#no idea if someone already did this but i had to say it

[hrrtshape]

hiiii emma, can u talk about your process for awake shifting? does it differ from your anti-method? thank u angel!!

the anti-method. and awake shifting. and me. hi.

hi snookums !!!!! thank you for enabling me. i love when we enable each other. you've tuned into the exact wrong frequency to stay grounded. perfect. now we spiral.

yes i still use the anti-method. of course i do. i'm loyal. i'm traditional. i'm clinically suspicious of reality and emotionally attached to loopholes. the only difference is now i'm vertical. upright. blinking !!!

if you want to know more about it, do go ahead and read this post here.

　here's my process .

no prep. don't lie down, although you can. whatever. don't breathe deep. just be. wherever you are. nothing to fix.

get suspicious. notice how things feel a bit…... wrong. light looks weird. you can't remember what you did 6 seconds ago.

drop the question. what if i already shifted and just forgot? not a test. just let the idea sit. loop it.

let your brain scramble a bit. it'll try to anchor you. lists, memories, elbow pain. nod. say ok. but keep thinking, what if this is just leftover?

assume it's done. you're not "getting there." you already did. i'm here. i've been here. i just forgot.

stay there. don't wait for a feeling. just hold the assumption. walk, talk, scroll like it's real. like it's been real.

　bonus steps. when you're confident but your cr still looks like your cr

this happens. you've assumed hard. you're in the pocket. but your environment's lagging. you feel like you walked into your dr and someone forgot to switch the set.

what now?

drop the expectation of proof. you're not waiting for a "shift feeling." you're not refreshing the screen for signs. this is not confirmation-based. your job is to keep assuming - not to diagnose reality.

call everything static. your bedroom is leftover code. your phone battery doesn't count. your body feeling the same, that's an echo. if you still feel "here," say: that's just memory playing itself out. reality's just buffering. you already left. act like you're already there. this doesn't mean pretending. it means committing. do what you would do in your dr. text them. reach for the thing. change the language in your head. claim the timeline like you've had the keys all along.

double down harder. the more "real" this place feels, the more you assume it's not. if you feel resistance, that's your sign to lean in. "the stronger this place feels, the less real it is."

　bonus loop. use this as a mantra if doubt creeps in ,

　i've already shifted. this is just the afterimage.

　the environment doesn't update me. i update it.

　i'm already there. reality just hasn't caught up.

[socialistsephardi]

Go away reddit atheist. Genuinely go the fuck away you do not know what you are discussing go the fuck away. The Torah is not the same as the Old Testament. The Old Testament, as Christians call it, is the Torah ripped out of its context, translated several times by people who didn’t know what it was about, and then chopped up into sections that we did not divide it into - implying meanings where there was none and erasing messages that were there. You literally do not understand this. The Torah is not, and NEVER has been, a literal document, and it cones with commentary and multiple *sets* of *conflicting* interpretations - deliberately. It’s supposed to be flexible allegory. Your reply here is ass backwards and asinine. I am not saying that they are not Jews in the sense of “oh they have no historical roots in Judaism and blah blah”, I am saying, that right now, as it is, we need to apply to them the old tradition of collective internal shaming by forcibly rejecting them as authorities on the subject. You are also just flat out wrong about Judaism being “spread by the sword”. Like. That is just straight up incorrect.

I am not actually religious in the sense you are describing here, I am hammering home my cultural argument - that these people, that being Zionists, are bstshit insane and don’t even know their own cultural roots bc they’ve been completely obsessed on the idea that because some segment of us suffered the Holocaust, the world owes them the right to commit atrocities, and in the process of destroying Palestinians and destroying everyone else they are also Yaknow destroying us too bc they’ve lost the plot and think Judaism is measured by how loyal to Israel you are and how guilty you can make Europe feel about it. You are ALSO missing the fucking message. Get out of here, you are deeply unserious. You are saying obvious shit to someone who already knows it because you are a moron person who thinks you are the first person to point these things out. Genuinely sit for a second - do you seriously think I have never considered the angle of “wow if you take words from 3000 years ago literally they look kinda bad?” I’m a fucking transgender Jewish communist that grew up in a cult within Orthodox Judaism please go fuck yourself severely. Get outta here. I literally had rocks and glass thrown at me for being queer, in fucking Chicago, and was threatened with expulsion because I told my friend it was okay to object to her parents forcing her to wear skirts. I went to orthodox schools where they literally refused to approach sex ed until students were seniors bc “sex is for marriage” and they forced us all to sit together and watch essentially traumaporn to brainwash us into moving to the entity as soon as we graduated in order to become foot soldiers, a tactic that is there bc the schools are all fucking funded by the entity, bc in the United States you cannot legally be recognized as a rabbi unless you studied in Israel. I know more than you. Your commentary is unsolicited and unwelcome. You are genuinely in the same stream of reductive nonesense person who approaches victims of the Iraq war and decides to start debating about the prophets wife. More things in history have happened since ancient book times and you are being an ego-stroking contrarian asshole about this. Go away.

What the fuck

[4linos]

between the lines 2

lee minho x f!reader

synopsis: after a quiet and amicable separation, you and minho learn to navigate the subtle emotional terrain of co-parenting, discovering that the bonds between you aren’t entirely severed. when a new relationship enters the picture, old emotions come into play, forcing you to reassess what it means to truly move on.

warnings: angst, slow burn, emotional tension, jealousy, unresolved feelings, mild alcohol use.

wc: 10,056

[between the lines part 1]

Minho was stressed, more than he cared to admit, even to himself. It was the kind of stress that lingered in your bones, in the tight clench of your jaw and the ever-present weight pressing against your temples. He sat at his desk, eyes trained on the screen in front of him, but not really seeing anything. The same sentence of his report had been rewritten four times now. It wasn’t the numbers or the deadlines that had his mind in a chokehold.

It was you.

You, smiling down at your phone these days, blushing when you picked Hana up from him, trying to hide it but not quite succeeding. You, brushing him off gently when he tried to ask about what or who was making you light up like that. It didn’t take a genius to figure it out. You were seeing someone. Dating.

He wasn’t stupid.

Still, it looped in his head like static he couldn’t tune out.

What was he like?

Had he met Hana already?

Would you let him meet her before you let Minho even try to be part of your life again?

The idea made Minho feel sick to his stomach. He wasn’t entitled to you anymore, he knew that, but the thought of someone stepping in, stepping closer to your world and his daughter, his daughter, lit something sharp in his chest.

He was pulled from his spiraling thoughts by the familiar, grating voice of Jisung. The guy had a talent for saying too much with too much volume and not enough awareness. He stood a few feet away from Minho’s desk, leaning casually against the low partition wall, talking to Chan and Changbin, both of whom were laughing, albeit less enthusiastically than usual.

Minho barely spared them a glance at first. He rarely did. He hadn’t spoken more than five full sentences to Jisung since he started working there two months ago. There was no real reason for it, aside from the one minor disagreement they'd had early on, something about meeting deadlines or overlapping responsibilities that didn’t really matter anymore. But from that moment on, Minho kept his distance.

Jisung was... loud. Overly friendly. Always talking about things Minho had no interest in, especially when it came to his love life, which he brought up constantly. Minho didn’t like him, but he didn’t exactly dislike him either. Jisung was just there. Annoying.

"She’s gorgeous, man," Jisung was saying, arms crossed over his chest as he grinned. “A total MILF. Super sweet, down to earth. Has a daughter, cutest little kid, name’s Hana, I think?”

Minho froze.

He didn’t even blink.

His blood turned ice cold in his veins. He looked up slowly, the sound around him warping like it had been sucked into a vacuum. He stared at Jisung, expression unreadable, but his grip on the edge of the desk tightened.

He heard it. Hana.

Chan and Changbin did, too.

He could see it, how their heads turned slightly toward him at the same time, quiet recognition dawning behind their eyes. They’d met you before, briefly, back when things with you and Minho were still intact. They knew your name. They knew Hana. They knew, and now they were looking between Jisung and Minho like they were connecting the wires.

Minho didn’t wait for the pieces to fall completely.

He stood up.

“Stop,” Chan said lowly to Jisung, trying to steer the conversation away.

But it was too late.

Jisung just laughed. “What?”

Minho took a step forward, and Jisung’s gaze shifted to him, curious and oblivious.

“Who’s the mom?” Minho asked, voice calm but sharp, cutting through the air like a blade.

Jisung raised a brow. “Why? You interested too?” he said with a smirk, not understanding yet.

Chan and Changbin looked increasingly uncomfortable, but neither of them interrupted. They knew what was about to happen.

Minho’s tone was like ice. “What’s her name?”

Jisung, cocky as ever, shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Y/N. Met her a few weeks ago.”

Minho’s jaw ticked. “That’s my daughter.”

Jisung blinked, caught off guard, the smirk faltering for just a second before it twisted back into place.

“Wait, what?”

“That’s my ex,” Minho clarified, eyes narrowing. “You’ve been bragging about your hot single mom date all morning without realizing you're talking about my family.”

A beat of silence passed. Chan muttered something under his breath, while Changbin shifted in place, clearly wanting to be anywhere else. But Jisung, he didn’t back down.

“Okay,” Jisung said slowly, then folded his arms. “But how was I supposed to know that? You don’t talk to anyone. Especially not me.”

Minho stepped closer, his voice still low but unmistakably tense. “I don’t talk about my personal life at work. And especially not to you.”

“Oh, well, excuse me for not reading your mind,” Jisung said, raising his hands in mock defense. “Look, Minho, I didn’t know. It’s not like you warned me. And anyway, you guys are separated, aren’t you? Why do you care if she’s moving on?”

That did it.

Minho’s fists clenched at his sides, but he didn’t lash out. He just stared at Jisung, the weight of a thousand things he wanted to say pressing against his chest.

He didn’t answer at first, because the truth was too complicated. Why did he care? Why didn’t he say anything?

Because he still loved you. Because he hadn’t let go, not really. Because every time he handed Hana back to you, it felt like another reminder of the life that slipped through his fingers. Because he didn’t want anyone else stepping in, not before he figured out how to fix what he broke.

Minho exhaled slowly. “Just watch what you say,” he said tightly. “And stay away from my daughter.”

Jisung didn’t reply. For once, he was quiet.

And Minho left it at that, turning on his heel and walking out of the room before he said something he couldn’t take back.

But inside, he was burning.

You weren’t just moving on.

You were moving on with him.

And now Minho couldn’t unsee it. Couldn’t unfeel it.

And something deep in his chest told him, this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Minho didn’t tell you what happened.

He told himself it was better that way, that it would only complicate things if he did. Maybe you’d think he was overstepping. Maybe you’d accuse him of still trying to control something that wasn’t his anymore. And honestly, maybe you’d be right.

You were separated. You had every right to see whoever you wanted. He knew that. He reminded himself of it every day.

But that didn’t stop him from confronting Jisung.

And it sure as hell didn’t stop the sick twist in his gut every time he thought about you with him, laughing, smiling, your eyes soft the way they used to be with him.

So he kept it to himself.

He didn’t mention the moment in the office, or how his blood had gone cold when Jisung had said your name so casually, so publicly, like it was just another notch on his belt. He didn’t tell you that he stood toe-to-toe with him, tense and seconds from saying too much. He didn’t tell you that the only reason he hadn’t said more was because he was afraid of what you’d think.

Because at the end of the day, you weren’t his. Not anymore.

He had no right to tell you who to see.

Still, he couldn’t help the cold front that built up around him as the weekend approached. The one he tried, tried, not to bring to your doorstep.

But he failed.

When he showed up at your place that Friday afternoon, the air was already heavy with something he couldn’t name. He knocked softly and waited, adjusting Hana’s backpack over his shoulder. He heard the shuffle of your footsteps, the door creaking open slowly.

You looked… beautiful.

You always did, but this was different. Your hair was softly curled, makeup light but radiant. You wore something casual but intentional, like you wanted to feel comfortable and confident.

Like you were going somewhere.

Minho’s jaw tensed, just slightly. He forced his expression to stay neutral, pretending he didn’t feel that sting in his chest.

“Hey,” you said with a small smile, holding the door open.

“Hey,” he replied, curt but not unkind. His eyes flicked over you once, a flash of recognition passing through them before he looked away.

“She’s just grabbing her stuffed bunny,” you explained, stepping aside to let him in.

He nodded, still not quite looking at you.

There was a beat of awkward silence before you added, “You okay?”

“Fine,” he said quickly, a little too quickly. His voice had an edge to it, sharp, but quiet. Like he didn’t mean to sound irritated, but it slipped through anyway.

You blinked, caught off guard. “Okay…”

He shifted his weight, folding his arms. His eyes went to the hallway where Hana’s room was, then back to you.

“Got plans tonight?” he asked, and even though the question was simple, it was loaded.

You hesitated. “Uh, yeah… a dinner.”

“With him?”

You furrowed your brows, confused. “What?”

“Nothing,” Minho said quickly, shaking his head. “Forget it.”

But the tension was already there, heavy and tangible. The way he looked at you wasn’t angry, but it wasn’t warm either. He wasn’t his usual composed self, he was guarded, clipped.

You tilted your head. “Minho, what’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on,” he said, but his voice was low, and he wasn’t meeting your eyes.

You stared at him for a long moment, the silence stretching.

He knew you were trying to read him. You always could. It was part of what made being around you so hard now because you saw too much, even when he didn’t want you to.

Before you could press again, Hana came bounding into the room, bunny in hand, her little backpack bouncing behind her.

“I got it!” she said proudly.

Minho softened at the sight of her and crouched down, opening his arms as she ran into them.

“Hey, bug,” he said quietly, kissing the side of her head.

Whatever you were about to say faded into the background as he picked her up. You followed him to the door, your arms crossed lightly, brows still drawn together.

He paused before stepping outside, glancing at you once more. His eyes flickered to your lips, then away again, guilt laced in the corners of his expression.

“Have fun,” you said softly, but he caught the hesitation in your voice.

“Yeah,” he murmured, adjusting Hana’s weight in his arms. “You too.”

And then he left.

You closed the door behind him, standing in the quiet for a moment, staring at the handle.

You didn’t know what was going on with Minho, but something had changed. You could feel it.

And he… he was already kicking himself before he even got to the car. For letting it show. For acting cold. For caring too much.

But mostly, for not telling you the truth.

Because deep down, he knew this was only going to get harder.

-

The phone rang just as you were pulling a warm pile of laundry from the dryer, the scent of fabric softener filling the air. You tucked the phone between your shoulder and cheek, balancing a fitted sheet in your arms as you swiped to answer.

“Hello?”

“You’re not ghosting me already, are you?”

Jisung’s voice came through light and teasing, and despite yourself, you smiled, one of those small, involuntary smiles that tugged at your mouth before your brain caught up.

You laughed, adjusting the phone. “What? No! I was just… buried under a mountain of laundry.”

“Laundry. Mmm. Classic ghosting excuse.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “I swear I’m not.”

“I’m just messing with you,” he said, voice warm and reassuring. “But, for the record, you do owe me a date.”

You sat down on the edge of the couch, letting the warm laundry spill across your lap. “You’re right. I do.”

There was a small pause, not awkward, just easy. Like a breath taken between lines in a good conversation.

“I’ve got some time tonight,” you offered, hesitant but hopeful. “Hana’s with her dad for the weekend.”

Jisung didn’t hesitate. “Perfect. I’ll text you the details?”

“Okay,” you said softly, suddenly aware of the way your stomach fluttered. “I’ll see you later.”

“Can’t wait.”

When the call ended, you stared at your phone for a second, a small grin curling at your lips. Your pulse had picked up without warning, that familiar giddy feeling you hadn’t let yourself feel in a long time taking root just beneath your skin.

You dropped the phone on the couch and stood abruptly, brushing off the leftover warmth of laundry as if it were slowing you down. You had things to do. Like everything. You still had to finish folding, pick up Hana from preschool, and somehow figure out what to wear. The last one felt the most daunting.

You moved faster now, folding with a renewed sense of purpose, your mind already wandering through the different pieces in your closet. Too casual? Too much? Something that said you cared but not that you’d tried too hard?

-

By the time the sun had begun its slow descent toward the horizon, you were in front of your mirror with a few carefully selected options draped across your bed. Hana was sitting on the floor behind you, cross-legged and content, holding her stuffed bunny and occasionally twirling her fingers through its ears.

You turned to her, holding up a dress in one hand and a blouse-and-jeans combo in the other. “Okay, little critic. What do you think? This one,”—you shook the dress gently—“or this one?”

She blinked, considering seriously, the way only a child could. “The blue one,” she said after a moment. “You look like a princess.”

You smiled down at her. “You think so?”

She nodded, then leaned forward to whisper something to her bunny, probably some secret only the two of them understood.

You looked at yourself in the mirror again, holding the dress up against your frame. Your reflection met your gaze, and for a second, you barely recognized yourself. Not because you looked different, necessarily. But because you felt different.

It had been a long time since you’d felt this kind of anticipation. The good kind. Not dread, not worry, not guilt. Just hope, sharp and tentative and thrilling.

You glanced down at Hana, your chest swelling with something tender. This wasn’t just about getting ready for a date. It was about letting yourself believe in the possibility of something new. Of maybe even if only just maybe, something good again.

And that night, for the first time in a long time, you let yourself lean into it.

You were still smiling when you closed the door behind Minho and Hana. Hana had given you one last sleepy hug before waving from the backseat of her dad’s car, her little hand smudged against the window as they drove away. It was always a little bittersweet when she left quiet, still, but tonight, the quiet buzzed differently. There was anticipation in the air, and your stomach flipped when your phone lit up with a text from

Jisung: On my way. Hope you're ready to be impressed.

And suddenly, that’s when the nerves kicked in.

Not when you picked your outfit.
Not while brushing your hair.
Not even while applying mascara with a trembling hand.

It was in that fleeting moment, between Hana’s goodbye and Jisung pulling up, when the full weight of it hit you. This was your first real date in a long time. Since before the weight of motherhood, since before your life changed completely, since before love started to feel like a puzzle you couldn’t quite solve.

Your heart fluttered as headlights cut across the street. You peeked out the window and saw him, leaning casually against the side of his car, hands in his pockets, that same easy smile on his face. You opened the door, stepped out, and tried to still your heart.

“You clean up nice,” he said, eyes scanning you in a way that felt admiring but never invasive. “Should I be nervous?”

You gave a half-laugh, shaking your head. “No. I should be.”

“Well, don’t be. I brought emergency gummy bears. For stress relief.”

You laughed more earnestly at that, already loosening up as you got into the car.

The drive was easy. Jisung filled the silence with a playful commentary about the playlist he’d curated just for the ride, mostly early 2000s pop hits and lo-fi beats, complete with a dramatic reenactment of a Backstreet Boys bridge. It was impossible not to relax around him. He had a way of making you feel like you'd known him for years.

Dinner was warm, low-lit, cozy, one of those local places that wasn’t quite fancy but knew exactly what it was doing. The kind of place where the bread was fresh and the waiter seemed to know Jisung by name.

Conversation flowed like water. He told you about his new job, how he was still figuring things out, but liked the pace, liked the team, even if he rolled his eyes at “some of the guys.”

You found yourself laughing more than you expected, your face warming as he leaned in every time you spoke, his eyes attentive, focused. When you talked about Hana, his interest didn’t waver, not once. He asked questions. Real questions. What she liked. What she was afraid of. How motherhood changed you. You could see that he was trying to understand your world, not just admire it from the outside.

You told him about your work, your side hobbies, the podcasts you listen to when cleaning the kitchen. He joked about starting a podcast of his own and had you snorting into your drink by the time dessert came. You felt seen. Not just noticed, seen.

And then, somewhere between the last bite of shared cake and the server clearing your table, the conversation slowed. Not in a bad way, but in that natural shift that happens when the lighthearted curiosity gives way to something deeper.

He looked at you a little more seriously. “Can I ask something personal?”

You met his gaze, something in your chest tightening, but you nodded.

He hesitated. “Why did you and… Hana’s dad… separate?”

The air between you quieted, but not awkwardly. Just… carefully.

You took a breath, folding your hands on the table. “It’s a long story,” you began slowly. “But the short version is… we stopped growing together. Somewhere along the way, we started growing apart.”

You didn’t want to bad-mouth Minho. That wasn’t who you were, and it wasn’t what Hana deserved. But you also wanted to be honest. You explained how things shifted after Hana was born, how the weight of new responsibilities created distance that never fully closed. How resentment slowly replaced understanding. How love, no matter how deep it once was, sometimes isn’t enough when two people stop seeing each other clearly.

Jisung didn’t interrupt. He didn’t try to fix it or offer cliché advice. He just listened, gently nodding, thumb brushing his glass absentmindedly.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, “that must’ve been hard.”

You smiled faintly, appreciative. “It was. But… it also gave me the strongest part of my life. So, I can’t regret it.”

Jisung leaned forward slightly, a half-smile on his lips. “You know… you’re kind of incredible.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“I mean it. You’re raising a whole human, showing up for her every day, and you still have time to be this cool? Most people burn out just trying to keep their plants alive.”

You laughed again, this time with a blush creeping up your neck. The compliment felt good. Earnest. He didn’t look at you like a project. He looked at you like a person he wanted to know, not someone he needed to fix.

By the time he drove you home, you weren’t nervous anymore. You were grounded. Calm. Hopeful in a way that wasn’t naive.

He walked you to your door. And though there was no kiss, not yet there was something in the way he smiled as you said goodnight. Something that said this wasn’t the end of a nice evening.

It was the beginning of something that, maybe, just maybe, could matter.

-

You had just finished patting your skin dry after wiping off the last traces of makeup. Your face felt lighter, the way it always did after a night out, but your chest was still full, still warm from the laughter, the softness, and the unexpected comfort of the evening you’d just shared with Jisung. You hadn’t realized how much you missed feeling… wanted. Seen.

You were still riding that quiet high when your phone buzzed on the bathroom counter.

Minho.

Your heart dropped. He never called. Not unless it was important. Not unless something was wrong. And now, at 11:30 at night, your mind went straight to Hana.

You snatched the phone up without hesitation.

“Minho?” Your voice was already taut with worry. “What’s wrong? Is Hana okay?”

There was a pause, one beat too long, and then, when he spoke, it wasn’t his usual composed tone. His words dragged, his voice low and slurred.

“What’re you… doin’ right now?”

You blinked, stunned. “What?”

There was another heavy pause. You could hear the faint, uneven sound of his breathing on the other end.

“You okay?” you asked, this time with a little more edge. “Is Hana okay?”

“She’s asleep,” he mumbled.

The knot in your stomach tightened. “Minho… are you drunk?”

He was silent for a moment, and then you heard a soft scoff. “Just had… a few drinks.”

You sat down on the edge of your bed, your pulse hammering. “Where is Hana right now?”

“I said—she’s sleeping,” he repeated, slurring slightly again. “She’s fine. I’m not a shitty dad.”

“I didn’t say you were,” you replied, carefully but firmly. “But if you’ve been drinking, I need to know where she is. Is she in bed? Safe?”

“Yes,” he snapped, more annoyed now, like you were being irrational. “She’s fine. She’s out like a light. I would never drink like that if she was awake. I’m not… stupid.”

You let out a breath, half-relieved, half still panicked. “Okay. Okay, good.” But your voice remained tight. “Then why are you calling me, Minho?”

There was silence again before he muttered, “Did your date go well?”

You froze. Your mouth opened, but no words came out at first.

“What?”

“Your date,” he said, bitterly. “With… whoever he is. Your new boyfriend.”

You stood up, pacing now, your hand gripping the phone tighter. “Minho, it’s late. You’re drunk. You need to get some water and go to bed.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“I don’t need to.”

“Why?” he asked, his tone wobbling between mocking and hurt. “You don’t tell me anything anymore. You used to. Now it’s all… secrets. You don’t even care that I still—”

“Minho,” you interrupted, your voice suddenly sharp. “Where is this coming from?”

“Why’d you stop loving me?”

The words hit like a slap. You were stunned into silence.

“Was it really that easy?” he went on, voice cracking just barely, like he was trying to hide it under the slurring. “To just… move on? Meet someone new and pretend like it didn’t mean anything?”

“Minho,” you breathed, jaw tightening. “You can’t do this. Not like this. You don’t get to call me in the middle of the night, drunk, and ask me why I moved on—especially when you’re the one who gave up first.”

He scoffed again, and it sounded bitter. Childish. “I didn’t give up.”

You swallowed down the heat rising in your throat. “Don’t rewrite the past just because it hurts now.”

There was a long, empty silence. Neither of you spoke.

Then you asked, slowly, carefully, “Do I need to come pick up Hana?”

“No,” he snapped, but there was something broken in it. “I’m not some fuck-up. She’s safe. I just…”

He trailed off. The silence stretched between you again. Heavy.

You softened just a little, despite everything. “Minho… this isn’t fair. To you, to me, to her. We separated for a reason.”

“I know,” he said quietly, almost a whisper. “I know we did.”

And then he added, even softer, “I just didn’t know it would feel like this.”

You closed your eyes, your heart aching in a way that surprised you. Because despite the resentment, the frustration, the endless late-night fights and miscommunication that had worn you both thin, there was still history. Still grief.

Still something.

But that didn’t mean it could be what it was. And it didn’t mean it should.

“You need to get some sleep,” you said gently. “We can talk later. When you’re sober.”

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t argue either. You heard the soft click of the line disconnecting.

And when you set your phone down, you stared at it for a long time, your reflection blurred in the dark screen, wondering how something so far gone could still pull at your heart in the quiet.

The silence that followed Minho’s call lingered long after the line went dead.

You sat on the edge of your bed, staring blankly at your phone, unable to move. You couldn’t tell if you were angry, worried, or just sad, maybe all three. The echoes of his slurred voice still buzzed in your ears: Why did you stop loving me? Was it really that easy?

It wasn’t. And he knew that. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe he’d spent so long pretending it didn’t hurt that he finally couldn’t anymore.

You stood up and paced, debating whether you should text him to make sure he actually went to bed. Or whether you should let him sit in the feelings he’d tried to drown in whiskey.

Instead, you walked to Hana’s room, her room at your place and sat on the edge of her empty bed. You looked at her stuffed bunny, her favorite blanket folded neatly at the end of the mattress, the faint pink glow of her nightlight still on even though she wasn’t there tonight. You hated that even her absence was so loud.

It wasn’t until almost an hour later, just past midnight, that your phone buzzed again, this time, a message from Jisung.

“Hey, I had a really great time tonight. You looked beautiful, by the way. Hope you got home safe. Sweet dreams :)”

Your heart clenched in a completely different way. Warmth spread through your chest, soft and careful.

You stared at his message, thumb hovering over your keyboard for a few seconds before replying.

“I did. Thank you, Jisung. I really enjoyed tonight too.”

You hesitated, then added:

“Sorry if I seemed a little off after I got home. Something personal came up. I’ll tell you about it soon, I promise.”

He replied almost instantly.

“No pressure. I’m just happy I got to spend time with you.”

That simple sentence wrapped itself around your heart. Reassuring. Understanding. No expectations. And yet, it made you realize how much you’d been bracing for disappointment, how unfamiliar it felt to be seen and respected.

You let the phone rest on your nightstand and finally crawled into bed, pulling the covers up, staring at the ceiling in the dark.

Two men, two completely different versions of your past and future, had crossed lines tonight in ways you hadn’t expected.

Minho had said things you’d never thought he’d say. He cracked open something that had long been closed between you.

And Jisung… Jisung gave you something you hadn’t had in a long time, hope.

You didn't sleep easily that night.

Too much was shifting. And something told you this wasn’t the end of the unraveling.

It was only the beginning.

The morning came far too quickly.

The kind of restless, fragmented sleep that left your bones feeling heavier than when you laid down. You’d turned over Minho’s call in your head all night his voice, thick with liquor and something lonelier than you’d heard in months. The things he said, the questions he asked, the grief you both thought you’d buried, it all sat with you like fog behind your ribs.

You shuffled into the kitchen in your slippers, hoodie hanging loose off one shoulder, eyes still half-closed. Your hand had just reached for your favorite mug, chipped on one side, the one you always used on rough mornings, when your phone lit up on the counter, vibrating with a call.

Jisung.

You blinked, surprised. You hadn’t expected to hear from him this early, not after last night. Part of you worried he might sense something was off, might retreat.

But instead, when you picked up and croaked out a soft, “Hello?”—he sounded like sunshine.

“Hey,” he said, his voice warm, maybe a little sleepy himself. “Sorry if I woke you. Did you sleep okay?”

You paused, considering how to answer. “Not really,” you admitted softly. You weren’t ready to talk about it yet, not when you were still sorting through the mess in your own mind.

Jisung seemed to hear it in your voice. He didn’t press. “That’s okay,” he said gently. “We don’t have to talk about it. But, uh… that’s not why I called.”

You raised your eyebrows, curious now.

“I was just thinking,” he continued, “I could really use some pancakes. Or waffles. Or anything with way too much syrup. And I figured, what better way to get through a groggy morning than with company? So… wanna get breakfast with me?”

Your lips curved into a tired smile, despite everything. “You trying to bribe me with food?”

“Absolutely,” he said without hesitation. “You need caffeine. I need sugar. It’s fate.”

You laughed, the sound surprising even yourself with how good it felt to laugh again after a heavy night. “Okay. Yeah. I’d like that.”

“Perfect,” he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. “But don’t get all dressed up on me. I’m literally still in my sweats. You show up looking like a magazine cover and I’ll have to fake a twisted ankle to save face.”

You snorted. “You mean I can’t wear the gown and heels I had picked out?”

“Only if it’s a breakfast gala.”

You shook your head, grin lingering as you leaned against the counter. “Sweats it is.”

“Good,” he said. “I’ll be there in twenty.”

After you hung up, you stood there for a moment, the quiet humming around you. There was still a knot in your chest from last night, Minho’s words, his tone, but there was also a thread of something lighter now. Something new.

You didn’t know what it was going to become with Jisung. But you knew, for now, this moment, his voice, the offer of pancakes and a little normalcy was exactly what you needed.

You slipped into your softest hoodie and leggings, quickly brushed your hair back into a messy bun, and for the first time in a while, didn’t bother with makeup.

You didn’t need to. Not with Jisung.

-

True to his word, Jisung pulled up in front of your place not even twenty minutes later, hoodie sleeves pushed up his forearms, hair still a little tousled, and that same bright grin painted across his face. When you climbed into the passenger seat, you were immediately greeted by the faint sound of music playing low from the speakers, some upbeat indie-pop song that matched his energy all too well.

“You look cozy,” he commented, giving you a once-over with a dramatic nod of approval. “I appreciate the commitment to the comfy clothes pact.”

You laughed as you buckled your seatbelt. “I take breakfast attire very seriously.”

The ride was short, filled with light conversation and lazy jokes that softened the jagged edges of the night before. You felt it, the calm, the ease that Jisung naturally brought with him like it lived in his skin. It wasn’t just that he was funny or sweet, it was that you didn’t feel like you had to be anyone else when you were around him.

He took you to a small, tucked-away café just outside your usual routes, somewhere you never would’ve stumbled on alone. It had worn brick walls and hanging plants in every corner, the smell of syrup and espresso greeting you the second you stepped inside.

“This place is everything,” Jisung said proudly, holding the door open for you. “Like, I would die for the banana pancakes here. They’re life-changing. So I’m just gonna go ahead and order for you unless you stop me.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Bold move.”

“I stand by it. You won’t regret it.”

You didn’t.

The pancakes came stacked high, drizzled with caramelized bananas and whipped cream, and he even insisted you try it “the Jisung way” with a little bit of everything on the fork, “precision pancake architecture,” as he called it. You couldn’t stop laughing at how seriously he took his breakfast techniques, and even more at how right he was. It was insanely good.

Over coffee and second helpings, conversation spilled out easily, about your favorite comfort movies, the worst jobs you’d ever had, music that got you through heartbreak. He talked more about his transition into his new job, how the office still felt a little sterile but he was trying to find his place in it. At some point, his gaze softened, and he leaned his elbow against the table.

“So,” he said, casually enough but with intention, “you wanna do something tomorrow too? Maybe a proper dinner or—if you’re free, obviously.”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want to. The answer was yes, so easily, so much, but…

“I have Hana back tomorrow,” you said gently, offering him an apologetic smile. “So I can’t. Not yet.”

Jisung nodded without missing a beat. “Got it. I just—yeah. I like seeing you. No pressure.”

And that was the thing. He didn’t sulk or guilt you or make you feel like you had to explain more than that. He just understood. And you couldn’t help but admire that, how naturally he fit into this new chapter you were barely stepping into.

As you both finished your coffee, lingering in the lazy haze of a good morning and better company, you found yourself hoping that somehow, this wouldn’t get complicated.

But deep down, you already knew it might.

When Minho pulled up to your place the next evening to drop Hana off, the tension between you was quiet but undeniable. You could feel it the second he stepped onto your porch, the way his eyes didn’t meet yours right away, the stiffness in his posture, how his hand lingered just a little longer than necessary on Hana’s backpack strap before letting it go. He looked tired, like he hadn’t slept well like maybe the regret of last night had gnawed at him the same way it had lingered in the back of your mind.

Still, he greeted you softly, almost cautiously. “She had a good time,” he said, clearing his throat. “We went to the park yesterday. She talked about you the whole time.”

You smiled, crouching to Hana’s level to greet her with open arms. “Did you have fun with Daddy?” you asked, brushing back a piece of hair from her cheek as she nodded, immediately launching into a small, excited ramble about slides and juice boxes and how Daddy let her stay up a little past bedtime to watch a movie.

Minho stood back during the exchange, watching silently. When your eyes flicked up toward him, you tried to keep your tone neutral gentle, even as you asked, “She ate okay? Got enough sleep?”

He nodded. “Yeah. She was good. Always is.”

You gave a soft, “Thanks,” and you meant it, even though there was still an awkwardness between you both, an invisible thread that felt frayed and pulled thin. He hadn’t brought up the late-night call. Neither did you. It felt too raw, too fresh, and you weren’t even sure what there was to say about it that wouldn’t open a door neither of you were ready to walk through.

But just as he turned to go, calling over his shoulder, “Alright, I’ll see you next week—” you stopped him.

“Wait, Hana—come say goodbye to Daddy,” you said, nudging her gently.

She ran after him, her tiny arms wrapping around his legs, her voice muffled in his coat as she said, “Bye, Daddy.”

Minho bent down, holding her tightly, resting his chin on her shoulder. You stood at the door, watching the quiet moment between them. It was only when he started to pull back that you heard him whisper something to her, something you didn’t quite catch.

Hana turned to you, her little brows scrunched in confusion as she relayed the message.

“Daddy says… can we all go do something together? Like a family?”

Your breath hitched a little in your chest. You looked from her to Minho, whose gaze finally met yours for the first time that evening. He didn’t say anything, just stood there, waiting, searching your expression for any clue of how you might respond.

And for a second, time held its breath.

It wasn’t the question that startled you, not really. It was the timing of it. After everything, after the emotional hangover of his drunken confession, after the soft start you were building with Jisung, after the months you’d spent learning to untangle yourself from the life you thought you’d have with Minho, now he wanted to act like a family?

You couldn’t read his face clearly. Was this guilt? Regret? Hope?

You didn’t know how to answer, not yet. So instead, you smiled down at Hana and said gently, “Maybe. We’ll talk about it, okay?”

Minho’s jaw tensed slightly. He gave a short nod and murmured, “Okay. Night.”

And then he was gone.

The door closed, but the words hung in the air, lingering like smoke from a fire you thought you’d put out.

Minho arrived at work the next morning wearing exhaustion like a second skin. He hadn’t slept well, again. The night before had been too full of unspoken words, too full of the image of Hana’s tiny voice asking that question on his behalf: Can we all go do something together? Like a family.

He hated that he’d put it on her to ask.

He hated even more that he had to ask at all.

Minho didn’t regret calling you the other night, not exactly, but the way he had done it? The slurred words, the pathetic desperation leaking through every syllable, the fact that he let his emotions get the best of him while Hana slept just a room away? That sat like a rock in his gut.

And now, walking into the breakroom with his head low, coffee mug in hand, all he wanted was a quiet morning. Maybe a distraction. Maybe to survive the day without thinking about you with someone else.

But fate had other plans.

Jisung’s voice was already carrying from down the hall. Loud. Carefree. Typical. And Minho had almost learned to tune him out entirely over the past couple months, his annoying jokes, his cocky little laughs, the way he talked like he owned the room when he’d barely been in the company for two months.

Minho was halfway to the coffee machine when he caught your name.

He froze.

He didn’t mean to listen, but he did.

“—and I’m telling you, she’s so fine. I don’t know what kind of idiot let that one go, but damn—bless his mistake, right?” Jisung said with a laugh, leaning against the counter, arms crossed like he was recounting a win to a scoreboard.

Chan gave a short laugh nervous, unsure. “Y/N, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” Jisung said, clearly proud of himself. “Single mom, absolute knockout. We went out again yesterday morning, best time I’ve had in months. She’s, like, real, you know? Mature. Cool as hell. It’s kinda hot, actually—how she talks about her kid. Most girls I’ve dated? Not like that.”

Changbin shifted uncomfortably where he stood by the fridge.

Minho stayed hidden, just around the corner. His fists clenched slowly.

Jisung confirmed casually, oblivious. “Total sweetheart. Bit shy at first but—God, when she laughs? Man, I might mess around and catch real feelings.”

Minho could feel the blood drain from his face.

He didn’t need to hear more. But Jisung kept talking.

“She even asked her daughter what outfit to wear for our first date,” he added, chuckling. “That’s so cute, right? Like—ugh, I don’t know. That little family vibe? I could get used to that.”

Minho didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until his lungs started to ache.

Family. That word. That fantasy. His fantasy.

Not Jisung’s.

It felt like a line had been crossed. Not just because Jisung was dating his ex, but because he knew who she was now. And he was still talking about her like that, in front of everyone. Like Minho wasn’t three doors away, listening to every word like someone twisting a knife deeper into his side.

And he could’ve walked in there. He could’ve said something, told Jisung to shut up, to show some respect, to keep your name out of his damn mouth. He could’ve laid out the timeline, the history, the fact that Jisung barely knew you and had no idea what he was talking about.

But he didn’t.

Because the memory of the first confrontation, the way he’d already broken the boundary once, was still fresh in his mind. He was already terrified that if you found out about that, you’d be angry. That he’d come off bitter. Possessive. Jealous.

Which, he was.

But not in the way people thought. He didn’t want to control you. He didn’t even blame you for moving on. He just hated that he wasn’t the one you were smiling for anymore. That someone else, that guy, was getting pieces of your life he used to hold in his hands every single day.

He couldn’t stomach it.

So he did the only thing he could do without starting a war.

He stormed out.

His coffee forgotten, his chest tight, his jaw clenched so hard it ached. He needed air. Space. Anything that wasn’t the echo of Jisung’s laugh or the sound of your name being passed around like a story that didn’t belong to him anymore.

And for the rest of the day, Minho didn’t say a word to anyone.

Because he knew if he opened his mouth, even once, he might not be able to stop.

-

Minho didn’t go back into the breakroom that day.

Instead, he holed himself up in his office space, pretending to go over spreadsheets he’d already finished. Every now and then, he’d hear laughter from the hallway, Jisung’s laugh and it would set his jaw again, make his pen twitch in his hand like he needed to break something.

He hated how easily Jisung talked about you. Hated that he didn’t even know you well enough to deserve those stories. Hated how casually he tossed around Hana’s name like it was part of some cute personality trait of yours.

That wasn’t just some “single mom” he was bragging about.

That was you.

The woman Minho still woke up thinking about.

The mother of his daughter.

The only person who had ever really known him, flaws and all and still, at one point, loved him.

And yeah, maybe he lost that love. Maybe he broke things. Maybe there were parts of your story you’d never be able to forgive him for. But no matter how much time passed, he hadn’t stopped caring. He hadn’t stopped wanting even if he no longer had a right to.

By the end of the day, his phone buzzed with a message from you.

“Hana said she wants to show you the drawing she made. She’s been carrying it around all day. You’ll see it tomorrow.”

It was simple, light. But it made his chest ache.

He stared at the message for a long time, thumb hovering over the keyboard, typing out a dozen replies and deleting them each time. He didn’t want to come off too emotional, didn’t want to seem like he was still reeling from hearing your name in someone else’s mouth all day. He also didn’t want to let on that he'd been thinking about you nonstop since the second Jisung spoke.

Instead, he replied:

“Can’t wait to see it. Tell her I miss her.”

But what he really meant was:

I miss you.

That night, he went home to an empty apartment that felt colder than usual. He walked past Hana’s room, the one she only stayed in every other weekend and sat on the edge of the bed like he always did when he felt lost.

He wondered if you’d smiled with Jisung the way you used to with him.

He wondered if you laughed. If you leaned across the table in that way you always did when you were listening intently. If you told Jisung about the little things that made you happy, late night snacks, old cartoons, the playlist you made for long drives with Hana.

And worst of all, he wondered if Jisung made you feel seen in a way Minho used to but hadn’t for a long time.

The questions haunted him, spinning through his head as he stared at the ceiling, the apartment too quiet, the silence echoing with everything he couldn’t say.

He knew he couldn’t ask you about it.

He knew he had no right to.

But still, when his phone lit up again later that night with a photo of Hana proudly holding up her drawing, smiling from ear to ear, Minho stared at your name on the message thread and typed without thinking:

“Thanks for sending that. She looks happy.”

And after a long pause, another message followed.

“You do too.”

He didn’t hit send.

He just let it sit there. A confession in limbo. A truth he wasn’t brave enough to say out loud.

Not yet.

You hadn’t stopped thinking about it. Not since the moment Hana turned to you with that soft little voice, repeating Minho’s words—“Daddy said maybe we can go somewhere all together. Like a family.”

It echoed in your head in the quietest moments: when you were folding her laundry and came across her favorite shirt, when you tucked her in and she asked if Daddy could come read too, when you stared at the empty space on the couch after she’d gone to bed. The truth was, your mind wouldn’t let it go. You couldn’t tell if it was nostalgia or guilt or just the ache of something that once was and maybe never healed right.

You started to wonder how much Hana understood. She was only four, bright, sweet, and deeply observant in ways only children could be. But she was also still small. Small enough that the memories of the three of you doing things together, really together were probably starting to fade. Back when her little legs barely reached the edge of the stroller and her words came out in half-sentences. Back when family meant holding both your hands at once, one in each tiny palm.

Now things were different. The rhythm of your lives moved around drop-offs, pickups, brief handoffs at the front door, short conversations about snacks or bedtimes or fevers. She knew Daddy came on the weekends, that she packed her little bag and stayed with him, and then came back. She knew you kissed her goodnight every other Sunday. But together? That didn’t exist anymore. Not in the way it used to.

You thought about it every time she asked why you couldn’t come to the movies with Daddy. Why Daddy couldn’t come with you to the aquarium trip she got as a class reward. You had explanations. Simple ones. Polite ones. But you weren’t sure if she understood. And it hit you: maybe you didn’t either, not fully. Not without that ache still sitting in your chest.

So one night, after you’d tucked her in and turned off her lamp, you came back. Quietly, you sat beside her bed, brushing her hair gently off her forehead. She blinked up at you sleepily.

“Hana,” you whispered, voice soft, “can I ask you something?”

She nodded, yawning.

“Do you remember when Mommy and Daddy used to go places with you? Together?” You waited, uncertain. “Like the zoo? Or the beach? Or the park with the big swing set?”

She blinked slowly, then nodded again. “Mmhm. You holded my hand. Daddy too.”

That made your chest squeeze. “Would you… would you like to do that again? All of us? Just sometimes.”

Her little smile was sleepy but sure. “Yeah. I like it.”

You kissed her forehead and tried not to let it show on your face. Because you liked it too. Or at least, part of you missed it so deeply it hurt.

But another part of you, another very real, very present part was also thinking of Jisung. About how easy it felt with him. About how he looked at you like you were the only thing in the room. About how he actually asked about your day and listened. You liked him. You liked how you felt with him. And you were just beginning to open yourself up to the idea of something real again, something new.

So now, you were caught between a memory and a possibility. Between a little girl’s innocent wish and your own heart trying to mend in two directions. And in the silence of that night, after Hana had fallen back asleep and the house was still, you sat on the couch and asked yourself the question you didn’t want to answer:

What if being a family again wasn’t what you really needed, but just what you missed?

And even harder:

What if you could never have both?

-

After quietly slipping out of Hana’s room, you closed the door behind you with a soft click, careful not to wake her again. The hallway was dim and still, the only sound the faint hum of the refrigerator down the hall and the tick of the old clock in the kitchen. You stood there for a moment, hand still resting on the doorknob, exhaling a deep, quiet sigh that seemed to carry all the confusion, guilt, and ache you’d been holding in all evening.

Your feet moved before your mind did, carrying you down the hallway and into your bedroom. The light from your bedside lamp cast a soft golden hue across the room, warm and calm, but it didn’t match the storm of emotions turning over inside you. You sat on the edge of your bed, fingers tangled in the hem of your shirt as your thoughts circled around themselves.

Everything felt tangled, Minho’s words, Hana’s sleepy nod, your own longing, your fear, your past, and the soft, budding possibility of something new with Jisung.

You reached for your phone, if only to distract yourself for a moment. But before you could open anything, the screen lit up.

Jisung: Hey. I hope your day was good. I was thinking about you.

Your heart gave a little jump.

Jisung: Would love to see you again soon. Maybe something low-key? Doesn’t have to be anything fancy. Just you and me.

You stared at the message for a long time. As if somehow he knew. As if he could feel that little part of you that was pulling away, not out of lack of interest, but out of pure emotional uncertainty. As if he was reaching out to gently pull you back toward him.

It was such a simple message, and yet… it made your chest tighten. He wasn’t demanding. He wasn’t expecting anything from you. He was just there. Steady, warm, willing. Offering something simple in the face of all your complicated.

You typed, paused, deleted, then typed again.

You: I’d really like that. I’ve just been in my head a lot lately. But I’d love to see you.

His response was nearly instant.

Jisung: That’s okay. I don’t need you to be anything but you. I’ll be here when you’re ready. Even if it’s just for a walk or a coffee.

That, that was what made you blink fast to keep the tears from rising. Because you weren’t used to someone being patient. You weren’t used to someone who didn’t push or question or pressure. And in that moment, it didn’t make your confusion worse, it softened it.

You looked at your screen again, at his words, at the gentle kindness wrapped in them.

Then you leaned back on your bed, phone resting on your chest, and whispered aloud to the quiet room:

“I wish this was easier.”

Because you weren’t just choosing between two people. You were choosing between the past and the future. Between a dream that once was, and something real that might still be. And no one had taught you how to let go without hurting. Or how to hold on without looking back.

Minho knew it was risky. He could already hear the words in his head, you're delusional, why would you think I'd want to talk about that? He knew how it might go, how you'd probably brush him off, tell him that anniversaries were no longer anything to get worked up about. After all, it had been years since you two had celebrated like you used to.

But today felt different. Today, for some reason, the weight of the date was heavier. It had been seven years, seven years. He’d woken up that morning thinking about how it used to be. How, on your anniversary, he'd sneak into the kitchen while you were still asleep, making your favorite breakfast and writing you a small note, leaving it next to your coffee mug with a kiss to remind you that today was about you. And then, there was the way he would kiss you awake, messy and full of love, just to remind you that you mattered, more than anything else in the world.

He could still see it so clearly in his mind, the moment four years ago when you told him you were pregnant with Hana. The way you laughed and cried at the same time, your eyes wide with excitement and fear, and how Minho had sworn that moment felt like his heart had just doubled in size. That was the moment he promised himself he’d always put you first. And even now, as much as things had changed, as complicated as everything had become, a part of him couldn't let go of that promise.

So, against his better judgment, he grabbed a bouquet of flowers. Big, colorful roses, just like the ones you used to love. And a single smaller rose for Hana, because he knew that the little girl, even at her age, was his connection to the only family he’d ever wanted. Today wasn’t about trying to win you back, he told himself. It was just about remembering. About showing you that, despite everything, he still remembered.

He dressed a little nicer than usual, nothing too formal, but just enough to show he was trying. He didn’t need an excuse to stop by; he wasn’t dropping off Hana or picking her up. It was just... he needed to see you. He wanted to see you.

Minho stood in front of your door, his heart pounding in his chest, staring at the wooden surface as if it held all the answers. His hand tightened around the bouquet and the single rose as he raised his fist, about to knock.

Before he could do anything, though, the door swung open.

And there you were, standing in the doorway. But you weren’t alone. Jisung was there too, just a few steps behind you, leaning casually against the frame with a cocky smirk on his face. Minho’s heart dropped into his stomach. He hadn’t been expecting this. He should’ve known, but a part of him hoped that maybe today, just maybe you would’ve been on your own.

For a moment, Minho froze, his breath catching in his throat. Jisung, as if sensing the tension, smirked wider, and before Minho could process anything, Jisung gave a lazy wave, his voice light and casual as he said, “I’ll catch you later, Babe.” And just like that, he turned and walked away, his steps echoing down the hall.

Minho couldn’t help but watch him go, his grip on the flowers tightening until the stems almost cracked. He hadn’t meant to feel the sting of jealousy, he knew you had every right to move on, but it didn’t change how much it hurt. It stung more than it should’ve. The image of Jisung leaving your apartment, of him laughing, casually walking away with the confidence that only comes with knowing he was the one you were spending time with, it cut deeper than Minho had expected.

He turned back to you, trying to mask the frustration that was rising in his chest. His voice came out hoarse, tighter than he intended. “What’s going on? What’s he doing here?”

You looked taken aback by his sudden confrontation, your eyes flashing with a mix of surprise and something else he couldn’t quite read. You glanced at the flowers in his hands and then back at him before finally speaking. “Minho... what are you doing here?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat, as if he was uncertain of what exactly he wanted to say. Instead, his hand tightened around the bouquet, his fingers trembling slightly. He could feel the weight of the moment press down on him. The words he was about to ask felt both necessary and foolish, but they spilled out anyway.

“Where’s Hana?” His voice was quiet, too quiet. His eyes flickered to the space behind you, searching for any sign of her, any sign that this wasn’t some weird coincidence. That maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t interrupted something important. Something new.

You sighed, almost looking apologetic as you replied, “She’s at school, Minho.”

The tension didn’t ease, though. Instead, it hung there, thick and heavy in the air. He still couldn’t shake the picture of Jisung leaving. Of him being so comfortable around you. Minho didn’t know what he’d expected when he came here, but it sure as hell wasn’t this.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Minho muttered, still holding the flowers in front of him like some kind of shield. He couldn’t tell if it was because he wanted to protect himself from the situation, or if it was just an excuse to avoid looking directly at you. To avoid seeing your reaction.

You stood there, watching him, waiting for him to say something more, something that made sense, but Minho only shifted uncomfortably on the doorstep. The small moment stretched between you two like an ocean.

“I just… I thought it might be nice, you know? To see you. To give you these. It’s… it’s our anniversary.” His words sounded hollow in the space between you, like he had somehow forgotten how to speak.

When he said that last part, your eyes softened, just a little. He could see that flicker of recognition pass across your face. But it was gone just as quickly as it had appeared.

You didn’t say anything at first, the silence lingering uncomfortably in the air. And then, finally, you spoke, though your voice was quieter than before. “Minho, I—”

Before you could finish, the words of what you really wanted to say caught in your throat. You didn’t know how to deal with this tension, with him standing there like this, holding onto the past that neither of you could go back to.

Minho didn’t know how to let go of it either.

//

masterlist.

❌proofread

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[BTL taglist: @christasmind @ready2readnwrite @tsunderelino]

[ducksido]

I've been loving how you've written all of my requests so far. I love your writing in general so that isn't really a surprise. Well, onto my request. Could you do the Housewardens with a s/o who has a stutter? It usually isn't noticeable but sometimes it gets really bad, bad enough that it gets frustrating to communicate. Also the reader(s/o) gets embarrassed over the stutter due to some people making fun of them when they had to present in front of the class before.

-🥀🪻

(of course 🥀🪻)

Housewardens with Yuu who has a stutter

Riddle Rosehearts

At first, Riddle isn’t quite sure how to respond—he's not used to emotional nuance thanks to his strict upbringing.

But he listens. Listens intently. When you get stuck mid-sentence, he doesn’t rush you. He lets the silence stretch without pressure, a quiet signal of: I’m here. Take your time.

After learning about your classroom experience, he gets visibly upset—not at you, but at the people who made fun of you. “You were brave enough to speak. They didn’t deserve to hear you.”

He studies up on speech therapy techniques and gently asks if you’d be okay with a hand signal system—like you squeezing his hand when you’re too frustrated to continue, so he can read the room for you.

If you're ever in a class presentation again, he’ll stand in the crowd, meeting your eyes the whole time, anchoring you with nods of encouragement.

Leona Kingscholar

His first instinct? "Who the hell made fun of you?" Yeah, someone’s getting buried in the sandpit outside Savannaclaw.

He’s laid-back enough to not pressure you when you’re struggling to speak—he’ll just raise an eyebrow, smirk a little, and go: “Tch. I got time. No one says it like you do anyway.”

If you get upset or start shutting down, he won't go all mushy—he knows you hate feeling pitied—but he’ll bump your shoulder, mumble: “You don’t gotta be perfect to make me listen.”

Leona will be your unshakable wall. If anyone dares laugh again, one glare from him and the room goes dead silent.

Azul Ashengrotto

Internally? Panic. Externally? Calm and courteous. He's terrified of saying the wrong thing, especially given his own trauma with bullying.

He understands. Oh, he gets it. You remind him of himself—polished on the surface, but vulnerable in moments of exposure.

When you stutter, he subtly slows his own speech to match your pace, making it feel less awkward. You don’t even notice at first—it’s just suddenly easier to talk to him.

One day, when you’re particularly embarrassed after tripping over your words, he gently reaches over and takes your hand. “I used to dread speaking too. But every word you say is worth hearing—even the ones that need a moment.”

Kalim Al-Asim

Pure sunshine. Doesn’t even notice the stutter at first—he’s too focused on your smile, your ideas, your energy.

But when he sees you frustrated or pulling away from conversations, he gently asks, “Hey, are you okay? Did I talk too fast?”

You explain your stutter, and he immediately hugs you. “That’s okay! That’s just how your words dance a little before they come out!”

You can’t even stay embarrassed around Kalim—he celebrates every time you speak. “Yes!! I love when you tell stories! Even the way you say things is fun!”

If you’re having a bad day, he’ll offer to speak for you if needed—no judgment, just support.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil is hyper-aware of how you carry yourself. The first time he sees you recoil mid-sentence out of embarrassment, he’s already dissecting the entire situation.

“Someone made you feel ashamed. Unacceptable.”

He never interrupts your stutter—not once. His patience is calm, dignified, and never patronizing. If you apologize, he cuts you off with a firm but gentle, “You are not flawed. You are human. And I admire that about you.”

Vil even works with you on breathing techniques—not to fix you, but to help you feel more confident. He adapts some stage projection tricks to your comfort.

If someone mocks you, Vil absolutely eviscerates them with a cold, cutting line that makes them rethink their life.

Idia Shroud

Idia is so anxious around speech in general. He stutters himself, so when he realizes you do too, he’s like: “Wait… you mean… I’m not the only glitching NPC in the cutscene?”

He's instantly more comfortable with you than anyone else. Conversations are awkward, yes, but real. Soft. Shared.

When your stutter gets bad, he doesn’t even blink—just continues typing on his tablet, then flashes it at you: [“No worries. Wanna just chill in silence or type today?”]

If you cry out of frustration, he panics and offers you snacks, games, a blanket, and then just shyly says: “I-I like your voice… It sounds like you’re casting a spell when you talk... like real magic.”

Malleus Draconia

Malleus is unbothered. The idea of mocking someone for their speech is so beneath him he can’t comprehend it.

When you stutter, he tilts his head and patiently waits, giving you space like a quiet glade in the woods.

If you get upset or try to hide it, he places a hand over yours, warm and grounding. “Child of man… Do not be ashamed. Each pause is a breath of your soul. Let it speak.”

He never makes you feel like you have to perform for him. Silence or speech, you’re cherished either way.

If someone mocks you in his presence? Oh, dear. Malleus may not react loudly, but the drop in temperature and faint green flicker of flame in his eyes sends a very clear message.

[universalzones]

"Are you really that surprised? I ain't never been one to mince words or beat around the bush. I say it how I see it or how it is, plain and simple." Surge wasn't one to take a gentle approach with people, except for Drippy, though there are clearly reason's for that. The tenrec just wanted to cut the crap if she could and what better way than being direct and getting straight to the point.

"I sure as fuck didn't vote for him... I think. Memories are still a bit fuzzy here and there, though the guy doesn't sound like someone I'd vote for if he did shit like this." Surge wasn't sure if she even voted for anyone at all. Politics was never she really fucked with too much anyway as it was so overly complicated these days and everyone always gotta be angry bout something because someone in power was always doing something stupid.

"Yeah, well, sounds like someone needs to be holding these fools accountable when they cause a major fuck up. If they trying doing any crazy shit where I'm locked up rest assured I'm busting my ass out and putting a stop to it real quick." Surge was sure whatever they were going to lock her in would repress her powers, though she has a lot new tricks that no one knew about. Well, except for Drippy and now maybe Sonic after seeing her do the whole blue lightning thing.

===========================================================

"Rest assured I have no intention of leaving until G.U.N is no longer a threat to everyone here, and if these legal representatives with to push their luck I'm sure a little singed fur will be enough to make them be more cautious." Blaze was sure that'd be pushing her own luck, though she won't let her friends or herself be pushed around more than they have already.

"If those G.U.N soldiers step out of line then they'll find just how fearsome I can be," Odessa said before leaving to head towards the boarder where all The Restoration members would be leaving at.

"I still have my concern's about this General Lupus. I fear this won't be the last we hear of a man like that, especially if he intends to be a continued hindrance on The Restoration and it's efforts. Not to mention I don't recall him ever mentioning the funds Clutch had illegally acquired though Clean Sweep." Blaze felt like that'd be something worth bringing up yet never heard a mention of it.

"If he does bring it up when I had Belle Bot move The Restoration funding back along with taking Clean Sweep funds I made sure she separated the two. I'm sure I also managed to save all the receipts for donations that was given to The Restoration directly so we can easily prove what money is ours and what was Clean Sweep's if they want it. If they don't end up wanting it hanging onto it might be a bad idea least they try to use it against us later. I say we give it a bit and if they never aske for it was just donate it to people who need it."

Think with his head? That really was never his strong suit was it? Honestly it's why Eggman always lost because it made him so unpredictable. Not that he couldn't be smart when he put his noggin' to the task! But he preferred to think on his toes, and react to every situation in the moment! but he did get her concern, he could blurt things out sometimes. Often in an attempt to lighten a mood or in a moment of frustration. His mother use to say he got it from his father but he hated to believe that since he hated the man so much.

" ouch going right for the jugular eh, i can't say you aren't right though. It ain't like i ever intend to blurt thing's out... it just kinda happens... guess it's my darn ADHD... or something..."

" An, i've fought guys like that president and that general before. Those kinda creeps are always up to no good... can't stand people like that. They just wanna oppress people's freedom in the name of good but--- in reality they are just usin' that shit as an excuse! "

He huffed as that all seemed to be a sore spot, as if he'd been down this road once before.

" Last time i met guys like that ... It created Iblis and Mephiles... i'd rather stop them before we end up with a 2.0 of those two..."

=============================================

The beetle buzzed her wings as she watched the general's image vanish off the screen. Really she had to focus on her duty! she can worry about what those two were really up to later. but right now she couldn't worry about them, and must focus on getting people the help they need. She should probably get checked out herself despite the healing she got from that royal.

" While i think we can all agree with you on that one Princess ... But be that as it may... and like it or not. United Federation is still the ruling body here on Mobius. We have to comply on some level.. and right now i'm more worried about our people getting help... the cost isn't light but it if we must... we must "

She buzzed her way over to Lanolin with a stern gaze to give her acting orders as director.

" Lanolin i want you to gather up Surge, and get her ready for transfer once the proper paperwork and contracts arrive. Miss Odessa could you keep an eye on the border where our people will be moving in and out-- i doubt GUN would start anything but just in case. I'd appreciate an eye on both sides as tensions are so high right now. "

She fluttered over to Miles trying to measure up as a leader and really doing her best. But the stress was getting to her by the way her antenna would slump when she thought no one was watching her.

" Miles, can i enlist your aid? You have access to a legal Team, and i'd appreciate it if you can employ them to check the paperwork and make sure they aren't trying to use some legal loop hole or another. "

She finally addressed Blaze with her hands behind her back

" And thank you Princess... your aid has been invaluable... i hope you'll continue to be a presence until this situation is fully resolved... they'll be sending there legal representative... and i'd like you there when they arrive. If for no other reason then to dissuade any ill action against us... as for everyone else, you should focus on helping the transfer and getting our essential personal back on base! "

The sheep gave a Nod as she made her way out the door to find Surge and Sonic. While Miles already had his phone out making a call to some legal experts he had access to. Things were coming to a close and this scenario was almost over... Yet Jewel couldn't help but stare at the monitor with the GUN cruiser still floating threateningly over head--- this was a bold action by GUN and one that did not bode well for Restoration...

[userluhna]

࿔⋆ PIGTAILS

namgyu x reader

based on this request

words: 450

warnings: none! first time writing namgyu hope i did it well, let me know!

enjoy! :)

it happened once when he was sitting on the floor, back to the couch, eyes fixed on something on his computer. you sat on the couch just behind him and reached out, running your fingers through his hair. his eyes fluttered shut for a second not long, but just enough to tell you he liked it.

“oh god—” he muttered. “you bored, or just tryna mess with me?” he exhaled like he was annoyed, but he didn’t move. he never did when you touched his hair. you gathered small sections of it, slowly tying them into messy little pigtails. they sat uneven and soft. you added a small star-shaped hair clip on one side. midway through, he froze.

“what are you doing?”

“getting you hot.”

“yeah, sure. take it off.” you didn’t. you wouldn’t. and he knew you took a picture from above— your masterpiece. when you showed him, he smiled. just a flicker. but enough for you to notice. just barely.

“you better not let anyone see this,” he said, voice flat but not angry. “you got some kinda reputation to protect or what?” he didn’t answer. just rolled his eyes and turned back to his screen. he kept them in. because they were cute. and honestly? they kept his hair out of his face.

every time after that, he’d say, “this better not become a habit.” and yet, there he was again, sitting between your legs, his back to you, not moving as you brushed your fingers through his hair.

sometimes he’d lay with his head in your lap, pretending like he wasn’t there just to feel your hands on him. “don’t get any ideas,” he’d mumble, eyes already closing the second your fingers brushed his scalp. he always kept the pigtails in longer than he meant to. sometimes he forgot about them entirely.

and if anyone ever brought it up in public? full denial. “come on. you think i let someone touch my hair like that?” meanwhile, you had at least ten photos saved on your phone. all of them him, with his dumb little pigtails and that tiny star clip.

masterlist

requests are open!

[octuscle]

DIY

Peter hated the semester break. He was constantly told by his father and older brother that real men don't study, they work with their hands. They constantly made him feel and know that he was a weakling with his pale and flabby body compared to their athletic bodies. And they loved to show him, who was a really talented mathematician and computer scientist, that he was completely untalented with his hands.

On his very first day back home, his brother told him that his father and he needed help with the conversion of the old garage. Peter's brother was going to have a bachelor pad in the attic and his father wanted to set up a workshop downstairs. They had already finished the demolition and the drywall work, and were now in the process of installing the electrics. First they asked Peter to drill holes in the walls for the switches and sockets. But Peter was so stupid that they laughed and told him to go to the DIY store and get conduits for the cables and laminate for the floor. Peter asked where the key to his mother's Hyundai was. His brother threw him the key to his Dodge RAM. He said it would be difficult to get all the materials into the Hyundai.

Peter hated that car too. The pedals were almost impossible to operate with his sandals. It stank of sweat and tobacco. And the only radio station was a country music station. The car was monstrously big. Peter was sweating blood and water when he parked it in the parking lot in front of the hardware store. It felt so good when he jumped out of the car and his boots touched solid ground again. And yes, the boots looked silly with his shorts.

Peter had never been to a hardware store before. He had no idea what empty conduits were or what to look out for when buying laminate. He wandered uncertainly and helplessly through the shelves. Help was nowhere to be seen. Empty conduits were probably somewhere near electrical goods. Or were there cables somewhere else? Or was this something that could be found with drywall material? And hopefully there weren't different types of conduit… When he finally found the rolls of conduit, he wiped his sweaty hands nervously on the dusty legs of his jeans. And how much did he need now? He estimated the number of sockets and switches he would need to drill the holes for and the size of the four rooms the converted garage would have. Three rolls of 25 meters should be enough. And he guessed that his father needed an EN 25 cross-section, even if he hadn't explicitly said so. As he heaved the rolls onto the trolley, someone asked him if he knew where the woodchip wallpaper was. “Fourth cawridaw on the done left in that there derection,” Peter replied.

Okay, his father needed laminate now. His brother was an asshole, but if Peter came home with bad goods. Peter rolled his trolley in the direction of the floor coverings. “Hi Boone!” he greeted one of the employees. “Ay nee laminate floawing faw my old man. Anything darn good on offer?” The two of them started a little chat. They both knew the problem of having brothers who both had left hands. Peter told a few anecdotes, Boone laughed boomingly. The two agreed that something with a concrete look would be cool. If Peter's brother ever moved out, that would also be a material Peter would like. Boone helped Peter load up and the two of them arranged to meet at the sports bar that evening for some ribs and a few beers.

“Excuse me, do you work here?” a young guy asked Pete. Pete had to look down a bit, the guy was no taller than five feet tall. “Naw, but some say ay live here." Peter smiled. The guy was cute! “You know, I need a hand-held circular saw but have no idea where to find one or what to look for when buying one. “Ayy, that’s dope," said Pete. "I’m rollin’ that way, ya can tag along."

The two of them had made a quick stop in the customer restroom on the way. Damn, those effeminate college boys could suck cock, Pete had to hand it to him. Pete looked around for a moment and thought about it. No, actually he had to have everything now. And he had better hurry. If he let his father work alone with his brother, the result couldn't be good.

Sick pic of the boosted Pete found @buckleknocker

[lotties-ashwagandha]

DIVINE REASONING (part one of ???)

(adult) lottie matthews x reader. 1.1k words.

after the crash, lottie turned to the divine. you turned to the scientific. either way, years have passed, and neither of you have let it go. in which you were a yellowjacket who survived the plane crash, and now you are a celebrated therapist. but when you arrive at lottie’s wellness center under unusual circumstances, it seems you are the one that needs offered help.

They always pump the air conditioning up too much in the summer. You never say anything, because you’d feel like a real asshole, but every day you compare it to freezing to death.

It’s a good thing someone else already took that for the team.

“I just didn’t think it was a good idea to stay with her,” Bianca shrugs, “given what you told me about boundaries and everything.”

It’s a lie and you fucking know it. Bianca has told you the same thing about her ex-girlfriend four different times this month. By next week’s session, they will be back together.

You tilt your head to the side, hearing the muscles of your neck crackle softly. It only brings you temporary relief — you can feel her gaze cutting into you. After clearing your throat, you nod. “That’s a good practice of setting boundaries.”

Bianca sits up straighter. She looks proud of herself. You want to tell her not to get too high and mighty before she caves again and the whole thing crumbles, because Bianca has about as much self-control as a squirrel.

You look at the clock — two minutes left. Good enough, you think, and stand. You try your best to offer her a smile, one that seems warm and genuine, but you know it’s lacking. “You’ve done some great work. Remember what we talked about last week, being consistent in your self-awareness.”

Bianca nods vigorously and saunters out.

You take a deep breath — not because you are a pillar of strength and mindfulness, but because the air is too crisp and clinical that it’s suffocating.

Your office has always been a place of refuge. You have personalized it to a degree that sometimes you forget you’re a therapist, and the sun comes in just right in the mornings so that your desk is bathed in golden light that would usually make work feel recreational. Yet over the past few months, you’ve been fading. You have been burning out in the way you try to help your clients avoid. You’ve taken up smoking again, you are the therapist that people side-eye when they see you enjoying a cigarette a little too much in the back parking lot. It helps more than you’d like to admit, though, and you have started to understand why smoking was recommended for anxiety back in the day.

Hell, maybe you need therapy with the way things have been going.

Bianca didn’t shut the door after leaving. One of your colleagues raps their knuckles against the doorframe. You smile softly, and you don’t have to turn around to know that it’s Mila.

You stand, meeting her at the door.

“Bianca,” Mila smiles teasingly. “She told me as she walked out that things were over for her and that girlfriend…”

“I am legally bound to silence,” you say. “Bianca certainly is not, and you know what else she’s apparently not bound to?”

“What’s that?”

“Accountability.”

Mila nods, chuckling lowly so that no one else lingering in the hallway suspects the two of you. Colleagues might not be as good of a label as best friends.

Mila tosses some of her auburn hair over her shoulder and then presents you with a stack of fliers she had been holding. “By the way, did you bring these in this morning?”

You take one off the top of the pile. “No, what are they?”

“It looks like an advertisement for a wellness center. Self love, healing, growth… looks a lot like a cult to me, but if you brought them in, I was going to keep them displayed. No one else has claimed them.”

You examine what’s contained in the flier, the images of groups of guests clad in only purple and lists of goals for how the Sunshine Honey Wellness Community aims to pursue every effort to make individuals the best versions of themselves. ”I’ve never heard of these people before.”

“Want me to throw this shit out? What kind of psycho would sneak cult brochures into a mental health clinic?”

You shake your head, and you’re about to respond when you flip over the brochure and the words fade. It’s been over a decade since you last saw her, but you know. You would recognize her even if it had been centuries.

“Are you okay?”

You reach out and take the rest of the brochures from her hands. Your motions are aggressive, and you bump into Mila instead of stepping past her, but you can barely breathe.

You step out of the clinic and look for a number on the back of the brochure. You dial it before you can think this through, before you can escape from the choir of memories screaming at you as they emerge from the back of your mind — they scream as she did at hundreds of reporters when the plane landed, they scream like the people you killed with her in the woods all those years ago.

They scream like you want to when Lottie Matthews picks up the phone and introduces herself and asks in a very extravagant way how she can help you, oh woeful caller.

You can’t speak. You stand there with so many things to say to her, to scream, to cry and sob and wail about. You are silent. The only thing you can manage is a strangled breath.

Lottie is the woman you once believed was a prophet. “Hello?”

You hang up the phone. The fliers, too, escape you. They catch the breeze and scatter around the parking lot.

—

You go straight home after that, denying the rest of the day’s responsibilities and trying to pretend it had been a normal day at the office.

You can’t fall asleep that night, though. You were thinking about her all evening, unable to shake her voice from your head.

Lottie had sounded so centered. So controlled. You could tell why they believed in her as a leader. She was commanding, but soft — she sounded like the sort of person you could lay your heart and soul out bare to and she would handle them with care. She did not sound like someone you had murdered and tortured with.

Your thumb hovers over the button to call her back. It’s late, you shouldn’t call. She probably wouldn’t answer. You wouldn’t be able to speak anyway.

You hit the button.

She answers immediately.

You lie there in bed and wish you’d never called, because she greets you just as cheerfully as the first time and you are just as terrified.

Lottie waits a moment. The silence is patient. Then she sighs heavily and speaks.

“Listen… I know it’s you.”

this is a little series I decided to start bc my best friend and I are both writing fic series to challenge ourselves and give us inspo for non-fanfic related projects :P if you’re into the last of us and love joel, check out my best friend’s series on ao3. even if you’re a dirty little lesbian like me who doesn’t love joel, go and give kudos anyway because she deserves it.

yellowjackets taglist: @webism @ahauandthesun @chaithetics @szczurkanalowy @marleymarleymarleymarley @aphrodyk3 @ludasgf @pnsteblnme @il0veb0ttomsthem0vie

I’m still working on requests btw, hoping to post something else this week as well :)

[orangepeelknives]

something i lowkey think deserves more attention is mack's relationship w aiden and how it fits into the will of it all. 

imagine being aiden, like, youre the older brother, and youre good enough at hockey, but your younger brother is a fucking superstar. plus the rick thing - the overcompetitive, constantly working nature of the family? and you both play for the same school except when mack is there he's 17 but still the fucking superstar and your parents are probably saying oh you have to look out for your baby brother take him to hang out with your friends and then he's going to nhl as first overall pick, getting nominated for the calder, lighting it up, and you barely even got drafted, are gonna be fighting to get that ELC still when your younger brother is signing an 8x8. now imagine being mack, and being aware of all that, but also being fucking competitive and emotionally stunted and starved for affection. 

mack and aiden's dynamic isn’t surface-level chirping and easy banter. it's complicated. there's love, for sure, but also resentment, defensiveness, comparison, years of living in the same pressure cooker with ricky as the one holding the stopwatch. and the coach is always gonna work harder at the kid who's better thatd lowkey just a fact. so imagine ur aiden and ur dad is the coach and you literally cannot escape comparison w ur younger brother and u just kinda have to get slowly left behind. 

so now imagine ur mack. and you love your brother, because it was always you and him. side by side. hauling ass to the gym together at age ten. racing each other on the ice at six in the morning. playing mini sticks in the hallway until someone bled. you love him like a limb. and also? ur in constant competition with him. not because you wanted to be, but because that’s just what your house was like. it was built that way. improvement charts on the fridge. split times tracked in a spreadsheet. feedback doled out at dinner. and it wasn’t even mean - it was just the air you breathed. get better. go again. don’t fall behind.

but when you’re mack? you don’t fall behind. he does. and that messes you up. because it’s not like you asked to be this good, it’s not like you wanted to hurt him. but you did. by accident. by existing. by accelerating so fast you couldn’t even look back to check on him. and now your whole family dynamic is off-balance and no one talks about it because everyone’s pretending it’s fine. and when you do try to talk about it, it comes out wrong, defensive or stiff or too intense, bc you’re seventeen and anxious and already too famous and you don’t know how to say “i’m sorry i left you behind.”

and the worst part is: you didn’t mean to leave him. you missed him. you wanted him next to you on the ice and in the locker room and on the bus. but you’re the one getting Calder buzz. you’re the one everyone calls a “generational talent.” and he’s… fighting to get signed. and you don’t know how to shrink yourself enough to make it better. you just know it hurts. you’re guilty. you’re proud. you’re lonely. and you have no idea what to do with that combination.

then you meet will.

and will is right there. right on your level. not just talent-wise, but intensity-wise. and the second you’re on the ice together it’s like a switch flips, immediate chemistry, freakish synergy, like you’ve been playing together your whole lives. and then off the ice he’s just as fast, just as keyed in, just as much.and he doesn’t need you to shrink. he doesn’t ask you to slow down. he matches you.

and even better? he doesn’t resent you for it. not when you score. not when you freak out, not when you lose it and snap a stick or get jealous or act a little crazy, he just grins and chirps you and lets it pass. lets you be too much. and that’s maybe the first time in your life you’ve had that. someone who doesn’t feel smaller because of you. someone who doesn’t pull away.

so yeah. of course mack clings to him. of course mack follow him around like a shadow and begs for his attention and acts out when he’s not paying you enough mind. because he makes him feel safe in his bigness, he makes him feel okay being the guy who moved on, the guy who’s great. will's out here assisting on every single goal for your first hat trick and there's nothing but genuine excitement for mack!!!

[lesmolghost]

Dead On Main Idea idk what to call it

Brain worm hit me again and ever since i started listening to Epic the musical, it hasn't left me ever since

imagine the Fentons are in gotham or near it that allows Danny and Jason to meet

Danny and Jason are both together from their younger years. They even got fake married somewhere and had rings and all. It was a joke marriage but both of them were committed to said marriage.

They're both idiots that think they're still friends when they already act like an old married couple. Everyone around them wonders if they know they're actually dating.

Someone asks Danny (lets do danny) if he has a girlfriend or boyfriend and Danny (or Jason if they're both together at a place) just shows him the toy ring and says he's already married.

They're happy and all but good things end eventually. Jason dies in that warehouse. Danny wonders where Jason is until he gets news of "robin's" death. Danny is devastated

Time passes and life goes on, but Danny hasn't got over Jason, and probably never will. He subconsciously refuses relationships even if he tries to love again, but he still keeps searching for Jason in them.

When Jason gets revived, he doesn't remember almost everything from the past, but small fragments. The thing is, his pit rage is caused by him remembering something, and especially someone, who he lost in the past. Every time he remembers something, he loses it and his rage is in the form of longing—searching for something or someone he doesn't know or remember. This lasts for years

Meanwhile, The stuff with Danny still happens. From The phantom bit to the ghost King bit.

Both of them are adults now but seem to can't find love. On Danny's side, they know why Danny isn't interested in loving someone else, seeing Danny stare at a window with longing eyes and waiting. But the Batfam? No they do not, and neither does Jason himself know why. They even set Jason up with people and he ends up pushing him away

now idk what to do in this part in first meetings but not recognize each other and all, but the time they realize and or remember (for jason), it's a heartfelt reunion, because Danny Learned that Jason was alive, but Jason feels guilt because of the things he did. After a bit of a verbal fight, they reconcile, and both of their eyes don't look gloomy anymore. Danny definitely also flies Jason as they dance in mid air like some fairytale

Now imagine this scenario with the song Would You Fall In Love with Me Again with Jason as Odysseus and Danny as Penelope

I am also imagining an animatic idea where the line "left a trail of red in every island" would refer to Jason killing a lot of people while the "wedding bed" would be the rings Jason and Danny have on their childhood marriage

[elliespassagerprincess]

When the Quiet Breaks - ellie williams x reader

pairing: ellie williams x fem!reader

requests are open, send me songs or your silly ideas:)

HUGE WARNIGS: Graphic emotional distress, PTSD symptoms, hallucinations, disturbing imagery, grief, memory loss/confusion, trauma-related violence.

Summary: Ellie Williams is living a peaceful life on the farmhouse with you—the woman who convinced her not to chase revenge. For a while, things feel almost perfect. But the past never stays buried.

masterlist

This story contains dark and emotionally intense themes—please read with care.

The quiet of the farmhouse wrapped around you and Ellie like a warm blanket. Days passed slowly, wrapped in soft sunlight and the creak of old wooden floors. You’d wake up to the sound of the chickens outside or the wind humming through the trees. JJ’s toys were still in a chest near the fireplace—leftover memories from when the place belonged to someone else—but now, it was just the two of you.

Ellie had changed. The hard, vengeful edge she’d carried back from Seattle was softened—still there in her eyes sometimes, but she laughed more now. She played guitar on the porch. She rested her head on your lap while you read aloud. She touched you like she never thought she’d be allowed to again—tenderly, like you might disappear if she blinked.

“I’m glad I stayed,” she said once, lying next to you in bed. “You’re the only reason I still know how to breathe.”

You smiled and kissed her jaw. “Then breathe with me.” And she did.

But nights were harder.

She would jerk awake, drenched in sweat, whispering things she couldn’t say aloud. You’d hold her. Sometimes she’d cry. Other nights, she wouldn’t sleep at all—just sat at the window, cigarette trembling in her hand, staring at nothing.

You didn’t push. You just loved her harder. Calmer mornings, softer kisses. You’d hum to her while she braided your hair or stood behind her while she strummed, your hand on her back. You reminded her that she was here—that she was safe.

But Ellie was never really safe. Not from what was already inside her.

It started slowly—the confusion.

She’d zone out mid-conversation. You’d find her staring at the barn wall for minutes on end. One night, you came into the living room and found her kneeling in front of the fireplace, mumbling Joel’s name over and over.

You called her name. She didn’t hear you.

“Ellie,” you whispered, kneeling beside her. “Baby, I’m here.”

She flinched. “Don’t touch me.”

You pulled your hand back. “It’s me. It’s okay.”

She blinked. Then recognition bloomed across her face—and shame.

“I thought you were her,” she whispered. “I thought you were Abby.”

You swallowed hard and reached for her again. “You know I’m not. I’m here. I love you.”

“I know,” she rasped. “But she’s always in my head. Every time I close my eyes… Joel’s there. And she’s there. And I can't—I can’t tell what’s real anymore.”

You held her through the night. That was the first time you were scared.

The day it happened, the air was thick and still.

Ellie had barely slept. She’d been pacing the house, eyes sunken and wild. You made her tea, cooked her breakfast, tried to hold her hand. She pulled away. Her eyes kept darting to your face, then away. Like she didn’t trust what she saw.

You were standing in the hallway when it happened.

She stepped toward you, slow, trembling. “Abby…”

Your smile faltered. “Ellie, no—it’s me. Look at me.”

But she didn’t hear you.

Her pupils shrank. Her hand reached for the hunting knife on her belt.

“Ellie, please,” you begged. “It’s me. Baby, it’s me.”

You took a step forward—and she lunged.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t have time.

You tried to grab her wrist, tried to pull her back to you, but she was crying and snarling and whispering Joel’s name in broken pieces.

The pain was sudden. Hot. Blinding.

She drove the knife into your abdomen, then again—once in the side of your chest.

You collapsed, gasping, your fingers trembling against her forearm.

And then… it stopped.

She stood over you, breathing heavy. Her knife clattered to the ground.

You reached for her. She backed away. Your lips moved—one last attempt to say her name. To pull her out. But everything went still.

Ellie walked into the kitchen. Her mouth was dry, her chest heaving. She poured a glass of water and stared out the window. The sun was starting to set. The cows needed feeding. You were always reminding her.

“Babe?” she called, voice hoarse. “Hey… where’d you go?”

She checked the porch. The barn. The bedroom. The bathroom.

“Y/N?” Her voice cracked. “Where are you?”

She went outside, looked toward the trees, called again. Nothing.

Frustration twisted into worry. She began searching harder—every room, under every blanket, behind every door. Her breath quickened.

And then, slowly, she turned the corner of the hallway.

There you were.

The floor was stained. Your body lay still. The blood had stopped pooling. Her knife was inches away, still slick.

“No,” she breathed.

Her knees hit the floor. Her hands shook as she reached out—but stopped inches from your face.

“No. No. No, no—what did I… what did I—”

Her breath came out in gasps. Then sobs. Then wails.

She rocked back on her heels, knuckles pressed into her temples. Her guitar sat quietly in the corner of the living room, untouched. A song she wrote for you once still hung in the air, a ghost without a voice.

Ellie stayed there until nightfall. Curled beside you, whispering apologies that would never reach your ears.

And the house—once filled with light—fell into a silence that would never lift.

The night dragged on in pieces.

At some point, Ellie couldn’t feel her body anymore. Her knees were numb. Her hands were stained. She’d sat there for so long, staring at you, whispering things into the silence that didn’t make sense. Begging. Pleading. Bargaining with no one.

“I didn’t mean to,” she mumbled, over and over. “It wasn’t you… it wasn’t you…”

She crawled across the floor, trembling, curling her fingers into your shirt, trying to pull you close—but your body was already cold. Stiff. Heavy in a way that made her sob until her throat gave out.

“No… no, baby, come back. You’re not gone. You can’t be gone. I’ll fix it—I’ll fix it, I promise, just—please—”

She kissed your forehead like it would wake you up. She wiped at your blood like it could undo the stain. She whispered your name like it was a spell. But nothing happened.

Ellie didn’t sleep. She didn’t move.

When the morning light crept in through the windows, it touched her face—pale, swollen, dried tear tracks on her cheeks. Her lips were cracked. Her eyes were bloodshot. She hadn’t drunk the water she’d poured. The glass was still sitting on the counter, untouched. Forgotten.

She stood eventually. Only because her legs forced her to. The floor swayed under her.

She stumbled toward the mirror in the bathroom.

Her reflection stared back—wild-eyed, sunken, stained with grief. Her shirt was soaked in red. Her hands trembled as she looked at herself like she didn’t recognize the person there.

“Who are you,” she whispered. “What the fuck did you do?”

She punched the mirror. It cracked down the center.

Her knuckles split open. She didn’t flinch.

Later that day, she buried you under the tree behind the barn.

You loved that tree. You used to read beneath it, braid wildflowers into Ellie’s hair, kiss her with the sun pouring through the branches.

Now it was a grave.

She dug the hole with her bare hands, the shovel discarded after the first few strikes. She needed to feel the dirt. Needed the punishment. Her skin tore. Her nails broke. Her arms ached. She didn't stop.

When she placed you in the ground, she wrapped you in the blanket you both used to curl up in together during winter. She kissed your forehead one more time.

And then she screamed.

A sound so broken, so animal, it startled the birds from the trees.

It didn’t bring you back.

Inside the house, everything remained untouched.

Your favorite mug on the table. Your guitar pick beside hers. Your pillow still held the shape of your head.

Ellie crawled into bed that night with the same blood-stained clothes. She curled around your absence like it was still warm. She couldn’t tell where her hallucinations ended and reality began anymore.

Sometimes, she heard your voice. Sometimes, she saw your silhouette in the hallway. Sometimes, she dreamed you were still alive—and that she was dead instead.

But every time she woke up, the farmhouse was silent.

And the silence… was louder than any scream.

[mintyys-blog]

mark variants reaction to reader asking for an open relationship? tbh I don't see any of them happy with it

HEADCANONS | variants when the s/o asks for a open relationship

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST | WARNINGS: swearing, break ups

MAIN MARK

Mark would freeze when you bring it up—like you just knocked the wind out of him. His brows would furrow, voice a little shaky but trying to stay calm.

“Wait… an open relationship? Like… seeing other people?”

He wouldn’t yell or lash out. That’s not him. But you’d see how much it rattles him. Mark loves hard. He’s loyal to a fault. The idea of sharing you—of anyone else touching you, loving you—hurts.

He’d ask questions, trying to understand.

“Did I do something wrong? Is this because I’m always gone?”

“Are you unhappy with me?”

And even if you reassured him, it would stick in the back of his mind like a splinter. He’d feel like he wasn’t enough. Jealousy isn’t a big part of Mark’s personality—but when it comes to someone he loves? Yeah, it would show.

He might try to be “cool” with it at first, but it would eat away at him. He’d start pulling away emotionally, even if he didn’t mean to.

Ultimately, unless you took it back or clarified it was a misunderstanding, this would be a breaking point for Mark. He couldn’t love someone who doesn’t want to be his and his alone—not because he’s controlling, but because he gives everything. And he wants that in return.

MOHAWK MARK

You barely get the words out before the air in the room changes. Mark freezes—eyes narrowing, his jaw ticking like he’s holding back the urge to explode. You can tell the words rattled around in his head for a second before they even made sense.

“You wanna what?”

Not loud. Just low. Dangerous.

You try to explain—it’s not that you don’t care, you just… thought maybe it could be something to explore, maybe to figure out what you want, maybe you’re confused. But he’s not listening. He’s staring, unmoving, and when he finally does speak again, his voice cuts through the room like a blade.

“You think I’d let someone else touch what I protect?”

The way he says it isn’t romantic. It’s raw. Territorial. You’re not just someone to him—you’re his. And he doesn’t share. Doesn’t believe in sharing. Not his attention, not his time, and definitely not the person who’s supposed to be by his side.

“This isn’t a game, sweetheart.” He steps closer, gaze sharp and steady.

“I picked you. Out of everyone. I could’ve had anyone, and I chose you. You think I’d be okay with someone else putting their hands on what I’ve built with you?”

You know him well enough to hear it—the crack underneath all that cold confidence. He’s hurt. And he’s pissed about it. But mostly? He’s shocked.

“If you need something I’m not giving you—then say it. But don’t stand here and ask me to open this. You open something, you break it.”

He pauses, eyes locked on yours. “I don’t do halfway. If you want me… then it’s me.” He’s not begging. He never begs. But there’s a line drawn now. Clear as day.

You can cross it. You can try. But just know—Mark doesn’t come second to anyone. And once you step out of his orbit… you don’t get back in.

SINISTER MARK

Mark is quiet when you bring it up. You expect a scoff, a joke, maybe a dry insult to brush you off—but instead, there’s silence. He just stares at you, unreadable. For a second, you’re not sure if he’s even heard you. But then his tongue clicks behind his teeth, slow and deliberate.

“That’s funny,” he says, voice flat. “You’re joking, right?” You shake your head, trying to explain—trying to say something about curiosity, about freedom, about how it wouldn’t mean anything. But the look in his eyes is already colder.

“You really think I’d let someone else touch what’s mine?” He steps forward, expression unreadable but the edge in his voice sharp. Dangerous. Not loud. Not angry.

Just final. “You think you can go fuck around and still come back to me like nothing happened? No. That’s not how this works.”

He laughs once, low and without humor.

“You’re free to go. You always have been. I don’t chain people down. But don’t come crawling back with someone else’s scent on you and expect me to look at you the same.” Mark doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t beg. He just looks at you like you’ve insulted his intelligence.

And the worst part? He doesn’t say no. He gives you the choice—but makes it clear: if you open that door, he won’t be waiting on the other side.

OMNI MARK

Mark would agree—but only with that quiet, eerie calm of someone playing a longer game.

“Sure,” he says. “If that’s what you want.”

He kisses your temple, tells you he understands. He even helps you set boundaries—smiles the whole time. Supportive, patient… too patient.

And then he starts bringing women around.

Not hidden. Not subtle.

They wear his shirts. They sit in your kitchen. One of them laughs with her legs thrown over the arm of your couch like she lives there. Another one asks if the shared bed is really yours—or just his. Mark watches your face the whole time, like he’s waiting. Like he wants you to break.

He makes sure you see everything. The lipstick stains. The scratches down his back. The fake affection he pours onto them like it’s nothing—holding their waists, whispering things he used to whisper to you.

It’s not even about the sex. It’s about you begging him to stop.

He doesn’t say it, but it’s written in the way he smiles every time your voice shakes when you ask if she’s staying the night. The way his eyes light up when you flinch at hearing someone else’s laughter in your shared bedroom. He never said he’d play fair. You wanted open? Mark gives you hollow.

And he waits for the day you finally say, through tears or anger or both, “I want you to stop.” Then—and only then—does he pull you back in, arms open, mouth pressed to your cheek. “Took you long enough.”

PRISONER MARK

Mark doesn’t take it well.

The second the words “open relationship” leave your mouth, there’s this heavy silence. His eyes narrow—not in anger at first, but in confusion, like he must’ve heard you wrong. “Say that again?”

And when you do, when you try to explain yourself, he just… stands up. There’s no yelling. No dramatic explosion. Just that cold, flat stare. “Then we’re done.” Simple. Blunt.

You can try to walk it back, clarify that you didn’t mean you didn’t love him, that it was just a question—but it doesn’t matter. Mark doesn’t share. Not love, not affection, and definitely not you. He’s territorial in a way that goes beyond possessiveness—it’s survival, instinct, a reaction honed by years of being locked up, betrayed, and hardened.

“You want someone else, go find them. But you’re not coming back to me after.”

Even if you try to apologize, there’s this distance in him now. Not because he doesn’t care—but because he cares too much, and the idea of you even considering someone else? It cuts deeper than he lets on.

You were supposed to be safe. His safe. And the moment he thinks he’s not enough for you anymore, he lets go before you can take more of him with you.

VILTRUMITE MARK

Mark goes quiet at first. Too quiet.

You bring it up—nervously, maybe hesitantly—talking about wanting to explore an open relationship, and you expect anger. Maybe shouting. Maybe a sarcastic comment.

But instead, you get nothing.

Just the weight of his gaze, golden eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he processes what you’ve said.

“You’re serious?”

There’s no humor in his voice. No softness. He’s not hurt—he’s insulted.

To him, the idea is absurd. You are his. You’re not just his partner—you’re his chosen mate. His wife, in all the ways that matter to Viltrumites. He considers your bond sacred. Untouchable.

And now you’re talking about sharing it?

His jaw clenches. His nostrils flare.

“You think I’d allow someone else to touch what’s mine? What we built?”

The word allow hangs in the air, heavy with implication. Not because he sees you as property—but because he sees your relationship as something built on loyalty. On trust. On exclusivity.

He steps closer—his presence towering, powerful, the air almost charged around him.

“Is this how little you think of us? Of me?”

He’s not yelling. He doesn’t need to. The sheer intensity in his voice could shatter steel. Mark doesn’t threaten to end things—he warns that the relationship you had would never be the same. That if you go through with it, you will not like the consequences.

Not because he’ll hurt you. But because he won’t see you the same way ever again.

And the worst part? You’ll see it in his eyes. That shift. That crack in how tenderly he once looked at you. Because in his mind—if you loved him, really loved him—you’d never want anyone else.

SHIESTY MARK

Mark is offended. Immediately. Like, audibly scoffs the second you say “open relationship.”

“The hell are you talking about?”

It’s not just disbelief—it’s disrespect. You suggesting it feels like a slap to the face. Not because he’s insecure, but because he knows what he brings to the table. He thinks you should know too.

He paces, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s trying not to blow up, but his mouth is already running.

“You bored of me or somethin’? You want attention that bad, you gotta ask for it outside of me?”

He doesn’t yell—but the sarcasm and sharpness in his tone sting.

He thinks you’re playing with him. Like it’s a joke or a test or some kinda power move. Because from his point of view? He’s been loyal, protective, obsessed, and now you’re talking about sleeping with someone else?

It puts him on edge.

He gets cold.

“Nah, go ahead. If you want someone else so bad, don’t let me stop you. But don’t think I’m gonna stick around watchin’ you get passed around like a party favor.”

And he means it. He won’t chase. He’ll watch you walk away—gritting his teeth, heart pounding, eyes burning—but he won’t stop you. Pride comes first. Always.

He’ll be pissed. Hurt. A little vindictive. Probably start messing around just to spite you.

But deep down? If you ever tried to come back? He wouldn’t say no. He’d make you work for it—but he wouldn’t say no.

Because despite everything, a part of him still wants to be enough for you.

💋 TAG LIST ; @onlybatsyy

[yvesssssssss]

HELLO!!! 🎀🎀🎀

Just a cute small request because why not???

How about Sakamoto days men doing their girlfriend's makeup???

🌧🌧🌧🌧🌧🌧🌧🌧🌧🌧🌧🌧

🙆‍♀️🙆‍♀️🙆‍♀️🙆‍♀️🙆‍♀️🙆‍♀️🙆‍♀️🙆‍♀️🙆‍♀️🙆‍♀️🙆‍♀️🙆‍♀️

Sakamoto days men doing their s/o's makeup

Hiii bb!! I hope you enjoy!^^

Nagumo yoichi

You weren’t even sure how the conversation started. One second you were doing your makeup in peace, and the next, Nagumo was peering over your shoulder with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Let me try,” he said, already rolling up his sleeves. “How hard could it be?”

“Very,” you warned, holding up a brow pencil like a weapon.

But Nagumo had already plucked a brush from your kit and was patting the bed like, come on, sit still and let the artist work. So you did.

He sat cross-legged in front of you, gently tugging your chin up to get a better look. “Okay, okay. Foundation first, right? Gotta paint the canvas before the masterpiece.”

The moment he started, you realized you were in trouble.

Nagumo applied your foundation with the confidence of someone who had absolutely no idea what they were doing. He smeared it on like sunscreen at the beach—broad strokes, barely blended, and far too much of it.

“Is it supposed to look this… pasty?” he asked, squinting at you. “Maybe I used too much. Or maybe your face is just small. Yeah, that’s probably it.”

You fought the urge to laugh. “There’s foundation in my eyebrow.”

“Details, details,” he said, already reaching for the eyeshadow palette like a kid let loose in an art store. “Now this is where I shine.”

You watched in horror as he picked the brightest, most neon pink in the palette and patted it on your eyelids with a smug grin.

“Oh yeah. You’re looking dangerously cute now,” he teased.

“Dangerous is right.”

But when he leaned back to admire his work, he softened. “You know,” he said, brushing a bit of powder off your cheek with his thumb, “even with my masterpiece-level mess, you still look good.”

You raised a brow. “Even with the glitter eyeliner you accidentally drew halfway up my forehead?”

“Especially because of that.” He kissed your nose. “You wear chaos well, love.”

Natsuki seba

“I can’t believe I agreed to this,” Natsuki muttered, carefully dipping a beauty blender into your foundation like it was some sacred ritual.

You sat cross-legged in front of him on the living room floor, your makeup bag laid out like a minefield. He had a determined little frown on his face and was treating your skin like delicate porcelain.

“Just... tell me if I hurt you, okay?”

“Natsuki, it’s makeup, not surgery,” you giggled, but he was already laser-focused, gently dabbing foundation onto your cheeks.

His touch was soft—so soft, you barely felt the sponge on your skin.

“I watched a tutorial before this,” he admitted under his breath. “I didn’t want to mess it up.”

You blinked. “Wait. You studied?”

He nodded, now brushing the blush over your cheeks with the gentlest swipe you’d ever felt. “You always put so much care into your look. I wanted to do it right.”

Your heart melted a little.

He blended like a pro—if a little too slow—and stepped back every few minutes to observe, like a painter contemplating his canvas.

When it came to your eyeliner, he froze.

“This… this is where it all goes wrong,” he whispered.

You laughed, covering your mouth.

“Don’t move,” he said in a panic. “I need absolute stillness. Breathe like a statue.”

“You mean don’t breathe?”

He started giggling then, and the moment was ruined. The eyeliner went just slightly crooked, and he pulled back with a sigh.

“It’s not perfect.”

But when you looked in the mirror, you were surprised. Your makeup was actually... really pretty. Soft, clean, glowy. Just like him.

“It’s perfect,” you said.

He blushed and looked away. “You’re just saying that because I didn’t poke your eye out.”

“Nope. I’m saying that because you’re sweet. And talented. And—”

He kissed your cheek before you could finish. “Stop. I’ll cry.”

Shin asakura

You raised a brow as Shin fumbled with your mascara wand like it was a bomb about to go off.

“Do not poke my eye out,” you warned.

“I’m not gonna—wait, hold still okay, I might accidentally blind you,” he admitted, hand trembling slightly. “But that’s not the plan!”

You sighed and sat back against the couch cushions, letting him hover over you with way too much nervous energy. The table in front of you was covered in your makeup essentials, and Shin looked at each product like it might explode if he touched it wrong.

“I’m trying to read your mind for help,” he muttered, holding the eyeliner like a weapon.

Your inner thoughts weren’t helping: Please don’t mess this up. Please don’t use that dark brown on my entire eyelid. Why does he look so serious right now?

Shin blinked. “Okay, not brown. Got it.”

You stared. “Did you just—?”

“Don’t ask. I’m too stressed.”

He was cute, though tongue slightly poking out, eyes squinted in concentration as he applied your eyeshadow with a fluffy brush he was holding like chopsticks. He used a soft rose gold on your lids, and when he blended it, it wasn’t actually that bad.

But then came the highlighter.

He loved the highlighter.

“Shin, that’s enough—”

“You look like a radiant goddess,” he said, adding more to the tip of your nose. “Like… ethereal. You could blind someone with one cheek turn.”

You were practically glowing like the sun by the end of it, and your face hurt from laughing.

“You’re ridiculous,” you told him, grabbing the mirror.

He looked nervous, biting his lip. “Be honest. Is it terrible?”

You checked the mirror. Honestly? It wasn’t perfect, but it was full of effort, and it had your cheeks aching from how much you’d smiled through the whole thing.

“It’s kind of amazing,” you said, pulling him into a hug. “You did better than half the influencers I watch.”

He flushed bright red. “...I’ll do your makeup any day if it means you look at me like that again.”

[rkive-joonie]

"On your hands and knees" | Jeon × Y/n x Kim

| Jungkook x Y/N x Taehyung |

warnings/tags — 18+, explicit smut,emotional and possessive love and intimacy, he is literally so obsessed with her, oral sex (f. receiving), making out, hickies/marking,penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie, missionary position, fingering, rough and slow paced sex, emotional sex,

Wordcount: 2.4k

"You're not going to believe what happened," Jungkook said, his eyes gleaming with excitement as he leaned over the counter to whisper into my ear. His warm breath tickled my skin, sending a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the chilly evening air.

"What's going on?" I asked, playing along with his game, my curiosity piqued.

"Remember that nightclub we talked about?" Jungkook replied, a sly smile playing at the corners of his lips. "The one with the... private rooms?"

"Yeah, what about it?" I inquired, my heart racing slightly as I tried to keep my voice even.

"Well, Taehyung and I went there last night," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "And we had a little fun."

The air between us grew thick with tension as he spoke, and I couldn't help but feel a mix of jealousy and arousal. I had always been intrigued by the idea of BDSM, but never had the courage to explore it. Now, here was Jungkook, laying it all out for me like a secret I wasn't supposed to know.

"What did you guys do?" I probed, my voice barely above a whisper.

Jungkook's smile widened, his eyes darkening with desire as he leaned closer. "Why don't I show you instead?"

Without waiting for my response, he grabbed my hand and pulled me through the crowded street, his grip firm and unyielding. The neon lights of the city reflected off his piercings, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across his face. We arrived at the nondescript building, the heavy bass of music thumping through the walls.

As we entered, the smell of leather and musk filled the air. The club was dimly lit, with the occasional flicker of candlelight casting eerie shadows across the walls. People in various stages of undress mingled freely, the sounds of whips cracking and moans echoing through the space.

"This is your chance," Jungkook murmured, his hand sliding down to grip my wrist. "Do you trust me?"

I nodded, my breath hitching in anticipation. This was it. The moment I had unknowingly been waiting for.

He led me down a narrow hallway, past velvet-covered doors with signs that read "Private." We stopped in front of one, and Jungkook produced a key with a flourish.

"Are you ready, Y/N?" he asked, his voice dropping to a seductive purr.

I nodded again, unable to find my voice as he unlocked the door and pushed it open, revealing a dimly lit room with a large, inviting bed in the center. Taehyung was already there, lounging on the bed, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity that made my knees weak.

They both smirked at my reaction, and I realized that this was no ordinary night out. This was going to be an adventure I would never forget.

Jungkook guided me over to the bed, his hand warm and reassuring in mine. He sat me down, his strong hands gently pushing me back into the softness of the mattress. Taehyung leaned in, his breath hot on my neck as he began to unbutton my shirt, one by one, revealing my collarbone.

"We're going to take this slow," Jungkook said, his eyes never leaving mine. "But if you ever feel uncomfortable, just say the safe word, and we'll stop."

I nodded, my heart racing with excitement. I had always been drawn to the idea of submitting to someone else's desires, and now, here I was, with two gorgeous men ready to fulfill my darkest fantasies.

Taehyung's hands were everywhere, tracing patterns on my skin that sent waves of pleasure coursing through my body. He kissed me softly, his tongue teasing mine as he removed my shirt, leaving me in just my bra and jeans. Jungkook's eyes raked over me, a look of pure hunger in them that made me feel like the most desired person in the world.

He moved closer, his hand sliding up my thigh to unbutton my jeans. His touch was firm, but gentle, as he exposed my skin to the cool air of the room. My breath grew ragged as he slid them down my legs, taking my shoes and socks off in the process. I was now in just my underwear, feeling vulnerable yet incredibly

aroused by the situation.

Jungkook took the lead, attaching soft leather cuffs to my wrists and ankles. The feeling of restriction was exhilarating, a rush of adrenaline that made me want to beg for more. Taehyung watched with a smoldering gaze, his eyes lingering on my exposed flesh. They exchanged a knowing look before Jungkook attached the cuffs to the four bedposts, spreading my body out for their viewing pleasure.

The room was filled with the sound of my own panting as they began to explore my body with their hands and mouths. Jungkook's teeth grazed my nipples through the lace of my bra, sending bolts of pleasure to my core. Taehyung kissed a trail down my stomach, his tongue flicking over my navel before

continuing lower.

"Do you like this, baby?" Jungkook whispered in my ear, his teeth tugging at my earlobe.

"Y-yes," I gasped, unable to form coherent sentences

.

Taehyung's mouth was now on my panties, his warm breath making them wetter by the second. He slid them down, exposing me completely. His tongue traced the sensitive skin of my inner thighs, teasing, taunting, making me squirm with need.

They worked in perfect harmony, each knowing exactly what to do to drive me wild. Jungkook removed my bra, his lips immediately capturing one of my nipples while his hand played with the other. Taehyung's mouth found my clit, his tongue swirling around it in a tantalizing dance that had me arching off the bed.

Their movements grew more urgent as I neared the edge, my body tightening with every stroke. They watched me intently, reading my reactions like a book, making sure I was enjoying every second of it. And I was. The pleasure was intense, like nothing I had ever felt before.

As I reached my climax, I screamed their names, my body convulsing with the force of it. They didn't stop, though, pushing me further, making me come undone in a way I never thought possible.

Once I had caught my breath, they untied me, and we moved to the next stage of our night together. The anticipation was killing me, but I knew it would be worth it. This was just the beginning of an unforgettable experience that would change me forever.

Jungkook handed me a blindfold, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Trust us," he said, his voice low and commanding. I nodded, eager to see what they had in store for me. As the soft material covered my eyes, the world around me

was plunged into darkness.

Suddenly, my senses were heightened. Every sound was amplified, and I could feel the heat of their bodies as they moved closer to me. Taehyung's hand brushed against my bare skin, sending goosebumps down my spine. Jungkook's fingers traced a path along my collarbone, making me shiver with anticipation.

The bed dipped as one of them straddled my hips, their weight pressing me down into the mattress. I could feel the outline of their erection through their pants, and I moaned, desperate for them to take the next step. The air was thick with lust, and I could feel it coating my skin like a fine mist.

They didn't disappoint. Jungkook's hand slid down my stomach, his fingers slipping into my panties to stroke my wetness. His other hand found my throat, squeezing gently as he began to kiss me again, his tongue delving deep into my mouth. Meanwhile, Taehyung's mouth was on my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin as he kissed and nipped his way down to my chest.

Their hands and mouths were everywhere, exploring and claiming every inch of me. They moved together like a well-oiled machine, each touch and kiss calculated to drive me closer to the edge. I was lost in a sea of sensation, unable to think about anything but the two of them and the way they were making me feel.

With a sudden jerk, Jungkook removed my blindfold, and I was met with the sight of them both, fully naked, their erections standing proudly before me. They looked like gods in the candlelight, their muscles rippling as they moved closer.

"We're going to take you now," Jungkook murmured, his voice thick with desire. "But remember, you're in control."

I nodded, my voice a breathy whisper. "I trust you."

And with those words, I gave them the power to do whatever they wanted to me.

The rest of the night was a blur of pleasure and pain, a dance of dominance and submission that I had never experienced before. They pushed me to my limits and beyond, each touch and sensation more intense than the last. I was theirs, to do with as they pleased, and I reveled in it.

Their hands were rough and demanding, leaving marks on my skin that would be there for days. But it was the gentle caresses and whispered words of encouragement that truly undid me. They knew exactly how to balance the two, how to keep me on the precipice of ecstasy without sending me over until they were ready.

Taehyung's cock slid into me, filling me completely. I moaned as he began to thrust, slow and steady, his eyes locked with mine. Jungkook knelt beside the bed, stroking himself as he watched us, his eyes dark with lust.

"Look at her," he said to Taehyung, his voice husky. "So beautiful when she's being fucked."

I blushed, my cheeks heating up despite the cool air. The words should have made me feel degraded, but instead, they filled me with a strange sense of pride. I was beautiful, and they were showing me just how much they wanted me.

Taehyung leaned down, capturing my mouth in a bruising kiss as he picked up the pace. Jungkook's hand reached out to cup my cheek, his thumb brushing against my bottom lip. I could feel his eyes on me, drinking in every expression that played across my face.

Suddenly, he was there too, his cock pressing against my ass. He slicked it with lube before pushing in, filling me to the brim. The feeling was overwhelming, the pressure and the stretch almost too much. But they moved together, their rhythm matching perfectly, and soon the pain morphed into something else entirely.

They moved as one, their bodies in sync with mine. Each thrust brought a new wave of pleasure, and I could feel myself getting closer to the edge again. My breath came in gasps and moans, their names falling from my lips in a desperate litany.

And then, just when I thought I couldn't take anymore, they switched places. Jungkook took his place between my legs, his cock sliding in with ease thanks to Taehyung's preparation. Taehyung's mouth was now on my neck, his teeth scraping along my skin as he whispered sweet nothings into my ear.

Their hands were everywhere, touching, squeezing, and teasing. They brought me to the brink over and over again, only to pull back and start the slow build-up once more. It was torturous, but in the best possible way.

Finally, when I thought I couldn't take it anymore, they both pushed deep and held still, their eyes meeting over my body. And with a roar, they came together, their hot seed filling me up.

We collapsed onto the bed, our bodies slick with sweat and lust. They held me close, whispering sweet nothings into my ear, their kisses gentle and reverent.

For a moment, we just laid there, our hearts pounding in unison. Then, with a mischievous smile, Jungkook whispered, "Ready for round two?"

And despite the exhaustion that was already setting in, I couldn't help but nod eagerly. This was just the beginning of a night I would never forget.

Jungkook and Taehyung pulled away from me, their bodies glistening in the candlelight. They shared a smug smile before turning their attention back to me, their eyes gleaming with a mix of desire and challenge.

"On your hands and knees," Jungkook ordered, his voice firm and authoritative.

I complied without hesitation, the thrill of submission coursing through my veins. As I got into position, I felt a hand at the small of my back, guiding me down until my cheek was pressed against the cool fabric of the bed.

Taehyung's hand caressed my ass, his fingers slipping between my cheeks to tease my already stretched hole. He applied a bit more lube, the coldness of it making me gasp before he slid one digit in, then two. Jungkook's cock was already at my entrance, the head nudging insistently against my slick folds.

They didn't wait for me to adjust, instead pushing into me simultaneously. The sensation was overwhelming, and I moaned into the pillow, my body trying to accommodate both their sizes. They moved together again, their strokes long and deep, filling me completely.

The room was filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin and my own cries of pleasure. They were relentless, pushing me to the edge again and again. And when I thought I couldn't take anymore, they would slow down, only to build back up to that delicious peak.

My orgasm washed over me like a tidal wave, my body shaking with the force of it. They followed soon after, their cocks pulsing deep inside me as they filled me up once more

.

As we all caught our breath, they helped me off the bed, their hands gentle as they cleaned me up. They led me to the bathroom, where they washed me with warm water and soft cloths. The care and tenderness in their touches was stark contrast to the roughness of the sex we'd just had.

We returned to the bed, our bodies tangled together as we lay there, basking in the afterglow. Jungkook's arms were around me, holding me close as Taehyung traced patterns on my skin with his fingertips.

We talked about our limits, our desires, and what we had just shared. They assured me that this was just the start of our exploration together, that they would always be there to guide and support me.

As I drifted off to sleep, my body sated and my mind racing with the possibilities of what was to come, I knew that I had found something special with these two men. Something that would change me in ways I couldn't even begin to imagine.

But for now, all I could do was lay there, feeling them both beside me, and know that I was exactly where I was meant to be.

[starcurtain]

Is it just me wishing the sunday - aventiorine voice lines carried more hostility? Like if someone took me/my partner on a deadly acid trip I would not be so "forgive and forget"about it, and Aventurine especially is way way less benevolent than me lol

This ask has been in the inbox forever, I'm so sorryyyy T_T

I can definitely see why people were annoyed by the voice lines being pretty easygoing between everyone from the Penacony cast and Sunday, but I think that's less a product of "Aventurine already forgave Sunday" and more a meta decision: Voice lines don't (usually) change over time, so if they gave Aventurine and Ratio really nasty voice lines towards Sunday, it might come across as a bit odd for them to later team up with the Astral Express (including Sunday) without issue. The lines we have in-game probably represent the fact that the devs knew in advance that Sunday's allegiances would be changing and that he'd become a "good guy," so the voice lines needed to be soft enough to justify accepting him in the future.

I also think there's somewhat of a bent in the fandom to see Aventurine as a vengeful person (a lot of people still seem to be convinced that he hates the IPC and is going to betray them, for example), but we're not really given much confirmation in-game that he is that vengeful in the first place.

In his flashbacks as a kid, he mentions hating the Katicans and not understanding why they would target the Avgins, but he hasn't ever made any efforts to directly "pay them back" for what they did, nor have we ever heard him saying that the Katicans should face genocide or karmic retribution for their actions.

While he was a slave, he clearly despised the slave owner, but instead of being overtly aggressive and fighting for his freedom, he attempts to bargain his way up the ladder by going along with his master's wish for wealth--if the slave master had actually given Aventurine the 30 tanbas, I think that Aventurine would probably not have killed him; he would likely have made his master filthy rich, all while working himself into a position of freedom using the "I'm your partner in business, right? You need me!" angle until he could finally pull the rug out from under the master entirely and walk away a wealthy, free man. At the very least, it's implied that Aventurine murdered his master largely because he was pushed so far beyond what a human being could tolerate, rather than Aventurine just being particularly murderous by nature.

Even with the IPC, although Aventurine has agreed to do... something... with Boothill, we're never given any indication that Aventurine applies the logic "The IPC were the ones responsible for what happened to the Avgins" to all of the IPC. He may not be best friends with all of his colleagues in the Stonehearts, but he clearly gets along well with Topaz and Jade and doesn't seem to have any issues pursuing the IPC's missions overall--we never hear him struggle with the idea of taking back Penacony for the IPC, for example. He does not remotely seem to care about the Penaconians' freedoms being taken away lol.

I could easily be proven wrong in the future, but at least as far as we've currently been shown, my perception is that Aventurine is an extremely pragmatic person, to the point that he might see holding grudges as a detriment to himself.

The phrase that comes to mind is: "Today's enemies might be tomorrow's allies."

If you choose to hold on to animosity, you might miss an opportunity to use someone else to your advantage--and therefore you might lose the opportunity to get ahead of others entirely.

Aventurine strikes me as a character whose actions center ferociously on his own survival, his definition of accomplishment, and his own ability to "come out on top"--even if he wants to use his achievements to help his people and repay those who aided him, he needs to first experience success to be able to help others. Aventurine is extremely shrewd, extremely observant, and extremely cunning--a single glance is all it takes for him to figure out how to use the world, the tools, and the people around him to achieve his goals.

Personally, I would imagine he's quite willing to cozy up to people who've wronged him in the past--so long as they might still prove beneficial to him in the future.

Why not let bygones be bygones, friend~?

[dare-to-dm]

I'm talking about things like threatening their loved ones, destroying their childhood homes, having someone they trusted betray them, forcing them into situations reminiscent of past traumas, etc.

I'm planning a special one shot for a friend with an already established character. And I was brainstorming details for one idea I had when I suddenly interrupted my own train of thought by saying "Wait a minute, I can't just torture them, can I?"

And that led me to thinking about how I like to see this sort of thing play out when it's my character, versus how other people probably feel about it.

My personal feelings are that I'm cool with my DM using things from my backstory to make my character's life harder as long as they do it in a way that doesn't dictate or assume what my character did/would do. Like, they can make bad things happen to my character now as long as I can freely react to it, but I don't want them to insert or change things that happened to the character in the past without asking first.

Thoughts?