#that *did* somewhat do this kind of thing

[theitcharchives]

Let's clear up the fact that the ancient Romans didn't do that shit salute, either. It's based on a 1784 painting depicting three sons reaching for the swords their dad is holding up in a somewhat salute, the Oath of the Orazi. The fascists looooved the ancient Romans as a reminder of the "ancient glory of the nation" that was going to "be made great again" (tells you anything??) on those roots, they co-opted the fascio littorio and many other things including stuff from the national anthem that refers to the battles of older generations against the german/austrian invaders–then turned around and got all chummy with the nazis, nothing is sacred to this kind of people except power over others and their demented ideologies and their money. They don't care about you, they don't even care about each other.

Anyway muskrat did a nazist gesture and you should be trying harder to shoot him with all those guns you've got laying around

what do you mean elon musk did a nazi salute on live tv at the united states presidential inauguration twice and is now erasing the evidence off the internet by replacing the footage with the crowd cheering instead?

would be a shame if people reblogged this, wouldn’t it?

[darkmatilda]

𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐤𝐞 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: two years ago, completely by accident, you helped catch a serial killer. now, as mysterious events start to pile up around you, you begin to suspect that someone is after you, seeking revenge. terrified, you're willing to do anything to save yourself—even if it means reaching out to your ex, who wants nothing more to do with you. 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐰: [these warnings only apply to part 3!] spencer reid x criminal(thief)female!reader, stalking, mention of dismembered bodies, serial killer targeting women, mention of abduction, decomposing body, violence, kidnapping, drowning, physical injuries 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 8.7

𝐚/𝐧: part 3 FINALLY!! thank u to everyone who has been here since the first part of this story. thank u andy @reidingandallthat for agreeing to appear here in the role you play. erika, darling, i apologize in advance 🫶🏼

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟑

Driving in a car next to your ex, after practically throwing yourself at him and pressing a sudden, still somewhat incomprehensible kiss to his lips, was a little, let's say, awkward

You were heading to the apartment pinpointed by one of Spencer's team members, which allegedly belonged to Clinton Richardson, the man you suspected to be the previously elusive accomplice of The Waterside Butcher. Given how easily Garcia had tracked him down, you hadn’t expected to actually find him there. However, you had to search the place, find out anything more about him than the scant information Rosas had provided. Get inside his mind. Figure out where he might be hiding, where they were holding Rebekah.

In the silence that settled between the two of you, you tried to maintain a straight, dignified posture. To play it completely cool about what had happened. One simple thought helped you with that—maybe it had been your impulsive initiative, but it was fully picked up by Spencer.

The way he cupped your face as soon as he realized what was happening. The pressure of his lips on yours, hungry, insatiable, and unrelenting with time. A sigh when he pulled away, the confusion creeping into his soft eyes.

A gentle shake of his head, as if he was already starting to regret it.

You regretted it too. It only thickened the atmosphere, which was already sharp enough to cut with a knife. In your apartment, you had made a bet—the first person to find Richardson would get one of what you considered the most beautiful and genuine photos from your time together. After what had happened, however, you couldn’t imagine just handing it to him without a word, so you simply kept it in your jacket pocket.

There was still some way to go ahead of you, the heavy midday traffic causing terrible jams, and you could no longer bear the silence nor the unreadable, fixed expression on his face as he stared at the road.

"Well," you started, clearing your throat. It felt like he flinched at the sound of your voice. God, when did you both turn into such idiots? "Just to be clear, it wasn’t...personal. You know what I mean. Kind of like checking if your favorite dessert from an old favorite restaurant still tastes the same."

If it weren’t for the fact that he glanced at you for a moment, you would’ve slammed your forehead into the dashboard. It was one of the worst things you could have said, but well, you couldn’t take your words back now.

“Favorite dessert. Checking,” he repeated in a disbelieving tone. His eyebrows shot up high, and he looked back at the road. Only then did they fall, and he shook his head from side to side. There was a trace of amusement in that gesture. Well, at least he wasn’t angry about the choice of words. “Okay.”

Not knowing what to do with yourself, you pretended to examine your nails.

“And does it still taste good?” Spencer asked after a long pause.

“What?” You shifted, distracted in your seat.

“I’m asking if it still tastes good.”

You hesitated for a moment before answering, and then a laugh gathered in your chest, a burst of it you didn’t let out loud. Instead, you held back, offering only a brief smile, a flash of teeth. Spencer glanced at you from the corner of his eye, seeming less tense than before. Some things were probably easier for you to talk about in metaphors, even if they were simple ones.

“Well, it was favorite for a reason," you said after a moment, gently, though you tried to sound casual.

The photo in your pocket.

Spencer smiled in that subtle way, where only the corners of his lips moved, his eyes remaining unchanged, thoughtful. And with that, the stage of pretending it never happened began.

The apartment that was supposedly owned by your suspect was located in a fairly decent neighborhood—at least nicer than the one Rebekah lived in—which filled you with a bitter sense of injustice. After you dealt with the lock, you both stepped inside cautiously, scanning for any potential occupant, but the place was empty.

"Not exactly how I pictured the place of someone they call The Butcher in the media," you muttered, stepping lightly on the birchwood floor beneath the bright walls.

Spencer hesitated for a moment, that familiar analytical look crossing his face. You stopped a few steps from him, hands stiff on your hips, unable to stop watching him instead of the surroundings. The slight crease between his brows as he crossed the kitchen, probably already knowing what your unsub had for breakfast every Thursday, just from one greasy, barely noticeable stain on the wall. His lips pressed together, and you realized you couldn’t ignore that part of his face anymore. You sighed, annoyed with yourself. Seriously, now?

“Did you expect a torture chamber instead of a bedroom?” he asked as you both crossed the threshold into the room. It was less tidy than the rest of the place, a sign that he spent more time here. Some things were out of place, and there was a pile of loose papers building up on the desk.

While Spencer was analyzing the papers, you walked over to the window, squinting as the midday light hit your eyes. You gently traced your finger along the leaf of the plant on the windowsill before dipping your finger into the soil.

“It’s dry,” you noted briefly, suddenly focused. He must not have been here for a few days. “Damn, maybe my imagination is just really poor, but I can’t picture a guy who does that kind of thing to women calmly watering his plants every morning. It’s just...grotesque.”

He shrugged in response, Reid’s eyes never leaving the things on the desk.

“Lots of violent, serial offenders lead lives that we’d consider normal,” he began. A lecturer's expression, you thought to yourself immediately. You’d always liked it when he explained things to you—he was the only one who could do it in a way that didn’t make you feel dumb for not understanding a concept. And, well, you liked listening to him. “Well, we once had a case with a cannibal who had a bunch of teddy bears in his house,” he added. 

You couldn’t help but snort.

“Stuffed with human guts instead of fluff?”

Spencer finally looked up at you, slowly.

“No,” he replied shortly, raising an eyebrow. “They were perfectly normal teddy bears. And, you know, I’m starting to be glad that your criminal activities haven’t gone beyond robberies and theft.”

“And stolen goods trafficking.”

“Oh, right. Sorry for leaving out one of your...key specializations.”

“It’s fine. Got anything?”

You joined him in searching through the desk, standing so close that your shoulders brushed briefly. You told yourself it was only because you didn’t want to miss any clues.

“There are a few sketches here,” Spencer informed you, his chest rising slightly, which you noticed because he turned to face you sideways. There was barely a step between you. “They look a little...chaotic.”

You flipped open a random notebook, spotting the mentioned sketches—simple drawings and doodles. You kept flipping, not giving them much attention.

“Probably drew them when he didn’t know what to do with his hands during phone calls,” you said. You shrugged at his look. “I know, because I do the same.”

“I don’t recall ever seeing you do that,” he remarked.

When we lived together...the unfinished sentence hung in the air, settling lightly on your shoulders.

You took a deep breath.

“Well, back then, I was more into sending messages than having actual conversations,” you admitted, and it was true. Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed him slightly parting his lips, about to say something, when suddenly your gaze landed on something on the last page of the notebook you were flipping through. “Look, a phone number,” 

Spencer leaned in to take a closer look, tilting his head a bit, which brought his slightly too-long hair into your reach again. The familiar scent slowly drifted to your nose. Spencer probably didn’t even realize how close he’d gotten, too absorbed in his thoughts. Still, you couldn’t help but find it amusing. After all, just a few days ago, he had pointed a gun at you and kept the greatest distance possible.

He straightened up, and you noticed the change in his expression. You stayed perfectly still, not moving, not backing away. It might sound strange, but you wanted to see how you affected him. Would he have done what you did on the staircase if it hadn’t been for you? Did he genuinely want to do it too, or was it simply the conversation over the pictures that had lured you both into the trap of sentimentality, the nostalgic need to revisit an old dessert?

“You know this number?” you asked, surprised.

You hadn’t expected such a thing to happen, yet here it was. Spencer nodded.

“I remember it,” he admitted. At the same time, his voice carried a note of readiness, excitement about moving the investigation forward with this newly found clue... and an unexpected hint of awkwardness, as he briefly scratched his forehead before placing the notebook back on the desk. “It’s a brothel’s number.”

Your eyebrows shot up mockingly.

“You remember the number of a…”

“You have no idea how often the FBI uses their services,” he blurted defensively.

A beat of silence followed, then his eyes widened, and he quickly shook his head. “No, that’s not what I meant, for God’s sake. I mean, prostitutes often have a lot of information about different people and can be useful…”

“Tsss…” you silenced him with a playful swirl of your finger near his lips, amused by his rushed, nervous reaction.

Spencer glanced down at your finger, his lower lip jutting out slightly as if he wanted to add something, but his brilliant mind failed to produce anything coherent. Even if it had, you wouldn’t have cared.

You couldn’t let go of the topic anyway—you always enjoyed teasing him too much, loved seeing that faint blush color his stubbled cheeks.

“You don’t have to explain yourself, seriously.”

You had the strange feeling his gaze lingered a little too intently as you slowly swallowed, forcing you to cross your arms over your chest, creating a small barrier to keep your focus. You blinked slowly, mischievously.

“I’m not interested in where you sought comfort after our breakup.”

He literally gasped. 

“This is…” he began with a deep sigh, taking half a step back from you. “This is…I swear, this is the most narcissistic thing that has ever come out of your mouth. And there have been plenty.”

You gave a mock salute.

“See, I like breaking my own records,” you muttered.

Spencer’s gaze suddenly shifted from you back to the desk. He sighed, like he was grounding himself after drifting somewhere else.

“We should…we should call that number. Maybe set up a meeting. See if we can learn something more about him than the fact he doodles in the margins when he’s on the phone.”

You nodded in agreement, sliding your hands into the pockets of your jacket.

“Didn’t think I’d ever say this, but you’re right. Let’s meet your hooker.”

Spencer rolled his eyes.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Want me to dictate the number, or do you remember it?”

“I get the feeling you’re not letting this go anytime soon.”

“And you’re absolutely right, Spencer,” you agreed. “Absolutely right.”

*

“He made you do… what?!”

Your raised voice filled the car.

Quick recap—you’d managed to set up a meeting with a prostitute, whose services, after a few hours of digging, you’d confirmed Clinton Richardson had used. By now, it had gotten dark, and you were seriously starting to wonder if this wasn’t just a complete waste of time. You knew the rest of the BAU was busy searching for Rebekah using other methods, but the nagging feeling that you could be doing more refused to let go.

On top of that, the fact that Robert Miller had completely vanished since his escape from prison weighed heavily on you. No one had seen him filling up the stolen car at a gas station, wearing a baseball cap. No one had heard him break into a nearby house seeking shelter through the cold night. They must have had a plan—one that played out well beyond your reach.

Though you tried to push it away, a rising sense of dread filled you.

The escort slid into the backseat of the car, introducing herself briefly as Andy. Distracted by your own worries, you couldn't stop the words that escaped your mouth.

“Andy’s not exactly a very hooker-ish name”

The woman shrugged indifferently. She seemed only slightly tense about speaking with the cops (or, well, with one cop). She wore a light white fur coat draped over her shoulders, and, to put it plainly, she was stunningly beautiful. 

"Well, I didn't pick it," she shrugged.

"How old are you?" Spencer suddenly asked, turning slightly in his seat.

You exchanged a look. She did seem alarmingly young despite the heavy makeup on her face.

"Are you doing some kind of interview or what?" she scoffed. "Last I checked, you were supposed to ask me questions about one of my clients. So, I'm waiting. And for the record, I'm twenty-three."

You’d asked her the first few questions to confirm if the man she’d met was indeed Clinton Richardson. Garcia had even sent over his photo, and after a quick glance, Andy nodded, confirming it was him.

And now, back to where we left off.

“He made you do what?!”

Andy grimaced. You would’ve done the same if you weren’t absolutely stunned. You glanced sideways at Spencer, who had straightened up in his seat, his brows furrowed deeply as if he thought he’d misheard. Honestly, you’d thought the same at first. 

You drew in a deeper breath, trying to steady yourself. Spencer shot you a glance, his expression tense. There was no doubt anymore—this was the man you were looking for.

“Chop off chicken heads,” the woman repeated reluctantly, pulling her fur coat tighter around herself. A flicker of discomfort crossed her face—one that hadn’t been there the first time she’d mentioned it. Apparently, saying it again brought the memory into sharper focus, and you felt a pang of guilt for making her relive it. She sighed. “While he was mastrubating” 

Andy had nothing more to offer, no leads to help you track down his current location, and that realization sent a wave of frustration crashing over you. Not at her, of course, but at the fact that this case was moving forward at a painfully slow pace. Sure, you knew it was Richardson now. But what next? How were you supposed to find him before he and Robert hurt Rebekah?

You scrubbed a hand over your face, then clenched it into a fist to stop the trembling. Spencer's gaze dropped to your hand, and he tried to catch your eye, but you didn’t want that—not right now.

“Andy,” you called out just as she pushed the car door open, stopping her in her tracks. Your voice came out rough, an edge of desperation bleeding through. An impulsive decision bloomed in your mind, taking root before you could second-guess it. “We...took up some of your time. Would you have had a client during it?” 

The woman looked at you with a skeptical hesitation, unsure of what you meant.

“Yeah, I think so.”

Instead of saying anything else, you reached into your pocket for the cash you’d taken from your apartment and shoved it into her hand, her perfectly manicured nails catching the light. At first, her face remained neutral, but when she saw how many bills were stacked together, her eyes widened.

“You’re kidding me.”

“No. It’s for you. Payment for your help.”

“But this…” she started, meeting your gaze. You nodded seriously, confirming she could keep the money. Andy blinked, hesitated for a moment, then slipped it into her pocket before clearing her throat. “I…thank you. Seriously. It’s way more than I’d have made in that time. So... good luck finding that freak.”

“It’ll come in handy,” you muttered under your breath.

Andy closed the door behind her, and you followed her figure, wrapped in white fur, as it stood out against the night’s dark expanse. The interior of the car was filled with silence, the orange light from the overhead lamp casting shadows on both your faces. When you saw the grimace on the woman's face as she talked about Richardson, you immediately thought of Rebekah. About how her fate rested in the hands of the same man who had made Andy do things like that. You were also filled with sympathy for her, knowing she must have gone through it. She most likely didn’t have the option to refuse.

“It was a lot of money,” Spencer said after a long pause.

There was this heavy feeling of helplessness hanging in the air. What now? Where the hell were you supposed to go? Who else did you need to talk to? It hurt in your chest, and you sighed.

“Well, who knows,” you said, bitterly, not looking at him, your eyes on the windshield. “Who knows what’s gonna happen. That girl could really use the money. If something happens to me...it’d go to waste...”

You stopped, freezing when you felt a touch on your knee. A gentle pressure, filled with some kind of concern. You lowered your gaze, almost in a trance, watching his fingers spread out over the fabric of your pants, holding onto it.

“Don’t think like that,” he said, swallowing hard, his voice pleading.

You forced yourself to pull your gaze away from his hand and look straight into his eyes. He held your gaze, and there was something warm in it, something you almost wanted to sink into. You could have just nodded, let him take care of everything, let him protect you. But from the very beginning, you knew that wasn’t how this was supposed to go. You didn’t want to be just a passive part of the story, waiting meekly for the tragedy that was about to unfold. You wanted to stop it.

“Spencer, we’ve practically got nothing,” you said quietly, but there was a frustrated silence in your voice.

“That’s not true. We have...we have a profile.”

“We have Miller’s profile from two years ago, practically nothing new, and fragmentary info about Richardson. You can’t build a profile just from the fact that he had a prostitute decapitate chickens…”

“I can,” he interrupted with sudden confidence. His hand on your knee tightened, and he probably didn’t even realize it. You didn’t ask him to move it, even though the whole scene—the car, the night, his hand placed like that—was taking you back two years, to when all of this felt natural, a part of your everyday life together. You started to stop thinking about it with simple sentimentality. Since your kiss, there had been this indescribable longing you wanted to get rid of, but every interaction seemed to just intensify it.

Spencer took a breath before speaking slowly.

“Well, maybe not just based on the chickens... but we know so much about his childhood. He grew up across from the Millers, him, the poor kid. Dysfunctional parents, Joseph Miller was like a father figure to him. He had to respect him, idealize him, which is why he visited him recently when his condition worsened. His relationship with the rest of the Miller family… it had to be complicated with Robert. He was probably jealous of him, but because he was able to easily manipulate him, he never saw him as a threat. Robert, on the other hand, treated him like an older brother he never had, trusted him completely. So Richardson had his perfect picture after his parents died. A father, a younger brother, their shared sailing trips, the time spent together. The only thing that bothered him, the only thing he saw as a problem was...

“Robert Miller’s mother,” you finished, already seeing exactly what he was picturing in his mind. The pieces were falling into place, like the image on a puzzle box showing what it should look like when it’s put together. “Unlike her husband, she didn’t treat him like her son. She was part of all their trips, their cruises…during one of them, he pushed her off the boat. But why…”

“Robert took the fall for it,” Spencer answered the question you hadn’t asked, but one he could see had formed in your mind. “He did it to protect someone he saw as an older brother. They...they’re a classic example of a duo working together. One is clearly dominant, here, Richardson, and the other follows his lead, lets himself be manipulated. That’s Miller. And I think... I think...okay, these are just my assumptions...Richardson is responsible for all thirteen murders.”

For a moment, you went silent, furrowing your brow deeply.

“But...but you said you interrogated Miller. And you were sure he committed the murders.”

“Or he believed he committed them,” he added.

 You shook your head in confusion, waiting for him to explain.

“I don’t think this was a typical murder duo. They didn’t kill together. Richardson kept the women in Miller’s vacation house. When Miller was arrested, he wouldn’t turn over someone he thought of as a brother, so he took the blame. And over time, through manipulation, he started believing he’d actually committed the murders himself. Just like he believed he killed his own mother. That’s why the polygraph always showed he was telling the truth, why we thought he was the killer. All this time, he truly believed he was The Waterside Butcher—he was stuck in a deep delusion. Meanwhile, our real unsub was still out there.”

You sighed in admiration at how he connected all the dots. You knew he was a brilliant profiler, you knew it well, but you were still shocked at how one person could dive so deeply into the psychology of crime.

“I wanna kiss your brain,” you blurted out.

Spencer’s breathing came out in irregular bursts as he rattled off sentence after sentence without pause. After your words, he paused for a moment—a small, tired smile tugged at his lips.

“You're welcome,” he replied, then slowly easing his grip on your knee before pulling his hand back. He looked at you uncertainly, as if wondering what you made of his gesture. “Although, that would require a surgeon.”

The dry joke broke the tension, adding a strangely sweet awkwardness to the moment. You snorted.

“I’d manage,” you said, mentally giving yourself a little nudge on the forehead. “But you need to update your team about all this. You have to pass on the profile.”

Spencer nodded in agreement. You could feel the air between you cool slightly—as if a splash of cold water had just run under your shirts on an unbearably hot day. With the same hand that had been on your knee, he reached for his phone, though he didn’t dial a number immediately.

“It’s pretty late,” he began, nodding toward the cars outside the window—as if you hadn’t noticed it was night. Well, you had, for a moment, forgotten. “No offense, but you look exhausted. You should probably get some sleep. I’m just wondering…do you have somewhere to stay? You shouldn’t be sleeping there alone.”

He put an emphasis on the word sleeping. It’s one thing to stay there fully awake, weapon in hand, but quite another to let yourself fall into that vulnerable state of unconsciousness.

You slowly shrugged your shoulders.

“I’d probably rather go back there,” you admitted, even though the idea didn’t really appeal to you. You sighed, and his face twisted in confusion. “You know, I have a lot of neighbors. And a lot of women, too. I’m afraid one of them might run into him…if he came for me.”

For a moment, he looked like he wanted to talk you out of it—he even opened his mouth, only to close it almost immediately. It was hard to argue with that.

“Alright,” he said slowly, turning his phone in his hand. “But in that case, let me stay with you.”

A surprised sound escaped your mouth.

"Seriously? You want that?"

"I just don't want anything to happen to you."

You knew you wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink in your own apartment, yet you still felt a hint of hesitation. Things had already taken a wild turn that day—everything was changing. The verbal barbs between you weren’t laced with resentment anymore; they’d turned into a playful game that often ended in genuine bursts of laughter and smiles. You’d literally kissed. He’d touched your leg, shown care. And now, on top of it all, you were going to spend the night in the same apartment. Quite an odd situation for two exes.

The direction all this was heading remained somewhat unclear. You were so preoccupied with the case—the murderer hot on your heels—that you barely considered what would happen when it all came to an end. How would you say goodbye once more before both of you returned to your separate, opposing lives?

Spencer noticed your hesitation. His jaw clenched ever so slightly as his mind worked on a way to convince you—but he didn't really need to. As a criminal, you often thought about the consequences of your actions. You saw them clearly, analyzed every detail. Yet even the clearest vision of those consequences rarely stopped you from carrying out your plans. After all, if it did, you wouldn’t last long in this line of work.

You nodded in agreement, allowing him to stay with you.

*

You knew how it would play out.

First, you'd both slowly cross the threshold of your apartment, arguing about who should sleep in the bedroom and who on the couch, but in the end, you'd both end up side by side on the couch, trying to keep the conversation light and casual, along with your body language, and a second later, you'd start kissing, letting go of everything that had been hanging between you all day.

It was really predictable. Which didn’t mean you didn’t enjoy it.

“You know…” Spencer started when your lips gave him a chance to open his own. “I think there’s a certain question…” he was silenced. “...that we should both ask ourselves.”

“If it’s what are we? I’m leaving.”

"It's your apartment. Just saying."

"We’d be having a lot more fun if you shut up. Just saying."

With a soft sigh, you pulled away from him, moving your face just enough to be able to talk freely. But not enough to make him stop feeling threatened by the prospect of you shutting him up at any moment. Just saying.

"You wanted to ask about that, right?" you asked quietly.

He shrugged slightly, and because you were leaning against his chest, you felt that little shiver.

"Maybe in different words. But with the same general meaning."

With a thoughtful look, you ran your hand over the buttons of his burgundy shirt. Spencer followed the smooth motion of your hand with his eyes, gently tightening his grip around your waist. The position, the way your bodies were arranged, the closeness—it felt so natural. It was how it should be.

"Did you miss me?" you asked suddenly. "All those nearly two years."

"And you?" he shot the question back at you. You tilted your head, staring at him. You weren’t going to answer, not until he did first, though your answer wasn’t really dependent on his. You were honest with your feelings, even with yourself. Even if he said he hadn’t thought about you once or never missed you on the other side of the bed, it wouldn’t change the fact that you missed him. You’d had no trouble admitting before that, in some way, you'd always love him. "I missed you. How could I not?"

The soft question thrown into the space between you made you pout your bottom lip slightly. His gaze drifted to it briefly, but didn’t stay there—it landed somewhere else. A tiny spot just below your collarbone, a mark in the shape of the number pi. He leaned in to brush it with his lips, first briefly, then more deliberately, and you placed your hand in his slightly too long hair.

“I want to know what’s gonna happen with us when all this finally ends,” he muttered, his breath tickling your skin. You lifted your eyelids, which had fluttered shut in drowsiness and pleasure. “I missed you, that’s true, you missed me…I’d dare to bet that you did too. Correct me if I’m wrong. I don’t know…I just don’t know if that’s enough. For us…for it to work, something would have to change…”

Of course, he meant the different life paths you had chosen, your involvement in crime, your long-standing ties to the criminal underworld.

"Spencer," you said his name slowly, cupping his face in your hands so you could look into it. Okay, bad move. His brown eyes made it harder to focus. "It’s...it’s not that simple, you know that. It’s practically my whole life." You paused, swallowing. "I can’t think about it right now. Not with everything going on. My mind...I just can’t tell you anything right now. Except that I want you."

For a moment, he hesitated to answer, a sigh escaping from his chest. It sounded disappointed.

“I want you too,” he admitted, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, a statement that applies to every possible case with no exceptions. “Exactly like I did back then. And you know it wasn’t enough.”

You pressed your lips together.

“I know.”

For a moment, you both just stared at each other, neither of you moving in any way. The silence was overwhelming, making your breaths perfectly audible. You felt tired of everything that had been happening—not just around you in the last few days, but also inside your head. You needed... you probably just needed to rest your head on his chest, inhale his scent, think seriously about the two of you, then step outside for fresh air and reconsider it, sober. Then compare both conclusions. The corners of your mouth trembled. You wanted to suggest you both just lie down and sleep when his phone rang.

“They need me,” he explained when the call ended, rising from the couch, detaching himself from your body. You nodded in understanding. But he didn’t head for the door. Instead, he paused, staring at you. “You shouldn’t stay here…”

“I’ll find a hotel,” you cut him off. He raised his eyebrows, clearly not convinced by the idea.

“I won’t get a wink of sleep here, and I’m exhausted. I’ll make sure no one’s following me. Trust me, if there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s that,” you snorted softly.

Of course, you were a little worried about your neighbors' safety, but you couldn’t figure out a way to protect both them and yourself. Part of you wanted to stay inside, fueled by caffeine with a loaded gun in hand, waiting for the moment someone tried to mess with the lock. But you didn’t even mention that to Spencer—you knew exactly how he’d react. Not a chance.

He pulled you into one last, lingering embrace before leaving. It seemed like an unspoken agreement to temporarily abandon the topic of what would happen between you two later.

Reluctantly, you made your way to the bedroom. The last time you’d been there, you’d taken almost all the cash hidden in the photo album, which you later gave to Andy. A few bills still remained between the pages—just enough for a night in some hotel and a cup of coffee. You snapped the album shut, but one of the photos slipped out, drifting down like a leaf on the wind, sliding under the dresser.

You sighed. You felt too exhausted to even bend down for it, but after an internal struggle, you finally gave in. First, you dropped to your knees, then sprawled flat on your stomach to reach under the furniture and retrieve it. But as soon as your face got close to the floor…you noticed a strange smell.

Faint, yet distinct. You thought it might be a figment of your imagination, but after inhaling a few more times, you were certain. Sickly sweet in a way, unfamiliar, but it reminded you of an odd mix of rotting meat, damp earth…maybe even mold?

Ignoring the photo, you got to your feet. The smell was coming from your elderly neighbor Erika’s apartment. You realized you hadn’t seen her in a while—not even heard her poodle barking, which was usually relentless with its evening performances. Dark thoughts raced through your mind. She had a bad hip—maybe she’d fallen…

Before you even realized it, you were pulling on your jacket.

The door wasn’t even locked, which only heightened your sense of foreboding.

“Mrs. Hemingway?” you called out, stepping cautiously into the apartment. The hallway was dark, but a yellow light glowed from an old-fashioned chandelier in the living room. You quickly corrected yourself. “I mean, Erika? Are you here?”

The smell had become unbearable. A wave of nausea hit you, doubling you over, but your head remained upright—you couldn’t tear your eyes away from what you saw.

Right next to a long beige leather couch lay a rolled-up light-colored rug. There were dark, bloodstained patches scattered across it, but that wasn’t the worst part.  The worst part was the head, not wrapped in the rug. Your neighbor’s eyes were wide open and empty. Black earrings still dangled from her ears—you didn’t know why you fixated on them. Maybe your brain was starting to short-circuit, latching onto odd details instead of focusing on what it should.

Like the sound of footsteps right behind you.

You heard them too late.

There was no time to turn around before something struck the back of your head with brutal force.

It wasn’t like in the movies—it didn’t knock you out. The blow was too weak, too unskilled. It only sent you crashing to your knees, from which you desperately tried to push yourself back up, feeling your heart pounding furiously in your chest. But you were too dazed, your skull filled with a deafening roar, just before it absorbed another hit—this time stronger, harder.

As you collapsed unconscious to the ground, a shadow of a male figure hung above you.

*

The buzz.

A slowly forming image before you. Its small fragments connecting in incorrect combinations, as if someone were trying to piece together two mismatched puzzles.

The pain in your head.

Oh, it was terrible.

It intensified when you tried to open your eyes, so you spent a long moment in darkness, even though your body was slowly beginning to wake. You tried to press your hand to your temple, to massage it, perhaps to ease that furious pounding...when you realized you couldn't.

You opened your eyes despite the head-splitting pain, as if someone had driven a spike into it.

You were in a dimly lit room that reeked of wood and blood. It made you nauseous, and it wasn’t just because of the injury you’d sustained. At least, not entirely.

Fighting the bitter taste of vomit gathering in your throat, you began to look around the interior. Made of light-colored boards, small, with only one window covered. It resembled more of a cabin than a house, the furniture inside arranged in a way that could give an interior designer a heart attack. A rust-covered fridge stood right in the middle of the room. The floor was covered with a blue tarp that rustled with every movement of your body. The place looked as if someone had built it by hand.

Eventually, your gaze landed on your hands, chained tightly to the wall, causing pain in your wrists. You were half sitting, half lying on the floor, unable to move much. At first, you were too confused to feel fear.

Terror only hit you when you glanced to the side.

"Rebekah," you barely managed to say.

She was sitting next to you, tied to the wall in the same way you had found her in Miller's basement two years ago. Her head was lowered, eyes closed, and you prayed she'd look at you. That would mean she was alive…

She did, but very slowly, and you felt no relief at all. Her hair hung in greasy tangles on her face, her lip looked swollen, and her cheek was covered with blood trickling from a wound on her temple.

Rebekah opened her parched lips, but said nothing. She simply let her head drop again.

"Rebekah, listen to me," you begged in a hoarse tone, instinctively trying to get closer to her, but of course, you couldn't. You started to frantically look around once more. You were searching for your captors, searching for a way out. There had to be one. "Listen to me... you have to focus, I'm here, together we can figure something out..."

"You're here," a weak grunt came from the woman. "Finally. At least now it will end."

You didn't quite understand the meaning of her words, but you sensed some hidden depth to them that you decided to ignore. Instead, you nodded affirmatively. Bad idea. The pain intensified.

“Yes. That's right. Now it will end, we'll escape. You have to tell me everything you know. Where are they? When will they return..."

She grunted again.

"No," she simply said. You could barely hear her rough, quiet voice. "It will end because you're here. He was waiting for you, and now, finally, he will kill us." There was a strange, suffering longing in her voice. The prospect of impending relief lightened her face. Suddenly, though, a brief sob overtook her frail body. "Just like those other women..."

"You're wrong," a male voice cut in suddenly, making you flinch. Rebekah didn't even move. Focused on the conversation, you didn't notice the tall man dressed in a black hoodie and cap approaching.

Instinctively, you pressed yourself back into the wall. You hated your own body for showing fear, even though it was completely understandable in that situation. Before you stood Clinton Richardson. You recognized his face with the unevenly trimmed beard. Before you stood real The Waterside Butcher.

“This way, I'll only kill you,” he said in a neutral tone, staring at Rebekah with an odd look, as though she were the least interesting thing in the world to him. He didn’t blink. Not once. Slowly, his gaze shifted to you, and only then did his expression change ever so slightly, seeming more present in his own body. The corner of his mouth twitched. “I’ve got something else prepared for you.”

Your heart pounded painfully in your chest. Sometimes you’d talk to Spencer about his work, sometimes you simply listened to his long monologues with your chin resting on your hand. Did he ever tell you what to do in a situation like this? How to talk to a full-fledged psychopath?

His voice began to echo in your head, gently calming you. You took a deep breath.

“Clinton...” you began, in as soft a tone as you could manage, though your body screamed to rip those chains off the wall, lunge at him, and wrap them around his neck. That desire only grew when you remembered poor, innocent, murdered Erika. You had to close your eyes to get rid of that image.

“Shut up,” he snapped, cutting you off.

A man entered the cabin through the narrow door. You had already met him personally, though the two years he’d spent in prison had significantly changed his face. His features had become sharper, his head shaved clean. When the door opened for a brief moment, you noticed… water. Since it must have been the middle of the night, the moonlight gently shimmered on its surface. The cabin had been placed right on the edge of some kind of water source.

“Take her to the boat,” Clinton ordered, not specifying exactly who he meant.

Your body knew, though. It tensed uneasily, then frantically, as Robert Miller moved toward you. At first, you tried to fight back, kicking, but he immobilized your legs. He reached into the pocket of his fleece jacket and pulled out cable ties. After freeing you from the chains, he used them to try to restrain your hands again. Surprisingly…ineptly.

“Stop playing with her,” the second man growled, crouching next to Rebekah, lifting her chin to examine her battered face. “Hit her, she’ll stop struggling.”

Robert followed the order.

Holding your restrained hands tightly, he dragged you like a slaughtered animal. Your jacket and the clothes beneath it pulled up, and your bare skin unpleasantly scraped against the tarp material, causing abrasions. You hissed as your cheek brushed against the wooden platform outside. Before the cabin door closed, you threw one last terrified glance toward Rebekah, huddled against the wall.

Robert decided it would be easier to do it this way. He threw your body over his shoulder, despite your protests and last desperate jerks, and in just a few steps, he tossed you into the small motorboat by the lake’s edge. You collapsed onto it heavily, wincing from the pain and the ringing in your head. You exhaled through clenched teeth. You didn't know what force kept you from simply going numb, waiting for whatever was coming. What force made you keep fighting.

“Robert, you don’t have to do this,” you tried weakly, trying to make it sound like anything but a sob. You felt powerless, but you knew that this was the weak point of the duo. This was where you had to strike. “Robert...I know it wasn’t you who committed those murders.”

“It was me.”

“No, it wasn’t you. It was Clinton, you just took the blame. You believed you did it. You still believe it. He manipulated you, you have to see that...”

You stopped when he aimed the gun at you.

“Robert,” you said again, though you knew how risky that had become. You could barely force your mouth to open, but you knew it was your only chance. “I know you didn’t kill your mother.”

The hand holding the gun trembled. So, his mother was the weak spot.

“You’re lying. I...I pushed her out of the boat…”

“Why the hell are you even talking to her?” Clinton joined you in the boat, rolling his eyes. He looked at your hunched form with some contempt, and you tried to straighten up, holding onto whatever dignity you had left in these final moments.

As the engine of the boat roared to life and it began drifting farther out, toward the center of the lake, you started to doubt you would ever get out of this.

You sat still, staring at the two men. Clinton had his arms crossed over his chest, seeming to relax, his eyes taking in the surface of the lake. He even closed his eyelids, as if meditating. You noticed he wasn't carrying a gun.

You caught Robert's gaze, tilting your head to the side.

Please. 

He blinked, as if trying to focus. To keep his thoughts from drifting away. He looked into your eyes once more, for a long moment. Suddenly, it seemed like he was looking through you. His eyes registered your battered body, but his mind saw another woman, one who had also drowned in the lake. The woman he had loved. The woman who had been his mother.

“Here,” Clinton muttered under his breath.

Robert quickly stopped looking at you.

“Do it,” Richardson said to him. “Come on. Get rid of her, get rid of the problem.”

 But Robert didn’t move. Your breath caught in your chest, a flicker of hope.

“She’s the reason you ended up in prison,” Clinton reminded him, emphasizing she. “Get rid of the problem, brother.”

When he still didn't move, Clinton grabbed you by your clothes and lifted you to a standing position, holding you so tightly by the shoulders that he must have left marks. In that moment, you could no longer feel fear.

"Fine, I'll do it myself," Clinton sighed, pushing you closer to the edge of the boat.

You twisted your neck to glance at Robert one last time. In the hand that hung at his side, he still held the gun, his grip uncertain and nervous.

“If he were your brother, he wouldn't have killed your mother,” you said loudly, no longer caring about the consequences. “Was she a problem to you too?”

The body of the man holding you tensed even more, this time in... unease.

“Robert…” he began, dragging out the syllables of his name. Hearing the fear in his voice gave you a sense of fulfillment. You felt like you needed to experience it before you died. You lifted your gaze to the night sky above, to the stars and the moon. These were the things you wanted to see before your body sank into the abyss. “Robert, no—”

Several gunshots rang out, all aimed at the boat’s deck. He wanted to drown them all. Clinton released you and lunged at his partner. A struggle over the weapon broke out between the men, everything rocking dangerously, sparking as water began filling the boat.

You looked at them one last time. Clinton yanked the gun from Robert's hand and shoved him aside. He didn’t manage to aim it at you, though he tried. You saw his eyes searching for your face. Though you were in the middle of the lake, your hands were bound, and you couldn’t swim... you leaned over the side of the boat.

The bullet pierced the water’s surface just next to where your body fell.

When it hit the water, for a moment, you felt free. No one could reach you there; the cold of the lake protected you, surrounding you like a shield. A rush of adrenaline urged you to move your arms, to push yourself to the surface, to swim toward the shore. It wasn’t far, you could swim. But you couldn’t do it. Your hands were tied.

You began to sink.

*

Water burst from your lungs.

The first thing you felt was that your hands were free. Then the piercing cold, sending your whole body into a tremor. Then the stabbing pain in your chest, but you slowly stopped caring about what you felt. It didn’t matter. What mattered was what you saw.

Around you, blue and red lights of police cars flickered, reflecting off the surface of the lake where you lay. A man with dark skin, performing CPR, pulled away when you finally took a breath, his sharp gaze scanning your condition. He had just quickly checked your pulse when someone almost shoved between you.

“Derek, I need a thermal blanket,” Spencer said, kneeling in front of you. His gaze was frantic, only locking on yours when you made eye contact. You wanted to say something, but all you could do was cough. “Quick. She's shaking.”

You pressed your hands to your chest, waiting for the coughing fit to pass. You didn’t help yourself, still trying to say something, not tearing your gaze away from Spencer. You couldn’t. It was all too unreal. A harsh sound escaped your lips.

“Hey, take it easy,” he said, as gently as he could. His voice was soft and weak, and you heard him swallow with relief as he carefully placed his hands on your shoulders, just resting them there. Trying to understand that you were even there. Alive. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

“You found me,” you finally managed to say.

Spencer nodded eagerly. 

“I did,” he admitted. Suddenly, he furrowed his brow, as if in disbelief. Without caring about your soaked clothes, you pressed yourself against him, burying your injured cheek in his chest. You felt his heavy sigh. “I-I did,” he mumbled. 

You probably shouldn’t have heard those words, but he pulled you so close that they grazed the shell of your ear.

Around you, people were moving, busy with the aftermath. The investigation didn't end with your rescue; the night wouldn't quiet down. They had to follow procedures, secure the scene, get inside the cabin where you'd been held...

Like being jolted by electricity, you pulled away from Spencer. The fear on your face mirrored in his eyes.

"Rebekah..."

"She's alive," he reassured you immediately. Your shoulders dropped, and an unidentified sound of relief escaped your lips. "They didn’t have time to do anything to her. They planned to after they…" He trailed off, shaking his head slightly. "She's alive. They drowned."

For the first time, your gaze shifted towards the dark waters, hiding its secrets.

"Both of them?" you asked, needing to be sure.

Your breath began to quicken again, unease taking hold. Spencer gently reached for your cheek, guiding your attention back to him, away from the lake.

"Both," he confirmed. He stood still for a moment, watching you with those dark eyes, his concern echoing with every shiver that ran through your freezing body. Once again, he didn’t care about your soaked clothes, pulling you tightly into his arms.

You closed your eyes as his chin rested on top of your head.

"You’re safe now."

*

In the ambulance, they attended to your injuries.

Everything that was happening reached you through a haze. They told you to lie down, but you didn’t want to. It was only someone’s soft, familiar voice that convinced you. You felt a bit pitiful, lying on your back. You wanted to get back up, to return to normalcy after everything that had happened. But when you tried to move, Spencer turned his head slightly, silently instructing you to lie back down. There was an undeniable firmness in his gesture.

Both of his hands held one of yours, enclosing it tightly, like a shell around a pearl.

They told you it was okay to sleep, but you were a bit afraid. You feared that when you closed your eyes, all the warmth would fade, and you'd find yourself back in the icy depths of the lake. Every time you felt yourself drifting away, you squeezed Spencer’s hand tighter. You turned your head slightly to look at him, and he gave you a small smile.

“Spencer,” you murmured suddenly, a hint of worry in your voice.

“What’s wrong?”

Then, something came to your mind. You reached into the pocket of your jacket, where you had the photo you promised to give him. The water had ruined it completely; all you had now was a white, torn piece of paper instead of the image of his hand gently holding your cheek as he placed a kiss on it.

“I’m sorry. I know you wanted it…”

Spencer took the remains of the photo from you, glanced at it without much interest, then crumpled it up. Surprised, you furrowed your brows.

“We’ll take more,” he assured you lightly.

For a moment, you just stared at him in silence. Did that mean…?

“Really?”

“We’ll take hundreds of them.”

taglist: @she-wont-miss @mggslover @nyeddleblog @dylanobrienswife0420 @wmoony @heddgie @khxna @marauder-exe-old @yujyujj @charleyreid @kitty-kai @sp3ncelle @pleasantwitchgarden @beesin03 @misserabella @re1dsb1xch @trulymadlydarling @cynbx @penelopegarciaismygf @awordsmith @witchfromsalem666 @i-padfootblack-things @honestlyloving @fromsaltandsea @kwonhoeshi @mega-kittyglitter-1 @sleepysongbirdsings

[darqx]

Another BP/HH/Gen answer dump as usual starting with BP and then moving into the other two \o/

All demons age about the same rate as humans (although with earlier milestones as babies) UNTIL they hit their 30s-40s after which aging slows down drastically 🙂‍↕️

Izm chasing you down to get .D back like

🤔 You guys sometimes really make me think about things I don't often have to think about LOL. I'm just gonna do the gang this time so off the top of my head:

Izm and .D are often eating sushi in my drawings and since I'm pretty sure Izm is mainly the one buying, sushi is his fave. He'll eat any type but he prefers the raw fish ones.

Whilst .D also likes sushi, it's not his fave dish. His fave dish is pasta in a red sauce (like Sugo or Arrabiata) for some reason. Nostalgia maybe?

Zeke is a meat and potatoes kind of guy, so, a nice juicy sirloin with mushroom sauce and a side of roast potatoes and veggies. (BP!Zeke is similar but he really likes pork/bacon particularly, so a pork roast for him probably).

Wei Ren's comfort foods are chicken congee, and seafood steamboat/hot pot.

Marcus' fave is his mom's chicken casserole.

Oh I'm glad (and thank you very much)! I hope you get lots of inspiration and can create a lot of things :D

Hm, that's a good question! I think, for doodling purposes, my fave is Rire mainly because Rire always looks more or less completed in black and white. My other two faves are .D and Izm - .D is a good exercise in subtle expressions whereas Izm is the complete opposite (esp with BP!Izm with that mouth).

Yes. I mean, I'd prefer you be at least 15 for those two things only cos if i had to age rate them they could be considered M or MA15+.

Hullo! The short answer is that there are also "not normal" skin tones, it depends on the demon species :)

The rest of society is pretty standard so yes there are charlatans in the world of BP lol. HOWEVER, no one would pretend to be a BP for three distinct reasons:

You need to be sanctioned to be a BP (ie they have abilities that normal people do not, like being able to perform exorcisms.)

There is no profit to be had as BPs generally don't get paid (all their living expenses are generally covered by their religion's HQ).

It's dangerous work. You'd have better luck being a bank robber.

Desmond is def a club music kind of guy XD EDMs, techno, trance, hardstyle, house, whatever - the kind of stuff you jump energetically up and down to at a club/concert/rave, he'll listen to it.

Not yet for BP (soon...🙏🏻). HH wasn't really a comic series so much as a bunch of somewhat random one shots I did for fun lol.

^ you guys :d

I don't put my pronouns anywhere partly because it is lowkey amusing for me to see how people perceive me online. It doesn't really matter to me, so go with your best guess lol.

You would be surprised at how much time those two hobbies can take up outside of work |D; I also like doing puzzle games (like Quordle etc), coding, going for walks/bike riding, making slightly odd food combos in normal recipes and freaking out my friends on Discord with them, and watching horror/disaster films and playthroughs of horror games.

Maybe one day I would, but not at this particular time, sorry!

Thanks for asking as this is a bit of a grey type area! Personally, I think that as long as this is purely for your own use and you aren't going to on-sell it in any way...then it should be ok. I'm going to categorise something like this as somewhat similar to say...people printing out my art to stick to their wall type thing. Of course, if you ended up buying a bunch and then thought oh i have so many extra I'll sell them to whoever wants them - that would be a no no.

In what capacity lol if there's something I've learned from real life it's never agree or disagree to anything without knowing specifics. Eg if you would like to use my art as a PFP on tumblr then you can if you credit it, but if you want to use my art as a face claim for your own charac then i would have to say no, etc.

That makes two of us as i am not familiar with the twisted wonderland universe :P

.D: Diasomnia

Izm: Pomefiore

Wei Ren: Ignihyde

Zeke: Savanaclaw

Marcus: Diasomnia

I never really specified one so my friends and I have been calling it the fictional city of Hedone lol.

I haven't given up on HH, i just dont draw it nearly as much since i'm focussing on developing BP :) Anyway HH wasn't seriously planned to be a comic or anything (though technically...it does have a very loose storyline that I've alluded to in some drawings |D ) so it's something I can just jump back into and doodle whenever i feel like.

This was from a while back

It's pretty straightforward HH is a slice of life 'verse where my main characs are in an all boy's boarding school and Rire is the headmaster. It focuses on the boys shenanigans though so if you specifically like Rire you will be disappointed as he's barely in it.

I cut off this post cos I dont think the stuff in it should be shared with other random people even though anon is on anon. If this is you anon i hope you are doing well and i would genuinely encourage you to talk to someone about certain things (like a therapist maybe).

[millieisawriter]

Oh, baby

arthur morgan x reader

summary: arthur being a sweet baby daddy, even if you aren't as optimistic

wc: 2k

tw: accidental/unwanted pregnancy

all pics taken from pinterest

based on this request

a/n: yeeeehaw finally back from my break

Getting pregnant wasn’t ever something you planned nor wanted to happen. Hooking up with Arthur, you were aware of the possible consequences. Both of you were, but the consequences aren’t something you thought about during the heat of the moment. And now you were living with them. Suffering through them.

Meanwhile Arthur didn’t seem so upset.You supposed you were somewhat lucky he was the one that got you pregnant, he wasn’t running off or pretending it wasn’t happening. But his optimism was starting to piss you off. From the day you had told him, he’s been attentive, caring, and a little happier. He wasn’t that grumpy guy the gang had known anymore. Now, he had a reason to be happy, perhaps even to live.

“Brought you somethin’.”

Arthur’s voice cut through the spiraling thoughts in your head as you sat alone by the fire. No bottle nor a cigarette in your hand, as it would’ve usually been. Now you had to be careful.

You looked at Arthur as he sat down beside you on the log. “What’s that?” You muttered as he handed you a small brown paper package.

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Open it and see.”

You frowned, but curiosity got the best of you and your fingers ripped the paper. Inside, there was a blanket. A new one, not stolen. It was neatly folded, soft, and warm. For the baby.

Your stomach twisted. The moment your fingers brushed over the fabric, it all felt even more real. As if it hadn’t already been real enough. And this wasn’t even the first thing Arthur had bought. If things were different, maybe you’d be happy. If you were different. But you weren’t. You didn’t want any of this.

“You keep buying all these things,” you said.

Arthur replied as if that was the most obvious thing. “Somebody has to think ahead.”

“And that somebody is you?”

“Well, I’m the father.”

You scoffed and shoved the blanket back at him. “Yeah, well, I don’t want it.”

“Ain’t for you,” he shot back, his tone softening when he realized he shouldn’t have snapped back so harshly, “it’s for the baby.”

You stood up. It’s been baby this and baby that for the past few months. No wonder it was starting to get on your nerves. “I can’t wait until this,” you gestured at your stomach, “is finally over so I can go get shitfaced.”

Arthur didn’t smirk, knowing it wasn’t a joke. He didn’t even reply, not having the words. He tried, he really tried to help you warm up to the idea. There wasn’t much he could do. He had searched for solutions to make your problem disappear. Doctors had the skills and tools to help you out, but the problem was it wasn’t legal. Doctors were scared of helping ordinary people in that matter, let alone outlaws wanted in many states with bounties bigger than the money you’ve ever made.

“I just… I hate this, Arthur,” you admitted finally, “I hate feeling slow. Weak. I hate the way y’all look at me like I ain’t me no more.”

Arthur stood up as well. Looking down at your face, he saw how glassy your eyes were. You didn’t want to cry, you were fighting it. “Ain’t nobody thinks you’re weak,” Arthur tried to assure you.

You scoffed. “Oh, please, don’t tell me you don’t see it. The way the gang treats me like I’m fragile. Like I ain’t spent the last few years robbing and shooting and killing right beside y’all.”

“Difference is, now you don’t live just for yourself.”

Arthur paused, and so did you. An uncomfortable silence settled between the two of you. The kind of silence that made the night around you feel overwhelming. You wished you could run, run away from all your problems.

Arthur continued, “I know this ain’t what you wanted. I know you’re scared—”

“I ain’t scared.”

But you knew he was right. You were scared, you had no idea how to be a mother. This had never been in the cards for you. You were an outlaw first, a woman second. And now, you were going to be a mother first.

Arthur let out a breath slowly. “Ain’t a crime to be scared,” he said, “hell, I’m scared too. But we can deal with this, you have me. Me and everyone else in this gang.”

“I don’t know how to do this, Arthur,” you muttered, your voice low.“I don’t wanna do this. I ain’t no mother material, and you ain’t exactly cut out to be a father either.”

Well, that hurt, but you had no idea about his past, about Isaac. The day Isaac and Eliza died, Arthur promised to himself that if he gets another chance, he’ll do better. And maybe you were his another chance.

“I tried,” Arthur sat back down on the log, his elbows on his knees as he stared into the dying fire, “tried to find someone, a doc, a midwife, someone who could help you. Ain’t no one who’d do it, not for us. Not for you. They’re scared to do it for normal folk, we can’t even dream of it.”

You opened your mouth to say something, but then closed it without a word. You swallowed, despite your mouth being suddenly dry. There really was no way out.

You sat down next to Arthur, closer than ever, so close your legs touched. The thing that really got to you was that he had tried. That he had gone looking, knowing well that helping you meant getting rid of something he clearly wanted to keep. Something that was important to him.

“Why?” You asked suddenly.

Arthur turned to look at you. “Why what?”

“Why did you try to help me?”

“Cause I care about you.”

Your throat tightened, and you hated it. You weren’t supposed to cry. Not over this. Not over him.

He continued. “I ain’t gonna pretend I don’t want this kid. I do. But I ain’t the one who’s gotta carry the burden, and I sure as hell ain’t the one who’s gotta go through all this. You are.”

You sniffed and looked away. “Well, ain’t no fixing it now, I guess.”

“No,” the man nodded slowly.

There was silence again, but now just a bit more comfortable. You could hear the soft hum of the night, a distant owl, the fire crackling in front of you, the wind dancing with the leaves. Maybe this wasn’t going to be that bad.

“Now,” Arthur gave your knee a light squeeze as he pushed himself to his feet, “you eaten yet?”

You rolled your eyes. “Of course I have. That thing makes me eat everything in sight.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow at you, his gaze telling you he didn’t exactly believe your words.

You huffed. “Okay. I haven’t.”

“That’s what I thought. Sit here for a moment.”

He turned around to bring you something to eat. Something he got in town, something that wasn’t Pearson’s stew.

And you weren’t going anywhere. You hadn’t moved from your place at the fire for the past few hours. That was how most of your days looked lately. From time to time, someone else would join you, but the more pregnant you were, the more snappy you were. At some point it became easier to leave you alone.

“Eat,” Arthur ordered as he gave you some bread, cheese, and an apple. Then, he reached into his satchel to take out a chocolate bar.

It was a lovely gesture. The food wasn’t some fancy dinner, but not like you expected anything fancy. Fancy isn’t a thing when it comes to any aspect of the outlaw life. The food was simple, but better than whatever was floating in Pearson’s stew.

“Thank you.”

You bit into the bread first, interchangeably taking bites of the cheese. Then, not having fully swallowed the cheese yet, you opened the chocolate and took a few bites. And later on you finished it off with the apple.

You didn’t deserve that kind of understanding. Arthur had wanted this baby. He was probably excited, dreaming about a future you couldn’t bring yourself to imagine. Even if he himself would deny it, you knew he deserved better.

Out of a sudden, you asked, “Why ain’t you mad at me?”

Arthur frowned. “Why would I be mad?”

“Because I don’t want this, and you do. I’ve been a pain in the ass to everyone, you included.”

“You have every right to be like this. Your body isn’t yours anymore. I’d be mad as hell if I were in your shoes.”

Arthur was so understanding it made you nauseous. You wanted to hit him and cuddle into him at the same time.

Then, you felt something. As you threw the apple core into the fire, you felt a weird sensation in your belly. Some shifting, pressing from the inside. Then, a sharp kick.

“What the hell?” You hissed, looking down at the curve of your belly.

Arthur straightened immediately. “What’s wrong?”

“It just kicked me,” your hands went to your stomach, fingers pressing against the spot, feeling the kick again. “You want me to throw you a real punch, little bastard?”

You heard Arthur laugh. His laughter was genuine, probably for the first time ever.

“You wouldn’t be laughing if a baby was trying to kick its way out of your guts, Arthur.” You groaned, rubbing a hand over your belly. Another kick made you jolt slightly. It wasn’t something you were used to, the baby didn’t kick before. “Keep that up and I’ll— ouch!”

Arthur’s laughter died down, and now he was just smiling as he leaned in. He hesitated before saying, “Lemme feel.”

You looked at him with disbelief. “What?”

“The baby. Lemme feel the kicks.”

You sighed, eyeing him for a moment before grabbing his wrist and placing his hand on your belly. His touch was warm, but soft. When you let go of his wrist, his hand practically hovered millimeters above your skin as if he were scared of pressing too hard.

For a second, there was nothing. You were about to tell him to forget it when another kick landed right against his hand. Arthur stilled completely. You could see his face firstly flash with a surprise, which soon switched into a smile. He looked damn near mesmerized.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered, eyes focused on where his hand rested.

You could see it in his face, how much this meant to him. It was strange, seeing Arthur Morgan like that. He looked younger somehow, hopeful in a way you hadn’t seen the whole time you knew him.

You scoffed, trying to ignore the lump forming in your throat. “Told you. Little shit’s got an attitude already.”

Arthur grinned. “Must take after you.”

You looked at the man as he kept his attention on your stomach. Nobody was arguing, nobody was scheming, nobody was running from the law. Just the two of you sitting there, Arthur’s palm resting against your stomach, feeling the proof of the thing that had turned your whole damn world upside down.

After a while, he finally broke the silence. “You ever think maybe this don’t gotta be as bad as you think?”

You didn’t answer right away, because, yeah, you had thought about it. Not in a hopeful way, not in the way Arthur had, but in a tired, resigned sort of way. You weren’t getting rid of it. You weren’t running from it. Whether you liked it or not, this was happening.

Then, suddenly, all you said was, “We can’t let the baby become like us.” And your voice finally carried a softness that wasn’t there for the past few months.

Arthur smiled, finally pulling his hand away. “We won’t.”

[nimbusclan]

Moon 5 Part 2

[Previous] [Start] [Next]

Moonstar gasps awake, sitting up so fast she rams her head into the thick underside of a low-hanging branch that she and her brother had spent the night taking turns sleeping under. They’ve been doing that, taking turns – who knows what things are lurking out here in the dark, so far from home.

If they can't go back, does it still count as home? 

“Ow…” Moonstar groans, a sharp throb pounding against her skull. What a way to start the morning.

Fogfreckle ducks his head underneath one of the branches, sweeping past the leaves to gaze curiously at his sister. He tilts his head questioningly, mouth open to ask what’s wrong, when the words die on his tongue and his eyes widen.

“Fogfreckle!” Moonstar mews excitedly, leaping to her paws. “You’ll never guess what happened!”

“Your– your forehead,” Fogfreckle croaks. “You… were visited by StarClan?”

“What about my forehead?” Moonstar asks, confused and distracted. She presses a paw against her head to see if perhaps she’s bleeding, but her paw doesn’t come away warm or wet. The rest of her brother’s words filter to her slowly through the dull throb of pain and the fog of the early hour. She pouts. “Yeah, Star– how did you guess so quick?”

“There’s– your forehead. You have a star. A leader’s star.”

Moonstar’s pout deepens. “Well. That kind of steals my thunder.”

“Moonpool, what happened?”

“Moonstar now, actually.” Moonstar grins. “StarClan visited me in my dreams and granted me my nine lives. Isn’t that crazy? I didn’t even have to– there was no–” Moonstar’s tongue can hardly keep up with everything that’s swirling in her brain, the experience of her leader’s ceremony playing back to her as if memory and not just dream. “NimbusClan lives on, Fogfreckle. In us, just like you said. We’re to lead NimbusClan into its new future.”

“‘We’?” Fogfreckle asks weakly, jaw slack with disbelief.

“Of course, ‘we’!” Moonstar laughs, bounding closer to her brother. She feels so full of life, coursing through her like the widest, wildest river. “I wouldn’t be here if not for you, you know that. Besides, what’s a leader without her deputy?”

“Deputy?” Fogfreckle repeats, dumbstruck.

“What are you, a raven?” Moonstar laughs. “Yes, deputy! As leader, I’m appointing you as deputy of NimbusClan, Fogfreckle.”

Fogfreckle swells with pride, pale chest fluffed out as he inhales a shaky breath. “I– yes, Moonstar. Thank you.”

“Don’t get all formal on me, now. You’re my brother first, deputy second.”

“So, we really are still a Clan.” He grins, then the expression fades from his face somewhat. His eyes take on an earnest shine. “Did you… I know you’re not supposed to talk about the ceremony, but… when you visited StarClan, did you… did you see our parents?”

Moonstar smiles gently, heart squeezing painfully in her chest. Dad had told her to tell Fogfreckle that their parents miss him, too, so surely StarClan won’t be displeased if she shares just that much? “Yes. I saw them. Mom and Dad. They told me to tell you they miss you.”

Fogfreckle hiccups, stepping close to push his head hard against Moonstar’s.

“I wish you could have seen them too,” She adds in a whisper, nuzzling into his dawn-warmed fur. The sun is just starting to crest the side of the mountain on its way up, crawling lazily into the sky. Greenleaf heat creeps on silent, soft paws across her pelt. It’ll be humid later, but for now, it’s pleasant.

“Maybe they’ll walk in my dreams one day, too.”

“I hope so.” Moonstar presses one more smile into his fur and then pulls back, squaring her shoulders in what she hopes is a leaderly fashion. It’s only her brother, but she may as well start getting used to playing the role. “Alright, deputy. What’s our first order of business?”

Fogfreckle grins. “How about breakfast? I could go for some eggs.”

“Perfect idea.”

Both cats stretch out their paws and take off, bounding up the mountain.

[Previous] [Start] [Next]

[beomiracles]

𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 TAPE 02

𝓓𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 𝓔𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐘 ⸝⸝ Moving rapidly through your career as one of the leading female investigators, you never once encountered a case you couldn't crack. Though you never expected for your past mistakes to come back and haunt you in the form of an ex lover, accused of murder. ⸝⸝

𝓹airings criminal!beomgyu x detective!reader 𝔀arnings drinking, kissing, red flag beomgyu but what's new, references to them hooking up, descriptions of blood/gore/murder, surprisingly little warnings for such a long tape, but it's just... vibes through and through I can't explain it okay?

📼 THE TAPE RECORDINGS

𝓣𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝓢𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 contains dark themes portraying unhealthy and toxic relationships and substance abuse. reader discretion is advised ! — this story is partly told in flashbacks, beware of timestamps as past/present are mixed throughout the story.

#serene adds ✎.. heh, this one's a mouthful, but that's only because it's the original 02 and 03 merged heh, plus my own fleshed out version of course. hmm, I really like this part though, a personal favourite :3 absolutely would cry if I got to hear ur thoughts on it !!

[ ▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။| TAPE 02 ] — Red Lipstick Stains recording length: 9.8k

📼 — PRESENT TIME ; February 19th 2024

“Is everything alright?” 

Kai’s light voice slices through the dark clouds looming over your head and your gaze snaps up to meet his. “You’ve barely touched your food”, he says as he motions toward your still full plate. You follow his line of sight, heaving a small sigh as you prop your head on one of your hands. 

“Not feeling particularly hungry today I suppose”, You mumble as you push said food around leisurely with your fork. It was kind of Kai to offer you lunch like this, your junior often did his best in trying to please his colleagues, sometimes you wondered if Kai ever gave himself credit for his hard work. 

Kai puts his own fork down as he swallows. His big brown eyes search yours, much to no avail as you keep them trained to your plate with a displeased frown. He clears his throat, “Does it have anything to do with your new case this morning?” He asks the question hesitantly, like he was afraid of stepping on a nerve he wasn’t supposed to. 

Finally, you lift your gaze to look at him. Pulling your bottom lip between your teeth, you ponder your next words carefully. It wasn’t like you didn’t trust Kai, but Yeonjun had made it clear that what you were doing was technically against policy. Besides, Kai had never been one to keep secrets, especially not when pressured into confessings, which he more than often was. 

“Partly..” You slowly admit, “But for the most part I’m just tired, it’s been a long week as is.” You give a weak shrug as you reach for your glass, sipping on your water unenthusiastically. Kai, on the other hand, doesn't seem convinced as he studies you with a small frown. Still, he seems to respect your boundaries and doesn’t try to pry further. 

You give him a faint smile, “Sorry, I’m not exactly good company right now.” But your junior quickly shakes his head, immediately objecting. — “You’re always great company, noona.” Both the compliment and the formality makes your smile widen, Kai really was adorable. 

“You’re great company too, Huening.” 

He blushes furiously at that as he quickly occupies himself with his own food. You liked spending time with Kai, he was easygoing, despite his somewhat awkward compliments. The atmosphere always felt light when he was around. The restaurant he’d taken you to was small and quaint, situated just across the park. And though the flowers had yet to bloom and the treetops remained naked, you found it a beautiful sight. 

Beomgyu had rarely taken you out to restaurants. In fact, he’d rarely taken you out at all, anywhere besides those clubs and dark hotel rooms at least. Back then you failed to see the issue with that, but then again, there were a lot of things you had disregarded in better judgement of Choi Beomgyu. 

⸝⸝ 

📼 — March 31st 2022 

Three days was actually an awfully long time when you waited for something. And it felt even longer when you didn’t know if what you waited for would ever come. In fact, these past three days had felt like three years. — 72 excruciatingly long hours without Beomgyu, and for every single one of those hours, you had not stopped thinking about him. 

On your way to class, in class, at work, at home, with Kayla. Oh. That’s right. You had yet to tell your friend about your quickie out in the alleway. It was better that way, or at least so you thought. She would only scold you for going against her words... But what if they had been said out of jealousy? You shouldn’t take them too seriously, right? 

Sex wouldn’t kill you. — But it would definitely get you addicted. 

This newfound abstinence somehow grew with each passing day. You thought you would’ve moved on by now, forgotten him, just like he’d forgotten you. It was obvious that what had transpired between the two of you three days ago had merely been an exchange of pleasure. Beomgyu hadn’t as much as looked back when you parted ways, neither had he given you his number, or taken yours. 

It was a one time thing, no strings attached, literally. Perhaps his nonchalance after sharing such an intimate moment should’ve been your first warning. 

Briefly you wondered if things would’ve turned out differently, had you taken a cab home that night and forgot about the alluring stranger. But there was no changing the past, and now you were to live with this decision, for as long as you could remember.

It was late, well past midnight on a Tuesday night when your otherwise dry phone chimed with a notification. The bright screen illuminates your dark bedroom, and your attention diverts from the coursebook in your lap and over to the small device. With a perplexed frown, you reach for it. As you squint against the near blinding brightness, you find an unfamiliar number on screen.

The sender had left one message. An address and a time. 

2am.. And in an area you did not recognize. A small and uneasy feeling settling within the pits of your stomach as you re-read the text over and over. Despite every reasonable sense in your body practically screaming for you to block whoever this was and forget about it, you can’t seem to find it in you. 

Instead your shaky fingers begin to type out a reply. 

“Who is this?”

Message not delivered. Huh? Why wouldn’t it let you… Something was wrong, very wrong. But despite your inner turmoil, the winning side ends up being the one that forces you out of bed as you stumble toward your dresser. — The sender had left no signature, yet you were almost certain of its source. A small sense of hope surges through you, and it is what compels you to go through with this utterly idiotic decision. 

Your arms wrap around your skimpily dressed body. Spring has yet to take hold on the biting frost that still lingered. With urgent steps, you scurry through the narrow alleyway. The light of your phone screen illuminated your way amongst the unfamiliar buildings and the further you got from the main street, the heavier your heart grew. Had this been a mistake? What if someone was luring you out here to kill you? 

Finally, there’s light. But it is not the warm and comforting glow of the usual streetlights. No, this is a purple, almost pinkish hue. It paints the brick walls around in a soft sheen. Your pulse quickens as you near the entrance of what you assumed to be another nightclub. It was strange.. You hadn’t heard of this one, nor was it anywhere to be found online. 

There’s a man by the doorway. You find your gaze lingering by his broad shoulders, his thick arms looking ready to rip through the tight shirt he wore. Your breath hitches in your throat when you catch a glimpse of the multiple tattoos of different symbolism covering his veiny forearms. Did he not get cold? 

The bouncer looks down at you, for he was tall as a skyscraper, and raises a brow. “You lost?” He asks, his voice is gruff, carrying a mocking tone as he watches you expectantly. — Nervously you shift on the spot, your mouth opening and closing repeatedly as you fumble for words. “I uh…” 

He chuckles, the sound echoing through the alleyway as he throws his head back. “It’s alright - What you’re looking for is probably down the street and to your right.” He nods in said direction, a smug grin stretching across his lip when his gaze falls on you once more. — “It’s more, your style”, he slowly adds. 

You can’t help the offended frown that flashed across your face. Your style? Sure you wouldn’t argue over the fact that this was unlike anything you’d usually do. But this was just insulting. How dare he speak to you like that, how dare he… — Oh but who were you kidding? You looked nothing like those who would spend half their awake time here. 

What were you even thinking, coming here, all alone no less? There was no way you would be let inside. — Such a waste of time. 

With a heavy sigh, you readjust your grip on the small handbag you’d brought, turning on your heel as you prepare to leave, when suddenly, a voice calls for you. It’s familiar, much so that it makes your stomach flip as you freeze up. Beomgyu. — Slowly glancing over your shoulder, your eyes lock with his dark ones. 

Beomgyu pushes past the bouncer who immediately gives a quick bow and steps aside. “Dollface”, he exhales, the nickname still sticking as he wraps an arm around your waist, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand. “You made it.” 

You can barely protest as he pulls you to his side, your bodies clashing against one another as he heads for the entrance he’d just emerged from. Upon passing the bouncer you think you might hear him whisper something to the man under his breath, though you remain unsure of what exactly transpired between the two. 

Given your not-so-broad expertise of clubs, you would say that at first glance, this place was no different. But as Beomgyu leads you through the crowded dance floor you slowly begin to realize that this was something entirely new. — This whole place felt almost exquisite, and the people here seemed aware of it. 

There was no bar, instead drinks were being served by the many waiters pacing the outlines of the main floor, all of them wearing the same black uniform. Large, velvet clad booths line the walls, and you expect Beomgyu to take you to one of them. — His gaze, however, seems fixed on the large staircase on the other side of the room. 

Quickly you notice the lingering glances you receive. Well, the lingering glances he receives. All eyes seemed to be on him as Beomgyu swerves his way through the crowd. Did he know these people? Did they know him? They have to, given the way they all stepped aside when he passed. 

You, on the other hand, were barely spared as much as a quick look, apart from a nasty scowl delivered by one of the many hooker-looking women. — What made Beomgyu so special here? 

Suddenly, his hand on your lower back feels heavy, like his fingers were going to sink into your skin and leave a permanent indent. If Beomgyu felt their stares, it didn’t seem to affect him in the slightest. Biting down a shudder, you keep your gaze trained ahead as you follow along, reaching the grand staircase with a sigh of relief. 

When you make it to the top, a pair of double doors are immediately swung open and you step inside. Your eyes scan the more desolate area, drinking in the expensive looking furniture, the extravagant booths and the quiet murmur of those chatting with one another. Suddenly you understood… “Isn’t this the VIP section?” 

Beomgyu huffs at your question, his lips pulling into a small smirk as he nods. “Clever girl.” 

As he steers you toward one of the larger booths, you realize that you wouldn’t be all alone. A man who looked to be in his late twenties sits by the round table, his leg propped on one knee as he swishes a drink in his hand. You did not recognize him, but had you seen him out on the streets one lonesome night, your first instinct would have been to run. 

“Duri!” Beomgyu’s exclamation carries out into the otherwise quiet but hot air and the man lifts his head as he peers in your direction. He sets his drink down, shifting in his seat when the two of you approach. — “And here I was beginning to think you had stood me up”, Duri says, a wide grin on his face. His gaze drifts to Beomgyu’s hand, still secure on your lower back. 

“Ah”, he exhales, “Now I see what kept you from me.” He sends you a not-so-subtle wink, but it didn’t feel the same way it had when Beomgyu did it. 

You clear your throat, it would be rude not to introduce yourself, right? — “Hi, uh…I..” Upon giving him a small, rather awkward wave, Duri suddenly bursts into laughter. He continues for a good thirty seconds, despite neither you or Beomgyu joining in, the latter seemingly unamused. 

“Pretty little thing you’ve got there”, Duri comments as he brings his glass to his lips, “What’s your name, love?” 

“Oh! It’s-” 

Beomgyu’s hand slithers around your waist, giving your hip a firm squeeze. “Dollface. This is my old friend, Duri.” He gestures to the man in front of you, giving him an unenthusiastic look that contradicted his previous excitement. “Duri, this is dollface.” Beomgyu doesn’t give you an opportunity to protest, his demanding grip steering you toward the booth, sliding in next to Duri as he pulls you along. 

He doesn’t seem to notice the frown on your face upon settling against the cushion. “Nice to meet you”, Duri says, eyeing you carefully over the rim of his glass. — “Uh, you too..” You shyly mumble, squeaking when Beomgyu’s hand finds place on your thigh, his cold rings stinging your bare skin. 

His free hand quickly calls a waiter over who seems to be stumbling on his feet to get to your booth faster. Beomgyu’s eyes are suddenly on you, “What d’you want, dollface?” — Taken aback, you glance between him and the waiter, biting the inside of your cheek. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.” 

Beomgyu nods, turning back to the waiter with an indifferent expression. “My usual, make it two.” — As the man scurries off, you force yourself to relax as Beomgyu and Duri indulge in a conversation regarding topics you had little knowledge of. They used words and slang you couldn’t recognize, speaking in hushed voices, as if being eavesdropped on. 

Left with your own thoughts, your mind wanders back to just a few moments prior. Why hadn’t he introduced you? Was he ashamed, but why bring you along in the first place then. Your eyes drift to Beomgyu’s hand on your thigh, his fingers moving absentmindedly over your naked skin, making light tapping motions. 

Why had he invited you here tonight? You thought it had been for easy sex, but as you sit here, your back pressed against the expensive velvet, everything felt a little too formal. Did he have an ulterior motive for bringing you out here, and if so, what? 

You could feel the heavy stares sent your way, people were always looking, as if Beomgyu was some sort of artifact. They were never really looking at you, but you somehow felt as if placed under a microscope. — It was almost thrilling in a way, sitting so close to the thing everyone in the room silently seemed to desire, for reasons you couldn’t quite understand. 

“Open up.” 

Beomgyu’s thick voice pulls you from your trail of thoughts. Startled, you blink as the cool surface of glass presses against your lips. Obliging, you let him pour the liquor into your waiting mouth. It burns your throat, yet leaves an almost sweet aftertaste. “This is good..” You murmur, taking the glass from his hand. 

The smirk on his lips only grows, “Knew you’d like it, dollface.” 

His statement makes your chest flutter and you feel your own lips pull into a small grin. “Why, you seem to know everything about me.” It was supposed to come across as a joke, friendly banter if you will. But Beomgyu’s eyes twinkle with something beyond mischief, something slightly darker, something dangerously close to lust. 

“You’d be surprised”, is all he says, leaning back against the velvet cushion as he sips on his own drink. What was that supposed to mean? 

You had almost forgotten Duri, and you jumped in your seat when he suddenly clears his throat. “Well, it seems my date for tonight has arrived.” He rises to his feet, chugging the last of his drink before setting his glass down. “Pleasure meeting you ‘dollface’..” He gives you one final glance, scoffing before walking off to join one of the girls a few booths away. 

Beomgyu doesn’t pay him any further attention, his gaze fixed on something far ahead as he mindlessly drinks. — “Who was he?” You can’t help but ask, feeling your curiosity gnawing away at you. 

“An old friend”, he simply shrugs, clearly ready to discard the matter. But you were far from satisfied with his nonchalant response. — “Then why didn’t you introduce me, if he’s an old friend I mean?” 

The small frown creasing his forehead was the first of actual expressions you’d seen on him. “I did.” He replies shortly, setting his glass down on the small table in front of you. Shaking your head, you twist in your seat to look at him fully. “Why not my name?” 

You knew your persistence was getting to him when he sighed. “What’s it to him?” He was sounding almost defensive now, his agitated response only riling you up further as you sought answers. “So? He’s your friend.” 

“Perhaps…” Beomgyu exhales, his attention now turned to Duri who was feeling up the girl he’d joined not even three minutes ago. “But not one you should be acquainted with.” — “Why?” 

Beomgyu groans, running a hand across his face tiredly. “You’re being really difficult here, sweetheart..” — “Did he do something bad?” This time you couldn’t refrain from asking, from crossing a line you knew you couldn’t return from. 

“Haven’t we all?” He counters upon emptying the last of his drink and his words sound almost solemn. You frown, “Yes but-” 

“Drop it dollface.” His voice is cold, causing a shiver to run down your spine, leaving no room for arguments as he slams his glass down on the table. You gulp as your gaze drops to the drink in your hand, its once sweet taste now sour on your tongue. Was he angry with you? You couldn’t tell, for Beomgyu’s expression remained stoic as his hand returned to your thigh. 

His answer made you certain of one thing though. Duri was someone who did things he shouldn’t. You recall Kayla’s last words about Shay, about the substance abuse, about Beomgyu. Would that mean that he also… No. Maybe he just bought from him every now and then? A small amount couldn’t be that bad right? As long as he had it under control. 

Back then you didn’t know it. But Beomgyu loved his control, more than a lot of things, more than a lot of people. — You glance up at him once more, a thousand questions prodding at your lips, you choose one. 

“How did you get my number?” 

Beomgyu groans, “Fuck dollface, you ask a lot of questions.” His free hand slides up your arm, moving to the nape of your neck as he brings your lips to his in a hot kiss. Beomgyu was good at avoiding questions, perhaps a little too good. 

That should’ve been your second warning. 

⸝⸝

📼 — PRESENT TIME ; February 19th 2024

Beomgyu had barely changed during the ten months you’d gone without seeing him. His hair was still the same pitch black, though a bit more unkempt and thinner by the ends. He had acquired dark circles under his eyes, they made his face appear more hollow. It was almost like life itself had been drained out of him. — Yet his charisma persisted, and Beomgyu took every opportunity he could grasp in order to push and prod at your buttons. 

You rarely found yourself in doubt of your own abilities. In fact, you had been outstanding amongst your peers during your months in training. And to interrogate, to break even the most coldhearted criminal with your mere words, there was an undeniable satisfaction in that. But as soon as you had stepped foot inside the room you had been trained in for so long, all confidence was lost on you. 

How could you ever see through him, through Beomgyu. For over a year you had been trying to read him. To crack him open and peer into his mind. Sure, you had been taught different techniques and methods now, you’d practiced and then practiced again. This wasn’t the same, far from it. For Beomgyu was nothing like anyone you’d ever met before. 

Just looking at him right now made your head spin. 

“What’s your relationship to the victim?” You school your voice into professionalism, into a cool and detached one. No matter how hard of a front you put up, it felt as if he could see right through it. — Beomgyu doesn’t meet your gaze, making it impossible for you to look for clues within his eyes. He twists the rings on his fingers, one by one, almost methodically. 

A smirk you knew all too well tugs across his lips. “What’s your relationship to that man?” 

Your mind goes blank, your brows raising on your forehead as you glance around. The room was empty, just like it had been for the past thirty minutes. — “Please don’t divert from the subject when we’re-” 

“The one in the doorway earlier.” He’s not giving up, and you push back a shudder when his dark eyes flicker up to yours. It was clear that he was looking for an easy entry into your head. He was searching for any kind of insecurity you might hold, he would puncture it and slither inside, just like he always did. 

You recall the afternoon’s events, thinking back to your lunch with Kai. Carelessly you had let him drop you off by the interrogation rooms. Had Beomgyu seen him? That would be your only explanation. “That was my colleague”, you say, keeping your expression stoic, even when Beomgyu’s smirk widens. 

“Really?” He drawls, and whether he kept going because the matter intrigued him, or if it was to waste time on irrelevant topics, you didn’t know. His dark eyes flicker between yours and the door which you had emerged from half an hour ago. “Didn’t look like it to me.” 

There he goes again, spewing his nonsense as he waits for you to eat from his palm. Just like you used to. He didn’t have that power over you anymore, you told yourself that. — “What you think does not matter.” Your hands reach for files in front of you as you readjust them, buying yourself some much needed time as your attention diverts to the pictures attached. 

“What? He your boyfriend or something?” 

His question comes out half a statement, half a huff. A short breath of disbelief, an almost menacing look on his face. But you’re not stupid enough not to catch the subtle tick of his jaw, the way his dark eyes narrowed, if just a little. He rocks his chair back on its hind legs, patiently waiting for your response as he tries to gauge your reaction. After everything, he still thought he had a say in anything regarding your life, regarding you. 

“He might be”, you shrug, already flipping through the files in order to avoid confronting the topic head on. It was a lie of course. He didn’t have to know that. Beomgyu had lied to you too, at one point, it had gotten hard to differentiate any of the reality that had been vowed between his lies. 

“Bullshit.” 

The sound of his cuffed hands slamming against the old metal table is deafening, the front legs of his chair hit the ground once more with an equally empowering thud. He leans forward now, even more than what was both professionally and emotionally appropriate for either of you. — Briefly you thought that Yeonjun might interrupt, and you listen for the door. But he never comes. 

You don’t flinch, not even when his hot breath tickles your face. His brows furrow, the corner of his lips twitching. “He’s not your type”, Beomgyu plainly states, the words falling from his lips are so close that you could practically taste them on your own. — “Who says?” You quickly retort, immediately scolding yourself for letting your professionalism falter. 

Your small slip up doesn’t pass him unnoticed and Beomgyu smirks. “C’mon dollface, you forget I know everything about you.” — “Knew.” You’re quick to interrupt him, your voice sharp and almost snappy. “You knew everything about me.” 

“People change Beomgyu, I changed.” Your professionalism was slipping at a dangerous rate. You didn’t care. The satisfaction of hearing those very words leave your own two lips was far more enticing than the policy you had to follow. 

Beomgyu’s expression remains unfazed, his brows slightly raised on his forehead as he watches you with calculating eyes. His tongue swipes across his bottom lip mindlessly. Ring clad fingers tapping against the metal table rhythmically, mimicking the tick of a clock, the sound ringing in your ears. You swallow, forcing your breathing to remain regulated as you place your files down. “Let’s hold here for today.” 

The screech of your chair against the stone floor pierces the air as you stand up. Dusting off your pants, you intend to not spare him as much as a second glance when you head for the door. The cool handle sends a small spark of electricity through your palm as you grip it tight. But before you get the chance to turn it and step outside, Beomgyu speaks; 

“Is red his favorite color too?” 

Your body feels ice cold, your heart catching in your throat and your eyes widening as you gaze ahead. “What?” You echo as you slowly turn to face him. He chuckles, but the laugh holds no warmth. Not until his dark eyes fall on your lips do you realize what he’s talking about. Without being able to stop yourself, your fingers reach up to touch the fresh coat of paint you’d applied after lunch. 

The red lipstick that you had accidentally brought along this morning, the one you were supposed to get rid of. It had been but a mere coincidence right… The way it had presented itself so nicely on your dresser earlier that day. 

Beomgyu smirks, his fingers coming to a halt on the metal of the table in front of him. “You still look fucking irresistible in it”, he says, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. 

You look away, not wanting to face him a second longer. It was torturous, everything about him was. It instantly reminded you of why you had walked away all those months ago, of why you had tried so hard to forget him, to bury him within the depths of your mind, somewhere unattainable. 

“My boyfriend thinks so too.” It’s all you say before quickly turning on your heel and swinging the door open. Your heart pounds in your chest as you step outside. Slamming the door shut behind you with a loud thud, you lean against it as you try to compose yourself. 

Fuck, he still made you dizzy. 

That night turned into a sleepless one. Spent going through the remnants of Beomgyu, the pieces of him you still carried. Many times you’d been at war with yourself. One side argued that you should rid yourself of him completely, start anew, in a reality without him. The other side, the one that felt more than it thought, desperately clung onto him, in every way it could. That side made you replay every single memory shared with him, the good and the bad ones, it made you cry deep into the night and it made you scream in frustration and anger. Yet it always seemed to win. 

You turn the lipstick in your hands, fingers gliding against the smooth tube. It had come in a small box, wrapped in gold and tied with a red bow. Your hands had trembled as you undid the ribbon, and Beomgyu had been watching you intently. — You could still feel the weight of his hand on your lower back, the other one caressing your thighs swung over his lap. 

When you had plucked the lid, revealing the shiny artifact, your eyes had widened. Your lips parted delicately as you glanced between the lipstick and him. “I… Beomgyu this is…” You had barely been able to finish your sentence, too astonished by the gift before you. 

“Try it.” He exhales, his breath warm against the side of your face. With a small nod of your head you screwed the bottom of the tube, revealing the deep red lipstick. The cosmetic melted across your lips like butter, and you carefully spread an even layer, painfully aware of his eyes on you. 

Gently smacking your lips once, you turn to Beomgyu, shy gaze meeting his hungry one. His thumb brushed along your chin, swiping away any excess product. “Now you look like a real doll”, he’d murmured, knuckles caressing your heated cheeks. 

“I’ll wear it”, you had whispered as you leaned into his touch. And Beomgyu had hummed, a soft sound of approval as he’d pressed his lips against your freshly painted ones. 

“Good, red is my favorite color.” 

⸝⸝

📼 — April 10th 2022 

Beomgyu was difficult. Not in the sense where he was vague. Because whenever the two of you saw one another it would always lead to sex, he would make sure of that. Naturally you thought it was a mutual benefit situation going on. It wasn’t something you were opposed to, even if the idea hadn’t enticed you before. He was just… different. 

It would always go the same way. He sent you an address and a time, you showed up. It was a simple deal, one that had occurred without either of you confirming it out loud. For each instance he would use a different number, an untraceable one. At first you’d tried to show disinterest in the matter, to act like it didn’t bother you. But the truth was it did, a lot. 

Usually it’d be a club, never the same as the last, and he would make sure to get you alone as quickly as he could. Tonight was different, tonight he’d booked a hotel room, just for the two of you. And in the darkness, where only the sounds of your panting breaths lingered once he’d pulled out, you suddenly found your thoughts wandering. 

Usually you’d pass out quickly, feeling oddly comforted in his warm embrace. But tonight you’re wide awake. He is too, for his fingers draw lazy patterns on your naked hip. You swallow, blinking twice as you try to push the images from your head, biting back the questions waiting on your tongue. You didn’t want to ruin this moment, it felt fragile, like one misstep could shatter the entire thing. 

Yet the aftermath of your orgasm still surged within the depths of your stomach. It gave you confidence you usually lacked. Craning your neck, you turn your face to peer up at him. Still unable to make out his expression in the dark, you hesitate, if only for a second before asking the one question that had been on your mind for nearly two weeks. 

“Why won’t you give me your number?” 

Your words felt deafening, like church bells ringing through the air a quiet Sunday morning. Beomgyu doesn't answer, his chest rising and falling under your cheek as his fingers stop on your hip. Had you overstepped? No, this was a perfectly reasonable question. So what was the problem? 

Beomgyu heaves a sigh, the huff of air blowing over the top of your head. “Don’t got one”, he replies, his voice echoing through the hotel room. 

Confused, you lift your head as you squint toward him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

He shrugs, “Means I don’t got one.” 

You bite the inside of your cheek, hesitating. “Then how am I supposed to contact you?” Once the questions started spilling from your lips it seemed impossible to stop. You could tell he was getting annoyed by the second. — “You’re not”, he firmly states. His words manage to kill any lingering lust and warmth, the room suddenly felt cold. 

It was then, in that moment, that you realized that your relationship with Beomgyu was nothing more than a casual and mutual exchange of pleasure. You should’ve known that, suppose part of you always had, but his statement made it all the more clear. With a solemn expression you stare up at the ceiling, quietly mulling over his words. 

Sometimes it felt as if Beomgyu was made of ice. It was nearly impossible to get close, and even when you did, there was a thick layer concealing him. Nothing you said seemed to get him to melt, and anything regarding his personal life was kept stored deep within the cold. 

Beneath you Beomgyu shifts and you soon feel the warmth of his body disappear as he climbs out of bed. He doesn’t bother turning on the light but you can hear him pulling his clothes back on as he prepares to leave. — With a quiet kiss to your forehead he says, “I’ll text you.” And with that he was gone. 

It was the first time he’d left before you fell asleep. 

⸝⸝

📼 — April 17th 2022 

Days went by after that, and you didn’t hear from Beomgyu once. And when a whole week had passed since your night at the hotel, you were beginning to think that perhaps you never would. But if it was one thing you would come to learn about him, it was that you never had him where you thought you did. 

You were halfway through your morning lecture when you got his notification. A new number, a new address, just like usual. The relief and excitement that immediately flooded your senses should have been concerning. Did you long for him much so that even a simple text could get you worked up? It was almost as if you had become addicted. Everytime the unknown number flashed across your screen you knew that you would be getting your next fix. 

Anticipation flowed through your veins and you hurriedly stashed your books in your bag as soon as your professor finished talking. There was little time to waste. You walk with quick and fast paced strides, ignoring any of your classmates that tried to approach, all with friendly smiles on their faces. Any other day but today, you thought. Because today was about him. 

You reach the parking lot, all the way to your car and with your hand on the handle, a small tap to your shoulder makes you freeze. Twisting around on the spot, your eyes widen as they land on your slightly panting classmate.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry Taehyun, I didn’t realize you were..” 

Your classmate waves a dismissing hand, shaking his head as he catches his breath. “It’s alright”, Taehyun clears his throat, a small grin spreading across his face. Taehyun was perhaps the only friend you had made during your time spent studying criminal justice. He was easy to talk to, and made your courses somewhat easier. You would often partner up for group projects, and this time around was no different. 

“I was wondering if you’re free tonight, for our project y’know..” He mumbles as he scratches the back of his neck sheepishly. Biting the inside of your cheek, you glance between your waiting classmate and the phone still gripped tightly in your hand. — You were supposed to meet Beomgyu tonight. 

Then again, was it really such a good idea to put your own personal needs and pleasure above your important studies, not to mention Taehyun’s as well? Beomgyu had seemingly little care for your own schedule, yet you were breaking your back trying to be there at his every beck and call. — Your eyes meet Taehyun’s hopeful ones, and in that moment you can’t bring yourself to tell him no. Fact is he had actually asked you like a decent human being, rather than sending a simple text from what could only be a burner phone. 

“If you’re not free we can totally reschedule..” — “Does 6:30 work for you?” 

Taehyun blinks, seemingly taken aback before quickly nodding, “Sure!” 

Perhaps this was just what you needed, a little distraction. Part of you wondered what would happen when you didn’t show up tonight, another part didn’t want to find out. 

⸝⸝

Your afternoon was spent like most, cleaning tables at the restaurant in which you worked part time. The hours didn’t pay a lot, but it was enough to get you through the month as you balance your studies. Having hit off with both the owners and their son, you often found yourself staying for dinner or even getting sent home leftovers from the day. Their kindness was remarkable and you made sure to work hard in order to repay them. 

It was nearing the end of your shift, the restaurant was fairly vacant and you had all but much to do. Upon clearing the last table, the doorbell suddenly chimed, announcing the arrival of new customers. Instinctively you turn to greet them — only to freeze in your tracks as your eyes fall on the small party of men. They were all dressed head to toe in black, some even wearing sunglasses despite the early spring season. 

The man by the very front caught your eye and your heart leapt out of your chest when you connected his face with a name. 

“You got any tables for five?” Duri’s booming voice sounds through the painstakingly empty room. He sounded nothing like the playful and almost flirtatious Duri you had met a couple of weeks ago. You nod, “This way”, you say, trying your best to swallow down the lump in your throat as you lead them toward a secluded table by the corner. 

Upon handing them the menu, your gaze keeps flickering back to Duri. He had yet to show any signs of recognition and you were starting to think that perhaps he hadn’t recognized you at all. A temporary sense of relief washes over you, one that would quickly be disrupted as you begin taking orders. You save him for last, turning to him with the most friendly smile you could muster. 

Duri remains quiet, a sly smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. It didn't remind you of Beomgyu in the slightest, this man felt almost disgusting in a way. “Surprise me”, he then says before slamming the menu book shut. 

It isn’t until the kitchen doors fall shut behind you that you breathe out the tension you had allowed to build up during the past five minutes. What were the odds? Of all the restaurants why did he… You shake your head, dragging a tired hand down your face as you stifle a groan. — If he had recognized you, why didn’t he say something? 

You glance down to the notepad in your hand, their orders scribbled down hastily as you hurried to get away from them. The word “surprise” seems taunting as your eyes linger on the messy ink. A small frown tugs on your brows and you quietly tap the paper as an idea enters your mind. 

When bringing their food back out, you make sure to place Duri’s plate last, a rather strategic mood on your part. Your hands have an undeniable tremble to them as you tuck the folded note under the porcelain, making sure it peeks out just enough for him to see, and him only. Everyone else seems oblivious as they indulge in their meals, not paying you any mind even when you linger by their table for longer than needed. 

Duri on the other hand has noticed the piece of paper. He pulls it out between his middle and index finger, shooting you a questioning glance to which you subtly shake your head. Then he chuckles, the sound building deep within his chest as he shoves the note in his pocket. — You breathe out a heavy sigh of relief. 

With a quick bow you murmur a quiet, “Enjoy”, before turning on your heel and darting back to the kitchen. But before you make it to the large doors does his booming voice make you falter. “Thanks for the food, dollface.” 

⸝⸝

Takeout boxes and empty bottles of soju crowd the small coffee table in Taehyun’s living room. Perched on his old sofa, you and your classmate find yourselves engrossed in schoolwork, just like you had been for the past four hours. Time seemed to have little concept when spent in the presence of Taehyun and you found yourself having a lot more fun than you’d originally intended. 

Together you had been assigned to try and solve one of the many cold cases piling up at the office. It was a thrilling concept, it was something real and not fabricated by your professor for once. Using the little evidence there was, you and Taehyun play through the tape recordings of the few suspects interrogated. 

“Wait, play this part back.” Taehyun mumbles as he reaches for the record player. “Doesn't the ex-boyfriend sound suspicious here? You can clearly hear it in the way his voice breaks.” With his finger on the device, he increases the volume as he plays the tape back. You lean forward, your hands on your knees as you listen to the piece of audio. 

“I dunno..” You shrug, giving him a playful smile, “He sounds just like you.” Taehyun snorts, “As if.” Though he’s unable to refrain from grinning when he catches your giggle. 

“We haven’t played that one yet”, you point toward another cassette and your partner nods in agreement as he reaches for it. “Promise you won’t get scared?” He teases, to which you give his shoulder a push. 

Spending time with Taehyun was freeing, it was easy. But despite that, your subconscious kept wandering back to Beomgyu. A nervous feeling bubbled within your stomach, making your heart beat just a little faster at the thought of him. He’d occupied your mind for weeks now, holding your thoughts hostage and keeping you from focusing on what actually mattered. It was unfair, did he think about you like you thought about him? Hardly. 

And after slipping Duri that note, you could only hope he would receive the news of your changed plans. Would he be angry with you, or would he just not continue to see you at all. Not being able to directly contact him gnawed at you — for you wanted nothing more than to dial a quicker number and hear his voice on the other line, as pathetic as it might sound. 

Suppose it was a good thing after all. Had you had his number you probably wouldn’t be able to refrain from texting him. Yet you felt completely powerless like this, as if he was holding the strings and you were simply dancing along, just like he wanted you to. 

A small, shameful part of you felt jealous. What if he’d called someone else. Surely you weren’t the only woman he saw. But you were still special. He never saw those girls again, they were temporary, so you told yourself. Not you though, you weren’t temporary. You were someone he would call for, over and over again, you were special. 

“What do you think it’s going to be like?” Taehyun’s voice suddenly interrupts and you blink as you glance toward him. “Sorry what?” You dumbfoundedly ask, embarrassed over having spaced out like that. But your classmate only smiles, that stupidly warm and comforting smile of his. — “What do you think it’s going to be like? Out there I mean, when we finally make it.” 

You purse your lips, you had never really thought about it like that. Sure, you had known for a long time that you wanted to be someone who did good, someone who served justice and spoke for those who couldn’t. But you had never actually stopped to think of what it would be like when you were actually out there. 

You send Taehyun a lopsided grin, “I think it’s going to be awesome.” 

⸝⸝

📼 — PRESENT TIME ; February 20th 2024

The sound of car doors slamming shut echo throughout the narrow alleyway. Upon stepping out the distinctive smell of sewage water invades your senses. Yeonjun, too, makes a face of disgust as he steps out beside you. “Fucking hell”, he mutters as he pinches the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses further up in the process.

The area was run down, yet nothing out of the ordinary. A small apartment complex loomed before you. The building was covered in graffiti and a multitude of its windows had been broken, making you assume that rent stayed on the cheaper end. — You didn’t have to stop and ask what kind of people lived here, you were far too familiar with the setting. Perhaps that was why you felt comfortable with taking the lead as you approached the small stone-staircase leading to the front door. 

Bright yellow tape highlights the door concealing the crime scene, reading out the words ‘DO NOT CROSS’ in bold text. Pushing said tape aside, you rummage your pockets for the set of keys you’d been provided. The old wooden door makes a squeaking side upon being opened as it slowly reveals the tiny flat. 

The sewage smell outside had been a mere foretaste of what was to come, and as the stench of dried blood hit you had to refrain from gagging. Behind you, Yeonjun remains silent as he lets you venture inside first, obviously interested in seeing your take on the scene. And while such a thing would’ve usually honored you, it somehow felt more like a curse today. 

It’s dark inside the apartment. The windows were boarded up in order to divert any unwanted attention and the air had become humid due to the confined space, in turn only increasing the sickly sweet and rotten smell of human blood. 

You mimic your senior’s actions of bringing out a flashlight, flicking it on before pointing it out before you. The frontdoor had led into an all but spacious hallway, following it took you to a tiny living room. — Something about crime scenes always makes you feel a melancholic sense of nostalgia. Whatever scene you were currently witnessing had been the last thing someone else ever had. It was a place where they had taken their very last breath, a time capsule, forever frozen in time. 

Chaos has spread through the open area, and instead of stumbling across a huge pool of blood, you find that it’s everywhere. It covers the coffee table, some having dripped down onto the fluffy carpet beneath. The couch is stained, as are the walls leading out into the bedroom. 

“They fought”, Yeonjun suddenly comments as he squats down by the sofa. He points his flashlight in the direction of the torn pillows, the indent of what had undoubtedly been a knife remaining. “He seems to have put up a hell of a fight”, you murmur as you gaze along the bloody handprints across the lower regions of the walls. 

Your senior hums, “They started in the kitchen”, he gets up and turns toward the archway. You follow him inside the small room, your curiosity at its peak. “How do you know?” You wonder to which Yeonjun pulls out a plastic bag from the large backpack he carried. Your brows rise on your forehead as you survey the bloody knife concealed inside. 

“This”, he says before motioning toward the sets of knives on the countertop and your gaze falls on the empty spot. — “Whoever killed Park Baekhyun attempted it with this knife, which they got from here.” 

Yeonjun gestures toward the entirety of the space as he continues, “Besides, this room is far less blood stained than the living room, meaning the fight most likely erupted here and then progressed outside as the victim tried to flee.” — As you take in the state of the kitchen you realize that he’s right. While the room was certainly messy, with piles of unwashed dishes in the sink as well as old takeout boxes, it never appeared to hold any signs of direct trauma. 

You follow him back into the living room as Yeonjun continues to piece together the events of that night. “The victim used pillows to defend himself”, he pointed toward the torn cushions whose feathers lay scattered across the couch. Then he frowns, “He got hit, and badly.” — Your gaze follows the heavy trail of blood leading toward the bedroom. 

“It’s strange”, Yeonjun mutters under his breath. You can’t help but ask, “What is?” 

Your senior motions toward the handprints covering the lower walls, “He couldn’t walk.” 

Admittedly you didn’t quite understand what that had to do with the matter. So what if he couldn’t walk, his fate was sealed either way, no? But Yeonjun obviously saw something you didn’t. His abilities to tell as much from the situation intrigued you greatly, and you were eager to learn his ways. 

As you approach the doorway leading to the bedroom he says, “The autopsy showed a wound on his right leg. Now, presuming that to be the reason he couldn’t walk he would have to have been crawling, using the walls to push himself forward, that would explain the handprints.” Yeonjun points to the dried blood on the cream white walls and you follow his line of sight. “This would have given the offender a great view of his throat, yet he didn’t kill him here.” 

You frown, why not kill him if he had the opportunity? Why waste time like that unless… “He enjoyed the hunt.” Yeonjun firmly states as he stops on the threshold leading into the bedroom. With a quick glance down the hallway, his eyes linger on the front door. “But why aim for the bedroom and not the way out?” 

“Could there be something important here?” You chime in, rocking back and forth on your heels as you eagerly peek over your seniors shoulder and into the bedroom. Yeonjun nods, “Perhaps.” 

The room itself remains untouched, almost neat if not for the unmade bed and dirty laundry scattered around. Though the struggle of Park Baekhyun remains evident on the floor, a thick and heavy trail of blood dragging past the foot of the bed and into the joint bathroom. 

A queasy feeling settles within your stomach as you approach. Out of all the rooms in the apartment, this somehow felt darker. The air was thicker, the scent of blood stronger and the lingering feeling of death almost crushing. — Once a pearly white, now covered in red was the bathroom. And as soon as you stepped inside, you knew that this was where the victim had taken his last dying breath. 

The mirror, broken into a million tiny pieces, lay scattered across the floor like pieces of an unsolved puzzle. The sink had several large cracks in it, you guessed from banging something or someone against it. 

Worst was the bathtub. Filled to the brim with murky red water, the shower curtains ripped off their hangers, likely a panicked response or one out of pure rage. Bloody hand and finger prints adorn the edge of the tub. — Yeonjun sighs next to you, “Victim’s cause of death was asphyxiation”, he points toward the water, “He drowned.” 

It was then your heart sank as reality finally settled in. This could all be Beomgyu’s doing. At first it had felt surreal, seeing him after so many months. Finding out that he was the prime suspect of this case. You had managed to downplay the whole thing, you had denied, no refused to believe that the man you thought to have loved could have done something like this. It was a reality you had been dying for longer than you wanted to admit. 

But as you see the blood, the way the victim had clung to life until the very end. And Beomgyu had taken that from him. He had taken it without any remorse. And you’d watched the grin playing on his lips when you read the case files, you’d heard the smugness in his voice. He was proud of himself, of what he had done. 

You felt sick to your stomach. A hand clasped over your mouth, you shake your head. The room suddenly felt small, its walls closing in on you, shoving the cold hard truth in your face. 

Beomgyu had killed someone. 

⸝⸝

📼 — April 18th 2022 

You ended up staying over at Taehyun’s place that night, and the next morning you carpooled to school. It was easy to forget when you were with him, and class proved to be just as good of a distraction. Before you knew it 9am had turned into 12pm and you soon found yourself walking out of the lecture hall. 

Kayla was supposed to pick you up as your own car had been left at home. Your eyes scan the parking lot for her familiar little car, but in typical Kayla fashion she was probably running late. Deciding to just wait her out, you approach one of the nearby benches. — The spring day is a surprisingly warm one, a gentle breeze soothing over your face as you pull up your phone in order to try and reach your friend. 

You’ve barely made it down to the letter K in your contact list when someone suddenly takes the seat next to you on the bench. Your thumb hovers above Kayla’s name and your body grows rigid as you bite your tongue. You did not have to turn your head to know who it was, for the ring clad fingers that intertwine over his lap tells you everything you need to know. 

Beomgyu quietly hums next to you and you feel your blood go cold. His presence is both invasive and unsettling, and his silence certainly wasn’t helping. How did he know what university you attended — more importantly, why was he here? Because Beomgyu never asked to meet unless he wanted something, and you had never seen him like this, outside and in broad daylight. It terrified you. 

Daring a small glance in his direction, your eyes fall on the dark attire he wore. He gazes ahead as he watches your classmates pass with an almost bored expression on his face. Try as you might but there was no telling if he was angry with you or not. Had he not gotten your message and was that why he was here? Or had he gotten it and that was why he was here? 

You anxiously chew on the inside of your cheek, keeping your attention intently fixed on your phone in your hands. The thick silence seemed to drag on forever and you wondered when Kayla might show up, she would be far from pleased when she saw who you were chit-chatting with. 

“Criminal justice?” Beomgyu finally asks, his voice matching the monotone expression on his face. You give a small, almost unnoticeable nod. 

Beomgyu scoffs next to you as he leans back against the hard wood of the bench. He rolls his thumbs over one another, not bothering to glance in your direction. “I’m sure you’ll make a great little detective, dollface.” 

You couldn’t tell if he was being genuine or not, either way you decide against asking. Instead you fiddle with the elastic of your phone case as you await his next words. Your eyes met with a few whom you recognized from your lectures, most just gave awkward smiles, while others attention lingered on Beomgyu. It was safe to say that he stood out amongst the crowd. 

“You were busy yesterday.” He states and you suddenly remember your last conversation, the one which had ended on anything but a good note. — “School project..” You quietly murmur, choosing to leave Taehyun out of the equation. 

“Studies are important”, Beomgyu hums, and it seems as though he’s ready to drop the subject again. But of course you had to go and ruin it. “Did you… Get my message?” The question had been prodding at your mind since yesterday afternoon, and your voice is but a mere whisper as the words leave your lips. 

Beomgyu’s expression flashes with something you can’t quite place. It wasn’t fury but it highlighted his strong distaste for the topic. “Thought I told you not to acquaint yourself with Duri.” He sounds stern, and you felt like you were being scolded. Naturally your gaze drops to the ground and you swallow a gulp. “I know… But there was no other way for me to contact you.” 

“Because you shouldn’t.” He suddenly snaps, his tone teetering on annoyed. Suddenly your conversation begins to feel much like your last. The fear of him walking off on you resurfaces and it felt almost too much to bear. Perhaps that was why you had so abruptly turned in your seat to look at him fully. The action makes him tilt his head in your direction. “But that’s unfair.” 

“How am I supposed to just be available, what if something comes up? How would you know?” You were bordering on sounding whiny, but you couldn’t find it in you to care. Beomgyu raises a brow as he looks at you. You can’t tell if he’s considering your words or holding back laughter, but soon he smirks. “If you’re not available then you’re not.” He says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world, when reality it’s far from it. 

You frown, “Then what about you?” — He shakes his head, “You worry ‘bout yourself, dollface.” 

Your lips part in objection, but before the protest can slip, you hinder yourself. A bitter realization washes over you as you understand what he’d meant. Worry about yourself… Who were you kidding, he wouldn’t have to wait long for another girl to come along if you happened to be unavailable. How naive of you to think that what the two of you had was anything but causal, he’d already proven you that time and time again. 

Now you just looked like an idiot for trying to compromise with him. You bite your lip as you avoid his gaze, wanting to be anywhere but in front of him right now. And it’s almost as if he’s reading your mind because in no less than ten seconds does he rise from his seat. — This was it, he was leaving you again, just like he had that night, and there was nothing you could do to stop him. 

You watch as he makes his way across the parking lot with his hands in his pocket. Once he makes it halfway across does he turn to look at you. The smirk stretching across his face made your heart leap. “You comin’ or not, dollface?”

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[hugemilkshake]

Can I ask you a request, please? Platonic yandere about White Lily, Elder Faerie, Silverbell, Mercurial Knight x child!reader, possibly as a child or younger sibling. They took care of the reader when reader was a little dough, but unfortunately, they neglected reader and then reader disappeared. They were so sad thinking it was their fault until they saw you were with Gingerbrave's group, sadly, the reader doesn't remember who they are anymore.

Enjoy the milkshake! Did you know, a shrimp made this milkshake?

A child for the faeries

-Platonic-

!TW! Under the cut there are themes like overprotectiveness, not knowing how to care for a child and implied murder

Things never go to plan do they?

White Lily had initially planned on leaving this child to the faeries. She found this child in the deepest depths of beast yeast, the places only yeast spores rest in.

She couldn’t care for fresh dough! Even though she wanted to…. She wanted to be able to relate to Hollyberry and Dark Cacao with having a kid as well… but the faeries are kind enough, fresh dough seems to be safe in their hands! Right?

Well.. yes and no. The faeries have a safe kingdom sure, but do they know how to take care of a child? Nope. I mean there aren’t really any child faeries running around so you can see why they are unsure when it comes to childcare

White Lily arrived and at first was going to get the information about the witches she yearned for but she felt like leaving you was a crime that she couldn’t bear to commit. She promised to not get attached but she did

The faeries also got attached since it’s been a long time since fresh dough had been in the kingdom and while the faeries doted on the fresh dough, they didn’t actually take proper care of them.

Mercurial Knight was one of the babysitters asigned to taking care of the dough, his method was… dull.

He kind gave the fresh dough a stick and said have fun, but if there was any threat then Mercurial Knight would take it upon himself to destroy the threat swifter than an autumn leaf drifting to the forest floor. Now did the child see this? Maybe, but you’ll forget and he’ll get you cleaned up if any jam got on ya.

Now your other babysitter was Silverbell who actually was a somewhat good babysitter! He was caring, made sure to feed you since some faeries forgot about that sometimes and he played with you! But he was very anxious about everything you did.

It got to the point where you were under constant observation, Silverbell would start to have a panic attack if you were out of his sight for more than five seconds. If you did get lost he’d search the kingdom high and low until you were found, Sliverbell would cry tears of relief when he did find you

Now White Lily and Elder Faerie were a duo, you’ll never find one without the other.

White Lilys sent always gave a calm aura and Elder Faerie had a wonderful voice for lullabies, White Lily did too but she was to nervous to sing.

They were kinda like your parents, most of the time anything relating to you went through them first and foremost. Anything from diet to well being to safety, any questions went through them. And they kinda controlled everything, some could say they were over controlling

But the two of them seemed to have a strained relationship due to their different ideas of how you should be raised, Elder Faerie wanted to keep anything from the beasts to the witches to be hidden away

While White Lily wanted you to know things, I mean, it’s not like Dark Cacao or Hollyberry hid anything from their kids so she shouldn’t! And it might help you one day.

Now things came to a head when Dark Enchantress was born, that same day the sealed away beasts got a bit more aggressive with escaping, and during the chaos the child that everyone had tried to raise went missing…

The years ticked on by and a melancholy swept over the faeries, White Lily wasn’t waking up and the child was gone. The joyful atmosphere was gone.

Until one day… a group of cookies walked into the kingdom with one resembling the dough they desired to raise… but they held no sense of familiarity, only curiosity and wonder

[heinou]

Everyone individually undercut! Also Au stuff and text undercut as well! tw: experiments, mentioning of animal death, etc.

Sooo

Spearm is here to deliver a pearl to Five Pebbles, a pearl that contains somethin else instead of path to the promised ascension and triple affirmative, a (somewhat computer)virus. Or, so to speak, an activation key.

In some of the experiments Spearmaster developed ability similar to speech to communicate, but SRS, being suspicious of their messenger possibly letting Five Pebbles know about the actual content of pearl and the horrors they have to go through almost daily, left them without a mouth!

As for Hunter, SRS was the one responsible for giving them rot, when they “helped” their friend and colleague NSH with creating an effective messenger. NSH, being fond of their creation, was very upset at Hunter becoming HLL, so SRS, sure thing, modified poor creature, somewhat “resurrecting” them by returning some portion of their consciousness, forcing Hunter to endure a lot of pain constantly

Arti has rot. She got it after multiple deaths to rot that was in FP’s can. She still isn’t able to leave the cycle, so she doesn’t have any other choice.

She knows something wrong, she is suspicious of Spearmaster.

Also Spearm is afraid of needles hehe

Rivulet is here to check up on moon and pebbles, along with finding out was the heck is happening (sent by Chasing Winds)

Also my unedited yapping below (partially the same as higher)

Evil suns and poor spearm hehehee (designs might change)

The whole idea is that Suns is more of a experiments guy, doing it for “fun” like it was in history with some illegal scholars that did horrible experiments on people “just for fun” and “why not” (sorts of like “what will happen if I blow up this creature?” “Oh, it blew up?” “Who could’ve thought!”)

And spearmaster is kind of a victim here, and in process of experiments he gained some sort of ability to communicate through “speech”

And Suns had to take that ability from them, just so spearm wouldn’t let all his plans and effort go to waste (+ so they wouldn’t be able to warn Five Pebbles about pearl containing something else and not the way to ascension)

Plus in canon Suns kinda ignores the whole ordeal and moon’s state for quite a while, so in this case it could be more than intentional

[whumblr]

The gravity of the situation

"Warning. Unauthorized remote override. Warning. Unauthorized increase in centrifugal force."

"Yes! Yes, thank you! I'm quite aware!" Whumpee wanted to shout back as he fought against the ever increasing pull of gravity, but it only came out as a frustrated wheeze as he dragged himself forward, clutching the railing along the hallway for dear life to keep upright.

The white hallway of the space station lit up in red as warning lights flashed on and off. Robotic voices dropped warnings left and right, their tone unimpressed by the impending danger yet they kept droning on with some form of programmed urgency.

Only one voice that broke over the robotic ones was human, recognizable by the unmistakable glee in it.

"You're doing quite well." The disembodied voice echoed through the curved hallway. Whumpee could hear the smirk in that voice, could picture the look on Whumper's face as he watched from a distance from their hacked cameras. Safe in his own spaceship. Probably with his feet up on the dash. In 1G. Or 0G, enviable.

Shut… up! Whumpee settled on screaming in his head. The asshole wouldn't hear him anyway and he had more important matters to spend his energy on. Like making sure he kept standing and inching forward towards Control to kick him back out of their system.

His arms trembled under his weight. Or rather, under twice his weight by now probably. He struggled to keep himself up. Sweaty palms threatened his grip, but he couldn’t even risk it to wipe them on his pants. Easy does it. Step by step.

"Hope you haven't skipped your weight training," the voice crooned. "Here, let's pump it up a bit... See how much you lift."

More warnings echoed through the room, clashed as the robotic voices spoke over each other to deliver their urgent messages. “Thrusters enga—” “Accelerati—” “Rotatio—” “Warni—!”

Forget weight training; every warning sent a spike of adrenaline through his heart, his body trained to shoot to action at the urgent tone and voices. He couldn't help a glance up with a light gasp, then went back to ignoring them and gratefully used the extra adrenaline to wrestle forward.

He did not immediately notice the outer ring of the space station turning faster and faster— thank god because nausea was the last thing he needed right now – but he did start to feel its effects. Slowly but surely gravity pressed further down on him, like a weighted blanket around his shoulders being pumped full of lead by some nefarious individual.

He had to hurry. Before he couldn’t even walk any—

A hand slipped. His heart skipped a beat.

The pull of gravity was merciless.

His chin hit the railing. Hard. Like someone took hold of his head and smashed him down full force. His knees crashed against the floor with a sickening thud that made him worry for his kneecaps and he just about managed to catch himself with one hand. Something in his wrist shifted. Pain shot through his arm but he bit through it, wrestling himself on both hands and knees.

"Ho, you alright?” There was no concern in that voice. Just a hint of amused surprise. “You disappeared from my feed?”

Whumpee panted hard, staring at the floor under him. Little red drops spattered against the pristine white and only then did he taste the blood. He wanted to wipe the iron taste from his lips. Wanted to cup and massage his jaw and maybe crick it back because, god, it felt like that blow had dislocated his entire face. But he couldn’t. Could only focus on staying somewhat balanced on hands and knees.

The cameras above him whirred as they looked around, searching for him.

No. No wait, that wasn’t the camera. The buzzing got louder. Got closer.

A drone flew into view as it traced the curved corridor. Their hacked drone, a blinking red dot signaling that the camera was on.

“Ah. There you are.”

The drone hovered annoyingly in his face. It, too, sputtered, not built for this kind of pull on the tiny propellors, yet it remained airborne. Before Whumpee could even think, he tried to swipe at it. Even a light swat would probably smash it right into the floor—just like him. But his arm didn't go as high as he intended and struck only air.

A low chuckle came from the drone. "Too heavy, hm?"

"Shut—!" he wheezed. Fuck, he didn't have enough air to be drawn into a shouting match. "Up..." he finished weakly.

He slid a knee forward. Crept along. Favored his right hand to support himself, his left all pins and needles and couldn’t be trusted to carry his normal weight let alone getting closer and closer to three times that. Come on, not much further now. Everyone was counting on him. And if he faltered and fell down flat on his stomach he would never make it back up. He’d slowly get crushed to death until his lungs couldn’t expand anymore under the enormous weight. Come on.

It was like a boulder balanced in-between his shoulder blades. Increasing in size with every inch forward. How fast was the outer ring going by now?!

The drone slowly buzzed along with him, keeping an eye on him, a certain someone virtually stepping along. When he crawled into the control room, he heard a tick and a scratching sound behind him and the drone scraped against the floor, its propellors no longer able to carry it an inch above the floor.

Ignore the foreboding omens. Whumpee grit his teeth. Dragged himself over to the main dashboard where the red button to override all controls blinked above him like a shining beacon.

He tried to claw his way up a chair, but it swiveled and nearly sent him crashing back to the floor.

He glared up, let out a growl through grit teeth. Everything, from the controls to the fucking furniture, was his enemy now. Mainly the mocking “Tick tock” noises from the drone’s speaker behind him and the insurmountable five feet tall dashboard in front of him.

Gathering all his strength for a last hail Mary, Whumpee sat back, firmly planted his feet under him.

With a desperate scream, he launched himself at the dashboard. Or rather, forced himself through the invisible forcefield. He clawed a hand around the edge of the panel to make sure he wouldn’t slip back and he let out a small “Ha!” in this little victory.

His other hand scratched at the little plastic cover over the red emergency button. Usually it could be removed instantly with a mere flick of the fingers. Now he nearly had to tear it off. Which, in his impatience, he did.

A final grunt of effort and he slammed his slick palm into the button.

“Emergency override sequence started. Reverting all systems.”

A laugh of relief escaped him. And he let go.

He crashed to the ground as if he fell from thirty feet up instead of the measly five. It punched the air from him, bruised his shoulder. But he didn’t care. He did it. They were safe.

“Now, that was impressive,” Whumper said, and Whumpee was sure he heard a muffled sound of hands slowly clapping. “Well done.”

He lay panting on the floor, rolled onto his back, spread-eagled. Slowly but surely, the pressure on his body let up. He could draw more air into his lungs. And could let his muscles finally relax.

The red hue in the room disappeared. The robotic voices stopped clamoring against each other as everything reverted back to normal, within safe parameters that didn’t set off any more alarms.

For a few blissful seconds, Whumpee just lay there, glad that it was over.

Until a new warning dropped.

“Warning. Unauthorized docking sequence initiated.”

And a more amused voice:

“Thanks for that. I think it’s safe now for me to board your ship.”

-

General whump tag list: @firewheeesky @myfriendcallsmeasickwoman19 @whumpawink @painsandconfusion @auroragehenna @chaotic-orphan @lolrpop @treasureguardingdragon

[tellyouily]

fall right back to you

dnf - fluff - 900 words

read on ao3

-

Dream’s office is colder than his, and purple rather than George’s dark blue from the LED lights framing the ceiling.

He has his headphones on, his eyes no doubt fixed on the portion of the video he’s in the middle of editing, and it’s probably because of this that he doesn’t notice George coming in.

George closes the door behind himself and steps closer to the desk. It takes him one look at the monitor to Dream’s right to see that he still has X open, still showing the black screen of the stream George just ended. So he was listening. George smiles a little at that; he had a feeling Dream probably stuck around after he stopped texting him.

He touches the top of the chair, and Dream looks up quickly.

“Oh, hey. You scared me,” he says, but he’s smiling. He pulls his headphones down to rest around his neck.

“Sorry,” George says, letting his fingers slip into Dream’s messy curls. “You stayed for the whole thing?”

Dream nods, stretching. “I did. It was nice.”

He reaches out and strokes his hand across George’s lower back, over his t-shirt.

“You should start a podcast or something. You’d be good at it.”

George shakes his head, managing to suppress his smile even as Dream starts to laugh.

“Idiot,” he says, pinching Dream’s nape just lightly. He deserves it. Kind of.

Dream responds by leaning backwards in his chair and grabbing hold of his spare office chair, pulling it closer for George to sit.

“Sit,” he says. “I’ve missed you today.”

It makes for an easy decision – George’s favorite type of decision, coincidentally.

He sits, using his feet (and great effort) to roll the chair closer to Dream’s, and placing his legs in Dream’s lap, having to bend his knees over the stupid armrests to make it possible. It’s suboptimal, for sure, but it will have to do.

Both of Dream’s hands instantly come to rest on his calves, squeezing once.

“Tired?” Dream asks, gazing at him openly.

The look in his eyes, and his whole demeanor, really, tells George that out of the two of them, Dream is easily the one who is the most tired. But Dream is right, too – George is a little exhausted.

He closes his eyes for a moment, nodding. When he opens them again the world has gone a little blurry from his bleariness.

“Yeah, a bit,” he says

Dream encloses his hands around George’s ankles, his palms warm against the tiny sliver of skin between George’s sweatpants and his socks.

Looking at him now, George realizes that Dream looks… good. Like, in a noticeable way – a level of good that exceeds his usual level which George has gotten somewhat used to and somewhat less abnormal about. Somewhat. The second thing he realizes is that he doesn’t recognize the hoodie Dream is wearing. It’s dark gray and expensive looking. And nice. It makes Dream look really nice.

“I like your hoodie,” George says, because he does.

Dream looks surprised, but only for a split second before a smile takes over his features. He sounds a little suspicious, though, when he says, “Thanks.”

“Is it new?”

Dream nods, sparing a quick glance down at it. “Uhm, yeah. I think so, anyway.”

George clicks his tongue. “Trick question, I already knew it was.”

He did – Dream has many hoodies, but none in this shade of gray. As the Dream expert, George thinks he’s pretty much qualified to be certain of these things.

Dream laughs. “You are so weird.”

George doesn’t let it faze him. “I know every single piece of clothing you own,” he says instead. Because he does.

“Wow, so impressive,” Dream says, still laughing.

“It is,” George agrees, pressing his lips together solemnly. “I have an archive.”

To this, Dream nods slowly, which George appreciates. His detailed cataloguing of Dream facts should be admired and applauded, most of all by Dream.

“Alright, I’ll make sure to tell you next time I buy something, then. For your archive,” Dream says, not sounding entirely earnest, but George will take it.

“For my archiving purposes,” he echoes. “Yeah, you better.”

Dream just looks at him then, smiling through to his eyes. And George knows that face, would know it anywhere. He knows exactly what Dream is thinking. He narrows his eyes.

“I’m not kissing you.”

It makes Dream laugh, again. “What? Why not?”

“You’re gross.”

Dream snorts.

George smiles. “I don’t know where your lips have been. You might’ve licked the toilet since I last saw you for all I know.”

His ankle gets a gentle squeeze. “If I tell you, will you kiss me?”

“No.”

Dream raises his eyebrows. “Fine. I guess you hate me.”

It’s not that he means it, of course – he’s being an idiot, actually – but George won’t stand for such accusations. Especially not after Dream has said he missed him today, and especially not now that he’s wearing this hoodie which makes him look so extra kissable.

George leans forward, closing the short distance between them, and pecks Dream on the lips. One second and then it’s over, but Dream’s immediate smile is proof that it did in fact happen.

“I knew it,” he says.

George laughs, shifting closer to him subconsciously. “Knew what? That you’re an idiot?”

Smiling like he’s won, Dream only shrugs. “I just knew it.”

Luckily for him, George is not above kissing him again to get the answers he needs.

[luci4theminorannoyance]

I forgot to mention this in the other ask but if you do write the ftm reader story could you do comfort? Like the tf141 stands up for the reader:)

a/n: oh yes yes I can >:]

Ghost:

-a very silent comforter, sure he had been very very loud when he corrected some recruits on their actions towards you, but in private In your barrack afterwards it was all about the little acts he did to make you feel back to tip top shape

-a simple step by step that looped in his head in fact, grabbing tea for the both of you from his very private secret stash and sitting beside you all the while, his calloused hand running over the edge of your barrack bed, noticing little things he could do to make your week better from fixing that flickering light to sewing that hole in your uniforms pocket… you were such a good boyfriend, so it was definitely worth it.

Gaz:

-honestly a very quiet ‘not my monkeys and not my circus’ kind of guy most of the time, knowing most of the task force deserved whatever they had going on

-so it was certainly a shock when he LOUDLY got up from his chair and left when a (somewhat important) informant was being more then rude to you over no reason then… personal hatred

-left a gift basket at your door after the whole affair, as well as an insane amount of cute half serious notes about ‘dealing with that guy.’

[musicfeedsmysoul12]

Maybe something about Househusband Izumi becoming a teacher?

Izuku sighed as dramatically as he could. His wife, Momo, barely twitched.

“I’m bored,” he said out loud.

“I can tell,” Momo replied as she worked on her paperwork.

“Momo,” Izuku pouted as best he could.

“You know for a former villain turned househusband, you whine a lot,” she remarked. Mostly teasing, but also a little annoyed. Izuku tried not to wince. Oops.

“I’m sorry,” he said. He tried not to sound worried but with how Momo quickly looked up he didn’t think he succeeded.

“Izuku I’m not angry,” she said. Her voice was incredibly gentle as she got up to go and sit with him. He leaned into her, welcoming her warmth.

Momo had been the first person to not think he deserved all the hate he’d received from the moment he was declared Quirkless. Even his mother had thought he didn’t deserve the same things other kids did. But Momo thought he did.

She’d been the one to help him escape from the trap he’d found himself in after Toga Himiko had lured him to the League of Villains. He’d thought Himiko cared about him and perhaps she did in her own way, but she’d been as cruel as anyone else if a different flavour. Her kindness was sharp and she loved blood.

Especially when it came from her boyfriend.

Momo had managed to paint Izuku as an unwilling pawn of the League and forced to work for them. It wasn’t untrue given he had been somewhat an unwilling member. He’d just had more chances than people knew to ‘free himself’. The only good part of being Quirkless was that people had bought the idea he was unable to fight back.

Izuku had settled into being a househusband. He loved cooking for his wife, loved cleaning the house. But he was bored. He didn’t hate his life but… he was kind of used to doing more than what he was doing.

“Do you want a job?” Momo asked him.

“No. Yes? I don’t know. I don’t want to deal with people,” Izuku said, thinking of how a majority of Momo’s old classmates treated him as just a hanger on. Or how Kirishima outright said it was good Momo took pity on him (and how he didn’t understand why Izuku didn’t like Bakugou. Not until Izuku laid out exactly how he used to be treated by the blond. Even then Kirishima was still refusing to listen).

Or how people still saw his shoes first.

“Maybe… maybe you could do YouTube? I know some people find it adds enjoyment,” Momo suggested.

“And what do I do there?” Izuku asked.

“Maybe you teach people things? I mean how to get blood out of clothes.” Momo suggested. Izuku frowned.

Would that be something to stop making him bored?

Three months later, 6000 subscribers and a hundred videos later talking about the best way to get blood out of hero suits or how to properly season a cast iron pan or how to do on the spot analysis, Izuku was pleased to say it did.

[heartsfromia]

old habits die hard — k. yudai

pairing: non-idol! k x reader

word count: 3,727

genre: fluff, somewhat childhood friends to… lovers (?), college au but at a party (that isnt hosted by jackson wang)

warnings: profanities, mentions of alcohol, idk if this should be a warning but a bit of nichojoo

author's notes: my first andteam fic! recently got into them and have been smitten ever since (o^▽^o) also these fics will be a tumblr exclusive (unlike my svt fics) so they wont be posted anywhere else (now i have to figure out how to put this on my masterlist)

You hated parties.

Such a cliché statement, but it was true.

You absolutely despised parties, and all throughout your first year of college, you made it your life’s mission to avoid attending a single one (excluding mandatory parties that were held under collegial events, because for some reason, supervisors count your absents for those things). It was easy for the first semester since everyone was just getting to know each other, hosting a party so early in the year was only done by those older than you. There was nothing more akin to modern day torture than being holed up in a poorly lit living room with over a hundred intoxicated people, loud incessant music and sweaty body odor stinking up the already small space.

You always hated sweaty people and body odor, and unfortunately, parties were the Grand Central for them.

So the question might have come up: how did you find yourself at a party?

Simple: Nicholas Wang.

Your best friend, ride or die, and the bane of your existence because the universe had plagued the two of you with opposing personalities. Nicholas knows well enough that parties aren’t your thing and you were stubborn enough that he never tried to change your mind, but he enjoyed them. It was fun, he’s a social butterfly that thrives by interacting with others and he’d always limit himself to asking you to accompany him at least once a semester for a party.

It was the second semester to your second year, so he decided to use his chances now because of much more… important matters to deal with than just partying.

“It’s hosted by Mingyu, Y/N, you know? The guys that rented a whole-ass house for themselves?” You knew who he meant. Kim Mingyu and a bunch of his friends couldn’t find a place to stay once their time on campus dorms had ended, so they decided to find a fairly big house they could room up to ten people to rent. Not only was a huge steal because Mingyu was able to gather about eight other guys to join, but the landlord isn’t strict either, as long as the guys made sure nothing gets damaged (if they did, it was paid out of their own pockets) and to not get the police involved then they were free to do whatever they wanted.

“I don’t really care who is hosting it, Nico,” you mumbled, a resigned look on your face. “Isn’t it a bit early for you to use your pass? It’s barely two weeks into the semester.”

“Uh…” A blush coated his cheeks as he averted his eyes, only piquing your interest now. “So, the thing is… You know how I went skiing for break, I kind of met someone there—“

You sat up, eyes so wide that you worried they’d pop out. This was news; Nicholas, despite being a social butterfly, never was interested in anyone, no matter how many people tried to get closer—boy or girl. You couldn’t help the wide smile that pulled at your lips. “Oh my gosh! That’s awesome! Who are they?” He had always expressed his sexuality as something he never wanted to label, he only knew that if he had romantic feelings for someone, he never really cared for who they were.

“It’s Byun Euijoo, he’s an Engineering major.” Nicholas then went on to explain how the two had ran into each other in the same ski resort the recent break, the romantic cliché of getting stuck in the ski lift for about twenty minutes, and talking until the machine came back on. They then decided to continue their conversation over dinner with hot cocoa and well, to say the least, Nicholas was smitten over the guy.

“But what does Euijoo have anything to do—“ The realization struck. You paused then squinted your eyes. “He lives there?”

Nicholas shook his head, before a sheepish smile etched on his face. “But he did ask if I was going.”

Alas, you found yourself in the party. And to make it worse, not even twenty seconds in the door, someone crashed right into you, their drink and snacks they were carrying had spilled all over you, staining your shirt with an alcoholic concoction and nacho cheese sauce.

“Oh my gosh, Y/N,” Nicholas exclaimed. “Are you okay? Gosh, couldn’t that guy see where he was going?” He threw a glare in the direction of where the guy that bumped into you had gone.

“I’m fine, Nico,” you reassured, however your best friend wasn’t convinced. “Hey, I see Euijoo over there by the food table, why don’t you go talk to him?”

“How about y—“

“I’ll ask around for a bathroom, it’s alright.” He stared at you, brows pulled together. You rolled your eyes, emphasizing, “It’s okay.” You then turned him around so he faced away from him, giving him a gentle push. “Now, go.”

He looked over his shoulder as he walked slowly, but when you gave him a reassuring look, he returned with a grateful smile and disappeared into the crowd, his head popping up right by the food table not long after. Once you were sure he was out of sight, you heaved a sigh, your shoulders slouching. Every time you’d gone out to a party, it’d give you a reason why it is never a good decision. The last time you had gone out, you spent most of your time by the snacks and for some reason, someone didn’t inspect the food provided and you ended up eating something that was way past its best before date, resulting into an intensive couple of hours in the toilet the next morning.

Now your favorite white shirt was stained with alcohol and cheese.

You tried to ask others where the bathroom was, ultimately being ignored at almost every turn.

“Hey, can you point me—“

“Do you know where—“

“Anyone know—“

“Bathroom, where—“

Hopeless.

Obviously you could try looking through every door until you found the bathroom, but the house was three floors, and even the first floor was so crowded, you were grateful to even find the front door again. You wanted to dip—everything in you and the state of your outfit with the stains seeping through the material—urged you to just leave, and hope that Nicholas’ “date” goes well and he won’t need a ride home.

The urge stuck, pushing your body towards the door as if it had a mind of its own (and it was thinking, “fuck this”), but a voice pulled you out of your thoughts.

“Looking for the bathroom?” A relieved smile appeared on your lips as you turned around to see your saviour of the night, but it immediately dropped when you saw he spoke to you.

Koga Yudai (infamously referred to as “Kei” for reasons unknown to you) had the gentlest of smiles etched across his pink lips when he appeared before you. He looked different—grown, mature, and obviously attractive as hell. A lot had changed since the last time you saw him; the last time being grade school. Of course you were well aware that he went to the same university as you, but he was in a completely department and the chances of your paths crossing was low.

But never zero, I guess.

He glanced down to your mess of a shirt, a teasing grin on his lips. “Damn, Y/N, you really know how to party.”

You rolled your eyes. The relationship you and Kei had in grade school was friendly, being a year above you limited your interactions but back then, he used to live in the same neighbourhood as you. Your mothers met each other often during community gatherings and events, your fathers also worked in the same area in the city. Being friendly with each other was inevitable, but Kei took it a step further by teasing you every so often.

“Do you know where the bathroom is, Kei?” You asked exasperated, not wanting to play along with his teasing. The smell from the cheese and pungency of the alcohol was seeping through your shirt, invading your noise and sticking to your skin, if he didn’t show you the bathroom in that very moment, you were sure a homicide was going to take place.

“Yeah, I’ll show you the one near my room so we can get you change of clothes.” He didn’t give you any opportunity to protest or ask further questions before he turned and walked towards the stairs. You followed him like a lost puppy, eyes darting and dodging those in your way. The two of you reached the third floor which was a lot less crowded than the other two.

“We keep the third floor empty of party-goers,” he stated, answering your thoughts.

As you reached a closed door, you asked, So, you live here?” He turned to look at you, nodding, before pushing the door open to reveal the bathroom.

“Head on in, keep it locked, alright?” He told you, stepping aside for you. Before he closed the door, he said, “I’ll be back with a shirt for you.”

“No, Kei, it’s—“ The door closes before you could finish. You sighed, staring at the closed door in a daze, your heart fluttering against your ribcage. You were grateful Kei barely looked at you, hopefully he didn’t notice the way your cheeks were flushed a bright red, and your heavy breathing (that wasn’t from the two flights of stairs).

God, they’re still here? You thought they’d be gone by now, it had been almost a decade since you realized your crush on Kei. A decade where the two of you never saw each other after he said his goodbyes because he and his family were moving to Tokyo for his dad’s new job. You were sure that would be last time you’d see him, giving you enough time and distance to move on from your puppy love.

I guess the feelings were stronger than I thought.

A knock broke you from your thoughts, causing you to jump slightly and then panic because you didn’t lock the door as Yudai had asked.

“Y/N, I brought the shirt.” A sigh of relief escaped your lips, and you pulled the door open. You were met with a look of confusion from Kei. “You didn’t lock the door.” It wasn’t a question, rather a statement.

“Yeah, I was occupied.”

His brows furrowed to that of worry, his lips pressed in a tight line. Oh boy. “Y/N, you’re at a party. Tons of people are here and this bathroom is open for anyone, who knows what would’ve happened if it wasn’t me that came? No one would’ve known you were in here and you could’ve been cleaning yourself up, forgetting to lock the door and someone could just waltz right in—“ He rants dramatically, using his arms and his face contorting, but instead of scaring you, a laugh left you, stopping his nagging. “This is no laughing matter, Y/N.”

“I’m sorry, Kei, it was an honest mistake,” you reassured him, but his scorn prevailed. “You haven’t changed, huh?”

His eyebrows shot up at that, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned against the door frame, the shirt he brought draped over his crossed arms. “And what’s that supposed to mean?” He asked with a raised brow.

“You still nag ‘til my ears bleed,” you said, over exaggerating.

A look of offense briefly passed his features. “No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do, you always have!” You grinned. “When I scraped my knee when I rode a bicycle, you told me it was my fault because I didn’t want to wear knee pads. In sixth grade, when I flunked a math test, you nagged at me because instead of studying, I chose to binge watch Barbie.”

Kei’s mouth opened to defend himself, but closed again, thinking back to those days, then finally said, “Okay, maybe I nag a bit but it’s mostly because you don’t listen.”

“Yeah, yeah, can I please have the shirt so I can change? I think the cheese they used for the nachos is a combo of cheddar and blue cheese.” The two of you cringe, and he hands you the shirt before closing the door.

You were to turn to pull your shirt off when the door swung open, a scream escaped your lips as you jumped, turning to find Kei with a shit-eating grin. “Lock it, Y/N.”

“Alright!” A laugh echoed from the other side when you turned the key. You took your time to peel the stained shirt off of you, the state of it causing you to pout as you contemplated whether or not you should give a chance and laundry it or to just toss it out altogether. It genuinely concerned you how much thought you were putting into that decision because the shirt had been with you for years, and it fit you the way that could only be done through constant wear. You doubt you could find another.

So you decided to rinse it, at least get as much of the stain and cheese out with the bar soap available, and then let the washing machine back home deal with the remains. You also grabbed a wad of toilet paper, running it under water before wiping the skin of your stomach and chest. Unfortunately, no matter how much you scrubbed it, the smell of alcohol wasn’t disappearing.

Giving up, you folded your shirt neatly, tucking it away in the small bag you brought before picking up Kei’s shirt. You gripped the shoulders, allowing it to unravel. It was a flannel made of cotton, thin enough for the warm summer night but wasn’t transparent either when you held it against the light. The best part though was the smell; a mixture of softener, musk and woodiness that seemed all-too familiar but you couldn’t put a finger on what it was. One thing you remembered about Kei was his genuine interest in perfumes and all things scented. You remember there was a point you were hanging out in his house and his mother came barging in into his room, angry because Kei had borrowed her perfume and forgot to put it back.

You smiled fondly at the memory, all those days suddenly felt so close—closer than they had ever been for the past few years, but just as far.

You slipped the shirt on, the material feeling soft and warm against your skin. Despite its larger size, you felt it fit you just right.

Once you were done, you pulled the door open and stepped out, pulling at the flannel and tucking the front part into your jeans. “You look really good in my shirt.”

Another scream, but this time, you smacked his arm. “Stop that!”

He threw his head back at your reaction. “You’ve always been easy to scare.” You rolled your eyes, glaring at him, but he ignored the look as he nodded his head towards the left side of the hallway, opposite to the stairs back at the party. “Come, I know these things are really your scene. I’ve got snacks in my room.”

When you were about to follow him, your phone vibrated in your pockets.

Nico: yn where’d you go? i waited by the bathroom and it wasnt you

“Boyfriend?”

Your eyebrows pulled together at Kei’s question, but you shook your head. “No, it’s a friend I came here with.”

“Oh.” A look of relief passed his face, but it was so quick, you almost questioned if you’d imagined it.

You: hey im with kei rn, im okayyy You: pls have fun with euijoo without me 🤭 Nico: alrightt text me if youre ready to go Nico: but take as much time as you want 😇 You: same to youu

With a satisfied grin, you slipped your phone back in your pocket and followed Kei to his room. It looked just as you had expected; a tidy mess. He had always been the type to keep his room tidy enough that his mom wouldn’t nag at him to clean his room at first glance, but you’d look closely you would notice the pile of laundry on a chair, the mess of textbooks on his desk and his untucked sheets.

One thing for sure, the smell of the room could easily distract you to the point you would never notice any of all that.

You noticed the two scented candles lit by his desk, igniting the space in a warm yellow, wavering a bit with your entrance. The layout looked just like what you’d expected in a college student, which meant that there was a small TV screen, mini fridge and a rice cooker. “Not too bad, Koga.”

“Sorry for the mess,” he apologized with a chuckle. “My bedroom is usually off limits on nights like this.” You stared at him expectantly. “You are an exception, Y/N.”

“Such an honour,” you teased, laughing. “I didn’t know you lived here.”

“Yeah, I was one of the first few people Mingyu approached to join,” he informed, and you nodded wordlessly. “Anyway, why are you here? As far as I remember, you never liked crowded places, let alone a party with drunk college kids.”

“My friend, Nicholas, the guy I came here with asked me to come with him as a—I wouldn’t say wing woman, but he was invited by someone he’s interested in and didn’t want to arrive alone,” you droned on, even though what you were explaining didn’t have any correlation why you’d willingly put yourself in a situation you were uncomfortable in.

And Kei knew that. It was exactly what he had asked. “Still putting the needs of others before your own, huh?”

“Still meddling yourself into things that have nothing to do with you, huh?” You bit back, stunning Kei for a second before a soft chuckle left his lips. “I don’t… mind, if the whole cheese thing didn’t happen then I’d probably be having fun by the snack table right now, maybe even talk with Kevin from Stats. I saw him by the kitchen earlier.” You knew you were rambling to deflect, and despite the years that passed between you and Kei, he was still well aware of your old habits.

And he’d always listen. The two of you had sat on the floor close to his bed, the mini fridge beside the door, and he had already propped his arm up, resting his chin while you rambled on, justifying why you did come to the party. He never interrupted, because sooner you would realize what you were spewing wasn’t entirely true and blush, embarrassed for letting yourself talk so much.

“Yeah, I get it, Y/N, but the line between selflessness and self-sacrifice is almost invisible, what you’re doing is sacrificing your own comfort for the sake of others,” he pointed out, “you know you’re not a party person, but you still go out of your way because someone asked you to.”

“That would mean I shouldn’t leave my comfort zone,” you retorted, the back of your neck beginning to heat up. “I’m not eleven anymore, Yudai. I get you had been protective then, but I’m an adult now. I can choose whether or not I want to put myself in uncomfortable situations.”

He was quiet for longer than you expected, and you feared that you’d said something wrong, maybe even offended him. But then you caught the twitch at the corner of lips unfold into a smirk. “You called me Yudai.”

The embarrassment was almost immediate. Your cheeks flushed a bright red, heating up not just your face but your entire body. Nobody—as far as you knew—called him Yudai, all of them called him Kei, even back when you went to the same school. The only people that called him Yudai were his parents, and well, you. It started as a way to tease him, like being called your full name, but doing it so often, it became a habit.

It slipped, in the midst of your minor altercation, you were overwhelmed by the emotions of being treated like a kid to even realize.

“I almost thought you’d forgotten.”

“How could I? The faces you’d make when I called you Yudai were priceless,” you said with a laugh. “Especially when I did it in front of your friends.”

“Not even my mom embarrasses me like that,” he adds, causing the two of you to laugh harder. “I’m sorry if I offended you, I’m well aware you’re not a kid anymore, and yeah, I’m glad you don’t want to keep staying within your comfort zone even if it’s hard.”

“But…?” It was clear something else.

“Just… I guess, it’s a bit hard for me to grasp that you really don’t need me anymore,” he admits, a faint shade of pink appearing in his cheeks. “I know you’ve always been able to handle things yourself, but it always felt, I don’t know, comforting I guess, whenever you included me in the things you were going through.” He paused again. “You’ve matured, Y/N, is all I’m saying.”

His words tugged at your heart, the truth behind them revealing itself in the maze of your memories. Yes, Yudai had always been a nagging Nancy, most the problems gone through during your time together were always accompanied by his reprimanding. However, he never scolded you without providing a solution or way out.

Sure he might’ve yelled at you for scraping your knee but he’d do so while plastering on a band-aid he had prepared beforehand.

Yes, he had talked your ear off when you failed math, but he made it his mission, amidst his own studies and extracurriculars, to tutor you so you can retake the test.

Even now, you’re wearing a clean and comfortable shirt that doesn’t smell like a science experiment gone wrong.

There were different things you wanted to tell him, thank him, say that he made your life easier, but instead you opted to say, “You really haven’t changed.”

Laughter shook his body. “What can I say? Old habits die hard.”

“What habit? Nagging ‘til our ears bleed?” You teased.  He shook his head, the smirk lingering on his lips as he locked eyes with yours.

“The habit of always wanting to be there for you.”

[agape-emo-eros]

Ok here it goes. I hope I do the topic justice.

At first I read Omelas as a typical dystopia, a society that looks perfect but hides a dark underbelly it is reliant on for survival. In this reading the narrarator telling you to imagine the things happening in Omelas or asking you how to even describe this in a way you will understand doesn't really matter. It's just a way to account for personal taste. Or perhaps to compensate for how we already percieve this place because of our exposure to other stories.

But if we take the narrator as an integral part of the story then these lines start telling a somewhat different story.

The line: "Do you believe? Do you accept the festival, the city, the joy?" directly asks you if you believe a good society, without war, without a centralised authority (civic or religious), without adds, civil unrest and outside threats can exist. And not just for "noble savages and uncomplicated people" but for people just like us, with the same dark impulses.

And then only after the narrator hears your presumed "No." they say "No? Then let me describe one more thing." and goes on to explain the Omelas child.

They do not tell you that the following description is real. They even finnish the description with "Now do you believe them? Are they not more credible?"

If we take this additional information as a fabrication meant to sell us on the reality of this world then the quote "The trouble is that we have a bad habit of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil interesting. This is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain" is a condemnation of our willingness to believe that in all these years noone tried to test if the child really has to suffer, or figure out how this process works or say something kind to the child just because over the idea of a good society and goodness of people.

The ones who walk away from Omelas go towards "a place even less imaginable to most of us than the city of happiness. It cannot be described at all. It is possible it does not exist." The narrator acknowledges that we might lack the imagination to see a better world. Acknowledges that it might not be real and the people leaving might be wrong "but they seem to know where they are going, the ones who walk away from Omelas."

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Since I started stalking your blog a bit this morning because of Black Sails this also might mean something to you:

The story viewed this way makes some of the same points as Jack Rackham's "A story is true. A story is untrue. As time extends, it matters less and less. The stories we want to believe... those are the ones that survive, despite the upheaval and transition and progress."

It can be a horrible reminder of how the world will soon see Flint, Silver and the rest as just vile pirate monsters incapable of humanity as presented in Woodes Rodgers's book and A General History of the Pyrates (which Mrs Hudson is seen reading to hear children).

It can be uplifting message reminding you that as long as the real story of Captain Flint and Long John Silver is remembered, not entirely "twisted to fit into their narrative" and allowed to shape us and spur us towards a worthy goal the loss is not total. History is written by the victors so as long as you survive to tell the tale, even if you did not manage to win in a conventional way, you have won a little.

And on a third level it can say that Silver's inability to believe in a wold in which they win the war in any meaningful way a world in which the pirate-maroon revolution can succeed is a self fulfilling prophecy that caused what we now know as history and have to believe.

(This is why I find the idea of Silver as somebody isekaid from the modern world into the story of Treasure Island compelling. His knowledge of the future forces the future into the shape he knows.)

Both, in the end, condemn our inability and unwillingness to imagine a better word as the reason why we do not achieve. We believe we need a leviathan king to keep us in line through terror to insure we do not hurt eachother and so we never try to depose him and realise what life could be like without one.

(This ofcourse as Le Guin herself would point out aren't the only good, correct possible takes, but I like them.)

Guess I’m never going to stop seeing red about the unholy number of times I’ve seen people quote “The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas” out of context in order to condemn stories that focus on dark or troubling subject matter or that don’t end happily (“The trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil interesting. This is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain”), when THE STORY ITSELF is about a society that closes its eyes to suffering and evil in order to live in comfort and has a hopeful but at best bittersweet ending

[fictionadventurer]

I really think we're not taking advantage of the potential for Catholic lifestyle shows. Shows for parents that teach about traditions and devotions to incorporate in family life--prayers, crafts, foods, etc. Cooking competitions where people make traditional foods associated with different feast days in different cultures. Travel shows about different countries' unique Catholic traditions. Just stuff that makes it clear that Catholicism can be woven into the everyday parts of life.

[welcometogrouchland]

[ID in ALT] I've made posts before about Talia/Dick co-parenting Damian moments (will never happen but let me dream) and this came to me in a vision. Took me ages to finish for some reason 😭 and then even longer to post