner of the account (yes, they most likely use stolen accounts to wire from) will realize there’s been something sketchy going on and request a refund via official channels. Your account will be charged with fees and/or you get in trouble for fraudulent transactions. 

You will transfer the money from your PayPal credit to your bank account and they will make a shitstorm when they want their money back, making your life a living hell. They will call you a scammer, a thief, make wild claims, wearing you down and forcing you into wiring money “back” - aka to their final destination account. 

Never, EVER wire money to anyone. This is not how it’s supposed to go. Use PayPal Invoice for secure exchanges where the client needs to provide you with their email, not the other way around.

You can find more info on that method HERE.

What to do when you encounter a scammer:

Ask the right questions: inquire about the style, which artwork of yours they like, as much details as you can. They won’t supply you with any good answers.

Don’t let the rush of the exchange, their praise and the promise of insanely good money to get to you. That’s how they operate, that’s how they make you lose vigilance. 

Don’t engage them. As soon as you realize it might be a scam, block them. The sense of urgency they create with their rushed exchange, and pressure they put on you will sooner or later get to you and you might do something that you’ll regret later.

Never wire money to anyone. Never give out your personal data. Never provide your email, name, address or credit card info. 

Don’t be deceived by receiving a payment, if you somehow agree to go along with it. Just because it’s there now doesn’t mean it can’t be withdrawn. 

Here is a very standard example of such an exchange. I realized it’s a scam pretty fast and went along with it, because I wanted good screenshots for you guys, so I tried going very “by the book” with it. 

Please share this post, make it reach as many artists as possible. Let young or inexperienced artists know that this is going on. So many people have no idea that this is a thing. Let’s help each other out. If you think I missed any relevant info, do add it as an rb!

Also, if you know other scam methods that you think should be shared, consider rb-ing this post with them below. Having a master post of scam protection would AWESOME to have in the art community.

[ckret2]

So a while ago some friends were talking about fans who claim the Same Coin theory is canon. And I made the mistake of saying:

Do you know who also has tons in common with Bill? Mabel. Yet nobody claims Bill reincarnated as Mabel. …wait now I want a "same coin but it's Mabel" AU. Funniest Bill reincarnation option. The all-seeing arsonist is making macaroni glitter art. The omnipotent tyrant is crying because a unicorn called her a bad person.

And then I overthought it for two months.

So—AU where after death, Bill's soul shoots 13 years into the past and reincarnates as Mabel. I'll call it ✨ Sparkly Coin AU ✨

Don't leave yet. Lemme show you why it works. Behold the eerie amount of parallels in their personalities, dialogue, behavior, mannerisms, tastes...

I could have kept going but my attention span ran out. All right, we all on board now? Convinced we could segue from one personality into the other? Great. Now here's why you should be interested: the juicy post-Weirdmageddon angst potential.

As long as a small fringe of the fandom still thinks Weirdmageddon is Mabel's fault, why not amp that up x100 and have some fun with it?

Is everyone sold now? Great. Let's get into the details. I've got 8 more pieces of art under the read more.

So the AU starts the instant Bill dies. Thanks to invoking his deal with the Axolotl—one way to absolve his crime, a different form, a different time—the Axolotl gives him a new shape and shoots him thirteen years into the past. Apparently, the Axolotl thought it would be very funny to stick Bill in the family that defeated him.

Which probably made for a jarring transition.

(It's fine, she's like 10 minutes old, she probably can't even tell who she's looking at. Not being able to tell who she was looking at is what got her into this situation ayyyy)

When Dipper & Mabel come back from Gravity Falls complaining about this triangular jerk Bill, their parents mention that Dipper's name was nearly Bill. See, after they knew they were going to have a boy, one night their mom dreamed about a visitor—some kind of magic pink salamander??—calling her child "BILL." Then at the next sonogram they found out they were having twins, the girl must've been hidden at a weird angle the first time, and they wanted matching names, so they thought, Bill and Bell. But they didn't really like Bell; but eventually they stumbled on Mabel, so to keep the names matching they switched from Bill to Mason. Isn't that the darnedest thing?

(Of course, Mabel and Dipper assume Bill harassed their parents to try to trick them into naming a kid after him. To be a jerk.)

When Bill meets Mabel, he's unaware that she's his future self—Bill's notably bad at doing things like, say, double-checking to see whether he's going to die anytime soon—but like... he can tell something's up.

Naturally, before visiting Gravity Falls, there were echoes of who Mabel used to be—but nothing anyone would be able to identify without context. All her Bill-ish quirks either smoothed out with time (see: how between second grade and fourth grade Mabel went from being the "freak" to the popular girl in class), or else they were accepted by her family as Mabel-ish quirks.

After they meet (and kill) Bill, they have the context to understand some of Mabel's behaviors... and unfortunately, some of Mabel's latent Bill-ness starts surfacing after she's been directly exposed to her prior incarnation.

The part of the Pines family familiar with Bill thinks the worst case scenario is that maybe Bill's survived and is slowly possessing Mabel; but far more likely, they think this is just some weird way of trying to subconsciously process last summer. Mabel doesn't think she's being weird, you guys are being weird, stop giving her weird looks. They get attacked by one triangle and now she can't wear yellow or pick up macrame as a hobby??

(It's not all red flags and uncomfortable triangle imagery, though. When Stan asks her what she'd like as a gift for some important event, she shyly admits that she thinks she's starting to outgrow her plastic gem jewelry and maybe she's old enough to get her first piece of real gold jewelry, if that's not too expensive? And Stan's never been so proud of her. Thirteen years old and already thinking about buying gold!)

But of course, the real fun starts when Mabel finds out.

That's the face of a girl who's just discovered that she tortured her great uncle. Now imagine running into the brother she possessed.

But I've already spent a million words and thirteen images on this post. If enough folks are interested in the AU maybe I'll expand on it later. Let me know what y'all think.

[the-cimmerians]

It's 2024. I have been participating in fandom for 40 years. This is a ramble commemorating some history I've experienced along the way.

In 1984, I attended my first convention, and made a beeline for the one long row of covered tables in the Dealer's Room that was, according to the whispered lore of my friends, 'the one'. "um", I said, very suavely and coherently, except for how it was totally the opposite of those things, "I'm here for the... for the, uh. For-"

"Come around here," the man behind the table said with exhausted ennui, so I went around, and he lifted up the table skirt next to him and pointed to rows and rows of boxes underneath the line of tables. "It's all under here."

It was all under there. Along with about five older ladies with glasses, graying hair, cardigans. Flipping through slash zines and chatting in whispered voices like old friends (which of course they were). I noticed one of them had the good sense to be wearing kneepads. I was still too young and ablebodied to need kneepads when crawling on a carpeted floor, but I immediately found her preparedness skills to be both impressive and hot. "You're new," one of the ladies whispered to me--a bit warily, which made sense. "Are you sure you're in the right place?"

In the faint light (the kneepads lady had also come prepared with a flashlight, additional practicality hotness points for her) I grabbed a comb-bound book with a heavy line art piece on the cover, featuring a musclebound Captain Kirk getting righteously and enthusiastically plowed by a stern-yet-ebullient Spock. "This," I said, pointing helpfully at the cover, like I was trying to make myself understood in a language I had only the vaguest knowledge of. "I'm here for this."

Outside at the convention, most of the attendees were wearing large homemade circular pins that shrieked 'K/S is BS!!!'1. But underneath the table, we reveled in the forbidden.

***

In 1985, I fell very hard for Starsky & Hutch fandom. Which was simply referred to at the time as 'the other fandom', because there were only two. We were upstarts. Many fannish elders predicted that it was just a phase.

***

The 'circulating library' was a massive stack of barely-legible pages that smelled strongly of mimeograph ink. When you were on the list, you would write stories while you waited for your turn, and when the big box was mailed to you, you would read everything (new finds, old favorites), add your own sloppily-typed or hastily-mimeographed stories, and then mail the whole thing to the next person. For me, at the time, it was an extremely expensive indulgence--but my favorite one.

***

By 1990, slash fandom had grown enough that I no longer knew everyone in it, which was both thrilling and a bit daunting. A young woman at a convention waited for me after a panel I was part of (I think it was 'writing impactful smut' or something like that), and said she had a question she didn't want to ask in a group setting. I'd heard that before. I said that's fine, go ahead and ask; and she came out with: "Why do you have to be gay?"

I blinked. "Is... that a problem?"

She looked annoyed. "Yes, because your stories are on all the recommendation lists and in all the top zines, but if you're gay and I read something you wrote and I get hot from it that makes me gay, and I'm not gay."

"Wow." I grinned, I couldn't help it. It probably made me look very predatory-dyke-about-to-score-a-toaster. Whatever, it was enough to make her back away from me fast.

When I thought about it later that night, I wondered what it would be like not to be the only queer person in slash fandom.

***

By 1997, slash started appearing on the internet. Many fannish elders claimed it was the death knell of slash fandom, or dismissed it as 'just a phase'.

***

Anyway, I wrote all this for myself as a commemoration of sorts, but if you took the time to read it--thank you. Love you, fandom. I always will.

1 In those days, m/m fandom was known as 'slash', which grew from the fannish shorthand where 'K&S' meant a story of Kirk and Spock having adventures or tribulations or what have you, and 'K/S' meant a story of Kirk and Spock getting it on (Kirk divided by Spock or Spock into Kirk--it was mathy fannish humor and I was into it then and I still am now). Slash was decidedly unpopular in the fannish world in 1984, and there was a concerted effort to force slash authors, artists, and fans out of 'mainstream' fannish public life. Hence, under the table.

[aimfor-theheart]

to break first

|| mel medarda x reader, jayce talis x reader, viktor x reader || E/18+ || messy dynamics/hurt/comfort || wc: 6k || ao3 ||

minors and ageless blogs dni, 18+

Your lovers are strange, demanding types.

a/n: idk man. but this revived my writing so. pls take it. dividers by @/cafekitsune

tags: messy dynamics, light smut/smut mentioned and implied, implied rough/hate sex, some hurt/comfort, ends on a hopeful note. not beta read/edited.

You've never liked Jayce much.

And you might just be the only person he doesn't like, either.

He plays nice, though, especially around Viktor. You think Jayce has teeth that he tries to hide, but you catch the flash of them from time to time. He smiles at you and it doesn't reach his eyes. It's just shy of contempt.

It makes your grin cheshire and sharp. You like watching him squirm. You like watching him wrestle with his distaste for you, try to keep his teeth hidden. Especially here, at this gala, all gold and sparkling and pristine, for all the world to see.

Bubbling rosé is bright and fruity on your tongue. You're shoulder to shoulder with Viktor, the two of you half-miserable together, stuffed into formal wear and ripped from your respective labs and studios. Which is why Jayce lingers; he's hovering in that annoying way of his. Bumbling a little. He's trying to make Viktor feel more at home but—

You have something Jayce doesn't.

Only you can do that.

You're Viktor's childhood friend, thick as thieves and twice as inseparable. You're an artist from the Undercity—a painter, a poet, a musician. An artistic genius, the world claims, an artistic savant. And one of the rare, lucky few who has been exalted and raised above your station to be paraded around Piltover like some trophy of success from their lowest. It's mostly Viktor's fault, you claim—the moment Heimerdinger found him, he also accidentally found you.

"Ah, if it isn't one of the most brilliant and groundbreaking artists of our generation." A smooth, easy voice floats through your thoughts. You turn your head to find Councilor Medarda, swathed in what could be a starry sky of silk and gold.

She's even more beautiful in person somehow; if you were to paint her, she'd be all easy, graceful lines, curved and long. A lily stem. The arch of a tiger.

"Just the person I was looking for." She muses.

"Me?" You balk, at the same time that Jayce gaps, "Them?!"

You swing your gaze to glare at him and even Viktor wrinkles his nose. Jayce tries to clear his throat, clear the mistake.

Councilor Medarda raises a brow at Jayce, but then her eyes flicker to you, honing in on you. Hazel and gold and reflective; a kaleidoscope of color. And with such—intensity. You feel it in her. Thrumming. "Yes, you." She says smoothly and she smiles in the elegant way of royalty; perfect and mysterious.

"Are you sure you have the right person, Councilor Medarda?" You joke, "you know I'm just—"

"I'm certain. And please—call me Mel. I'd love to commission you for several art pieces to be displayed in the council chambers."

Viktor whistles a little, impressed, though you can tell it's a little dry.

(He both rambles and rants about Councilor Medarda from time to time and you can never tell if he adores her or resents her.)

Jayce startles at this, but again, he tries to play it off. He places his hand on her lower back, "I didn't know the council chambers was looking to display art."

Mel allows his hand to remain, but she tilts her chin up and her eyes flash somewhat—quick, sharp. There's a silent conversation there that you can't decipher.

But you can tell there is something more than just coworkers happening between them.

"I'm looking to display art in the council chambers." Mel then says.

Jayce looks away, cowed somewhat, tail tucked between his legs in a way that makes you smile.

Mel drifts from Jayce's hands, offering her arm to you, "will you walk with me? I'd love to discuss what I have in mind."

If only to steal her away from Jayce, you finally peel yourself away from Viktor's side and the wall. Your shoulder, where it was touching his, goes cold. But Mel's arm is warm as you twine it around yours.

She draws you away from the scientists, into the fray of swirling, dazzling people.

You glance over your shoulder only once and catch Jayce's eyes, and let your smile curl into something a little smug, almost vicious; baring your teeth as if to gloat at his own, still tucked behind his lips.

***

"Mel's an artist." You say to Viktor, offhand. "A good one, too. You should see her paintings—"

Viktor sighs heavily, snatching one of the little tools that you'd been fiddling with out of your hands. "You sound like Jayce."

You wrinkle your face in disgust, reaching back for the tool and grappling with him a moment for it. You press all against each other, squabbling, before you win out and take it back from him. He stares at you, almost in some form of a glare and you stare back, watching his eyes, dark in the low light of the lab. He glances at the tool in your hands like he might try to take it back, and when he moves, you move faster, and hold it out of his reach.

"Are they together?" You ask.

He gives up on the tool.

Then, he lifts his shoulders in some form of a crooked shrug, eyes going skyward. "One can only assume."

"She's out of his league." You sigh, throwing your weight back in the chair in despair.

Viktor snorts at that, returning to his work, "I'm sure few are in league with Councilor Medarda."

His voice is dry. A little brittle.

"I don't know what you have against her." You then venture, speaking more to the ceiling, returning to fiddling with the tool. It twists in your fingers, the sound of metal whirling and softly grinding.

"I have nothing against Councilor Medarda." He says too evenly.

"You know, I've never been able to tell if it's contempt or adoration you have for her." You continue, as if he hadn't said anything to contradict you. "But either way, she gets under your skin."

"She does not—"

"Are you jealous? She took your big, dumb partner away?" You press, twisting and twisting away at the tool.

"No—" Viktor says sharply, but it rings with a note of truth. It's not quite that then.

You pause. And then.

You crack your eye open, "I think she likes me."

Viktor pauses now too, metal clinking quietly with the sudden stop of his work again. He knows that tone of your voice. His face pulls; distaste. Frustration.

(Jealousy.)

His speech is slow as he tries to parse through what to say, "Councilor Medarda is charming and—"

"She invited me to dinner." You say and now you're watching him carefully, "at her personal suite. Just us."

Viktor rounds on you, "you're going to get yourself into trouble."

You can't help but smile, slow and amused, "I feel like it's good for the art—fool around with a politician—"

"You know, I have always wondered if you would learn your lesson," Viktor continues over your monologuing about drama and passion and politics, "—maybe this time, you'll finally learn it."

He snatches the tool from your hands and throws it down on his desk.

"I love learning." You chirp innocently and he shakes his head, face flushed with passion.

He looks at you again when he can, shakes his head some more, some of the irritation fading from his features. He never stays mad at you for long; doesn't have it in him. Besides, he causes his own trouble. Doesn't learn his own lessons. And when the dust settles, the two of you are still here, beside each other. The artist and the scientist, making messes, breaking things—all for some higher purpose only the two of you have ever understood.

(You've loved him your whole life. Sometimes, you think you carry half of the other's ribs inside one another. He must have twelve of yours, and you must have twelve of his—)

You lift your foot, nudging his calf beneath the desk with it, then up to place it in his lap. An olive branch, of some kind. Your affection is unsurprising to him and he sighs. He drops his hand to your ankle. He squeezes.

"She's going to eat you alive." Viktor finally warns.

"One can only hope."

A laugh startles out of him, rough and raspy, before it dissolves into coughing.

You lurch up to give him water, sitting near you, and bring the glass to his lips on reflex, like you used to as children. And on reflex, he drinks—he doesn't try to take the glass from your hands right away or push you away. Instinctively, you care for him, and instinctively, he lets you.

(You think you're the only one he'd ever allow to do this, born out of years of pressed side to side in the same bed, listening to him weather the nights. Born out of years of your love and stubborn care for him.)

After a moment, he lifts his hand and slowly replaces yours.

You hover over him. He sets the glass down. The water is almost gone. You'll replace it for him before you leave the lab.

He settles back into his chair, eyes returning to the pieces in front of him; all the odd metal scattered like little silver stars in front of him against a vast, dark sky. He picks up one, and then another, and tries to fit them together.

Then another. And another.

You watch him twist and turn, put the puzzle together.

He says, "Lately, I feel as if—" his fingers are careful, almost shaking, as he tries to create something of the scattered, broken pieces, "everything is quite fragile. And it's all just going to—" he presses a little too hard, and the metal all splinters apart, clattering back to the desk, "break. At any given moment."

After a moment, he looks up at you, still hovering over him, "I fear you're heading towards a breaking point."

You hum a little.

"What is it you scientists say?" You ask, running your fingers through his dark hair, thick and tousled. You twirl a strand around your finger, let it fall;

"It has to break first, before you can discover anything."

***

You'd say Mel Medarda is a wolf in sheep's clothing, but she doesn't feign anything so harmless or lost as a sheep.

You do think she's—

A little like Jayce, where she hides her teeth. But where Jayce irritates you because he's certainly trying to seem better than he is, or more harmless than he can be, Mel does so with intention. Mel hides her teeth to lure you closer. She doesn't pretend she doesn't have them; she waits until you're in range before you catch a glimpse of them.

And by then, well. It's too late.

You realize this over dinner, as she laments about what art she'd like from you and she's adamant about not censoring you.

(You're known for you controversy; whether in your physical art, your poetry, or music. Once pulled to the light of the Upper City, you refused to let them defang you. Where Jayce pretends he doesn't have teeth, you bare yours proudly, and sometimes wish you could tear the tender parts of Piltover open.

You strive to do it with your art. And while applauded in some vague capacity, you are also kept on a tight leash. Your patrons are warily supportive of you. Your commissions are strict. You're treated the way you think a wild animal is; with utmost care and fear and awe.)

In fact, her only rule for you, is to not hold back.

Which, given the growing tension between the Upper and Lower Cities, you realize this cannot only be from the goodness of her heart or for the integrity of art but—

You tilt your head and consider her.

"Am I a political move, Mel?"

She smiles in that enigmatic way of hers, her teeth flash, "isn't all art?"

You narrow your eyes, "perhaps. I wonder of it's effectiveness when it's employed by the people it often critiques." You lift your chin and pretend to be hurt—or perhaps, mask your hurt within dramatics to make it seem ironic, "and here I thought you really liked me—"

"I do." Mel assures, "I've admired you a great deal from afar. And getting to know you, your mind, it's—" she considers her words, "it's been nothing short of mesmerizing. Astonishing."

She sounds sincere. But you wonder if she always sounds that way.

She can tell she hasn't convinced you because you've never been able to mask your emotions well, so she leans forward and says, "unfortunately, everything I do is a political move, whether I'd like it to be or not. Both can be true—" she says, "I can adore you. And I can also need you to make a public point, wield you like my own elegant weapon."

"Artists make for disobedient weapons, usually." You say.

She laughs a little at that and agrees, "True." And then she lowers her voice, looks at you through the fan of her dark lashes in such a way that seizes you—arrests you, holds you right there, caught, in her heady gaze;

"But I don't need you to be obedient."

"I can never tell if you're trying to seduce me or persuade me." You blurt out, the words running from your mouth like a rabbit from a wolf. Your desire bursts from you like frightened birds taking to flight, like most of what you feel does, all of it spilling out of you in a gush of rawness.

She stands gracefully and again, you think of how you'd draw her—how you'd capture her in a poem or a song. The sharp curve of her waist, the predatory grace she carries effortlessly. You think her song is a croon from the deep part of your chest. You think her poem looks like an hourglass on the page and she slips from your fingers as easy as time does, too.

She rounds the small table to your side.

You look up at her. Your heart kicks up into a quick dance.

She brings the back of her knuckle to your jaw and gently—with all the carefulness in the world, strokes you.

(She touches you the way one does a bird, as if they know it's fragile. Perhaps as if they know it might fly away.

Or maybe she touches you the way one does an animal they're not sure of; will you bite? Will you lean into the touch?)

"Both can be true." She finally answers.

When she kisses you, it's fiercer than you're expecting; a lightning strike, a blow to the heart.

Your teeth come up against hers.

She gasps when you drag her further down to you, greedier than she's ever known, meeting her fierceness with your own, like the clashing of blades, or the destruction of stars.

And you think, if you don't want obedience, then I'll show you.

I'll show you.

***

"What are you playing at?"

Jayce's voice is a vicious little hush in the caverns of the council chambers. Mel has just left you after peaking over your shoulder to view the preliminary sketches.

You lift your head and blink up at Jayce slowly, dragging yourself from your sketch; from your world of art.

(It sets his teeth to grinding because Viktor makes that same look, when he's so deep into his work and Jayce disturbs him. It's a face he finds endearing on both of you, unfortunately. He imagines your minds are in heaven and he's selfish enough to drag you both back down to earth.)

"What do you mean? For the art piece?" You ask, glancing down at your lap, at the series of gestures and lines that you've been lost in. Maybe you're feigning innocence a little. But you want him to say it, if he's going to pick this fight.

Jayce's eyes flash like the too-hot part of the flame.

You have to bite back a smile.

Come on, you think wildly, say it. Let's fight. Here in the chambers, where you try so hard to be their golden boy.

"What are you trying to get out of Mel?" He asks and it makes you laugh outright, because he's dancing around what he really wants to ask.

Your laugh echoes in the hall, bouncing off all this marble and gold. It's out of place here, too loud, too free.

"The better question is what she's trying to get out of me." You say, "do you think I have it in me to manipulate the Mel Medarda?"

He goes quiet at that.

"Are you doing this to get back at me?" He asks after a moment and it's so close to what he wants to ask, so close to what he really wants to talk about.

"She kissed me first." You answer. "Have you had this conversation with her?"

You can tell by the shadow of uncertainty that passes over his face that he hasn't. You stand, easily setting your sketches and pencils aside, and drift nearer to him.

"Oh," you hum, "you didn't know. She didn't mention some plan of seduction to you? Maybe she really does like me."

He rounds on you so sharply that you are genuinely surprised. You gasp when your back hits the wall and he's got you caged in, a snarl on his lips and you finally get to see those teeth of his—

"You just always have to push me, don't you? In all the years I've known you, you've only ever tried to get under my skin. I tried so hard, for so long, for Viktor's sake to get along with you." He says lowly and distantly, you think, does he cage in Mel like this? With his big arms and broad chest? Or does she have him on a tight leash, underneath her?

"This time, I didn't mean it. Surely, you understand—" you say slyly, "when she comes onto you like that, all honey-voiced and half-lidded. She's hard to resist, isn't she?"

The grip he has on your biceps tightens to a point of pain—he'll bruise you. You'll be tender there, where his big hands gripped you, and it only makes you smile.

"Stop it." He snaps.

But you can't help yourself now, because once you've got something between your teeth, you've never been able to let it go;

"I just want to know if she kisses me the same way she kisses you? Does she play nice with you? She's quite fierce with me—"

When Jayce kisses you, it's a crush of aggression.

You laugh into his mouth wildly as he shoves you harder against the wall, teeth mean in the tender part of your bottom lip so that your laughter melts into a groan of pain. Of pleasure.

You claw at his back and wonder if Mel does, too.

You fight and hiss and snarl, show him your teeth when he sinks his into the fluttering pulse at your throat. You try to draw blood. You think he tries to bruise.

And well, you always wanted to see his teeth—

Just never thought you'd end up with a ring of their mark on your neck.

***

You're not really sleeping—nights are long. Days are longer. You're in the studio too much. This art piece is strangling you, wrestling with you and you're losing. Your lovers are strange, demanding types. Jayce comes to you at his lowest, and Mel at her highest. She licks the wounds Jayce leaves on you, purrs about how good you're being for her, goads you into putting up more of a fight that she likes to quell. She asks, have I stolen your bite? Are you going soft on me? Until you try to wrestle with her, too.

Mel subdues you the way snakes do—constricts and tightens and puts all that pressure on you until you just burst.

Until you go slack in her grip.

Jayce takes his anger out on you and he's not so cunning or delicate as her. You think Jayce struggles with you the way he must with his hammers, with high heat and all his strength.

Your art is starting to look like pieces of them; brutal and brilliant and cunning and beautiful. Tricky to capture, even more difficult to mesh together.

You're covered in paint when Viktor comes to visit you, frustrated with the canvas in front of you, which you think you'll end up scrapping again.

(This is the fourth one. You've been trying to fit all the components and pieces together but none of it's working, all of it's a mess. Splintered apart on the canvas. It looks like a disaster on the page.)

"Have you eaten?" Viktor asks as he comes to stand behind you. He gazes at the canvas n front of you.

You sigh heavily. "Have you?" You return.

He snorts at that, "No. I'm coming from the lab and thought I'd check on you—Mel mentioned you were here."

He pauses and then, "that you'd been here. For awhile now."

You hear the layers in his voice; the worry, but then the—

Irritation? Disdain?

"Are you asking me to dinner?" You say instead, dashing the canvas with a sudden great, horrible X. It's your meager attempt at some sort of joke or flirting, but your voice is perhaps too thin for it. You stare at your canvas, now dripping with that great X, the paint slipping down and marring it further.

When you turn to look at Viktor, he regards you warily. He glances at the canvas you've just ruined, and then back to your face.

He takes in your appearance; your disheveled hair and the paint all over your clothes and skin. And then his eyes skip down to your throat, to your arms. All marked up and bruised, unhidden and worn proudly here, in the safety of your art studio.

"Should I be concerned?" Viktor asks instead and you've always loved his bluntness. His lack of tact is like coming home. It's a relief, when you're constantly with Mel and Jayce lately, who talk in riddles and niceties and flowered language that hides their intentions or feelings.

There is a bitterness in Viktor's voice that you know well, too.

"About?" You prod.

"I'm no fool." Viktor answers, "I know you're sleeping with Councilor Medarda."

"Is that all you know?" You return, tilting your head.

"Is there more to know?" Viktor asks, eyeing you.

"Jayce hasn't said anything?"

You watch a strange shadow pass over Viktor's face as he slowly comes to the natural conclusion that you've lead him to. He's right, he is no fool. And then you watch his eyes catch fire, catch jealousy.

"I warned you—" he starts, suddenly.

"And I told you, it's good for the art—" You joke.

"Obviously it isn't!" He snaps, gesturing to the canvas behind you, ruined and glaring at your back. And then he heaves out a rough, agitated breath, dragging a hand through his hair. "Do you ever think of consequences?" He demands.

"Sure," You say, "I'm exactly where I want to be."

"You know, they are my colleagues. What am I supposed to do if—?!"

You laugh at that, enough that it startles him out of his beginning tirade. He comes up short and his shoulders bunch with tension as he glares at you.

"Is something funny?" He hisses.

"Your colleagues?" You repeat, "that's all they are to you?"

"Well—yes, technically." He stumbles on his words here.

"Are you jealous, Viktor?" You ask. "You don't have to be."

"I'm not jealous—" He refutes, even as his cheeks grow ruddy. And for a moment, you could be twelve with him again, his face flush as he looks at you after you'd kissed him for the first time because he'd never kissed anyone before. Or twenty-two and drunk, kissing one night under the stars when you felt so lost and disorientated in the Upper City—just wanted to feel like yourself again.

Or now, at thirty-two, staring at the man you've loved your entire life and whatever mess you've made out of everything.

You reach out and touch his cheek, glowing with color, and at first he winces away, but when you persist, he relaxes. He presses his cheek to your open palm and looks at you; raw and frank and so Viktor that you can't help the faint smile that touches your lips. Even as he frowns at you.

"What are you meddling with?" Viktor murmurs, turning his face into your cupped hand. You feel the faint brush of his lips, a little dry, and soft. Warm.

"Apparently our political landscape." You respond and that at least gets a laugh from him. You feel it against you and some spark shimmers through you, shudders and opens itself to you.

(Your desire for Viktor is something always with you, ambient, perhaps dormant, that always resurfaces like the great fins of some horrible, huge monster in dark waters. Your desire for Viktor is a symptom of your love. You've never know what to call it except that, except his.)

"Have I upset you?" You ask now as his laughter fades, and with it his amusement.

He sighs deeply and you feel his breath against your skin. You draw nearer. He leans back onto his crutch only slightly, only for a moment, before he allows you further into his space.

"I don't—" He struggles for the words before admitting, "yes, somewhat. For some reason."

"Are you feeling neglected?" You ask and try very hard to keep your amusement out of your voice, lest you irritate him further. He's always had a jealous streak in him, even as kids. If you made another friend, he would pout until you draped yourself over him and showered him in your attention again.

Even your previous relationships had bred some sort of jealousy in him; he's never liked any of your partners.

(It's so endearing to you that you have to tuck your teeth into your own lip and hum a little.)

You lean towards him, ducking your head so that your nose dips to brush against the line of his jaw. You feel his body shudder more than you see it. His breath goes tight. Your eyes flicker, a flash in the sun-spun light of your art studio;

"Do you want me to kiss you the way Jayce kisses me?" You murmur, your lips hovering over his. You watch his face gutter, lashes fluttering against his cheeks. His breath goes shallow.

"Or would you prefer Mel?" You murmur, just before you close the distance and kiss him with a certain fierceness, a meanness that you don't usually have with him. He stumbles back a little with the force of it and your hand that had been holding his cheek, slips into the hair at the nape of his neck.

A groan startles out of him when you tighten your hand into a fist and pull.

You part from the kiss, panting a little, and he looks down at you, eyes molten gold and burning.

You're about to kiss him again, when he murmurs, "I want—" he swallows hard, "I want you to kiss me the way you do—I want—"

You press back into him instantly, suddenly overwhelmed with the thought, with the notion that his desire, his jealousy—

You kiss him like you always have, overeager and desperate and messy. You urge him backwards, towards your workbench, all cluttered with paints. His crutch clatters against the ground uselessly as you grab for each other. You knock over a jar of brushes half-haphazardly placed on the floor.

You're overwhelmed with the thought that his jealousy might've been for you, too.

When he braces his hand against your work bench, he knocks over a cup of paint. You laugh into his mouth as you paw at his stupid, perfectly buttoned vest. When he touches you again, he stains you blue—and later red and violet. Burnished gold and paint so silver it makes the stars look dull.

A mess, he tsks, impossibly fond, as he looks at you and himself and the work space.

At all that you'd done.

***

"You've been pulling strings," Mel says as you lay in her lap, letting her pet and stroke you. Her fingers dance over the ridge of your brow.

You blink up at her slowly, eyes fluttering. "Shouldn't that be my line?" You ask.

"I'm not naive to the way you've been pulling our strings." She muses, fingers tumbling into your hair. She's gentle here, careful as she cards her way through your hair, her fingers nimble.

"Pulling strings is a far too sophisticated thing to call it." You snort and lean into her touch like a cat, preening a little.

"What would you call it?" Mel asks and the smile she wears is less of a mystery to you now, and you can tell there's a fondness to it.

(She does really like you—she is really being sincere, you've learned.)

You think about this for a long moment; you toy with saying a fucking mess. Or digging my own grave. But neither feel quite so full—while true, in many ways, there leaves little room for—

Well, this.

The way she holds you. The cat's curl of her smile, pleased and mischievous. Her fingers, gentle and coaxing, urging you to unfurl and bloom.

Or Viktor's rasping laugh that you can pull out of him. The fondness you hold for him like a pearl held inside a clam, growing and glowing. The way you drape yourself all over him, and he accepts it as easy as the day accepts the sun, or the night accepts the moon into its skies.

And even Jayce and the strangled back-and-forth that the two of you dance; it's still yours. It's still his. And the way he cups your cheek admist the violence or how he let's no one speak ill of you in front of him.

(Or the way Jayce and Viktor's minds work together, or how tactical Jayce and Mel can be; sharpened like daggers and twice as pretty. Or the creativity you pull out of Mel, allowing her to see the world like a boundless piece of art. Or the way Viktor's science influences your art; how your art influences his science. The fierceness you bring out in Jayce—the passion he brings out in you.)

It doesn't quite account for all the parts that make you burn and grow and shake out your great, big wings to fly.

Finally, you say, "it feels like I'm trying to find the melodies and harmonies and how they mesh—or the composition of a painting, or the feeling of a poem, but some of the words are still missing. It feels like when I chase art and try to break it open, to reveal what it wants me to learn—or show me."

"Have you figured it out yet?" She asks and she's genuinely curious, almost quiet in her desire to know.

At that, the door creaks open and there are several hushed whispers before Jayce suddenly strides into the room with all the false confidence in the world. Viktor looks sheepish behind him.

You sit up sharply, trying to detangle yourself from Mel.

"I told you they were here—" Viktor hisses to him, "and we shouldn't—we shouldn't be here."

Jayce isn't listening, though, and he's clearly inflating himself to get out, "I've come on important business of the council."

Mel raises her brows and throws you a sideways glance. She then says, "then come in, Councilor, since it's so important that you've come to my personal quarters. Unannounced."

Jayce at least has the good sense to look a little sheepish now, too. You can't help the laugh that springs out of you.

He throws you a dark look before clearing his throat.

"Councilor Haskel and Salo are seeking to strike down the art deal." Jayce announces and your heart drops a little, sinks in your chest.

You look at Mel. She purposefully keeps her face a mask of coolness. She rolls her shoulder briefly, which is your only tell of irritation or concern.

"Come in, Jayce." Mel finally says, "and you, too, Viktor. Shut the door behind you."

Both wander into the space and it's such a surreal moment, all four of you, for once, in the same room, that you can't help but laugh again.

Mel sighs in a way as if to say, I suppose this would happen eventually.

Jayce and Viktor can't quite look anyone in the eye and they both take uneasy seats int he living room.

Again, you feel like laughing—you're not sure what all the trepidation is for. Each of them have you seen you naked; you have seen them naked.

"What's their angle?" Mel asks, ignoring both Jayce and Viktor's shyness.

Jayce clears his throat, "they don't think it's worthwhile to support an artist from the Undercity at this time."

You wince and Jayce adds, "their words, not mine."

"Well, that won't do." Mel tsks and she suddenly moves to stand, graceful as ever, her robes trailing in a wave of silk and the smell of lillies. She likes to pace when she's thinking, and she pads over the window, to look out at the city.

Eventually, she says, "we'll need a grander plan. Something they can't refuse."

"What are you thinking?" Jayce asks.

She turns and all around her, she's doused in gold light, glowing in the evening sun as if she was born to it. "Perhaps combining some science with it." Now she looks at Viktor, "something symbolic to the current advancements with Hextech, perhaps."

Viktor looks at you, then back at Mel, "I can do that."

"Jayce, I need you to talk to the other Councilors and be sure they're not swayed by Haskel or Salo." She then adds, "and I want more publicity around it—and around our artist and scientist."

Our artist.

Our scientist.

"Ah—" Viktor starts, "I don't want to be in the public eye."

Our, our, our.

"It'll put pressure on Haskel and Salo if the people are behind you both, too." Mel presses gently, though her gaze has softened on him; she's sympathetic to his desires.

To assure him, you chirp, "I can do all the talking."

"Not sure that's our best idea." Jayce remarks.

"I am certain I can name several worse ideas of ours." You quip without thinking, and then you toss one of Mel's throw pillows at him; the beautifully embroidered one that's likely far too expensive and made from the rarest threads.

It hits him with a dull thud. And for a moment, he's shocked. The room is silent.

Still, your heart sings our, our, our.

But then Viktor snorts, before breaking out into his low, soft chuckle. And then the twinkle of Mel's giggles, coupled with your own laughter that bursts from your chest like a bird taking to flight.

And Jayce watches a moment, all of you laugh and smile, and if you could paint him in this moment, you would—

A little awe-struck. Tender around the edges, burnished gold. Breath stolen from him.

(Oh, he does really like you, too. All of you.)

But then laughter rumbles from him, too. And the tension slips from all of you, drains from your bodies with each bubbling sound.

And all of them together—finally together—are the melody you've been looking for, the words you couldn't place. The color on the canvas that finally brings it all together.

It's all the broken pieces like a mosaic, finally put together to create something whole.

And it's all ours, you think, the sun a flare of light and beauty bursting through the room, bathing all of your favorite people in it's gold and glory;

It's all ours.

[bumblesimagines]

Gold and Green

Request: Yes or No

Summary: To further secure the Lannisters to the Green's side, Otto Hightower arranges a marriage between his grandson, Aemond Targaryen, and the Lannister twins younger sister.

Pronouns: She/Her/Hers

CW/TW: Typical GoT/HOTD warnings, arranged marriage trope, mentions of Targcest/incest, mentions of Luke's death, kinda short i wasn't sure what to do with this guy, fluff?

Took my time getting to this mf

~~~

Aemond hardly knew what to make of marriage life. 

He knew what one was expected to do as a couple: attend formal events, ensure both houses prevailed, and have many, many children to continue the bloodline. But, as he came to learn, he had little idea what to do outside of expectations.

No amount of histories or studying or even reading childish romantic tales told him how to be a husband, and he hardly had anyone to model what a proper and good lord-husband was supposed to look like. His father had hardly cared for his mother and his brother barely paid Helaena any attention outside of awkward, forced interactions. 

Aemond found it infuriating, simply put. He mastered everything he put his mind to. He'd claimed the biggest dragon in the world as a mere boy; lost an eye and replaced it with a sapphire; excelled in swordsmanship and combat; perfected the art of speaking, writing, and understanding High Valryian; studied the histories and listened to the septas dutifully to the point he could recall any tale down to the smallest of details. The perfect heir, if he had to be honest, but hardly anything that'd help him be a good husband. He refused to be like Aegon, refused to allow himself to steep down to his brother's level of indifference toward his sister-wife. 

His dear mother had been little help, merely telling him to 'be a kind and dutiful husband' when he questioned her, but he understood why she herself would have little experience knowing what a husband should look like. His grandsire simply told him to hurry and consummate the marriage once his wife's monthly blood had finished, to court her with gifts and such if he so wished. 

So, he gave his grandsire's advice a try and searched for a necklace befitting for a lioness of the west. 

"Wife," Aemond instinctively called into their shared bedchambers as he stepped inside, his single eye searching the room as the door slid shut behind him until he noticed her sitting on one of the couches. She looked beautiful, clad in the gold and red colors of House Lannister. He'd much prefer her in green but he hardly found it appropriate to push the subject when they barely spoke. Her handmaidens curtsied upon seeing him before resuming their tasks.

"Husband." (Y/N) responded in greeting, her tone somewhat monotone and attention largely focused on her embroidery. He understood why she and Helaena got along so easily, perhaps he should've inquired his sister instead. "How was your day, My Lord?"

"Busy, as always. War is on the horizon, I fear." He tried not to think about Lucerys, or the memory of watching bits and pieces of Arrax descend into the ocean. He'd meant to frighten him, humiliate him as he and his brother had done to him years prior, but he'd forgotten Vhagar wasn't a mere mindless creature nor a weapon he could control. She followed his orders because she wanted to, not because she had to. 

"Wasn't it always?" She asked, though it wasn't a question meant to be answered. A masked statement to avoid offending him. He knew what the courtiers whispered behind his back since his return from Storm's End. Kinslayer. A title spat and whispered with disdain because who would be cruel enough to kill their own blood?

(Y/N) exhaled through her nose and peered over her shoulder when a handmaiden poured steaming water into the tub. She stood up, handing her embroidery off to one dutiful handmaiden and smoothing out her dress with her hands. She stepped around the couch and strode toward her desk, her fingers raising to remove her earrings and set them aside. Her eyes flickered to his reflection in the mirror as he strode toward her, gently setting the silver box on the desk. 

"For you, My Lady." He murmured and took a step back, clasping his hands behind his back and watching her eye the box. (Y/N) opened it and hummed, trailing her finger over the necklace within. Gold, to resemble House Lannister, with a glimmering emerald in the center to resemble House Hightower. The union of their two houses, of their blood. "I hope it is to your liking." 

"It is quite beautiful, Husband. Thank you." She told him, unclipping the necklace around her neck and setting it down. His wife studied the gift, her eyes lingering on it for a moment longer before she turned toward her handmaidens and dismissed them with a wave of her hand. They finished their task swiftly and curtsied deeply before leaving the room. Aemond couldn't help but tilt his head. His wife still needed to prepare for the night. 

"Wife-"

"Help me undress, Husband." (Y/N) told him, striding toward the tub and casting a glance over her shoulder at him. Aemond followed silently and reached forward, carefully undoing the laces of her dress and helping her slide it off her body. His eye jumped away, out of respect and instinct but he forced himself to look back. She was his wife, after all. 

Offering her his hand, he held hers as she stepped into the tub and lowered down into the warm water, a hum of contentment escaping her. Aemond took a seat on the stool by the tug, his long fingers curling around a soapy rag and beginning to gingerly rub it along her shoulders.

Her lips curled upward, her eyes following his movements before they trailed up his arm and to his face. He paused when her hand raised from the edge of the tub, stiffening when she tugged the eyepatch away to reveal the sapphire in place of his missing eye. 

"You needn't wear this around me, Husband." She told him, placing the eyepatch in the palm of his free hand. "I am not a silly little girl like some of the ladies here. I do not frighten easily." 

His own lips curled at that, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. He expected such an attitude from a Lannister, although her older brother, Tyland, hardly gave the same impression as her. He shrunk back easily when challenged during meetings and had the attitude of a cub over a lion. "I shall like to introduce you to Vhagar then, Wife." Aemond ran the rag along the underside of her arm, slowly lifting it until he could brush his lips over her knuckles. 

"I'm certain we'll get along." (Y/N) responded, her hand turning over to cup Aemond's chin. He leaned into her touch and savored it, for he hadn't received such a gentle caress since the death of his nephew. His mother had shrunk back from him, whether from fear or disgust of what he'd done. No mother would find the news of her child getting their hands bloody appealing. He had to give her time to adjust. 

Aemond smiled against her skin. "Yes, I believe so as well." He agreed, feeling her palm slide against his jawline and cheek. Her thumb brushed over the scar thoughtfully, not a glimmer of disgust on her face.

She'd make a lovely queen, he noted. They'd make a lovely ruling couple, far better than his older siblings and even his parents. If only he'd allowed Aegon to escape when he had the chance. 

"I believe we ought to consummate the marriage soon, Husband." The light teasing tone in her voice made him grin. 

"Yes, we should. Perhaps... tonight."

[r0tting-rat]

I WAS BORED DURING PSYCHOLOGY CLASS SO ENJOY THIS

Pairing: Sun & Moon x Gender Neutral Reader Warning: Slightly suggestive Words: idk Summary: Sun finds out new stuff about you

It was 10 pm on a random Monday, it was flu season, and you were going to leave the daycare in almost an hour and a half. The day had been slow, the kids had been few, which of course meant that by 9:30 you had already finished cleaning the entire area, much to your dismay. Bored to the core, you were scribbling on a piece of paper with a pen left by the other security guard, thinking on what to do to not melt into a puddle of misery, and immediately your eyes traveled up to Sun. The bot was rearranging blocks a few feet away from your desk, probably just as bored as you, and the corners of your mouth began to rise.

-Sun?- you called him, watching with interest as his head snapped in your direction and a wide smile opened on his flat faceplate.

-Yeeeess, little constellation?- he asked, standing up with all the grace a machine could have. -Do you wanna show me your drawing?-

-Oh, no, fuck no!- you laughed, balling up the piece of paper in your hand and throwing it inside the bin under the desk, -I'd rather die. Come here.-

Sun didn't worry about your refusal, it was a common occurrence between the two of you to bicker and fight about your views on art. Sun claimed that everything made with effort had to be considered "art", while you said that your mad scribbles were not even close to a proper drawing, therefore, he had no reason to insist on seeing them.

-Language, dear,- Sun chimed, coming to stand right in front of you, -Must I remind you what happens to potty-mouths in my daycare?-

Rolling your eyes, you took your phone out of your pocket, inserting the password and entering your phone gallery.

-Yes, yes, Moon has already showed me countless of times,- you told him, -Now, look at this.-

You turned your phone around to show Sun a meme you had saved, waiting for him as he read, with your arm outstretched towards him as you tapped the surface of the desk with your other hand.

-Are you done?- you asked after a while, and at your question Sun's single brow furrowed.

-Is that your cat?- the jester asked back, still looking confused.

-No, that's just a meme, a template of a cat that became famous on the internet,- you explained, letting Sun grab your phone and hold it out in front of him, still studying the picture.

-Why does it want to put me in its basement?- Sun's voice sounded concerned, almost scared, -What did I do to be put in a basement?!-

-It's just a funny meme, Sun!- you were quick to reassure him, -It's supposed to make you laugh!-

-I don't like cats,- said Sun, looking back at you, -They rumble and make weird vibrating sounds when I pet them. I don't like basements either, they're too small for me to stand in and too dark for my taste.-

-Alright, alright, understood,- you sighed, -I just wanted to make you smile a little, but nevermind.-

You had hoped to show your animatronic coworker something new, something funny that would have surprised him and made him laugh, but worrying him wasn't part of the deal. Just as you reached to get your phone back, Sun began to scroll.

-Do you have more of these memes?- he asked, and your eyes widened.

-W-Wait, Sun, wait!-

It was too late, Sun had begun to scroll through your photos, looking through each of your pics with interest. You stood up and attempted to snatch the device away, but Sun spun his torso around to get out of your reach.

-Sun, give it back!- you screamed, grabbing his shoulders and trying to climb on his back.

-Is that me?!- Sun was saying, incredulous, -Did you take photos of me and Moonie while working?!-

Your face was burning, you were beyond embarrassed, but the attendant still refused to give your phone back to you.

-It's not what it looks like!- you whined, but at each photo Sun's eyes got bigger. A zoom-in of his face as he laughed, a close up of one of his drawing, a selfie you had taken during naptime with an unsuspecting Moon, a full body picture of Sun as he was carrying a child with a scraped knee around the daycare; warm and gentle as he always tried to be around those small and soft humans. Looking back at you, Sun found you with an adorable blush dusting your cheeks and neck.

He wondered how far down that beautiful red tint went. Cute.

-Dear?- Sun called you, crossing his arms over his chest while still keeping your phone in his hand, -Why do you have so many photos of me and Moonie in your phone?-

You didn't know what to say. How could you excuse your behavior? Technically, you weren't even allowed to use your phone during working hours. You chose to tell the truth.

-A while back, a friend of mine didn't believe me when I said that you and Moon are... terribly cute,- you spoke the last two words in a whisper, -A-And hot, v-very hot... So I started showing her pictures, you know? B-But, the more photos I took, the more... intimate it felt.-

Realizing that what you said could have been taken the wrong way, you were quick to correct yourself.

-N-Not intimate as in...! I m-mean, intimate as in private! I didn't want to share things with her anymore, but... I kept taking pictures.- Swallowing, you stared at the ground. -Sorry, I... Fuck, I don't know what came over me.-

Sun didn't say anything. For a moment, the entire daycare turned completely silent, and you waited for the robot to say something, anything at all. You were ashamed beyond comprehension.

Suddenly, you heard a loud whirring cutting the silence, along with the hiss of steam being blown out of vents. Looking up, you found Sun with his eyes closed, his face contorted into an almost pained grimaced, retracted rays, and steaming joints. His internal fans were working overtime to keep him cool, but the animatronic was visibly overheating.

-...Sun?- you attempted to say, hoping the jester wasn't too mad at you, -Are you okay?-

-No,- he hissed in response, low and angry, -I'm not okay, starbeam, at all.-

You didn't know what to do. Feeling guilty, you started to consider leaving the daycare early, to give him more space, but by the looks of it, Sun wasn't planning to let go of your phone anytime soon.

-Don't you dare to leave,- Sun suddenly grabbed you by a wrist, and you were surprised by how easily he had read your intentions. With a gentle tug, he pushed you between his arms, against his chest. -Not after all you have done to me.-

Standing so close, you could feel the heat radiating from his chassis, which warmed you up to your very core. His white eyes stared down at you—through you—making you feel uncovered, naked, observed. A smile opened on his face, and Sun giggled, happy to see you so confused and surprised.

-Do you think you could stay a bit after hours today?- he asked you, -After all, potty-mouths need to be taught a lesson, bad adults need to be punished!-

The last sentence was said in a deeper and equally familiar voice; not quite Sun anymore, but similar to the rough vocals of another animatronic. It was the end of the hour, the lights in the daycare were beginning to dim, and the blue and black hues of the daycare attendant were starting to stand out. Moon was coming out, and it looked like he was on the same note as Sun, regarding your punishment.

He giggled while you stared up at him, cast in the red light of his eyes. Beautiful, pretty, pretty, pretty.

-...Moon?- you asked, -What... What are you planning?-

-Oh, don't you worry, my star!- Moon said, holding both of your hands and beginning to spin around, dragging you in a weird dance in the middle of the darkened daycare, -You like us, right?-

Unable to lie while looking him straight in the eyes, you slowly nodded, swallowing down the knot in your throat.

-Like-like us, right?- he asked once more, and again you nodded. -Perrrrfect then.-

His purr reverbrated through your chest, down to your stomach, making your knees weak and your legs unsteady.

-I have the perfect punishment for you then, my dearest,- he said, lowering his faceplate so he could be at the same level of your ears. The moment the hot air of his hands hit your flushed skin, you flinched. -How about you tell me everything you have told your friend about us, mh? All your dreams, all the times you wanted to hold us, to touch us, to kiss us.-

You would have sworn Moon was doing that on purpose, embarrassing you minute after minute, making you feel hotter second after second. Closing your eyes, you cursed out loud, unable to keep your calm anymore.

-Such a naughty star,- Moon giggled, pulling away, finally letting you breathe, -A naughty star with a naughty tongue.-

[aurumacadicus]

A concept:

Tony has mostly learned not to ask too many questions when he's around teenagers. He doesn't understand most things, and quite frankly, it's just easier to claim ignorance than confusion at this point. (Peter has explained "skibidi" to him three times now and he still doesn't get it.) He just tries to provide a safe place for him and his friends. Sometimes that means he's bewildered, but it's better that way. He figures it's just a rite of passage. He still remembers how flabbergasted Jarvis looked when he described something as 'tubular.'

He's just grateful that there weren't so many cameras when he was a kid. It seems like they're everywhere, and there are so many video trends it makes him tired. Luckily, Peter and his friends seem to at least be aware that the internet is forever, so they're not doing stupid shit like doing drugs or throwing slurs around. Mostly they just post pranks. Most recently, he's pretty sure MJ and Ned duct-taped Peter to a door so he'd startle anyone who opened it. Which seems. Harmless? Whatever.

But his practiced chill all seems to backfire when he walks in on them in his kitchen "because the lighting's better here than in a conference room" with pictures taped to sticks being stuck in cake. "What is this?" he asks tiredly, because he knows it's too late to pretend he didn't see them.

"It's a hear-me-out cake, Mr. Stark," MJ answers in that way of hers that is somehow both flat and mischievous.

Tony blinks at her slowly, trying to figure out what reaction would please her least, then gives up. "Why are you doing it in my house."

"Because I don't want Aunt May to see I've put Doc Hudson from Cars on a hear-me-out cake," Peter answers.

Tony squints at the pictures already on the cake. "You've got a lot of nerve to put a picture of Timothee Chalamet on a cake and say 'hear me out' about it," he finally says.

"It's specifically Timothee Chalamet in Wonka," Ned defends immediately.

"And Doc Hudson is just a good-looking classic car, it's not weird," Tony continues, ignoring him. "I have a Hudson Hornet. I'll take you kids out for a ride when the weather gets better."

MJ holds up one of her pictures while Ned and Peter gape at him wordlessly. "I have Lady Tremaine from Cinderella."

Tony leans closer, putting his hands on his hips and huffing in offense. "You chose a picture of Cate Blanchett instead of the original cartoon. You guys. You can't say 'hear me out' about conventionally attractive people, no matter how mean they are in their roles."

"Oh yeah?" Peter asks defensively. "Then who's your hear-me-out, Mr. Stark?"

"Hexxus from Ferngully," Tony retorts, and then, "At least bring me a piece of cake when you're done." Then he grabs his coffee and heads back for the workshop.

He only realizes what a mistake that might have been when JARVIS tells him that his Twitter is blowing up but he only really understands when he sees that Tim Curry himself has responded to the video Peter posted of him with "The highest of compliments, surely."

"Pepper is going to be so mad at me," Tony breathes when he sees people are already drawing fan art of it.

[killerpancakeburger]

Outpace the dawn

Gif by @silverformymonsters

Summary: BG3 Spawn ending Fix It fic! Because I refuse to let him deal with the sunlight alone.

Pairing: Astarion x Reader

Warnings/tags: SPOILERS obvsly, angst/comfort, non canon compliant.

Words count: 936 words.

A/N: It should be Gender Neutral, but if I fcked up since I tend to write from my pov, you can tell me and I'll correct it.

Yes the title is from that Hozier song. It got me thinking how Astarion would need to outpace the dawn from now on.

Astarion’s voice cut through the silence that followed your last battle, as your little group was gathering on a pontoon.

“So, what’s next for us?”

You had been thinking about what was to come for a while, actually. Probably longer than any of your companions have. Some might argue that it wasn’t the time for that, that you should have been completely focused on defeating the Netherbrain. But you couldn’t help it; it was a matter of life and death - Astarion’s life and death. Or rather, undeath and death. Since you’ve known that the brain was within reach, it had become an omnipresent apprehension in your mind.

The slaughter of the brain sounded the death knell of the tadpoles, and their disappearance inevitably meant that Astarion’s resistance to the sun would vanish like it never existed. Like nature rightfully reasserting itself by getting rid of this aberration that had been a vampire walking in the sun in the first place. 

This knowledge has been haunting you for days and nights now. It was your first thought when you woke up and your last when you fell asleep. A knot of dread had settled inside your stomach, making it hard to fall asleep and to interact normally with the source of your worries. And right now, following Astarion’s question, the knot in your guts got even tighter, even more painful.

At any moment, any second from now on, your vampire lover would catch fire as surely as straw in the summer. 

It was fine. You planned. You prepared for this. You procured a large, thick, hooded coat that was guaranteed to block the sunrays. It was even imbued with magic that made it impossible to tear, pierce, or rip in any way. It hadn’t been easy to acquire, but Astarion didn’t need to know that. 

You were on the lookout for any sign of burning, wound as tightly as a spring while still trying to appear normal to the others.

“The world is our oyster, and she has many pearls we can choose from.” claimed Astarion, blissfully unaware of his fate.

He illustrated his remarks by spreading his arms far apart with vigor. The genuine excitement, the happiness in his voice almost made you sick to your stomach. Astarion’s displays of authentic joy were few and far in between, and this one would end as soon as it started. As fast as a vampire spawn left in the sun, as a pile of ashes on the ground.

You could barely bear to look at him. You didn’t have the heart to remind him of his imminent doom. He obviously had forgotten about it for the time being, and while the cruel reality was taking up almost all the space in your brain, like blaring alarms, you’d be damned if you took away from him his last, his only instants of light and warmth, of complete freedom, by reminding him. No Cazador, no tadpole, no mind control, no deadly sunlight, no slave and no master. Just an immense ocean of liberty, intoxicating, vertiginous.

“I honestly don’t mind what we do, once we get to- Ow!”

You instantly straightened up at the sound, like a wild animal who picked up the sound of an upcoming danger. For a terrible second, there was a twisted part of you who felt relieved. Finally, your gnawing, agonizing wait was coming to an end. Then, swiftly, the relief disappeared, flooded with your concern for Astarion. 

“What the- Oh no. Oh Gods.”

Already his hands were fuming, his beautiful pale face sprinkled with silververy cracks like delicate porcelain. He had always looked more like a piece of art than a living being after all. The frantic panic in his voice was like a punch to the chest. In all your battles and struggles together, you had never seen him so horrified. Even against Cazador. Even a True Vampire had to yield to the Sun.

He threw you a harrowing look, like he was bidding you goodbye before bolting. As if you were going to leave him to deal with this alone. Already you were rushing towards him, the life-saving coat in hands. You wrapped it around him as fast as your hands would allow, put the hood on, and gently grabbed him by the shoulder, turning him so his covered back would take the blunt of the light.

“There we go, you explained softly. This will block the sun.” 

“You’ve got this, and I’ve got you.” you added, mirroring his own words.

You were smiling sadly, trying to be supportive, to not add to his burden. The look in his eyes was hard to describe, an intense blend of heartbreak, vulnerability, and gratefulness. 

“Well… It was… it was nice while it lasted.” he managed to articulate, his voice breaking like he was about to cry. 

You could feel your heart break in response like an echo.

The magic sunproof coat was in no way a solution. Barely a bandage on a sinking ship. You had to get out of the sun, quickly.

“Come on, love. Let’s get you some shadow, uh?”

Your encouraging smile was as fragile as a spiderweb. You could feel it teetering on the edge of an abyss. 

Astarion simply nodded, like he didn’t trust his voice anymore. It was fine. He was already expressing so much through his gaze.

You put your hand on the small of his back, barely applying any pressure, threw a telling look over your shoulder at your other companions, and you both started your search for protective darkness between the walls of Baldur’s Gate.

[w1w2]

If You

Kim Chaewon x Fem!Reader 

Word Count: ca. 6k

Synopsis: After a breakup, Y/N and Chaewon navigate the lingering ache of lost love, each weighed down by memories and regrets. “If you’re struggling like I am, Can’t we make things a little easier?”

For better experience listen to IF YOU by BIGBANG

English isn’t my first language so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

♡ Enjoy! ♡

Rain fell steadily against the windows, the sound a soft rhythm that filled the stillness of the apartment. Y/N sat hunched over her desk, her fingers brushing absentmindedly against the screen of her phone. Her bedroom, usually alive with warmth and color, felt muted tonight. The fairy lights strung along the walls barely flickered, and the soft hum of the heater failed to chase away the cold she felt deep inside.

Her thumb hovered over a photo album labeled Us. She hadn’t opened it in weeks, telling herself she’d moved on or at least trying to believe it. But the quiet pull of nostalgia had a way of finding her, especially on nights like this. With a heavy sigh, she tapped on the folder.

The first image was a selfie of her and Chaewon, their cheeks pressed together, grinning under the golden haze of a setting sun. Chaewon’s fingers had been loosely wrapped around Y/N’s wrist, a bracelet glinting against her skin.

Y/N smiled faintly at the memory, but the ache in her chest quickly followed. The weight of the silence in her room pressed down harder, and she swiped through the photos slowly, each one unraveling pieces of the past.

There was one of them at a café, Chaewon holding up a latte with a heart-shaped foam art and a playful wink. Another at the beach, their feet buried in the sand, the ocean stretching endlessly behind them. And yet another of Chaewon asleep on Y/N’s shoulder during a late-night movie marathon, her face peaceful and angelic.

Y/N’s hand trembled as she locked her phone and set it down. This was a mistake, she thought. Letting herself drown in these memories always left her feeling emptier. But tonight, she couldn’t stop herself.

She turned to her desk drawer and pulled out a small, velvet-lined jewelry box. Inside, nestled against the soft fabric, was the bracelet. Silver, delicate, and simple. Chaewon had chosen it carefully, telling her it reminded her of Y/N “elegant and understated but beautiful in a way you can’t stop noticing.”

Y/N traced the cool metal with her fingertips, her mind pulling her back to the day she received it.

Flashback

It had been their first anniversary, and Y/N had expected nothing more than a quiet dinner together. They had agreed to keep it simple, both claiming they didn’t need grand gestures.

Chaewon, however, had a way of surprising her.

They were walking home after dinner, Y/N laughing at a story Chaewon had told about one of her members accidentally locking themselves out of their dorm room. The streetlights cast warm pools of light around them, and the crisp evening air carried the faint scent of blooming flowers.

“Wait,” Chaewon had said suddenly, stopping in her tracks.

Y/N blinked, confused as Chaewon rummaged in her coat pocket. “What are you doing?”

Chaewon looked up with a sheepish grin, her cheeks slightly pink. “I said no big gifts, but…” She pulled out a small box and held it out. “I couldn’t help myself.”

Y/N’s heart had skipped a beat. “Chaewon…”

“Just open it.”

Inside was the bracelet. The delicate design caught the light as Y/N lifted it from the box, her breath catching in her throat. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

Chaewon took it from her hands and gently fastened it around her wrist. Her fingers lingered for a moment, brushing against Y/N’s skin. “Now you’ll always have a piece of me with you,” she said softly, her voice full of affection.

Y/N had stared at her then, struck by how much love Chaewon could pour into the simplest moments. She threw her arms around her, holding her tightly, their laughter mingling with the quiet hum of the city around them.

End of the Flashback

The memory was so vivid that for a moment, Y/N could almost feel Chaewon’s arms around her again. But as she opened her eyes, reality crashed back in. The bracelet was still there, cool and unmoving in her hand, but Chaewon was gone.

The emptiness in the room felt unbearable. Y/N clenched the bracelet tightly in her fist, her knuckles whitening.

“What happened to us?” she murmured into the silence.

Her mind spiraled with questions she’d asked herself countless times before. Had she taken Chaewon for granted? Had she missed the signs of her growing unhappiness? Or had the weight of their lives—Chaewon’s demanding schedule, the secrecy of their love—become too much to bear?

She placed the bracelet back into the jewelry box and closed it gently, as if sealing away the memory. But the ache in her chest remained, sharp and persistent.

This was her routine now—revisiting their past in quiet moments, replaying every detail until it felt like she was living it all over again. It was both a comfort and a torment, a way to feel close to Chaewon but also a reminder of how far apart they’d become.

The rain outside grew heavier, drumming against the window like a heartbeat. Y/N leaned back in her chair, her gaze fixed on the raindrops racing down the glass. Somewhere out there, Chaewon was living her life, moving forward, maybe even smiling again.

Y/N wondered if Chaewon ever thought about her, if she too had a box of memories hidden away. Or maybe she had already let go, the way Y/N couldn’t seem to.

Her throat tightened as tears blurred her vision. “If you…” she whispered, the words trailing off into the quiet room.

For a moment, she allowed herself to hope—just for a moment—that Chaewon missed her too.

But that hope carried her back to the moment she couldn’t stop replaying in her mind, the moment everything fell apart.

Flashback

The park was quiet, save for the soft rustle of leaves and the occasional laughter of children playing in the distance. The setting sun painted the sky in shades of orange and pink, as if the universe had decided to wrap the day in beauty, completely unaware of the storm brewing between two hearts.

Y/N sat on the edge of a weathered wooden bench, her hands tightly clasped in her lap. The coolness of the wood seeped through her jeans, grounding her in a reality she didn’t want to face. Chaewon stood a few feet away, arms crossed, her gaze fixed on the horizon. Her figure was silhouetted against the setting sun, but the tension in her posture betrayed her calm façade.

The silence between them was deafening.

Finally, Chaewon broke it. Her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to say this.”

Y/N turned to her, her heart pounding so loudly she thought it might drown out the words she didn’t want to hear. “Just say it,” she urged, though every fiber of her being wanted to run.

Chaewon took a deep breath, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. “I’ve been thinking about us. About everything.” Her voice wavered, and she paused, struggling to find the right words. “And I… I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

Y/N blinked, the words not registering at first. “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice trembling.

Chaewon turned to face her fully, and for the first time, Y/N saw the pain etched on her face. Her eyes were glassy, her lips pressed into a thin line, as if holding herself together was the only thing keeping her from falling apart.

“It’s not you,” Chaewon said quickly, taking a step closer. “It’s everything else. The pressure, the schedules, the constant hiding… I thought I could balance it all, but I can’t.”

Y/N’s chest tightened. “So, what? You’re just giving up? Throwing us away?”

Chaewon flinched, her eyes darting to the ground. “I’m not throwing anything away. This is the hardest decision I’ve ever had to make.”

“Then don’t make it!” Y/N’s voice cracked as she stood, her emotions spilling over. “We can figure it out, Chaewon. We always do. I can wait for you. I’ll be patient. Just… don’t do this.”

Chaewon looked up at her, tears now brimming in her eyes. “You deserve more than waiting, Y/N. You deserve someone who can give you their whole heart, their whole life. And right now, I can’t do that.”

The words hit Y/N like a punch to the gut. She staggered back, shaking her head. “You don’t get to decide what I deserve. I choose you, Chaewon. Isn’t that enough?”

Chaewon stepped forward, reaching for her, but stopped herself halfway. Her hands fell limply to her sides. “It’s not enough for me,” she whispered.

The wind picked up, carrying the scent of freshly cut grass and rustling the leaves above them. Y/N stared at Chaewon, her vision blurring with tears. “You’re lying,” she said, her voice hollow. “You’re just scared. Scared that I’ll see you struggle, that I’ll know you’re not perfect. But I already know, Chaewon. I know, and I still love you.”

Chaewon turned away, her shoulders shaking as she bit back a sob. “Don’t make this harder than it already is,” she said, her voice breaking.

Y/N took a step closer, desperate to close the growing distance between them. “Then tell me you don’t love me,” she demanded. “Say it, and I’ll walk away right now.”

Chaewon froze. The words lingered in the air, heavy and suffocating. She turned back to Y/N, her face streaked with tears. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

“Say it,” Y/N repeated, her voice trembling.

“I can’t,” Chaewon admitted finally, her voice barely audible. “Because I do love you. More than you know. But love isn’t enough.”

The finality in her tone shattered something inside Y/N. She sank back onto the bench, her body numb. The coolness of the wood beneath her felt sharper now, almost painful.

Chaewon crouched in front of her, their faces inches apart. “You’ll be okay,” she said softly, though her own expression betrayed the words. “You’re strong, Y/N. Stronger than me.”

Y/N let out a bitter laugh, tears streaming down her face. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend this is for my sake when it’s killing both of us.”

Chaewon reached out hesitantly, her fingers brushing against Y/N’s cheek. For a moment, they stayed like that, frozen in the fragile space between holding on and letting go.

“I’m sorry,” Chaewon whispered, her voice breaking. She stood, her hand slipping away as if it physically hurt her to let go.

Y/N watched her take a step back, then another. Her silhouette blurred as tears filled Y/N’s eyes again. Somewhere in the distance, a bird took flight, its wings slicing through the golden sky.

“Chaewon…” Y/N called out, her voice small and desperate.

Chaewon stopped but didn’t turn around. “I’ll always love you,” she said softly, the words carried away by the wind.

And then she walked away.

Y/N sat there long after Chaewon disappeared from view. The sunset had faded, the sky now tinged with the deep blues of twilight. The sounds of the park grew distant, muffled by the weight of her grief.

The bird circled overhead before flying out of sight, leaving Y/N alone with the emptiness.

End of the Flashback

The memory faded, but the ache it left behind was as sharp as ever. Y/N rubbed her eyes and leaned back in her chair, the faint hum of rain against her apartment window grounding her in the present. It didn’t matter how many times she revisited that day—it always felt as raw as if it had just happened.

She let out a slow, shuddering breath, running her fingers through her hair. The stillness in the room was suffocating, so she grabbed her coat and keys, deciding she couldn’t stay here any longer. Maybe a change of scenery would help, though deep down she knew better.

Moments later, she found herself standing outside the café, her hand resting on the door handle.

The café smelled of roasted coffee and freshly baked pastries, a comforting blend that had once been a backdrop to Y/N’s happiest moments. She pushed open the glass door, the small bell overhead chiming softly. The sound felt familiar, like an echo from a distant memory.

The barista greeted her with a polite smile, but Y/N barely noticed. Her gaze instinctively went to the corner booth near the window—their booth. It was empty, bathed in the soft glow of the afternoon sunlight. For a second, she hesitated, considering sitting elsewhere. But her feet carried her there anyway, as if her heart couldn’t resist the pull.

She slid into the seat, running her hand along the polished wooden table. The grooves and scratches, so subtle to most, felt like a map of memories. Chaewon had once doodled on a napkin here, sketching a caricature of Y/N that had them both in stitches. Y/N had kept that napkin, tucked away somewhere she couldn’t bear to look now.

The barista brought over her usual—a caramel latte, the same drink Chaewon had loved. “Haven’t seen you in a while,” he said casually.

“Yeah,” Y/N replied, her voice quiet. “I’ve been… busy.”

The barista nodded and left her alone. Y/N wrapped her hands around the warm mug, staring into the swirls of foam. She couldn’t stop her mind from wandering, from pulling her back to a time when this seat across from her wasn’t empty.

Flashback

“Is it weird that I like dipping my croissant into my latte?” Chaewon asked, breaking off a flaky piece of pastry.

Y/N laughed, shaking her head. “It’s not weird, just… very you.”

Chaewon pouted, pretending to be offended. “You’re saying I’m weird?”

“You’re adorable,” Y/N corrected, leaning forward to steal a bite of the croissant.

Chaewon grinned, her eyes crinkling in that way that made Y/N’s heart race. “Good save.”

They sat there for hours, talking about everything and nothing. Chaewon’s dreams, her fears, her struggles as a leader. Y/N had listened intently, holding her hand across the table and promising her that she’d always be there, no matter what.

End of Flashback

Y/N blinked, the memory dissolving like sugar in hot coffee. She glanced at the seat across from her, and her chest tightened. The space felt too vast, too empty.

She took a sip of her latte, the sweetness doing little to ease the bitterness in her heart.

Later that day, Y/N found herself walking aimlessly through the streets. She wasn’t sure where she was going, but her feet seemed to lead her toward the park. It wasn’t the same one where they’d broken up, but it held the same quiet serenity, the same crisp air that felt too sharp against her skin.

As she passed a group of teenagers laughing and taking selfies, a voice called out to her. “Hey, aren’t you Y/N?”

She turned to see a young girl, probably no older than 16, looking at her with wide, starstruck eyes. “I think you’re Y/N! You used to… you were close to LE SSERAFIM, right? I saw pictures of you with Kim Chaewon a while back.”

Y/N forced a smile, though she felt her chest constrict. “Yeah, I know them,” she said softly.

The girl’s face lit up. “That’s so cool! Chaewon is amazing, isn’t she? I just saw their new performance. It was incredible.”

Y/N nodded, her smile faltering. “She’s… she’s really talented.”

The girl didn’t seem to notice the sadness in her tone. She waved goodbye cheerfully, leaving Y/N standing alone on the path.

The tightness in her chest grew heavier. Chaewon was amazing, and she always had been. Y/N had known it from the start. But had she done enough to make sure Chaewon knew how much she believed in her?

Back at home, Y/N sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the open journal on her lap. The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of her bedside lamp casting long shadows on the walls.

She picked up her pen, hesitating for a moment before pressing it to the page.

Chaewon,I don’t even know where to start. Every time I think about you, it feels like there’s this weight in my chest that I can’t get rid of. I miss you. I miss your voice, your laugh, the way you always knew exactly what to say when I was feeling lost.

Do you ever think about me? About us?

I’ve been replaying everything in my head, trying to figure out where I went wrong. I keep thinking about all the times I could’ve done more, been better for you. Like that night you called me after your concert in Busan.

Flashback

The call had come late, long past midnight. Y/N had been half-asleep, but the moment Chaewon’s name lit up her screen, she’d answered.

“Hey,” Chaewon’s voice was soft, but there was a tremor in it that made Y/N sit up immediately. “Did I wake you?”

“No,” Y/N lied. “What’s wrong?”

There was a long pause before Chaewon spoke again. “I don’t know. I just… everything feels so heavy sometimes. Like no matter how hard I try, it’s never enough.”

Y/N’s heart ached at the vulnerability in her voice. “You don’t have to do this alone,” she said firmly. “I’m here, Chaewon. Always.”

Chaewon had sighed, a shaky sound that broke Y/N’s heart even more. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

End of Flashback

Y/N closed her journal, her hand trembling. She had been there for Chaewon in that moment, but had it been enough? Had she done enough to make Chaewon feel like she wasn’t alone?

Her gaze shifted to the window, where the rain had started again, soft and unrelenting. She placed the journal on her nightstand and lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

The silence in the room felt unbearable, but it was a silence she’d grown used to.

“Chaewon,” she whispered into the stillness. “I’m sorry.”

The words hung in the air, unanswered, yet Y/N couldn’t stop herself from hoping they would somehow reach her. Somewhere out there, in a different room under different lights, Chaewon was living her life—perhaps moving on, perhaps not. Y/N couldn’t know for sure.

But Chaewon felt it too, the weight of the same silence.

The steady thump of the bass reverberated through the rehearsal studio, punctuated by the sound of sneakers scuffing against the polished floor. Chaewon moved in sync with her members, her every step sharp, her every turn precise. Yet her mind wasn’t on the choreography.

Her focus wavered as a familiar melody filtered through the speakers. The upbeat tempo and bright vocals felt out of place against the storm brewing in her chest. She froze mid-movement, her heart lurching as she recognized the song. It was Y/N’s favorite—something they used to sing along to during long car rides, the windows down, laughter spilling into the wind.

The music blared on, but Chaewon’s breath hitched. Her chest tightened, the walls of the studio suddenly feeling too close, the air too thin.

“Chaewon, are you okay?” Sakura asked, her voice tinged with concern.

Chaewon forced a smile, nodding quickly. “I’m fine. Just… need a minute.” Without waiting for a response, she hurried out of the studio, the sound of the song fading as the door closed behind her.

In the quiet hallway, Chaewon leaned against the wall, her hand pressed to her chest as if that could still the ache. It had been weeks since she’d last seen Y/N, but the memories clung to her like shadows, surfacing when she least expected them.

Back in her dorm room, the glow of her phone screen illuminated Chaewon’s face. She lay curled on her bed, her knees tucked to her chest, scrolling through her photo gallery.

There was one of Y/N asleep on her shoulder, her face peaceful and soft in the dim light of Chaewon’s living room. Another of Y/N laughing mid-bite during a makeshift dinner date at her apartment, the kitchen behind her a chaotic mess of half-prepped ingredients.

Chaewon’s thumb hovered over a video. She hesitated, then tapped play.

The video started with Y/N holding the camera, pouting playfully. “Say hi to your fans, Chaewon!”

Chaewon appeared in the frame, her cheeks pink as she groaned, “Y/N, I’m off-duty.”

“But you’re so cute!” Y/N teased, leaning in to kiss Chaewon’s cheek, earning a shy laugh from the idol.

The video ended, and Chaewon set her phone down, staring at the ceiling. The quiet of her room was deafening, filled only with the faint hum of the city outside.

Chaewon rubbed her eyes, willing the tears away. She had thought walking away from Y/N was the right choice. Her schedule was relentless, her responsibilities as a leader unyielding. Being with Y/N had started to feel selfish, like she was holding her back from the happiness she deserved.

But now, lying alone in her dorm, Chaewon wondered if she had been wrong.

She had everything she had ever dreamed of—fame, success, adoration from fans across the world. Yet none of it filled the emptiness Y/N had left behind.

Her fingers brushed against her nightstand, where a Polaroid of the two of them rested, tucked into the corner of her mirror. In the photo, Y/N was smiling brightly, her arms draped around Chaewon’s shoulders. Chaewon was looking at her, her expression soft, as if she couldn’t believe someone like Y/N had chosen her.

Now, all Chaewon could see in the mirror was the shadow of the person she had been in that photo.

Flashback

It had been a rare evening off, and Chaewon had done something she almost never did: she broke the rules.

She had slipped away from the dorms, her cap pulled low over her face, and made her way to Y/N’s apartment. Y/N opened the door, her surprise melting into a delighted smile. “What are you doing here?”

“I missed you,” Chaewon admitted, stepping inside.

Y/N pulled her into a hug, and for the first time in weeks, Chaewon felt the tension in her shoulders ease.

They spent the night cooking together, though “cooking” was a generous term. Y/N was terrible at following recipes, and Chaewon wasn’t much better, but they didn’t care. Flour dusted the countertops, and burnt garlic wafted through the air, but their laughter drowned out every mishap.

When they finally sat down to eat their poorly made pasta, Y/N raised her glass of soda dramatically. “To us, the culinary disasters.”

“To us,” Chaewon repeated, her voice warm.

Later, as they sat on the couch, Y/N leaned in and kissed her softly. “You’re everything to me, you know that?”

Chaewon’s heart swelled, and she held Y/N close, wishing the moment could last forever.

End of Flashback

Chaewon blinked back to the present, the memory lingering like a ghost in the room. Her eyes drifted to the corner of her dorm, where a small plant sat on a shelf. It was drooping, its leaves pale and dry.

She frowned, realizing she had forgotten to water it—again. She got up and carried the pot to the sink, running water over the parched soil.

The plant looked pitiful, and Chaewon couldn’t help but see herself in it. With Y/N, she had thrived, her life full of color and light. Without her, she felt like she was wilting, no matter how much she tried to convince herself otherwise.

She placed the plant back on the shelf, her hands lingering on the pot. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, unsure if she was speaking to the plant, herself, or Y/N.

The next morning, Chaewon was back on stage, the spotlight blinding, her voice steady as she greeted the cheering fans. To them, she was confident, radiant, untouchable.

But as she danced and sang, her heart felt heavy. She wondered if anyone could see the cracks beneath her polished exterior, the vulnerability she worked so hard to hide.

Behind the scenes, when the music stopped and the lights dimmed, Chaewon sat alone in the dressing room, her fingers brushing over the Polaroid tucked into her bag.

For all her fame and success, she had never felt so alone.

That night, she returned to her dorm, her mind heavy with thoughts of Y/N. Sleep didn’t come easily, the memories of their time together playing on a loop in her head.

The next morning dawned gray and quiet, the city blanketed in clouds that promised rain. Chaewon sat by the window of the dorm’s common area, watching droplets streak the glass as they started to fall. Her schedule for the day was mercifully light, but the free time only left more room for the ache in her chest to grow.

Y/N sat in a café. It was as quiet as Y/N had ever seen it, the usual hum of chatter replaced by the gentle patter of rain against the large glass windows. She sat in their favorite corner, her hands wrapped around a warm mug. Outside, the rain blurred the world into watercolor streaks, the kind of scene that always felt more like a memory than reality.

She stared at the rain, her thoughts tangled with images of Chaewon. No matter how many times she tried to bury the memories, they always found their way back to her. The sound of a bell chiming above the café door barely registered in her mind.

Until she saw her.

Chaewon.

The world seemed to slow as Y/N’s eyes locked onto her. Chaewon stood just inside the door, shaking rain from her umbrella. She looked different—tired, maybe—but no less radiant. Her damp hair clung to her face, and her oversized sweater made her seem smaller than Y/N remembered.

Chaewon’s gaze swept over the room, and when their eyes met, her breath caught. For a moment, neither moved, the noise of the world around them fading into nothing.

Y/N’s heart raced, the sudden rush of emotions leaving her lightheaded. Should she wave? Smile? Say something?

Before she could decide, Chaewon stepped forward.

Chaewon approached slowly, her steps hesitant as if she were still deciding whether to stay or turn back. “Y/N,” she said softly when she was close enough to be heard.

Y/N set her mug down, her fingers trembling slightly. “Hi, Chaewon.”

It was such a small exchange, but the weight of it made Y/N’s chest tighten.

“Do you mind if I sit?” Chaewon asked, gesturing to the seat across from her.

“Of course,” Y/N replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

Chaewon slid into the chair, setting her umbrella against the table. They sat in silence for a moment, the air between them heavy with unspoken words.

“You still come here?” Chaewon asked, her tone soft, almost hesitant.

“Sometimes,” Y/N admitted. “It’s… familiar.”

Chaewon nodded, her gaze dropping to the table. “I haven’t been here in a while.”

Y/N wanted to ask why, but she already knew the answer. This place held too much of them, their laughter and shared dreams woven into the fabric of the walls.

Their conversation began cautiously, like walking on fragile ice. They talked about the café, the rain, even the lattes. Safe topics. Neutral ground. But beneath the surface, the weight of everything left unsaid threatened to pull them under.

It was Y/N who finally broke the delicate balance.

“Chaewon,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “I… I’ve missed you.”

Chaewon’s eyes snapped up to meet hers, and for a moment, Y/N saw every emotion Chaewon tried to hide—pain, longing, and something that looked dangerously like hope.

“I’ve missed you too,” Chaewon admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “More than I can put into words.”

Y/N’s heart ached at the honesty in her tone. “Then why?” she asked, the question escaping before she could stop it. “Why did you let me go?”

Chaewon looked away, her jaw tightening. “Because I thought it was the right thing to do. I thought I was protecting you. I didn’t want you to feel trapped in a relationship where I couldn’t give you everything you deserved.”

“I never felt trapped,” Y/N said softly. “I felt loved.”

Chaewon’s hands clenched into fists on the table. “I know,” she said after a long pause. “But I didn’t know how to balance everything. The group, the fans, my responsibilities… I thought I was doing the right thing, but all I’ve done is hurt you. Hurt myself.”

The rain outside grew heavier, the rhythmic tapping against the glass filling the silence that followed. Y/N stared at her hands, her mind racing.

“I’ve been struggling too,” she said finally, her voice shaky. “I keep wondering what I could’ve done differently, if I could’ve been more patient, more understanding.”

“You were more than enough,” Chaewon said quickly, her voice firm. “Y/N, don’t think for a second that this was your fault. It was me. I’m the one who couldn’t handle it.”

Y/N looked up at her, and for the first time in weeks, she saw the Chaewon she fell in love with—not the idol, not the leader, but the girl who wore her heart on her sleeve when she thought no one was looking.

“Then why does it still hurt so much?” Y/N asked, her voice cracking.

Chaewon reached across the table, her hand hovering over Y/N’s as if unsure whether she had the right to touch her. “Because we both care too much to let it go,” she said softly.

Y/N hesitated, then turned her hand over, letting Chaewon’s fingers intertwine with hers. The warmth of her touch was both familiar and foreign, a reminder of everything they’d shared and everything they’d lost.

The rain continued to fall, blurring the world outside the window. To Y/N, it felt like a reflection of her own heart—cleansing, yet heavy with the weight of the past.

Chaewon’s thumb brushed gently against the back of Y/N’s hand. “I don’t know if we can fix this,” she admitted, her voice trembling. “But I want to try. If you’ll let me.”

Y/N’s breath caught, her chest tightening with a mix of relief, sadness, and hope. She wanted to say yes, to take the leap and trust that they could find their way back to each other. But fear held her back. Fear of repeating the same mistakes, of reopening wounds that hadn’t yet healed.

“I don’t know if I can go through losing you again,” Y/N said quietly, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“You won’t,” Chaewon said, her voice steady despite the tears in her own eyes. “I won’t let that happen. Not this time.”

They sat there for what felt like hours, their hands clasped together, the rain outside a steady backdrop to their tentative reunion. The storm inside Y/N’s heart hadn’t cleared entirely, but for the first time in a long while, she felt the faintest glimmer of hope.

And for now, that was enough.

Eventually, the café grew quieter as the few remaining patrons began to leave. Chaewon glanced at the clock on the wall, then back at Y/N. “We should probably go,” she said softly, though her tone carried a reluctance to let the moment end.

Y/N nodded, her hand slipping from Chaewon’s as she reached for her coat. The warmth of their connection lingered, even as they gathered their things and headed for the door.

The rain had eased by the time they stepped outside, but the sky still hung heavy with gray clouds. A cool breeze rustled the leaves of nearby trees, carrying the faint scent of wet pavement. Y/N and Chaewon stood beneath the café awning, sharing a single umbrella.

For a moment, neither spoke. The world around them seemed to fade, leaving only the soft patter of rain and the faint hum of distant traffic.

Y/N shifted the umbrella slightly to shield Chaewon from the drizzle, her fingers brushing against Chaewon’s hand on the handle. The touch sent a familiar spark through her, a sensation she hadn’t felt in what felt like a lifetime.

“Do you want to walk for a bit?” Chaewon asked, her voice tentative.

Y/N nodded, and they began to move down the quiet street, the umbrella hovering between them like a fragile truce.

They walked in silence at first, the rhythm of their footsteps syncing as if they’d never been apart. Y/N couldn’t help but glance at Chaewon from time to time, taking in the way her damp hair clung to her face, the way her shoulders hunched slightly against the cold.

It was all so familiar yet distant, like looking at an old photo through a foggy window.

“I wasn’t sure if I’d ever see you again,” Chaewon said suddenly, breaking the silence. Her voice was soft, almost drowned out by the rain.

Y/N hesitated, her grip tightening on the umbrella. “I wasn’t sure I wanted to,” she admitted, her words heavier than she intended. “It hurt too much.”

Chaewon stopped walking, and Y/N paused a step ahead, turning to face her. Chaewon’s expression was open, vulnerable in a way Y/N hadn’t seen in a long time.

“I know,” Chaewon said. “I hurt you. And I’ve been hurting too.” She took a deep breath, as if steadying herself. “I thought I was doing the right thing back then, letting you go. I thought it would make things easier for both of us.”

Y/N swallowed hard, her chest tightening. “Did it?”

Chaewon shook her head, a small, rueful smile tugging at her lips. “Not even a little.”

They resumed walking, slower this time. Chaewon spoke again, her words hesitant. “I’ve thought about you every day, Y/N. Wondered if you were okay, if you hated me, if…” She trailed off, biting her lip.

“If what?” Y/N prompted, her voice barely above a whisper.

“If you still cared.”

Y/N’s heart clenched at the raw vulnerability in Chaewon’s tone. She stopped walking, turning to face her fully. “Of course I care,” she said, her voice trembling. “How could I not? You were everything to me.”

Chaewon looked down, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve. “You still are to me,” she said softly.

The confession hung between them, heavy with meaning. Y/N’s breath caught, the weight of her emotions crashing down on her all at once.

“Chaewon…” she began, but she didn’t know how to finish.

Chaewon took a small step closer, her gaze searching Y/N’s. “I still love you,” she said, her voice firm despite the tremor in it. “I always have. But I won’t ask you to come back to me, not if you’re not ready. Not if you’re not sure.”

Y/N felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes. The words she wanted to say were tangled in her throat, caught between her heart and her fear.

“I don’t know,” Y/N said finally, her voice breaking. “I don’t know if I can go through it again, Chaewon. I’m scared.”

Chaewon nodded, her expression filled with understanding. “I know. And I don’t want to hurt you again. But I also don’t want to live the rest of my life wondering what we could’ve been if we tried one more time.”

The clouds above them began to shift, a faint ray of sunlight breaking through the gray. It fell across the sidewalk, illuminating the rain-soaked world in a soft, golden glow.

Chaewon stepped back slightly, giving Y/N space. “I’ll leave the choice up to you,” she said quietly. “Whatever you decide, I’ll respect it.”

Y/N watched her for a long moment, her heart warring with itself. Part of her wanted to reach out, to take Chaewon’s hand and hold on as tightly as she could. But another part of her—tired, cautious, and still nursing old wounds—held her back.

The silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft rustling of the umbrella in the breeze.

Finally, Chaewon smiled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Take care of yourself, Y/N,” she said, her voice filled with quiet affection.

She turned and began to walk away, the umbrella no longer shielding her from the light drizzle.

Y/N stood there, clutching the handle of the umbrella, her fingers trembling. Her gaze fell to her other hand, where she had instinctively reached into her pocket and pulled out the bracelet Chaewon had given her so long ago. The delicate silver chain glinted in the faint sunlight, a tangible reminder of everything they’d shared.

She looked up again, watching as Chaewon’s figure grew smaller in the distance.

“If you…” Y/N whispered, her voice breaking as the words trailed off.

She didn’t finish the thought, but it hung in the air, heavy with the possibility of a future yet unwritten.

[z0mbiefrank]

i have a lot of thoughts i'd like to document about mcr's auckland show, but here's just some of the things gerard said that hit me particularly hard.

first off, of course, we have the quote of the whole night, which i'll try not to dwell on too much.

"In the face of extermination, say fuck you."

there have been many posts about this. despite it not being included in the live stream, this video swept the dashboard. there is a pride flag front and centre in the audience. gerard is barely visible but all we needed was his voice. within hours it had inspired countless textposts and art pieces. i know i'm not the only one who cried. it is exactly what i needed to hear during this time of trans rights being rolled back all over the world. then came this video where you can see gerard. they walk right to the front centre stage, legs planted strongly in their skirt and tights, face set with intent, and he spits out those words for the whole world to hear.

now this next one i have not seen any posts about, but it struck a chord with me anyways. before planetary go they speak to the audience:

"You all look wonderful. You do. I see you when the lights are bright on us. I see you. Don't worry, I see you. There's some wonderful costumes. If they're costumes. Are they costumes?" The audience yells back with a resounding "No!" source video

every night my chemical romance performs, they look out to a crowd of visibly queer people staring right back at them. my mcr show was the first time i saw my trans best friend able to walk into the men's bathroom with his head held high. recently there has been a huge onslaught of anti-transgender laws across the world. i'm sure we've all seen posts pointing out that gerard's cheerleader dress they wore in Nashville would now be illegal. the new tennessee bill bans "male or female impersonators who provide entertainment that appeals to a prurient interest." many people have claimed the bill is 'only' about drag performers, as if that would make it okay, but we know that is not true. right-wingers have proven time and time again they view trans women as nothing more than "female impersonators". they treat transgender bodies as nothing but a fetish, or a prurient interest. they argue against gender-affirming medical care on the same phone they use to watch transgender porn. they believe transgender identity and queerness is a costume. it is something we can take on and off. something they can ban and eradicate from their country. but it's not a fucking costume. it's who we are.

which leads me to the encore. this was the only show during their tour with a planned one-song encore (excluding festivals), and that song was their most famous of all time, welcome to the black parade. the band walks back on stage and the only thing gerard says is

"Be who the fuck you are." video

an incredibly important statement that has always been a core part of my chemical romance's message. but with everything that's been going on, with frank saying one of his favourite thing about these tours is "g being able to just be himself", with gerard's gnc outfits making headlines, i feel like that was the perfect sentence to close the show