#why is it when something happens it 'always' you three

[onbearfeet]

Grew up in that end of the culture, and I'd just like to add:

For a lot of American parents, it is SPECIFICALLY about having the legal right to hit their kids.

It's called "spanking" here, which sounds cutesy, but it actually encompasses everything from a swat on the ass (bare or otherwise) to a full-on beating. It's a big part of American culture, especially for anyone who was a kid before 1980 or so.

When I was growing up in the 90s, people talked about the CRC like it was an Orwellian monster, Big Brother coming to brainwash your children into communism. And the first thing people brought up, since it always got a loud reaction, was, "They wanna outlaw SPANKING! They think SPANKING is CHILD ABUSE!" Cue horrified, derisive laughter. After all, who would want to ban something as wholesome and all-American as spanking?

Well, as it turns out, hitting your kids is still bad for them even if you give it a cute name. It's also terrible parenting. I got spanked as a child, and I can't tell you what it was usually for because I don't remember a single one of my "crimes". I only remember being terrified and confused about why my parents seemingly went back to normal right afterward. I didn't learn a damn thing from it except that my father couldn't be trusted not to hurt me. And that's not a rare experience--studies bear it out as quite common.

If you're American and you'd like some reading on why spanking happens and is not, in fact, cool and normal ... or if you're NOT American and you're trying to understand why the fuck so many Americans make a religious ritual out of hitting their children ... I recommend Talia Lavin's essay series "Ministry of Violence", available in full here:

And in case it needs saying: don't hit your kids, or I'll send the bears after you. I know violence doesn't teach anyone anything, but bears are great at making sure nobody needs to learn any more lessons.

I cant believe this tweet is how I find out

[motorsportbarbie13]

Aftermath - Chapter Six

When Lando leaves you heartbroken after you get tired of trying to make something out of nothing for far too long, Max steps in to help you pick up the pieces.

Aftermath - MV33 - Chapter 1 Aftermath - Chapter 2 Aftermath - Chapter 3 Aftermath - Chapter 4 Aftermath - Chapter 5 Master List

warnings: lando isn't in this one, chat :) but angsty upon angst and that's all i'll say. ENJOYYYYYYY pairing: max verstappen x leclercsister!reader word count: 4.9k

(As usual thank you to @lestapiastrisgirl for holding my hand and helping me with the middle of this. You’re the bestest 🫶🏻)

Something had happened in Belgium. You didn’t know what, but something had happened. You could feel it. That was the only thing that explained Max’s sudden coldness towards you. It was textbook Lando treatment that you recognized from a mile away. The fact that Max was now treating you like this broke something in you that you haven’t even realized existed. 

At first you thought you were just being paranoid. A by product of spending the last three years being punished and ignored for the smallest offense. You’d developed an extra heightened sensitivity towards silence and your pattern recognition that you had honed during your time with Lando made you overreact to the smallest slight. You were always too sensitive though, isn’t that what Lando always said when you asked him the same thing? When you begged him to communicate with you, to tell you what was bothering him and what you could do to fix whatever you had done to offend him. 

So when Max insisted everything was fine while also avoiding you for the fifth night in a row, you knew something was wrong. Anxiety sat so heavy in your chest the night you had texted him asking if everything was okay, you could barely concentrate. You tried to ignore it first, tried to bury the desire you had to go up to his apartment a few floors above you despite him telling you he was busy, just to ask him face to face what was going on. You were almost brave enough. Almost trusted yourself enough to know that what was going on wasn’t all in your head. But in the end, you couldn’t. 

Lando didn’t make it any easier. After returning from Belgium last week, he hadn’t let up on the full court press of love bombing. You had stayed strong so far though, unable to even begin to picture yourself back with him. Belgium had been a disaster. You had known after the second sip of your drink that you couldn’t go back to him. Your skin crawled when he had wrapped his arm around your waist, attempting to pull you in close as you walked away from Max that night. You knew why he did it, to show Max that you were his. It was a possessive thing and it made your stomach churn. You’d spent so long begging for the bare minimum that the sudden attention Lando was paying attention to you made you nervous. 

So when Jade called you Friday evening to ask if you wanted to go out dancing, you had agreed almost instantly. You needed to get out of the house, knew that staying cooped up inside while you knew Max was upstairs ignoring you and Lando was in your phone begging to let him take you out to dinner (somewhere public where you’d no doubt be captured on camera, of course), was a recipe for disaster. You didn’t want to go back to Lando but you knew boredom and anxiety were a terrible combination that made for poor decisions 

Both Arthur and Charles were in Italy, doing testing for Ferrari in different capacities so it was just Jade, you, Alexandra, and Lorenzo’s fiancé Charlotte left to go out. It had been ages since you’d been out with the girls and as you zipped up the Ferrari red silk slip dress, you could feel in your chest this was going to be a good night. A few moments after you spritzed on a dash of perfume, your phone chimed with a text from Alexandra saying they were waiting for you in the car they had hired for the night. 

The night is cool, the warmth of the day melting away when the sun set below the horizon but you only had a quick walk from the car into the club. Your names were all on the VIP list, of course, being Charles LeClerc’s little sister had it’s advantages after all, so you didn’t need to worry about an extra layer. The moment you step into the club, the heat overwhelms you and you’re glad you only have the silky slip dress on. 

The steady beat of the music washes over you, dim lights calming your frayed nerves as you allow the crush of the Friday night crowd carry you towards the VIP section. You know this place like the back of your hand, you’ve been coming here since before it was technically even allowed. Who’s going to say no to Charles LeClerc’s little sister? Absolutely no one. You know the where the best places are to sit and watch, the best places to go and dance, to lose yourself in the loud music and crowds. Alexandra captures your hand in hers as she weaves her way through the crowded dance floor, her eyes set on the VUP section across the club. Behind you, Jade’s fingers are laced tightly in yours and you know Charlotte is bringing up the rear, the designated mother of the entire group. 

Once in the VIP area, you break off telling the girls you’re going to get a drink while they find the table that’s been reserved for you four. You knew you could wait for the bottle service girl to come take your order but you needed a moment alone and wanted to silence the anxiety in your head quicker with the help of a drink. 

The bar is crowded and it takes you longer than normal to fight your way up to the bar. You don’t mind though, the strategic negotiation it requires for you to get your body, warm and heated from the bodies around you, is a welcome distraction from the thoughts of Max and Lando bouncing around in your head. You desperately hoped Lando was anywhere else in the world right now, knowing that this place was one of his regular haunts when he was in town. That was the last thing you needed but you were fairly certain he wasn’t here tonight. It seemed as if Lando had a sixth sense where your whereabouts were concerned and if he hadn’t spotted you as you crossed the dance floor twice, he probably wasn’t around tonight. 

You order a double vodka cranberry, knowing that the girls will give their orders to the waitresses in time, and turn around to make your way back towards the table across the room. The moment you start back towards your friends, you’re met with a sight that steals the breath from your lungs. 

Max. 

Max on the stage with the DJ, hat turned backwards, tight black t-shirt straining against his well muscled biceps as he swayed back and forth to the music. There was what you assumed a gin and tonic clutched in his hands and as he slammed the drink back with a vigor that surprised you, it felt as if your stomach dropped out of your body, straight to your feet. Wasn’t he supposed to streaming with Redline tonight? That’s what he had told you just hours earlier, wasn’t it? Your first instinct is to defend him though and you think maybe he’s just taking a break from the 24 hour race or he wasn’t needed to help the team after all. There had to be an explanation as to why he was now blatantly ignoring you. There had to be. 

You stand there, frozen, in the middle of the dance floor so long that several people jostle you trying to get around your frozen body. You can’t seem to tear your gaze away from where Max is leaning in to listen to something the guy next to him is saying. You recognize him as a friend of his and Charles, an businessman in Monaco that you barely remembered meeting. Maybe he was here for something related to his business tonight? 

On the stage, Max stood, gin and tonic in hand, hoping that his fifth drink of the night would dull the pain that had gripped at his throat near constantly since that morning in Belgium. He knew, of course, he was being an asshole by ignoring you but he was panicking. He hadn’t realized how deep he was with his feelings for you. Hadn’t realized how much you had come to mean to him in such a short time. Things had always been platonic with you in the long history of his friendship with you. Or so he thought. So the way his chest had clenched so painfully when Lando implied that you had spent the night with him before the race had caught him so off guard he had needed several moments to remember how to breathe. 

He knew, deep in the back of his mind, that he needed to talk to you about it but he couldn’t. That morning in Belgium, you had overslept and had missed all of the pre-race rituals. You had gone straight to Ferrari hospitality so Max hand’t had a chance to ask you about what Lando had told him. By the time he got out of the car, finishing P2 that week, he was exhausted and ready to go home, not wanting to face you anymore. He wasn’t angry, not at you. He was bitterly furious with Lando and his attempts at capturing your attention again but he wasn’t angry with you. But at the same time, he couldn’t bring himself to approach the subject, to ask you if what Lando had said was true or just him taunting Max. He didn’t know if he was going to be able to handle the answer if you confirmed what Lando had told him and that had a feeling of panic settling deep in his bones that he was still, a week later, trying to get a handle on. 

His gaze drifts lazily over the crowed form his spot on the stage. He knows the DJ performing tonight very well and likes the ability to be above the crush of the bodies below on the dance floor, so the stage is always his first choice when he comes to this particular club. When his eyes drift over a familiar pair of doe-eyed brown eyes, looking up at him with a look of utter confusion and crushing sadness, Max nearly drops his drink. 

Fuck. 

He freezes, breath catching in the back of his throat as your gazes clash. He watches as your brows furrow together, anger and pain flashing brilliantly across your pretty face and his heart clenches so painfully he has to grip the side of the DJ booth to keep himself upright. 

Fuck. 

He was so fucked. 

Why had he thought it was a good idea to lie? He wasn’t streaming tonight. He had come up with that lie off the cuff when you had texted him, the guilt of lying to you not heavy enough to stop him from typing out his response. He knew it was cowardly, avoiding you. He had no excuses for it but the last thing he had expected to see tonight was you starting up at him from the middle of the crowd. 

You tilt your head to the side as if you can’t understand what you’re seeing, a frown tipping down at the corners of your full lips. They’re painted a pretty red tonight and Max knows he’s never seen anything more beautiful. He watches as your bottom lip trembles a bit as you connect the dots in your head. You know. You know he’s been avoiding you despite his insistence that he’s fine. That you’re fine. 

When you spin on your heel, moving towards the VIP section at a clipped pace, Max knows he’s fucked up so bad he’s unsure that there’s a way back from this. But he has to try. 

You hear Max calling your name somehow, above the din of the music and chatter of the people that fill the bar. The alcohol in your system does nothing to curb the pain slicing it’s way through your body with each painful heartbeat that thuds loudly in your ears. The look on Max’s face when he spotted you in the crowd was so devastating you could barely breathe. Chest heaving, you do your best to avoid the people in the crowd, desperately needing a breath of cool air that you know you won’t get until you get outside. 

Alexandra spots you first, her face dropping in confusion at the look of utter panic on your features. “What happened?” She assumes it’s Lando at first but then she spots the blond Dutchman following closely behind you. 

Oh shit. 

“I need to get out of here.” You panic, sweat beading on your forehead, hands cold and clammy. 

Jade stands instantly, spotting Max’s panicked face right after she clocks the panic on your face. Hadn’t you mentioned that Max was busy tonight? Something about streaming with Redline? Why was he here, trailing after you, face as panicked as your pale one. 

“Come on.” She reaches for your hand as she stands, putting herself in between you and Max. She doesn’t know what’s going in but by the look on your face, she knows its nothing good. She could kill Max for whatever it is he’s done, even if she doesn’t know exactly what is offense was.  

Alexandra and Charlotte stand immediately as well, a physical wall between you and Max now as he desperately shouts your name over the chatter of the club. “What the fuck did you do?” Charlotte hisses, barely resisting the urge to toss her drink in his face. 

“I fucked up.” Max says, voice sharp with anxiety. 

“Yeah, I can see that.” She fires back as she watches Jade lead you through the crowd towards the door. “What the hell did you do, Max?” 

“I lied to her.” Is is only response because how else is he going to explain what he’d done to one of your sister-in-law. 

When Max goes to follow Charlotte and Alexandra towards the door, Alexandra spins on him. Her face is a mask of rage and contempt for the man standing in front of her. “I don’t know if you did this on purpose or what, but she’s been through enough without you fucking with her head too. Leave her alone right now, she doesn’t need another man to break her heart.” She yells, anger coloring her tone and causing several heads to swivel in her direction. “How could you, Max? How could you? Knowing what she’s been through and you lied to her? About what? Were you with another girl? Are you that stupid, you idiot?” 

Max hangs his head, knowing he deserves the public tongue lashing Alexandra is giving him. “No, there’s no one else. I just…I didn’t know what to do so I made a stupid mistake. Let me go out there and talk to her, I can explain.” 

Alexandra laughs, cold and bitter, while shaking her head. “Absolutely not. You’re not going anywhere near her right now. We didn’t protect her well enough from Lando and I’m sure as fuck not making that same mistake twice.” 

“You can’t keep me from her, Alex.” 

Alexandra shakes her head. “I know, but I sure as hell can keep you away tonight. Give her some time and then you’d better do some really good groveling, Max. I don’t even know the full story but from the way she looked at us just now, you’ve fucked up big time.” 

Max drags his sweaty palm over his face, groaning to himself. “I know. I know. I’m such a fucking idiot.” 

Alexandra gives him a curt nod. “You are.” She bites out before turning away with Charlotte, leaving Max standing alone in the club. 

It took several days for you to even entertain the idea of speaking to Max. He called you frequently and sent even more frequent text messages. Each voicemail, each text message was full to the brim with emotional apologies, promises to explain himself, and more. You felt yourself swayed several times, almost responding a few times but each time you pictured Lando doing the same exact thing to you and your stomach churned with nauseous anxiety. 

Finally, in the middle of the week after the incident, Max had had enough. He’d tried to be patient, telling himself that the calls and texts were enough, but when he woke up that Wednesday morning, he knew he had to try more. He could feel it deep in his chest that he was about to lose you for good if he didn’t try something drastic. 

A call to Charles was all that was needed to find out you were at your studio that afternoon. He was honestly surprised that Charles had even taken his call, sure that Alexandra and Charlotte had filled him in on what had gone down last Friday. But Charles knew Max. He knew that the Dutchman had fucked up but he also knew that it had been a mistake and Charles knew something else that Max hadn’t even realized. Charles knew that Max was in love with is little sister and that whatever he had done, it had never been with the intention to hurt you. He was still mad as hell his stupid decisions had caused you harm but he also knew that if he stood in the way of the apology that Max knew he had to make, you would be miserable for even longer. 

Because that’s what you were in those days between when you saw Max in the club and when he found you in your studio: miserable. You couldn’t quite work out what you had done to deserve the lies that he had fed you in the week after Belgium. You ran through every moment of the weekend, right up until the last moment you saw him on Saturday night. Everything had been going well up until Lando had found you and swept you away. You had promised Max you could handle yourself and maybe that was where you went wrong. Maybe he was angry you had gone with Lando to talk. But it had only been that: talking. 

The alert for your security system at your studio sounds in the middle of the afternoon, telling you that there’s someone at your door. The office building where your studio is doesn’t have a doorman so you’ve had this system set up since you moved your art in a few years ago. The notification beeps on your phone, pulling you out of the staring contest you’d been having with the painting you had started that weekend you had been alone in Monaco while everyone was in Austria.

 It was nearly finished but you’d been struggling with the last bits, trying to get it all pulled together. Nothing felt quite right with the last finishing touches and you were afraid to put anything more on the canvas because you desperately didn’t want to ruin it.

So when the alert yanked you back down to earth, you were thankful for the interruption. Until you opened the app and saw who it was waiting for you, that is. The video showed a distraught looking Max pacing back and forth outside the doors of your studio. As he waits for you to come to the door, he walks the short hallway, hands stuffed deeply into his pockets. A few moments pass and you just watch as he rakes his hands through his blonde hair, turning it into a rumpled mess that looks so good you hate yourself. 

Something in the way his shoulders sit, hunched and folded in on the rest of his body, sets your teeth on edge. There’s dark smudges under his eyes like Max hasn’t been sleeping. You’d spent the last few days comparing him to Lando, wondering how he could have even consider treating you this way. You couldn’t understand how he could have been so cold towards you, not after he had watched Lando do the same thing to you for years. It didn’t make any sense. 

As you watch him on the video feed though, something sticks out to you. Lando never looked like this after a fight. Never regretted the way he treated you. Never was apologetic or thought he was in the wrong. Just by watching Max’s posture you could tell he was a mess. You could tell just by looking at him that he knew he had fucked up and it was slowly destroying him from the inside out. And that difference was what had you walking towards the door of your studio, opening it moments later. 

“Baby.” Max sighs, his entire body sagging with relief so profoundly that he has to catch himself on the door frame. 

The term of endearment that had been a favorite of Lando’s sounds so much different passing through Max’s lips that it nearly has you weak in the knees. It sounds reverent when Max says it, like he’s about to get on his knees and worship you just because you’re standing in front of him. Like he can’t live another second knowing that he’d managed to hurt you in such a devastating manner. Like he’d do anything to call you baby for the rest of his life.  

You almost give in at that moment. Give into his pleading blue eyes. While Max seemed much more distressed than Lando ever was, you knew you had to stand your ground. Men have been pushing you around left and right lately and you were tired of it. One apologetic look from the Dutchman wouldn't be enough to break down the walls you had recently needed to reconstruct because of him.

"What are you doing here, Max?" You voice was harsher than intended, but it was taking everything in you to stand firm in your decision.

Max just stares at you, utterly unable to form a sentence that can explain what he’s feeling in his chest. You hold his intense eye contact, despite not wanting to be laid so bare underneath his gaze, because you simply can’t function with the way he’s looking at you. “Say something, Max!" You plead. "Why’d you lie to me? Why’d you put me through the exact same thing Lando did over and over for three years? Why’d you break my heart?” You hate yourself for the way your voice shakes when you speak.

The questions are sharp daggers aimed straight for his heart and they strike true with each syllable. Shame burns at the back of his neck, sending uncomfortable pricks of heat dancing up and down his spine. The way you’re looking at him from under thick lashes, begging him for a satisfactory answer is enough to undo his entire soul right then and there. 

The pain that settles into Max’s every muscle aches so fiercely he sways on his feet. He’d never meant to do this to you. Never meant to hurt you in this way. 

“I was scared.” He murmurs as he closes the distance between you two. 

His answer is so simple yet so infuriating you scoff. “Scared of what?” 

“I was scared to put a voice to what’s really going on in my head because it’s too soon and I don’t want to lose you.” 

“So you just blew me off? Max, you ripped a page right out of Lando’s handbook. I was spinning around for weeks, WEEKS! Trying to figure out what the hell I’d done to piss you off because the silence? The silence was deafening.” 

Max rakes his hands through his blond hair, the tension between you two bulidng to a point where it’s going to break you both if you’re not careful. 

“I didn’t…” Max struggles for the words, utterly undone by the look you’re giving him, your eyes begging for an explanation that you can make sense of. “Seeing you walk off with Lando that night in Austria was devastating and that scared me. I didn’t realize how far gone I was for you until you left me in that lobby.” Max drags in a shaky breath, trying to find the right things to say. 

“You’re still healing from all that Lando’s done to you and you don’t need an added layer of drama. And then I ran into Lando the morning after and he told me…” He continues, letting the words hang in the air, as if you know what should be at the end of his sentence. 

“He told you what?” Your heart hammers in your chest waiting for him to answer. “What did he tell you, Max?” 

“He told me what happened that night...That you spent the night together.” Having to say those words out loud made them so real to Max. This conversation right here was what he’d been avoiding now for God knows how long but there was no going back now. 

Your stomach drops straight through your body, down into your toes. “He what?” You sputter, so shocked that you can’t even begin to wrap your head around what Max has just confessed. 

"I saw him in the lobby the next morning and he said you wanted to get back together with him. I didn't know what else to do after he told me so I ju-…" Max stops short, his gaze darting away from your own to focus on something past you over your shoulder.

Confusion pulls at your features as you turned to follow his line of sight.

Your stomach lurches, a wave of nasuea hitting you straight in the gut. He was staring at your painting. The one you were painting of him.

"Max, that's not finished yet. No one was supposed to see…" Your panicked words dying on your lips.

Max doesn't spare you another glance, his eyes solely trained onthe portrait of him splashed across the canvas in bold reds, blues, and yellows.

He places a careful hand on your shoulder, gently guiding you out of the doorway, allowing him to enter your studio completely. His steps are unhurried as he crosses the space to see the piece up close.

This was it. You could feel what was coming now. The rejection. The taunting. The humiliation. Your secret was out and he was finally going to see that you thought of him as more than just a friend. He had to know now as your slight obsession was coming to light. You opened your mouth to come up with another excuse for why there was a canvas of Max taking up so much space in your studio. You had to salvage this, but the words just wouldn't come.

"This is from my win last year," He turned to you in that moment, his blue eyes swimming with more than just his unshed tears, "From Brazil right?"

You're only able to nod. The sky on the canvas is dark, exactly how you remember it being that day. You had watched Max go from P17 to P1 in some of the worst conditions you’d ever seen from your couch and remembered the intense mixed feelings you’d had during the race. It had been a season defining race for Lando, who had been inconsolable for days after. But a piece of you, a bigger piece than you were willing to admit to yourself at that time, had been over the moon excited for Max. Watching him celebrate the win after such a hard season had been etched into your bones that day and this painting was a result of that. 

The knots in your stomach tie up your tongue in ways you couldn't control. Your world was spiraling, completley out of control, and you didn't know how to make it stop. Max was never supposed to see the painting you had poured your heart into over the last month or so. Not after he had treated you after Belgium. Not after what he had done to you in the club. You had decided that your feelings for him had been unfounded and you had intended to hide it deep in a closet so no one would ever see your heart plastered so blatenly across the canvas like that.

"You didn't sleep with Lando, did you?" The words are a whisper as he continues to stare at the canvas.

Your heart lurches, "God, no! Max, absoltely not."

"I'm such a fucking idiot." He turns to you then, his face a mask of anguish and regret. "I thought that you were getting back with him and that's why I pulled away. I thought you were still in love with him and I didn't want to get in the way of your happiness, even if that meant you going back to him."

The moment Max had laid eyes on the painting though, he knew he had been wrong. He knew you well enough to know how much emotion you poured into your art and knew that there was no way you didn't feel exactly the same way as he felt about you.

"Lando was never going to make me happy, Max." You whisper, fingers suddenly itching to touch him.

"I could make you happy." He says, voice raspy with emotion.

"I know." You nod as the first tear slips down your cheek as Max closes the distance between you two in just a few strides. When his arms slip around your waist and he pulls you close to his body, you pratically melt into him. He's so warm and soft and it's everything you thought it be, being held by Max like this.

Max drops his head into the crook of your neck, nuzzling at the soft skin there. "I love you."

Your knees nearly buckle at his confession, a silent sob wracking your body. "I love you too."

And then he kisses you.

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[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

mc just falling asleep on ominis's lap and he's like i can't move like ever now. sebastian please get me a book

Trust and Torment | Ominis Gaunt x Reader

ANON! Thank you sm for your ask, this was so cute ;.; gave me a few new HCs for Ominis as well that I included heheh :')

I got an ask not long ago ab how I go about writing and stuff, so with this one, I visualized my general thought process is for when I start (excuse my chicken scratch writing). Not sure how helpful it'll be but I thought why not! <3

Words: ~3,200

Tags: Mentions of Smut, Pining, Romance, Fluff, Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, No Hogwarts House

The faint crackle of the torches filled the quiet space, their warmth radiating in uneven waves that brushed against the cool stone walls of the Undercroft. The scent of parchment mingled with ink and the smoky aftermath of spell-fire. Ominis sat on the couch next to you, relaxing into the softened edges of the cushions—a familiar, worn comfort shaped by years of use.

Your shoulder brushed against his, a fleeting touch, but it sent a ripple of warmth through the air between you, one that lingered beneath his skin long after the contact had passed. The faint sound of your fingers turning the pages of your book mingled with Sebastian's muttering and sighing from where he sat across the room, scratching at his Arithmancy homework.

Study sessions like this had become the norm for the three of you in seventh year. What used to be lively gatherings filled with procrastination and teasing in years past had quieted into focused companionship, the looming specter of N.E.W.T.s demanding most of your attention. Tonight was no different.

Ominis seemed, as always, the picture of calm. His steady fingers brushed the braille of his book, the other hand resting neatly in his lap. But beneath his composed exterior, his thoughts were fraying. Sitting this close to you, with the faint scent of your shampoo wrapping around him, your shoulder occasionally brushing his own, he was hopelessly distracted.

It was maddening, really, how easily you unraveled him—how the simple press of your body against his own could splinter his focus into something delicate and dangerous. Because the truth was, Ominis rarely wanted to touch anyone at all.

Touch was not something he easily welcomed. His family had made sure of that—cold, distant, cruel as they were, touch had only ever been associated with pain or control. Even with his friends, Ominis had never been particularly tactile. The exceptions had been Sebastian and Anne, the only ones who had ever felt safe enough to let close. And then, of course, there was you.

You, who had never asked permission outright, but whose touch had never been unwelcome. You, who reached for him in passing—soft brushes of your fingers against his sleeve when you wanted his attention, the warm press of your palm to his arm when laughter had made you lean into him, the absentminded way you tucked his hair behind his ear when he was too deep in thought to notice it falling forward. He had never stopped you.

He never wanted to.

Because the truth he could never voice—perhaps even to himself—was that he was painfully, desperately touch-starved. And when it came to you, your touch was the most desirable of all.

It was getting harder to pretend it didn’t affect him. Harder to keep himself from leaning into it, from seeking it out. Harder to ignore the way his heart beat faster whenever you shifted closer, the way his fingers itched to reach for you in return.

This was just studying. Just work. He told himself that over and over again.

But the longer you read, the slower your movements became, and Ominis didn’t miss the way your shoulder leaned just a little more heavily into his. At first, it was subtle—your head dipping slightly, then snapping back up. A small shift, barely noticeable. But then it happened again. And again.

Ominis barely had time to register what was happening before you gave in entirely, your head resting against his shoulder with a sigh so soft he almost didn’t hear it.

His entire body locked up.

Oh. Oh.

He didn’t dare move. He didn’t even breathe. His brain, usually sharp and composed, blanked completely, drowned out by the deafening drum of his heartbeat in his ears. Your weight was warm and solid against him, pressing into his side in a way that sent his thoughts spiraling.

Surely this was a mistake. You were tired. You hadn’t meant to—

Then you shifted again, tilting, your warmth slipping lower.

And before he could even begin to process what was happening, your head slipped from his shoulder entirely, settling against his lap.

Ominis nearly had a heart attack.

The book in his hands slipped from his fingers, landing on the couch beside him with a dull thud. His breath caught so sharply in his throat that he thought he might choke on it. Every muscle in his body tensed so violently that he might as well have been Petrified.

Your head. Was in. His lap.

His brain was screaming. His body was screaming. His entire existence was screaming.

The soft press of your cheek against his thigh burned hotter than fiendfyre, and he was terrified to move even a fraction of an inch, as if any shift might wake you—or worse, alert you to what you’d done.

A chair scraped against the stone floor, the sharp sound slicing through his unraveling thoughts. Ominis didn’t need to see Sebastian to know that he had just turned, and, judging by the way the air shifted, was now staring.

“Well, well,” Sebastian mused, and Ominis could hear the smirk in his voice. “Look at that.”

“Don’t,” Ominis hissed, his voice sharp but barely above a whisper. His entire being was already on the verge of short-circuiting, and Sebastian Sallow’s commentary was the last thing he needed.

Sebastian made a thoughtful sound, far too amused for Ominis’ liking. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so… flustered,” he drawled, clearly relishing every second of this. “It’s adorable, really.”

Ominis’ hands hovered uselessly in his lap, his fingers twitching, aching to move, but paralyzed by the sheer catastrophe of the situation.

“Sebastian,” Ominis bit out a warning, his voice low and laced with something dangerously close to desperation.

Sebastian, of course, did not care.

The scrape of his chair echoed again as he stood, his footsteps far too leisurely as he strolled across the room.

“So,” Sebastian continued, his voice all casual-like as he stood over where Ominis sat on the couch. “Have you told her yet?”

Ominis’s stomach plummeted. His head whipped toward Sebastian, his pale eyes narrowing in immediate alarm. “Told her what, exactly?”

“Oh, you know,” Sebastian said breezily, tone far too innocent to be anything but dangerous. “How you feel. How you’ve been pining for her for years, how the mere sound of her laugh sends you spiraling, how you—”

“Sebastian,” Ominis hissed, his entire body going rigid as heat flared up his neck, spreading fast. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, as if gripping onto whatever composure he had left. “Will you shut up?!” His voice dropped to a hushed, frantic whisper, sheer panic creeping in. “What if she hears you?!”

Sebastian snorted. “Trust me, she’s not hearing anything right now. She’s completely out.” A pause. Then, far too smugly, “Although, if she was awake, this would make for a fascinating conversation.”

Ominis groaned softly, dragging a trembling hand down his face. He couldn’t do this right now—he couldn’t. His mind was already in tatters, barely keeping him together beneath the searing weight of you pressed against him. His heart was hammering so hard he was convinced it was audible, each heavy beat a taunting reminder of just how doomed he was.

“Look—”

“I am looking,” Sebastian interrupted, entirely unrepentant. “And she looks very comfortable. Entirely content, all cozied up in your lap like that.” His voice dipped into mock sympathy. “Honestly, I think she’s found her new favorite spot. Looks like you’re stuck here, mate.”

Ominis’ lips parted, but nothing came out. His thoughts were too much—too loud, too scattered, an impossible mess of holy hell what do I do and I can’t move I can’t move I can’t move.

Sebastian, because he was insufferable, only continued.

“And look at you,” he mused, his tone brimming with pure mischief. “All flustered and red in the face—Merlin’s beard, Ominis, her face is practically on your di—”

“Enough!” Ominis snapped, his voice a desperate whisper, his entire body burning. His hands hovered uselessly above his lap, fingers twitching, aching to do something—anything—but he didn’t dare move. He turned his head away sharply, as if that might somehow shield him from Sebastian’s relentless torment.

Sebastian laughed, warm and unbothered. “Relax, Ominis. I’m only joking.” A beat. “Mostly.”

Ominis wanted to die.

Sebastian sighed, entirely too pleased with himself. “Well, I suppose I could be a decent friend and leave you to your little—” he waved a hand vaguely, “—situation.”

Ominis felt the shift in the air as Sebastian moved, as Ominis heard the the lazy, purposeful way he strolled toward the exit. Finally.

But then—panic struck. He had no idea how long he'd be down here, now idea how long he'd be unable to move.

“Wait,” Ominis blurted, his voice sharper than he intended, but still quiet, tinged with something between resignation and pleading.

Sebastian paused. “Hmm?”

Ominis hesitated. He hated the way his fingers twitched at his sides, how stupidly vulnerable he felt, trapped in this moment, utterly helpless beneath the weight of something he wanted—ached for—but could not handle.

He swallowed hard, forcing his voice to remain even. “Could you… bring me something from dinner?”

Sebastian was silent.

For a moment, Ominis thought his friend was about to pounce on his uncharacteristic uncertainty, dig into it, use it to fluster him even more.

But then Sebastian chuckled, softer this time. Genuine.

“Of course,” he said, still teasing but gentler now. “Anything for the lap-bound prince.”

Ominis clenched his jaw. “I hate you.”

Sebastian only hummed, entirely unfazed. “I’ll make sure it’s something easy to eat,” he added, far too cheerfully. “Wouldn’t want you disturbing her.”

Ominis groaned, his face burning all over again. “Just go.”

With one last low chuckle, Sebastian finally turned and stepped out, the door creaking closed behind him.

Silence fell over the Undercroft once more.

Ominis exhaled a breath, but it did little to steady him. His thoughts were racing, still frayed beyond reason.

And you—blissfully unaware, still peacefully asleep in his lap—remained the greatest, most tormenting comfort of all.

Every part of him was acutely aware of you. It was overwhelming, like he’d been plunged into a dream he desperately didn’t want to wake from.

His fingers twitched at his side, his hand hovering uselessly in the air before retreating back to the couch, clenching into the fabric as if to anchor himself. He wanted—Merlin, he wanted so badly to touch you, just a simple brush of his fingers over your hair, something small, something to savor. But the thought sent a wave of panic crashing through him.

What if it woke you? What if it startled you? What if you looked up at him, bleary-eyed and confused, and he had to explain why his hands were trembling, why his breath was uneven, why he couldn’t stop thinking about you?

The mere idea of it made his stomach twist violently.

Yet his mind wouldn’t settle, wouldn’t let him rest. His thoughts churned, slipping into dangerous territory before he could stop them. Was this moment as perfect to you as it was to him?

No, of course not.

You were asleep, utterly unaware of the emotional devastation you had just unleashed upon him.

But still…

Sebastian, as infuriating as he was, was right. Your face was dangerously close to Ominis's pelvis, to the very peak of his torment.

Of course he had imagined you down there before. A million times. Your face, your mouth—Merlin, your mouth—and all the wicked ways he had dreamed of feeling it, of having it wrapped around him. It was a dangerous, recurring indulgence, one he had forced himself to bury, to ignore, to pretend didn’t exist.

But this wasn't that, he reminded himself sharply.

You weren’t here to torture him, to tease or tempt, to unravel him piece by trembling piece. You weren’t even aware of what you were doing to him—of how you had always done this to him, effortlessly, unknowingly. You were just… sleeping. Soft and trusting, warm and utterly oblivious, curled into him as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if you belonged there.

So even as his body betrayed him, as heat coiled low in his stomach and his blood turned traitorous, as the cruelest corners of his mind whispered every half-buried thought, every shameful fantasy he'd ever had of you—he could not let his mind wander further.

Ominis forced himself to exhale slowly, counting each breath in a desperate attempt to steady the erratic rhythm of his heart. In and out. In and out. But it wasn’t helping—nothing was. His body was taut with restraint, his nerves raw beneath the unbearable weight of you.

And then, another thought crept in, unbidden.

Was his lap even comfortable enough for you?

It was ridiculous, laughable even, that of all the things he should be worried about right now—his lack of control, the way his thoughts teetered on the edge of something dangerous, the sheer agony of wanting something he could never have—this was what took root in his mind.

But it did.

Because you were still there, still sleeping, still soft and warm and so impossibly close. And Ominis had never been… particularly built. He was lean, all sharp angles and bony joints, nothing like Sebastian, for example, who was solid in a way that made people feel secure when they leaned against him. Ominis, though?

Was he enough? Was he warm enough? Soft enough?

Did you even feel comfortable? Or were you simply too exhausted to move?

Ominis’ throat tightened. His jaw clenched.

Stop it.

He shook his head sharply, forcing the thought away before it could spiral further. It was ridiculous.

He let out a low, shaky sigh, tilting his head back against the worn fabric of the couch. His eyes fluttered closed, as if shutting them might help him breathe, might help him find some semblance of control.

Minutes passed—or maybe it was hours, he wasn’t sure—before his restraint began to crumble.

His fingers twitched at his side, brushing against the edge of his robe, as though testing his resolve. He swallowed hard, heart pounding in his chest.

Don’t do it. Don’t move. Just sit here. Be thankful she’s even this close.

But his hand betrayed him.

Slowly—hesitantly—he let his fingers lift from the couch, hovering for an agonizing moment before finally—finally—settling gently on your shoulder.

He froze. Held his breath. Waited.

You didn’t stir.

Encouraged by your lack of reaction, he let his hand shift, his fingertips ghosting over the curve of your shoulder, barely daring to make contact. He moved so carefully, as if even the air around you might betray him.

And then—

His fingers brushed against the soft skin of your cheek.

Ominis stopped breathing.

Oh, this was—this was worse. This was so much worse.

You were so warm. So soft.

It was unbearable. It was blissful.

It was a catastrophe.

His fingers lingered, just for a moment, before moving again, his touch impossibly light as he carefully tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His throat felt tight, his pulse hammering so hard he thought it might shatter him from the inside out.

He shouldn’t be doing this. He knew that. He shouldn’t be indulging in something so selfish, so fleeting. And yet he couldn’t stop.

Being blind, Ominis had grown up with people making assumptions about him—about what he wanted, what he needed. One of the most common, most infuriating notions was that he must long to touch their faces, to “see” them with his hands. Strangers would offer their cheeks, their chins, without hesitation, as if they were gifting him something precious. He hated it.

To him, it had always felt invasive. Hollow. An empty gesture that lacked the intimacy people so foolishly believed it conveyed.

But you?

You had never offered. Never asked him to touch your face. Ominis wondered if it was out of politeness, or if you simply didn’t want him to. Maybe you thought he’d recoil at the idea.

And yet—selfishly, shamefully—Ominis had wished more times than he could count that you would bring it up. That you would offer, not out of pity, not because you felt you should, but because you trusted him enough to let him. To let him know you.

But you never had.

And now—

Now, he had his chance.

His fingers mapped the soft curve of your cheek, brushed against your jawline, and trailed down the delicate bridge of your nose. Every touch was feather-light, as if he was terrified he might shatter you, might shatter himself.

His fingertips ghosted over the curve of your chin, tracing the soft slope with a gentleness he hadn’t known he possessed. Every tiny detail of you was being burned into his mind now: the smoothness of your skin, the faint warmth radiating from you, the way your breathing remained steady, peaceful, as though his touch didn’t disturb you in the slightest.

It was intoxicating. It was terrifying.

It was everything.

His thumb brushed against the edge of your jaw, and his chest ached with the weight of everything he'd never said, everything he secretly felt. A quiet storm of longing and guilt swirled inside him, tightening in his throat, stealing the breath from his lungs.

What would you think if you knew? Would you pull away? Would you be offended by his presumption? Or would you—

He refused to finish the thought.

Ominis let out a slow, trembling breath, his thumb tracing one last, fleeting touch before he forced himself to pull away. His hand drifted back to your shoulder, retreating to safer ground, while the other, still trembling faintly, lifted to cradle the back of your head.

And then you shifted slightly in your sleep.

A soft, barely-there sigh escaped your lips as you curled just the slightest bit closer to him, seeking out his warmth as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Ominis's breath hitched. The tension bled from his frame, melting into something warmer, something deeper—something that made his heart ache in a completely different way.

Because you were here. With him. Safe and peaceful, trusting him enough to let your guard down in a way that left him utterly, completely speechless.

And finally—mercifully—the storm in his mind began to quiet.

Ominis let his head tip back against the couch again, his fingers brushing absently against your shoulder as his eyes slipped closed.

He didn’t realize when his breaths grew deeper, slower, or when the exhaustion that had been tugging at the edges of his mind finally overtook him.

All he knew was that you were there.

Safe. Close.

By the time Sebastian returned, juggling plates of dinner, Ominis was fast asleep—his head resting against the couch, one hand still gently cradling the back of yours.

[ruewritesoccasionally]

The Reunion Pt. 5 | Aaron Pierre

Pairing: Aaron Pierre x Black Reader

Warnings: Fluff, emotional intimacy, soft yet passionate smut (18+), deep yearning, mutual pining finally paying off, and excessive tenderness. 🥹💛

Chapter Summary: A first date years in the making—filled with warmth, nostalgia, and the quiet certainty of something undeniable. As the night unfolds, hesitation gives way to longing, and love finally finds its way home

Word Count: 3.3K

a/n: now i know i said that i hate writing series' but this is different, this feels like a love letter to everything they’ve built and there's one more chapter left to go. Pt 1, Pt 2, Pt 3 & Pt 4

He let out a sharp exhale, shaking his head at his own reflection. It wasn’t like this was the first time he was seeing her. He had spent years by her side, watched her grow, laughed with her, held her when she cried. And yet, this—this—felt different. It was different.

Because tonight, she wasn’t just his best friend. She was his.

Aaron ran a hand down his face before glancing at his phone. No new messages. He checked the time—still early, but not early enough to be standing in his bedroom like an idiot, overthinking every possible outcome.

Would the night go smoothly? Would she regret this? Would he?

No. Not a chance in hell.

The moment she had kissed him back, the moment she had whispered so have I, every lingering doubt had been silenced.

Still, the nerves remained.

With a sigh, he grabbed his cologne, spritzing it lightly before second-guessing and reaching for a different bottle instead.

His phone buzzed. A call from Marcus.

Aaron swiped to answer, putting him on speaker as he continued getting ready.

“Yo, what’s up?”

“Should be asking you that,” Marcus said, amusement lacing his tone. “You good?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

Marcus scoffed. “Bro, I called to ask if you wanted to grab a drink, and you sounded like you were pacing a hole in your floor. And now I hear you fussing over something. What, your hair not curling the way you like?”

Aaron rolled his eyes. “Man, shut up.”

A beat of silence. Then, Marcus hummed knowingly. “Ohhh. Wait. Wait.” He laughed. “It’s the date, isn’t it?”

Aaron didn’t respond, but that only made Marcus double down.

“Wow. You’ve been friends with this woman for years, and now you’re stressing over cologne? Damn, bro.”

“I’m not stressing.”

Marcus outright cackled. “Right. And I’m about to get signed to the Lakers.”

Aaron huffed, setting the cologne down with a thud.

Marcus’ voice softened, though the teasing edge remained. “Look, man. It’s her. You’ve already won. Just be yourself.”

Aaron exhaled slowly, running a hand down his face.

Marcus was right. He didn’t need to prove anything to her. She already knew him—every piece of him.

But deep down, he still knew—this wasn’t just another date.

It was the date.

The one that changed everything.

He picked up a small velvet box from his nightstand, flipping it open to reveal the delicate silver bracelet inside. It wasn’t flashy, wasn’t extravagant, but it meant something. Inside the band, a date was engraved—the day they had met.

A reminder that, no matter what, she had always been the best thing to happen to him.

“Aaron?” Marcus’ voice pulled him back. “You still there?”

“Yeah,” he said, snapping the box shut. “I gotta go.”

Marcus chuckled. “Good luck, lover boy.”

Aaron rolled his eyes, hung up, grabbed his keys, and exhaled once more before heading out the door.

She had changed her outfit three times.

First, a sleek black dress. Too formal.

Then, a casual top and jeans. Too relaxed.

Her hands trembled slightly as she held up another dress, scrutinising it under the soft glow of her bedroom light. Too casual? Too much? Too desperate?

She sighed, tossing it onto the growing pile on her bed.

Now, she stood in front of the mirror, staring at the soft, figure-hugging dress she had finally settled on. It was perfect—hopefully. The colour caught the corner of her eye, unlocking a memory. ‘You should wear that more often’, Aaron had once told her offhandedly, his voice warm with something she hadn’t dared to name at the time. Looks good on you. She swallowed, smoothing her hands over the fabric. Maybe, just maybe, he’d meant more than she realised.

This wasn’t just any date.

Her heart clenched at the thought.

Every other date before this had been easy. Simple. She had gone in knowing how it would end, whether it was with polite goodbyes or the quiet realisation that there was nothing there to build on.

But this?

This was Aaron.

Her best friend. The one person who had seen her at every stage of life and somehow still looked at her like she was everything.

She caught her reflection in the mirror, eyes scanning over the outfit she’d finally settled on. The soft fabric draped perfectly, highlighting her figure without trying too hard. It’s just Aaron, she told herself, smoothing her hands down her sides. Just Aaron.

So why was she still second-guessing?

Her phone vibrated.

Aisha.

Breathe, babe. He already loves you—this is just a formality.

YN let out a small, breathy laugh, her fingers tightening around the phone.

Loves me.

Her stomach twisted—not in fear, but in something deeper. A longing, an ache that had always been there, buried beneath logic and hesitation.

Because Aisha was right.

She had known it for a while now, in the way Aaron looked at her, in the way he spoke to her, in the way he had always been there. This wasn’t just a first date. This was a beginning.

She exhaled, shaking off the nerves. Then, smiling to herself, she sent back a simple response:

I know.

And for the first time that evening, she felt ready.

Aaron stood outside her door, rolling his shoulders as if that would ease the tension coiled in his body. The moment he lifted his hand to knock, the door swung open, revealing her.

And for a moment, he forgot how to breathe.

She was stunning. The soft, figure-hugging dress—the one he’d offhandedly complimented months ago—wrapped around her body like it had been made for her. The colour made his chest ache, because, of course, she remembered.

Of course, she wore it for him.

Her lips parted as if to say something, but words seemed to fail them both. A slow smile tugged at his lips, his voice lower than he intended.

“You look… incredible.”

She glanced away, smoothing her hand over the fabric, pretending she didn’t feel the heat spreading up her neck. “You clean up nice yourself.”

Aaron chuckled, offering his arm. “Shall we?”

The drive was easy, filled with light teasing and an undercurrent of anticipation neither of them acknowledged. When he pulled up to the restaurant, she blinked in surprise.

“This place—”

“—we talked about coming here for years,” he finished, watching her reaction closely. “Figured it was about time we made it happen.”

She turned to him fully, eyes warm with something unreadable. “You really remembered that?”

Aaron scoffed, feigning offense. “You think I don’t listen when you talk?”

“I think you’re scarily good at remembering things I don’t even remember saying.”

He smirked. “Some things are worth remembering.”

The night unfolded like a memory they hadn’t lived yet. Conversation flowed effortlessly, filled with laughter, stolen glances, and quiet moments that spoke louder than words.

At one point, their hands brushed on the table, neither of them moving away. The warmth of his skin against hers sent a hum through her veins.

“I was thinking earlier,” Aaron said, his voice dipping into something softer, “about all the times I almost told you.”

She tilted her head. “Told me what?”

“That I was in love with you.”

Her breath caught.

Aaron smiled, small and knowing. “You probably didn’t notice, but there were so many moments when I wanted to say something. Like the time you got that job offer you were so nervous about, and I took you out to celebrate? That night felt more like a date than any date I’d ever been on.”

She thought back to that evening—how he’d made her feel like the only person in the room, the way he’d looked at her across the table, like she was something precious.

She swallowed. “I remember.”

“And then there was your birthday last year,” he continued, voice dipping lower, like a confession meant only for her ears. “We were standing outside your place, and you hugged me goodnight. I swear, I almost didn’t let go.”

She let out a shaky breath, eyes searching his.

“I didn’t want to ruin what we had,” he admitted. “But if I’m being honest? I was ruining myself by pretending I didn’t feel this way.”

The weight of his words settled between them, heavy and full of meaning.

She reached across the table, lacing her fingers through his. “You’re not ruining anything.”

Aaron exhaled, squeezing her hand. “Good.”

The drive back was filled with that same quiet warmth, but there was something else simmering beneath the surface. Something unspoken but impossible to ignore.

As they pulled up outside her place, she turned to him, smirking. “You really wore cologne just for me, huh?”

Aaron scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Mm. Marcus told me you were stressing over it.”

He groaned, shaking his head. “That man has no loyalty.”

She laughed, unbuckling her seatbelt. “It’s cute, though.”

Aaron hummed. “You calling me cute?”

“I said it’s cute. Not you.”

He arched a brow. “That so?”

Before she could react, he moved swiftly—unbuckling his seatbelt and leaning in, caging her against the car door.

The playful banter died between them, replaced by something heavier.

His face was inches from hers, his thumb grazing the curve of her jaw. He tilted his head, studying her.

Their breaths mingled in the small space between them.

Her heart hammered.

Not yet.

He didn’t say it out loud, but she heard it anyway.

He exhaled sharply, dropping his hand and leaning back. “Go inside, sweetheart.”

She swallowed hard, her fingers twitching against the door handle.

Then, she turned back to face him.

“Aaron?”

He was still watching her, still gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping him steady.

She hesitated, then—softly, carefully—said, “Come inside. Just for a little while.”

Aaron’s breath hitched. For a split second, she thought he might say no. But then, without a word, he shut off the engine and got out.

Inside, the energy between them shifted again—easier, lighter. She kicked off her heels, sighing as she wiggled her toes, and Aaron chuckled, shaking his head.

“Don’t laugh,” she murmured, sinking onto the couch, stretching her legs beneath her. “I survived a whole evening in those.”

Aaron smirked, settling into the chair across from her, watching her like he was memorising every little thing—the way she tucked her legs up, the way she absently played with the hem of her dress, the way her face softened now that she was home.

“You’re staring,” she pointed out, tilting her head.

“I know.”

He didn’t even try to deny it.

They fell into conversation easily, reminiscing, sharing old memories that now felt different—charged with the weight of everything they had yet to say.

"You remember that trip we all took? The one where Marcus swore he could build a fire from scratch?" she mused, laughing softly.

Aaron grinned. “You mean the one where he nearly burned off his eyebrows?”

She snorted. "And you were the one who had to step in and actually get the fire going."

He shrugged, feigning modesty. "What can I say? I like fixing things."

Her laughter softened, fading into something quieter.

Aaron leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. “I like this.”

She blinked. “Like what?”

“This. Us.”

Her heart thumped against her ribs. "Me too."

The words sat between them, gentle but weighted.

She barely noticed the way he had shifted closer.

Barely noticed the way her own body had angled toward him.

Then, as the silence stretched, he reached for her hand, his thumb grazing over her knuckles.

The world quieted.

His voice, low and rough with something deep, broke the stillness.

“I meant what I said.”

Her breath caught.

“I don’t just want tonight,” he murmured. “I want all of it.”

A slow warmth unfurled in her chest. She had spent so long holding back, convincing herself this wasn’t possible. That she couldn’t have him, not like this.

But looking at him now—his stormy eyes filled with something so sure, so certain—she finally let herself believe it.

She laced her fingers through his and exhaled, steady.

“Then take it.”

The first kiss inside her apartment had been different.

Not rushed, not desperate—deliberate.

A slow, deep, drawn-out claiming.

Aaron kissed her like he was memorising her. Like he was tracing each curve, each shiver, each breath to commit it all to memory. His hands skimmed her waist, mapping the warmth of her skin beneath her dress, but there was no urgency, no rush to take.

It was patience. It was devotion. It was this is where I’ve always belonged.

She felt it in the way his lips moved against hers, in the way his breath stuttered slightly when she pressed closer, her nails dragging lightly over the short hair at the nape of his neck.

When they broke apart, Aaron rested his forehead against hers, his breathing uneven.

“Are you sure?” His voice was low, rough, barely more than a whisper.

She cupped his face, running her thumb over the curve of his jaw. “Aaron,” she murmured, “I’ve always been sure.”

A quiet exhale left his lips, like he had been waiting for this confirmation all his life. He turned his head, pressing a reverent kiss to her palm, then to her fingertips, then to the inside of her wrist, lingering there like he was giving thanks.

When he guided her backward, toward the bedroom, it wasn’t urgent��it was unspoken understanding.

He needed to see her. All of her.

His fingers trailed over the zipper of her dress, undoing it with aching slowness. Every inch of revealed skin was met with his lips, soft and unhurried. When the fabric slipped down her body, pooling at her feet, he pulled back slightly, eyes dragging over her frame like she was something divine.

“Let me see you,” he murmured, voice thick with awe.

And when she let him—when she stood there, bare before him, without hesitation or doubt—his expression softened into something almost reverent.

Aaron reached out, fingertips ghosting down the path of a stretch mark along her hip, tracing over the swell of her curves like he was committing each one to memory. His gaze flickered up to hers, something unreadable swirling behind those eyes.

“You’re breathtaking.”

A warmth bloomed in her chest, and before she could reply, his lips were on her again, guiding her toward the bed, their bodies moving as if they had done this a thousand times in another life.

He took his time, learning her in a way neither of them had ever allowed before. Every touch was measured, every kiss purposeful. When his lips found the inside of her thigh, he let them linger, inhaling softly, as if he were breathing her in.

He didn’t rush.

He savoured.

When his mouth finally met her, her fingers twisted into the sheets, a gasp spilling from her lips that made Aaron groan against her. He gripped her thighs, anchoring her to him, unwilling to let her escape the pleasure unravelling between them.

“Aaron,” she choked out, barely able to form words.

His hands squeezed her thighs, keeping her still as his mouth worked her over with slow, intoxicating precision.

“Look at me,” he murmured against her, voice dark and commanding.

Her head lifted, dazed, locking onto his gaze.

The sight alone nearly undid her.

He needed her to see this. To see him. To see how much he wanted this, how much he wanted her.

And when he finally kissed his way back up her body, settling between her legs, her breath hitched at the feeling of him pressed against her, solid and unyielding.

Aaron exhaled sharply, pressing his forehead against hers, voice shaking.

“I’m not rushing this,” he whispered. “I’ve waited too damn long.”

His movements were slow, deliberate, filled with a reverence that made her chest ache.

When he finally sank into her, it wasn’t just the pleasure that stole her breath—it was the emotion behind it.

This wasn’t just about need.

This was everything.

His lips found hers again, swallowing the soft moan that spilled from her throat, his hands exploring her body with a kind of tenderness that left her undone. He moved with an aching slowness, rolling his hips against hers in a way that made her toes curl.

Her arms wrapped around his back, pulling him impossibly closer, grounding herself in his warmth, his scent, the way he whispered her name like it was sacred.

“I love you.”

The words came unbidden, but neither of them flinched.

Because this had never been a question.

Her hand found his cheek, guiding his lips back to hers, pouring everything into that kiss.

“I love you too.”

Aaron’s breath shuddered as he buried his face in the crook of her neck, pressing kisses to her skin between whispered words of devotion.

Their rhythm never faltered.

Their love never wavered.

And when she finally fell apart beneath him, when her body trembled with the force of it, Aaron followed her over the edge, his grip tightening like he never wanted to let go.

And he wouldn’t.

Not now.

Not ever.

The room was quiet, save for the steady hum of their breathing.

No words were needed.

Aaron lay on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other lazily tracing patterns along the curve of her spine. She lay draped over him, cheek pressed against his chest, listening to the slow, rhythmic beat of his heart.

She had never felt safer.

His fingers found her hair, playing with the soft curls with an absentminded tenderness. He let out a long, contented sigh, his voice thick with the remnants of sleep and satisfaction.

“We’re gonna be insufferable to everyone after this.”

She laughed against his skin, her body shaking slightly with the movement. “Oh, absolutely.”

Aaron grinned, tilting his head down to press a kiss into her hair. “Marcus is never gonna let me hear the end of this.”

She lifted her head just enough to meet his eyes, amusement dancing in her own. “Aisha’s been rooting for this since the dawn of time. She might actually cry.”

Aaron chuckled, his fingertips skimming along the dip of her waist. “They were right, though.”

She raised a brow. “About what?”

His gaze softened, his hand stilling over her hip. “About us.”

She swallowed, her heart doing something traitorous in her chest.

Aaron exhaled, shaking his head with a fond smirk. “Remember when we swore we’d never date within the friend group?”

She groaned, burying her face in his chest. “God, we were so adamant.”

“We thought it would be messy.”

She turned her face just enough so he could hear the teasing smile in her voice. “Well… you were pretty messy about it.”

Aaron scoffed, eyes narrowing playfully. “Excuse me?”

She grinned, propping herself up on his chest, her fingers toying with the ends of his curls. “The brooding? The longing stares? The dramatic internal monologues?”

Aaron grabbed her wrist, flipping them effortlessly so she was beneath him again, pinned to the sheets. “You like the way I look at you, though.”

Her breath caught as his gaze swept over her, full of warmth, of something deeper. “Yeah,” she murmured, voice softer now. “I do.”

Aaron dipped his head, kissing her forehead, her cheek, the tip of her nose, before finally brushing his lips over hers in a slow, lingering kiss.

When he pulled back, his thumb ran over the curve of her jaw, tracing it lightly.

“I’ve got you. Always.”

Her heart squeezed, her fingers curling into his back, holding him closer.

They had spent so many years orbiting around each other, lingering at the edge of almost. But now, there was no more hesitation, no more waiting.

They had each other.

And this?

This was only the beginning.

taglist: @writingsbytee @venusincleo @nickidub718 @kxllanxtdoor @random-human02

comments and reblogs are appreciated as well as feedback, i hope you liked it 🫶🏾🫶🏾🫶🏾

[honeyhotteoks]

i never thought i'd be alive to see my man yunho show this much skin...

how are we doing miss chai? was your day memorable? your coffee warm enough? was this yunho treat enough to pull you through the week? i need thoughts on his UNBELIVABLE acting out bc im clearly not coping well

✨anon

ohhhhh ✨ anon you know me so well.

so how am i doing….. i’m actually amazing - my skin is clear, my bed was warm, my coffee is perfectly delicious. i’m in eastern time usa for those who don’t already know, so i was settling down on my couch with my coffee and my ipad, ready to scroll the news and twitter and then i got the notification…. and i could see in the thumbnail yunho was shirtless, and the rest, as they say, was a totalfuckingblackout i freaked out and threw my phone.

this yunho was definitely enough to pull me through the week though, i’m absolutely going to watch this every time work tests my patience because he’s seriously setting my monday up and my week up for something good.

but i actually do have so many thoughts about this as your resident yunho analyzer…. so if anyone’s interested:

During this Europe tour, three interesting things happened where it came to Yunho showing more skin. First, he did not go to the pool but did joke around with atiny on live who said he should have gone / were joking around about pool pics. Second, he showed up on that live in a tank top and was a little embarrassed about showing too much skin, but then when atiny assured him they’ve seen the same from other members, he said he’d remember that and to be more comfortable with atiny. Third…. his costumes for Europe tour have increasingly started to show more chest which is something he’s always been a little shy about, but especially since the Guerrilla wardrobe malfunction a while back. There’s the lace up white shirt of course, but his Silver Light white shirt is more unbuttoned than I’ve ever seen, and he’s no longer wearing a black turtleneck underneath the purple crushed velvet jacket that had the malfunction.

Next, I’ll mention in the recent voice live he was talking about skincare and his shower routine / hair routine because he had a break out, and was just kind of rambling about it and answering questions. At some point in this live he was like…. ah is this too much / not interesting? and apologized, but atiny encouraged him to keep sharing, they like that kind of thing etc. and were curious about what products he uses and his routine.

NOW take all of that information, and remember that Yunho historically does not show a lot of skin but does occasionally like to be a little extra (whether it’s the booty work tiktok, some of his cheekier boyfriend content etc., sometimes he just gets in the mood to show off)

So whenever he’s feeling like this he usually posts something boyfriendy or hiphop dance content, but I genuinely think he’s been live a ton lately and communicating with atiny a lot, and this was kind of swirling around - the idea that he has quite a modest persona combined with atiny pushing him to be himself more / be more comfortable.

I genuinely, genuinely believe he got a little jealous that everyone was talking about other members. We know he’s probably the most jealous one in ateez, the most possessive over his fans, and while yes…. that’s fanservice and he’s very good at it, I always see a nugget of truth in it when you watch his expressions on lives and stuff.

HOWEVER - Yunho is also not the type to post an outward thirst trap where like…. skin is showing. I think it makes him uncomfortable full stop, which is why people have been very respectful of him not showing too much skin / not circulating the wardrobe malfunction video etc. I think he likes the teasing elements (like when he checked if he had abs after Mingi’s photo shoot) but a lot of that reads slightly impulsive because he’s a little jealous and a little attention starved when his fans eyes start to wander.

So this video is the perfect middle. It’s boyfriend content, it’s soft content, it’s arguably not sexual in nature AT ALL and yet it’s the first time we’ve really seen his chest to this degree. He’s giving fans something they were asking for while sating his own desire for some amount of attention, and doing it in a way that I can only presume he’s way more comfortable with versus like…. shirtless bathroom pics / gym pics / dancing in something revealing etc.

He’s somehow struck the modest and showing off line so perfectly

I guess this is all to say….. Yunho is so fucking good at his job. He’s extremely attentive to what fans are saying and asking for, and he always leans into those things. Part of that is fan service and engagement, that would be natural for anyone making money off their persona or social media, but I also think some of this is just Yunho. It’s clear he enjoys connections with fans, showing off to them and being there for them, and some of his true personality is bound to bleed into that content.

I’ve also heard from him and other members that he’s one of the more “persona-less” members of Ateez. He’s not that different off camera, and I think that says something about these moments of content.

I think we can safely assume Yunho is that guy… he’s kinda dorky, kinda goofy, super fucking sweet, thoughtful, and LISTENS, and he also understands that appeal. He knows the boyfriend content is something he’s personally okay with and his fans love, because he understands it. He understands that some level of sexiness and skin is both appealing and effective, and he uses it sparingly and at the right times, often without being overtly sexual and more just being himself, which is the ultimate form of boyfriend content after all.

Anyways…. that’s my brain rot on yunho for the day. I’m here to say, this man knows what his fans want and knows how to deliver within boundaries HE is comfortable with and I think that’s really commendable. I’m also just further and further convinced that he’s a good guy who’s only real “fault” is an aries jealous streak and good lord we aren’t complaining out here about that when he shows up doing shit like this.

[jungkoode]

死 KKANGPAE | #03 死

† breakfast and training †

"His eyes are the kind of dark that makes you forget there was ever light in the world. And you hate that you're starting to notice details about him."

next | index

⚔ chapter details ⚔

word count: 5.4k

rating: mature

content: training violence, weapons, strong language, sexual tension

☠ author's note ☠

HELLO MY FELLOW SLEEP-DEPRIVED CREATURES. Welcome back to another episode of "Kiki makes questionable life choices and writes fanfiction instead of sleeping"!

Can we talk about how I wrote like three different versions of the gun scene before my perfectionist brain was satisfied? And by satisfied I mean "fine whatever just post it I guess." Don't @ me about gun accuracy, I play Call of Duty sometimes that's research enough (ㆆᴗㆆ)

Also yes, I am absolutely living for the whole "oh no they're training together" trope. Sue me. Or don't, I'm broke. All I have is caffeine and the ability to make my characters suffer. Speaking of which - Jeon in combat mode? chef's kiss My boy is out there being all professional and grumpy while Y/N is just trying her best not to get shot. We love that for them.

PSA: The whole "Cookie" thing was totally self-indulgent and I regret nothing. V is here to cause chaos and honestly? Goals.

Special shoutout to my cat who watched me write this at 3 AM and judged me silently. You're the best beta reader a girl could ask for, even if your only feedback is knocking my coffee over.

See you next Tuesday, you beautiful disasters! Remember: sleep is for the weak and fanfiction is for life.

crawls back into writing cave while mainlining espresso

Kiki

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tumblr/twitter: @jungkoode

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

Mornings in the castle hit different. Through your window, the sky's doing that thing where it can't decide if it's still night or already dawn—all soft blues mixing with hints of gold. Everything's quiet, like the world's holding its breath.

Then your alarm goes off.

"Why did we agree to this again?" Yunjin whines from her bed, fumbling to shut up the annoying buzz. Her pink hair is a mess, splayed across her pillow like cotton candy gone wrong.

"Croissants," you remind her, stretching until your joints pop. "Fresh, buttery, heavenly croissants."

"Not hungry." She burrows deeper into her blanket cocoon. "Too early for hunger. Too early for existing."

You swing your legs off the bed, bare feet hitting the cold floor. "What happened to yesterday's 'new me, new goals' speech?"

"That was yesterday's Yunjin. Today's Yunjin chooses sleep."

With a snort, you pad over to her bed. It's literally two steps away—your shared room is cozy like that, with just enough space for two singles and matching bedside tables. You give her shoulder a gentle shake.

"And what's tomorrow's Yunjin gonna think about that?"

"Tomorrow's Yunjin's problem," she mumbles, death-gripping her blanket. Smart girl. She knows your next move would've been stealing it.

"Then it's tomorrow's me problem too!" You can't help but laugh, and it finally gets her to peek one eye open.

She lets out the longest, most dramatic sigh. "Fine. Fine. You win."

Your shared laughter is soft, comfortable. It's weird how quickly Yunjin became your person here. Maybe because she's as new to this as you are—no pressure to measure up to badasses like Chaewon or keep your guard up around intimidating figures like V and Jeon.

She joined two months before you did. For her, it meant saying goodbye to having her own room, but she says it was worth the trade-off. Girl's a mess when it comes to sleep schedules, but she keeps your shared space spotless and her determination is s̶c̶a̶r̶y̶ impressive. Like, you've seen her practice seduction techniques until 3 AM, and now here she is, dragging herself up at dawn for... well, croissants and self-improvement.

There's something genuinely good about Yunjin. She's always there—to help, to listen, to just be. Five months in and everyone in Seduction already adores her. Yeah, she's clumsy as hell during physical training, but her mind is sharp. Nothing gets past her—it's like she's got a built-in lie detector.

After yesterday morning's... incident, you're extra grateful for her company.

You both grab your digital cards from your bedside tables—can't go anywhere in this place without them. They're basically your whole identity here, determining which doors open for you and which stay firmly shut.

The castle corridors feel endless this early. Most members are probably still sleeping or doing whatever gang members do at dawn. Your footsteps echo softly as you and Yunjin make your way to the cafeteria, keeping the conversation light.

"Have you had breakfast here before?" you ask, watching her stifle another yawn.

"Once." She nods, her pink ponytail bouncing. "Got up at 10 though. Wasn't worth sacrificing sleep for."

You can't help but smile. "Early breakfast hits different. You'll see."

When you reach the cafeteria, Yunjin taps her digital card against the scanner. The light blinks green, and suddenly your nose is filled with the heavenly smell of fresh pastries. Inside, only a handful of early birds are scattered around the massive space. Makes sense—most people here prefer their beds at this hour.

Your eyes do their usual sweep of the room, casual and practiced. But then something pulls at you, like a magnet finding true north. Your gaze locks with dark, piercing ones.

Jeon.

"Oh, that's Jeon, right?" Yunjin's voice cuts through your thoughts. "Guess he likes mornings too."

You nod, still watching him from the safety of the doorway. Something about the distance makes you feel almost safe. He's got that thing about him—that unmistakable aura of authority that even 6 AM can't dim.

"Damn," Yunjin says after a beat, blunt as ever. "He's hot."

"Let's get food," you mutter, rolling your eyes and heading for the pastry section.

You and Yunjin load up your plates with a bit of everything, especially those famous croissants. Finding a quiet corner, you settle in to enjoy both the food and each other's company, pointedly not thinking about piercing dark eyes or brooding corners.

You try to look casual as your eyes drift back to Jeon for the hundredth time.

He's sitting there, both hands wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee like it's his lifeline to sanity this early in the morning. The sight of those tattooed fingers curled around plain white ceramic does something to your brain that you'd rather not examine too closely.

"You know, I heard something interesting about him." Yunjin's voice makes you jump. S̶h̶i̶t̶ Great, she caught you staring.

"Oh?" You tilt your head, hoping your voice sounds more curious than guilty.

Yunjin leans in conspiratorially, her pink hair falling forward as she drops her voice to barely above a whisper. It's kind of unnecessary given how far away Jeon is, but there's something about him that makes everyone speak in hushed tones.

"Apparently, he's got this whole... ritual thing going on. Every single morning, without fail, he makes sure he's the first one to get fresh coffee. Like, the first cup from a fresh pot."

Your eyes track back to that cup held between ink-covered fingers. Now that she mentions it, you've never seen him drink anything else in the mornings. The way he's savoring it, eyes closed and expression almost peaceful, makes you think Yunjin might be onto something.

"Every day? He's literally the first one here?" The mental image of Jeon lurking outside the cafeteria doors, waiting for them to unlock, is both hilarious and weirdly endearing.

"From what I've heard. Maybe it's a power move?" Yunjin suggests with a soft laugh. "You know, asserting dominance through caffeine consumption."

The idea of someone as intimidating as Jeon—co-leader of the Assassination Division, member of the Council of 9, literal professional killer—climbing the ranks of one of South Korea's most dangerous gangs just to secure his morning coffee makes something bubble up in your chest.. You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing too loud.

"Imagine that being his master plan all along," you snort. "Join gang, become assassination chief, get first dibs on coffee."

You both dissolve into quiet giggles, but the moment shatters when something shifts in the air. It's like thorny vines suddenly wrapping around your lungs, making it hard to breathe. You don't need to look to know who it is.

"Mind if I join the fun?" V's voice slides over your skin like honey laced with poison, playful but with that edge that makes your hair stand on end.

His arms drape over your shoulders without warning, caging you and Yunjin in what should be a friendly gesture but feels more like being trapped. Your muscles tense automatically. There's something about V that keeps you perpetually on edge—like admiring a rose only to remember it's got thorns that could draw blood.

Yunjin manages a wobbly smile, but you can tell she's as unsettled as you are by his sudden appearance. "We were just... talking about coffee."

"Coffee?" V drawls the word like it personally offends him. He pulls back, throwing his arms behind his head in that carelessly graceful way of his, but stays close enough that you can smell cinnamon. "Boring. Now, this new training program? That's something worth discussing."

His eyes glint with mischief, reminding you of a cat playing with its food. "I'm keen to see what you girls bring to the table. Should be... intriguing, don't you think?"

The way he says it makes your skin crawl. There's nothing overtly threatening about his words, but the undercurrent is clear—the Assassination Division isn't known for playing nice, and V seems to view the upcoming cross-training as his personal playground.

"I'm sure it will be enlightening," you say carefully.

V's energy is infectious, but not in a good way. More like a disease you're trying not to catch.

He chuckles, and those thorny vines around your lungs squeeze tighter. "Oh, I'm sure it will be. And don't worry, yours truly will be there to add a little spice to the mix. Can't let things get too dull, can we?"

Before you can respond, his attention snaps to something—or someone—across the cafeteria. With a dismissive wave that somehow manages to feel both elegant and insulting, he strides off as suddenly as he appeared.

You exchange looks with Yunjin, both of you sagging with relief once he's gone. She looks as drained as you feel, like V's presence alone sucked all the energy from the room.

"Well, that was... something," Yunjin says, and you could write a whole essay about everything packed into that single word. Her pink hair is still slightly disheveled from where V's dramatic entrance messed it up.

"That's one way to put it." You try to shake off the phantom feeling of thorny vines around your lungs. V's presence leaves you feeling like you've been through some kind of emotional washing machine—tumbled around and wrung out.

"But oh my god." Yunjin's whole face suddenly lights up like she's remembered something amazing. The whiplash from her mood shift almost gives you vertigo.

"What?" You ask, though part of you already knows where this is going. Yunjin might be shy and perceptive, but she's also a total simp when it comes to pretty faces.

"He is SO handsome?" Her voice rises with genuine awe. "Everyone kept saying he looks like a prince, but I thought they were exaggerating. They were not."

You raise an eyebrow, wondering if you were even in the same conversation just now. Sure, V's gorgeous—that's kind of his whole thing. The dangerous beauty, the dripping poison. But after feeling his aura wrap around you like a boa constrictor, 'handsome' isn't exactly the first word that comes to mind.

"Did you miss the whole creepy vibe?" You keep your voice low, even though V's long gone. Some habits die hard in this place. "He talked about the training program like he's planning to turn it into his personal episode of Squid Game. With popcorn."

"Yeah, but like..." Yunjin waves her hand dismissively, "have you seen his face? Those cheekbones? That jawline?"

"The way he's probably plotting our deaths as we speak?" You counter, but you can't help the smile tugging at your lips. Trust Yunjin to focus on the aesthetics while completely ignoring the red flags. It's kind of adorable, in a concerning way.

"Doesn't change the fact that he's eye candy," she says with zero shame, stabbing her fork into her breakfast. "Like, premium, expensive, imported chocolate level of eye candy."

"True," you admit, finally taking a proper bite of your croissant.

And it is true—V's got that whole ethereal beauty thing going on, like a masterpiece painting that happens to be slightly cursed. The kind of face that belongs in museums but also probably comes alive at night to terrorize security guards.

But even as you acknowledge V's obvious appeal, your eyes betray you, drifting back to that other corner of the cafeteria. Back to dark eyes and hurricanes.

Back to Jeon.

It's not like you mean to look.

It just... happens.

Like your gaze has some kind of magnetic programming that keeps pulling it in his direction.

Which is s̶t̶u̶p̶i̶d̶ inconvenient because the last thing you need is to get caught staring at one of the most dangerous men in Kkangpae while you've got croissant crumbs on your face.

The rest of your morning slips by without V popping up again to make your skin crawl. You try to focus on getting ready for what's coming, but your mind keeps drifting to the upcoming training.

Working with Jeon and V's division? Yeah, that's not anxiety-inducing at all.

When you step onto the training field outside the castle, the change of scenery hits different. After being cooped up in the gang's concrete maze, the open space and towering trees feel almost surreal. The cold morning air bites at your lungs—a wake-up call you didn't ask for but probably need.

Today's not just another training day. It's your first cross-training with the Assassination Division, and the tension in the air is so thick you could cut it with one of V's knives.

Your stomach does this weird flip-flop thing as you walk towards the gathering crowd. Working with Jeon after... that incident? Not exactly on your bucket list. The memory of your last encounter sits heavy in your chest, making each step feel like you're walking through mud.

The Assassination Division is already there when you arrive, looking like they stepped out of some action movie poster. Some look ready to murder, others look ready for a nap. But it's Jeon who catches your eye—impossible not to, really. It's like the air itself is swirling around him like a storm about to break.

He's got that look on his face—you know the one. All business, no bullshit, could probably kill you with his pinky finger.

No sign of V though.

Makes sense, when you think about it. Those two aren't exactly besties—more like two wolves forced to share the same territory. Their whole approach to killing is different as night and day.

Jeon's all about precision. Clean shots, minimal mess, maximum efficiency. He's the type to plan every detail, calculate every variable. Need someone taken out from two buildings away without anyone even knowing what happened? That's his specialty. The human equivalent of a surgical strike.

V though? He's chaos incarnate. Gets up close and personal with his kills, leaves a message written in blood if he feels like it. He's the guy you call when you want someone dead and don't care how messy it gets. Planning? Fuck planning—V works on pure instinct and improvisation.

The crowd goes quiet as Jeon steps forward. The atmosphere shifts, less like a raging storm now and more like the heavy air before thunder breaks. When he speaks, his voice does that thing where it demands attention without actually raising in volume. And despite everything—despite knowing better—you find yourself leaning in slightly to catch every word.

"Your state of mind is everything in this line of work," he says, dark eyes scanning the crowd like he's reading everyone's potential in real time. "A calm, collected mind can mean the difference between life and death."

The task he lays out seems simple enough: shoot the cardboard target, hit the center, don't mess it up. But as you watch others take their turns, that knot in your stomach keeps getting tighter.

The gun feels wrong in your hand. Not that you haven't held one before—basic training covers that—but this is different. This is him watching, and somehow that makes your palms extra sweaty.

Then your turn's up.

Walking to the mark feels like crossing a minefield, every step measured and tense. Your heart's going so hard you can barely hear anything else.

Focus. You need to focus.

But Jeon's standing right there, making the air thick and hard to breathe. Your finger hovers over the trigger, but doubt creeps in like poison.

The target blurs in and out. You can feel Jeon watching, that heavy gaze picking apart every flaw in your stance. The pressure builds in your chest until you're sure something's gonna snap.

Just a bit longer. You need to be absolutely sure before taking the shot.

It's not like Seduction gets much practice with actual weapons—your arsenal usually involves batting eyelashes and strategic flirting, not bullets and gunpowder. So it's no wonder the gun starts slipping through your sweaty fingers.

You tighten your grip. A surge of determination hits you like a shot of adrenaline. Come on. It's just cardboard. You've handled way worse situations than this. You can do this.

Your finger starts to squeeze the trigger—

BANG.

That... wasn't your gun.

You flinch, turning toward the sound before you can stop yourself. Through the corner of your eye, you catch smoke curling from Jeon's pistol.

He's standing there looking bored, arm extended like this is just another one of his daily mornings. The gun fits his hand like it was molded for him, an extension of his body rather than a weapon.

When your eyes snap to the target, there it is—perfect shot, dead center, because of course it is.

A̶s̶s̶h̶o̶l̶e̶ Show-off.

You lower your gun, lips pressed tight. His gaze sits heavy on your shoulders, hurricane pressure bearing down until you want to scream. His face gives nothing away, but those dark eyes say plenty—and none of it's good.

"If you're not quick enough, you'll get killed." His voice cuts like ice. "Let that be a reminder for everyone else."

The words hit like a slap. Heat rushes to your face—anger, embarrassment, frustration, all mixing together into something that makes you want to either punch something or crawl into a hole. Preferably punch him, but you're very aware of everyone watching this little show he's putting on.

Both divisions are staring, and you've never felt more like a fish in a very small, very exposed bowl.

Your eyes meet Jeon's, and suddenly breathing gets hard. His stare hits different—those dark eyes boring into yours like he's trying to read your soul, pupils blown wide in a way that makes your stomach do weird flips.

That silver lip ring catches the light when his mouth twists into something s̶e̶x̶y̶ condescending. He opens his mouth—probably to tear into you some more—but then—

BANG.

Everyone drops like puppets with cut strings. Pure instinct.

It's instant chaos. Voices rise into a crescendo of shouts and commands, bodies moving with practiced urgency.

It's kind of beautiful, in a messed-up way—how quickly personal beef gets shelved when shit hits the fan. One minute Jeon's looking at you like you're dirt on his boot, next second he's barking orders to keep everyone safe.

Your heart's in your throat as you scan the crowd for a flash of pink hair.

Yunjin.

But Yunjin's nowhere.

The sea of faces blurs together—no Kazuha, no Eunchae, not even Sakura. Even Chaewon's vanished, which is weird because she's usually got this sixth sense about danger.

Another shot cracks through the air. Your fingers tighten around your gun until your knuckles go white. Your eyes keep drifting to the treeline, where shadows dance between patches of dark green.

A calm, collected mind can mean the difference between life and death.

His words echo in your head, which is ironic considering how not calm you feel right now.

Fuck it.

You're moving before you can second-guess yourself, legs carrying you toward the forest. Maybe it's stupid, but you need space to think. To be calm, like he said.

Plus, the trees might give you cover—an advantage you desperately need right now.

The forest swallows you up. Sunlight filters through leaves overhead, painting everything in shifting patterns of light and shadow. Every step crunches on dead leaves, making you wince. So much for stealth.

V wouldn't be happy.

The chaos from the training ground fades the deeper you go, replaced by normal forest sounds—birds chattering overhead, small animals rustling in the bushes. It's almost peaceful, if you ignore the whole possible death situation.

You spot it then—a ridge overlooking the training ground, hidden behind thick bushes. Perfect vantage point, if you can reach it. The climb makes your muscles burn, but you manage. Up here, you force yourself to breathe slow and steady, trying to quiet your racing heart. Your fingers trace the gun's cold metal like a lifeline.

Your back hits the tree with a thud. The bark scrapes against your spine through your shirt, but you barely notice. Every nerve in your body is focused on that rustling sound behind you.

Footsteps.

Your breath catches. They're quiet—too quiet to be some random person stumbling through the woods.

No, these are the steps of someone who knows how to move silently. Someone trained.

Adrenaline floods your system as you press yourself flatter against the tree. Your fingers tighten around the gun until your knuckles go white. Through a gap in the leaves, you try to catch a glimpse of whoever's approaching, but the foliage is too thick.

Friend or foe?

The question pounds in your head with each careful footstep drawing closer. Your mind races, too many possibilities—it could be an enemy, could be another member searching the area.

Could be death or salvation walking your way.

The steps are almost upon you now. Your breathing goes shallow, controlled. You might be exposed up here, but they don't know that. Surprise is your only advantage right now.

Shoot or strike?

The dilemma tears at you. A gunshot would alert everyone to your location. And if it turns out to be an ally... F̶u̶c̶k̶ No. Hand-to-hand is safer. Quieter. Less explaining to do if you're wrong.

Your muscles coil tight as a spring. When the footsteps are close enough, you launch yourself from behind the tree in one fluid motion, aiming to take them down hard and fast.

Instead, you slam into what feels like a brick wall.

Oh.

It's Jeon.

His reflexes are insane—before you can even process who he is, he's already moving. The air sweeps around you as he twists, disarming you with embarrassing ease. Your gun hits the ground with a clatter that seems to echo through the whole forest.

Recognition hits you both at the same moment. That flicker of shock in his eyes quickly turns to his usual look of disdain, because of course it does.

Then—a misstep.

Your ankle rolls, sending white-hot pain shooting up your leg. You stumble, sucking in a sharp breath. His grip on you loosens just slightly, and something that might be concern flashes across his face before his usual cold mask slips back into place.

"You okay?" His voice is gruff, like the words are being dragged out of him against his will.

"Just perfect," you snap back, because fuck his concern when your ankle feels like it's on fire and your pride hurts even worse.

He just stands there, staring at you with those dark eyes that see too much.

"What the hell were you thinking?" A pause, one eyebrow lifting. "You have a gun, don't you?"

You almost laugh. Because of course. If you'd shot at him, he'd be lecturing you about trigger discipline. Attack hand-to-hand, and suddenly you're an idiot for not using your weapon.

You seriously can't win with this man.

"Well, good thing I didn't use it on you then." The words come out lighter than you feel, dancing between playful and pissed. "And what are you doing here anyway? Shouldn't you be back there playing commander?"

"That's what deputies are for." The casual way he says it makes your teeth grind. "Besides, I dispatched a team to check the gunfire. Just my luck, running into you instead."

"Pleasure's all mine, chief." You load the title with all the sarcasm you can muster.

"And you?" His dark eyes study you like you're a particularly puzzling target he can't quite line up. "Any reason you're out here instead of following orders?"

"Didn't get any orders to follow." You cross your arms, ignoring how his presence makes your skin prickle. "And that ridge over there?" You jab a finger toward the overlook. "Perfect vantage point. I was trying to be strategic before you showed up."

He actually grimaces at that, like your logic physically pains him. But before he can open his mouth to deliver what's surely another lecture, you add:

"Just my luck, running into you instead."

The words—his own words turned back on him—hit their mark. His eyebrow twitches just slightly, and satisfaction blooms warm in your chest.

Score one for you.

But before you can inwardly celebrate, he grimaces. He actually grimaces before he opens his stupid mouth again.

"That?" His voice drips with condescension. "You think that's prime real estate for observation?" The asshole holds back a laughter. "Alright." He says, and you ponder the merits of hitting him with a rock.

But then he begins walking, and you trail after him, partly because s̶c̶r̶e̶w̶ ̶h̶i̶m̶ he's wrong and partly because... well, where else are you gonna go?

"Remind me again—which one of us specializes in persuasion and observation?" You can't keep the annoyance from your voice. His arrogance is starting to give you a headache.

"And which one of us is known for sniping?" He tilts his head just enough for you to catch the silver flash of his eyebrow piercing. "You think I don't know a thing or two about picking vantage points?"

"Just because you can shoot from far away doesn't mean you know the best places to shoot from." The words come out sharper than intended. "What works for a sniper might not work for surveillance. They're different skill sets."

"How so?" He doesn't even bother looking back now. "A lookout's a lookout, smartass."

Your hands find your hips. "You know what? Ask me that again when you sit in on our cross-training. Might learn something useful."

"Learn from an ensign?" His tilt is mocking. "No—learn from you?" He lets out a low chuckle that makes your teeth grind. "Pretty sure it works the other way around."

"Forgot about Flower?" You can't help the snark in your voice. "She's a chief too, and I'm sure she'd love to put you in your place."

The exhale he lets out is so exaggerated it has to be for dramatic effect. "You're insufferable."

"Feeling's mutual, chief."

You trail behind Jeon through the darkness, trying to ignore how his mere presence makes the night air feel electric against your skin. The silence wraps around you both, broken only by your footsteps until—

A rustle in the underbrush.

Before you can react, his hand clamps around your wrist. No warning, no words—just the firm press of tattooed fingers against your pulse point as he yanks you behind a massive rock. You crash against him, bodies colliding in a mess of limbs and s̶h̶i̶t̶ startled breath.

You open your mouth to tell him exactly what you think about being manhandled, but his finger presses against his lips. Shut up. His eyes scan the darkness beyond your hiding spot, focused and lethal.

And suddenly you're way too aware of him.

The moonlight paints him in silver and shadow, highlighting things you've never noticed before. Like how his eyebrow piercing catches the light—two tiny beads of silver that draw attention to the way his brow furrows in concentration. Or how that lip ring glints when his mouth sets in that stern line you know too well.

There's a scar on his left cheek—barely there, really. Just a whisper of a mark that makes you wonder what story it tells. Your eyes drift lower, catching on the small mole decorating the left side of his neck. It's such a delicate detail on someone who radiates danger, like finding a flower growing through concrete.

But it's his eyes that f̶u̶c̶k̶ y̶o̶u̶ u̶p̶ catch you off guard. Dark and deep, framed by stupidly long lashes that flutter when he blinks. They're beautiful in a way that makes your chest tight—and isn't that just f̶u̶c̶k̶i̶n̶g̶ fantastic? You didn't need to know that about him.

This close, you can see the tiny lines at the corners of those eyes. They speak of sleepless nights and heavy choices, of burdens carried too long alone. Watching him like this—he feels different now, less like a storm trying to drown you and more like standing in summer rain.

The realization hits like a punch to the gut: you're seeing Jeon. Not the cold-as-ice division chief or the intimidating Council member. Just... him. Human.

Complex.

His fingers are still wrapped around your wrist like an iron band. If anything, his grip's gotten tighter, and you're caught between wanting to yank free and being weirdly aware of how warm his hand is against your skin in the cool night air. It's hard to tell if you're feeling trapped or protected.

The footsteps draw closer—deliberate, confident. Not someone trying to hide.

You watch a muscle tick in Jeon's jaw, the kind of tiny detail you wouldn't normally notice if you weren't pressed so close to him. It's fascinating, in an annoying way, how he can look so calm while radiating such intense energy.

His eyes flick to yours for just a second, but it feels loaded with... something. Like you're suddenly partners in this mess, whether you like it or not. It's more communication than you've had in all your previous conversations combined.

The rustling gets louder. You hold your breath. Jeon's gone statue-still beside you, but you can feel the coiled tension in him. His dark eyes snap to a spot in the trees, then back to you with unnerving intensity.

"Shoot there."

You stare at him like he's lost his mind. "What?"

"There." His voice is barely a whisper, rough with urgency. He jerks his chin toward whatever he's seeing that you're apparently missing.

"You want me to shoot a tree branch?" The skepticism in your whisper could cut glass. "Seriously?"

"Just do what you're told." The words rumble out of him like distant thunder, crackling with impatience.

You give Jeon a look, but arguing isn't an option right now.

The gun feels heavy as you line up the shot. Your finger finds the trigger, and for a split second, everything goes quiet. The bang echoes through the trees, making your ears ring. You watch as the bullet hits exactly where Jeon wanted—that innocent-looking branch that apparently wasn't so innocent after all.

A net explodes from the darkness like some kind of ninja trap, shooting toward the approaching figure. But whoever it is moves like water—fluid, impossible, beautiful in a terrifying way. The net hits empty ground with a sad little flutter while your brain tries to process what just happened.

Beside you, Jeon goes still. If you weren't pressed so close, you might have missed that tiny hitch in his breath—the only sign that this wasn't part of his plan. His eyes narrow just slightly, that crack in his perfect mask making your stomach do weird flips.

He pushes you back against the rock, putting himself between you and whatever's coming. The stone digs into your spine, cold and rough through your clothes.

Then everything happens at once.

A shadow vaults over your hiding spot, moving with deadly grace. Gunshots crack through the night, and suddenly Jeon's shoving you down, his body covering yours. The world spins into a blur of motion and sound, your pulse drumming so loud you can barely think.

When reality settles back into focus, you watch the figure reach for their mask. Your fingers tighten on your gun, waiting to see what kind of threat managed to dodge one of Jeon's traps.

The mask comes off.

Oh for fuck's sake.

V's grinning like the cat that got the cream. "Paintball night!" he announces with way too much glee for someone who just scared the shit out of you.

Relief and irritation war in your chest. Of course it's V. Who else would turn a simple training exercise into their personal dramatic performance?

You watch Jeon's shoulders drop, but the annoyance is written all over his face. His jaw's so tight you can practically hear all the curses he's not saying.

Always the professional, even when he's irritated.

V's eyes dances with delight as he watches Jeon simmer. "Don't look at me like that, Kookie," he coos, lips curling into that signature smirk that makes you want to take a step back.

Cookie?

You blink, trying to process that nickname. Looking at Jeon—all dark clothes, silver piercings, and intimidating tattoos—the last thing that comes to mind is anything remotely cute or sweet. The mental image of him buying cookies from some terrified boy scouts makes you bite back a laugh.

Now that's a story you'd pay to hear.

Jeon's eyebrow shoots up in that way that somehow manages to say f̶u̶c̶k̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ more effectively than actual words. His tongue pushes against the inside of his cheek, jaw working like he's physically holding back whatever he wants to say. He's irritated.

"I'll give you some advantage," V sighs dramatically, thorny vines wrapping around your lungs even from this distance. "No fun beating you when you're unarmed." The words drip with amusement, like this whole thing is his favorite game. "See ya."

With one last unsettling grin, he melts into the darkness. Because of course he does. Dramatic asshole.

You're still sprawled on the ground, processing what just happened. Leave it to V to turn a regular night into some twisted paintball training session. The man's idea of "improving stealth skills" is giving everyone heart attacks.

Beside you, Jeon's muscles finally uncoil from their battle-ready stance. He looms over you, and you can't tell if the expression on his face is more annoyed or relieved.

"You gonna get up or what?" The words come out gruff, but there's something else there. Something that might be concern if you squint.

Then his hand appears in front of your face. You stare at it for a second, surprised. It's weirdly bare compared to his tattooed arms, and you hesitate before taking it. His grip is firm but careful as he helps you up.

The whole night feels surreal —one weird training session bleeding into another. You glance at Jeon as he stretches, working out the tension in his shoulders.

The mystery of "Cookie" tugs at your curiosity, but one look at his face tells you now's not the time to ask.

Some mysteries are probably better left unsolved.

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[lizzybeeee]

Just my opinion, but if your Order is bringing back a species who is the literal icon of your entire existence you may want to name them something a little less 'How to Train Your Dragon'. Because I hear the rest of these griffon names and they're on the same level as Hagrid naming a hippogriff 'Buckbeak' or literally any of the dragons from HTTYD.

Beaktooth? Stormwing? Rumptail?

They're a new hope of your Order! This little sliver of the past that was protected through the ages and somehow managed to live despite all the odds! I can see them being pet names from trainers but...I dunno, I think there should be more to it than a cute name because of how significant it is?

Personally, I think it would be cooler (and way more fitting!) to name some of them after notable Grey Wardens as some recognition of their sacrifice and enduring legacy after all these ages. And not just a 'choose your birth month + day' and that's your griffon name combo.

Anyway, this is just some brainstorming :)

Warden's Who Killed Archdemons:

The Warden who killed Dumat is unknown but it happened at the Silent Plains in the Anders -> my suggestion is to name one 'Aria' after the Felicidus Aria or the Silent Plains Rose. The only plant to grow there a thousand years later, in honour of whomever made the blow.

Corin - the Hero of the Second blight who killed the Archdemon Zazikel.

The Warden who killed Toth is not named (but we can grab his sword that was split into three pieces and became three daggers - the Thorn of the Dead Gods) -> just give him a name. Possibly make him a surface dwarf? (we have a human in Corin and an elf in Garahel, after all. It would explain why he was buried at Weisshaupt too.)

Garahel - the Hero of the Fourth Blight who killed Andoral.

The Fifth Blight

The Hero of Ferelden - a griffon named after the Warden, regardless if they make the killing blow. (have them always off screen of just cut off when someone says their name lmao).

Alistair/Adalla - the warden who slays Urthurmiel can also be Alistair or Loghain. Alistair...for Alistair. I was torn on Loghain and whether or not they'd name a griffon after him, all things considered. Instead I chose the name of his childhood mabari (assume that Anora suggested the name). I feel it suits better than using his name - and I think Loghain would prefer it too.

Here Lies the Abyss

Alistair, Stroud, or Hawke - name a griffon after whomever sacrificed their lives at the battle of Adamant!

Again, uncertain about Loghain, but I believe that after a decade of service to the Warden's it's far more understandable that they would name a griffon after him. A true testament that you can join the Warden's from the lowest of lowest points and still make something of yourself.

Other Notable Wardens

Duncan - the man who worked so hard to establish the Wardens in Ferelden after 200 years of exile. The same man who recruited the Hero of Ferelden/Alistair, who led the Warden's at Ostagar.

Riordan - in honor of his sacrifice at the Battle of Denerim in the Fifth Blight -> in all versions of the FIfth Blight (codex entries, dialogue etc...) Poor Riordan is always left out. It would be nice to acknowledge him - the man crippled Urthurmiel, after all!

Isseya - they did you so dirty in DATV. Let her fly high in the sky once more ;_;

Neriah - Corin's lover, who sacrificed her life and allowed him to kill Zazikel. (they can be together again! As griffons!)

Non-Warden's / Acknowledgements

Moroc - a dwarven paragon, present at the founding of the Grey Warden's -> thanks to him a dwarf does not lose their caste if they join the Grey Wardens.

Assan - or another Dalish name. An acknowledgement of the Dalish's part in fighting the Blights. (We already have humans, city elves, mages, and dwarves represented.)

That's 12 names (13 if Loghain or Alistair slew the archdemon) and all I can come up with. The last one can be Bob or something.

[alpaca-clouds]

Why did Raphael take little Enver?

Okay. I wanted to talk about this, given that I do write a lot about the grimy gremlin - Gortash that is. Because I have thought a lot about it and the game does not give a clear answer. According to the game Raphael at some point showed up at the Flymm household, in his human appearance, claimed he was a warlock and he saw potential in the boy, offering to buy him for money.

And then he dragged little Enver to hell, where he kept him for an unspecified time, which eventually basically caused most of the plot to happen. Because chances are, that without Enver being in the hell, he would not have learned about the Crown of Karsus, and hence nobody would come up with the rather convoluted plan of putting the Crown onto a fucking elderbrain.

And I think I am pretty sure what Raphael wanted. I think that Raphael for the most part wanted his own personal pet warlock, and he thought he could have it this way.

Notably the game treats Enver as a warlock in regards to his class. Sure, had the game had the arteficer class, maybe he would have been that, but so far I consider Gorts being treated as a warlock as a good indicator. Plus, the Flymm parents were off the opinion that Enver would learn warlockery or something.

See, pretty much all warlock patrons have this one nasty problem: Sure, they can make rules for their little warlock, but they tend to still have their own ideas about stuff. They can usually find ways to lie or trick themselves out of their contracts and what not. I mean, we see it with Mizora and Wyll, and how usually Wyll will try to get out of the contract.

Sure, some people get along splendid with their patrons, but especially when you are a devil, this is not a given. Especially given the fact that part of the entire contract will always be the warlock ending up in hell to fight in the Blood War. So, yeah, there tends to be a lot of trickery going on.

So, come in Raphael: "If I fetch myself a child with a bit of magic potential and raise that child and beat it into submission, before making the child my warlock, I would have my personal pet warlock, who I can then use as a political pawn on the physical plane." I assume he thought it would be pretty easy to raise a human child. Which he undoubtedly found out it was not.

But we know Raphael loves to have his fingers in many pies at once, and I assume his plan was, that he would use Enver as a pawn to throw around as his eyes and ears on the physical plane, so that he could have a spy. Which is also why I assume, he would have beaten a lot of upper class behavior into him.

Now of course, the question is: How far did he get with this plan before he got bored and just left little Enver to his own devices? That is really not clear. Just as we do not know for how long Enver was in the House of Hope as a prisoner. It might have been three or four years or more than ten. We have no clear idea from all I can see.

But yeah, that is what I think was the reason for Raphael to drag that kid to hell.

[bradleysass]

Heel - @black-brothers-microfic - wc: 473 - Starchaser + Sirius

Regulus stirred his tea, watching as the steam curled into the air before disappearing into the dimly lit café. The place was cozy, filled with the scent of roasted coffee beans and freshly baked pastries, a stark contrast to the cold January wind outside. Across from him, Sirius sat slouched in his chair, nursing a black coffee that was far too strong for someone who added three sugars to everything else he drank. Beside Regulus, James Potter sat, fidgeting with a sugar packet, his ever-present grin firmly in place.

They weren’t always like this—civil, that is. But lately, things had been better between them, and Sirius figured that was something worth nurturing. Brotherly bonding, as he called it. Regulus tolerated it because, well, Sirius could be tolerable in small doses.

They had been sitting in comfortable silence when Sirius finally decided to address the elephant in the room—or rather, the coffee shop.

“So,” Sirius began, his voice carrying the weight of someone who had been holding back a question for far too long. “Why is James in a dog collar?”

Regulus didn’t look up. He simply took another sip of his tea, exhaled slowly, and shrugged. “James was being a bit annoying.”

James scoffed, turning toward his boyfriend. “I was not.”

Regulus arched a perfectly unimpressed brow. “Heel.”

James immediately shut his mouth and settled back in his seat, looking oddly pleased with himself. Sirius, on the other hand, nearly choked on his coffee.

“Oh my god,” Sirius said, staring between them. “That… That just happened.”

Regulus finally met his gaze, looking entirely too nonchalant for someone whose boyfriend had just obeyed a command like an actual trained pet. “It explains enough.”

Sirius stared at him, waiting for more. When none came, he sighed dramatically and leaned back in his chair. “Okay, but see, as James’ best mate, I feel like I deserve some context. Like, was this voluntary? Was there a bet? Is this some—” Sirius gestured vaguely, “—weird relationship thing?”

Regulus smirked but didn’t take the bait. “James is very obedient.”

“Oh my god, I hate you,” Sirius groaned, rubbing his face. “You’re the worst.”

Regulus sipped his tea, clearly enjoying himself. “Am I? Because I’m not the one walking around in a collar.”

Sirius made a strangled noise, then immediately pulled out his phone. “I need to call Remus. He needs to suffer with me.”

James, who had been sitting quietly for a record-breaking two minutes, finally grinned. “Oh, this?” He tugged at the collar. “Yeah, Reggie thought I needed a reminder to behave.”

Regulus hummed approvingly. “And it worked.”

James beamed. “It did!”

Sirius looked between them in sheer disbelief. “You two are unhinged.”

James just winked. “Jealous?”

Sirius picked up his coffee and downed the rest in one go. He was going to need something stronger.

[lu-is-not-ok]

To all the people in my replies and reblogs shocked that anyone would ever think the SP Healing isn't meant as a reflection of emotional repression, I present to you the bane of my existence.

That's a joke. Mostly.

The moonstone theory is exactly the reason why I made the original post in the first place because of how much I've come to despise it. It's not anywhere near the levels to which I despise the Dante is Ayin theory, but it's getting up there.

Here's a few brief facts that hopefully help tear it down.

One - We Know that the Liu explicitly use Moonstone on their clothing. Why is it then that none of the Liu units have inherent SP Recovery the way Hong Lu does. Why is it a Liu Hong Lu exclusive thing if all Liu use moonstone as part of their uniforms?

Two - If the SP Healing comes from such an 'external' supernatural source, why is it not a consistent thing between his Identities. Sure, it's common, but if it is a literal moonstone doing this then it should always work on every Identity. This isn't an issue with the emotional repression angle, because every Identity is shown to have slightly different personalities and goals, and as such a reason for why their focus might not always be on keeping themselves in check as much.

Three - If it's a moonstone for Hong Lu, what is it for other non-Hong Lu units when they heal SP? Is Ring Yi Sang now using a moonstone? What about enemies who heal SP, like Camille or the Erlking? If it doesn't have to be a moonstone for them, then why does it have to be for Hong Lu, especially when there's nothing actually suggesting that's the case while a simpler explanation still works?

As for the two points you bring up.

Hong Lu's moments of breaking character and outright beginning to snap show that the effort he's putting forth is one he has to Willingly maintain, and one that is very much at the risk of shattering if he's not careful enough - something which wouldn't be the case if his focus was being supernaturally maintained by a moonstone, something that has a strong enough effect to protect a mind from fear-inducing Distortions without the user putting in any effort.

Fanghunt Hong Lu is one of those Identities that doesn't have any SP Healing. If the gleaming was directly tied to the moonstone working, why would it happen on Identities that literally don't even heal SP in any way?

Anyway this isn't meant to be directed specifically at you for bringing the theory up or anything. It's just that it's an extremely prevailing theory that primarily relies on loose concept associations rather than anything actually substantial.

As you even point out yourself, the gleam of Hong Lu's eye doesn't even fucking match what moonstone looks like! Most people who believe this theory aren't even aware of that fact!

Again, not anything against you in particular, I just had personal beef with this general theory for a while and now I got an excuse to be a hater. Also because it's really funny so see someone actually respond to my post vagueing that theory with that actual theory.

I know it's common to theorize that Hong Lu's SP Healing is some supernatural ability that comes from his eye or whatever.

But like.

What if it's literally just the gameplay reflection of his excessive emotional repression?

The mask of serenity glued so tightly to his face that his sheer will is enough to shove any negative emotions aside and raise his SP. All for the sake of never letting that one spark start a fire. All for the sake of never losing what little control over himself he still has.

[xechu]

From Worst to Hell (Pt. 1)

cw: suggestive themes, 18+ mdni, please read my blog rules before interacting, sexual themes, swearing, use of weed and implied driving under the influence (drive responsibly).

wc: 1.9K

a/n: this is part of my au 'Cross My Heart' - check out the master list here! I had so much fun writing this. Thank you for reading. x

If the dictionary had the word 'world's-biggest-clown' in it, accompanied with a reference picture, Sukuna had no doubt that it would be his own face plastered on it. Because why in god's name was he laying beside Yorozu in this very moment? Naked bodies and limbs entangled, thick, heady musk lingering in the air, and high out of his goddamn mind.

What he really should have been doing—or should have already done—was grovel at your feet, begging for forgiveness, and giving you the best fuck to show you how sorry he was, and how much he still loves you. He should have done something—anything—when he found his belongings packed up in a box three weeks ago. But, no, it was always his pride and ego—always his insecurities that got in the way, that kept him from admitting he was wrong, that stopped him from apologizing. Sukuna had always known that he was his own worst enemy.

For someone as much of a screwup as he was, the universe had still managed to serve him all the good things in life on a silver platter: a good brother, an understanding sister-in-law, a cute nephew who he practically treats as his own son, a successful business, and you—the woman of his dreams. And yet, he managed to completely fumble it.

As he laid there in self-loathing, a phone call suddenly jolts him to his senses, and when he sees your name on the caller ID, he springs up the bed. He answers, heart racing in anticipation, and then to his shock, you were a sobbing incoherent mess on the other end. The sound of your distress immediately sobered him up.

"Shit, Y/N, what happened?"

"I'm—hic—I don't—I just—hic—wanna go home."

"Fucking Christ," Sukuna muttered, rubbing his face with his hand, "Are you hurt?"

"N-no—hic"

"Good," he lets out a breath of relief. "Can you send me your location?"

He glances at his phone as it buzzes, Y/N wants to share her location with you.

"Alright, sweetheart. I'm coming."

"What happened?" Yorozu's voice rasped, as she leaned in on Sukuna. Her breasts pressing up to his arm.

"I have to go," he shrugged her off as he climbed out of her bed.

"Why? I thought you broke up with her," she shot back, resentment lacing her voice.

"She broke up with me, and for a good reason. But I can't leave her like this." Sukuna clarified, as he zipped up his jeans and threw on his black t-shirt. The scar on his abdomen from the knife wound still tickled as his shirt grazes over it—a constant reminder of why and how things became the current shitshow it was.

"Are you coming back?"

"No," he said firmly, jaw tightening, "No more of this, Yor. This will be the last time."

"You're fucking joking, right?" Her tone was incredulous.

"I'm not. Whatever happened between us tonight, it won't happen again."

"What the hell, Ryo?" Yorozu hissed, "What do you take me for? Just some whore you could come for a good fuck and leave?"

"You and I both got what we wanted out of this. Enough is enough."

"Really? You'd drop me, and our years of friendship just for some other girl?"

"She's not just some other girl," he snapped, his eyes shooting her a warning glare. But to be honest, the fact that Yorozu even saw you in this light in the first place was entirely Sukuna's fault, and he knew it. He hated how he allowed his circle to view you as such, and it was because he never gave you the respect you deserved.

Yorozu rolled her eyes, as she stood up, "I know how much you loved her, but she just isn't good for you," she drew circles around Sukuna's arm, a last ditch effort to appeal to him.

"She can't appreciate the things you've done for her. And worst of all, she's trying to mold you into this person you're not! What are you, her personal fix-me-up project?"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"I'm saying that you've changed, Ryo. She's turning you into someone you're not."

"She was right about you," Sukuna lowly chuckled, as he shrugs away from Yorozu's touch, "I tried to vouch for you, give you the benefit of the doubt because of our history, but I should have cut you off a long time ago."

"I knew she was talking shit about me!" Yorozu's features darken, and her body trembled with anger, "What kind of bullshit has she been feeding you?"

"She hardly talks about you," he shrugged, impatience creeping into his voice, "Look, I have to go."

"You're a scum, Ryomen. You need to get your head out of your own ass."

"Tell me something I don't know," he scoffed, as he took his car keys and left the apartment.

Sukuna shoots you a text: I'll be here in 10. Don't talk to anyone, don't go anywhere.

---

You stood in front of the bar, arms crossed against the chill of the night. Your face was stained with dried tears and mascara streaks. You were a hopeless disaster, even then, 'hopeless disaster' was a gross understatement.

In your head, you knew you were far gone, but it seemed your body had a mind of its own, swaying slightly as you struggled to keep your balance. Why did you call him? You were doing so damn well, and you felt so good about being the one to end things this time, so why on earth were you crawling back to him like some pathetic, needy, little girl? When did you become so weak? This is why he thinks he could walk all over you.

As you mentally berated yourself, you contemplated on if you should just call an Uber home. But before you had time to change your mind, you see your ex-boyfriend's car pull up. Of course, it had to be his flashy one too: a black Lamborghini Urus.

"Hey," he murmured, quickly climbing out of his car and catching you before you lost balance.

"I wanna go home," you slurred, pushing him away and stumbling over your own heels.

"You can't even walk straight, what are you doing?" He let out an exasperated sigh, as he watched you struggle towards the car.

Before you could make an even bigger fool of yourself, he scooped you up, princess-style, and plopped you into the passenger seat. He didn't want to be taking you to the hospital tonight, though it would have been somewhat of an amusing twist of irony.

"Why were you drinking by yourself?" He asked, slipping into the driver’s seat and buckling your seatbelt. It was a stupid question, he knew why, but that’s how desperately he wanted to just talk to you again.

"B-because, you're a fucking dick." It was hard to take you seriously when you were a slurring mess.

"Right, and that's why you called me?" he quipped.

"I know, okay?!" You yelled, frustration overflowing, "Everyone's been telling me to just get over it, and that you're an asshole!"

"Are you sure they said that about me?"

"A thousand-hundred...ten-percent."

"Hm, okay."

Sukuna sat there, his arm resting on the steering wheel and his head leaning in his hand, listening to your slurred ramblings. Even with your mascara-stained face, why were you so beautiful?

"I'm so...pathetic. To love someone who never l-loved me!"

"That's not true," he scowled, "You know I lo—"

"There you go again!" You said in a mocking tone, "Telling me what is and isn't! You're just so clever, Ryo! And I'm just some helpless idiot!"

"I never thought you were an idiot," Sukuna muttered.

Despite the sheer chaos of the current situation, he couldn't help but feel a tinge of relief and happiness that you were here. The fact that you still thought to call him when you needed help filled him with an unexpected warmth. He was convinced that three weeks ago was the last time he'd ever see you.

"You can have the last laugh like you always do! Ha ha ha." You threw your arms up in exasperation, nearly smacking him in the face and garnering a small 'tch' from him. But he was willing to take in any form of abuse from you right now, after all, he deserved it.

"We're going home. I forget how much of a brat you are when you're drunk," he said, as he started the car.

"My home, I kicked you out," you giggled, seemingly a little too happy about that.

"Sure thing, sweetheart."

Almost immediately, an awkward silence filled the car. He glanced over at you, only to find you staring straight ahead, large globs of tears rolling down your cheeks. His eyebrows furrow in confusion, not sure what to make of your drunk erratic behavior.

"Y-you don’t get to call me that anymore!" You started bawling uncontrollably.

Sukuna pinched the bridge of his nose, it didn’t help that as of half an hour ago he was still high out of his mind, and in another woman's bed (which he was still mentally kicking himself over). Sighing, he decided it was better to stay quiet, flipping on the music in the car—the tunes of Arctic Monkeys quietly playing in the background.

Though you only lived about fifteen minutes away, it was going to be a long drive home.

---

Thankfully, the two of you had made it back safely to the underground parking lot of your apartment. It had taken every fiber of Sukuna's being to stay focused on the road, and resisting the urge to fill the silence with comments that could potentially throw you into a crying frenzy again.

He glanced over at you as he parks the car, somewhat bracing himself for another emotional outburst, but you seemed quietly distant, lost in your own thoughts. He ran his hand through his hair, a sinking feeling that tonight was going to be a long night. With a resigned sigh, he climbed out of his side of the car and walked over to your door, opening it for you.

"My feet hurt," you frowned, as you flung off your Kate red bottoms, "the shoes you bought me suck."

"Yeah, yeah, just tell me you want to get carried," he scooped you up effortlessly, while hooking your heels on his two fingers that were free, "and you're the one who wanted them, in case you forgot."

"They looked so nice on Zendaya," you murmured, as your head rested against his chest.

"Mhm." He had no clue who Zendaya was, he doesn't keep up with pop culture.

"Keys," he said, glancing down at you as you seemed to drift off to sleep, looking far too comfortable in his arms. Like you belonged there.

"In my bag," you mumbled.

"Grab it?"

"You're so annoying," you huffed, reaching into your purse and fishing out your keys. He tapped with his index finger, gesturing you to hook the keyring around it.

As Sukuna waited for the elevator, carrying you in his arms, he stared at the LED screen of the descending floor numbers. The numbers seemed to pull him into a trance, recalling unwanted memories—how he had hurt you, the brash and callous things he said just to be hurtful. Each digit felt like a ticking reminder of how he was so weak-willed, crawling into the arms of another woman just three weeks later. When suddenly—

"Ryo," you said his name with such unexpected clarity, it made his heart race. It felt as if all was forgiven, and he just woke up from a nightmare. The break-up wasn't real, the hospital wasn't real, sleeping with Yorozu wasn't real.

"Hm?" He tried to hide his anticipation.

"I need to throw up."

"Oh, hell no—"

Writing © xechu - please do not redistribute, translate, or repost any of my works.

[agirlwithdemonblood]

Smoke and Storms

Pairings: Dean x Reader

Summary: After crossing a line in their relationship, Dean struggles to express his feelings, hiding behind bad metaphors and fear of losing the person he loves most. But when Y/N finally pushes him to be honest, they both realize that some things—like love—are inevitable.

Warnings: Angst, sadDean!

Check out my Masterlist here!

"You're not listening!"

I huffed, pressing my back against the cool concrete wall, staring back at the older Winchester. "No, I'm just not understanding what you're trying to say!"

Dean pushed off the wall, running a hand through his hair before standing in front of me. "I—I’m not good at explaining, using my words."

I frowned at his vulnerability. I wanted to understand—I really did—but he was making no sense, and it was frustrating. He was never like this, never this lost.

An hour ago, he came home from a hunt looking as defeated as he always did when things went sideways. Normally, he’d find me. He’d sneak into my room, wrap his arms around me like I was his anchor, inhaling every bit of comfort I had to offer. And then we’d talk. For hours, sometimes. I always understood him—every sigh, every subtle shift in his tone, every weighted pause.

But last night, everything changed.

We crossed a boundary. We hooked up. He was feeling low, and so was I, and we used each other to feel better. It wasn’t just comfort; it was something else—something deeper, something unspoken. I thought it was everything we had ever wanted.

Until tonight.

Until I reached for him, and he moved my hands off his shoulders. Until he walked away from me like none of it happened.

Maybe I should’ve given him space, but he was my best friend. For three years, it had been us—always us. We promised nothing would change, that no matter what happened, our friendship wouldn’t break.

But now he was acting stranger than usual, dodging my touch, throwing up walls, speaking in circles. And worse, he wasn’t making sense. Dean Winchester was using metaphors.

And not just any metaphors—bad ones.

"It’s like—I don’t know—it’s like trying to hold onto smoke. The second I think I have it, it slips right through my fingers."

I blinked. "What?"

He exhaled sharply, pacing. "Or—or like driving a car with no brakes. You know you're headed straight for a wreck, but you can't stop."

I raised a brow. "Dean—"

"Or like—damn it, Y/N, it’s like standing in the ocean during a storm. The waves keep hitting, pulling you under, and just when you think you're okay, another one knocks you down."

I opened my mouth, then closed it. "So... I’m the storm? Or the car crash? Or—?"

He groaned, rubbing his hands down his face. "See? This is why I don’t do words."

I sighed, crossing my arms. "Then just say what you mean. Stop hiding behind half-baked metaphors and talk to me."

He went quiet, leaning against the wall, his gaze fixed on the cracks in the floor. "I just... maybe we are inevitable, and I can't stop it. I can't protect you."

The words lingered between us, heavy and unspoken. But I still didn’t understand.

And that’s what scared me. Because I had never been confused around Dean.

Now? I felt like I was losing him.

A sigh escaped his lips before he turned and walked away, leaving the air cold and lonely in his wake.

That must’ve been my answer.

I swallowed hard, forcing back the tears threatening to spill as I rushed to my room. This was it. This was the end. My worst nightmare come true.

It took an hour to calm down. An hour to silence the voices screaming in my head, telling me I had lost him for good.

And it also took an hour for Dean to finally come back.

The soft sound of his knuckles against my door made me turn. He looked just like I did—lost, confused, sad, scared.

Without a word, I lifted the blanket, letting him slip inside. He stripped off his shirt and jeans before climbing in next to me, sharing my warmth.

The silence stretched on—too long—but finally, he spoke, voice thick with regret.

"I know I wasn't making any sense. I'm not good at expressing myself."

I reached up, stroking his cheek, letting him process. Maybe patience was what he needed all along.

His green eyes met mine, filled with sadness. "I thought last night was a big step for us. When I woke up with you in my arms, I was happy. Excited. But then I got scared because..."

He hesitated, and I wouldn't allow it. Not when he was so close to making me understand.

"Go on," I whispered, no judgment in my voice.

He swallowed hard. "I've never felt the way I do, and it scares me. I don’t know what it is or what it means."

"How do you feel?"

He hesitated again, his hands trembling against my stomach, his eyes darting. He was terrified—to speak, to get it wrong. And I was terrified to hear it.

"I—I felt... I don’t know."

I scooted closer, wrapping my arms tightly around him. "Dean, it’s me. You can tell me anything."

His hand came to my cheek, thumb brushing my skin like he needed the contact to keep himself grounded. "I felt like my heart was full. When I got up to shower, I missed you. I felt like I needed to be back in bed with you or I was going to die. And the entire hunt—I couldn’t stop thinking about you. This was different. It wasn’t just a hookup. It wasn’t just some drunk dare. It felt..."

"It felt like love," I finished for him.

He nodded slowly, finally understanding himself. And suddenly, so did I.

He wasn’t pushing me away because he didn’t want this. He was pushing me away because he did. Because he was scared.

"Dean, look at me."

It took a moment, but when he did, his eyes shone with unshed tears.

"You’re right," I said softly. "It did feel like love. And we are inevitable. No matter how hard you try to fight it, no matter how much it scares you, we are meant to be, I can feel that. You can feel that. That doesn’t mean you can’t protect me. It just means you’re more afraid of losing me. And I get it. I’m afraid, too."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed thickly. "I don’t... I don’t want to be scared. I don’t want to feel this way."

"Then we stop."

His eyes widened, sitting up slightly. "What?"

"We stop. We mark this as a mistake, and we move on. We’ll always be best friends, but maybe we can’t do the relationship part."

I didn’t mean it. But I needed him to see that losing me was far scarier than loving me.

His grip tightened on my arm. "W-Wait..."

I smiled sadly. "I’m waiting. But I need to know what you want."

Silence. And then—

"I don’t want that."

I leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "Me neither."

He exhaled shakily. "What do we do?"

I shrugged, snuggling back into him. "What we’ve always done. We’re there for each other. Just because this became something more doesn’t mean anything’s changed. You’re still my best friend. I still love you—just in a different way now."

His arms tightened around me, lips pressing to my forehead. "I love you, too... I think I can do that. Go back to normal."

I smiled. "Good. You scared me there, Winchester. I thought I lost you."

He chuckled, pulling me close. "Maybe a bit, but you always know how to find me."

A slow grin spread across my face. "You know, for a guy who claims he isn’t good with words, you sure know how to make a mess with them."

He groaned, burying his face in my shoulder. "Yeah, yeah. My metaphors suck."

I laughed, running my fingers through his hair. "Oh, they’re awful. Smoke? Storms? A brake-less car? What even was that?"

He chuckled, his breath warm against my skin. "Shut up. You knew what I meant."

"Mmm, debatable. But next time? Just say 'I love you' and spare us both the headache."

He pulled back just enough to look at me, a smirk playing on his lips. "Fine. I love you."

I grinned. "See? So much easier."

He chuckled again, pulling me tighter against him. "Yeah, yeah. Just don’t expect me to be all poetic about it."

I smirked, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "Wouldn’t dream of it, Winchester."

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it!

Like, comment, and reblog, feedback is my fuel 💕

[sturniololuvz]

“First heart break”

Sturniolo x sister reader

warnings : crying , break up,

It was a quiet Friday afternoon when the front door of the Sturniolo house creaked open. Nick, Matt, and Chris were in the living room, lounging on the couch as they often did after a long week of filming. They were laughing about something silly when they heard the sound of someone sobbing from the hallway.

Nick furrowed his brows, immediately standing up. “Y/n?” he called softly, but the sobs only grew louder. He exchanged a worried glance with Matt and Chris before rushing to the door. His heart dropped when he saw their little sister standing there, her face red from crying, her shoulders hunched in defeat.

“Y/n,” Chris said gently, stepping forward to catch her before she could collapse into a heap. “What happened?”

She barely looked up, tears streaming down her face as she gasped for breath. “He—he broke up with me,” she choked out. “I didn’t see it coming. I thought… I thought we were good.”

Nick’s heart twisted, and without thinking, he pulled her into a tight hug. “Oh, honey,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

Matt stood behind her, his hand resting on her back. “Who did this to you?” he asked softly, trying to keep his anger in check.

Y/n shook her head. “I don’t even know… He just said he needed space, and that he wasn’t ready for a relationship anymore. And now, I just—” She sniffled, unable to continue.

“Hey, hey,” Nick said, lifting her chin so she could look at him. “You are so much more than what he said. You are amazing, Y/n, and no one, especially not some jerk, is going to make you feel like you’re not enough.”

Chris smiled softly, ruffling her hair. “Exactly. You don’t need someone who doesn’t see how incredible you are.”

But Y/n just let out another sob, burying her face in Nick’s chest. “I just don’t understand,” she whispered. “Why would he say those things? I thought he cared about me.”

Matt glanced at Chris, his eyes filled with concern. “Let’s just sit down, okay? We’re not going anywhere. We’re here for you, Y/n.”

The three brothers led her to the couch, and they all sat down, Y/n nestled between Nick and Matt. Chris grabbed the remote and started flipping through channels.

“Alright,” Chris said with a soft grin, “how about we put on a movie to take your mind off of things? Something funny, okay?”

Y/n sniffled but nodded, wiping at her eyes. “I don’t know… I don’t really feel like doing anything.”

“Trust me,” Matt said, wrapping an arm around her. “The last thing you need is to sit here and cry all night. Let’s just laugh for a bit, okay?”

Nick nodded. “Yeah, we’re not letting you wallow in here all night. We’re going to make you feel better, even if we have to watch the dumbest movie ever.”

They settled on a comedy, something light and silly that would hopefully make her laugh. As the movie started, Matt and Chris jokingly teased each other, distracting Y/n from the pain that still hung over her.

It was a brief reprieve, but it helped. For the first time in hours, Y/n cracked a small smile. Her brothers kept her distracted with inside jokes and dumb commentary during the movie, trying to keep the mood light. But by the time the credits rolled, Y/n’s smile had faded again.

“How are you feeling?” Nick asked softly, still holding her close.

“I don’t know…” Y/n replied, her voice shaky. “I just… I feel empty. I don’t know who I am without him.”

“You’ll find yourself again,” Matt said firmly. “But for now, we’re here. You’re not alone in this, okay?”

Y/n just nodded, feeling comforted by their presence, even if the pain still stung deep inside. The brothers stayed up with her that night, making sure she felt loved, but as the days passed, it became clear that the hurt wasn’t going to disappear so easily.

A few days later, Y/n hadn’t left her room much. The door was always closed, and the only sounds that came from behind it were soft sobs. Nick had tried knocking a few times, offering food, but each time she just turned him away, not ready to face anyone.

One evening, after Matt and Chris had spent hours trying to coax her out, Nick decided to check on her once more. He knocked softly on her door.

“Y/n?” he called, his voice quiet. “Can I come in?”

There was a long pause before Y/n’s voice broke through, barely audible. “I don’t feel like talking right now.”

Nick’s heart clenched, but he wouldn’t give up. “You don’t have to talk. Just… let me in, okay? We can just sit, no pressure.”

After a long moment, the door creaked open. Y/n was sitting on her bed, wrapped in a blanket, her face pale and tired. She looked up at him with a sad, empty gaze.

“Hey,” he said softly, sitting down beside her. “I brought you some food… It’s your favorite. Please eat something. I don’t like seeing you like this.”

Y/n looked at the plate in his hands but didn’t make a move to take it. “I don’t want to eat, Nick,” she murmured, her voice still raw.

“I get it,” Nick replied. “But you need to eat, sis. You have to take care of yourself. You don’t have to pretend like you’re okay, but you can at least take care of your body. It’s the little things, you know?”

She stared at the plate for a moment before finally taking it from him, but she didn’t eat it. She just held it in her lap, like the weight of it was enough to keep her grounded.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her eyes starting to well up again.

Nick smiled softly, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Anytime, Y/n. I know you’re hurting, and it’s okay to feel like this. But I’m not going anywhere. Neither are Matt or Chris. We’re with you every step of the way.”

The quiet sobs returned, but this time, Y/n didn’t feel as alone. Nick stayed with her, silently keeping her company, hoping that, little by little, she would heal.

[wisteria-lodge]

Thank you bonaesperanza for this:

We actually know that a person from the Black family got disowned for marrying a Weasley (Septimus Weasley, if I remember correctly). This guy is most likely Arthur's father, based on Sirius's explanation of how they're related, so we know the Weasleys were already considered blood traitors before Arthur was born (or, alternatively, Arthur's father did something that turned him into a social pariah after Arthur was born and the whole family got disowned). I imagine that they started losing their fortune, or rather stopped earning new money, when they got "cancelled" by pureblood society and therefore lost any business contacts. OTOH the Blacks who intermarried with Prewetts are still on the family tree, which makes me suspect that Molly's family is at the very least disapproving of her marriage to Arthur (which also makes sense considering how more... Normie she is compared to him). Now, the Black family tree says that Septimus Weasley had 3 children, but according to some JKR interview there was a draft where Ginny was supposed to be "the seventh child of the seventh child" and therefore super magically powerful, which makes me think that Septimus perhaps had seven children, Arthur being the youngest, and that the couple had three children *at the moment when his wife Cedrella was burned off the family tree*. Because why would the family tree continue tracking her if she's been obliterated from it? This would explain why the Weasleys are so poor: Septimus had to divide his rapidly dwindling fortune between seven children, and Arthur is the youngest. It would also explain why "Old Uncle Billius" is old - he could be one of the eldest children, and therefore almost a generation older than Arthur. And it would also place Arthur in the position of growing up raised by rich parents who are no longer rich, hence his lack of care with money (nobody taught him how to manage it) and "rich people habits". I personally like this theory because this is what happened to *my* family: my grandfather is the ninth child of a minor aristocrat who lost everything through backing the wrong side in WWII, and my grandfather (who barely remembers the time when the family had any money) inherited nothing but a tiny plot of land and a sense of entitlement. I can confirm that it does definitely lead to "rich people habits" and a complete lack of knowledge of how to manage a household on a normal budget, among other behavioural weirdness. I imagine Molly was also used to life of a... Higher tenor I guess, which has probably contributed both to the growing resentment between her and Arthur, and her overbearing insistence for her children to make something out of themselves. I imagine that she's likely from a younger branch and the Prewett money went to some older uncle/son, if she hasn't been actively disinherited as well. I don't remember if we ever hear Molly talking about any family members aside from her brothers?

We really don't. And I love it when each of the different pureblood families has a "thing" - a type of magic they're associated with or specialize in. I could 100% see the Weasleys as always going for seven kids for magical reasons, that's actually a ton of fun.

Always imagined the Weasleys as in debt. Not Arthur’s fault, but his father’s, probably. Poverty can’t be an old thing about them, both Molly and Arthur have very “rich people” habits, and they are in fact still on the sacred 28 list, which I’m sorry, like it should mean something even if JKR retconned it later as some sort of unofficial thing.

So my headcanon is this: the Weasleys were your regular pure blood family, aristocrats essentially. Maybe not as rich as Malfoys or Potters, but still very well-to-do, and then lost it all very recently. That’s why we are presented with the world where there are supposed to be many many weasleys, but in fact there are only Arthur’s branch. His brother Billius was a raging alcoholic, too. The twins said he died from delirium from drinking basically.

So here goes: the sacred 28 form the wizard House of Lords, that’s why Arthur is able to push for some laws (and I think that given that the laws thing and the sacred 28/blood purity are explored in the same book, that’s probably what she intended), because he has the seat in the wizarding House of Lords. He and Lucius knew each other well and were friendly/grew up around each other before the Weasleys went bankrupt and Arthur chose to side with Dumbledore in the war. That’s why Lucius is going around talking to his son about Arthur, while sounding very bitter. Explains the strange money flow and all of the connections and favors, too.

What a fantastic theory. I absolutely love this. You can absolutely make the case that the Weasleys and/or Prewetts were aristocratic families who fell from grace *recently.*

Like we have:

~ Molly's squib second cousin the accountant who they "never talk about." Yeah I BET. It sounds like this cousin just left the wizard world completely. Are you even allowed to do that?

~ Uncle Bilius, Ron's namesake. The alcoholic who officially died after seeing a grim... but it's kinda vauge if grim even exist, so we're going to chalk that one up under "died under mysterious circumstances."

~ Aunt Muriel, who has money... but she's not helping out Molly and Arthur, even though she's "fond of Bill" so does she really? She's the one with the goblin-made moonstone tiara, which kinda sounds like (the last?) family heirloom.

~ Molly's brothers Fabian and Gideon who died unexpectedly young, and without heirs. Does this mean that the Prewett money went to another family/branch of the family? Was Molly out of the running because she technically wasn't a Prewett at the time, and the money follows the name? Also, she'd already had most of her large family before they died, so maybe she was counting on an income that dried up.

(do they have death duties / inheritance tax in the wizarding world? they MIGHT.)

Any one of the above relatives might have absolutely cost the family a LOT of money, and left Arthur and Molly playing catch-up.

[svmmersoldier98]

Kindred souls Part 1

Pics are not mine, belongs to Pinterest. 𝗧𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝗺𝘆 𝗳𝗶𝗿𝘀𝘁 𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲 𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲. 𝗘𝗻𝗴𝗹𝗶𝘀𝗵 𝗶𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗺𝘆 𝗳𝗶𝗿𝘀𝘁 𝗹𝗮𝗻𝗴𝘂𝗮𝗴𝗲 𝘀𝗼 𝘀𝗼𝗿𝗿𝘆 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿 𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝗰𝗮𝘀𝗲. 𝗜 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗱𝗿𝗮𝗳𝘁 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗮 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗲 𝗻𝗼𝘄.. 𝗟𝗲𝘁 𝗺𝗲 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝗶𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲 𝗶𝘁.

Pairings: Avengers! X F!OC,Bucky Barnes X F!OC Warnings: blood,stalking,past traumas,mention of Red Room and HYDRA,swearing (A lot),violence,flirting, fluff,angst,mentions of depression,ptsd and adhd Summary: OC was part of the Red Room, got taken at a very young age, escaped thanks to Natasha Romanoff and her sister who took down the Red Room. Now her past hunts her. Word count: 1.4K

I ran through the streets, soaked with water and mud. My clothes were dirty and ruined as I ran. The voices grew louder as I ended up in a dark valley where the only way out was up. It was impossible to get out of there before they caught up with me. I was always stubborn and brave, but that courage wasn’t so good in every situation.

When the voices finally caught up with me and the three men came towards me, adrenaline pumped through my veins and my heart raced so fast it was a miracle I was still alive. I noticed the pattern of their movements and tried to dance my way out of the encounter, but as soon as one of them spoke up, it was clear why they were after me. “2013 March 12”- One of them said. The confused look on my face made him even angrier than before. The other two men tried to calm him down, but they did not have much success. He was almost about to lash out at me when he suddenly stopped, seemed to calm down a little and spoke again.

“You killed my mother, my father and my sister. Don’t you remember? You even looked me straight in the eye and I watched you slaughter them in front of me. And yet you acted as if nothing had happened and left.“- My memories came back and I saw in front of me a small child, about 5 years old, crying in front of me. The bodies of his family were lying on the floor, covered in blood. I was the one who had killed them. I had made his life hell. It was already a great burden on my shoulders, how many lives I ruined in my life, in that short time. I was only 15 years old at the time. It was even a miracle that they sent me on a mission. I was the youngest one out there, the others weren't sent out until they were 20.

But Drejkov saw something in me, that I was capable of something impossible. Just like his other former widow. Natasha Romanoff. I thought I wasn't like her, she was strong and I was just trying to be strong. All that weighed on me every day. And I was still so young, how could I ruin so many lives in such a short time? When I answered him, he was on the verge of losing his temper and now his friends were rushing towards me too. I don’t want to hurt any more innocent people, but I don’t want to die either.  “I’m sorry about that. I had no other choice at that moment.“ -I said and one of them pulled out a gun and pointed it at me. I was fast and very well trained. The boy wasn’t used to a gun, he couldn’t handle it.

Maybe that was the cause, or maybe my mind was telling me not to dodge the bullet. That it would be easier to let it kill me after all the pain I'd caused. I'd deserve it. Then the bullet found me, in my chest, close to my heart, but not close enough to kill me. I pressed on the wound as they just ran away. The kid got more trauma, great. I needed immediate medical attention but didn’t know where to go. I mean, I couldn’t go to a normal hospital with a bullet in my chest, they'd ask far too many questions, and the police would probably get involved too. I couldn’t risk that. As I tried to hide in the shadows of the night, I noticed a large billboard on a building across the street. The Avengers. It was a bunch of guys until a familiar face appeared. Natasha. They had a live/work base, which was also mentioned on the billboard.

Well done Avengers, that’s not a way you hide from the enemy. I only had one chance, hopefully she will not ask any questions and just get the bullet out and I am on my way. After a long walk I was exhausted, I had lost a lot of blood, but I was here. The gates weren’t actually closed so I just pushed them aside and walked in. There was a big field around the even bigger building. A bunch of cars and training grounds. Strange, I thought to myself. Not a guard, but a retinal scanner. It's easy to hack into these things. I mean, I had to learn how to hack, I was supposed to be a deadly assassin. It didn’t take me long to do it, the screen was green and the doors were open. I walked in, stumbled to the elevator, read the signs and pressed the button that would take me to the “living area”. Where I would find Natasha, I assumed.

The elevator opened with a ding and I stepped out... so many people.. "So, um, hello." -I said, a little unsure of the situation. I looked around the room, everyone was staring at me. I was practically soaked from the rain. Water dripped off my clothes onto the floor, forming a small pool underneath me as I stood in front of the elevator. "Who are you?" - one of them asked. A tall, blond-haired, muscular man in a black T-shirt that clung perfectly to his body and gray sweatpants. He looked good, and he looked familiar. "Uh... my name is Ren. And I came here to talk to Natasha." -I said, my voice low as I was a little intimidated by all the people. "That's your first question, Rogers? Well, mine is, how the hell did you get in here? I built the security system myself!" -He was a few inch shorter, had black hair and sported a beard and mustache. "Then you must be Tony Stark." - I said, looking at the man in question. "It wasn't my intention to hack into your system. I just didn't know where to go." -I muttered quietly, waving my fingers around.

Once again, I felt like I did before... "Alright then. Why do you want to see her?" -Asked the blonde, who was obviously Rogers. "She's the reason I was able to escape. And the only person I remember." -My voice shook a little, but I continued. "Besides, I was attacked before I got here. Some people found me and claimed I killed their parents. Which is probably what happened. It's still a little of a blur to remember all this." -I said, heaving a sigh as I stared at the ground beneath me. I didn't tell them about my wound, which was bleeding at the moment. After all, I had been shot. My clothes were already wet, so I didn't think it would show. "You're bleeding," one of them said. A deep, hoarse voice. I felt a shiver run down my spine at that. "No, I'm not," I said quickly. Perhaps too quickly. "Yes, you're bleeding. I can smell it. And it's dripping from your clothes." -That deep voice again. Then a man appeared. He had a metal arm.

I tilted my head slightly to the side as I looked at the man in front of me. "You're the Winter Soldier. He mentioned you a few times. You were supposed to train us, but then you disappeared from HYDRA... " I said, still looking at him from head to toe. He looked different from what Dreykov had shown us. He still had long hair and that pain in his eyes, but something was different. "Who?" he asked simply, but his tone was demanding. "Dreykov. My so-called father. Or whatever he was." -I answered him. Then I heard a soft, low sigh of surprise in the room. "You were in the Red Room?" -a female voice. She sounded scared, even surprised. "Yes, I was. I escaped two years ago when you and your sister blew up that hellhole." - my voice went quiet again. I had never talked about it before. I don't know why I did now. I shifted my weight to my other leg and hissed at the sudden pain I felt in my chest. The bullet. It dripped even more and now soaking my shirt. Now they definitely see it. The tall blonde gasped and quickly rushed over to me, catching me as I nearly collapsed. "We can ask her more questions once the wound of hers are taken care of" he said in an imperious tone. It seemed like he was the boss here, everyone listened to him. I was taken into a white, bright room. Then everything went dark.  

[spinchip]

Never the dark 7, 10 [dareth x Cyrus, it's not a pairing I've seen before and it humors me in a good way], and 11?

[ask meme]

YAAAY THANK YOUUU

7: Where did the title come from?

Bury Me Low by 8 Graves! I was listening to this song a LOT when conceptualizing the fic and I feel like the whole thing kinda describes Zane in the fic. In retrospect, I do kinda wish I had named it something smoother, I had a few ideas for what I might change it to (Inside the Dark, Forsaken Dark, and [redacted because i might be using it for another project teehee]) but I do like Never the Dark and I think i'll keep it lol

the funniest thing about this song is that I played it so much I got sick of it and now I wont listen to it

If I die today, it won't be so bad I can escape all the nightmares I've had All of my angry and all of my sad Gone in the blink of an eye I've seen the devil. I've shaken his hand I've seen the evil that dwells in a man For all of my wisdom, I can't understand ...... If I die today, it won’t be so hard Everything scares me, but never the dark

10: Why did you choose this pairing for this particular story?

Polyninja because I love them and the fucked up relationship dynamic post zanedeath called to me.

Pixal/Skylor has always been awesome but I included it here specifically because of how I view their character actions in the three year time skip. Skylor joins the ninja a few month after Zane dies and despite the fact that they don't harbor any ill will towards her, Zanes absence is a fresh wound that it feels like she's trying to step into. It makes everyone bleed. No one is coping well and things get messy and tense between skylor, the ninja, and pixal until Skylor has a mental breakdown and removes herself from the team (trauma response due to the nature of how her father raised her.) Skylor was never part of the team- she's not been there from the beginning, so she's an outsider. And so is Pixal. (Not intentionally of course, but the others share a different kind of grief that the two don't.) Cyrus eventually convinced Pixal to go to therapy where she gets some clarity on things and reaches out to Sky to apologize again for any role she played in the teams tension with her. She invites Skylor over for dinner and they accidentally end up talking for 6 hours- and the rest is history

(Skylor IS on good terms with the ninja btw. they apologized and hashed things out- but she won't rejoin the team for a lot of different reasons.)

Coppershipping my beloved. new-ish in the ficverse! They were starting to be more friendly with eachother after zanedeath, and that progressed post s11. Dareth took his grief at losing Zane as motivation to get in better shape and actually try and train, so he hits the gym and puts on a lot of muscle. takes up boxing. He wants to be able to do more to help if something happens again. He ends up putting his new skills to use protecting Cyrus from something or another and Cyrus asks him to be his bodyguard. They spend a lot of time together and fall in love teeheehee

also, fun fact for you, Dareth handmade all the ninja suits they wear in NTD!

11: What do you like best about this fic?

oh man. Is it bad to say the fact that it's almost finished? I'm just really proud I've been able to stick with it and put in the time and effort. I've got a pretty spotty track record with chaptered work- i lose motivation and drop things a lot, unfortunately. But i'm still dedicated to finishing NTD!

and im really proud of the wordcount! 100k!!!!!!! WAOW