#these are so disorganized I’m so sorry

[soullessjack]

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waiter waiter more snake motif jack web weaves!!

(pt 1/?)

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[peachdues]

forcing myself to take a break from writing compass for a couple of days because I’ve found myself writing the same general concept in four different fucking ways but I stupidly kept all of it in the main draft so now that entire draft is fucked

[luffysprincess]

so i remembered your post about capitano being sweet with your little girl and i’m here to ask if you wanted to dive more into what he’s like as a father 🥺💖 and do you guys have multiple children or is it just your little girl?

pls tell us miss amira 🎤

Hi miss ryu!! Eeee thinking about capitano as a father always makes me feel a little dizzy. I think we’d have more than just one child but for now all I have is thoughts about the first baby girl.

I’ve thought long and hard (that’s what she said) about her name and I think we’d pick Anastasia bc it’s such a pretty name and fitting for snezhnaya!! And we’d call her Ana for short!! She’d have black hair like both her parents but her eyes would be blue like her father’s. Everything else about her appearance (eye shape, nose, lips etc) would be from me.

Anyways that’s not what you asked I’m sorry ajshskaka. Capitano as a father would be so overprotective and worried and doting. He canonically doesn’t sleep ever so he’s so quick to jump out of bed when he hears her crying at night. Often times I’ve woken up to an empty bed in the middle of the night and found him with the baby curled up on his bare chest as he rocks her back to sleep. It’s a sight that makes me melt into a puddle everytime.

He also regularly reads to her in her childhood. We typically all cuddle up in her bedroom and capitano and I take turns reading a bedtime story to her. But a lot of the times she prefers her dad’s voice and also his personal stories of his adventure.

She thinks he’s the coolest thing ever, especially when he trains and wants to be just like him. So he starts taking her to the training grounds with him (after a long argument capitano and I had that eventually had me caving in bc he swore nothing would ever happen to her).

And she charms all the staff and other fatui that train there!! She’s just so loveable. That and behind her cute little self gleaming at everyone is a tall dark knight glaring at anyone that might possibly hurt her feelings. He’s so so protective of her but super soft w her.

He tries not to show the soft side in front of other ppl but he can’t help it when he sees her big puppy eyes and her hands outstretched bc she wants him to pick her up. Or when he knows that if he blows raspberries into her cheeks, she’ll let out the most joyous beautiful laugh.

And when she has nightmares he’s so quick to calm her down if I’m having trouble waking up (if I’m too exhausted I become a deep sleeper). Sometimes I’ll hear him threaten to kill her nightmares with his sword and it’s so funny. And then he hums her to sleep and carries her back to her bed.

He’s always there for her when she cries too. Usually it’s when she injures herself in training (when she’s in her pre-teens/teens) but he reassures her and gives her pep talks that make her a stronger person.

And when she starts growing a crush on the stable boy, he tests him by attempting to push the boy away. Making him work double time, telling him he’s not worthy etc etc but it’s bc he wants to see the kid really work for his precious Anastasia!! (Spoiler: he does eventually give stable boy his blessing)

[r-aindr0p]

You're doing amazing and wonderfully

Hope things are going alright for ya

Also this happened yesterday apparently

Drew a dragon for ya (they don't have any braincells but that's okay cause they're nice and they're trying lol) I tried to emulate the iconic eyes you draw cause i love that but i am not very good (didn't capture the same adorable essence but that's okay)

Aahghdhfb I’m a bit late but

Loving the creechur very much ✨

[pixlokita]

I get the feeling that if "into the ballpit" Mike ever catches Gregory or Evan with matches, the disappointed lecture about why playing with matches is bad isn't going to be because "fire is dangerous" so much as it will be because "the fire produced by mere matches isn't hot enough to destroy all the evidence and/or tethers that may or may not be tying a lingering soul to a hypothetical, animatronic prison."

He teaches them how to be arsonists but safely because they’re children after all ฅ(≚ᄌ≚)

[peaches2217]

More assorted Mario Bros headcanons, this time focusing on their upbringing!

✨ Their parents were first-generation immigrants from different parts of Italy. They met in Brooklyn as teenagers and the rest, as they say, is history.

✨ Their father passed away when they were two or three years old, so they don’t have many memories of him. Most of what they know about him comes from the stories their mother told them. She never had a bad word to say about even his worst qualities. Those stories and the way she told them are a big part of the reason Mario grew up to be a hopeless romantic.

✨ Being the elder brother by a whole three minutes, Mario took it upon himself growing up to fill the shoes his father left behind so he could take care of his mother and Luigi. He aspired to become that perfect man Mama Mario spoke of with bright and misty eyes: kind, gracious, full of humor, strong, soft-hearted, steadfast in his values and beliefs, slow to anger, quick to forgive.

✨ Finding a workable balance between all of those values took a while. Mario’s a deeply emotional guy, always has been, and while he has a fairly easy time forgiving transgressions against himself, transgressions against his loved ones are another story entirely. He was the sort of kid who’d take Yo Mama jokes personally (“Our mom is a wonderful woman!” he would snarl while Luigi did his best to physically drag Mario away from the altercation). To say nothing of how he’d react to someone slighting Luigi…

✨ Luigi is autistic and Mario has ADHD. Their neurodivergences are part of the reason they’ve always been so deeply on the same wavelength, that combined with classic twin tropes.

✨ Luigi was outed as bisexual in the seventh grade, when the little journal he kept at the time fell out of his bag and into the wrong hands. His biggest fear was, of all things, how Mario would react — he already felt like a freak to the rest of the world, becoming a freak to his brother and closest friend would have been unbearable. He was both horrified and relieved to find Mario in the courtyard after school, amassing a crowd as he beat the living shit out of the guy who outed Luigi in the first place, because he knew then that nothing had changed between them (and that Mario would be grounded for the next month. “Beyond worth it,” Mario assured him).

✨ Luigi also developed an affinity for wearing feminine clothes around that time; he’d always been curious but finally got the nerve to try it with his brother’s encouragement. Mario would bring him to boutiques and the mall and suchlike and then buy anything Luigi bought in his own size, that way if anyone had the audacity to stare, he could make a spectacle of himself so those eyes stared at HIM instead of Luigi.

✨ Their mother fell ill their senior year of high school and passed when they were in trade school. Neither remembers much from the year she died. They both threw themselves into their training and didn’t look back.

✨ Both bros started drinking coffee as young teenagers, Mario to emulate his father and Luigi to emulate Mario. They enjoy it as adults, though Mario far more than Luigi; Luigi prefers tea. Mario hated tea until he learned it was Peach’s drink of choice, at which point he sought Luigi’s help in developing a taste (or at least tolerance) for it. That help mostly consisted of Luigi making like five different types of tea each night and cheering Mario on as he downed them like vodka shots.

[outofangband]

I like how my ‘tag ramble’ tag is just entirely me rambling about Aerin, something I do often in regular posts

[inga-don-studio]

I will bite someone if I don’t get a later work shift soon OMFG

[gilmorenights]

This contrast between them is SOOO important to me because it gives Eugene a good reason to dislike Hugo, something other than “he’s a thief who dropped a piano on my head forever ago”. He found everything he ever wanted- his good thing- and like you said, did everything he could to secure that. Eugene can’t fathom why Hugo, who’s clearly found his good thing too, wouldn’t fight to keep it like he did. That’s why he doesn’t like Hugo at first. He sees it as Hugo being careless with Varian, when in reality it’s the exact opposite.

Both grew up similarly but Eugene grew to believe good things were precious, and Hugo grew to believe they were fleeting and easily ripped away. It’s not to say they don’t understand each other because Hugo definitely relates to Eugene the most out of all the tts characters, but you can clearly see the subtle differences in their upbringing that cause such vast differences in how they handle love.

thinking about the stark difference between how eugene handles having everything he ever wanted right in front of him vs how hugo handles having everything he ever wanted right in front of him

how eugene eagerly tries to secure what he has going with raps so immediately because he's scared to lose this good thing vs how hugo doesn't rush to secure his with varian and bracing himself into losing it all eventually any day instead BECAUSE this thing is good, almost too good for someone like him and thinking that no good thing in his life ever lasts forever for that matter

[no-phrogs-in-hats]

What do you Know? !NSFW!

Word count: 4.061

Content warnings: MDNI; smut, shower sex, angst with a happy ending

Summary: You wake up in Maya's bed after helping her with marketing late at night. But as the months go on, her avoidant and disorganized attachment styles come out along with a job offer from another studio, leaving you to make a life changing decision.

A/N: Hi!! I have officially moved to Miami! I'm still getting settled in, but I have a lot of time to myself this week, so I managed to pop this little oneshot out. Also, AU, Maya doesn't have a son (yet *wink wink*)

Spotify

Masterlist

When you accepted the position as Continental Studios’ second creative executive, you didn’t expect it to end like this.

When you decided to stay late at work to help marketing with strategy, you didn’t expect it to end like this.

You didn’t expect to be in Maya’s office at almost 12am, lights dimmed, drinks poured, nobody else in the building. You didn’t expect the conversations to turn into anything deep, or anything important.

You expected Maya’s snarky responses–and you got plenty of those. You expected hours of brainstorming, new poster ideas, and boxes of sushi delivered to her desk. What you didn’t expect was lingering touches and whispered confessions.

And you didn’t expect to be waking up in her West Hollywood home, wrapped in her satin sheets and legs tangled with hers.

Her arm is thrown over your waist, a heavy weight that’s oddly comforting. But there’s an ache in your chest that feels like shame, and a dull thumping in your head leftover from the drinks last night. The memories from last night flood back to you—her head between your legs, her nails scratching down your back as you return the favor. 

Oh, fuck.

You think of ways to get yourself out of this situation. If you leave without a word, it’ll make work even more awkward than it already will be today. You look down at her left hand resting against your abdomen—that same hand that brought you to the edge over and over and over again, after you pointed out the two shorter nails. 

“That’s not a stylistic choice, is it?” you had asked her, the third drink of the night hitting you hard. “I’m so sorry! I shouldn’t have said that.”

But her reaction instilled even more confidence than the alcohol had. Her lips curled into a wicked grin and when she spoke, her voice was low and seductive. “Why don’t you find out?”

You carefully remove Maya’s arm from your waist and sit up slowly. You cringe with each move you make, desperately hoping that she doesn’t wake up. When your feet hit the rug that lays beneath the bed, you bend down to gather the discarded clothes that she tore from your body last night.

You hold the clothes close to your chest and as you tiptoe toward the bathroom, you hear her throat clear. 

“Got somewhere to be?” When you turn around, Maya is resting on her elbow, head in her hand as she grins. “Oh, turn back around, honey. You’ve got a cute ass.”

Your eyes drift to where the sheets have fallen off her bare chest, cheeks going warm before you redirect back up. “I—Um—It’s six. I was just gonna go take a shower…” Your voice is quiet and uncertain, but you take a risk, “…If you’d like to join me.”

Maya gets out of bed and walks over to you, mesmerizing as her hips sway. She looks down at you and brings her hand up to hold your chin. “Well, how could I say no to that face?”

A shower with Maya is never just a shower with Maya. 

The granite shower tiles are cold beneath your soapy back as Maya presses you against the wall. The water runs over you both in a steady stream. Her hands run over your body, lips on yours in a heavy, heated kiss. 

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” you breathe. 

Maya kisses you again. “But isn’t that what makes it fun?”

You gasp as her fingers find your clit, running tight circles on it as her lips skim over your neck. Your nails dig into her hips and you shiver under her touch. 

“Touch me,” she commands, teeth nipping at the base of your ear. 

You let out a gasp followed by a breathy laugh, “Yes, ma’am.”

“Say it again,” she groans, and your fingers slip inside her. 

“Yes, ma’am,” you repeat. Her fingers circle faster, dipping just barely into your entrance before going back up. Your chest heaves and your legs start shaking. “Maya—I’m—Oh, God!”

Her head falls onto the wall beside you, forearm blocking you in completely on the other side. “I know, baby. I—Fuck—!” Her lips crash into yours. It’s messy, with tongues clashing and spit clinging to your lips as the shower water streams down your face. “Cum for me,” she breathes. “Now. Cum for me.”

The sight and feeling of you cumming on her fingers sends her over just moments after you. You hold each other up, panting into each other’s mouths. Your head falls back onto the tile and she presses soft kisses to your neck, being careful to not leave any obvious marks. 

You can feel her inhale sharply, breath tickling the delicate skin of your neck as she groans, “What a way to start the day, hm?” 

What a way, indeed.

“Um…Maya?” In a white towel, you stare at the clothes you wore to work the previous day. “I don’t have any other clothes, and these smell like the vodka you spilled all over me.”

Maya takes your shirt and brings it to her nose, recoiling instantly in disgust. “I wouldn’t let my worst enemy wear that…that’s not true.”

Her walk-in closet is massive—almost the size of your bedroom back at your townhouse. She searches through the racks of clothes, trying to find something that would suit your style more. Eventually, she finds something to your taste and brings it back to the bathroom. 

Maya takes a look at the underwear in your pile of clothes. She bends over, picks them up, and when she stands up straight she examines them as they hang from one finger. “Hm…looks like these are ruined…” She looks at you and grins. “I guess I’ll have to let you borrow a pair of mine.”

You stop breathing as she struts back into the closet. When she’s back, the pair you had are nowhere in sight, and she tosses a pair of black lace panties at you. 

You can feel Maya’s eyes on you as you slip her own underwear on yourself. She sighs, shaking her head, “Just as I thought…you look so much better in them than I do…”

“Maybe you’ll just have to let me keep them,” you shrug.

Maya’s tongue pokes through her cheek and you can see her eyes darken. “Oh, don’t tempt me, sweetheart.” 

With your inebriated state the previous night, both of you left your cars in the Continental Studio reserved parking lot. The Uber Maya orders doesn’t pull up out front though. You’re taken to the back gate entrance.

“Why this way?” you ask.

Maya doesn’t look up from her phone. “Because if those two jackasses see us get out of this car together they’ll immediately jump to conclusions.”

Jump to the right conclusions, you think

That night repeats many, many times. Occasionally it’s at your townhouse, most of the time it’s at her place, though. It’s how Maya destresses.

You knew that after a meeting where she fought with Sal or a director was being a pain in her ass, you’d see that message. Or, if she was feeling risque, she’d come into your office at lunch and murmur in your ear something along the lines of, “I’m getting takeout for dinner tonight, and I would love it if you joined me.” 

Usually the takeout would go cold, and then she’d complain a few hours later when you’re back in the kitchen after “destressing”. And then, while it heats up, she’ll set you down on the counter and have you again as an appetizer.

And you love it in the beginning. 

But the months continue. Fall turns into Winter, and on the horizon of Spring, you’re looking at an offer letter for an executive position at Paramount Studios. 

The door to your shared office opens and Quinn enters. “What’s that?”

You set the letter down on your desk and sigh. “Paramount Studios wants me as an executive.”

“Oh, shit!” Quinn says, her smile bright.

“It’s in their New York division.”

Her smile drops. “Oh, shit.”

You lean back in your chair as Quinn unpacks her lunch and turns on her desktop. “Can I tell you something? You can’t tell anyone else.”

Quinn eyes you suspiciously. “Yeah…?”

“For the past five months…” You hesitate saying the next words and can just barely make eye contact with her. “I’ve been sleeping with Maya.”

Quinn almost chokes on her water. “What?”

You nod.

“How–When–?”

“It was that night when I stayed late to help marketing,” you sigh. “She sent her little minions home, took out a bottle of really expensive vodka from her desk and just kept pouring.”

Quinn stares at the floor, thinking. “I mean, she’s not your superior, so…Isn’t she, like, twenty years older than you?”

“Seventeen, actually,” you say matter-of–factly. Your smile drops and you get quiet. “She’s avoiding me, though. I used to be over at her place like three times a week, or she’d be over at mine. Now she’s not even answering my texts.”

“She’s ghosting you?” Quinn asks.

“Yeah,” you say painfully. “It’s not even ghosting, though. I see her at work five days a week. The last time we spoke was three days ago and it was her asking me what I wanted for the staff catering order.”

“Have you tried asking her about it?” Quinn suggests.

“It’s Maya,” you groan. “She’s not the type for commitment. If I asked her, she’d probably redirect the question.”

Quinn looks at you quizzically, a grin growing on her face. “Do you love her?”

“What?” You scoff, not making eye contact with her.

“Do you love her?” Quinn asks again. “It’s a simple question.”

“I–I mean…” You’re trying to find the right words, but you have no idea if those exist. “I don’t know…”

“Well what do you know?” Quinn asks, taking a bite of her kale salad.

You sigh, begrudgingly answering her question. “I know that her favorite color is red, because it makes her feel the most confident…and that her guilty pleasure music genre is 70’s and early 80’s pop, even though she says her favorite genre is 90’s and 2000’s rap…”

You pause and think, voice going quiet as you continue. “And I know that…she says she’s a dog person, but actually she really wants a cat because her parents never let her get one…and that she already has a name picked out for the cat…” 

You start thinking about the smaller things you’ve noticed over the months. “I know that when she’s super concentrated, her nose scrunches up and she makes duck lips…and that, even though she doesn’t say it, she prefers being the little spoon…and her love language is gift giving and physical touch and…” 

“Quinn…” Your eyes water and you’re desperately trying to hold back your tears. As you start crying, she gets up and crosses the room. You cry into her shoulder as she hugs you tightly. “I hate it. I hate this feeling. I want her so badly, Quinn! I–God, I do love her, and I hate it.”

Days go by as you contemplate the job offer from Paramount. But the only thing you can think about is Maya.

You knock on the glass window of her office door. A quiet ‘Come in’ sounds from the other side and you enter cautiously. When Maya looks up from her computer, she flashes you a soft, almost polite, smile before going back to her work.

“Hi.”

You smile back as you approach her desk. “Hi.”

“What’s up?” She doesn’t look up from her monitor.

You feel awkward, like you shouldn’t be here. Maya seems disinterested and you hesitate when answering her question. “Nothing…Just seeing how you’re doing…We haven’t talked in a bit.”

Maya shrugs, still not looking up from her computer, “Well, I’ve been super busy…If my interns knew how to do their jobs correctly, I might actually have some fuckin’ free time.”

You let out an amused hum, the silence thick and awkward. “Um…Paramount has offered me a top creative executive position.”

“Really?” Maya finally looks up at you.

“Yeah.”

“You’re taking it, right?” she asks, like it's obvious what the answer is.

“Uh–I’ve been mulling it over…”

“What do you mean ‘mulling it over’?” she scoffs. “It’s an i–”

“It’s in the New York division,” you say.

She pauses, “Oh…Well, it’s a really good opportunity. I think you should go. They’d be really lucky to have you.”

“What if I didn’t want to go?” you ask quietly.

“Why would you turn down an opportunity like this?” she scoffs, laughing in a way that feels like she’s mocking you.

“Well, it’s really far from my family,” you shrug, “and I love working here, and…” The words are on your tongue. You’re trying so hard not to say them, but you’re desperate to know the answer. “What are we?”

“What?”

“What are we?” you ask again, “I mean–Am I–Am I just sex to you? Am I just here for when you need to ‘destress’? Is this just a fling?”

“Excuse me?” Maya asks, eyebrows raised in shock.

“We’ve known each other for five years,” you say, voice quiet, almost hurt. “And you don’t even seem fazed that I’m about to move to the other side of the country.”

“Well, what do you want me to say?” she snaps. “Don’t go? Stay here?”

“Yes!” you cry.

Maya stands up, her hands on the desk as she leans toward you. “Why would I ever ask you to give up such an amazing opportunity?”

“Maya, I don’t want to leave!” you shout, emotion tightening in your throat. “I don’t want to move across the country! I want…I want you!” Your shoulders drop and your face softens. “But you’ve pulled away from me! You won’t answer my texts! We’ve barely talked in weeks!”

You can see her eyes falter briefly, but her face is stone cold and you can see the stubbornness return. You swallow hard, “And I can’t go back to just being colleagues who get drinks after work and only talk when passing each other in the hall. I don’t want to go, but if you don’t want me anymore…then I will…I’ll go.” 

Maya sits back down, pursing her lips as leans back. “Okay.”

“Okay?” you repeat, trying to hold your head high.

“Go to New York,” she shrugs, and acts like the whole thing doesn’t matter to her. “I’m not stopping you.”

You can feel your heart break and your voice tightens. “Okay.”

By the end of the day, your resignation letter is printed out and signed. It’s placed on Matt’s desk as you struggle to look at him, your voice quiet as he reads it.

“I really will miss it here,” you say. 

Matt sighs as he drops the letter onto the desk. “Well, we’ll miss you. Five years is a good run. You’re a great executive.” He’s quiet as he thinks. “How much are they offering you?”

“One-fifty,” you answer. “It’s not much more than I was making here, but you know me. I don’t do this for the money–at least, not entirely.

“I’ll give you one-hundred-seventy-five grand a year,” Matt says.

You open and close your mouth, not knowing what to say. “Um–Matt–I…It’s not about the money. It’s a…personal issue. I genuinely enjoy working here, but I just…can’t. I have a meeting with the president of Paramount in New York next Thursday. I’ll be signing my contract then, and I’ll be flying back that night to finish some stuff up here on Friday…and yeah.”

Matt nods carefully and looks at the letter again. “I hope you know that you can always rely on me for a good recommendation. You’re an amazing executive and Paramount will be very lucky to have you.”

Next Wednesday comes quickly. You haven’t heard a word from Maya since that day in her office. You had seen her in meetings and in the hallways–brief glances, tense eye contact–but neither of you spoke a word to each other and it was killing you.

“You’re really leaving, huh?” Quinn watches as you pack up the final items on your side of the shared office.

“Yep.”

“Are you sure you wanna do this?” she asks. 

You don’t look up as you clean out your desk, “I told you, Quinn. I can’t stay here. I see Maya in the hallway and I wanna…crawl out of my skin.”

“I’m gonna miss you,” she sighs. 

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” you huff, throwing some trinket into a box. 

Quinn scrunches her eyebrows. “Because it’s true…?” She scoffs as she leans back and opens a cup of yogurt. “You’ve worked here for five years. We started here together, you’re one of my closest friends, everyone here loves you. So, of course when you leave to go work in New York City we’re gonna be a little sad.”

__________

A loud knock on the door startles Quinn from her procrastination fanfiction. She gets up and opens the door, meeting Maya with a raised eyebrow. 

“What’s up?”

“I need to talk to her,” Maya says.

“Who?”

Maya’s jaw drops. “Who the fuck do you think?”

“She’s not here,” Quinn shrugs, and opens the door to reveal your empty side of the office.

“Where the fuck is she?” Maya gapes as she stands in the doorway.

“On her way to New York City,” Quinn says, sitting back down at her desk.

“Why?” Maya asks. “It’s Wednesday. Her last day is Friday.”

“She’ll be back tomorrow night, but she has a meeting with Paramount tomorrow morning to sign on.” Quinn waits a beat and then looks up from her computer and adds, “Which you’d know if you bothered talking to her.”

“Oh go back to your Harry Potter fanfiction!” Maya snaps, and slams the door behind her.

She rushes across the second floor, past offices and boardrooms, pushing through groups of gathered interns and assistants until she makes it to Matt's office.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

Maya bursts through the office door, in a heated frenzy of anger and frustration. 

“Excuse me?” Matt sputters.

Sal, who’s sitting across from Matt, groans, making a disgusted look as he rolls his head back. “What the fuck do you want, Maya?”

“She is an amazing executive!” Maya shouts at Matt, leaning over his desk and ignoring Sal’s jibe. “She’s helped bring in over 200 million dollars. Directors and producers love her! Jesus Christ, even Griffin fuckin’ doted on her! Why didn’t you try to convince her to stay?”

“I did, she turned them down!” Matt shouts back, defending himself hopelessly as Maya looms over him. “I offered her more money than Paramount was offering, but she insisted it would be for the best. Said something about it being a personal issue. Why do you care?”

A personal issue. There it is.

Maya’s head drops as the room goes silent.

Sal looks at her before connecting the dots. “Seriously? She’s like twenty years younger than you!”

“Hire her back,” Maya demands, and looks Matt directly in the eye.

Matt sighs, “I can’t do that.”

“You can, and you will. You know why?” Maya’s voice lowers, and she looks almost amused at the prospects. “Because I’m pretty tight with Patty. And do you know what Patty has? A video of you doing lines of coke off of Ryan Reynolds’s stomach with a one hundred dollar bill at the Oscars after-after-party. And I might accidentally send that to…” Maya bobs her head in contemplation. “Let’s say…Insider? And then that video will spread. And you’ll be asked to resign. And then Sal will be promoted to president, and not to mention, Ryan Reyn–”

“Okay!” Matt cries. “Okay! I’ll hire her back!”

Maya looks back at Sal and then gives Matt a curt nod, standing up to her full height. “Good.”

Maya storms up to your old assistant, who sits at her desk eating lunch. “Let me see her itinerary,” she demands, looming over her.

“I can’t do that.”

“Open her schedule, now!” Maya shouts. “I need to know what time her flight leaves.”

Your assistant opens your schedule quickly and Maya shoves her aside. She scrolls down until she finds the itinerary. “Oh, wow, first class?” she mumbles. She reads over it more and then slams the mouse onto the table. “Fuck! That’s in three hours!”

As she runs out of the building, she frantically searches online for a flight to New York City. Eventually, as she gets into her car, she finds one last seat on the same flight as yours. She cringes as she buys the final $700 first class seat.

LAX is only half an hour away, but with the LA lunch rush, it takes Maya almost fifty. She zippers through traffic in her Black G63–something you always hated her doing. She’s yelling expletives, even honking her horn, and when she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she barely recognizes herself.

She’s never done something like this before–never canceled all of her meetings with some of the biggest directors in Hollywood, never driven an hour to the airport to chase down a girl. But at this point, there was no going back. If the contract is signed, she’d never see you again. You’d be lost to the East Coast, 2000 miles away, and working for those snobs at Paramount.

Maya parks crooked in the parking garage. Even in heels she’s running through the airport, and then comes security–undressing all of her layers and taking off her shoes that have way too many zippers to be practical. And she feels naked without her extensive amount of jewelry. 

By the time she’s out, there’s less than an hour until boarding. Maya sprints through the airport, heeled boots draped over her arm and Louis Vuitton bag on her shoulder with her hat and jacket stuffed inside, overflowing over the sides.

Without stopping for a break, she finally sees you at the gate, standing there, arms crossed as you wait for the boarding announcement to be called. There’s less than ten minutes left until boarding. She calls your name. Your head doesn’t turn. But the second time, when you hear your name called by that familiar voice, you snap your head in her direction.

And there she is, face red and her forehead shiny with sweat.

“First class, huh?” She wears that stupid smirk she always does when she tries to tease you, but there’s something breaking.

Your jaw clenches, and you’re trying to keep your cold composure. “Paramount paid for the travel fees. What are you doing here?”

“Don’t go.”

“What?” Your shoulders drop. You see the knee-high boots draped over her arm, her jacket stuffed in her purse, wearing no jewelry and the fact that she’s here, at the gate, past security.“Wait, did you buy a plane ticket?”

“Yes,” she says. “Don’t go.”

“Maya–”

She huffs, “Listen, I’m not good at this. I never have been. Shit gets real and I…” Her hands rub over her face in frustration, but when they drop, she looks exhausted. “I don’t know what I do, but it isn’t good.”

“I’ve already turned in my resignation. I have a meeting with Paramount tomorrow morning,” you say, voice quiet.

Maya closes her eyes and takes a steadying breath, “Matt will hire you back. He’ll double your salary, more benefits, more creative input on projects, your own office. Please. Don’t go. They don’t–I don’t want you to leave.”

“Maya–”

“I love you,” she blurts out. “And I know you. And if you go to Paramount New York you’ll be miserable.”

“You love me?” you mumble.

Maya lets out an exasperated sigh. “Yes! Please, don’t go.”

There’s a boarding call for first class and you turn your head to look at the terminal. You swallow the emotion stuck in your throat and when you look back up at Maya, there’s only one thing you can do. You drop your bag onto the ground and wrap your arms around her neck, pulling her down and crashing your lips into hers.

“Don’t go,” she breathes. “Please.”

Your hands hold her face close. “I won’t,” you say, and kiss her again. “I love you.” You kiss her again. When you pull away her eyes are dark and you can see tears forming in her waterline. You take a deep breath, “I’m not going anywhere.”

[studioeisa]

haven't we met? ♾️ minghao x reader.

“wherever you are in the world, i swear i'll find you again.”

★ kimi no nawa minghao x reader. ★ word count: 9k ★ day one of (the8) days of minghao. ★ genre/warnings: romance, light angst, friendship, hurt/comfort. mentions of death/calamities. soulmates, body swapping, time travel, delayed ripple effect, references to chinese mythology. inspired by & heavily references makoto shinkai's kimi no nawa/your name, but it's not required to have seen the film to understand the plot. annotations.

It’s a Wednesday when Minghao wakes up in a room that isn’t his.

He doesn’t immediately register it. His senses come to him slowly; the sun is warm on his face, supposedly streaking through the windows. 

But then an alarm blares, and it’s an alarm that’s decisively not his. It’s loud and oppressive. The complete opposite of the gentle tinkling of bells that he sets for his mornings. Minghao peels his eyes open before blinking blearily up at a ceiling that’s in a shade of dark green. 

Odd. His ceiling is supposed to be beige. 

Minghao finally manages to sit up, to glance around. The room he’s in is not his. It’s much more disorganized and the furniture’s a bit more old-fashioned. He lets out a slight exhale. 

A dream, he thinks wearily. I’m dreaming. 

Minghao can’t help but think that it’s a particularly realistic dream as he unsteadily gets to feet. As he pulls aside the sheets that had covered him, he notices snatches of a body that isn’t his, either. Lithe legs, painted toenails. 

I’m dreaming I’m someone else, he thinks. It happened, didn’t it? One might sometimes dream from the perspective of a stranger, a friend. 

Minghao’s attention is drawn to a half-full water carafe on the bedside table. Without much thought, he reaches for it— before smashing it onto the floor. Free will, baby. 

Except—

He feels it. The wetness lapping up at his feet. The shards of broken glass flying in all directions. Something closes up in his throat. Did he usually feel things in his dreams? Had he eaten something weird, drank something the night before, to have him dreaming like this? 

The door to the room swings open. 

A silver-haired woman stands in front of him, now, her face pinched with worry. She says a name— a name that isn’t Minghao’s— and asks, panicked, “What happened?” 

Minghao doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. He just stares and stares as this wrinkled woman chides him in a motherly way until he realizes, ah. This must be his mother. Not his mother, but his dream self’s mother. 

He can work with that. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out. His voice is different. Not his, not his. He tries again— softer, this time— like it might change things. Like he might be able to coax his old voice to break through whatever sleepy haze he’s in. “I’m sorry. I knocked it over by accident.” 

“You’re so clumsy,” his ‘mother’ chides, but she’s already getting to her knees to wipe at the puddle of water with her apron. That snaps Minghao into action; he stumbles across the room in search of a towel. 

What a crazy dream, he thinks as he delicately gathers up the shards, as he wipes up the spilled water. I’ve never had a dream like this. 

As his ‘mother’ heads back downstairs, Minghao figures he might as well play the part. 

He follows her down for breakfast. He’s struck by how visceral, how tactile everything feels. The creeks of the old staircase. The smell of seaweed egg drop soup. The crick in Minghao’s neck.

Am I going insane? Minghao briefly wonders as he settles into the dining table, where there’s already a spread of food waiting for him. He notes that it’s a rather small table, made for only two people. It’s a stark contrast to the long tables he usually shares with twelve other boys, to the family tables he reserves with his own family.

“Why are you being so quiet?” his ‘mother’ asks as she sits across from him. “We’ll just get you a new carafe, kiddo.”

Right. That’s definitely why he was being quiet. Minghao picks up the chopsticks in front of him and goes to try some of the braised potatoes. 

He can even taste it. This was probably the most detailed dream he’s ever had.

“Aren’t I always quiet, though?” Minghao manages to ask in the voice-that-is-not-his. It’s a higher pitched voice, one that has a distinct Seoul accent. 

His ‘mother’ lets out a snort of laughter. “Yah, in what universe are you quiet?” she says with a snicker, reaching over to flick Minghao’s forehead. 

He lets out a small sound of protest. 

“That’s more like it,” his ‘mother’ notes. “Now, eat up. You’ll be late for work.”    

Work. Something like unease begins to pool at the pit of his stomach at the thought of it. Not because he hates his job, no. Minghao loved being a dancer, an idol, an artist. But— he had a feeling that wasn’t the job he should be expecting this time around.

“I— I’m not really feeling well,” he mumbles, pushing around some seaweed at the bottom of his soup. When his ‘mother’ shoots him a scrutinizing glare, he forces out a cough to sell the act. “I’m not sure if I can go in today.” 

His ‘mother’ goes from looking skeptical to concerned. She sets her own utensils down. “Do you need me to take care of you? I can take off, too—” 

“It’s okay,” Minghao says hastily. “I think I just need to stay in bed.” 

The woman across from him doesn’t look convinced, and so he presses on, “How is work, anyway?” 

It’s a polite question, one meant to wheedle out more information. His ‘mother’ takes the bait, though, and goes on to rant about bad co-workers, about impatient patrons. She’s a grocery store bagger, Minghao gleams. And when she complains about other small things— the weather making it difficult to hang laundry, the lack of delivery shifts— Minghao realizes that his ‘mother’ has an array of other side hustles. 

He listens intently. He nods in all the right places. He thinks he’s doing the right thing, but his ‘mother’ falters mid-sentence to fix him a worried look. 

“You really are so quiet today,” she repeats, reaching over to put the back of her hand against Minghao’s forehead. He feels the touch, feels the warmth of concern wash over his skin, and it makes him shiver. “You really must not be feeling well, huh?” 

Minghao thinks he’s only about to feel so much worse.

He heads back to ‘his’ bedroom, and it’s only then that he catches a glimpse of himself in a full-length mirror. It’s… the face of someone he’s never met before. 

Minghao once heard that the people you see in your dreams are never strangers. They’re all faces you’ve seen at least once or twice, and in Minghao’s line of work— well, he’s seen a lot of faces. He raises a hand to pinch at his cheek, to pat at his hair. 

It all feels so real. He doesn’t dwell on that. 

Instead, he starts to explore. Walking around the cramped bedroom feels both like a museum visit and an intrusion. There’s posters peeling off the wall, shelves groaning under the weight of books, clothes that look a little worse for wear. It’s honestly such a mess that Minghao ends up killing a couple of hours just cleaning.

He lets out a snort of laughter as he does. Even in his dreams, he’s picking up over someone. 

He doesn’t know how long he spends gathering hangers and sweeping the floor, but, at one point, the silence is broken by a high-pitched ringtone. He fumbles for the shabby cellphone on the bedside table. 

It had been password-protected, which is why he couldn’t open it. Now, though, there’s an option to answer the incoming call. 

BOSS MAN 👿, it says, and Minghao nearly cracks a smile. Yeah, he can relate to that, at least. 

When he answers the call, though, any and all humor dissipates at the yelling that assaults Minghao’s ear. “WHERE ARE YOU?” ‘Boss Man’ screams on the other end. “I’VE BEEN TRYING TO CALL YOU ALL DAY! YOU’VE GOT SOME NERVE, PUNK—” 

Minghao definitely sees now why the devil emoji was warranted. He has the urge to cut into the other man’s tirade, partly because it’s a dream where there’ll surely be little to no consequences. Something holds him back, though, as he puts some distance between his ear and the phone. 

Once the other man pauses to breathe, Minghao manages to get a word in. “I… wasn’t feeling well,” he says lamely. “Could I maybe work from home or something?” 

“WORK FROM HOME? ARE YOU CRAZY?! WHAT KIND OF BULLSHIT—”

At that point, Minghao just hangs up. When ‘Boss Man’ tries to call again, Minghao turns off the cellphone’s ringer and goes back to cleaning. 

He cleans until there’s not a speck of dust in the bedroom. And when that’s done, he goes to work on the grout in the bathroom, the oil stains in the kitchen. He’s not really sure what he’s doing. Occasionally, he’ll stop in the middle of a chore, wondering if it’s finally time for him to be shaken out of this mundane, long-winded dream. 

Night falls. His ‘mother’ texts about taking on an extra shift. She says something about food in the refrigerator, but Minghao can’t be bothered; he’s so exhausted that he blacks out the moment his head hits his pillow.

He doesn’t even have the energy to contemplate the mechanics of falling asleep in what’s supposed to be a dream. 

On Thursday, Minghao wakes up back in his dorm. 

When he hears the familiar chime of his morning alarm, when he opens his eyes and sees beige, he feels a wave of relief. It really had all been a dream. A very realistic one, sure. But a dream all the same. He was awake now, and he was ready to go about his Wednesday schedule— 

Except, when he checks his phone, it says that it’s already Thursday. 

Minghao blinks. How long was he out? Surely one of the boys would’ve dragged him out of bed if he’d been out of commission for twenty-four hours. 

He unlocks his phone to a dozen unread messages. Eyebrows furrowed, he decides to first go with Seungcheol’s texts. 

🍒: myungho  🍒: are you feeling better?  🐸: Hyung, hi. I think I just overslept a bit but I’m feeling ok. 

Despite the early morning, the three dots indicating that Seungcheol is typing pop up. 

🍒: are you sure???  🍒: you had us worried 🐸: Did I really sleep that long?  🍒: i mean, i don’t know how long you slept 🍒: was that the problem? were you hysterical yesterday because of lack of sleep? ㅋㅋㅋ

Suddenly, Minghao’s room feels a lot colder than earlier. Hysterical. That was the word Seungcheol had used. And yesterday— Tuesday? Nothing out of the ordinary had happened to Minghao. It was all the usual; he had practiced, eaten dinner out with Soonyoung, then went home. 

The dream had been the only unusual thing about the day prior. Minghao is jolted when Seungcheol sends another slew of texts. 

🍒: seriously 🍒: i was worried i might have to bring you to the hospital or something 🍒: but you say you’re ok now? 

Minghao can’t help it anymore. He dials Seungcheol’s number and puts the phone to his ear, his heart pounding in his chest all the while. 

Seungcheol answers on the first ring. In lieu of a greeting, Minghao jumps straight into “Was I really— hysterical, yesterday?” 

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. When Seungcheol speaks, he still sounds a touch gruff, like he’s only half-awake. “I mean, kind of. What, are you worried about it? Do you need help apologizing to Mingyu?” 

Apologizing to Mingyu? “What— is Mingyu mad at me?” 

“Uh.” There’s some sounds of shuffling on the other end, as if Seungcheol is sitting up. It’s a pretty clear giveaway of his growing concern. “You might have to ask him that. But, Hao— you sure you’re better?”

Minghao swallows around the lump in his throat. He doesn’t know where to start without sounding insane.

“I think I’m still feeling a bit off,” Minghao says weakly. “Must be the flu or something.” 

“I can come over.” 

“No, no. I think I just need some rest.” 

Seungcheol lets out a contemplative hum. “Alright,” he says, though he doesn’t sound all too convinced. “I’ll keep the boys off your back for the day. Text me if you need anything, and maybe text Mingyu when you can.” 

“Text Mingyu,” Minghao repeats absentmindedly. “Yeah, got it.” 

The call ends without anything more. Minghao stays seated in his bed for a long moment, just staring at the call log. 

Seungcheol had called him hysterical. Mingyu was upset with him. 

Something was definitely not right. 

Minghao’s suspicion is only confirmed when he goes to check the texts he’d gotten from other members.

🐯: need to call u about choreo but preferably u dont yell at me this time 😒 let me know when’s a good time  🐱: Are u ok? Or did u actually ditch me for our dinner (bec if then, wtf)  🦖: i’ve been in the practice room for an hour now!!!!!! Where are you!!!

If Minghao wasn’t already sitting down, he might’ve collapsed. 

He yelled at Soonyoung. He ditched Jun and Chan. 

He had no memory of any of that. 

But he remembers the shattered carafe, the seaweed soup, the shrill shrieks of ‘Boss Man’ in his ear. 

For a moment, he’s convinced he’s just in another version of the same dream— except, this time, it looks a lot more like a nightmare. As Minghao finally musters up the energy to get to his feet, he notices something at the foot of his bed. 

He unfurls the folded piece of paper. The handwriting isn’t anything he’s seen before. His eyes inadvertently skip to the very bottom, and his heart nearly stops in his damn chest. Minghao drops the paper like it had physically burnt him. 

“What the fuck,” he mumbles to himself as he scrambles to his feet, as he puts distance between himself and the now-discarded paper. “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck.” 

At the very end of the handwritten letter had been a name. 

The name that had been uttered by his dreamself’s mother. The name that ‘Boss Man’ had shrieked. A name he hadn’t heard before yesterday, before his dream— 

Minghao is finding it increasingly hard to believe that it had been a dream in the first place. Hell, he doesn’t even know what ‘yesterday’ is anymore. 

He paces his room. He does breathing exercises. He brews half a pot of tea. 

None of it helps. Hours later— with all his texts still unanswered and his tea depleted— Minghao stumbles back to the letter. 

I don’t know who you are, it starts. But I can tell you who I am. 

I’m from Umyeon-deong in Seocho. I live with my mother; my father hasn’t been in the picture for a long time. I work as an editorial assistant for a local newspaper. (It’s not exactly what I want to be doing, although that’s a story for another day.) 

For a big part of today, I thought I was dreaming. I keep thinking I’m going to wake up back in my bedroom, but the hours have ticked by and I’m still here. Your friends keep contacting you. It’s driving me insane. I accidentally yelled at two of them because they wouldn’t stop calling. The Mingyu one got really upset about it, I think. Sorry. 

I’m writing this because I don’t know what else to do. If this is nothing but a dream, then this shouldn’t matter. But in the 0.000000001% chance that something truly insane has happened to me and you? Well, at least now you know. 

I’m going to try and go to sleep now, although I must admit: You have some pretty nice stuff. I ate some of your tea and snacks (sorry, again). This is crazy. None of this makes sense. 

The letter unceremoniously ends there. Minghao’s eyes flick again to the signoff, to the name at the very bottom. 

Your name. 

His head is reeling. He feels like he’s going to be sick. 

This is no coincidence, no practical joke. It’s— as you’ve said— truly something insane happening. 

Minghao is struck with the realization that it just might happen again, and this time, he actually does get sick. He ends up hurling into a trash can. 

After brushing his teeth, chugging some water, and running through one too many of the chips in his pantry, Minghao gets back to the letter. 

It’s still there, in his hands. The stationary that was locked away in his drawer, bearing handwriting that is not his. 

None of the boys would pull off a prank as elaborate as this. Minghao is fairly certain he would’ve noticed if any of them snuck in, too. So, now, the only logical explanation was the one that was left. 

And Minghao really didn’t like that explanation. 

For what feels like forever, he contemplates what to do. He considers calling up Seungcheol again. He debates the merits of apologizing to Mingyu and Soonyoung; he decides against it when he realizes he wouldn’t even know what he’s apologizing for. He knows what to say to Jun and Chan at least, but that doesn’t make it any easier. How would Minghao even begin to justify himself? Hey, sorry for ditching you; I think I body swapped with a complete stranger. Let’s grab dinner tonight instead? 

There’s a headache blossoming behind Minghao’s eyes at the mere thought of putting the words out into existence. 

In the end, he does what he deems to be the easiest thing to do. He picks up a pen and writes on the other side of your letter. 

Hello, he begins. I’m The8 Myungho Minghao. 

I’m an idol who’s part of a group called SEVENTEEN. They’re the friends who keep contacting me. Mingyu is a fellow member and good friend of mine. I’ll talk to him. 

My family is in a different country. 

As Minghao goes on to write the next parts, he feels a bit foolish. He doesn’t really know what to say, though he feels like he should say something. You had given him something to work with, after all. Slivers of context. He should be able to do the same for you. 

I met your mother. She’s nice. 

I talked to your boss. He wasn’t happy. He yelled at you (me?), and I may or may not have put down the phone. I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure what your work was so I ended up not going at all. 

I hope you liked the tea. Feel free to have all the snacks you want. 

And you’re right. This is crazy. 

If I’m lucky, you’ll never need this letter. 

Minghao wakes up on Friday to the realization that he is decidedly unlucky.

The loud alarm is back, and the ceiling is dark green again, and Minghao once again leans over to throw up. Luckily, there’s a bedside garbage bin that comes to the rescue. 

There’s no sun this time. It’s fairly gloomy outside, the overcast skies peeking through the windows. 

Minghao immediately notices that there’s a folded piece of paper on the pillow next to him. He unfurls it so fast that he almost tears it in half. 

This is a precaution, you start. Maybe, come tomorrow, I can just chuck this out and chalk it all up to a one-off freak incident. 

The thought of this phenomenon not being a one-off nearly has bile rising up in Minghao’s throat all over again, but he forces himself to read the rest of your words. 

First off, I guess I should thank you. My room has never been this clean in my life! And you should have seen the look on my mother’s face when she saw that ‘I’ cleaned the entire apartment. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I was possessed, for the lack of better term, by someone who is a much better person than me. 

That almost makes Minghao smile. Almost, because the next part sends a pang of guilt through him. 

Secondly, though, you almost cost me my job. I can’t believe you hung up on my boss, Donghyuk. I had to do some serious damage control. I managed to get today off, just in case. 

Minghao is struck by your foresight and, adversely, his absolute lack of it. The most he had to do was appease a sulky Mingyu and message back the rest of the boys. His brain races to figure out if he has any schedules for— Friday, was it? A practice, maybe. Or a recording. 

Either way, he’s screwed. You’re screwed. 

Minghao his face in one hand and quietly prays that you know how to dance. 

He skims over the rest of your letter. 

I don’t know why this is a thing. I don’t know if it is meant to be a thing. I’m going to try and look for some answers, whether or not I wake up as you/myself. 

Wish me luck. 

A small part of Minghao feels a tug at the thought of both of you ending your letters with the concept of luck. That feeling is quickly replaced by something akin to dread, because he’s fairly convinced that this is no longer a dream. 

Minghao has woken up in a body that isn’t his. Minghao has woken up in your body— the body of a person he’s sure he’s never met.

He has to live a day in your life with nothing to go by but the notes you’ve left and a handful of context clues. 

For a moment, Minghao contemplates just going back to sleep. Maybe if the both of you just slept right now, the switch would trigger. Maybe he could just spend the whole day in bed until you have to swap again.

The latter seems like the best idea until knuckles rap against the bedroom door. 

Your mother pops her head through the crack in the door. “I’m going to leave early today. The rain isn’t looking so good,” she says with a slight grimace. 

Minghao glances out the window. It’s all he can do, really, to keep himself from not going insane then and there. 

“Take care,” he says. 

He’s suddenly acutely aware of your voice— the cadence and timbre of it. He knows what you sound like, how you write, and he wonders how the two might combine. What might be the right thing to say in this situation. 

Because your mother has that look again, that openly dubious expression. 

“Are you alright?” she asks cautiously, not quite stepping into the bedroom just yet. 

A flash of panic rises up in Minghao. What would you say? What would you do? 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” His tone’s just a little haughty now. It’s so uncharacteristic of him that Minghao nearly winces, but he persists. “Go on, don’t get caught in the rain.” 

Your mother lets out a huff of a laugh, mumbling something like ‘ungrateful kid’ as she retreats. Despite that, it seems to work; she takes her leave without another protest. Minghao lets out a shaky breath.  

His— your stomach, really— lets out a low grumble. A part of him wonders if you’ve been just on edge as he’s been. Unable to eat properly, losing sleep over this whole thing. 

Regardless, the least he can do is take care of you. He pads over to the kitchen and rummages through the refrigerator for some leftovers. All the while, he’s thinking of what he has in his own kitchen. 

Will you be hungry? You did say you liked his snacks. Would that be enough? 

The questions rattling in his head turn into considerably more stressful ones. 

Is this going to happen forever? Will he have to spend the rest of his life swapping bodies with you on a day-to-day basis?

He thinks of the group, thinks of your mother. Thinks of his demanding job and your terrible boss. 

Minghao nearly panics again. He manages to keep it together enough to make a sandwich and sip some coffee. 

He tries to meditate, even, but it’s like your body knows that it’s not a practice that you frequent. Your hands twitch in the stillness; your heart only slams harder instead of calming. You need to catch a goddamn break, Minghao thinks as he grits his teeth and tries to relax. 

Something good comes out of his attempt, at least. It comes as an epiphany of some sorts— how he suddenly remembers a portion of your letter. 

I’m going to try and look for some answers, you had written. 

He might as well do the same. 

Once he’s changed into outerwear that’s slightly more acceptable for the rainy weather, he spends a good amount of time searching for your wallet. When he goes to check it, he inadvertently lets out a grumbled “damn.”

Your wallet has nothing but a couple of loose bills. 

Minghao can’t blame you, not really, but you’re certainly giving him very little to work with. A part of him even feels kind of bad for you. Not only did you have a demon for a boss; you were also severely underpaid. He makes a mental note to bring that up in his next letter to you. 

He can’t go far with the lack of funds, though that’s not the only thing hindering his quest for answers. It’s pouring outside, the rain coming in heavy droplets. 

Minghao braves it with a raincoat and an umbrella, hoping against hope to find something. Anything. 

As luck would have it, your neighborhood has a local library. 

When he steps in, the librarian doesn’t pay him much heed. Minghao is momentarily amused by the thought. Did you not come here often? 

It’s a quaint place with a scarce collection. A lot of the novels are on the older end— published nearly a decade ago— but they remain in pristine condition. Minghao skips over the best-sellers and the manga serieses, instead opting to sift through the psychology textbooks. 

He’s not surprised when he doesn’t find anything of use there, when he spends nearly four hours reading and reading to no avail. The lack of non-fiction about a body swapping phenomenon is to be expected. This wasn’t something that just happened, after all. 

And yet it’s happening to me, Minghao thinks with frustration as he grabs at his sixth book of the afternoon. The unexpected force knocks some of the surrounding books onto the floor. 

The librarian gives him a vicious side eye. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Minghao mumbles as he immediately gets to his knees. 

His hands close around one of the books he knocked over. It’s a heavy hardbound with a gorgeous deep red cover and metallic gold lettering. There’s a dragon featured on the front and the familiar iconography of it nearly bowls Minghao over. 

While still crouched down on the floor, Minghao flips through the pages. The images that go flashing by are not strangers to him, but there’s one in particular that he’s looking for. 

He finds it on the thirtieth page. Almost out of instinct, his fingers trace over the characters. 

月老. Yue Lao. 

Suddenly, Minghao is a child again, listening to his mother’s stories. He had been young and wide-eyed, sprawled on her lap as she talked soothingly about the god who presented himself as an old man under the moon.  

The god of marriage and love. He’s the reason why your bàba and I met, his mother would say amusedly. Yue Lao made it possible. 

How? His younger self had demanded. How did he make sure? 

His mother had laughed, then. Had stroked Minghao’s hair out of his face as she told him about the myth. The magical cord may stretch or tangle, but it will never break. 

And, oh, how Minghao had prayed back then. He prayed to Yue Lao the hardest— his eyes squeezed shut, his hands clasped to his chest. 

I hope I find love. 

It doesn’t matter when, or where, or how. 

Qǐng, Yue Lao. Please, please, please. 

“Are you going to check that out or what?” 

Minghao is dragged out of his memories at the sound of the librarian’s sharp tone. “I—” 

The words stick in his throat. Eventually, he manages a meek, “I’ll put it back.”

It’s still pouring as he leaves the library and makes the short walk back to your apartment. The rainwater pooling in the gutters has muck and grime sticking to the bottom of his— technically your— rain boots. Another thing to apologize for, Minghao thinks wryly. 

He seeks temporary shelter underneath the corner store near your apartment block. The vendor looks up expectantly. 

“The usual?” the woman croaks, and it takes a moment for Minghao to register that he’s being addressed.  

“Not today,” he responds with a tight smile. 

The vendor lets out a bark of laughter. “When have you ever said ‘no’ to me?” she says with a tut of disapproval. Before Minghao can protest, the stranger is already shuffling over to her cooking station. 

Minghao watches in silence when he realizes what’s being made. Some fruit is speared onto a bamboo skewer, then dipped into a simmering syrup. It emerges coated like a clear gemstone before it’s shoved into a bowl of ice. 

Tanghulu, Minghao thinks dazedly as he accepts the snack. “Thank you,” he says softly.

The vendor smiles. She’s already missing a couple of teeth. 

Minghao takes a tentative bite. Tanghulu was a familiar enough delicacy, but the fruit he'd been given— your ‘usual’— is something he hasn't seen in quite some time. 

The date-plum persimmon is soft and glutinous, wrapped in a thin layer of crisp sweetness. Minghao can't remember the last time he had black jujube this way. 

“You’re still the only one who likes that stuff.” There’s an edge of fondness to the vendor’s tone. A clear indicator that you have some sort of camaraderie with her, something that Minghao isn’t entirely privy to. “Do you know how hard it is to find stock of that darn fruit?” 

It seems like a rhetorical question, like something that you’d probably take in stride. But Minghao can’t bring himself to joke. His free hand is already fishing for your wallet, where he’s prepared to blow the last of your money on this dessert. 

The vendor shakes her head. “Not today,” she chirps, echoing Minghao’s words from earlier. Her gaze is fixed over his shoulder, where the downpour is relentless. 

Minghao is not quite sure what the norm is supposed to be. Do the two of you talk? Do you leave right after you’ve made your purchase? 

He doesn’t want to be rude, so he mumbles his gratitude and decides to stick around for a moment. The vendor thankfully chooses not to make conversation. 

Minghao spends a long time just standing there, making slow work of the sticky date-plum. He watches the rain that never lets up. He watches the lights of your apartment building flicker on as night falls. He watches, and he tries to commit it to memory as he finishes off his tanghulu. 

For what it’s worth, he’s glad to ‘share’ this with you— something sweet to get the both of you by. 

Come Saturday, Minghao wakes up with more questions than answers.

Your letter is within reach, resting atop his bedside table. He goes to read it despite the fact that he’s barely lucid. 

It’s shorter this time. If he strained, he could almost hear the words in your voice. A distant echo. 

I can’t believe you’re actually an idol. Have you met BIGBANG? 

That draws a surprised laugh out of him. It’s been years since he last heard of his industry seniors. The thought of you being a second gen fan is a little endearing to him. 

Anyway, I told everyone who contacted you that you were really sick. Like, throwing up levels of sick. ‘Coups-hyung’ said he would send a manager, but I assured him that you already had one on the way. You might want to corroborate that lie. 

I know I said I would look for answers, but I couldn’t really go far. I was scared of getting lost. And, man, your neighborhood is overwhelming. I’ve lived in Seoul my whole life and I don’t think I’ve ever been in this part of the city. 

I ended up spending most of my day just reading your books. Good taste. 

The compliment puts the smallest grin on his face.   

I promise to do better research when I’m back in my own body. ‘Till then. 

As curt as your letter is, it gives him an idea he probably wouldn’t have had otherwise. Better research. Back in his own body.

He fishes for your first letter, which he had kept tucked in his drawer. It’s still there, which means the past couple of days have not been a bout of psychosis. He doesn’t know if he’s relieved or horrified. 

Minghao focuses instead on scanning your introduction, where you had mentioned your neighborhood. Umyeon-deong. 

While he’s in the back of the cab, Minghao texts back his members. He’s vague, still, but it’s not anything particularly new. Feeling a little better. Getting a check-up, just in case. Stop worrying. I’ll let you know how it goes. 

The heat is oppressive for July, almost beating down on Minghao’s back as he finally makes it to the district. It’s a full 180 from yesterday’s rain. He regrets the baseball cap and the hoodie, but both are necessary evils. 

He’s not entirely sure where to drop off, so he settles for one of the corners at the mouth of the neighborhood. Once he’s there, he just— begins to walk in a general direction.

Later, he realizes he probably could have pulled up Google Maps. He would have benefited from asking around, would have cut his time in half if he deigned to admit that he was lost. But, at the moment, he’s just taking it all in. 

The apartment complexes. The children’s park. The liquor store. 

Briefly, he wonders if he’ll run into you. Would you recognize him? 

Would he even want you to? 

Minghao is so busy mulling it over that he almost misses it. The streetside food stand advertising fresh tanghulu. It feels like yesterday— well, it was yesterday. His mouth is already watering at the thought of the candied date-plums as he wanders over to the stand. 

A rasping voice addresses him. He looks up from scanning the selection, realizing with a jolt that it’s the same vendor.

But it’s also— not. 

Something is off. 

Something he can’t quite place.

It almost steals the breath out of Minghao. He probably looks dumbstruck, looks stupid with his mouth hanging slightly agape, but the vendor asks again, “What do you want?”

Minghao forces an answer out of his chest. “Do you have— black jujube?”

A myriad of micro expressions flash across the seller’s face. It starts with recognition, but ends with something closer to tightness. She gives a labored grunt in response before going to make the snack. 

When she hands it over to Minghao, there’s a slight quiver in her fingers. She nearly drops it, even, but Minghao catches it just in time. 

“Sorry,” she grouses. “It’s an order that a regular of mine used to have.” 

There’s a low ringing in Minghao’s ears as he says “ah,” as he hands over his payment. The vendor busies herself with cleaning her workstation, and Minghao tries to enjoy the date-plums, but it’s not as good as he remembers it. 

Was it perhaps a difference in taste buds? 

No, he thinks. It’s the lump in his throat. It’s the seller’s words nagging at the back of his mind. 

An order that a regular of mine used to have. Used to. 

He saw her yesterday. You were supposed to have seen her yesterday. 

As he munches on the fruit, he asks almost too casually, “Is it your first time selling in this area?” 

The vendor shoots him a suspicious glare. Minghao knows he’s being a little odd with the line of his small talk so he fields his question, tries to make it come out more naturally. “I remember you used to have a spot somewhere else,” he offers. “In front of an apartment building.”

This time, it’s the seller’s turn to mumble “ah.” 

“That’s why you had that order,” she says with a humorless laugh. “You knew them, huh?” 

“Them?” 

The vendor says your name. The ringing in Minghao’s ear gets louder; his fingers, tightening around the skewer of his tanghulu. It’s the first time he’s hearing your name in his own body and it sends a shiver down his spine. 

The question is even harder to answer. Does he know you? Was he allowed to say that?—

No. No, wait. The vendor had said knew. 

The ringing reaches an almost feverish pitch. It’s a miracle that Minghao hears anything else, that he picks up the murmured words that the seller says next.  

“It’s a real shame,” she says with a voice so soft, so solemn, so small. “It’s been nine years, hasn’t it?” 

Nine years.

Nine years. 

Nine years. 

Since what? Since you? 

A lot of things haven’t made sense to Minghao in the past couple of days, but this— this is the one that baffles him the most. He saw you— he was you— yesterday. 

When Minghao finally finds his voice, it’s to ask for a favor. 

The vendor complies, albeit skeptically. She hangs a ‘be right back’ sign over her stall. It’s a short walk, not more than seven minutes. 

If Minghao’s ears had been ringing earlier, now, it’s just dead silence. A dreadful sort of quiet as he stares at the ruins of the apartment building he was staring at just the day before. 

The seller is watching his face carefully. “You didn’t know?” she prompts gently. 

Minghao realizes he has to come up with something. “We were friends. Me and—” He chokes around your name. When he finally says it out loud for the first time, he feels guilty. It feels so wrong to be saying it in this context. To have it be part of a lie. “But then—” 

He trails off. The vendor supplies, “You lost touch?” 

Sure. Minghao gives a jerky nod in response. That’s one way to put it. 

He’s not even looking for an explanation, but the seller gives him one. “The typhoon was so bad that it triggered landslides,” she says gruffly. She nods towards the direction of the mountain towering over the neighborhood. “I think the death toll was around eighteen people.” 

Minghao resists the urge to scream. If he were a lesser man, he might have fainted. Instead, he quietly says, “Nine years ago.” 

“Nine years ago,” the vendor confirms. She pauses before adding, her voice just a little sadder, “A tragedy.” 

“Tragedy,” Minghao repeats. That doesn’t even begin to cover it, he thinks. 

Neither of them say anything for a long time. He can feel the pity rolling off the seller in waves; still, he can’t bring himself to turn away. He stares, and he stares, and he stares at the rubble, at the derelict building. At the mere echo of what had been so loud and alive to him just yesterday.

After what feels like forever, he asks another question. “Is— is the library still around?” 

The vendor leads the way. At the door of the library, she attempts to give Minghao a reassuring smile. It’s all just gums, now. No teeth. There’s an endless refrain of nine years, nine years, nine years screeching through Minghao’s head as the seller bids him goodbye with “I’m sorry you lost your friend.” 

“I’m sorry, too,” he responds with a solemnity that doesn’t need to be feigned. 

The librarian isn’t the same one. 

This one has a calmer demeanor, a more restrained smile. Somehow, that only makes Minghao feel much worse. He knows what he’s looking for this time; he goes straight to the neighborhood records and scrolls all the way back to nine years ago. 2015. 

It’s a lot of information to digest all at once. There’s the newspaper clippings about the heavy rainfall. The flash floods, the landslides. Class action lawsuits. Landmine threats. Government incompetence. 

Minghao feels like he’s drowning in news, but it’s still not what he’s looking for. 

He finds it in a directory. There’s two people with the same last name and Minghao nearly loses it then and there, at the thought of your mother, too— 

He focuses on you for now. His quivering finger traces the cell that contains your name, your date of birth. 1997. The same year as him. A couple of months younger, though. 

Nine years ago, Minghao had been 18. Just about to debut. 

Nine years ago, you had been an editorial assistant. Not exactly what I want to be doing, you had written in your first letter to him. There was no way for you to know that you would never have the chance to be anything more.  

Minghao’s eyes fall on the date of death. 

Except— 

It’s not nine years ago yesterday, not nine years ago today. It’s tomorrow. 

In that very moment, he understands what he’s meant to do. 

When Minghao wakes up in your body on Sunday, he knows he has only one chance. 

He had read up all about it the ‘day’ prior but the details were vague. None of the news reports mentioned when exactly the landslide would happen. The most he gleamed was that it would be due to an unstable slope from the nearby Mount Umyeon. 

A wall of mud three storeys high hit the building, one article had said. It’s the only information that Minghao has to go by as he drags himself out of bed, ignoring the blare of your obnoxious alarm. 

He goes straight for your mother’s room. She’s already awake, standing by the window. 

Outside, the storm rages on. Your mother turns to face Minghao. “It’s not looking good out there,” she says disapprovingly. “The news said it’s the heaviest rainfall in nearly a century.” 

Back in his body, Minghao had contemplated how he would go about this. He thought he might try to coax your mother, might be logical and rational in urging her to evacuate. 

In that very moment, though, he instead finds himself blurting out, “We’re going to die.” 

A beat. Your mother looks unfazed. 

“You’re always so dramatic.” 

The panic simmers in the pit of Minghao’s stomach. “We’re going to die,” he repeats, his tone on the shriller end now. 

It wasn’t like him to give in to hysteria; he was you, though, and your mother seemed nonchalant enough about it. He’s not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse. “It’s just a little bit of rain,” your mother says dismissively as she squeezes past Minghao and heads towards the kitchen. 

Minghao is on her heels, his hands wringing together. “We can’t stay here,” he pleads. “We have to leave.” 

Your mother shoots Minghao— you— an exasperated look. “Where are we going to go in this weather?” 

“No. No, no. We have to go somewhere safe.” 

“We’re safe here—” 

“We’re not—”

It’s almost like a crack of thunder, the way your mother says your name. The sound shuts Minghao up immediately. It’s a familiar warning, an intonation that all mothers seem to wield over their children.

“What’s going on with you, really?” your mother questions, her hands at her hips. She’s eyeing Minghao with mild annoyance but he sees it for what it is. Concern. “You’ve been so odd these past few days. Is there something you’re not telling me?” 

And how is Minghao supposed to answer that? 

I’m not actually your child. I’ve swapped bodies with a man who lives nine years in the future. Our survival hinges on whether or not you’ll hear me out. 

When Minghao stays silent for a little too long, your mother shakes her head. “Get it together,” she says sternly. 

Maybe it’s that. Maybe that’s what finally gets Minghao to say—

“Please.” 

Your mother pauses in the middle of rifling through the refrigerator. For a long, terrible moment, the only sound is the rain. 

Minghao’s hands are shaking at his side. “Please,” he repeats. He knows he sounds more like himself than you. He knows he’s being out of character, being obvious. 

But he needs your mother to understand. She’s looking at him now like he’s a stranger. 

Like you’re a stranger. And you are— at least in that moment. 

The words tumble out of Minghao before he can contain them. “I want to live.”

He doesn’t know where it’s all coming from, this rush of emotion. Your voice wavers; he pushes on. “I want to live,” he gasps out. “I want to move us to an apartment that’s not next to a damn mountain. I want to not work in this damn job. I want to live until I’m your age, until I’m even older than that, dammit—” 

Your mother crosses the room, the refrigerator long forgotten. When she raises a hand to Minghao’s face, he doesn’t even realize that some tears had escaped. 

These are all things he wants for you, he realizes.

He wants you to have a good job. He wants you and your mother to be out of harm’s way. He wants you to live a long, full life. 

“Please,” Minghao says a third time, his voice cracking around the word.

There’s a softness to your mother’s gaze; this time, her worry is undeniable. She holds Minghao’s face— no, he thinks. She’s holding your face. Her child’s face. Her child, who’s crying, who’s begging. 

That’s likely the reason why she acquiesces. “Alright,” she exhales, using her thumb to wipe away some of Minghao’s tears. “We’ll leave. We’ll go.”

That’s only half the battle, though. 

Minghao mutters something below his breath. Your mother raises her eyebrows in a silent question, and so he clears his throat before speaking louder. 

“We have to evacuate the entire building,” he mumbles. 

It takes time to convince your mother, which stresses Minghao out beyond belief. Time isn’t a luxury that he has. Not when he has no idea when the landslide will hit. Not when the rain is only worsening, making it less likely to persuade people to leave the comfort of their homes.

By some grace, he manages to get your mother on board. Sure, he had to spew odd specifics and statistics about the dangers of landslides, but it works. The two go door to door. 

They’re met with initial resistance. Minghao doesn’t care. 

He badgers the elderly. He negotiates with the children. He almost gets to his knees when a family with a baby refuses to budge. 

The entire apartment complex is bewildered. 

But when somebody is batting so hard for safety, when somebody is so desperate in what seems to be just a little more than paranoia— you listen. 

The landslide hits just as Minghao is helping the last resident out of the building. 

He’s never felt anything quite like it. He’s experienced earthquakes and their aftershocks. He’s been in stadiums that have shook with the sheer amount of people, the pulse of their music. 

This one starts with a rumble. Low and deep, like it’s coming from the very ground. He hears the trees crack, the boulders knock together. And then— 

Your mother is grabbing him by the arm. She’s screaming, screaming, screaming, the sound drowned out by the storm, by the shrieks of all the other evacuated residents, by the mud that suddenly crashes down on the complex in one fell swoop. It’s everything, everywhere, all at once. 

Minghao is soaked from head to toe. Some of the mud flies and sticks to his hair, his clothes. He can almost taste it, too. The earth. The rain. He feels the chill to his very bones.

Despite that, he laughs. Your mother is dragging him, you, away from the calamity, the tragedy, and all that Minghao can do is laugh. 

Because he made sure that no one was left in the building. 

Because he’s alive. 

You’re alive. 

Later, when everyone is gathered in an evacuation center— shivering underneath blankets, talking about how it was all such a close call— Minghao falls asleep at your mother’s side. He feels like a kid again, with his hair being stroked, with soft words being uttered to him. 

He drifts off and dreams. 

Minghao is sure that this is a dream because his surroundings take on the hazy quality of one. 

It’s just a little too bright to be real, the setting bathed in a light that feels almost like a bulb had exploded. Minghao has to put one hand over his eyes— 

It’s his hand, he realizes. He’s dreaming as himself.

His sight adjusts. He’s at a dining table. It’s a two-person dining table. Much smaller than he’s used to.

“It’s you.”

He drops his hand and braces it against the edge of the table, because your voice— he should be used to it, shouldn’t he? He had used it for a bit, formed words like sorry and thank you with a lilting tone. 

When he responds, his own words are imperceptibly soft. 

“It’s me,” he confirms. 

You’re seated across from him. He had caught glimpses of your features in reflections, in photographs, but it’s something entirely new. To be taking you in from an outsider’s perspective. He sees how you would control your body, how you were inclined to react. It makes him dizzy, just how much he had gotten wrong about your mannerisms. 

The first proper words you speak are, “You have some good friends, you know?” 

A corner of Minghao’s lip twitches upward. The thought of the boys constantly checking in on him seems about right. 

“And you have a good mother.” Minghao pauses. He did say he would mention the next part. “Terrible job, though. You should quit.” 

“Easy for you to say, Mr. Idol,” you shoot right back. 

He winces; you laugh. The sound has the edges of his vision growing fuzzy. A sepia of the past, the present, and whatever this moment is, all blurring into one. Minghao doesn’t want to wake up. 

“What happens now?” you ask, your own fingers tap, tap, tapping on the table between you two. 

“I’m not sure.” 

“Why—?” 

“— Did this happen in the first place?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I’ve wondered the same thing.” 

The edges are closing in a little more now. Minghao can feel it— the familiar warmth of his bed at home, the tug of his own time. He’s already asked so much from his mother’s old gods but he lets his eyes flutter close so he can make a final plea. 

Just one more minute. Give me one more minute, please. 

“I think…” he starts slowly. His voice already sounds so distant. “It’s my fault.” 

“Your fault.” Skepticism undercuts your tone, enough to prompt Minghao to open his eyes again. 

He looks down at his hands, the ones that had folded atop the table. “I prayed for you,” he admits quietly. “Every day, back when I was a kid.” 

Confusion drips from your every word. “For me specifically?” 

He laughs. “Okay, maybe not you specifically,” he amends. “But—” 

It’s getting unbearably bright now, so much that he can only really make out the silhouette of your form. He itches to reach, to touch, just to see if you’re real. He doesn’t want to push it, though. 

Minghao settles with holding up his hand. If you squinted, if you really, really tried, you might see it, too. 

The faint glimmer of a red cord— looped around his thumb, tied to your pinky. 

Every day, back when I was a kid. 

“I prayed for this,” he repeats.

And so, in some way, he supposes you’re right. 

He had prayed for you. 

The chime of bells. 

The beige ceiling. 

Minghao is fairly sure he had dreamt, but it’s the kind of dream you forget the moment you wake up.

He blinks once, then twice. Odd. It felt like a good dream, too. 

There’s a warm, fuzzy feeling blossoming in his chest, though it fades just as quickly as it blooms. 

Minghao never wakes up as you again. 

The universe takes, and takes, and takes. It takes away Minghao’s memory. He’s not entirely sure what happened to him those couple of days. Seungcheol says he went to the hospital. Mingyu laments that they fought. 

Minghao borrows one of Soonyoung’s favorite words. Funk. He had been in a funk, probably. An off couple of days.

He’s back to regular programming so seamlessly that the others are forced to believe him. 

Still—

Minghao goes about the next couple of weeks feeling like something is missing. 

It annoys him to no end. It’s not any of his valuables, he’s sure. He double, triple checked everything. He turns his entire apartment upside down and puts it back together again. He goes for meals with all of his members, hoping to find the answers there. 

Nothing.

He falls into dreamless sleep every night, and wakes up every morning with that empty feeling in his chest.

It’s an unassuming Wednesday evening— one that he spends driving around with Vernon and Wonwoo— when it hits him. 

“Hey,” he says, throwing them a glance through the rearview mirror. “I could go for some dessert.”  

Vernon perks up at that. “Should we head to Myeongdeong?” 

“Sounds good.” 

Vernon throws out directions. Wonwoo queues the music. 

Minghao keeps his eyes on the road ahead.

The night market is an assault on the senses but it’s also a good cover for the three idols. They set out with their matching hoodies and half-face masks, in search of something to fulfill their cravings. 

Vernon goes to get some dragon’s beard candy. 

Wonwoo wanders off to purchase some hotteok. 

Minghao… He isn’t sure, really, which is a bit ironic. He had been the one to make the call, after all. He weaves through the crowds, his hands in his jacket pockets, as he scrutinizes the stalls. 

Kkwabaegi. Bungeoppang. Tanghulu. Dalgona. Bing—

He backs up a bit. 

“Hi,” he greets the seller. “This is a bit weird, but do you have black jujube?” 

The tanghulu vendor lets out a grunt of approval. “I think I’ve got one more stick,” she notes as he ducks to check her stock. 

What a weird craving, Minghao thinks to himself. But it’s the first thing that came to mind. 

A voice at his side addresses the seller by name.

“Got my date-plum persimmon, ajumma?” 

It’s not a voice that Minghao has heard before, and yet—

Frantically, he tries to sort through the hundreds of fansigns and fan meetings he’s had in the past decade. Could it be that? Could that be the reason why the lilt was so damn familiar? 

As he turns to look at the source, he knows in his heart of hearts that it’s not the case.

You’re already turning away, though, grumbling about the lack of the tanghulu that you want. Minghao hadn’t even heard the vendor respond.

There’s a ringing in his ears. 

“Excuse me,” he manages.

You falter in your steps. When you look up at him, he sees the same flash of confusion. One that’s borne out of recognition. 

The ringing has gotten louder. Despite that, he pushes out three words. 

He thinks he’s yelling them; in reality, they’re barely audible over the din of the night market. 

“Haven’t we met?” he breathes. 

For one dreadful, dragging moment, he’s convinced he’ll die if you say no, even though his mind is being terribly uncooperative. He can’t place when, or where, or how he met you. He can’t say if you’re familiar because he knows you or someone like you. 

All he knows is that he can’t, won’t let you walk away.

Your response makes everything in Minghao’s head go quiet. 

“I thought so, too,” you say, and something in his chest thrums. 

It feels a lot like an answered prayer. 

[robo-writing]

Kinktober Day Ten: Old Man! Logan - Clothed Sex

| Kinktober Masterlist |

You can’t remember the last time you’ve had sex—can’t remember the last time you felt his breath on your skin, touched his beautifully scarred body. You can feel it sometimes, the tension that lingers between the both of you when you leave in the morning. A kiss goodbye that lasts a bit too long to be just a kiss—more like a question shared between two lovers.

Do you want to stay home? 

And yet the answer is always the same; the sound of his keys between his fingers taunting you. 

I want to, but I can’t.

You’re tired from working at your job, he’s tired from working at his. It’s an unfortunate cycle, but it’s become commonplace, so routine that neither of you bats an eye. Still, you’re both human—you have needs, it’s just that those needs are playing second fiddle to a paycheck. 

There’s only so many nights where you can sneak off into the bathroom to relieve yourself, hoping that he doesn’t wake up—It’s why you’re surprised when you hear the sound of his car pulling into the driveway. 

The door opens, and he immediately makes himself comfortable by your side, pressing into your back. There’s no fanfare to be had, no foreplay, no words needed. You’re tired, he’s tired—it’s a win-win scenario. 

His beard scratches at your neck, a feeling that reminds your body of what it’s been missing this whole time. When you lean into him he sighs, a sound somewhere between relief and satisfaction. His touch paints a story across your torso, one that tells you just how much he’s always wanted to answer yes.

“Come here baby,” he rasps. “Get on top of me, that’s it—“

He lifts you with ease, your legs straddling his larger one as you grind against it, disorganized thrusts that probably wouldn’t do much for you if you weren’t already worked up. He watches you mesmerized, awe-struck at the beauty he’s denied himself of for so long.

Impatience leaks from your very core, greedy hands searching for the object of your desire, groping the obvious bulge in his work pants, your breath fanning across his cheek. 

“Pull it out, please—“

His agreement is wordless, arm around your back as the other busies itself with his throbbing cock. The clink of a belt buckle, a button popping open, the metal teeth of a zipper separating and the shuffle of your panties down your legs. It’s a four step plan that leaves the both of you satisfied, tight walls fluttering around his length. He moves you with ease, head falling forward to rest in your chest.

“Fuck, I’ve missed this,” he groans, hands pawing at your shirt. It’s a sentiment you know well enough. It’s only when he starts moving do you realize how much you needed this—needed him. You can’t remember the last time you’ve had sex but it’s coming back to you slowly, bit by bit; desperation leaking through every move you make. Hands anchored on his shoulders, hips grinding against him as he holds you tight, just as desperate from the way his hips follow yours. It’s like standing near the shore unaware that it’s high tide, unaware of your impending orgasm until it’s forced from you, whimpering into the side of his neck as you shake.

“You came already?” His rough voice hisses in pleasure, lips at your temple. “Must’ve been real pent up huh?”

You can only nod, fingers clinging to the dark jacket that hangs a bit crooked off his shoulders. Suddenly your lips are captured in his, full of hunger as his tongue explores past your teeth, the taste of smoke overtaking your senses. “I’m sorry for neglecting you, should’ve been fuckin’ you properly,” he moans, thumb brushing against your sensitive clit. He laughs into your mouth when you jump, delighted in the way your pussy grips him. “Lemme make it up to you.”

[mariespen]

➸ Parent-Teacher Disaster

Sheriff!Rafe x Teacher!Reader

➸ Masterlist!

Requests open!

When an aggressive parent-teacher conference ruins your night, Rafe is always there to ground you. Warnings: Swearing, panic attack. Hurt/Comfort!

Late nights in your cozy first-grade classroom almost always meant one thing: parent-teacher conferences. Your eyes fought to stay awake as the final group walked in. With a bright, false smile, you greeted Salish and Nevan Hillian, the parents of Noah.

Noah was generally shy and quiet, but he got good grades and interacted well when asked to. In all reality, you weren’t concerned about the meeting.

However, your heart sped up when you noticed their body language—stiff, closed-off, practically radiating irritation.

Hesitantly, you forced your polite facade back on.

“Good evening! I’m Mrs. Cameron, and you must be Salish and Nevan Hillian!” you said, standing up from your desk, reaching out eagerly to shake their hands.

“Mhm.” Salish barely acknowledged you, her grip weak, her expression unreadable.

You swallowed hard, convincing yourself that they were just tired. Maybe they forgot to cancel and begrudgingly showed up anyway.

“Okay! Noah is really doing amazing in class—he’s ahead of the curve and is such a genuine little boy. Is there anything specific you’d like to go over?” You kept your tone professional, graceful, as you all returned to your seats—Salish and Nevan sitting stiffly across from you.

Salish’s lips pursed before she finally spoke, her voice sharp.

“Your methods of teaching are an utter disappointment.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

You sat frozen, stunned, as humiliation crawled up your spine.

“Noah is the smartest kid I’ve ever met in my life, and that’s purely because I made it that way,” she continued, her words laced with condescension. “You have no urgency with his education. He needs to be catered to.”

She was raising her voice now, her tone growing sharper. You struggled to choke back the inevitable tears stinging at your eyes.

“I’m so sorry you’re disappointed in the curriculum, ma’am. However—”

She cut you off with an aggressive flick of her hand.

“Shut up about that. This is your fault.”

A loud thump rang through your ears as she slammed a thick folder onto your desk. Papers spilled out, disorganized, demanding attention.

“Inside here, I have exactly how you should be teaching my son. I made it all myself.” A smirk pulled at her lips, as if she was proud of herself. It made you feel sick. “This is not a suggestion. It’s an expectation.”

You felt paralyzed.

Before you could gather your thoughts, they both stood abruptly. Nevan glanced back at you for a brief second, almost looking apologetic, but Salish was already striding toward the door—leaving him no choice but to follow.

The moment they disappeared, the dam broke.

Tears slipped down your cheeks as you sat frozen, the weight of their words pressing down on your chest. You had held it together as long as you could.

The walk to your car felt endless. The drive home was worse.

By the time you stepped into your house, the familiar silence told you Rafe had already put the kids to bed. A fresh wave of guilt twisted in your stomach. You stopped outside their rooms, listening to the soft sounds of their breathing, grounding yourself in the innocence of their tiny, sleeping forms.

Then, Rafe’s voice called to you.

“Sweetheart?”

You barely had time to process it before your body gave in.

You stepped into your bedroom, shut the door, and felt your bag slip from your shoulder.

“Rafe…” Your voice cracked.

“How was it?” he asked, toothbrush in hand, looking at you through the bathroom mirror.

Your lips parted, but instead of words, a choked sob escaped.

Your knees buckled before you could stop them.

In an instant, Rafe was there, catching you before you hit the floor.

His arms wrapped around you tightly, pulling you close as you broke down in his hold. Your body trembled with sobs, breath uneven, as if the room itself was closing in on you.

“Baby, it’s okay. You’re okay. I got you,” he murmured against your hair, his hands grounding you, his voice steady against the chaos in your mind.

You gasped for air, struggling to match his breathing, but his warmth—his presence—was enough to start pulling you back.

“M’sorry…” you managed to mumble against his chest.

“Don’t,” Rafe said firmly, but gently. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Minutes passed before your breathing slowed, the crushing weight easing just enough. When you finally lifted your head, you realized he had moved you onto the bed, his hands still tangled in your hair.

“Honey, tell me,” he urged softly, wiping stray tears from your cheeks.

“It was my last conference…” Your voice wavered. “They yelled at me, Rafe. Said I was a disappointment. A bad example.”

Rafe tensed immediately. “Fucking assholes.”

A broken laugh slipped past your lips at his instant response.

“I just… I don’t know what to do.” You swallowed hard. “She gave me a whole binder of separate work and concepts to teach Noah.”

Rafe frowned, trying to recall. “Noah? I thought he was doing great?”

“He is! He’s one of my best-performing students. Apparently, that’s not enough.” Your voice cracked again, frustration seeping through.

Rafe huffed, pulling you even closer. “Sweetheart, you’re amazing at what you do. That woman? She’s crazy. You knowyou’re doing the right thing.”

You sniffled, the knot in your throat loosening slightly.

“It’s okay,” Rafe murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. “We don’t have to talk. Just rest.”

His fingers played lazily with your hair, his warmth pressing against you like a shield.

And, for the first time that night, you felt safe enough to close your eyes.

[vampz1re]

pairing: Vil x Yuu, Idia x Yuu, Malleus x Yuu, (All onesided)

cw: angst, hurt NO comfort, rejection, reader is called yuu, GN reader, one sided from yuus side then swapped! (tell me if there's anything else..?)

note: Heres part 2 of the last post ! Sorry for the really late posts :( . I swear i'm working on some more there's just been a lot going on ! This might be rushed, disorganized or just like not written good enough 😞💔

word count: 1.2k approximately

VIL SCHOENHEIT —

i

"Yuu. May I have a moment?"

His voice was polished as ever, but something about it trembled. You turned, finding Vil standing behind you in the corridor outside the ballroom, his usual poise fraying at the edges.

You nodded, although slightly hesitant. "Of course."

He stepped closer, not quite looking at you. "I owe you an apology. For that day. When you confessed."

You swallowed but said nothing, allowing him to continue

"I thought I was protecting myself. My career. My image. But the truth is, I was afraid of the way you made me feel. Vulnerable. Seen."

His eyes finally met yours, and there was no mask this time. Just honesty.

"I care about you. I think I always did. But I was too proud to admit it. And now I am standing here hoping it's not too late."

It was everything you had once wished to hear. But the ache that used to burn in your chest was long gone.

"I did love you, Vil. But I had to let that go. I couldn’t wait forever for you to look at me the way I looked at you."

Vil's breath hitched, and for a brief moment, the ever-composed actor looked heartbreakingly human.

"I understand," he said softly. "And I’m sorry. For not seeing you clearly until now."

You gave a small smile. "You always did have perfect timing. Just... not the right one."

This time, the loss was all his fault.

IDIA SHROUD —

“Yuu. Um… Could I… talk to you?”

You turned from your book slowly, surprised to see Idia standing just inside the library door. His usual hoodie was wrinkled, his hair a faint, unsure flicker of blue. He wasn’t fidgeting like normal. He looked… still. Intentional.

You marked your page. “Sure. What’s up?”

He hesitated, shifting from foot to foot, then walked over like he might bolt at any moment. But he didn’t.

“I’ve been thinking,” he began quietly. “About that day. When you told me you liked me.”

You felt the familiar ache stir in your chest, but you waited, unsure.

“I said something stupid. No — worse than stupid. I told you that you shouldn’t like me. Like I knew better than you. Like I had the right to decide that.”

His voice cracked slightly. He didn’t meet your eyes as he looked around as if the walls were more interesting.

“I was scared. I thought you were too good. I thought… if I let you get close, you’d see everything that’s wrong with me and leave anyway. So I figured I’d just do it first.”

You said nothing. You’d imagined this conversation before, too many times to count.

“I was wrong. I know that now. I liked you then. I still do. And if there’s even a tiny chance…”

You gave him a soft smile, and it stopped him cold.

“Idia. I waited. I hoped. I wanted so badly for you to say what you’re saying now. But eventually, I had to let it go.”

He looked like he’d been unplugged from the world. No glitch. Just grief.

“I get it,” he whispered. “Too late. As usual.”

You nodded, but gently. “It doesn’t mean your feelings don’t matter. They just… came after I needed them most.”

He understood. He had waited to long and the deadline for the ssr moment had long been gone.

MALLEUS DRACONIA —

“Yuu. I have been seeking you.”

You looked up in confusion to find Malleus standing beneath the cherry blossom tree, bathed in moonlight, looking every bit the prince he was. But his eyes were soft, uncertain.

“I wished to speak. If you will allow it.”

You nodded slowly. “Alright.”

He approached, each step deliberate, each word careful.

“When you confessed your heart to me, I did not respond. I let the silence between us speak in my place. I did not understand my own feelings, nor the weight of your vulnerability.”

You remembered. That long, still moment. The cold breeze. The way his gaze had drifted away as if he hadn’t heard.

“I now know what that ache in my chest was. What it still is. I love you, Yuu.”

The world was quiet for a moment, but inside, you felt only stillness. No flutter, no pain — just clarity.

“I loved you,” you said, voice gentle and holding a certain weight. “I waited for something. Anything. But when none came, I learned to stop hoping.”

He bowed his head, as if the air itself had become heavier.

“Another has found your heart.”

You gave a soft nod. “And they gave me what I needed when I felt invisible. I’m sorry.."

“There is nothing to forgive,” he said quietly. “I only regret that I did not speak sooner."

You reached for his hand and gave it a light squeeze, smiling softly - the smile not fully reaching your eyes.

“Thank you for coming. I needed to hear it. Even if it’s too late.."

He nodded once, his expression unreadable, then turned toward the trees — his figure blending into the quiet night as gracefully as he had arrived.

[emmyrosee]

Every morning was a pleasant routine.

Rintaro would get up, press a sweet, light kiss to your head before heading out for a run- then, he’d come back just in time for you and Kaiya to be up and making breakfast for him while he showers.

Then, he’d change, have a small bite for breakfast, watch one episode of whatever show was on with his baby while he brushed her hair, then kiss her goodbye and allow you to drown him in your own share of goodbye kisses before he heads off to work.

But today, he just. Skipped it. Instead of getting up for a run, he whines and buries himself in the pillows for a bit more sleep. Instead of showering, he throws on clean enough clothes and deodorant while you’re struggling to prepare a semi-sufficient breakfast for your husband as he scrambles to get all his practice gear ready. He packs Akito's lunch and sends him off to school with a ruffle of his hair, while a toothbrush is jammed down his throat.

Kaiya watches, confused, as you smear apple jam over a piece of toast and pour him a cup of coffee, knowing he’d have to take it in the car in any chance to make it in on time. The child merely makes her way into the living room to wait for her father to come watch Bluey as he did every morning.

“Got your phone? Water? Protein bar? Lunch- Rin do not forget your lunch again- change of socks?” All of your asking gets a hurried, quickly glanced “yes” or “got it” from Rin. He stuffs the toast into his mouth and plants a half-successful kiss to your cheek in order to head out. “Love you girls!”

“Love you too!” You call back, watching him make his way out of the house, struggling slightly with the disorganized bag.

“Mommy?” Kaiya whimpers, her cheeks stained with strawberry juice. “Where daddy going?”

You crouch down to your little girls height, wondering if she just forgot that he left everyday, or whatever the case may be, “well… he’s going to work, baby, he’ll be back soon!”

“Daddy’s gone?”

“Yeah baby… we can get lunch with him later if you would like to-“

“No!” She cries, her wide, green eyes filling with tears. Your heart sinks, you really don’t know what the problem is, and that sadness only grows when Kaiya, in all her four year old energy can muster, runs to the large living room window that looks out to the driveway, her tiny fists banging on the glass. “Daddyyyyy!” She wails, her cries becoming more frantic.

“Kaiya, it’s okay! Daddy will be home later-“

“Daddyyyyyy!”

Instinctively, you bring your hands up to try and cover up your ears from the scream of your baby, shocked at the volume and distress of her shrieks.

Suddenly, she runs from the window to the front door, and your heart absolutely jumps in your throat, fearing she’s going to try and book it about the front door to follow her dad.

When you make a move to chase her, you let out a relieved breath to see her clutched in the arms of her Rintaro, her tiny face buried in his neck and his, in her hair. Little sniffles and whimpers slip from her tiny face, interwoven with small little “I’m sorry, princess,” falling from Rin’s lips.

“She had a meltdown when you left, Rin,” you explain, leaning against the wall in exhaustion from the already hectic morning. Your hands scrub your face to relieve the fatigue, but you freeze and almost smack yourself when Kaiya finally peeps up.

“I-it’s ‘cause you didn’t say goodbye t'me,” she whimpers, and Rintaro squeezes her impossibly closer, his eyes screwing shut to fight his own shame. Neither of you even processed that, it was so crazy that a simple ‘love you!’ was sufficient enough to quell your need for his affection, but both of you clearly forgot about your daughter’s needs.

“I know, Angel, I’m so sorry,” he says softly, placing a sweet kiss on her temple. “Daddy was too busy this morning huh? Needs to make sure he takes care of his favorite girls?” His eyes flick to you before he opens one of his arms for you to come into for a hug.

His embrace is tempting, but you sigh softly, “Rin, you’ll be late-“

“‘M already late,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “But I’m almost halfway tempted to call in sick and spend the day here, so I’d get in this hug if I were you.”

In truth, you’d be lying if you said you weren’t about to take him up on that offer, spend the day with the two loves of your life with a nice hot breakfast, maybe a couple of Disney movies and a walk in the park, but it wouldn’t be right; not when Rin already works so hard to be able to provide you with that life while he’s busy playing or even out of the country.

Regardless, you slip to your knees and crawl into Rin’s other side, your hand wrapping around his broad shoulders so your fingers can tangle in his soft hair, which he happily leans into.

He plants a kiss to your head before nuzzling his nose against Kaiya’s own dark hair, “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, baby. I’ll be better next time."

“You better,” she whimpers. You and Rin look at each other and chuckle, none of you daring to leave the hug.

If anything, you squeeze tighter, not ready to let the world interrupt yet.

—-

tagging u 🥺👉🏻👈🏻 @reverie-starlight @tsukiran @wolffmaiden @thoreeo @aliensknowmyillusions @tutuwusworld @lavishcherie @sassycheesecake @cheolattes @rrairey 🩷

[cruesuffix]

i don’t want to steal your thunder (on the proper acc this time at least lol) but i couldn’t help but think the angsty version of this is spring day by bts. i mean

like at some point the anger fades away and everyone’s left with this melancholic sort of regretful feeling, and this song definitely represents that.

We've had enough by Melina KB is so modern day crüe drama angry Mick Mars I can't even.

Either that or my brain is absolute soup idk