#so. when i wrote the original piece for this au.

[razzle-zazzle]

Whumptober Day 15: i don't need you to help me, i can handle things myself

"I'm fine." + Suppressed Suffering

2335 Words; Raz Gets A Nap AU, based off of this ask answered by @erigold13261

AO3 ver

Mirtala shifted her grip on the portrait, trying to keep it from falling out of her hands.

She wobbled, a bit, as Queepie shuffled forwards—the heavy portrait was not working in her favor. And the straightjacket hanging off her shoulders wasn’t helping, either. It was long enough to cover Queepie’s face, and it was screwing with her balance just as bad as the portrait.

At least Queepie was the one holding the trophy. And at least they’d been able to close the jacket so that Queepie had enough of a gap to see through it. He shuffled forwards, Mirtala using every trick she had to hold her balance atop his head. Maybe she should be standing on her hands and holding the portrait with her legs?

“Greetings, Dr. Loboto.”

Well, too late to change positions now. Mirtala did her best to hold still as Crispin continued.

“Good to see your face.” Crispin drawled. Mirtala couldn’t see his through the portrait. “I see you’re wearing your favorite jacket, and if I may say so, your claw is looking especially menacing today.” It sounded like he fell for the disguise, though, and Queepie wasn’t making any moves to start running away.

“Up to the secret laboratory then, is it?” Crispin stepped to the side, coming into the edge of Mirtala’s view. She angled the portrait towards him as the sound of metal hinges grating sounded off in front of her. The elevator gate? Queepie shuffled over to it, careful not to ruin Mirtala’s balance as he spun around.

“Taking her up yourself this time, eh Doctor?” Crispin’s voice continued, and Mirtala did her best not to wobble. “Less work for me!” Mirtala heard the sound of the gate closing, then—

“Inmate Whytehead.” Oh, was that Fred? Fred was nice. Mirtala and Queepie got to play the board game in his head.

Whatever Crispin said in response was drowned out by the grind of the elevator going up, up, up, the sudden motion making Queepie stumble. Mirtala wobbled, the portrait threatening to drag her to the ground. She let it fall, not caring about the way it clattered. Crispin wasn’t here to see it, anyway—she didn’t need it anymore.

As the elevator came to a stop, Mirtala flung off the jacket. “Let’s go.” She urged, hopping off of Queepie as the gate opened.

Queepie followed after her. “It looks like a hospital.” He commented, as they crossed over the wooden bridge onto checkered tile.

“That’s because it is, dummy.” Mirtala replied as they continued through the twisting hall. Light floated down from a hole in the ceiling, the chunks big on the floor. Mirtala clambered up over them, Queepie jumping up with the help of a glowing brain ball. “It’s a…” She tried to find the exact words for it, and settled on, “hospital for brain stuff.” That wasn’t the word that she’d heard for it, but it was close enough.

“Yeah, well, it’s a sad hospital.” Queepie decided, using his brain ball to jump over a pile of mattresses. He came back over them after a moment, “It’s all dirty.”

“Because it hasn’t been cleaned, duh.” Mirtala skipped up the steps to the next floor, Queepie keeping pace. Ever since he went into Miss Milla’s head, he’d been hopping and gliding around on his brain ball like it was the coolest thing.

Mirtala wasn’t jealous. She wasn’t. So what if she wasn’t a weird fortune teller like Queepie (or Raz or Frazie)? She was an Aquato! She was a proud acrobat! She didn’t need silly mind tricks.

Mirtala nodded. Yeah. Even with his brain ball, she could easily keep up with Queepie. So really, he just needed the extra help.

They continued on, through poorly-lit halls that twisted around and around. They had to leap over a hole in the floor once, Mirtala grabbing onto a swinging light to get herself across while Queepie boosted his jump with his brain ball. He kept ducking into side rooms, searching for Psi-Cards as he went. Mirtala followed once she realized that the campers’ brains were similarly scattered around.

“It doesn’t squeak like a mouse…” She murmured, holding Benny’s brain. It also wasn’t who she was after—but it wouldn’t make sense for Lili’s brain to be left out in the open, Mirtala decided.

Something squeaked.

Mirtala and Queepie turned to the source of the noise. A rat stood before them, shaking in place. Its head was swollen in two shaking lobes, and it squeaked once more before bursting.

Mirtala wailed. Green gas pooled out from where the rat’s body remained, and Queepie ducked away. The world spun, everything swirling together as Mirtala shook—

And then the confusion faded away, and Mirtala had to run to catch up with Queepie. “Wait up!” She demanded.

Mirtala didn’t glance back at the rat as she continued. More rats came, and it wasn’t long before Queepie switched to shooting at them as they advanced, ducking in and out of rooms and over debris and old beds. A rusty wheelchair rolled past them, pushed by one of the rats exploding, its wheels squeaking and making Mirtala jump.

Queepie jumped higher, though, so at least Mirtala wasn’t the only one startled.

“I hate this place.” Mirtala muttered. She kept hearing weird sounds and squeaks, everything was dangerous and run-down, and the rats kept coming at them and exploding. It was awful. Absolutely awful. Mirtala wanted to find her friend and get out of here as soon as possible.

“Stop being a baby.” Queepie responded, already moving on. “We gotta find Lili.”

“I’m not a baby!” If anything, Queepie was a baby. Mirtala was a big girl! “This whole place is just awful!” It was poorly lit, the shadows crawling around the halls like icky sticky bugs, and Mirtala had seen no sign of her friends. Just more twisting halls going up and up and up.

Worse than the rats, and the broken floors and walls, worse than the dark and the fog—

It was quiet, outside of the rats. The only footsteps were their own, padding up and down the halls. Mirtala could hear her own breathing, hear every whimper when one of the rats startled her.

Which meant Queepie could hear it, too.

But Mirtala could also hear Queepie’s breathing, the way it sped up the further in they got. Mirtala wasn’t stupid—Queepie was just as scared as her. Her little brother was scared and the only thing Mirtala could offer was her own fear, the fear they shared as they climbed.

They went up another set of stairs. The floor was tilted, up here, off-kilter. Mirtala danced across it to the next door, ignoring the unease forming in her gut. Queepie clambered up onto the broken wall, the outside world spilling out before them.

“We’re so high.” Mirtala breathed, staring out at the night. A large part of her was thrilled—not even the trapeze in the Aquatodome could go this high! She could see across the lake from here!

But the reason they were up here clung to her like sweat, cold and slimy in the small of her back. Lili had been taken. Chloe had been taken.

Everyone had been taken, and Mister Sasha and Miss Milla were too busy doing something else to do anything about it. It was up to Mirtala and Queepie.

(Even though Mirtala had scarcely any idea what she was doing. She had to do it, because there was nobody else but Queepie.)

The next jump was too high for Mirtala to reach. Queepie stood on his brain ball, the light of it cutting through the gloom. “Get on.” He held out his hand, and Mirtala only frowned a little before taking it. She wasn’t jealous. Not one bit!

They jumped up together, the night air cold against them. The wind whistled through, and the tower as a whole groaned, like some giant monster waiting to swallow them both up—

Everything was getting more and more twisted. Mirtala wasn’t sure how it was all still standing, at this rate. The spiral staircase was twisted in on itself, the stairs sideways at the top.

Still, Mirtala and Queepie continued. They used an old bed to spring up to the next floor, walking along the wall—the whole hall was twisted onto its side.

“Grrk!” Something ahead of them squeaked. Something peeking down through a doorway in the ceiling-wall, long white curls hanging down below them.

Mirtala flipped forwards. But they were already gone.

She and Queepie continued, into a room so twisted that the floor curled up onto the walls, a pool of bubbling green in a hole in the floor at the bottom. They continued, up broken stairs and onto black and white checkered tiles, overlooking the outdoors once again.

The rest of the tower loomed before them, impossibly tall. A huge chunk of wall was missing, as was most of the floors, revealing an open space that seemed to just go up and up and up. But Mirtala was an acrobat! She and Queepie could handle this, no matter how high they had to climb!

(Even though Mirtala had never climbed this high before, even though this was nothing like the Aquatodome—

She’d make it. She had to.)

So they climbed, jumping up over broken concrete and swinging from bits of rebar. Mirtala ducked through a small window, and—

“Dogen!” Mirtala hugged the brain tight against her chest, “It’s good to see you again.” She’d get his brain back to him. She’d get all their brains back!

“C’mon!” Queepie urged, somewhere above her. Right.

Mirtala ducked back inside and clambered up a pole. She had to be careful—she couldn’t slow her fall like Queepie could. Knowing how to fall was all well and good, but it wouldn’t protect her completely. Not at these heights. Mirtala climbed up exposed rebar like it was a ladder, meeting Queepie at the top of it.

“I saw the thing again.” Queepie whispered. He pointed at a hole in the wall blocked by criss-crossing metal. “It was right there, and it was blue!”

So the thing they kept seeing was blue. Good to know.

Mirtala nodded, then started climbing. The metal went up, up, up, Mirtala and Queepie finally reaching the end of it and hopping off onto the concrete.

The tower still continued up, up, up, impossibly high. Mirtala wondered if she and Queepie would ever reach the top, or if they’d be climbing up it forever.

(The brains in her bag all seemed to pulse in tandem with Mirtala’s worry.

She’d get them all, and bring them back. She had to.)

The tower was quickly becoming near-unnavigable for her, the gaps too large for Mirtala to clear without the help of psychic powers. She was relying on Queepie more and more, and part of her grated at that fact.

(Family was supposed to help and support each other, though—Mirtala knew this.

But it felt like she was somehow inadequate all the same.)

The rats were coming in droves, now, their squeaking loud against the quiet of the night. Mirtala felt her throat tighten.

They made it up, and saw the thing again. “Scram!” They shouted, before disappearing up the hole in the room. Mirtala slapped the glass. “Wait!” But it was already gone. Was that Dr. Loboto?

She and Queepie continued on, clambering up whatever handholds were available. Mirtala grabbed Clem and Nils’ brains—she didn’t hug Nils’ brain as firmly as she hugged the others, opting to push it into her bag. Only four brains left to find—Vernon, Mikhail, Elton, and Lili.

Mirtala turned around—

The thing loomed before them, white curls spiraling above their head. They wore a bright red dress, and their voice squeaked as they spoke.

“This is your last warning! Go back down right now or you’ll be very very sorry!”

Mirtala flinched as lightning flashed through the sky. When the light cleared, the mysterious person was gone.

“Scary.” Queepie mumbled. His eyes flicked to Mirtala, “I mean—” He backtracked, “That wasn’t scary at all. Not at all. I’m not scared!” His voice echoed out into the night, his hands balled up into fists.

Mirtala side-eyed her brother. “Liar.” He was just as scared as her, and she didn’t need to be a fortune teller to tell. She could see it in the way his hands were trembling, in the way his shoulders were taught, his face scrunched into a stony frown.

(Mirtala was scared, too.

But she wasn’t going to say that aloud—not when it would only make the fear real.)

They clambered out onto the stairs that the mysterious person had been standing on, following them down towards another elevator. This was it.

“Big girls don’t cry.” Mirtala muttered. “It’s showtime, and big girls don’t cry.” Her eyes stung all the same.

Mirtala shook her head. She could do this! She was strong!

(She didn’t feel very strong at all.

But there was nobody else who could do this—not with all the campers brainless and the agents gone. It was just her and Queepie, and there was no way Mirtala was going to let Queepie do this alone.)

She was an Aquato. She ate danger for breakfast!

(She’d never been so high before. The wind tugged at her braids, at her clothes—would she be able to fall right, if she was knocked off?)

And Queepie had all those cool powers he’d picked up since coming here! They could do this!

(Queepie was a baby. He was strong, sure, but he wasn’t much taller than Mirtala.

And Mirtala wasn’t that much older than him, either.)

“I can do this.” Mirtala stressed. Her eyes stung, and her throat tightened, but she didn’t cry. She wouldn’t—big girls didn’t cry when the show started. She looked to Queepie, who stared back at her with wide eyes.

(Mirtala wasn’t crying. She was scared all the same.)

Her hand slipped into his. “On three?”

Queepie nodded, squeezing Mirtala’s hand. “On three.”

Right. Mirtala brushed her fears aside “One… two… three!”

As one, Mirtala and Queepie stepped onto the elevator. Show time.

[daddyplasmius]

hand on my stupid heart flashbacks

this is a No One Knows AU & Full Hazmat AU where Danny ended up in the Ghost Zone & didn't go back into the human world initially because he thought he was dead. by the time he realized he is, in fact, at least half alive, he'd already been missing for at least 2 weeks. will probs never finish homsh sorry. i wrote this a couple years ago in a haze & just haven't been able to finish it because i can't replicate the style, which i find is what i love about this fic the most. it wouldn't be the same without it. posting the flashback introsーwhich are meant to be read between chapters/the actual plot, starting after chapter 1ーcuz fuck it. excuse typos & shit, i never properly edited it, as i forgot it existed immediately after i wrote it original description of homsh: Danny Fenton has officially been missing for over a year. Maddie & Jack Fenton refuse to give up on their son. Sick and tired of the police running them in circles, and the case getting colder by the day, the Fentons turn to their last resortーPhantom. 800~ words (full unfinished fic is 20k~)

-

When Danny woke up surrounded by thick, green fog, and couldn’t breathe without swallowing heavy air that was more like water than anything, he was sure he was dead. The portal glowed behind him, illuminating the pitch darkness around him in soft, yellow, warm light.

He almost went back.

Almost.

He was dead. His parents were ghost hunters. They had drilled into his head from the moment he was born that he could never, ever panic in death. That he would accept it. That he would not be scared. So he would be prepared to be brave in the face of death and would not become a ghost.

He panicked. He did not accept it. He was terrified. And so he woke up in the Ghost Zone.

-

Danny went back through the portal when he saw some ectopuses acting… strange. Like they had an idea in their heads. Like they had a plan.

Which was weird, with animal ghosts. He had only been in the Ghost Zoneーmom and dad called it that, he rememberedーfor a couple weeks. Or, he had already been there for two weeks. Or maybe time worked differently and he was there five minutes, or four years orー

The ectopuses went through the portal and, despite everything, Danny went after them.

While he was busy reeling at being home, the ectopuses immediately attacked dad. Danny was horrified. Jack was overwhelmed. Danny stepped in, in a moment fueled by sheer adrenaline and stupidity, snatching a Fenton Thermos™ off a shelf and releasing his shaky invisibility. The ectopuses didn’t stand a chance. And when they were safely in the Thermos, he slowly turned around to dad, ready for the confrontation. Ready for the “what happened to you?” and the “where have you been?” and the “we’ve missed you”.

Dad scrambled to shoot at him.

Danny fled.

His parents didn’t recognize him.

-

The Lunch Lady attacked when Danny was mourning Halloween.

He’d waited all year. He made a costume that summer. He wouldn’t get to go trick or treating with Sam and Tucker this year. Or any year. For the rest of his lifeーor existence. Whatever.

The Lunch Lady appeared in the school and demanded in straight fury, “Who changed the menu?”

Everyone pointed at Sam.

Danny hadn’t known just how powerful ghosts could be. His parents never told him the specifics. Just that they were dangerous.

This ghost grew and her aura hit him like a hurricane, almost physically pushing him back. It was so strong that the students in the Casper High cafeteria seemed to feel it too.

The Lunch Lady was a much harder opponent than the ectopuses. She levitated meat. She used it as a weapon, and seemed to bring it back to life. She created weird meat creatures that grew sharp teeth and claws out of bones. They were mindless, attacking everything that got too close to the ghost. Danny would have run away without hesitation, if Sam hadn’t been in the crossfire.

Danny fought the Lunch Lady. It was a long struggle, but he caught her in the thermos after over an hour. When he turned to Sam and Tuckerーboth of whom he had to save due to Tucker trying to jump into the fightーall three of them bloody and bruised, he cringed. But a part of him hoped. Desperately.

Surely they would know him on sight.

“Wh-what are you?” Sam gasped at him finally.

Danny flinched as if she had struck him. “J-just… your friendly neighbourhood phantom.”

-

Danny didn’t know what possessed him. Oh. Pun not intended.

He just barely caught the Fentons leaving in the GAV, dragging suitcases behind them. He couldn’t help himself. What on Earth were they doing?

They were going to Vlad Master’s mansion for their college reunion.

It was a whole thing. But something was off. Besides all the adults reminiscing about the 80’s.

Danny sensed ghosts immediately but he couldn’t see anything. Unfortunately for him, Vlad could also sense him. It was two days of Danny staying invisible, and Vladーthe halfa? Is that what Danny is?ーtrying to kill Jack. Somehow, Danny managed to fight off Vlad, not turn back, and without the Fentons getting hurt. His secret intact.

VladーPlasmius, also learned about Phantom. And Vlad hated him. The manーghostーwhatever, seemed to only care about one thingーpossession. Of money. Of things. Of people. He was more ghost than Danny had ever seen. Vlad’s obsession was overwhelming.

Danny couldn’t believe someone so much like himself could be so disturbing.

[pennedbylisse]

INTELLECTUAL CRUSH

ep. 2 | ep. 3 | ep. 4 |

a multi-part series centered around the anonymous exchanges of namjoon and a literature girl. a separate but related installment of the halley universe (see Cupid Operation)

Books Nine Lives Company

Eco-friendly and sustainable trade of old books. Where we repurpose the neglected.

Namjoon pushes his weight into the swinging door and the store sign rattles.

A bell rings overhead - a jaunty, youthful chirp - as he enters the familiar bookstore to be encased in the scent of aged leather, the subtle-sweet vanilla essence of lignin wood-based parchment and the musty scent of carpet that has endured soiled shoes, coffee spills and bladder accidents from the part of the resident senior dog sleeping by the shop window.

He takes a practiced sharp left down a thin hall lined with mahogany-variation shelves, all crammed with books, without a single cubic inch to spare. The walls seem to encroach in on him, the further he disappears into the shop. Hardcovers and paperbacks - some surprisingly intact in condition, others faded, sun-bleached, tearing at the spines - spill from the shelves, pour into unstable, uneven stacks on either side of his legs.

Over the terrain of an old tapestry carpet, his worn logger-lace-up boots part a sliver of shuffling space.

His eyes dart over the labels meant to trim the seams of unrelated sections. During some point in the lifetime of the store, it proved effective. Now there's impractical irony to it. The books spill over their borders, congregate into uncategorized mounds, beg assortment and the inquisitive human graze.

Non-fiction, Poetry, Modern Poetry, Classical Philosophy . . .

"Kant...Kant...Kant," he recites beneath his breath, whilst drawing the tip of his forefinger over the lined spines. The ribbed feel of it in conjunct with the continued drum of his touch reminds him of sliding a hand across piano keys. An unattended grand piano on the courtyard of a local mall, the sound inflating beneath his hands, swirling up and around, diffusing through empty space and through an idle mind.

"Ka-" his finger halts, and shortly after, so do his steps.

He shuffles back to trace down the spine.

Namjoon saunters towards the front desk, skimming the dorsal face of the book cover with a furrowed brow.

There's a golden - well, once-golden, now-rusted coppery bronze - call bell that he would have once rang and been met with silence. He would have questioned ringing it once more at the risk of irritation.

Now, he only sets the book by the register and folds down to greet the senior dog curled into a ball over its dented, worn pillow. Grey, melanin-deprived hairs shade the corners of its snout, and highlight its brows, the tips of his billowing ear-lobes.

"How are you today, Apollo?" he whispers.

The dog lifts its head groggily to sniff Namjoon's outstretched palm. It scrunches and wrinkles its cracked nose and slightly parts the drooping lids of its eyes. Murky white clouds greet Namjoon.

"You make twenty the new twelve."

At the beep of the scan gun, Namjoon starts to rise.

The shop owner, Ruki, has a near-psychic ability to sense the presence of a customer within the maze of shelves. The call bell is for formalities, as is the dainty one hanging off the entrance frame. Uses them as fail-proofs while he disappears into the storage closet towards the rear of the store and pastes barcodes onto the covers of new arrivals.

Namjoon fishes a hand into the internal pocket of his winter coat for his wallet.

Ruki, behind the desk, mirrors the grey, melanin-deprived complexion of the dog, who once had been golden. The old man drums his knuckles on the wood counter and stares out the shop window contemplatively. It looks like it might snow today.

"Stray dogs," he voices, puckering wrinkled lips into a slight frown. "Invincible little creatures, aren't they? At this rate, I fear the damn dog will outlive me."

Namjoon thumbs the lined green bills nestled into his brown wallet.

"2.50's the sum, kid."

Namjoon folds the cash onto the counter and slides it into the man's wrinkled, patchy, outstretched hand.

"Everything alright, Ruki? With you, your family?"

"Yeah, I suppose." He shrugs. "Cancer's back." In a swift and practiced motion, he slips the receipt between the book pages like a bookmark. "I guess I can't be too upset with this fate. I only ever wished to live 'til 85. 84's not bad. Not bad at all." He slides the book face-up toward Namjoon, lets out a dry, humorless chuckle. It doesn't quite reach the point of crinkling the lines strewn around his eyes.

Namjoon grabs the book, taps it on the edge of the counter, as if gathering a deck of cards or a pack of printer paper. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Don't be, kid," he slices right through the platitudes, having felt sorry for too long, having learned how much of a waste it is to live in regret and pity. "We all die at some point. It's nature. No use defying it."

"What about treatment? Technology, nowadays, is so advanced. I read a paper discussing the transplantation of a pig heart into a human recipient. Promising developments."

Ruki shakes his head markedly. "Can't go through that all over again. I won't spend whatever time's left - months, maybe a year, if I'm lucky - rotting because of chemo, not being able to tolerate my favorite foods, bleeding from my gums, in hospital rooms surrounded by people in the same death-bound state as me. I wanna be out here, where life is, all types of it. The pretty kind, sweet kind, the ugly, the morose, rude, and real kind. I wanna make memories with my daughter while there's still time."

Namjoon absent-mindedly frays the edges of the book with his thumb, liking the fluttering friction of the thin corners against the pads of his fingers. Tries to think of something better to say but realizes that sometimes silence holds more meaning. Ironically, his words fall short of any value, even amidst a bookstore overflowing with them.

Instead, he voices his unbridled curiosity. "What'll happen to Apollo?" He looks down at his left, at the dog. Very faint golden strikes up its flanks, transitioning into colorless white. "The store, too?"

"Ask myself that daily." He lifts his brows and lets them fall just as quickly, as if he's at a loss for a response himself. "I've been trying to persuade my daughter to assume my position. I even offered her the compromise of opening the shop only two days a week, so that she'll have the rest of the time to dedicate to her studies - wants to be a doctor, my little girl. I have no doubt she will be. Unfortunately, I likely won't be there to see it, to see her pledge her Hippocratic oath, get her white coat."

Namjoon sits at the bus stop, string earbuds in his ears, the book held splayed by the sturdy hold of his right hand over his crossed lap.

He draws the flame of his lighter to the cigarette balanced between his lips before slapping the case over the amber, extinguishing it swiftly.

Ashes descend onto his denim lap.

When the snow starts to glide through the sky, the grey nicotine ashes blend with the pale blanket by his feet. It is clean and fresh, yet untarnished by scruffy boots or bicycle tracks.

He'd read once, a statistic accusing nicotine as the leading cause of lung cancer. Quickly and half-mindedly brushed it off, like burdensome lint on a freshly-washed sweater. Plucked the doubts from his mind one by one before they could poison the rest of his thoughts.

It wasn't because he found it hard to believe. He was certain of its validity, the statistics were convincing, as was the logic, rather he didn't care. Cared more for taunting death a little, daring the universe to kill him the way he predicts. It's a little morbid but something deep inside him knows that life is rarely predictable or tamable.

He could do one action, and the opposite would unfold. It's not hypothetical. He'd tried to refute his hypothesis with trials; the amount of times it was supported soon became too burdensome to track.

Life isn't straight-forward. Good people get sick, die; the evil persist. The talented go unrecognized in the shadows, ghost writers; the connected thrive. It's all pointless to try and make since of any of it. It's all absurd, as Albert Camus would put it.

He tosses the butt of the cigarette to the ground as the bus pulls up, comes to a screeching halt before him, and squanders the faint amber with the sole of his boot pressed into the snow.

It fizzles a little through the worn-thin sole.

The bus shudders to a halt, and Namjoon shakes the slumber from his head, unfolds his lap, stuffs the book into his back pocket while he starts up, swaying clumsily, sleep-drugged. It was a routine practiced enough that he didn't need to count the stops, or read the street signs to know when to hop-off. There's some internal clock in his subconscious that starts ticking away at the minutes as soon as he climbs the steps up the bus before Nine Books.

The gates unfold and slide across the frame of the bus. It drives away with a long draw of its engine, and a squirt of inky smoke from its exhaust.

Replacing its sight, a vintage-style diner comes into view across the street.

Namjoon crosses the striped pedestrian markings towards it.

At the door, he tugs on the sign, hung around a snagged nail, twists it from displaying a scribbled "Closed. Come Again!" to a "Welcome!"

He strolls in, heavy boots echoing dully across the vacancy. Dispersing muddied snow on impact.

On the trajectory towards his quaint square office space towards the rear of the facility, he can't resist the nagging urge to flip the chairs resting on tabletops. He's got a chronic case of twitchy hands, likely a result of the incessant nicotine crave. Makes his mind race, his legs unsteady, unstill.

At first, he means only to flip one, and scratch the mental itch.

It persists.

After the second chair he starts circumferencing the table, figure eights in swift motion towards another table.

The chatter of the legs on tile is enough to fill the buzzing vacancy of his mind. Enough for his hands to clasp onto and anchor themselves.

But just as quickly, his focus starts to blur. Eyes skit over the distant counter in search of the next thing to occupy his time. His mind.

He's been down this road before. Has made it until noon stil in his winter coat, robust keychain clanking rhythmically against his belt clip. Goes hours without eating anything of substance. The gnawing of an empty stomach numbs before he circles back around to the first intention of the day: visiting his office.

"Office first," he reminds himself today. Inhales deep into his diaphragm and holds it lest it escape his dominion, like the rest of his thoughts and intentions.

He slips the jagged teeth of a golden key into the lock and twists the rusted knob. The door lets out a long groan as it swivels on tired hinges.

Nearing the disheveled surface of a wooden desk pressed against a wall, he plops down his latest read over an assortment of folded papers, receipts, stacked notebooks of moleskin and annotated promotional pamphlets. Try as he might to assign each item its designated square space, it never remains organized long enough. The universe tends towards entropy, he'd justify, it's just the law of nature.

Upon shrugging out of his winter coat, he drapes it over the backrest of his office chair.

His eyes habitually trail over a circular frame standing on the desk's edge. The textured frame accentuates a black-and-white image of his grandpa and grandma caught in a side-embrace, hands clasped over one another's at grandpa's breast.

Gingerly, his tremoring hands collect the frame. He draws his pointer finger over the smooth glass preserving the image, the single moment solidified in time.

He shakes his head clear of some dense sensation and places it back on its designated place, indicated by a square frame of gathered dust.

Shutting the creaking office door behind him, he fishes the carton of cigarettes from his back jean pocket. Plucks a single cylinder from its place and plants it between the groove where his ear adjoins his scalp.

He meanders into the vacant kitchen. Starts a pot of coffee. Nostrils flare as the acidic aroma starts to permeate the empty lot.

The brew drips and bubbles as he strolls to the dormant jukebox on the far end of the establishment. He bends down to plug its chord and starts up. Digs a spare coin out from his front pocket and slips it into the slit on the machine.

In response, it illuminates to life, flickers neon in a hypnotizing pattern.

Pressing a neon green button, he flips through the title slips. He's not registering any of them, though. Just lets his eyes become oversensitive by the mechanized motion of the slips. Defaults to inputting "1-2-4" on the selection panel.

Inside the glass, a wheel of two-hundred discs spins in search of the selection. It slows until it halts and a robotic arm upends a record disc from the rest, lays it out over a turntable.

In a synchronized choreography, as the record is laid over the turntable, a needle descends over its grooves and holds steady pressure.

The machine emanates a crackle that falls into a single voice: [The Song]

Namjoon shuts his eyes in that moment. Allows the familiar tune to send him back in time. An easier time, a more innocent one. Where his only worries consisted of finishing school assignments and coming home by the parent-designated curfew.

His grandparents would dance circles in the diner, hands clasped together, heads leaned to this very song. The customers would cheer, eyes sparkly. They'd submit petitions for the next songs by holding up a shimmery silver coin.

Namjoon would collect them, have them whisper the desired track into his ear. He'd skip back towards the illuminated machine and recite the corresponding track numbers until the current song would come to a cadence.

He sighs. Thinks, I should visit them while they are still there to visit.

It's not something he looks forward to, however. To come to terms with how much time has changed them. To accept that those fond moments are never coming back.

Circling around the kitchen, he procures a metal bowl from the cabinets. Tugs open a drawer and clasps a whisk, its metal cool to the touch.

Opening the fridge door, and bathed in its sterile light, he grabs a couple of eggs, skims the container counting the ones that remain. Provisions should arrive today.

While there, he grabs the tub of butter. Flings the door close with his boot and swivels to pour the ingredients over the counter space, next to the shimmering bowl.

He turns and leans over his head, grabs the flour and sugar from a high shelve. A bit of flour escapes a tiny hole on its bag and dusts his cheek.

Instinctually, he crinkles his eyes, coughs. Shakes his head.

As the batter inflates under the warm luminance of the oven, he grabs a broom propped against the wall inside a storage closet.

His boots clunk rhythmically over the tile floor when he makes his way towards the entrance. Props the door open with its embedded door stump. Starts to part a walkway through the compacted snow. Can't have customers slipping.

It's a cold day in January. The merciless kind of cold that can't be nullified by the festive spirit of the holidays. There's mutable wind changing directions immediately as it blows into him. Delivering the caress of winter and just as quickly withdrawing it.

The muscles of his back and shoulders tense in anticipation for the next gush of frigid wind. The hairs on his exposed forearms prickle.

He starts to envy the batter heating in the kitchen.

He thinks of burning the cigarette nestled over his ear. Imagines how the smoke would warm him up from the inside out. As though a steaming chimney lived inside him.

When he balances the cigarette between his chapped lips, he becomes aware of an approaching figure, strolling up the walkway. She's bundled in a coat, hunched in on her small figure. Raven black hair blowing in the wind.

Namjoon nods in her acknowledgement as he digs around his pocket for his lighter. It's clumsy and desperate and hurried, so the lighter slips his grasp on multiple occasions.

The incomer doesn't slow or detour.

"Morning, boss" the girl quips. Plucks the white cylinder from his lips.

He grimaces at the sensation that a part of his dry lips had been torn along with it. Cups his mouth to verify it isn't true.

"First time I actually get here before you light it."

"You owe me a pack."

"Yeah, well, you owe me the two years of extended lifetime I've gathered you."

"I don't think that's the actual math."

"I've saved you time. Can we just leave it at that."

Namjoon resumes brooming. Still cold. Still tense and prickled. Nicotine deprived.

She shrugs her shoulders out of the billowing coat to reveal at least three more layers of clothing beneath. Long sleeves tugged over her wrists to keep her fingers from tingling.

Norah's armored herself with a black apron, her name affixed to the collar with a pin. She pops out of the doorframe long enough to hand Namjoon a mug of steaming coffee, no sweetener, light milk, but not long enough to allow the wind to ripple a shiver through her.

Namjoon gratefully accepts. Holds the broom handle beneath his arm to allow himself to cup the mug with both hands and derive warmth from that. "Where's your partner in crime? Sleeping late, again?" He mumbles against the ceramic rim, steam billowing up his nostrils.

"En route," she responds over her shoulder. She rounds into the kitchen. Grabs the glass coffee pot and pours herself a black.

Namjoon chortles, accidentally inhaling a gulp of the hot drink. Dissolves into a coughing fit before he's finally composed enough to verbalize "From where? Mars?"

"Actually..." she sets down her drink on the counter. Loses her gaze out the front windows, ravaging her mind for recollection. "No. I think he mentioned it was from Saturn." She angles her head pensively. "Got caught in the current of those spinning rings or something like that."

Namjoon translates, "He's stuck in rush-hour traffic."

[thought of henry's place in addy larue while writing this so thank v.e. schawb for the imagery inspiration]

[calocreek]

OK here it is, a ton of 'production' stuff for the Hot Guy Comic Zine! I've never been part of a project like this. Even though I was working on my comic mostly solo (shout-out to my editor Violet!), the world-building and story arc planning was completely collaborative. For example:

We started out on the world-building by voting on character's superpowers! Plenty of powers were almost unanimously agreed on, but Cuteguy was a HUGE campaign. We were pretty much 50/50 split between can fly/can't fly. Propaganda was exchanged LOL, like this piece where I campaigned for limited flying capabilities 😂 And thats what we ended up settling on!

From there we worked on a ton of brainstorming/world-building that I mostly spectated with an occasional doodle like these haha. I'm new to such elaborate AUs!

Pitch time!! I had pitches for each era and they were all pretty light and banter-y, so my year 1 pitch ended up fitting the vibe the best. My original pitch was 'HG + CG learn some key things about each other and plan to set up a base they can use together.' But when I started my script, I got really caught up in how they were navigating a partnership without knowing each others identities. The more I wrote through that, the more I wanted my story to be ABOUT that! So thats where my script started coming together.

Designs! I'm definitely not a confident costume designer. I was trying to go for low-tech + practical since it was early in their careers, and of course, easy to draw 😂

Process went more or less like this! Full color comics take a LONG TIME but it was a total labor of love. I had the graffiti bgs in mind from the very start since I knew it was dialogue heavy, I wanted to make sure the art was interesting and worth spending time looking at. Oh lord did I get carried away. I'm OBSESSED with the symbolism the fandom has put to the life series and so I tried to sneak in as much meaningful symbolism as possible. AND THE RESULT:

Guess I did pretty well! 😂😂😂

Anyway, I can't overstate how proud I feel to have gotten to work on this project. My whole goal as a hobbyist is to get to work with other artists I look up to and respect so this was a dream come true! Thank you everyone for reading, for 15k downloads (!!!), and for just being an awesomely creative fandom space to make art in! I hope to do more stuff like this again some day 💕

[namisweatheria]

Sorry but I'm growing more and more fascinated in my head with how this would change (and eroticize) Nami and Luffy's relationship. It wouldn't happen all at once. At what point does Nami start seeing Luffy as a girl? She'd start treating her much, much nicer. I think this would be pretty confusing to Luffy, because as intuitive and emotionally genius she is, as I said before, gender is nothing to her. She doesn't get it!

Also, it might be a little saccharine, but I really do think Luffy would become at least a bit attached to being a girl because of Nami and Robin. In canon, he always wants his crew to be laughing and having fun as much as possible, and he seems to try a bit harder with them, because they (especially Nami with her grouchy anxiety) can be more difficult to get to relax and (especially Robin with her restrained demeanor) goof around.

When he finds something funny, he often tries to show Nami first. For as much as he often shows Usopp stuff first too, this might be a bit confusing since she's not an easy audience like he is. I think that's exactly why, though. He wants her to laugh more! And I suspect it's more rewarding to get a laugh out of someone who doesn't do it as much.

Plus, he often doesn't understand why Nami is upset over the things she's upset about. AU Luffy still wouldn't understand a lot of Nami's anger and worry, but I think with the parts she finally would understand she would value that very much. And be angry over, if it's someone's fault.

She'd be a bit of a trans power fantasy, because she wouldn't need to worry about her gender being invalidated and being targeted for it, and she also hasn't internalized some of the harmful gender norms that I think Nami and Robin both have.

Imagine the emotion Nami would feel seeing Luffy beat up Sanji for saying something rude to her and getting up in her space. This isn't something that would happen right away either. At first she'd be thrilled and unquestioningly accepting of the sudden influx of special food. It wouldn't be until she's had too many strangers on too many islands get up in her space and say rude things that she'd react when Sanji does it.

Ough imagining this hurts a lot actually... Nami...

At first Nami is shocked. That's not right! "Sure, it's annoying, but Sanji does a lot of nice things for us, and we know he'd never hurt us, so it's fine!" You're supposed to tolerate it, laugh it off, take advantage of it! "What are you doing?!"

Luffy had punched Sanji, and it wasn't playful. Sanji had been launched across deck, landing on the ground with a loud thud, blood on his face. And Luffy's anger hadn't abated.

"It's not fine! He's pissing me off!" Her gaze is single-minded and unforgiving as she stomps towards him.

"Woah, take it easy!" Nami tries to pull her back. The words ring in her head, and something catches in her chest, but she tries to focus on stopping the fight. This isn't right. This isn't how we're supposed to act. She thinks it, and she knows she doesn't mean the crew, but she doesn't know what she means. She doesn't like it, and it's too much.

"Why should I? You hate it too don't you Nami? Robin?" Luffy's gaze bores into her before she turns and tries for another swing, but not very hard, and Nami holds her back. She clutches tightly. Her eyes burn, and the knot in her chest is getting bigger and harder to breathe evenly around.

She looks around wildly and her eyes land on Robin.

"Robin, help me!" There was a catch in her voice that embarrassed her. Surely this situation wasn’t serious enough to warrant hysteria. But she just couldn’t feel calm.

Especially when Robin doesn’t acknowledge her, staring on at Sanji still on the ground, her eyes very far away.

"Ugh! Luffy!" Nami's face scrunches up in frustration, her mind was in a hot haze she was desperately trying to work through. She tries to plant her feet but Luffy manages to trudge both of them right over Sanji.

"He doesn't even see how tired you are!" Luffy says to her. She gets down in his face. "Sanji! We're tired! Stop it!" She yells, as he looks up at her with wide eyes.

"Okay." Sanji is glancing furtively between the three of them, blood dripping down his chin, and not from a nosebleed. He's confused, but he nods anyways.

There’s a beat, and Nami doesn't know why, but she bursts into tears. She puts her head down and runs off deck toward her room.

"Oh.." Sanji's face is shocked watching her go, before it turns into stupid delight. "See!" He exclaims up at Luffy. "She doesn't want me to stop!" Luffy gapes for a second before her face contorts into a furious snarl. She rears back, but-

Slap!

Silence. They both stare open-mouthed at the hand that had appeared in front of them, before jointly looking up towards Robin. Where she had before been in a typical lounging position, she had stood up, and looked down at Sanji with a dark expression.

Her face trembled with anger. She opened her mouth and closed it again, struggling. After a few moments she walked off-deck, following Nami.

Her gesture had been enough.

"Oh.." Sanji said again. This time his face became grim, and stayed that way. Tears started to well in his eyes, and he got up and walked off deck the other way, lighting a cigarette as he went.

Luffy stood up straight. She huffed. There was no sound now but the waves.

"ZORO!" She yelled. She didn't need to yell. The whole rest of the crew had been right there.

"Uh, yeah?" He answered. He was trying not to show it, but he was shaken by what he'd just seen. I mean, he'd always told that stupid cook off for being annoying, so it wasn't like it was his fault. But. If he had known how it was apparently weighing on Nami... Goddamnit. Why hadn't he noticed? What kind of crewmate was he?

"I'M STILL MAD!" Luffy yelled.

Zoro huffed slightly with amusement despite himself. "Yeah?"

"LET'S FIGHT!"

"Ha! Okay."

Usopp wandered over to Franky while Zoro and Luffy launched themselves at each other. Franky looked perturbed, but pulled a calm cheerful look as he noticed Usopp coming towards him.

Chopper ran over too and leapt into Usopp's arms. "I don't get anything!" He wailed, his furry face a mess of tears and snot. Usopp patted his head sympathetically, trying not to let himself tear up in response. "So Danji wab being mean to Nami bis whole timeb?" Chopper cried. Usopp frowned, unsure of what to say for once.

Franky stepped in. "I guess so little bro." He never minced words when it was serious. Chopper stared up at Franky. Usopp thought if his little eyebrows furrowed any more they'd be able to hold coins.

"But WHY?" The question seemed to come out of him with the sudden force and unpleasantness of a hairball. Neither Franky nor Usopp could take this much pathetic sadness for much longer without breaking down themselves. Franky resisted the urge to look away, but Usopp started finding the sky very interesting, unrelatedly.

"He didn't mean to. Sometimes things like this happen. They'll work it out. We always do on this crew don't we? Cause we're suuuuperrr!" Franky couldn't quite manage to finish saying something comforting without getting silly, but it was for the best, because when he lifted Chopper from out of Usopp's arms and up above his head with the word “super”, Chopper giggled a bit among his tears. He demanded to be let down right after, since as much as he likes to be babied sometimes this was a bit too much now. He is a nearly-grown pirate, after all.

"Should I go see Nami?" Chopper asked, standing now and looking thoughtfully towards her cabin.

"Nah, she just needs some time with Robin. Why don't you hang out with us while we wait for them to come out?” Franky said. Chopper looked a bit doubtful, looking between him and the door.

Usopp added, “Let’s play cards! I’m sure when they come back up they’ll want to join us!” Chopper looked up at Usopp hopefully. It was true both Robin and Nami loved cards.

Usopp struck a pose in response, swiping some cards from his pocket and making a fan in front of his face. "I'll have you know I've cheered up countless people with my show-stopping card playing tricks!” He shuffled the deck as he spoke. “The Amazing Card-Counting Usopp is a name known throughout all The East Blue! They'd take people dying of sadness to see me and they'd be so happy they'd live for hundreds of years!"

"Really? REALLY? Wow!" Chopper seemed to have stars in his eyes.

By the time Nami and Robin came back on deck, the four of them were deeply engrossed in a brand-new game that somehow blended card tricks, dancing, and hitting each other with sticks. Well, mostly Franky was dancing, but it seemed to all come together somehow. They managed to join in without any tension.

Before Nami sat down next to where Luffy was (gently) throwing sticks at a dodging and laughing Chopper, she knelt beside her and hugged her tightly.

"Hm?" Luffy said, glancing at her while switching to her other hand to continue throwing.

Nami pulled back a bit to look at Luffy. "Thank you." She said. When's the last time she took a moment to say that to her, so seriously? It had already been said, a long time ago.

Luffy stared at her intently for a few moments before breaking out in a giant pink-faced grin. Nami felt her heart skip a beat. Had those big brown eyes always been so beautiful? Frozen, she stared longer than she'd meant to. Her face suddenly felt very warm, as did her arms where they were still holding Luffy. Quickly, she pulled away and picked up a stick, throwing it immediately at Zoro. Luckily it was very light and didn't travel well, because she didn't spare any force.

"Hey! What was that for?" Zoro yelped it like a grouchy dingo, but his eyes seemed serious. Was this my fault? He was thinking. Nami smiled at him, overwhelmed with sudden affection for her steadfast, loyal friend.

"How'dya play this game?" She asked with a grin. His shoulders relaxed before he threw it back at her. Bonk. It hit her head.

"Figure it out!"

Thinking so much about an au where Iva's hormone poison treatment also transed Luffy's gender as a side-effect. The way she would simply not care.

Things I'm imagining happening

Her typically refusing to explain how it happened while thinking she's giving a perfectly adequate explanation. "It just happened." "What do you mean??" "It just happened! Jeez." "Well do you want to change back??" "Who cares??" < usual bursting out laughing at Luffy being Luffy >

Everyone just accepting it after that single conversation

Her suddenly finding Sanji more annoying than weird/funny and beating him up until he starts acting normal

Relatedly becoming a lot closer with Nami and Robin in a new way because they keep getting treated the same way by strangers

Meeting Yamato in Wano and being like "Woah you can do that??" and Nami, gently, understandingly, being like "Do you want us to start referring to you as a man again?" and Luffy thinks for a second and is like "Nah, I like being a girl now. It's the same but I understand you better!!" < classic Luffy heart-attack-giving grin > Can you imagine Nami's face. T^T

Nami x Luffy friends-to-lovers slowburn

She'd look basically the same but the difference is enough to confuse the navy for awhile. Shenanigans.

Boa's lesbian awakening.

[kingofbodyrolls]

Coming Home to You (m) | pjm

It’s been five years since Hyun was arrested, and you’ve done a lot of healing to get where you are in life; married, finally opening your very own yoga studio. But when the shadows come crawling back, and old memories resurface, will Christmas be ruined?

→ Pairing: jimin x reader (female) → AUs: detective!au, christmas!au, holiday!au, married!au, → Trope: best friends to lovers → Genres: fluff / smut / angst / thriller / comfort / action → Rating: mature/explicit/R18  (this is mature/explicit content, so minors, please do not interact.) → Word count: 11.7k → Warnings + triggers: stalking (original character that stalks MC), action/fighting, weapons (guns and knifes), mention of abuse, mention of past s*xual assault, tiny description of assault (but not in too much detail), justice, healing after trauma, fluffy love and comfort, hugs and kisses, unprotected sex that is very quick and vanilla-ish.  → Author’s note: wow. It’s been over a year since I wrote and published this series. I was never quite happy with its ending, so while I was making my different Christmas stories, these characters just begged to get a second chance, so here we are! Please proceed with caution; this story is dark, but also very very fluffy and sweet. I’ve tried to balance the two. Enjoy 🙂 → Read the spoiler? [their text message]   → Read on AO3? [link] 

← previous | s.masterlist | m.masterlist |

It’s been five years since Jimin knelt before you under the soft lantern glow of the couple’s retreat, a promise in his eyes as steady as the stars. Since that night, you’ve woven your lives together, married and rooted in the warmth of his childhood home—a place brimming with memories, both tender and raw. Every room here holds pieces of your past, as if the walls have absorbed every laugh, every whispered secret, every tremor of pain. The familiar comforts you, yet it’s tinged with shadows. Some memories cling like stubborn echoes, ones you’d sooner silence forever—like that night, here, when Hyun’s violence shattered your trust in safety. Even now, an unexpected draft can send an icy shiver down your spine, and you're transported back, heart racing, wishing that day could be unwound and rewritten. You wish you’d taken a different path, not walked home alone, not been stalked and broken by him. But the past is fixed, carved into your story, unyielding as stone. All you can do is move forward—and you have, step by step.

Jimin, ever your protector, signed you up for self-defense the moment Hyun was locked away, knowing that peace of mind is something you now earn, not inherit. “It’s good to know you can defend yourself,” he’d said, his voice a blend of reassurance and determination. And he was right. Now, you walk with a quiet strength, knowing you’ve wrestled with darkness and won, a warrior forged from fear into power. 

Meanwhile, Jimin fights his own battles, tireless in his role as a detective, tracing the city’s shadows to keep others safe. You admire him deeply—how he gives himself so fully, despite the long hours, the late nights, the gravity of December’s cold cases. This month, where joy is promised but rarely found, wears heavy on him, and on so many. December holds a peculiar ache, doesn’t it? Beneath the glitter and false cheer lies an undercurrent of despair, a fragile season where people often find themselves adrift, succumbing to loneliness, sorrow, even violence. 

And yet, in this same season, you’ve created a sanctuary. Your yoga studio, born from the healing you found in stillness and breath, is your refuge, and you offer it now to others—to ground them, to lift the weight of silent burdens, to let them escape, if only for an hour, from the hollow echoes of December’s cheer. Here, people can shed the pressure of forced smiles and indulge in quiet solitude. You understand, perhaps better than most, the importance of spaces where vulnerability can breathe freely. After all, you’ve been there. You’ve survived the darkness and emerged stronger, and now, you offer the gift of peace to those still searching for it.

“How are you doing, babe?” Jimin’s voice crackles through the phone, warm and familiar, softened by the gentle rustle of papers in the background.

“I’m good,” you reply, a soft smile touching your lips as you glance at Hoseok, your friend who lights up any room, carefully arranging plants in sunlit patches to bring life into the studio. “Hobi’s here, helping me make this place perfect.”

“That’s great! Tell him I said hi,” Jimin sings out, his voice laced with love, a warmth that fills even the empty spaces. “I’ll be home around eight, so go ahead and make dinner, okay?”

“Of course, Minie,” you reply, the nickname rolling off your tongue like a familiar song. “Keep fighting the good fight, detective.” You chuckle, blowing him a kiss that floats down the line before you hang up.

Hoseok spins around, catching your playful mood, and clutches his chest as if the sweetness is too much to bear. “Blowing kisses over the phone? You two are too much,” he teases, his eyes alight, his grin brighter than the winter sun. Goofy as always, Hoseok has been your constant—a bright anchor in dark waters, the first person you confided in after you escaped the darkness. He had listened, his presence steady, his paramedic instincts kicking in to heal your wounds, visible and invisible.

“You’ll find your own moon, Hobi,” you reassure him with a smile, your voice soft with hope. “Someone who’ll love you just as much as you love everyone around you.”

He sighs, his shoulders dipping in a rare moment of vulnerability. “I know. It’s just, sometimes I can’t help but be a little jealous, you know?” His words trail off, filling the room with a quiet ache.

You stand and fold him into a hug, looking directly into his eyes. “Everything has its time and place,” you whisper, offering him the kind of solace he’s given you time and time again.

The two of you spend the rest of the day crafting the studio into something magical, every corner an invitation for peace. Tomorrow marks the grand opening, and you’ve chosen to offer free classes to anyone willing to step into this sanctuary of calm, hoping to bring yoga’s quiet power into their lives. Hoseok agreed to change shifts and lend a hand; his kindness surrounds you, a bright echo in a world that often feels hollow. As the evening draws to a close, you embrace him once more, feeling his warmth and the comfort he brings.

“Thank you, Hobi. I couldn’t have done this without you,” you say, voice heavy with gratitude.

“You’re welcome,” he murmurs, his smile soft as he waves you off, “and you deserve every bit of it.”

Locking the door behind you, you head toward your car in the near-empty lot. Shadows stretch long under the dull streetlights, their yellow glow casting ghostly halos in the foggy December night. As you fumble with your keys, an uneasy feeling prickles at the edge of your senses. The chill digs deep, sharp as a needle, and your heart quickens. It’s been years since you’ve felt that lingering, ghostly presence—the kind that turns your breath shallow and your steps quiet. You glance over your shoulder, searching the dimness, but there’s nothing there… only the hollow emptiness that seems to breathe with you. You shrug it off, telling yourself it’s the cold, the dark, the way memory sometimes pulls you back against your will.

Sliding into the car, you grip the steering wheel a little tighter than usual, feeling relief only as the streetlights blur by in the rearview mirror. When you pull up to the house, you spot Jimin’s car, parked and waiting like a beacon in the night, and your heart lifts. Home at last.

As you open the door, the air blooms with the rich aroma of spices and warmth, curling around you like a long-awaited embrace—Jimin’s cooking, you realize. Smiling, you slip off your shoes, the soft hum of a quiet evening unfolding as you make your way into the kitchen. There he is, framed by the golden glow of the stove, stirring a pan with practiced ease. You step behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

“It smells heavenly,” you murmur, feeling his chuckle reverberate beneath your hands.

“You think so?” He turns just enough to meet your eyes, a flicker of concern softening his expression. “And you’re not feeling queasy today?”

“No, not today.” You lean up and kiss him, tasting the hint of laughter on his lips.

“That’s good,” he hums, turning his attention back to the pan, its contents simmering and bubbling in the low light. He stirs with gentle, rhythmic motions, as though coaxing comfort from each ingredient.

Yet that shadow from earlier lingers, stirring something unsettling deep within you. Without thinking, you ask, “Jimin, do you know if Hyun got released?” The words feel strange in the warmth of the kitchen, unwelcome as winter air creeping through a cracked window. That strange chill you felt in the parking lot refuses to let go—an echo of a memory, a feeling you wish you could brush off. By all accounts, Hyun should still be locked away, yet something in the back of your mind feels suddenly exposed, vulnerable.

Jimin pauses, turning to face you fully. “No, I haven’t heard anything,” he says, brows knitting together. “Didn’t he get a long sentence?”

“Eight years isn’t long, Minie.” You cross your arms, frustration flaring. “The law’s too forgiving, too willing to grant second chances.” Your voice trembles slightly, carrying the weight of those years—the years that man stole from you, the scars he left. How could the scales of justice tip so unevenly, leaving you with a lifetime of healing, and him with a mere eight years? Sometimes you wish you’d had the strength to end it that night, to ensure he’d never breathe free air again. But you’re not a murderer, not someone willing to stain their soul—even for justice. You took the honorable path, trusting the law, though part of you wonders if that was enough.

Jimin reaches out, resting a gentle hand on your shoulder. “You’re completely right,” he says, his voice soft yet laced with a sorrow he rarely lets show. For a brief moment, his hand clenches into a fist, a glint of steel in his eyes. “I should have ended it myself—to make sure you’d never have to worry, not even for a moment.” His words surprise you, not in their meaning, but in the honesty of his anger. Jimin’s a man who believes in the law, in justice served through rightful means. To act outside of that would shatter something essential in him, an integrity you know he holds dear. And yet, his love for you runs deeper than those lines, testing the boundaries he’d never thought he’d consider crossing.

With a breath, he steadies himself, the warmth returning to his gaze. “I’ll look into it tomorrow at work, just to make sure,” he offers, his voice calming, his hand soft against your shoulder.

“Yeah,” you sigh, exhaling the last of that tension, allowing it to blend with the warmth of the kitchen, the comfort of Jimin’s presence. “It doesn’t hurt to check.” Leaning in, you brush a kiss to his cheek, feeling his silent promise lingering between you, unspoken but clear. Then, moving with quiet purpose, you begin setting the table, the simple act grounding you as Jimin finishes preparing dinner.

Tonight, the weight of the past lingers, yet in this big, familiar kitchen, you find a peace that holds you, a love that softens the edges of memory. Here, beneath the golden light and the scent of spices, you feel safe. And tonight, that’s enough.

It’s Friday morning, and the air in your yoga studio hums with the quiet promise of new beginnings. You and Hoseok move together in the spacious room, arranging mats on the polished wooden floor, each movement precise and grounding, as if setting intentions for the day. Only thirty minutes remain until opening, and excitement tingles under your skin, mixed with the flutter of nerves. Will they come? Will this space—your sanctuary—become theirs too?

“You’re fidgeting!” Hoseok grins, catching your restless hands as he lays mats in neat rows. “Everything’s going to be fine. Trust me.”

You draw a deep breath, letting the calm settle within you like dust in sunlight. Yes. Everything is going to be okay. 

Time slips past in a blur, and when you glance up, your heart skips. There, just beyond the glass doors, is a line—a line of people waiting to enter. A thrill runs through you, and Hoseok’s laughter bubbles up beside you as he grabs your arm, both of you practically floating to the door to welcome them.

“I told you it would be popular!” he chuckles, and together you swing open the doors to greet the eager faces. You offer warm smiles and greetings as people file in, and by the time they’ve settled, thirty mats are filled. Thirty. The sight sends a rush of gratitude through you, filling every corner of your heart.

“We’re going to need more mats,” you whisper, half in awe, and Hoseok is quick to gather extras, laying them out with practiced ease. The low hum of conversation fills the studio, blending with the gentle notes of mindfulness music, creating a cocoon of peace within the room. You take your place at the front, grounding yourself in the present, wearing your favorite flowy top and comfy tights—ready to share the gift of calm with those who’ve gathered.

A smile spreads across your face as you welcome them. “Hello, everyone. Thank you so much for coming to the grand opening of Journey of the Mind Yoga Studio.” Your voice is soft yet steady, carrying over the room as you scan the faces, each person a new journey unfolding. “Today’s class is free, a taste of what we offer here. I hope that after an hour of mindful stretching and release, you’ll feel inspired to join us again next week, just in time to find a bit of peace before the holiday rush.”

Appreciative nods and murmurs ripple through the crowd, and you feel the energy shift—a sense of community already settling over the room. You introduce Hoseok, your steady companion, who will offer modified versions of each pose, and together you begin. Your body flows naturally, guiding them through stretches that release tension, each pose a door opening to calm and clarity. The music sways through the room, a gentle river of sound, and as you lose yourself in the movements, your mind drifts, reaching that faraway place of tranquility that yoga always brings. For a moment, everything melts away—there is only breath, flow, presence.

An hour slips by as if in a single breath, and when you rise to close the session, you see faces glowing with newfound peace. Gratitude fills the room as they linger, a few stepping forward to sign up for paid classes. You watch them with pride and joy, knowing this day is just the beginning.

A thirty-minute break passes, and then another class begins, and another, each session flowing effortlessly into the next. By the end of the day, it feels like a dream—one filled with kind faces, gentle energy, and a hundred tiny transformations.

Before the last class, you find Hoseok at the front desk, flipping through a stack of sign-up sheets. His eyes widen, and he looks up at you, grinning. “Have you seen this? A hundred people signed up for classes today!”

You step closer, scanning the forms, disbelief melting into pure, unbridled happiness. “A hundred?” The number echoes through you, and you feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. You blink them back, laughing, unable to contain the joy swelling in your chest.

You can’t wait to tell Jimin—about the line that stretched outside, the calm that settled over your studio, and how, at the end of this first day, a hundred souls have chosen to join you on this journey.

It’s the last class of the night, the deep blue twilight casting shadows over the studio floor, and only one more hour separates you from home, from Jimin’s safe embrace. The soothing notes of the background music play on, grounding you as new faces trickle through the door. You greet each arrival with a wave, directing them to mats. Then, suddenly, the sight of a man draped in black—a hood pulled low over his eyes, dark sweats swallowing his form—stops you in your tracks. A chill sinks through you, and you feel your heart lurch.

Those eyes. 

Dark, unrelenting, too familiar—ones you’d memorized against your will, forced to hold their gaze when all you wanted was to look away. Your stomach knots, twisting tight. Hoseok, ever attuned, glances over and catches the change in your expression, worry shadowing his own face as the man settles on a mat in the back row, lingering like a storm cloud.

“What’s wrong?” he whispers, eyes flitting between you and the figure in black, his own posture tensing.

Your voice is a murmur, low enough that only he can hear. “It’s Hyun,” you manage, feeling your pulse thunder in your throat.

Hoseok’s gaze sharpens, a flicker of recognition. “Hyun? The one who…?” His words trail off, but his face says it all. He shifts, dropping down beside you and pulling you into a quick, fierce hug. “I forgot his name. Do you want me to throw him out?”

You take a breath, trying to still the quake inside you, and shake your head. “No. This class is open to anyone, and I don’t want a scene.” But even as you speak, you feel the storm of tension in your limbs, the instinct to flee. Hoseok holds your gaze, and in that moment, you draw strength from his steady presence.

Jimin hadn’t confirmed Hyun’s release, but you have your answer now—he’s here. You remind yourself of the years spent rebuilding, of every inch of progress carved out of moments like this. Even with every fiber of your being itching to run, you anchor yourself to the space you created. It’s yours, and he cannot take that from you.

With a final inhale, you center yourself, allowing the soft music to pull you inward, body flowing into each pose like water, each stretch drawing you into peace. Gradually, you lose yourself in the rhythm, the silent connection with your students and the gentle pulse of your breathing. And, for a while, Hyun fades away, a mere shadow swallowed by the calm you find within.

The hour evaporates, and as the last pose ends, your students begin to gather at the front to inquire about signing up for future classes. When you look up, he’s there, standing apart from the others, a sinister calm in his gaze as he steps forward. Hoseok intercepts him, a wall of silent strength, hand raised as Hyun tries to add his name to the sign-up sheet.

“Hold it right there,” Hoseok says, voice low but firm, a quiet line drawn in the sand.

Hyun cocks his head, feigning innocence. “What? I’m allowed to sign up, aren’t I?” His eyes find yours, and a sickeningly familiar smirk pulls at his lips.

The air feels thick, each breath heavy, but you step forward, not retreating. “I don’t want you in my class,” you say, voice clear, each word a stone dropped into silence.

He doesn’t flinch, though his smile twists into something mocking, his voice dripping with that old, poisonous charm. “Oh, hi, Y/N. Long time no see. Miss me?”

Your stomach churns, but your voice is calm, steady. “No.” With a resolve you’ve fought for, you reach forward, collecting the sign-up sheets before he can so much as touch a pen. He holds your gaze for a moment longer, but you don’t look away.

He may have stepped into your studio, but the power is yours now. He has no place here.

“How’s that detective boyfriend of yours?” His words slither out, and you flinch as if struck. How dare he even speak Jimin’s name? Rage blazes up inside you, hot and sudden. You’re no damsel anymore, no victim to be cornered and toyed with. Hoseok catches the fire in your eyes, and you see his gaze sharpen with quiet caution.

You clench your fists, jaw set like iron. “Detective husband,” you correct, voice edged in steel, as you gather mats with controlled fury, each motion meant to keep you from shattering the silence with something far less civil.

Hyun’s smirk deepens. “Oh? Well, congratulations, then. A shame I couldn’t attend the wedding.” His voice dips, sickly sweet, heavy with implication. “Maybe I’ll swing by with a gift.” His presence feels like a noose tightening around you, air thickening as if his mere proximity could smother you. Your pulse hammers as the realization creeps in—he’s marked you. A warning, thinly veiled, wrapped in poison.

You glare at him, the question cutting through your clenched teeth. “Is that a threat?”

His brows lift in mock surprise. “What? No, of course not.” But his smirk widens, his words a sham, oozing with menace beneath the feigned innocence.

“Don’t you dare come to my place!” you snap, and the challenge fires through your voice, every bit of strength you’ve built since his prison sentence fortifying you. Your finger lifts, pointing sharply at him, defying every shadow he’s tried to cast over you. Hoseok’s hand on your arm is gentle but grounding, a reminder to hold back, to stay in control.

“We’re closed. Leave,” you say, already moving to the door, holding it open like a shield. “And don’t come back here again,” you add, voice steady but laced with finality as you close and lock the door behind him.

Hyun offers nothing but a wave, his smile sick and twisted, the kind of look that stains your thoughts long after it’s gone. Your stomach knots, and before you can stop it, bile rises, and you double over in the parking lot, dry-heaving, sickness flooding your body with the aftershock of his presence.

Hoseok is by your side instantly, his hand a firm, steadying weight on your shoulder. “Y/N, are you okay?”

You straighten, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, trying to steady your breath. “I’m fine, just… a little sick.”

“Let me drive you home,” he says, voice filled with quiet concern. You nod, passing him your keys as the fatigue of it all begins to settle deep in your bones.

The car ride is silent, words seeming too heavy to pull into the space between you. The tension clings, raw and open, until you finally reach your driveway, the warm glow of Jimin’s car waiting like a beacon. Hoseok walks you up to the door, the both of you stepping into the soft, familiar warmth of home, leaving the shadows outside where they belong.

Jimin’s gaze snaps up from the television as he catches the sound of more than one pair of footsteps entering. He rises quickly, worry flickering over his face as he takes in the strained silence between you and Hoseok, the exhaustion etched deep in both your expressions.

“Hoseok, what happened?” His voice is tense, yet gentle, sensing more than just the weariness in your eyes.

Hoseok shifts uncomfortably, glancing at you, hesitant to steal your voice from what needs to be said. “Y/N… she threw up,” he murmurs, trailing off as the words catch in his throat.

You swallow hard, your voice raw as you push the words out, barely a whisper. “Hyun was there.” Tears prick your eyes, and despite all the strength you’ve gathered, you feel it unraveling now. The weight of the encounter, of old fears returning, pressing down like a weight you thought you’d left behind.

A flash of steel darkens Jimin’s expression. “Hyun…?” His voice falters, regret layering his tone. “I’m so sorry. I meant to tell you. He was released recently. ‘Good behavior,’” he adds, voice bitter with an edge of apology.

“Good behavior?” Hoseok spits out, disbelief lacing his words. “How’s that even possible?”

You feel your composure slip as nausea stirs again, dragging you toward the bathroom, leaving their voices distant and blurred behind you.

Hoseok watches you retreat, worry stark in his eyes as he turns to Jimin. “Will she be okay? He was taunting her. It was… ugly.”

Jimin sighs deeply, clenching his fists before releasing them with a slow exhale. “She’ll be okay. She’s just worn down. Probably a bug, and—thank you, Hyung. For everything.” He pulls Hoseok into a brief hug, a silent exchange of gratitude.

After Hoseok leaves, Jimin locks the door, the click echoing in the quiet house. He moves down the hall, following the quiet sounds of tears and finds you on the bathroom floor, knees drawn up, head resting against the cool tile as your breathing comes in shaky waves.

He crouches down beside you, gathering you into his arms, his warmth an anchor against the chill of the evening’s shadows. “It’s going to be okay, love,” he whispers, his voice a steadying calm. “He won’t come near you again.”

You let out a shuddering breath, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “He said he’d come by the house,” you murmur, the words tasting of dread, each one a reminder of the past you’ve been fighting to escape.

Jimin’s hand rests firmly on your back, grounding you. “We’ll get a restraining order,” he says, his voice quiet but determined, his hand rubbing gentle circles on your back, trying to slow the erratic beat of your heart.

You shake your head faintly, skepticism clouding your gaze. “A piece of paper won’t stop him, but… yes, let’s get one,” you say, your voice breaking as another wave of nausea churns in your stomach. Jimin stays by your side, his hand never leaving yours, his presence a reminder that you are not alone in this—never again.

You spend the weekend with nerves stretched thin, every sound outside tightening your pulse like a taut wire. A single creak, a rustle in the yard, and you freeze, bracing against the shadows in your own mind. No matter how much healing you’ve embraced, the sight of Hyun pulled you straight back into those dark beginnings, and the steps forward now feel fragile underfoot. You hate the way your mind oscillates, flitting between fear and sharp, practiced vigilance, ready for him if he dares to cross that line.

But the days pass without a sign of him. By the next week, your hours are full, carried along by the rhythm of classes at your yoga studio, a flurry of smiling students, and Jimin’s comforting presence. He’s taken to working from home more often now, lingering in the warmth of your shared space. You’ve told him he doesn’t have to—reminded him you’re okay, that you’re safe, and that the gun is exactly where it needs to be. Still, he stays as much as his job allows, though the detective in him calls him to the streets more often than either of you would like.

Another Friday comes, winter resting like a hush over the town, and this evening you’re hosting your parents and Jimin’s mother for an early holiday dinner. You feel that strange flicker of a shadow behind you as you lock up the studio, but when you turn, there’s only emptiness. You brush off the feeling, slipping into your car and driving home, where warmth and the comfort of Jimin’s cooking greet you at the door.

The scent of rosemary and roasted vegetables fills the air as you step into the kitchen and wrap your arms around him from behind. “I think that restraining order might be working,” you murmur against his shoulder. “I haven’t seen Hyun all week.” You tell him about that lingering shadow, though, the chill it brings, because nothing is hidden between you anymore.

Jimin sighs, his voice firm. “Good. I hope he stays the hell away.”

The doorbell rings, and for once, it doesn’t spike your anxiety—your parents’ familiar voices float in as you welcome them with warm hugs. Moments later, Jimin’s mother arrives, her eyes lingering with approval on the home she once knew, touched by the renovations Jimin’s loving hands have made over the years.

While he puts the finishing touches on the meal, you and his mother set the table, her gentle warmth as comforting as it was on your wedding day, radiating that kindness she passed down to her son. At last, Jimin brings out the food, setting down a beautiful feast. He pours a rich red wine, and the conversation flows as easily as laughter, the air alive with the simplicity of joy and the sheltering presence of those you love most.

A gentle quiet has settled over the table, filled only by the warmth of shared glances and the comfort of a good meal, when your mother’s voice breaks the silence. “So, Jimin, Y/N… when can we expect grandchildren?” Her words hang playfully in the air, and you nearly choke on your water. Jimin chuckles, his hand soothingly rubbing your back as his eyes find yours, twinkling with that familiar, soft affection.

Jimin’s mother joins in, her laugh carrying a hint of nostalgia. “Yes! You’re both getting older, you know. People these days wait so long… not like us, having kids in our early twenties!” She beams at you both, her gaze filled with warmth.

You feel a surge of emotion and rest your hand over your stomach, a tender touch that doesn’t go unnoticed. You glance at Jimin, sharing a look that’s brimming with unspoken love. Your father, keen-eyed and quiet as always, spots the gesture first. His face lights up with a dawning realization. “Wait—don’t tell me… you’re pregnant?”

All eyes are on you, hopeful and bright, and you can only nod with a smile that grows as the news settles around the table like a warm blanket. “Yes,” you whisper, happiness spilling from your voice as Jimin’s hand finds yours beneath the table. His fingers interlace with yours, and he presses a tender kiss to your cheek, his gaze brimming with pride and love.

“Congratulations!” Your mothers erupt with joy, voices a mix of laughter and tears. They dive into discussions of baby names, nursery colors, and whose eyes the baby might inherit, their delight a bright flame you’re content to bask in. Across the table, your father sits quietly, his expression full of a soft pride that words wouldn’t quite capture. He’s always been a man of few words, but in his gaze, you feel the depth of his happiness for you.

You savor the moment, spoonfuls of Jimin’s lovingly prepared meal mingling with the joy of your family’s celebration. Hours slip by, the conversation growing more animated, laughter blending with gentle memories and future dreams, until the night draws to a close. Your parents and Jimin’s mother, reluctantly but joyfully, gather their things to head home, lingering in the doorway for one last hug and a few parting words. They fuss over tidying up, but you and Jimin wave off their offers, sending them off with smiles and waves as they disappear into the night.

When the door closes, the world shrinks down to just the two of you. The kitchen is dimly lit, the last traces of laughter lingering in the air as you work together to clear the table, each movement wrapped in unspoken affection. Jimin carefully rinses dishes and stacks them in the dishwasher, his gaze soft when it drifts to you sitting on the countertop, your legs dangling as you watch him, feeling the quiet joy of simply being here.

“Tonight was wonderful,” you say softly, a gentle smile curving your lips.

Jimin glances over, the warmth of his smile a reflection of your own. “Yeah… a perfect start to the holiday,” he agrees, placing the last dish in the washer and wiping his hands. He steps close, his hands finding yours once more, as if grounding both of you in this quiet, beautiful moment.

You lean your head against his shoulder, letting the peace and warmth of the evening settle over you like a blanket. It’s in these little moments that everything feels right, the future unfolding in each shared glance and gentle touch, and in this quiet stillness, you can feel it—life, love, and everything beautiful, blossoming right where you are.

He shifts his full attention to you, gently parting your legs to make space as he moves closer, bringing you face-to-face, your gazes locked at the same height. Your smile mirrors his, a gentle curve of affection that makes his eyes deepen with warmth. Leaning in, he brushes his lips against yours, a tender kiss that soon grows hungry and consuming. His hand slides to cradle your face, fingers tracing softly as though memorizing the moment, while the other finds its way over your heart, savoring the feel of you, pulling you closer as you wrap your legs around his waist.

Your breath mingles as you whisper his name against his ear, each word trembling between desire and intimacy. The way he looks at you, dark eyes glistening with both love and want, sends a rush through you. “You’re beautiful, love,” he murmurs, his voice weighted with meaning, and despite all the time you’ve been together, you feel a familiar warmth bloom in your cheeks. His words have always had this effect, ever since the two of you were children, growing up side by side. The love that sprouted so simply back then has blossomed into a romance that still fills you with wonder.

He lets his hands explore your body, caressing gently yet firmly, and you’re lost in the soft rhythm of his lips against yours, feeling every kiss ignite something deep and primal within you. Your fingers find their way into his soft, blonde hair, tugging slightly, which earns you a low, muffled groan from him. The world fades, leaving only the intensity of the connection between you.

“I’m so wet for you, Minie,” you murmur, feeling him pressed against you, the heat building as his mouth finds your cheek, his hands anchoring around your waist.

“And I’m already lost in your ocean, beautiful,” he replies, breath catching as his lips graze your skin. Every touch, every kiss sends waves of warmth through you, until the longing turns into an urgent need. You’re both enraptured, no barriers, just pure feeling.

The rest of the world falls away as he slides his hands down to remove the last of the barriers between you, his movements tender yet filled with intent, every gesture echoing the love that began all those years ago. And here you are, together, woven tightly in each other’s arms, the love between you more radiant, more alive, and infinitely more powerful.

He pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around you, and instinctively, you wind your legs around his waist, feeling the warmth of him pressed against you. With steady strength, he lifts you, likely intending to carry you to the bedroom, but you stop him, breathless. “Take me here against the wall,” you whisper, voice edged with urgency as you tug him toward you, feeling the hard press of his cock.

He pauses, his gaze meeting yours with a question, “Are you sure?” His voice is soft, considerate—he’s always careful with you, gentle by nature, respectful of the parts of you that have been hurt before. That care has only made you fall for him more, and while you love his tenderness, tonight you need his fire. You nod, eyes shining, and he’s helpless to resist.

In one fluid movement, he presses you against the wall, his hands anchoring you there, firm yet tender. You can feel your heart racing, every nerve alive under his touch. He shifts, aligning with your entrance, and with a slow, steady push, he fills you, sparking a surge of pleasure. A moan escapes your lips as you grip his shoulders, nails pressing into his skin, grounding you both in the intensity of the moment.

“Don’t hold back,” you murmur, breath hitching as he moves, and he responds with a deep, steady rhythm, each thrust bringing a fresh wave of heat. He breathes in your scent, voice rough with longing. “God, you feel incredible,” he murmurs, his pace quickening as he finds his rhythm. You cling to him, each movement taking you higher, your breath mingling with his.

“Yes, just like that,” you gasp, urging him on as he moves faster, the intensity building. He kisses you deeply, his mouth tracing along your jaw, finding the sensitive spot just below your ear. The touch sends shivers through you, making you tighten around him, drawing a low groan from his throat.

Every movement, every kiss, feels like poetry written just for you, a melody of intimacy and trust that’s as powerful as it is passionate. You lose yourself in him, the world outside disappearing, leaving only the two of you, intertwined and complete in each other’s embrace.

“God, I love you,” you whisper, voice thick with passion as each thrust sends shivers up your spine, grounding you in the heat of his touch and the rhythm of his heartbeat. You’re swept up, utterly consumed, and he meets your moan with a deep, urgent growl, holding you even closer, moving as though nothing else exists but this moment with you. He doesn’t need to say it back right now, because you know he feels the same.

“Are you close?” he breathes into your ear, his voice dark and velvet-soft, a question that’s half promise, half plea. Every inch of you is alive under him, and all you can manage is a fervent nod, your body arched into his, lips parted in breathless surrender.

His mouth trails down to your earlobe, nibbling, his breath warm as he kisses there, pulling you to the edge with one gentle bite. That tender touch is your undoing, and as you reach your release, a tremor of his name escapes your lips—a sound filled with love, with surrender, with the rawness of being completely his. Your body clenches around him, every nerve singing, and he murmurs a groan into your neck, his words barely audible, “God, you’re perfect.”

“Just a little more,” he grits out, voice rough and heady, feeling your muscles gradually relax in the aftermath. But still, he holds on, his hips relentless, moving faster as his own climax builds.

“Please, Jimin—fill me up,” you breathe, brushing your lips against his neck, leaving the lightest bite just where you know he loves it. He shudders at your words, his hands gripping your hips, pulling you against him. And then, with a breathless gasp, he reaches his peak, holding you in place as he comes, his body quivering with the intensity. As his breathing steadies, he kisses you softly, reverently, before gently setting you down. The warm evidence of your shared release traces down your skin, and you can’t help but smile at the beautiful mess you’ve made together. 

“Let me clean you up with a shower, love,” he murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to your temple. And with that, he scoops you into his arms, carrying you to the shower like a precious secret, his love wrapped around you as perfectly as his embrace.

The holiday season has always been your favorite, but this year feels even more special with Jimin home, his presence like a cozy fire warming you from within. Today, you’re headed to the town’s annual Christmas fair, your excitement bubbling up like a child’s as you watch the fresh snow blanket the world in shimmering white. The air is crisp and cold, frosting your breath in soft clouds, and as you step into your thick parka and tug on your wool hat and gloves, a familiar thrill sparks in your chest.

When Jimin pulls the car into the bustling fairground, the festive scene unfolds around you like a magical wonderland—ferris wheels lit up in every color, carousels spinning with children’s laughter, the sweet aroma of cinnamon and cocoa wafting from food stands. You take Jimin’s hand, his warmth grounding you, sending tiny shivers up your spine that make you feel safe, cherished.

“What should we do first?” he asks, his voice full of warmth and mischief. He leans in for a quick kiss, and you can’t help but laugh, feeling the giddiness of the season wrapped around you both. “Maybe a snack before we dive in?” you suggest, knowing your holiday joy can’t hold out too long against the allure of fair food.

Hand in hand, you make your way to a nearby stand for corn dogs, laughing as you watch Jimin take an exaggerated first bite, just to get you laughing too. As you wander through the fair, you try the carousels, giggling at being the only adults who dare to let loose on the spinning, painted horses. Jimin pulls funny faces just to make you laugh, and you’re laughing so hard you’re crying, unable to remember the last time you felt this carefree.

Then, when the two of you board the ferris wheel, you press yourself close to Jimin as the car rises, high above the lights and noise. The view stretches out over your small hometown, blanketed in snow, the twinkling lights below like stars that have settled on earth. You lean against his warmth as he wraps an arm around you, pulling you even closer, his gaze soft and full as he cups your chin, drawing you into a kiss that’s slow, lingering, a promise of forever in the way he holds you. For a moment, the world below disappears, leaving only the quiet and the blue sky, and the warmth of Jimin’s hazel eyes gazing into yours. 

As the wheel lowers, you link your fingers through his, laughing softly, already craving another snack and wondering what else this cozy winter day will bring. The sky dims, the fairground lights beginning to glow more brightly against the deepening twilight, and time feels like a gentle whisper, moving too quickly yet perfectly slow.

But then, a shadow passes through your heart, and a prickle of cold worry begins to creep along your skin, a reminder of something you can’t quite shake. You glance over your shoulder, and nothing’s there. Still, the thought of Hyun stirs in the back of your mind, his ominous words echoing faintly as your heart begins to race. You tighten your grip on Jimin’s hand, and he senses the shift immediately, glancing down with concern before pulling you close, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

“Hey, don’t worry too much,” he murmurs, his voice a soothing balm. But you can’t help it—the fears that live in the corners of your mind sometimes refuse to fade, conjuring memories of times you’ve worked so hard to put behind you. Tonight, it’s as though they’re breathing down your neck.

Jimin holds you a little tighter, and for now, with his steady heartbeat against yours, you close your eyes and try to believe that this night will stay as warm and beautiful as it began.

“It’s okay, babe,” Jimin whispers, his voice a warm anchor in the chilly evening air, his gaze sweeping the crowd as if to shield you from every shadow. “Want to try one of the mini-games? Might be fun, right?” He nudges you gently, his hand wrapped around yours like a lifeline, and you nod, letting him lead you toward a brightly lit shooting game with yellow plastic ducks bobbing across the water. A neon sign above promises a plush prize to anyone who hits seven in a row, no misses allowed.

“Want to take a shot?” Jimin asks, his eyes sparkling with playful encouragement. You hesitate, glancing between the toy rifle and the ducks. You’ve never been much of a sharpshooter, and he is, after all, a cop. But something inside you wants to take the challenge, just to feel a little braver.

“Yeah, why not,” you say, smiling up at him as the game attendant hands you the toy rifle. With a deep breath, you take aim and fire, hearing a satisfying ping as the first duck falls. Jimin lets out a low whistle. “There’s my sharpshooter,” he murmurs. You grin, managing to hit the second, then the third. Your confidence grows with each shot, until only the seventh duck remains. With Jimin’s hand resting on your lower back, grounding you, you hold your breath, aim, and pull the trigger. The final duck topples.

“Yes!” Jimin’s cheers fill your ears as he pulls you in for a quick kiss, his lips brushing against your cheek, making you blush. “That’s my princess,” he beams, pride gleaming in his eyes. “Guess you learned from the best, huh?”

You laugh, “I had a pretty great teacher,” you tease, hugging him tight, though you know his lessons were few and far between—guns aren’t exactly your thing.

The man at the booth sighs, clearly reluctant to part with one of his prizes, but rules are rules. “Which one do you want?” he grumbles, gesturing toward the row of plush toys. You scan the lineup of bears, unicorns, ducks, dogs, and cats until a small, soft chicken catches your eye. Round and silly-looking with a chibi expression, it’s too cute to resist.

“I’ll take the chicken,” you say, and the attendant hands it to you with a reluctant sigh. Hugging the plushie, you feel an odd sense of victory. 

Jimin wraps his arms around you from behind, pulling you close. You lean back against him, feeling his warmth spread through you as you nuzzle the plush chicken. “So,” he murmurs, his breath tickling your ear, “what’s next? Ready to call it a night, or is there something else my champion wants to try?”

Your stomach growls in reply, making you both burst into laughter. “Food?” you giggle, rubbing your belly. “This little one has no mercy on my appetite.” He grins and takes your hand again, leading you to a cinnamon roll stand where the air is thick with the smell of sugar and spice. You savor the warm, sticky sweetness as you wander, munching on rolls as the world around you seems to fade to just the two of you in the glow of the fairground lights.

The sky darkens, and the colorful lights of the ferris wheel cast a dreamy glow over the fairground, painting the snow in soft hues of pink, blue, and gold. You can’t help but feel that shadow again, that prickling awareness, as though someone’s eyes are on you from just beyond the lights. You glance over your shoulder, and Jimin notices, squeezing your hand. “I swear… I feel like we’re being followed,” you murmur, trying to brush off the chill that’s settled into your bones.

Jimin’s arm tightens around you, his voice gentle. “I’ve got you. I promise. Let’s enjoy our night.” He scans the area one last time, reassuring you with a nod, and though you try to shake off the unease, your mind keeps circling back to shadows of memories and unwelcome fears.

As the evening winds down, you stroll hand in hand through the fair, taking in the final sights and sounds as the ferris wheel spins in the distance, a vibrant crown against the night sky. You head back toward the car, Jimin’s hand steady in yours, his presence like a shield against the cold and the shadows that linger in the corners of your mind.

It’s Christmas Eve morning, and waking beside Jimin feels like unwrapping a gift, precious and comforting. His warmth is the first thing you reach for, stirring your tired limbs awake as you press against him. He stirs, stretching languidly, then leans over to brush his lips against yours, a soft good morning murmured into the quiet. He reaches for his phone, eyes still soft with sleep—until something there pulls him fully awake. A line forms between his brows as he scans the screen, and then, a single word, “Shit.” The morning shatters. Jimin is up, rummaging hurriedly for his work clothes, pulling on formal slacks, a crisp white shirt, his hands deft as he straps his holster and gun into place.

“An emergency,” he explains, voice hushed but apologetic. “I’ll be back as fast as I can, okay?” His eyes linger on you, warm but tense, his lips brushing your forehead before he rushes out of the room.

You listen to his footsteps fade, the silence swallowing them like a gust in the snow. A strange feeling, subtle as a shadow, lingers in his absence. You try to brush it off, making your way to the bathroom, relishing the warmth of the heated floor beneath your feet. Under the hot spray of the shower, you ease yourself into the day, trying to shake the unsettled feeling, the vague sense of something amiss. In the kitchen, you make a cup of hot cocoa, cradling it in your hands as you settle onto the couch, fingers resting on the gentle swell of your belly. You find yourself drifting, dreaming of a future where you hold a small hand in yours, and Jimin beside you, as steady as the earth beneath your feet.

The hours slip by with quiet ease, the TV playing soft holiday movies in the background. But as afternoon settles into evening, a heavy quietness falls over the house. You haven’t heard from Jimin since he left, and though emergencies often keep him busy, a sense of something unresolved stirs within you, growing heavier with each passing hour.

A faint rumble from the bedroom breaks the silence, freezing you in place. The unease you’d tried to ignore rushes back, prickling the hairs at the nape of your neck. It’s nothing, you tell yourself, forcing a deep breath, though your fingers tighten around your phone. But your body is already in motion, carrying you down the hall, each step slower than the last, toward the darkened bedroom.

When you push open the door, all seems still—nothing out of place. But as your gaze drifts to the window, you notice the curtain shifting, disturbed by a breeze that shouldn’t be there. Heart pounding, you step forward to shut it, and in that instant, you feel a presence behind you. You turn, but it’s too late. A hooded figure looms before you, shadowed and terrifying. Your phone slips from your hand, a dull thud against the floor.

Before you can scream, a rough hand clamps over your mouth. The scent is all too familiar, acrid and sickening. You know who it is before you see him—Hyun. His voice rasps in your ear, dripping malice, “Didn’t I promise you a wedding gift?”

The room seems to spin. His grip presses harder, his body trapping you in place. Terror courses through your veins, and your mind flashes to Jimin, to the phone lying just out of reach. Adrenaline surges as you focus on your escape. You mumble something, forcing a desperate, repulsive trick as you lick his palm and bite down hard, tasting blood as he yanks his hand back, cursing. 

You wrench free from his hold while he cradles his bleeding hand, wincing. Without a second to waste, you grab your phone off the floor, heart pounding, and sprint down the hall, locking yourself inside the bathroom. You sink to the floor, body trembling as you fight to steady your breaths, your fingers fumbling to open your messages. Somehow, you manage to type, sending two simple, desperate texts to Jimin.

You [19:24]: 9-1-1   You [19:24]: He’s here.

There’s nothing more to say, only the hope that he’ll see the messages in time. The moment hangs in silence—a fragile beat of hope—before you hear heavy, menacing footsteps in the hall. Then, a pounding at the door. “Y/N!” Hyun’s voice cuts through the wood, thick with malice. “Don’t play hide and seek with me. You know I’m gonna get you, my sweet thing, in the end."

Revulsion twists in your stomach, bile rising as tears prick your eyes. Trembling, you dial the emergency line, and as it rings, you realize there’s no refuge here—he won’t stop, won’t disappear no matter how hard you wish him gone. Your thoughts race as you pocket the phone, steeling yourself. But he doesn’t give you time to think—suddenly, the door crashes open, hinges splintering like brittle bone.

You scream, crawling back as fast as you can, but he’s on you, fingers wrapping around your ankles. Your hands claw the now cold tile as he drags you from the bathroom into the living room, your voice tearing from you in desperation, “Let go of me!”

He pins you down, his frame towering, shadowing you in an oppressive, hateful presence. “I’m never letting you go,” he whispers, his words thick with a sick promise. You feel his twisted obsession, the monstrous need that drove him here. You thrash, trying to throw him off, but he leans in, pressing his face too close, forcing his mouth onto yours. The taste is wrong, bitter, and you recoil, every part of you recoiling.

“Get off me!” Your words are a choked plea as you twist beneath him, managing to free your arms enough to claw at his face, leaving red, angry lines that well with blood. But he only smirks, taunting, “Cute. You think that’ll hurt me?”

He’s unfazed, mocking as he grasps your throat with both hands, squeezing, pressing until your vision blurs, and the room begins to darken at the edges. You gasp, a strangled sound, as the pain becomes a crushing, unbearable force. Memories flash unbidden—the last time he did this, the way his hands felt cold and final around your neck. But this time, it’s worse, the stakes higher, a life growing inside you that you’re desperate to protect. You have to live. You have to fight.

Your nails rake his skin, drawing blood that drips down his neck as you struggle, grunting against his grip. His hands press tighter, cutting off the last shreds of air, and your hands fall limp to your sides, your strength draining as your vision fades further, a comforting darkness luring you under. No—you can’t give in. Not now. Not ever.

Just as you begin to slip away, his hands release, and you collapse back, choking as air rushes in, searing your throat. You sputter, gasping for each ragged breath, your chest heaving. 

He laughs—a hollow, twisted sound that scrapes against your raw nerves. Your hands fly instinctively to your bruised throat, fingers trembling over the tender skin where his hands left their cruel mark. Swallowing sends a lance of pain through you, but you grit your teeth and do it anyway, fury simmering beneath the ache. His laughter thickens, and you know, without a doubt, that he’s savoring your suffering, feeding on it. The thought turns your anger molten.

Without warning, you bring your knee up hard, aiming for his groin. His laughter cuts short as he doubles over, collapsing onto his back with a low, strangled sound. You don’t hesitate—climbing on top of him, your fingers find his throat, tightening with all the strength you have left. You press down, leaning your weight against him, mirroring his cruelty. But instead of fear, his mouth twists into a mocking smile, a dark glint in his eyes as he taunts, “Do you really think you can strangle me?”

No. You don’t. But that isn’t what you want—not his life, only your freedom. Only for him to be gone, to take his darkness and leave your life untouched. You press down harder, desperate, as if force alone could drive him out of your world, out of your head. But his lips curl into a smirk. “You know…” he sneers, his voice a poison, “I’ll keep coming back for you.”

A cold shiver snakes down your spine. His words claw at something raw inside you, turning your stomach. His eyes drift lower, his sneer deepening. “And I heard you’re carrying his child—that should be mine, not his.”

The air thickens with the weight of your anger, a red haze filling your vision. How dare he speak of you this way, as though you were something he could possess, as though you ever belonged to him. “I am not yours,” you snarl, voice thick with hate. “I never was, and I never will be. I just want you to leave me alone.” Your fists beat against his chest, fists shaking, as tears well in your eyes, blurring your vision. “I hate you—I hate everything you did to me, how you ruined me,” you cry, panting through clenched teeth. “And I said no. I kept saying no.”

Your voice breaks, and for a moment, you see a glint of something like triumph flicker across his face. He grips your arms, hard, and rolls you to the floor, pinning you beneath him, a sickly satisfaction in his eyes as he leans in close, close enough that you can taste his twisted need.

“Every time you said no, you wanted it more,” he whispers, voice dripping with malice. His hands slither over you, invading spaces that are yours alone, your body recoiling even as his grip tightens, forcing you still. “No!” you scream, thrashing against him, but his strength bears down like a stone weight, ignoring your protests. Slowly, the world fades around you, and you feel yourself withdrawing, spiraling inward to somewhere far from here, a place where his words and hands cannot reach.

But a spark within you flares, burning through the haze, and with a rush of fury, you bite down hard on his arm, tasting blood as he yelps in pain, finally loosening his hold. With every ounce of strength, you scramble away from him, crawling back to the nearest wall, your breaths ragged and desperate.

Across the room, he sits clutching his bleeding arm, his grin now faded, eyes narrowed in contempt. You lean against the wall, heart pounding, body shaking, but you’re grounded in your own fierce defiance. You will not give him the power he craves—you are done being his prey.

He staggers to his feet, a twisted smile curling as he steps closer. “I’m going to take my time with you,” he sneers, his voice a slow, venomous drawl. “Then I’m going to show your husband just how you submit to me… and then I’ll kill him.”

Rage flares, sharp and hot, flooding your veins with an almost blinding heat. It’s not just his threats against you that ignite this fury; it’s his words dripping poison over Jimin, over the fragile life blooming inside you. A primal protectiveness surges within, and without thinking, you hurl yourself at him, slamming into him with enough force to send both of you sprawling to the floor. He crashes down, the impact reverberating through the room with a sickening thud.

“Do you think you’re going to touch me? Or my husband? Ever again?!” Your voice, jagged and fierce, fills the space as your hands close around his throat again, pressing down with every ounce of strength. Rage surges, raw and instinctive, clouding your mind with only one thought: end this. End him. Your fingers dig deeper, feeling his pulse thrumming beneath your hands as his face begins to contort.

The front door bursts open, splintering the tense air. You flinch, loosening your grip just as Jimin and Yoongi storm in, guns drawn, with Seokjin and Hoseok rushing in behind them, wide-eyed and bracing. Jimin’s gaze finds you immediately, the calm surface barely veiling the torrent of worry and rage roiling beneath. You tremble, relief flooding through your exhausted body, but as you’re getting up, Hyun strikes—swinging his injured arm in a brutal arc, smashing his fist against your face. Pain explodes in bright, sharp pulses as you fall back, clutching your throbbing cheek, the metallic taste of blood filling your mouth.

“Why can’t you just let me touch you?” he spits, voice laced with fury and twisted desire.

Jimin’s composure cracks, a murderous glint darkening his eyes. He moves forward, tension coiling through his every muscle, his voice low and lethal. “Take your hands off my wife, you sick bastard.” He grabs Hyun by the collar, wrenching him off you, his grip hard as iron.

Hyun thrashes, laughing with a manic gleam, his voice ringing with a sinister satisfaction. “This is exactly what I wanted, Officer Park. And guess what? She’s just as responsive as I remember, all soft and sweet…”

A flash of unhinged rage sweeps over Jimin’s face, his jaw tightening as his hands shake, clenching tighter on Hyun’s collar. For a moment, his fingers inch toward his holster, Yoongi’s voice cutting in sharp and steady. “Park, don’t do it. Stay in control.” Jimin forces himself to release a breath, loosening his grip. He can’t, won’t, give in to the darkness Hyun is trying to pull him into. But his voice is thick with barely restrained fury as he hauls Hyun away from you.

Hoseok moves to your side, his face stricken as he watches you cradle your bruised cheek. His hand hovers just over your shoulder, cautious yet protective, as though he’s afraid you might break under his touch. You manage a shaky breath, giving him a nod of reassurance, though you can tell by the raw look in his eyes that you must look far worse than you feel.

And still, Hyun laughs, his eyes gleaming as they flick between you and Jimin, his voice dripping with contempt. “Oh, she’s going to remember me, Park. Forever. Just like she did five years ago. You remember, don’t you, sweetheart?” His words, cruel and deliberate, slice through the room like barbed wire, ripping open old wounds, dragging you back to that nightmare.

In a flash, Jimin draws his gun, pointing it squarely at Hyun’s chest, his finger hovering on the trigger. His body shakes with barely contained fury, the air tense, thick, every second stretching out like eternity. The memory of five years ago floods your mind—the fear, the helplessness, the feeling of being trapped in a nightmare that wouldn't end. 

Your voice, raw and trembling, breaks the silence. “Jimin, please… don’t let him win.”

Hyun grins, even now, even in the face of the loaded weapon, as though he’s reveling in every ounce of pain he’s inflicted, every scar he’s carved into your life. His laugh is a twisted mockery of joy, a chilling echo that fills the room.

You know Jimin would never risk you, never gamble his career or his life with reckless abandon. But in his eyes, you see a glimmer of something dark and wild, something that whispers of casting it all aside, of ending Hyun’s life here and now. For a heartbeat, it seems Jimin might surrender to the rage, might be ready to take Hyun’s last breath in his hands.

But he doesn’t. He holds steady. Jimin’s hands shake, his gaze locked onto Hyun’s smug face. Slowly, he draws in a breath, the gun lowering by inches as he chooses, once again, not to let the darkness claim him. And then—Hyun draws a knife from his pocket, the steel flashing in the dim light, and the room holds its breath.

“She doesn’t belong to you. She never did. She’s mine,” Hyun hisses, leveling the knife at Jimin’s throat. You scream, voice raw, tears spilling down your cheeks as panic tightens around you like chains. All you can think is, not him. Not my husband.

Jimin moves to block the blade as Hyun lunges, deflecting the strike, but not without a cost. His forearm slices open, and he falls to the ground with a muffled groan. But even as Hyun’s relentless fury bears down on him, Jimin’s gaze shifts—just enough to spot you crawling closer, determination sparking in your eyes.

Desperation drives you as you surge forward, grabbing Hyun’s hair and yanking him back with a fierce strength you didn’t know you had. “Don’t you dare touch my husband!” Your voice echoes, fierce and unbreaking. 

Hyun stumbles and crashes to the floor, the knife sliding out of his reach. You think it’s over, for a moment, but he strikes back, shoving you to the ground. The world blurs as he moves, clambering over Jimin, both of them grappling for the gun. And then—Hyun pries it from Jimin’s grip, pressing the barrel to Jimin’s chest. Time seems to stop, your own heartbeat falling out of rhythm as you watch in horror.

“Put the gun down,” Yoongi’s voice, hard as iron, cuts through the chaos. He stands steady, unshaken, his own weapon drawn, his gaze burning with lethal intent. But Hyun only laughs, the sound dark and manic, pressing the gun tighter against Jimin’s heart.

“This is your last warning,” Yoongi growls, words like an unbreakable vow. “You’re threatening a police officer.”

Jimin lies still beneath Hyun, his chest heaving, his eyes distant. You don’t understand—why isn’t he fighting? Has he given up? You search frantically for the knife, fingers shaking, your vision blurring with helpless tears as you feel the weight of your worst fears bearing down.

Then, with a sickening click, Hyun releases the safety. The gun hovers closer to Jimin’s heart, and a scream rips from you, piercing the air just as a gunshot rings out. A heavy thud follows, reverberating through your bones.

The noise fades, yet you’re still trembling, crawling to Jimin, your hands reaching instinctively to cradle his face. “Please don’t be dead. Please, Jimin…” The words tumble from you, desperate and broken.

He blinks, his hand rising slowly, tracing your cheek, his voice barely a whisper. “I’m okay. You’re okay.” Relief, dizzying and sweet, floods you as you crumble against him, tears dripping down onto his face as you press your forehead to his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady and warm beneath you. He’s alive. You’re alive.

With a trembling breath, you glance back—just long enough to see Hyun lying on the floor, his body still and lifeless, blood pooling in dark rivulets beneath him. For a fleeting moment, you feel a strange satisfaction in seeing him silenced, the violence of his presence extinguished. But you look away, unable to bear it any longer.

Hoseok is beside you again in an instant, his hand gentle on your shoulder, murmuring reassurances as he checks for injuries, while Seokjin tends to the gash on Jimin’s arm, his expression pinched with worry. Yoongi approaches the fallen body, nudging the gun from Hyun’s grasp with cold detachment before leaning down to confirm what everyone already knows. His voice, quiet but resolute, carries a finality that cuts through the air.

“He’s dead.”

You finally breathe, feeling the weight of it all leave your chest as Seokjin and Hoseok finish tending to you both. The bruises will fade, and the cuts will heal, but now, only Jimin’s embrace matters. You step toward him, wrapping yourself around him as if to fuse your souls together, and murmur, “I’m so sorry,” the words barely slipping out.

“Why are you sorry, princess?” he asks gently, holding you as though you were made of glass. “You did everything you could.” He kisses your hand, his lips warm against the chill of your skin. “If anyone should apologize, it’s me—for getting here so late.” His words sink deep, yet the ache in your heart remains, a guilt that’s hard to explain. It was your fault that Hyun came back after all, right? That question gnaws at you, but Jimin seems to read your thoughts.

“You have nothing to be sorry for. All that matters is that you’re here, that we’re safe.” His hand falls softly to your belly. “Did he…did he hurt you?”

You nod, voice catching. “He did. He forced himself on me, tried to—” Your words fall short, choked with the memories, and he sees it all in your eyes. His face darkens, his heart sinking as he notices the bruises around your neck, stark and cruel reminders of what he wasn’t there to stop.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, pulling you closer, anger mingling with the helplessness he feels. He would have torn through any distance to protect you. But though he rushed the moment he saw your message, he still hadn’t made it in time.

Suddenly, you remember the phone call, the open line. Trembling, you pull out your phone and bring it to your ear, asking the emergency line if everything was recorded. The answer is a quiet “yes,” confirming you’re heard, that justice has begun. You let out a long breath and place your hand over his, a sense of finality washing over you.

“I’m sorry…for ruining Christmas.” You offer a wry, exhausted smile through the tears that finally still.

Jimin shakes his head, his fingers brushing away what’s left of your tears. “Please stop saying you’re sorry, love. There’s nothing to apologize for.”

With gentle concern, he glances toward Hoseok. “Can you get Y/N an ultrasound? Please—just to be sure that everything is fine with the baby.”

Hoseok nods, eyes warm with silent understanding. He hadn’t known of your pregnancy, but now that he does, his hands are even gentler as he helps you onto the stretcher. Inside the ambulance, Jimin sits beside you, his fingers never leaving yours. Outside, Yoongi is coordinating, ensuring the coroner and cleaners will take care of every trace left behind.

At the hospital, you and the baby are checked with steady hands and comforting reassurances. Taehyung confirms that everything’s fine, that the baby’s heartbeat is strong and steady. With every check, every calming word, a weight lifts. By the time Seokjin’s done stitching Jimin’s cut, it’s late into the night, and Yoongi arrives in his police car to drive you home. 

Silence settles in the car, deep and quiet, until Yoongi breaks it with a solemn murmur, “I’m glad you didn’t do anything rash, Jimin. And Y/N…I’m glad you’re safe. That bastard can never hurt you again.” You nod, gratitude filling the spaces between your breaths, and reach for Jimin’s hand. All you want now is to feel his warmth beside you, to finally rest.

When you step through the front door, Jimin wraps his arms around you, and the world outside feels a little further away. The faint smell of cleaning agents lingers, but the Christmas tree still stands, softly lit, in the corner of the room. You find yourself drawn to the couch and sink into it, letting out a heavy sigh, Jimin settling in beside you.

“You fought well, my princess,” he says softly, his hand gently patting your hair. “You can finally rest.”

A small, tired laugh escapes as you close your eyes. “I’m just glad it’s over.”

Jimin smiles, warm and real. “Merry Christmas, love,” he whispers, settling you against him as you drift, exhaustion filling every inch of you. He strokes your hair with one hand, the other resting gently over the life growing within you. And in that embrace, all the pain and fear fade into something softer, warmer. For the first time in what feels like forever, you’re safe, nestled into the arms of the man who’d go to the ends of the earth to protect you. 

→ Requested taglist: @13-manggaetteok @thelilbutifulthings @nora12379 @joonsmagicshop @pjmxxjm

→ Permanent taglist: @nora12379 @jeonsbabygirlsworld @fancypeacepersona @ktownshizzle @pjmxxjm @ajoonniice @kookiewithluv

→ Author’s endnote: okay… wow. So what do you think? It’s kinda similar to the events that went down in the original story, but I never really liked the ending. I really wanted Hyun to die lol. But when I wrote the original story I was very much afraid of what people would think of that, so I didn’t go down that route. So this Christmas story gives me the ending that I truly want—but with a twist. Because I again debated who should kill Hyun, and original it was going to be the reader (with consequences), but I decided to change that and not give her even more trauma to process, lol. Well, I hoped you like it, even though it was rather dark (not what I usually write 🤭). Thank you for reading! 🌟

© @/kingofbodyrolls 2024 // Please don’t copy or repost! You are more than welcome to reblog it, leave a comment or ask me anything about the story 🥰

[ivi-prism]

✨✨Mcytblr ask game for writers✨✨

Let's start the new year by prompting the writers in the fandom so they infodump on all of us <3

1. Where do you write? (notes app, Google Drive, word, a notebook, directly onto ao3, another word processor, etc.)

2. What was the first SMP or cubito you ever wrote for?

3. Which SMP do you find is the most fun to work with?

4. Anything you like in particular about writing for this fandom? (the setting, the aus, the people,etc)

5. How do you translate the world of Minecraft to fit into your fanfics when you keep the original setting?

6. Do you like using the mcyt multiverse as a concept? (all SMPS and MC content exists in the same universe)

7.How long does it take for you to go from an idea to the end product? (be it drabble in tumblr or fully published multichapter fic in ao3)

8.Do you edit and proofread your works yourself or do you have someone else to help you with that?

9.How do you worldbuild?

10.How do you do character arcs?

11.Are you more of a planner or an improviser?

12.Funniest comment you've ever gotten in a piece of work?

13.Any segment of your work that made you cry while writing it? (because it moved you deeply)

14.Most fun and/or engaging character voice to write in?

15.Writing in first, second or third person?

16.What do you think is the signature aspect of your work? What do you think readers see and go "Ah of course! [Writer] made this!"

17.Favorite dynamic to write? (ship, familial bond, friendship, qpr, rivalry, etc)

18.How similar are the things you enjoy writing to the things you enjoy reading?

19.Do you tend to take into account hybrid characteristics (avian, enderman hybrid, dragon hybrid, etc) when you are writing cubitos?

20.Which project have you poured so much of yourself into that it resembles more an original work than a derivative mcyt work?

21.What cubito have you stared from afar like a weird bug and thought "If I knew what was up with you or your world I'd try writing for you"?

22.Any popular fanfic you heard a lot of buzz around and thought "eh it's fine" just to read it later and decide "oh it does deserve all the hype it gets!"

23.What work of yours would you like to have the biggest impact on the fandom?

24.What work would you like to talk more about?

25.What works and/or authors in the fandom do you recommend?

[signanothername]

firstly: AAA YOUR ART AND COMICS AND STUFF ARE SO AMAZING!!!!

secondly: do you have any advice on how to come up with comics and then get them out of your head and onto paper?

BZHXHXHD THANK YOU SM!!!

And ooh that’s a good question

I usually come up with comics in one of two ways, either seeing something (whether another artwork, a text, something irl, etc) that inspires an idea for a comic, or via artworks I made that I expand on

Other times, it can actually be both

For example, the “A little life update” comic was actually inspired by this beautiful artwork, I saw it, and I immediately thought of Killer, idk something something about the despair of being stuck between a rock and a hard place etcetera etcetera (yes the comic that shows Killer to be in such a better place in life and show the hope he has, was inspired by crushing despair in actuality)

It made me wanna do something with Killer trying to call someone on a public phone, and so the first page came to be

Here’s the twist tho, I originally was gonna just make it into an artwork (yes, one single decision could’ve meant that comic wouldn’t have ever been made)

But a lil habit of mine is ask myself a shit ton of questions when it comes to my own artworks (it actually helps me turn what’s supposed to be artworks into comics), and that’s another way of how you can come up with comics, ask yourself questions, why is the character doing this? What are they doing? What if character did this? Etc

so I saw what was originally gonna be an artwork, and asked myself, who would Killer be calling if he ever did and why?

And the answer to those two questions that made sense to me most was Nightmare, but that led me to two more questions, when would Killer be calling Nightmare and for what?

And that led me to have a basic idea of how I wanted the comic to go

So it was basically like

Who would Killer be calling? Nightmare

Why would Killer be calling Nightmare if he ever did? That actually had different answers, to taunt him, to inform him of something, cause he misses Nightmare in his own fucked up way, etc

When would Killer be calling Nightmare? After he’s saved, or while still under him? After he’s saved makes more sense

What would Killer call Nightmare for? To give him an update about his life with Color

How would Killer be calling Nightmare? Through a public phone

Where would Killer be calling from? Somewhere in an AU in the surface

These six questions, what, why, when, who, where, how, are important to think of, they give you a basis to work on when it comes to comics in general

You don’t need to have a very clear answer to each of them to be able to work on a comic, but if you can at least answer 3 of them, that would give you enough information to work with in a comic

Now that I have a tiny bit of a clear idea about what I wanted to do (it doesn’t have to be perfect or completely concise) let’s talk about how you take these ideas out of your head and into paper

You can do that by imagining the dialogue in your head and then immediately putting it into paper, as I mentioned here, I actually struggle a lot with dialogue, art? No problem, I can easily imagine the art, but dialogue? It’s hell (please take the time to read the linked post, I talk in depth about how I handle dialogue)

That’s why you shouldn’t worry about perfection at this stage, just put every little piece of dialogue you imagine into paper, even if it feels like it makes no sense or is out of character, that’s something you can worry about later

Put in the dialogue, every little bit of it, and draw the panels that feels right for the dialogue

Here’s a little bit of example about what I mean when I say put the dialogue in then draw panels that make sense for it

This is a comic I plan on making, I actually drew that first panel as a stand alone artwork, then that inspired the dialogue, I wrote the dialogue down immediately, it’s a rough version of it, maybe I’ll keep it the same, maybe I’ll change it up as I work through the comic, but so far, I’m drawing the panels based on the dialogue so far, see what I mean by write the dialogue down? It helps IMMENSELY

It doesn’t have to be perfect and it certainly doesn’t have to be the final version, but writing it down will help you imagine the art that comes with it

Does that mean you can never start with the art then think of the dialogue? NO

You absolutely can start with the art for the comic first, in fact, sometimes, doing that actually helps you imagine the dialogue better, other times you can’t really think of a dialogue but have a very clear image in your head about certain character interactions, draw that it’s ok, silent comics focusing on character interaction, is a thing that you can do without worrying about dialogue

Now when it comes to the actual making of a comic, first tip is find your own footing when it comes to comic making

Like listen, people are gonna tell you that the correct thing to do is that you have to make thumbnails for the comic before you make the actual comic to make sure the flow is good and you have room for speech bubbles and what not

Here’s the thing, making thumbnails for your comic is a life saver, it’s great, if you can do that go for it! But for a person like me with little to no energy, I can’t do that without losing interest and immediately abandoning my comic, I can’t do that without becoming frustrated and hate art for it

That’s why I say find your footing, if making thumbnails before working on the actual pages works for you go for it! or you can immediately just work on the actual comic itself like I do, it’s all about what you’re comfortable with and what makes more sense to you

That being said, when it comes to the panels themselves, always aim for less panels and more pages than the other way around

Sometimes, emphasis on certain emotions or aspects of the comic can only be done with fewer panels

That’s why my own comics would sometimes have pages that are either one or two panels max

The less panels you have in a page, the more concise, clear, and easy to follow your comic is, one of the biggest mistakes I made as a beginner artist, is that I focused on cramping the story in as few pages as possible rather than focus on the clarity of the comic

Here’s an example

Good luck reading that dggxgdgdh

This is a very old comic I made back in 2018? 2019?, I wanted the comic to be one page so bad I cramped everything into it without thinking about the fact people are gonna have a very hard time reading it, like this easily could’ve been 3-5 pages but old me couldn’t imagine doing that many pages (if she could see me now with 15 pages comics dhhdhdg) not only that, but the panels’ arrangement makes 0 sense

So when you make your panels there are 2 things to keep in mind:

1- less panels and more pages = clear easy to follow comic, as well as a better emotional impact

2- panel arrangement has to make sense and should be easy to follow, you can make sure it’s easy to follow by reading your own comic over and over as you’re making it, if you find difficulty following the dialogue or art, then it’s best to refine, change or edit your panel or dialogue arrangement

Another thing to keep in mind when making the comic is the flow, the best way to go about making sure that the flow makes sense is by thinking of the comic as you would an animation, how did the character go from point A to point B?

For example this page

Killer clearly has a bit of a distance from Nightmare in the second panel, so how did Killer go from being at a distance (point A), to right in front of Nightmare in the last panel (point B)? That’s what the two panels in between the these two points are for, is to show you that 1- Nightmare is using his tentacle, and 2- that tentacle wrapped around Killer’s arm, the rest would easily be filled in by your brain that Nightmare basically pulled him closer

Now for the ending of a comic, not every comic has to have a clear ending where it marks the end of a story, but rather, you can go for whatever satisfies you as an ending, or keep an ending ambiguous or open, to expand on a comic later

I say that the perfect ending for a comic is what gets the point of a comic across, if the point is made, then it’s a good panel to end the comic with

Don’t be afraid to scarp any page or panels if they make the comic awkward or if they don’t make sense or if it seems out of character don’t hesitate to change, edit or completely delete it

An example is the “choice” comic, it actually originally was 4 pages, I just decided to scrap the last page cause of two reasons

1- it added nothing to the comic

2- it was out of character for Stage 2 Killer

My last advice is don’t force the process, sometimes, the best way to go about making comics is to make them on your own time and slowly, sometimes, you get stuck with certain things in the comic, other times, you need a bit to figure out how to proceed with the comic, completely normal in the process, that’s why it’s important to work on comics in a way that suits you, but you can’t find what suits you without trial and error, so go and test the waters, you can never learn until you practice it yourself

Good luck, hope this helps, lemme know if you need more clarification or help, i’d be happy to help where I can <333

[rowdyluv]

Mothers Know Best

summary: it’s luke’s off morning and he’s home alone with emersyn who isn’t acting her usual bubbly happy self. it’s when he puts her down early for her nap he notices something is actually wrong

warnings: soft dad!luke, fluffy -> angst, sick baby, stressed parent, parent feels they aren’t doing right

word count: 1.56k

notes: this was originally wrote for the single dad version of the au so if i missed any name changes please let me know

Emersyn was not the same today. Her usual bubbly giggles were replaced with whines that pierced the quiet afternoon like a siren. Luke had never seen his little girl so clingy and fussy. She was a ball of pink and white, sticking to him like a piece of gum to a hot sidewalk. It was a rare moment he had that she was distracted by her blanks or a toy next to her.

He tried everything to calm her down—his usual go-to distractions of peekaboo, Winnie the Pooh and even the tickle monster. Nothing worked. Her eyes searched for him, wide and desperate, every time he tried to sneak away. The house felt like it was closing in on him, the air thick with the weight of her cries. The moment his body crossed the threshold to the kitchen from the living room she was screaming for him. Mousey little calls for “dada.” Rattled out of her mouth just as the cries rattled her body. Tension was tightening in Luke’s chest, making it hard to breathe.

What was wrong with her? Why was she acting like this? She’s ate, barely, but he fed her. She has a clean diaper. He’s checked numerous times. They’ve played or he’s tried to play and she wasn’t having any of it. She has her blanks and her Finn plushie from Quinn. Luke pulled his hands through his hair and huffed out.

Emersyn drew him out of his thoughts by pulling on the hem of his shorts. She had blanks and fin in one of her hands and the other grasping his shorts. Her bottom lip stuck out quivering.

“Okay, okay, baby girl, let’s go for a nap, yeah?” Luke’s voice was strained with worry. He scooped her up into his arms, the softness of her skin burning against his. She didn’t protest, a sign that something was seriously off. Usually, she’d fight naps like a champ, insisting she was a big kid. But today she just snuggled into his neck, the heat from her forehead seeping into his skin. He carried her to her room, the hallway seeming to stretch on forever. The gentle squeak of his shoes on the floor was the only sound except for her shallow breaths.

Her nursery was a soft explosion of pink and white, but today it felt like a prison cell. The curtains were drawn, leaving only a sliver of light that painted the room in a sad, yellow glow. He laid her down on the crib mattress, her favorite blanket underneath her. He could hear the faint rattle in her breathing, and it was like nails on a chalkboard to his overworked nerves. He leaned over to kiss her forehead, and that’s when it all clicked. He realized how hot she was against him. She was a little furnace that had been running on overdrive. When he had picked her up first thought was she was warm from overworking herself. All the crying she had been doing was what made her warm. But no. This was definitely different.

Panic took over him like a wildfire. He knew that sound all too well. It was the same sound he heard last winter when she had croup. He didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but the feeling in his gut was heavy. He grabbed the thermometer and quickly scanned her forehead. The beep was like a gunshot, echoing through the room. He checked the display. 102 degrees. His heart plummeted.

With trembling hands, he picked Emersyn up again, cradling her closer to his chest. He didn’t know what to do. Was this just a cold or something more? His mind raced with all the worst scenarios. He needed Rosey, she’d know what to do. He fumbled with his phone, his thumbs slipping over the screen as he typed out a frantic text. “Come home. Emmy’s not okay. Something’s wrong.”

But as he hit send, he knew that wasn’t enough. He needed advice now, and his mother, Ellen, was the next best thing. He dialed her number, his voice wavering when she answered.

“Mom, Emersyn’s not right. She’s so warm and... I don’t know. Her breathing is funny again.” The words tumbled out of him like a waterfall.

Ellen’s voice was calm and soothing, a stark contrast to the chaos in Luke’s mind. “Okay, sweetheart, just breathe. Tell me what’s happening. Is she still crying?”

“No, she’s just... listless. And her breathing, it’s like she’s fighting to get air in. And she’s so warm, Mom. So warm. What if I’ve missed something? What if I’m not doing this right?” The doubt in his voice was palpable, even through the phone.

Ellen’s calmness was a balm to his fear. “You’re doing everything right, Luke. You’re a wonderful father. It’s probably just a fever, but we’ll figure it out together. Has she had any other symptoms? Runny nose, cough, anything?”

Luke’s eyes searched Emersyn’s face as he talked to his mom, looking for any sign of distress she might be trying to hide. “No, nothing like that. She’s just been clingy and whiny all day. And her breathing... I.. I didn’t notice it until I tried to put her down for a nap but I swear..it’s like she’s fighting for every breath she takes. Just like last winter.”

Ellen’s voice remained calm, her years of experience as a mother and grandmother steadying him. “Alright, let’s not panic. It could just be a summer cold, but you’re doing the right thing by keeping an eye on her. Give her some children’s Tylenol to bring down the fever. It’s in the medicine cabinet, right?”

Luke nodded, even though she couldn’t see him. “Yes, but I’m scared, Mom. What if it’s more than just a cold?” His voice cracked, and he felt his eyes burn with unshed tears.

Before his mother could respond, he heard the sound of the front door bursting open, followed by the thunder of quick footsteps. “Luke? Emmy?” Rosey’s voice echoed through the house, filled with urgency. Relief flooded him, and he rushed out of the nursery, Emersyn still in his arms.

Her eyes searched the room, finding him in the hallway. They widened when she took in their daughters state. “What’s wrong?” She demanded, breathless.

He met her gaze, his eyes pleading. “Her breathing, it’s off. And she’s so warm. I don’t know what to do. I called you because...” His voice trailed off, his throat tight with emotion.

Rosey took Emersyn from his arms, her eyes scanning her daughter’s flushed face. She felt her forehead and nodded gravely. “We need to get her temperature down. Did you give her anything?”

“No, I just took her temperature and texted you. I didn’t know what to do. I called my mom too. She reminded me to give her medicine but then you got home.. God Ro. See I can’t do this without you here I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Rosey’s heart ached for the fear etched on Luke’s face. He was a fantastic father, but she knew he had moments of doubt like anyone else. She couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt for not being there when he needed her most, but he only has a couple free mornings and errands were demanding her attention. But now was not the time for self-recrimination. Emersyn’s health was the priority.

“Let’s get her some water and meds,” she said, taking the lead. She moved swiftly to the kitchen, her shoes slapping against the cold tile floor. Luke followed, his eyes never leaving their daughter. Rosey grabbed the children’s Tylenol and a sippy cup filled with lukewarm water. The kitchen was bathed in the yellow glow from the nursery, a stark reminder of the concern that now filled their usually cheerful home.

Back in the living room, she placed Emersyn in her play pen, surrounded by her favorite toys. The play pen had seen countless moments of giggles and growth, but today it was a makeshift sick bay. She unwrapped the fever reducer, and with a gentle touch, gave it to Emersyn. Their daughter’s eyes searched hers, full of trust despite her discomfort. With trembling hands, Luke gave her the water, his eyes never leaving hers. They watched as she took a sip, the medicine quickly following. Emersyn’s tiny hand clutched the cup, her grip tight.

Once the medicine was down, Rosey turned to Luke, her eyes softening. “Thank you for texting me. You did the right thing. We’re in this together, okay? Everything with Em is on both of us, not just on you or on me. It takes two, or an army as momma Ellen says.” She leaned in, pressing a kiss to his cheek. The tension between them eased slightly.

“Thank you, believing in me, Ro,” Luke murmured, his eyes never leaving their daughter. The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. It wasn’t just about this moment, it was about every moment he felt inadequate as a father. Every time he didn’t know what to do, every time he second-guessed himself, every time he thought he was failing. Her belief in him was like a beacon in the fog.

Rosey leaned her head on his shoulder, her hands intertwined with his. “Lukey, I’ve believed in you since we were kids, of course I’m going to believe in you with our baby girl,” she whispered, her voice a balm to his fear.

[krizariel]

Oh don't tell me... you are f*cking my ex?!

(crack, not-fic, jaytim with past timsteph) Talking with friends about how a friend - who was into jaytim and was a tim fan before he was even registered in my radar - unintentionally got me into jaytim; but then he moved on pretty much as I came in and now he has to put up with me and my never-ending duck giggling butt emojis. Or how he eloquently put it: "I'm literally like a tragic dramatic irony mythical Greek MC, just a plaything of fate" Anyway, I remembered this vague idea and then this took shape:

No-capes AU in which Tim was never adopted by Bruce, but the rest (including Steph and Jason) were. Jason is very protective of his family, especially his sisters. And yes, Steph is a gremlin and gets in trouble more often than not, but damn it no one messes with his sister.

Tim and Steph started dating during mid-school; Tim tends to be asked out more often than not and he has trouble saying no. Often times he does not feel truly attracted to anyone; but he does not want to be seen as uptight or impolite or worse... questioned. He often accepts his dates until eventually they get bored of him. Steph was a change of pace of him and at some point he genuinely was feeling attraction to her; but maybe not to the extent she deserved. She asked him out and was always the one initiating anything, and he'd often go along with it. She was amazing, full of life, funny and so pretty; Tim didn't know what exactly she saw in him. However, she'd quickly notice his lack of enthusiasm/interest and often they'd fight. Why say yes when you aren't truly into it? They were on and off for a year until they broke things off for real. Jason of course hated Tim's guts; be that way whatever, but making his sister cry and mistreating her was a different story. After breaking up, Tim tried to reach out to Steph later, to try and explain himself better and be honest with her. She deserved that much. Except Jason found him before Tim could reach his sister; punched him hard enough to send him off-balance, grabbed him and pushed him against the wall to make it very clear he should not get near his sister again or else... (and Tim was scared to shit because danger danger but also creepily turned on when Jason grabbed him and raised him off the floor so easily. He needs to consult a therapist as to why Jason threatening turned him on and somehow that started his bi awakening) Eventually Steph and Tim moved on with their lives, continue dating other people, and given that they still have friends they reconnect, reminiscence of the past and talk it out. They also eventually come out and bond over both being bi. Fast forward years later, neither Tim or Jason had seen each other again; but Tim stays in touch with Steph. Tim is a well known editor at a big publisher and Jay is an aspiring book writer. Steph had given Tim her brother's original novel draft and he actually loved it. Steph: So, remember my brother Jason? Tim: Your hot brother who kicked my ass in front of half the school hates my guts? how could I forget. Steph: Yeah! He is the one who wrote this fabulous piece. Think you can help him? Tim *internally trying not to scream because what are the odds*: ...Sure. If he agrees to meet, I have time tomorrow. But you better be there, in case he remembers he told me not to get near you. I fear for my life. Steph: Don't be dramatic, he probably doesn't even remember you.

---- Steph: Sooo... I have a friend who is an editor at X publisher. He read your work and loved it. He actually thinks it has high chances to be published. Jason: Really? Steph: Yeah! Told him we could meet with him tomorrow for coffee and go over the details. Jason: Wait who is this friend? Do I know him? Steph: Well... remember this boyfriend I had back in mid-school... Jason, as he stops what he is doing, turns to Steph and glares: The one I hit and pushed against the wall and told to never get near you ever again? That one? Steph: Yes! Jason: Wait, he got actually near you again? *starts cracking knuckles* Steph: Yes, but not that way! I wouldn't take that human disaster for a ride and I'd pity anyone who'd date him. Plus I'm perfect with Cass, thank you very much. But we made peace long time ago and we've been good friends since. I'm sure he doesn't hold grudges, after all he knows the work is yours and had no trouble! It's been years, we have all grown up and moved on.

Jason: Fine. ---- The meeting was awkward at the beginning (especially due to Jason's perpetual scowl) but Tim is clearly very professional and jumps right into business. They exchange contact information. It's clear Tim genuinely likes Jason's work. He puts a lot of effort in navigating Jason through the process, giving detailed comments/notes and Jason is happy to see someone catching on the little details and talk excitedly about them. May not be much but internally he is preening. They start meeting often for coffee, at first they'd talk more about work rather than chitchat and then their meetings started evolving into less work and more random talk, getting to know each other. Sometimes they don't finish talking about the book because they got too distracted. Tim opens up about his teen years, how he was (and still is) too dumb for relationships. He didn't know better but as he matured he learned to accept himself. Jason realizes Tim wasn't that bad of a guy as he thought; just someone making mistakes, learning and growing.

Tim finds he hasn't enjoyed someone's company in a while. He has dated guys before and has matured enough to be better and accept what he wants. But as years went by he poured himself into work and has been so busy, he doesn't exactly have lasting relationships so he stopped altogether. This time around, he feels like he genuinely is giving his all. He decides that he will see that Jason's book becomes a reality because Jason is talented, he is amazing and deserves this. And then, he will gather the courage and ask him out. Jason is also troubled because he is developing a fat crush on his sister's ex and he did NOT see that coming.

The day Jason's book is finally out, they celebrate and Tim asks Jason out on a date. ----

Later: Steph: SMH I can't believe you! Jason: ... it's your fault

[travelingtwentysomething]

✨Are you new here?✨

✨🌚)))))(✨Hailey on AO3✨)(((((🌝✨

🪩 Let's Be Honest, If You Could Hop Dimensions, You'd Save Eddie Munson Too (AO3 // REBLOG // My Art: Eddie in Disguise/Comparison) - A Steddie+Original NonBinary Time/Dimension Traveler Character Fix-It Comedy/Adventure

🌚 Devotion Tastes So Sweet On Your Lips (AO3 // REBLOG) - A Spooky Steddie Horror One-Shot (Maybe Series...) Steve Prays To The Old Gods And Eddie The Banished Answers

🕸️ A Sticky Situation (AO3 // REBLOG) - A Harringroveson x Spideypoolverine Crossover Comedy One-Shot +Inspo Post for A Sticky Situation

—+++—Some Bonus Tumblr Only Ficlets—+++—

+Steve Throws Eddie His Yellow Sweater, Eddie Throws Steve His Vest. It's a Whole Thing (It's Canon. Gone a bit Viral, this one🤘) (Further Evidence: Steve Puts on The Vest and Eddie Checks Out His Ass, Also Canon. + Bonus Canon: Every Time Eddie Puts On His Steve Smile)

+Eddie Realizes Steve Is More Than A Babysitter (w/ Inspo Post Steve Slays Demo-Bats, Eddie Reacts, this one has Gotten Popular, but I mainly attribute that to Steve's Titties 🤘)

+Stephanus Concubinus, Emperor Geta's Vita (a Steddie x Gladiator II au blurb inspired by kingsandsaints ' gorgeous painting of Joe Keery wearing laurels and a white sheet🕊️)

+Rockstar!Eddie, Meets Server Duo Stobin, is an Asshole and Gets His Just De'Soup- Later Eddie Comes Back to Apologize and Gets Steve's Number- Then, A Misunderstanding and a Proposal (An Add-On Ficlet started by two very talented writers sabbathbloddysabbeth and estrellami-1🤘)

+Rockstar!Eddie in a Case of Mistaken Identity Gets Dragged to Dustin's 21st "Rockstar Hotel After Party" Themed Birthday by an Oblivious Steve +Bonus Robin Has Something To Say About That (An Add-On Ficlet inspired by Whathehonestfuk's post🤘)

+Rogueddie Famous!Steddie, Eddie Reads Tumblr RPF of Steve, Steve Gives a Rec (Rogueddie Wrote A Blurb, I Wrote A Blurb, an Add-On Ficlet)

+S4 Cut Scene: Steve Pines For Eddie, Dustin is Excited For Two Dad's, or Whatever, He's Not Picky (Eddie Witnesses This Interaction From Afar, Wonders Fondly, an Add-On Ficlet)

+Steve is afraid to scare Eddie away by treating him 'like a girl,' Eddie is frustrated, thinking Steve just can't bring himself to cuddle him because he's a guy. (Until Eddie opens Steve's closet and a mountain of dead and drying bouquets and boxes fall all around him. An Add-On Ficlet) +The Add On Where They Go From Idiots to Lovers

+Steddie!Little Mermaid AU Blurb-let (It started with a whisper- *Steve Herrington* and ended when Prince Eddie kissed he- er, uh, no wait- that's actually Henry the Sea Witch with Prince Steve's stolen voice... Violence and Magic and A Happily Ever After, Oh My!)

+Eddie Doesn't Give A Fuck About Sleep Paralysis Demon Steve (a bit personal, turned into a Steddie prompt)

+Eddie, Post Apocalypse, Joins The Military Supernatural Special Forces, Until He Receives a Call from an Old Friend in Hawkins (a Steddie Prompt Blurb)

📜A Tale in Gifs🍿

—++++—Stories Told in a Montage of Gifs—++++—

+Steve Definitely Doesn't Have A Type: A Steddie Tale in Gifs (+Because I Can't Leave Well Enough Alone, Emotional Damage) (Learned how to make gifs for this post lol took me hours give it some love, my first sort of popular post🤘)

+Steve: All My Homies Love Boobs And Hate The Government / Robin Looks At Eddie: *Gay Silence* / Steve: Right?! (Robin Looks At Eddie: *Cringes* / Steve: *Bi Panic Sets In*)

+Eddie Munson the Lunchtime Menace... He Does All His Best Menacing at Tables: A Tale in Gifs (A Montage of Eddie Being Menacingly Innocent 😇👀)

+Steve: If He Fuck Me Good I'll Take His Ass To Red Lobster / Steddie Version / Metal Sandwich Version (🍨⛵🦞)

+The First Time Little Eddie Munson With The Buzzed Hair Gets Called A F*reak, He Is Too Stunned To Speak (Literally, just a sentence ✨with gifs✨ but now I need 100k words, on my desk by Monday morning. Prompto.)

✨everything else you need to know under the cut✨

🪩My Original Posts🪩

#op

+My Singular Piece of Art (Eddie in Disguise/Comparison)

+Jack Whitehall Incorrect Quote/Shipping Gays is the Glue That Holds Fandom Together🤘

+Harry Styles Raps to Girls Just Wanna Have Fun Video (if you've never seen this, you're not fully realizing your potential)

+Joe Quinn is Dating Doja Cat? (It only took me a couple minutes to make this gif, skill issue defeated)

+Someone Asked Me "Favorite word?" And I Am A Comedian, So I Said- (you won't regret clicking on this one, here's your first clue that I am hilarious.)

+My Theory on Why Hollywood (And Men™) Thinks All Women Over 30 Are Witches (added to this already hilarious post about the Disney Movie Freaky Friday, your second clue that I am actually the funniest person you don't even know)

🪩Gems You Missed🪩

+ I just realized I caught the GHOST in my haunted house on video 🫥👀💀

+A Break-up Cake Commissioned By Me From The WM Bakery: Mario Kart - "Welcome Back To The Streets" (If We Are Friends, This Is The Kind Of Moves You Can Expect From Me)

+15 Minute Roast Beef and Potato Soup (I make up easy recipes sometimes, ask me about my rotisserie chicken enchiladas with cilantro lime sour cream sauce)

+My Halloween Tree and Blockbuster Wall (About 4,000 DVDs lit up by my Halloween Tree, it's a Spooky Vibe, ask me for a Movie Rec... When I die I'm fixin to haunt the Criterion Closet👻)

+🍯My Dog Honey Watches Scooby Doo / Honey Cuddles Then and Now / Honey Plays Then and Now 🍬 / Honey's Pug-pies: Scooby, Momo, Pickle, and Ponyo / Honey Helped Make Better Pugs 😂

+My 2010 1D Tumblr Origin Story (🤣The true story of how I ended up on Tumblr)

+My Ridiculous Laptop Sticker Collection (feat. Some Steddie Stickers from Raynecreates)

+I'm Allergic to Cats, But I Would Get A Blue Russian to Name Them Comrade, Nickname: Commie (Big Brain Name Game™, Give me some credit and reblog this post🐈‍⬛)

+My High Thoughts About Pyramids (Higher Thoughts💭)

+My Epitaph (My Personal Philosophy, It's A Banger™)

👇Check the #Tags below to narrow down the fun👇

(I go a lil ham with the tags, trying to be thorough, so I'm a safe blog if you utilize tag blocking, search my blog for any of your own interests, you'll most likely strike gold 😂 give it a try if you're curious, or scroll on down and click on a tag)

I RECOMMEND:

#op - posts that I created or I contributed a significant comment to

#personal - if you're trying to see more than just fandom- really get to know me 🥹 also #is it me, #tism, #tis me

#trauma dump and #dream journal - the drama, the tea, the weird dreams that are so ridiculous I had to tell someone, even if it is just shouting it into the void to hear the echo, basically over sharing

#interest - anything that is of interest to me, stuff like #therapy, #linguistics, #anthropology, #sociology, #psychology, #archeology, #movies, #film theory, #politics, basically anything that interests me outside pretty people and shows

#my recipes - I occasionally make up something easy peasy, you like cooking quick churched-up struggle meals?

#thoughts - my own comments/thoughts or posts that made me think, try #high thoughts, #higher thoughts

#comedy - anything that made me #lol

#writing - my own fics and posts I actually contributed commentary to or a lil blurb, or writing inspo and prompts I am interested in, as well as writing resources, tips, etc. #fic prompt

#steddie - probably my most common tag I love them but there's a plethora of tags #steddie art, #steddie fic, #steddie comic

#pretty - it's the boys and the girls and the #aesthetic stuff too

#boys - any of the pretty boys I like to reblog

#femme fatale - pretty girls, alternately #laissez faire

#smile - if you wanna smile, I heard they're contagious and this tag has some beautiful smiles 😁 and a few things guaranteed to bring joy

#spooky - It's #spooky season baby and #halloween is in my veins. We got #spooky art, #house hunting, #halloween decorations, and best of all #spooky steddie

🤌Like this post and I will definitely follow you (*except minors soz)👀

✨REBLOG✨ and we will be ✨MUTUALS✨

[wangxianficrecs]

Rewind 2024 - Proud Author Spotlights

WangxianFicRecs - Rewind 2024

Here are some recommendations from 2024 sent in by our fandom's authors themselves. Make sure to give them much love. PS: Authors, don't be shy! Submit more Proud Author Spotlights!

~*~

I published the latest extra off my dynasty fic in March 2024, and it might be my favourite so far! Feat a lot of politics in the Wen Sect, wwx being his badass self, some ocs and a lot of Yiling siblings feels.

💙 Hope is a discipline (Something you choose)

by One_eyed_God (@oneeyedoctogod)

T, 15k, Wangxian | Kay's Rec

Summary: Under the harsh and merciless sun of Nightless City, Wen Ruohan falls. But even with its leader is dead, the Wen Sect must live on, to avoid the dreaded future Wei Wuxian has already lived once. And though he never expected to be the one to lead them, he will carry this duty without fail. Or: The aftermath of Wen Ruohan's death.

~*~

Hello! ☺️ First of all, thank you for running this wonderful blog!!

This is for Rewind 2024 Proud Author Spotlight. It is a 29k story I recently finished translating (I'm also the author of the original version) and I'm really glad to have been able to do this within less than a year.

It will not please everyone as it is mostly CQL-based (CQL post-canon) but it is first person Wei Ying POV and I haven't read a lot of that in this fandom, so I hope maybe some people would enjoy it!

Thank you again for everything!

Léli.

The Unsung

by Leilwen (@leilwe)

E, 29k, Wangxian

Summary: Lan Zhan... would you come over the mountain with me one day? … … I would have liked for him to give me a real answer and I cursed the Lans' nocturnal almost-hibernation. … … … When Yunshen Buzhichu no longer needs me, you will be my only horizon. When I returned and lay down beside him, the crescent moon no longer looked so sickly pale.

~*~

Hi ! This is for the remind 2024, I don't know if authors can boosted their own work. But I wrote this fic for my very first RBB, and even if it ins't perfect I am very proud of it.

Convergence

by Czeriahx (@czeriah) & Sirendipity (@lwjsbedtime)

M, 77k, Wangxian

Part of Yuyu Respectarium's Reverse Big Bang!

Summary: In a world governed by the Wen Empire, the Wei Coven's Oracle prophesize the coming of a new sun. Together with its moon counterpart, they are to bring back balance to the world. That is, until the Wen Emperor send assassins to take care of the threat against their rule. [Art by Siren, Embedded in the fic !!]

~*~

My submission to the TopXian RBB event that was boosted here a few months ago. I got a wonderful prompt and art piece to write for. Links in my fic!

An AU Canon Divergence where after the betrothal with JZX is broken off, JYL becomes betrothed to WWX. The plotline is retold with this twist, leading to events both familiar and not. JYL is the pov character, navigating her new life after devastation and war, with WWX at her side. But let no one forget LWJ - WWX and JYL certainly can't, though for very different reasons.

Come along for character study fix-it fic, with a happy ending for all the main characters!

Not Unwilling

by somevariationofgay (@somevariationofgay)

E, 48k, Wangxian & Xianli

Part of the TopXian RBB

Summary: The young mistress of Yunmeng Jiang clan, raised to marry out for the benefit of her family, dutifully waits for her parents to arrange another match after her troth with the young master of Lanling Jin clan is broken. When her father decides the new betrothal will be to their sect's head disciple, she finds herself not unwilling. But the ambitions of Qishan Wen clan surge and a bloody flood overtakes Lotus Pier, changing the course of her life forever.

~*~

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[cowboydisaster]

* ˚ ✦ Compass * ˚ ✦

chapter one: La Belle Fleur Sauvage

pairing: arthur morgan x f! reader

word count: 7.9k

summary: modern au; Living out your dreams on a ranch in Colorado; Arthur finally proposes.

a/n: This is a little gift for @margowritesthings. I originally wrote this for you a year ago, but I've rewritten it for you for this christmas. xx

Arthur is nervous, his palms clammy as he pulls a Carharrt t-shirt over his head. The dark hardwood floor is cold against his bare feet as he slowly pulls his clothes on, layering up to defend against the harsh weather. You sleep comfortably in his bed, unaware of Arthur's absence from your side. He slowly approaches, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead. You smile in your sleep. 

"Gonna be a good day, darlin'.” He murmurs, pulling the white, fluffy blanket up over your shoulders before stepping out of the room, trying to keep his footsteps quiet.

The coffee machine beeps twice, notifying Arthur that the morning pick me up is finished. Two mugs sit by the machine, as always. But today Arthur doesn't grab his usual, opting instead for a travel mug. It's an old one. One that he'd gotten from some random bank event a while ago, "Strauss Financing" it read. 

He'd used that bank to get a loan for the house and the barn. God– nearly ten years ago now, Arthur realizes. 

The coffee is black and hot, steaming as it's poured into the mug. Arthur leaves the pot on for you before opening the door, and whistling in the direction of the bedroom. He can hear Copper jumping down off the bed, and then he rounds the corner, trotting towards Arthur and out the door. 

"Hey there boy!" Arthur laughs and gives Copper a few pats. He's had the old vizsla about as long as he's had the ranch. Copper follows Arthur outside, happily trotting after the man. Everything outside is coated in a dusting of white. It's the kind of snow that looks like diamonds, where ice clings to the trees and rooftops, but the sun shines down, making everything sparkle. 

When Arthur gets about a hundred feet from the house, with Copper circling around him, he stops and turns around. The log cabin stands proud before him, even after all these years. Arthur had built the place with his bare hands, just him and Copper. 

The Colorado mountains stand proud behind the house, hues of purple and blue painting  their cliffs, the morning rays of sunlight reflecting off of the snow on their peaks.  When he looks at the slowly aging wood of the house, and the warm glow of the porch lights he can't help but smile. It's not the house itself that he is so fond of, it is what you have made the house– a home. 

When the walls were bare, and the house was empty, save for the few pieces of furniture that Arthur could afford, it was incredibly lonely. He tended to the animals and worked on the ranch all day to avoid sitting alone in the house. He spent his evenings at the only bar in town, Pearson's Pub, drinking to forget and to ignore the empty house. 

Things got better once you moved to town, working as a bartender. You warmed the man's cold heart. You were like a breath of fresh air in this old town. You still are. You managed to take his frozen, barely beating heart and melt it in the grip of your soft hands. 

Arthur began to chat with you while you worked. After only a few interactions, he started coming in on the days he knew you would be there. 

Then, one day, he offered to cook you dinner, and you accepted. Now, you lie in his bed, cozy and happy while he plans for the future. Funny, how things work out like that. All those years when Arthur was young, he'd hoped for someone to love. As an adult, he was content with his solitude, until you came along, of course. Divine intervention, you are. 

Copper barks, stomping his paws in the snow, pulling Arthurs attention back to the present. The poor dog is probably cold. The nip in the air makes Arthur's cheeks and nose red, and his breath lingers in the air like a morning fog. 

The truck isn’t far, sitting halfway between the house and the barn. Arthur shoves his hands in his pockets, shaking some snow off of his hat as he makes his way towards the old rust bucket. Snow and ice fall from the door frame as Arthur swings it open, leaning in. 

He reaches across the steering wheel, jamming the key into the dash and turning it. He mutters a small prayer when the engine starts to stutter and hiss, but after a few seconds, it turns over. Once the engine is running, Arthur turns the heat the entire way up, setting the knob towards the windshield. 

“Should be right as rain, now, huh, boy?” Arthur smirks, stepping down from the truck, shutting the door. Copper barks, running into the wooden barn where Arthur is heading, stalking the chickens, as Arthur slides through the wooden door. 

He shakes the snow off of his hat, boots clicking on the floor as he grabs a few scoops of feed and dumps them into each horse's trough. Arthur greets each one, scratching behind their ears, patting their necks. He feeds, avoiding stepping on loose hens, until he reaches Boadicea's stall. A warm smile graces Arthur's face at the sight of the old chestnut mare. She brightens up at the man's arrival, and not just because of the feed he carries. Her head tosses as she whinnies for him..

“There's my girl." Arthur hums, dumping the feed, soothed by the sound of her chewing. Arthur scratches the underside of Boadicea's jaw, earning a slight whinny from the older mare. 

"S’a big day today, y'know." Arthur releases a shaky breath as he strokes the mare's neck. Boadicea lips at Arthur's jacket, searching for treats that he doesn't have. 

"I'm gonna ask her to marry me."

He huffs through his nostrils then, smiling as he pats the mare one last time. 

"You're gonna be a part of it. I'm countin' on you, girl." 

He then looks to the black quarter horse in the stall beside Boadicea. The horse has a star on his forehead, and a thick dark forelock that covers his eyes. When Arthur had gifted you the gelding, you'd named him Whiskey. It was both an homage to the bar where you met Arthur, and your preferred poison. 

"Hey there boy. You better be good for the lady today, ya hear?" 

He pats the horse who is hungrily lapping up his grain and then brings his wrist up to check his watch. The watch ticks quietly, showing the time as being 6:17am. 

Arthur decides that the truck has had plenty long enough to heat up as he makes his way out of the barn, pulling his jacket tighter around himself. Copper has gone off, probably chasing birds in the woods, or attempting to play with the cattle. Once he's done playing he will come into the barn for shelter, at least until you wake up and let him back in. 

Arthur's hands are tinted pink with cold as he opens the truck door, sliding in and shutting the cold out. The heat from inside the cab is nothing short of cathartic as it begins to thaw his frozen features, slowly melting away the ice and causing his nose to turn pale again. 

Arthur turns the radio up a bit, driving down the long road towards the city. He tries to avoid Denver as much as possible. The tall, leering buildings are suffocating, reminding him of a very dark time in his life. 

When Arthur's ma and pa died, he was placed into foster care. When he was twelve, he fought with the other kids, even beat a few nasty boys that were older than him. Arthur learned quickly that anger and aggression were the best ways to protect himself. 

He ran from every foster home he was placed into, never having anywhere to go, just running. Arthur slept outside many nights, surrounded by vermin– both rats and people. He was spat on, cursed at, and kicked down by many of the people he encountered. It wasn't until he was fifteen that he found shelter- a home. 

— — —

Arthur's feet pound against the pavement as he runs. The door remains open, swinging, as Arthur barrels down the driveway without shoes. The blacktop is rough on Arthur's feet, scraping and cutting into his heels as he scrambles, but he pushes through, determined to get away from the outskirts of Denver. 

He follows the driveway until it meets gravel, avoiding it by running through the grass, into the forest. Tears stream down his cheeks, rough gasps for breath mixed with raspy sobs erupting from his chest. 

Arthur bolts from yet another foster home– another abuser. He can barely see as the street lights get farther away, but he pushes on faster at the sounds of sirens. Sticks and rocks dig into the soles of his feet, but he continues, terrified. 

In his hand, Arthur clutches a small bag, carrying the few things that remain of Arthur's childhood: his momma's ring, and a photo of her when she was young. His knuckles are white in their grip.

Horror trickles up his spine, sickness twisting his guts and making him sick. Tears prick at his eyes, threatening to send him to the ground 

Did he just kill a man? 

Disgust bubbles up in Arthur's throat as he searches around in the dark forest, looking for somewhere to hide for the night. Not far in the distance is a building with a light on outside, it appears to be a barn. Arthur tries not to think about anything as he stumbles towards the barn, feeling like he may collapse at any second. His arms are wrapped around himself, and he shivers as he parts the barn doors, stepping inside, sheltered from the cold winds.

A few animals grumble at the intrusion, but Arthur can barely hear them. His vision is blurry, breaths coming in quick pants as he trips. He makes it a few steps to a pile of hay, mind fuzzy and body cold. Arthur is exhausted and unable to breathe.

Suddenly his feet are falling away from him and he collapses. The impact is made softer by the pile of hay, but it still knocks the wind out of him. Arthur stares at his blood stained hands as they clutch his mother's things. 

— 

There is a shuffle. A door? Footsteps? They stop. 

"My, my… What on earth do we have here?" A man says, his timbre deep enough to rattle the barn walls. Arthur's eyes flutter but he is not able to open them. 

"Christ, Dutch– the poor boy's covered in blood, he can't be more than sixteen." A second voice chimes in. 

Then Arthur is being hoisted into the air. He tries to fight, but slowly begins to lose consciousness again. 

"Well take him inside, have Bessie and Annabelle fix him up… Once he's awake, we'll find out who he is, and.. what he needs."

— — —

Arthur thinks back on that time with distaste as his truck rumbles loudly through the crowded streets of Denver. Things got better after he found Dutch and Hosea. He stayed with them, working on their ranch for many, many years, and once he turned twenty-five the two gentlemen gifted him one hundred acres, enough to start a small ranch of his own. 

Arthur sits at a red light, not far from his targeted destination. His fingertips tap the steering wheel impatiently as he thinks of that bag, his mothers contents inside. His stomach twists with anxiety. He hasn't been down this street in fifteen years. Muscle memory tightens his lungs as he pulls his truck along the street parking, brakes squealing before he pushes it into park. 

Arthur sighs, eyes glancing up to the ornate, tall buildings before him. It makes his stomach turn. All this money poured into concrete structures when kids are starving in the streets. 

He gets out the truck, straightening his shirt and jacket out of habit, before approaching the golden gate outside of the apartment building. 

It's not long before he's in the elevator.

Arthur goes to knock on the ornate door, knuckles hesitating for a moment before rapping on the wood twice. It's the only barrier between him and the penthouse. 

Arthur plans to make the trip as quick as possible. He’d vowed not to come here ever since the verbal assault had been thrown at him during an expensive dinner. He’d left in shambles, still young and naive. Arthur places his hands behind his back and pushes his shoulders back out of habit when the door swings open.

"Mary." Arthur acknowledges. 

Her voice is soft, her southern accent spilling from her lips, "Arthur?” She seems worried, shocked. Her eyes scan him quickly, identifying that he's not hurt, “Is everything okay? Dutch? Hosea?"

"Yes Mary, everyone's fine." 

Arthur takes note that Mary's father mustn't be home, and he instantly relaxes. His shoulders come down and his hands rest at his sides. 

“Come in.” Mary says, opening the door, gesturing to the white couch in the middle of the living room.

Arthur hesitates at the door, but complies when she starts leading the way. Nothing has changed in all the years that he's avoided this place. The carpet feels the same as he walks across it.  The couch dips under Arthur as it used to when he sits. 

Mary sits on a chair across from him. The couch he's sitting on is far more comfortable than the one at home, but he prefers the quiet oak house compared to this busy modern apartment. 

She looks to Arthur, her eyes curious. He hesitates, eyes unsure where to land– dancing between Mary's eyes and the floor. 

"I-” He starts speaking and then stops a few times, before taking a breath, getting the words out, “I've met a woman…” 

A pang hits Mary right in the chest, but she hides it well. 

“Happened a few years ago." Arthur speaks low and quiet, his timbre is deep as he explains. Mary remains quiet and allows him to continue, eyes drifting towards the windows, mind caught up in memories that threatens to pull her under.

"She's a fine woman Mary, and… Well, I'm gonna ask her to marry me." 

Arthur looks up to Mary then, her dark eyes contrasting his own. She has a puzzled look on her face as she replies, 

"Arthur, I'm happy for you, but I’m afraid I don't understand…? Did you come all this way just to tell me–”

“Mary…” Arthur whispers, cutting off her snowballing thoughts, redirecting her to the point that he is trying to get across without being harsh. Without demanding. 

She stops in her tracks then, realization dawning upon her, “Oh. I see.” She smiles, bittersweet. Arthur can see the regret in her eyes. He is quick to ease the tension, leaning forward, trying to soothe the old wounds that Mary has yet to heal. 

"I'm sorry, Mary, I am– that things didn't work out between you and I, but– it means a lot to me, and there's no other-”

Arthur is stopped in his tracks as Mary raises her hand to stop him, “It belongs to you, Arthur. She should have it, really.” Mary smiles sincerely. 

She loves Arthur, though she'll never admit it. She loves him enough to let him go, to let him be loved by someone he deserves. Mary doesn't know you, but she knows that since he came here, for this– you must be deserving of his love.

Mary places her pale hand up, signaling Arthur to wait as she stands and disappears into the doorway towards her room.

Arthur fiddles with his hands, emotion bubbling up as he waits. This is the final obstacle. Once he has his this item back he will be able to give you what you deserve, and if you accept, Arthur will be the happiest man alive. 

Mary rounds the corner, her lips pulling into a bittersweet smile, a few tears dripping down her cheeks. There is a small black box in her hand, extended out to Arthur.

His green eyes transfix on the box. The one he hasn’t seen in almost fifteen years. Arthur places his hands on his knees to push himself off of the couch, staring in disbelief at the old thing. 

It is carefully placed in his hands, and he slowly creaks the lid open, staring. It's a gold band, with a ruby placed in the center, and intricately placed diamonds on either side of the gemstone. It’s the one thing he has that ties the man he is now, to the happy young boy he used to be- when he was good. It was his momma's. One of the only things he has left of her. Arthur closes the box, tucking it away into his pocket. 

“Best of luck to you, Arthur.” Mary whispers, a sad smile on her lips. 

“Thank you, Mary.”

The ride home is quiet, for the first half anyway. As soon as Arthur is out of the city, back on dirt roads, he switches the old truck stereo on. A familiar song is playing, one that's been bringing him quite a bit of comfort in the past weeks. 

“Now I know the only compass that I need”

He smiles. One of his hands rests on the steering wheel, the other rests on his jean pocket. He palms at the box as he drives, making sure it doesn’t slip away. 

“Oh, is the one that leads back to you”

His voice is deep, rumbling in his chest as he taps his left foot against the floorboards of his truck. He thinks of you, riding your horse, smiling, of your hair in a messy bun and you in his too-big t-shirts. He thinks of how you love him, with a passion and a fervor. 

“Now I know the only compass that I need Oh, is the one that leads back to you”

He thinks of when you met for the first time, your fates tying together in ways you never could have imagined.

— — —

Arthur enters the old bar, same as he does most every night. It's the same bar he's been going to for fifteen years now. Contrary to some of the other fools here, he doesn’t always drink when he comes here. Sometimes, he just sits at one of the tables, drawing the scenery.

Arthur comes here to drown out the silence of the house, to get away from the loneliness that he refuses to admit is swallowing him whole.

Tonight, he walks around the tables that adorn the small place, straight up to the bar, sitting down in his usual seat. The place is busy tonight. Arthur assumes there's a game being played, or a rodeo on the tv, but he doesn’t ask. Plenty of patrons sit around the bar, most with women or men in their clutches. Laughter and the sound of glasses being slammed on the bar fill the air, and a neon light flickers on the wall.

Arthur is all too aware of the familiar atmosphere around him, and yet somehow, he misses the new bartender serving tonight. Typically Pearson himself is behind the bar, but tonight someone else is handing out drinks. 

Arthur knocks on the bar once, eyes watching the TV in front of him, a bulldogging competition. Suddenly, a form slides in front of him, blocking his view of the television. He adverts his attention to the person blocking his view, and his eyes go wide. 

You stand in front of him, smiling and whipping a bar towel over your shoulder. 

“What can I get for you, mister?” You ask, wiping your hands against each other. 

Your eyes twinkle like they're among stars, and Arthur is sure that he’s never seen a smile so bright. He doesn’t respond for a few seconds, basking in your beauty. Your hair is not tied up, and it falls down, cascading over your shoulders.

Your black long sleeved shirt is tight, clinging to your figure, but Arthur is caught up in your eyes. He shakes his head lightly before responding. 

“Yeah, uh… Sorry– just get me the strongest drink ya got. Make it neat.”

Arthur's typical order is a bourbon on ice, or a beer, but tonight he's going to need something stronger. Everyone knows everyone in this small town, but you're a new face, and Arthur can already feel the singe of the hot brand, burning you into his memory.

“Coming right up.” You raise a curious eyebrow, wondering about this man’s choice of drink. With your interest piqued, you grab a rocks glass and a bottle of patrón, pouring a few fingers of golden liquid into the glass, sliding it across the bar. 

“Have one for ya’self too.” Arthur tosses a bundle of cash onto the bar. 

“Thank you, mister.” You smile, pouring yourself the same drink. 

You eye the mysterious cowboy curiously, noticing the softness hidden behind his rough features. He is attractive, very attractive, with dirty blonde hair, and a five o’clock shadow that exaggerates the scars on his lip and chin. His eyes are hidden from you by a dark cowboy hat, until he peers up and you are met with the most strikingly beautiful, bright, blue-green eyes you've ever seen. 

You have to look down to hide the blush that creeps up on your cheeks from being caught in the act of staring. If he notices your gaze, he doesn’t say anything. Both of your crystal glasses are set on the bar as you lean onto it with your elbows. 

“You ain't from around here, are ya?” Arthur asks. You smirk. The ruckus from the bar seems to die down in your ears. Even your busy mind quietens as you focus on the peculiar man before you. 

“Is it that obvious?” You laugh, “No, I'm not from here, just moved.”

Arthur hums, content. There's an amused sparkle in his eyes. 

“How'd you know?” You ask, wondering what gave it away. What's making you an outsider? You moved here to get away, to blend in. Anxiety curls in your stomach at the thought of being found. 

“Well, miss, you’re far kinder, n’ far prettier than anyone in this old town… Don't help that everyone knows everyone here. We don't come by new faces much.”

Your anxiety quells, cheeks blushing a deep crimson, and after a moment, you raise your glass slightly, angling it towards his. 

“Well thank you kindly, mister.” You hum. 

“Arthur.” He corrects, clinking his glass against yours, swallowing down a swig of the burning liquid. You cock your head, not tracking at first. 

“My name's Arthur. Arthur Morgan.” He reiterates, and you smile. 

“Pleasure to meet you, Arthur Morgan.”

— — —

Your eyes flutter open slowly. The first thing that meets your eyes is the vase of purple flowers on your bedside table. The morning light hits them beautifully, reflecting off of their vase, refracting on the deep purple petals. 

A wave of realization dawns over you.

Sunlight? What time is it?? 

You sit straight up in bed, eyes immediately seeking the alarm clock on Arthur’s nightstand. It reads 9:25am and your heart leaps into your throat.

“Shit!”  You curse, swinging your legs out of bed, body barely covered by your cotton shorts and cami.

You feed the horses at 6am every day. Today your alarm mustn't have gone off.  You feel terribly, knowing that the horses must be starving. You frown, hair messily falling around your shoulders as you hurry to your dresser. 

A piece of paper sits on the mahogany, and you hesitate in your rush, placing your pointer finger on the paper and reading its contents. 

Fed the horses so you could sleep in. I had to run into town real quick. Should be back before lunch. Call if ya need anything, Sweetheart. Coffee is hot in the pot for you and Copper is outside. - A

The panic leaves your chest, replaced with warmth as you pocket the note, pulling your slippers on as you move towards the kitchen. 

Arthur is always doing this for you, taking on little tasks to remove some weight from your shoulders. Doing anything he can to ease your troubles. He knows that you've been crazy busy with work lately, as horse training always picks up in the winter, and he's been doing everything he can to help. 

You hum a tune as you round the corner, hand trailing along the smooth oak wall. Your slippers are soft and quiet against the floor as you enter the kitchen, eyes trained to where the black coffee pot rests on the counter top. 

You grab your clay mug, the one you'd made back when you were taking pottery classes, and you fill it with black coffee and a splash of cream.

Wrapping one arm around your torso, you move to the glass french doors in the kitchen, overlooking the barn and the pastures. You sip at your coffee, eyes slipping closed as the coffee wakes you up, the warm liquid heating down your cold bones. Your eyes trail over your farm, the brown and black cattle, starkly contrasting the snow. Snowflakes flutter past the glass as you watch the sun peeking behind a few pine trees in the yard. 

Copper runs through one of the pastures, throwing a stick up into the air and then grabbing it in his maw. You can’t help the smile that graces your lips. 

You head back towards your room, pulling out a pair of jeans. They hug your hips and waist, but leave room for your boots to lay under your pants at the hem. You pull on a long sleeved black shirt and your beige ranch coat before leaving your room and pulling your boots over your socks. 

With one last swig, you finish the last sip of your coffee and set it in the otherwise empty sink before opening the glass door and stepping out into the elements. 

You expect the cold to wind-whip your face, but it doesn’t. Instead, the sun shines down, adding some resistance to the cold weather. It causes the snow and ice to sparkle like diamonds as your boots crunch through the snow. 

You push the barn door aside, heart humming at the warm sound of nickering horses. 

“Alright. Who's up first?” You hum, looking to the chalkboard on the wall. It's outlined with feeding schedules, medication times and dosages, and your training schedule.

You find the designated box for today, seeing that today you'll be getting your work cut out for you. You're working with Doob, a seal brown thoroughbred, off the track, with more energy than he knows what to do with. His owners had brought him in for a bucking problem, one that you're already beginning to curb. 

You make your way down the aisle until you find his stall, promptly grabbing his dark green halter and slipping it over his head. 

“C'mon, boy.” You whisper, petting behind his ears, “You're just a big sweetheart, aren't you?” You chuckle as he nuzzles your palm. Of all the client horses, he's definitely carved a home in your heart. He’s a funny little horse, a character. You'll be a bit sad to send him back when you’re finished, but you know his owners will treat him right. 

A short walk through the snow leads you both to the round pen. You leave him loose in the small pen, and he immediately starts running. 

“Yeah, here we go.” You hum, cold biting your nose. You grab a green lasso from the fence post, moving him up with it, pushing him forward as he runs around the pen.

“Good boy.” You call, “Easy does it.” 

Doob gets his energy out, running to his heart's content, wind flying through his long black mane. You just let him run, only correcting when he tosses a buck or kicks. After a long while of working, he eventually becomes tired out.

“That's a good boy, whoa now.” You cue, and he stops on a dime, turning towards you, walking into the center of the circle. Your head turns at the sound of a rumbling truck, and your eyes brighten at the familiar sight of Arthur coming down the lane. 

“Good job, Doob. That's all for today. You go on and play now.” You smile, handing a treat out to the thoroughbred. He takes it happily before you remove his halter, letting him out into the pasture with the other client horses. He'll surely run off more steam out there. 

A few snowflakes are stuck in your hair, and your nose is already turning red as Arthur steps down from his truck. You make your way to him, ignoring the chill in your bones, and leaning towards the warmth before you. 

“Hey, baby.” You smile as he turns to you, shutting the door to his truck. Arthur smiles back, his hands extending as he grabs your waist, pulling you in for a kiss. Your lips are cold compared to his, and he runs his hand up and down your arms to warm you up. 

“Shit darlin’, you’re froze. I was gonna ask if ya wanted to go for a ride but-” 

His eyes go wide as you jump a little, gripping at his coat with your cold hands, interrupting him.

“No, I wanna go for a ride! I'm not too cold, I've got more clothes in the barn.” 

He chuckles, his warm breath creating a fog in the air as he hugs you tightly. You've never turned down a trail ride, not in all the time you've known him. 

“Alright, why don’t you start tackin’ up the horses. I gotta run in the house quick. I'll grab some food too. We can have a picnic.” His deep voice rumbles against your ear as he holds you in his embrace. 

“Okay, I'll grab the horses. Oh- grab the chocolate, okay? The good kind. There's some in the cupboard above the sink.”  

Arthur chuckles, “Sure thing, darlin’.” 

You go to pull away from Arthur, but before you're fully released from his grasp, he gently pulls you back by the chin, catching you in another kiss. He hums against your lips, and you relax into him, allowing him into your mouth. He chases after the taste of you.

After a few seconds, another light peck– or two– you pull away from each other. When your eyes slowly flutter upwards, you see intense emotion in Arthur's eyes. Love. 

Arthur loves you, and he always makes sure to display it, but he's being extra affectionate today, which has your eyebrow raising in curiosity. 

“Why are you lookin’ at me like that?” you chuckle, hands resting on the thick blue fabric of his wool coat. You look up at him with those sparkling eyes, and he falls in love with you all over again. The snow has made your nose pink and cold, and Arthur leans down to kiss it.

“Cause I love you,” Arthur pulls away, “Now, go tack up those horses. I'll grab us a snack.” you peel away from him then, shaking your head. 

One whistle for Copper, and the orange flash is running down from the pasture. Then, he's at your feet, whining happily. The snow crunches and creaks against your boots as you lean to pet the dog, and you both look at Arthur’s back as he opens the door to the house. 

“Your daddy’s actin’ weird today.” You whisper, curiously eyeing the blue coat that moves through the door. Copper barks, as if he is trying to explain, but Arthur had sworn the dog to secrecy. 

You pet Copper before standing up and brushing the snow off of your knees. When you step into the barn,you’re immediately surrounded by the soothing smell of oats and hay. The warm scents envelop you, and wrap you up like the warmth of the barn. 

By the time you have both Boadicea and Whiskey fully tacked up, Arthur is walking through the front barn doors. He pushes the door open wide enough for your horses to step through. 

“So where are we ridin’ to today? Maybe we could trail down to the creek? It's beautiful this time of year.” You ask, pulling yourself up into the saddle. The cold leather sends a chill down your spine as you rub at your thigh in an attempt to make warmth.

Arthur shakes his head lightly as he climbs up into the saddle, “Actually I was thinkin’ we’d go on up to the overlook today…”  

The overlook? You hum. Typically you and Arthur only go to the overlook for special occasions. The last time you'd gone up there was about a year ago. It's a special place. 

You both had said your first admissions of love there, let the words pour down into the plains below. Your first kiss with Arthur was at the overlook. 

But the overlook doesn’t just house good memories. You and Arthur had split up, briefly, a few years ago. The separation took place there. It’s a place of much love and heartache, it's you and Arthur’s spot. 

“Okay, sure… It’s been quite a while since we’ve been up there.” You respond quietly, curiously. Anxiety swirls in your stomach, but you push it down. 

You and Arthur trot beside one another, carried by your mounts. The air is chilly, but your heart is toasty warm as you and Arthur chat, laughing and smiling as you go. The ride to Horseshoe Overlook is a long one, and you make the most of the time as you and Arthur ride through the bright snow. 

“I'll race ya cross’ this hill up here.” Arthur drawls, his lips ticking up in a smile as he looks at you from under the brim of his hat. 

You eye the hill in front of you. It's open, probably over one hundred yards. The snow isn’t deep over the grass and it doesn’t appear to be slippery. Adrenaline seeps through your veins as you eye it, swirling and pumping through your heart, flicking the hairs on your neck up like static electricity.

“Alright then…” You adjust yourself on Whiskey, preparing to run.

“Get ready…get set–” You are cut off as the wind whips your hair and Boadicea starts charging forward. Your jaw drops and you watch Arthur barrel ahead of you. Quickly, you spur Whiskey and kiss and cluck to move him forward. 

“You cheated!!” You scream loudly, trumping the sound of pounding hooves. 

Determination sets in your bones then, and you lean forward, spurring the horse forward with every ounce of might in your body. Whiskey shoots forward until he is running side by side with Arthur’s mare.

“I don't play dirty, mister!” You yell in Arthur’s direction. Hooves are pounding loudly against the snow. The two horses are breathing heavily, each determined to win their own races. You see Arthur laugh, but he stops when you spur Whiskey, charging forward. 

Arthur curses as you shoot ahead of him and Bo. Whiskey's hooves kick up snow as he passes, sending it flying into Arthur's face. It slows him down, giving you the advantage. 

You and Whiskey run hard until you reach the top of the hill, and Whiskey slides into a deep stop right before reaching the tree line. After ten seconds, Arthur and Boadicea are at the top as well, stopping hard and breathing heavily. 

“Dammit woman, you can ride, I'll give ya that.” Arthur pants, face wind-whipped as you ride up beside him and lean over your saddle to kiss him. 

His lips are cold, as are yours, but the kiss is still alight with warmth. You grip onto the collar of his shirt, not releasing when your lips pull away from one another. If anything, your grip tightens on his collar as you eye him.

“I know.” You smirk, winking at Arthur as you pull away and canter your horse away from him, and towards the entrance to the overhang.

He watches you canter on, shaking his head. 

“You are somethin’.” He jests, trotting after you.

When the trees break, you nearly gasp. Though you have been here a handful of times, it always steals your breath away. You can see the house and barn in the distance, separated from you by miles and miles of white snow. Evergreens stand tall, dusted white, with a few herds of elk at their trunks. You can see for miles, past the house and to the tall blue mountains far in the distance. 

“So beautiful.” You murmur, eyes bright with wonder. 

“Sure is…” Arthur whispers, eyes not on the landscape, but on you. 

You hop down from Whiskey, patting him for his good work, and offering him the same treats that you'd offered Doob earlier. You always keep a few extra in your pocket. 

You walk towards the cliff, keeping a safe distance from the drop. Your eyes flutter over the rolling hills and plains before you. Everything seems so quiet up here. Troubles seem so far away. Unique snowflakes slowly drop from the sky, dusting your hair and coat with white diamonds. 

Boots crunch in the snow behind you, stopping just a foot from your back. You smile, but don't turn around when Arthur's chest presses against your back. One of his hands wraps around your middle while the other, unbeknownst to you, rests on the small black box in his coat pocket. 

The serenity of the overlook envelopes your senses as you breathe in deeply. The cold air carries notes of pine and sap, familiar scents that comfort you.

“Love you, y'know.” Arthur hums, leaning down, pulling your hair away from your neck, kissing the soft skin under your ear. Blood rushes to your cheeks, and you turn in his embrace, chest to chest. 

“You’re actin’ strange, Arthur. Are you feelin’ okay?” You chuckle. 

Arthur exhales sharply, otherwise ignoring your question. Instead, he pulls you up onto your tiptoes, your boots on top of his as he kisses you. 

You melt under his touch, kissing Arthur feels like your muscles relaxing after a long day’s work, like rain after a drought. Kissing Arthur feels like coming home. He's been kissing you all day, unable to pull himself away from you. 

You pull away only for a quick breath before your lips meet again. You wrap your arms around the back of his neck, straining on your toes to remain in contact with his lips. Arthur pulls away with a bite to your lip, smiling when he sees how yours are plump and swollen. 

The wind brushes Arthur’s hair into his face as he backs up, pulling you by your hand. He has placed a thick wool blanket on the snow for you two to sit on. You plop down on the blanket beside Arthur, your head resting on his shoulder. Your head rests on his shoulder. Heat radiates from the man, and you are glad for the extra protection from the cold.

“So what snacks did you bring, baby?” you ask, curiously peaking into the bag that Arthur has laid on the blanket. 

“Alcohol.” He says plainly. You laugh, smacking Arthur in the arm as he chuckles. 

“And your chocolates.”

“Arthur!” You chide as he hands you a bottle of golden liquid. You peer at the label. 

It's patrón. You quirk a brow at the drink of choice. Arthur rarely buys the expensive tequila. Curiously, you pull the round cork out from the neck of the bottle and take a small swig. The alcohol burns its way down your throat, warming you from the inside. 

You don't mind the burn, watching as a pair of pronghorn bucks fight in the hills below you. Their hooves slip in the snow as they each attempt to win their battle. Your hands numbly grip the neck of the bottle as you pass it back to Arthur. 

You huff before you speak, “I can’t believe we’re here Arthur. After everything we’ve been through we can just… live now…” You pull your knees up, curling more into his chest. Your past hangs over you, haunting you like a dark cloud. Bit by bit, Arthur has been helping you to push it away, to heal and move on. Today is a good reminder of that progress. 

His hands place the tequila in yours, and you down a swig.

“S’ like your readin’ my mind, sweetheart.”

You smile up at Arthur then, placing your hand on his stubble.

“Y’know this is the first place you told me you loved me…” Arthur says, low and quiet. You smile, the good memories filling your heart as Arthur continues,

“Also the first place I kissed ya…  a lot ‘a memories up here.” 

Your stomach flutters at his words, your brain is flooded with warm memories of Arthur and you in the overlook. 

“C'mere.” Arthur whispers, smiling, taking a shaky breath. Your eyebrows furrow together. but as he stands and extends his hand, you take it. Arthur pulls you up, hands in his own. 

The overlook is beautiful in front of you, serene and perfect. A moment he'd capture with a camera if he had one with. Whiskey and Boadicea watch on from the treeline, ears perked up. They know what's about to happen. Arthur's been telling them about it every day for months. 

“I love you.” Arthur whispers, deep and serious. His eyes soften, and your heart begins to pump loudly in your ears. A delicious red flushes into your cheeks.

“I love you too, Arthur… but why are you.. what's going on?” Your voice is higher than usual, eyes sparkling bright with wonder, reflecting the sun and the white snow.

It isn’t unusual for Arthur to admit his feelings to you, but there are too many factors for this to be a coincidence. Arthur was ‘shopping in town’ all morning, but had come home empty handed. He brought you out to your special spot, bought you your favorite expensive tequila– and is treating you with such delicacy, and love, that butterflies flutter in your stomach. 

Arthur huffs, letting out a humorous chuckle and looking up to the sky, projecting a short prayer, before he holds your hands a little tighter and begins.

“I love you more than I ever thought possible.” He looks away from you for a split second, staring at the ground, before anchoring himself in your eyes again, and continuing, “I didn’t think my life was goin’ nowhere before I met you… I gave up in my twenties, said I wasn’t gettin’ attached to anyone.” Arthur admits, and you frown. You know about his past. You've talked about it, and now you're trying to show him how much he deserves to be loved. 

“I stood by that for a long time…” Arthur's lips crack into a beautiful smile, a chuckle falling over them, “And then you stumbled along.” A single tear drips down his cheek, and landing in the snow below. Your eyes are threatening to overflow with tears of your own.  

“Arthur…?” You whisper, voice cracking. He squeezes your hands reassuringly. 

“You showed me what it felt like to be loved. And love ain't somethin’ I've felt in many a years.” Arthur pauses, gathering his words. A few tears trail down your cheeks, and Arthur’s thumb wipes them away.

“You make me want so much more outta life. You make me wanna wake up every day and work on this ranch, take care of these animals. You make me want a family. I wanna wake up n’ watch our kids playin’ from the window.” 

“But what I want most in life? More than anything…?” A pause ensues, his loving, green eyes locked onto yours, “I want to be with you, every day, for the rest of my life.” 

Arthur thinks back to the song he had been listening to earlier on the way home from the city.

“As long as my compass keeps pointin’ to you, I’ll be where I belong… I’ll be home.”

Tears flow freely from your eyes, and you gasp as Arthur reaches into his pocket, kneeling down on one knee in the snow. 

He looks up at you, one hand still intertwined with yours, the other extending out the black box. Arthur snaps the ring box open, presenting a stunning gold ring to you. The band is adorned with a ruby, and several small diamonds decorate the sides of the gem. Your hands come up to your mouth, as Arthur looks up to you, smiling. 

“This was my Momma's…” Arthur explains, and your eyes flicker down to his, “You’ve already made me the happiest man alive… and I wanna spend the rest of my life with you… So, would you do me the honor–”  Arthur chokes up, “Would you marry me?” 

He looks into your teary eyes, holding the ring box a little higher as he asks the question. You wipe the tears away from your eyes, sight locking onto the scene, wishing you could etch it into your memory forever.

Your head frantically nods, tears flowing down your cheeks as you cry tears of joy, “Yes, Oh, Arthur–of course. Yes, yes!” 

Arthur smiles the brightest that you’ve ever seen, standing before you and slipping his mother’s ring onto your ring finger. The band fits you perfectly, and you marvel at it for a second before Arthur’s arms wrap around your waist. He lifts you up into the air, and you wrap your legs around his waist, laughing and crying, overcome with a happiness unlike any other. Your heart leaps with love and passion for the man in front of you.

His lips crash against your, wet tears dripping down your face as you kiss him. Your hands entangle into the hair at the back of Arthur’s neck as you both kiss, pulling apart only to breathe or to laugh. The kiss is deep, bodies singing with love, energy overflowing from the both of you. He keeps kissing you, over and over again, never wanting to leave the taste of your lips. 

You pull apart, foreheads pressing against eachother's, his hands on your thighs, keeping you off the ground. 

“I love you so much darlin’.”

“I love you too.” You whisper against him, the happiest you have ever been. 

The ring rests on your finger as you kiss Arthur again, senselessly. The band of rubies and diamonds holds promises of a future, of a marriage  and a life with him.

As the wind rustles through your hair, carrying your joy so far down the mountains that it can be felt radiating even miles away, you can’t think of anything you could ever want more than that promise.

taglist: @margofiore @mrsarthurmorgan7 @woman-with-no-name @tillith @luvliewriting @pine4pple-b0i @photo1030 @dudsparrow @holyratrimony @twola

[cinnamostar]

02: self-fulfilling prophecy

part one.

pairing : jisung x gn!reader

summary : han jisung, the man who is incapable of maintaining a relationship for more than a few months. han jisung, the man who is in complete denial that maybe he is the problem. han jisung, the man who has convinced himself he isn’t meant for love.

wc : 4.6k

cw : not proof read, nonidol!au, angsty, sad, discusses insecurities in romance, sappiness, very dialogue heavy

a/n : if you haven't read part one, pls do! i hope you guys enjoy part two :') i didn't have a p2 planned when i originally wrote this, so i hope this is still good and an ending you guys will be happy with! <3 as always feedback is appreciated

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Tears rolled down your cheeks as you exited Jisung’s apartment building, your body on the verge of collapsing as your emotions choked your breathing, your heart feeling as if it had just fallen and shattered inside your chest. Each breath you took caused the emotional pressure on your chest to hurt more, feeling as if your airways had been constricted by your own agony. 

The dreary, rainy weather matched your mood as your legs carried you into the direction of Minho’s apartment, knowing it was the only place close enough for you to walk to at this time of night. The rain began to strengthen, the drops attacking your skin as your hair and clothes soaked it all up, a cold wind causing your body to shiver as you stumbled up the steps to Minho’s apartment. Your fists hurriedly knocked against the door, hoping Minho would somehow be able to sense the urgency behind it as your lips trembled in a poor attempt to stifle your cries.

Minho opened his door, his eyes widened at the sight of your distressed face, grabbing your hand and pulling you inside his home without a second thought, “Y/N? What happened? Are you okay?”

You tried to respond, but all that came out of your mouth was a gut wrenching sob, your body finally deciding to give up on maintaining appearances as you conceded to the stabbing pain your heart just suffered.

Minho stood there with panic rising in his body as he tried to piece together what could’ve left you in this state, unsure on how to comfort you in this moment. “Hey, it’s okay now, I’m here. Why don’t you take a shower and I’ll let you borrow some clothes? I’ll make you some tea in the meantime and then we can talk.”

You nodded thankfully at Minho, sniffling as he led you to the bathroom, handing you a bag to place your drenched clothes in, as well as a neatly folded pile of fresh clothes and a towel. 

You entered the shower, letting the water warm your shivering body that had just been brutalized by the cold rain. Your tense muscles slowly began to relax under the heat of the water, giving you a much needed respite from the weight of your emotions. Despite the momentary calm the shower gave you, tears still escaped your eyes, blending in with the water that cascaded from the showerhead.

After drying yourself and changing into the clothes Minho had given you, you found him sitting at the kitchen table with two mugs of tea waiting to be drunk. He smiled when he noticed you approaching, almost relieved to see how significantly calmer you had looked. As you sat down, he slid one of the mugs towards you, motioning for you to take a drink. 

“Did the shower help?”

You brought the mug to your face, blowing it gently to cool it down while nodding, “It did, thank you,” tears still pricking the corners of your eyes.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You placed the mug down on the table, taking in a sharp inhale as your chest tightened at his question as you recalled Jisung’s words, tears, once again, making their presence known. You did your best to get through your words, but your quivering voice revealed the hurt you were experiencing, “Well, I was with Jisung before I came…”

You squeezed your eyes shut in a feeble attempt to hold back a sob, “And I thought everything was fine, but out of nowhere,” you tried to rush through your sentence, but the overwhelming anguish you were feeling took control as you began to bawl.

Minho instinctively reached for your hand that was resting on the table, rubbing his thumb on your hand to soothe you, “Take your time, we have all night if you need, okay?”

Taking a few more moments to collect yourself, you continued on, “Out of nowhere, he told me he didn't think we were going to work and I… I don’t know, I just left. I feel so stupid right now,” you cried, your eyes puffing up from all the tears you were shedding. 

Minho remained quiet for a moment, confused at his best friend’s actions while trying to find the right words, “Did he say why?”

You sighed while shaking your head, feeling guilty that you had let your panicked mind take control of you in that moment, “N-no, I didn’t even give him the chance, I just… Left… I don’t know, I just didn’t want to hear it. It was only going to make me feel worse and it just felt like he led me on, like all the rumors were true,” you weeped, “I should’ve listened to Hyunjin and Seungmin.”

“I’m sorry Y/N, it must’ve been a lot to take in at once,” he spoke softly, still leaving a comforting hand atop of yours, “But I don’t think you’re stupid, there’s nothing wrong with taking a chance at love.”

“I don’t know, I’m just really sad right now.”

“That’s okay, you’re allowed to be. Is there anything I can do that would help you? Do you want me to call anyone over? Get you something to eat?”

You sniffled, nodding your head, “Could you see if Hyunjin and Seungmin can come over? But please tell them what happened, I don’t wanna say it again.”

“Of course, I’ll do that right now.”

“And can you check on Jisung? He was… he was crying a lot when I left. I want to make sure he’s okay too.”

Minho smiled, “Okay, I’ll have the boys come over and then I’ll head over to his place once they get here. Sounds good?”

You nodded, feeling grateful for Minho’s kindness and patience, but also relieved to know that Jisung would have someone to talk to soon enough.

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Minho lightly knocked on the door of Jisung’s apartment, anxiously waiting for the younger boy to open the door, his phone in hand ready to call if he took too long. From the other side of the door, he could hear hurried footsteps scramble towards the door as Jisung swung the door open, his face red and swollen from crying.

Jisung’s eyes widened in surprise and confusion, the hope he had in his eyes disappearing, “Minho? What are you doing here? I thought you were Y/N-”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“Huh?”

“They showed up to my place crying and told me what happened.”

“Oh,” Jisung’s face fell into a somber expression as he tried to stammer out an explanation, “Look, listen, please don’t be mad-”

Minho shook his head, letting himself in and gestured to Jisung to follow him in as he sat on the couch, “I’m not mad, I’m worried.”

Jisung gulped, unsure where this conversation was leading as he sat next to Minho, his brain exhausted from the millions of emotions he had been flipping through.

“Jisung, I thought you loved Y/N-”

“I do! I really do, I love them more than anything and anyone, I know that for a fact,” he sighed heavily as he felt his heart tremble in his chest, the pit of guilt growing deeper and deeper, “But I’m scared, I’m really scared.”

Minho let out a deep breath as he ran his hands through his hair, perplexed at his best friend’s words, “Of what exactly?”

“Of hurting them! Of not meeting their expectations, failing them, all of it. I’ve never been a good partner in the past, everyone knows this,” he muttered out each word with shame, “And I just didn’t want to ruin their image of me, I didn’t want to risk hurting them like I’ve done to everyone else… They’d be much happier if we were just friends.”

Jisung tried to blink away his tears, struggling to put in everything he was thinking into a coherent string of words as he nervously scanned Minho’s face, trying to figure out what the older boy was feeling.

“Okay, I can see where you’re coming from, but didn’t you just hurt them anyway? Didn’t you just do the opposite of what you wanted to?”

Jisung stood silent for a moment, not being able to deny any of Minho’s words, “Well, yes, but it was for the best. It’s better to end it now than later because it would hurt more then, right? I would rather hurt them like this than fail them as a partner.”

“I say this with all the love in the world, but Jisung, you’re being an idiot.”

The two stared at each other, waiting for one to make a move. On one end, Minho was hoping Jisung would be able to realize the stupidity in his behavior, while on the other, Jisung was completely dumbfounded and awaited Minho to further explain himself.

Realizing Jisung was too wrapped up in his own thoughts, Minho continued on, “Jisung, look. Everyone knows how much you love Y/N, okay? It’s so obnoxiously obvious, plus I’ve never seen you be so caring and attentive to anyone before. Clearly, they hold a special place in your heart, right?”

Jisung nodded timidly, letting out a small hum in agreement as that was all he could manage while he silently wept.

“It’s okay to be afraid, especially with what you’re struggling with, but just because you’re afraid doesn’t give you the right to make that decision for Y/N,” Minho leaned forward as he looked into Jisung’s eyes as he tried to convey the importance of his message, “Did you even think to consider how Y/N would feel? They know about your past,  Jisung. Even Hyunjin warned them about you, but you know what? They still took that risk with you, and you were quickly proving them wrong before now.”

Minho sighed once more, “Jisung, it’s okay to be afraid, but you cannot make every decision so selfishly when there are other people involved. Y/N isn’t dumb, but they like you and want to take that chance with you. They like you despite your insecurities and flaws. You should’ve told them how you were feeling, but most importantly, they’re allowed to make their own choices. Let them choose to love you, don’t take that away from them.”

Wiping his tears away with his hands, Jisung jutted out his bottom lip in a pout as he sniffled, “They… they probably hate me now, I think it’s best I leave them alone.”

Minho rolled his eyes as he got up from the couch, still looking at Jisung, “Jisung, why don’t you stop assuming things for other people and find out from them directly?”

“But-”

“Y/N told me to check on you because they were worried. Just talk to them. If you truly love them, you’ll talk to them.”

With hands in his pockets, Minho made his way to the front door, “I have to go home, but you better talk to them. I’ll be really disappointed in you if you don’t.”

After Minho’s sentence, all that followed was the sound of the door shutting and the soft cries of Jisung, who was being eaten up by both guilt and anxiety, fearing how angry his friends must be at him. Part of him felt relieved that Minho was the first person he spoke to as his words brought him some sort of comfort, yet the overwhelming remorse and humiliation roared loudly in his mind. 

Doubt and confusion lingered in him as he processed Minho’s words, unsure if you’d even be willing to talk to him after this. In his world, he thought after the hurt he had just inflicted on you, he was even less deserving of you. His irrational behavior and his instinct to react based on his fears and insecurities served as more proof that he was not fit for a relationship, that you were better off with someone who had a better grasp of who they were and what they wanted.

Yet, while he thought what he was doing was for your benefit, he hadn’t considered once how you’d feel and how this would impact you, especially considering how you both were practically acting like a couple at this point. Especially after he told you he needed more time, but then completely flipped that on its head and left you out in the cold with no real explanation. Minho was right, he was only thinking of himself, this wasn’t him being merciful and saving you from him, this was entirely him avoiding to confront himself. He was fleeing his own vulnerability and masked under some sort of self-righteous sacrifice for you. Much like in the past, he allowed his own selfishness to blind him from reality of his emotions and actions, but at least he was somewhat aware of it.

While Jisung cannot find it in him to forgive himself, he wondered and hoped whether you would, whether you’d look past his mistakes once more and accept him for who he was. He prayed silently that you’d still give him the chance he so desperately craved, yet so foolishly pushed away in the name of fear, wishing you’d still choose him when he didn’t know how to do that himself. Maybe what he needed all along was your neverending affection to finally learn how to love the parts of himself he hated, maybe he needed your gentle hand to guide him through love, maybe he should’ve trusted you while he learned to trust himself again. Just maybe, he would be able to learn what love was truly about if he had just listened to his heart, not his own negative self-hating mind.

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Meanwhile, an extremely rageful Hyunjin and Seungmin sat with you on Minho’s couch as they tried to comfort you in sweet, hushed voices, doing their absolute best to keep their anger to themselves. Hyunjin held you in a tight hug as you cried into his chest, his chin resting on top of your head as a comforting hand rubbed your back in gentle circles. Despite the kindness of his actions, his face was a stark contrast as a scowl painted over his features, mentally cursing at himself for letting you get involved with Jisung and not doing a better job at deterring you from it.

Seungmin, on the other hand, was holding back as he bit his tongue, keeping any thought he had to himself because he knew if he opened his mouth, a fountain of expletives would pour out. He knew the last thing you needed right now was him speaking poorly of Jisung, even though he thought he deserved every angry world he had in his arsenal right now. 

Through gritted teeth, Hyunjin softly mumbled, “I’m sorry, Y/N, this isn’t fair to you. You deserve better than that.”

Hiccuping, you whispered, “But I don't want anyone else, I still want him even if he’s being a stupid idiot.”

“Well, he made his choices. A bad one, but all you can do is move forward from it,” he sighed, silently communicating with Seungmin through indignant looks.

All Seungmin could do was hum in agreement, not trusting himself enough to keep his thoughts to himself as he cracked his fingers in frustration, thinking about how he was going to rip Jisung a new one the next time he saw him. 

The front door clicked open, signaling that Minho had gotten back which caused you to sit up from Hyunjin’s embrace as you looked at Minho, tears staining your cheeks. The sight of your face had only made the flames of anger flicker more, serving as the perfect fuel for his seething body. 

“Before you ask, yes, he’s okay,” Minho ressaured you as he made his way to the living room, shooting both Seungmin and Hyunjin a warning look as the two boys quickly hid their vexed expressions from you. You gave Minho a grateful smile as you, for the nth time that night, wiped your tears away.

“I talked to him too, he’s probably going to message you sometime tomorrow to talk things over if you’re open to that.”

You were about to respond, but Seungmin spoke before you could, “Is that a good idea?”

Minho glared at him, “Seungmin, think before you speak.”

Seungmin shrugged, choosing to look down at his phone, but then Hyunjin added, “I mean, he isn’t wrong… I think Y/N should have some time to process their feelings at the very least.”

“Are you Y/N?” 

Both Hyunjin and Seungmin shook their heads nervously knowing they’ve upset the older boy, “Then that isn’t your decision to make. Let Y/N do what they feel is best. We all know how you guys feel about it, so please don’t make this any more difficult for them than it already is.”

The two boys muttered a quick apology to you, not wanting to add any more stress to your current situation, but you knew they only had your best interest in mind and wanted to protect you from any more hurt. 

“It’s okay, thank you for caring for me, but I’d like to talk to him,” you said gently, giving the two boys a reassuring smile, “I’ll be okay, I can hold my ground.”

Seungmin sighed, “Whatever, just say the word and I’ll beat the shit out of him if it doesn’t go well.”

“I’ll verbally beat him,” Hyunjin added, causing you to giggle at the seriousness of their tones since you could never imagine them physically harming any living being.And, as if on cue, your phone vibrated, lighting up with the message:

hi, im sorry about earlier. can we talk tomorrow?

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Across from you sat a nervous Jisung, who was fidgeting since the moment he entered your apartment, his fingers tapping the table anxiously as he struggled to find the words, not knowing if there was anything he could say to truly convey how sorry he was. You stared at him from his seat, arms crossed with an expectant - yet patient - look on your face.  Ten minutes had gone by since he had arrived, and not a single exchange of words had been made, and you were growing tired of it. 

“Jisung, please say something.”

The boy froze his seat, his body tensing, not expecting you to say anything to him, “I-...” he paused for a moment, taking a shaky breath in, “I just do not think there are enough words in the world to express to you how sorry I am and how ashamed of myself I am.”

Tears began to well up in his eyes, his legs once again bouncing as he tried to get the words out, “It’s just a lot for me, I don’t know. I know my feelings for you are like nothing I’ve ever felt before, I know that I want to be with you more than anything in my heart, but…” he sighed heavily, running a hand through his soft locks, “I’m really scared,” he whispered so softly, you barely caught it.

It was your turn for your eyes to water, your heart taking a hit as your eyebrows furrowed sympathetically at Jisung’s words. Although you can recognize his fears and could only guess where he was coming from, it didn’t take away from the pain he caused you and how much it affected your trust in him. 

“Could you explain to me what you’re scared of? I want to understand.”

The concern etched on your face and the genuinity behind your eyes makes Jisung fall in love with you all over again, seemingly making him melt under your gaze as his heart swells. But just as quickly as the affection rushed into his heart, also came the insecurity and negative thoughts that endlessly reminded him how undeserving he was of someone so considerate and selfless.

Jisung shook the thought out his head, reminding himself of what Minho had told him the day before, “I’m scared that I’ll hurt you. I have… well, you know, I’ve hurt my previous partners in the past and I’m terrified I’ll do the same to you,” he murmured, guilt lacing each word, “I’d hate to do the same thing to you, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself and even now I don’t know if I can.”

Part of you felt relieved to hear those words from Jisung, now knowing his reasonings were not due to a lack or loss of feelings, or did it have anything to do with your looks or his attraction to you, but rather he was battling his own bouts of insecurities. The other part of you felt guilty for assuming the worst in Jisung and not giving him a chance to explain himself initially, you felt terrible for thinking he was only having fun with you and leading on. The expression on his face told you everything you needed to know about him, and that was him being sincere with every word he spoke. He truly did care for you, he wanted the best for you, and was genuinely struggling with his own complex emotions.

“Jisung, it’s okay to be afraid. Trust me, I am too. I know about your past, even way before I even met Minho or you, but the person I’ve come to know is nothing like that. You’ve changed in the best way possible, I fell and still am falling in love with you everyday.”

Jisung’s eyes widened in shock when he heard your words. All his mind could focus on was how you heard about him way before you joined the team, you knew about every horrific thing said about him when you two first met, yet… You didn’t treat him any differently like others had, you gave him a chance to fully know the kind of person people thought of him as, you still… fell in love with him? Wait, did he hear that right? You love him too? Love?

How could it be possible, how could someone like you possibly love someone like him? How did you manage to see past all his ugly personality traits and still managed to fall in love with him? Oh, no. Did he trick you? Had he accidentally fooled you into thinking he was a better person than he actually was ever capable of being? Oh my, Jisung’s brain was short-circuiting as he started to panic, losing any sense of rationality he had.

Your warm hand resting on top of his caused him to break out of his stupor, his wide eyes softening around the edges at your loving expression and oh, how much he adored seeing himself in the reflection of your eyes filled with affection, a sight he swore he could die in.

“Talk to me, Jisung. Tell me what you’re thinking. I’m here for you, I won’t leave your side as long as you let me listen.”

“I… You’ve heard about me before you even met me?”

You laughed, “Yes, I did. Honestly, I thought you were a real asshole, but I’m glad I gave you a chance anyway. I don’t regret meeting you for a moment.” 

His mouth fell open, still processing each word, “Even after I hurt you?”

“Well, I know now you meant no harm. This is hard for you, I can understand that. I also understand being afraid. What you did hurt me, but I love and care for you too much to let that ruin something between us so long you give us the chance too.”

Each word you spoke was as if a love spell was being casted on him, bewitching him completely as his heart began to pound faster, butterflies warming up the pit of shame he had been carrying with him this whole time. Your words enveloped him into a gentle embrace, so tactful and ginger with his soul, so perfectly chosen that it felt like you were healing cracks in his heart he didn’t even know existed. Oh, how could he have ever been so stupid to push away love so saccharine and addicting? He never knew love was truly like, but now he didn’t want to ever let it go, he wanted to relish under his warmth as long as he possibly could. 

“Really? Do you really mean it?” Of course he knew the answer to that already. Just one look into your eyes, and he could see that you were offering him every part of you and a lifetime of love, and he’d be a fool to ever doubt you.

“I do. I mean it with everything in me.”

Your honey-coated words left him in a blushing mess, nervousness still present in his body, but all for a much different reason. Your sincerity excited him, yet it also filled him with anxiety, the fear of disappointing you looming over him, convinced he had tricked you into falling for a false image of him.

“But… What if I hurt you again? What if I disappoint you? What if I turn out to be as bad as everyone said? I’m not as good as you think I am, Y/N, really I-”

“Jisung.”

He stopped in his tracks, biting the inside of his cheek as he felt your hand squeeze his reassuringly.

“We are two different people, with two entirely different life experiences. Yes, eventually, you’ll hurt me, and I’ll hurt you too. In relationships, we are bound to upset one another, but what matters is how we approach those situations,” you whispered softly, scooting your chair closer to him, “I don’t care who you think you are because I love you for you, and I think you’re the most wonderful experience I’ve had. You can be afraid all you want, but I promise I’ll hold your hand through it and show you that you’re worthy of that love.”

As you scooted your chair next to Jisung’s, both your hands reached to cup his face, wiping away the tears he had shed, “I promise. As long as you let me, I’ll be here for you. Even if you don’t trust or believe in yourself, can you trust me? Will you believe me when I say you’re an amazing human being? Will you let me teach you how to love and be loved?”

All Jisung could do is marvel at the sudden closeness, his cheeks and ears flushing the instant he felt your touch. Your words only sent him further down into a frenzy, goosebumps forming at your declaration as he felt himself swoon in his seat, his head dizzying from the overwhelming sensation of both nervousness and affection. He had so much to say, yet his mouth could barely utter out a sound as he shrunk in his seat, your boldness taking him aback. 

Even though he hadn’t moved from his seat once, he felt himself become breathless as he admired each of your features, he swore he heard wedding bells in the background  as you spoke. Oh, c’mon, Jisung, you need to say something. He was panicking, much like he was during your first meeting, struggling to find the words as he became entranced with you, capturing every detail of your face in his mind so he’d never forget this moment.

“I love you.”

That was all he could say, all he could muster up, but that was enough. That was all you needed to hear as you let out a giggle, your eyes crinkling as you smiled, “I love you too.”

“I’m sorry for being an idiot. I want to try my best for you. I promise I will.”

“It’s okay. You don’t need to apologize, and I know you will.”

“Can… Can I kiss you?”

His question caught you by surprise, heat rushing to your cheeks while nodding, mumbling a quick ‘of course you can,’ as you pulled his face to yours, planting your lips onto his.

Maybe Han Jisung wasn’t so bad after all.

[mercy-love-joy]

Pride Comes At A Cost

A mini summary of an interaction between my Cookie-fied OC and DragonBerry Cookie

Beast Ancient AU belongs to @cuppajj

Main premise:

"Old Caviar" Cookie had a wife who was a family friend of Royal Berry Cookie. The girl was one of the few friends Royal Berry Cookie had growing up in the palace. Sea Anemone Cookie was an author who wrote many different genres of books (romantic comedy was once a favorite of HollyBerry Cookie) and "Old Caviar" Cookie was a Navy Captain before he retired to marry Sea Anemone Cookie.

After the Ancient Heroes became Beasts, "Old Caviar" refused to allow his wife to go anywhere near the "HollyBerry Kingdom" which has now turned into the DragonBerry Empire. Unfortunately, Sea Anemone Cookie grew ill, she was taken to the Creme Republic but was denied due to too many cookies fleeing to the city for protection, so "Old Caviar" Cookie takes her to a smaller village. In hopes that maybe DragonBerry Cookie was willing to help, "Old Caviar" Cookie sent a letter begging the Queen for help. But got nothing in return.

The author passes away by the touch of Saint Vanilla Cookie when the shark cookie goes to sea to find any medicine for his wife but fails. Struck with grief and guilt, "Old Caviar" Cookie stays on the boat where he and his wife live.

Sometime later, DragonBerry sees the old boat and she recognizes the ship. She goes over to see the couple, only to be greeted by an aggressive and distasteful shark cookie who does not like seeing the Queen on his boat.

The Queen demands to see the author but is struck with the reality of Sea Anemone's death. "Old Caviar" Cookie blames DragonBerry for his wife's death and demands she never speaks with him. And the Queen tosses a half-apology before leaving. The memory of the author disappearing as the Beast of Pride leaves the boat and leaving the old shark to wallow in his grief alone until he crumbles.

Some notes to add to the piece:

This was originally going to be a AO3 fic but I lost motivation as I started to press harder on the details for the drawing so I thought maybe this would be more acceptable. Maybe I'll turn it into a fic when I'm not so burned out.

First time drawing backgrounds and spaces. Somewhat proud but I can improve!

My favorite panel is the one with Sea Anemone Cookie floating behind DragonBerry Cookie, that was my favorite panel to draw and my least favorite was drawing that bookcase. It was so tedious to color and draw.

[qqueenofhades]

For the history questions, what historical period has given you the most inspiration for your writing/muses?

I feel like it's a cop-out if I say "hmm, all of them," and this will end up just being a long recap of all my various projects over the years, but a) fuck it, this is my blog, I can talk about my own stuff if I want to, and b) there have indeed been Many, both fic and original. I usually pick settings for historical/historical fantasy AUs that I already know and want to write about, so:

The Lightbearers (Once Upon a Time) and Starlight & Strange Magic (Timeless) are both 19th-century Victorian England/Europe/steampunk, one in the 1850s and the other in the 1880s, with lots of magic and misadventure and so forth. You can tell that I was really into steampunk around 10 years ago (it was Formative, okay) and there were plenty of opportunities to do fun things with the historical setting and real-life personalities (the scene of Flynn breaking into Buckingham Palace to spy on Queen Victoria and William Gladstone remains a favorite). There is also my massive The Swan and Crossbones series (OUAT/Black Sails, two fics, 800k words), which is set in the 18th-century Caribbean, Golden Age of Piracy, and pre-Revolutionary America and is a retelling of Treasure Island + family saga + multi-generational/multi-character/multi-source material historical fiction, wherein I both wrote 800k words and did a shitton of extra research in the middle of getting a PhD. Don't ask me why I did this either, but I still re-read them, especially The Rose and Thorn (the second installment in the series) for my own pleasure.

My All Souls Timeless trilogy, following the source material, involved general historian/academia shenanigans and time travel to Elizabethan England, which was lots of fun to research and write about, even if I otherwise tend to think that the Tudors are often overdone. One of my most popular fics and best shorter-form (only 65k words...) historical/period pieces is deo volente (lux aeterna) for The Old Guard, which takes the crusades as its general starting point and thematic thread to explore religion, faith, immortality, power, war, violence, love, queerness, and other such things. Another popular fic of mine that spanned 600 years of history (starting in the 14th century) and explored various periods in detail is my Sandman fic and in the waking world we wait and want, with a particular emphasis on queer history. (You will find that crops up often in my stuff, regardless of the setting.) We also have why draw me to that promised land (Shadow and Bone), set in the 1980s Soviet Union (my boast for the accuracy of this fic, based on my previous studies in Russian/Soviet history, is that someone told me they learned more from this fic than an entire semester of a university class, which is not entirely good because I then had many questions about their professor, but there you have it).

When it comes to original novels, I started off also 10+ years ago with medieval England, with the The Lion and the Rose series and others. I am fond of this one because it was what got me into medieval history in the first place and because even now, it still sells fairly steadily and gives me a couple bucks in royalties every month. My newest book, The Empire of Bones, is based (loosely) on my fic The Key of Solomon and basically has everything I possibly wanted to cram into a fantasy historical setting, from anywhere and any time at all. Thus we have the Christian-era Roman Empire, an Islamic Carthage, the Byzantines, Imperial China, Russian Jews and Ukrainian Cossacks, the Mali Empire, Celtic Britain, so forth and etcetera, etcetera. So as noted, if it looks interesting, I will find a way to throw it and the kitchen sink in somewhere, and I have the issue that whenever I read a book about a new place or period, I go "hmm, I should figure out how to write something gay about this." Alas.