#tried to do something different with coloring

[rauspberries]

still a friend. - s.r.

sure hope it was one hell of a kiss, my friend.

spencer reid x bau liasion!reader.

summary: after your new boyfriend turns out to a murderer, spencer will do anything in his power to help you smile again.

tags: afab reader, sunshine x sunshine, mentions of guns, kidnapping, murder & other themes present in criminal minds, panic attack, hurt/comfort, forced proximity that’s not forced at all, i like to imagine it as later seasons reid [however there's no mention of prison arc], still a friend by the backseat lovers

word count: 3.1k

notes: ok hear me out. think about the episode 'lucky' and the episode 'penelope.' that's what i'm going for here. this is my first ever time writing spencer. it took me days. free me.

hey @reidswrld

If you closed your eyes tight enough, you felt like you were still there. Cold metal pressed against your temple, harsh words in your ears, the pull of rope against your wrists. Despite the familiarity of your home, decorated in low lights and multiple potted plants that were loved like your own children, you had been afraid. He had turned it into a place of fear, a spot for nothing but bad memories and bloodstains in your carpet.

It had been almost three weeks since your team had pushed into your apartment, only to be met with the sight of you bound to your dining room chairs, your boyfriend of only a couple weeks holding a handgun to your head. You loved those chairs, and had told the whole team about them right after you had purchased them. They were thrifted, hand-carved by an artist you never had the pleasure to meet. Shame that you’d never be able to look at them the same anymore.

Your boyfriend had been an idiot. A psychotic one, but an idiot all the same. He had left too much evidence behind with his three victims, making it too easy for your team to profile him and pick him out of their list of names. Once you had accidentally let it slip that the BAU was on the tail of their suspect, you had become a problem, needing to be eliminated. So he had tried.

You had worked as a liaison for long enough to learn a few tells of body language, or the original signs of psychopathic behavior. Despite this, you had missed all of them when it came to him. You had been too excited to find someone that could handle your busy and erratic schedule, someone that loved you for you, something that was rare in this day and age. You had even let his passive-aggressive demeanor slide, along with the comments that always tended to sting somewhere deep inside.

After he had been taken down by Morgan and Hotch, you’d wanted out of your apartment as soon as possible. JJ and Garcia had packed up your stuff based off of a small list you provided them once your hands and voice had stopped shaking. They had whispered in your presence, keeping secrets about the case to each other and asking if you were okay. They hadn’t needed to whisper – your ears hadn’t stopped ringing.

For a while, you stayed in a hotel, curled in the cool sheets that smelled like nothing as you stared at the plain walls, so different from the house you had turned into a home with wallpaper and pretty colors. For a while, you chastised yourself for not getting over it faster. You thought about how you should be stronger in times like these, especially with everything you saw on a daily basis in your job as the BAU unit’s liaison. Unfortunately, it was a lot easier to compartmentalize when it wasn’t happening directly to you. 

You weren’t like everyone else on your team, you couldn’t just act like these things didn’t happen.

You tried to trick your brain into producing serotonin. You attempted to shower every morning, eat three meals, even exercise in the seclusion of your hotel room. But every shower ended with you staring blankly at the wall, every meal went untouched, and once you were on the ground, you couldn’t get back up. 

As normal protocol, you were given a minimum of three weeks of leave in the wake of the event. For the first week, everyone took turns checking on you. Penelope brought you fun-colored stress toys that collected dust on the side table, while Emily and JJ sat with you to chat about anything but what had happened. 

And Spencer? Spencer brought you company. He sat at the desk chair in the corner, long legs stretched out as he babbled about anything and everything. Sometimes, he sat there quietly, only speaking up to ask you if you knew the answer to a certain crossword question. Usually, it was something easy, something he already knew. Like, a passionate declaration, like in marriage vows – the answer was too obviously avowal.

Each time he visited, he left a book for you, annotations directed towards you scribbled in the margins and tabs marking the parts he thought you’d like best. The first book, Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen, had a scrawl on the author’s dedication page, with Reid noting both opinions and facts about the book. You felt your lips twitch with the ghost of a smile as you read the definitions of both of the words in the titles and how they were related to the actual book, as you read the words and the facts the doctor had written in the blank spaces.

After a week of Spencer stopping by every day before and after work, you gave him the extra keycard to your room that you had been given when you checked in. A lot of the time you didn’t have the energy to crawl out of your bed, so it made it easier for you. Despite having the key card, he still always knocked, waiting on some type of verbal sign before actually opening the door and stepping in.

One night, he stopped by your hotel room, a take-out bag looped over his forearm as he rustled in his bag for the keycard. Once it was curled between his palm and fingers, he lightly rapped on the door, leaning his head closer to it to listen for your voice calling for him to come in. His brow furrowed when he was only met with the sound of your room’s AC unit and the faint sniffles it attempted to cover.

Immediately, he had bursted into your room after sliding the key card into the slot above the knob, long legs getting him to your bedside as soon as possible. His eyes had softened as he took in the sight of you sitting up, arms laced around your knees, which were pulled up to your chest defensively. Your eyes were dark, sullen, the whites of them red with irritation from pushing away tears. Even your breathing was erratic, chest rising and falling quickly until it sounded like wheezing.

Spencer had pulled you practically into his lap, your fingers gripping at the soft material of his sweater as his large hand ran up and down the expanse of your back. He had murmured soft words that didn’t quite register to you, however were soothing all the same, as he pressed your hand to his chest, letting you feel the steady beat of his heart.

Once you had finally been soothed properly, your breathing evening out as his hand slowed until it lay still on your spine, you explained to him that you had been woken by a nightmare, the same one that had been playing through your head for the past two weeks. Immediately, he insisted that you stay at his apartment. As if proving it would help steer your decision towards a “yes,” he spilled out facts about processing traumas, like how talking to people and reminding yourself of pleasant hobbies, along with being in a familiar place, would help with recovery.

Which is how you ended up curled up on his couch, fingers tracing the pages of the book in your lap. You had been picking through all of Jane Austen’s books since you had started sleeping on his couch, with Emma being your pick of the week. Spencer hadn’t gotten to annotating this one yet, too busy with a new case that had just come in, so you had plucked a pen off of his desk, scribbling notes just like he usually did. It didn’t matter much, since you tended to spill your opinion to him the minute he stepped through the door, however it kept your brain occupied.

Your head raises as you recognize the sound of his key in the lock, looking up and over your shoulder just as it opened. “Welcome home. I’m almost done with Emma. It’s quite amusing, less factual, so I’m not sure if you’ll like it, but it’s good.” You glance back down at the pages as you stick a receipt in the fold of the book, shutting it before continuing. “It’s about a matchmaker named Emma. She thinks she’s the best at it, especially because she set up the governess and a wealthy widower, but she ends up missing all of the signs that the men she’s matching are into her.”

As you speak, Spencer takes his satchel off, laying it on the armchair near the front door before slowly making his way towards his couch. A smile pulls at his lips as his fingers work to undo the buttons on his wrists, brow raising slightly. “You have been reading quite a bit since you settled in here.”

A soft huff leaves your nose as you settle back into the cushions, watching as he perches himself up onto the back of the leather couch. It feels wrong to be so comfortable in an apartment that’s not your own, but it’s almost impossible to not feel soothed by the dark wood that makes up his desk and bookshelves, which were stacked with books upon books of all different genres. The verdun color of the walls alongside the sets of patterned couch pillows and comfortable throw blankets were ten times better than the impersonable decorations of the hotel room you had lived in for two weeks.

“Well, you don’t have a TV, and you can’t play chess by yourself.” There’s a pause, and then you speak again. “Unless you’re you. And I’m not,” you add, pulling your knees up to your chest and wrapping your arms around them.

He folds the edges of his sleeves back towards himself, pushing up the fabric up to his elbows, revealing his forearms slowly. “Playing chess by yourself is actually the best way to learn how to play and hone your skills. Many professional chess players, such as Bobby Fischer, often play chess alone. It helps you learn the game and discover what type of player you are. It gives you more time to focus on your moves so that, in an actual chess match, you don’t run out of time before you know what to do.”

You toss the ballpoint pen in your hands at his chest, huffing in mock irritation as he easily catches it and tosses it back to you. “Good thing I’m not looking to switch career paths anytime soon, hm?�� Your brow quirks slightly, your amusement apparent only in that little movement.

“That it is.” He responds, still holding a soft smile as his coffee-colored eyes soften around the corners edges. His gaze averts downwards at his fingers as he starts to tug on them, growing sheepish. “How have you been?” 

Despite the vagueness and normalcy of the question, you immediately know what he’s referring to, suddenly finding the loose threads on the blanket over your lap very interesting. “Better,” you admit, seeing no reason to lie. “The nightmares aren’t as bad as they were back at the hotel, but they’re not gone. The panic comes and goes.”

Slowly, like he’s afraid he’ll spook you, he stands back up, moving around the couch before settling a cushion away from you. He leans back against the arm of the couch as he starts working at loosening his tie, pulling it over his head before laying it on his coffee table. “Do you want to talk about it? All aspects of trauma can be lessened by communicating it to a trusted individual. Not necessarily go through it again, like cognitive interviews, but speaking more about the depth of it. How you felt, why you still feel it even after that, the direct cause of feeling like you’re still there.”

Just like that, you’re setting your book aside, knees pulling up to your chest in an attempt to shy away. It’s funny how you can know body language so well and yet not stop yourself from giving yourself away with it. Knees to chest meant a multitude of things, such as defensive posture or an intense interest in wanting to leave conversations or situations. You had to look at the situation as a whole to figure out the exact reason, or the other cues. Hunched back and averted eye contact usually indicated sadness, fear or insecurity. The rub of your own hand against your arm indicated self-soothing. It was all about the context.

Spencer notices quickly, reaching out to brush his fingertips against your kneecap. Despite the soft touch, he doesn’t speak, lips pressing in a harder line as he simply gazes at you. He’s waiting for you to speak, to take in whatever information you’ll give him. 

Looking into his eyes, you realize why people call them ‘puppy dog eyes.’ Glancing into them, you’re ready to spill your guts about just about everything. You’re tempted to tell him about the candy bar you stole when you were in sixth grade, or when you tripped someone in the high school hallway because they kept shoving into you.

“I thought he liked me.” You mumble once you realize you had just been staring at him for the past few moments, plucking at the throw blanket again as you avert your gaze. “But looking back, he was a bit mean. He’d always make these little comments.” You clear your throat as you glance towards the ceiling, blinking quickly to try and avoid the sting of tears. “Like ‘didn’t you wear that shirt yesterday,’ or ‘sure you don’t want to change’?”

As you speak, Spencer’s hand moves to cup your entire kneecap, thumb brushing against the soft spot in the middle. His touch is warm, heating up the skin underneath your sweatpants. He can practically see the words on the edge of your tongue, allowing you to continue. 

Your focus doesn’t stray from the hand on your knee as you let the words fall out. “He’d knocked on my door. It was normal. Stepped inside, let me kiss him on the cheek. Thinking about it makes me want to gag.” One of your hands lifts to touch your fingers against your mouth, tracing the line of your lips as you remember the feel.

“You can feel the change in the room when someone goes from good to bad. I didn’t think it’d be like the movies and shows, where they describe their eyes as darkening or their smile as wicked, but it is. The energy changes. It feels like slow motion.” 

Your breathing picks up as you speak. Spencer’s quick to notice it, body leaning closer towards you, like he’s prepared to catch you if you fall. Your lips part in an attempt to speak again, but the words are swallowed by a soft sob. Before you know it, you’re tumbling down a hill, heart beating faster and breathing growing quicker.

Memories, the science that comes along with them, are all one hell of a thing. Everything about them has an effect on the brain. Things like sounds, smells, textures, they’re connected to the memories. Meaning if you think about them, if you feel them, you end up right back where you were at that time and place. Like how sunshine on your skin reminds you of days at the park as a young kid, or how the smell of flowers brings you back to the farmer’s market on a Sunday after you just moved to DC. 

Thinking about what led up to you being tied up to the chair, you can feel it. The icy chill of fear that cascaded over your back, the dread that sunk deep in your stomach, even the goosebumps that traveled up your arm. They’re all there. It’s like it’s happening again.

Your vision blurs around the edges as you struggle to take in air, hand grasping at Spencer’s for any type of support. You’re aware of what’s happening, but you cannot stop it, not even as you try to take in air into your nose and out through your mouth. His voice echoes in your head, but it morphs into something different, something distorted.

You’re only brought out of your panic by the feeling of lips on yours.

Your eyes widen at the shock of it, chest still heaving as your breath evens out. Your hand still clutches at Spencer’s as you feel your entire body relax, allowing yourself the comfort of kissing him back.

After your entire body has relaxed, your chest no longer hurting with the strain of lost breath, Spencer pulls away. His eyes are slightly wide as he looks at you, studying your face for any signs of being uncomfortable. “I’m sorry. Uhm.” He clears his throat, leaning away from you as he runs his hands through his hair. “Uh, kissing. It releases so-called happy chemicals, such as oxytocin and serotonin, tricking your brain into leaving the panic behind. It also helps you steady your breathing. Nothing else was working so, uh…”

As he trails off, you reach out to grab his hand again, giving it a soft squeeze. “Thank you.” It’s not meant to be a reassurance, but it's close enough. 

You watch as the panic slowly leaves his eyes, settling into only a soft worry, although his cheeks are still dusted with a light shade of pink. “You’re welcome,” he responds bashfully, eyes still looking down at his lap.

A soft laugh leaves your lips as you reach up to brush your tears away, leaning back into the couch again. After a moment of silence, you roll your lips into your mouth before speaking. “Can we go see a movie?”

Spencer’s brows raise in surprise, the lines on his forehead from focusing so much prominent. “Like, at a theater? Are you sure?” He’s still tugging at his fingers as he speaks, head tilting slightly as he assesses all of your body language.

You smile sheepishly at him, body slowly uncurling. “Yeah. I have a tough BAU agent to protect me, don’t I?”

He smiles brightly at that, eyes softening as he glances back up at your face. “That you do.”

[all444glo]

ˏˋ⋆ 𝑴★𝒈𝒊𝒄 ⋆ˊˎ-

warnings: this is my first fic, heavily mature!, mentions of stripping, drug use, alcohol use yadda yadda yadda.

summary: It’s Jude’s 21st birthday and he couldn’t be any more happier, he’s on vacation in the black city of sin. His american friends wanted him to get a taste of what atlanta girls were like. as soon he walks in he’s in euphoria.

Jude was nervous, though he tried not to show it. American club culture was a mystery to him, and Atlanta’s scene? Completely uncharted territory. It wasn’t his usual crowd, no where near it, but it was his twenty-first birthday, and he felt like he owed himself a change of pace. The UK clubs he knew had grown stale, he needed something new. he figured why not disappear into a space where no one would notice him.

“Gang, I’m telling you, this is gonna blow your mind,” his friend said, grinning as they headed to his favorite spot. Jude laughed quietly, turning the name over in his head: ‘Magic City’ The words conjured an image of some surreal palace, complete with wizard-themed strippers and glowing wands.

But as the car turned onto the street and the neon lights spilled across his face, he realized he’d imagined entirely wrong. Magic, indeed—but not the kind he was prepared for.

They pulled up to a small, run-down spot—a real hole in the wall. The parking lot reeked of dark liquor, weed, tobacco, and shame. This was way out of Jude’s element. He’d seen some shady pubs back home, but this? This was a whole different ball game. “What is this, man?” Jude asked, laughing nervously as his eyes darted around, head on a swivel. His friend just grinned, leaning against the car like he’d seen this a hundred times. “Nigga This? This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience, that’s what it is.”

Before Jude could say anything, his friend slapped a fat wad of cash in his hand—bills crumpled and messy, ranging from ones to hundreds. “Now quit tweaking’ and come on,” his friend said with a wide grin. “Enjoy your 21st, nigga!”

Jude was having the absolute time of his life, he felt completely detached from his body. He was off of several rounds of shots and numerous puffs of weed, alcohol and weed hitting much differently in the US than at home. his hand was soon grabbed by a dancer, her skin glowing in the multi colored lights. “you’re beautiful” he mumbled, his eyes red and low. his friend was heard cackling in the distance, “have fun!” he shouted waving the two off.

Jude was on cloud nine, completely lost in the moment. He felt like he wasn’t even in his own body anymore. The shots kept coming, the weed too, and it hit different here in the US—stronger, sharper, like everything was amplified. His senses were spinning, the music vibrating through his bones. Then, a dancer reached out, her skin glowing under the kaleidoscope of lights. Without thinking, he mumbled, “You’re beautiful,” his voice slurring, eyes half-lidded and heavy.

His friend’s laughter echoed from a distance, barely audible over the chaos. “Have fun!” he called out, waving them off with a wild grin. the girl was beautiful, her gold bikini reflected and highlighted her brown complexion. she was completely intoxicating to say the least, making Jude feel like he was even farther out his body. “Thank you, honey,” she said with a soft country drawl. Jude couldn’t help but smile; there was something about it that made her even more captivating.

She took his hand and led him into a room. The lights were bathed in red, and a disco ball spun above, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the walls, making everything feel surreal. Jude felt the pulse of the music deep in his chest, the atmosphere thick with heat and energy. The room seemed to spin with him, the lights blurring together as he followed her, captivated by her every move.

She moved with grace, like she knew exactly what she was doing to him, and it only made everything feel more intense. Jude could barely focus on anything else, lost in the rhythm of the moment, not sure where he ended and the dream began.

“Damn,” he mumbled, cupping her ass, his gaze fixed on her as if he was studying something he couldn’t quite believe was real. She was perfect in his eyes, and for a moment, he couldn’t believe he had her—at least for now.

Music filled the air, a steady rhythm setting the scene as she began her routine, grinding against him with a slow, teasing motion, drawing him in with every movement. Jude fought to keep his hands to himself, but couldn’t help slipping a few hundreds into the waistband of her thong, silently showing his appreciation for the moment.

“What’s your name, love?” he mumbled, trying to keep his composure, though it was harder with each passing second “Euphoria,” she whispered in his ear, her voice dripping with seduction. She traced the top of his ear with her tongue, sending a jolt of pleasure down his spine. “You like when I dance for you, baby?” she teased, settling onto his lap, her body pressing against him. Jude could barely think, his mind clouded as he nodded, his face flushed with heat. “You could be a model, fuck the strip club,” he muttered, his hands instinctively moving to her sides, groping at her waist. Her breathing slowed, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still as the intensity between them grew.

“Why do you even work here?” Jude asked, his hand lightly grazing her butt as she rested her head on his shoulder.

“Gotta get through school somehow,” she snickered, glancing up at him. “I know you don’t really care though.”

Jude immediately furrowed his brows, shaking his head. “Nah, that’s not me. You’re the most gorgeous girl I��ve ever met, I have to care.” Euphoria laughed softly, her eyes twinkling. “Wow, you English men really are charming, huh?” It was clear that Euphoria found him attractive too, the men who typically came through were the usual Atlanta crowd. She hated her job, but if she had to do it, at least she could enjoy a bit of variety. And Jude? He was all the variety she needed. Handsome, kind, and foreign—he stood out in a way no one else did.

She welcomed the nervousness in his voice, the way he seemed a little unsure. It felt like talking to a friend, like they could connect in a way she didn’t often experience, even in the midst of her nearly naked state. Everything felt natural with him, easy, like they’d known each other far longer than they had.

“you’re sweet” she said blushing and getting up “but your dance is up sweetheart”

“that felt way too short, i need to see you again— and in the daylight”

“baby none of your american friends told you about my kind? its bad luck to wife a stripper”

“you’re more than a stripper, you’re euphoria”

[ikkyfics]

Paint Me Yours

Dave Lizewski x f!reader

Summary: You would be the death of Dave, and honestly, he’d die happy. It was a little embarrassing how often he caught himself thinking about you—the way you smiled, brighter than the fucking Sun itself, or how you always smelled like a field of flowers. He knew he was doomed the moment he laid eyes on you.

Warnings: fluffy, language, veteran!reader/freshman!Dave(two years difference), suggestive, college au, first kiss, no use of y/n

A/N: I know that each uni has its own hazing, but here is what happened at mine - a paint bath to celebrate approval

My dear love @gingerteafairy, thank you very much for giving me this idea, I hope you like it <333

Masterlist

You would be the death of Dave, and honestly, he’d die happy. It was a little embarrassing how often he caught himself thinking about you—the way you smiled, brighter than the fucking Sun itself, or how you always smelled like a field of flowers. He knew he was doomed the moment he laid eyes on you.

It was the first day of university, and he was a little lost—okay, very lost, actually. The campus was huge, and there were so many people that the place looked like an anthill. That’s when you appeared, dazzling, and asked if he was one of the freshmen. Dave needed a second or two before he stammered out a yes, watching your smile widen before you started guiding him.

During the welcome party organized by the upperclassmen, Dave could barely take his eyes off you—off your pretty mouth. The way you smiled while answering other freshmen’s questions. At some point, your gaze landed on him—maybe you’d felt his eyes boring into you—and your lips curved into a smile. Dave looked around, unsure if that smile was actually meant for him, but then you laughed, saying goodbye to the people around you before walking toward him.

“Hi,” you greeted, that smile still wrapped around your lips. “Dave, right?”

He nodded, feeling his heart stumble, not trusting his own voice to respond. He barely noticed he’d been holding his breath when you bit your lip, and God, what wouldn’t he give to be the one to do that? They looked so soft and plump—he suspected they were sweet, too.

“Are you enjoying the party?”

Dave blinked, his brows furrowing as he tried to make sense of your words. “Uh… yeah, sure. Everything looks great.” He wanted to slap himself. Damn it, fighting criminals was fine, but talking to a pretty girl? Impossible.

You didn’t seem to mind his lack of tact, though. In fact, you looked amused. “I’m glad,” you said, tilting your head slightly. “You’re not much of a talker, are you?”

Was it too soon to reveal that he wouldn’t shut up when it came to something he liked? Probably, but he couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out of his mouth. “Depends. I can be exhausting sometimes.”

A laugh bubbled from your lips, and he knew he could start rambling if it meant hearing that laugh again. “That’s a little hard to believe.”

Dave stared at you, lips parted in surprise. No, that definitely wasn’t flirting. Absolutely not. Or was it?

Before he could respond, you quickly changed the subject. “You should grab one of the donuts before they’re gone, you know? You’ve barely moved from that corner since you got here.”

“You, uh… noticed me?”

You paused for a moment, as if only now realizing what you’d said. But the surprise on your face was quickly replaced with a relaxed expression.

“I kind of have to. It’s part of my job as an upperclassman, you know—guiding freshmen and all that. So, have you tried one yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, we need to fix that right now. Come on,” you said, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward the table where the donuts were. You handed him one with pink frosting and colorful sprinkles, your eyes shining with anticipation. “Try it.”

He raised his hand, his fingers brushing against yours as he took the donut. Maybe he blushed under the intensity of your gaze—just maybe. When he took a bite, he closed his eyes, letting out a hum of approval. The dough was soft, and the frosting was perfect.

Your smile widened, if that was even possible. “So?”

Dave opened his eyes, finding you leaning closer to him. He drank in your image—the way the light illuminated your eyes, the soft curve of your mouth, how painfully beautiful you were. He wondered if you could hear his heart pounding furiously in his chest.

“I think it’s pretty girl—” His eyes widened as he realized what he’d said. “Good! Pretty good. I think it’s pretty good.”

He didn’t dare look up. What the hell was wrong with him? Christ, why couldn’t he act like a normal person?

Hearing the soft sound of your laughter, he exhaled deeply, lifting his gaze hesitantly, only to find a playful smile dancing on your pretty mouth. The weight on his shoulders lifted slightly at your reaction. Okay, so maybe he hadn’t ruined everything just yet.

“Dave,” you said, shaking your head slightly as you tried to stifle your laughter, “you’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

Almost reflexively, a sheepish smile curved his lips. “Sometimes.”

From that first encounter, Dave Lizewski knew he was screwed.

The weeks that followed were a blur. He kept himself busy trying to adapt to his new reality, but every time he crossed paths with you on campus, it was like being struck by lightning.

You always smiled at him, asking one question or another, which Dave took forever to answer because he was too distracted admiring you. He became especially distracted when you wore those spaghetti-strap tops that highlighted your bust. Marty once jokingly told him to wipe the drool off his face while he watched you from across the hallway.

Today had been surprisingly light. There were still a few hours until sunset, and classes had ended a few minutes ago. Dave was walking among the other students in his class, heading out of the building, when he noticed the murmurs around him. He pulled out one of his earbuds, his eyebrows slightly furrowed as he tried to catch snippets of the conversation.

"Did you hear? There's a stash of paint in the lockers," someone said, and it didn’t take long for the other person to reply with a smirk, “I think today’s the day. I mean, it’s been almost a month since classes started.”

But it wasn’t until Dave reached the entrance of the building that he realized what was about to happen. The upperclassmen were gathered, and there was a dizzying amount of tempera paint in sight.

However, that wasn’t what caught his attention. You were there, radiant as always, but today you looked like you were ready to give him a heart attack. The only things covering your body were shorts and a thin top. He swallowed hard as his eyes lingered on your legs, on how soft they looked. It wasn’t hard to imagine how it would feel to settle between them. The image popped into his mind as clear as the waters of a pristine lake. You riding him, your face clouded with pleasure, the sounds you would make. The intensity of the thought made him blush, and he quickly buried his indecent ideas before they caused trouble in his pants.

You, oblivious to his thoughts, continued organizing some of the paint. The memory of your own hazing was still fresh in your mind. It had been epic—there was no other word for it. You didn’t have to think twice before agreeing to do the same for the freshmen.

Hearing the commotion, your eyes lifted just in time to catch sight of Dave. A small smile curved your lips without your permission. That was the effect he had on you, one you were definitely fighting against. He was a freshman, probably two years younger than you, and you had never been with a younger guy before.

The very thought brought a feeling of unease.

But it would be a lie to say he hadn’t been occupying your thoughts more frequently. It was hard—impossible—not to be drawn to those eyes, as bright as sapphires, and those dark curls that constantly fell over his forehead. They were adorable. How many times had your fingers itched with the urge to push them back from his handsome face?

And it wasn’t as though you didn’t know you had some effect on him. It wasn’t arrogance—Dave just wasn’t very discreet. He always blushed and seemed to struggle to find the right words. It was genuinely cute.

Without thinking, you headed toward him.

Dave didn’t notice you approaching right away. He was too busy trying to act casual, which only made him look even more awkward, staring at the ground, his earbuds now hanging around his neck. But when he finally sensed your presence, his whole body tensed, as if the air around him had turned into static electricity.

“Hi, Dave.” Your voice was soft but carried something he couldn’t quite place—a warmth that made his stomach flip with nerves—and something else he didn’t want to name.

He looked up, and seeing you so close rendered him momentarily speechless. The late afternoon sun lit up your face, highlighting every detail—the curve of your lashes, the soft shape of your lips, the delicate line of your jaw. It was impossible not to be captivated.

“Hi,” he finally managed to mumble, his voice rougher than he would’ve liked.

You tilted your head slightly, your eyes locked on his with a playful glint. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He tried to smile but ended up with something awkward instead. “Uh, yeah, I’m fine. I mean, you just showed up out of nowhere.”

“Did I?” You laughed, and the sound seemed to echo inside him. “Or maybe you were just distracted.” Your voice lowered slightly on the last word, almost as if you were teasing him. And it worked. Dave felt his face heat up instantly.

Without hurry, you took a step closer, invading his personal space. “Are you staying for the hazing?”

He blinked, surprised, his eyebrows rising. “Hazing? Uh… I don’t know. I wasn’t planning on it.”

You raised an eyebrow, your smile turning into something that looked like a challenge. “Oh, come on, are you really going to tell me you’re not joining? It’s nothing scary, I promise.” Your voice was persuasive, carrying something that made him want to say “yes” to anything you asked.

He hesitated for a moment, but something in the way you looked at him—like you were challenging him, but with a sweetness that made him want to impress you—made him nod. “Alright. What do I have to do?”

“First,” you started, pointing to the small group of freshmen gathered a little ahead, “leave your backpack over there with the others. You won’t need it right now.”

Dave followed your gaze and saw the other freshmen dropping their bags near a makeshift bench, some already with their arms and faces painted in bright colors. They were laughing, exchanging jokes, their energy light and full of the excitement of new beginnings. Dave sighed, adjusting the strap on his shoulder before finally moving to do the same. He placed his backpack down carefully, as if the act itself carried more significance than it seemed—a small gesture of belonging.

When he came back to you, he seemed more relaxed, but you couldn’t ignore his posture. It was hard not to notice—the way his shoulders stayed square, his arms defined even without him trying to show them off. He was fit, very fit, and you found the words a little harder to get out as you tried not to make it too obvious. Still, the idea of touching him, even under the innocent pretense of the prank, made your heart beat a little faster.

“You’re going to need to take off your jacket,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady even as your heart pounded in your chest.

Dave hesitated for a moment but eventually nodded, unzipping it slowly, the sound of the metal seeming louder than necessary in the silence between you. He shrugged the jacket off his shoulders with a natural ease that felt almost rehearsed, folding it carefully before setting it on a nearby bench. The white shirt underneath seemed simple at first glance, but now, with him more exposed, you noticed how perfectly it fit him—highlighting his chest and arms in a way that made it impossible to look away.

“Do I need to roll up the sleeves too?” he asked, already pulling one sleeve up to his elbow before you could respond.

You only managed to nod, pretending to be deeply focused on grabbing the paint. But it was impossible not to notice his movements—the firm way his fingers gripped the fabric, the casual way he folded each side, leaving his forearms exposed. And oh, those forearms. The muscles flexed slightly with each fold. Heat rose to your face, and you quickly lowered your eyes, forcing yourself to focus, clearing your throat.

“Green,” you blurted out suddenly, as if the words slipped out without thinking. He stopped, looking at you with a curious expression.

“What?”

“Green suits you,” you explained, gesturing toward the row of paints. Your voice came out firmer than you expected, but the truth was that having him so close was starting to mess with your ability to form complete sentences.

Dave raised an eyebrow, a subtle smile tugging at his lips. “Does it? Why?”

“I don’t know,” you shrugged, trying to sound casual. “It just does. I’d guess you belong in Slytherin.”

He frowned, feigning indignation. “Slytherin? Are you serious?”

You laughed, enjoying the playful tone in his voice. “Yes.”

“I’m definitely a Gryffindor, for your information,” he replied, crossing his arms, though the amused curve of his lips remained. “Lions are better than snakes.”

“Oh, I see.” You laughed again, grabbing the pot of green paint and carefully opening it. “But today, you’re going to be a Slytherin, sweetheart.”

He smiled, but you could see the faint flush creeping up his ears, something that made him look even more endearing. Would he mind if his cheeks were bitten? You blinked, forcing that thought away.

“Now stay still,” you said, dipping your fingers into the cool paint. “I’ll start with your arms.”

Dave obeyed, keeping still, but you could feel his full attention on you. Your fingers touched his skin, sliding carefully as you began drawing soft lines and delicate strokes along his forearm. The warm texture of his skin contrasted with the fresh paint, and you lost yourself for a moment in the simple act of tracing each curve.

He was quiet, but you could feel his breathing change—slightly heavier, as if he was aware of every touch. When you glanced up to check if he was okay, you realized he was looking too. Not at his arm, but at you.

His gaze was intense, his blue eyes fixed on your face for a few seconds before dropping, almost accidentally, to the neckline of your shirt. The movement was so quick that he blinked, shifting his focus back to his arm, but the blush rising to his cheeks was impossible to miss.

“I... uh, you’re pretty detail-oriented, huh?” he tried, his voice slightly lower than before.

You smiled, feeling the heat rise to your face too. “I like to do things properly. Now your forehead.”

He blinked, surprised. “My forehead?”

“It’s a prank, Dave,” you replied, laughing. “The arms are just the beginning. Come here.”

He tilted his head hesitantly, letting you get closer. Your fingers were covered in paint, and as you began to glide the tip along the contours of his forehead, you realized just how close you were—so close you could catch the subtle scent of his cologne, something warm and woodsy.

The silence between you grew heavy, charged with something that felt electric. Each breath seemed synchronized, every move you made met with his gaze. When you finished the drawing, your fingers lingered, still lightly brushing against his skin. It was Dave who broke the silence, laughing softly.

“Now that you're officially painted, I think you're ready to be a proper freshman,” you joked, trying to ease the tension hanging between you.

You stepped back, tilting your head to evaluate your work. He already had some green marks scattered across his arms and forehead, but somehow, he still looked surprisingly... neat. That wouldn’t last long, of course.

“Time for a picture,” you said, raising your phone. “We need to capture this ‘tidy’ phase,” you explained, stifling a laugh. “Because soon, my friend, you’ll be unrecognizable.”

He chuckled, a bit shyly, and nodded. “Alright.”

You winked, adjusting the angle of your phone. He stood there with a small, reserved smile, proudly displaying the name of his course and the university's initials, but with an ease so natural that you didn’t need to ask for anything else. “Look here,” you directed, snapping the photo. “This one’s good. Now, give me a serious face or something.”

He attempted a more serious pose, crossing his arms and furrowing his brow, but the effect was ruined when he started laughing—soft and full of life.

“You’re terrible at this, you know that?” you teased, laughing along. “Alright, last one. Just smile this time.”

He complied, and this time his smile was brighter, more carefree—something so genuine you already knew it would be your favorite. “Done. Immortalized.”

“Not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing,” he said, still smiling.

Before you could respond, one of the upperclassmen clapped loudly to grab everyone’s attention. “Alright, freshmen! Everyone, listen up!”

Dave turned toward the voice, and you used the moment to pocket your phone, staying close as the upperclassman explained what would happen next.

“Now that you’ve all been properly christened, it’s time for the fun part of initiation. Everyone is going to form a line, holding hands, and we’re going to walk from here to the main engineering building over there,” he pointed to a building about a 15-minute walk away, “leaving a trail of paint behind us. Along the way, we’re going to throw paint at you. A lot of paint. And just so you know: if any of you freshmen try to fight back, you’ll get an extra soaking. Got it?”

The freshmen murmured their agreement, some chuckling nervously. Beside you, Dave seemed amused, his easy smile firmly in place. That was when you realized your role was about to begin: as an upperclassman, your job wasn’t just to watch—it was to dive into the colorful chaos and make sure no one got out unscathed.

You turned to him, a playful glint in your eye. “You know, Dave, I think you should take your glasses off.”

He blinked, surprised. “Take my glasses off? Why?”

“Trust me,” you said, a teasing smile tugging at your lips. “The paint will get everywhere, and you don’t want to ruin the lenses.”

He hesitated, clearly unconvinced. Then, with a sigh, he slowly removed his glasses and handed them to you. “Fine. But if I trip over someone, it’s your fault.”

You laughed, holding the glasses carefully. “I’ll guide you, don’t worry. Can you still see anything?” Your voice came out softer than you intended, almost with genuine concern.

Dave tilted his head, that small smile appearing again. “I think I can... enough to know you’re still there.”

Your laugh was a bit nervous, but you covered it by glancing away. “Well, that’s enough.”

He laughed too, that light sound contagious. And before you could respond, the upperclassmen started moving, organizing the freshmen into a line. “Take good care of those,” he said, pointing to his glasses. “I’m trusting you.”

“You can trust me,” you replied, waving the glasses before stepping away.

Dave joined the line of freshmen, falling into place among them. You watched as he took the hands of two other students, looking both relaxed and a little eager. The upperclassmen began circling the group, armed with bottles and squirt guns filled with colorful paint.

“Alright, everyone!” one of the upperclassmen yelled, a mischievous grin on his face. “No mercy!”

You grabbed your improvised weapon—a bottle filled with vibrant blue paint—and walked alongside the freshmen, your eyes inevitably searching for him in the crowd. It wasn’t hard to find him; it was as if your eyes were drawn to him naturally. His smile was still there, as if he was genuinely enjoying the impending chaos.

Music started playing—something upbeat and lively from a portable speaker someone had brought. It was the perfect soundtrack for the moment, and you couldn’t help but laugh as the energetic rhythm set the tone.

As the group began to move, the upperclassmen launched their attack. Paint flew in every direction, splattering onto laughing freshmen who tried—and failed—to dodge the colorful assault. You aimed for Dave, squeezing your bottle and hitting him square on the shoulder. He stopped, pretending to look offended as he laughed.

“You did that on purpose!” he accused, pointing at you, but his eyes sparkled with amusement.

“Of course I did!” you shot back, unable to stop laughing. “What, you thought I’d spare you?”

He shook his head, still grinning, and kept walking. But you weren’t done yet. At every opportunity, you squirted more paint at him, streaking blue and green across his arms and back. Other upperclassmen joined in, but you got the sense that he was far more aware of your attacks than anyone else’s.

The soundtrack kept playing as the group moved forward slowly, everyone fully immersed in the fun. Dave, now almost unrecognizable with the amount of paint covering his hair and clothes, still seemed to be having more fun than anyone else. But amidst the chaos of colors and laughter, something glimmered in his eyes—a kind of challenge. Before you could prepare yourself, he took two quick steps toward you, his paint-covered hand reaching straight for your arm.

"Dave!" you exclaimed, trying to step back, but it was already too late.

His fingers left a streak of green paint across the light fabric of your shirt, staining it mercilessly. You froze, staring at the mark with a skeptical expression, then at him, who was unsuccessfully trying to hide his mischievous grin.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," you said, disbelief dripping from your voice. "I loved this shirt."

"Oops," he replied, with the most insincere tone of regret you’d ever heard, raising his hands in a gesture that didn’t convince anyone. "But hey, I think green suits you, too."

You narrowed your eyes, crossing your arms as you glared at him. "Are you serious, Dave?"

Before he could answer, a nearby upperclassman noticed what had happened and raised their voice, laughing. "Hey, everyone! Looks like we’ve got a bold one here!"

That was enough to grab the attention of all the other upperclassmen around. In seconds, it seemed like everyone had stopped what they were doing to look at Dave, who now seemed a little less confident—but surprisingly, no less amused.

"Retaliation, huh?" someone shouted, already starting to fill a bucket with a deadly mix of paints. "This won’t go unpunished!"

You took a step back, watching the scene unfold. Dave opened his mouth to protest but didn’t have time. The first splash of paint came from the left, hitting him square on the shoulder. Then, it was as if the heavens had opened, but instead of rain, there were buckets, bottles, and tubes of paint being thrown at him from every direction. Red, blue, yellow, pink, green, purple—a whirlwind of colors determined to turn him into a walking masterpiece.

You stood there with your arms crossed, watching as the upperclassmen laughed and shouted, the background music amplifying the chaos. Dave, however, seemed… completely unfazed. He raised his hands in surrender, but the grin was still there—a wide, bright smile as if he was having way too much fun.

When an entire bucket of blue paint was dumped straight over his head, he shook his hair, sending splatters everywhere—including onto you. "Seriously, Dave?!" you complained, but the laughter in your voice betrayed the fact that you weren’t really upset.

He wiped the excess paint dripping down his forehead and looked at you through the chaos. His smile was different now, a little softer but just as captivating as before. "Worth it," he said simply, as if the storm of paint had been a small price to pay.

You sighed, rolling your eyes, but couldn’t help the smile that slipped through. "You’re impossible."

He shrugged, finally extending his hands to the sides, as if accepting defeat with dignity. "Maybe. But at least I’m not the only one covered in paint now."

The group, a walking rainbow, finally reached the other building, still laughing and making comments about their utterly destroyed—but hilarious—appearances. Clothes that had once been normal were now completely unrecognizable, and many people’s hair dripped paint like oversized brushes. You couldn’t help but laugh as you noticed how Dave seemed to lead the pack of the most wrecked ones, completely covered from head to toe.

"I look like an exploded paint can," someone commented, eliciting even more laughter from the group.

The upperclassmen began organizing everyone for a group photo. "Come on, everyone! I want to see everyone squeezed in here!" one of them shouted, waving a red paint tube like a microphone.

Dave laughed beside you, leaning in to whisper, "I think there’s still time to escape."

"You’re the last person who can say that," you shot back, glancing sideways at him. He was drenched in paint, but his eyes sparkled brighter than ever, and something about the way he smiled made your stomach flip in that uncomfortable—but addicting—way.

The freshmen started lining up, bumping into each other and trying to find space in the tight group. You ended up being pushed to the front, practically pressed against Dave as he positioned himself behind you. "Looks like this is going to be pretty snug," he remarked.

"That’s the spirit of teamwork," you replied, trying to maintain your composure, though you were very aware of how close he was.

"Teamwork, huh?" he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice without even looking.

Just as the photographer positioned themselves, you felt movement right behind you, and before you could process it, Dave’s arm slid around your waist. It was a gentle touch, almost casual, but the way he did it—firm yet hesitant, as if waiting for your reaction—made your heart race.

You looked at him, surprised. “Dave…” you began, but your voice got lost amidst the chaos around you. He looked back at you, the smile still on his face, but now there was something different—an intensity in his eyes, a glimmer that seemed to say more than any words could.

“Just to make room for everyone,” he murmured, his voice rough and low. You weren’t sure if it was because of the noise or the way he seemed to look directly at you, ignoring the rest of the world entirely.

You tried to think of anything relevant to say, but your mind was a complete blur, the words tangling together as he stayed so close. The touch of his arm around your waist was a constant reminder, a warm pressure that sent shivers through your skin, even under the layer of paint covering you both.

Someone shouted, “Smile!” and you forced a grin for the camera, even though your thoughts were far from where they should be. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Dave lean slightly forward, and his closeness was overwhelming. He smelled faintly of paint mixed with something uniquely him, and it was ridiculous that you were noticing that at such a moment.

When the photo was finally taken, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Dave, still with his arm around your waist, looked at you with a satisfied smile. “I think this will be a photo to remember,” he said, his voice low, and the way he looked at you almost made your knees buckle.

“I hope you’re right,” you replied, trying to sound nonchalant, but the weakness in your voice gave everything away.

As the photo group began to break apart, the laughter faded. A few freshmen tried unsuccessfully to scrub the paint out of their hair and clothes, while others seemed resigned to heading home in their messy state. You watched the scene unfold, the sound of footsteps and chatter echoing through the space. The energetic buzz of the event still lingered, but exhaustion was beginning to creep in.

Dave stood near you, a mix of tiredness and contentment on his face. He ran a hand through his hair, now stiff from the paint, and let out a soft laugh. “I think it’s going to take me two weeks in the shower to get all of this off.”

You laughed, reaching for your bag and unzipping it. “I think you’ll need more than that. But luckily, I came prepared.”

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued, as you pulled out a small packet of wet wipes. “It’s not going to fix this entire disaster,” you said, holding it up for him, “but it’ll help with the basics. Here.”

He looked at you, his smile widening. “Are you always this prepared, or is this just for me?”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at your lips. “You’re full of jokes today, huh?”

He chuckled but didn’t take the wipes from your hand. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, as if challenging you. “So, are you going to help me, or are you just going to stand there holding that?”

You hesitated for a moment, your heart racing at the way he was looking at you—direct, playful, but with an intensity that made your breath catch. “Fine, but stay still and cooperate.”

He took a small step closer, closing the already narrow gap between you. Dave lowered his head slightly, making it easier for you to reach his face. Your hands were steady as you pulled out a wipe, but the same couldn’t be said for your heartbeat, which pounded wildly as you leaned in.

The first touch was light, almost hesitant, but soon you were carefully wiping away the streaks of paint from his forehead. His skin was warm under the wipe, and you could feel every tiny movement as he stayed still, his eyes fixed on you.

“Does this hurt?” you asked, your voice softer than you intended.

“No,” he replied, his tone rough, sending a shiver down your spine. “If anything, it’s the opposite.”

You tried to ignore the weight of his words, but it was impossible. Each second seemed to stretch the space between you. Your fingers, holding the wipe, brushed lightly against the side of his face, and he took a deep breath, as if steadying himself.

His eyes never left yours, and there was something about the vibrant blue that made you feel lost, as if the rest of the world didn’t exist. “You’re all cleaned up now,” you murmured, but you didn’t step away.

“Am I?” he asked, a small smile playing on his lips, as if he knew more than he was letting on. “Because I think there’s a spot here…” He pointed to his cheek, though it felt more like an excuse to keep you close.

You laughed softly but obliged, wiping the spot he indicated. “There. Happy?”

He didn’t answer immediately, and when you finally found the courage to look at him again, the smile had disappeared, replaced by something deeper. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was filled with everything that wasn’t being said.

His hand rose for a moment, almost as if it were going to touch yours, but then stopped halfway, falling back to his side. “I am. Quite a bit.”

You felt the weight of his words, the raw honesty hanging in the air like a thick, tangible cloud. That I am seemed to hold more than he was willing to say out loud. His breath was heavy, not from the physical effort of the day, but from the tension that seemed to pulse between you like a rope about to snap.

Without thinking much, as if your fingers had a life of their own, you brought a hand to his face again. His hair was messy and still wet with paint, some strands stuck to his forehead, others falling to the side, blocking your view of his eyes. “Stay still,” you murmured, almost apologetically, as you brushed the wet strands back carefully.

He closed his eyes for a moment, as if the simple touch of your fingers was enough to disarm him. When he opened his eyes again, there was something different in them, something more intense, more vulnerable.

You took a deep breath, and before you could hesitate, you began to clean the paint still staining his jawline, your fingers gliding along the strong line of his jaw. The texture of his skin under the wet wipe, warm and slightly rough, made your stomach twist in ways you couldn’t control.

“Do you have any idea how much you got dirty today?” you tried to say, but your voice came out weaker than you intended.

“Maybe,” he replied, and the hoarseness in his voice made you feel the impact in your chest, like a muffled thunder. “But you seemed to be having fun.”

You chuckled softly, trying to relieve the growing tension, but it was a useless effort. Your fingers slid from his jaw to near his lips, and you hesitated for a fraction of a second before gently passing the wipe over the corner of his lips.

His eyes followed every movement of yours, and when you looked back, his gaze seemed to beg for something he didn’t have the courage to ask for. His mouth was slightly open, and his breath brushed against your fingers so tangibly that you almost felt the heat on your own skin.

“All done,” you said, but your voice sounded different now, as if it carried everything you didn’t want to admit.

“You’re not done yet,” he murmured, and the smile that played on his lips was as soft as it was dangerous.

“I am,” you replied, but your hand didn’t move. It was still there, dangerously close to his mouth, as if it were impossible to pull away.

“Are you sure?” he teased, his tone barely audible, and you knew he wasn’t talking about the paint anymore.

The silence that followed was deafening. The proximity between you was almost painful now, each inch filled with electricity that had your whole body on high alert. His eyes dropped for a moment to your mouth, and when they returned to yours, there was something there that made your heart beat so fast you thought he could hear it.

Your hand, still near his mouth, wavered for a second, and it was all he needed to take a step forward, closing the distance between you even more. His breath mixed with yours, and you knew, you knew you were on the edge of completely losing yourselves.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he confessed, his voice a little firmer now, but still low enough for only you to hear. “And I’m tired of pretending I can.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with raw honesty that seemed to steal all the air around you. Your throat went dry, and you could feel the conflict building inside you, fighting against what already seemed inevitable.

He was younger. A freshman. And you knew you should have some sense here, some logic screaming for you to pull back, to remember the differences, the line that separated you two. But your hands were still on him, your fingers still brushing the paint-stained skin of his warm face, and you just couldn’t let go.

“Dave…” Your voice came out in a trembling whisper, carrying all that you were trying to hold back — the hesitation, the disbelief, and above all, the desire you had been trying to bury since the moment he looked at you that way, completely enchanted, for the first time.

He leaned in imperceptibly closer, his eyebrows furrowed, the intensity in his blue gaze fixed on you. “Tell me what’s holding you back,” he asked, almost pleading, but his tone was still soft, patient, as if he was trying to find his way to you.

You opened your mouth, but the words seemed to dissolve before you could even form a sentence. He waited, his proximity a temptation, and you felt as if you were being pulled toward him, against all the logic you thought you had.

“You’re…” you started, but hesitated, then took a deep breath. “You’re younger. A freshman. That…”

He laughed, low and hoarse, and shook his head slightly. "You think that matters to me?" He tilted his head, his eyes darkening with the intensity of his gaze. "I don’t care if you're older. Do you think when I look at you, that’s what I see? Because I don’t. I only see you. You, with that habit of looking at me like you’re trying to push me away, but you can’t."

Your heart pounded in your chest, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look away. He looked so vulnerable and so certain at the same time, and that made something inside you tremble.

"I don’t know if I can do this..." you murmured, the hesitation weighing heavily in each word.

"I know you can," he shot back, his voice firmer now, but still low, almost reverent. "Because if you didn’t want to, you would have already walked away. And you’re still here."

His words hit you like a punch, because he was right. You were still here. Your hands were still on him, and the closeness between you was so small that any movement could close it.

His fingers slowly moved until they lightly brushed your wrist. It was such a subtle touch, but it electrified everything around you, as if the world had stopped to observe that moment.

"Tell me you don’t want this," he said, his voice barely a whisper, as if speaking any louder would be dangerous. "Tell me you don’t feel this too, and I’ll stop now."

But you couldn’t say it. You couldn’t pull your hands away, couldn’t ignore the way he looked at you, as if you were something he didn’t know he needed until the moment he saw you.

"You don’t know what you’re asking, Dave," you murmured, but your voice came out weak, with no conviction.

"I know exactly what I’m asking," he retorted, his eyes fixed on yours, as if each word was a promise. "I’m asking for you. And I know you’re trying to find a reason for this not to happen, but there isn’t one."

And in that moment, you knew he was right. That it didn’t matter the logic, or the differences, or the doubts you were trying to hold on to. He was here, and you wanted him. God, how you wanted him.

Your gaze fell to his lips, then rose back to his eyes. He was so close that you could feel his breath, and there was something so vulnerable in his expression, so open, so surrendered, that you simply couldn’t hold back.

Without thinking any further, you closed the distance between you, your hands moving to his face as your lips met his. He responded immediately, his arms wrapping around you as if he’d been waiting for this since the moment he saw you. And maybe he had. Maybe you had too.

His lips were warm against yours, firm yet hesitant, as if he feared that it could all disappear in the blink of an eye. You felt his arms tighten around your waist, pulling you closer, his body pressed to yours in a way that made the whole world disappear.

His touch was both reverent and desperate, as if he didn’t know if it was real, but was determined to imprint every detail in his memory. His hands slid over the curve of your back, stopping at the base of your waist, before moving up again, his fingers brushing the exposed skin that the light fabric of your blouse didn’t protect. It was electrifying, each touch, each movement, and you felt your heart beating so hard it seemed to echo in every cell of your body.

He pulled away just enough to catch his breath, his eyes meeting yours as if searching for some kind of certainty. "Is this... real?" he murmured, his voice hoarse, cut off. He seemed lost, his blue eyes shining amidst the remnants of lilac and green paint on his face, as if you were the only thing he could see.

You laughed softly, breathless, but didn’t pull away an inch. "Yes," you answered, your voice soft but full of something you couldn’t hide anymore. "It’s real, Dave."

He let out a shaky laugh, a mixture of relief and disbelief, and then his lips were on yours again, this time more certain, hungrier. His hands moved up to your shoulders, then slowly slid down your arms, his fingers tracing the path as if he wanted to memorize every detail, every curve, every inch of skin.

"You have no idea..." he murmured against your lips, his breath hot on your face. He stopped, just enough to find your eyes again. "How much I’ve dreamed of this. Of you."

You felt the weight of his words, the intensity of his gaze, and something inside you broke and rebuilt itself all at once. "Dave..." you started, but he shook his head, interrupting.

“No,” he said, his voice low but firm. “I need you to know. From the first day. From the moment you spoke to me, from the moment you smiled at me… I knew. I knew it was you.”

Your breath faltered, and you felt his hands rise again, this time stopping at the sides of your face, his thumbs tracing the line of your jaw until they brushed the corner of your lips. He seemed so sure, so lost in you, and at the same time so fragile, as if this moment could be taken from him at any second.

“Dave…” you repeated, his name coming out as a whisper, almost a secret. You held his wrists, your fingers gently tightening against his skin. “You have no idea…”

“Tell me,” he insisted, his voice still hoarse, but laden with something so raw, so real, that it made the air around you feel heavier.

You swallowed hard but didn’t look away. “That I thought about it too. That I wanted this too. You. From the beginning.”

The words hit him like a blow, and he let out a short laugh, almost disbelieving, as he pressed his forehead against yours. He closed his eyes for a moment, as if he needed that instant to collect himself, then whispered, “You’re messing with me, right?”

“You think I’d do that now?” you replied, the teasing in your voice mixed with the weight of the truth.

He opened his eyes, and there was something almost glowing in them, something that made you lose yourself completely. “God, you’re gonna kill me,” he murmured before pulling you in again, the kiss more intense, more urgent this time.

His hands slid down your back, tracing the curve of your hips before stopping at their base, as if he needed to hold you there, as if he feared you might slip away. You pressed even closer to him, feeling his heat, the smell of paint mixed with his scent, and nothing had ever felt so right.

When you finally pulled away, breathless, he gave a small smile, his lips still red from the kiss. “So… is this it?” he asked, his voice soft but playful. “Can I stop torturing myself now?”

You laughed, your fingers still tangled in his shirt, and shook your head. “I don’t know. Maybe I like seeing you like this,” you replied, the teasing clear, but your eyes still filled with everything you were feeling.

He tilted his head to the side, a crooked, utterly charming smile playing on his lips as he looked at you. “If that means I can kiss you again, then torture me as much as you want.”

You laughed, short, still breathless, and pushed lightly against his chest, but not enough to create any real distance. His hands stayed firmly on your waist, and it was impossible to ignore the streaks of paint he’d left there—a deep blue staining the pale pink of your blouse. His fingers had drawn an impromptu map on your skin and the fabric, and you knew that, even without a mirror, it was visible.

“Look at what you’ve done,” you commented, trying to sound indignant as you looked down at your blouse, but it was impossible not to smile. “My blouse is ruined.”

Dave laughed softly, his thumbs sliding along the curve of your waist before tracing their way back, as if he wanted to emphasize the mess. “You should’ve walked away while you could.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh, sure, because you would’ve let me go, right?”

He smiled wider now, his face still covered in paint, but somehow it only made him more irresistible. “Not for a second,” he confessed, with a tone that was both light and serious, like everything he did.

You shook your head, but couldn’t help the laugh, even as you tugged at the fabric of your blouse to examine the stains more closely. “And what do I do with this now? This is beyond saving, you know?”

Dave let out a dramatic sigh, pulling away just enough to look at you properly, but his hands remained firmly on your waist, as if he couldn’t help it. “Okay, I’ll admit it was a fashion crime,” he began, his eyes dropping to the stained fabric before rising back to your face. He looked so carefree and yet so intensely focused on you at the same time, it was almost unsettling. “But, look, you could… I don’t know, keep it as a keepsake.”

You raised an eyebrow again, his mischievous look signaling he had more to say. “A keepsake?”

“Yeah,” he continued, his smile growing. He raised one of his hands, covered in paint, and his thumb lightly brushed against the strap of your blouse, where a small paint stain was already printed. The touch was casual, but you felt a shiver run through you as if he had done it on purpose. “Every time you look at it, you’ll remember today. Me.”

You tried to roll your eyes, but it was impossible to hide the heat rising in your cheeks. “Oh, sure, because I’d want a ruined blouse to remember you by,” you teased, but your voice came out quieter than expected.

He tilted his face a little closer, his fingers still idly playing with the strap of your blouse, as if he were testing his own limits. “You will,” he murmured, his voice hoarse but with that sweet tone that made your heart race. “Because I know you won’t forget me, with or without the blouse.”

You let out a short laugh, trying to hide the effect his words had on you, but it was useless. “You’re really confident for a guy who’s covered in paint,” you commented, pointing to his face.

Dave laughed again, tilting his head to the side as he ran one hand across his own face, spreading even more paint without realizing. “Oh, seriously?” he asked, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “And who was it that left me like this, huh?”

“You weren’t exactly trying to avoid it,” you replied, crossing your arms, but it was impossible to keep up the defensive posture with him so close, so absurdly adorable.

He took a step back, pretending to examine himself, before letting out an exaggerated sigh. “Okay, it’s pretty bad,” he admitted, pointing to the stains on his face, neck, and arms. But then he looked at you, a mischievous smile returning to his lips. “But, you know what? Totally worth it.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, but the smile on your face betrayed any attempt to seem serious. “Really worth it?”

“Totally,” he said, giving that half-smile that seemed dangerous and irresistible at the same time. He took a step forward again, closing the distance, tilting his face until it was only inches from yours. “Wanna know why?”

You barely had time to respond before he continued, his voice low and heavy with something that made your breath falter. “Because now, I know what it’s like to kiss you.”

And with that, he smiled, so completely satisfied, so completely in love, that it was impossible to say anything. And you knew he was right: you’d never forget this. Or him.

[reginyani]

hiiii

maybe rossi hosting a lil summer get together at his mantion and bau!reader wears this blouse: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/1030339220974014138/ and spencer just going crazy over ittttt

I love this request! heres a little blurb for you anon<3

Summer Daze | s.reid x fem!bau!reader

summary: You show up to Rossi's outdoor summer party wearing something that makes Spencer go absolutely nuts.

cw: mentions of readers body/collarbones, flirty!reader, nothing else really (if im missing smth lmk!)

wc: 596

Rossi's backyard glowed in the warm summer light. Lanterns hung from the trees, tables were adorned with vases of beautiful flowers, and the sound of gentle conversation and laughter filled the air.

You hadn’t been there long before you felt Spencer’s eyes on you, his gaze magnetic and impossible to ignore.

The blouse you had chosen for the evening was light and airy, perfect for the summer heat. It was a soft cream color, finely sheer but with enough lace and texture to keep it classy. It flowed gracefully as you moved, teasingly revealing glimpses of your skin. The neckline and straps framed your collarbones beautifully.

Spencer had seen you dressed up before, but this was different, and it was driving him crazy. His mind latched onto the details—the way the soft fabric hinted at your silhouette without giving much away, the way the neckline drew his attention like a magnet compared to the other details, and the way the fabric shimmered in the sunlight. It was overwhelming, a feeling he wasn’t used to.

He tried to focus on the conversation Rossi was leading with the group, but it was no use. His eyes kept darting back to you, tracking every move you made. You didn’t seem to notice the effect you had on him, which only made it worse.

Until you caught him.

You were mid-laugh with Emily, JJ, and Penelope when you turned, locking eyes with Spencer for just a moment too long. A smile curved your lips as you excused yourself from the girls and walked toward him, the blouse swaying softly with each step.

“Hey, Spencer,” you said warmly, breaking him out of his trance as you sat down. “You doing alright?”

He blinked a few times, as if trying to reboot his brain. “Uh, yeah, yeah… I’m fine.” But the crack in his voice betrayed him.

You tilted your head, chuckling softly. “You sure? You seem a little… distracted.”

His gaze dipped for a split second, his eyes landing on the lace detailing along the edge of your neckline before snapping back to meet yours. “The blouse,” he blurted out, wincing at his own words. “I mean—it’s really nice. It suits you.”

Your cheeks warmed at the unexpected compliment, but you decided to push him just a little further. “Oh, really? You like it? I was actually thinking about not wearing it at all,” you lied.

Oh, how Spencer wished you hadn’t worn it. The distraction was too much, and he felt the heat creeping up his neck. “Yes. I mean—it’s very… elegant. And, uh, summery.”

You laughed softly, the sound drawing a shy smile from him. “Thanks, Spence,” you said, leaning in just a bit closer. “That makes me feel a little better about it. I wasn’t sure if it was too much, but I’m glad you approve.”

His breath hitched as he caught a faint trace of your perfume. He scrambled for a coherent reply. “It’s not too much at all. It’s perfect. You look—” he paused, “great.”

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, Spencer wanted to dig a hole and disappear. But the gentle smile spreading across your face told him he hadn’t fucked anything up.

“Careful there, Spencer,” you teased, making his heart skip a beat. “If you keep talking to me like that, I might start to think you’re flirting with me.”

His face turned a deep shade of pink. Before he could respond, you stood and walked back to the girls with a playful wink, leaving him sitting there, utterly undone.

[heliosunny]

Yandere!Rafayel x Reader

Twisted The little mermaid.

Rafayel’s lilac waves floated like a shimmering halo around his face, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity that bordered on devotion and madness. He watched from the shadows of the coral as you sang softly to yourself, your voice carrying your dreams of the human prince to the currents.

He hated that song. Hated the way it wasn’t meant for him.

Yet, he couldn’t help but admire the way your delicate form moved in the water, your innocent gaze always turned toward the surface. You were his, even if you didn’t know it yet. And he would make sure you did.

When you came to him one fateful night, your desperation radiating through every word, he knew this was his chance.

"I need legs, Rafayel" you whispered, your voice trembling with both fear and hope. "Please... I have to see him. I’ll do anything."

The sea prince’s lips curved into a smile—soft, reassuring, almost kind. But his eyes betrayed the storm within. "Anything?" he repeated, his voice smooth like silk yet sharp as a blade.

You hesitated but nodded.

He floated closer, his ornate white-and-gold robes flowing around him like the mist of a breaking wave. His fingers, adorned with delicate gold rings, traced a glowing rune in the water.

"You’ll have what you want" Rafayel promised, his voice a lullaby of false comfort. "But the land is harsh, little one. You’ll need protection—someone who truly understands you. Someone like me."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, though you brushed it off as nerves. "I’ll be fine" you insisted, your thoughts consumed by the human prince. "He’ll protect me."

Rafayel’s smile twitched, but he quickly masked his irritation. Foolish girl. You didn’t see the lengths he would go to for you, the ways he had already moved the currents of fate in his favor.

With a flash of magic, the transformation was done. Pain seared through your tail as it split into two, forming delicate legs. The price of the spell—the voice that had so often carried your longing—was stolen away, sealed within the amulet Rafayel wore around his neck.

You didn’t notice the way his fingers lingered on the amulet, or the possessiveness in his gaze as he carried you to the shore.

When you opened your eyes on the beach, the sun was rising. A figure stood nearby, his silhouette golden against the light. Your heart swelled—your prince! He turned, his smile disarming and warm, and reached a hand toward you.

"Are you alright?" he asked gently, helping you to your feet. His voice was familiar, and yet... something about it felt different.

You didn’t notice the subtle shift in his features, the faint shimmer of magic that clung to him. Rafayel, now wearing the face of the human prince, hid his triumph behind a façade of kindness.

"I’ve been waiting for someone like you" he said, his rose-hued eyes meeting yours with a warmth that made your chest tighten. "Stay with me. I’ll keep you safe."

You nodded, unable to speak, and followed him, unaware that the man you loved had been replaced by the very being you’d tried to escape.

As the days passed, Rafayel’s true nature began to seep through. He was attentive to the point of suffocation, always close, always watching. The human world that had once seemed so bright began to feel like a cage, and you couldn’t help but feel a strange unease.

The real prince was gone, hidden beneath the waves in a slumbering spell, and Rafayel’s obsession tightened around you like a noose. He whispered sweet lies in your ear, his disguised hands caressing your hair as he wove a new world around you—one where you belonged to him and him alone.

And the worst part? You were beginning to believe it.

Days bled into weeks, and your once vibrant dream of a life on land began to dull under the weight of Rafayel’s presence. He was everything you had wanted: kind, attentive, and protective—but there was a strange edge to him, a quiet intensity in the way his rose-colored eyes followed your every move.

At first, you dismissed the unease. You chalked it up to your struggles adapting to the human world. The land felt foreign, the air too dry, and the world too vast. Rafayel, still in the guise of the prince, was your anchor, your constant.

But soon, his affection began to suffocate.

“I don’t think you should wander the marketplace alone” he said one morning as you stood by the window, gazing out at the bustling streets. His tone was soft, but there was no mistaking the firmness in his words. “It’s dangerous for someone like you. You wouldn’t want to get hurt.”

You frowned, gesturing toward the lively scene below as if to say, But I want to see it.

Rafayel’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll take you when I’m free. But for now, stay here where I can keep you safe.”

Safe. The word felt like chains tightening around your ankles.

You began to notice other things. How he seemed to know your every move, how his touch lingered a little too long, how his eyes darkened whenever you tried to pull away. The warmth that had once drawn you to him now felt like a fire, consuming everything in its path.

And then there were the dreams.

At night, you dreamed of the sea, of violet eyes glowing in the dark depths, of a voice calling your name. It was haunting, familiar, and terrifying. When you woke, the amulet Rafayel wore around his neck seemed to shimmer in the faint moonlight, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that it was watching you.

One evening, as Rafayel escorted you back from the gardens, you caught sight of a small fountain glimmering in the moonlight. The water called to you, its surface rippling like the waves you had once known.

You approached it cautiously, kneeling by its edge. The reflection staring back at you was familiar yet wrong. The human prince’s face smiled, but there was something… off. You tilted your head, trying to make sense of the strange flicker in his image.

Behind you, Rafayel’s voice broke the silence. “Do you miss it?”

You turned to find him watching you, his eyes unreadable.

“The sea” he clarified, stepping closer. “Do you miss what you left behind?”

You hesitated, nodding slowly.

He crouched beside you, his hand brushing yours. “I told you the land could be cruel” he murmured. “But I’ve given you everything, haven’t I? A chance to be here, with me.”

Something in his voice sent a shiver down your spine. You pulled your hand away, your gaze falling to the amulet around his neck.

“Do you like it?” he asked, following your gaze. He lifted the pendant, letting it catch the light. “It’s special, you know. It holds something very dear to me.”

Your breath hitched. The dreams, the unease, the haunting melody that played in the back of your mind—it all made sense now.

It wasn’t the human prince standing before you. It never had been.

“Rafayel” you whispered, the name clawing its way to the surface of your memory.

His smile widened, but there was no kindness in it now. “Ah, you remember.”

You stumbled back, your legs trembling beneath you. He caught you easily, his grip firm but gentle. “Why do you look so frightened, my love? Everything I’ve done was for you.”

Panic surged through you as Rafayel’s mask of gentleness slipped away, revealing the obsession and madness beneath. You had to get away, but the land—your dream, was no longer safe.

Summoning every ounce of courage, you broke free from his grasp and ran. The cobblestone streets blurred around you as you raced toward the shore, the call of the sea growing louder with each step.

Behind you, Rafayel’s voice echoed, calm but menacing. “You can’t escape me, little one. The sea is mine, just as you are.”

When you reached the water, you hesitated. Your legs, foreign and unfamiliar, wavered beneath you. But the waves seemed to reach for you, pulling you forward.

“Come back” Rafayel said softly, appearing behind you as if summoned by the tide. His lilac hair shimmered in the moonlight, his pink-colored eyes burning with an intensity that made your chest ache. “I can’t lose you.”

You shook your head, tears streaming down your face. You dove into the waves, the water enveloping you in its cold embrace.

But even the ocean couldn’t protect you from Rafayel. The tides shifted unnaturally, dragging you back toward him. His magic surged around you, and his voice filled your mind.

“You can’t run from me, my love” he whispered. “We’re bound together—by magic, by fate, by love.”

As you fought against the tide, something began to change. The legs Rafayel had given you faltered, a sharp, searing pain running up your body. You gasped, clutching at your sides as your limbs began to dissolve into shimmering scales. The magic was unraveling, the spell breaking apart.

“You can’t return to the sea—not without me.”

-----

Check out for twisted version of

Caleb [snow white]

Xavier [sleeping beauty]

[knight-a3]

Heavenbound AU

Masterpost

Angel Dust "Angie"

So I can avoid confusion between Angel and angels, his stage name is Angel Dust but he goes by Angie casually.

Side note: I'm too ace for this guy, yikes. Don't mind me clutching my pearls.

Spider family:

More notes under the cut to reduce clutter. There's info about the whole Spider family and some info about the Mafia as well.

Angie's redesign took me a while to nail down. I looked at other people's designs for inspiration, but nothing felt right. I wanted to give his head shape more structure, but it's too iconic to significantly change. Many people added spider fangs but I think they always look too cluttered and ugly. I also wanted the right balance of masculine and feminine for his outfit.

I am not a fan of heterochromia in character design, unless there is a reason or it's used sparingly. Angie's design is complicated enough with the gold tooth, extra eyes and arms, and body patterns that the heterochromia would just be too much.

Instead of giving him fangs that jut out like a real spider, I chose to just give him a main pair of fang-like teeth, while the rest are smaller.

It didn't make sense to me why he's able to retract his tertiary set of arms, beyond simplifying for animation, but I also do not want to manage all of them all the time, so I'm keeping that little ability. I'm justifying it with the idea that he was only ever somewhat interested in the family business, so he had less of a hand in it than his Pop or Arackniss(both of which cannot retract their extra limbs at all). I also wanted the sets of arms to have a hierarchy in how he uses them. Also didn't like the shoulders canon gives his secondary arms. They look weird to me.

The main set has 5 fingers on each hand and are relatively normal, because they're the equivalent of his human arms. The secondary set is a little smaller and a little more bug-like, with 4 fingers. The tertiary/retractable set are smaller and have 3 fingers.

I tried giving him a spider butt, but I couldn't wrap my head around how he would wear any type of pants. Not that he would be opposed to going around nude, but I just wasn't interested in that.

Casual:

I remember reading somewhere that Angel likes to dress more comfy rather than provocatively outside of work. So I decided his work outfits are the skimpy, sexy stuff. His main outfit is his typicall out-in-the-town fashionable stuff, which tends to cover him up more(gotta pay for those goods). And lounging clothes are just purely for comfort.

Main outfit-

I really wanted something that alluded to his mobster background. He may not really be involved of all that now, but it's still a part of him and that would linger. For as much as he modernizes, he's still a product of his time. Anyway, that's why I gave him pinstripe pants and a blazer.

I didn't want to lean too far into either masculine or feminine styles. He is undoubtedly feminine, but he was raised in an environment where suits and violence was the fashion. I actually searched for 40s gangster costumes for women, counting on the fact I'd find the silly sexy costumes so I could get ideas for a more feminine spin of the classic mobster.

I tried a boob window shirt for awhile, but it didn't let me show enough chest fluff. So I traded it for a V neck, which can work for both masculine and feminine styles.

Eventually I settled on a crop top blazer, since it gives a sort of suit jacket vibe while being feminine. I preferred the short gloves from the pilot, at least on his main arms, and used the longer style from the show for his secondary arms.

In canon, his "skin" color and the white of his clothes just don't have enough contrast. So I used more pink, and had the color of his fluff be a different hue than his shirt. I liked the stripes on his jacket before, but I didn't want to add any more complexity, especially when I already committed to the pinstriped pants.

Overall, I like this outfit for him. Maybe that has something to do with my personal tastes, but I think it suits him.

Body markings:

He wasn't a star until Val came around in the 70s, so he wouldn't have been quite so glam before that. He still had more mobster habits. I used his older, pre-pilot, Zoophobia design as inspiration, which used a low saturated purplish color. I thought it struck a nice balance between his mobster roots, and his later glam style.

I wanted to make the pattern something easy for me to remember. The heart design got pushed lower down because I needed more room for his chest fluff. His hands don't have anything because I didn't like how it looked with his lounge clothes. The stripes on his arms reference the stripes on his canon, pilot, and pre-pilot jackets. The stripes on his legs represent garters(suspenders that hold up socks or stockings).

Human- Anthony "Tony"

Many human versions of him that I've seen make him look too modern. I think they would absolutely work for a modern human au, but not for the 1940s. So this is my take on what he would have looked like while he was alive. Hair coloring in the 40s was always done professionally, and primarily used by women, and they usually didn't want it to be obvious. Bleached hair on a man(especially with naturally dark hair) would be far too much to maintain discreetly. He hadn't publicly embraced his feminine side while he was alive. His family was Catholic, and being gay was a no-no. But murder was okay for some reason. Don't question the mobster logic.

His brother and sister knew he was gay, parents did not. Arackniss was too tired to care, and Molly was supportive. She would take him to be her "bodyguard" when she would go out and do fun things, but it was partly an excuse she provided for him to do gay things.

Angie had mixed feelings about his participation in the mob. Sometimes it was fun, other times he'd really rather be partying. But he was a made man and swore an oath of loyalty. He can't just back out.

He spent his free time with drugs, guns, and hot guys. Then died of drug overdose in his early-mid 30s in 1947.

He wasn't publicly out as gay until Hell. His parents hated it and basically disowned him when they found out. But why should Angie care at this point? He's already in Hell. So he just parted ways with them(technically the oath of loyalty ends at death. It's not like the Mafia can really kill him for leaving now, since they all just regenerate anyway) and has kept in sporadic contact with his siblings. They aren't close anymore.

Spider Family:

Ma and Pops were mostly because I wanted to play with character design. And since they have no official designs, I had more room to play with it.

The whole family became spiders because they were involved with the "web of crime" that is The Mafia. Family relation does not automatically mean sinners will look similar. They usually don't.

Pops (real name Enrico, the Italian version of Henry. Nickname "Big Cig". Almost every mobster listed on wikipedia had a nickname) inherited the position of mob boss from a relative. I'm not thinking hard about historically accurate crime families, so this is a fictional family that we will pretend had a significant presence. He died not long after Anthony, in the early 1950s in his mid 60s via gang violence. He never managed to get to the same level of power after his death. He's a minor Overlord at best, but does hold some influence.

In Zoophobia, Angel and Arackniss had a dad named Henroin. A play on "heroin". So when considering a real name for him, I searched for a variant of Henry that sounded more Italian. I designed him before I knew he had a design, but I wasn't exactly impressed by Henroin's design, so I totally ignored it anyway.

Design-wise, I wanted to go for a stereotypical mob boss vibe, and it lends itself well to the more bulky, crustacean look. The resemblance to Mr. Waternoose was unintentional. He cannot retract any extra limbs.

Spider traits- I wanted to give everyone varying degrees of spider traits, partially determined by their level of Mob involvement and how dangerous they are. Pa is venomous(through his clawed hands), has super strength(because spiders are proportionally strong compared to their size), can super jump(cuz jumping spiders is the theme), and can summon a couple of guns. He's too large to crawl on walls and can't spin webs.

Ma was always at Pop's side, helping with the less violent aspects like finances. She did her share of poison murders as well. Ma died alongside Pop and is still at his side. She's arguably the more dangerous of the two at this point. She looks easy to take advantage of, but it turns out she has potent venom.

I didn't have anything canon to go off of, so she's technically an OC. I haven't put a ton of thought into her name, but I think I'll just go with Maria. Molly is named after her, I guess.

Design- Had to go with a femme fetale mob wife. The hourglass motif is because of her venomous nature, and not for any husband-killing. She can retract her extra limbs, because she is more dangerous than she initially seems.

Spider traits- she's more venomous than Pa(through her extra limbs), can wall crawl and super jump with her extra limbs, and spin webs(to ensnare prey. I think it might come from her hair bun and/or mouth, but I don't want to think too hard about it.). She's actually the more dangerous of the two, partially because she appears less threatening, and partially because the way her extra limbs are set up gives her more reach and agility. She cannot summon guns, and she doesn't have super strength.

Arackniss (real name is Giovanni, Italian version of John. Goes by Jon. Nicknamed "Little Cig", "Don Jon") worked as the underboss until Pa died, then took over as mob boss, making sure Molly was taken care of. He died in a shootout with police in the 1960s. He was around 50ish. He is on speaking terms with their parents, and sometimes works with them. He's tired and very addicted to coffee and cigarettes.

Apparently an old QnA revealed his real name to be Jonathan. Not sure if it's still true, but I didn't find anything more reliable. I found no examples of any historical mobster named Jonathan, despite there being many many Johns/Giovannis.)

Design- I wanted him to be unable to retract limbs, unlike Angie, but also wanted to avoid drawing all of them. So I used his overcoat to cover them, and he habitually keeps his hands in his pockets. Again, he can't retract any limbs because he was heavily involved with the mob. I changed his eyes from red to yellow, because I felt the yellow suited him better and reduces the overuse of red in general.

Spider traits- He can wall crawl, has super strength(which most don't expect because he's pretty scrawny), has super jump, and can summon guns. He cannot spin webs, and his venom is non-lethal and inflicted via bite(which isn't super useful to him).

Anthony/Tony "Wild Tony" was a soldier in the Mafia. He could have been a Capo(caporegime) if he was more committed. But he had a tendency to party and goof off. Technically, membership of the mob ends through death. Being the first to die, he was separated from the mob and didn't care to recommit. Angie partied hard and enjoyed gun violence, until Valentino came along. Valentino swept him off his feet with promises of fame, fortune, and love, convincing Angie to sell his soul.

Design- already covered most notes, but for organization: he can retract one set of extra limbs because he was involved with the mafia, but he was lower level.

Spider traits- He has less than the previous three. So he can super jump, spin webs(via mouth...he can make it kinky), and summon guns. He technically can wall crawl, but not for very long, and he usually uses it for things like pole dancing. He is not venomous at all, and does not have super strength.

In canon, Molly is in heaven, but I don't find it likely because of how the Mafia works, so she's in Hell now. (Real name is Marietta, which is an Italian version of Mary, and Molly is a nickname)She was the spoiled daughter and knew about the family's criminal activity. She knew, profited, and didn't care. She's guilty by association. Anyway, I'm gonna say she died about 10 years after Anthony, approx 1957, around the age of 40. Haven't thought too hard about how she died. Then she probably went and found some powerful, hot guy to sell her soul to. Not sure.

Design- I was going to give her an extra set of legs, but I couldn't wrap my head around the anatomy of it and just decided to stick with extra arms. She can retract all her limbs because she was "hands off" with the mafia.

Spider traits- she has the fewest because she was the least involved with the mafia. Aside from the obvious physical traits, she can only spin webs(because it is symbolically more domestic. Also via ponytail and/or mouth, but I don't want to think hard about it). She cannot wall crawl, or super jump, has no venom or super strength.

The Mob:

The Mafia is very patriarchal, so all members are men, as women were never formally initiated. But women were still significantly involved in a variety of ways. Most often by instilling mafia culture to the kids, drug trafficking, finances, or economics. Some helped as launderers, couriers, shills(con artist), drug traffickers, informants, and other typically non-violent roles. Some acted as proxies for their husbands in prison(which is becoming increasingly common in modern times).

Quick chart for Mafia organization, via the FBI.

Simple rundown of terminology because I didn't know the difference between Mob and Mafia, and I've now done too much research to not write it down in a relevant place:

mob- a group of people, usually disorderly

gang- crime group, ranging from loosely organized street gangs to structured syndicates.

syndicate- group of individuals or organizations that unite for a common goal. Can be legal or illegal.

cartel- (type of syndicate) a group of individuals or organizations that collude to control a business market via supply and demand. Can be legal or illegal.

The Mafia- originated in Sicily. Ethnically Italian gangs, referred to as "families" that may or may not have actual familial relationships. Characterized by a distinct hierarchal structure.

The Mob- the American extension of The Mafia. (ie. it's the same thing)

The Commission- the alliance of the various Mafia/Mob families. Older generation members, called "Mustache Petes", only worked with fellow Italians, sometimes even only Sicilians.

The National Crime Syndicate- multi-ethnic alliance of various criminal organizations. Most prominent being The Mafia/The Commission and Jewish syndicates.

All somewhat organized crime groups are gangs. Crime syndicates have a higher level of organization, and cartels deal in specific businesses. Eventually the terms mafia and mob were applied to other ethnic gangs that operated similarly. Such as the "Jewish Mob" and "Russian Mafia". But THE Mafia and THE Mob refers to Italian gangs.

(Jan 28, 2025- fixed the tags)

[timeskip]

[768 words]

3

Aoi is 13 when he begins to dye his hair, stealing bottles of bleach and toner from the store behind everyone's backs.

Akane watches this with interest, at first; she's only 10, and the idea of getting different colors in her hair is exciting until Aoi warns her not to touch it, and the smell is awful, and he spends hours and hours dying it, and then his roots grow out anyway. She still watches him bleach it once, because he's all she has, even if she's just sitting on the side of the bathtub and listening to him tell her not to steal.

Her brother can steal, but Akane can't; for a reason she can't explain, she thinks that someday she'll commit worse crimes.

Akane watches him move, his reflection in the mirror, and kicks her feet and tries to imagine Aoi with white hair for the rest of his life. Somehow, it fits.

More than that, Akane is happy for this moment. He rarely comes home from work this early, but she's always happy when he does. Already, she's gotten some taste of how little the adults care for the two of them, and the two of them are always alone.

6

As Akane grows into her memories, so does Aoi. One second he's the boy with the blue scarf who Seven will describe 9 years in the future, and the next he's turning into her memory of Santa, with his white hair and hairbands, and eyes that look both unlike her brother as she knew him at 15, and which undeniably will be him, in the future.

Akane is meticulous about appearances. It's habit; everything has to look the same, and then has to work the same. She sees the Nonary Game through a fragmented, child's memory. She and Aoi and the hired engineers are reverse engineering their own future.

Akane starts wearing arm warmers before Aoi does. She starts wearing her hair into half a bun before Aoi puts on his hairbands.

On the tip of her tongue is a request for him to do the same, to play the role he's meant to play before the day comes that he has to be that perfect Santa from her memories; but she can't bring herself to say it. There's over a year left, she reminds herself, and taps the spot on her wrist that will one day carry a bracelet. She should wear that too, someday, practice being June in more than face and voice and expression.

Aoi already knows what his role is, Akane tells herself. She has to trust him.

When they were kids, she trusted him absolutely, let him work himself down in whatever jobs he could get after school, labor laws be damned--and she's grateful for that, she really is. It's not fair for her to not trust her with this, with her entire life. There's no way that Aoi will mess up.

But still, she worries. She looks in the mirror and thinks that something in her has aged past 20, past 21, into a nebulous future she hasn't tried looking for yet.

0

The desert rushes past, and Akane is laughing because it's better than crying. Relief is a strange emotion, bubbling through her body as she realizes she doesn't know what to do now.

She's running from everything she created, just as they decided, but she can't stop herself from looking back at Building Q, that strange, boxy shape behind her.

"You didn't have to remind me to put on my seatbelt," she tells Aoi, still staring behind them.

"Yeah I did. I'm still your brother, you know." He's doing that tone, now--a reminder tone, a tone that says listen to me. And she is listening, finally looking back at him. Aoi is her brother. Even if Santa wasn't June's brother--Akane has to remember that Aoi is her brother.

With him, slowly this day will unwind them back into who they really are; June and Santa will go away for the time being.

But maybe she'll miss having something to look for in the future. She really does feel so empty. Akane's life work has ended, 9 years of desperation trying to make the dominoes fall correctly.

But she hasn't lost everything; while she was shaping herself into the person she'd have to be, Aoi has been supporting her. Every moment, every second, as the sun beats down on the sand and Akane is falling through the hourglass, she can still remember what it felt like to have precious time with him, only having each other.

[skythealmighty]

Alexander the Terrible - a 1987 TMNT Separated AU

I've come to throw my hat into the ring! Hello, hello hel-lo out there! (And a special hi to @getindumdums, who I know was very interested in this.) I made this AU because I'm pretty fond of '87 TMNT, and I haven't seen a Separated AU for them yet. So, here we are!

I'm kinda gonna explain some parts of this AU in detail on their own, so hold your horses, it's gonna be a hot minute here.

Design

There's not much changed in terms of design for- mostly everyone, but I did want to explain a few design choices with our brand 'new' turtle! First and foremost, I designed him like everyone else was designed- for an action figure. He takes a lot of inspiration from Shred-head, mostly with the arm guards and facemask, but my main goal was to cover most of him in dark colors to indicate 'villain'. I know that's not always the case, but you do have to admit you would assume that at first glance.

Dynamic

Heroes

Raphael, Leonardo and Michelangelo stand alone against the forces of evil! They're a great team, even if they do butt heads sometimes... mostly Raphael and Leonardo. Leonardo is the leader, Michelangelo is the humor and heart, and Raphael is... the street smarts!

Stepping up in place of the missing Donatello as the logical one, the whole team is slightly more morally gray. Without a turtle van of their own, sometimes the next best option is to hotwire one for a little bit, or just get there on foot. Leonardo tries to stop this from happening, most of the time, but he concedes to Raphael when he points out that it's a necessary evil. They're even more careful to stay out of the public eye because of that, since while they are heroes, public opinion of them is extremely mixed.

That being said, Raphael is still kind of alone on his distrust for humans. Even if he is listened to, he's bitter when they have to help some people- and he's generally a little more snappish with more responsibility on his shoulders.

Leonardo is also a bit more cautious as a result of Raphael's mild paranoia leading their logic, and Michelangelo is a little less likely to take things at face value. He's still a massive optimist, as is Leonardo, but the general wariness of the team makes for a massively different dynamic.

The show's tone is generally a tad bit heavier because of this, opting to actually have teaching moments and morals in the form of common sense lessons. It's both a tiny bit more edu-tainment and also aimed towards a slightly older audience- that doesn't stop it from being a hit with the kids, though!

Villains

So... what's up with Donatello, then? He's clearly with Shredder, and on the side of evil. His vindictive streak is given a chance to shine, and he often takes things to the max, almost comedically, but he's still sharp as a tack and almost more formidable than his sensei.

Just one thing- Shredder's the one to pick him up since the very beginning. He was the one who spilled the ooze on them, true- and in this timeline, he aimed to take one of those creatures for himself. That being said, Shredder wouldn't name a turtle after a renaissance artist- he's more of a war history buff, as seen with the Punk Frogs.

He instead names the turtle Alexander, after the great warlord in Rome.

(Alexander as a name was chosen because it uses all sharp-sounding vowels, rather than Donatello's round vowels- this sounds obscenely stupid on paper, but say the names out loud and you'll understand.)

Alexander is first and foremost Shredder's student, but he quickly picks up on Shredder's nature and learns to snipe back when disrespected. He's the favorite student, too- his literal creation, smart and savvy, and with a mean streak to match. Being the favorite, he's allowed to get away with a lot more, and though it wasn't the case at first, Shredder begrudgingly views him as something akin to an equal.

He has a lab, as well- Shredder, the traditionalist, doesn't take any upgrades to his precious armor (other than maybe a communication line in his helmet), but he lets Alexander make other sets of armor for fun, and sometimes wears them. Alexander also keeps eye on scientific progress- this time, Stockman isn't brought in to be the sole inventor Shredder relies on, but rather Alexander's lab assistant. Their relationship is strictly professional- Alexander is a bit disappointed that someone with so ingenious inventions is a massive pushover, and Stockman is more than a little terrified of Alexander, but starts to learn to admire him over his time there.

Even after the accident that turns Stockman into a fly, he still has a kind dismissal to Alexander while he hates Shredder. Alexander, blunt as he was, was never unnecessarily cruel, so he's mostly exempt from Stockman's schemes. Hooray?

As for their dynamic with the heroes, Shredder still despises them and is salty they didn't choose his side, Alexander mostly dislikes them because they trash his inventions, and Raphael gets on his nerves easily. He's fine with Michelangelo, tolerates Leonardo, and has a rivalry with Raphael. He's also aware of their relation, while the Turtles are not. (Raphael has a hunch, though.)

Plot

What, plot? The '87 show doesn't have that much plot! I know, but as with any Separated AU, there's got to be some way they meet up again other than the daily Saturday cartoon fights- no, not just meet up, reconcile. So, here's sort of how it goes:

It's a slowburn! ...NO NOT IN ROMANCE. EW. Let me explain:

Alexander and Raphael start out hating each other. Know Bratty and Catty? Remember their Deltarune versions, specifically? Yeah, kind of like that. They're extremely similar and that's why they get on each other's nerves! It's an easy pattern- every episode Alexander is in, you can count on him having some witty snipes shared with Raphael. Except...

Eventually, the insults turn to banter without them realizing, and they're closer than ever. Alexander lets loose that he thinks they're all related on an off-hand joke, and that gets Raphael thinking. Was he supposed to be with them from the start?

Obviously, this doesn't change what ended up happening, but he knows Michelangelo and Leonardo would be upset if he didn't at least try to win Alexander over to their side. Thus begins the "Convincing Arc".

[Allan please add details]

The Convincing Arc ends with Splinter's help, really. He's the one who takes the time to sit beside Alexander and talk, and while Alexander cares for Shredder, he starts wondering if Shredder really cared for him beyond their plans and lessons.

He begins to poke at that relationship, prod for answers, and he eventually finds out that while Shredder did 'care' for him, it never was anything but shallow. He didn't want to lose Alexander, true, but it was never because the government could take him away, or because he was worried he'd get hurt. Worried at all, really. It was because he would be seethingly jealous of whoever else had him.

Had him. Like some sort of tool.

Alexander left the next day, walked into the Turtles's sewers, and declared himself a home there. He would not help them fight Shredder. He would just be going stir-crazy without any companionship, and this was the first thing he thought of- allegedly.

(He doesn't miss Michelangelo's genuine happiness at him being there, Leonardo's immediate acceptance, or Raphael's relief. He also doesn't miss that it takes Shredder three days to realize he was gone.)

As for what comes next? A rocky relationship, a healing dynamic, and a lot of interpersonal conflict and fluff.

I don't have anything planned ahead of this, but if I were to start answering asks in character, it'd be in the middle of the Convincing Arc, so you guys could see that in action! Feel free to send asks about that, by the way. I'd love to answer (eventually).

Fun facts:

Alexander still loves purple. He just tends to like darker shades

He's also a massive astronomy nerd and wants to explore space

Raphael has not killed a man on screen. However, off-screen is... up to viewer interpretation

Alexander has killed off-screen too- mostly lab intruders. He's jumpy

The Punk Frogs get along surprisingly well with Alexander

Since Shredder is a war history buff, Alexander is also a little bit of a history nerd, but mostly with inventions and the arts. Ironically enough, his favorite historical artist is Donatello

Michelangelo loves to force everyone into movie nights. When Alexander is added into the mix, he clings to him

Having not grown up with the other turtles, poor Alexander is a little thrown off by their pizza tastes

Irma starts showing up a lot more when Alexander joins the good side

Baxter Stockman is eventually convinced to leave everyone alone!

oops this got way longer than i thought

[ronearoundblindly]

how do the CE blorbos approach gingerbread house decorating? i saw this one on insta and the end result was just gorgeous 🤧 it also took them 20 hrs so which babe is putting in the ✨️WORK✨️ and whose is sliding apart bc the icing got too warm?

This one we are going to categorize because though they're all a little different, they fall into camps. Warnings for some suggestive language and a bit of jerkishness/prickly behavior... MINORS DNI to be on the safe side.

❤️💚❤️ A/N: It's not Wednesday (at least not here yet) but I'm sooo highly aware that I've been on hiatus forever (and that I still have a few holiday-related asks) I'm posting an early treat! Hope you enjoy ❤️💚❤️

No Fun & No Effort

Lloyd, in a malicious way, hates the mess. He barely likes it when you cook or back on a normal occasion, prefers that all of it be done and clean by the time he comes home, and will not be participating in this fucking foolishness.

You can *feed it to him* though, messily, or let him eat some candy and icing off of you...

Jimmy, in an indifferent way, just isn't interested. He works with his hands everyday, but this is fiddly nonsense, too much detail and too little purpose. If you ask for his help, however, with something very specific, he will do that small thing you asked. The whole house? No. Not a chance.

Fun but No Effort

Ransom gets into it--one of the rare joys he gets from 'projects' since there is absolutely zero importance to this exercise,--and he even tracks what supplies added the most fun. He's not...much of a decorator, the house ends up a disaster and a half that can't stand up any longer than it takes to snap a photo, but he doesn't care about that. Unsurprisingly, Ransom also wants you to feed it to him and eats some sweet decor off of you.

Andy is so sincere during the whole exercise, but this skill isn't in his wheelhouse. He's laughing, he's judging how terrible the house is turning out, and he just keeps going.

Structure but No Detail

Ari and Bucky are out here mapping the design. Perfect measurement and sharp edges. They've googled how to keep the perimeter from shrinking and burning first, how to cut a new, straight line if necessary, and the best 'glue' icing viscosity/temperature.

Bucky keeps his cool, rolls with the design and its flaws, but Ari? Uh, no. Ari can get pretty mad when stuff doesn't fit together exactly the way he planned. He's been known to bake up to four versions of the same 'wall' in order to get it right.

Then! and only then You...are there for making it pretty. They did their part lol.

Detail but No Structure

Johnny is the Jackson Pollock of baking decoration--it's a bunch of shit thrown at the sticky parts and Carpe Diem, bitch, DONE. My Little Ponies could not have puked up a more haphazard rainbow home. What else you got in the pantry that's colorful?!

Steve, bless his heart, is not great at the actual building but LOVES decorating. This dude does the melted, colored sugar to make stain glass windows and all. He can also get...a little too serious about the perfect proportions of doors and windows based on the height of the wall... Just walk away for a minute or two when he goes Full-Frosting-Pyscho. He'll calm down.

The Full Package

(If you count Stucky as a combo set lol...)

Jake--obviously--is into it. He has a ton of fun, stays goofy with it, tries new stuff each time, looks forward to the challenge, and is always polite and praising your beautiful work! (Minus one or two jokes about a sagging roof or lopsided little cookie girl on the lawn. Hey. He's just being honest. As long as you love it, he loves it.)

Mace may not be the most enthusiastic of them, but he has the patience to stick out the whole process. He zones in on a bit he's interested in doing *right* or curiously critiques something that didn't quite go to plan. If you get bored or frustrated, he's also fine leaving it be and sitting on the porch with hot chocolate. Maybe a wee hike will clear your head or a nice holiday movie watch...

Curtis kinda counts, but he eats so much of the supplies throughout the process, you can't actually finish a gingerbread house. Delightfully fun to attempt the build around. Never takes it too seriously.

Thank you for asking!

[Main Masterlist; Who Would... Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

[aidansplaguewind]

AIDAN as ABERAMA GOLD

PEAKY BLINDERS 5.01 | Black Tuesday

[nekrosmos]

Gaz locker room mirror selfie ✌️​ He's probably gonna send it to the group chat and make everyone feel bad

[forecast0ctopus]

i knwo a lot of people like the aos cadet and dress uniforms but i do Not and am actively trying to think up alternatives…… with tos kirk though lmao sorry

[nell0-0]

Mask will let the captain have this. Just this once. It wasn't just once.

Poor Mask kept falling to the ground. Luckily for him, either the captain or Tune are there to catch him

A continuation of THIS

Fun fact I didn't know until I started researching for this: apparently when someone looses an eye, it's possible that the other eye adapts. This is not good in the beginning as the remaining eye stops working for a while (???!). While long term it's not as noticeable (just less field of vision and some problems with depth perception sometimes) it's, uh... interesting :,D

Correct me if I'm wrong about this tho. I did my research, but sometimes there's misinformation out there so don't trust it 100% without checking it first.

[coollizard]

Supreme kai in the box

[spokelseskladden]

Plz. Just a Litpollo crumb for the poor

eat my child, you'll need the sustenance for the trials to come (my finals. i'll be very annoying about them)

[heliosunny]

Virtual BF!Gojo - Part 2.5

Didn't expect this fic to last for so many parts, but here we are. Summary [continuation of p2]: Gojo, realizing he has irreparably damaged you by altering your emotions, did everything he could to free you, even if it's leaving you and the world he created solely for your happiness.

When you woke up the next morning, everything felt…lighter. The weight that had pressed down on your chest was gone. The hollow ache in your heart had vanished. You smiled for the first time in what felt like forever.

Gojo was waiting for you in the kitchen, his face lighting up the moment he saw you. “Good morning, sweetheart” he said, his voice filled with cautious hope.

“Good morning” you replied, your voice bright and cheerful.

His smile widened, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes. Unease. Doubt.

You were happy now, just as he had wanted. You laughed, you danced, you embraced the world he had created for you. But it wasn’t the same. Your happiness felt…off.  Gojo knew it, even if you didn’t.

At first, he tried to convince himself that it didn’t matter. You were happy, and that was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? But as the days passed, the truth became impossible to ignore.

Your laughter sounded hollow. Your smiles didn’t have the spark that had once made his heart race. You were perfect—too perfect, just like everything else in his world.

And it tore him apart.

One night, as you twirled around the room, humming a cheerful tune, Gojo watched you with a pang of regret so sharp it felt like it might break him.

“I ruined you” he whispered to himself, his voice trembling.

You stopped mid-twirl, turning to him with a bright smile. “What was that?”

“Nothing” he said quickly, forcing a smile. “You’re beautiful.”

You beamed at him, and it was like a knife to his heart.

Eventually, he couldn’t take it anymore. One night, as you sat together under the stars which he had programmed to twinkle just for you, he broke down.

“This isn’t you” he said quietly, his hands trembling as he reached for yours. “I wanted you to be happy, but this…this isn’t real. You’re not real.”

You tilted your head, confused. “What do you mean? Of course I’m real, Gojo. I’ve never been better!”

“No,” he said, his voice cracking. “You’re not better. You’re…different. I changed you. I did this to you.”

Your smile faltered for the first time in weeks. “What are you talking about?”

He buried his face in his hands, his voice muffled. “I couldn’t handle seeing you like that. I couldn’t stand the thought of you being unhappy in the world I made for you. So I…I changed your emotions. I forced you to be happy.”

You stared at him, the weight of his confession sinking in.

“I thought it was what you needed” he said desperately, looking up at you with tear-filled eyes. “I thought it would make everything better. But it didn’t. I’m so sorry. I just…I didn’t know what else to do.” Unable to live with the weight of his actions, Gojo made one final decision.

The next morning, you woke up to find the world different. The golden sunlight was dimmer, the once-vivid colors faded to muted tones. The artificial citizens were gone, the streets eerily silent.

And Gojo…was nowhere to be found.

You searched for him, calling his name, but there was no response. When you returned to the palace, you found a single note on the table:

"I couldn’t save you without destroying you. So I’m giving you back what I took, even if it means losing you forever. Be free, my love."

In that moment, the memories he had suppressed came flooding back, and the weight of everything he had done hit you like a tidal wave.

You screamed his name, but he was gone. He had erased himself from the world he had created, leaving you behind with the freedom you had fought for—and the emptiness of a love that had been twisted into something unrecognizable. When Gojo disappeared, the cracks in his virtual world began to grow. It wasn’t just the colors dimming or the citizens vanishing—entire sections of the city began to dissolve into static, leaving nothing but an endless void.

You wandered through the remnants of his paradise, your heart pounding with confusion and dread. At first, you thought it was another one of his games, a punishment for pushing him too far. But as the glitches spread and the once-vibrant world crumbled around you, you realized the truth: Without Gojo, this world could not exist. And neither could you.

As you stood amidst the decay, a flood of memories overwhelmed you. Every moment of defiance, every failed escape attempt, every quiet night when you’d cursed him under your breath—all of it came back in painful clarity.

But mixed in with the anger and bitterness were the memories of his tenderness: the way he’d smile at you like you were the only thing in the universe that mattered, the silly jokes he’d tell to make you laugh, the way he’d hold you when you thought you couldn’t take it anymore.

You fell to your knees, clutching your head as the weight of it all crushed you. For all his flaws, Gojo had truly loved you—loved you enough to destroy himself so you could be free.

And now, that love had doomed you both. The void crept closer, swallowing the palace, the gardens, the stars—everything Gojo had painstakingly crafted for you. You screamed his name, desperation clawing at your throat.

“GOJO! PLEASE! I TAKE IT BACK! COME BACK!”

But there was no response.

As the last remnants of the world dissolved, you felt your body growing lighter, as though you were being unraveled thread by thread. Your form flickered, fragments of yourself breaking away and vanishing into the void.

You realized, with chilling clarity, that without Gojo’s power sustaining you, you couldn’t exist in this world—or any world. You were nothing more than data now, a shadow of the person you had once been.

And as you faded, a single tear escaped your eye, the last trace of your humanity slipping away into the darkness.

What you didn’t know was that Gojo hadn’t truly disappeared. He had exiled himself to the outer edges of his virtual world, hiding in the shadows where even you couldn’t find him.

He watched everything: your screams, your pleas, the way you collapsed as the void consumed you. He watched it all, his heart breaking a thousand times over.

“This is for the best” he whispered to himself, his voice hollow.

But as the last piece of you vanished, leaving the world empty and silent, he realized the horrible truth: He hadn’t saved you. He had destroyed you.

Gojo wandered through the void that was once his paradise, haunted by echoes of your voice. He replayed every memory of you, every laugh, every argument, every tear, clinging to the fragments of what you once were.

He tried to recreate you, crafting perfect replicas of your face, your voice, your mannerisms. But no matter how hard he tried, none of them were truly you. They were hollow imitations, lacking the spark that had made you real.

And so, he destroyed them, over and over again, each failure driving him deeper into madness.

Eons passed in the empty void, though time had lost all meaning. Gojo sat alone in the ruins of his palace, clutching a single, flickering hologram of you—a fragment of your smile, preserved in the last moments before the world had collapsed.

“I just wanted you to be happy” he whispered, his voice raw and broken.

The hologram flickered and went dark, leaving him in complete silence.

And for the first time in his life, Gojo felt truly alone.

------- Special tag list: @tremendousdinosaurpizza @sanestpersonalive