#or do people just not use the tag anymore

[scentedluminarysoul]

SOMETIMES IT'S ON PURPOSE OKAY I DON'T KNOW WHAT IT'S CALLED BUT SOMETIMES YOU REPEAT THE SAME WORD OR PHRASE ON PURPOSE IT'S A STYLISTIC CHOICE

Ahem. Also. You don't need to thesaurus every word. It's fine if you call a table a table multiple times

Honestly, writing has become so complicated and everyone's a critic and don't you DARE use the same word twice or start a sentence with "he" twice in a row!

Can we go back to actually caring about SUBSTANCE? About what it's trying to tell you?

I'm currently reading Agatha Christie's "And Then There Were None" from 1939. It's written so SIMPLY and yet it's so good and just effective in what it does.

Do you know how often it says "(character name) said:" and then just the dialogue? That's the vast majority of how her dialogues work. Simple, easy to understand, no confusion as to who's talking.

It's not fancy, and yet she's one of the best writers to have ever existed

I mean, look at this:

It's just a simple dialogue that keeps going like that.

One of the most repeated writing advices you read is "make your dialogue interesting", like give characters something to in between tags, etc.

But lads—this dialogue is interesting in and of itself. It's intriguing. Why would they also need to juggle chainsaws or low the lawn or whatever?

And the dialogue tag Christie uses most often is "said". Simply "said". Because it doesn't need more.

Here and there are a few hints as to how the characters are feeling ("angrily", "dryly", "after a minute or two"), but it's your job as a reader to UNDERSTAND and INTERPRET them, to THINK ABOUT WHAT YOU'RE READING.

And I think that's the big problem nowadays: people don't want to think about it anymore. TikTok girlies brag about reading 3 books a day, but they don't UNDERSTAND them. That much is clear when you listen to them talk about books

And this is also what people mean that you should read when you want to become a writer. Because you can read all the writing tips ever online, but that will only make you go insane and insecure.

READ and you will see how they're applied. Or not. And even then the book is still good

And no book is perfect or even good from start to finish. There will be dull moments, or misses in even the best books

And you need to see those flaws in order to become a writer

I forgot about that myself.

The key to writing well isn't to use the best and most interesting words perfectly

It's to use the words you have effectively.

Sorry OP, didn't need to rant

But sometimes all these clever "writing tips to become a better writer" are really missing what's truly makes a good writer:

The heart

Of you only count how many times someone used the same word in a paragraph, instead of trying to understand what that paragraph is telling you, you don't care about the art of writing

Actually you CAN use the same word twice in the same paragraph. The same sentence even. If it's funny, if it's for emphasis, if it's harping on a theme, if you're sexy and you do whatever you want forever. Write on

[elryuse]

Show Must Go On

Ahyeon & BABYMONSTER X Male Reader

Tags : Romance, Angsty, Depressing, Hopeful, Fluff, Depth

Words : 11+k Words

Warning : This Is a Completely Made-up story. If there are any Names or Characters that Are similar. I do not mean to do any harm, and This story includes angsty stuff

A/n : I Kinda have this Whole Story in mind. And Since I can't sleep, Why not try to make it alive. If you all Enjoyed it, I might make A Sequel in the Future.

!Tragic News, Ladies and Gentlemen!

The air was thick with grief as the news broke. BABYMONSTER’s Ahyeon had been in a terrible accident.

Rumors spread like wildfire—whispers of reckless driving, an ex-boyfriend behind the wheel, and a devastating crash that sent their car slamming into a semi-truck. The impact was brutal. Ahyeon was left with fractured heels and both arms shattered—her body broken, her future uncertain.

As she was rushed to the ICU, her fellow BABYMONSTER members were seen in tears, standing helplessly outside the operation room. Fans swarmed the hospital, their worried voices echoing through the halls, praying for any sign of hope.

Days passed in agonizing silence. Then, finally—she survived.

But survival came at a cost.

Ahyeon would be unable to walk for months. She would have to drastically slow down in an industry where every second counted. The once-rising star was now in limbo, placed on an indefinite hiatus that left fans wondering: Would she ever come back.

The air felt colder than usual as I slowly opened my eyes.

I was awake. Alive.

And yet, I wished I wasn’t.

My legs were numb. My arms ached like hell. The room was a mess—soju bottles scattered across the floor, empty, just like me. I didn’t even remember how much I drank. Anything to dull the pain, to silence the thoughts, to drown in my own oblivion.

It had been months since the accident.

That bastard.

That pathetic excuse of a man.

But it wasn’t just him. I was angry at everything. At myself, at my members, at fate itself. I hated God for doing this to me.

I was supposed to be on stage, dancing, singing, basking in the love of my fans. Instead, I was rotting away in this dark room, my body fragile, my future stolen.

I knew the others were moving on without me. Comeback after comeback, performance after performance—without me.

And I hated them for it.

Ruka and Chiquita visited often. The others? Too busy, they said. Chiquita would sit beside me, trying to cheer me up. She told me how much BAEMON missed me, how much the fans were waiting.

And God, I missed them too.

I missed the thrill of performing. I missed the cheers, the lights, the energy. I missed feeling alive.

But I couldn’t face them.

I wasn’t Ahyeon anymore.

I was just a broken girl trapped in a broken body.

That is, until I met him.

You.

The moment you walked into my life, I felt something I hadn’t in a long time.

Curiosity.

You weren’t like the others. You were different.

Our new song producer, Y/n.

A rookie, just like us. Young, bright-eyed, hopeful. You greeted everyone with warmth, your smile never wavering. Even when you knew I wasn’t part of this comeback, you still tried to get to know me.

I hated it.

It felt fake. Too friendly. Too… hopeful.

Hope was something I had long abandoned.

Yet, you never gave up.

You snuck into my room, bringing warm meals, even soju. At first, I thought you were just another fake. A creep.

So I pushed you away.

And instead of insisting, you apologized.

You backed off, respecting my space, promising you wouldn’t bother me anymore.

And that’s when I started missing you.

I didn’t know why. But I did.

Watching you laugh with my members, seeing how easily you fit in with them—it felt weird. Like I was an outsider to my own family.

You kept coming to the dorm, sneaking in forbidden meals—tteokbokki, jokbal, all the things we weren’t supposed to eat.

And for the first time in forever, we felt human.

We weren’t just idols, we were people.

You reminded us of who we were before the industry caged us.

And that’s when I realized—I had made a mistake.

You weren’t trying to replace me.

You were trying to save me.

You wanted me to fight. To stand back up. To be Ahyeon again.

But the world wouldn’t allow it.

YG saw how close you had gotten to us. They didn’t like it. They didn’t like you.

And before we could do anything, they fired you.

Just like that.

We begged them to reconsider. We explained everything. But they didn’t care.

We were idols.

And idols don’t get to choose who stays or who leaves.

You were gone.

And we were back to square one.

The Last Words You Left Me With

Time passed. I healed. Slowly. Painfully.

I could dance again. A little.

But the doctor kept warning me not to push myself.

And yet, I wanted to.

I needed to.

Because your words still echoed in my mind—

"Be yourself, Ahyeon."

"You don’t need to blame the universe anymore."

"You’re not a misfortune."

"What happened to you, what happened to everyone—it’s a blessing, and a lesson."

"I know it seems hard to accept. But sooner or later, you’ll understand."

That was the last thing you ever said to me.

The last thing before they took you away.

And now, as I stand here, dancing once more, rehearsing for our latest comeback—DRIP—I hear Ruka’s voice behind me.

"What’s wrong, Ahyeon?"

I stop.

My heart pounds faster and faster.

And for the first time in a long time…

I know the answer.

The scent of sizzling meat and freshly steamed rice filled the air as I wiped my hands on my apron. The dinner rush had finally settled, and for once, I could take a breath.

I never thought I’d end up here—working part-time at a small restaurant after everything that happened.

Music had been my life. BABYMONSTER had been my life.

But now, it was nothing more than a distant memory.

I still followed their updates, of course. I watched their performances from behind a screen, listening to the songs I never got the chance to produce. I wondered if their new producer treated them with kindness, if he saw them as people, not just idols.

I hoped so.

I prayed for it.

Because if he didn’t…

Then what was the point of all this?

I was in the middle of serving a table when I noticed them.

Two girls, sitting in the farthest corner of the restaurant. They wore caps, oversized hoodies, and sunglasses, but even with the disguises, I knew instantly.

Ruka and Chiquita.

For a moment, I froze.

They hadn’t seen me yet. They were chatting in hushed voices, occasionally glancing around, making sure no one recognized them.

And then, Chiquita laughed—a soft, familiar laugh.

God. I missed them.

I took a deep breath, walked up to their table, and placed a tray of warm dishes in front of them.

"Would you ladies like anything else?" I asked casually.

They both stopped mid-conversation.

Chiquita turned to me first, brows furrowing behind her shades. Then her lips parted slightly, realization dawning.

Ruka lowered her sunglasses just enough for me to see the shock in her eyes.

"No way."

I grinned. "Long time no see, huh?"

Chiquita gasped, practically jumping in her seat. "Oh my God—Y/n! What are you doing here?!"

I chuckled, scratching the back of my head. "Working, obviously."

"But—why? What happened to producing?" Ruka asked, her voice softer, more hesitant.

I hesitated.

How was I supposed to answer that?

That YG tossed me aside like I was nothing? That the dream I had fought for, bled for, had slipped through my fingers overnight?

I forced a small smile. "It’s a long story."

Ruka looked like she wanted to say something, but Chiquita was already tugging on my arm, eyes wide with excitement.

"You have no idea how much we missed you."

My chest tightened at her words.

"Yeah?" I said, trying to sound playful, but my voice came out quieter than I expected.

"Yeah." Ruka nodded. "Ahyeon too."

I froze.

"How is she?" I asked carefully.

Chiquita grinned. "Better. She’s been working hard. She can dance again, Y/n. It’s not like before, but she’s getting there."

Something in me relaxed.

I had spent so many nights wondering if she was okay, if she had healed—not just physically, but emotionally. I had been terrified that she would never find the strength to stand back up again.

But hearing this…

Hearing that she was fighting—

It made me feel like maybe, just maybe, I hadn’t completely failed her.

We spent the next few hours talking.

Catching up.

Reminiscing about the past.

They told me about Baemon’s comeback, about the new songs, about how things had changed—and how, in some ways, they hadn’t.

I told them about my life now, about the restaurant, about how I still missed music.

We laughed.

We shared stories.

And for a little while, it felt like nothing had changed at all.

Until I glanced at the clock.

It was late.

Too late.

"You guys should go home," I said, standing up. "If your managers find out you were out this long, they’ll kill you."

Chiquita groaned. "Ugh, don’t remind me."

Ruka smirked. "We snuck out. We’ll be fine."

I raised an eyebrow. "You sure about that?"

Chiquita sighed, finally relenting. "Fine, fine. But we’re coming back."

I smiled, shaking my head. "Do what you want. Just don’t get caught."

They stood up, both of them hesitating for a second before Chiquita suddenly lunged forward, wrapping her arms around me in a tight hug.

"We really, really missed you, Y/n."

I felt my throat tighten.

I hugged her back. "I missed you guys too."

Ruka didn’t say anything, but she reached out, giving my shoulder a small squeeze.

And then, just like that, they were gone.

Leaving me standing there, wondering if I would ever really see them again.

The stage was set.

BABYMONSTER stood at the center of the vast, dimly lit arena, their breaths shallow, hearts pounding against their ribcages as they stared out at the thousands of fans gathered before them. The air was thick with anticipation, the sound of the crowd humming like an electric current, waiting for the first note to drop.

Their latest album, "Forsaken," had been their most grueling project yet—physically, emotionally, and mentally.

They had given everything.

Blood, sweat, and tears.

Not just for themselves.

But for Ahyeon.

This was the first comeback where all seven of them would stand together again.

Ahyeon, dressed in a sleek black outfit that shimmered under the stage lights, took a deep breath. The weight of the moment sat heavy on her shoulders. Months of pain, struggle, and isolation had led her here. She had fought through rehabilitation, doubt, and the whispers of people who claimed she’d never be the same.

And yet—here she was.

Stronger than ever.

Chiquita reached out, giving Ahyeon’s hand a small, reassuring squeeze. Ruka, standing beside her, nodded silently, as if telling her, We’re with you.

Ahyeon swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in her throat.

The lights dimmed.

The bass dropped.

And then—

The music began.

From the very first verse, BABYMONSTER commanded the stage with a presence that sent shockwaves through the arena. Their movements were sharper, more intense. The choreography had been pushed to its limits, their vocals raw with emotion.

Each line, each step, was fueled by anger, passion, and an unbreakable will to prove themselves.

Ahyeon moved like fire, her presence undeniable. She wasn’t just performing. She was fighting. Fighting for everything she had lost. Fighting for the future she refused to let go of.

The song built up to its climax, and in that moment—when Ahyeon hit the high note that once seemed impossible for her to reach again—the entire stadium roared.

Tears welled in her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall.

Instead, she pushed forward, harder than ever.

By the time the performance ended, they were breathless.

The audience erupted into deafening screams. Fans waved their lightsticks wildly, their chants of "BABYMONSTER! BABYMONSTER!" shaking the very foundation of the venue.

The members turned toward each other, their eyes gleaming with exhaustion, relief, and something else—victory.

Ahyeon felt Chiquita throw an arm around her shoulder, while Asa and Haram exchanged proud smiles. Rami wiped a stray tear from her eye, and Pharita grinned, flashing a thumbs-up.

And Ruka—Ruka simply nodded, a silent message passing between them.

They did it.

They had taken everything—the pain, the struggles, the doubt—and turned it into something breathtaking.

This comeback wasn’t just about returning to the stage.

It was a declaration.

A resurrection.

And for the first time in a long time, Ahyeon felt like she was finally, truly alive.

Meanwhile…

A lone figure stood at the back of the arena, away from the flashing cameras and roaring crowd.

Dressed in a simple hoodie and jeans, he blended into the sea of spectators, but his eyes never wavered from the stage.

From her.

Y/n watched as Ahyeon stood under the blinding lights, radiating strength he hadn’t seen in so long.

His heart ached, a mix of pride and something far more painful twisting inside him.

He had always believed in her.

Even when she didn’t believe in herself.

And now, seeing her shine brighter than ever, he realized—

She didn’t need him anymore.

A small, bittersweet smile tugged at his lips.

Maybe this was how it was always meant to be.

She was a star, after all.

And he…

He was just someone who had once helped her find her way back to the sky.

With one last lingering glance, Y/n turned around—disappearing into the shadows.

Ahyeon felt it.

That familiar presence.

Even through the blinding lights, the deafening cheers, and the overwhelming emotions coursing through her veins—she knew he was there.

Y/n.

She had set her eyes on him from the very beginning, even when she pretended not to care. Even when she tried convincing herself that she had moved on.

But the moment she saw that silhouette in the distance, standing at the very back of the arena, her heart clenched so painfully it was almost unbearable.

She wanted to scream, to run toward him.

But instead—

She watched him turn away.

Leaving.

Again.

As if everything they had shared, everything he had meant to her, had been nothing more than a fleeting moment in his life.

A sharp sting burned in her chest, and before she could stop herself—tears spilled from her eyes.

The crowd gasped.

Her body trembled, breaths coming out in short, broken gasps.

The other members immediately noticed.

"Ahyeon?!" Ruka turned to her, voice filled with concern.

Chiquita reached out, her expression full of worry, "Are you okay?"

The panic spread quickly. The audience, the staff, even the cameramen capturing the live broadcast—everyone held their breath.

Ahyeon was crying.

On stage.

Something that had never happened before.

The air grew heavy with tension—until Rami, sensing the need to diffuse the moment, stepped in.

With a soft smile, she took Ahyeon’s hand and spoke into her mic.

“Ahyeon’s crying because she missed this. The fans, the stage, and… everyone.”

The crowd erupted into loud cheers, believing her words without question.

But the members knew better.

Ruka's grip on Ahyeon’s arm tightened slightly, a silent way of saying, We’ll talk later.

Chiquita didn’t look convinced either, her gaze flickering toward the direction Ahyeon had been staring at just moments ago.

And Ahyeon—

She stood there, biting her lip, trying to hold herself together.

Even as the performance ended.

Even as they bowed to the audience.

Even as they exited the stage.

Her mind was stuck on one thing.

Y/n left.

And this time, she didn't want to let him go.

The night was supposed to be fun.

A simple, reckless joyride with my boyfriend, who had always been a little too careless, a little too impulsive. I should've known better.

The city lights blurred past us as he laughed, his hands barely gripping the steering wheel properly.

"Slow down," I murmured, trying to sound casual despite the unease creeping up my spine.

"Relax, babe! We're just having fun!" He grinned, stepping on the gas.

The car lurched forward.

The roads twisted and turned, but he didn't slow down. Instead, he swerved-zigzagging like a child playing a game.

"STOP!" I screamed, my hands gripping the seatbelt.

But he didn't.

And then

Impact.

A deafening crash.

The sound of metal crumpling.

My world spun violently as glass shattered around me, raining down like deadly stars.

Then-silence.

I could hear my heartbeat.

Slow. Faint.

Pain. Everywhere.

I tried to move, but my body wouldn't listen.

My arms-twisted, broken.

My legs-unresponsive.

I couldn't breathe. I couldn't scream.

The taste of blood coated my tongue as my vision flickered. I turned my head-barely.

My boyfriend was slumped over the steering wheel, motionless.

Sirens wailed in the distance, but they felt so far away.

Everything felt so distant.

I wasn't even sure if I was still alive.

I closed my eyes.

And when I opened them again

I was in a hospital bed.

The room was white, sterile, suffocating. My entire body ached, and when I tried to move-nothing.

The realization sank in slowly, painfully.

I wasn't the same anymore.

Then the doctor came in, his expression unreadable.

He told me the damage was severe. That my heels were fractured. That both my arms were completely broken.

And then, with a tone too gentle, too apologetic, he said the words that destroyed me.

"You may never be able to dance or sing like before."

I forgot how to breathe.

The walls closed in on me.

No.

No, this wasn't happening.

My future-ruined.

The career I worked my entire life for-gone.

I wanted to scream, but all that came out was a choked sob.

My body shook as reality crushed me, shattering everything I thought I was.

I wasn't Ahyeon, the center of Babymonster.

I wasn't Ahyeon, the girl with dreams so big they touched the stars.

I was just

Nothing.

The warmth surrounding me was unfamiliar, yet comforting. As my heavy eyelids slowly fluttered open, the dim glow of the early morning seeped through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the room.

I could feel them.

Their breaths, slow and steady, their bodies pressed close against mine—my members.

Chiquita had her arms wrapped around my waist, her face buried against my side. Rami rested near my shoulder, while Asa and Pharita were tangled together at the edge of the bed. Even Haram, who usually preferred sleeping in her own space, had curled up near my feet.

And Ruka—

The first one to stir.

I felt her shift beside me, her presence familiar and grounding. A moment later, I heard her sigh softly.

"Ahyeon…" Her voice was quiet, hesitant. "You're awake."

I didn’t respond.

I couldn’t.

The remnants of my nightmare still clung to me like chains, dragging me back to that night—the accident, the pain, the hopelessness. I could still feel it.

Ruka sat up slightly, brushing strands of hair from my face as her gaze softened. "What happened?" she asked, concern lacing her words.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and turned my head away.

Silence.

A single tear escaped, trailing down my cheek.

Ruka saw it.

Without hesitation, she reached out, her fingers gently wiping it away.

She didn’t press for answers.

Didn’t force me to speak.

Instead, she just stayed.

A deep sigh escaped her lips before she leaned closer, resting her forehead against mine.

"We'll see him again," she whispered.

I froze.

My heart clenched.

She didn’t need to say his name. I already knew.

Y/n.

The person who had saved me in ways no one else could.

The warmth he brought into our lives, the small moments of joy he had given us—me.

The one person I couldn’t afford to lose again.

I closed my eyes, inhaling shakily.

I wanted to believe her.

That one day, somehow, we’d see him again.

The scent of sizzling meat filled the air as I moved between tables, balancing a tray of steaming dishes. The dinner rush had just begun, and the small restaurant was packed with customers.

It had been months since I left YG. Months since I walked away from the music industry—the very thing I had dedicated my entire life to.

And yet, no matter how much time passed, I couldn’t forget.

I still missed it. The late-night studio sessions, the endless brainstorming for the perfect melody, the way music could breathe life into the lifeless.

But more than anything—

I missed them. Babymonster.

I shook my head, pushing the thoughts away as I placed a plate of tteokbokki on a customer’s table.

Then, just as I turned to grab another order—

I saw her.

Ruka.

She was standing near the entrance, wearing a hoodie and a cap, her long hair tucked behind her ears. Despite the attempt at a disguise, I could recognize her instantly.

But something was wrong.

Her eyes—normally filled with confidence, strength—were dull. Weary. She stood there, unmoving, her fingers clutching the strap of her bag so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

I immediately stepped forward, concern flooding my chest.

"Ruka?" My voice was cautious, careful. "What are you doing here?"

She looked up at me, her lips pressing together as if she was trying to find the right words. But she said nothing.

Instead, she lowered her head.

And then—

A tear slipped down her cheek.

I froze.

Ruka never cried.

She was the strongest out of all of them, the pillar that held everyone together. Seeing her break down like this—seeing the weight of something so unbearable pressing against her shoulders—made my stomach twist.

"Hey, hey…" I quickly set my tray aside and stepped closer, placing a hand on her back. "Talk to me. What’s going on?"

She sniffled, swallowing hard before whispering, "Ahyeon."

My heart stopped.

I tightened my grip on her shoulder. "What happened to Ahyeon?"

Ruka inhaled sharply, as if she was struggling to keep her emotions in check. "She’s… she’s not okay, Y/n." Her voice cracked. "She’s trying to act like she is, but I see it. We all see it."

I stayed silent, waiting.

"She cries when she thinks no one is watching. She barely eats. She’s pushing herself too hard, forcing herself to smile when she’s hurting inside." Ruka clenched her fists. "Ever since you left, it’s like she’s just… drifting."

I felt my chest tighten.

Ahyeon.

The girl who once radiated fire and determination. The girl who fought through everything to chase her dreams.

And now, she was falling apart.

Ruka exhaled shakily, her voice almost pleading. "She needs you, Y/n."

I swallowed hard.

I had promised myself I wouldn’t go back. That I wouldn’t step into that world again.

But this wasn’t about me anymore.

This was about her.

The ride to their dorm was quiet.

Ruka sat beside me in the backseat of a black van, her arms crossed, eyes staring out the window. She had stopped crying, but the heavy weight in the air remained.

I, on the other hand, could feel my heart pounding against my ribs.

I didn’t know what to expect.

It had been months since I left. Months since I had last seen them. Since I had last seen her.

And now, here I was—returning like nothing had happened.

As the van pulled up to the familiar building, I hesitated for a brief moment. Was this the right thing to do?

Before I could dwell on it, Ruka stepped out first, turning back to glance at me. “Come on.”

I followed.

She led me through the hallway, each step bringing back memories I thought I had buried. The late-night talks. The laughter. The music.

Then, finally—

We stopped in front of the door.

Ruka knocked twice before pushing it open.

The moment I stepped inside, everything hit me at once.

The warmth of the dorm. The familiar scent of vanilla candles. The soft hum of the heater running in the background.

And then—

Them.

The members turned towards the door, and for a second, there was silence.

No one moved. No one spoke.

Then, in a heartbeat—

They ran to me.

"Y/n!"

Before I could react, I was engulfed in their embrace. Rami clung onto my arm. Pharita buried her face against my shoulder. Chiquita was holding onto my back, muttering how much she missed me. Asa had her arms wrapped around my waist. Rami was blinking away tears, trying to stay composed.

It was overwhelming.

I never expected this.

I had convinced myself that they had moved on. That I was nothing more than a passing figure in their lives. But now—

Now, I could feel it.

I had meant something to them.

And then, amidst the overwhelming warmth of their embrace—

I saw her.

Ahyeon.

She sat on the edge of her bed, frozen in place. Her breath hitched, her eyes wide with disbelief.

I felt my chest tighten.

She looked… different.

Paler. Thinner. The usual spark in her eyes had dulled.

She opened her mouth, but no words came out. Instead—

Tears fell.

One by one, streaming down her face as her lips trembled.

Then, suddenly—

She moved.

Ahyeon shot up from her bed, running straight towards me before throwing her arms around my neck.

She sobbed.

Not just tears—but a raw, painful cry.

I felt her fists clench against my back as she buried her face into my shoulder, her body trembling.

I could only hold her tighter.

No words were needed.

I was here.

And I wasn’t leaving again.

I held Ahyeon close, her body trembling against mine. Her sobs slowly quieted, but her grip on my shirt didn’t loosen.

I ran a gentle hand down her back, whispering, "It’s okay, Ahyeon. I’m here."

She sniffled, her breath shaky. "You left," she choked out, voice fragile. "You left me, Y/n."

Her words cut deep.

I wanted to say I didn’t have a choice. That it wasn’t my fault. That YG had forced me out. But none of that mattered now.

Instead, I leaned back slightly, resting my forehead against hers. "I know," I admitted. "And I’m sorry. But I’m here now."

She closed her eyes, shaking her head. "I want to believe you," she whispered. "I want to believe in everything again. In myself. In my future. But…"

Her voice broke.

"The nightmares don’t stop."

I felt my chest tighten.

"Every time I close my eyes, I see it," she confessed. "The accident. The crash. The pain. I hear the doctors telling me I might never dance again. I see my members moving forward while I stay behind. I feel useless. Worthless."

Her grip on my shirt tightened. "I don’t want to be weak, Y/n. But I… I don’t know how to be strong anymore."

I exhaled softly, brushing a stray tear from her cheek. "You don’t have to be strong all the time, Ahyeon. It’s okay to be scared."

She blinked up at me, eyes glossy.

"But you’re not alone. Not anymore."

The members, who had been silently watching, moved closer.

Ruka knelt beside us, taking Ahyeon’s hand. "We’re with you, Ahyeon. Every step of the way."

Chiquita nodded, her voice gentle. "You’re not worthless. You’re our sister."

Haru smiled through teary eyes. "And no matter how long it takes… we’ll wait for you."

Ahyeon looked at them—her family.

For the first time in months, something flickered in her gaze.

Hope.

She swallowed hard, then turned back to me. "What if I fail?"

I smiled softly. "Then we’ll pick you back up."

A shaky breath escaped her lips. "And if I fall again?"

I squeezed her hand. "Then we’ll catch you."

Silence stretched between us.

Then—

She let out a small, broken laugh.

It wasn’t much.

But it was a start.

Days passed, and with Ruka’s help, I found myself sneaking into their dorm more often. It wasn’t much, but it was something. A small act of defiance against the system that had tried to break them.

Late at night, while the world slept, I stood in their kitchen, chopping vegetables and simmering broths. Warm meals. Nutritious meals. Food that would give them strength—not just physically, but emotionally.

Asa and Rami soon caught on, peeking into the kitchen one night as I was stirring a pot of kimchi jjigae.

"Oppa, what are you making?" Asa asked curiously, leaning over the counter.

Rami’s eyes widened as she inhaled the aroma. "That smells so good… Can we help?"

I chuckled, handing them cutting boards and knives. "Only if you’re serious about learning."

They grinned, eagerly rolling up their sleeves.

The kitchen became lively—filled with the sound of chopping, sizzling, and laughter. It had been so long since they’d had moments like this. Moments that felt normal.

Ahyeon, who had been hesitant to join at first, eventually wandered in, her eyes bright with curiosity.

"What are you guys doing?" she asked, crossing her arms.

I smirked, holding up a spoonful of soup. "Making something for you."

She hesitated, then sat down at the counter, watching us.

It was a slow process, but every day, she smiled a little more.

Every day, her voice grew stronger.

Every day, she became more herself.

And I knew—

This was just the beginning.

The more time I spent with Ahyeon, the deeper my feelings grew. They crept in, subtle at first, like a quiet undercurrent in the midst of a raging sea. She would laugh at something I said, her eyes sparkling, and I could feel it—my heart tightening in a way I couldn’t explain.

But it wasn’t just the way she smiled.

It was the way she tried, even when the world was against her. How she picked herself up each time she fell. How she fought for herself even when she didn’t believe she could anymore.

Every moment I spent with her made my heart swell with pride—and it made the ache in my chest grow.

I loved her.

From the first moment I saw her���broken, fragile, yet so incredibly strong—I knew. But I pushed those feelings down, buried them beneath the layers of doubt and self-loathing. After all, who was I to be in her world?

She was a famous idol, adored by millions. Her voice, her dance moves, her energy—they were what made her who she was. She had a future that stretched out in front of her, full of promise.

And then there was me—just a failure.

A failed producer from YG, left behind when everything fell apart. Now, I was working part-time at a small restaurant. My world felt so small, so insignificant, compared to hers.

But every time she smiled at me—every time she trusted me enough to let me in—I couldn’t stop myself.

I had to be there for her. I had to.

Even if it meant putting my own dreams aside. Even if it meant making myself invisible while she soared.

I watched as she tried to pick up the pieces of her broken self, trying to rebuild what she had lost. And I saw the cracks in her, the places where she hurt. Those places she couldn’t let anyone else see.

But I saw them.

And I promised myself I would help her, no matter the cost.

I would help her achieve her dreams. I would help her heal, find her pace.

I didn’t care if I was just a background figure in her life. As long as I could be there for her, even from the shadows, I’d be content.

So, I kept showing up—late at night, quietly slipping into her dorm with hot meals and words of encouragement. I kept pushing my feelings down, burying them deep, even when the urge to tell her how I felt nearly overwhelmed me.

I wanted to be the one to help her stand again, to be the one who would support her until she could walk on her own. I wanted to make sure she didn’t feel alone anymore.

She had to believe in herself again. And if that meant staying in the background—sacrificing my own happiness for her—I would do it.

For Ahyeon…

For the girl I loved, even though I could never tell her.

It wasn’t supposed to happen, but I couldn’t help but smile.

The group—Babymonster—had decided to show up at my restaurant on their day off, and of course, I couldn’t turn them down. Not that I wanted to. They were a force of nature, impossible to ignore. When they walked through the door, laughing and chatting, it was like the entire place lit up. There was no way I could stop them, so I did the next best thing—I embraced it.

"Alright, alright, just let me get the orders in and I'll treat you to something special," I said, trying to hide the excitement bubbling up inside me.

The restaurant was smaller than what they were used to, but the atmosphere was warm and inviting, and they made themselves at home almost immediately. Rami, Ahyeon, and Chiquita wasted no time ordering their food, laughing and joking as they did. The mood was light, and for the first time in a while, everything felt... normal.

They were here to have fun. To forget about the pressures of their careers, their image, and their responsibilities for a little while. And I was happy to be the one to give them that chance.

The meal was a hit—each plate I brought to the table was met with genuine praise and gratitude. I felt proud. For once, I could provide something that made them feel good.

But the real fun began when someone—most likely Chiquita, with her playful nature—suggested karaoke.

I tried to brush it off at first, laughing nervously. "Karaoke? You know how awful I am at singing," I said.

But they didn’t care. It wasn’t about being perfect. It was about having fun. They dragged me into it anyway, and soon enough, the room was filled with the sound of their voices, each one confident and beautiful in its own way.

Ahyeon, in particular, caught my attention. As she sang, her voice growing stronger with each note, I saw something I hadn’t seen in a while—the joy of singing, of expressing herself without fear.

At first, she was a little tentative, her eyes flickering to the others as if seeking approval. But with each verse, she started to relax, her voice finding its power.

I couldn’t stop watching her.

Her voice wasn’t just beautiful—it was healing. I could see it in the way she let go of the tension in her shoulders, the way she started to believe in herself again, if only for a moment.

She was finally her again.

Ruka, who was sitting quietly next to me, noticed my gaze and giggled. “You like what you see?” she teased, nudging me playfully.

I flushed, caught off guard, but I couldn’t deny the truth. “I... I’m happy for her,” I said, my voice a little softer than I intended.

Ruka raised an eyebrow. "It’s obvious," she said with a smirk. "You’ve got it bad for her, huh?"

I shook my head quickly, not sure how to respond, but my heart knew the truth.

I was falling for Ahyeon more and more each day. Watching her sing, seeing the way she began to shine again—it was hard to ignore the way she made me feel.

But I couldn’t let her know. Not now.

For now, I was content to just watch her heal, to support her from the sidelines. That was all I could do.

And as the group continued to sing their hearts out, I smiled, knowing that for tonight, at least, they had a safe space to just be themselves. And Ahyeon—she was finally starting to believe she could be herself again.

The night had gone smoothly, all things considered. After the karaoke session, the group was in high spirits—laughing, joking, and clearly enjoying themselves more than I had expected. Their energy, infectious and carefree, made the atmosphere feel lighter than usual. But as the night wore on, the alcohol started to take its toll on them. They were all a bit tipsy, swaying with every step and laughing at even the smallest things.

I helped Ruka guide them out of the restaurant, making sure they stayed steady on their feet. First, it was Rami, then Chiquita, who was still giggling, and then Asa, who clung to me a little longer than necessary for support. One by one, I guided them to the van, making sure they were all safe and sound.

But when it was Ahyeon's turn, I couldn't help myself.

She stood there, swaying slightly, her dark hair illuminated by the glow of the streetlights. Her eyes, although hazy from the alcohol, still held that same quiet intensity. She looked so... ethereal. It was hard to look away. She was like a moon in the middle of a dark night—her beauty felt otherworldly.

I stood frozen for a moment, caught in the pull of her presence. Her lips were slightly parted as she blinked, her gaze meeting mine with that soft vulnerability I had only ever seen in private moments. For a split second, everything else faded away.

But then, Ruka's sharp voice cut through the moment.

“Y/n! What the hell are you doing?! Bring her in now before someone notices!”

I snapped back to reality, my heart racing as I realized how long I had been staring. Quickly, I stepped forward, placing a hand gently on Ahyeon’s back to guide her to the van.

She stumbled slightly but smiled up at me, her voice soft and a little slurred. “Thank you… Y/n,” she murmured, her tone warm, and for a brief second, I thought I heard a hint of something deeper.

I swallowed hard, trying to hide the way my heart fluttered at the sound of her voice.

Ruka, still standing by the van, glared at me with a mix of amusement and frustration. “You’re lucky they’re too drunk to notice,” she said, her tone teasing yet protective. “Let’s get them inside before our manager has a heart attack.”

I nodded, still a little flustered from the way Ahyeon had looked at me. The night felt surreal, like something out of a dream, but I couldn’t ignore the way she made me feel.

As I helped Ahyeon into the van, I couldn’t shake the thought of her—her presence, her warmth, her quiet beauty. I wanted to protect her, to be there for her, to make her feel like she wasn’t alone in this crazy world she lived in.

But for now, I could only help her when I could.

The text from Ahyeon came unexpectedly. Simple, yet it sent a rush of anticipation through me.

“Y/n, can you come to the dorm? I… I just want you to be here.”

There was no elaboration, no further explanation. It was unlike her to be so vague, but something in the way she worded it made my chest tighten. My fingers hovered over the screen for a moment before I quickly typed out a response.

“Of course. I’ll be there soon.”

I couldn’t deny it—I was eager. I wanted to see her. I wanted to know what was going on in her mind, what she was feeling. But there was also that hint of worry in my chest. Ahyeon had been through so much, and the fear that she might be struggling again lingered in the back of my mind. Still, I had to be there for her. She’d asked me to come, and I couldn’t turn that down.

I grabbed my jacket and made my way out of the restaurant, my mind racing with questions I couldn’t answer. What did she need? What was she thinking? Was everything okay?

The drive to the dorm felt longer than usual. With each passing minute, I could feel my heart beat faster, a mixture of excitement and nerves building up. When I finally arrived, I parked the car, took a deep breath, and walked toward the entrance.

Ruka was standing by the door when I arrived, her usual calm demeanor giving way to a slight curiosity. She gave me a small nod.

“She’s in her room. You can go up. Just… don’t ask too many questions. She’s been quiet today.”

Her words only deepened the worry I felt. I didn’t want to intrude, but I knew I had to be there for Ahyeon, even if she wasn’t saying much.

I nodded back at Ruka, though my thoughts were already with Ahyeon as I made my way up the stairs.

When I reached her room, I hesitated for a moment before knocking softly on the door. I didn’t want to disturb her if she was resting, but I was also afraid of what I might find if she wasn’t.

A soft voice called from inside. “Come in.”

I pushed the door open slowly, and there she was—sitting on her bed, looking as delicate and fragile as I’d ever seen her. Her eyes were slightly red, as if she’d been thinking deeply or maybe even crying. She was wrapped in a soft blanket, her gaze focused on the floor in front of her.

As I stepped inside, she looked up at me, her expression unreadable. But when she saw me, her lips curled into a small, fragile smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Y/n…” she whispered, her voice barely above a breath.

I walked over to her and sat down beside her, not sure what to say. I didn’t want to pressure her, but I also wanted to let her know I was here for her. Whatever it was, I wanted to be the one she turned to.

“Hey,” I said softly, my voice gentle. “You called me here. What’s going on? What’s on your mind?”

Ahyeon remained silent for a few moments, and just when I thought she wasn’t going to answer, she spoke again. Her voice cracked slightly, but she didn’t seem to care.

“I don’t know what to do anymore, Y/n,” she said, her eyes welling up with tears. “Everything feels so heavy. I want to be strong. I want to keep going… but sometimes, I just feel like I can’t. Like I’m drowning.”

The words hit me hard, more than I expected. Ahyeon, who had always been the star—the one who shone brightly, no matter the darkness—was struggling. And I couldn’t ignore it any longer. I couldn’t pretend she was okay when she was clearly fighting something inside.

I didn’t know what to say, but what I did know was that I couldn’t leave her like this. I couldn’t stand seeing her like this. So, I did the only thing that felt right. I reached out, placing my hand gently over hers.

“It’s okay,” I said, my voice filled with certainty. “You don’t have to do it all alone. You’re not drowning, Ahyeon. You’re not. I’m right here. And I always will be.”

She didn’t pull away. Instead, she squeezed my hand, a small but meaningful gesture. Tears slipped down her cheeks, and I could see the weight she had been carrying—everything she had been hiding from the world—finally coming to the surface.

“I don’t want to lose everything again,” she whispered, her voice full of pain.

And in that moment, I realized—Ahyeon wasn’t just struggling with the pressures of being an idol. She was still haunted by the trauma of her past. The accident. The fear. The uncertainty. It was all still so fresh in her mind, and she was fighting it every single day.

I pulled her closer, wrapping my arms around her gently. “You won’t lose anything, Ahyeon. Not as long as I’m here.”

The kiss was a whirlwind, unexpected but full of emotion. When her lips touched mine, everything else seemed to fade away. The warmth of her kiss, soft and gentle at first, quickly deepened, and I couldn’t help but respond, my heart racing. The faint lavender scent of her lipstick lingered on my lips, mingling with the tears that had escaped her eyes.

Ahyeon pulled back, her face flushed, but the sadness was still evident in her eyes. She looked at me for a moment, as if trying to gather the right words, but before she could speak, she collapsed into me, her arms wrapping tightly around my chest. Her sobs were quiet at first, but soon they grew louder, filled with the weight of everything she had been holding in.

I held her close, my hand gently stroking her hair, trying to comfort her in the only way I knew how. “Ahyeon, it’s okay. You don’t have to say anything,” I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. “I’m here for you. Always.”

She cried harder, her body shaking in my arms. It broke my heart to see her like this, so vulnerable and lost, but in a way, it was a relief. I could feel her letting go of the pressure she had been carrying. I wanted to tell her that she didn’t have to carry it alone, that she didn’t have to hide her pain, but I knew she needed time to process everything.

Minutes passed, maybe even hours, as we sat there in silence. All I could do was hold her, letting her cry it out. The tears that had been locked away for so long were finally flowing freely, and I didn’t try to stop them. She needed this release. She needed to let go.

When her sobs slowed down and her breathing became more steady, she pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at me. Her eyes were red, her cheeks streaked with tears, but there was something softer in her gaze now. Something raw, yet hopeful.

“Y/n,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what I would do without you. I’ve been so afraid… afraid of everything. But with you… I feel like I can breathe again.”

I gently cupped her face in my hands, brushing away the remaining tears with my thumbs. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore, Ahyeon. I’m here for you. I’ll always be here. You’re not alone in this.”

She nodded, her lips trembling as she took a deep breath. “I know. And I want to believe that. I really do.”

I leaned in, pressing my forehead against hers. “Then believe it. You’re not alone, Ahyeon. Not anymore.”

In that moment, the weight of the world seemed to lift just a little. We sat there in the quiet of her room, holding each other, letting the silence speak for us. The connection between us, stronger than before, had become something undeniable. And though I wasn’t sure what the future held, one thing was certain—I would be there for her, no matter what.

And for the first time in a long time, I could feel a sense of peace settle in my chest.

Ahyeon’s progress was undeniable. With each passing day, she seemed to be growing stronger, more confident in herself. The members couldn’t help but notice the change, and they were all quick to comment on it. "You two look cute together," they would tease, making both Ahyeon and I blush fiercely. Ruka, in particular, was relentless. She’d joke around, calling us a couple and teasing me until I became a nervous wreck.

But despite the teasing, I could see how much it meant to Ahyeon. Every moment we spent together, watching movies, talking late into the night, or just laughing at the simplest things, made her feel alive again. The darkness that had clouded her for so long was slowly lifting, replaced by the light of connection, support, and the growing bond we had.

It wasn’t easy, but little by little, I could see the person she once was emerging from beneath all the fear and trauma. And I couldn’t help but feel proud of her.

As their comeback grew closer, the excitement and pressure in the dorm increased. "Momentary Dream" was going to be their biggest comeback yet. With a sound that was bold and elegant, filled with gorgeous tones and powerful voices, it was destined to be a masterpiece. But for Ahyeon, this comeback was even more personal—it was her chance to prove to herself that she could do it. That she was back. Back in control. Back on her own pace.

The sound of her high notes during practice, the way her voice soared with clarity and strength, reminded me of how much she had fought to get here. She had overcome so much—her injury, the emotional scars, the doubts. But now, she was embracing her chance to shine again.

One evening, as the girls were practicing, I found myself sitting off to the side, watching them with a smile on my face. I couldn’t help but feel a surge of admiration for Ahyeon. There was something about the way she carried herself now—more confident, more sure of who she was, and the way she had learned to balance her dreams with her own pace.

She caught my gaze from across the room, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop. A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips. I felt my heart flutter in response, as if the bond we shared had grown even stronger.

After practice, when the girls had scattered off to their rooms, Ahyeon came over to me. She looked at me, the same spark of determination in her eyes, but now, there was something softer there too.

"You know," she said, her voice gentle yet full of resolve, "I wouldn’t be here without You."

I could see how much she meant it. How deeply she believed in the words she was saying.

"You've helped me more than you know," she continued, her gaze never leaving mine. "You've given me the courage to face all the things I was running from. And now..." She paused, her eyes shining with emotion. "Now, I'm ready. I'm ready to show everyone who I really am. I want to be the best version of myself—for me and for all the people who’ve supported me."

I stepped closer, my heart swelling with pride and affection. "Ahyeon, you already are."

Her smile grew brighter at my words, and I could see the vulnerability in her eyes. But there was no fear anymore—just hope. And love. A love that had grown between us over time, nurtured in the quiet moments and shared experiences.

As the days leading up to the comeback flew by, I could feel the weight of everything she had been through slowly lifting. The comeback was her moment, and I knew she would make it shine brighter than ever.

And no matter what happened, I would always be by her side. Supporting her. Loving her. Watching her become the star she was always meant to be.

As the days ticked down to the comeback, the tension in the dorm was palpable, but it was a different kind of tension now. It wasn’t filled with fear or doubt anymore—it was the kind that comes before something truly amazing. The girls were working tirelessly, practicing their lines, their choreography, making sure every note was perfect. And Ahyeon, who had once been filled with anxiety and uncertainty, now stood tall. She was composed, confident. She had become someone new—a version of herself that she hadn’t recognized in so long, and it was a sight to behold.

Each time she smiled at me, as she rehearsed her parts, it was as though my heart did a little flip. The way her eyes lit up, the confidence in her voice—it all made me feel like everything she had been through was finally worth it. She had found her way back to herself, and it made me incredibly proud. In moments when she’d glance at me after hitting a particularly powerful high note or perfecting a move, there was this quiet assurance in her smile, a look that said she was ready for whatever came next.

I did my best to be there for her and the rest of the group, supporting them however I could. I’d stop by during rehearsals with warm meals, making sure they stayed nourished and energized. I helped Ruka with whatever I could, whether it was offering advice or just taking on some small tasks to ease their stress. But more than anything, I knew my role was to be their anchor—to keep things light, to remind them that it wasn’t just about the pressure of the comeback. It was about enjoying the process, staying true to themselves, and letting their passion shine.

One evening, after a long rehearsal, Ahyeon walked over to me, her expression soft but proud. "I think we're ready," she said with a gentle but excited smile. "I really feel it this time. This is going to be the one."

I nodded, my chest swelling with admiration for her. "You’ve worked so hard for this, Ahyeon. I believe in you."

She bit her lip, the familiar hint of vulnerability still there, though it was much more subdued now. "I know I’ve said this before, but… thank you. For everything. For believing in me when I didn’t even believe in myself."

I gently reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder, my heart aching with emotion. "You were always worth believing in. You just needed to believe in yourself."

Her smile grew wider, and she placed her hand over mine. "I’ll keep that with me."

The next day, as they gathered for their final rehearsal before the actual performance, Ahyeon’s energy was contagious. The girls were laughing, teasing each other, yet still focused. They were all determined, but there was something else too—joy. They were enjoying each other’s company, celebrating the fact that they had come this far together.

When it came time for Ahyeon to sing her high note during the final run-through, I held my breath. Her voice rang out, clear and pure, and for a moment, it felt like the entire world held still. The power and emotion in that one note—it was more than just a performance. It was a symbol of her journey, of everything she had overcome. I could see the pride in her face as she finished, a quiet confidence radiating from her.

The girls all cheered, and for a brief moment, Ahyeon turned to look at me. Her smile was wide, almost radiant. In that moment, I realized something—this wasn’t just a comeback for her. It was the culmination of everything she had been working for, not just as an idol, but as a person. She had found her strength, her voice, and it was shining brighter than ever.

As I stood there, watching her, I couldn’t help but feel grateful. Grateful for the way she had allowed me to be part of her journey, and for the way she had let me help her find her way back to herself. I was certain that this comeback—her comeback—was going to be one of the greatest things she’d ever achieved.

And as I looked at her, standing there among her members, more confident and at peace than I had ever seen her before, I knew one thing for certain: nothing would ever stop her. Nothing would ever take away the smile on her face, the fire in her heart, or the strength in her voice. Because Ahyeon, at last, was truly herself again.

The morning of D-Day had finally arrived, a day the members of Babymonster had been waiting for. Their comeback stage was upon them, the culmination of all their hard work, sweat, and determination. The fans were eagerly anticipating the moment when they'd see the girls take the stage again, stronger and more confident than ever. But just as they were about to begin the final preparations, a tragedy struck.

Y/n, the one person who had always been there for them, the one person Ahyeon had started to rely on more than ever, was caught in a car accident. A drunk driver, reckless and careless, had slammed into his car while he was on his way home. The collision was severe, and Y/n was rushed to the hospital, unconscious and in critical condition. The news spread like wildfire, devastating the members, especially Ahyeon.

When the girls first heard the news, it was like the floor beneath them had been pulled away. The excitement they had been holding onto for their comeback was quickly replaced with fear and worry. The reality of the situation hit them like a ton of bricks.

Ahyeon, in particular, was overwhelmed. She stood there, staring blankly at her phone screen as the news flashed before her eyes, her body shaking. Her breath became shallow, uncontrollable, and her chest tightened with the weight of the news. The panic took hold of her as she gasped for air, unable to catch her breath.

Ruka, who had been preparing for the stage with the others, immediately rushed to her side. The others followed, surrounding Ahyeon, but she couldn’t stop shaking. The thought of Y/n lying in a hospital bed, possibly fighting for his life, consumed her.

"Ahyeon, please breathe," Ruka said gently, her voice cracking with concern. "You need to calm down. For him."

But Ahyeon could barely hear her through the pounding in her head. "He... he’s not okay... Y/n… he… he can’t be... please, no..." she stammered, her voice breaking.

The other members gathered around her, their arms enveloping her in a tight hug. They each whispered words of comfort, trying to keep her grounded. Chiquita held Ahyeon’s hand tightly. "We need to focus, Ahyeon. We have to be strong now. Y/n would want us to be strong. Asa placed her hand on Ahyeon’s back, her voice soothing but firm. "We can’t change what happened. But we can make sure we do this right. For him."

Rami, usually the quieter one, spoke up as well, her voice filled with determination. "We’re in this together. Y/n would want us to do this for him. To push through, no matter what."

But it was Ruka who spoke the words that seemed to cut through the panic. "Show must go on, Ahyeon. For him. For you. For us. He’s fighting for you right now. And you need to fight too."

At those words, Ahyeon’s body stilled. The frantic shaking began to slow, and she took a deep breath, though the weight of the situation still hung heavily in her chest. She thought of Y/n, of everything he had done for her, and how he had been there for her when she was at her lowest. She couldn’t just crumble now. Not when he needed her to be strong.

The members kept their arms around her, silently offering their support as Ahyeon slowly calmed down. The panic didn’t completely go away, but it subsided enough for her to steady herself.

"Okay," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "I’ll do it. For him. For Y/n."

The words were barely above a whisper, but they were enough. Enough to push her forward, to remind her of the strength she had found within herself. Ahyeon wiped away her tears, looking at each of the members who had been her strength through the turmoil. She nodded to herself, the determination slowly returning to her eyes.

The show would go on. It had to. She owed it to Y/n. And she owed it to herself, to them, to all of the fans who were waiting.

The members gave Ahyeon one last hug, and with a final, encouraging look, they left the room to prepare for the stage. Ahyeon followed them, her heart still heavy, but now, there was a quiet strength in her steps. They would make it through this. For Y/n. For themselves. They had come too far to let anything stop them now.

As they took their places on stage, the lights blinding, the cameras rolling, Ahyeon kept Y/n in her heart. She knew he was fighting, and she would fight for him too. She would give her all, just like she always had, but now with a fire that burned deeper.

Because no matter what happened, she wasn’t giving up. Not now. Not ever.

"Memories of You" – Title Track for MOMENTARY DREAM (Intro) [Soft instrumental, building tension] Ahyeon: In the silence, I was lost, A broken soul, a shattered cost, But you reached out, you found me, You fixed the pieces no one could see. (Verse 1) Ahyeon: I was broken like porcelain, Cracked and bruised, I couldn’t win, But you held me, made me whole again, You gave me strength I thought had been forgotten. (Pre-Chorus) Rora: Through the darkness, I couldn’t see, But you were there, standing next to me, You pulled me out from the wreckage I’d become, Now I'm alive, I'm no longer numb. (Chorus) All: Memories of you, a light in the storm, Through all the pain, you kept me warm, From shattered glass to a brand new start, You fixed me up, you healed my heart. Memories of you, forever we'll stay, No more shadows, no more decay, With you by my side, I'm not afraid, I'm whole again, the pieces you saved. (Ruka's & Asa’s Rap) Ruka: We were trapped in a labyrinth, no way out, People doubted us, filled us with doubt, But you came, showed us the light, Guided us through the endless night. Asa: You were the exit we needed to find, With you, we left the darkness behind, Now we stand, no longer lost, We owe you our strength, we paid the cost. (Verse 2) Rami: I was drowning in my own fears, But you wiped away all of my tears, With every step, you pulled me near, You made me feel like I could breathe again. Chiquita: You were the spark, I was the flame, You didn’t let me drown in shame, You held me close, you made me believe, That I could fly, that I could achieve. (Bridge) Pharita (Softly, growing stronger): In the dark, I couldn’t find my way, I couldn’t trust, I couldn’t stay, But your love, your warmth, it broke the chains, You fixed me when I thought I’d never be whole again. (Chorus) All: Memories of you, a light in the storm, Through all the pain, you kept me warm, From shattered glass to a brand new start, You fixed me up, you healed my heart. Memories of you, forever we'll stay, No more shadows, no more decay, With you by my side, I'm not afraid, I'm whole again, the pieces you saved. (Final High Note) Ahyeon (With soaring vocals): Now I stand, stronger than before, With the love you gave, I soar, The memories of you, the ones I cherish, You helped me bloom, when I thought I'd perish. (Outro) Ahyeon: Thank you for all that you’ve done, For being my light, for helping me run, You healed my broken heart, now it beats again, And with every note, I’ll sing your name, my friend.

Live Performance:

The music fades out as the stage lights shine brightly, the members standing together. Ahyeon steps forward, her breath heavy with emotion. The crowd is roaring, anticipating the end of the performance.

Ahyeon wipes a tear from her cheek, looking down for a moment before speaking to the microphone.

"I want to thank someone who's not here with us today. Y/n... you were always there when we had nothing. You helped us, gave us hope when the world didn't. You fixed me when I was broken... you made me whole. I... I love you. Always."

The crowd falls silent, confused at first, not sure who she is referring to. They look at each other, whispering. Ahyeon, sensing their confusion, continue.

"You see, Y/n was the one who cared for us when no one did. He was there for me when I was lost. When I couldn’t even recognize myself. He helped me find my pace, helped me believe in myself again. Without him, I wouldn’t be standing here today. He showed me what it means to love and be loved, even when I didn’t deserve it. I want him to be proud of me... of us... because we made it here together. And I’m smiling because of him."

As she finishes, tears well up in her eyes, and the rest of the members stand by her, supportive and proud.

The fans, though still unsure of the full story, can see the raw emotion in Ahyeon's eyes. They cheer, applauding the vulnerable moment, knowing it came from the deepest part of her heart. The music fades completely, and the lights go down, but Ahyeon stands there, looking out over the crowd, her heart finally at peace.

The song was more than just a performance—it was a message. A tribute to Y/n, and to the man who gave her a chance when no one else would. A chance to be herself. A chance to smile again.

"Memories of You" would forever be the song that marked the moment Ahyeon found herself—because of him.

Y/n's body lay still in the sterile, cold hospital room. The beeping of machines was the only sound breaking the suffocating silence. His face, once full of life, now looked pale and fragile, a stark contrast to the vibrant person he had been just days ago. Tubes filled his mouth, helping him breathe. His head was bandaged, wrapped tightly to cover the deep wound from the crash, a constant reminder of the violent impact that had left him in this state. His body seemed to be fighting for life, but no one could predict how long it would take—or if he would ever wake up at all.

The doctors had said he was in a comatose state, the trauma to his head severe enough to leave him unconscious, unsure of when or if he'd recover. There was no telling how long it would take for him to regain consciousness, if at all. Every second felt like an eternity, with no guarantee of the future.

Ahyeon had barely been able to process the news when the call came in. Her world had come crashing down as she rushed to the hospital with the other members, her thoughts swirling in a panic she couldn't control. She had to see him. She had to be with him. The thought of losing him—of not being able to thank him, to hold him, to let him know how much he meant to her—was unbearable.

As the girls entered the room, Ahyeon’s gaze immediately locked onto Y/n, lying there, unconscious. Her heart shattered in that instant, the weight of everything overwhelming her. She couldn’t breathe. Her knees gave way, and she dropped to the floor beside him, her hands trembling as she reached for him. The tears fell without warning, hot and fast, soaking her face as she whispered his name through broken sobs.

"Y/n... Please... Please come back to me."

The members stood behind her, their faces just as devastated. Ruka, Asa, Rami, and Chiquita could only watch helplessly as Ahyeon collapsed, her hands gripping the edge of Y/n's hospital bed, as though holding onto him might bring him back. They had always relied on him, had always felt his support, but now it felt like they were powerless, unable to do anything but watch and wait.

Ruka stepped forward first, her own tears streaming down her face as she knelt beside Ahyeon. She wrapped her arms around Ahyeon, pulling her into a comforting embrace, her own sorrow mirrored in every movement.

"Ahyeon, please, stay strong. Y/n would want you to. He’ll fight through this," Ruka said, her voice breaking as she spoke.

Asa joined in, crouching down and placing a hand on Ahyeon's shoulder. "He's going to be okay, Ahyeon. We just have to believe. He’s always been there for us. We need to be here for him now."

But Ahyeon, her face buried in her hands, couldn't stop the overwhelming flood of emotions. "I... I don’t know if I can do this without him," she choked out. "He’s everything... He fixed me when I was broken. He saved me, and now... now he’s lying here like this..."

Her sobs echoed in the room, and one by one, the members knelt beside her. They surrounded her with their warmth, their silent support, knowing there were no words to comfort the depths of her pain. All they could do was be there for her, just as Y/n had always been there for them.

The room was filled with their cries—soft whispers of hope, of desperation. No one could bear to leave him alone. Not when he had given them everything. Not when he had been their light, their strength. Now, in this moment of darkness, they needed to be his.

Ruka held Ahyeon tighter, feeling her heart shatter alongside her. "We’re here, Ahyeon. We’re here. We’ll wait with you. We’ll wait for him to come back."

As Ahyeon continued to sob, her heart aching in a way she had never known before, she thought of the last words she had spoken to Y/n. How she had thanked him, how she had told him she loved him. She only wished he could hear it now, that he could wake up and know that everything she had said had come from the deepest part of her soul. That he had healed her broken heart, given her hope when all she had known was despair.

But now, all she could do was wait.

"Please, Y/n," she whispered through her tears. "Come back to me. Please don't leave me."

And in that moment, despite the pain, despite the uncertainty, she felt a small flicker of hope. She knew that Y/n had always been a fighter. And if anyone could come back from this... it was him.

[macabr3-barbi3]

A Practical Demonstration

Chapter 4: Reciprocation

here we go again lol

for anyone who doesn't know, my debut into the Hazbin fandom was a fic about Alastor and a reader using a sex toy. It was meant to be a oneshot- they never really stay that way though, and it ended up at 3 chapters before I decided it was done. It's coming up on a year since I posted that first story (that I thought was long finished at this point), and I finally finished the bonus chapter that I've had planned forever. I hope you enjoy! ❤️🌹

Tags: Sex Toys; Non Sex-Repulsed Alastor; Reader-Insert; established relationship

When you open the box that’s been delivered to the hotel for you, your first thought is that the marketing team at VoxTek doesn’t know what the hell they’re doing- the letter that they sent along with it is nice, if a little embarrassing, thanking you for being a devout purchaser of items from the sex toy lines and explaining that high dollar customers have all been sent a free product to try out as a thank you for their loyalty. Which is dandy in theory, if they had sent you something that you could actually use.

What the fuck were you supposed to do with a fleshlight? 

They obviously didn’t do any sort of research into what products you were buying, or how long it had been since you had gotten one. It had been months since you had used any of your VoxTek purchases, since you and Alastor had become an item, and you didn’t really have much need for them anymore; let alone something like this that was meant for someone with different parts than what you were working with.

You’ve just resolved to give it to Angel, claiming an incorrect delivery, when the hum of static behind you alerts you to Alastor’s presence. “Good evening, my dear,” he greets, an eyebrow quirking up when you shove the toy back into its box before he can get a good look at it. “What could possibly be holding your attention so well that you didn’t see fit to return to the bedroom after returning home after your dinner with Velvette?”

You hold the box behind your back. “Just a delivery- something for Angel,” you tell him. “I was going to take it up to him, and- hey!”

His shadow snatches the box from your hands, ducking between your legs to present it to his master. “Interesting! Do you frequently open other people’s mail? That is a crime, you know,” he teases. He opens the flaps of the box- and promptly closes them when he sees the toy. “I see! Well, allow me to give this back to you to return to our effeminate friend- ah, but what’s this? Addressed to you…” His eyes skim the letter, his grin growing with alarming speed along with the blush that paints your face. “Why didn’t you just say so, dear? I know all about your little collection- you have no need to hide such a thing from me.”

“I know!” You snatch the box back from him, cheeks flaming. “I know that, obviously. This one is just- not for me. I don’t think they checked the, uh, preferences of who they were sending this to. It’s- fuck, can we not discuss this in the lobby?” You plead, hearing voices coming around the corner towards the door, and Alastor hums softly before enveloping you both in shadow and depositing the two of you into his bedroom. “It’s not something I can use, it’s more of a- male-parts oriented toy,” you tell him once you’re alone, and he reaches into the box again and removes the toy, turning it over in his hands and slipping his thumb into the opening, pushing softly at the soft silicone as the digit is enveloped.

Your breath catches in your throat.

“I see- I hardly see what the fuss was, darling, you could have simply told me the misunderstanding. We shall simply ship it back; if they’re so determined to give you a free product perhaps they can try again. I suppose I do understand the appeal of this, though,” he adds thoughtfully, continuing to move his finger inside the thing before he pulls it back out. “Soft material, sufficiently tight for when one doesn’t have a partner to indulge with. Certainly not for your use, but-“

“Do you want to try it?” The words blurt from your mouth before you can really think about them, something about the way Alastor was casually fingering the sex toy doing something pleasant to your brain. You immediately want to swallow the words back down with how quickly his gaze swings to you, your cheeks flaming when he quirks an eyebrow at you. “Fuck, I mean- sorry, that was a stupid question. I didn’t-”

His fingers come up to cup your cheek, thumb tracing along your cheekbone. “I don’t understand how you are still so shy when it comes to your desires,” he says quietly. “Everything that we’ve done, and yet you still hesitate to ask something of me. Tell me, my dear- would you like to see me use the thing?” Not trusting your words, you nod, and he chuckles under his breath. “Then there we are; I shall try it. You’ve indulged me plenty of times, I don’t mind a bit of reciprocation for your sake.”

He leads you over to the bed, stripping himself down before laying back against the pillows and giving you a moment to situate yourself comfortably on the edge of the mattress. It’s a view you could get used to- his chest bare and fluffy with soft fur, cut across diagonally from the battle with Heaven so long ago and deeply scarred. Sometimes when you were intimate with each other he would allow you to inspect it, run your fingers down the soft groove of sensitive skin that rested there. You let your eyes wander further, along the lean lines of his arms, the apex of his thighs where his erection grows under the scrutiny, the firm muscles of his legs leading down to his hooves. Alastor was beautiful- 

“Ah.” When you look back to his face, his skin is flushed, a pink tint that spreads across his cheeks and down his exposed collarbones. “I understand your embarrassment now the first time you were in this position for a ‘demonstration.’ To be laid bare beneath the eyes of the one you want and show them something so intimate feels… flattering. And unnerving.” He glances at you sideways. “I hope you find it to your liking.”

“No complaints over here,” you breathe as he snaps his fingers and produces a small bottle of lube, drizzling it generously over the opening of the sex toy. He was really going to do it, just for you, and the thought hits you like a cloud of aphrodisiacal smoke; that he was laying himself out like this, prone and vulnerable, because you wanted to see it.

You almost miss his sharp intake of breath when he lines up and pushes into the opening of the fleshlight, sinking halfway into the slick grip of the silicone before he pulls back out with a shudder that courses through his whole body. He presses in again, this time with a slew of muttered curse words as he sinks to the hilt and holds it there for a moment, his head dropping back against the pillows. The angle makes it all too apparent when he swallows, his free hand clenching to a fist in the sheets.

“Does it- does it feel good?” You ask him, perhaps somewhat stupidly, but the way he moans at the sound of your voice makes it worth it. You think about the way that he had asked you questions the first time you were in his position, how embarrassed you had been to have him witness such a thing, how turned on you were for the same reason. A blessing and a curse to have someone watching you so closely and commenting on it, expecting an answer- which he hasn’t given you yet. “Alastor?” You run your hand up his calf, not missing the way his hips buck up into the toy with a wet noise.

It seems once he’s started that he can’t stop; fabric tears as he digs his claws in, his pelvis rocking between his hand and the bed as he fucks into it with a steady rhythm. “Tight,” he says, his voice strained and shooting heat into your blood. “I didn’t think- fuck, it’s good.” With the curse on his lips you clench your thighs together, twisting on the bed to properly face him. He watches you move and settle, his expression hungry and desperate as he continues to buck up into the toy. “I would much prefer you, though,” he purrs after a moment, releasing the sheets to place a hand on your thigh, thumb brushing softly on the delicate skin there.

You take his hand and bring it to your lips to press a soft kiss there. At the contact he groans and tries to reach for your neck to pull you closer so he can steal your lips in a kiss- you resist, pulling away from him, breaking the contact between the two of you. “Now you know the struggle of an inadequate replacement for what you really want,” you say, delighting in the look of anguish that takes over his features at being denied you. “Come on now, I thought you were giving me a demonstration.”

“Wretched, wonderful woman,” he murmurs, but he fists his fingers back in the sheet rather than reaching for you again. “Would you like to hear the ways this blasted thing is inferior to you? It feels good,” he moans, slowing his pace to drag his cock in and out of the object, the lube glistening in the low light that he’s provided. “But you, my love, feel divine. You gasp my name and whine and clench down on me so sweetly- accomplishments this cheap replica could never hope to achieve.” His red locks spill across the pillow as he works himself, sweat dampening his bangs from the effort as he locks eyes with you. “Why would I keep one of these when I could have the real thing whenever I desire?”

Ever observant, he notices the way your thighs tremble sitting beside him, and he relinquishes his fistful of the sheets to turn his hand palm up, like he’s offering you a hand to help you out of a car. “Why don’t you allow me to assist you?” He purrs, dropping a few of his fingers so that only the pointer and middle remain extended- he crooks them in a familiar ‘come here’ motion that makes your cheeks flame as you realize what he was offering. 

You consider telling him no- that he had gone through your demonstrations without any relief, and you could do the same. But he looked like he needed it, some sort of connection to your pleasure to ground him in the moment that you determined from the crease of his eyebrow and the tremble of his fingers where he offered them to you. You stand from the bed, noticing the way that Alastor ceases his movement of the toy along his length until you start to pull your panties out from under your skirt. Then there’s a groan ripping free of his throat, static that makes the hairs on your arm stand at attention as you position yourself above his hand.

The sink onto his fingers is embarrassingly easy, the force of your arousal offering a near frictionless slide until the pads of his fingers are pressed against that perfect spot inside of you. His name escapes you in a soft whimper as he begins to move, his thumb coming up to swipe lovingly across your clit as you ride his fingers in earnest. 

He glares at the way your skirt blocks his view of the proceedings, and you almost laugh when his shadow emerges from under the bed to almost petulantly shove at the fabric; you take it in hand to hold it out of the way, the chuckle breaking forth when he hisses between his teeth as he starts to slowly thrust his hips again. “There we are, darling,” he purrs, his pupils blown wide as he watches your thighs tremble where his hand parts them, fingers damp with your slick as he rocks them in and out of you. His other hand moves with the same steady rhythm, fucking into the soft silicone with a single-minded determination.

It’s difficult to focus on the show being put on for you when Alastor has taken to curling his fingers just so, your mind fuzzy with the pleasure of it all; your body tips forward, a hand darting out to catch yourself on Alastor’s lower abdomen, the skin and fur that meets your palm damp with sweat. When you make contact he swears, something that never fails to make you giddy with arousal; a sure sign that he was losing control of himself, it makes your breath come faster, lungs constricting with the knowledge that it was your doing. He says your name in a breathless whisper, his voice crackling with feedback that makes your inner walls clench. His hands move in desperate tandem, messy, wet noises coming from the slide of the toy along his length and the thrust of his fingers inside you. Alastor’s teeth bare in frustration as he cants his hips back and forth, the pleasure in his expression evident but not enough to tip him over the precipice.

“Please,” you finally whine, hovering at the edge of orgasm yourself with Alastor bare and vulnerable before you, his movements against your body practiced and as perfect as they always were. At your plea he moans, low and sweet, and then the hand he had wrapped around the toy is curled tightly into your hair and pulling you down to crash your mouth into his.

His breath is labored, hot and damp as his tongue brushes against yours while he crushes you to his body. The fingers inside you do not cease their masterful ministrations as he kisses you desperately, the circuit of your bodies complete at last. Since the view is evidently no longer a priority, you release your skirt to slide that hand gently into his locks, fingers gentle against the base of his antlers like you’ve learned he likes; the noise he makes into your mouth is broken, pleading.

The lightning-quick strike of pleasure catches you off guard, your gasp lost to Alastor’s mouth as the dam breaks, ecstasy flooding your body and brain in a crashing wave that pulls your limbs taut, muscles clenched and shaking over your partner. The aftershocks of it roll through you, a tremor to your body that Alastor would usually calm by holding you tightly to his chest until your frame went lax against him when it finally passed.

In this moment he is too adrift, his eyes hazy when you pull back to watch him; his hips jerk fruitless beneath you, apparently unwilling to release his hold on you to resume use of the toy. You have mercy on him, reaching further back with the hand that had been braced on his abdomen to wrap around the hard outer frame of the fleshlight, tugging it away and replacing it with your hand. He hisses at the contact, pupils turned to dials as he watches your face, a plea on his lips. It’s a mere two, three pumps of your wrist before he’s spilling over your fingers hard with a quiet, almost pained sigh of your name.

You’ve hardly thought about wiping the mess into his fur when his shadow reaches a snaky tendril across the bed with a warm rag, a fond, satisfied grin stretched across its face. You shoot the extension of your partner a wink before using the offered item to wipe the evidence of Alastor’s release away, brush it gently over the sweat-soaked skin of his abdomen with your head still pressed to Alastor’s heaving chest. “What do you think?” You asked, pressing a lazy kiss to his collarbone, and it’s a moment while he wipes his own hands clean behind you before he answers.

“Satisfactory,” he says simply, “though I believe you were a large contributing factor to that.” He brings his arms up to circle your frame, holding you tightly to him as his heart rate slows beneath you. “Were it not for your suggestion I’d hardly have bothered with the thing- and without your participation I doubt I’d have finished. But it is… thrilling, I suppose, to try something new.”

You can’t help the chuckle that you release into his skin. “You know, usually people don’t bring toys into the bedroom until the relationship has gotten boring.”

He smooths his hands over your frazzled hair before placing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “You know how this started between us,” he says, repositioning your body more comfortably so you can fall asleep entwined with one another, your breath already slowing at the sounds of his soothing voice. “When have we ever had any fun doing things the usual way?”

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

[bullet-prooflove]

Valentine's Day Bingo 2025: White Rabbit - Carmen Berzatto x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @wabi-sabi1090 @turtle-cant-communicate @fallout-girl219 @morgthemagpie

Companion piece to:

The Farm - Carmy recalls the day you met.

Good People - Richie and Carmy discuss a potential relationship with you.

Pears - It starts when Carmy makes an order he doesn't remember.

Something Important - Carmy knows the two of you have something important together.

Mornings - Carmy sleeps better with you around.

Bubble - You have no idea that you saved Carmy's life.

Crazy, Stupid, Fucked Up World (NSFW) - Carmy tells you he lvoes you for the first time.

Doing Something - Carmy owns up to something he's been doing without telling you.

Carmen doesn’t tell anyone about his new tattoo. He keeps it tucked underneath the fabric of his chef’s whites, nestled safely against his heart. His thumb traces over it in the quieter moments, rubbing across the token of love inked into his chest.

It’s later that night you find it. The two of you are tangled up on the couch and you’re undressing him for the first time in days, your lips ghosting up from his navel, along his ribs when you come across the cellophane covering just over his left nipple.

“You got a new tattoo when I was away.” You muse, your fingertips trailing lightly over the medical tape holding it in place. “Can I…”

He helps you remove the cellophane, peeling back the layer so you can make out the shape underneath the smudged ink. A small, geometric rabbit, just like the one you sketched the other day when you were describing your namesake.

“My mother was a fan of Lewis Carroll.” You’d told him as he’d studied the drawing you’d done on a napkin at The Bear. “When we used to play together in the fields, she used to call me her white rabbit because I used to hop around pretending to be a bunny. She used to say ‘Alice, don’t you be disappearing down any rabbit holes!’”

You don’t have many memories of your mother, she got sick a few months later, had to give up her farm. You’d moved to the city with your father, a man who had never wanted you in the first place.

Carmen calls you Bunny after that. His own little white rabbit, guiding him back to the light after years of darkness.

“You have always led me to the right path.” He tells you, his fingertips tucking an errand strand of hair back behind your ear. “I don’t lose my way so much anymore. Even if this ends, I want to remember you, remember this, a time when I was truly happy.”

“Oh Carmen.” You murmur, leaning in close, your mouth ghosting lightly over his. “You and me baby, we’re never going to end.”

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[can-i-make-image-descriptions]

[Image IDs: Image #1: Tweet from verified user Nicole Cliffe (@/ Nicole_Cliffe) reading: If you normalized something (non-awful) because your family did it and then realized it was not, in fact, normal or remotely common, I would love to hear about it.

Reply from Morgan 51 Finkelstein (@/ momofink) on 08 Sep 20 reading: the villain in my bedtime stories was always the President of the Homeowner's Association and I was sooooo confused when no one else had heard of him

Image #2: Tumblr tags from you-held-the-door reading: #when I was kid my dad and I would play that game at the playground where the kids stays up on the climbing structure #and the adult stays on the ground to chase the kid #usually the adult is like a monster or a lava monster or something #but my dad always pretended to be george bush

Image #3: Tumblr tags reading: #my dad never let me roll down the windshield when we were on highways #because and I quote "the car is going so fast that the wind can topple cars" #and I just never questioned it until years later #turns out he just didn't like the noise #also another thing: #you know that game grown ups do with young children where they chase you around #and go "oh you're so cute I could eat you up! I'm going to eat ya!" that kind of thing? #well when my parents did that I used to go "no you won't, you guys love me. also I'm you're only child." #then my mom would go really silent and fake being contrite and tell me that #actually no I had an older sibling that they cannibalized #I only survived because I was a cute baby and they waited too long and I got too big to fit in the pot anymore #and it would make me really angry because I knew she was lying but I had no way to prove it #and mom thought it was the funniest thing ever #anyway I only found out in high school when I was trying for a "lol so relatable" type of joke with my friends that apparently #having a long-running joke that your parents had a dead first child that they cannibalized isn't a common thing that other families also do #mmari rambles

Image #4: Tumblr tags reading: #my family has a phrase for when someone eats most of something and leaves less than a serving of it left #(usually done to avoid having to throw it away. like leaving less than a cup of milk or just crumbs in a bag of chips) #we call it 'buddyFucking:' bc ur fucking your buddy over #apparently it came from my dad's time in the army #Anyways. i quickly learned when i went to college that when most people hear 'alright who buddyFucked me' #they do Not think i am asking who left one square of toilet paper on the roll without changing it /End IDs]

[peachglazewrites]

𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚜 ⸙ 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗𝚎

𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝙵𝚞𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝙳𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚋𝚢 𝙿𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕 𝙹𝚊𝚖

𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: ellie/f!reader 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: tlou typical violence, blood & gore, PTSD, poor coping mechanisms, suicidal ideation 𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚜: angst, first meetings, ellie has PTSD, strangers to friends to lovers, SLOW burn 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘: post tlou part II, no use of y/n or physical descriptions, dual POV, reader has (had) an older brother 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 8840k

𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: After the events of TLOU Part II, Ellie packs up her life in Austin, Texas to head to Boston with a single goal- finally giving Tess the burial she deserves.

You cross her path (she crosses yours, rescuing you) along the way, and you find that you're headed the same direction.

Ths rest is history.

a/n: hello!!! welcome to the fic! this was a request by a lovely anon, and what was meant to be a one shot has quickly devolved into a nine part story. please mind the tags with this one, as we hop into some pretty rough themes/mindsets!  I'm so excited to begin posting this, and I hope that you all enjoy ♡

link to the original request : ̗̀➛ masterpost

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ save/read this on ao3 . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Chapter One

APRIL

Ellie doesn’t realise it’s been a year until she’s sitting down on the porch of her little house in Austin, rifle spread out in front of her, disassembled.

The call of a bird in the trees above her, so close to a baby’s cry, makes her heart race as she looks into the yard, searching for JJ; searching for the danger.

But he’s not there. He’s in Jackson, with Dina.

It doesn’t happen often anymore, relapsing back and forgetting where she is, but sometimes when she’s calm and her brain is blessedly empty, sick and cruel memories will sink their feral teeth back into her—dragging her down and making her spiral all over again.

The barrel of the rifle tumbles from her trembling hand, the one two digits down that she swears she can still feel. It clatters to the floor, rolling and threatening to bounce down the steps.

“Fuck—” Her hands come up, gripping and pulling on the hair at the back of her head as she curls up on the porch, knees pressed to her chest, eyes wide and staring down at the swirls and knots of the wood beneath her.

A year. A whole year since the screen door of the farmhouse creaked and snapped closed behind her.

April. Spring. Welcoming the new lambs in, spending the days helping Dina with the garden, nights on the porch just like this, music drifting through the open window as she plays with JJ, shirt covered in drool as he teethes. Doing everything she can to forget—

To forget this time two years ago, when she was in Seattle. Forget Jesse, Abby, Joel.

And as she sits there, thinking and mourning and spiralling with her head in her hands, she realises that the hospital all those years ago was April too, wasn’t it?

April.

Why is it always fucking April? Ellie would give anything in the entire world to never live through another April ever again.

And she’s thought about it—what she would do. What she’d be willing to give up. It’s not like she has much left, like she has anyone waiting for her in this house so far away from where she dared call home. Anyone missing her or thinking about her while she’s gone--

But she can’t. Because too many people have died for her to be where she is now; and the guilt of that lies the heaviest, heavier than the one of existing in the first place.

So instead, she uses the heels of her palms to scrub roughly at her face, rubbing the tracks of silent tears off her scarred and freckled skin, telling herself to “get it together, Ellie.”

Ellie let’s herself have thirty more seconds. Half a minute to feel and mourn and crave what she’s lost before she straightens her back, picks up the rifle barrel and gets back to work.

Pushing the thoughts from her mind how she’s learned to.

⸙

They stick around this time, thoughts thick and dark and oozing along the back of her mind. Just like they used to before she figured out how to stop caring. To repress and forget, march forwards and never look back.

Like father like daughter, she supposes.

She blames it on the time of year, this cursed month that has haunted her for seven years, the majority of her teenage life and those of her twenties. It’s clinging to her back, and she just can’t stop thinking.

She thinks about people who she’s pushed so far down, it hurts to rip them back up again. People like her mom.

Her mom who she didn’t even know yet haunts her every day—in the way she looks through the window into the backyard of the house she’s claimed as her own, reflection ghosting back at her and making her think ‘Do I look like you? The way JJ looks like Jesse?’

Ellie sighs, hands gripping the edge of the kitchen counter as she forces herself to look away, into the worn and weathered dining room beyond.

She’s been here since December, a tiny house in some part of Austin, Texas; a ghost town that’s long been abandoned. She came here after everything, after Santa Barbara, having no other direction in her head than Texas.

It’s where Joel used to live-- before. She knew that from the times he spoke about it, the promises of showing her one day that he never kept.

She used to feel stupid coming here, like she didn’t have any reason to. She wasn’t part of his life back then, didn’t know him when he was Joel Miller, father and contractor.

But she knew him when he was Joel, the man who walked a country for her. Someone she could have called dad if she wanted to but never found the courage until after he died in front of her-- and this, Texas, is the closest she’ll be to him ever again.

She walked for five months, including a temporary stop in Salt Lake City. She didn’t know exactly where Joel lived, any details he might have divulged forgotten with time or thrown away when she barely held interest for him, so she finds somewhere quiet and stays.

Ellie’s barely done anything with it. She boarded up the worst of the damage and did her best to insulate during winter, but a majority of the house she’s left closed off and unused. She’s been camping out in the living room, having dragged furniture and mattresses into the space to make it her own.

She stopped when she found the bones under one of the beds, curled up and forgotten.

Ellie lets her eyes drift back to the window, forcing past her reflection and to the lawn of the backyard, the wild reclaiming it years ago. She doesn’t tend to it, not really, though she keeps that back corner somewhat clear. Out of respect, or a semblance of it.

Three crudely made crosses-- something she made when she couldn’t sleep one night during winter-- stick out of the ground there. Only one of them has a mound in front of it, the blank cross for the bones she found.

The other two are clustered together, rough carvings of names marking the wood.

Riley and Anna.

She would have made more, a memorial of all the people she’s forsaken, but it didn’t feel right to drag them here when they already have resting places of their own.

Jesse and Joel have beautiful graves out in Jackson, headstones she’ll probably never get to sit at ever again.

Sam and Henry are out in Pittsburgh, under a maple tree where her and Joel buried them all those years ago.

Marlene has a grave in Salt Lake City. Ellie saw it when she went back to the hospital, finding a whole bunch of them out in a courtyard she’d never seen before. (She spent a long time there, sitting next to Marlene. Afterwards she searched, not stopping until she found the grave for ‘Gerald ‘Jerry’ Anderson— Devoted father and our best hope’, and she spent a long time there too.)

And Tess…

Tess is still in Boston, in that building where they left her.

It makes her skin crawl thinking about it, and god does she think about it. Tess’s bones sprawled across the tiles where she lay after she was riddled with bullets.

Was she even still there? Did they get rid of her, take her and those Fireflies that were dead when they arrived out the back and burn them in a terrible heap? Did FEDRA care enough to bother?

Ellie’s regretted so many things in her life, has had so many people die because of her and what she used to represent—but at least they’ve been put to rest, even though they’re still so impossibly loud in her mind.

And she knows she can’t get to Riley, trapped in that fucking mall in the arcade where Ellie, sobbing and bleeding from the arm, dragged her best friend she killed twice— knowing she would have liked it a whole lot better in here than in that stupid Halloween store. She doesn’t know what happened to her mom or where she could possibly be, but Ellie knows enough to realise there’s nothing she can do about it.

It's why she made the crosses, giving them a place to rest knowing it’s impossible to do anything more.

But Tess—

Ellie hangs her head, fingernails splintering as she grips the counter tighter, eyes closed as she thinks of that domed building—Tess’s mausoleum.

She needs to go to Boston.

⸙

It doesn’t take Ellie long to pack her life up into the backpack she’s had since she was thirteen. She truly doesn’t have much, mostly just her clothes and weapons. She indulges herself and keeps a few items that aren’t tied to her survival; things she hasn’t been able to let go that sit in the bottom of her bag. Joel’s watch, Dina’s bracelet, a stack of trading cards, and her journal. They take up hardly any space, so she doesn’t feel bad about the room that could have been used for more important things, like food and ammunition.

She puts the house back the way she found it-- out of respect or something, she’s not too sure. The only thing she leaves behind are the locks of hair she cuts from her head, the ends choppy but now barely brushing the collar of Joel’s flannel.

It makes her a little emotional, leaving this place. A small tug in her heart, something pulling and pleading for her to just stay. This is the most she has, a place she can call her own. Something stable.

God, does she want stable, but she also needs to do this. This is one of the only things she has left that she can fix. The others feel far beyond her.

Ellie planned her route the night before, laying out a map on the wooden floor of the living room, pencil in hand and journal in her lap. She knew she wasn’t close to Boston, but being nearly two thousand miles away shocked her a little bit. That was the optimistic number too, assuming that roads would be clear, and she didn’t run into any detours. Knowing Ellie’s luck, she’d be lucky if she got there before winter, a good eight months away.

She writes down her plan in her journal, taking over one of the empty back pages. It’d be much more convenient to take her notes on the map itself, but she refuses to make that mistake twice.

Ellie hitches her backpack onto her back, freshly cleaned rifle strapped and sitting against her left shoulder, bow slung over the same one. Joel’s revolver, also recently cleaned, sits snug in a holster clinging to her thigh, switchblade in her back pocket.

She hasn’t fully kitted up like this in weeks, not needing to after finding that person’s bunker the next town over. She almost felt bad taking as much as she did, stuffing her bag and an old duffel with as many tins and cans as she could take. She doubted anyone had been there in years—but if they had?

Well, it’s a dog-eat-dog world, out here.

Ellie takes a breath, holds it until her lungs burn and her eyes water and savours the that moment of light-headedness then let’s go, stepping off the porch and letting the door shut behind her as she leaves; an all too familiar feeling.

She heads north, cutting up across the country.

First stop, Dallas.

⸙

It takes just over a week on the road before something inevitably goes wrong.

Ellie had been doing fine. She always does. She’s not new to this kind of travel-- hunting and scavenging, camping out under the stars or cramped into corners with her rifle in her hands. As much as she misses Jackson, the farm, and sometimes even her dorm in that shitty FEDRA school, there’s something about being out here that feels right to her.

It reminds her of that year with Joel. When she was fourteen and trusting this man who wanted nothing to do with her with her life, and then somewhere along the way he had taken her in as his own. It reminded her of learning how to shoot, of a thousand games of I Spy, serious nods as she explains the volume of Savage Starlight she just read and what she thinks happens in the gaps of the volumes she doesn’t own.

She realises that no amount of safety and security, high walls and locked doors, would ever make her feel as welcomed or soothed as these open roads.

It makes her sick to think about it.

Ellie was only a couple of days out of Dallas, standing in the last city she’d hit before then. The roads ahead of her were littered with traffic, hundreds of cars left abandoned to rust for the rest of eternity. Rubble from collapsed buildings block alleys and side streets, creating craters in the pavement below where they’ve fallen. Bodies, gaunt and skeletal, decorate the footpaths beneath her feet, tattered clothes bleached by the sun and fluttering in the wind.

The sun above her was low, sliding behind towering buildings and painting the sky in reds, pinks, and purples. Ellie would have to get inside before it gets too dark to see, her flashlight only making her a sitting duck in the middle of this unfamiliar road.

She can be reckless, but she’s not stupid.

So, she sticks to buildings, climbing through open windows and sneaking through propped open doors. There’s infected about, because when is there not, but they’re just stragglers—not worth the time or risk. Ellie is slippery, sneaky, her weathered converse that are worse for her feet than boots but infinitely quieter making no noise as she crawls.

The office building is where it all goes to shit.

To be fair, she didn’t realise what kind of building it was when she snuck in, stepping through the door to the fire escape and creeping up the stairwell. She only wanted to reach the top floor, make her way to the roof so she can get a better view of the city from above, but the top stairwell was blocked with desks, cabinets, and even part of the ceiling before she could get there.

Ellie retreats inside, through the door closest to her, pausing when she sees the rows of office cubicles moulding away in front of her.

“Oh, come on,” she curses, turning on her heels, trying to backtrack and leave the way she came, but the door slams shut before she can slip through, vibrations rattling the doorframe.

A low, metallic groaning muffles through the wood, Ellie cautiously stepping back. The groaning gets louder, reaching its peak before making a series of loud thuds, ending in one final crash against the door.

Ellie blinks, staring at the fire escape, her way out.

“No fucking way, dude…”

She tries the handle, and while it turns, it barely budges as she pushes on it. She tries over and over, shouldering the wood to try and get the thing open even just a little bit, enough for her slip through.

No luck.

“Shit,” she groans, pitching her head forward to hit against the wood a few times.

Ellie hates offices. Too many floors, too many places for things to hide. It’s practically a death sentence walking into one. She’s never had a good experience in one of these buildings, and she has a sneaking suspicion that her luck isn’t about to change.

Ellie pushes herself from the door, leaning down to unclip her revolver from the holster on her thigh. “Okay,” she breathes, turning around and assessing the room. “You’re good. Just gotta find a way out of here…”

Adjusting her grip on the gun, she begins a careful sweep of the room, watching every step she takes as she walks across the office floor with a precision that has been drilled into her.

There’s row after row of cubicles in the centre floor, private offices and meeting rooms shooting off to the side. She doesn’t bother with any of these, wanting to just get the fuck out of here before it gets too dark.

Thankfully, on the other side of the room is a stairwell, one for public use that is blessedly free from doors that will slam shut behind her and trap her inside.

Ellie sighs with relief, pressing onwards with her revolver held out in front of her, sticking close to the wall as she approaches the stairwell. She does a quick sweep before she enters, checking the floor above and below for anything before continuing.

She takes the steps one at a time, watching her feet. She barely makes it down the first flight when she hears it.

It’s faint, muffled, but echoes up through the empty stairwell. A thump, thumpthump, thump—like something hitting a wall, maybe a door. Ellie curses, a quiet “Fuck,” under her breath as she pauses to listen.

The sooner she can get out of here, the better.

The further down Ellie gets, the louder the noise becomes. The thumping is soon joined by low croaking, the familiar screeches and clicks of a clicker on high alert.

She holds her breath as she gets closer, clinging close to the wall, hoping to god that she can just keep going down these steps and—

“You’re kidding me,” she groans under her breath.

The stairway ahead of her, just as she rounds the corner, is blocked. Desks, chairs, cabinets, half the goddamn office. It’d almost be impressive if it wasn’t ruining her life right now.

The only way forwards is through the doorway to Ellie’s right which leads into another office, but it’s in here that the noises are the loudest; the banging, the clicking, the croaking cry of something else.

Ellie retreats until her back is pressed into the corner, crouching over her backpack to breathe and take stock of what she has. She’s not doing too bad on ammunition, both guns fully loaded for the time being. She’s also got a handful of arrows left—six to be exact—thanks to a resupply a few towns over.

From the noises alone she knows there’s two, maybe three infected in there. Most likely all clickers.

She can do this, if she’s careful.

Swinging her pack over her shoulders, she sticks low to the ground, creeping back to the doorway. Her fingertips graze the ground as she leans forward, peeking into the room.

The first thing she notices is how empty it is, the first row or so of cubicles missing their desks and chairs. Deep ridges rip the carpet, a series of drag marks marking the path of each piece of furniture as it was pushed down the stairs.

This was done recently, Ellie notes, the carpet where the desks once stood pristine and free of thirty years of dirt and grime.

The next thing she notices is the body.

It’s mildly fresh, a couple of days old at most, sprawled out on the carpet, a deep brown puddle of festering blood soaking beneath him. It’s a man, mouth agape and eyes open, foggy irises staring right at Ellie.

She stops breathing, throat closing as she stares back at him, his face swollen and horrifically bloodied, the side of his skull caved in, his greying hair plastered to his face, thick with blood and brain and—

She splutters, gulping in air as she retreats, pressing her back to the wall once more. Her eyes are wet yet impossibly dry, so she blinks and scrubs hard with her palm heels until she can’t see anymore, black spots blurring her vision.

“It’s not him. It’s not him,” she murmurs, hands shaking as she pulls them away from her face.

Ellie swallows, waiting for it to feel like she’s not going to throw up before she crawls back to the entryway, forcing herself to peer back inside.

The man on the carpet is young, older than her but not by much. The bullet hole in his cheek tears the skin open, a gnarly flap of it hanging down his face. The skin is mottled with blues and green, spidery veins that creep up from his neck and eyes, broken capillaries typical with the freshly turned.

He was barely infected before he was shot.

Question is, who the fuck shot him?

Ellie’s eyes flick up, desperately ignoring the way her breaths are still uneven, hitching softly in her throat. A remnant of her moment of weakness.

Across the room and right up the back, not one, but two clickers throw themselves at a door, some sort of supply closet. They’re agitated by something on the other side, screeching and snapping at the wood. Whatever it is has their full attention; they’re not stopping any time soon.

Opposite this door, settled on the other wall is the fire escape, a single desk piled high with chairs and wastebaskets and who knows what else barricading it to all hell.

What is going on?

Ellie holsters her revolver, reaching a trembling hand up to unhook the bow from her shoulder. She fumbles with it in her left hand, adjusting her grip a few times as she raises to stand to her full height, stepping slowly into the doorway.

She had to completely relearn how to handle the bow after she amputated her fingers. She had to relearn a lot, actually, more than she was expecting. She’s forever grateful that it was her left hand, and that it wasn’t any of the more important fingers like her index or thumb—but it impacted her life in ways she never even thought about.

She’s still figuring out the guitar.

Ellie takes a step closer, pulling an arrow from her pack and notching it on the bowstring. She pulls it back with one fluid movement, holding her hand up to her cheek as she aims, focusing on the back of one of the agitated clickers.

She knew that this was risky, that this would most likely alert the other, and that she’d need to act fast. Drop the bow, take out her revolver, and run. But there’s the smallest chance that whatever is in that closet is distracting enough that it won’t care, and she can take both down no problem.

She draws in a breath, letting it all out slow through barely parted lips as her fingers twitch around the notch of the arrow.

Multiple things happen at once.

Ellie let’s go, the arrow sailing smoothly through the air and burying in the back of the clicker’s head with a sickening crunch of fungus and cartilage. A strangled croak leaves the creatures throat as it falls, crumbling to its knees and slumping against the door. The arrow sticks right out the back of its skull, a perfect shot. She’ll be able to grab that, later.

The clicker next to it pauses, just for a fraction of a second before whatever the hell is on the other side of that door brings it attention back, continuing to gnash and slam against the wood.

At the same time, a gnarled croak and rapid footsteps from behind make Ellie spin on her heels, turning around just in time to hold her arms up to block the strike of a stalker that lunges right for her.

She falls back, dropping her bow and taking the stalker with her as she lands on her back, head knocking to the side as she grapples. The dead guy is next to her, and his cloudy eyes meet hers for just a moment before she has to pull herself away, bracing against the creature atop of her. It’s sat up enough to swipe at her, swinging it’s arms down to claw at her raised arms.

“Fucking—Get off me!”

Ellie grunts with effort, planting her feet on the ground and using the leverage from her pack to push, rolling both the stalker and her over. It’s still crying out, teeth gnashing as she straddles it, one hand pressing down on its concave chest as she fumbles around her thigh for her revolver. She has to keep ducking and shifting away from it’s gnarled hands, jagged nails split and yellow swiping up at her face and arms.

A screech, sharp and piercing from the other side of the room raises the hairs on the back of Ellie’s neck, eyes widening as she whips her head up. Her scuffle has alerted the clicker by the closet, and she can do nothing but watch as it twitches and lurches to face her.

“Oh fuck—”

Ellie finally gets a grip on her revolver, cocking the hammer and pressing the barrel right between the stalker’s eyes, firing. The sound is deafening up close, a high-pitched whine muffling her hearing. The creature under her shudders with a dying croak, and Ellie can’t get away from it quicker, pushing herself up until she falls back on her ass. Legs scramble in front of her, pushing and crawling until she backs up into the wall behind her.

The clicker is rapidly approaching, arms winding madly and head twitching from side to side.

The wooden handle of the revolver creaks under Ellie’s grip, hand clenched tight as she cocks the hammer and aims, shooting up at it. It misses the head, hitting it right in the middle of the throat in a spray of black and brown. The creature gasps, faltering just enough for Ellie to push herself up off the floor and run, sprinting to the other side of the room to give her space to breathe and think.

She can do this. She’s done this for years. She just needs to focus.

Focus, Ellie. Focus.

She unlatches the cylinder, taking note of how many shots she has left. Four. She could pull out the rifle if she needs, but the room is far too small and the clicker is far too close for it to be safe.

Better make each of these shots count, then.

The creature is persistent, having gotten over the shock of the bullet through its throat. It charges towards Ellie as she fires once more, breaths heaving her chest, a spray of chitinous fungus exploding from the side of its head.

She has no time to celebrate, pulling back the hammer once more as she stumbles back, putting a desk between her and the clicker. She aims, doesn’t hesitant for a second as she fires, hitter the fucker square between what used to be its eyes.

It screams, a chittering, croaking wail, and Ellie winces as she watches it spin, stumbling and falling to the ground in a heap.

“Yeah,” Ellie breathes out, chest rising and falling with her panting breaths. “That’s right.”

She collapses against the desk, pressing her hands to the surface, hanging her head down so her chin meets her chest. Her whole body hurts— the back of her head aches from where she knocked it, blood flows down her arms from the stalker scratches.

Too close.

A noise, a soft thump from nearby has Ellie tensing, grip tightening on the revolver as she whips her head up, scanning the room.

Nothing. Well, nothing alive at least. She’s the only breathing thing left in here, and with the stairs and fire escape blocked she doesn’t know where else—

She hears it again, a soft thump followed by a long, low sound, muffled and interrupting her thoughts. It sounds like it’s coming from nearby, through the wall.

Like the closet.

Shit, Ellie thinks, eyes dragging towards the door, dead clicker still slumped against the wood. Was this what was setting those clickers off?

She pushes herself off the desk, wrapping her other palm around the revolver as she drifts to the wall closest to her, covering her back. She only has two bullets left in the cylinder, so she takes the couple of seconds of approach to reload.

The closer she gets, the clearer the sound starts to become. It’s a low cry… human. Like a sob.

With a foot to the back, Ellie grabs the arrow from the back of the dead clickers head, the one keeled over against the door, and pulls. It dislodges with a sickening crunch and sucking noise, and she uses the momentum of her foot to shove the body out of the way of the door. It slumps, thudding to the ground and rolling over on itself.

The rhythmic heaving of choked sobs drifts through the wood, making Ellie’s gut twist uncomfortably.

She could just go. She’s dealt with the issue, done whoever was on the other side of this door a major solid. She doesn’t need to involve herself more, throw herself into danger. Infected are unpredictable and fast, bodies strong and jaws stronger.

Humans can plan, deceit and lie. Hold weapons. Shoot.

She cocks her revolver.

“Hey,” Ellie calls out. Shit, she’s rusty, voice crackling around the edges from disuse. She hasn’t spoken properly in weeks, speaking only in murmurs or yells and nowhere in between. She swallows, wetting her throat. “You can come out, now.”

The sobs on the other side cut off with a sharp gasp, replaces with the shuddering pants of someone in a panic. A hiccup.

“I-I don’t…”

The sobs begin again, clawing their way out of the person’s raw throat.

Ellie sighs, chewing the inside of her cheek as she glances at the clicker on the ground, black blood and remnant brain matter leaking from the hole in its head.

“They’re dead. I took care of it.”

Nothing. Just more crying.

She seriously should just leave. The fire escape is right there; all she needs to do is move the desk out of the way, then she’ll be free.

Her gaze flicks to the side, to her freedom, then back down to the handle of the door.

“Are you trapped in there? Is this thing locked?” A hesitant hand rests on the handle but doesn’t turn it.

Those shuddering breaths, the wracking sobs from within continue. Why is she still even here? This isn’t any of her business.

The noises stop.

Ellie pauses, a frown twitching the edge of her lips, scar tugging uncomfortably at the skin. Unease curdles in her twisting gut; she presses her ear against the wood.

Sharp inhales, a shuffling of feet against carpet, ragged wheezing as they try desperately to suck in air.

Fuck.

Ellie steps back, fingers of the clicker on the floor crunching under the heel of her converse. Her lip is pulled between her teeth, chewing on the already torn skin as she looks between the closet and her escape.

“Shit, okay.” Dragging a hand through her hair, pushing the greasy strands out from her face as she thinks. “Uh, I’m coming in,” she calls to the person inside, pressing down on the handle.

It’s unlocked. She can feel the way her heart thunders behind her ribs, the way it vibrates through her veins and makes her hand tremble. As much as she wants to believe it’s from the rush of the kill, the adrenaline, she can’t ignore the chill of fear that settles like a block of ice in the bottom of her stomach.

Ellie pushes the door open, revolver at the ready.

A shot rings out in the small space and Ellie ducks, covering her head with her bloodied arms. It goes wide, missing her by at least a foot as plaster from the ceiling rains down on her. She swears, pushing her back against the wall next to the doorway, quickly swiping debris from her eyes.

Ellie’s trembling hand clasps around the other over the handle of her revolver, arms extended and pointing at the floor. She can feel her breathing getting sharper, shallower, and forces herself to get it together, breathing in deep through her nose to be rid of her light-headedness.

The fire escape taunts her, lopsided barricade making it impossible for her to retreat. She should have just left. Why didn’t she just fucking leave?

She waits for just a few more seconds, waiting for whoever was inside to act first. Nothing. Nothing except for those choked, wheezing gasps that she’s more familiar with than she’d ever like to be.

Revolver out in front of her, Ellie turns round the doorway. Her finger ghosts the trigger, ready to fire at whatever she finds inside.

Fire at you.

“I-I’m sorry—” you wheeze, chest heaving and shuddering as Ellie blocks the light flooding into the closet, silhouetting her from behind. A pistol, black and sleek, trembles in your hand that lays fallen against the floor by your thigh. The other is clawing at your throat, where you’ve started to turn red from the strain of not breathing.

Ellie sweeps the closet from top to bottom, eyes flicking over shelves of copy paper and boxes of pencil before focusing back on you, trembling on the ground.

“Put the gun down,” she barks, her own unwavering of its aim at your head.

You listen, hand letting go of the pistol to come up to your shirt, gun clattering to the floor as you tug and pull at the fabric that feels too tight around your throat.

“I can’t—I had to, I-I’m so fucking sorry—”

Ellie knows this. She’s lived this. She can practically feel it as she watches you, clinging and clawing and begging. Maybe that’s why she does what she does next-- a weak moment of sympathy she’ll tell herself later.

She lowers her revolver and steps into the room.

“Breathe. You need to breathe.”

Okay, Captain Obvious. As if you didn’t already know that.

“Can’t—” you gasp, eyes red with the strain, glassy and looking so far into the distance, further than the walls of this room would allow.

“You have to.” She changes her grip on the gun, holding her left hand out, what’s left of her pinkie and ring finger twitching. “Just take a deep breath, as deep as you can, and hold it.”

She waits for you to do as she says, eyes focused on the hitching of your chest as you try so desperately. Your eyes flutter closed, fists clenched tight as you draw in an admittedly weak breath, but it’s the deepest one you’ve had in a while.

“Good. Slowly breathe out-- nice and easy.” Ellie steps closer, revolver pointed to the ground, hand out like she’s approaching a wounded animal.

Nodding, you hiss out the air in your lungs in one, long, stuttering breath. Your whole body is wound tight, and tears still stream down your dirty cheeks, but your sobs quiet as you breathe.

Ellie approaches as close as she dares, sticking a foot out to kick the pistol away from you, the gun clattering as it skids across the closet floor. With it out of the way, she slowly lowers to a crouch, forearms resting on her knees as she looks at you.

Frankly, you look like shit. Everyone these days does, but you especially so. Your clothes are caked in brown blood and dirt, the sleeve of your shirt ripped and dangling onto your shoulder by a thread.

Your cheeks have that sunken look to them, the one people get when they haven’t eaten in days, and your quivering lips are chapped and cracking, blood oozing from where it splits open.

A spray of blood has dried on your face, your silent tears running muddy tracks through the gore.

Ellie’s eyes linger on the deep red mark at your temple. A perfect circle, likely to bruise. She flicks a quick glance to the discarded gun, then back to you.

“What’s your name?” She asks when she thinks you can handle it, breaths evening out.

You don’t look up at her, haven’t since she’s walked in, focused too hard on something else, somewhere else. Your name tumbles from your lips, and Ellie nods.

“Ellie,” she offers, barely willing to give it up.

Hesitantly, she holsters the gun back on her thigh, fingers twitching. She’s careful not to take her eyes off you, watching those hands that have loosened around your shirt and throat.

Ellie carefully shoulders off her bag, unzipping and reaching for her canteen. Undoing the cap, she holds it out to you.

“Drink.”

You swallow, mouth thick with dehydration, looking up for the first time. Your eyes flick to the canteen, then drag slowly up to Ellie. The shadows of your face are deep, and there’s a broken blood vessel in the corner of your right eye.

She gestures out again, water sloshing in the container.

You look back down, trembling hands hesitantly reaching out and taking it, pressing the plastic to your bloodied lips. The moment a drop of water touches your tongue you start guzzling the whole thing, drinking quick.

“Hey—whoa!” Ellie reaches for you, grabbing your arm to pull it back. You flinch and stare at her with frightened eyes, gasping as you take a fresh breath, a trickle of water running down the corner of your mouth.

Ellie removes her hand.

“You’ll throw up if you’re not careful.”

You blink, looking back down at the canteen, pulling it up for another sip, this time a lot more careful.

You both sit there as you get your fill, drinking all her water. Ellie doesn’t mind. She’ll fill it again once she leaves.

“Your arms are bleeding.”

It startles her a bit, your voice clearer, yet still croaked through the strain, louder than she’s heard it yet.

She shrugs, dismissing you. “I’ll deal with it later.”

She watches as you polish off the canteen, tilting you head back as you wait for the last drops to coat your tongue.

“Were you the one who barricaded the stairs?” Ellie reaches for the canteen when you offer it, gripping onto the container until the last second as if you’ll never have another opportunity to drink after this. She buries it back in her pack.

“My brother.” You tone is flat—tired. The exhaustion has crept up on you, sapping all of your emotions away.

Ellie thinks to the man on the floor.

“Is he…” she trails off, not knowing how to ask, eyes falling to the doorway.

“Dead.”

Ellie nods. “Infected?”

Your head drops, gaze focused on the dirty nails of your hands cradled in your lap. “We were getting chased. He barricaded us in so we could hide, but we were so focused we didn’t realise—” your voice cracks, coming out quieter when you continue. “I shot him. In the head. I didn’t want to, I promise, but he started shaking and this stuff was coming out of his mouth and his eyes were all weird and he just started running towards me and I couldn’t—”

“Hey.” Your eyes snap up to hers, your panicked rambles dying on your tongue. Ellie swallows, thick and unsure as you hold contact, looking into your eyes. Eyes she’s seen so many times in herself, caught in flashes as she passes her reflection.

She can’t bring herself to tell you that what happened isn’t your fault, because if she’s being honest, she doesn’t know. She has no idea who you are or how you came to be here, and at the end of the day you pulled that trigger and your brother is rotting into the carpet just a few feet away. That guilt will haunt you forever, no matter how much you try to come to terms with it. So, she doesn’t say that.

“You did what you had to.”

You look away, back down to your hands, blood marring the skin.

Sympathy twinges within her like a plucked guitar string, vibrating along her skin. She tries to shove it away, to not let herself feel too much for a stranger who was about to end it all in a supply closet.

But she can’t help it, and she finds herself unzipping the largest pocket of her pack, taking out a protein bar and a tin of beans and placing them on the floor next to her.

There. She’ll leave these here, and that’ll be it. Guilt cured.

She stands, hauling her pack over her shoulders once more. Your eyes follow the action, the movement of her hands, but you make no move to say or do anything.

Ellie steps back, looking to the doorway then back to you, alone in the middle of the floor.

“I’m gonna unlock the fire escape. You’ll be able to get out that way, but I’d wait until sunup.”

She waits for a response, a nod or a murmur, and when she doesn’t get one she steps out, leaving you behind in the closet.

Your brother did a pretty decent job with the barricade. Ellie really has to push for the desk to move, legs catching on the carpet, everything stacked on top rattling as she pushes and shoves. She doesn’t bother with moving it completely out of the way, forearms stinging too much for her to try, so she does just enough for her and her pack to wriggle through.

“Ellie.”

Her body freezes, caught between the door as she’s stepping through the gap. Hearing her name spoken by another person for the first time in weeks… She doesn’t like how it makes her feel. That trickle of warmth, the intimacy that comes with knowing a name. It’s enough to make her stop and listen and she wants nothing more than to leave.

She turns her head, looking back at you.

You stand just past the doorway of the closet, crumbs stuck to your bottom lip and down the front of your shirt from the protein bar, tin of beans clutched tight to your chest. You cradle it as if it were your child, something precious. Your eyes meet Ellie’s, guilty and apprehensive and so fucking tired.

You swallow, tongue wetting your lips.

“ I can’t… I don’t have a can opener.”

𖧧

You can barely taste the beans with the way you’re shovelling them in your mouth, already scooping up the next spoonful before you swallow the first. You should feel ashamed or self-conscious for the way you’re eating, no doubt making some kind of mess, but you’re much too hungry to care.

The woman in front of you— Ellie— says nothing about your lack of manners, tending to the fire between you, instead.

Ellie has hardly said a word to since leading you out from the office building you were trapped in, telling you to keep quiet and follow her lead before exiting back out onto the road. The setting sun was blinding after so long in the dark, and you had to take a second and make her wait for you to adjust before you could continue on.

She’s quick on her feet, battered converse barely making a noise as she leads you out across the city, ducking in and out of side streets and over fences in backyards. She’s difficult to keep up with, though there’s some part of you that makes you think that this was her trying to be slow, giving you a chance to match pace.

You should maybe care more about being led away by a stranger into the dark, but at this point you can’t really find it within you to care. Besides, if she wanted to kill you, she would have done it there and then back in the closet, revolver in hand and pointed at your skull.

You end up settling in a park, deep within a crop of trees. Ellie works silently and independently, leaving you to stand and watch along the sidelines as she builds a small fire. She’s quick, practiced, and you find yourself sitting against a tree with an open tin of beans warming your tingling hands before you can let the doubts of being out here with her get to you.

“When was the last time you ate?”

The spoon hangs out of your mouth when she asks, low voice making you pause. You suck the sauce off the utensil and lick your lips, swallowing your mouthful. It’s the first proper thing she’s said to you since the office.

You should feel embarrassed, but you don’t care.

“A few days ago.” You dig back in, scraping the side of the tin to make sure you’re not missing a single drop.

Ellie makes a noise, something noncommittal in the back of her throat. She sits back on her knees with a sigh, dusting off her hands, brushing dirt from the bandages she’d applied after she’d given you something to eat.

“Is that how long you were stuck there?”

The food sours on your tongue, thick and fermenting. Your hand begins to tremble as you watch the red drip from your spoon, soaking and seeping into the ground below you, the clumps that decorate the carpet as he falls and—

“Yeah.” You swallow hard, throat clicking. You drop the spoon back in the tin, placing it shakily on the ground beside you. “The… The gunshot it—” You can’t find it within you to finish the sentence, to say out loud how you had to leave your brother there, twitching on the floor as those things tumbled down the steps, forcing you to lock yourself inside that room in the pitch black. You tried to keep track of the day/night cycles through the crack under the door, but all it did was confuse and upset you.

Ellie nods, planting her feet on the ground, resting her forearms on her knees. Her rifle sits across her lap, ready.

“I’m uh…” she starts, not looking at you. Her throat clears, easing some of the tension from her tone. “I’m sorry about your brother.”

It’s nice; a kind gesture. And you’re sure that under different circumstances that you would appreciate it more, thank her and let the sentiment comfort you… but you’re finding it difficult to.

“Me too.”

It’s silent for a while after that, the two of you sitting by the fire. She offers you another canteen of water, boiling and cooling down river water in the night air. You take it gladly, sipping at it much slower this time around, allowing yourself to savour it.

You spend this time observing Ellie, watching her scan her surroundings.

She’s littered in freckles and scars, not an inch of her skin untouched. There’s a noticeable silver scar slicing the tail off her right eyebrow, a similar one splitting her upper lip. It tugs at the skin when she talks, pulling it taught whenever she widens her mouth.

Blue-grey ink bleeds from underneath her bandaged arm, the tips of ferns peeking out as they curl around the back of her hand. You’ve seen people with tattoos before, but never anyone with something so delicate.

Her green eyes are constantly scanning the area around you, flicking from tree to tree, keeping watch like a dutiful soldier. She sniffs as she raises a hand, pushing back strands of her auburn hair from where they hang in her face.

“Where are you headed?”

The question has her snapping her eyes to you, calculating. Her lips twitch, jaw tensing as she thinks. She looks back down to her rifle.

“As far as I can get.”

“That’s not an answer.”

She says nothing, shuffling her converse into the dirt.

You draw your legs up to your chest, mimicking her body language as your hand fiddles with the sticks and leaves of the dirt beneath you.

“We’re headed to Massachusetts.” You pause, frowning. “I mean—We were heading there. I don’t uh… I don’t know what I’m doing now.” Your throat feels tight, eyes burning.

Ellie says nothing, watching you play in the dirt, picking up a stick and dragging it through the soil.

“Tom, my brother, he was taking me home to Grafton. I’ve never been there, but it’s where he was born. Where our parent’s lived, before everything.”

You don’t know why you’re telling her all this. Telling a stranger your life story. Maybe it just feels good to talk, to have someone breathing and alive acknowledge your presence. Not that this Ellie is much of a talker, just sitting there and listening.

You spear the stick in the ground. “He said he knew where the house was. That we could live there, like before.” The stick snaps, splintering in your hands; 35 Sinclair Street written into the dirt.

The wind picks up as the fire goes down, and you shiver, drawing your arms around your knees. Your shirt, ripped from where an infected had grabbed you, does barely anything to keep out the cold.

You don’t have anything but the clothes on your back. Your brother had the bag, the duffel full of your shared belongings, but he had to cut the strap off and dump it when he got caught by the infected that ambushed you, it tangling itself with him and the bag. That’s most likely when he got bit, that dreaded mark in the webbing between his thumb and pointer of his right hand.

You shiver again, but not from the cold.

You know you shouldn’t have, but you looked at him when Ellie led you out of that building. You’d felt him laying there the whole time you were trapped, festering and rotting into the carpet on the other side of the room, behind a wall of wood and monsters.

Was there any part of him left when you killed him? Was he stuck behind the haze of the infection, watching as you put that gun to his head and killed him? Did he forgive you? Know why you had to?

You’d begged for him to do the same for you, when things got bad and you were sure that it was going to be you who would leave him behind, not the other way around.

“Here.”

A bundle of fabric is thrown at you from across the fire, a grey plaid falling to the dirt by your feet.

She makes eye contact with you when you don’t pick it up, face impassive.

“You’re cold. Take it.”

You blink, looking down at the cloth and picking it up, shaking out the bundle. It’s a flannel, big enough for a man much taller and wider than yourself. A ‘J’ is messily stitched into the inside of the collar in white thread, where the tag should be.

“… Thanks.”

You tug it on, the thick material already making the cool night much more bearable. You have to roll the sleeves up slightly over your hands, but otherwise you button it up and curl right into it. It smells nice, the specific way flannels do when they’re worn in and loved. There’s something else, a faint trace of gunpowder and something spicy, hard to place.

The events of the day, of the past week catch up to you as you curl into the borrowed shirt. You so tired. Exhausted. It feels like you’re using all of your strength to keep your head up, your eyes open, your brain from shutting off.

You shift, lowering yourself to the ground, moving an arm to cushion your head in the dirt. It’s not unfamiliar to you, roughing it like this. You’re used to having your brother with you, the two of you taking turns in keeping watch. And though he’s not here now and never will be again, Ellie’s intense gaze on the trees around you makes you feel a similar way.

Your eyes are half lidded, watching the dwindling flames of the fire, light and shadows flickering on the ground beside it. It’s soothing, and you try your hardest to focus on it and not the thoughts clawing away at the back of your head, the ones that will no doubt make themselves known the second you fall asleep.

Ellie shifts, crossing her legs under her, hands still settled on the rifle. They twitch as she curls around it.

“I’m headed to Massachusetts, too.” You hear, quiet in the night. “Boston.”

You don’t pick your head up, but your eyes flick to hers, opening slightly wider. She’s staring out in the trees.

“I’ll be leaving at dawn.” She looks at you, just for a moment, then back to her post.

You don’t know this woman. You’ve barely spoken, yet you can tell there’s a whole lot going on in those eyes of hers, so incredibly sad and haunted.

But that look is familiar, and you see yourself in it when she looks at you, and you know, despite it all, that what she’s offered is an invitation.

You close your eyes, nodding into your arm.

“Dawn.”

«« masterpost ꩜ next »»

[acerathia]

how art is made (out of your desire) || Qi Yu | Rafayel

Summary:

Art is something subjective. It's supposed to be. Yet, it seems that everyone agrees what art is. You don't. To you Art is something special, something only you understand. Until you met him.

Wordcount: 4.9k (lol?)

Read on AO3

Pairing:

Professor!Qí Yù | Rafayel / f!non-MC!Art Student!Reader

Tags/CW:

Minors and Ageless Blogs DNI!! porn with some plot, art is subjective, and extremly horny here, semi-public masturbation (in a bathroom), orgasm denial, private masturbation (help lol), both vaginal fingering, edging, bodily fluids used in art, squirting, lowkey strip tease?, cucking as in, he's watching her masturbate idk if that's right lol, cunnilingus, pussy job, piv, some kind of exhibitionism, u will get it LMAO, this is without feelings, what if i kms, this is weird and lowkey gross and for meee

Note:

professor rafayel is lowkey insane and i need him in my guts thanks

Nobody truly knows what Art is for them. Many simply tell the normal and usual response.

“Art is an expression, some sort of communication.” “It’s entirely subjective.” “Everyone has their own interpretation of its meaning.” “The artist had an idea, a feeling and put it onto the canvas for us to understand.” “It’s the technique that matters.”

Nothing out of the ordinary, standard words for people to repeat without putting much thought into Art itself. Not you, though. To you, Art is something out of this world, something that sends shivers down your spine, making your heart beat, your blood rush, your head spin; something that excites you to the core. It’s reverence, it’s worship, it’s lust.

Maybe because of this difference in views, you can’t help but be bored to death at every single of your lectures. The professors, failed artists in your eyes, droning on about the techniques and how to use tools to use your skills to the fullest. Nothing but empty words when the right feeling is missing, when Art is missing.

That’s why you had pretty low expectations for your newest lecture. The professor is allegedly a famous artist, teaching just for some time, exclusively. Not that you care, most artists aren’t more than people with nimble fingers and connections.

At first, you did try to get into their world, to get to know all the different artists and their styles, what made them special, what made them stand out. But every time you stood in front of a painting, you felt… nothing. None of all these pretty decorations evoked anything in you, and soon boredom turned into frustration. Your dream was to belong, to have your own work join their ranks. But after disappointment after disappointment, you could not even think about your silly dream. Was it truly worth risking your beliefs just to fit in? To strip everything that makes art Art for you just to make it pleasing for all of these people with nothing but time and money? This realization made you turn your back on the world of artists, diving into your own Art, ignoring all possible repercussions of your intentional ignorance.

So, the professor at the front of the room is a complete stranger to you, but you do notice the reach of his fame, as the whispers stack on top of each other, getting louder with each student entering. You simply ignore the fawning and take a seat in a place where you can just not pay attention. Because the only reason you’re here is for the credits. And this new professor isn’t going to change your opinion about their type of art just with his senseless blabbering, probably filled with praise towards himself.

Still, you try to at least act as if you’re interested in what he’s saying, just until he’s not paying as much attention towards his audience anymore. You set your eyes towards him, and you freeze. Purple hair, soft as clouds above the setting sun, a gentle face, smooth and akin to beautiful marble. But what really gets your insides in a turmoil are his eyes. The way they shine when the light hits them, and the coldness hiding underneath all that radiance. Eyes that belong to someone with a certain touch, something similar to you, yet entirely different.

Your heartbeat rises, your lips curling ever so slightly. Oh, how much you desire to see a single work of his, to see if it could change your world. And so, despite your initial rejection, you begin to pay attention to what he says. Careful, one might even think calculated. Every word leaving his lips is akin to a script, something Rafayel, as he introduced himself as, is simply saying to please the masses. But you know, you know the way he’s speaking is different, the way his body coordinates so flawlessly with his words, but there’s always something off, and you know. Words which seem so pliant and meaningless, sprinkled with what he truly wants to express, hidden for anyone to see. And you were hanging on his lips, piecing everything into rough patches in your mind, out of order, nonsensical, but something.

Until he finally reveals one of his paintings, as part of the impending discussion. The moment your eyes lay on the canvas, the way the colors flow into each other, you gasp silently. The emotions seeping out of every brushstroke are caressing your skin, flowing into your veins, tickling the deepest part of you. The painting is filled with desire so intricate, so deep, you grin with excitement, pure unadulterated excitement, throbbing and twitching.

With this, you knew that Professor Rafayel is just like you, that his kind of Art is filled with the same meaning as yours does. A buzz is filling your brain, one stemming from all the possibilities, all the Art you can create under his tutelage; together with him.

The bubbling under your skin does not abate even after the lecture is over, your eyes never leaving him out of your sight, drinking him in, every single motion, every single word. You take everything, and you thirst for more.

That’s why you straighten yourself out, making sure that you look the right balance between amazed, worried and meek, hiding all your hunger away, before you make your way to his desk.

“Good morning, Professor Rafayel. Uhm, I love your art, the way the colors interlink and create this atmosphere, it’s amazing! Uh, what I wanted to say is, that I’m worried– worried that I might not do good work in this class. Do– Would you mind if I showed you my progress occasionally? Maybe give me some pointers?”

His eyes briefly glance over your face, and you barely hide a shiver, feeling your heart beat loudly in your ears. It’s obvious that Rafayel is a genius, and you don’t doubt he has seen through your empty compliment, but as most people sound the same, you’re not worried that he will call you out. Rather, it will strengthen your facade, making him believe that you’re truly as clueless as you make yourself out to be. So, you nibble at your lower lip and furrow your eyebrows ever so slightly, not too much, but just enough for it to look like a subconscious action.

“Alright, you can do so during my office hours,” he finally responds, scrawling all the information you need on a piece of paper and handing it to you.

Thanking him profusely, you leave the lecture hall, and the moment you step out, a grin breaks over your face, the tip of your tongue gliding over the edges of your teeth. You have finally found something that can satiate you, another person with the same essence as you.

So, without stalling for a single second, the moment the door to his office unlocks, you’re already carrying your painting with much care into the room, and give him a smile the moment your eyes meet. With a simple flick of the wrist, he shows you where you can set the canvas for the upcoming analysis.

The painting is one of the lighter ones. The real motive hidden behind the swirling colors of the waves, entering and leaving a cave, gushing. If one knew how to look, they would uncover the yearning, or rather, the desire behind each brushstroke. This painting got created with a mix of oil and water, highlighting the insinuation for those who get it. Normal paint, not the ones you mix specifically at home. No, those mixtures are used for that kind of painting you had yet to show. You first have to make sure that your intuition has not lied to you about Rafayel.

The artist has positioned himself in front of the canvas at the perfect distance and you watch as his eyes glide over every single decision of yours. Chaotic strokes and a use of paints that could only be called unrefined in the eyes of those who seek perfection. But every single one of these was a rational decision, every single one shows the heights you’re willing to reach, ignoring all that is natural and accepted.

You don’t know how long it takes, because you’re simply staring at him, watching every single reaction, down to the tiniest twitch. And then he faces you, a small smile playing around his plush lips.

“Interesting work. The emotional resonance could be stronger, though. Do you mix your own paints?” he cocks his head, his eyes wandering over your face, almost like it’s the first time he’s truly seeing you, like you weren’t even worth noticing before.

And now you are. You nod. Not trusting yourself to speak, as the depth of his eyes is revealed before you, their intensity not only shining through, but outright swallowing everything else. All of this makes your blood hot and you bite on your lower lip to suppress an inappropriately excited grin.

“Good. Next time, bring me one of those paintings. That’s when we can truly start with Art, yeah?”

A shiver runs down to your spine and you feel your lungs collapse, breathlessness wracking your body as you feel heat throughout your body. Before your reaction becomes too obvious, you thank him, giddiness tainting your voice, before you leave with your painting.

There’s barely enough time to stumble to the next bathroom, locking yourself into the cramped space, before you begin to pant, moans stuck in your throat. Before you know it, your belongings already strewn across the ground, your hand has dipped into your pants. Quickly, your fingers touch your throbbing clit, strokes after strokes after strokes, in circles, with more and less pressure, akin to how a painting is made. Slowly, they drag towards your slit, warm and wet, a cave yet to be filled, the waves yet to crash.

But instead of using your fingers to enter, you simply let the pads tease your entrance, and you shiver and clench. The aching hole, needy, bothered, yearning to be filled, an emptiness evoking nothing but inspiration. Your very own muse. One that cannot be taken away from you, ever. Your body tenses when your fingertips return to your clit, touch too feathery for your liking, but this lack of satisfaction makes you lightheaded, and you feel yourself climbing, climbing, one step and you’re going to–

With the last shreds of self control, you jerk your fingers away from your hot bud, your insides hollow and craving. Not yet, you’re only going to give yourself the heights of pleasure once you finish a painting that will make him look at you, truly look and see you.

A shaky sigh, before you fix your rumpled appearance and collect your scattered things. With the unsatedness settling in your body, you rush back to your atelier, inspiration fueled once again.

Once there, you grab your palette, dried colors flaking off of the surface. What you want, need, to show him should not be any old art of yours, no, it should be proper Art, the exact one Professor Rafayel is seeking.

There are uncountable tubes of paint sitting each in their own corner, but for this painting, you shall not use any normal paint. A stack of cans is hidden in a cabinet, each color painstakingly collected, wrung out, until mixing each component brought you these colors. Their consistency and shimmer something one could only replicate if they shared the same sentiment as yours. And of course, a small container, barely as big as your little finger, and its content even smaller. This truly is something that only exists for you, only imitations are possible, but perfect copies never. Unless you allow them to. But it has been ages since you have been attracted to another artist.

A thought creeps up at this, and you lick your lips. Maybe, if everything works out with Professor Rafayel, he might get a bit, and you might get another component for your colors. You wonder how that one might affect your painting.

For now, you set the small container away, it’s the last step to finish the painting, and then you turn towards the open white space of the canvas, and you remember how you felt earlier, how it felt to rise, rise, rise, only to plummet into nothingness. You let these feelings flow into the paint brush and you move, guided by your reverence, by your lust, towards Art.

The colors mix and flow, gush and squirt. Pushing and pulling, hitting the right areas, over and over again, getting the perfect angle with every stroke. Letting the tip caress and touch and love. Moving in circles, in patterns, pressure against the hot spot at the right time, and it drops and drips.

Heaving, panting, hot and feeling sticky, you finally take the small container combined with the smallest brush in your arsenal. You press your tongue against your teeth as you slowly spread the fluid where you need it to be, where it would have the most effect on your painting.

Only after the finishing touches do you unravel, feeling the high of Art, of this painting, penetrating you, making your insides squirm with want and desire. You throw your head back slightly and you moan, letting this feeling overtake you. This is what true satisfaction feels like, and it would reach new heights once you show this piece to Professor Rafayel, once you experience his reaction to it.

You let your piece dry, as there’s still time until you can visit him again. So, all you do until then is attend lectures as you have been, keeping the tension in you going and going, never letting it snap or slip away. Even if you were pretty close to losing control when Professor Rafayel made intense eye contact during one of his talks about the emotions and the way they manifest in art. Something about the way he looked at you made you clench and swallow.

And when he beckons you to talk to him after class is over, you feel your blood heat up with excitement, rushing to your head.

“How can I help you, Professor?”

Without a preamble, he gives you a slightly crumpled piece of paper. “Let’s change locations for the next meeting. I think it would be more ideal to do so. Do you mind?”

You shake your hand and glance at the address written.

“Good. See you then.”

His back is already facing you before you could say goodbye, but you don’t mind, your mind is too preoccupied with the fact that he wants to avoid meeting on campus. You knew your intuition about him was right.

With a grin splitting your face, you make your way home to grab your latest painting, before you input the address into your phone.

You have no idea how long it took you to get there, but standing in front of the gate closing off the huge mansion rips you out of your excitement-induced trance. This eerily looks like a home rather than just an atelier, just some place. Your ribs tingle and you hum. This is getting better with every step. You barely remember to ring the bell, your insides twitching and nudging, and all you want to do is grab him and show him what you’re capable of.

The gate swings open and you step through, feet almost silent on the soft rock leading you to the entrance of the mansion. You take a breath before entering with a knock.

“Professor?” You look around, trying to find the atelier in this huge place.

“Drop that, we’re not in university, right now, we’re just two artists,” his voice sounds behind you and you twitch in surprise and turn around to face him.

His words, coupled with his baring shirt and flushed face, make you unable to speak, suddenly stunned. Rafayel looks like he has been painting passionately and this, coupled with the removal of the societal barrier between you, make you lightheaded, your blood rushing into your fingertips, into your core, and weirdly enough, over your nape. You can only nod, clutching the canvas desperately.

He glances at your hidden work and cocks his head to make you follow him. And he leads you into his spacious atelier, paint and brushes, marble and chisels, a controlled chaos. You can’t help but stop to stare at some of his unfinished works, bare bones, but enough to light something in you, to make you yearn for something so far away, seemingly forever out of reach. His works are simply on another different level, out of your world, you can barely imagine how he might have achieved this.

“Hey, you can put it on this one,” he calls out to you, pointing towards a free easel.

A couple quick steps and you have caught up to him, and you put your painting where he has shown you, removing the covering at the same time. You notice the cloth covering the ground, but who are you to understand the whims of a genius artist.

You put some distance so he can have proper space to see your work while you watch him. Watch him scrutinize your work, analysing every single brushstroke, every single color combination. Like a lot of your paintings, it looks like a simple one, until you dare to dive deeper. This one shows the waves crash against an impossible cliff, trying to reach the edge but failing with each wave, with each push. To you, it’s obvious what your intent is, but you hope it’s clear to another person, to him.

There’s the tiniest clench in his jaw and you keep your eyes on him, wide and expectant, you’re not even trying to put on a mask anymore, it’s too late for that anyway. Soon after that miniscule reaction, he turns his head to face you, eyebrows ever so slightly furrows.

“This is excellent work. Truly, the repression is visually and emotionally resonant, making the viewer feel stifled as they’re failing to reach the climax. But say, how did you produce this?”

With a long stride, he’s letting his fingertips swipe ever so slightly over one of the parts you have coated in your very own mixture. And you almost whimper when you see him smell and lick it off his skin. All while holding eye contact with you.

“Why don’t you show me? Hm?”

You release the air out of your lungs, a little raspy, bordering between a giggle and a moan, and roll your shoulders and neck. Then, you make eye contact with him, as you let your fingertips wander over your throat and collarbones, drawing the line of your chest, splayed across the peak, before your palm beets your tummy, closer to the waistband of your pants.

Playing with the button, you ask him with heavy eyelids: “How much do you want to see?”

While you have been putting up this act, Rafayel has made himself comfortable on the closest couch. Positioned like it was his plan all along. From his seat, he cocks his head, fingers tapping slightly tapping against his temple, his body unrestrained, smooth and laidback, draped over the armrest, legs spread apart.

“Everything. Impress me.”

At his words, you hum, a suppressed moan in disguise, as you feel your insides twist and tense, yearning. With a flick you unbutton your pants and grab the zipper, slowly dragging it down, click by clack, his eyes watching your every move.

Without hesitation, you simply let your pants drop to the floor with a little shimmy of your hips. And maybe you did draw your motions out a little bit, just to see how his eyes follow each sway. Your pants out of the way, you lower yourself to the ground, legs apart to for him to see your still covered cunt and the wet spot on your underwear.

“Usually, I have something to collect it, but I suppose that won’t be necessary today, hm? This is but a demonstration. So, maybe a little censorship would make sense, don’t you agree?”

You watch as his eyebrows furrow, realization dawning upon him, as your fingers find your clit, pressing on your throbbing bud with the cloth still inbetween. A moan slips between your lips as you stroke it, drawing patterns on it, a piece in progress, swiping and flicking, controlled in a way a painter’s brush flows over the canvas. A calculated mess. The pressure sinking and rising, the angles changing, the position gliding. You know what your body needs, but to you, it matters more to satisfy the voices demanding for more and more Art. And the Art in this current situation is simple: A Show.

So, you follow the stream of one, building the tension more and more, hitting every spot that sends electricity down your nerves, until you’re about to reach the climax, only to stop, a cliff, the depression, tension dropping. Your moans turn into whines, even if you’re the one doing this to yourself, letting yourself hang in suspension. His eyes feel hot against your skin as he takes you in, takes every motion, every twitch of your hips, every drop dripping onto the whiteness underneath you. And you grin, tongue against the edge of your teeth, when you notice the strain in his pants. The effect of your Show, of your Art on him makes you clench around nothing, feeling yourself getting worked up without even touching yourself again.

After the little pause, you resume, fingertips stroking over your hot bud towards your slit, and you tease your aching hole with slow motions. You catch his eyes for a moment and you let your eyelashes flutter as you moan, deliberately making it sound close to his name, but not quite enough. With each dip of your fingers, with each caress, you feel your insides tighten, electricity tingling between your nervendings. Until with a certain flick, a finishing brush, you unravel, twitching and moaning, a resolution fit for the finishing act.

Panting, you put your hands behind you to support you, and you cock your head at him with a grin.

“Does that answer your inquiry? I doubt you could replicate it, though, unless you have me,” you raise your hand and stretch it towards him, and from your perspective it looks like he’s sitting on your palm.

“The Art we could create together, just imagining the possibilities inspires me again.” You close your eyes as you shiver slightly.

A shuffle, steps, and then Rafayel is crouching in front of you, taking your hand to kiss the tips of your fingers, his tongue licking the wetness clinging to them. With dark eyes he looks to you and smiles. A smile filled with something calculating and sinister, and your grin broadens as you give him the same look back, eyes wide and excited at the words he speaks next.

“With pleasure.”

With these words, his knees hit the ground and he crowds your space immediately. His breath mingles with yours, but he immediately pushes your torso to the ground, before he makes himself comfortable between your thighs, his hot breath now cooling the wet cloth of your underwear.

“Let’s make Art,” he murmurs as he completely removes your panties, throwing them aside.

Not allowing you a moment to register what he’s planning, his mouth is already on you, tongue running once over your sticky folds, and his groan vibrates against you as he tastes you. Swiftly, he latches onto your clit, sucking and licking, teasing the throbbing, still sensitive bud with each move. His hands grab your thighs, holding you in place as your hips buck in reflex, yearning for the new sensation. For some time, all he does is let his tongue glide over your clit over and over again, enjoying the way your body tenses with each stroke. There’s a meticulousness to his lapping, a precision one only wields when holding a brush. And it seems that you have turned into a part of his canvas.

His control leads to your climax being delayed over and over again, every time you feel close to the edge, he pulls away, almost like he’s observing you, thinking over his next steps, how he wants to finish this piece. And you don’t know what he wishes to achieve but you’re willing to do anything for Art. So, you moan his name and tense over his tongue over and over again, feeling yourself drip and gush. Until he finally allows you to reach the edge of the canvas, one last stroke and it’s done, you unravel and out of your frays Art is made.

Your body limp on the ground and you barely look up as you hear the sound of the zippers, seeing him pull his pants just enough down to reveal his hardened length, pre dripping from the tip. His hands grab your hip, fingertips carefully digging into your flesh, as Rafayel pulls you closer to him, hip to hip, his cock pressing against your clit, and you whimper at the sensation.

“Before the real mixing starts, we gotta have all the necessary materials, don’t you think?” he murmurs before he begins to jerk his hips.

His silky tip presses against your throbbing clit, and the rest of him follows as he lets his length slide through your folds, carefully avoiding your wet slit, the one clenching with every time he moves his cock through you. His veins rub against your heat and you moan, his suppressed groans growing with each slide, twitching against you. You can’t help but grind your hips against his, trying to get more pressure, more of him. With each move, you feel your insides tense up, his length slick with your wetness, gliding and pressing against your aching bud. The way your sexes rub together, the noise, the slickness feels like that sort of Art where every viewer gets to participate, gets to feel what has been felt before. And before you knew it, you were watching him cum, splattering onto the white cloth, mixing with your earlier demonstration. Just seeing him twitch and the way his spend is pumping out, feeling its heat against your skin, makes the tension snap in you, just barely.

“Hng… perfect… now, the climax of this piece,” he rasps against your skin, eyes hovering over your face.

You barely have time to grasp his shoulders in an attempt to ground yourself some way, before you feel it. His tip slowly pushing into your entrance, spreading you apart bit by bit. Filling the aching void you have always left behind, the one always spurring your inspiration. The very one now getting replaced by another kind of pleasure, another kind of Art. You moan his name, clenching around him the moment he has filled you to the hilt, your hip against his, grinding, rubbing, slick and wet, and pure Art.

For a moment, everything stands still, the rapture of attention, the discovery of something so innate to life and what it means to create. Until his hips move, pulling out of you, slowly, drawing out like a brush following a measured line. And then he pushes into you again, angling your hips to hit that sensitive spot inside you, to get you messy and babbling underneath his touch. That’s how Art should affect people, turning their minds into a chaos, incomprehensible yet swirling you to the core.

Groans slipping from his lips mix with whimpers of your own as Rafayel finds a pace that satisfies you both, steady, careful, yet filled with conviction and decisiveness with which one would wield a pen to paper. His fingers find your clit and they add more pressure, more sensation, more texture and feelings, and you suddenly burst at the seams, sparks and colors filling your vision as you spasm and clench around him.

The way you tighten around him leads to his own climax, but he pulls out of you before he fills you with his heat, a decision you’re slowly beginning to understand.

Because as you pant and try to recover, you notice how the once white sheet has turned into different colors. With a surprised noise you support yourself on your elbows and take a closer look.

“Do you like it? The colors react to acidity and basicity making them appear. And see, desire is Art, Art is desire, and together, well, I think we can achieve the pinnacle of Art, yeah?”

You giggle, and even after he has milked you dry, you still feel a twist in your tummy, hot and delicious. “That is how Art is made after all, isn’t it?”

The same white canvas, the one colored with your pure desire, mixing and swirling, is soon exhibited amongst his paintings, your name by his side, a collaboration for all to see, with much more depth than anyone could ever comprehend (but not for you, every time you glance at this piece of Art, you see the outlines of your hips, your legs, the dents of his knees, his colors and yours, and the way they coordinate, mix). As for both of you, Art is Lust, Art is Desire. Something much more than what the common folk acknowledges, it’s something to pour your whole body into, no matter the consequences. So, you will continue to thread this path of Art, no longer alone, no longer with shut eyes, but with excitement and him by your side, discovering more and more ways to turn these feelings into expressions and colors. Showing each other how art is made out of your desire.

[charlieg1rl]

— 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐜𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

𝟎𝟖. 𝐢 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝

𝐰𝐜: 𝟎.𝟒𝐤

y/n didn’t take care of people.

that just wasn’t who she was. she wasn’t the type to fuss over someone, wasn’t the type to bring soup and medicine, wasn’t the type to sit by a sick person’s bed just to make sure they weren’t lonely.

but here she was.

sitting on the edge of felix’s bed, arms crossed, watching him sip water like he wasn’t currently the most annoying person on the planet.

felix, to his credit, was looking at her like she had hung the stars.

“you’re really here,” he murmured, voice still hoarse from the fever.

y/n rolled her eyes. “you say that like i’m a ghost.”

felix grinned, setting the water bottle down. “nah. just… didn’t think you’d be the one to check on me.”

y/n scowled. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“nothing,” felix said quickly, still smiling. “just that you usually pretend not to care about me.”

“i don’t pretend anything.”

felix hummed, leaning back against his pillows. “if you say so.”

y/n sighed, reaching into the bag she had brought. “i got you medicine and snacks. don’t ask how i knew what you liked.”

felix’s smile widened. “you know my favorite snacks?”

y/n shoved a pack of rice cakes at him. “shut up.”

felix took them, laughing weakly. “i think i’m dreaming.”

y/n sighed, pressing the back of her hand against his forehead.

felix immediately stopped talking.

her touch was cool against his overheated skin, gentle in a way he wasn’t used to.

for once, she didn’t pull away.

y/n frowned. “you’re burning up.”

felix swallowed. “you’re touching me.”

she snatched her hand back. “not anymore.”

felix grinned, but it was softer this time, less teasing. “you do care about me.”

y/n huffed, looking away. “if you die, i’ll have to deal with a lot of annoying people asking me about you. that’s the only reason i’m here.”

felix didn’t believe her for a second.

but he didn’t push.

instead, he just sighed happily, hugging the bag of chips to his chest. “you should stay until i fall asleep.”

y/n scoffed. “why?”

“because i sleep better when you’re around.”

she frowned. “that’s stupid.”

felix shrugged, eyes already drooping. “maybe. but it’s true.”

y/n exhaled slowly, staring at the ridiculous boy curled up beside her.

she should leave.

but she didn’t.

instead, she reached for the remote and switched on the tv, settling more comfortably against the headboard.

felix smiled sleepily. “knew you liked me.”

“shut up and sleep.”

felix chuckled, his body relaxing. and as his breathing evened out, y/n found herself watching him, her usual annoyance softened by something she wasn’t quite ready to name.

maybe felix was right.

maybe he was the exception to the rule.

𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 | 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭

tags: @jeonginsleftcheek, @my-neurodivergent-world, @akindaflora, @urlocalmultigroupfan

[hypnonerd1095]

To add to this, let me add a personal story. It's been long enough now that it should be fine. I don't remember the names of anyone involved anymore anyway so it shouldn't reveal any identities.

Pretty early on in my hypnokink exploration I was in a hypnokink chatroom where someone came to the group seeking help with exactly the kind of issue mentioned here. This was... 13 years ago? 14 maybe? I'm not sure exactly.

They'd been through a lot of brainwashing and conditioning and this enabled their partner to be increasingly abusive towards them. Now hypnosis isn't pure mind control, but when combined with emotional manipulation, physical abuse/threats, and financial dependence? It was BAD

She eventually managed to run away and find a safe place, then came to us for help deprogramming her because she felt a strong urge to return to him despite everything. And an intense sense of guilt for trying to escape her master, courtesy of conditioning.

It was scary to see. I was still a teenager at the time, I'd only just started learning to perform hypnosis myself. I'd tagged along into the side-chat room to try and learn more. And that experience stayed with me. I saw the absolute worst that hypnosis can do to someone, not by itself, but it was hypnosis that helped establish their relationship, and hypnosis that helped it get as bad as it did.

We helped her, but it wasn't easy. And it wasn't quick. That night alone was hours of hypnosis and suggestions to start undoing the damage. By the end, she was at least no longer tempted to give herself up. But fully helping her recover? That took a lot longer than one night. I wasn't there for every session, I was still too inexperienced to do all that much to contribute. I did what I could when nobody more qualified was around. Mostly just reinforcing what the others did.

As far as I know, everything did eventually work out. But this experience has stuck with me ever since. I harp on hypnosis safety a lot, I reblog educational posts and I actively advocate for consent and healthy boundaries

I know it's easy to dismiss these warnings. "It's just kink" or "it's just play" isn't an unreasonable impression to get, especially if you're not the super suggestible type. Like me, I've never been so deeply entranced that I couldn't easily reassert control and protect myself. But I've met plenty of people who need specific hypnotic programming to have that same ability because they go way deeper and don't have that same awareness.

But trance is an actual psychological state. Hypnosis has actual techniques to induce trance. And trance can be used to cause actual effects on someone? It's powerful enough that they sometimes use it as a painkiller for childbirth or dentistry!

We use hypnosis for kinky fun, and that's great! And I'm not trying to scare anyone by saying it's actually this super scary thing. Used responsibly, it's perfectly safe! But that's the key, you need to be responsible with it.

So please, make sure you're educated on how to be safe with hypnosis. Both as a subject and a tist. Avoid bad actors when they're revealed, establish firm boundaries, check the contents of files before you use them if you're susceptible.

And for the love of god, if you're going to enter a long-term hypnotic brainwashing dynamic with someone irl (or online too of course, but ESPECIALLY irl)? VET THEM THOROUGHLY. They might not be able to control you like it's some kind of movie mind control, but they can do some serious damage. Make sure you trust the person absolutely before putting yourself in that position.

Take the steps you need to ensure that our kink play always remains as just play and nothing more.

How dangerous is hypno kink really?

The problem with trying to classify how dangerous hypno play is that different types of hypno play have different risk profiles.

Hypnotising your partner casually for relaxation or party tricks is absolutely very low-risk. This is why I often advertise hypnokink as easy to learn and fun in the bedroom. Tricks like this are easily learned in one workshop and it just opens up so many kinky possibilities.

Intense hypnotic roleplay scenes and edgy sadomasochistic scenes are about as dangerous as shibari and impact play, as in the bottom will need aftercare because they may not be able to care for themselves for a while. The top might need aftercare too btw, I know I've certainly had my moments. Play like this might lead to trauma, despite everyone's best intentions. Now you all know I believe in RACK. I'm not going to say you shouldn't do it. I'm telling you that if you want to do this, you should figure out the risks and the precautions you could take to mitigate those risks. Inform yourself.

Now… Conditioning and brainwashing play, including but not limited to personality play, addiction play and/or online files, can be life-destabilisingly dangerous. Absolutely high risk! And unfortunately, this danger is freely available online with no one to provide a safety net or aftercare. It's hard to tell the "harmless" online files apart from the ones that could fuck you over, especially as a beginner. It's hard to tell the friendly online hypnotists apart from the culty abusive doms that could fuck you over. And it's hard to find help when you've become the victim of one.

If you didn't know, now you know.

[damnfandomproblems]

Fandom Problem #7452:

Not to be that guy, but the Proship and Antiship stuff is stupid. Either you overindulge or underindulge and at this point these words mean nothing and ultimately depend on a case by case basis.

I think it’d be better if we just said what we believed instead of making up stupid little circlejerk groups where we all send each other death threats (Both if y’all do it and I know because I used to be part of each side in sections of my life) and act all tough like you’re actually doing something with your lives.

I’m not saying you can’t argue, have online interests, or that y’all should just dance together hand in hand while singing in god’s orchestra but what I am saying is that this fandom infighting is solving nothing. Block people you don’t like, follow those you do like, don’t go after people, and stay in your own lane.

As long as someone isn’t committing a full ass crime or purposefully trying to cause physical/mental harm (Reading something that was properly tagged but simply made you uncomfy doesn’t count) then just walk away and don’t engage.

It took me years to stop caring and take the mature route of just blocking those I personally don’t wish to interact with but I think everyone should. No one is reading your dni to make sure they don’t accidentally make you upset, so filter it out yourself or realize you’re not mature enough to handle interactions on a platform with thousands of other members with different opinions and leave until you are.

Also morality doesn’t work in fandom. Your morality is not the problem of strangers online and therefore they aren’t obligated to follow. Lack of morality also doesn’t need to be followed as well and you have to accept that not everyone wants to hear about the 2 grillion chapter fanfic you wrote about your favorite ways to watch Mr. Blorboscrungly get brutalized.

On the subject, NO ONE IS OBLIGATED TO HOUSE YOU IN THEIR SPACES! If someone is uncomfortable by your presence, drop it and leave. Don’t be a cunt and try to weasel your way in and send them creepy shit.

Make your own spaces, but be open to your opinions being questioned and let yourself grow instead of staying in your little fandom cage.

(Sorry for word vomit, I just think the shipping stuff is dumb because no one knows what shit means anymore.)

[doctor-mccoys-sanity]

Does no one use the tag BAMF anymore or?? Bc there’s only 13 Lokius works with BAMF mobius…

[woozi]

WOOZI on SEVENTEEN winning Artist Of The Year in MAMA 2024

[adhdandcomics]

perhaps the most important question i’ve ever asked:

does anyone have tips for people trying to stop being chronically late to everything in the world that aren’t weirdly judgmental and aggressive or flat out lies

[mazken]

brush test slash rendering practice with ayem

[crypticsim]

franco and ariana stop by cryptic studios. here’s a glimpse of what’s coming in july.

[donttouchmyasymptote]

happy holidays @gaybellethorn! really happy that i drew your name for @eah-exchange. i love your eah thoughts/headcanons and your presence has always felt essential to my experience of the eah fandom

the raven/apple is the main gift, but i also drew in some apple/darling/briar and some regular dappling since you mentioned them in your prompt list!!