#they are a mystery of a time gone by here

[cheriesbucky]

THE PERFECT FIT • SPENCER REID

SUMMARY : In a tense, overworked precinct, the team grapples with the challenge of an elusive suspect and considers an undercover operation. Rossi identifies a perfect candidate for the task, trusting her experience and ability to seamlessly blend into the unsub's world.

PAIRING : fem!reader x spencer reid

a/n : hi it’s me again! so obviously this is just the first part of a hopefully long series ? i have a lot planned but if you have any suggestions pls send them my way!

i know the use of 3rd person might bother some people but I’m struggling sm writing in 2nd or 1st person so i’m sorry in advance for that

you will learn so much about the reader along the way so rest assured the mysteries will soon all be revealed.

english isn’t my first language so i’m sorry for the mistakes!!

wc : 3.2k

tysm to my sweet angels @cerisereids @g4rvez-r3id for your insights and help on this first chapter<33

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In a precinct nestled within the city of Los Angeles, California, the air was heavy. The scent of stale coffee was persistent along with the monotonous hum of an overworked fluorescent light. The room buzzed with urgency, its walls plastered with boards full of frantic scribbles and blurred photographs — each a crucial piece of the puzzle in their elusive case. The table was a chaotic landscape of empty coffee cups and half-eaten takeout cartons, remnants of their unwavering dedication. The BAU team gathered around, eyes laden with fatigue and spirits running low, as ten days of chasing an elusive lead had left them both weary and resolute.

JJ leaned back in her chair, rubbing her temples. "We've got nothing. Ten days and nothing."

Morgan tossed the file he was reading onto the table with a frustrated sigh. "This guy's like a shadow," he grumbled, his tone thick with annoyance. "No prints, no DNA, no camera footage. Garcia, is there any way to bypass his loops and get to the raw feeds?"

Garcia's image flickered on the video call screen, her expression determined. "Oh, I've been down the rabbit hole with this one. Our guy's not just looping the traffic feeds — he's gone full Hollywood on us, splicing scenes together like a pro editor. He's got a digital cloak of invisibility, and trying to untangle that mess is like peeling an onion, layer after layer of encrypted nonsense. I'm working on a backdoor algorithm to slip past his smoke and mirrors, but this dude’s playing hardball with the big leagues. It's a serious code tango, and he's leading."

As Garcia spoke, Rossi sat at the table, his eyes scanning the chaotic room, taking in the exhaustion on his team's faces. When Garcia finished, he leaned forward, his voice calm but firm. "We need to think outside the box here. This guy's clever, but he can't be perfect. There's always a mistake, something overlooked."

The team absorbed Rossi's words, a collective silence settling over them. Meanwhile, Reid stood by the map pinned to the wall, absorbed in his own world. His fingers traced lines between cities, a maze of interconnected thoughts. The map was a mosaic of colored pins and scribbled notes, each representing another victim. Brunettes in their mid-20s, lured from dimly lit corners of strip clubs, where the unsub's charm and confidence masked his dark intentions. Each victim shared a haunting similarity—small stature, easily overlooked, but deeply missed by those who loved them.

Hotch turned to him, noticing his intense focus. "Reid, what about the geographical profile? What are you seeing there?"

Reid, still deep in thought, replied, "He's moving in a logarithmic spiral pattern, starting from urban centers and expanding outward. I've calculated the average distance between abductions to be about 7.3 miles. By applying this pattern and factoring in the time intervals, I could probably estimate his next move with some degree of accuracy. It's a bit like plotting a Fibonacci sequence across the map." His team listened, trying to grasp the complexity of his deductions.

Morgan, eyebrows raised, said, "Alright, genius, break it down for the rest of us."

Reid nodded, using his hands to illustrate the pattern in the air. "Basically, he's moving in a way that covers more ground over time, making sure he doesn't hit the same spot twice," he explained, tracing a wide spiral with his finger to show the movement. "If we look at how far apart the abductions are and how often they happen, I can make an educated guess on where he might go next."

Emily leaned in, her voice thoughtful but with a hint of urgency. "If we can predict where he'll be next, maybe we could set up an operation to catch him in the act. We've got the patterns, the locations, and we know his type."

Morgan nodded, his expression serious. "If we do this, we need to be crystal clear about the risks. This guy's not just smart — he's a genius. High IQ and extremely cautious. He knows how to stay two steps ahead and cover his tracks. If he even senses we're onto him, he could vanish without a trace."

Emily continued, her mind racing through possibilities. "We need to think this through, consider every angle. An undercover operation is risky, but it might be our best shot. We need someone who can blend in seamlessly, someone who wouldn't raise suspicions or tip him off."

Hotch glanced around the table, weighing the risks. "An undercover operation could work, but none of us fit the victim profile. We need someone who matches his usual targets."

JJ nodded, her voice bringing a sense of determination to the room. "It has to be someone who can handle the pressure, someone with the right look and demeanor. We need to find the perfect fit, someone who can walk into that world and not get noticed until it's too late for him."

As the conversation unfolded, Hotch noticed Rossi sitting quietly, lost in thought. There was a hint of something in his eyes—mystery, perhaps a plan forming. "Dave, you've been awfully quiet. Something on your mind?”

Rossi looked up, a sly grin forming. "I think I’ve got someone who fits the profile perfectly. She’s got the right look and experience to navigate his world without raising suspicions."

Morgan raised an eyebrow, a touch of concern in his voice. "You sure she can handle it, Rossi? This is a big operation, and the unsub is dangerous."

Rossi nodded confidently. "She's more than capable. She's tackled the toughest cases. And, she owes me," he added with a grin.

Hotch hesitated, his mind racing through the implications. "Dave, this is critical. We're talking about a case that could easily go sideways at the slightest misstep. The stakes are higher than ever, and we can't afford any mistakes. I need to be sure that whoever we bring in is not only skilled but also completely reliable. Are you absolutely certain she's the right person for this? Because if anything goes wrong, it won't just be on her. It'll be on all of us."

Emily chimed in, "Hotch, we don't really have many options. If Rossi trusts her, maybe we should give it a shot."

Rossi met his gaze, his expression earnest. "I trust her, Aaron. She's proven herself time and again, and I wouldn't call her if I didn't believe she was the perfect fit. I know how much is riding on this, and I'm telling you, she can handle it. She's exactly who we need."

Hotch thought for a moment, then nodded. "Alright, Dave. Make the call."

Rossi stood and reached for his phone, stepping into the hallway. The team watched him dial, anticipation hanging in the air. The phone barely rang once before she picked up, her voice playful and teasing. “David Rossi, you never call just to chat. What’s up your sleeve this time?”

Rossi chuckled, a warm sound amidst the grim atmosphere of the case. “I need to cash in that favor. Think you’re up for a mission?”

She laughed softly, exuding an air of confidence. “A mission? Sounds intriguing. You know I can never say no to you.”

“Great. I’ll have my technical analyst send over the files and the location details."

Just before they hung up, Rossi's tone shifted to serious. "And kid, it’s a bad one."

The change in mood was palpable, and her response was immediate, filled with determination. "I’m on the next flight."

Rossi returned to the room, his expression resolute. "She's in. Let's get to work."

The team gathered around, the tension in the room shifting from frustration to determination. They were tired, yes, but they were also resilient. And they wouldn't stop until they caught their ghost.

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Meanwhile, in New York City, the BAU’s soon to be guest star had just ended the call with Rossi. Excitement and apprehension danced within her as she stood in her cluttered apartment. Her eyes landed on the half-unpacked suitcase spilling clothes onto the floor. With a sigh, she muttered, "No rest for the wicked, I guess." The room, filled with personal photos capturing laughter and love, wrapped her in a warm embrace as she took it all in.

Rossi's call had reignited a sense of purpose, pulling her from the comfort of her home into action. It had been a long time since she'd seen Rossi, and much had changed in her life. The thought of reconnecting with him brought a flutter of anxiety.

As she began packing, her phone vibrated on the table. She paused to check it, noting the incoming files and a plane ticket to Los Angeles. A quick glance at the clock revealed only an hour before boarding. A flutter of nerves settled in her stomach.

The Behavioral Analysis Unit was renowned for its sharp minds and unparalleled expertise in profiling and solving the most complex cases. She couldn't help but feel a sense of awe at the thought of working alongside such a distinguished team. The prospect of engaging with these brilliant minds was both thrilling and daunting, as she wondered if she would measure up to their exceptional standards.

With her bag packed, she reached for her gun, the final piece of her preparation. She carefully checked the safety, then holstered it securely at her side, feeling the familiar weight against her.

She headed down the corridor and knocked on her neighbor's door. The elderly woman opened it, eyes widening in surprise. "Oh my goodness, I cannot believe my eyes! What a lovely surprise," she exclaimed, her voice filled with genuine warmth. "When did you even get back? I didn’t even hear you."

"I just got back last night," she replied with a smile. "How have you been Mary? It's been too long."

"Oh, things have been alright. But I see you've gotten some color! Where have you been then?" the neighbor asked, curiosity sparking in her eyes.

Her mind flickered to places where the sun blazed hot and secrets ran deep, but she simply replied, "Oh you know, just around."

They chatted for a while, the conversation flowing easily. Her tone turned apologetic as she continued, "I actually need to leave town again, and I feel terrible asking, but would you mind keeping Meow Meow for a little longer?"

"Of course, I can keep Meow Meow. He's been such a delightful guest," Mary replied. "I'm just glad you're okay. You take care, and stay safe out there."

After saying their goodbyes, she stepped out into the bustling city streets. As she walked, she pulled out her professional phone, feeling the familiar pang of guilt as she noticed the barrage of missed calls. Pausing for a moment, she stared at the screen, conflicted. The calls were a reminder of the obligations she was leaving behind. With a deep breath, she typed a quick, almost cryptic message, "I'm sorry," and tossed the phone into a nearby trash bin, the action feeling both liberating and heavy with consequence.

With her personal phone in hand, she continued toward her destination, ready to face whatever awaited her with the Behavioral Analysis Unit in Los Angeles.

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The airport was packed, a sea of people surging forward, each caught in their own whirlwind of departure or arrival. She, however, felt detached from this chaos, lost in her own thoughts as she navigated the serpentine security line. Her mind was razor-sharp and focused, yet there was a persistent irritation gnawing at her. It was more than just the grumbling about long lines or the seemingly endless wait. It was the silent anxiety that came with carrying a gun through security.

She understood the necessity, of course. The world was a precarious place, and security measures were there to protect, not to inconvenience. But the knowledge did little to quell the discomfort as she watched the TSA agents meticulously inspect every item in her bag. The process felt invasive, as though she were under the spotlight for a crime she hadn't committed. Each moment seemed to stretch, a slow-motion parade of scrutiny and suspicion.

As she reached the front, she handed over her documents, her concealed carry permit perched atop the stack.

The agent, a young man with weary eyes, examined her papers closely. "Ma'am, I'll need to check this permit with my supervisor," he said, his tone apologetic yet firm.

She nodded, forcing herself to remain composed. But a flicker of anxiety sparked within her. She'd left her former job only yesterday, a position that granted her the right to carry. Could her departure really have been processed so quickly? It seemed unlikely, yet the worry lingered in the back of her mind.

"How long will it take?" she asked, her voice steady but laced with impatience.

"Not too long, I hope," he replied, though his uncertainty did little to ease her mind.

Time seemed to stretch, each moment heavier than the last. Her thoughts raced with possibilities. It was improbable that her resignation had already worked its way through the system, wasn't it? The agent returned, looking apologetic. "We’re having some trouble with the system," he explained, "but we're working on it."

Her patience was wearing thin. "I have a flight to catch," she reminded him, a sharper edge to her words.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. We're doing our best," he assured, motioning for her to step aside.

She complied, though the wait felt eternal, each second amplifying her concern. Finally, the agent returned with a nod. "You're all set, ma'am. Thank you for your patience."

Finally, she was through, a wave of relief washing over her as she hurried toward the boarding gate. Her steps quickened, heart pounding with the urgency of making it on time. She flashed her ticket to the attendant, who gave a cursory nod before scanning it and waving her through.

Boarding the plane felt like crossing a finish line. She walked down the narrow aisle, searching for her seat, a window seat with the promise of a view that might offer some distraction. She stowed her bag in the overhead compartment, her muscles tensing briefly as she lifted it.

Once seated, she allowed herself a moment to breathe, leaning back as the familiar hum of the aircraft's engines enveloped her. It was a comforting white noise that seemed to cocoon her from the outside world. She reached into her purse, fingers brushing past a tangle of essentials until they found the tablet.

Taking it out, she settled it on her lap, the screen lighting up with a touch. The files she needed were there, downloaded and ready. She took a deep breath before diving in, knowing the images and reports awaiting her were not for the faint of heart. It was a necessary darkness, one she was both familiar with and perpetually disturbed by.

She shifted in her seat, her eyes drifting back to the images on her tablet. She opened the medical examiner's reports, seeking clarity amidst the chaos.

"Victim 1: Body discovered in the trunk of a stolen vehicle. Multiple stab wounds to the torso. Evidence of sexual assault, but no DNA trace found. Defensive wounds present, indicating a struggle. Bruising on the face and neck, consistent with manual strangulation severe enough to damage the larynx but not the cause of death."

"Victim 2: Similar profile to Victim 1. Well-nourished, good dental hygiene. Numerous contusions on the face, indicating blunt force trauma. Marks on the neck suggest choking, though not fatal."

Immersed in the grim details of the reports, she was jolted from her focus by the polite yet firm voice of a flight attendant standing beside her.

"Ma'am, we'll be taking off shortly. Could you please fasten your seatbelt?" the attendant asked, offering a reassuring smile.

Caught off guard, she blinked a few times, her mind slowly returning from the depths of violence and chaos to the present moment. "Oh, of course. Sorry about that," she replied, offering an apologetic smile as she reached for the seatbelt.

With a quick, practiced motion, she secured the belt, feeling the familiar click as it locked into place. The attendant nodded appreciatively before moving down the aisle to ensure other passengers were also ready for departure.

As the hum of the engines intensified, she took a moment to steady herself, then returned her attention to the screen. The world outside might have been preparing for takeoff, but her mind was still entrenched in the darkness of the case, eager to uncover whatever truth lay hidden within those files.

Victim 3: Found in an abandoned car, positioned haphazardly in the trunk. Multiple sharp force injuries to the chest and abdomen. Signs of sexual assault with no DNA evidence preserved. Defensive wounds on the arms and hands, suggesting a fierce struggle. Bruising around the neck indicates choking, with damage to the trachea insufficient to be fatal. Facial bruising present, indicative of repeated blunt force trauma."

With a sigh, she closed the ME’s reports. The brutality was difficult to stomach, but she had a job to do. She turned to the BAU profile, curious to see the psychological insights they had pieced together.

The BAU had outlined a profile that was both intriguing and frustrating in its lack of specific detail. They suggested the unsub was a white male in his 30s, characterized by a disciplined and cautious nature. His proficiency with technology was evident—hacking traffic security feeds and leaving no digital trace required a high level of skill and intelligence. He was organized, methodical, and deeply familiar with law enforcement procedures, as evidenced by his ability to avoid leaving DNA or identifiable traces.

Their theory was that he might have been rejected or humiliated by a woman similar to his victims, fueling his rage. He was a predator, choosing his victims carefully, and his MO suggested a compulsion rather than a need.

She found the BAU's insights valuable but sensed gaps in their understanding. The unsub's unpredictability and geographic spread made it difficult to pin him down. She knew they were up against a formidable adversary.

Her focus shifted to the witness statements, each pause in her reading a moment to absorb the unsettling patterns.

"Witness 1: Described him as discreet, seated in the darkest corners. Rarely engaged with others, but when he did, it was brief."

She paused, letting the words sink in before moving on.

"Witness 2: Noted his attractiveness but also his aloofness. He was watching the victim intently before she approached him, lured by the cash he offered”

"Witness 3: A bartender recalled serving him drinks on his visit. His voice was calm and composed, with an edge that hinted at something darker underneath. He never drank much, always aware, always in control. He left a generous tip, but there was an unnerving intensity in his eyes."

Each account painted a picture of a man who was meticulous, calculating, and intensely focused on his target. He seemed to have rehearsed every move, ensuring he left nothing to chance during his solitary visit. The pattern was chilling in its precision, a testament to his predatory nature.

The last section of the files was dedicated to victimology. It was stark in its clarity—each victim was a brunette in her mid-20s, small, and pretty. The unsub's rage was unmistakable, directed with a chilling intensity towards these women. It was personal and filled with a fury that spoke volumes about his psyche.

As the plane cruised through the sky, she pondered the unsub's motivations. His hatred was a dark mirror, reflecting a twisted perception of the women he targeted. The pattern was there, written in the blood of his victims, and she was determined to decipher it before he struck again.

[daryltwdixon]

Summary: You’ve never felt fully at home in your own skin, but that has never stopped Joel from showing you just how much he wants you. One night, you gather the courage to show him what you’ve been too afraid to share, and he shows you exactly what it means to be wanted, worshipped, and seen.

|| smut MDNI 18+, Joel is down bad in love, self conscious reader, no physical description (except 'soft belly') but reader is insecure of their body, no specific timeline, age gap mentioned but not specified, pinv, f!receiving oral, little bit of (f!receiving) ass play, dirty talk, praise kink, daddy kink, soft!joel, he calls you like every pet name in the book. some aftercare || notes: joel miller in reading glasses hello? dont kill me for being a little bit of a cornball in here. joel is a cornball when he's in love. Yes I know I wrote the word pretty a lot! That’s the point!!! Inspired by this request

Joel’s bed became home long before you were ready to admit it.

It’s where you feel safest. It’s where he tugs you into his chest first thing in the morning, rough hand splayed over your back like it belongs there, murmuring something low and sleep-thick against your temple. It’s where you read curled into his side at night, him propped up against the headboard in that worn old Henley, eyes flicking lazily over the pages of whatever book you handed him, while yours is gripped a little tighter, the latest thriller mystery that has your heartbeat ticking up by the final chapters.

He had told you to stop reading them before bed once, but he didn’t really mean it. Not when you curled tighter into him, not when your hand slid across his stomach and stayed there gripping him like you needed to be close to something steady, something warm. Something like him.

Joel loves you like this. Warm and soft and pliant in his bed.

It’s one of his favorite places. Not just for pressing you down into the mattress and filling you, not just for the pretty, breathy sounds you make when you’re too far gone to think about what you look like or where his hands are. No—he loves the quiet moments, too. The ones where your limbs are tangled up with his, hair a mess, lips kiss-swollen, your skin still carrying the ghost of his touch.

And every now and then, when you’re asleep on his chest or laughing at something dumb he said, he still finds himself wondering how the hell he ended up with a girl like you.

You’re so much younger. So much softer. He doesn’t know what you see in a man like him—older, rougher, carved from all the years you haven’t had to carry yet. You could’ve had anyone. But you chose him. 

You’ve been together a few months now, and he still hasn’t wrapped his head around it. Still doesn’t know what he did to deserve your trust, your sweetness, your sharp quick wit when he least expects it.

He tried to keep his distance at first. Tried not to look too long when you smiled, not to follow the sound of your voice like a damn tether every time you were in the room. Told himself it wasn’t right. You weren’t for him. You were good. But you kept coming closer.

And once you started to pursue him—sweet and fearless and so goddamn certain—his resolve didn’t just crack. It collapsed.

The years between you didn’t matter to him anymore. The guilt didn’t matter. The voice in his head that told him to stop, that warned him he was too old, too jaded, too broken to ever deserve you—it all went quiet the second you looked at him like he was worth wanting.

He had to have you. To feel you, hear you, know you. So he gave in.

But there was still something there he didn’t quite understand, even now. Something that never quite leaves him.

Because every time he takes you to bed with the singular thought of getting you naked, of taking you until he gets his fill, until you’re trembling and wrecked and crying out his name—every single time, he sees it.

That flicker of hesitation.

He watches your shoulders shrink inward. Watches the way your hands move to cover your belly the second his fingers slip beneath your shirt. The way your breath stutters like you’re already bracing for something—even if it’s just his eyes.

You never say it out loud. You don’t have to.

And every time he settles over you, broad chest looming, palms sliding down your sides with reverent slowness as he lays you down on his bedspread, you ask him in that sweet, uncertain voice:

“Can we turn the light off?”

And Joel… hesitates.

Just for a second. Just long enough to take one more look at your face—flushed and perfect and lips swollen from letting him kiss them until they’re bruised. He always obliges. Always reaches over and clicks off the bedside lamp without a word, even if something in his chest aches as the room goes dark.

In the low moonlight, he can still see pieces of you. The softness of your belly. The curve of your thighs. The arch of your back when you start to melt beneath his touch. And he reveres it. All of it.

Worships you like you’re something holy.

But even in the dark, he notices everything.

The way your breath hitches when he kisses down your body—not with pleasure, but with discomfort. The subtle tension in your limbs when he trails his lips past your ribs. The way you squirm when his mouth lingers at the tender skin between your stomach and mound. Not because it’s too much. But because you don’t want to be seen.

And it kills him a little every time.

Because he wants to see you. All of you. Wants you to know that there is not a single inch of your body he doesn’t adore.

But still, like many nights before, he obliges you tonight and reaches over to turn out the light at your request.

The room falls into darkness.

Joel wakes to the warm and golden light of the morning, the kind where sunlight filters through the blinds in soft, slatted beams, pooling across the hardwood floor. The kind where the world outside feels far away, like it can wait a little longer while the house stays quiet.

His mind fully catches up to the scent of coffee and the soft creak of floorboards.

The bed is empty beside him, blankets still warm, your pillow carrying the shape of your head. He rubs the sleep from his face and swings his legs over the edge, the weight of last night still humming low in his chest.

He finds you in the kitchen.

You’re at the counter, barefoot, wearing nothing but his t-shirt—one of those older ones, soft and stretched out, the hem barely brushing the tops of your thighs. Your hair’s a little messy, skin still marked in places from where his mouth had worshipped you in the hours of the night.

You’re so focused on pouring coffee into your favorite mug—the pink one with the little chip at the rim, just big enough to catch your lip if you’re not careful—that you don’t hear him come in.

He steps in behind you, silent as ever, warmth radiating off his chest before you even feel his hands.

One arm slips around your waist, the other gliding up beneath the hem of the shirt you’re wearing—his shirt—until his hand splays flat across your stomach. His lips find your neck a second later, soft and unhurried, brushing along your skin as he breathes you in.

You stiffen, just a little. It’s not resistance, you could never resist him, but your body goes still beneath his touch, that automatic flicker of self-consciousness rising to the surface like it always does when he touches you in the daylight.

Still, you don’t move away.

Joel’s voice is low and rough in your ear, all gravel and morning warmth, “‘Mornin’, darlin’.”

You smile, small, a little sheepish, but it’s there. “Morning.”

His hand drops lower, fingers brushing the curve of your hip, then sliding up again, slow and lazy. His other arm tightens around your front, keeping you pulled against him as his lips trail from your neck to your cheek.

“Joel—” you murmur, half a protest, half a laugh, squirming under his touch.

“You look so pretty like this,” he says, voice thicker now, rougher with sleep and want. “So sexy in my shirt, honey.”

You go quiet. Not because you don’t like it. But because it still hits that spot—the part of you that flinches at being seen. You press your lips together, focus on the coffee in your hand, as if the words might disappear if you just don’t look at him.

But Joel sees it. Feels the shift. The way you tense ever so slightly when he calls you nice things. Like the words don’t fit, not yet. Like you still haven’t figured out how to wear them.

He kisses your cheek again, slower this time.

“I mean it,” he adds softly.

You nod once, a breath catching in your chest before you murmur, “I know.”

Joel leans in and kisses the back of your head, just behind your ear, then murmurs against your skin, “Put the coffee down for a second.”

You glance over your shoulder, suspicious but smiling. “Why?”

“Just do it, baby.”

With a soft sigh, you set the mug back on the counter. Before you can ask again, he’s turning you in his arms, hands firm but careful on your hips and over the shirt, as he spins you to face him.

He steps in close, real close, until the backs of your thighs press against the cabinets and his hands come up to cradle your face. Big, warm palms on your cheeks, thumbs brushing the softness there like he’s memorizing the way you feel under his touch. 

Then his hands squish your cheeks between his hands, just enough to puff your lips out like a fish.

Your brows furrow as you try in vain to pull away. “Joel—!”

“Say it,” he says, dead serious despite the ridiculous hold he has on your face.

Your eyebrows knit further as you still. “Say what?”

He smirks, dipping his head until your noses bump. “Say: I’m pretty.”

You groan, giggling despite yourself as you try to wiggle free. “Joel, oh my god—”

He holds on, pressing exaggerated kisses to your squished face—your cheek, your forehead, your nose and your puffed out top lip. “Say it. Go on. I’ll wait all day.”

“Fine!” you huff, lips barely moving from the way he’s still holding your face. “I’m pretty.”

He grins, loosening his hold just enough so you can speak properly, though he keeps his hands right where they are. “Didn’t hear you.”

“I’m pretty,” you repeat, cheeks heating as you say it, soft and unsure but not sarcastic. Not deflecting.

Joel beams, eyes crinkling at the corners, kissing your lips as he loosens his hold on your face. “Damn right you are. Prettiest girl I ever saw.”

You can’t help but smile now, wide and a little bashful. You duck your head, but he catches you again, presses a kiss to your lips again, sweet and unhurried.

And when he backs away and you finally reach for your coffee again, cheeks still warm, he’s watching you like he’s already counting the seconds until he gets to do it all over again.

That night starts like any other night.

Late, quiet, the house dipped in soft shadows. The windows are cracked just enough to let in the evening breeze, the hum of cicadas drifting in with the warm air. Joel’s in bed already, reading glasses sliding down his nose, thumbing through the same page of his book he’s read three times without taking in a single word.

He’s waiting for you to join him, your book is still closed on the side table. You’d excused yourself to the bathroom before you could even cuddle up in bed beside him. You had said you needed two minutes.

That was fifteen minutes ago.

He figures you’re brushing your teeth. Or lost in one of your little bedtime routines—rearranging things on the counter or doing your 10 step nightly skincare. He doesn’t mind. He’s gotten used to your rhythms the more you stayed over. Grown to love them, even.

But then he hears the bedroom door open, and when he glances up, expecting to see you in one of your usual pajamas, his breath catches. You’re not wearing one of his big T-shirts or those soft cotton sets you like so much.

You’re standing in the doorway in white lace, delicate and sheer and almost ethereal in the low glow of the lamp light.

It damn near knocks the air out of him.

He forgets all about the book in his lap—doesn’t even feel it fall to the mattress as his gaze rakes over you, slow and disbelieving. His jaw goes slack as he removes his glasses and sets them on the side table.

The bra—he doesn’t know what it’s called, not that it matters—looks daintier and more delicate than anything he’s ever seen in his goddamn life. Feminine in a way that hits him right in the chest. It wraps around you like it was made for your body, hugging your curves in all the right places. The straps are thin, dipping into the softness of your shoulders, and the lace cups give just enough to let his imagination blur with what’s already in front of him.

The matching bottoms sit high on your hips, scalloped lace tracing the tops of your thighs, giving him a perfect view of the skin he’s only ever touched in the dark.

Your hair is pulled back behind your shoulders—intentionally, he thinks, like you wanted him to have the full view.

Your lip is tucked under your top teeth, and your eyes flick down for a second, uncertain—then back up again.

But then you smile.

Shy, but proud. Like you’re showing him something precious and a little terrifying. Like you finally believe, even just a little, that he might actually mean every word he’s ever said about you.

Joel shifts to the edge of the bed, jaw tight with restraint as he beckons you to him. Slowly, you make your way over, and he soaks in the look of your thighs as you move, the way your body is begging to be marked and taken. His hands curl against his own thighs like he’s afraid to touch you too fast, too hard, and shatter the moment.

But when you move to stand between his knees, and he lifts his eyes up to meet yours, you don’t flinch.

He lets out a long, shaky breath. Then his hands lift slowly, reverently, palms brushing along the outside of your thighs, up to your hips.

His voice is low, almost reverent. “Christ, baby… look at you.”

You let out a nervous laugh, eyes dropping for a second—but you don’t cover yourself. Don’t twist away like you usually do. You stay right there, between his knees, close enough for him to smell the soft scent of your lotion and whatever little perfume you’d put on just for him.

Joel lifts his hands, slow and sure, and holds your hips, warm, steady, splayed wide like he wants to cover all of you. His thumb strokes gently over your skin where the lace ends, just above your hipbone.

“You did this for me?” he murmurs, looking up at you.

You nod once, eyes still shy but glowing with something soft. “I wanted to. I…I know I usually…”

“I know,” he says quietly, thumbs stroking your skin under his touch. “Don’t gotta explain nothin’ to me.”

His voice is gentle, but there’s something else beneath it now. Thicker. Hotter. Like he’s barely keeping a lid on what he really wants to say.

You bite your lip again, tucking it under your top teeth as you gauge his reaction. Joel leans in, eyes never leaving yours, and presses a kiss between the valley of your breasts—slow, open-mouthed, just wet enough to make your breath stutter.

You exhale, body already leaning into him, melting under the heat of his mouth, the drag of his stubble, the way his hands are rubbing slow circles along your thighs. His fingers toy with the hem of the lace between your legs, pinching the delicate fabric between them, like he can’t decide whether to rip it off or worship it.

“You know what this does to me? What you do to me, angel?” he rasps, voice rough now, filthy and unfiltered. “You got me starin’ like a damn animal. Don’t even know where I wanna taste first.”

He kisses the underside of your breast, and even though it's covered by lace, he bites softly at the curve, tongue soothing the mark he leaves behind. His hands move to grip your ass tightly now, pulling you closer, positioning so your stomach and hips are flush against his chest.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty, baby. Every time I think I’ve seen all of you, you go and give me this?”

His eyes flick up, hungry and reverent. You squirm, a tiny whimper slipping past your lips, but Joel doesn't back off. He presses another kiss to your stomach, then just above your belly button, murmuring into your skin.

“Timid little thing—but deep down you like it, don’t you? Like when Daddy talks like this?”

Your thighs twitch under his hands and you nod.

He grins, feral and soft all at once. His hands slide up your sides, palms hot and steady against your ribs, thumbs brushing the edge of lace as his mouth follows—slow, open-mouthed kisses trailing higher, tongue flicking against the fabric covering your breasts. His tongue pokes out over the lace of your bodice right where your nipple would be, teeth grazing over the hidden but pebbled skin. Your jaw falls open as you watch him.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, breath catching against your sternum. “You wore this just to drive me crazy, didn’t you?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

One hand lifts, fingers tugging gently at the strap of your bralette, sliding it down your shoulder. Then the other. His movements are careful, almost reverent, as he peels the lace down and away, baring you inch by inch.

And when your breasts spill free, his breath catches audibly.

“Jesus Christ.”

He sits back just far enough to look. Just for a moment. Just to see you.

“Prettiest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever laid eyes on,” he murmurs, thick with awe and heat. He brings his hands up to grip the flesh of your breasts, kneading them together, “Bet you don’t even know what you do to me, baby.”

You bite your lip again, that flicker of shyness still dancing across your face—like you have to physically restrain yourself from trying to cover the revealed skin. But no. Not this time.

Joel leans in and licks a slow stripe over one nipple, making you gasp. He drags his tongue in a lazy circle, then sucks it into his mouth, groaning low in his throat like he’s tasting heaven.

You whimper, your hands flying to his shoulders, fingers gripping him as your back arches on instinct.

“That’s it,” he growls, pulling back just to press a kiss between your breasts before taking the other into his mouth, this time sucking harder, leaving it damp and peaked from his tongue. “Let me hear you, baby. Wanna hear every sound you make when I touch you like this.”

Your hips roll against him, thighs trembling as you stand between his legs.

“Sensitive little thing,” Joel mumbles against your skin. “Just needed someone to show you how fuckin’ perfect you are.”

He kisses lower, down the underside of your breast, then back up again, licking softly, sucking just enough to leave the faintest mark.

“M’gonna take good care of you tonight, baby,” he breathes, dragging his mouth back to your nipple. “Gonna take my timeand take every fuckin’ inch of this sweet body. You gonna let me?”

You nod, breathless, voice caught somewhere in your throat,“Y-yeah.”

Joel looks up, eyes blazing, lips slick from kissing you.

“‘Yeah’, what? Tell me, honey.”

Your begin to squirm as you tell him, “I want you to, Daddy. Please.”

Joel groans like it physically knocks the air out of him. His hands trail back down your sides, slow and reverent, fingertips grazing the lace waistband still hugging your hips.

“You’re killin’ me, baby,” he murmurs, dragging his mouth lower. 

He kisses down your stomach, tongue peeking out to trace the little dip of your navel, his hands smoothing down your hips and behind to cup your ass again, fingers squeezing tight. The lace panties are all that remain, soft and delicate, slightly damp already with your arousal. He noses along the waistband, breathing you in.

“Fuck, you smell so good,” he growls, teeth catching gently at the fabric. “Bet you taste even better.”

Your hands slide into his hair, tugging gently as he tongues over the lace, not pulling it down yet—just feeling you through it, his mouth wet and hungry over your hips and tummy.

You moan, your hips grinding against him again as he teases you, his one hand reaching down to drag his fingers over your clothed mound, the slick of your folds soaking through. He groans at the feeling before pulling back with a sharp exhale, looking up at you with wild eyes.

“On the bed. Hands and knees. Now.”

You blink, heart leaping, but you don’t hesitate. You scramble onto the mattress, crawling forward on shaky limbs until you’re positioned right where he wants you—on all fours, back arched, breath quick and needy.

Joel groans behind you at the sight, pulling his shirt over his head before dragging a hand up your spine, slow and heavy.

“Goddamn, baby. Look at you.”

Once he’s climbed onto the bed behind you, spreading your knees a little wider, he kneads at your ass with both hands, reverent and gentle. He settles his body lower, shifting on the bed until his face is level with your center. He drags his thumbs along the backs of your thighs, spreading them a little wider, groaning low when he sees how soaked the lace of your panties is—slick and clinging to your folds, a perfect puffy outline of everything he’s about to taste.

“Look at this,” he breathes, like it’s something sacred. “Fuckin’ drenched for me.”

You gasp when you feel his mouth again—not on your skin, but over the lace. A slow, deliberate kiss right to the center of you, hot and wet and perfectly placed. His lips part, tongue nudging against the fabric, teasing your clit through the sheer barrier.

It’s maddening.

He hums, the vibration making your hips twitch.

“Fuck, baby… I could spend all night like this. Kissin’ you through these pretty little panties. Smellin’ you. Feelin’ how worked up you are for me.” He nuzzles in deeper, breathing hot against you, licking a wide, slow stripe up the center of your heat—through the lace—then mouthing at it, sloppy and wet, soaking it even more.

You sob, spine arching, thighs quivering where they try to stay upright. Joel groans against you.

“Can’t believe you wore this just for me,” he mutters, dragging his tongue back down. “So fuckin’ soft. So sweet. Pussy’s beggin’ for it, ain’t she?”

You nod frantically, already breathless. “Yes—God, Joel, please—”

He chuckles darkly, biting gently at the fabric. “Please what, baby?”

“Take them off,” you gasp. “Please—need you.”

Joel pulls back, and you feel the shift in the air before you feel his hands—rough palms curling under the waistband of your panties, fingers brushing the skin of your hips as he peels the lace down slow. Agonizingly slow.

“Anything for my girl,” he says.

Joel’s broad, warm hands palm at your ass, kneading every inch as he situates himself behind you. He dips lower, mouth pressing open-mouthed kisses into the flesh of your left cheek, then the right, before his teeth sink down into the soft meat.

You yelp, hips jerking at the sharp nip.

“Prettiest noises too,” he murmurs into your skin, kissing the sensitive mark he left behind. His hands spread your cheeks, thumbs firm as they open you up for him—and when you peek over your shoulder, you find his eyes locked on your center, gaze dark and fixated, the pupils blown wide.

When he catches you looking, his eyes flick up to meet yours.

“She’s flirtin’ with me,” he says, grinning like the devil.

Your face burns, and you let your head drop into the pillows, hiding from the embarrassment that curls through your belly—hot and helpless, tangled with molten want.

Joel’s lips find your skin again, slower now, more reverent as he holds you open. His tongue drags between your cheeks, a deep, teasing stroke that makes your whole body tense. He kisses your slick folds with a wet, lewd sound that makes you gasp.

He hums, low and satisfied, then laps at your dripping arousal like it’s his first taste of water in weeks.

“And the prettiest pussy,” he rasps, lips brushing your folds. “You know that, darlin’?”

You moan, unable to answer, as his tongue pushes deeper. He flattens it and licks slow, wide strokes up your slit before circling your clit. His nose bumps your entrance, barely prodding, teasing you as his tongue works your clit in tight, filthy circles.

Your hips start moving without your permission, grinding into his face, seeking more.

Joel groans like you’re his favorite meal, tongue flattening again, letting you push into him.

“That’s it, baby,” he coos, eyes fluttering shut. “Ride my face.”

You mewl, your body bucking, wild and desperate, grinding into him like a goddamn bronco at the fair. Your walls flutter, your core pulsing with pressure as it builds, and builds, and builds.

Your thighs begin to shake.

Joel’s grip on you tightens as he takes over, tongue working your clit with expert flicks, fast and relentless.

The pressure in your belly snaps like a pulled cord, your spine arching as your orgasm crashes over you. You cry out, pushing yourself deeper into his mouth as you come, loud and wrecked, your fingers gripping the sheets.

Joel moans into you like he’s the one coming undone, tongue never faltering, coaxing every last wave of pleasure from your trembling body. Even as you start to come down, breath catching in your throat, he doesn’t stop. He just slows, letting you twitch and gasp and shake through it.

Then, you feel it. The warm, wet pressure of his tongue pushing up past your folds, over the skin between, then circling your tighter hole. You jump at the intrusion, a sharp gasp breaking from your lips—but the haze of your orgasm makes your body soft, receptive, already melting for him.

You whimper, hips twitching. Joel just groans again, closing his lips around your sensitive rim, suckling gently.

“F–fuck,” you whisper, unable to think, to move, to breathe.

He licks you there once more before planting slow, open-mouthed kisses up your spine, up to the small of your back, your shoulder blades, and finally your neck.

Then he’s curling over you, beard scratchy against your skin, his lips brushing your cheek.

“Turn around,” he whispers, voice low and rough, "Wanna see your face when I stuff you full a'me,"

You can’t help but giggle at the tickle of his scruff against your neck, still dazed, still boneless, but do as you’re told—twisting under him until you’re on your back, staring up at him.

Joel’s eyes, though dark with hunger, hold something else too. Something deep and aching. Something sweet.

And then, with that same steady tone he uses when talking patrol routes or fixing fences, he says, “Now. Here’s what’s gonna happen, sweetheart.”

His lips brush your jaw, then your ear.

“I’m gonna fill you up so deep, fuck you so full of my cock, my cum, me, that when you look in the mirror tomorrow, all you’re gonna see is how fuckin’ beautiful you are—��cause you’ll still be wearin’ what I did to you tonight.”

Your chest heaves, the words settling deep in your stomach, curling there like heat and honey.

“Joel, I—” you start to say, only to gasp when you feel the hot, thick head of his cock nudge at your entrance.

“You feel this, honey?” he murmurs, pulling back to look down between you, voice rough and reverent. “Feel how bad he wants you? How bad I want you?”

You nod, gripping his forearms tight, your thighs falling open even wider for him.

He notches just the bulbous tip inside you and hisses at the wet heat.

“Jesus,” you breathe. “I feel it, Joel, I—I… pleasepleaseplease—”

“I know, angel, I know,” he pants, his thumb stroking your inner thigh, grounding you. “Now I wanna hear you say it.”

Your brain lags, thick with need, swimming in lust and love and the ache to just feel him.

“W-what?”

Joel watches you, eyes burning into yours.

“Say, ‘I’m pretty, Daddy.’”

Your whole body flushes, lips parted in disbelief, already whining at the way he just knows how to unravel you.

You groan wordlessly, bringing your hands to your face to hide. He is so on your shit list for this.

Joel chuckles darkly, pushing in another inch, and you whimper behind your hands.

“I’m waitin’, darlin'.”

You squirm under him, thighs trembling, skin turning hotter and hotter by the second. Every nerve in your body is screaming for him to move, to fill you, to do something.

But Joel waits. He always waits—until you give in, until he gets what he wants.

You lift your hands from your face slowly, eyes hazy, cheeks heated, lips parted. He’s watching you like a man possessed, one hand gripping your thigh, the other wrapped around his pulsing member with agonizing patience.

“M’pretty,” you whisper.

Joel’s brow arches, lips curling, “Not quite, sweetheart. You know how I want it.”

Your chest heaves. Your pussy clenches around just the tip of him, and even though you see the twitch in his jaw, he still waits.

So you gather your courage, heart pounding in your throat: “I’m pretty, Daddy.”

Joel’s smile breaks across his face, so bright and full of something so tender it nearly knocks the air from your lungs. It almost pulls you out of the heat of it, the haze of arousal, until your core clenches and he sinks into you just a little deeper.

You gasp, the stretch sharp and perfect.

He leans down slowly, hands braced in the pillows beside your head, lowering himself onto his forearms until his chest is flush with yours, until there’s no space left between your bodies.

He’s still not fully sheathed in you.

“Again.” 

“I… I’m pretty, Daddy,” you breathe, voice shaky as your pussy tries to adjust around the thick stretch of him.

“The prettiest,” he nods, and his lips mold to yours as he finally pushes all the way in. Your mouth falls open with a gasp, the sound swallowed by his tongue slipping between your lips, hot and hungry, as he bottoms out. His balls press firmly against the slick, wet crevice of your ass, and the mess between your thighs is obscene—your arousal dripping, sticky and hot, soaking the sheets beneath you.

Joel groans into your mouth, loud and wrecked like its been trapped in his chest for hours. His hands come up to cradle your head, keeping you right there beneath him as he begins to move, slow at first, pulling out a few inches before rolling back in, the full weight of him rocking your body with every deep thrust.

“Shit,” he mutters, voice low and reverent. “Pussy’s so damn tight.”

He pulls out slowly again, then drives back in hard, enough to jolt you up the bed, the sound of it lewd and perfect. His brow furrows, eyes fluttered shut as he focuses on the way your walls cling to him.

“Fuckkkk,” you mewl as he continues sawing into you, filling you and stretching you around him, buried to the hilt.

Joel grins, feral and hungry, sweat starting to bead at his brow.

“Sound even prettier when you take my cock.”

He sets a rhythm—deep, grinding thrusts that hit all the way up, filling you to the brim. His body covers yours, chest brushing your nipples, beard scratching your throat as he nips and kisses every inch he can reach.

“Been thinkin’ about this for so long, baby” he grits out between thrusts, hips slapping against yours. “The way you’re always hidin’ yourself from me, coverin’ up like you’re not the most beautiful fuckin’ thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your hands claw at his back, your legs wrapping around his waist, trying to pull him impossibly closer.

“I got you, honey,” Joel pants, head dropping to your neck as his arms wrap around you, pulling you into him even tighter. “And you’re gonna start seein’ it for yourself,” 

His pace picks up, rougher now, slamming into you with the kind of need that’s barely human.

“Gonna fuck you so full you forget every goddamn lie you ever told yourself in a mirror. Gonna make sure the only thing you remember is me—how you sounded, how you looked, when I wrecked this perfect little body.”

You’re gasping, whimpering, shaking beneath him, stars flashing behind your eyes as he pounds into you like he’s never going to stop.

“That’s it, baby. You take it,” he growls. “Take my cock so good, like the good girl you are for me. Fuckin’ made for me.”

“Joel—” you cry, voice breaking.

He lifts his head, eyes wild and tender all at once.

“Say it again, sweetheart. Tell Daddy how pretty you are.”

“I—I’m pretty,” you choke out. “I’m—fuck, I’m so pretty, Daddy—”

He loses it.

His hand slides under your thigh, hooking it up, opening you wider, deeper. His hips slam into you harder now, the rhythm filthy, brutal, perfect.

“I know, baby. I know. Look at you. My good girl, look so beautiful takin’ it so fuckin’ well.”

His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your neck, guiding you forward as he sits back—craning your head up so you can look down, see exactly where you’re joined. 

Your mind barely registers the softness of your belly, too focused on the thick stretch of him splitting you open, the obscene way you take every inch. You both watch as he drives into you, slick and deep and devastating, a ring of your last orgasm glistening around his cock. The pressure builds again, white-hot and unbearable.

And Joel knows—he feels it in the way you clench, the way your voice goes high and desperate, the way your hands grip him like you’ll fall apart if you let go.

“You gonna come for me again, sweet girl?” he pants, fucking you into the mattress. “Gonna let Daddy feel you pulse around his cock?”

“Yesyesyes—Joel, I—please—”

“That’s it,” he snarls, “give it to me.”

You shatter.

Your orgasm crashes through you with a scream as he releases your neck, letting you arch your back, trembling as you milk his cock with spasms so tight it makes Joel curse, a broken sound from deep in his chest.

And then he’s coming, hips stuttering, burying himself to the hilt as he spills inside you, filling you just like he promised. His voice breaks on your name as he grinds through it, hands gripping you enough to leave bruises, breathing ragged.

Neither of you move for a long moment. Just the sound of your breathing, tangled and uneven. His chest heaving against yours. Your legs shaking around his waist.

His hand slides up, cradles the side of your face. His thumb brushes gently beneath your eye, even though you’re not crying—but something about the touch makes you want to. Makes your throat ache.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice all gravel and reverence. “You okay?”

You nod, eyes still fluttered shut, heart pounding. “Y-yeah.”

Joel presses a soft kiss to your lips—barely a touch, like he’s afraid of ruining you more than he already has. Then another, and another, until you're giggling quietly beneath him, too dazed to hold it in.

He smiles, the kind of smile he doesn’t show anyone else. The kind that barely reaches his eyes, because he’s still looking at you like you’re a dream that might disappear if he blinks too hard.

“Look at me, baby.”

You do. You always do when he asks.

“You’re so beautiful,” Joel murmurs, voice low and rough with what sounds almost like awe. “You know that?”

The words hit you deeper than they should. You suck in a sharp breath, trying to even out your breathing, but your lungs don’t cooperate. Your eyes dart away, suddenly misting and too overwhelmed by the intensity in his gaze—by the sincerity written all over his face. It's too much. Too close. Too real.

But Joel’s hand is already there, catching your chin gently, tilting your face back toward his. His thumb grazes the edge of your jaw, soft and steady.

“No,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “Don’t do that. Not tonight. Not after everything you just gave me.”

Your chest stutters, emotion building so fast and so sharp you feel like you might spill over with it. Your fingers twitch against his back before finally settling, drifting across his damp skin in slow, absent circles. You take deep, calming breaths to settle yourself. Breathe in, breathe out.

He’s still inside you, still heavy over you, like neither of you are ready to let go just yet. Your limbs are tangled, the air still thick with sweat and heat and something quieter—something softer.

The room is quiet now, the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel empty. Just your shared breaths, slow and unsteady. The low thump of his heart where his chest presses to yours.

Joel shifts only slightly, just enough to press a kiss to your cheek. Then another to your jaw. Then your temple. The way he moves is unhurried, like he’s memorizing you. Like he’s kissing more than just skin—like he’s kissing the pieces of you he’s afraid to speak out loud.

It makes your chest ache.

“You’re being so sweet,” you whisper, throat tight almost like it’s a secret.

His lips hover at your lips, pressing gently but not fully,  “I don’t know how not to be,” he says softly. “Not with you.”

You close your eyes, pressing your face into the curve of his neck. His scent wraps around you—salt and skin and something warm and comforting that’s just him. The warmth blooms under your skin again, curling around your ribs, spreading down your spine.

“I love you.” he says, like it’s always been there, waiting. Like it’s not a confession so much as a truth that finally found its way out.

Your breath catches. Not from fear, not from panic, but from the sheer weight of it. The gravity. The sound of those words, spoken into the low light of the room while he's still buried inside you, holding you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched.

Your eyes flutter open. You don’t move. Not yet.

Joel doesn’t either. But his voice dips low, softer now. A hint of uncertainty laces the edges. “Too much?”

You shake your head instantly, and your hands rise to cradle his face, looking up at him, fingertips brushing his temples like you need to anchor both of you in this moment.

“No,” you whisper, a tear finally escaping your eye. “No, not too much.”

Your fingers slide into his hair, tugging gently as you pull him down and press your lips to his. And when you pull back, your words are trembling but sure.

“I love you too.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for years.Then he kisses you—slow and deep and home, his mouth moving against yours like he’s sealing the promise between your bodies.

taglist: @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal, @anxiousscribbling

[delaware-lemme-smash]

could you write how aizawa would act around you if you were both teachers and he had a crush on yew…. & some student reactions like would they notice or tease him💔💔

Ooh, I love this idea. A little hero/teacher workplace romance~

(Side note: I think I'd also enjoy writing headcanons for romance at different Hero agencies. The dynamics would be really fun.)

Characters: Aizawa Shouta/Eraserhead

Contents: gn!reader

Aizawa Shouta/Eraserhead

Aizawa is not a man who entertains romantic feelings on a regular basis. He can count the amount of crushes he's ever had on his life on one hand. Most of which he has managed to rationalise away, or simply distance himself from until they faded.

This one, however, is a little more persistent. He works with you. He sees you almost every day. And no amount of rationalising or ignoring it is working to quell this...affection for you.

To him, it makes no logical sense. Between teaching during the day, carrying out his hero work at night, and barely catching enough sleep in between, he doesn't even have the time to catch feelings, let alone do anything about them. You would think the part of his brain that deals with self-preservation would recognise that.

But no, it decides to emphasise for him the shape of your mouth when you say his name. It makes him notice the smile you give him, no matter how dry-eyed, dishevelled, and grumpy he is when he shuffles into the teachers' lounge in the morning. It follows him into his sleeping bag and pollutes his dreams with unlikely fantasies of what it would be like to slouch home to you instead of an empty apartment in the evening.

It makes him surly and avoidant with you for a while, because that's how Aizawa copes with things. He knows it's not fair to you and it's not ✨rational✨ but he almost can't help himself.

Mic decides to stage an intervention. Perhaps it's based off his own observations, or perhaps prompted by your tentative enquiry as to why Eraserhead keeps glaring at you whenever you offer to grab him a coffee from the pot.

"Has he gone decaf or something? That would explain why he's in a bad mood."

"Something like that. I'll talk to him."

Mic might seem like the ridiculous one, but he's fully capable of pulling Aizawa's head out of his ass when he needs to. Mic bites his tongue when he realises what's going on (teasing Aiawa is so not going to help here), but he does point out that Aizawa is unintentionally being an asshole to you. And Aizawa, despite himself, does care what you think.

There's an apology coffee on your desk in the morning. No word of who it's from, but Aizawa watches you drink it from across the room, and he no longer scuttles into the supply closet when you cross paths in the halls.

Now that he can't avoid you anymore, he's getting full doses of crush radiation exposure, and things start to tip in the other direction. Instead of trying to ignore you, he finds himself gravitating toward you more and more. It's not obvious to a casual observer. Often it seems casual or accidental.

He just so happens to choose your desk to take a nap under in his sleeping bag. Or he has an extra pouch of nutritional jelly when you don't have time for lunch.

Unless you're a psychic, it's unlikely you've realised that the sleep-deprived scruffbag has a full blown crush on you. His tone is still pretty low, flat, and tired and his eyes are only ever half open, but there are the occasional...moments.

Like when he sees you walking into his classroom with a stack of books and your ankle rolls sideways after a misstep. He reaches out without thinking, his large hands wrapping around your waist to steady you.

The students (mostly Mina) notice this immediately. They watch every interaction between their mysterious teacher and everyone else with a laser-focus, going over it with a fine-toothed comb. That waist-grab? Fuel. Fire.

Speculation runs rife among the kids, who would love nothing more than to see a teacher-teacher romance. Okay, Bakugou doesn't give a shit, but the rest...!

They wouldn't dare ask Aizawa about it, but you on the other hand... You don't know why all your students are suddenly asking how long you've known Aizawa-sensei, or why they all exchange such knowing looks when you explain that you're just colleagues.

It makes you start examining your own behaviour, to see if you've been unprofessional in some way. Ironically, this introspection is what opens your eyes to how Aizawa acts around you:

He naps under your desk.

He always turns down after work drinks unless you're the one who asks.

He sometimes pours you a coffee, unasked, when he's getting one for himself, giving the excuse that you're teaching his class later and you're going to need it.

He's always subtly nearby, unobtrusive, like the way a cat will casually follow you around the house and watch what you're up to.

He shows you photos of the stray cats he meets and pets on his patrols. You know their names.

And one time, you make some unthinking, sarcastic wisecrack in response to something he's said. His mouth quirks up at the corner, and you hear a short, husky laugh.

Your stomach does something funny. The knowledge drops into your mind like a penny into a well.

Oh.

Oh.

[bump1nthen1ght]

Attention To Detail Part Two (M!Demon x M!Cosplayer!Reader)

Pairing: Male!Demon x Male!Cosplayer!Reader

Genre: Fluff to Smut, Chance Meetings, Porn with a little Plot

Chapter Summary: After your mysterious meeting that halloween and fruitless searching, you'd accepted that you would probably never meet that handsome cosplayer again. Left with only a fake name and a costume, Galvith might as well have not existed at all. Little did you know, all it takes is another party and another costume to draw you two back together.

Warnings: Explicit Content Under the Cut (18+ ONLY)

Word Count: 3869 words

Part 1

A/N: The long awaited part two is here! I originally didn't have plans to continue this piece, content with where it left off. But given how much people enjoyed the first part, I found myself occasionally coming back to this concept and wondering where to go next. I probably started and stopped this second time almost ten times, never happy with how it was coming out. But after a sudden bout of inspiration I found myself outlining this and writing it all in a weeks time. Given my usual writing schedule, that's lightning fast lol. Hope y'all enjoy! Now, on to the shameless smut <3

 God, my head hurts.

It’s a common thought one has in a nightclub. Pounding music, screaming people, flashing lights; The perfect recipe for a sensory nightmare. Combine that with sweat slowly dehydrating you, the slight buzz from the jello shots you threw back with friends, it's no wonder your head throbs. It's the one time you regret going hard for your costume, even if it's quickly swept away by your artistic pride. From the glimpses you get from the grungy, paint splattered mirrors littering this too-cramped club’s walls, you can tell you look good.

Your and your friends had decided to go as a group of angels, with very different final results. Some had gone with typical halloween angels, simple white clothes and wings and a halo. Others had gone farther out and went as Victoria Secret Angels, with fancy lingeries and flared shoulder pieces, evoking wings rather than having them outright. You met it somewhere in the middle: More costume-like than the Victoria Secret ones, but more slutty than the halloween ones. Your white toga was scandalously short, almost sweated through amongst all the dancing, but luckily you're body paint hadn’t smudged, the several faux eyes decorating your neck and collarbone still in detail enough to be recognized. But the real centerpiece was the headband, dedicatedly held in place by several bobby pins digging into your scalp, luckily still holding many of its intricate details You definitely went overboard with the thing, an uncomfortable weight amidst the thrashing of bodies. But you can’t regret wearing it, the fine detail on the wings and the gold accessories really pulling your outfit together. Without it you just look like a slutty roman gladiator, with it you resembled more the slutty “biblically accurate angel” that had inspired your look. The pictures from tonight were gonna look awesome.

The setting has you whole group feeling themselves, bumping and grinding both with each other and total strangers. The energy of the costume-night is electric, the comfortableness of their masks letting everyone run wild. It’s part of why you don’t shy away when a big pair of hands finds it way on your hips, denim pressing against your barely-clad backside. You revel in the breath that brushes across the back of your neck, the stranger so tall they have to bend around your headband to whisper into your ear.

“Posing as an angel, my incubus? How naughty.” The voice purrs, finally stopping you in your tracks.

No fucking way.

You whip around, heart pounding as your thoughts are confirmed, dark purple skin and bright yellow eyes.

“Galvith!” You squeal, almost drowned out by the pounding bass. You're quick to throw your arms around his shoulders, sink into his grip just like that fateful night those months ago. “Holy shit! I didn’t think you were still in town!”

You had been almost convinced he was a dream, if not for the several party-goers that corroborated the story of you making out with him on the dance floor. But none could confirm who he was, or even what his real name was. You had damn-near interrogated everyone in your friend group and beyond who had been there, even searched some niche roleplay websites with the name he had given you, and nothing. It had bummed you out immensely, chasing similar sensations with others in clubs not unlike this one, wondering if maybe you had unlocked a new part of yourself. But nothing compared to him, to that one night you almost spent together.

“I came back for you, sweetling. Just like I said I would.” Somehow that low voice of his cuts through the music, resonates straight into your ears. You melt under the attention, the way his eyes roll down your body making your skin burn.

“H-how’d you find me?” You ask, wondering if he had done the same thing as you, had searched for weeks, looking for his ‘little incubus.’

Galvith laughs, leaning into your cheek and sniffing.

“I followed that enticing little scent,” Galvith leans down and nips at the bottom of your earlobe, an electric shock running down your spine, “-I could never forget it.”

Galvith wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you in, all questions thrown from your mind as he grinds a sizable bulge against your crotch. Even from behind denim you can feel it pulsing, can feel a tent pitch under your toga. God, you hope your friends are distracted with partners of their own, because the way you're throwing yourself at him right now is shameful.

“I-” your voice catches as Galvith writhes his hips in a circle, robbing you of sensible speech for a second, “-I couldn’t forget you either.” You bat your eyelashes, try to embody the sultry incubus you were that night, the confidence that had been instilled in you. It had carried in the days afterward, had inspired the very costume you’re wearing, and you refuse to let it falter now that he’s back. 

Galvith’s smile widens, those familiar costume fangs looking extra sharp tonight. Goosebumps pepper down your arms when his calloused hand runs across the exposed skin of your thigh. It finds its place right below your ass, fingers reaching under the fabric and squeezing. You swoon then and there, knees knocking together. It’s all on Galvith to hold you up, keep you pressed together, chest to chest. He leans in close, your noses touching.

“I didn’t get to finish what I started last time.” A long tongue, pierced, flicks out and wets his lips. “Let's fix that.”

—

Last year, you’d never have done this.

You were barely a club person already, the aforementioned suffocating noise and cramp of people only tolerable with the right group of friends and at max 3 times a year. Even tonight, the appeal of costumes had been the biggest draw. Yet here you are, making out with a man you’ve met twice, pressed as close as you can in this stuffy supplies closet. Here the bass barely penetrates, only the gentle murmur of people and the far away beats of the music. The only thing you can focus on is the smacking of lips, of your heavy breaths as Galvith steals the air right out of your lungs.

You two grind on each other like teenagers, like the only time you have must be spent in each other's skin, savoring all the affection you can give one another. Your cock aches, harder than it's ever been, a deep ache settling in your stomach. So horny you don’t even care how gross this closet is, how many people were probably here before, doing the exact same thing. 

“Always dressed so tempting, my little artist.” Galvith says in between sloppy kisses, “I must admit, I think this outfit might be my favorite.” He punctuates with another squeeze to your ass, toga hiked up over your hips, revealing your white boxers. Just as angelic as the rest of you.

“I thrifted it.” You pant, envious of how composed Galvith sounds compared to your quivering voice. “Five bucks.”

Galvith chuckles, a low sound that only tightens the knot in your abdomen. His lips graze yours, your breaths mingling.

“And this?” He flicks one of the many ornaments from your headband, still tucked in place on your head. You hesitate to take it off, not wanting to risk it being crushed or lost amidst your writhing bodies. Not to mention that with the amount of pins keeping it in place, removing it would take away precious time from making out. “It has your artistic flair, such elegant details.” The praise rolls down your spine like a drug, setting your senses tingling. “Though I do prefer you in more….demonic settings, dearest.”

One of Galvith’s hands knots on the base of your skull, yanks you into another kiss. His hips move rhythmically, your hands fumbling for his fly. You need him, you need him so bad.

“Ah, so desperate, sweet thing.” Galvith says, deftly undoing what your fumbling hands cannot. His bulge practically bursts from behind the zipper, cock almost see through against his black boxer briefs. The sight has your mouth watering, but before you can drop to your knees like a true incubus, Galvith reaches up your toga and wrenches down your underwear, the fabric stretching around your thighs as your hard cock thwaps against your stomach. You hardly have time to moan before Galvith is palming your balls, his long fingers nearly reaching your asshole. With a shuddering gasp you fall into his grip, his thumb now fondling your sack and squeezing. 

“F-fuck.” Your voice trembles, a pitiful whine coming from your chest when his hand leave you, even if just to hawk a glob of spit into it. The seconds feel too long, hips jumping to try and force your cock back in his hand, finally rewarded with his now slick grip wrapping around your shaft.

“You like that?” Galvith purrs, the voice of someone who knows you do. “So hot, incubus, I can feel your blood pulsing.” 

Galvith’s movements are slow as he glides up your cock, squeezing extra around reaches your head and rubbing his thumb along your slit. Gooey tracks of your precum follow it, connecting to his thumb pad like a spider’s web. The sounds it makes are sticky, the tell-tale slap as he jerks his hand back down ricocheting across your stomach like a thunder crack. “Ah!” Your teeth bite down on your bottom lip as Galvith starts moving faster, but not nearly fast enough. He seems to relish in the teasing, nostrils flaring as he looks down at you from under his eyelashes, tongue flitting out to rub across his lips. 

Pre-cum gushes over the small hole of his fist, splattering across the sides of his fingers. With what little coordination you have left, quickly leaving with each jerk of your cock, your fumbling hands reach for his own bulge. Palming it through the fabric, Galvith growls. What feels like hot steam blows out of his flared nostrils, his wrists speeding up, a little caught off guard.

Your fingers splay across his bulge, feeling for the head, a stain forming on the black fabric. You barely have a grip around it before Galvith is wrenching his hand off your cock and spinning you around, free hand pressing into your lower back and making it arch. He lets out another snarling breath against the back of your neck, the sound of shuffling fabric being pushed down to release his cock. You try to crane your neck back to see, so desperate to place an image to the monster you felt, but Galvith’s body quickly pins you against the closet wall, sweat making your cheek stick to the cool concrete.

“I fucking need you.” Galvith ends with a nip to your shoulder, his hot and thick cockhead pressing against your asshole. A shiver rolls down your spine, toes curling at just the anticipation.

“Then t-take me.” You pant, proud you’re still able to come up with dirty talk in your state.

A purr rumbles from Galvith’s chest. He pulls back a little bit just to spit some more, this time on your tight hole, spreading open your ass cheeks like it’s a birthday present. It tingles in a way you didn’t think possible, something akin to the numbing cream you’d get at the doctor’s. Once it’s been thoroughly rubbed in, Galvith leans closer and you both finally get what you’ve been craving for months.

When Galvith slips into you, all feels right in the world. You melt into his arms, cock bouncing against your stomach, his hot breath blowing past your cheeks as he sighs. Your knees begin to shake, but before they can collapse underneath you Galvith is holding onto your waist, hoisting you up and deeper onto his cock. With a squeaking voice, you yelp a debaucherous “fu-uck~” as his cock-head brushes against your prostate. So quick and so deep, yet you're already fiending for more. With the little ability you have left you try to roll your pelvis back, grinding on his girth. “P-please.” Your wanton voice moans, and Galvith doesn’t bother teasing you any longer.

“How could I say no?”

With that last playful remark, Galvith starts pistoning his hips like an machine, his body an engine sculpted just for fucking your brains out. Your head throws back, his face nuzzling into the side of your neck, fangs grazing against your pulse. He doesn’t seem to mind your extravagant headband, easily craning his neck around it, sweetly considerate of your hard-made art piece. God, could he get any hotter?

It doesn’t cross your mind the impossibleness of this current scenario. Galvith had felt massive in your palm, bigger than anything you had taken before, and despite your horniness you were only human, with human limitations. But the way his cock drags along your insides has you quickly forgetting such things, has you waving away the way his spit makes every muscle relax, becoming moldable putty against his molten skin. How each hit against your prostate has you seeing literal stars. Who cares that it doesn’t make sense, that you should be absolutely torn from taking this monster with so little prep, it feels too goddamn good.

Your bodies become one, a set of writhing heat and fluids as Galvith fucks you hard and fast. You never thought you were one for rough play, used to the slow and loving pace of ex-boyfriends. Not that Galvith isn’t affectionate, with his arm wrapped around your waist and his chest pressed against your back, whispering dirty praise into your ear.

“Feel so fucking good, human.” Galvith pants, though hardly from exertion, the way he’s manipulating your body absolutely effortless. “Knew you would. Could taste it.” A long tongue flicks out and licks your cheek. The delirium has you ignoring the strange texture, the way it oddly splits at the end. “I thought of you every night. All the different ways I’d ravage my naughty little incubus.” His balls slap against your ass cheeks, heavy and full. Even with the pounding bass suffocating the dancefloor, it wouldn’t surprise you if people could hear the plaps of of your two bodies meeting. A moan claws it way out of your throat when Galvith’s free hand wraps around your cock, still slick with his spit and jerking you off as furiously as he fucks you. “I bet you look so cute when you come, sweetling. So sweet for me.” A possessive snarl lingers in Galvith’s voice, manifests in a sucking kiss to your neck, no doubt leaving a sizeable hickey. All you can do under this assault is nod and babble, drool already slipping down your jaw.

It’s unfair how coordinated Galvith is, perfectly matching the pace of his hand and his cock, leaving you not even a moment to breathe. When his thumb is rubbing across your head his own pounds against your prostate, the world going white for seconds at a time, your brain too overwhelmed by stimulus to even try to make sense of it. When his palm reaches down to fondle your balls his shaft is pulsing against your insides, dragging out inch by inch and making you crave the fullness again. 

The two of you meet halfway in a wet, drooling kiss. You hardly put in any effort, your mouth just another hole for Galvith to fuck open with his tongue, too fucked-out to even try and match his skill. He doesn’t seem to mind, moaning and cock twitching within you.

“G-onna cum.” You delirious voice slurs, eyes rolling back into your head, balls feeling taut. Your stomach rolls in on itself, your toes curling into the grimy club closet floor. It feels better than it ever has before, this rolling wave coming over you. Jesus, you think you might cum buckets.��

“M-me too.” Galvith stutters, the first sign of strain in his voice. Sweat drips down his brow and onto your cheek, his tongue quickly lapping it up. “Want me to fill you up, my little artist. Wanna walk out here with my cum dripping down your ass?”

“Uh-huh!” You moan, that tidal wave growing bigger and bigger. “Pl-please!” 

“Yes.” Galvith’s voice hits an octave so deep you're sure only dogs can fully hear it. It’s the final straw that breaks the camel's back, a simple word that has you tumbling over the edge.

“Ah!”

“Unngh!”

Several jets of hot cum shoot jets into your asshole, quickly filling it to the very brim. Gushes of it leak out from the sides, despite the tight seal Galvith;s thick cock makes. You're thankful that you’re wearing white, because your own orgasm has you creaming all across the front of your toga, streams stretching high enough to hit your navel. 

Like you, it takes Galvith several breaths to come back to himself, his sweaty forehead laying slumped over your shoulders. It’s a relief, knowing he’s as properly destroyed as you are. Makes you feel less like a wimp. Even as he pulls out, thick gooey strings falling down your thighs, you can tell he struggles holding himself up.

“Holy Fuck.” Your voice comes out in a wheeze, head hanging low as your forearms rest against the wall. Your knees knock together, legs muscle shaking and barely holding up your weight. You've heard the term “getting your back blown out” before, but you don’t think you’ve ever experienced it so literally. Damn, you think your dancing for tonight is done.

Galvith gracefully pulls you upright, supporting your weight until you fully settle back on the balls of your feet. His chuckle is playful when your head rests against this broad chest, falling easily back into his arms.

“I think I agree with that sentiment, human, even though it’s ‘holy’.”

Your own laugh is weak, throat straining from the lack of water and all the moaning. Seriously, you feel like you just ran a marathon. Patting Galvith’s hand, you turn around in his grip, meeting him in a slower, softer kiss than before.

“Was it everything you imagined?” you whisper into his lips.

“And more.” His voice rolls down your body like a drug, has you giggling like a schoolgirl and meeting in another kiss. 

Still reeling from your orgasm yet you can’t help but get lost in Galvith’s lips, curling your arms around his neck. Fuck dancing, this is how you want to spend the rest of your night.

Then Galvith’s phone goes off.

Long nails dig into your lower back, Galvith’s growl primal as he forces himself away from your lips.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” He curses as hastily pulls his pants back up, reaching for his phone in the back pocket, face curled into that angry expression the same as the first night. It's not a phone call this time but a text, the light shining on Galvith’s twisting face only getting angrier.

“Fucking idiots.” Galvith says the word like a curse, practically spitting with vitriol. Once again, you’re happy not to be the person on the side of this text message.

“Gotta go?” You say, almost ashamed of the clear disappointment in your voice.

You know you shouldn’t get attached, know that this kind of kismet rarely actually leads to something serious. That as much as you’ve been craving him, longing for him, the two of you have barely shared two nights with each other, and it shouldn’t hurt this much to see him go.

I don’t even know his real name.

It doesn’t stop the deep feeling in your gut, the palpable taste for more. Mind blowing sex, aside you really like Galvith. Even outside of your sexy fantasies and dreams about him, you also dreamed about getting to know him more. More on his hobbies, his day-to-day, this mysterious job that always seemed to be on his ass. Maybe it's foolish, but a part of you dreamed of this really going somewhere.

Galviths brow furrows even deeper, vein bulging in his forehead as his eyes scan the text.

“Yes.” he seethes, but you know it's not directed at you. It's sort of flattering, knowing he longs to stay with you as much as you do with him. “Some people cannot be left to their own devices. Satan below, I didn’t realize demons could be this incompetent.”

You chuckle; Even now he commits to the bit. Some may have found it dorky, maybe even cringe, but you find it charming. We all need some escape now and then, don’t we?

“I get it.” You say, trying to mask the wobble in your voice. “Some coworkers suck ass.”

“They probably couldn’t even do that correctly. Bumbling fools.” Galvith shakes his head, shoving his phone back in his pocket, redirecting a softer look towards you. It stirs the butterflies in your stomach, has you looking down before Galvith is tilting up your chin. This kiss is soft, almost angelic.

“I hate to leave you soon, human. Trust me, if it was up to my own desires, we’d spend the rest of the night in this closet.”

“It’s okay, I understand.” And you do, sadly enough. Life’s a bitch that way. “Before you go, could I get your number?” Your tongue flits out, wetting your bottom lip. This man just rocked your fucking world, and yet you feel shy asking for his digits. Damnit, you really are a nerd. “That way, whenever you’re free we could…meet up again.”

Just like that, the anger stirring up Galvith’s face is gone. It’s replaced by a wide smile, showing off those fangs he's oh so proud of.

Wow, the color even matches the rest of his teeth to T. He seriously has to let me know where he gets his prosthetics.

“That sounds perfect.”

In a quick move, Galvith flicks out a business card, as if he pulled it from thin air itself, slipping into the palm of your hand.

“Call or text me anytime, sweetling.” He brushes his thumb across your lip. “I’ll always make time for you.” You giggle like a teenager, feeling the hot blush on your cheeks. “Unfortunately, I must depart. Before those buffoons make a bigger mess of things.” 

He unfortunately unwraps his arms forma around you, the lack of his body warmth reminding you just how little clothing you’re wearing. Oh god, and you’ll both be seen walking out of here, everyone knows what you’ll be doing. Embarrassment has a way of abiding and then snapping back at the worst times.

Galvith, with his way, pulls you out of your spiral with a final peck to your lips; A promise of more lingering in the chaste gesture.

“Till we meet again, my little incubus.”

With a snap of his fingers, Galvith disappears, nothing but a purple trail of smoke in his wake.

You stand there, shellshocked, eyes bulging and jaw nearly falling to the floor. Your befuddled gaze looks at the card in your hand, the only remnant of Galvith left, scrambling to make sense of what you just saw.

Galvith, The Torturer

666-257-6969

Oh my god. Did you just fuck an actual demon?!

[erinwantstowrite]

THE CIRCLE MYSTERY!!!

in case you're unfamiliar with my page, here is some context for this post:

a few months ago, i wanted to try my hand at a mystery plot, and began looking for a circle mystery plot diagram that i had written down a year or so prior... but i couldn't find it. i SWORE i had it somewhere. i knew that i had left the notebook on my shelf along with all my other notebooks. it was a little black journal that i didn't use very often, but it still had some important notes inside. but it wasn't there on my shelf, or any other shelf in the house. it was like it had vanished, and i started to doubt my memory.

i figured not all was lost. sure, the journal was gone, but someone would be able to help me find this circle diagram.

NO.

no one could figure out what the hell i was talking about, not without lack of trying. many tried to help me, to figure out this mystery with me. "the circle went outwards" i said, but all i could find was the rotating clockwise circle plot diagram that was not mystery specific.

no matter what i did, i couldn't find the original source online. i phrased it in many different ways, but it was a dead end. with no journal, no online source, and no one understanding what i was talking about, the circle mystery formula... remained a mystery. many concluded that i likely made this circle diagram myself and then forgot about it entirely, but that's up in the air.

well, a couple weeks ago, i found the circle mystery plot i was looking for.

it was not the actual physical note, but a picture i had taken before seemingly losing the notebook/journal that it was in. it showed only the circle diagram with a couple of minimal notes on the sides. i have yet to find that journal, it remains missing to this day. one day i might find the physical copy with the notes that were underneath it but alas, at this point in time, i only had the circle to work off of.

but it was enough!!! just having the circle was enough for me to make this beauty, of who i will share with you now:

as you can see, it's not all that complicated. it breaks down only a few simple key elements of figuring out a mystery, not plot wise, but investigation wise. "crime and victim, motive, method, opportunity, and suspects." CVM and MOS is what i call that for short but that might be lame

basically, it's the 5 w's.

that's it.

this whole time, it was the 5 w's "Who, What, Where, When, and Why" (except with terms that would be used in an actual investigation), laid out into a diagram that extends outwards where you put your points on the circle rings to connect. this could also easily be a venn diagram, but i remember liking that it extended outwards and was in a line rather than in groupings.

it's extremely simple, too, so it's been annoying me that i could forget it when i needed it most. that being said, it's in the past, now, and it's here, and now i want to talk about the points

CVM and MOS

crime and victim. this is always where you start.

look, you might start your plot right in the thick of it with a suspect having already been revealed and the entire plot is that your character has to prove why and how they did it. but it's up to you, the writer, to explain how they got to this point. which means you need to know how it works in the original order before being able to write this plot that way.

a crime has been committed- what crime? murder? robbery? this is your first question, or statement. what i mean by that is are you telling your readers "This has happened." or is the plot/character/reader asking "What happened?"

and victim- who was it that was affected? if it's a murder, you have to identify the person that was killed before you can get into anything. if it's another crime like a robbery, then what was stolen? this is the phase where your investigator goes looking into the details of the victim. which means you need to know your victim.

your investigator and you are on the same side here. both of you need to know their daily ins and outs, you need to have character witnesses from friends and family, you need to get a glimpse into who they were when it was just them around. maybe a diary or look at their bedroom to give a statement as to how they were feeling and how they occupied the space they were in. maybe online records, because their activity can give you pieces of the puzzle. even if this is not completely revealed to readers (though in my opinion, this part is very needed in order to have your reader feel for the victim), you as the author need to have that mindset. you need to know who they were and what their life was like even if your investigator never gets around to knowing this.

because it leads directly into your suspect pool.

mystery plots are all about the connections, the drama, the details. your victim is dead, and your investigator is looking into their lives. you could, honestly, play it really well with the victim and the investigator being the main focus. a good example of this is that one episode of Bones where Temperance Brennan is listening to the voice recordings of a murdered woman she starts to see a lot of herself in. Brennan is seeing the bones of this woman and trying to find out what happened to her with all that is left, and she's also listening to her voice, and we don't see a lot of the suspect in this case (for good reason).

((honestly, this might just be me saying you should go watch Bones.))

but, in most cases, your suspects are the main source of entertainment. so you need to know your victim, and by extension, know your suspects.

all of your potential murderers (or whatever plot you're writing) go on the outside ring not because they are last in your investigation, but because you would work inside the suspect pool. kind of a visual aspect to show they're connected to the center, which is your crime/victim (which, again, could be changed for a different type of mystery. this section is just the Big Reason for the mystery to get started. or the Big Question.)

you get your suspects through the character reveal phase of your mystery, though they can also be revealed because of the setting. like in Clue, or in that new show, The Residence (go watch it), where a murder has happened in a house where only a select few people could have done it.

who are the people that had bad blood with this person? who are the ones that have something to gain from that person's death? or, even, who are the people that just wanted to do it?

motive.

if you want your mystery to be solved, you have to have a motive. a reason as to why this happened, even if it was a fit of unplanned rage. this part is crucial not just from an entertainment standpoint in your story, but for later on in a prosecution phase in real life. a jury might find it hard to convict someone if a prosecutor can't give a motive for why they'd do it. in this case, you are the prosecutor and your readers are the jury. if you want your reader to believe that this person could have done it, you have to give a motive.

but it's not the most important part. the most important is the how.

the method of the crime tells a lot about the person that did it. take a look at Criminal Minds, and how they make a profile for the killers. granted, they have more to work with because there are multiple murders. but you can get a basic idea with just the one.

from an investigative standpoint, you have to figure out how something happened to get a clue into the character of the murderer. which of your suspects has the ability not to get sick at the sight of blood? which suspect is smart enough to plan it out? which suspect would have the temper to grab the nearest heavy object as their weapon?

so you look at your crime, you get an idea of the method, and you can eye your suspect pool to match who is the most likely to commit in this way.

and last, opportunity.

this is where an alibi comes in. "I couldn't have done it because I was at my son's birthday party! ask anyone!" sounds pretty good. until you find out the suspect mysteriously was in the bathroom at that party for a couple of hours and came back wearing different clothes.

your suspects have to have the opportunity, or they have to have the alibi. were they there around the time? do they have a key to the house? do they know that the window on the first floor never locks? did they have the time to do it? even if they have something that looked like an opportunity, they might have an alibi.

from there, it's all about putting down your dots. which character has the motive, could pull off the method, and had the opportunity?

however... you could have multiple characters hit the MMO. what happens then?

you could drill these characters in an interrogation (could or could not be in an actual interrogation setting) and get a confession out of one of them, OR you could have your characters go looking for that sweet, sweet key evidence that cinches it all together and ties one of the suspects to the crime. or, maybe in a plot twist, ties both suspects to have committed the crime together.

(in real life, though, having a confession and key evidence is for the best. it makes it hard for a defense team)

this is your standing out point, and would definitely be your last big crescendo for the story. this episode of Brooklynn 99 is honestly the best example (in fiction) i could come up with right now for an interrogation where you get a confession out of someone. oh, and legally blonde! can't forget elle wood's breakthough (if you haven't watched legally blonde and you click that link and get yourself spoiled instead of sitting down and watching the whole thing, i am frowning at you in disappointment right now. shaking my head and everything).

when it comes to both evidence and interrogation... go watch The Residence (Netflix... or pirate). the last episode is brilliant and it's well worth the watch. Detective Cupp was so much fun and it sucks more people aren't talking about it.

i think i should stop yapping now, because that about covers what i came here to write. hopefully this stupid circle helps somebody out

[rdrclo]

How they would react to you kissing them for the first time 🦢🪻

This is just the boys, i will do a Part 2 with the girls at some point too though dw🙏

I also wrote this while falling asleep on the sofa and watching Richard Ayoade clips on youtube, apologies if its rubbish x

-

Arthur:

You and Arthur have had a close friendship for a long time. You've seen the highs and lows together—the campfires, the late-night talks, and the moments where you both just share a quiet understanding. Over time, your feelings for him have grown, but Arthur has always been a man of few words when it comes to matters of the heart. He's noticed the way you look at him sometimes, and there have been moments when he might have wondered if you felt something deeper than just friendship. Still, he never pushed it, always keeping things grounded in the reality of the life you both lead.

It's late one evening, after a long day of work and tension, and you're both sitting by the campfire. The others have gone to bed, leaving you two alone with the crackling fire and the night sky above. You're tired, but there's something about the way the firelight dances off Arthur's face, the softness in his eyes as he looks at you, that makes your heart race. You've thought about this moment for so long, but now that it's here, you're not sure if it's the right time. Still, you can't help yourself. You lean in, your heart pounding, and press your lips softly to his.

Arthur freezes at first, surprise flickering across his features. He wasn't expecting it, but after a second, his hand moves to your face, cupping it gently as he deepens the kiss. There's a quiet intensity to it, like he's been waiting for this moment in his own way, though he's not sure how to navigate it. When he pulls back, his usual gruffness comes back, though there's a hint of vulnerability in his voice. "You ain't gotta do that if you don't mean it." But his eyes say something different—he's been wanting this too, maybe longer than he'd care to admit. His breath is heavy, and the moment feels like it shifts something between the two of you, though neither of you know exactly what comes next.

-

Dutch:

Dutch has always been a bit of a mystery, even to those closest to him. As the leader of the gang, he's charismatic, unpredictable, and full of grand ideas, often pulling you into his schemes and dreams of a better future. You've worked with him for a while, and while you've respected him and his vision, there's been something more beneath the surface. You've seen the moments where Dutch's mask slips—when he's tired, when he's unsure—and in those moments, you've noticed the flicker of something softer between the two of you. He's not blind to your feelings, but he's too caught up in his own ambitions and the gang's survival to admit it—at least, not out loud.

It happens after a particularly harrowing heist. The gang is on edge, and Dutch has been putting up a front of unwavering confidence, as usual. You find him alone, pacing around the campfire, looking lost in thought. He's been distant lately, but tonight, his usual bravado seems thin, and you can see the fatigue in his eyes. With everything that's happened and the uncertainty of the future, you feel an undeniable pull toward him. Without thinking, you walk up to him, your fingers brushing against his, and you kiss him—quick, but full of all the emotions you've kept hidden for so long.

Dutch pulls back, eyes slightly widened with surprise. He's not used to someone breaking through his defenses like that. There's a long, charged pause as he stares at you, his usually smooth words faltering for the first time. "What... what's this, huh?"

He sounds more curious than angry, though, his gaze softening slightly. You can see the wariness in him, a worry that something like this might ruin the idealistic dream he's been building, but there's also something else—a quiet longing. Dutch's hand comes up, not to push you away, but to pull you closer. "If you think this'll change things, you're wrong," he murmurs, his voice thick with both uncertainty and something far deeper.

He kisses you again, leading it this time.

There's no immediate rush to make it more than it is, but it's clear this kiss has cracked the surface of a much more complicated relationship between you, one that neither of you knows how to navigate.

-

Micah:

With Micah, your dynamic has always been fiery and unpredictable. He's bold, reckless, and doesn't take kindly to being told what to do, but somehow, that hasn't stopped you from feeling drawn to him. At first, you brushed it off as just a physical attraction, but the more you spent time together—his sharp wit, his daring nature, and even the moments when he'd let down his guard around you—the more you realized there was more to him than he let on. You've caught him looking at you with that cocky smirk of his more than once, and though you've never outright admitted your feelings, there's always been an unspoken tension between the two of you. Micah, for his part, has definitely noticed you in ways that go beyond mere rivalry or friendship, but he's never been one to show vulnerability, keeping things playful and antagonistic instead.

It's late, and the camp is quiet, but you find yourself unable to sleep. You step outside the tent and catch a glimpse of Micah, sitting on a crate and nursing a bottle of whiskey. The night air is cool, but Micah doesn't seem to mind. You walk over to him, your footsteps barely making a sound on the dirt. The two of you start talking, as you often do, teasing each other back and forth, but this time, the usual banter feels different—more electric. Micah's looking at you with a challenge in his eyes, but there's something softer underneath it, something that pulls you in. You don't think, you just move. You close the distance and kiss him, quick and urgent.

At first, Micah doesn't know how to react. He freezes for a second, his lips barely touching yours, but then the surprise fades into that familiar smirk of his. His hand moves to the back of your neck, holding you in place as he deepens the kiss. It's rough, full of that wild energy he always carries with him. When you pull back, he laughs softly, his breath a little unsteady. "Well, well, look at that," he says, his voice low and teasing. "Guess you couldn't resist after all." His words are laced with both amusement and something more, and as he leans in for another kiss, it's clear he's not opposed to whatever this is—he just knows how to keep things unpredictable, even with something as simple as a kiss. Micah's always a little dangerous, and he's not going to let this moment be anything less than intense.

-

Hosea:

Hosea has always been the voice of reason within the gang, the calming influence that balances out everyone elses wild ideas and impulsive behaviour. You've worked alongside him for a while now, learning from his wisdom and respect for the world. Over time, you've come to admire his patience, his intelligence, and the kindness he shows to those who need it. You've always felt a deep connection to him—something steady and sincere. He's never been one to shy away from affection, but he's also never been particularly forward, and you're not sure if he's ever noticed your deeper feelings. But you've noticed the way his eyes linger on you sometimes, the warmth in his smile when you share a laugh or a quiet moment. He's aware of your affection, but he's never said anything, perhaps because he values your friendship too much to risk complicating things.

It's a quiet evening, the camp peaceful as the gang settles down for the night. Hosea is sitting near the fire, lost in thought. You sit beside him, comfortable in the silence, your thoughts wandering. After a long day of work, the weight of the world feels a little lighter with him here. You look at him—really look at him—and realize just how much you care for him. It feels like the right moment, and without thinking it through, you lean in and kiss him. Soft, tentative, but full of all the feelings you've kept inside for so long.

Hosea is initially startled, but the surprise quickly fades into something much gentler. He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his expression soft and thoughtful. He's always been a man of few words, but there's a tenderness in his gaze that speaks volumes. "Well, I wasn't expecting that," he says quietly, his voice filled with a warmth that makes your heart flutter. There's no teasing, no distance—just the honest affection that's always been there between the two of you. He reaches up, his hand resting gently on your cheek, and he kisses you back, slow and sure. When he pulls away, he smiles, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. "I suppose we've both been a little stubborn, huh?" His voice is low, but there's no hesitation in his touch or in the way he looks at you now. He might not have expected it, but Hosea is more than willing to let this new chapter unfold between the two of you, with the same quiet trust that has always defined your relationship.

-

Javier:

Javier has always been charming, he's full of fire and a deep sense of loyalty. You and he have shared many moments—whether it was over a drink in camp or in the heat of a mission, his warmth always seemed to draw you in. While his flirtations have always been playful, there's an undeniable depth to the way he looks at you, as if he's known all along that there's something more between you two. You've often caught him staring at you with a soft smile or noticed the way his gaze lingers just a little too long. Javier, ever the romantic, has always believed in love and connection, and while he might not have outright confessed, he's certainly aware of your growing attraction toward him.

It's one of those rare moments of calm after a job well done. The gang has settled into camp, and Javier is playing his guitar by the fire, his fingers dancing over the strings in a familiar, soothing rhythm. You sit nearby, lost in the music, letting the quiet of the night wrap around you. After a while, Javier stops playing and looks over at you with a smile, his eyes glinting in the firelight. There's a teasing quality to his expression, but something about the way he looks at you feels different tonight. Without saying a word, you get up and walk over to him, and before he can say anything, you kiss him—gentle, but full of the emotions you've been holding back.

Of course it's not long before Javier is pulling you closer, his arms wrapping around you as he deepens the kiss. His lips are warm and tender, and there's a fire in the way he kisses you back, as though he's been waiting for this moment just as much as you have. When you finally pull away, he laughs softly, his breath a little ragged. "Well, now I know why you've been looking at me like that," he says, his voice low and teasing, but there's a tenderness in his smile that lets you know he's not just playing around. He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear and gazes at you with that unmistakable intensity, his eyes full of affection. "I've wanted this for a long time," he admits, his voice softer now, as he pulls you back in for another kiss, his hands tender but eager. Javier's not one to shy away from love, and now that it's here, he's more than ready to let things go further.

-

Sean:

Your relationship with Sean has always been full of laughter, banter, and playful jabs. He's the kind of man who never takes things too seriously—except when it really matters. You've spent countless nights drinking with him, teasing each other mercilessly, and occasionally bailing him out of trouble. He flirts with just about everyone, but with you, it always feels different—like there's something more beneath the jokes and exaggerated bravado. He's never outright said anything, but there have been moments when he's looked at you a little too long or toned down his usual antics just enough for you to notice. You've always wondered if he feels the same way, but with Sean, it's hard to tell if he's just playing or if he's actually hiding something deeper.

It's after a successful robbery, and the gang is in high spirits, drinking and celebrating back at camp. Sean, as usual, is in the center of it all, telling some ridiculous story and making everyone laugh. You're leaning against a tree, watching him, unable to stop the smile tugging at your lips. After a while, he catches your eye and saunters over, grinning like he knows something you don't. "Y'know," he says, nudging your shoulder, "if ya keep starin' at me like that, I might start thinkin' ya fancy me." His voice is teasing, but there's an underlying curiosity in his gaze.

Without thinking, without giving him time to make another joke, you grab the front of his shirt and kiss him. It's quick, but firm, and when you pull away, Sean is completely still, his mouth slightly open in shock.

For once in his life, Sean MacGuire is speechless. He blinks at you, as if trying to process what just happened, before a slow, wicked grin spreads across his face. "Well, shite," he breathes, his accent thicker than usual. "That was... unexpected." He lets out a breathless laugh before shaking his head. "Not that I'm complainin', mind ya."

Then, before you can say anything, he grabs your face and kisses you back, all heat and excitement, like he's been waiting for this moment just as much as you have. When he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours, still grinning. "Y'know, if ya wanted a piece of ol' Sean, ya could've said so sooner," he teases, but his voice is softer now, more genuine. There's still laughter in his eyes, but also something else—something real. And just like that, whatever this thing between you and Sean is, it's no longer just a game.

-

Kieran:

Your relationship with Kieran started off rocky, much like everyone else's in the gang. He was the outsider, the O'Driscoll-turned-hostage, and at first, you didn't know what to make of him. But as time went on, you saw the real him—the nervous, soft-spoken man who just wanted a place to belong. Unlike the others, you were kind to him, offering him small gestures of friendship when he needed them most. He grew attached to you quickly, often seeking you out just to talk or sit near you.

If Kieran suspected you had feelings for him, he never let on—mostly because he was too caught up in his own insecurities. He always assumed he wasn't worth that kind of affection, that you were just being kind because that's the kind of person you were. But what he didn't see was how your heart ached whenever he looked at you with those soft, uncertain eyes.

It's a quiet night in camp, and you find Kieran brushing down his horse near the edge of the trees, murmuring softly to the animal. The sight makes you smile—there's something so genuine about him, so unguarded. You approach, and he jumps slightly when he notices you, but then relaxes when he realizes it's just you.

You talk for a while, about nothing and everything, until the conversation drifts into something more personal. He admits, in a quiet voice, that he still isn't sure if he really belongs here. That maybe, one day, the gang will decide he isn't worth keeping around. The sadness in his voice breaks your heart, and before you can stop yourself, you reach out, gently cupping his face. He blinks up at you, startled, his lips parting like he's about to say something—but you don't let him. Instead, you lean in and kiss him, soft and deliberate.

Kieran freezes completely. For a second, you think you might have made a mistake—that he's going to pull away or panic. But then, slowly, his hands come up, shaking slightly, as if he isn't sure he's allowed to touch you. He kisses you back hesitantly, unsure at first, but when he realizes this is real, that you want this just as much as he does, he melts into it.

When you finally pull away, he's breathless, staring at you with wide, disbelieving eyes. "Well... that's, uh... that's real nice." He's still flustered, still trying to wrap his head around what just happened, but there's a light in his eyes now—a happiness he never thought he'd have. And as he shyly reaches for your hand, holding onto it like he's afraid you'll disappear, you know this moment has changed everything.

-

Josiah:

Josiah Trelawny is a man of mystery—always appearing and disappearing, charming everyone in his path with his silver tongue and extravagant tales. From the moment you met him, he treated you with a particular fondness, always greeting you with a flourish and a playful remark. Unlike the others, he never hesitated to compliment you, to offer a sly smile. But beneath all his theatrics, you saw the real Trelawny—the man who loved the finer things, who longed for something beyond the outlaw life but was still tethered to it.

Your dynamic was built on flirtation and wit, a constant dance of teasing words and knowing glances. He absolutely knew you liked him—he could read people better than anyone, after all. But did he take it seriously? That was the real question.

It's a rare quiet evening, and you find yourself sitting with Josiah near the edge of camp, watching the sky as the sun starts to set. He's in one of his talkative moods, spinning some elaborate story about a time he outwitted the law in Saint Denis. You listen with amusement, but your mind is elsewhere—on the way he gestures with his hands, the way his voice lingers on certain words like a melody.

At some point, he catches you staring and smirks. "Now, now, my dear, you mustn't look at a man like that unless you intend to do something about it." His tone is teasing, but there's something more in his eyes—something knowing.

And so, you lean in and kiss him. It's slow, deliberate, a way of answering his challenge without a single word.

Josiah hums in surprise against your lips but doesn't hesitate to return the kiss, deepening it with a practiced ease. His hands move to your waist, pulling you in ever so slightly, like he's savoring the moment. When you pull back, he lets out a soft chuckle, tilting his head as he studies you with an amused gleam in his eyes.

"Well," he murmurs, his voice lower now, more intimate. "I must say, I do love a woman of action." He brushes a thumb against your cheek, his expression softer than usual, though still carrying that ever-present mischief. "But tell me... was this a fleeting impulse, or have I truly captured your heart?"

It's clear he's still playing his usual game, but there's something genuine beneath his words. He may be a man of theatrics, but he's also a man who understands emotion, who knows the difference between a passing fancy and something real. And as he watches you, waiting for your answer, you realize this isn't just another story for him—this moment, this kiss, is as real as anything he's ever had.

-

Charles:

Since you met, you and Charles have had frequent deep convictions. From the start, there was an unspoken understanding between the two of you—one built on mutual respect and quiet companionship. While others filled the camp with noise and chaos, you found comfort in the rare moments of stillness you shared with him. Whether it was hunting together, tending to the horses, or simply sitting by the fire in silence, you always felt safe with Charles.

You weren't sure if he knew how you felt—Charles was observant, but he was also humble, never assuming too much. If he noticed your lingering glances or the way you always seemed to gravitate toward him, he never mentioned it. And yet, there was something in the way he looked at you sometimes, something soft and knowing, as if he was just waiting for you to make the first move.

It's late in the evening, and the two of you are returning from a long hunting trip, the quiet of the woods stretching between you. The air is crisp, the moon casting a soft glow over the trees, and for once, there's no urgency—no gang, no danger, just the two of you. As you walk side by side, you steal a glance at Charles, watching the way the light catches his features, the quiet ease in his expression.

Something about the moment feels perfect. Without thinking too much, you stop walking, reaching out to gently tug his arm. He turns to you, brow slightly furrowed in question, but before he can say anything, you kiss him—soft, hesitant, but full of meaning.

Charles stills, completely taken by surprise. For a moment, you worry you might have misread everything—but then, his hands come up to cradle your face, careful and deliberate, as he kisses you back. It's slow and steady, just like him, as if he's making sure you know exactly how much this means to him. When you finally pull away, he doesn't let go immediately, his fingers lingering on your skin as he searches your eyes.

"You sure about this?" he asks softly, his voice low but steady. Not because he doesn't want it—because he wants to be absolutely certain you do.

When you nod, a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips, warm and genuine. "Good," he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours. And just like that, the quiet understanding between you deepens, shifting into something undeniable—something real.

-

John:

You and John have always had an easy, natural friendship. He's rough around the edges, stubborn as hell, and constantly trying to prove himself, but you've always seen through the bravado to the man underneath. You tease him when he gets himself into trouble, patch him up when he takes a beating, and stand by him when he needs someone in his corner.

John, for all his recklessness, isn't exactly the most observant when it comes to emotions—especially his own. If he's noticed your feelings for him, he hasn't let on, too caught up in his own struggles to realize how much you care. But he's always been comfortable with you, always sought you out when he needed someone to talk to, even if he'd never admit it out loud.

It's late, and most of the camp has gone to sleep. You and John are sitting near the dying embers of the fire, the conversation drifting from old stories to the future—what you both want out of life, if there's anything waiting beyond this outlaw existence. There's something unusually quiet about him tonight, something thoughtful, and you find yourself watching him as he stares into the fire, lost in his own thoughts.

"You ever think about just... leaving?" he asks suddenly, glancing at you. "Starting over somewhere?"

You hesitate for only a second before answering. "Yeah. I do."

He nods slowly, as if turning over the idea in his mind, then looks at you properly. And for once, there's no smirk, no attempt at bravado—just John, open and uncertain. Something about the moment makes your heart ache, and before you can second-guess yourself, you lean in and kiss him. It's soft, careful, like you're afraid he'll pull away.

John tenses up at first, caught completely off guard. His brain seems to take a second to catch up with what's happening, but then, just as you start to pull away, he chases after you, pressing his lips back against yours in a way that's almost desperate—like he doesn't want to let the moment slip away. His hands come up, hesitantly at first, but then they settle against your waist, pulling you closer.

When you finally part, he blinks at you, looking equal parts shocked and breathless. "Well, uh... that was—" He rubs the back of his neck, stumbling over his words, before finally settling on a lopsided grin. "Guess I shoulda done that a long time ago."

He laughs, a little nervous but genuine, and shakes his head. "You're gonna have to be patient with me, y'know. I ain't exactly good at this sort of thing."

You smile, squeezing his hand. "Good thing I'm patient, then."

John lets out a breath, his smile turning softer. "Yeah... yeah, it is." And just like that, something between you shifts—something real, something neither of you can walk away from now.

-

Lenny:

You have always had an easy camaraderie with Lenny—quick-witted banter, shared laughs, and an unspoken trust that runs deeper than words. While others in the gang see Lenny as the sharp, ambitious young outlaw with a bright future, you see the man behind the gun—the one who dreams of something better, who carries the weight of his past with quiet resilience.

Lenny has always enjoyed your company, but whether he realizes your feelings for him is another story. He's smart, but when it comes to romance, he's a little oblivious—too focused on surviving and making something of himself to think that someone might look at him that way. You don't mind, though. You know him well enough to understand that sometimes, he just needs a push.

The two of you are sitting near the edge of camp, away from the noise of the others, passing a bottle of whiskey between you. It's a rare, peaceful moment, and Lenny is in a particularly reflective mood, talking, about how he wonders what his life would've been like if things had turned out different.

"You ever think about what you'd do if you weren't runnin' with this gang?" he asks, tilting his head to look at you.

"All the time," you admit, watching the way the firelight flickers against his face.

He huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head. "Damn shame, huh? Feels like we ain't got much of a choice."

You hesitate for only a second before reaching out, gently brushing your fingers against his. "Maybe not. But that doesn't mean we can't have something good while we're here."

Lenny turns to you fully now, brow furrowing slightly as he studies your face. "What do you mean by—" But you don't let him finish. Instead, you lean in and kiss him, slow and deliberate, giving him the chance to pull away if he wants to.

For a moment, Lenny is completely still, like his brain is short-circuiting trying to process what's happening. Then, all at once, he exhales against your lips and kisses you back, a little clumsy at first, but warm and eager. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, as if he needs to make sure this is real, that you're really here, really kissing him.

When you finally pull away, he blinks at you, then lets out a breathless laugh. "Well, damn," he says, shaking his head. "I did not see that comin'."

There's a pause, then a slow, growing grin spreads across his face. "Not that I'm complainin', of course."

You chuckle, nudging his shoulder. "Good."

He looks at you for a long moment, his smile softening just a little. "Y'know," he says thoughtfully, "I think this might just be the best thing to happen to me in a long time."

And just like that, whatever was between you before is something more now—something real, something worth holding onto, even in a world as uncertain as this one.

[xo-adeline]

"Here in the garden..."

⋆°• ☁︎ - One day you stumble upon a guy, little did you know you would be seeing him again

Feat. Malleus Draconia

AN: This was a request from one of my friends!

You only felt shocked when you noticed the shadow walking outside your room. Was it one of those cute woodland creatures that you would see on the daily outside your house? No way… It was too lifelike and moved much like a person to be something of that caliber. So there was only one option left of what it could be. One of the other students from the school, which only struck you as a little strange. They had their nice dorms, what would be the reason for walking around yours?

When you had ventured out of your house you saw a guy standing there looking up at the gargoyles on the roof of your house. Confused, you had asked him about it, to which he had just responded that he was in a club, and that he was just researching the gargoyles of the dorm. You had only slightly laughed when you looked around at the disheveled dorm, and the lack of other club members.

“And the other members had a bit of an issue heading onto the property?”

“Ah, my apologies. I, currently, am the only member of the club.”

Yeah, that would explain the reason that there was nobody else in sight, but in their defense who would really wanna go look at a run-down build’s gargoyles? Well, besides this guy.

You nodded as you looked up to where he had been previously looking

“I mean, if you wouldn’t mind I could join you. You seem to know quite a bit about them if you’re here and have a whole club about it…”

He let out a slight hum and your offer and within a few seconds of thinking he had a slight smile spread onto his face. Chuckling slightly as you looked at him confused, about to retract your offer, thinking that this response could only be warranted if there was a reason for you to not go along with him, but much to your surprise, he nodded.

“It would be quite delightful if you could join. I just find it humorous that you seem so unafraid, but no worries Child of Man, I could teach you anything that you would like to know.”

And with that, the two of you started walking. The more time you spend together the more random facts you had learned about the stones that had sat on top of your building for who knows how long. But regardless, at the end, it was all pleasant when he had bid you a goodnight and soon disappeared into green smoke from where he had stood not even a few seconds ago. From then on there was an urge to want to see the black-haired man again, but yet he never did show up, and never once did you see him on school grounds even if you knew he was a student there.

Weeks had passed since you had seen him, and yet every day there was hope that he would show up again just to see the statues that you never once had even batted an eye at before, yet know you constantly made mention of in passing and even the new things you had learned from the horned man. Many had looked at you crazy when you had tried to find him by asking your friends, saying things like “there is no way you met him” or “He wouldn't have even spoken to you.” but yet never was there ever a name, or even a dorm that could be associated with him. And even more times than not, people would quickly turn the other direction when you had even described the mysterious man. Within a few weeks, you had been doing more than normal to get your mind off the disappointment of him not coming back. In turn, you had found out about an upcoming ball that Night Raven was hosting. A good way for you to for sure get your mind off the guy, along with the fact that you could meet some new people.

Days had gone by and yet there was still no sign of the man, but with the upcoming ball that was something that had been pushed into the back of your mind. Things like coming up with a outfit, and even something that would fit the theme of masquerade. A nice mask that would fit in place with the color scheme and even maybe a couple cute things that you could add just to make the outfit really stand out in a crowd. Soon, with the completion of the outfit, you were ready to mingle and if you were lucky, find somebody that you could fill the loneliness the man had left in his place.

The second you had made it to the place of the ball it was nothing short of stunning, even for Night Raven standards. Decorations of every wall and pillar of the main dining hall. All the tables were moved out and into some of the surrounding classrooms just for the special occasion. There was a sort of uneasy feeling you had when you had been walking around the room taking in the decorations, a pair of eyes following you around the whole room, but no matter how many times you look around the room you could figure out where they had came from, so you distanced yourself from where the main crowd was choosing to head to the other side of the room. However, the second you had made it over there you bumped into somebody, more worried about the feeling rather than where you were going at the time.

The person in front of you was much taller then you had expected, adorned in black with accents of gold and even the slightest bits of green, which had only enhanced the outfit to a sense of perfection. Even the way his mask was placed on his face there was a sense of mystery, almost the same type you had felt with the gargoyle research club member, and you could only be more shocked when he had ask you to dance, but hey, wasn’t that what you were here for? To get your mind off that guy? So who were you to say no to a door that had just opened?

Dancing with him was nothing short of graceful. The way that he could not only move himself but also move you along with you when you had started to stumble a little bit, and yet he all did it without hurting you, something that was next to impossible for just anybody to do, not only that the patience this man had with you was nothing but unhuman. Ever wrong step, ever chance you had stepped on his foot, and yet he was still there. Even made you feel that much better by just smiling when something went wrong instead of being upset about it.

That was until he had noticed you looking glum when looking at one of the decorations, a gargoyle. He wasn’t the greatest at human emotions, but this one was universal. Sadness.

When questioned by him all you could respond with was the way that somebody had came over, explaining that you had enjoyed the time that you spent with him all for him to leave with only a goodnight before you hadn’t seen him since. The man standing in front of you had seemed to understand, before realizing about the details, his eyes slightly widened before his face relaxed, turning his attention back to you.

“It seems I didn’t quite pick up these same feelings when I had left. My apologies, child of man.”

That nickname. The same one that guy had called you before. You turned around as quick as you could, as the guy had taken off the mask and hat, and there he was, the same guy you had met weeks ago. He only slightly laughed when he saw your facial expression before extending a hand.

“Malleus Draconia. I heard from a few people who resided in my dorm that you had been asking around for that.”

[jooeoppiee]

DRUNK IN LOVE

Beyonce

PART 2

When Ness woke up naked in an unfamiliar hotel room he was confused "what happened? what happened? what the hell happened?" he thought frantically getting up as he took another look at the shirtless photographs of himself. "FUCK! did I drink too much, how'd I get wasted? and more importantly where is she?"

The brown-haired boy walked over to the bathroom, took a shower and checked out the hotel. He left to go to the Blue Lock facility where he'd meet his team as they prepare for their flight back to Germany.

LAST NIGHT

You two got so caught up in chatting that you both hadn't realised you had gotten on a train to Yuigahama Sea. Ness's simple mission to get your name and number for his teammate Kaiser had now been abandoned. He had forgotten all about it, why? He found himself interested in you, you listened to him and asked for his opinion even on the smallest things "Hey, what ice cream flavour should I get?" "What do you like?" "Don't redirect the question back at me, what do you recommend?" his eyes widened, 'you wanted to listen to what he says? Will you call him stupid like Kaiser does if he gives the wrong answer?' he was frozen unsure of what to do, "hey, relax okay?" "p-pistachio, let's get pistachio" you smile "pistachio it is then!"

He was always listening, never speaking but now he found himself yapping to a total stranger. The whole train ride was smooth and peaceful, just the two of you chatting, enjoy each other's company. Time flew by and now you two found yourselves at a beach in Tokyo night.

"So stranger, where ya from?" you ask as you two take a stroll on the quiet beach. "Germany" "Oh? Wow, a German in Japan for mysterious reasons, I wonder what you do. You're not some criminal on the run or anything, right?" he bursts into laughter "criminal? Haven't heard that one before" "really?" "Yeah, that's the first" "I mean I guess it makes sense; you don't look like the type. You've got a cute face and shy personality" he chuckles and turns away from your face "thanks" "hey I see a convenience store there, let's get beer and continue our chat here"

You two head to the store, get cans of beer and walk back to the beach where you take a seat on the sand and watch the sea glisten under the moonlight illuminating the waters that clash at each other, the two of you continue your conversation. Having deep conversations under the low tide in twilight maybe the fact that you both know nothing of the other even the basics of a name, made it more comfortable to be honest and share deep thoughts, personal secrets and shameful past encounters or maybe it was the beer and serene scenery that created a safe space to lay it all out. I mean you don't know him or his name so he doesn't have to worry, and you wouldn't ever see him again because by the time you wake up tomorrow, he'll be gone off back to Germany.

"So, what do you do?" he says "curious?" you reply as you sip your canned beer and glance at him "yes" "curiosity killed the cat, stranger" "...is it something dangerous that you can't tell me?" "Not at all, just scaring ya. Did it work?" "Yeah, I was starting to think you may be the criminal here" you scoff "sarcastic now that we're drunk, I see" he laughs "what you are laughing at?" you get up and walk towards the water, crouching down trying to gather as much water in your hands as you splash it towards his direction, wetting his white dress shirt now revealing his abs in a teasing way "whoa hot body" "oh come on" he says as he runs towards the water as he gathers water and splashes it on you, ending in a whole water fight for a couple of minutes leaving the two of you bursting in laughter "hey stranger, let's stop we'll both end up with a cold" he laughs "you now worried?" you both walk off the beach, he takes his shirt of and SNAP! you took a picture of the shirtless, wet German. He hadn't noticed as he was wearing his jacket and wringing out his shirt.

The two of you find a hotel and checked in the deluxe room. You practically dragged him the whole time because of how wasted he was. "Hey, we're here, wash up and go to bed" "mdhbcgcjwvwfvkwwvdhjhdj" "huh?" "........." you flop him on the bed, undress him, wipe him down and cover him with a blanket then leaving him a note and the photographs at the beach as you left to a train back to campus dorm.

Will Alexis remember? Will he miss you?

IF YOU LIKED THIS AND WANT APART 3 OF WHAT HAPPENS AFTER THEN I'LL POST IT AFTER 20 NOTES!!!!!!!!!!1

THANK YOU FOR READING!!!!

[reddblight]

I’m being lazy and didn’t proofread this so i’m sorry if it’s not my best, but I wanted Danny and Bart to vibe. Hop y’all still like it. Maybe i’ll post it on ao3 at some point

Danny only really got to see skies like this once a year.

In the deep woods, surrounded by the singing of nocturnal life happening around him it was easy to look up to the stars and get lost in thought. It was one of his favorite parts of camping.

Technically speaking the Fentons didn’t go camping infrequently, often being dragged all over the midwest by his parents looking for some (probably fake) ghost related thing they read about on an online forum. On those trips Danny and Jazz never had any fun. Danny narrowly avoided his parent’s newest contraptions and Jazz mostly tucked herself into the GAV to read. There wasn’t much in the way of family bonding or peaceful moments on those trips.

But once a summer they went on a real camping trip. At the beginning of August they packed up the GAV and took the scenic drive to the same wooded valley in Tennessee where his parents had gone for their honeymoon. Not many would go survivalist camping for a honeymoon, but Jack and Maddie were just cool like that. Danny always finds himself chuckling at that. Anyway, they’d started this tradition around the time when Danny was 8, once he and Jazz were old enough. They’d stay for a whole week. It was always Danny’s favorite week of the year, the one week where his parents acted like they did before the portal had opened.

Normal activities on the trip usually included fishing with Dad while Jazz and Mom swam, going on hikes, and practicing survivalist skills. They sang songs by the fire, told scary stories, and made s'mores. And once the darkest part of night hit Danny would wake up Jazz and make her watch the stars with him from a clearing about half a mile from the campsite.

It was his favorite spot in the whole world, that clearing no more than a hundred or so yards across where a couple boulders sat, smoothed from years of rain and wind. He could feel the grass tickling his ankles from the run there and hear Jazz yelling something about ticks every time he thought of it. It was so quiet there, never truly silent with the sounds of the woods around them, but quiet in that comforting song of night.

The memories brought a quiet smile to his face as his eyes traced Ursa Major from atop his boulder. His trance like focus was interrupted by a small sigh as the soft thud of a head covered in a thick mop of hair fell onto his shoulder. Sitting back to back was the boy he’d met here what felt like forever and a half ago, but was really more like 5ish years ago when they were both 14.

Danny had heard Bart Allen before he understood what his eyes were seeing. A fast talking blur of red winding between trees faster than he could follow. He’d gone invisible when he first heard the odd sound reverberating through the woods, defenses up, was this going to be yet another thing that the portal took from him? But no, when the blur slowed down a bit (never stilled, but slowed) it was just another kid that looked about his age who was about 20% hair complaining about his uncle and a stupid training excursion. His face was kinda scrunched up in a funny way, clearly frustrated and concentrated. Another kid who had been running nearly fast enough to break the sound barrier… So Danny watched him continue running and complaining for probably about 15 minutes before he decided that this probably wasn’t ghost related after the dude clipped his arm on a tree and shouted some sort of unfamiliar expletive.

Not yet dropping invisibility, Danny sort of whisper shouted a ‘hello?’ In the other boy’s direction.

The mystery boy jumped like he’d stepped on a nail, whipping his head around to look for anyone and yelling ‘What the sprock!?’

Danny had felt himself shocked out of invisibility and followed up by asking ‘That dude with the elf ears from Star Trek?’

Bart just stared him dead in the eyes like anything about that had been a normal interaction and went ‘Who?’

Really it all spiraled from there. The boys burst into laughter and introduced themselves, killing any tension. Bart was the first other kid with powers he’d met, the first kid who didn’t look at Danny like he was weird. Bart explained that he was here with his uncle Max to train using his speed in cramped environments with lots of obstacles. He hated it, it was boring and he was far away from his friends and video games. Danny in turn told Bart about the yearly vacation to which the boy responded ‘Oh that’s so crash!’ It took Danny a minute to get used to Bart’s weird slang.

They talked late into the night, trading stories about rogues and adventurers, but also about school and their friends. Danny didn’t tell Bart about his accident, but Bart didn’t tell Danny about being from the future yet either, so it was even. They stayed surface level. They actually ended up talking so long that Jazz came trudging through the woods to find Danny, worried that he’d been kidnapped or killed or something. That marked the end of their first night getting to know each other, Danny heading back to camp with Jazz. Every night for the rest of that week though, they met at the boulder and hung out.

They compared powers (Bart was super jealous that Danny could fly, he loves flying) and talked about their hobbies. Danny even got Bart to sit for a little bit each night to stargaze with him. Bart was bad at sitting still, but Danny telling him the stories behind his favorite constellations seemed to help soothe him for at least a little while.

At the end of the week, the Fenton’s were getting ready to go back to Amity Park, Danny’s Dad packing the car while his Mom checked the routes home. Danny met Bart in the clearing one last time and they exchanged phone numbers, promising to keep in touch.

It wasn’t an empty promise, they did text when they could, but both of them living the hero life was busy. Between Danny juggling Amity Park basically on his own and Bart having both Manchester and Young Justice, they didn’t have a lot of time to talk. Small chats, maybe twice a month. Playing video games together once in a blue moon. It was infrequent, but it was nice when they got the chance.

Before he knew it that first week of August had rolled around again and they were headed back to Tennessee. It had been a long year, and Danny was more than excited for some time away (Sam, Tucker, & Val could hold down the fort for a week anyway).

Danny was excited to see his favorite spot again, to gaze upon the cosmos and see the light dance across the skies. But there was an unexpected benefit, perched atop his boulder, fingers tapping and legs swinging, was Bart. The moment he saw Danny he threw up a Star Trek peace sign and Danny knew it’d be a great week.

Since then, every year without fail, Danny and Bart have seen each other once a year for this trip. They caught up on everything, shared some secrets they never thought they would and strangely enough, they found someone who understood. As much as he loved his friends, Danny felt mostly isolated in his ghostliness. And while Bart had more of a community, he didn’t really feel like people understood him.

Danny revealed his transformation, eventually divulged the lab accident, and even discussed Dan and Dani with Bart. He told Bart how he felt so isolated from humanity the more he slowly changed. Bart met him at his level every time. He told Danny that he felt like no one would ever meet him at his speed like Max did before he went missing, that as much as he loved his other YJ friends part of him worried they just put up with him because he was useful. He shared his conflicting feelings about his own clone, Thad, and how weird it was to adjust to the 21st century.

Both boys related in the fact that neither really felt human enough to belong, but with each other it was easier. Danny’s core understood Bart’s vibrations, and Bart understood Danny’s fear of human experimentation first hand.

Of course there were lighter moments too. Danny told Bart how Clockwork always complained about the Flashes meddling with time, and Bart told Danny all the hilarious places he’d found Rob trying to nap when he thought no one was paying attention. They weren’t heroes responsible for the world here, they were just two dumb teenagers sitting on a big rock, looking up at the sky and finding comfort in a like mind.

“Yo, Danny. You in there?”

He found himself snapped from his thoughts once again by the speedster at his back. Why was he feeling so nostalgic anyway? Weird ass exposition…

He leaned his head back onto Bart’s shoulder, mirroring the other. “Yah, sorry. Just thinkin.”

“Oof, try not to hurt yourself bro.” Danny shifted his eyes from the stars, finding a smirking freckled face with golden eyes meeting his own, wreathed in auburn hair. Bart had a slight accent that transfixed Danny. It wasn’t because he lived in Alabama either, it was that he was from the future. His voice lilted and vibrated in a way that was mesmerizing when he put emotion in his words.

“Shut up dude,” Danny scoffed, playfully shoving back against Bart, who squawked in surprise. Bart shoved back against Danny in retaliation and they both chuckled. “What’s up?”

“I’m zoning out, but I wanna keep watching the stars with you. Tell me a story so I can stay engaged.” Bart met his eyes earnestly. The speedster had trouble keeping his focus on one thing, which Danny could totally relate to. If space wasn’t his one of his obsessions he’d probably be strugglin too. But ADHD be damned, Bart tried to do this with him, to take interest in the things he loved unironically and wholeheartedly.

Danny could hear Bart’s feet tapping faster than an Olympic sprinter as he thought. “How about Hercules? And no, not the Disney movie Bart.” The speedster’s mouth closed almost as quickly as he’d opened it, falling back into that easy impish smile.

“Sounds good to me.” Bart responded in a sing song kinda voice, fingers tap dancing atop his knees.

Danny had probably told Bart the stories of all the constellations in this sky over the years, but he’d do it again hundreds of times for him. He’d quickly figured out that Bart always responded best to casual conversational stories rather than monologuing. He’d only complained so many times about his cousin wally bossing him around before he put two n two together. He could relate, Danny much preferred Sam’s explanations of lit to Mr. Lancer’s lectures.

Hercules wasn’t exactly one of Danny’s favorite heroes though. The fall from heroics to madness always hit him hard. If even someone like that couldn’t keep himself from hurting the ones he loved…

Danny paused the story, taking a stuttering breath. It felt stupid that even after all this time he was still afraid of turning into Dan. He knew it was illogical, he just wished his brain would figure that out too. Instead here he was, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders in the one place he was supposed to feel light and free, throat suddenly a little tight remembering his family stuck to a reactor about to blow.

A soft hand was on his forearm, rubbing it lightly, and Bart’s lilting voice whispered in his ear. “Hey, hey, it’s alright remember?” This wasn’t the first time one of them had helped to soothe the other. “You worried about Dan? Grife, I should let you stop telling this type of story, I always forget it triggers you…” It wasn’t even the first time this particular scenario had occurred. Danny tried to focus on his friends voice instead of the red, burning eyes in his mind.

“I’m here dude, remember? Breathe. We talked about this. If I’m here, it means you can’t have destroyed the future. As long as I’m here Dan will never happen. Not that you’d destroy the world without good reason anyway, I’d probably have your back if you decided to. Could definitely get Rob, Kon, and Cassie on our side. Oh, sorry, rambling.” Bart muttered to himself quietly at super speed before shaking his head and refocusing. He turned from their back-to-back position and wrapped himself around Danny. It probably looked kinda funny from an outside perspective. Danny, who’d grew into his Dad’s height being basically big spooned by Bart’s 5’4” ass.

The thought was enough to shock Danny into a bit of laughter, pulling air back into his lungs. He felt bart smile into his upper back at the nape of his neck. “There ya go dude, breathing is super crash. Can’t laugh if you don’t breathe and that’d suck because I’m hilarious.”

Danny let himself unwind, leaning back into Bart as embarrassment flooded him. He buried his face in his hands and groaned, “Duuude, I’m so sorry. I feel like an idiot.”

Bart hooked his chin over Danny’s shoulder before responding. “It’s chill dude. Like Carol tells me, ‘emotions ain’t logical.’ Besides you’ve done the same for me.”

“Yeah, I know… still though.” Like bart had said, they’d talked about this before. Danny liked Bart for a lot of reasons, but one of the most selfish was the reason Bart had supplied. For him to come back from the 31st century, Dan couldn’t have razed the earth. There was a deep comfort in truly solid proof that he wouldn’t burn it all down in the end.

“Nope. No excuses.” Bart started braiding bits of Danny’s hair with dexterous prestige. “You’re too smart to be that dumb.”

Pff, what a wordsmith. “You wanna hear a different story?”

“Only if you’re up to it.”

A smile found its way onto Danny’s face. His eyes traveled skyward again as he set his sights. “Lets try Ophiuchis.”

[shiny-jr]

Hi!🇮🇳 I love your writings especially the damnation series

I was thinking about a 'Dungeon concept' where reader is a traveler/adventurer and encounter different beasts and monsters(twst boys) who want to keep reader with them.

The dungeon can have several levels with different environments and it can offer a vast area for writing. Reader explores these levels to reveal deeper parts of the twisted dungeon.

Basically a twst monster au!!

Warning: Yes, another yandere thing. Mentions of violence and blood. You have been warned.

Characters: Riddle Rosehearts.

Note: What? Shiny actually writing for a request? Shocker. It can happen! Although I'm not sure if you can consider this a request or not, but I did like the idea. You, user, are very brave for coming out and talking about a monster AU in my inbox. I think I shall call it: "Dungeons and Devotions." Anyways, yeah, like I said, you're brave for that. I know what you are.

But! Very interesting, has lots of potential, color me intrigued. So, I'll bite. I actually don't watch or partake in a lot of media with dungeon concepts, but I was obsessed with Monster High when I was younger. So, I took some inspiration from their designs and characters. I actually took the time to write this and not write for the Empyrean AU, so I hope you enjoy this. ✨ I was going to do all dorms, but this part got really long so I just left it at one, but I might be willing to do more later.

Humans are not alone.

At least, that's what the stories said. Ancient accounts tell of a time when there were others who walked the earth as well. Others that certainly were not human beings. These were beings nightmares were born from, entities that served as the inspiration for horror stories passed on for generations.

But those were just scary bed time stories and warped historical records distorted by time, were they not?

That's what you had fully believed, until you found where all those monsters went.

It happened by pure accident. One day, you had decided to go for a hike. Take a new trail, see some new sights, breathe the fresh air and bask in the warm sunlight. All was fine and dandy until you lost your way, having gone off track until you were completely lost. All it took was one wrong step and you were falling. Down, down, down you fell for what felt like hours before everything went black . . .

HEARTSLABYUL

Hell. You must have fallen so far that you landed in the depths of actual hell.

The sky, no, there was no sky here– the horizon? It was red. Blood red. Even when you looked up from where you had fallen, there was no sign of a gaping hole through which you had tumbled through. Wherever you were was so deep into the earth, that you could not even make out a ceiling.

Around you were crooked trees, black like ash as they curled and bent in the oddest unnatural shapes like shadowy apparitions looming over you. There was no green on them. There was no green as far as the eye could see. Anything that looked remotely plant-like, was gray like ash, rusted brown, or different shades of red. Even the ground which you landed face first on was twisted and uneven.

That's when you were spotted by... something. Something wild and rabid, a hungry beast that sent you running, dodging branches and tripping over dense foliage as you ran for your life until you came upon an impassable wall of stone blocking your path, leaving you with nowhere to go. You were cornered. That's when the spray of blood came.

The spillage didn't even immediately register in your mind. Not until your mind, high off the fear and rush of adrenaline, recognized that you were will breathing. You were still alive. And there was a person in front of you, standing between you and starved beast that had pursued you. Barely could your mind grasp everything going on, so much was happening all at once. All you could do was blink as past the mysterious figure, you saw the beast's head slowly droop down until it hit the floor with a sickening squelch. The dismembered head fell into a puddle of its own blood and its body collapsed.

When the figure suddenly turned to you, you didn't know whether to cry tears of relief or scream in horror. Yes, this figure had saved you. Yes, their silhouette was human shaped, but they were wielding a giant axe. The haft was thin and black, almost as long as a person in height, while the blade itself was a fiery red combined with golden accents and a substance black as obsidian. The cutting edge was definitely big and sharp enough to decapitate even the grandest of beasts.

Just as you were about to thank this heroic yet terrifying stranger for saving your skin, he stepped out from the shadows and that's when the words died in your throat. Horns. He had horns. This wasn't a human.

The creature had stepped closer and gripped his mighty battle axe as if he were prepared to use it again, but he stopped when he saw you. Clearly he was just as shocked to see a thing like you just as you were stunned to see him. Thankfully, he did not behead you like he did to that beast a few seconds ago.

Finding your voice, you managed to spew useless words of warning and baseless threats for him to stay back, but he appeared to immediately realize your words were all bark and no bite. And he understood you. This being spoke like a person, frowning as he lowered his axe and commanded you to quit your pointless jabbering.

This being was red. Red like his surroundings, red like fire, red like the blood he made his enemy bleed. Horns curved atop his head, brushing past short locks of hair. Pointed ears poked past the strands, blending in with his red hair. A demon! Despite being a creature of hell, he was quite short in stature and had wide innocent eyes the color of smoke.

It was clear the demon, who politely introduced himself as Riddle, was just as intrigued as you were. Although you were still far more afraid, considering that you had seen him slay a beast. That's when Riddle told you to follow him. It wasn't a request. While you didn't trust the demon, it was either him or risk encountering another monster out here, and frankly, if you were to die, at least it would be swift if the demon chose to end you with his axe.

That's when Riddle led you past the wall into an entire city that lay deep beneath the world you knew. Humans, you learned, were not supposed to be here. They didn't do too well here where there was no real sunlight and there were dangers at every corner. There hadn't been a human down here in over centuries. For now, you would stay with him.

As it turns out, Riddle was the overlord of this domain. At first, the demon did not reveal anything, until the days passed in his castle. Something about you stirred his cold heart. Perhaps it was pity, as you were so defenseless and lost. Once he began to warm up to you, maybe won over by your ramblings of home, he began to cave to your desire for knowledge. There were seven domains in this underworld, each layered one on top of the other. He, Overlord Riddle, ruled the Heartslabyul domain with an iron fist.

Slaying mindless beasts were just one of his tasks, but as the Overlord, he went after the most dangerous kinds. However, people were not spared from his axe. Riddle would personally execute those that threatened his rule or wrecked havoc across his domain. No one was exempt, no hellish beast, no fellow demon, not even a human. Although he stated that there was no reason to execute you, as your only crime was being incapable of defending yourself and occupying the Overlord's time with rather meaningless but entertaining conversation. So, he spared you.

The Demon Overlord was certainly frightening, but, he was curious about you. It wasn't something he displayed so easily, but you could tell by the way he intensely watched you go about your day, his eyes laser-focused on your every move even though he pretended not to watch. You couldn't exactly blame him if you really were the first human down here in so long.

At first, Riddle would return with his axe stained red. However, once he realized how squeamish that would make you and how it drove you away from him, he developed the habit to return in pristine condition, without even the slightest speck on him. Although you could still guess where he had been, either condemning his enemies to death or terrifying them into submission. But with you, although overbearing, he was well-articulated and carried himself with a certain grace.

As the days added up, customs and habits were built. Such as a small little game, where you would both ask a question about each other's life and culture. If the question could stump the other person and they couldn't answer, then they would 'win.' Riddle won most of the time, as he would ask the most peculiar of questions. On occasion, he does ask some questions with such looks of wonder that you can't help but feel some sense of sympathy for him. Questions like: is the sky on the surface really blue?

As patient as he was with all your inquiries about his strange world, there was one question he never answered: How could a human get back home? If he knew the answer, he didn't show it. Each time you asked, he would become irate, and so you would drop the subject.

Throughout your time in the Demon Overlord's castle, your goal never changed: Find a way home. Riddle was simply a friend, the demon who had saved you from the maws of a hellish fiend and granted you sanctuary in his home. It was by pure accident that you learned that Riddle's opinion was quite different than yours. Sometime throughout your stay, he had become attached and developed some rather intense feelings. According to a book of monsters you discovered deep in the shelves of his personal library, demons are deeply protective of their loved ones, often subtly guarding them through quiet gestures or grand notions. Riddle was grand in his display, and it all made perfect sense now as to why he implemented a rule barring other demons from most rooms of the castle so as to not interact with you.

One day, before Riddle left the castle, he gifted you a mystical red gem with a rune engraved into it. A chill went down your spine as you recognized it vaguely. Although you didn't comprehend its exact meaning, you recognized the symbol from a book about demon courtship. If you recalled right, demons tended to inscribe runes into rare objects so their partner would have a spell protecting them and be able to carry their loved one's essence with them. The Demon Overlord hesitated for a moment once the gift was in your hand. If he wasn't already red, his flesh would've been blooming with warmth as he leaned. The kiss on your cheek was brief as the base of his horns bumped against your temple– then he left before you could even utter a single word.

That's when you knew you had to leave. Immediately. If the book you found earlier was factual, then once Riddle returned, he would not let you go. The Demon Overlord had already prevented you from leaving by confining you in his castle, isolating you from others, and purposefully retaining information from you.

The only place you could was down, down into deeper levels. Yes, it was further away from the surface and home, and you had no idea what awaited you, but if you stayed in Heartslabyul, Riddle would never allow you to leave his castle and he would no doubt send demons to search for you once he discovered you were gone. The only place he wouldn't think to look were other domains. Perhaps the Demon Overlord's gift to you would actually be of use as you searched for a way down.

[backseatconfessions]

In my room | obsessed!Sam Winchester x Reader

A/n: I’ve been listening to “in my room” by “insane clown posse” on repeat… and I just had to write it out! Also got a second part for “sammys girl” planned :)

Summary: Sam becomes consumed by a mysterious spirit, Y/N, who only appears at night. As obsession takes over, he’ll do anything to keep her close. But the cost of his love might be more than he can handle.

Warnings: Obsession, Manipulation, Emotional distress, Unhealthy relationships, Gaslighting, irrational behavior, Mentions of death, Blood, Mental instability, Toxic dynamics

The first time Sam saw you, he thought he was dreaming.

It had been a long, brutal hunt. The kind that left his body aching, his mind buzzing with exhaustion. He barely had the strength to kick off his boots before collapsing onto the motel bed, muscles heavy, limbs sluggish. Dean had gone out—probably to some bar, eager to drown the night in whiskey and distraction.

Sam wasn’t like that.

He just wanted sleep.

But the second he closed his eyes, he felt it.

Something was watching him.

His instincts kicked in immediately. His pulse jumped. His hand shot under the pillow, gripping the cool handle of his knife, body tense as his eyes snapped open.

And then he saw you.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, watching him with an unreadable expression.

His breath caught.

You were beautiful.

Not just in the way women sometimes were, but in a way that made his chest tighten, made his mouth go dry. The dim motel lamp flickered behind you, casting soft shadows over your face, your lips curled in something that wasn’t quite a smile.

He should’ve been alarmed.

Should’ve reached for his gun.

Should’ve demanded, Who the hell are you?

But all he could do was stare.

You tilted your head, eyes running over his face like you were memorizing him.

"You're not real," he muttered, voice hoarse.

You didn’t react, didn’t deny it, didn’t confirm it. You just smiled.

"Does it matter?"

And maybe that should’ve been his first warning.

You came back the next night.

And the next.

And the next.

Always in the same way—when he was alone, when the world outside was silent, when the cheap motel lamp flickered like it knew something he didn’t.

He stopped questioning it after the third time.

Stopped trying to rationalize it.

Because when you crawled into his bed, when your hands slid over his skin, when your lips brushed his—none of it feltlike a hallucination.

It felt real.

It felt like something he needed.

And God, did he need you.

Some nights, you didn’t speak.

Some nights, you just existed together, tangled beneath the sheets, your fingers tracing slow patterns over his arm. Sam never pulled away. Never stopped you. He let you touch him, let you consume him.

The way your fingertips skimmed over his skin—soft, deliberate—sent shivers down his spine. You’d watch him like he was something precious, like you had all the time in the world to learn every inch of him.

"Why me?" he asked once, voice quiet in the dark.

Your fingers stilled.

Then you leaned in, lips brushing against the shell of his ear.

"Because you needed me," you whispered.

And God help him—he did.

Other nights, you whispered things to him.

Dark, quiet things.

"You’re tired of this life, aren’t you?"

Sam lay still, staring at the ceiling, your fingers ghosting over his chest.

"All the blood," you murmured, your voice like a lullaby. "All the pain. The loss. It never stops."

His throat worked, but he didn’t speak.

"You deserve peace," you said, curling against his side, your hand pressing over his heart. "And I can give it to you."

His fingers tightened around the sheets.

All he had to do was say yes.

And God, some nights, he almost did.

Dean started to notice.

"You good, man?"

Sam barely heard him. The diner was too bright, too loud. His fingers drummed against the table, restless. His mind was elsewhere. His body was here, but his soul—his everything—was back in that motel room, waiting for night to fall.

"Sam."

Dean snapped his fingers in front of his face.

Sam exhaled, rubbing his temples.

"What?"

"You hear anything I just said?"

"Yeah. Just tired."

Dean gave him a long, assessing look.

"Okay, what’s going on? You’ve been acting weird. You barely eat, you barely talk, you disappear into that damn motel room and don’t come out for hours—"

Sam didn’t like the way Dean was looking at him.

Like he was concerned. Like he was figuring something out.

So he forced a smirk.

"You jealous I’m seeing someone?"

Dean blinked.

"You’re what?"

Sam shrugged, standing.

"Forget it."

And before Dean could press him further, he was already walking out the door. But Dean knew, he had to find out what or who was driving his brother into madness.

That night, Sam didn’t wait for you to come to him.

The second you appeared, he grabbed you. Pulled you onto his lap, hands desperate, needy. You laughed, soft and knowing, fingers threading into his hair as he buried his face against your throat.

"You missed me," you teased.

"You have no idea," he muttered against your skin.

His lips pressed to your collarbone, your jaw, your mouth. He wanted to devour you, to keep you here forever, to lose himself in you until the rest of the world faded into nothing.

"Would you do anything for me, Sam?"

Your voice was a whisper, breath warm against his lips.

"Yeah," he rasped.

Your smile was slow, satisfied.

Like you already knew.

The first time Sam hurt someone for you, it felt... right.

The guy had it coming. Some drunk asshole at a gas station, talking too loud, getting too close, saying things about you.

"You got yourself a lady up in that motel?"

Sam had barely looked at him.

"Bet she's real sweet. The quiet ones always are."

The guy grinned, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

Something inside Sam snapped.

The next thing he knew, the guy was on the ground, blood gushing from his nose, Sam’s knuckles burning. His pulse was wild, his breathing ragged, his hands twitching with the urge to keep going.

You were watching.

Standing just beyond the flickering light of the streetlamp.

And you were smiling.

A slow, pleased smile.

Sam’s heart pounded.

He wanted to see that smile again.

He’d do anything to see it again.

Sam could feel the change in the air every time he walked into that room. It was as if the very walls were breathing with him, with you. He could smell the scent of you—faint but unmistakable, a mix of something floral and earthy that clung to the air, teasing him like a memory he couldn’t quite recall.

Every time he closed his eyes, you were there. Your voice was soft, like silk, but it carried with it a sharp edge that made his heart race.

"Sam…"

You whispered it every time you appeared, soft and coaxing, pulling him in closer. It wasn’t like the other women he’d known. No, this was something else entirely. Something darker. Something that only existed when he was alone, when the world outside faded away.

He needed you.

He wanted you.

At first, it was just fleeting moments. You would show up in the reflection of his mirror, standing just behind him. He would spin around in surprise, but of course, there was no one there. He would brush it off, telling himself it was nothing more than his exhaustion, his mind playing tricks on him.

But then the whispers came.

And it wasn't just in his mind anymore. No, you were there. Standing in the corner of his motel room, watching him as he fumbled through the case files, staring at him with an expression that made his skin crawl and burn all at once. Your eyes were predatory, dark with something he couldn't define but wanted to fall into.

"You miss me, don’t you?"

It was the first time you’d spoken to him in that quiet voice. Sam froze, the words hanging in the air like a heavy fog. He’d never expected it, but as soon as you spoke, it felt like the world had paused.

"Y/N…" he breathed out, voice hoarse as his gaze darted around, finding nothing but the empty room.

But you weren’t gone. No. You were still there. He could feel you.

"I don’t know what this is," Sam whispered to the empty space. But deep down, he knew. He knew what it was. He was losing himself, piece by piece, to the pull of you.

It wasn't long after that when he could feel your presence more than ever. You started appearing every night, closer and closer, until you were sitting beside him, watching him from the edge of his bed.

He could barely breathe around you. His heart raced, but it wasn’t from fear—it was something else entirely.

Something dangerous.

Sam would lie awake for hours, eyes staring at the ceiling as he pretended to sleep, but he couldn’t escape you. Not when your fingers seemed to graze his skin when he wasn’t looking. Not when your laughter filled the silence like a soft, sickening lullaby.

Every time he looked at you, he felt like he was drowning and floating at the same time. You were the air he breathed, but you were also suffocating him.

One night, Sam woke up to find you sitting on the edge of the bed, just inches from him. Your eyes were dark, unblinking, fixed on him in a way that felt too intense, too knowing.

"Sam," you said, voice low, hushed. "You know what I need."

His breath caught in his throat. He could barely speak. He couldn’t even move. He was frozen in place, his body betraying him, a war raging inside him as his mind screamed at him to get away, but his heart—his heart wanted nothing more than to stay.

“What do you want from me?” Sam finally forced out, his voice shaking with the desperation he hadn’t even known was there.

You leaned in closer, and his heart thundered in his chest as the air around him thickened with your presence.

"I want you to let go," you whispered. "Give in, Sam. You’ve been holding on for so long, but you need me. You know you do."

The words wrapped around his mind, curling like smoke and making it harder to breathe. You were right. He did need you. He couldn’t fight it anymore.

Without thinking, Sam reached for you. His hand touched your cheek, his fingers trembling as he traced the outline of your jaw. It was like touching smoke—like your skin was there but not quite real. But the sensation of you was undeniable. You were real.

"I can’t lose you," he muttered, voice thick with emotion.

"You won’t," you replied, your lips curling into a smile that sent a shiver down his spine. "I’m not going anywhere, Sam."

And that was when he realized it. You weren’t some ghost. You weren’t just a thing haunting his dreams. You were consuming him. And as much as he knew he should walk away, he couldn’t. He didn’t want to.

You were his obsession. His addiction. And nothing, not even his brother, would come between you.

The next night, Sam was lost to you entirely. He had barely noticed how much time had passed, how many nights he’d spent tangled up in the illusion of your touch. Every night was the same, and every night, it grew more intense. Your presence would envelope him, filling him with a longing he couldn’t satiate.

He needed you. He wanted you more than anything.

“Sam, I don’t like this.”

Dean’s voice broke through his thoughts like an ice-cold slap. Sam didn’t turn, didn’t even blink. His mind was too far gone, too tangled in the idea of you to care about anything else.

“She’s not real, Sam,” Dean continued, stepping closer, his voice filled with worry. “You have to stop this. You’re slipping, man.”

But Sam didn’t hear him. He couldn’t. All he could hear was your voice, calling to him from the shadows.

“You don’t understand. You can’t,” Sam said, his voice barely above a whisper, his hand tightening around the gun he’d been cleaning. It was too quiet in the room—too still. The sound of his own breath was the only thing grounding him to reality, but even that was fading.

Dean’s eyes narrowed as he approached his brother. “What are you talking about? You’re losing it, Sam. This obsession—it’s tearing you apart.”

Sam didn’t move. He stayed frozen, staring at the door where you had just disappeared.

“I’m not losing anything,” Sam said softly, his voice distant, almost eerie. “I have her, Dean. She’s all I need.”

Dean's expression shifted. He could see it in Sam’s eyes—he was too far gone. He wasn’t just obsessed with some ghost. He was in love with her, and she was taking everything from him.

Dean’s voice grew more urgent. “Sam, you have to stop this. She’s not real. She’s not even alive anymore. She’s just a ghost!”

Sam’s eyes flickered to Dean, his expression distant, hollow.

“You don’t understand,” Sam repeated, voice shaking. “You don’t get it. I can’t let her go. I can’t.”

And that was when it happened.

One night, Sam woke to find you beside him in the bed, your body pressed against his. The warmth of you seeped into his skin like molten heat. Your lips brushed against his ear, sending a shiver down his spine.

“Come with me, Sam,” you whispered. “Stay with me forever.”

Sam’s heartbeat quickened, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak. His mind spun as he fought against the pull of you. He knew Dean had been right—he was slipping away.

But the truth was, he didn’t want to stop.

“I’ll do anything,” Sam murmured. His voice cracked with desperation.

It was the last straw for Dean.

When he found Sam in that room, face pale and eyes empty, standing in front of the mirror where you once appeared, Dean knew it was time. He had to do what had to be done.

Without hesitation, Dean prepared the salt and gasoline, ready to burn your bones. He had to do it. There was no other choice.

Sam wasn’t going to make it without that final severing.

You stopped coming.

One night.

Two nights.

Three.

Sam barely functioned.

Every second without you was a waking nightmare. He felt hollow, like something inside him had been ripped out, like he was bleeding but there was no wound.

He searched for you.

Not just in the motel, but everywhere. Through books, through lore, through every scrap of information he could get his hands on.

And then—he found it.

The case.

The one Dean had been working on.

A girl.

Dead for years.

Her bones—burned.

Sam’s world tilted.

His hands shook.

His stomach twisted into knots so tight he could barely breathe.

He was moving before he even registered it, storming out of the room, barely hearing the motel door slam behind him.

Dean was in the parking lot, throwing a duffel into the Impala’s trunk when Sam found him.

"You did it, didn’t you?"

Dean turned, frowning.

"Did what?"

"Her," Sam bit out, voice rough. "You—salt and burned her bones."

Dean’s expression darkened.

"She was a spirit, Sam. She was messing with your head. What was I supposed to do?"

"No."

Sam’s voice cracked. His breath was shaky. His chest ached.

Dean took a slow step forward, his face unreadable.

"Listen to yourself, Sam," he said, voice quieter now. "She’s gone. It’s over."

Sam laughed.

A raw, broken laugh.

"It’ll never be over."

After you were gone, Sam’s world fell apart.

Every night felt like a war. A constant battle to keep his sanity, to keep his focus. But it was a losing fight. His thoughts were consumed by you—by the way you looked at him, the way your fingers traced his skin, the soft, seductive whispers that had melted through his defenses.

You were still with him.

Your presence hung heavy in the air, like a suffocating fog he couldn’t escape.

He couldn’t sleep.

He couldn’t eat.

He couldn’t breathe without imagining you there, watching him, wanting him.

He needed you. And nothing else seemed to matter.

Dean had noticed. He always noticed.

Sam was quieter than usual, his eyes glazed over, distant. His usual protective instinct was clouded with a hollow emptiness, like he wasn’t really there. Dean tried to reach him. He tried to bring Sam back.

“Sam, talk to me, man. You’re scaring me.”

But Sam barely heard him.

Dean’s voice sounded far away—like it was coming from underwater. Nothing felt real. Not the hunt. Not his brother. Nothing.

Only you.

Dean had tried everything: work, food, even women. But nothing could distract Sam for long. He saw your face in every corner of his vision, heard your laugh in the rustle of leaves, the sound of the wind through trees.

It was maddening.

And Sam knew he was losing it.

It wasn’t long before he started doing things he couldn’t explain.

Like the time he found himself standing in the middle of the woods at midnight, staring at the empty air, whispering your name into the wind.

“Y/N... where are you?”

He wasn’t even sure why he was asking. He knew you weren’t there. You couldn’t be.

But his body felt it—like you were just beyond reach, like all he had to do was call you, and you’d appear.

When nothing happened, when the forest stayed empty and silent, he felt a surge of anger. The need to do something—to make it real again. He kicked a tree in frustration, gritting his teeth against the way his hands shook.

But nothing.

Nothing but the echo of your name ringing in the night air.

“Sam. What the hell are you doing?”

Dean’s voice cut through the dark like a blade, sharp and concerned. Sam whirled, startled, his heart pounding in his chest. He hadn’t even heard his brother approach.

“Nothing. Just… thinking,” Sam muttered, but even to his own ears, it sounded like a lie.

Dean eyed him skeptically, taking a step closer.

“Sam, talk to me. You’re freaking me out. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but this isn’t you.”

Sam’s chest tightened, suffocating, and his fingers curled into fists at his sides.

“It’s nothing, Dean,” Sam said again, more forcefully this time. “I’m fine.”

But Dean wasn’t buying it. He never did.

“You’re not fine. You’ve been acting weird for weeks. First, it’s the missing girl in that damn motel room, and now this? I know something’s wrong.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed, his frustration building.

“You don’t get it,” he spat, voice low and dangerous. “You don’t understand. She was real. She was with me. And you—” Sam took a step toward Dean, eyes blazing with a manic energy. “You took her away.”

Dean recoiled, a flash of confusion and concern crossing his face.

“Sam… What the hell are you talking about?”

Sam’s breath was coming in ragged gasps now, his voice trembling with something dangerous.

“You killed her. You burned her bones. And now she’s gone. But she’s still here. She’s in my head. She’s all I think about. I can’t—” Sam’s voice cracked, and his hands shot out to grab Dean’s shoulders, shaking him. “I can’t let her go.”

Dean stared at him, shocked, his hands frozen at his sides.

“Sam, you’re not making sense,” Dean said quietly, trying to pull back. “You need to calm down. I’m just trying to help you.”

But Sam wasn’t listening. He was too far gone.

He was broken.

[palangsaeya]

Seonghwa x reader - Lego love

Group: Ateez Members: Seonghwa, little bit of Mingi and San Warnings: none

A university student with a secret love for building LEGO unexpectedly crosses paths with Seonghwa, a mysterious yet familiar-looking man who shares her passion, leading to an unforgettable connection built one brick at a time.

You tap your fingers against the surface of your laptop, pretending to listen as your group members continue discussing the final details of your business project. It’s not that you don’t care—you do. You’ve worked too hard for your grades to let things fall apart at the last second. But right now, your mind is somewhere else.

Or rather, at one specific place.

A LEGO store.

You try not to glance at the time on your phone too often, but every second feels like an eternity. There’s a limited-edition LEGO set being released today—the massive, intricate, stunning new build that you’ve been dreaming about ever since rumors started circulating online. You marked the release date on your calendar. You saved money for it. You checked the store’s stock online.

And now, you just need to get there before it sells out.

"Alright, I think that covers everything," one of your classmates finally says, and you resist the urge to sigh in relief.

"Perfect," you say, closing your laptop a little too quickly. "I'll put everything together tonight and send it to the professor before the deadline."

Your friends exchange glances. "Are you sure you don’t need help?"

"Nope, I got it," you say, already standing up and gathering your things. "Thanks, everyone! See you in class!"

And with that, you’re gone.

-----

The city streets are buzzing with the usual rush of people finishing work, heading home, or meeting up with friends. You weave through the crowd with a singular focus, your heart racing.

You need to get there.

As you approach the LEGO store, the large glass windows display all kinds of incredible builds—classic sets, pop culture collaborations, and rows upon rows of colorful bricks waiting to be assembled. But your eyes are locked on the section near the back, where the most coveted sets are usually placed.

You step inside, the bell ringing above the door, and your gaze immediately scans the shelves.

And there it is.

The last box.

Your heart leaps in triumph as you reach for it, fingers brushing against the smooth packaging. It’s heavier than you expected, but it’s yours. You smile, gripping the edges—

Until you realize another hand is holding the box, too.

You blink, following the fingers up to the wrist, the arm, the shoulder, and then the face of the person standing next to you.

A tall guy with long black hair.

His eyes are fixed on the box, his lips slightly parted in excitement—until he notices your hand. His head turns toward you, and for a brief moment, neither of you speaks. You just stare at each other, processing the situation.

Then, at the exact same time:

"I got it first."

The man raises an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly. "I think we reached for it at the same time."

You tighten your grip. "Maybe. But I was looking for it before I got here."

"So was I."

You narrow your eyes at him. "I think I deserve it more."

The corner of his mouth twitches upward, like he’s amused. "Oh? And why’s that?"

"Because—" You pause, scrambling for a reason. "Because I—I build LEGO sets on livestreams! My followers have been waiting for me to build this one!"

He blinks at you, a flicker of surprise in his dark eyes. Then, to your horror, his expression shifts into something almost playful.

"You stream LEGO builds?"

"...Yes."

"How much is it showing you?” 

You look at him and wonder where this is going. Did he know you? Well, you were pretty popular with your livestreams so maybe he was your follower? 

“Well, only my hands. I like to keep my personal life private.” 

“Only your hands?"

"Yes, why?"

His grip on the box doesn’t loosen. Instead, he seems even more determined. "That’s impressive. But," he says, eyes glinting with amusement, "I’ve been collecting LEGO since I was a kid. And I don’t just build them—I display them. Properly. With lighting and everything."

You gasp dramatically. "So do I!"

"Then we have a problem," he says, glancing down at the box still caught between both of your hands.

You scowl. "You’re not giving up, are you?"

His lips curl slightly at the edges, a small smirk forming. "Nope."

And neither are you.

The tension between you and the stranger is thick as you continue your silent battle over the LEGO box, neither of you willing to let go. The weight of it is starting to strain your arms, but you refuse to back down.

Before either of you can come up with a new argument, a store employee suddenly walks up to you with an apologetic smile.

"Excuse me," she says, "but someone else is asking about that set. If you’re not buying it, I’ll have to give it to them."

Your heart stops.

You don’t think—you just speak.

"We’re buying it together!"

The words come out so fast that both the employee and the man beside you blink in surprise. You feel his gaze on you, but you keep your eyes locked on the employee, silently begging her to accept your answer.

She hesitates for a moment before nodding. "Alright, if you’re both purchasing it, that’s fine."

When she finally walks away, you let out a breath of relief—only to realize that the guy is staring at you.

You clear your throat. "Well... that was the only way to keep it from getting taken, right?"

He blinks at you, then slowly, to your shock, nods. "True."

You didn’t expect him to agree so easily. But you’re not about to question your victory.

The two of you silently carry the box to the counter, and without even discussing it, you each pull out your wallets and split the cost in half.

Neither of you says a word as the cashier bags the box and hands it over. Even as you step out of the store, standing awkwardly on the sidewalk together, the situation finally dawns on you.

What are you even supposed to do now?

You glance at the tall man beside you, clutching the LEGO bag just as tightly as you. He looks at you, then at the bag, then back at you. You can tell he’s thinking the same thing.

"...So," you start, shifting on your feet. "What now?"

He exhales through his nose, tilting his head slightly. "Guess we have to decide what to do with it."

You bite your lip. Technically, one of you could just take it and pay the other back, but you both want it. And you’re not ready to give up your claim.

Then, suddenly, an idea pops into your head.

You straighten your posture. "I have a proposal."

The guy raises an eyebrow. "Go on."

You ignore the teasing tone in his voice. "We do a livestream together tonight. We build it together. And after that, we decide who keeps it."

He tilts his head, clearly thinking it over. His fingers tap against the LEGO bag, and after a long pause, he finally speaks.

"Where do you stream?"

A rush of excitement floods through you. "At my place. It’s not far from here."

For a brief moment, he hesitates. You hold your breath, waiting for his answer.

Then—

"Lead the way."

-----

Your apartment is not prepared for guests.

It’s a simple student apartment, not exactly messy, but not as clean as it should be either. The second you open the door, you suddenly feel self-conscious. Your textbooks are stacked haphazardly on the small desk, a few empty cups are scattered around, and the only proper furniture you have is your bed and a low table in the middle of the room.

When you step inside, the man follows, glancing around. You quickly clear your throat.

"It’s small, I know."

He shrugs. "It’s cozy."

You blink at him. He sounds genuine.

You shake off the surprise and gesture to the floor. "You can sit wherever. I don’t have a couch, though..."

He looks at the bed, then at the floor, then at the bed again. Then he immediately sits on the floor.

You blink again. "You really don’t want to sit on the bed?"

He shakes his head. "I’ll sit here."

You stifle a laugh, finding his reaction strangely amusing.

Finally, you set down the LEGO bag and turn to him. "We should probably introduce ourselves properly."

He nods. "Yeah. You go first."

You tell him your name, watching as he listens carefully. Then, he shifts slightly and speaks.

"I’m Seonghwa."

Seonghwa. The name suits him. You repeat it in your head a few times before nodding.

"Alright, Seonghwa," you say, rolling up your sleeves. "Let’s get ready for this stream."

Seonghwa watches as you pull out your setup—your phone stand, your extra lighting, and the tools you use to make sure everything looks neat. As you work, he leans forward slightly, eyes filled with curiosity. You give him some information on how you usually shoot this kind of livestreams and where the camera is pointing at. You also tell him that the microphone is on so the watchers can hear the sound of the pieces. 

"You really do this often," he muses.

You glance at him. "Of course. You thought I was lying?"

He shakes his head. "No. It’s just interesting. I don’t meet many people who do this."

You pause for a moment, then smirk. "Are you getting nervous?"

Seonghwa scoffs. "Not at all." 

“Have you done something like this before?” 

Seonghwa looks at you and you can see he is thinking about something before he nods a little, but he isn’t going to give you an answer. 

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. But instead of pressing further, you finish setting up, take a deep breath, and finally press Start Live.

-----

The live stream is on.

Your hands move instinctively, separating the plastic bags into two equal halves and pushing one pile toward Seonghwa. Neither of you speaks a word—this is how your streams always go. Quiet, focused, with only the sound of rustling plastic and pieces clicking into place.

Seonghwa doesn’t complain. He simply picks up his portion, examines the instruction booklet for a moment, and starts building.

For the next hour, the only sounds filling your small apartment are the occasional shifting of LEGO bricks and the soft, repetitive clicks as each piece is locked in.

You can’t help but steal glances at Seonghwa.

At first, you’re just watching how he builds—his technique, the way his fingers move so carefully yet efficiently. But the more you observe, the more you notice.

His hands are... fascinating.

His long fingers are almost mesmerizing as they pick up each tiny brick with precision. The way his knuckles shift as he presses pieces together. The veins on the back of his hands, faint but visible.

You swallow and quickly turn back to your own section.

Focus.

But it’s hard. Because every so often, Seonghwa shifts slightly and reaches for his phone.

You try not to pry, but it’s impossible to ignore. You catch glimpses of him unlocking the screen, typing something quickly, then setting it aside. It happens a few times. You’re curious, but it’s none of your business, so you don’t ask.

Still, the question lingers in your mind.

Who is he texting?

And then there’s another thing you notice—

Seonghwa is checking you out.

You catch him in your peripheral vision, sneaking small glances in your direction when he thinks you’re too focused to notice. His dark eyes shift between you and the LEGO pieces in your hands, lingering for just a second too long before he looks away.

At first, you think you’re imagining it.

But it keeps happening. Each time you glance up, there’s a moment—a flicker of eye contact—before he quickly averts his gaze. Your heart beats a little faster. You don’t say anything. You just keep building, pretending not to notice.

And so the hours pass like that—wordless, yet filled with unspoken thoughts.

-----

Six hours.

That’s how long it takes.

The moment you snap the final piece into place, you take a deep breath and finally, finally sit back.

You glance at Seonghwa, who is also leaning back slightly, stretching his arms after sitting hunched over for so long. His long hair falls away from his face, and for the first time, you fully take in his features.

He’s really, really handsome.

You knew that already, but now that the LEGO set is done and there’s nothing to distract you, it’s painfully obvious. Your brain tries to process where you’ve seen him before. There’s something familiar about him, but you can’t quite place it.

Before you can think too much about it, you turn your attention back to the completed LEGO build. Carefully, you lift the entire structure and move it to a safer spot near the wall. You adjust your phone’s camera so the viewers can see the final product in all its glory.

You gesture toward the set, letting the audience admire the result of your six-hour effort. You can already see the chat going crazy, messages flying by too fast for you to read properly.

Seonghwa watches quietly beside you, his gaze flickering to the screen for a moment before he exhales softly.

Then, with a single movement, you reach over— 

And end the live stream.

The silence that follows is... unexpected.

For the past six hours, there’s been the quiet background noise of the stream, the clicking of LEGO bricks, the faint sounds of your breathing. Now, there’s nothing. Just you. And Seonghwa. In a tiny student apartment.

You turn to look at him and, without thinking, you smile.

"Thanks for helping."

Seonghwa meets your gaze, his own lips curving up slightly. "You too. That was fun."

You nod. "It really was."

A small pause. Then—

"Six hours, though," he murmurs, shaking his head slightly. "That flew by."

You let out a soft laugh. "Yeah. It didn’t feel that long, did it?"

Seonghwa tilts his head, considering your words. Then, he shakes his head again.

"No. It didn’t."

His voice is quiet, almost thoughtful. You feel something warm settle in your chest.

You don’t know what to say next. And for some reason, you don’t want to say anything. You just want to sit in this strange, comfortable silence for a little longer.

So you do.

-----

The silence stretches for a moment after your last words, but it’s not uncomfortable. Seonghwa sits on the floor, leaning back on his hands, glancing around your small student apartment. You feel a little self-conscious about the space—it’s not messy, but it’s not exactly spotless either. A few textbooks are stacked on your desk, a blanket is crumpled on your bed, and empty coffee cups sit on a small table near the window.

But Seonghwa doesn’t seem to mind. He doesn’t comment on anything, doesn’t look around with judgment. He just exists in the space naturally, like he’s always meant to be here.

You clear your throat and shift your weight. "Are you hungry?"

Seonghwa looks down at his phone, checking the time. His long fingers hover over the screen for a second before he nods. "Yeah, actually. I didn’t realize how late it was."

You pull out your own phone and quickly open your favorite food delivery app. You scroll for a moment before turning the screen toward him. "This place is really good. You should pick something."

Seonghwa leans forward slightly, his long hair falling over his shoulder as he studies the menu. His expression is calm, focused—like he’s making a very important decision. After a moment, he points at an item. "This looks good."

You take the phone back, glance at his choice, and nod approvingly. "Nice choice."

You place your own order right after his and pay for both meals before Seonghwa can protest. He notices and frowns slightly, shifting as if he’s about to say something, but you shake your head.

"It’s my treat," you say simply.

Seonghwa exhales through his nose, amused but not arguing. "I’ll pay next time."

The words slip out so naturally that neither of you reacts at first. But then your brain catches up—next time? Your heart does a small, unexpected flip, but you keep your face neutral. You don’t want to overthink it. Not right now.

Instead, you push yourself up from the floor. "I’m gonna go wash my face. You can use the bathroom too if you want."

Seonghwa nods, and you point him toward the small bathroom before heading in yourself.

You splash cold water on your face, trying to wake yourself up a little. The six-hour LEGO session drained you more than you realized. But at the same time, your heart is still lightly racing from the fact that Seonghwa is here.

You have a professional, mature reputation at university. No one there knows about your love for LEGO, and no one there has ever seen you this comfortable in your own space. Yet here you are, sitting on the floor of your apartment with a guy you just met, waiting for food like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

And the strangest part?

It doesn’t feel weird at all.

After freshening up, you step out and find Seonghwa sitting exactly where you left him, scrolling through his phone. He glances up when he hears you and gestures toward the bathroom. "I’ll go, then."

You nod, and the moment the door closes behind him, you take a deep breath.

What is happening?

You don’t have time to think about it too much because a few minutes later, Seonghwa returns and sits back down like nothing has changed.

You clear your throat. "So… do you build LEGO sets often?"

Seonghwa’s face lights up, and just like that, an easy conversation begins.

For the next twenty minutes, you talk about all the different sets you’ve built. You tell him about the ones you’ve streamed, the ones you keep on display, and even the ones you wish you had. Seonghwa listens intently, nodding along, his own enthusiasm peeking through.

"I have a whole shelf of them," he admits after a while. "I try to keep them organized, but sometimes I just want to rebuild everything."

You smile. "That sounds amazing. Do you have a favorite set?"

Seonghwa hums, thinking. "Probably the Millennium Falcon. It took me forever, but it was worth it."

Your eyes widen. "Wait, the huge one? The collector’s edition?"

He grins, and for the first time tonight, you see a small, excited sparkle in his eyes. "Yeah."

You let out a dramatic gasp. "I’ve always wanted to build that!"

Before Seonghwa can respond, the sound of a knock on your door interrupts the conversation.

Your food is here.

You quickly get up to grab it, thanking the delivery person before bringing the bags back inside. The smell is amazing, and your stomach grumbles in response. You set everything out on the floor, passing Seonghwa his order before taking yours.

For the first few minutes, you both eat in silence, enjoying the food. But soon enough, the conversation resumes naturally.

You talk about LEGO sets, favorite designs, dream builds—things that make both of you light up in different ways. At some point, Seonghwa starts telling you about his job. He doesn’t go into too much detail, but he mentions that he’s always busy, always moving from one project to another.

"You seem really dedicated," you comment between bites.

Seonghwa nods, chewing thoughtfully before replying. "I have to be. It’s not just about me. I have people I don’t want to let down."

His tone is soft but firm, and you can tell that he truly means it. There’s something about the way he talks about his work—something deeply passionate yet careful. Like he carries a lot more than he lets on.

You don’t press for more details, but something in your chest warms at the thought.

The conversation flows easily for the rest of the meal.

By the time you’re both done eating, the plates are empty, and the apartment feels cozier than before. Seonghwa leans back slightly, stretching his arms before glancing at you.

"This was nice," he says simply.

You nod, smiling. "Yeah. It was."

A small pause.

Then—

"What do we do about the LEGO set?"

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden return to the original problem.

Right. The set. The one you both paid for.

You glance at the completed build near the wall and bite your lip. "Well… what do you think?"

Seonghwa tilts his head, considering. Then, after a moment, he smirks.

"How about we do this again sometime?"

Your heart stutters.

"Like… another stream?" you ask carefully.

Seonghwa nods, a hint of amusement in his expression. "Yeah. We still have to figure out what to do with it, right?"

You don’t know why, but your face feels warmer than before. You weren’t expecting this. You thought maybe you’d part ways tonight and never see him again. But now, here he is, suggesting another meeting.

And you realize—

You want to see him again.

You want to keep talking, to keep building, to keep discovering all these little things about him.

So you meet his gaze, and with a small smile, you nod.

"Okay. Let’s do it again."

Seonghwa’s smirk softens into something gentler. He nods back.

"Good."

And just like that, something shifts between you.

Something new. Something exciting. Something you can’t quite name yet. But whatever it is…

You’re looking forward to it.

----- 

Three weeks pass in a blur.

You don’t talk to Seonghwa after the livestream—not because you don’t want to, but because neither of you makes the first move. You exchanged numbers that night, a simple, quiet exchange with no promises attached. You thought about texting him once or twice, maybe to ask how he was doing or if he had built any new LEGO sets since then. But every time, you hesitated.

What if he was just being polite that night? What if he didn’t actually mean to meet again?

So, life went on.

University kept you busy with classes, assignments, and group projects. Your livestreams continued, your hands assembling bricks on camera, but there was something missing. Some nights, when you sat on the floor of your apartment, scrolling through your phone, you found yourself staring at Seonghwa’s contact.

Should I text him first?

You never did.

And then suddenly—

Bzzz.

A notification pops up on your phone in the middle of your lecture. You glance down, expecting it to be from a friend or a reminder about an upcoming deadline.

Instead, it’s from Seonghwa.

Your heart skips a beat. It’s a picture. A LEGO Millennium Falcon box.

Seonghwa: "Wanna build it together?"

Your fingers tighten around your phone. You blink, rereading the message at least three times before your brain fully processes it. Seonghwa is texting you. And not just texting—you can practically hear his voice in the message. Calm. Casual. Like it hasn’t been three weeks since you last spoke.

You type back, trying to keep your hands steady.

You: "When?"

Seonghwa: "I’m free this evening."

You: "I’m down. Ready for this."

As soon as you send it, you slap a hand over your mouth. You probably sound too excited. Too eager. But before you can regret it, another message comes in.

Seonghwa: "Okay. I’ll send you my address."

And then, a moment later, a location appears on your screen.

You smile the rest of the lecture.

-----

The moment your lecture ends, you practically bolt out of the building. You catch the metro, tapping your foot impatiently as the train moves through the city. You check your phone more times than necessary, making sure you have the address right.

Eventually, you reach the correct stop and step out into a part of the city you don’t visit often. The streets are clean, lined with tall buildings that gleam under the evening sky. It’s quiet. Modern. The kind of place that feels expensive without being flashy.

Seonghwa lives here?

You follow the directions, weaving through the streets until you find the right building. It’s tall, sleek, and way too nice compared to your student apartment. The lobby alone looks like something out of a high-end hotel, with polished floors and a massive chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

You swallow.

Just how successful is he?

Shaking off your nerves, you make your way to the elevator and press the button for the floor Seonghwa mentioned. Your heart pounds a little faster with every passing second.

When the elevator doors open, you step into a quiet hallway. You glance around, searching for the right door number. Finally, after a few steps, you find it.

Taking a deep breath, you raise your hand and press the doorbell.

A few moments pass.

Then—

The door swings open.

And standing there, dressed in casual black sweats, hair slightly tousled, looking effortlessly cool and handsome, is Seonghwa. He meets your gaze. His lips twitch slightly, like he’s fighting back a small smile.

"Hey," he says, stepping aside. "Come in."

You swallow. This is real.

And as you step inside, the door clicking shut behind you, you realize—

You’re about to spend the evening building LEGO with Seonghwa.

Again.

And for some reason… that makes your chest feel lighter than it has in weeks.

As you step into Seonghwa’s apartment, the first thing you do is take in your surroundings. It’s nothing like your small student apartment—it’s spacious, with large windows letting in the soft evening glow. The furniture is modern but cozy, with a few personal touches scattered around the living space.

Seonghwa notices you looking and tilts his head slightly. “I live with two friends,” he says casually, walking further inside. “But they’re both away right now.”

You nod, feeling a little relieved. You don’t know why, but the thought of meeting his roommates right away makes you feel a little nervous. It’s easier like this—just the two of you, without any extra eyes.

Seonghwa gestures for you to follow him down the hall, and you do, curious about where he’s leading you. After a moment, he stops in front of a door, pushing it open and stepping aside so you can enter first.

It takes you less than a second to realize where you are.

His room.

But more importantly—

Your eyes widen as you take in the massive collection of LEGO sets displayed on the shelves and along the walls.

Some are familiar, ones you’ve dreamed of owning but could never justify spending money on. Others you’ve never even seen in real life before. You step closer, carefully scanning the shelves, recognizing Star Wars ships, intricate buildings, and massive structures that must have taken hours—no, days—to complete.

“This is amazing,” you breathe, eyes darting from one set to another. “I’ve only ever seen some of these online.”

Seonghwa chuckles behind you, the sound soft. “Yeah? I’ve been collecting for a while now.”

You glance at him over your shoulder. “Some of these are insanely expensive. You must really love building.”

His expression turns a little sheepish. “I do,” he admits. “Whenever I have time, I like to just sit down and work on something new. It helps me relax.”

You smile. “I get that.”

For a few moments, you admire his collection in comfortable silence. There’s something about standing here, in a space so personal to him, that makes your chest feel warm. You’re used to building alone, sharing your love for LEGO through a screen, never really sharing the experience with someone else in person. But Seonghwa—he gets it.

Eventually, Seonghwa leads you back to the living room, where a massive box sits waiting for you. You recognize it immediately—the Millennium Falcon set.

He gestures for you to sit, and you do, still buzzing with excitement. But as you scan the room, you can’t help but feel like something is missing. Your eyes flicker to the corners of the room, searching for something specific.

A camera.

You hesitate for a moment before asking, “Are we streaming this?”

Seonghwa shakes his head. “No. Not this time.”

You blink at him, a little surprised. “Oh.”

“I just… prefer to build without a record sometimes,” he explains, rubbing the back of his neck. “Feels more personal that way.”

You nod, understanding. In a way, you agree. Livestreaming is fun, but there’s something special about building just for the sake of it—without an audience, without distractions.

With that settled, you reach for the box, unable to hold back your excitement. “Should we start, then?”

Seonghwa smiles, and just like that, the evening truly begins. The moment you unbox the set, your heart skips a beat.

The sound of rustling plastic, the sight of neatly packed LEGO pieces, the smell of fresh bricks—it’s all so familiar, so comforting. You run your fingers over the instruction booklet, already eager to begin.

Seonghwa watches you with amusement. “You really love this, don’t you?”

You glance up at him, grinning. “You don’t?”

“I do,” he admits. “But I think I may like seeing you get excited more.”

Your cheeks warm at his words, but before you can react, Seonghwa reaches into the box and starts sorting the plastic packages. He hands you the first set of pieces, letting you take the lead.

“You can build most of it,” he says. “I already did one before.”

Your head snaps up. “Wait—you already built this?”

Seonghwa nods. “Yeah, a while ago.”

You remember that you just saw one finished in his room. Why did he have two of these? “Then why did you buy another one?”

He shrugs, looking away for a second. “Felt like a good excuse to build with you.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

For a moment, you don’t know what to say. Your fingers tighten around the plastic package, and you will yourself to stay calm.

Maybe he doesn’t mean anything by it. Maybe he just wanted company. Still, the warmth in your chest lingers. Shaking off the feeling, you focus on the build.

The two of you fall into an easy rhythm. You concentrate on the small details, carefully assembling each section while Seonghwa helps with sorting pieces. Occasionally, he reaches over to connect a part you’re struggling with, his long fingers brushing yours in the process. Each time, your heart stutters just a little.

Between the quiet clicking of bricks, you talk.

You tell him about your studies, the stress of group projects, the pressure of balancing work and university. He listens attentively, nodding along and occasionally asking questions. Then he shares his own experiences—his rehearsals, his schedules, the ups and downs of his work. Still he doesn’t say clearly what he does for a living so you have to guess what it could be. He looks good so maybe he is a model? 

The conversation is surprisingly comfortable.

You weren’t expecting this, weren’t expecting to feel so at ease in his presence. You had assumed the silence would be awkward, but it’s not. It’s natural.

Somewhere in the middle of the building, Seonghwa’s phone vibrates. He checks it quickly, typing out a short reply before setting it down again.

You glance at him curiously. “Busy?”

He shakes his head. “Not really.”

“Who was it?”

“A friend,” he says simply. Then, after a beat, he adds, “Wooyoung.”

You raise an eyebrow. That name… Why did it also sound so familiar? 

“Should I be worried?” you ask just in case. 

Seonghwa lets out a soft laugh. “Probably.”

You grin but don’t press further. Instead, you return to the build, feeling lighter than you have in weeks.

As the hours pass, you lose track of time.

Eventually, as you place the last piece, you lean back, stretching your arms.

“We did it,” you say, staring at the completed Falcon. “Again.”

Seonghwa exhales, admiring the build. “Looks good.”

You glance at him, smiling. “Thanks for inviting me.”

His gaze flickers to yours. “Thanks for coming.”

The room falls into a comfortable silence, and for a moment, neither of you move. Then, Seonghwa speaks again, voice softer this time.

“Do you want to stay for dinner?”

Your heart skips a beat. You glance at the time—it’s late, but not too late. You could go home. But instead, you find yourself nodding.

“Yeah,” you say. “I’d like that.”

And just like that, the night isn’t over yet.

-----

Seonghwa moves toward the kitchen with an easy grace, his long fingers swiftly opening the fridge. He leans in, scanning the shelves before pulling out a few containers. “Are you okay with yesterday’s leftovers?” he asks, glancing at you.

You nod without hesitation. “Yeah, that’s fine.”

Seonghwa starts gathering utensils, and after a moment, you step forward to join him, standing beside the counter as he prepares the meal. The kitchen is cozy, the soft hum of the refrigerator filling the silence. You find yourself watching him as he moves, the way his hands handle everything with precision. There’s something comforting about it, something oddly domestic.

Just as you’re about to ask if he needs help, the sound of the front door opening interrupts the quiet atmosphere.

Your eyebrows lift slightly.

Seonghwa stills for a fraction of a second before exhaling, his shoulders subtly tensing. He turns to you, an unreadable expression in his eyes. “So… my roommates just got home.”

You blink. “Oh.”

He hesitates before asking, “Would you rather not meet them? I can… I don’t know, send them to their rooms or something.”

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “It’s their home. I should introduce myself.”

Seonghwa studies your face for a moment, then nods. “Alright. Just… don’t be too surprised.”

You narrow your eyes slightly. “Why would I be surprised?”

Before he can answer, a loud voice cuts through the apartment.

“YAH, PARK SEONGHWA! WHY DID YOU SKIP PRACTICE TODAY?”

You jump slightly at the sudden outburst, and before you can even process what’s happening, two tall figures stride into the kitchen. The moment you see their faces, everything clicks.

San. Mingi.

Park Seonghwa. 

Your breath catches. The pieces fall into place so quickly that you can’t believe you didn’t realize it sooner.

Seonghwa. Wooyoung. San. Mingi.

Ateez.

The names that had felt so familiar. The way Seonghwa had looked like someone you had seen before. Now, standing in the kitchen with two more members in front of you, the realization hits you like a truck.

San, the one who had yelled, stops mid-step when he sees you, his eyebrows raising slightly. Mingi, standing beside him, takes one look at you, then at Seonghwa, and his lips curl into a sly smile.

Seonghwa sighs, rubbing his temple. “I knew this would be awkward.”

San’s eyes dart back and forth between you and Seonghwa. “Uh… are we interrupting something?”

You open your mouth, but no words come out.

Mingi nudges San’s arm, smirking. “Dude, I think we just walked into something interesting.”

Seonghwa lets out a frustrated sigh. “No, you didn’t. We were just—” He gestures toward the counter where the food is. “—getting something to eat.”

San crosses his arms, clearly intrigued. “And who’s this?”

Seonghwa glances at you, waiting to see if you want to introduce yourself.

You swallow, trying to ignore the way your heart is racing. “Uh… I’m y/n.”

Mingi tilts his head. “And how exactly do you know Seonghwa?”

You hesitate, unsure how much to say. You glance at Seonghwa, silently asking if he wants to explain.

He exhales before answering. “We met at a LEGO store.”

San and Mingi blink.

Mingi bursts into laughter first, his deep chuckles filling the kitchen. “Wait, wait. You met at a LEGO store?”

San looks between the two of you, amusement dancing in his eyes. “You mean to tell me… Seonghwa finally found someone to build LEGO with in real life?”

Seonghwa groans. “Why do you make it sound like a miracle?”

“Because it is,” Mingi quips. “You never let us help you. And now, suddenly, there’s a girl here, and you’re making dinner together?”

You cough, feeling warmth rise to your cheeks. “I mean, it’s just leftovers…”

Mingi wiggles his eyebrows. “Leftovers together.”

Seonghwa scowls at him. “Go away, Mingi.”

San, still watching you carefully, suddenly narrows his eyes. “Wait a second…”

You tense.

He takes a step closer, studying you as if trying to piece something together. “Have we seen you before?”

Your heartbeat picks up.

“I don’t think so”, you answer honestly. “I mean, I wouldn’t think so at least?” 

“I think I have heard your voice somewhere?” San says. 

Mingi, catching onto San’s train of thought, snaps his fingers. “Wait. Your voice—” His eyes widen. “Do you do LEGO live streams?”

Your stomach drops and you look at Seonghwa. Seonghwa mutters something under his breath and crosses his arms, looking mildly annoyed that the conversation has turned in this direction.

You force yourself to nod slowly. “Uh… yeah.”

San gasps dramatically. “I KNEW IT.”

Mingi grins. “Oh, this is great. We’ve heard your streams before. We went to look at Seonghwa’s room and he was looking-.”

Your cheeks feel a little warm when you keep looking at Seonghwa. The last streams you had done with a voice was over a few years ago. Did Seonghwa search your channel after your stream together? 

Seonghwa glares at his members and speaks before Mingi manages to finish his sentence. “You guys are embarrassing her.”

San laughs. “Oh, we’re embarrassing her? You’re the one who brought her home and skipped practice and watched her old videos!”

Seonghwa sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I told Hongjoong I was taking the day off.”

Mingi winks. “To build LEGO with a pretty girl?”

Seonghwa smacks Mingi’s arm.

You bite your lip, torn between embarrassment and amusement. You hadn’t expected this night to turn into a full interrogation session by two of Ateez’s most chaotic members.

San leans against the counter, eyes twinkling with curiosity. “So, are you guys just LEGO buddies, or…?”

Seonghwa groans. “San.”

“What?” San shrugs. “I’m just saying. This is the first time you’ve brought a girl home that wasn’t one of our staff or friends we already know.”

You clear your throat, trying to salvage whatever dignity you have left. “We’re just friends.”

Mingi hums. “For now.”

Seonghwa looks done. “Both of you, out.”

San grins. “Alright, alright. We’ll leave you lovebirds alone.”

Seonghwa grabs the nearest kitchen towel and throws it at San, who dodges with a laugh. Mingi chuckles, grabbing a water bottle before nudging San toward the hallway.

“Have fun, you two. Don’t go wild with your LEGOs,” Mingi teases as they exit.

When they’re finally gone, you exhale, feeling like you just survived a storm.

Seonghwa shakes his head. “I am so sorry about them.”

You laugh, the tension finally easing. “It’s okay. They’re funny.”

Seonghwa sighs, rubbing his temple. “Too funny.”

You smile, glancing at him. “So… they really think this is a date, huh?”

Seonghwa meets your gaze, something unreadable in his expression. Then, after a moment, he simply says,

“Would it be so bad if it was?”

Your breath catches. You weren’t expecting that. Your heart starts pounding again, but this time, for an entirely different reason.

You look at Seonghwa, his dark eyes watching you with patience, a hint of nervousness hidden beneath his composed expression. You take a breath, letting the weight of his words settle.

“Is it okay if I think about it?” you ask softly.

Seonghwa doesn’t hesitate. “Of course,” he says, his voice steady but gentle. “I don’t want to pressure you.”

You nod, glancing at the half-prepared food on the counter before looking back at him. “What would your manager say about you dating?”

Seonghwa lets out a quiet chuckle, leaning against the counter. “You’d have to find out.”

You tilt your head. “Meaning?”

He smirks slightly, crossing his arms. “Meaning there’s no strict no-dating rule. It’s not forbidden or anything. As long as it doesn’t interfere with work and I’m responsible about it, it’s my choice.”

Your fingers drum against the counter absentmindedly. “That makes sense.”

He watches you, waiting. You can tell he’s not the type to push—he’s letting you come to your own conclusion.

You exhale, shaking your head with a soft laugh. “You know, I saw Mingi’s picture on some magazine a while ago, and then I’d see him on social media sometimes. Seeing him was  when I finally connected the dots.”

Seonghwa raises an eyebrow. “And what do you think now that you’ve figured it out?”

You give him a thoughtful look. “I think… it’s part of who you are. And if I were to try this out, I’d have to accept that.”

He nods, a small smile forming on his lips. “That’s true.”

You bite your lip, the idea of dating Seonghwa swirling in your mind. You think back to the way you’ve laughed with him, how natural it’s been to build LEGO sets together, how easy it is to talk to him.

And you think—if building LEGO is this much fun, what would happen if you could take trips to LEGO Land together? Or visit big LEGO stores? Would he get as excited as you over new sets? Would he drag you into limited edition events?

Your mind starts painting all these little possibilities, and before you can stop yourself, you’re already smiling at the thought.

From the other room, you suddenly hear a loud voice yell:

“JUST SAY YES!”

Your eyes widen as you snap your head toward the hallway. A second voice follows from another room:

“PLEASE SAY YES, HE’LL BE SAD OTHERWISE!”

You slap a hand over your mouth, muffling your laugh as Seonghwa groans beside you, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh my god.”

“They were eavesdropping?” you ask between laughs.

“They’re always eavesdropping,” Seonghwa mutters.

You shake your head, the warmth in your chest growing. Looking at Seonghwa, you see the faintest tint of red on his ears, and for some reason, that makes your heart race.

You glance toward the food still waiting to be finished, then back at Seonghwa.

“Well,” you say, tilting your head playfully. “We could start by eating this and… see where it goes?”

Seonghwa’s expression shifts—surprise flickers in his eyes before it softens into something warmer. A slow smile tugs at his lips, and he nods.

“I’d like that,” he says.

And as the two of you turn back to the meal, the voices of his noisy roommates still snickering in the background, you realize that maybe—just maybe—this is the start of something really, really fun.

The End. 

[punchdrunkdoc]

Part 4, Chapter 10

Summary: After the events of S3, Matt Murdock is trying to once again balance life as a lawyer and a vigilante. But he’s been scarred by loss and betrayal - will a mysterious new neighbour help him heal? Or will her secrets drag him back into the darkness? Notes: This is a slow burn romance with an original female character, told in 4 parts. There is mystery, intrigue, action/violence and angst - all the good stuff!

Also available on AO3 and Wattpad

Masterlist

Reference pics

————–

PART 4

Chapter 10

July 2021

Over 3 years since the Vanishing

Karen hurried through the cemetery, cursing under her breath. She’d meant to be here half an hour ago, but her little passenger had other ideas this morning - ones that involved being crouched over a toilet puking her guts out.

Karen pressed her hand over her lower abdomen as she flitted between headstones, still not used to the fact that she was pregnant - even though the morning sickness, tender breasts and hormone swings were providing ample evidence.

She eventually spied Calina - standing tall and alone beside a freshly-covered grave - and swore at herself again for missing the ceremony.

Calina glanced up as Karen arrived, and frowned. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, that’s a lovely welcome.”

Calina smiled. “Sorry, I’m just surprised. You didn’t have to come.”

“I wanted to be here for you. Well, that was the plan anyway. I’m sorry I’m late.”

“It’s okay. You didn’t really miss anything. Alma didn’t have any family in New York, so it was just me and the priest.”

Karen looked at the gravestone, noting the simple inscription.

Alma Schneider 1940 - 2021 Liebevolle Mutter

“What does the inscription say?”

“‘Loving mother’.”

Loving mother. Karen pressed her hand against her abdomen again, covering the little spark of life within. Those two words held a lot more resonance now than they did just a few months ago. “Did you chose that?” she asked.

Calina nodded. “She only moved to this country to be with her daughter, so I thought it summed up who she was. And now she’s with her daughter again. I know that would make her happy.”

“Do you believe in that?” Karen asked, surprised. “An afterlife?”

Calina shrugged. “Alma believed that. That’s enough for me.”

“And how are you doing? I know you were close to her, so this must have been a shock.” It was the main reason Karen had decided to come today. She was so worried about how Calina would cope with yet another loss from her life, terrified that it might tip her over the edge…

Calina just shrugged again. “I’m okay. I only knew her a short time. And I didn’t really keep in touch with her after I left New York.”

Karen studied her friend, gauging the truth of her words. Surprisingly…she did look okay. Better than okay, actually. She looked good.

The last time she’d seen Calina in person had been after her panic attack last year. She’d seemed frail back then. Thin and gaunt and fragile, and it had scared the hell out of Karen. They’d spoken a lot on the phone since then, and Calina had sounded like she was doing better, but it was such a relief to see that with her own eyes.

She looked healthy now. Strong. She’d put on weight and the dark circles under her eyes were gone. She looked like the Calina she remembered from before.

The knot of worry that Karen had been carrying for the past year eased, and she smiled at the other woman. “Let’s go get something to eat. We have a lot to catch up on.”

———

“Pregnant? Really?”

Karen felt her smile stretch. “Yup. It’s still early - I’m not quite out of the first trimester - but I wanted you to know. You’re my closest friend, after all.”

Calina matched her smile. “You’re mine too. And I think you’re going to be a great mom.”

“I hope so. I sometimes worry I’m being selfish, bringing a child into this world.”

It hadn’t been a planned pregnancy, by any stretch. Just a consequence of taking birth control with a 1% failure rate. But it still felt like a gift. One that she and David should - and would - cherish. But sometimes she wondered if it was cruel to subject a child to this world - a world so different from the one she was born into.

“You’re not being selfish. You’re being hopeful. The world isn’t always going to be like this - there are so many people working to make it a better place.”

“Like the Black Widows.”

Calina waved off the compliment. “We’re just one small part. I see all the time how much the humanitarian organisations are helping, and even just individual communities and people. We may have lost Matt, and Hell’s Kitchen may have lost it’s Daredevil, but there are people like that all over the world trying to make their little slice of it better.”

Karen stared at her friend in astonishment. “Who are you, and what have you done with Calina?”

“What?” Calina laughed.

“The last time I saw you, you were so pessimistic about the world. You called it ugly, and wanted nothing more than to escape it. What changed?”

Calina sipped on her coffee as she seemed to think about her answer. “Time, I guess. And the therapy sessions.”

“That’s good. So you’re really feeling better?” Karen could hear the concern in her voice, as well as the plaintive hope.

“Yes. I feel good,” Calina confirmed, before taking a bite of her sandwich.

Her appetite showed obvious improvement. Her skin had a healthy glow. She’d smiled more today than Karen could remember seeing over the past two years…and the biggest evidence that she really was better was her off-hand comment about Matt.

Nothing had been off-hand about Matt since he’d disappeared. Whenever Calina mentioned him - which she rarely did - she’d stumble over his name, as if the very sound of it pained her. And she could barely talk about him without tears forming in her eyes.

There was none of that today. And it made Karen realise that Calina really was going to be okay. She swallowed harshly, and ducked her head to hide her relieved tears.

“Are you okay?” Calina asked, not missing a thing.

“Yes,” she smiled shakily. “Just hormones.”

———

March 2022

Almost 4 years since the Vanishing

Calina stroked the back of her finger down the baby’s cheek, marvelling at the incredibly soft skin. At the perfectly formed ears, and the tiny cupid’s bow of her lip, and the veins she could see running across delicate eyelids, which fluttered as little Isabelle dreamed.

“She’s beautiful,” Calina whispered, afraid to wake the sleeping bundle in her arms.

“I think so,” Karen replied. “But I might be biased.”

Calina had never held a baby before - which was obvious to Karen as soon as she’d passed her squirming daughter over. Calina had sat stiffly on the sofa, not moving an inch, and Karen had laughed at the sight. “You won’t break her. Just relax.”

“She’s going to cry.”

“She’s not going to cry. She can tell that you’re nervous, so she’s feeling unsettled. If you relax, she will too.”

Calina had carefully settled her weight against the cushions, barely breathing as Isabelle wriggled a bit more, then slowly drifted off to sleep. Now Calina never wanted to let her go. And she regretted the time she’d missed with her. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner. We’ve been in Argentina under radio silence and-”

“It’s fine, I understand. Besides, you haven’t missed much.”

“Are you sure? I feel like I missed a lot.”

“Not really. For the first 6 weeks, she was pretty much just a lump that slept, ate and cried. Now she actually smiles and giggles - it’s the cutest thing. And she’s starting to show interest in the world around her—”

“I wasn’t talking about Izzy. I was talking about David.”

“Oh. That.”

“Yes, that. You said you were having trouble recently, but I didn’t expect to come here and find your husband gone. What happened?”

Karen collapsed back into her seat and sighed heavily. “Vanishing Sickness.”

“What the hell is that?”

“It’s the term they’ve come up with. On social media. It’s supposedly a combination of survivor’s guilt, depression, and a kind of intense melancholic homesickness. But not for a place - for a time. For how the world used to be.”

“And David has this?”

“Self-diagnosed,” Calina said, her voice sceptical. “And maybe he’s right…but it just felt to me that he couldn’t accept being happy. He couldn’t bring himself to properly move on and build a new life after losing his family.”

“But you’re his family now.”

“I tried to tell him that. To convince him of that. I went to counselling with him. Encouraged him to start the anti-depressants his doctor prescribed, but nothing worked. He couldn’t get passed what he’d lost.” Karen looked down, and picked at the threads in the cushion on her lap. “He started pulling away from me soon after I found out I was pregnant. I tried to ignore it - I just put it down to nerves about impending fatherhood. But after Izzy was born, he just…he didn’t want much to do with her. And then last month, he packed up his stuff and left. Said it was all too hard, and he couldn’t handle it.”

Karen looked away, and Calina could see her blinking back tears.

“I’m so sorry.”

Karen shrugged. “It is what it is. Maybe I should have fought harder for us. Or been more sympathetic - but it’s not like I didn’t lose people too. And I had Izzy to think about. She needed me more than he did.”

“I’m still sorry. I hate that you’re having to do this alone.”

“I’m not—” Karen pinched her lips shut, as if she’d let something slip.

“What were you going to say?”

“Nothing.”

“Karen…”

“Okay,” Karen relented with another deep sigh. “Soon after David left, I started noticing things. Around the house.”

“What things?”

“The broken porch light was suddenly fixed. The banging noise in my car that I kept meaning to see a mechanic about was suddenly gone. There was a new lock on my garden gate…that sort of thing.”

“Someone was taking care of you. A mystery good samaritan.”

“He didn’t stay a mystery for long. I caught him in the act a couple of weeks ago. I came home early from the grocery store - I’d forgotten my purse - and I found him up on my roof replacing a broken shingle. You should have seen the look on his face when he realised he was busted.” Karen smiled, as if reliving the memory.

“But who was it?” Calina leaned forward, as much as the baby allowed, intrigued by the story.

“A man I once knew. Frank Castle.”

“An old boyfriend?”

“No…”

“You don’t seem sure of that,” Calina laughed.

“No. I am. We were never together like…that. We just…I…,” Karen shook her head and laughed. “Me and Frank…it’s hard to distill into a few words. I don’t know where to start.”

“The beginning’s usually a good place.”

Karen smiled ruefully. “It’s kind of a long story…”

Calina gestured to the sleeping baby in her arms and the quietly snoring dog stretched over her feet. “I’m not going anywhere.”

———

“Wow,” Calina breathed, after Karen recounted her various encounters with Frank Castle. “That all sounds…intense.”

Karen huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, you could say that. Intense, dangerous, terrifying…”

“But, you care about him. Despite all that.” Calina could tell by the way Karen spoke about him.

“I do. I was always able to see through to the real him. The rest of the world just saw this unhinged, violent and angry murderer, but he was always more than that to me. He let me see more than that. He let me see the hurt and the pain that was fuelling him. God, he was in so much pain.”

“He lost everyone he loved in an instant.” Calina knew that pain well. Far too well.

“He did,” Karen agreed. “And it broke something in him. The last time I saw him… The last time I saw him I really thought it would be the last time. He was so convinced there was no light at the end of the tunnel for him. And he wanted me out of his life, to protect me. To stop me from throwing everything away for him. I practically begged him to let himself love someone else instead of another war…”

“And what did he say?”

“That he didn’t want to.” Karen’s voice broke, as if reliving the hurt of that rejection.

“What about now?”

Karen shrugged. “He’s…different. I don’t know if he just needed time, or if the Vanishing made him re-evaluate his life. Whatever it was, he decided it was safe for him to be a part of my life. And he decided that he wanted to be.”

“So you’re…together?”

Karen laughed. “I have no idea what we are. At the moment, he’s just helping out. Visiting every few days to see me and Izzy. But it’s enough. I’m happy he’s back in my life.”

“I am too. For your sake. I’m glad you’re not alone.”

“Me too.” Karen punctuated her statement with a yawn. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. You must be exhausted looking after a newborn.” Calina could see the dark circles under Karen’s eyes, and she seemed a little worn at the edges. But despite that, there was a contented aura surrounding her. As if she was exactly where she wanted to be, doing exactly what what she was meant to be doing.  “Why don’t you go upstairs and get some sleep. I can look after Izzy.”

“You just got here. I don’t want to sleep through your visit.”

“I was actually planning to stay for a while. I have a week’s leave built up, so I was going to spend it here, helping you out. If you’ll have me.” She nodded to Nika sleeping on the floor. “Well, us.”

Karen smiled. “That would be…honestly, that would be amazing. If you’re sure? A screaming baby at 3 in the morning is hardly relaxing vacation time.”

“It’s relaxing compared to my normal life, believe me.”

———

Later than night, Karen showed her where all the baby stuff was, talked her through changing a diaper and warming up some milk in case Izzy started crying, then she headed upstairs to bed - after much coaxing and reassurance on Calina's part. “Last year I negotiated a hostage release with a Yakuza boss while dodging sniper-fire from a helicopter. I think I can manage one tiny baby,” Calina joked.

“Let me know if you feel the same after your first dirty diaper.”

Calina laughed and shooed Karen upstairs. Then she settled back down onto the sofa, Izzy once again in her arms. This time, the little girl was awake, staring up at Calina with big blue eyes. “Hi there,” Calina whispered.

Nika - also awake now - jumped up on the couch, curious about the little human. She sniffed at Izzy’s feet and tried to get closer. Calina stopped her and gave her the command to lie down. Nika obeyed with a whine. “I know. But you’ll have to wait for her to get a bit bigger before you play with her.”

“Would you like that?” Calina asked the baby. “Having a dog to play with when you get older? I’m sure you two will be the best of friends.”

Izzy gurgled as if in response. Then she smiled. And it caused something in Calina’s heart to clench.

“Thank God,” Calina breathed. She’d been so worried that the serum would prevent her from forming a bond with this baby - her best friend’s precious child. But she felt something. Even if it was muted - a mere shadow of what it should be - she felt something.

And it was the first thing she’d felt in months.

Her emotions were all still there - and if she really, really focussed she could probably reach them. But she didn’t want to do that. She was content for them to remain distant. A swirling maelstrom, held at bay by the chemicals she was injecting on a regular basis.

She’d once stood at her bedroom window, in the Widow’s base in Maine, and watched a storm unfurl over the harbour. The clouds had darkened, blotting out the light. Fierce winds had swirled over the water, forming rough choppy waves that battered against the moored fishing boats. Rain had lashed down, and lightening had forked through the bruised sky. But Calina had been protected from it all. The thin pane of glass of her window had blocked it all. None of the rain or the wind or the noise had reached her, as she’d watched from her protected vantage point.

That’s how the serum felt to her. She was protected. Safe and untouched behind a glass wall, even as her emotions raged and stormed in the distance.

And nobody had any idea. She’d managed to keep the secret of the serum and how it was affecting her from her sisters. From Dr Gossard. And from Karen. As long as she smiled when she was supposed to. Laughed or frowned on cue. Looked angry or upset when needed…nobody suspected.

She was still putting on an act. Still pretending.

But it was so much easier to pretend to feel, than to pretend your feelings weren’t tearing you apart from the inside out.

———

January 2023

Almost five years since the Vanishing

Calina let herself into Karen’s back garden and gave her companion the command to stand down. Nika took off running around the yard, yipping happily at the birds milling around the water feature, the highly trained and focused dog turning into an overgrown puppy in the blink of an eye.

“I’m here,” Calina called out, stepping through the back door. “Sorry I’m late.”

She stopped short at the sight of a strange man in her friend’s kitchen. Her hand went automatically to her thigh where her gun would be holstered if she was in her Widow’s suit. The man’s eyes clocked the movement, and he frowned as he measured her up.

He looked battle-hardened, his dark eyes flat and emotionless beneath his heavy brow. There was coiled tension in his frame, the muscles in his forearm cording as he clenched one of his fists. The air around him seemed to crackle with barely constrained violence.

He shifted on his feet. Calina readied her stance…

“I see you two have met,” Karen said.

The tense atmosphere evaporated with that wry comment. Calina took a breath, and the man…changed completely. His mask-like expression dissolved into a smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. And his gaze warmed as he turned towards the woman in the doorway.

Karen stepped into the room carrying Izzy in her arms. “Frank, this is Calina. Calina, this is Frank. Please try not to kill each other.”

On spotting Calina, Izzy squealed with joy and held out her arms. Calina took the little girl and nuzzled her cheek. “Hey, birthday girl.”

Off in the corner, Frank leaned over to whisper something in Karen’s ear.

“You don’t have to,” Karen replied, putting her hand on his chest.

“It’s fine. I’ll let you two catch up.”

He pressed a kiss to Karen’s cheek. As they broke apart, they stared into each other’s eyes, their bodies swaying towards each other, and their connection so palpable it made Calina want to look away.

“Fank!” Izzy yelled out, breaking the spell.

“I haven’t forgotten you, munchkin,” he replied, obviously used to Izzy’s imperious commands. He kissed her pudgy hand and smoothed the wisps of blond hair on the top of her head. “Be good for your mom.”

“I’ll see ya round,” he said to Calina, nodding at her as he stepped into the backyard.

Karen and Calina watched from the window as he greeted Nika. “Hey, girl,” he crooned as he crouched down to ruffle the fur of her neck and scratch behind her ears.

“So he’s a bit of a charmer?” Calina commented, speaking over Nika’s happy noises and Frank’s gruff laugh.

Karen smiled. “In his own way.”

They continued to watch as he made his way to the bottom of the garden and out the gate. Just before it latched behind him, Calina caught a change in him again. The gentle, smiling man who’d kissed Karen was gone. The slightly awkward man - who could barely meet Calina’s eyes while saying goodbye to her - was also gone; he was once again the alert and wary soldier, his expression hard and impenetrable.

———

Later that night - after Izzy wore herself out playing with her new toys and romping around the backyard with Nika - Karen settled her into bed. Then Karen and Calina took up their usual spots on the chairs outside, both huddled under blankets and clutching hot drinks to stave off the icy chill in the air.

Karen gestured to the dog, sleeping peacefully on the cold ground. “Nika’s part husky - she’s bred for winter outdoors. What’s our excuse?”

“Tradition?” Calina suggested.

“Stupidity?” Karen countered.

They both laughed.

“So…Frank,” Calina said, broaching the subject she’d been itching to return to all day.

“What about Frank?”

“Things seem to be going well with you two.”

“Yeah.” Karen smiled as she stared into her mug. “It’s funny. With David, I couldn’t accept the scraps he was willing to give me. I felt like, if he couldn’t step up and be a decent husband and father then him leaving was for the best. But with Frank, it sometimes feels like scraps are all he has to offer, and I don’t care. I accept them gladly. And maybe that makes me a hypocrite or a bad feminist or like I have no self esteem, but I just…”

“You love him.” Calina may have been cut off from her emotions, but Karen’s were plain to see - she lit up every time she mentioned Frank’s name. And Calina may have only been around Frank for a matter of minutes, but his feelings had been pretty clear too. “And he loves you.”

Karen sighed. “Which is both a blessing and a curse.”

“What do you mean?”

“I read a quote once. Back in high school, I think. It always stuck with me. And when I met Frank, it finally made sense. ’Then I understood the true fate of Orpheus, that-”

“‘Love is a constant terror of loss.’” Calina finished, recognising the Polish poem.

“I don’t know if Frank will ever be able to get past that terror. To let himself be a part of a family again. But I love him. For who he is, not who I want him to be. And I think that was the problem with David. I never loved him enough. I…I think I settled for him. I saw someone easy. Uncomplicated. And I thought that was what I wanted.”

“But it turns out you really want difficult and complicated.”

“Yeah,” Karen laughed. “I guess so.”

“Well I’m happy if you’re happy. I just don’t get why you’re always so cagey about you and Frank on the phone.”

Karen shrugged. “I guess I’m used to hiding how I feel about him. Foggy and Matt never understood. God, Matt especially. I think he’d be horrified at the idea of us together.”

“Matt was always too judgemental.”

Karen looked taken aback.

“What?” Calina asked.

Karen shook her head. “Sorry, I just never thought I’d hear you talk about him like that. I always worried you had him up on some sort of pedestal.”

“No. I knew he wasn’t perfect. I guess we both have a weakness for violent, imperfect and complicated vigilantes.”

Karen raised her mug, and toasted the sentiment. “To complicated vigilantes.”

Calina lifted her own mug, before taking a sip of the hot chocolate.

“What about now?” Karen asked, almost hesitantly.

“What?”

“Is there…anyone in your life?”

“Complicated vigilantes don’t exactly grow on trees,” Calina joked, trying to steer Karen away from that topic.

“I’m serious.”

Calina sighed. “No. There’s no one.”

“Has there been anyone? Since Matt?”

“No.”

“Not even a one night stand? It’s been over 4 years…”

And for the first two of those, I’d been a wreck, Calina thought. She’d never even entertained the thought of being with someone else back then. She’d spent all her time and energy just trying to hold herself together.

And now…the serum basically eliminated any and all feelings of desire or arousal. She didn’t want anything. She didn’t yearn for anything or anyone. She didn’t find pleasure in food. She wasn’t moved by art or literature.

She didn’t dream anymore.

And that was fine. It was a trade-off she was willing to make.

But she couldn’t admit any of that to Karen. So she gave her friend a different truth - one equally as valid. Because Calina suspected that even without the serum, she would still be alone. “Before Matt, sex never used to mean anything to me.”

“But Calina,” Karen said, her voice gentle. “Honey, that wasn’t sex. When you were a Widow…before, on those missions…it wasn’t sex. It was a form of rape.”

Calina flinched at the word, a visceral reaction that seemed to bypass her emotionless state - as if her body remembered, even if her mind was still somewhat in denial. “Regardless, it shaped the way I approach sex now,” Calina explained. “It’s not just some…bodily function to me. Mindless pleasure for the sake of pleasure. I need something more. I need a connection with the other person. It has to mean something. For me to give myself over to someone…it has to mean something, like it did with Matt. But I don’t think I’ll ever find that with anyone else.”

“You don’t know that. Matt wouldn’t want you to be alone forever, mourning him.”

“It’s not about that. I just don’t think I’m cut out for a relationship. If I couldn’t make it work with Matt…” Calina shrugged.

“What are you talking about? It was working. It was only because of Thanos—”

“We had a fight,” Calina interrupted, needing her friend to understand - so they could finish this conversation and never return to it. “Just before Matt disappeared, we had a massive fight.”

“But you guys always made up—”

“This felt different. It brought to the surface the fundamental problems with our relationship.”

“Which were…?”

“He never trusted me—”

“Calina-”

“And I never felt worthy of him,” Calina finished.

One benefit of the serum was that she was able to dispassionately evaluate her relationship with Matt. Without her feelings clouding her judgement and colouring her memories, she could look back and see the truth of what they were.

Their connection had been intense. Wonderful. And life-altering - in more ways than one. But she’d been fooling herself the entire time. They never would have stayed the course.

“It’s like a catch-22 thing,” Calina explained. “If a man is able to accept my past, and who I am and what I’ve done - and he loves me anyway - then that just proves he’s too good for me. Which means it would never work out between us. And if he can’t accept who I am, then it also wouldn’t work out. So either way, I’m on my own.”

Karen frowned, and studied her like she used to do when she was worried about her mental state. Calina replayed the conversation in her head and realised her mask had slipped - she’d been a little too dispassionate. A little too glib and analytical in her responses.

Karen would expect her to be upset by her conclusions. To feel pain or regret. To feel something. Instead she’d spoke about her relationship with Matt - and the prospect of being alone forever - with all the emotion of a chat about the weather.

Shit.

“Calina, is everything okay?” Karen asked, still looking at her with concern. “Are you okay? Really?”

“I- I’m fine,” Calina replied, injecting a slight stutter into her words, trying to make herself sound more human. “I think I’m just tired. Can we not talk about this anymore?” She forced a note of sadness into her voice. Then blinked a few times and looked away, as if trying to hold back tears.

It was a stellar performance. A masterclass in manipulation.

The Red Room had trained her well, after all.

“Yes, of course,” Karen said, sounding guilty. 

And Calina felt an echo of that guilt, a hint of it seeping through that pane of glass.

Just a hint…but enough to make her feel like the worst person in the world.

-------

Chapter 11 is coming soon...and that's where we'll be catching up to present time. Who's excited??

And please forgive me for indulging my Kastle shipper heart. What can I say? They deserve a happy ever after too.

Tag list: @hollandorks @stilldreaming666 @sio-ina-bottle @tearoseart-blog @acharliecoxedfan @freckledbabyyy @chezagnes

If you’d like to be added - let me know!

[foundress0fnothing]

For @beesays. I’m sorry this update took so long 💕

So, so, so many thanks to @violetasteracademic for helping work out the plot issues that have been stymieing me for months and for betaing this chapter (aka making me slow down and actually do some worldbuilding). ILY ♥️

Read on ao3 or under the cut!

October, 12 years ago

“You flatter me, darling.”

Rhys studied Feyre’s work as he leaned against the wooden frame that held their easels—a habit she hadn’t managed to discourage no matter how many times she had shoved it out from under him. He always righted himself with a frustratingly feline grace and a smirk before settling down to pester her for the day.

Feyre held up her pink oil pastel stick threateningly, and as she watched Rhys take a healthy step back out of fear that she might smear it on his black sweater (information she gleefully filed away for the next time leaned on their stand), the bell rang to signal the end of the school day.

She sighed and dropped the stick back into her supply case, then grabbed a cloth to wipe her hands off. “Stop peeking.” Even so, she tilted her head to look at the portrait of Rhys she’d been working on. It bore the swirls of color punctuated by harsh black lines that were slowly solidifying into a style unique to her, but it was still a good likeness of him. There was something in the set of the jaw, in the spark of the eyes, that was quintessentially Rhys—his joking mockery, his quiet pride. She was pleased with him—with it. 

Feyre turned to gather the rest of her things, but Rhys had already bundled them into her bag and hoisted it up on his shoulder. She scowled up at him, and he raised an eyebrow. “Something wrong, darling?”

“I can carry my own bag.” She stood up and held out her hand expectantly.

Rhys ignored it and turned to walk out the door, calling out over his shoulder,“But why would you?”

“Asshole,” Feyre grumbled to herself before quickening her pace to try and catch up with him. He was halfway down the hall by the time she managed to reach him. She yanked on her bag, and Rhys let her pull it off of him with an exaggerated sigh. 

“Don’t say I never did anything nice for you.”

“Yes, because stealing my bag is the definition of ‘nice.’”

“It looked heavy.”

“Rhysand—”

“Darling, not my full name…”

“Such a drama queen.”

“You like it.”

Feyre only hummed, but the grin Rhys flashed her told her that he knew he was right.

As they reached the front doors and started walking toward the parking lot along with all the other students streaming toward cars and buses, Rhys grabbed her hand and started steering her toward where his car was parked. “Do you have to go home right away?”

Feyre thought of what was waiting for her at home—a sullen father, an empty fridge, fighting with her sisters over a hot shower. She had already worked a shift at the cafe that morning, waking up at 3:30 to squeeze in a few hours before the school day started, and Alis, the owner, was adamant that Feyre only worked one shift a day. So whatever Rhys was planning, it had to be better than what her evening would otherwise hold. “No—why?”

“I have someone I want you to meet. I think you’ll like each other.”

“Who? One of your soccer bros?” Feyre looked up at him as he slowed, realizing that they had arrived at his car. It was far nicer than she thought a high schooler needed—some flashy Mercedes-Benz —and she tried not to let herself balk at the casual display of wealth.

If he noticed her discomfort, Rhys didn’t comment on it. “Not quite. Although I’m happy to introduce you to Cassian if you’re looking for the typical asshole athlete experience.”

“Isn’t that what I’m getting from being here with you?” Feyre teased.

Some emotion flashed across his face, but it was gone before she had a chance to guess at what it might have been. For all that they had grown close in art class—being forced to study each others’ faces for weeks had a way of bringing people together, she supposed—so much about Rhys was still a mystery. 

“I suppose you’ll have to wait and see, darling.” He had come around to the passenger side of the car as if to open the door for her, and waited with an expectant expression.

Feyre studied him. She liked what she saw in him, despite the super star athlete persona he projected to everyone else. And she wondered if she’d like him even more if he let her in enough to unravel the parts of him that were still mysterious. She hoped so, anyway.

So she arched an eyebrow. “Well? Are you going to get the door for me like a gentleman?”

“I’m not a gentleman, Feyre,” he purred as he pulled the door open and waited for her to slide in. “I’m only here to get a better view of the prettiest girl in school as she slides into my car.” Rhys looked her up and down and winked before closing the door behind her.

She rolled her eyes and flipped him off through the window. “Prick.” 

“I heard that,” he said, sliding into the driver’s seat. 

“I meant it.”

“I hope so.”

They bickered back and forth on the short drive from the school to the town center until Rhys pulled up in front of the ice cream shop.

Feyre frowned at him. “Ice cream? In October? Shouldn’t they be closed for the season by now?”

Rhys scoffed as he climbed out of the car. “Ice cream is the correct choice for any weather.”

“Rhys, that is absolutely not true.”

“And,” he said, as he held open the door for her, “I wasn’t going to bring you to Alis’. As lovely as it is, I didn’t want to ask you to spend more time today at your job.”

Before she could ask Rhys how he knew where she worked, a voice belonging to someone she had never met before called out her name. “Feyre Archeron. I’ve been begging for him to introduce us for weeks.”

“Yes, thank you, Mor.” Rhys looked slightly mortified. “Feyre, may I introduce you to the perpetual pain in my ass, my cousin, Morrigan Datiles?”

“Hi, Mor?” Mor repeated Feyre’s greeting, an incredulous tone coloring her voice. “It’s been a decade since I last saw you and all you have to say is ‘Hi, Mor’?”

“Yes?” Feyre grimaced, looking up to meet Mor’s eyes in the mirror. 

“I had heard…” Mor trailed off, her eyes flicking away from Feyre’s for a moment. But then she took a breath, and started in again. “I had heard that things with Tamlin didn’t end up working out.”

“Nope.” Feyre popped the p at the end of the word and broke Mor’s gaze, grabbing the mascara tube that lay on the bathroom counter and returning her focus to her reflection in the mirror. She hoped that Mor would pick up on her less-than-subtle hint that the events of the last year were not something she was interested in discussing right here, right now. Or ever, she thought privately.

But it didn’t matter whether Feyre was interested in discussing things or not; Mor had never been one to leave things alone.

“I thought you couldn’t wait to leave home. That was your one big dream. You were going to move out to New York and open your gallery and—”

“Well, dreams change,” Feyre interrupted, not wanting to hear a litany of her decade of failure. And one that wouldn’t even include the worst of it all—the pieces of herself that she had given up, one by one, until she was nothing more than Tamlin’s fiancée who could offer an interesting art history tidbit here or there so he could impress his coworkers with his bohemian artist of a partner. 

And it wasn’t just herself she had lost, she thought, glancing up at Mor. The other woman was studying her with an expression of something close enough to pity that Feyre felt herself bristle and turn back to Mor. “My dream right now is to not look like shit, serve this party so Nesta doesn’t fire me, and then go home to sleep it off.”

“O-kay.” Mor raised her hands defensively as she drew out the word, the pitying look changing to something sharper, which didn’t feel much better to Feyre. With a devastatingly effortless hair flip, Mor turned to face the mirror, touching up her lipstick and washing her hands. 

Feyre let out a silent huff of air. For all that she had hoped to avoid interacting with her old friends today, she didn’t want this to be the way her first time seeing Mor in a decade went. They had been friends—good, close friends—once, and even though they weren’t anymore, it didn’t feel right to Feyre not to honor that closeness they used to have.

“I’m sorry. For snapping.” She bit her lip and tried to find the right words. “It’s been … shit. Obviously. And now I’m back, and Nesta let me join Valkyrie Events, and—” Feyre could feel herself rambling but couldn’t seem to stop now that she had finally started explaining herself to Mor, “—and I don’t normally have to serve the events but Dierdre is out, and so they need me, and it’s not how I wanted everyone to see me, but—”

“Everyone, huh?” Mor interrupted, a skeptical look on her face. Her expression was still more severe than usual, but something familiar, almost playful, flashed in her eyes. 

“Yes, everyone, Mor.”

“You had to know that people were going to see you now that you’re back in town. Velaris isn’t that big.”

“I’m aware.” Feyre scoffed, as if she hadn’t complained endlessly about that exact thing when they were back in high school. “I just didn’t want them to see me like this.” She gestured at the black Valkyrie Events server uniform she was wearing and then crossed her arms.

“You wanted a big, fuck-you-all, revenge-dress moment?” Mor wrinkled her nose.

“Maybe,” Feyre sniffed, ignoring the slight prickling of tears she felt in the corners of her eyes. She could sense Mor’s disapproval, but she didn’t care. Was it so wrong to want the first time that people recognized her as Feyre Archeron to be when she could look cool and unaffected and devastatingly hot, and not when she was sweaty and overtired and offering them some dry appetizer?

“Feyre,” Mor’s voice had turned gentle, having picked up on her defensiveness, “no one here is laughing at you. You don’t need a revenge dress moment. Not for any of us, anyway. We’re—” Mor cut herself off, but Feyre could feel the word “friends” hand in the air for a second. 

“Mor…” Feyre started, hoping to smooth over the awkwardness somehow, but Mor held up a hand.

She looked Feyre over for a few beats before nodding, clearly having decided something.

“I’ll help you.”

“What?” Whatever Feyre had been expecting her to say, it wasn’t that. 

“I’ll help you. I’ll get you through this party without having to deal with everyone,” and the emphasis she placed on the word made it clear that she knew exactly who Feyre meant. “As best I can, anyway. A reunion can be on your own terms—although, some things might be different. People have changed. Moved on.”

Mor paused, and then smiled, the first real smile Feyre had seen from her. “But not me, bitch.” The sudden change in tone caught Feyre off guard, and she snorted. “This is our reunion and I have not moved on, and so after we make it through this party, we’re going out and you’re paying for all the drinks I want.”

“As long as you don’t want more than two drinks, I think I can swing that.” Feyre smiled tentatively. 

“It’s a date,” Mor said. “Now please let me give you some lipstick. This clean girl look is tragically too high-school-Feyre to stop everyone from recognizing you.”

After a nod to signal her permission, Mor started brushing the color over Feyre’s lips, and for a beat, it felt like they were still back in high school—Feyre skipping sophomore lit and Mor using her free period to gossip and hang out without any of the boys around. 

But there were subtle differences too. Mor had clearly grown into herself—she had always been beautiful, but there was a subtle confidence that Feyre didn’t remember her friend having at eighteen. And there was so much about her that Feyre didn’t know anymore. They were friendly again, sure, and Feyre thought—hoped, really—that there was the potential for them to be close again too. But all of that would take time.

Time that Feyre resolved to make. Whatever else happened tonight, she and Mor wouldn’t be strangers any longer.

“God, you look hot.” Mor looked over her handiwork with pride, having dusted a few other products across Feyre’s hair and face while Feyre was lost in her thoughts. Feyre looked at herself in the mirror and couldn’t stop from sucking in a quiet breath. She did look hot—Mor’s makeup skills remained flawless—but the face staring back at Feyre reminded her too much of the woman she’d been with Tamlin, someone made-up, polished, quietly perfect, and entirely forgettable. She would take looking like her messy high school self any day over the pretty wallflower she had become to fit into Tamlin’s life.

But that wasn’t the point of tonight. Tonight was about not looking like herself. What better way to do that than looking like the person she had pretended to be for a decade?

“Okay, last thing.” Mor stepped out of her heels—black and staggeringly high with red bottoms—and nudged them over to Feyre. “Size 8, right?” 

“Mor, I’m not wearing your heels,” Feyre balked. “I’ll be fine in my vans. You can’t be barefoot.”

Mor just looked at her as if she was insane. “I have a backup pair in my car. Who do you think I am?”

Feyre rolled her eyes and stepped into the shoes, hating the pressure and strain she immediately felt in her calves and back. “I’m a waitress tonight, Mor. I don’t think heels are practical,” she all but whined.

“Tough. They’re penance for leaving me with just the boys. I had to make new friends, Feyre. It was so much work.” She paused, and her expression turned more serious. “You should meet them, Fey. After all of this tonight. I think you’d like them.”

“I…” Feyre didn’t know how to respond. Mor wasn’t wrong, she probably would like them. But making friends, putting down more roots—it was a sign that she’d be stuck in Velaris, just like she always worried. And while she didn’t mind it as much as she once might have, the thought of making a life here was a little galling.

As if reading her mind, Mor added, gently, “You need to start building a life again.”

“I know. I will. I am.” Feyre sighed. “I just need to get through this party first.”

A few hours later, Feyre stood by the door to the rooftop with a tray balanced in her hand. 

She had begged Nesta to let her sit out the first few hours of the party while the sun was sinking in the background, arguing (not incorrectly) that she should practice loading and holding trays first because she had never waitressed before.

Nesta had agreed, referencing some bowl Feyre had dropped and broken when they were kids and then subsequently ignoring the middle finger Feyre had thrown her way. She only looked Feyre up and down before wrinkling her nose and walking back toward the office. “Don’t trip over your stripper heels and ruin my party.”

“It’s not your party,” Feyre had called out after her.

“It’s my company.” The door snicked shut after that, effectively giving Nesta the last word.

Feyre had stuck her tongue out at the door, never feeling more like a younger sibling than she did in that moment, and made her way, feet aching already, to the kitchens.

But now that night had fallen, Feyre knew she couldn’t put off the inevitable much longer. Tray of mini sliders in hand, she stepped out on the rooftop and surveyed the space. 

And smiled.

Because the party was perfect. Everything she had envisioned, all the hard work she had put into making that vision come alive—it was all there in the glowing lights, the joyful guests, the miraculously still upright flower arch. It wasn’t quite the same as the paintings she used to create, but it was the first thing she had made in a long time that felt alive—that made her feel alive. 

Feyre hoped it was everything Azriel and his fiance—Eris, she had overheard while hiding out in the kitchens—could have wanted.

She spotted them talking with an older woman near the bar. Azriel looked much the same as he had a decade ago—dressed all in black, still breathtakingly beautiful and darkly brooding—although Feyre could tell, even from a distance, that he had a lightness in his fiance’s presence that wasn’t there before. Eris was tall and lithe and dressed immaculately in a dark green sweater that set off the red of his hair. His arm was around Azriel’s waist, the gesture familiar and easy.

They looked at home in the splendor of the rooftop party—at home, and happy, and in love. Feyre breathed a sigh of relief, of contentment for her once-friend. 

Which was then disturbed by a pointed throat clearing from Nesta, who had someone snuck up on her. “I realize that you haven’t been a server before, but I had hoped that the concept of a passed appetizer would have been evident enough even for you, Fey.”

“Yes, thank you, Nes. World’s best boss.” 

Feyre didn’t give her a chance to respond, because she knew that Nesta would only agree with her statement, instead steeling herself to begin moving through the crowd.

After the awkward agony of approaching the first few clusters of people and mumbling “Mini slider?” at them while avoiding eye contact, she felt herself relax. No one looked at her, really—they just took the food and continued with their conversations. The most anyone offered her was a perfunctory “thanks,” and Feyre wouldn’t have had it any other way.

A few times, out of the corner of her eye, she sensed Mor’s presence as she flitted amongst the guests (and presumably steered them away from Feyre), but no one else at the party gave her more than a passing glance to see what food she was carrying. She was perversely grateful for all the practice she had gotten over the last few years at fading into the background; it was almost second nature at this point to duck her head, to skirt around the edges of the room, to be completely forgettable.

When she only had a few things left on her tray, Feyre limped over to the bar and leaned against its surface, desperately trying to relieve some of the pain in her feet. Mor’s ability to weaponize guilt was unmatched. 

As if she had been summoned, Mor appeared by her side with a knowing twinkle in her eyes, apparently pleased at Feyre’s suffering.

“Here,” she said, holding out her half-full cosmo. “Sneak a sip. You look like you need it.”

She wrinkled her nose and gently shoved the proffered drink back in Mor’s direction. “I’m working.”

“No one will know.” Mor whined, her brown eyes wide and pleading, and Feyre snorted at the memory of her friend turning that exact look on teachers in high school who dared mark her late for classes that she was in fact late to.

Still, she shook her head. “Nesta will know.”

“She’s not that scary.”

Feyre only arched an eyebrow at that absolutely false statement, and Mor shrugged, uncowed, before taking a sip and saying, “Just make up an excuse. Tell her I bullied you into it.”

“Oh, so just the truth then?”

Mor giggled and then pulled Feyre into a hug with one arm, the hand with the cosmo holding it just out of jostling range despite Feyre’s surprised stumble into the embrace. “I missed this, Feyre. I missed you.”

She sighed, trying to ignore the stab of guilt Mor’s sincerity conjured up, “I missed you too, Mor.”

“Good.” She tossed her hair for emphasis, and Feyre couldn’t help grinning at her ridiculous friend. “I’ve got to go distract people before they realize who I’m talking to. But don’t forget—you still owe me drinks.” And taking the last two sliders, Mor stepped away, back into the crowd of guests. 

Realizing that Mor had just granted her a reprieve from the rooftop by clearing her tray, Feyre too began weaving through the party, keeping her head down and trying to make herself small (well, as small as she could be while wearing Mor’s heels) as she returned to the kitchens.

She had just reached the doorway where Nesta still stood when a round of applause began, and she startled and whirled around to face the party. As she looked at all the guests staring back at her, Feyre realized belatedly that she had been so focused on her escape that she hadn’t noticed the hush falling over the crowd, or that Eris had begun speaking and thanking all the guests, or that he had reached out a hand to indicate Nesta’s position by the door so everyone could thank Valkyrie Events.  

Feyre could feel the eyes that slid between her and Nesta, and she inhaled sharply as she imagined the flare of recognition that must be happening.

The youngest Archeron girl…

Hadn’t she left?

Good of her family to—

—Tamlin Greenthorne?

And so, without sparing the guests a second glance, Feyre turned and fled into the relative safety of the restaurant.

Maybe she could hide out in the kitchens for the rest of the party. Nesta would get over it. Probably. Or maybe no one actually recognized her. Right? It had been a decade, and who really cared anyway? Everyone had moved on. Everyone. Mor and Azriel and Cassian and—

“Feyre, stop!”

She knew that voice. The rich baritone made her stomach clench—hope, nervousness, hurt, all at once. It was too much.

Without turning around, she kicked off Mor’s stupid heels, bent down, picked them up, and then kept walking. She heard his footsteps growing closer, and, almost unconsciously, threw one of the shoes behind her, feeling a perverse giddiness at the sound of the thwack and the “What the fuck, Feyre? At my face?” that let her know she hadn’t missed her target.

She kept moving, hoping that a shoe to the face had been enough of a deterrent, but no—he wouldn’t take a hint, wouldn’t leave well enough alone, wouldn’t let her pretend that she had managed to go undetected. Asshole. Feyre raised the other shoe to throw it too—out of petulance and irritation more than a belief that it actually stop him—Rhys—from catching her, when a large, firm hand grabbed her wrist and spun her around.

“I wouldn’t do that, Feyre darling.”

[cussundria-nerd-kneal]

Oh I could go all DAY on this topic--

So, I am actually replaying Inquisition right now, and jut got to Skyhold, so the beginning is fairly fresh in my mind (mostly, lol). I'm going to be going in and out of my OC Lavellan a bit here and just general Inquisitor, but the baseline is, no matter what, I headcanon the Inquisitor to be a VERY intelligent individual, who learns and adapts ridiculously fast to their situations. My OC Emmerie Lavellan is a mage in my world state (Obviously Dalish), and because of the fact that she's never had a formal education, she's always surprising everyone around her at how fast she picks up concepts, and applies the new information she just learned. My OC!Lavellan is perhaps not as intelligent as Solas or Dorian, but those two furthered her magical education, and they're both floored at how fast she progressed and refined her skills under their hack-job-learn-on-the-go tutelage. She isn't as smart... but she's still ridiculously intelligent, yeah?

Which now brings me to "Solas finding the Inquisitor curious and is very startled by how much she draws his attention:"

Solas, at the very beginning, is trying to save this mysterious woman's life, while also most likely trying very hard to get the Anchor OUT of her hand. Nothing is working. Perhaps he's coming to the conclusion that he's so weak, that he cannot extract from her safely, perhaps he's realizing the blasted thing has peramently adhered to her, and killing her is the only option of getting it unstuck from her. Which then begs the question -- how is she still alive? First off, she should have died when the foci orb opened and the resulting explosion, but she didn't. Second, she should have died again when the Anchor fused into her- it probably should have melted her from the inside out with how much magical energy is concentrated down into, but she's still kicking. Thirdly, she should have died when the Anchor knocked her physically into the fade. She should have died trying to reopen a Rift to walk back into the material world. But here she is, lying on the ground with his Anchor stuck in her arm.

How baffling must all of that alone been? Then, he's realizing that yes, his initial thought of "The Anchor should have killed her upon contact" is in fact, killing her. It is in fact, melting her from the inside out. But now, the world is being ripped apart by the Breach his orb created and there's mini Rifts opening up everywhere so it is extremely imperative that he save this woman's life, who now has the only way to close the Rifts, and close the Breach. But... she's in a coma, not unlike what he experienced when his Ritual went haywire and the Veil was created. No matter how much he is trying to save her, repress the Anchor and calm it, every time the Breach surges, so does the Anchor, and he's way too weakened to do much about it. So... he gives up on her. He figures her a lost cause, and if he sticks around, that Seeker lady is going to execute him for duplicity, so he high tails it out of there. Solas knows how to seal the Rifts, but the issues isn't the how, it's the capability. His Anchor is gone, and his power is diminished to not even a 100th of it's original power. He simply cannot close it. All he can do is kill these traumatized Demons pouring out of them. Just when he's about to make a run for it, there is the freaking Dalish woman, up and about, walking around, and looking right as rain! That's startling. But who cares about that right now, she's here and she's got the Anchor, and he knows exactly how to use it to close the Rift. So he grabs her, and pulling the power from her, closes it. Finally, a success.

But now this woman is staring at him with suspicion and is demanding to know how he knew how to do that. Huh. You'd think she'd be too overwhelmed with the current situation to ask such an insightful question. So he scrambles to deflect "No, no, that was all you, I didn't do anything!" (classic deflecting gaslighting tactic, he really says "I did nothing. The credit is yours.") After introductions are made, they're off to the next Rift, making their way to the Breach, and to his utter amazement and shock, with zero prompting from him, the woman closes the Rift perfectly on her own. He showed her ONCE, and now she has become quite proficient at it! What a remarkably quick learner. She doesn't even understand WHAT she is doing, most likely mimicking the sensation he provoked to pull the energy out and direct it into intent to close. But, she pulled it off flawlessly.

Now, from there, depending on how long you fart around, you can proc a banter dialogue exchange with Solas, and he's... himself, being pretentious about the Dalish, and no matter how you respond, the interaction is pretty charged with underlying hostility (mostly from Solas' side). But, from his perspective, his only interaction with the Dalish, have been pretty negative. They outright attacked him (regardless if it was well deserved, the guy sounded like he was an egotistical dick when he approached, lol), when all he wanted to do was form a connection. So, this mysterious woman is a Dalish? She's intelligent? Learns quickly? Well that is recipe for disaster given how hostile her people are! But she responds with: "We are of the same people, Solas." And... he's surprised that she is the one to try and find common ground, when her people denounced him and literally chased him off every attempt he made to make contact. It's been literally a single day, and this random chick keeps throwing him for a loop. Survives a huge explosion, survives the Anchor, doesn't wake up, then gets up on her own after he leaves, closes Rifts by herself after ONE demonstration, has enough wherewithal to ask probing questions in a hostile environment, is not nearly as hostile or as racist as her kin, and she's skilled enough at magic to hold her own against demons. Most likely she's NEVER had to be in active combat before, and has NEVER needed to be exposed to demons, and she's holding her own perfectly alongside trained combat professionals. AND THIS IS JUST THE FIRST 30 MINUTES OF THE GAME. I haven't even touched upon the REST of the game, the other interactions, the Herald/Inquisitor must be such a big curiosity to Solas, because she is CONSTANTLY not doing what he expects of her. She doesn't respond like he expects she would, she doesn't behave like others would in her situation; she's driven, humble, intelligent and empathetic. She listens when others are talking to her, she is open to new perspectives that challenge her preconceived beliefs, she is always asking questions, always trying to understand the people around her. (Now of OC!Lavellan stuffs) but she is also extremely reckless and dives head first into scenarios that give everyone around her heart-attacks, and then wonders why people would care enough to want to police her reckless behavior. She's always the one foraging ahead, when she's a mage, and not equipped to take on the front lines like Cassandra, but she's always fighting right alongside her, using her foci staff like a beau (think back to DA2, when you could whack enemies when they got within melee range. I MISS that, and my Lavellan is enough of a hellcat that she will stab with her staff if you get in her business).

Lavellan is a completely confounding creature. I know from the bottom of my heart, he took an interest in her after that first day. It really feels inevitable that he would fall face first into first love, when he has such a rich well of curiosity parading around in front of him. I could go all dang day on this.

Just thinking about how jarring and maybe even scary it has to be for Solas, when he got his first thoughts of Lavellan as more than just the woman who happened to have his anchors power in her hand. A woman who undeniably has captured his attention.

Like, he's just minding his own business, and maybe he thinks about something she's said, or she walks by giving him a smile, or maybe it was when she first asked him about himself because no one has ever bothered to before. Or when she's staring up at him with genuine enthusiasm as he indulges her questions about different topics, like what he has to say is the most important and interesting thing she's ever heard.

Or maybe it was sooner than that? Maybe it was the moment he saw her lying on the cold floor of her prison cell as he did all he could to save this curious woman who had just walked physically out of the fade and lived. Or when he grabbed her hand bringing it to the rift, or her quick mastery of closing the portals.

Oh, I could think about them all day.

[fishyfishyfishtimes]

Recently extinct species make me sad for all the usual and normal reasons (loss of life, biodiversity and unique life forms that experienced the world wholly uniquely and acted in it like no other, to name three), but a big thing that also makes me so sad is the forgetting that comes right after. Many endangered species are greatly ignored to begin with whilst alive of course, which is awful, but the way that extinction also causes us to forget. A species could’ve been so abundant a hundred years ago, people would’ve used a fish species or a tasty plant for food, or parents would’ve warned their children to not put a poisonous toadstool or insect in their mouth, a diver would exclaim, “Aha!” after emerging from the shallows holding an especially big bivalve, or someone making a species diary would sketch out a local bird or fasten a single flower to the page. But.. then the species goes extinct. It doesn’t exist anymore. None of these events, these actions happen anymore. Not with these species. The people who had these experiences dwindle out and they may not even realise that their experiences were among the last of their kind. And we forget.