#AND they want you to do the work of an entire office

[ozzgin]

Yandere!Headless Biker x Reader content: gender neutral reader, violence, gore, dubious consent, inspired by Gakkou no Kaidan

"So you won't do anything about it?"

The officer looked up, unimpressed by your tone, then flipped another page from the book he was reading.

"There's nothing to be done, kid. It's always been a quiet neighborhood. No one else has ever complained, let alone brought up some 'biker gang' noise in the middle of the night. You're either having strange dreams, or you're off your meds."

You let the door slam on your way out. Bastard cops, you thought, stomping back to your apartment. For weeks now you'd been tormented by some asshole revving up his engine, driving up and down the road, right underneath your window. Were your dark circles not enough evidence to this perpetual misfortune?

Very well, then. If the authorities refused to help, you were going to take matters into your own hands. You glanced at the clock and focused your ears. It was around the time your troublemaker showed up. After a moment or two came a faint buzz in the distance, the mechanical rumble of a motorcycle approaching. You got up and rushed downstairs with a bat tucked under your jacket.

You quickly determined, however, that a bat might not have been the best defense against...whatever was standing before you. There was indeed a motorcycle, so you felt vindicated: your ears weren't deceiving you. On the downside, whoever sat upon the retro Kawasaki Vulcan wasn't entirely human.

The neck ended abruptly, violently, with a clean cut. There was dried blood on the old-fashioned uniform, yet the discoloration of the skin hinted at a very old wound; or, better said, cause of death.

"What the hell," you mumbled to yourself. "Bosozoku hasn't been a thing in decades."

More importantly, were you going to be killed? Historical technicalities aside, you were facing a tenebrously tall, muscular zombie of a gang member. His long coat folded with the wind, but you could read out the 'extreme violence' embroidered along it. You wondered if the sinewy arm extending towards you was about to bash your skull in. Instead, it pulled you closer. The mysterious ghoul patted the empty seat behind him.

Yandere!Headless Biker is not a man of many words. Not like he can speak to begin with, but you get the feeling he would've been just as silent and stoic with a working mouth. You guessed his intentions from the way he touched you: with a peculiar familiarity and affection, as if he was dealing with his most prized possession. His arm never leaves your side once you're off his bike. If he's not riding with you in the back, he'll hold you in his lap and trace every curve and every corner, committing them to memory.

Yandere!Headless Biker is just as stubborn as he is violent. Once he decides something, it becomes the law. "I'm sorry, do you think we're dating," you had asked once after a particularly intense fondling session. You found your answer soon enough when one of your coworkers offered to walk you home. It was late and he wanted you to be safe, most likely not anticipating that he would be the one struck down by your haunting suitor. Despite your pleas and terrified shouts, he didn't stop swinging the metal pipe until your poor colleague was an unrecognizable mess of broken bone and exposed flesh. His fingers then clawed around your throat, pressing you against the wall of your building. He couldn't talk, of course, but you felt it deeply within your soul. The words formed in your mind, mixing with the sounds of your desperate gasps for air: you belong to me. You nodded in agony until he finally released you from the unforgiving grip.

Yandere!Headless Biker has never treated you harshly ever since that incident. It was a lamentable lesson that needed to be taught - as much as it pained him to see you in those circumstances. It's other people that have to suffer, not you. You've no fault in it, especially now that you understand your place.

Yandere!Headless Biker doesn't really bring up his ghostly predicament. You have occasionally questioned him about his decapitated state, though he's indifferent to your curiosity. You suspect he lost a fight and has been holding a grudge ever since, and whenever you bring up your theory, he angrily ruffles your hair. Perhaps you're on the right track. While it may have been originally true, he has other reasons to stick around today. You. He'd crawl his way out of the depths of Hell just to be with you. You're all his, now and in whatever afterlife might follow.

Yandere!Headless Biker is one angry man. His jealousy knows no bounds, and you've learned to avert your gaze from anyone who could fall victim to his wrath. Except those who could use a little disciplinary ruffle, of course, such as the officer who so enthusiastically declined to deal with your complaints. You almost felt bad when you saw him pathetically begging on the ground, but you had warned him about a gang member on the loose.

"Someone needs head," you remarked humorously as you gawked at the bloodied knuckles of your undead boyfriend.

Why, yes, that is certainly one way to release frustrations. The tall delinquent turns to you expectantly.

[hyuckiefluff]

casual | mark lee

pairing: idol! mark lee x waitress! fem. reader genre: fluff, strangers to lovers wc: 8k summary: you wouldn’t normally fall for a guy who left his number on a dinner bill. too bad that guy was mark fucking lee. content warnings: slightly suggestive content (making out), light cursing, food mentioned, parasocial themes, reader works a service job, a very overworked mark lee :(. no explicit smut in this part. a/n: hiii before anyone yells at me—yes, i know this isn’t the haechan fic i’m supposed to be working on (promise i’m still on it!!) but listen… i went to the smtown concert last week and it fully reignited my delusions, so i wrote this as a coping mechanism :P ik we’ve all been out with friends maybe at a restaurant, and thought, “what if my bias walked in right now?” right?? that’s basically the entire premise of this fic. pretty unrealistic but super fun to write & i hope it’s just as fun to read! also no smut… yall know what that means lol if you want a part 2... just say the word. ps: if you’re ever at an italian restaurant, do yourself a favor and get the gnocchi. trust me.

giving up your one free day to cover someone else’s shift wasn’t how you planned to spend saturday. but when your coworker begged with teary eyes and a story about her sick cat, saying no felt impossible.

so instead of sinking into your couch with a pint of chocolate ice cream and pride and prejudice on repeat, you were hustling through a saturday night at one of the city’s busiest restaurants.

it was hour six of your shift and you were at that breaking point where one starts fantasizing about quitting—or at least hiding in the walk-in freezer for five peaceful minutes.

any weekend here was a carnage with nonstop orders, zero patience, and customers who thought yelling would grill a steak faster.

but it was finally past eleven which meant the dinner rush had slowed and the only remaining stragglers were either couples too in love to notice the time or office workers too tired to cook at home. just two more hours, you thought to yourself.

“y/n! table four,” your coworker called, rushing past with a stack of empty plates.

you snapped out of your daze and walked over, expecting tired business executives or another couple feeding each other breadsticks. instead, you made eye contact with the two people you least expected to see here.

mark lee and johnny suh were looking right at you.

your heart dropped to your ass. for a second, you actually considered turning around. but even with your brain buffering, you knew you had to keep it together. the last thing you wanted was to make them uncomfortable.

you stopped beside their table, immediately recognizing the other two who had their backs to you as haechan and jungwoo. internally, you were combusting, but externally you prayed your expression didn’t scream that you were seconds from melting into the floor.

“hi, welcome to cecconi’s,” you said, voice steady enough despite your heart hammering your ribs.

when you handed over their menus, your fingers brushed mark’s briefly and you hoped he didn’t notice you flinch. that’s when you noticed the book peeking out of the front pocket of his hoodie.

you recognized the cover instantly— south of the border, west of the sun by murakami.

you cleared your throat, smiling before you could stop yourself. “that’s a good one.”

mark’s eyes followed where you were pointing and his eyebrows shoot up when he realized “wait… you’ve read this?”

you nodded, trying to be casual, as if you hadn’t picked that book apart alone on your bedroom floor at 2 a.m. two months ago. “i’ve read all of his stuff. but this one was a whole different experience.”

“i literally can’t put it down.” mark said, angling his body to yours with excitement. you could see he was tired but the small talk seemed to give him an energy boost.

“right? anything by murakami makes me feel like i’m eavesdropping on my own memories,” you said, mostly to yourself.

“that’s exactly it!” he said, eyes going wide. “i never knew how to put it into words before.” you had to look away before you got caught smiling at how boyish he looked when he got excited.

the other members stared with amused expressions on their faces, so you quickly straightened up and went back into server mode.

“right… uhm, our special tonight is black truffle gnocchi in a garlic cream reduction, topped with parmesan and chive oil. would you like something to drink while you look over the menu?”

“what kind of beers do you have?” johnny asked, leaning back in his seat.

you rattled off the list, stepping in to point them out on the menu. your hand was visibly shaking, but you hoped they’d chalk it up to general social awkwardness and not the fact that your four favorite idols were sitting in front of you.

“just water for me,” mark said softly. despite his smile, you could clearly hear how strained his voice was.

“great, i’ll bring those right out.”

they must’ve come straight from the venue. tonight’s show—the very one you’d missed because of this shift—had ended less than two hours ago. and now they were here, in your section, eating dinner. 

you walked to the bar, filled the glasses as requested except for mark’s. for him, you brewed a mug of hot water, dropped in a slice of lemon, a swirl of honey, and a small nub of ginger. it wasn’t even on the menu but something about his tired eyes and strained voice made you move on instinct.

you brought the tray back with all the drinks, placing them down carefully. when you reached mark, you set the mug in front of him.

“i hope this is okay,” you said quietly. “honey-ginger tea. it’s good for your throat.”

mark blinked, taken off guard. “oh… thank you.” he looked down at the mug, then back up at you. “seriously. that’s really thoughtful.”

you just smiled, brushing a stray hair behind your ear. “are you guys ready to order?”

they each placed their orders, nothing too extravagant. jungwoo wanted pasta, johnny asked for a steak medium rare, and haechan—after a dramatic five minute debate with himself—settled on the truffle gnocchi. mark went last.

“can i get the steak medium rare? and the mashed potatoes instead of the fries, if that’s okay,” he asked, glancing up again, voice still carrying that soft exhaustion.

“of course,” you said, jotting it down. “i’ll get those in for you.”

you dropped the order slip at the kitchen window, still feeling weirdly out of sync with your body. it didn’t help that you had to keep circling their table to serve other guests. table five had just ordered dessert, the group behind them needed their wine refilled, and your feet barely touched the floor before you were moving again. 

still, awareness prickled at the back of your neck whenever you passed their table.

you turned your head slightly, pretending to scan the room. mark was looking right at you but quickly glanced away, suddenly very invested in the tea in front of him.

you hesitated. maybe they needed something?

smoothing your apron, you walked back to their table. your heart thudded way harder than it needed to, but you managed a smile.

“everything okay here?” you asked.

mark cleared his throat, shaking his head as a faint flush crept up his neck. “we’re good. thanks, though.”

johnny’s lips twitched, and haechan was very clearly hiding a smirk behind his glass.

you smiled again, warmth rising in your chest at how shy he looked. “no worries. food should be out soon.”

back behind the bar, you tried to focus. really, you did. but your eyes kept drifting back to their table. thankfully, they seemed too wrapped up in their conversation to notice. every now and then, though, mark’s gaze would flicker your way.

he’s probably just zoning out, you told yourself. or exhausted, probably both. don’t be weird about it.

still… he kept looking. did you have something on your face? was it obvious you recognized them? god, what if he thought the tea was too much?

you groaned softly and buried your face in your hands when no one was looking.

pull it together, y/n. finish the shift. freak out later.

they are pretty quickly and eventually, their table quieted down. it was past midnight now, and the restaurant was finally starting to shut down. you printed their bill, then hesitated, chewing your lip as your pulse ticked higher.

should i?

this was your shot. it was maybe a little silly and borderline embarrassing, but if you didn’t say something now, you’d regret it forever.

before you could second-guess yourself any more, you scribbled a note at the bottom of the receipt:

"hii, hope this isn’t weird but i’m a really big fan. you’re amazing and i hope you enjoyed your meal and that the tea helped. get some rest tonight! :)"

you took a breath, walked back over, and placed it gently in the center of the table.

“here’s your bill,” you said quietly. “no rush, of course.”

mark looked up first. the smile he gave you was a little tired, but genuine.

“thank you,” he said warmly.

you nodded and stepped away, legs wobbling slightly as you disappeared into the back.

it’s done, you told yourself. no going back now.

as you busied yourself cleaning other tables, you watched from the corner of your eye as they got up. haechan said something that made mark laugh quietly, eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made your stomach flutter helplessly.

then they were gone.

you waited a few extra minutes before heading over just to be sure. as you cleared the plates, you reached for the bill with your heart already racing, though you told yourself not to expect anything.

but when you opened the leather folder, your breath hitched.

they’d left a generous tip—but that wasn’t what caught your eye. there was something written under your message, a response scribbled quickly in neat handwriting:

"thanks for taking care of us tonight. especially the tea! :)"

followed by a number.

your heart kicked so hard you had to brace a hand on the table edge. there was no name at all, just the number. the ink looked a little smudged near the dash like whoever wrote it had closed the presenter in a hurry.

holy shit.

͏͏͏𝄞͏͏ ͏͏ ͏͏͏♥︎̼

it was past one when you finally made it home, hair smelling like garlic butter and burnt steak. the city lay quiet, your apartment even quieter, yet your brain refused to join the calm.

with a tired sigh, you tossed your bag onto the couch and collapsed beside it, fingers still gripping the bill tightly.

you’d reread the message ten times already. the ink was even more smudged now from your fingers, but the number was still clear.

you exhaled loudly, then groaned into a throw pillow.

“what the hell is happening.”

it had to be mark. right? it felt obvious. 

then again, maybe another member had simply appreciated the gesture and thanked you on behalf of mark. after all, their handwriting wasn't exactly familiar. you’d seen them a few times on signed albums or online fan letters, but not enough to be certain. 

suddenly determined, you sat upright, snapped a quick photo, and zoomed in immediately.

“this is insane,” you muttered.

 but that didn’t stop you from opening a tab to search: mark lee handwriting.

this wasn’t your best moment. you were tired, emotionally compromised, and clearly spiraling. still you opened a second tab and went deeper until you were staring at stan twitter handwriting threads for half an hour.

after many more side-by-sides, you sat back and stared at the screen like it could confess to you.

“it looks like his,” you whispered.

just text him. what's the worst that could happen?

the thought alone conjured every embarrassing scenario possible and made you nearly throw your phone across the room. how would you even start that conversation?

“hi, is this mark lee from nct? because i’m lowkey in love with you and i really hope you're the one who left your number at my workplace tonight?”

your heart nearly stopped at the thought. you glanced at the clock again—2:17 a.m.

yeah. no. you needed to lie down. you’d sleep on it. calm down a bit and gain some perspective.

but three days passed.

three whole days. that’s how long you spent agonizing over a single text. you'd written and deleted at least twenty drafts—too casual, too eager, too weird. one even included a joke you cringed at the second you typed it, and deleted just as fast.

he’s probably already back in korea, you reminded yourself while folding napkins at the restaurant on tuesday. fan accounts had posted airport photos before you even got out of bed. mark in a beanie and headphones, eyes puffy with exhaustion.

two more days passed. eventually, courage outweighed dread.

on thursday night, curled up in your pajamas, you stared at the too-bright glow of your phone while netflix asked if you were still watching. just do it, you told yourself. again.

you opened a new message. typed. erased. retyped. your pulse pounded, drowning out mr. darcy’s proposal in the background.

hi! this is y/n, the server from cecconi’s last saturday night. i know you’re probably crazy busy, but i just wanted to say thanks again for coming in. hope you’re resting well :)

friendly. chill. not over the top—right?

you hit send and immediately shoved the phone under your blanket, like that could somehow shield you from the rejection.

an hour passed. then three.

nothing.

you forced yourself to sleep, pretending the tight knot in your chest wasn’t disappointment. the next morning, you checked your phone before even opening both eyes.

still nothing. no read receipt. no message.

it’s fine. they were idols. they were busy. you’d waited too long anyway. the group was back in rehearsals, buried in schedules. who had time to answer a text from a random server in another country?

another day passed. still no reply.

you tried to talk yourself down while making coffee. maybe it wasn’t even his number. maybe it was a manager’s. maybe his phone was off. maybe international sims are weird. maybe—

“why did you wait so long,” you muttered into the couch, face buried in a pillow.

you were just about ready to let it go when your phone buzzed softly against the coffee table.

your heart nearly launched itself out of your chest. you scrambled for it, almost knocking over the entire table in the process.

a new message.

sorry!! things got crazy once we got back to korea. i’m really glad you texted though. and we’re resting (sort of haha). it’s mark btw :)

you stared at the screen.

read it. then read it again. and again.

warmth flooded your chest. you'd been right.

it was him.

your thumb hovered over the keyboard, brain scrambling for something to say. but for the first time in days, all you could do was smile.

you hadn’t realized how easily a single text could flip your whole mood until he replied. you must’ve read that message ten times before you even responded.

somehow, the conversation flowed naturally from there.

it started with casual back-and-forths. he’d talk about the tour, and you about your shifts. it quickly turned more personal though like blurry late-night snack pics from his studio, or mirror selfies of your server fits before dinner rushes.

none of it felt forced. but still… what was this?

you’d be wiping down table six or pulling espresso shots for a regular who never tipped, and suddenly your phone would buzz with a text message.

mark: can’t believe you’ve never seen inception…

you: maybe i was busy having friends

he sent back a string of laughing emojis and a photo of his laptop playing it.

mark: you’re watching it with me next time. no excuses.

next time.

you didn’t know what that meant, but it echoed in your head for the rest of the shift.

by the second week, it wasn’t just texts.

sometimes he’d call when your time zones aligned, and you were both free. once while you were folding laundry. another while he walked home from the studio, breath fogging the cold air as he complained about his busted heater.

“i feel like an old man,” he said once, voice scratchy. “my knees hurt”

“you’re twenty-five.”

“and breaking down.”

you laughed until your stomach hurt. he was quiet for a second, then said, “i like your laugh.”

you had to grip the edge of the counter to stay upright.

a month later came the first video call.

it was early morning. you were still half-asleep, texting with one eye open, when your screen lit up with a facetime request. you froze.

no makeup. puffy eyes. pimple cream still on your chin. but your fingers accepted the call before your brain could stop you.

he was lying down, hoodie half over his face.

“oh thank god,” he mumbled. “i thought you weren’t gonna pick up.”

“i almost didn’t,” you laughed, pulling the covers up to hide half your face. “you caught me in a vulnerable state.”

his eyes crinkled. “you look cute.”

you didn’t know what to say to that, so you just tucked your face further into the blanket.

after a few hours, the call fell into a comfortable silence, his eyes starting to flutter shut as you both lay in your respective beds.

you should’ve hung up, but you didn’t. you just stayed on the call, watching him sleep.

video calls became routine after that.

at first, they were short—ten, maybe fifteen minutes. he’d call after practice, his hair a mess, face still damp with sweat. the phone would be propped against his water bottle as he peeled off his hoodie and complained about sore calves.

but the calls started stretching longer. sometimes he was lying on a hotel bed, cheek pressed into the pillow, telling you about his comeback preparations. other times, he wandered through whatever city he was in, showing you the neon signs, quiet side streets, and cafés tucked into corners no tourist would ever find.

“i’ll take you here one day,” he said once, camera panning to a ramen shop. “i mean… if you ever visit.”

you didn’t answer right away. just smiled and pretended the idea didn’t stick in your chest like a pebble you couldn’t shake loose.

you started saving little things throughout the day just to tell him later. customer stories, songs that reminded you of him, strange headlines you knew would make him laugh. without realizing it, your brain made notes labeled tell mark this later.

he did the same. he sent you photos of whatever snack he was eating on set, told you about a dream where you both worked in a space bakery, asked what you thought of new songs he was writing. he never sent full demos, just a few seconds here and there—but it still felt intimate.

you started noticing things you hadn’t, even after all your years as a fan. how he bit the soft skin of his knuckles when he was anxious or the fact that he brushed his teeth for 6 minutes (yes, you counted).

neither of you brought up what this was. and maybe that was okay.

still, on some nights, you’d wonder does he text other people like this? has he done this before, video calls, sleepy laughter and quietly sharing his day?

you never asked.

you didn’t want to ruin the quiet magic of it all by needing too much too soon.

͏͏͏𝄞͏͏ ͏͏ ͏͏͏♥︎̼

mark eased you into his life bit by bit.

on a random thursday night, you were sprawled on the couch, scrolling aimlessly through tiktok when your phone buzzed. you smiled automatically when you saw his name and hit accept.

but it wasn’t him when the call connected.

“yo! she’s real!” johnny’s voice boomed through the speaker, far too loud and way too amused.

you blinked. “wait—what?”

the screen shook as mark scrambled to get the phone back. “okay, okay, stop—hyung, give it back!”

“nice to meet you,” jungwoo added brightly in the background. “finally!”

haechan’s face popped into view next. he hovered close to the camera, flashing a crooked grin. “she’s the one, right? the reason he’s always giggling at his phone like a loser.”

they were all speaking in korean, except for johnny—who made sure you caught the gist. you weren’t fluent, but you knew enough to piece it together. their tone said a lot, anyway.

“what did he say?” you asked, laughing nervously.

johnny leaned in. “he said mark’s obsessed with you.”

mark groaned in the background. “don’t translate that.”

“he talks about you,” haechan added in english, still half-hiding behind jungwoo but clearly enjoying himself. “all. the. time.”

you stared at the screen, wide-eyed, face already burning. “oh god—wait, we just—”

“aigoo, she’s cute,” jungwoo said with a grin, nudging haechan’s shoulder. “mark, you’re done for.”

mark finally got his phone back, his flushed face filling the screen. he was breathless from laughing.

“i’m so sorry,” he mumbled. “that was… i didn’t mean for that to happen.”

you were still blushing but grinning too. “so you talk about me all the time?”

he covered his face with one hand. “please. don’t start, they won’t let me live this down”

after that night, it became a running thing. sometimes you’d call just to talk to mark and end up ambushed by his members. taeyong once popped into frame with a plate of fruit, offering you a piece through the screen like you could actually take it. “for energy,” he said in halting English, then smiled and wandered off.

chenle appeared a few times asking random questions as if you’d been friends forever, one time he asked “do you like mark as much as he likes you?”

you sputtered something while mark tried (and failed) to shut him up.

renjun showed up once too, squinting at the screen. “so this is the girl,” he said, then walked off dramatically without another word.

it was chaotic, awkward, and constantly embarrassing but it also made your chest ache in the best way. knowing you weren’t some secret he was hiding. you were someone he wanted them to know.

and then one night, a few weeks later, mark called with a different kind of energy.

“guess what?” he said, barely able to sit still.

you blinked at him through the screen. “what?”

“we’re going to the US,” he grinned, and your heart nearly stopped.

“wait, seriously?”

“yeah, for a festival. just one weekend, but i’ll have a couple free days before the flight out. i—” he paused, scratching the back of his neck. “i was really hoping i could see you.”

you stared at him, stunned for a second.

“you want to see me?” you asked softly.

“yeah,” he said immediately. “i mean, only if you want to, obviously. i just… i’ve been thinking about it for a while. texting and calling is great but,.. i kind of miss being in the same room as you.”

not just the same city,  not just in passing. but in the same room with you.

you swallowed past the nerves bubbling up in your chest and nodded, trying to keep your voice steady.

“i want that too.”

͏͏͏𝄞͏͏ ͏͏ ͏͏͏♥︎̼

you tried for tickets the second they went live.

you had alarms set, several tabs open, your card ready. but none of it mattered…

they sold out in minutes.

you stared at the screen in disbelief, refreshing the page over and over hoping the outcome would change. it didn’t. your chest tightened with each failed refresh.

you were so close. and now, you had no idea how to tell mark.

you waited a whole day, thinking they’d release more tickets, maybe someone would resell—but the prices were insane, triple what you could afford, and the longer you waited, the more hopeless it felt.

when he finally called you that night, you tried to act normal for about ten seconds before it all came spilling out.

“i didn’t get tickets,” you said, voice cracking before you could stop it. “they sold out so fast and now the only ones left are like impossible. and i know you’re going to be super busy and probably won’t be able to meet up anyway, but i was really looking forward to seeing you perform, and now i don’t even know if i’ll get to see you at all—”

“hey, hey, slow down.” mark’s voice was soft. “breathe, y/n.”

you inhaled shakily, pressing your forehead to your knee, curled up on the couch. “sorry. i just… i really wanted to be there.”

“i know,” he said gently. “and i want you there too.”

you went quiet, biting the inside of your cheek.

“but we’ll figure something out, okay?” mark continued. “don’t stress about it too much. just… trust me a little.”

��what do you mean…,” you said slowly, suspicion creeping in.

he chuckled. “nothing. just saying... maybe don’t give up hope yet.”

you narrowed your eyes at your phone. “you’re being cryptic.”

“am i?” he said, way too innocently.

you groaned into your pillow. “don’t do this to me.”

“i’m not doing anything,” he replied. “just... keep the day of the festival open, okay?”

you wanted to press him, but the look in his eyes was too confident. so you nodded slowly, heart still a little heavy but soothed by the warmth in his voice.

the day they landed in the US, you got the call while brushing your teeth.

your phone lit up with his name, and you answered with a mouthful of foam, spitting it out quickly as you mumbled, “hey, did you land?”

“we did,” mark said, voice laced with excitement. “and i have good news.”

your heart jumped. “what?”

“a car’s going to pick you up the day of the show,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “my team helped sort it out. we wanted to make sure you’d be there.”

you blinked, wide-eyed, toothbrush still in hand. “wait—what? you—what do you mean? mark—”

“you’re coming to the festival, y/n. you’re not missing this. not if i can help it.”

you clutched your phone, stunned into silence, overwhelmed by how much care he’d tucked into those few words.

“you didn’t have to—”

“i know,” he interrupted, voice softer now. “but i wanted to.”

͏͏͏𝄞͏͏ ͏͏ ͏͏͏♥︎̼

you’d never felt more anxious getting ready for anything in your entire life. not for job interviews, not for first dates, nothing compared to the fluttering anxiety buzzing in your chest right now.

it was almost ridiculous how much effort you'd put in. your hair was carefully styled in waves that took you half an hour to do, your makeup was done and redone multiple times until you finally settled on something subtle but pretty. your outfit had taken ages to choose, you didn’t want to look too casual but also didn’t want to make it seem like you were trying too hard. so you settled for a regular black skirt and a white long sleeved top, it was comfortable but not boring. you wanted to look good, even though mark had already seen you at your most tired, sweaty, and disheveled.

the car arrived precisely at the time mark had promised. your heart jumped to your throat when the driver opened the door for you, offering a polite nod. 

your hands trembled slightly in your lap the entire ride to the venue. you felt giddy, overwhelmed, and deeply nervous all at once.

but when you finally arrived, the excitement abruptly shifted into self-awareness. several staff members glanced at you warily, some whispering to each other and throwing quick looks your way. suddenly, you felt very out of place, shrinking slightly under their scrutinizing gazes.

“excuse me,” came a sharp voice behind you. you turned around to see a woman approaching, her expression serious, a clipboard held firmly in her hands. “you must be y/n?”

“yes,” you replied nervously.

“there are some documents you'll need to sign,” she informed you.

“documents? like—”

“standard NDAs, confidentiality agreements, liability waivers,” she cut in and handed you a clipboard, flipping briskly through pages filled with dense legal text. “you'll need to sign these before we move forward.”

you stood frozen for a moment, feeling incredibly naive and small as reality hit you like a slap to the face. you’d let yourself get carried away, almost forgetting who exactly mark was—who exactly these people were. they weren't just regular guys; they were idols, celebrities, people with management teams and carefully guarded images.

this was serious and you had somehow underestimated all of it.

the woman noticed your hesitation, her expression softening just a fraction. “it’s standard procedure,” she said, “mark personally asked us to ensure you’re comfortable, but we need to protect everyone involved.”

“okay,” you whispered shakily, taking the pen from her hand. your fingers felt numb as you signed, barely registering the words printed on the paper. 

once the woman was satisfied, she took the clipboard back, nodded curtly, and gestured for you to follow her. your heart thundered in your chest as you walked through the busy hallway.

then she stopped in front of a dressing room door, knocking sharply once before opening it slightly. “mark? your guest is here.”

you held your breath as the door slowly swung open, your pulse so loud you could hardly hear anything else.

mark appeared in the doorway, eyes widening slightly as he took you in. suddenly, all the anxiety, paperwork, and awkwardness faded into the background. his expression softened immediately, that familiar warmth returning as his eyes crinkled in a gentl smile.

“hey,” he breathed softly, clearly just as relieved to see you as you were to see him. “you made it.”

mark steps fully into the hallway, blocking the view of the bustling green-room behind him. for half a beat you both just stare, soaking in the fact that you’re finally sharing the same oxygen again instead of pixels on a phone screen.

“wow…” he breathes, cheeks coloring as his eyes scan you. “you look so—” he catches himself, smiles sheepishly, and opens his arms. “can i?”

you nod before your brain supplies coherent language, letting him tug you forward. the hug is quick—he’s hyper-aware of everyone around you—but his hand stays at your elbow afterward, grounding you.

“sorry about the fuss,” he murmurs, voice pitched low so only you can hear. 

“it’s okay… just a bit intense.”

“i know.” his thumb sweeps a tiny circle on your sleeve. “but you’re here now. c’mon, the guys are waiting.”

when you walk inside the room is buzzing with energy. there’s stylists zipping garment bags, a makeup artist following jungwoo around to touch up his lips, haechan drumming on a folding table with two half-empty water bottles. the second he spots you, his face splits into a grin.

“look who made it!” he crows, loud enough for the entire room to hear. “mark’s special guest.”

johnny swivels in a chair. “oh, the infamous y/n at last.” he stands, offering a hand that turns into a gentle half-hug when you take it. “nice seeing you again.”

jungwoo waves from a corner, cheeks puffed with gummy bears. “hi! mark’s talked a lot about you,” he says around the candy. 

mark groans. “ignore them, they’ve been insufferable since i told them you were coming.”

“insufferable?” haechan clutches his chest theatrically. “hyung, we’re just supporting your relationship!”

you feel your face go nuclear. “it’s not— we’re just—”

“friends,” mark supplies, shooting haechan a warning glance. but the tips of his ears have gone pink, and the little smile tugging at his mouth totally betrays him.

johnny leans closer, whispering, “lies, he’s always grinnung at his phone like a middle schooler whenever you talk.”

you let out a mortified laugh that turns into a squeak when mark nudges johnny away. “we have to be on stage in ten minutes, maybe focus?”

jungwoo claps. “right! you can watch backstage with staff.”

an assistant appears then, handing mark an in-ear pack. he hesitates, then squeezes your hand once before following the others toward wardrobe.

“sorry i gotta get dressed,” he says over his shoulder, “see you in a bit.”

you exhale for the first time since stepping off the car, pulse finally settling as the door swings shut. you tuck a stray hair behind your ear, catching your reflection in a vanity mirror. your cheeks are flushed and there’s a stunned little smile on your lips.

the staff member that escorted you in approaches again, her expression now more polite but still distant as she walks you down a narrow hallway. “you’ll be watching from here,” she explains as you reach a curtained-off section just beside the stage entrance.

the space is just wide enough for a couple of folding chairs, and a monitor showing the stage feed. even through the curtain, you can hear the low rumble of the crowd growing louder by the second—cheers, screams, the crowd chanting “ilichil, we love you!” 

you perch at the edge of a chair, feeling entirely out of place and wildly overwhelmed.

what am i even doing here?

this wasn’t some fantasy anymore. you weren’t watching fancams in your pajamas or whispering to your screen during late-night video calls. you were backstage, in their world, and everyone around you belonged to it except you.

you looked down at your outfit again, smoothing invisible wrinkles, suddenly doubting every choice you’d made that morning. your nails, your shoes, even the way you’d done your eyeliner. it all felt too much and not enough at the same time.

a soft noise pulls your attention back to the side curtain. one of the stylists slips through, handing off a mic pack to someone just outside your view. you recognize mark’s voice quickly.

he’s laughing at something jungwoo said, but even through the laughter you can hear the edge of nerves in his voice. it makes you feel… less alone in your own.

you peek around the edge of the curtain. they’re all gathered near the wings, adjusting their in-ears and bouncing on their heels to shake out last-minute jitters. mark’s back is turned at first, but then he glances over his shoulder almost like he can feel your eyes on him.

your breath catches when his gaze finds yours. through all the chaos and noise, his eyes meet yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

he doesn’t wave or call out—he just smiles.

he turns back as staff starts to guide them toward the entrance tunnel, and you’re left sitting there with your heart doing an unholy rhythm in your chest.

you hadn’t expected this, the building pressure in your chest, the way your emotions feel too big to hold.

but underneath all of it, layered between the nerves and the noise inside your own head, there’s a flicker of anticipation.

he’s just a few feet away now. he’s about to be on stage, doing what he was born to do, and you’ll be right here, watching not just as a fan anymore.

but as someone who matters to him.

the stage lights cut to black, and the low hum of the backing track pulses through the arena like a heartbeat. from your narrow perch in the wings you can feel the vibration under your soles, a physical reminder that this isn’t a dream.

a lone spotlight slices across the darkness—jungwoo steps into it, and the crowd erupts. the boys fan out behind him in practiced formation.

mark is near the center, head lowered, hand cupped over his earpiece as he settles into position. you’ve watched this opening on countless fancams, but up close everything is magnified: the hiss of their in-ears, the snap of jacket fabric when they turn, the ragged inhale before the first line.

johnny’s deep vocal rolls out, haechan answers with his bright harmony, and suddenly the whole place is singing along..

mark’s part hits next. he steps forward, eyes scanning the sea of faces before flicking to you. it’s only a second, a brush of attention so quick the crowd would never catch it, but it lands like a spark in your lungs. he grins, then pivots into choreography.

you never understood how performers could look both effortless and deadly focused until now. sweat beads at their hairlines within minutes, but they don’t miss a beat. haechan riffs a playful ad-lib, doyoung shoots him a mock glare, johnny laughs into his mic; the crowd screams, drunk on the interaction.

halfway through the set, they perform gold dust as a surprise, the stage lights go yellow. mark moves to the far edge closer to you and delivers his verse straight ahead. but on his last bar he tilts his head, eyes skimming the shadows where you’re standing. his voice drops into that warm, gritty register you know too well from late-night calls, and despite the roar of the arena the moment feels impossibly intimate.

you tuck your hands under your arms, trying to calm the goosebumps, but the sheer thrill of seeing him own that stage while still tossing these tiny pieces of himself your way is overwhelming.

the final song explodes in confetti cannons. the boys hit their last pose, breathing hard, grinning wide. the screams from the audience are deafening; even the backstage staff exchange awed looks.

mark bows with the others, shouting “thank you!” into his mic, but as they turn to exit he catches your gaze one more time. he taps two fingers against his chest, then points subtly toward the hallway where you’re waiting and mouths the words stay right there, i’ll find you.

and you waited exactly where he told you to.

or… at least tried to.

but the moment the boys disappeared off stage, chaos swallowed everything whole. several stagehands rushed past with crates, wires and gear flying in every direction, staff barking orders into walkies while backup dancers and security weaved in and out of the narrow corridors.

you stepped back into the corner, trying not to get trampled, but every second you waited the crowd thickened, people shouting over each other, crew passing by so quickly that you were bumped into more than once. you caught glimpses of the members being swept off into different directions—haechan laughing breathlessly with a towel around his neck, johnny taking a water bottle from someone. but there was no sight of mark.

“you can’t stand here,” someone snaps, grabbing your elbow and steering you quickly away. “please, move along.”

“wait, i was supposed to—” you start, but your protest drowns in the noise as you’re guided through the maze of corridors. 

you glance over your shoulder anxiously, panic rising in your throat. mark said he’d find you but you don’t even know where you’re going.

the staff member stops abruptly near a back exit, where a van is parked outside the open door. he gestures hurriedly. “wait in there, please. someone will be with you shortly.”

before you can question it, he’s already vanished back into the building. hesitantly, you climb into the empty van, settling awkwardly on the leather seat. not even a minute later your phone buzzes with a text from mark.

mark: where are you??? backstage is insane, i can’t find you.

you quickly reply: someone moved me to a van near the back entrance?

your heart pounds as minutes stretch into eternity and doubt starts gnawing at you—they will probably film some behind the scenes content now, interviews, livestreams, what if he doesn’t have time to find you before he’s sent away?

but just as anxiety peaks, the van door suddenly slides open. your eyes widen as mark appears, breathing heavily like he ran to reach you, his stage makeup slightly smudged, hair damp and tousled from the performance. he sighs in relief, shoulders visibly relaxing the second he sees you.

“oh, thank god,” he breathes, climbing quickly into the van and closing the door behind him. “i was so worried. everything okay?”

“yeah, it was just really hectic—” you start, but your words fade as he sits beside you, closer than you’ve ever really been. close enough that you can see the faint glitter along his jaw, the sweat glistening at his temples, the warmth in his gaze as it settles fully on your face.

“you were incredible out there,” you say softly. “i’ve never…  it’s different seeing it up close.”

his cheeks pink despite the post-performance flush. “i kept looking for you.” 

“i noticed,” you admit, smiling.

mark’s gaze drops to your hands twisting in your lap and he reaches out.

“thanks for being here,” he murmurs. 

your laugh is a shaky exhale. “i wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“also…the NDA,” he starts quietly. “i didn’t want you to feel like i was cornering you into some weird situation. that’s not what this is.”

“mark, i didn’t think that. i mean—it was overwhelming, yeah, but i get it. you’re…” you gesture helplessly. “you.”

he laughs softly, but there’s no real humor behind it. “i hate it. you know, not being able to just… hang out with you. not having the freedom to do normal things, like… i don’t know—go get coffee or show you the city or tell people about you without it turning into a whole thing.”

“is that what this is? am i…” you hesitate. “something you’d want to tell people about?”

he looks up at you, and there’s not a trace of hesitation when he says, “yes. i think about it all the time.”

you blink, throat suddenly dry.

he leans in slightly. “i just… i didn’t want you to think i was trying to make you sign your silence just so i could keep you a secret. it’s not about hiding you. it’s about protecting something that means a lot to me.”

and there it is. the part he hadn’t said yet.

you mean a lot to him.

your chest tightens with the weight of being chosen in a world that doesn’t make space for this kind of closeness, that demands boundaries, a good image and clean lines drawn in ink. and yet here he is, blurring those lines for you.

“thank you for saying that,” you murmur, voice trembling a little. “i didn’t realize how much i needed to hear it.”

mark reaches across the space then, taking your other hand. “i don’t want this to feel like you’re walking on eggshells because of my life. i want it to feel real.”

your fingers tighten around his instinctively.

“it already does,” you whisper.

and when he finally closes the distance between you, pulling you into a quiet, careful hug, it feels so right.

his arms wrap around you and for a second the world outside the van ceases to exist. he’s warm even through his stage jacket, you can feel his heartbeat thudding fast against your cheek. you breathe him in, clean sweat and fabric softener.

when he pulls back, he doesn’t release your hand. his thumb brushes lazy paths over your knuckles.

“i kept picturing this,” he admits quietly. “all week. wondering if it would feel the same in person as it did in my head.”

“and?” you whisper.

“it’s even better,” he says without hesitation.

he shifts slightly, the space between you rapidly shrinking. his gaze flickers briefly down to your lips, and the movement sends your pulse racing.

“mark,” you whisper, voice barely audible, “i—”

his other hand gently finds your cheek, thumb tracing lightly along your skin, tipping your chin up just a fraction. he searches your face, breathing shallow and eyes heavy with something soft and vulnerable.

you lean in instinctively, eyes fluttering closed as his breath ghosts warm over your lips—

and then the van door suddenly swings open, a burst of noise and harsh backstage lighting flooding in.

“mark hyung, manager hyung says—oh shit.” haechan freezes halfway inside the doorway. “ohhh, sorry… was i interrupting something?”

mark jerks back, cheeks blazing crimson as his hand quickly leaves your cheek and lands awkwardly in his lap. “dude, are you serious?” he groans, dropping his head with a sigh and muttering a very un-idol-like curse word. 

you cover your mouth, laughing breathlessly through the embarrassment even as your pulse continues hammering in your ears.

“sorry, sorry,” haechan says, grinning wickedly, clearly not sorry at all. “but uh, we gotta go. manager hyung’s freaking out. we got an interview, hurry up.”

“yeah. coming.” he searches your face, apology written in his eyes “they’ll herd us to the hotel soon. can you wait a little longer? i want to ride with you after they clear the crowd.”

you nod, trying to ignore the throb of almost-kiss still sparking across your lips. “i’m not going anywhere.”

“give me twenty minutes tops, and then i’m kidnapping you for actual food.”

“bold of you to assume i’d say no.”

as he slips out, you catch the faintest curve of a smile before the door thuds shut and you’re alone again.

thirty minutes later, mark slips back into the van. this time freshly changed, hair still damp but swept under a dark cap.

“sorry that took forever.” he drops into the seat opposite you, knee bouncing with leftover adrenaline. “do you wanna come meet the other members properly before we leave?”

you follow him back through a quieter service corridor to a smaller green room that smells heavily like hair spray. inside, half the members are sprawled on sofas in various states of post-show exhaustion. the energy shifts the second mark ushers you in.

“guys, this is y/n,” he says.

taeyong shoots up first, hand extended. “the legend herself,” he jokes, grinning wide enough to prove he’s still riding his performance high. jaehyun offers a shy wave and drags over a chair so you won’t have to hover. yuta, also walks over and introduces himself politely.

doyoung is the only one who stays seated, arms folded. his eyes flick between you and mark, assessing. it lasts all of three seconds before he notices how relaxed mark looks—those shoulders that usually sit somewhere near his ears are loose, his smile easy. doyoung’s expression softens.

“thanks for cheering him up,” he says quietly, a little sheepish. “he’s been impossible the last few weeks.” the tease lands gentle, and mark flicks a sweat towel at him in retaliation.

the small talk bubbles up easily. the topic shifting from favorite festival moments, to whose in-ears cut out, and the confetti that caught in doyoung’s mouth during a high note. the atmosphere is warm and surprisingly normal, until a manager pops his head in to remind everyone they’ve got early rehearsals tomorrow.

mark steers you quickly back to the van after saying a quick goodbye.

“so…” he ran a hand through his hair and put his hat back on. “food?”

“please,” you groaned, head falling back against the seat. “i’m starving.”

“wanna go to a restaurant?” he offered.

you winced. “too risky.”

he nodded slowly. “true, my hotel’s worse.”

you turned your head to face him. “sasaengs?”

“they wait outside sometimes, follow the vans from the venue” he trailed off, already looking annoyed with the reality of it.

“we could…” you swallow, then barrel through. “we could go to my place? it’s not far, and no one knows where i live. we can order in.”

mark’s head tilts, surprised but already nodding. “are you sure?”

“only if you’re okay hiding out in a tiny apartment that smells like scented candles and stale coffee.”

he smiles brightly. “sounds perfect.”

you rattle off your address to the driver, heart hammering as you drive through the city. mark’s knee bumps yours every time the van hits a pothole, but neither of you moves away.

he glances over. “thank you for trusting me with your space.”

you breathe out a shaky laugh. “thank you for trusting me with… all of this.”

his fingers brush yours on the seat between you. outside, the van slows to a stop at your curb. the driver kills the lights for discretion. thankfully, the street is empty.

you turn to mark, pulse racing for an entirely new reason now. “welcome to my part of the world.”

he grins, tugging his cap lower and reaching for the door handle. “lead the way.”

your apartment is small, cluttered with book stacks and half-burned candles, but it’s yours—and when mark steps in, slipping off his shoes at the door like he’s done it a hundred times, it feels suddenly, impossibly domestic.

“so,” he murmurs, looking around with quiet curiosity. “what’s good for takeout around here?”

you settle on thai food after a chaotic five-minute debate that ends with mark looking up from your couch and going, “okay but do you trust me with your spice tolerance?”

you blink at him. “mark. i watched you cry eating jalapeño chips during that one livestream.”

“they were ghost pepper!” he defends, slightly pouting. “and i didn’t cry, my eyes were just... dry.”

you giggle and the tension that had followed you into the apartment fades with it.

while you wait for the food, he wanders around your space with curiosity. never touching too much, just observing. he stops at your bookcase, smiles at the titles stacked sideways, fingers brushing one of the cracked spines.

“so this is where you’ve been calling from,” he says as he returns to the couch, flopping down beside you. “it’s cozy.”

“that’s code for small, right?”

he tilts his head, grinning softly. “no. cozy means i don’t want to leave.”

you glance over at him, heartbeat spiking in your throat. his hoodie’s a little rumpled from the ride, cap tossed somewhere by your front door, and he’s leaned so close your shoulders brush.

“you’re kind of the only boy who’s ever said that,” you murmur.

“then they’re idiots.”

your lips twitch with a smile. mark leans his head back on the cushion, you get distracted by the cute bump on his nose and the lines of his jaw.

you both fall quiet for a while, your legs stretched out beside his on the couch, ankles knocking occasionally. your body relaxes more than you expect, as if it remembers this feeling from all those calls and imaginary versions of this moment.

when the takeout finally arrives, you both eat cross-legged on the couch, plastic containers open between you, your playlist humming low in the background.

you talk through mouthfuls of noodles about everything and nothing—his weird craving for peaches whenever he’s overseas, your childhood phase of putting ketchup on rice, how you both secretly judge people who don’t rewind movies when they pause.

somewhere between “i really miss my mom’s kimchi stew” and your story about the nightmare customer who demanded gluten-free breadsticks, your shoulders touch. a minute later his arm slips along the back of the couch, fingers grazing your shoulder each time he shifts. your nerves fizz under your skin, but the contact feels safe.

You lean into him. He doesn’t move away.

the conversation slows and when you glance up to make a joke, your nose brushes the edge of his jaw. his breath hitches at this, then a warm hand settles on your knee.

“this feels…” he starts, swallowing. “kinda unreal.”

“yeah.” a whisper—because your voice has gone missing.

his palm lifts to your cheek, thumb soft against your skin. “can I kiss you?”

you’re already nodding.

the first kiss is shy and careful, more smile than pressure. The next slips deeper, mouths moving in a lazy rhythm neither of you rush. Your fingers tangle in the hem of his hoodie; his other hand skims your waist, pulling you just close enough to feel the quiet drum of his heart.

eventually the couch gets too cramped. mark breaks the kiss with a sheepish laugh. “my back is dying,” he murmurs.

you tug him down the hall to your room, giggling when he nearly trips on a sneaker. he perches on the edge of the bed and you climb into his lap without thinking, legs draped around him. his hands settle on your hips and he sighs.

“i really, really like you,” he says, forehead resting against yours.

“i like you too. a lot.”

he kisses you again. you spend the next half hour like that, trading soft laughs and softer kisses until the adrenaline drains from his limbs. head falls heavy on your shoulder, he mumbles something about the best night of his life…and falls asleep mid-sentence.

You ease him back onto the pillows, kick off your skirt, and curl into the space beneath his arm. One leg hooks over yours; his hand rests at the small of your back, protective even in sleep.

it’s the tenth call that finally wakes him the next morning.

mark groans into your pillow, dragging his phone blindly toward his face. “what…”

a second goes by and then he jolts upright. “shit. shit.”

you blink groggily, one arm reaching out for him. “what’s wrong?”

he’s already stumbling for his shirt which he doesn’t even remember taking off last nigh. “i slept in. i never—fuck, i never sleep in.”

you sit up slowly, watching him try to shove his hat over tousled hair while checking his phone. “i have like ten missed calls.”

he answers the incoming call hurriedly, voice tense and apologetic. “yeah, i’m sorry, i know… i’m on my way now, just got… held up. i’ll explain later.”

he glances down at you then, taking in your messy hair, swollen lips and sleepy eyes, and the look on his face softens just a little.

when he finally hangs up, he rushes back to your side, quickly pressing a kiss to your forehead. “i gotta run, but i'll text you as soon as i can. i promise.”

you smile sleepily up at him, already missing the warmth of his body against yours. “go. don’t get in trouble.”

he pauses briefly before leaving. “last night was… perfect. thank you.”

and then he’s gone, leaving you to curl back into your pillow, still feeling the ghost of his touch and the lingering warmth of everything you shared.

[sirfrogsworth]

Clinging to sanity

Summary of this post...

My brain is broken. My A/C is broken. My phone is broken. My computer is broken. My support system is broken. My financial stability is broken. My family is broken.

And the big finale...

Please give Froggie a Yelp review to repair his relationship with his estranged uncles.

Seriously, I need a whole bunch of you to say nice things about me in a convoluted plan to get back the money my brother stole from my dying father.

If you don't feel like reading all of my broken stuff and just want to read about giving me a good review as a person, you can skip to the bullet point list at the end.

Alright, here we go...

I sometimes get in these states where I feel like my sanity is compromised. My mental defenses are minimal and I lose the filter on my brain that tells me "this is a good idea" or "this is a bad idea."

This causes me to say embarrassing things. I overshare with strangers. I keep myself from falling asleep because I have some amazing idea. But when I wake up in the morning I can't believe I lost all of that sleep for such a ridiculous idea. I write weird posts that no one likes. Or I post about controversial subjects like A.I. and trans people and RFK Jr. that I *know* will result in contentious feedback.

And my insane brain says, "You can handle it! Besides, you are so factually correct about this, no one will dare question your meticulous research. IT'S ALL GOOD! SEND IT, YOLO!"

I have a rule. If I am not emotionally or mentally prepared to defend my point of view on a controversial subject, I should wait until I am ready to publish.

Insane Froggie Brain ignores this rule.

After I "send it" and the negative feedback starts to flow in (even though I was assured by my brain it wouldn't), I become afraid to look at messages and replies and reblogs. And a lot of times I need that sense of community. I need to talk to my cool little community so I don't feel lonely. But Insane Froggie Brain cuts me off from that. I give myself all of this anxiety that could have been avoided by just posting another time.

And because I have no emotional defenses, that anxiety is amplified. Mean comments hurt much more. I obsess over them and my OCD causes thought feedback loops where I cannot get something out of my brain. I once couldn't sleep for a weekend because someone said I was wrong about how light reflects off the moon. They were right and I was also right but they said I was "misleading." And that just lived in my brain for days. I kept trying to think of new ways to better explain my point of view. I used up energy I didn't really have to take pictures of a baseball in a dark closet.

It was silly. It didn't matter. It was just a small disagreement. But OCD doesn't do small. OCD makes everything BIG.

What I'm trying to say is...

People need their emotional defenses.

People need their filters.

It's weird because I still have full access to my logical brain. So sane thoughts get all mixed in with the less sane ones. Sometimes I am self aware and can shut down the less sane ideas. Other times I am oblivious. And I *hate* losing control of my brain in any way. It's one of the reasons I've never touched alcohol. Which is why I get very disturbed when this happens.

I remember one time I was positive I was going to move to Florida and start a pet photography business. I had an entire business plan worked out where I trained people how to take the photos so the business could run itself if I got sick. I made an entire PowerPoint presentation to show Katrina so she would be my business partner. I was looking up rent prices for office space. I was making equipment lists for camera gear. She was going on a trip so she told me I could talk to her about it when she returned. And I am so lucky she wasn't available at the time.

Maybe if I had a normal person's energy, I could make something like that work. But once I returned to sanity, I realized it was orders of magnitude more complicated than anything I was actually capable of doing. I am still planning to do pet photography, but I have to come up with a more reasonable plan that does not involve Insane Froggie Brain.

I think it is just my ambitious mind trying to escape. Chronic illness is often heartbreaking because you have to temper all of your ambitions. And it is especially devastating when you are a very ambitious person, as I am.

I want to have all of these big ideas. But I have to filter them through reality. And when that filter is broken, I just unleash big ideas on all my friends. I once even held an official video chat meeting and we took notes and made plans. And I feel so guilty I wasted 4 people's time like that. None of those ideas happened. They had no chance of happening with my energy levels. But my friends and collaborators still did the meeting and nodded along like everything was fine. I appreciate them humoring me.

I also overshare. I overshare normally, but when I get like this I OVER SHARE. You are probably going to witness it in this very post. But I tell everyone everything about what is going on. I tell strangers. I tell a dog walking by.

"Hey doggie, my testosterone is returning and I'm struggling with having a libido again. I know most people would not complain, but it is very disruptive to my day! I have other things I want to do!"

Right now I am just not confident in anything I think or do. I wrote a post about social constructs yesterday. That literally took me all day to write. I was endlessly tweaking it and I thought it was going to be viral and helpful and win the trans debate for everyone.

It currently has 49 notes.

I'm afraid I did not fix trans rights.

Sorry about that.

And my rant about Christopher Nolan using IMAX is doing pretty well. I nerded out about film grain for like 2 paragraphs and it is getting way more notes than a philosophical perspective on constructs.

I just have no idea what people are going to like and I used to be pretty good at judging that. It's like I'm throwing spaghetti at the wall to see what sticks but instead of a wall I'm throwing it into the void. The spaghetti just disappears into infinite darkness.

I'm clearly still recovering from the big house clean with Katrina. And I am more tired than normal. But I am also very stressed about losing the house. I'm trying to figure it out, but I may only have until the end of June before I have to make some scary decisions.

And also, my air conditioner is not working. It has a leaky evaporator. Last year, I had it recharged and that lasted the entire summer. If the leak is leaking at the same rate, I could just do that again. It would be expensive, but replacing the evaporator is so costly, I'd be better off getting a heat pump installed. I'm a good candidate, it could save me money in the long run, but I am nowhere near in a position to make that happen.

Also, my phone is falling apart.

Literally. The only thing keeping it together is the phone case.

And this laptop, which I love, was not meant to be my main computer. I bought it when my dad was sick and I needed something upstairs to manage his prescriptions and bills and appointments. It wasn't meant to be an image editing machine. And, to their credit, Apple has made a crazy powerful little computer. I admit it, I love an Apple product. It can handle way more than expected. But my photo restorations can sometimes end up with 5 gigabyte files. I can't even save them as PSDs. I have to use this weird "PSB" format. It stands for "Photoshop Big." When I fill up the RAM, my computer uses the main SSD. And when I fill that up, I think I can hear the laptop crying and saying, "I wasn't meant for this! Please use fewer layers!"

But I need to finish restoring these photos because I have delayed their completion by about 5 months (got sick before I could finish). And also because I need to pay for the A/C recharge.

You might be thinking, "Didn't you fundraise to get the big fancy powerful computer of your dreams a few years ago? Why don't you use that?"

My big fancy computer has been broken almost since I got it.

It was right before my mom got really sick and there is a major hardware problem. I worked with tech support for over a month and we could not figure out what the issue was. The computer is mostly unusable. Like, "can't even web browse" unusable.

It honestly has caused me so much depression. Like deep, deep, crying-myself-to-sleep-for-weeks depression. I still cry about it. I know it is just a thing, but I am genuinely heartbroken about it.

Why haven't I fixed it? I'm a good computer fixer, right?

Once I had to take care of my parents, I just did not have any extra energy to deal with it. After a month of back-and-forth emails from the manufacturer, I finally told them, "I'm sorry, my parents are sick. I will email you when I have the energy to revisit this."

If you know my story and how I took care of my parents all alone because I have a neglectful brother, then you can probably guess that energy never came.

I am good at tech support. I have been an expert in computers since I was a teenager. I have taken apart and built computers more times than I can count. I have never had a problem this frustrating before. It works fine for a few hours, and then it just progressively slows down to being unusable. I narrowed the issue to either the SSD, the CPU, or the motherboard. All things that are not easy to replace. (The SSD is behind the damn GPU.)

In the 30s, the Royal Air Force used to have issues with their planes that baffled them. This is where the term "gremlin" came from. No matter what they did, no matter how many parts they replaced, they could not get the "gremlin" out of the plane. These were professional mechanics who just could not fix something and it drove them nuts.

I have a computer gremlin. I've never experienced anything like it in all of my years of fixing computers. I was working with professional tech support people. I was on reddit forums. And the only thing left to do was start swapping out parts. I'd work on it maybe an hour each day with whatever energy I had and it eventually was too much. I just could not deal with it. They told me to send it back, but I could not take care of my parents without any access to a computer. So I just rebooted it every time I used it.

At that point, my parents were requiring 24/7 care and I was so overwhelmed that I said, "fuck it" and ordered this laptop. I figured I'd fix the computer when I had time or energy. But that time and energy never came. And I certainly didn't have the energy to haul a 60 pound computer upstairs, box it up, and then take it to UPS. So I just kept putting it off and putting it off.

And I let the warranty expire.

When I realized I did that, I cried myself to sleep for another few weeks. This material object has caused me legitimate emotional trauma.

Any part replacements are now on me. And there isn't really any way of knowing which part is faulty. I figured I'd buy a cheap SSD and start there.

I feel so fucking guilty because people donated money for me to have that machine. I feel like I let them all down by not getting it fixed. When I finish my recovery, I'm hoping I can sort it out. But that could be many months from now.

Recovery has been such a dark, lonely place. Trying to restore my health a millimeter at a time is a grueling marathon of misery. I have been struggling to keep Insane Froggie Brain at bay this entire time.

I felt like I was stuck in a hole.

And like a superhero with the power of friendship and puns, Katrina pulled me out of the giant hole I was in. My house turned into a biohazard. She flew from Florida to essentially clean and organize everything. How do you even begin to thank someone for that?

But also, she shouldn't have had to do that. I have a perfectly functional brother. But he hasn't spoken to me for nearly a year now.

I have other family in town. But I missed so many family gatherings over the years, they don't really know me. None of them have called. I'd have to rebuild those relationships if I want them to be a part of my life again.

And I haven't talked about this yet because it has been too painful.

But... my support system fell apart.

My aunt had to move away to take care of her father-in-law. A year before my mom passed she took care of my grandma as her end-of-life caregiver. And people should only have to do that once. But she has to do it again, and unfortunately, we haven't been able to speak much.

We were very good at keeping in touch in real life. But she is of an older generation and has trouble maintaining relationships on a smartphone. I mean, I get it. Some people are just better at meatspace than cyberspace. That was actually one of the things I liked about our bond. Almost all of my friendships are online. Having someone who liked to visit me and talk to me in person was special.

But, for the time being, I lost that. And it feels a bit like temporarily losing another parent.

I am struggling to even start writing the words for this next part.

I had two best friends. Katrina and I are great. Our friendship is probably better than it has ever been.

But my other best friend of nearly 15 years ghosted me without explanation.

I haven't talked about it because it has been too hard. Any time I try to think about it I get upset. My eyes are filling up with tears as I type this.

I have been pretending like it isn't happening.

Which is not working great.

I've been trying to hire a therapist.

They all have months-long waiting lists.

My friend just stopped talking to me and I don't know why.

They went from driving across the country and holding my hand at my dad's funeral to just not being a part of my life.

I'm so scared I said something terrible or did something terrible. I keep going through all of my memories trying to figure out what I could have done. But we had the kind of friendship where we'd talk about that stuff. If I screw up, they would tell me. We'd work it out.

This person who was in my life nearly every week for over a decade is just not there anymore. I keep losing people and I can't make it stop. And I am really worried that I am leaning on Katrina too much. She went from being part of a multifaceted support system to my entire support system. That isn't fair to her.

She has been very understanding. And she knows I am going to rebuild a support system as soon as I am able. But I don't want to overwhelm her and lose her too.

Weaning off this medication and living with no testosterone has been so miserable and she has been the only one helping me through it.

I'm doing so well with my recovery. I think I can be off the meds in 3 months and hopefully my testosterone will be fully back in range. I'm already more productive than I have been in nearly 8 months.

But I have 1 month of financial runway left and I am not going to get well enough before then.

Everything happens all at once. Every single time. And usually terrible things happen in my life at the same time terrible things happen in Katrina's life. She had terrible mold that destroyed her health for months. Thankfully it did not turn her transphobic, but it sure fucked her health for a while. She made all of this progress getting fit and healthy and BAM, the universe says, "You are doing too well, you need a challenge!"

So, what is my plan?

I am a problem solver and I have some doozies to solve.

Right now I am going to appeal to the family patriarchs on my dad's side. On his literal deathbed, my dad asked his brothers to "take care of me" and I am going to attempt to call in that favor.

I am going to ask them to talk to my brother and hopefully mediate a solution regarding the stolen inheritance. I want them to convince my brother to do the right thing and return the money he took from my dad.

Sorry, the money he "legally inherited" due to his wife "reinterpreting my dad's wishes" in the will.

Before you ask, I have no options to fight this in court. A verbal promise is not enough to overturn a written will. And the cost of fighting would be more than the inheritance. Please don't suggest any legal advice. I've talked to good lawyers. And unless I want to sue for emotional distress, there aren't any legal options available.

The best option is to appeal to my brother personally and ask him to keep his promise to my dad.

The only reason I am in this mess is because my brother repeatedly promised to give me the money. He said he didn't want it on multiple occasions. So all of my plans involved the expectation of this money. I was going to fix up the basement apartment and seek a roommate.

But it took over a year to just get it out of probate. A year I could have used to come up with other solutions. But he waited until the last minute and made his lawyer tell me he was screwing me.

I'm sure my brother will argue my dad knew what he was signing. But I know that is impossible. Before my dad passed, we were in the hospital and I saw the will for the first time. I asked him if it reflected his wishes. And I asked him if he meant to include my brother's wife in the will.

His response was, "Are you fucking kidding me???"

Readers, does that sound like a man that knew what was in his will?

Dad was so upset that he was about to have them cut off his leg just so he could live a few more weeks and fix the will.

You have to give my dad credit, he goes pretty hardcore when it comes to protecting his family.

I couldn't let him go through an amputation to protect me from my brother's shenanigans.

But I am pretty screwed now.

That said, my uncles are pretty hardcore too. One is *very* intimidating. So I feel like my uncles talking to my brother might carry some weight.

But I have one problem...

I mean, aside from the myriad problems already described.

How about... I have one additional problem...

My uncles don't like me very much.

They think I am a basement-dwelling loser who is faking his illness and was taking advantage of his parents for two decades.

One uncle even accused me of stealing from my dad.

They are protective of their brother. They loved my dad. Which is a good thing! As long as I can convince them that their assumptions about me are invalid, I think their love for my dad will compel them to help me.

They just don't have the context. They don't know me. They live in far-off lands. And due to some unfortunate timing, one uncle saw me at one of the lowest points of my life. This was maybe 8 years ago? He didn't realize I was thrown into the deep end and very recently took on the role as full-time caregiver for two very sick people.

My awful strategy at the time was "if I don't take care of myself, I'll have more energy to take care of my parents." If you are a caregiver, this is a bad strategy. It seems obvious you have to do some self care to give care to others, but when you are just starting out, that seems impossible.

My uncle showed up unannounced and I wasn't showered, I hadn't brushed my teeth in a week, and my room had a fun layer of trash on the floor. The trash can was overflowing and I literally did not have the spare energy to change the bag.

To make matters worse, my mom's medications and constant pain had broken the filter in her brain that prevents her from saying mean things. She was on this crazy chemo-like infusion that was basically using poison to fight her psoriatic arthritis. Her aggressive, blunt remarks were not her fault. That wasn't who she was. But she could not stop herself from saying hurtful things.

The kindest woman alive was suddenly Don Rickles without the "just kidding" subtext. And my uncle didn't know this and I got into an argument with my mom.

I probably looked like a pampered brat loser who just lies in bed and plays video games all day while arguing with his saint of a mother.

I don't blame him. Without context, that's exactly what it looked like.

So I am writing my uncles a letter.

It is essentially a memoir of the caregiving I gave to my parents. I hope to publish it publicly at some point, but right now it is just a letter to them. If it were a typical hardcover book, it would be about 70 pages long.

I am telling them everything.

If nothing else, I just need them to know my dad's story. I need them to know he was well taken care of. That I did everything humanly possible to make his last year as comfortable as I could. I need them to know he was *never* alone.

Sadly, because they probably think I am an unreliable narrator, I am my own worst witness. So I am asking 3 people in my current support system to write testimony to verify everything in my memoir is accurate. I even have a doctor's note!

It is probably insane to put this much effort into convincing my uncles to like me. But I'm pretty sure Sane Froggie Brain is behind the wheel of this endeavor. Sometimes the craziest, most desperate idea is the only option left.

Basically I am using my writing skills to try and save my Froggie butt.

I don't mean to be braggadocious, but people perusing my prose persistently pontificate that I am proficient at penning pleasing passages.

People say I write good sometimes.

And I think this memoir letter thingie is the best thing I've ever written. So I am hopeful I will deflate these dubious assumptions and tug on my uncles' heartstrings.

But there is something you all can do to help me.

A friend on tumblr is helping me edit this memoir monstrosity. And she gave me her testimonial to add to my 3 witnesses.

"I have been following The Frogman for well over a decade on his website. It was years before I learned his name was Benjamin! We all just call him Froggy. He was (and still is) one of the funniest internet guys out there. He is incredibly skilled at putting together humorous GIFs and photo sets, and his comedic writing is second to none. He regularly goes viral. Along with that, he was open and vulnerable about the toll CFS takes on him. I can attest to many folks over the years telling him that he has helped them as they dealt with their own health issues. He is so knowledgeable about so much--his posts are famous for being long, detailed, and wildly informative. And most of all, entertaining. They are a joy to read. We also followed along on his heartbreaking journey with his parents. He shared so much of them with us over the years that they felt like people we knew. It was so clear, from his long absences, how much he was doing for them. Our hearts broke when he told us his parents were no longer with us. Froggy has fans, and so did his parents. Otis, too. We love and support him and will always wish him the best."

It made me cry.

But it also felt like getting a Yelp review on... my entire deal.

And it gave me an idea.

What if I had a bunch of these as optional testimony for my uncles?

I'm not going to force them to read what a bunch of internet strangers have to say. But it could be a compelling way to prove my website antics were a serious attempt to build a livelihood for myself. My uncles were successful businessmen and respect a strong work ethic and trying to make your own way.

I was too early for monetization options like Patreon, TikTok, YouTube, and Twitch, but I ran a very successful comedy blog. If I had my 2013 success in the 2020s, I probably would've been able to retire and live off that for the rest of my life. I have several original GIFs that were downloaded tens of millions of times. Google said one of them was searched for over 100,000,000 times.

My blog was silly, but I took it seriously and I had sponsors and merch and an Otis plush.

They think what I did was like when you are at the family Christmas gathering and you ask your weird cousin what he's been up to and he says, "I run a blog about corgis from my parents' basement."

How do I relate the impact I had? They don't know what "Know Your Meme" is. They don't know what being on the front page of Reddit means. They don't know the amazing community I built. They don't know that I created one of the largest and most generous online support systems one could possibly have. I'm still alive and trying to make a life for myself because all of you continue to love and support me.

I was successful and I worked hard despite my disability.

I just had bad timing with the financial aspect of that success.

So, if you want to leave a Yelp review of The Frogman for my uncles, I'd appreciate it.

I came up with a list of things I need to prove to them. I'm just going to copy/paste the entire thing here. I'll strikethrough the ones you all probably can't speak to.

I am not a basement dwelling loser.

My website was more than a silly hobby.

I did not mooch off my parents for 20+ years.

I did not steal from my parents.

I am not the crazed, awkward mess [my uncle] witnessed.

I am disabled.

I cannot get a job.

I am a good person.

I am a likable person.

I was a good son.

I took good care of my parents.

My parents would not have been better off in a nursing home.

My parents would not have been better off moving closer to my brother.

My brother and his wife neglected and emotionally abused Mom & Dad.

My brother and his wife changed the will to benefit them against my mom & dad’s wishes.

My brother promised repeatedly the will was a mistake and I would receive the full amount.

I did not take care of my parents to “retain the house” or get money.

So, if you want to attempt to convince two elderly conservative Catholic men that my cat memes were lit, I would appreciate the help.

If you’ve been part of this community, and you’ve ever felt like I made you laugh, cry, or feel understood, a short 'review' of me as a person could mean the world.

Just remember your audience is...

Uncle #1: A stoic, but brilliant 80 year old who writes text messages like they are business emails. Complete with "Dear Ben" and "Regards, Your Uncle". He is still very sharp-minded and lucid. He thinks success is a high paying job, a house, and a family (my brother). He does not like weakness and consistently thought I should "be an adult and get a job." He is very loyal and respected my dad very much.

Uncle #2: A 60-something retired grandpa who thinks his constant dad jokes are genuinely funny. He is empathetic, but secretly judgmental. He will act like your best friend even if he doesn't care for you. He is an amazing grandpa. Very involved with his kids and their kids. He keeps every video of them getting a goal in sportsball on his phone. He will help you if you think you deserve to be helped. He is very close with Uncle #1.

So... kinda running the gamut there.

You can reblog this post or leave a reply or send a private message or email me at frogman54@gmail.com

I will be anonymizing your names for obvious reasons.

I fear my uncles might not understand why Tumblr user "PokemonAssBlaster69" is saying nice things about me.

Explaining "The Frogman" is hard enough.

Anyway, thank you in advance.

[vigilantekisser]

dex vs. the emoji industrial complex

masterlist | ao3 mirror

summary: dex has zero social media literacy and doesn't know wtf you're talking about. (1.1k, gn reader, crack, fluff, office friendship, dirty joke, minions, dex tries to understand what memes are; honestly idk why this was so long i just want to have more of dex ig)

It’s just a stupid meme, so you don’t think much of it when you send it to Dex—a low quality, atrociously Photoshopped picture of a puppy with its brain getting poked with an injection, Ritalin pills and a 5G tower in the background: 

     theyre doing this to me at work tomorrow btw [Sent 9:06 AM]

Dex doesn’t reply, not even with his usual stilted “Thanks”.

You’re fine with that, totally; you already know Dex is, well, himself—man of few words and composure and too-sharp jawline… So. You assume he’s just ignoring you as usual, which makes you a little bit pleased knowing you’ve probably stupefied your poor coworker into bewilderment once again.

What you don’t know is that you’re exactly right. Twenty feet away, in a sterile cubicle surrounded by discarded tactical gear and stacks of paperwork, Dex is staring at his screen like it personally offended him.

Dex blinks once, finally, slow like a cat watching a ceiling fan.

“…The fuck.”

 The badly edited puppy has a syringe full of mercury pointed into its brain and someone’s holding an orange bottle of ADHD pills behind it. He rereads the sentence, just in case it holds a secret meaning. 

     theyre doing this to me at work tomorrow btw

He leans back in his chair like a man confronting the unknowable void.

“Is this funny?” he mutters. “Do I say something?”

He opens Google.

     “dog on ADHD medication??”

No luck. It sends him to some Instagram pages with dogs he doesn’t care about, and he closes the tab after seeing a bunch of drama on the PetMD forum. Symbolism perhaps? Puppy = you; mercury = brain damage; the cell tower = some kind of conspiracy… at work… the Bureau...? 

Oh fuck it. He gives up.

     Are you ok?      [Sent 10:40 AM]

Aha, so the man responds. You send back four emojis: 💻💀😭🙏

A few minutes later, your phone pings.

     I hope they don’t inject anything into your head.      [Sent 10:45 AM]

You snort, trying to stifle your snicker. You can hear this guy’s voice in your head. thank u king that’s so thoughtful, you send back.

By lunchtime Dex is three articles deep into “Millennial vs Gen Z Humor: A Brief History of Nihilistic Absurdism.” He doesn’t mean to care, really. You’ve probably forgotten about it entirely but he hasn’t. He’s finally gotten the point of the picture you sent, to his satisfaction, but why is the skull emoticon thing everywhere now? 

     skull emoji meaning      Result: “Used to express laughing so hard you’re dead.”

He shakes his head. That doesn’t make any fucking sense.

The next day, you wake up to multiple messages from Dex.

     Thank you for your dog Meme, it’s very funny.      Work is like that sometimes.      Haha      ☠️      [sent 5:10 AM]

You stare at the screen for a long time.

     ☠️

Actually, you think your hands are shaking now. You message back:

     wtf u know how to use emojis????????????

He replies immediately:

     Yes.      I think

Then:

     🔥

Why is there fire now. What does the fire mean. Is he okay. Your face’s gone hot and you screenshot it for maybe nothing in particular but, well, to look back at later on and laugh harder.

It’s Friday, which is a vacation enough in itself but unfortunately that still means you should be working and processing the latest field report Mockta dropped on your desk. But instead, you’re doing something far more dangerous. You’re messing with Dex again. You send him a photo of someone furiously petting a cat’s head.

     Me rubbing the workweek’s pussy so it finishes faster      [Sent 9:48 AM]

Dex is drinking his coffee—straight black, very sad—when he sees the notification. He reads your caption and almost spits into his sleeve.

What did you just send him.

He stares and reads it again.

“Me rubbing the workweek’s… Oh God…” He trails off, rubbing his brow in anguish. He lowers the phone slowly, looking around the bullpen, the hallway, the exit. Then he turns to his laptop and opens Google. God help him.

     pussy rubbing work week 

He hits Enter and immediately regrets it. A new tab opens. A very not-safe-for-work one accessed through the Bureau Wi-Fi. There’s moaning and a lot of exposed skin. One of the women is holding a calendar. He slams his laptop shut so hard the desk rattles, mind racing.

He didn’t read about this shit in any of the articles he read last Tuesday! Staring into the abyss of his screen, Dex messages back:

     ?

     omg dex it’s a joke      i hopeyou did NOT google that      are u okay

There’s a long pause, an eternity really. You sip your coffee, wipe at your eyes. Then, finally:

     Understood.      Thanks for the explanation     I did but i won’t Google anything ever again.      [Sent 10:21 AM]

The mental image of him in a mortified fugue state, recoiling from his screen, is almost too much—but you manage to swallow your laughter as Ray walks past your desk, shooting you a wary look.

The rest of the day is uneventful. You manage to make a small dent in the field reports. Dex doesn’t message you again and you assume you’ve broken him with the dirty joke, which—honestly—fair.

You don’t see him again until you're heading out, bag slung over your shoulder, keys jangling in your hand. You pass Dex’s desk, and he stands up so fast he almost collides with the corner of his desk. 

“Hey,” he says, voice weirdly formal. He wrings his hands. “Uh. Wait a second.”

You stop. “Yeah?”

He hesitates, squinting as he unlocks his phone, and silently holds it out to you. You blink down at the screen.

It’s a Minion. A fucking Minion. The image is so low-res you can count the pixels, jpeg artifacting all over. The Minion’s mid-stride, throwing up a peace sign. The text reads:

     BestfriEND      BoyfriEND      GirlfriEND      Food      Only Food has no END.

There’s a watermark in the corner that says something like “Susan's Recipe Shack,” straight from the Facebook feed of someone’s divorced aunt. It takes you a second to process what’s happening. And then you wheeze, laughing so violently your knees buckle a little. Two people from Cybercrimes glance up. You wave them away, tears in your eyes.

“Oh my God,” you gasp, clutching your chest. “Dex. Dex.”

He’s standing stiffly, eyes flicking nervously around the room, like he didn’t expect you to react. His phone wavers in his hand. “You don’t have to laugh that hard,” he mutters, starting to pull it back.

“No, no—don’t you dare delete that,” you grab his wrist, still breathless. “You made this? Where did you find it?”

He blinks. “Facebook.”

“Christ almighty, you’re going deeper.”

He swallows, ears red and flexing his hands. “You seem to like them.”

You giggle again and this time somebody mutters something about needing to go home. You don’t care. Dex is still standing there like he’s not sure if he should run away, but a smile’s starting to tug at his mouth too.

“Keep going,” you say, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. “I want more tomorrow.”

“…Alright,” he nods. He’s serious but the blush’s absolutely radiating off his face. “I’ll look for more Minions.”

a/n: this is what i was talking about btw

[masamasan]

[Brand New Hero | Mark x You]

Summary: As the newest PR intern at the GDA, you’re at the absolute bottom of the food chain. Until you meet him: a clumsy, god-awfully dressed rookie hero with no name, no fame, and no idea what he’s doing.

Your master plan: make him the greatest superhero this world has ever seen.

You’re a teenager. He’s a teenager. Throw in a wild cocktail of hormones, a couple of near-death experiences, and some crippling anxiety. What could possibly go wrong?

Contains: Alternate Universe | Female Reader | Slow Burn | Friends to Lovers

"Describe yourself."

Ah, yes — the most dreaded of questions, probably the most awkward ice breaker there is. Worst thing is that it tells you absolutely nothing about anyone.

It usually goes one of two ways:

You either tell them the most generic, Jane or John Doe kind of response as humanly possible (‘I like music, hanging out with friends, and going to the gym’) or go the special snowflake route and tell them a meaningless, obscure fact about yourself (‘I like this really niche, indie boy band from Iceland that nobody knows except for me’).

Either way, it’s fake, mildly disturbing, and something you’d rather like to skip.

But how would you describe yourself?

You freshly turned eighteen, were an early high school graduate, and had a full-ride scholarship to the University of Virgina. So you weren't completely stupid, no. But you weren't one of those brain-melting Einsteins nor one of those hard-working underdog model students either.

The most special thing about you was not you, but your family: Your parents were both prodigies in their respective fields and got recruited to work for the government right after college graduation.

When you were younger, you thought they were spies, like the ones in that movie with Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt. They'd zoom around in their bullet-proof Jeeps, only strut out of the house in their perfectly-ironed black suits, and would feed your classmates the lamest lies about working boring office jobs. When you discovered in fourth grade that they were, in fact, not secret agents, you were mildly devastated, to put it lightly.

In short: You were a nepo baby and had rich parents that sent you to an excessively expensive, really snobby private school that made it ridiculously easy to get into any college you wanted.

What else? You were kind of a (massive, enormous, colossal) people pleaser, and thought the only thing defining your self-worth was if others liked you. Everything you did was done perfectly, and you would rather swallow a thousand needles than let others think you were incompetent in any way. That left you stuck being everyone's go-to person whenever they needed a group project partner — only to end up doing the entire thing by yourself while they could lean back and watch.

You blamed your parents for that cursed trait, because they had such ridiculously high expectations for their only child that you couldn't allow yourself to disappoint them even microscopically. They wanted you to be their perfect mini-clone, destined to follow in their footsteps and become another successful government drone. And then when you found yourself a guy who would fulfill their impossible standards (probably an astronaut, doctor, and lawyer all in one), you'd create a perfect copy of them in the future again, so their legacy could live on forever and ever. Hooray.

That's how you ended up here, as an intern for the Global Defensive Agency inside the Pentagon in Arlington, Virginia. Your parents had convinced the director to let you prove yourself, helping you to take your first step into your government career.

“It's going to be hard in the beginning," your dad had said. "If you don't do your tasks well, they will sort you out and you will never get that opportunity again."

Those words stuck with you throughout the first weeks of your internship, when you would run around to get everyone their correct order of coffee, copy and staple their paperwork or reply to angry emails from citizens whose houses got destroyed in the recent Omni-Man vs Lizard Group fight.

Work was hard, especially when you had to juggle that on top of your Political Economy online classes, but somehow you managed. The nightmarish image of your parents' disappointed faces combined with a truly concerning amount of your self-brewed espresso and Red Bull concoction (patent pending) kept you going, alright.

And you did well. You were an amazing errand runner, if you said so yourself. You never spilled a drop of coffee, never stapled the wrong documents, and never lost your cool when citizens called you insults in their angry emails. The best intern ever. That's what you were. Gold star for you.

So when your mother, a scientist, who worked closely with the director of the GDA, had helped you get a promotion, you weren't so sure if you were happy with it. You were great as a coffee girl, so why risk it and start from the bottom again? Hell, maybe you could be a coffee girl manager one day if you kept it up!

"You will never be the best, if you don't even try," your mother had said. “And what’s the point if you’re not the best?”

There wasn’t much you could say to argue — especially when she hit you with one of those ‘if looks could kill’ glares that made you rethink your entire life choice of opening your mouth. So you agreed, like the perfect grateful daughter you were.

Your new role in the PR department was to help raise Teen Team's public image. It sounded a lot more exciting than it actually was. Most days, it meant crafting excuses when they accidentally leveled a neighborhood during a fight, or scrambling to spin damage control after another politically incorrect comment in an interview.

And now you stood in front of young superheroes you were supposed to work with, a group of mismatched teens that had been under GDA's care for some time now. Five pairs of eyes were glued to your awkwardly stiff black suit-clad body, a clipboard with nothing written on it pressed against your chest as they expectantly waited for an introduction.

So… with your mediocre background story in mind, how did you describe yourself?

The most accurate would be: A privileged doormat with an unhealthy caffeine addiction.

But of course you would never say that.

"I like listening to music," you stammered, after giving them your name. "And meeting friends in my spare time," you quickly added.

You went the Jane Doe route, to play it safe. Not cool, but there was nothing cool about you anyway. You also forgot the gym part, but it was too late now.

Instead of introducing themselves back to you, they shrugged your uncomfortable attempt at socializing off. The redhead sent you a crooked smile out of pity. That was nice. Kinda.

"Well, you guys can go back to training," Donald said, clearing his throat, when the silence got too thick. “I think you did a great job."

The older man patted you awkwardly on your shoulder, and you grimaced at yourself as soon as the heroes turned their backs on you. You couldn't think of a better way to completely wreck your reputation on the first day with the people you were supposed to work for... at least it went better than that time when you met Cecil for the first time. That memory had been safely locked away in the 'never ever think about again, not even under torture' part of your brain.

"Don't worry," Donald quickly added, when he saw your panicked face. "It was hard for me, too, in the beginning. But you'll get the hang of it."

You nodded and suppressed the urge to cry tears of pure, undiluted mortification. Donald was probably the only person here who actually treated you like a human being, and not like a coffee-bringing, document-stapling, hate-mail-responding cyborg with a government-approved stamp on its forehead. You were pretty sure it was because you reminded him of himself — another professional doormat for the higher-ups to wipe their feet on.

He was the director's right-hand man... and left-hand man too. If there was anything Cecil didn't want to do, Donald would be stuck doing it. That's how he became your mentor of sorts — Cecil had waved you off like an annoying mosquito and declared he didn't have time for insignificant interns like you, so Donald got forcibly drafted into babysitting duty.

You involuntarily saw yourself in Donald, too, a haunting glimpse of what your future might hold. Your gaze wandered from his aggressively receding hairline to his strangely bland face. Is that how you would end up? Senior assistant manager or whatever Donald's actual title was? You just hoped you would end up with more stylish glasses than his tragic grey frames.

When you were asked to return to your desk and help with other tasks, your mind wandered off again. A life solely dedicated to chasing the approval of others, to being at the bottom of the food chain, to accepting even microscopic scraps of attention as long as you would get noticed... was that really how your life was going to be? Become the human equivalent of a participation certificate?

*

When you were younger, your parents moved around a lot. Government duties and all that. You’d been to San Fransisco, St. Louis, Milwaukee, and a bunch of other big cities you barely remembered. The last time you were in Chicago was when you were five. You think it was when your mom was send there for two months to work on a “super secret mission”. Now you were back in the Windy City as an official GDA intern, which sounded way more impressive than it actually was.

Donald had asked you to deliver "extremely important documents" the director needed urgently. They were supposedly so top secret that they couldn't be sent electronically or by mail and had to be hand-delivered. You were convinced Donald just really pitied seeing you sitting at your desk all day and invented a task to give you something vaguely resembling purpose.

When you arrived at the glass-and-steel monstrosity in downtown Chicago, you endured a security process worse than the TSA: two body scans, multiple ID checks, and an interview that felt more like an interrogation — all so they could dramatically hand you... wait for it... two pages in a manila envelope.

"Close the door when you leave," the secretary droned without looking up from her phone, gnawing on her pen like it was a salami stick.

You nodded and smiled reflexively (your default response), then slipped out and eased the door shut with the careful precision of someone defusing a bomb. Looking down at the thin envelope in your hands, reality sank in. Did you really just take a flight in the middle of the night, went through all this alien like probing, just to be send away after five minutes? You sighed.

The hallway stretched out, empty — pretty sure you just saw a tumbleweed roll by. Security had been tight as a vice at the entrance, but once inside, the guards were seemingly on permanent coffee break. That's when you spotted it: a sign pointing to roof access. If anyone had been around, they might’ve seen the light bulb pop up over your head. If the government was going to waste your time, you might as well make it worthwhile with a nice view of Chicago before heading back.

You glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then slipped through the stairwell door and headed up.

The rooftop greeted you with a gust of wind that nearly snatched the precious two pages from your grasp. Clutching the envelope to your chest, you settled at a respectable distance from the edge. Safety first, exciting views second — you didn’t want to end up in the headlines as the first GDA intern that fell to her death while on duty, after all.

Chicago sprawled before you: all concrete, glass, and ant-sized humans going about their business. It was... fine, you thought. Nice, even. But not exactly the life-altering moment movies had promised. No epiphany, no sudden clarity about your life's purpose, just... buildings. Taller than the ones in Virginia, maybe, but still just… buildings.

Then, just as you were about to shrug and accept your boring fate, a flash of neon caught your eye. You froze mid-turn, eyes squinting.

About three blocks away, someone in a blinding mix of yellow, orange, and turquoise was flailing wildly at what looked like a living chunk of concrete. It was a fight — probably. At least, that’s what it was trying to be.

The hero, assuming that’s what you thought he was (villains usually had better fashion sense), launched himself at Concrete Man. Judging by how he pinballed off the alley walls just trying to reach his target, he was definitely new. Probably not even a properly trained hero.

Vigilantes and hobby heroes weren’t exactly rare these days. More and more people were waking up with powers, and plenty didn’t hesitate to use them, for better or worse. Technically, you were supposed to report your powers to the GDA and get registered before doing anything flashy. But good luck enforcing that on everyone.

Concrete Man responded by seizing the hero by his costume and hurling him sideways into the brick wall of an apartment building. The hero peeled himself off the wall, wobbling visibly even from your distant perch. But instead of retreating, he managed to launch himself forward again and crash directly into his opponent.

The impact sent both combatants tumbling violently against the walls of the alleyway, breaking off a fire escape in the process, and then finally into the street, where they managed to flip over a parked car.

The final crash sent both fighters sprawling. Concrete Man hit the ground hard, chunks of his rocky armor crumbling away to reveal dark skin and the surprisingly ordinary face of a man beneath the rubble. The hero was the first to get up. He didn’t look shaken, just winded, as he stared down at his fallen opponent.

He’d won. Somehow, against all odds and coordination, the rookie had actually taken down the villain.

You stood frozen, documents forgotten in your hand. You’d seen plenty of hero footage during your GDA internship: clean, polished takedowns by legends like Omni-Man or the Immortal. This wasn’t that. This was raw. Messy. Kind of pathetic.

And yet… You were leaning forward now, hands gripping the edge of the parapet, heart ticking faster than you cared to admit. This was probably the closest you'd ever come to being starstruck — and all because you’d just watched a clumsy rookie take down a giant pebble.

Blue and red flickered at the edge of your vision — sirens, no doubt — and the moment the hero noticed them, he bolted. He shot into the air, but clipped the side of a building, and spun wildly mid-air.

You watched, amused… until something about the trajectory felt off.

He was getting bigger.

No, closer.

Wait.

Your mind was still playing catch-up, trying to connect the dots, when your body finally decided to panic. You stumbled back, clutching your very important GDA documents like your life depended on them.

A blur of orange filled your vision, followed by a heavy thud, and the next thing you knew, you were flat on your back, staring at the sky, with the wind knocked clean out of you.

You blinked, disoriented. The thin GDA envelope was still clutched against your chest, safe and sound, so you sat up, heart thudding. No concussion, no major injuries. You were fine.

Your gaze shifted to the sprawled figure in orange, yellow, and turquoise lying a few feet away.

For a split second, your body locked up. The guy who just punched a literal walking, talking concrete wall was lying just an arm's length away from you — a mere (below average fit) human. The last time you physically hurt someone was when you accidentally slapped Donald on the forehead, trying to swat a fly. You were, without question, the last person on Earth who stood a chance against someone with superhuman strength.

Your fight-or-flight instinct kicked in, and you scrambled to bolt for the door. But just as your foot lifted, he groaned and sat up, hand cradling his head.

Your heart was slamming violently against your ribs. Every instinct screamed run, but you couldn’t take your eyes off him.

Up close, the outfit was even worse: faded orange rain boots, baggy turquoise joggers with at least two visible holes, and a tight orange top that definitely had seen better days. A yellow cloth masked the lower half of his face. Through his cracked pair of goggles, a sharp brown eye peered out.

You hadn’t realized you were full-on staring until he met your gaze. Instantly, your breath caught.

Your muscles froze. Not out of awe, but out of pure, feral fear.

Sure, he seemed like a hero. But these days, who knew? Powers didn’t come with moral compasses. What if he was one of those loose-cannon vigilantes who didn’t like witnesses?

Was this how it ended? Smacked off a rooftop just because you were nosy?

For a moment that felt like eternity, you both stared at each other, silence stretching until it got too uncomfortable.

“Are you—” your voice came out lower than you expected, so you tried again, louder. “Are you gonna kill me?”

The words tumbled out before you could stop them. Your eyes dropped immediately, refusing to meet his.

A dozen grim scenarios flashed through your mind, one worse than the next, until they all blurred into static. Silence stretched.

“Huh?” the guy said, blinking. His voice was higher than you’d expected. “Wait — what? No! I — God, no. I was just… trying to help.”

You risked a glance up. He was standing now — and, wow, he was taller than you expected. Yeah, you definitely stood no chance at all against him.

He took a cautious step forward.

You mirrored it backward, stiff as a board.

He froze, then quickly raised both hands like he was trying to show you he meant no harm. “Sorry! Sorry, I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

His gaze flickered sideways, seeming nervous all of a sudden.

“I was just chasing this bad guy and then… uh—“ He scratched the back of his neck, shifting his weight. “I kinda lost control.”

A beat passed.

“Also, sorry about… you know.” He gestured vaguely at the rooftop. “Crashing into you.”

You gave him another cautious once-over. His posture was stiff, his eyes wide and unsure — it almost reminded you of a puppy meeting someone new for the first time. He definitely didn’t look dangerous. If anything, he seemed more scared of you than the other way around. Your shoulders dropped a little. It wasn’t safe, not exactly, but not an immediate threat either.

You offered him a tight-lipped smile.

“It was amazing!” you blurted before your brain could stop your mouth. Your face flushed. “I mean the fight against the stone guy. Not the part where you knocked me out.”

“Oh. Uh… thanks?” he said, blinking like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “I’m still figuring things out. Kind of winging it, honestly.”

Then, the two of you were both staring — holding the awkward prolonged eye contact like neither of you had any idea how social interactions were supposed to work. Still, there was something about him. He didn’t just survive a fight with a living concrete slab — he won. And he was a complete nobody.

And yet…

Was this what talent scouts felt at high school basketball games? That strange gut-deep certainty? The kid had no training, no coordination, almost non existent flying skills… and yet you could see it. Potential. Raw, stupid, unpolished potential.

Your breath caught.

And suddenly, like lightning hitting the ground, you got an idea. A brilliant idea. This was it. This was your ticket out. He was going to change your fate!

“What’s your name?” you asked, taking a step closer.

“Ma—” He stopped, caught himself, and scratched the back of his head. “Uh. I mean. Haven’t really settled on one yet.”

“We’ll figure that out,” you muttered, mostly to yourself, and closed the distance between you. “Have you ever thought about becoming a professional hero?”

He squinted at you. “A… what?”

“A professional hero,” you repeated, eyes bright. “Y’know. Like, full-time. Uniform, sponsors, TV deals, the whole package.”

He gave a vague shrug. “I guess? I mean, not really. I just do stuff.”

Your grin widened, your mind already drifting into the ideal version of your future. This was happening. This was your moment. Goodbye coffee runs, goodbye being Donald’s stand-in, and good-fucking-bye to being your parents’ puppet. They couldn’t say a damn thing if you were the one who discovered the next great superhero.

You were going to make history.

“What’s your name?” he asked suddenly, breaking you out of your mental victory parade.

You blinked, quickly told him, and then, with way too much energy, asked, “Are you interested in working with the GDA?”

He flinched slightly at your volume. “The… GDA?”

With dramatic flair, you yanked the retractable cord on your badge and shoved it right in his face. “Boom. See? I work for them.” (You purposely skipped over the ‘intern’ part.)

“I could help you become a real hero,” you said, voice dropping into a lower, persuasive tone. “We’ve got the training. The funding. The connections.”

You were already picturing your new business cards. Agent. Advisor. Executive Talent Scout. No, screw it — director.

The rookie blinked again, slowly. Then smiled politely.

“Thanks,” he said. “But no.”

Pop. There went your dream. Your smile dropped.

“I’m not really looking to join a government squad,” he added, scratching at the back of his neck. “Kinda trying to do my own thing.”

You stared at him like he’d just refused a winning lottery ticket. Thirty days paid vacation. Free dental. 401k. You were pretty sure Donald even said something about a masseuse coming in every Monday. Was he insane not to accept a deal like that?

“Well, uh, sorry again for crashing into you,” he said, waving vaguely in your direction. “Nice meeting you, though.”

You watched in horror as he turned away.

No. No no no! You can’t let this opportunity slip through your fingers like that!

You scrambled after him. “Wait! I — I work with really big names! Like, I’ve met the Immortal!”

He didn’t even glance back. “Miss, I’ve got places to be.”

You followed anyway, practically tripping over your own feet. “Okay, okay, I get it! You don’t want anyone telling you what to do. Totally fair. Authority sucks. The government’s kind of the worst!”

He stopped at the rooftop edge, one foot already on the parapet. You panicked.

“But resources!” you yelled. “You want to help people, right? We have actual resources. Real support. Equipment. You could do so much more.”

That made him hesitate.

He turned just enough to glance at you over his shoulder. His expression had softened. This was it. Now or never — you pressed your advantage.

“We could train you. Help you get better. You’d be teamed with other pros — people with experience. People who could teach you. You could save thousands of lives, maybe millions.”

You paused for effect. “You could even be like… Omni-Man.”

That seemed to hit a nerve. His eyes widened, then dropped to the cracked concrete below him. He didn’t move. He was thinking.

You stood there, fists clenched, hardly breathing.

And then, when he lifted his gaze to meet yours, there was something in his expression you couldn’t quite place — curiosity? Hesitation?

“Like Omni-Man?” he asked.

You had him.

“Yes! Like Omni-Man! No — even better,” you said, nodding enthusiastically. “I saw what you did back there. You’ve got potential. You just need the right push!”

He turned fully to face you now. His shoulders lowered, the tension from just minutes in his stance slowly melting away. He let out a small sigh.

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay?” you echoed, blinking.

“Yeah… maybe I could come by. You could show me around or whatev—”

Before he could finish, you squealed and threw your fists in the air, letting your precious envelope fall to the ground. He flinched slightly at the volume, but you barely noticed. You grabbed his shoulders, surprisingly solid under your fingers, and gave him a small shake.

“I’m gonna make you a star!”

He nodded a little, eyes wide with second thoughts. But it didn’t matter. He said yes.

You spun around, already rambling through the list of things you’d need: training schedule, PR angle, a costume designer, maybe even a catchphrase. Behind your whirlwind of words, your thoughts were soaring.

He agreed. He really agreed.

Not just to being trained or becoming a part of the GDA.

He agreed to help you escape. To pull you out of the endless, thankless spiral you’d been trapped in.

You had just taken your first step toward freedom. And you were never going back.

Read more on AO3.

[sebmindbreak]

clockwork n… clockwork n doombringer…

OOOO those two! , interresting for a first request!

i tried to do my best to do a lil oneshot! (since you didnt precise if you wanted a oneshot or headcanons so i am going to assume oneshot!)

now there isnt anythign to go off , their personnality is mostly MY hcs

CLOCKWORK X DOOMBRINGER X Y/N / YOU

TITLE : cheating games!

It had been a quiet day in the Roblox HQ , almost peaceful.

(not for long lol)

Doombringer sat in his office, the only sound being the steady tapping of keys as he scrolled through the ban logs. Username after username, hackers after hackers, all destined for the Banlands. He was efficient, he considered himself.

Until the crash.

A loud bang echoed through the halls, followed by the clatter of something metallic. Doombringer's brow twitched. He stood from his desk, his cloak blowing behind him as he walked with heavy, purposeful steps toward the source of what ever crashed.

And what he found made him stop in his tracks.

You darted around the hallway corner, giggling like a gremlin, while Clockwork tore after you with wild arms and stomping boots. His visor was crooked, one of his gears rattling loose on his belt.

"Doombringer!" Clockwork whined dramatically the moment he spotted the admin. "Y/N keeps cheating at Murder Mystery 2! I swear, it's rigged!"

You skidded to a stop beside him, breathless from laughter. "More like you have a skill issue. I can actually aim, unlike you."

Clockwork gasped, a hand to his chest like you had just insulted his entire family lineage. "You take that back!"

Grinning, you stuck your tongue out. "Make me."

Before Clockwork could dramatically lunge at you, Doombringer moved in. With one strong arm, he grabbed Clockwork by the back of his cloak like a misbehaving cat. Clockwork flailed.

"Hey HEY! Unhand me! I'm being wronged here!" he protested.

"Lift me too!" you chirped, bouncing on your feets

Doombringer paused.

Then, to your surprise and delight, his arm looped around your waist and effortlessly hoisted you up. One admin in each arm. Clockwork still flailing. You snuggled closer with a smug grin.

He huffed softly, an amused chuckle leaving him. "Children," he muttered under his breath.

But then you turned your head, still smug. "I'm still better than you."

Clockwork's head snapped toward you with a look. You beamed. He narrowed his eyes.

Doombringer stared ahead, silent.

Mentally? He was facepalming.

Out loud?

"Next time you break one of the work computers , i am sending you to shed."

Neither of you took him seriously.

He didn’t expect you to.

I HOPE YOU LIKED IT!

its not very long sorry! , its just to test , the lenght and stuff ! <3

[elliespassagerprincess]

maybe prof ellie bringing in her wife to help teach a lesson on a speciality that reader specialises in??? and ellie being smug and proud of her wife teaching

if that makes sense

Headcannons: professor!ellie williams x reader

masterlist

professor ellie masterlist

☆ Ellie has been plotting this for weeks, trying to find the perfect moment to invite you to her class without it seeming like a weird flex—though, secretly, it totally is a flex.

☆ She brags about you constantly to her students—your research, your credentials, your awards—so when she says, “She’ll be guest-lecturing next Tuesday,” her students practically groan, “Finally.”

☆ Ellie nervously asks you at dinner, trying to sound casual: “Sooo, would you… maybe wanna come lecture for my neuro class? Just like… help me out? You’re the expert in that area anyway.” (She’s blushing like mad the whole time.)

☆ She sends you the syllabus and her lesson plan, but honestly you already know the material—you’ve read her notes a dozen times over the years, often curled into her lap while she works late.

☆ Ellie spends the night before organizing her office just in case you want to work there. She even dusts.

☆ She makes an entire PowerPoint intro slide with your credentials and picture. You don’t know this until you walk in and it’s plastered on the projector.

☆ Ellie insists on walking you to the lecture hall, coffee in hand, arm hooked around your waist like a proud, possessive spouse.

☆ She can’t stop herself from staring at you in the elevator, mumbling, “You look hot. Are you trying to distract me in front of my students?”

☆ She warns her students: “Be on your best behavior. Or I’ll fail you. That’s my wife.”

☆ Ellie talks you up before you even walk in—"She published her first paper at twenty-three. She's got field experience and a PhD. Basically, listen up.”

☆ She introduces you with a smug, “This is my wife. She’s smarter than me, so you’re in good hands.”

☆ She sits front row while you speak, arms crossed, smirking the entire time like she’s watching her favorite movie.

☆ Every time you pace past her while presenting, Ellie subtly reaches out to touch your hand or brush your fingers—like she can’t help herself.

☆ She answers students' questions with: “You should ask her—she’s the expert,” then gives you a look like she’s melting.

☆ Ellie’s watching you like she’s in love for the first time again, chin in her hand, gaze unblinking.

☆ The students keep stealing glances at her because she’s blushing the entire lecture.

☆ She mouths “You’re doing amazing” at you when you hesitate for a second, instantly supportive.

☆ She takes pictures of you while you teach—secretly at first, then obviously when she grins at you and holds her phone up like a proud girlfriend.

☆ Ellie laughs the loudest at your little jokes or quips during the lesson, even if no one else gets them.

☆ At one point, when a student asks a particularly good question, Ellie mutters, “Damn, that was hot,” under her breath.

☆ The moment the students start clapping, Ellie’s already striding up to you, beaming. “You killed it, babe.”

☆ She grabs your hand in front of the whole class and kisses it—gently, reverently—just because she can.

☆ Students start asking you for office hours, and Ellie is 50% smug, 50% territorial.

☆ She whispers in your ear on the way out: “We’re definitely doing this again. I’ve never been more turned on by a whiteboard.”

☆ Ellie refuses to let go of your hand as you walk through campus. “Now they all know how hot and smart my wife is. Feels good.”

☆ She insists on buying you dinner afterward, calling it a “thank you” date—even though she’s just looking for an excuse to stare at you more.

☆ In private, she wraps her arms around you from behind and murmurs, “You’re brilliant, y’know that? All mine.”

☆ She reviews your lecture notes later, totally unnecessarily, just so she can “appreciate your formatting.”

☆ Ellie updates her desktop wallpaper to a candid photo she took of you teaching.

☆ She brags to her colleagues the next day like, “Did you know my wife pioneered that entire segment of research?” even if they didn’t ask.

☆ She references you in class more than ever: “My wife actually studied this during her masters…”

☆ Ellie becomes more obsessed with inviting you back: “We have another unit coming up, wanna co-teach?”

☆ You become a campus legend among her students. One even calls you “Dr. Williams 2.0” and Ellie nearly cries.

☆ She keeps printing out your articles and tacking them on her office board, pretending it’s for “student reading.”

☆ Ellie starts leaving you little love notes in her lecture slides—stuff like “She’s the smartest woman I know” in the footer text.

☆ She asks you to proofread her papers more, not because she needs help, but because she just loves hearing your opinions.

☆ Ellie can’t go five minutes without saying, “My wife said something so interesting about that…”

☆ She buys you a new blazer after the lecture, saying, “For next time. You looked good as hell up there.”

☆ Ellie starts working you into her curriculum long-term—guest lectures, special interviews, even recorded segments.

☆ She updates her university bio to say “Happily married to a fellow researcher,” just because she can.

☆ Sometimes she’ll replay the recording of your lecture late at night, quietly admiring how passionate you sound.

☆ She keeps your guest lecturer badge on her desk in a little acrylic frame.

☆ Ellie draws little doodles of you at the lectern in her notebook margins.

☆ She brings up that day when she’s stressed—“Hey, remember when you came to class and made me look so cool?”

☆ Ellie starts quoting you mid-lecture and then gives a sheepish, “That’s something my wife says.”

☆ If a student challenges your ideas, she immediately goes into defense mode: “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Trust me.”

☆ She’ll walk past the lecture hall days later, glance inside, and smile like it’s sacred ground.

☆ Sometimes she just hugs you and whispers, “You made me proud in a way I can’t even describe.”

☆ Ellie gets you your own university hoodie and says, “Now you really belong here.”

☆ She refers to your guest lecture as “the best day of the semester.”

☆ Ellie steals the pen you used that day and keeps it in her desk drawer like a souvenir.

☆ She gets lowkey jealous when students mention how cool or pretty you were.

☆ She has the urge to say “That’s my wife” any time your name is mentioned in academic circles.

☆ Ellie annotates your academic papers like fanfiction, highlighting lines with hearts.

☆ She starts planning her future lectures around the possibility of bringing you in again.

☆ She buys matching laser pointers for both of you. “Team Williams,” she calls it.

☆ Ellie gets a little flushed remembering how confidently you spoke to her students. She replays your voice in her head when she’s missing you.

☆ She wears the ring you gave her like a badge of honor, subtly flashing it when people mention your name.

☆ Ellie admits—after a lot of coaxing—that she was more nervous that day than you were.

☆ Every time someone brings it up, Ellie just smiles and says, “Yeah. She’s mine.”

[v3lvet-midnight]

"I waited my whole life for you" Sergent barnes! x gn! new nurse reader

turns out the beautiful stranger he danced with at the bar last night is also the new nurse?

The bar was full of people, some drunk out their minds while the rest just enjoyed the night before another busy day. You were sitting at a table nursing a drink in your hand having only taken a few sips while glancing over at the dance floor watching your friend who was way more out of it then you were enjoy their dance with someone who'd asked them moments ago.

While mindlessly running your finger along the rim of your glass you could see someone sitting on the other side of the table from the corner of your eyes, you looked up only to find someone you haven't met before. He was tall, a sort of military officer judging by his uniform, and you'd be lying if you said that sly smirk he was giving you from across the table wasn't giving you some sort of butterflies.

"what's a pretty doll like you doin' all alone shouldn't you be up there havin' fun"

Something about the way he spoke had you weak; you couldn't tell why exactly. perhaps it was the accent he had, maybe his confident demeanor when talking to you, or was it the fact that he was looking at you and admiring you like you were the only one in the room? Maybe it was all of those things at once. One thing was for sure whatever he was doing, it was working.

"Im James, James Barnes. But you can call me anythin' ya want darlin"

He spoke reaching over to shake your hand with a quick wink and a charming grin. You introduced yourself reaching over to shake his hand his hold was firm yet gentle, his hand lingered in yours for a moment longer then he pulled it back.

"so darlin' what's a military boy from Brooklyn gotta do to have this dance?" “Sorry, I don’t dance much. Hell, im not even sure if i know how” You replied back swirling your glass around a little before taking a sip of your drink. Your statement caught bucky off guard you could tell with the way his brows furrowed slightly before reverting back to that sweet heartthrob grin of his.

“Well doll, give me the honor of being the one to teach you then”

He spoke out his voice dropping a octave or two making him sound even more charming if that were possible. Who were you to deny such a request? Especially from someone like him the handsome man who was focused solely on you and no one else. You couldn’t help but give into his request.

In that moment he had you, he knew he did and he was damn proud of it, the most beautiful person in the bar just agreed to dance with him after all, he was definitely going To be smug about it. He offered you his hand and when you took it he gently pulled you up and walked you to the dance floor. The hand that wasn't in yours rested on the small of your back gently guiding you to the dance floor.

Once on the dance floor he moved you infront of him his hand intertwining your fingers together holding them up while the other wrapped around your waist holding your body flush against his.

“Don’t worry doll, I got ya just follow my lead alright”

he spoke softly whispering into your ear sending shivers down your spine as he gently guided your body to sway to the music.

“Ya know doll, out of all the times I've been out dancin’ I can't say I've ever had a partner as beautiful as you are”

You don’t know how long you two danced together, but it was one of the best times you've had in what felt like forever. You got used to the music and you didn’t need his help anymore, yet despite that he still kept his hand along your waist both of you enjoying the closeness

The night soon came to an end, All the couples on the dance floor began leaving some going back together in pairs others separating entirely. But Bucky stayed holding you too him for just a little bit longer before fully letting go after a few short moments.  

"For someone who doesn't dance you sure got the hang of it quick darlin'. ya sure you didn't just lie to me about that?" 

He tilted his head a little as he playfully asked his question, He was clearly complimenting you and wanting to keep a conversation even after the fact that you both had danced for nearly half a hour. 

"Or maybe you're just a good teacher"

your response made him smile again and you could have sworn the room got brighter when he did. That charming boyish grin that made him look like he came straight out of a romance film. you had no idea why he had you this weak to his charming personality after barely knowing him for less than an hour, but it was happening, and it was happening fast. 

"ill see you around darlin'. well hopefully you'd let me. I've waited my whole life for someone like you" 

He spoke whispering into your ear his hand cupping your face lightly running over your cheek for a moment before he shot you a quick wink then walking out with a group of soldiers who seemed to need to get going soon.

He had no idea if he would see you again. The thought of that was distracting him on the truck ride home. He hated the idea that he wouldn't dance or even see you again. It was bothering him. But he was a simple man he couldn't be help but be drawn to the prettiest and most beautiful face in the bar.  But he had no idea what the future held, maybe if he got lucky, he would be able to dance with you again. He would be able to wrap his arms around your waist and hold you close again. You had him wrapped around your finger in such a short time it almost shocked him. 

The next morning you had a small bag packed for the new job you got. a nurse at a nearby base. You didn’t pack too much mostly because you’d he provided your uniforms once there.

You got on the car that picked you up and drove you from your home to the base. When you stepped out you were guided to the medical tent where you were greeted by other nurses who helped you get settled in, they showed you to your bunk, showed you the ropes of how things worked around there, and overall helped you with anything you needed. Soon you were settled in helping out with threating small injuries for now just until you got the hang of things to treat the bigger ones.

The day was going by slow, Not much to handle until one of the other nurses walked to where you were. "were sending one your way, took a bullet to the left shoulder nothing too drastic." you nodded and began to get the supplies you needed, you weren't paying much attention until you heard a strangely familiar voice from the cot you were standing next to. "Damn doll, when I said I'd see ya again I didn't expect it to be so soon"

That familiar voice spoke you looked up to be greeted by the sight of bucky, the charming man from the bar last night.

“Can't say I'm complainin’ I was beginning to miss that beautiful face of yours”

With the way he was shamelessly flirting there was no way you’d assume this man has a bullet lodged into his shoulder. Well apart from the slight groan and gruff tone he spoke with and the blood staining his uniform.

You began to undo his uniform coat and undershirt to begin what you needed to do before he spoke in a more smug tone.

“Woah doll, skipping a few steps arent we? Your already trying to get me undressed and i havent taken ya to dinner yet”

He was clearly joking. Feeling a little more playful and smug, you looked up at him to find him smirking at you with a sly grin.

“Don’t flatter yourself barnes, just doin my job”

“It’s Sargent barnes doll”

He quickly corrected giving you a quick wink You lightly jabbed his uninjured shoulder and before you could pull your hand back he caught your wrist holding it and intertwining your fingers just as he did the night before. He lightly tugged you closer to him and spoke close to your ear in a soft whisper

“You really know how to kick a man when hes down darlin’ go easy on me will ya im still hurt after all”

Pretty soon you had the bullet out his shoulder, he was all bandaged up and good to go. Throughout the process bucky couldn't help but notice just how gentle and soft your hands were. He was addicted with just a few touches. You were more careful and made sure to be aware of how and if your touches would hurt him further. He was a goner, once you pulled your hands back, he was fighting the urge to put them on him again.

“Damn doll, you are beautiful and got some gentle hands. It’s enough to make a guy like me fall for ya more. Maybe I'll get injured on purpose just to see ya again”

He spoke with a wink but a part of him almost meant it. Bucky was addicted to the new nurse, and he honestly didn't mind.

[airybcby]

જ⁀♡⊹｡° consumed with what's just transpired

( reo mikage x fem! reader )

♡ a/n — part 4 to my series: The Garden of You ( masterlist )

♡ word count — 1.1k

♡ content — all characters are 18+ (prob like 22-25ish), Reo is a pro soccer player, business woman! reader, enemies to lovers, workplace banter, nepo baby! reo lowkey, explicit themes mentioned (nothing described though), she falls first, he falls harder

♡ synopsis — reo mikage has never had anything outside of soccer that he couldn't buy, and he hasn't really wanted to. until he meets you.

── .❀ the kiddie like play has people watching

The worst thing about working at Mikage Corporation wasn't the suffocating suits or the 6 a.m. calls. 

It wasn’t the boardroom full of overpaid executives or the exhausting scramble to appear competent in a room full of sharks.

No.

It was Reo Mikage.

Golden boy. 

Soccer star. 

Heir to the empire.

And your new direct counterpart.

You weren’t just some intern fumbling files—no, you’d climbed here on merit. 

Worked your way through the ranks with sleepless nights and smart decisions. 

And then Reo walked in—straight from the field, sun-kissed and smug, all dazzling smile and signature violet hair—and decided he was going to “help out” around the company. 

His father’s idea, apparently. A grooming period before he eventually took over the Mikage legacy.

He wasn’t even in a tie. Just sauntered into your meeting, three buttons undone, skin still glowing from training, and plopped down beside you like he owned the seat.

“Didn’t know this was bring-your-prodigal-son-to-work day,” you had muttered under your breath.

He smirked. “Nice to see you too, sweetheart.”

You should’ve known right then that this was war.

Meetings were the worst.

You swore he lived to disagree with you. 

No matter what you said—numbers, projections, marketing ideas—Reo would have something to add. Something better. 

And the worst part? Sometimes, it actually was.

But it didn’t make you like him more. In fact, it made you want to throw your pen across the table.

Today was no different.

“This entire campaign is built around data that’s nearly six months old,” you snapped, flipping the file shut. “It’s irrelevant now.”

Reo leaned back in his chair like he had all the time in the world. “And yet, it’s outperforming every other campaign in its bracket. Weird how that works.”

You could feel your pulse in your jaw. Across the table, three other executives stayed deathly silent, watching the two of you go at it for the fourth time this week.

“I’m saying we can do better.”

“And I’m saying we are doing better. Just not your version of it.” The man that you swore was the human embodiment of a fly kicked his feet up on the table, leaning back. 

You shot him a glare sharp enough to kill a man.

He smiled like it tasted sweet.

“You’ve got to stop doing that,” you hissed as the meeting ended, gathering your things.

“Doing what?” He followed you out of the room like a damn shadow.

“Undermining me. You only argue to get under my skin.”

He raised a brow. “Maybe I just like the way you look when you're mad.”

You whirled around. “Do you even care about this company?”

His mouth opened, but the hallway was too quiet, too narrow, too full of something that wasn’t hate. 

And Reo? He suddenly wasn’t smirking anymore.

“I care,” he said, softer than expected. “Just not the way you think.”

The breaking point came one Friday night.

You were both stuck working late—again—finalizing investor materials. 

It was nearly 11 p.m., the office long since emptied, and you were dangerously close to chucking the company laptop out the window.

“You can’t just rewrite my entire proposal, Mikage!”

He stood up. “And you can’t keep acting like you’re the only one who gives a crap how our stocks look!”

“You think you’re the only one under pressure? You think just because you play soccer and have a trust fund that this—this company—is yours to coast through?!”

You were close now. Too close.

And Reo wasn’t laughing anymore.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” he said, voice low. “The company, the name. But I’m here. I show up. And maybe I didn’t come in the same way you did, but I’m not trying to take it from you.”

You stared at him, breath caught.

And then something snapped.

Your mouth opened—maybe to yell, maybe to push back—but instead, Reo kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative.

It was a mess of pent-up frustration and late nights, of power plays and quickened pulses and too many stolen glances across boardroom tables. 

You grabbed his tie—not out of affection, but because you needed something to hold on to.

And Reo? He held you like he'd been dying to.

The days after were a blur of confusion and avoidance.

You didn’t know what to say, and Reo—he didn’t know how to stop wanting to do it again.

What scared him most wasn’t that he liked you.

It was that he didn’t know when he started.

All he knew was that now, he noticed everything.

The way your nose scrunched when you disagreed with a figure. 

The coffee order you always messed up. 

The tired look in your eyes when no one else noticed how hard you worked.

He noticed the way his chest hurt when he made you laugh.

He noticed the way your chair creaked just before you spoke up in meetings.

He noticed you, and he couldn’t un-notice it anymore.

Then one night, it boiled over again.

You were in the elevator, alone together.

“You’ve been weird,” you said, not even looking at him.

“Says the girl who kissed me.”

Your head snapped toward him. “You kissed me.” You shoved your finger into his chest.

Reo ran a hand through his hair—God, why did he do that so much? It made him look almost nervous. Vulnerable.

“Look,” he said, “I don’t care if this is stupid. Or if we fight again tomorrow. But I’ve never wanted something I can’t just buy before.”

He paused.

“And I want you.”

You blinked, finger falling from his chest as you took a step away from him.

He let out a breath like he’d been holding it for days.

“When I saw you sit across from me… it made me want to earn something for the first time in my life. On my own.”

Yes, he had soccer. Yes, he had built himself up from nobody to a world renowned player, but that wasn’t enough.

You win with a team in soccer, for once in his life, Reo wanted to win something by himself.

Silence stretched between you like an exhale.

And you took one step closer.

“You’re still annoying,” you muttered.

He grinned. “You love it.”

You kissed him this time.

It didn’t feel like tension anymore. 

It felt like fire. 

Like you were both finally letting go of the control and diving into the burn.

Later, as you lay tangled together on the couch in the Mikage penthouse—documents scattered, wine forgotten, Reo’s head on your shoulder—he whispered, almost without thinking:

“You remind me of sunflowers.”

You snorted. “What?”

“Always facing the light. Wanting to go up. Even when you hate everything around you.”

You turned to him, eyes searching. “You’ve got a weird way of complimenting someone.”

He smirked, lazy and soft. “And I adore you.”

And for the first time in years, Reo Mikage felt like this—this messy, brilliant, chaotic you—was something he could never put a price on.

And he didn’t want to.

first post back and i don't think this is my best work but oh well!

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

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⋆.˚✮ 2025 ©airybcby ✮˚.⋆

[cheeseatlantic]

KNOTS AND GRACE

It started the same way most things did for Simon: silently.

No declarations. No dramatic moment of revelation. Just a lingering glance in the low hum of early morning, the way your shoulders curled in on yourself like tired wings, the deep sigh you exhaled as you stared at your own reflection with dread.

You didn’t say it out loud, but Simon could feel it. How the strands of your hair—once lively and part of your expression—now hung like a weight. Too much to manage. Too much everything.

He watched you tie it back with a trembling hand, loose and lopsided, then abandon the brush entirely when your fingers snagged in a tangle near the nape. The irritation in your eyes made his chest ache. Not because you were angry—but because he could tell you’d been doing it for weeks. Too tired, too overstimulated, too worn down to untangle one more thing.

You didn’t ask for help.

You never did.

But that didn’t stop him.

⸻

He bought the wig online.

A perfect match—length, texture, density. The same subtle wave, the same specific sheen of your real hair. It had taken hours of scrolling and three different sample orders, but eventually, Simon found it.

He didn’t tell you. Not when he signed for the box and quietly slipped it into his office, not when he pulled it out that first night and stared at it like it might grow fangs.

It felt ridiculous at first.

He’d cleaned weapons with his eyes closed. Assembled rifles blindfolded. But this?

A wig. A brush. A comb with teeth so fine it made him squint.

This was intimate. And fragile. Terrifying in ways combat never touched.

But you were worth it.

⸻

He watched YouTube videos in the dark.

Hours of tutorials whispered through his headphones while you slept beside him, limbs heavy with exhaustion. Women and men and animated hands showing how to detangle without ripping strands, how to deep-condition and twist hair for sleeping, how to style with care.

He paused. Rewatched. Practiced with gloves first—then without.

He started simple: washing the wig in the sink with the recommended shampoo. Rinsing gently. Letting it drip dry like something sacred. The first time he brushed it wet, he almost cried when a clump came out.

“Too rough,” he muttered to himself, adjusting his grip.

The next time, he took it slower.

Eventually, it became a ritual.

⸻

Some nights, you’d find him staying up late with a notebook in his lap, scribbling what looked like tactical planning—except the scribbles were sketches of braid patterns and product names underlined twice.

“Work stuff,” he grunted if you asked.

But you knew something was different.

He smelled faintly like argan oil. There were towels missing from the bathroom. And once, you found a tiny butterfly clip in his shirt pocket.

Still, you didn’t push.

Simon would tell you when he was ready.

⸻

The first time he touched your hair with intention, it was gentle.

You’d had a hard day—he could tell before you even walked through the door. Your jaw was tight, your voice low, your hands twitching as you peeled off your coat and sank onto the couch like a puppet with its strings cut.

He didn’t ask what was wrong. He just moved behind you quietly, sat on the arm of the couch, and murmured, “C’mere, love.”

You blinked up at him, eyes already glassy.

He nodded once, opening his hand.

It held a wide-tooth comb.

“I practiced,” he said, voice rough.

And you melted.

⸻

He started slow. One section at a time. Hands firm but careful, tugging gently to detangle, using the exact oil you always ran out of.

You didn’t speak—not because you didn’t want to, but because your throat tightened up the moment his fingers slid through your hair.

He knew how to part it. How to twist without pulling. How to ease out knots with a patience that made your chest ache.

“How long’ve you been doing this?” you whispered.

Simon didn’t answer right away. His breath was steady, his focus deep.

“Long enough,” he said at last. “Just didn’t want to do it wrong.”

Your lip trembled.

He pressed a kiss to your temple without pausing his work.

“I wanted to make it easy for you.”

⸻

After that, it became part of your rhythm.

He washed your hair in the kitchen sink, draped you in towels, and massaged your scalp like he was unraveling tension with his bare hands. He air-dried it with care, fanned it out across your shoulders while he braided or twisted it with methodical grace.

Sometimes, you’d fall asleep like that, half-draped over his legs while he worked in silence. His fingers always steady. His attention never straying.

He never said much when he did it.

Didn’t need to.

Because this was the language Simon Riley spoke best: quiet hands, careful preparation, devotion stitched into the smallest of routines.

⸻

One night, you caught him mid-process.

Not with your hair—but with the wig.

He was hunched at his desk in his office, shirtless, the back of his neck damp with sweat as he twisted section after section under the dim light. His hands were slick with leave-in conditioner, his brow furrowed in quiet concentration.

You didn’t mean to interrupt.

But when you stepped in, he didn’t startle.

He just looked up.

Held your gaze.

And said, “Didn’t want to forget how to do it right.”

The wig sat on a stand. Nearly identical to your own head of hair—except this one wore a loose, intricate braid.

Your throat closed up.

“Simon…”

He set the comb down gently, stood, and stepped close.

“I wanted to be good at it,” he said, voice hoarse. “You shouldn’t have to do it yourself when you’re too tired to hold your arms up.”

You blinked hard. The wig. The research. The oils he’d restocked without asking.

“You learned all this for me?”

He tilted his head. “Of course I did.”

And that was it.

No big speech. No theatrics.

Just Simon, standing in the soft light, love slick on his palms and patience carved into every callus.

⸻

He became your stylist after that.

Not professionally. Not loudly.

But intimately.

He brushed your hair before bed. Wrapped it in silk. Untangled it after long days without complaint. You started to leave your products out on purpose, just to see if he’d notice when something ran low.

He always did.

He even kept a tiny drawer organized by your hair type in the bathroom now—deep conditioners, scalp oils, leave-ins, brushes marked for wet or dry.

Simon Riley: war machine, tactician, lieutenant… and the only man you’d ever trust with your scalp.

And god—he was good at it.

Better than you’d ever dared to be with your own hair.

Because where you rushed, he lingered. Where you winced, he soothed. Where you’d given up?

He learned.

⸻

One morning, you woke up tangled in his arms, hair still wrapped tight and perfect in a protective scarf.

You hadn’t put it on.

He had.

Your heart cracked open a little wider in your chest.

You turned, pressed your face into his throat, and whispered, “You take care of me.”

Simon didn’t open his eyes. Just pulled you closer.

“Always, love.”

⸻

In public, no one knew.

But your hair always looked effortlessly done. Styled. Clean. Braided neatly, edges touched with care.

People complimented you.

You just smiled and said thank you.

You never told them your husband spent nights studying curl patterns or secretly whispered affirmations under his breath as he twisted sections to perfection.

You never told them he kept a small folder labeled “hair refs” on his encrypted hard drive—right next to blueprints for field operations.

You didn’t have to.

Because every brushstroke, every soft rinse, every quiet hand pulling through your curls spoke for him.

A silent language.

Of devotion.

Of protection.

Of love that never asked for recognition.

[centrally-unplanned]

I have begun watching Andor; my first Star Wars media after the the Rise of Skywalker burned all possible hope and legacy the series could ever have. It is pretty good! Finished Season 1, am a few episodes into Season 2 so far - though as usual my thoughts lean towards the complain-y side, don't let that bias you:

Andor at its best is portraying the Empire "in transition", moving towards greater levels of centralization and authoritarianism but no longer at the breakneck pace of coups and gigantic wars. Having say private military contractors filling enforcement gaps, and then being annexed by central authority as the knee-jerk response to the inevitable failures that accrue, causing the center to be overburdened? Very kino stuff. We need more stories about bureaucracy and Andor, while not committed to the bit, at least flirts heavily with it.

What makes the above work is the hard commitment to "realism", and that only works because the show is harshly pretending so much of Star Wars doesn't exist. All these grubby human stormtroopers and officers, making mistakes, defecting, and so on? Why aren't you using, oh I don't know, the clone army you made in the prequels bred for loyalty? I know you have an answer for that in one of your infinite spinoffs, but the answer is stupid and half-baked. Even if you couldn't make everyone a clone, you would still be using the clones, and robot soldiers, and force-sensitive ninja warriors, and all that stuff. Same with a dozen other things - the show will hand-waive away why they are using slave prison labor over droids with "droids are more expensive" but bro - I have seen Star Wars droids, they cost as much as a trash bin because they are sometimes literally trash bins. This is the right decision, to be clear! Just very funny.

Honestly Andor really throws into relief the, uh, arc of both Star Wars & sci fi more broadly? The original films are very "classic adventure", for all audiences - the sci fi elements are aesthetic, the magic elements are loose and mystical, the plot is a Hero's Journey in war. As the franchise grew in the 1980's, it made "1980's content" for nerd audiences at the time - pulpy, action-oriented, and with a lot of "technobabble plots". Oh the Emperor has a clone machine! Oh now we have the Sun Crusher, it crushes suns! This alien species can drink luck somehow! Stuff like this is the bread-and-butter of the EU, and a lot of the ~vibe~ if not focus of the prequels. Time marched on, Star Wars broadened while sci-fi declined, and these stories lost their appeal alongside the audience for Star Wars fully morphing into an "every generation" affair with many older adults wanting content. Andor is of course the answer to that demand, a fully gritty political drama with an entirely-human main cast. But it sits in the same universe as Jar Jar Binks and you can't really escape that.

While the median "expression of political hatred for the Empire" is via a longing for democracy & political freedom, it is very cute to me how "70's liberalism" a lot of the more concrete complaints are coded? There are a lot of vibes of central authority is bad, localism should rule the day, let each unitary planet make its own decisions. The successor government is gonna have a TON of NIMBYs opposed export-focused mining projects on its hands, I do not envy them that. #TeamStripMineGhorman

Why does the galaxy have all these human indigenous tribes all over the place? Did humans evolve independently on all these planets? Presumably these humans are settlers, which means they would have the kind of culture an expansionist, space-faring, scientific civilization would have, right? Awful lot of people crash-landed and lost all their digital books it seems.

Okay, an actual, real complaint now: what is the empire currently fighting? I know that fascist regimes "invent" security crises to justify their authoritarian control, but, well, they kind of don't actually do that whole-cloth, 1984 isn't a history book. It typically is tied to real events, even ones of their own making. If Franco's Spain wanted to allocate 25% of GDP to massive military projects, it was gonna need a reason. And all the senators, who are not imperial propaganda pieces, seem to accept the need for expansive military preparations. So what enemy are these for, exactly? You might say "the rebellion, duh", but that actually doesn't track - for one at the beginning of the show they are explicitly small fry, that is the entire plot. And they are also at this point entirely insurgency-based - not something building more Imperial Star Destroyers really helps you address. The Empire-as-portrayed acts like it has peer adversaries somewhere? It seems like it is conquering planets (and in the lore I think it is). But we never see any of this, it is never actually mentioned. Add Andor to the list of hundreds of stories that finds itself in need of a scene of a dozen people sitting around a big map displaying current strategic threats, priorities, and status-quo force deployments, but is too much of a coward to do it.

*Extremely* cute that apparently the galactic financial system still heavily relies on physical currency. This admittedly isn't a crazy anachronism, I can see how communicating digital exchanges across space might be difficult (ofc Star Wars is completely inconsistent along these metrics but w/e). Someone has gotta tell the Emperor about the blockchain...

Cassian is so much hotter with a beard, he needs to own that and stop all this shaving nonsense he does on and off, get your priorities straight. Bix meanwhile is hotter with ___; it is literally impossible for Bix not to be hot in any context and boy does this show try to disprove that! Fails every time.

[kissandtellus]

Smart Enough

Synopsis: Dr. Zayne has an incredible mind, incredible physique and an incredible stamina. Having a pretty thing on his arm at all times is just a perk.

Warnings: Dumbification, Zayne is a Hard!Dom, size-difference, choking, filming, not for everyone, Y/n is sort of a crybaby, drooling.

As your fiancé, Zayne is a handsome doctor with an impressive physique, especially when it’s hidden under that white lab quote. He's tall, muscular, and you can't help but obsess over how much bigger he is than you. “Y/n, stop trying to get me to flex for pictures."

The way he says it is so cold. He’s relaxing, for once, in his home office chair. He just finished a workout, he tried to never miss a day no matter how tired he was from work. Y/n pouts, sitting on the edge of his desk. “Pleaseeee? I always like showing you off.”

Zayne looks up from his laptop, those piercing blue eyes meeting yours with a mix of exasperation and amusement. “And I always tell you I'm not here for your'showing off'. It's not professional." Despite his serious tone, there's a small smirk playing at his lips.

But behind closed doors, with the night casts a shadow over them, he changes. Your phone is propped on a tripod, angled just enough to show your cock drunk expression. His arm is around your throat, the muscle squishing your face as he drills you from behind.

The room is filled with the sounds of your heavy breathing and the rhythmic slapping of skin against skin. Zayne's grip around your throat tightens slightly, his voice low and husky in your ear. “See, this is what you want. Not some fucking Instagram post."

Zayne slows his thrusts, his hand sliding down to grasp your chin, forcing you to look at the screen. Your face is a mess of pleasure, his arm a thick band around your neck. He snaps a picture, the flash momentarily blinding you. “Perfect."

Your drooling, pupils dilated from the ecstacy. “S-so meannn Zay-!”

He chuckles darkly, his thumb wiping away the drool from your chin before bringing it to his own lips, sucking it clean. “You love it when I'm mean to you, don't you?" His hips snap forward, bottoming out inside you as his arm squeezes your throat.

You don’t want to admit it. Zayne is the smartest man you’ve ever met, maybe in the entire world. Knocking yourself down a peg is something that gives you a deep satisfaction. “N-Nu uh!”

Zayne throws his head back with a laugh.

God, you're cute.

He pulls out slightly, then snaps his hips hard. "You know what your problem is?" He growls, slapping your ass hard enough to leave a red mark. "You have no self respect. No filter."

You are whimpering as he releases your throat from his arms, instead he tangles his surgeon steady fingers into her your, pulling your head back so you are staring in the camera.

His fingers tighten in your hair, making you whimper. The camera captures your disheveled look - your mouth open, eyes half-lidded and slightly glassy, cheeks red. "Look at you," Zayne mutters, taking another picture. "No brain. No filter."

“I-I’m smart!” You sound like you are trying to convince yourself more than your surgeon fiancé

Zayne laughs again, his thumb spreading your drool over your chin. "Mhmm. And how many degrees do you have?" He asks mockingly, his hips moving slow and deep. "One?" He smirks. "Two?" He pulls back slightly, waiting for your answer.

You choke back a sob when his cock curved just right into your drooling walls. “N-none…”

Zayne's smirk grows wider, his eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and dominance. "Exactly," he says, his voice low and mocking. "And how many do I have?" He thrusts harder, emphasizing each word. "Four. Fucking. Degrees."

Zayne was a fucking child-prodigy of medical knowledge. But you, you were his pretty little Hunter that looked perfect on his cock.

His smirk softens slightly. "God, you're an airhead," He mutters, snapping another picture of your disheveled, half-crazed look. "One hundred fifty published papers. Surgeon at twenty seven. And you?" He laughs, his thumb pushing into your mouth.

"You're cute. Absolutely adorable. And so fucking stupid." His thrusts pick up speed, hitting that perfect spot inside you that makes you drool even more. He captures another photo, then pulls your hair harder.* "You know what else you are?"

You are so far gone, if your life ended right that second, you wouldn’t give a single shit.

“The love of my life.” He bends your head back and captures your mouth in a heated kiss. His cock twitches inside of you, and he cums.

He breaks the kiss, panting as he fills you up with his release. He holds the camera up, taking a picture of you all - him looking intense and satisfied, you looking absolutely wrecked and filled with his cum. He sets the camera down and gently pulls out of you.

You whimper, coming down from a very deep sub space. You’re shivering, sniffling and trying to wipe your tears away.

He watches you for a moment, a soft smile on his face. "Hey, come here," he says gently, pulling you into his lap and wrapping his arms around you. He brushes your hair out of your face and kisses your forehead. "You did so well, baby."

You immediately seeks his comfort, burying your face in his shoulder. His skin is sometimes cold to the touch, but there is no place you’d rather be. “D-did I do good?”

He nods, his arms tightening around you. "You did amazing," he murmurs, nuzzling into your hair. "I'm so proud of you. My pretty little Hunter, so obedient and perfect." He rocks you gently, his cold hands rubbing up and down your back to warm you up.

His voice dips, like he’s talking to one of his young patients in the pediatric ward.

His voice softens, taking on that gentle, almost paternal tone he reserves for his youngest patients and... apparently, his submissive fiancée when she's in a vulnerable state. “There we go... shh... my good girl..."

“Zayne?”

“Hm?”

“Am I smart?”

“Get some sleep, Princess.”

[oligbia]

omg yes plsplspls

domestic daichi comes home from work (timeskip fs) and you cook his fav meal and hes just like omg im so in love how did i get so lucky 😼

SO okay this started as a 3k word thing but I cut it down to make it more bite-size... this only means I have another Daichi thing I'm sitting on teehee. I also didn't edit this as close so... my bad

Labor of Love

Sawamura Daichi X Reader

Tags: Sawamura Daichi X fem!reader (reader is referred to with she/her pronouns), Fluff, yearning, small and vague mentions of 'home checks' in police work

⠀˳ ˳ . ⋅ ॱ ˙ ॱ ⋅ . I take requests! Visit my profile to submit!˳ ˳ . ⋅ ॱ ˙ ॱ ⋅ .

Word count: 1k

Songs I thought about while writing this: "Unkown/Nth" by Hozier, "So Highschool" by Taylor Swift, "Banana Pancakes" by Jack Johnson

Daichi swore he would spend the rest of his life wondering what he did to be so lucky. He lived what he thought was a good life, holding doors for strangers, acting with kindness, and saying “sir” and “ma’am”, but he was convinced that a lifetime of goodness would have ever been enough to be blessed with an angel like you. He would spend the rest of his life devoted to you, the rest of his life spent solely to make sure he treated you right. 

When he married you, writing vows was the hardest thing he ever had to do. Not because he didn’t have anything to say, but rather because he had so much to say there was no possible way to put it into words. There was no way to possibly capture just how much he loved you. No words could ever convey the way that you are the reason he continues to breathe, his devotion to loving you is his only purpose. He would get on his knees to worship every inch of you. He would go to the depths of the earth and claw his way back to show you how much he loved you. 

And if he ever had to doubt why he loves you, it is the little scene in front of him that reminds him why he loves you. 

You stood over the stove, humming a soft song to yourself as you cooked- wearing one of his discarded police academy shirts you reclaimed as your own and pajama pants. You were ethereal in the soft lights of the kitchen, glowing beautifully. He didn’t need to see your face to feel the familiar warmth in his chest when you smile- that soft, almost subtle smile when you think no one looking. But he’s looking, he sees it every time. and he cherishes it- revels in it. 

He undoes his police shoes, hanging up his hat and vest in the coat closet, trying to be quiet- not wanting to startle you. He didn’t want to ruin such a perfect moment, such a perfect view. His blue police button down and black slacks still on, he creeps up behind you, wrapping his large arms around your waste. 

He presses a firm kiss to the back of your neck, body immediately relaxing the second he notices the softness of your scent- the smell of home in his arms. He lets his head rest on your shoulder, eyes closed. He doesn’t say a word. 

“hi, ‘mura,” You say with a soft laugh, resting one arm above his and the other still stirring dinner. 

He hums softly into your neck. 

“My love,” He mumbles softly, arms tightening, “I missed you.” 

You sit the spoon down entirely, both of your hands now on top of his as they rest wrapped around your waist. He’s wearing the watch you bought him as a gift when he finished at the Police Academy. “I missed you. Long day?” 

He just nods against your neck in response. It had been a long day, it was the day of the month all the community officers had to visit the homes listed for home checks. He hated those days- he hated the guilt he felt when he couldn’t save everyone who needed it, the guilt of knowing sometimes there is nothing he can do. 

“Dinner will be done soon if you want it,” you offer softly to him, your fingers loosely intertwined with where they rest. He nods and reluctantly pulls back to change. He notices what you’re making- 

“Shoyu Ramen.” 

It was his favorite. He knew that you knew that. But what he also knew is that making it was a multiple days-long process of preparing meats and broths that need days to sit before you can cook. It’s a labor- but a labor of love. Once again- he wonders what he ever did for the universe to ever even consider allowing him to have someone as perfect as you. 

You turn your head back to smile at him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “yea, it is,” you say softly, your voice sounds sweeter than honey to him. “Go put your work clothes to wash,” 

He nods and catches your face gently in his hands, pressing a soft and firm kiss to your lips, all the worries and weight of his day melting as his lips meet yours. “Have I told you lately  how much I love you?” 

You smile again- this time one of the smiles you give him, a grin that makes your eyes sparkle just for him. “You have-“ 

He had told you- he told you the first thing when he woke up, he told you right before he left the house, he told you at least three times over text, and he was telling you right now. But to him, with how you absolutely held his entire universe in his hand, it would never be enough.

 He takes your face in both of his hands, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Well, then let me remind you,” he starts, his voice soft and smooth, forehead to yours, “You, my love, make my world spin. You make me a better man, you keep my heart beating and my soul warm. I would be nothing without you, and I am forever grateful to be loved by someone as perfect as you.” 

You hands come to rest on top of his,he can see the wedding band he put on your finger as soon as he was able to, a constant and physical reminder that love for you would be everlasting and would be with you for the rest of eternity. Until you were both in the ground next to each other, he would spend his lifetime loving you. 

You were the best thing to ever happen in his life, and he was determined to make sure he could spend the rest of his life repaying the universe for the blessing of your life by being nothing but good. 

Tag List: @pomigranit Want to be on my tag list? Send me a request!

Ya'll remember on 2020 hq tiktok when people were trying to genuinely cancel Daichi and Daichi stans bc he was a cop? I remember. I was there.

Leave me a financial tip? (No pressure!)

I take requests! Visit my profile to submit!

[fanon-elio]

Hello um do you do request? If so or maybe can I request a pregnant wife reader x husband lycaon doing a gender reveal for they're baby.

I saw I cute wholesome TikTok video where the mother knows the gender of her baby and tries to do those gender color reveling cakes but mess up the food colorings color.

Lycaon then says he still doesn't know they childs gender so he comes up with a new way to save they're little surprise, on top of the cake had both blueberries and strawberries so lycaon tells reader to pick one of between the fruits and give it to him to eat and from the fruits taste he will know they're childs gender.

Strawberry= girl

Blueberry= boy

You can pick the baby's gender😄

Hey hey! 👋

This was honestly so fun to write even though I had way too many ideas and drafts 😭

But I think I was able to combine all my Ideas pretty well.

So I hope you enjoy!

°•○●Sweet Surprise●○•°

Summary: You're trying to surprise Lycaon with a gender reveal cake. Problem is just that you can't bake! So you two come up with a different way for a gender reveal.

Pairing: Von Lycaon x Wife!Reader

Tag: Green Letter (Sfw)

Warnings: None. Just tooth rotting fluff <3

Not proof read.

Fate works in very strange ways sometimes.

If someone would have told you that your life would be changed completely from one day to the next - and by an Umbrella no less. You wouldn't have believed them.

But as it so happened, it was indeed an umbrella, offered to you by a handsome stranger on a rainy day, that flipped your entire world on it's head.

The weather sure had caught you off guard, but not as much as the wolfish strangers silky smooth voice, snow-white furr and ruby iris.

Much interaction wasn't needed either. It was a glance shared, a few words exchanged and his hand gently brushing against yours, and both of you were already smitten with eachother.

Conversations had, turned into dates planned. And this feeling of curiosity for eachother turned into one of longing for one another. And half a year into your relationship with the Wolf thiren, he asked you the question of questions.

It's silly if you think about how even the smallest gestures can have such long lasting outcomes.If he wouldn't have offered you that umbrella that day, then you probably wouldn't be married to Lycaon, and on top of that, wouldn't carry his child.

The day you told him that you were pregnant is still one of your favorites. Even months before, you had noticed how longingly he stared at the families at the Park, or the way his ears perked up at the laughter of children. And even though he never admitted it, not wanting to preassure you into taking such an astronomically large step so soon, you had already deciphered his wishes behind his carefully crafted facade.

So on the day the pregnancy test finally showed a positive result, you went shopping while he was at work to make some preperations. You bought a little Wolf plush, tied the positive test to it with a ribbon, and placed it in his office on his desk.

And when the moment came when he returned to your shared home, greeting you with a kiss like he always did. You patiently sipped your tea as you waited for him to notice.

You remember giggling to yourself when you saw his expression, the tiny wolf plushy still clutched in his right hand. And you very clearly remember how his following embrace almost knocked the wind out of you.

After that Lycaon had been on cloud 99. His hands would always find your belly, gently caressing it, and ever since the first time he felt the Baby kick, he was pretty much attached to your hip. The pregnancy was very straining, but it reassured you greatly to see how extatic and exited your husband was for this child, and even though he supports you wonderfully, you have to hit him with the "I'm not sick, just pregnant" line a lot of times.

Everything was picture perfect, until the day of the scheduled ultra sound arrived.

Lycaon hadn't been able to attend.

The Mayor had requested his pressence for an urgent matter, and the guilt of not being able to put you and his pup first had been eating him up dispite you telling him multiple times that it was alright. And one day when your eyes fell on the little wolf plushy, still dutifully guarding the nursery, you had the perfect idea to lift your husbands spirits, and on top of that celebrate your little family.

The mission: baking him one of those gender reveal cakes that you've seen trending on the Internet.

However unfortunately for you, there was a reason why Lycaon was the one who did all the cooking at home. You wouldn't necessarily say that you were talentless when it came to cooking and baking, but the pile of ruined biscuits in the trashcan would insinuate otherwise.

The silence of the kitchen was only filled by the low humming sound of the oven. You squinted your eyes judgingly, trying to figure out if the biscuit's color you were seeing was normal or not. You stood up, once again taking a peek at the recepie displayed on your phone screen and silently scanning the steps. The recipie says that after completing the biscuit, you were supposed to use buttercream, and then color it depending on the babys gender with food coloring.

You grimaced while you looked at the bowl with what should be buttercream. You don't know how you managed to mess up the food coloring to such an extreme extend, but you were 100% certain that Lycaon wouldn't be able to distinguish the babys gender from the strange grey sludge that didn't look edible in the slightest. Heck it looked like toxic waste or something out of an Alien movie.

You sighed heavily and glanced at the clock hanging in your kitchen. You still had time before he came home, and you were determined to make this work. You also hoped a cake would help lessen the shock, since you had another big surprise for him.

The ringing of your phone's timer ripped you out of your thoughts as it signaled that your cake was ready to be taken out of the oven. You slid on the oven glovs, and opened the oven door, immediately being swallowed by a big puff of smoke. You remove the cake from the oven, hastily sitting it down on the kitchen counter before making a break for the window.

After taking a deep breath of fresh air, you turned around to inspect the severity of the chaos you had created. You stepped closer to glance at your "cake", still maintaining a save distance as if the damn thing could blow up in your face at any second as it continued to bubble and steam menacingly.

So your suspicion that you had indeed used to much milk was officially confirmed. Right now it had more similarities with that dumb vulcano you made for science class when you were a kid.

"Well... there goes another attempt" you say quietly before being impolitely startled by the sudden blaring of the smoke detector.

You cover your ears and glance up at the annoying little machine. Lycaon had no problem reaching that thing with his massive hight, but you? No chance. It also didn't help that Lycaon took away the step ladder so you wouldn't get any funny ideas of trying to reach for something high up while being very pregnant.

His words replay mockingly in your mind: "If you need anything, just tell me and I'll fetch it for you immediately" aww that's nice. Unfortunately didn't help you right in this very moment.

Instead you reach for your shoe and, fueled by your current immeasurable frustration, hurled it at the ceiling as hard as you could. You celebrated as the little annoyance came loose, only to watch it land directly in the bubbling mass beneath it.

At first, the beeping was dampened, then it fell completely silent.

Mission failed succesfully???

Ok. Now you definetly didn't have enough time to bake something before Lycaon came home.

Maybe at least you could make some sort of tiny dessert or something. You pick up the bowl with buttercream, smelling it carefully. At least it didn't smell strange, so it can't possibly that ba- nope. It's absolutely awfull.

You wince slightly as you feel a tiny kick in your belly "yeah yeah I got it. Don't put anything scetchy in my mouth" you sigh, rubbing carefull circles on it.

You abandon the bowl in the kitchen sink, and after having taken a big gulp of water in hopes it would cleanse your taste buds, you sit down at the kitchen table.

Now completely defeated.

Not short after you hear the front door and the all too familiar "I'm home!" The thuds of his metallic feet approached as you silently braced yourself for his reaction at the mess you created.

He enters the kitchen, instinctively covering his nose "y/n- ugh.. what is that smell..." he asks "and what happened in here?" His puzzled gaze wandering across the room before meeting yours "Welcome home! We missed you" you speak, feigning innocence.

You were just about to ask him how his day had been, as he approached you hurriedly "is something wrong? You look distraught my love" his clawed hand caressing your face carefully "no no, it's just-" you start before exhaling deeply "we need to talk" you start and his ears droop slightly about how serious you were all of a sudden "about what love?" He questions "It's about the baby" you start, and Lycaon knelt down infront of you "you're worrying me y/n. Did the doctors call? Is something with the baby?" He asks you, his voice laced with concern. "No the baby is fine, don't worry" you reassure him.

"I just.. wanted to surprise you is all" you tell him, and watched as his ears perked up again "surprise me?" he questiones again "yes, because you weren't able to attend the ultra sound" at these words his ears once again drooped, clearly still very upset with himself. "So to lift your spirits, I wanted to bake you a cake. So we could have our own little gender reveal party" you explain "but... well... you see how that turned out" you chuckle bitterly.

Lycaon's eyes wander around the kitchen again, and you couldn't tell if he was looking for something or simply assesing the chaos. Suddenly he stood up, walked a few feet and grabbed something from the kitchen counter before returning to your side.

He places the bowls he grabbed on the table next to you "ah, I wanted to use these fruits to decorate the cake" you say as he once again kneels down infront of you "we can still have our own little gender reveal party" he says, taking one of your hands in his and gently caressing it with his thumb "I'll just close my eyes, and you feed me the right fruit" he explains, his tail gently wagging behind him "Strawberry if it's a girl, and Blueberry if it's a boy" he says.

You smile at him amused, taking the bowls in your hand "alright, let's do it that way" and Lycaon closes his eyes at your confirmation. You chuckle to yourself, thinking about how to properly go about this situation. Placing the right fruit seems a bit difficult honestly.

"Okay, open up" you say, and place the fruits in Lycaons maw.

He chews for a moment, his eyebrow furrowing in thought "y/n... did you give me both?" He chuckles slightly confused "I did yes" you tell him, taking his hand and placing it on your belly. He pauses for a moment, trying to connect the dots "I don't understand" he tells you, your own thumb now caressing his hand.

"It's both Lycaon. It's twins" you reveal, watching as Lycaon processes the information you just gave him "wait. Twins?!!" He exclaimed shocked as you continued to chuckle "yeah, I've had the same reaction. At first I thought the baby was just very energetic, but instead there's always been two" you explain, watching Lycaon's tail thump excitedly against the floor.

From one moment to the next, you're pulled into a fluffy embrace, Lycaon burrying his head in the crook of your neck. Even a few whines rip from his throat, unable to contain his happiness "I take this as a sign that these are good news?" You say jokingly "Absolutely!" You hear him, as he tightens his embrace ever so slightly.

"Thank god we have enough space in the nursery for another bed" you say, gently scratching behind your husbands ear "though we need to buys more clothes and other essentials. What we have for now surely won't be enough" Lycaon stands up, placing a kiss first on your lips, then on your forehead "we can worry about all of that later" he says rolling up his sleeves. You stood up wanting to help him, but he gently stops you "why don't you go lie down in the livingroom? Make yourself comfortable, while I'll quickly clean here" you wanted to object but he interjects "I know, I know. You're not sick just pregnant" he chuckles.

"I can still help. I made this mess after all" you say rolling up your own sleeves but stop midway "uh... y/n...? What is this?" Lycaon asks, his voice mirroring his confused expression as he fishes the violated smoke detector out of your cake.

Your face heats up, and a short silence settles inbetween you two before you finally manage to speak up

"you know what?.. on second thought, I think I'm gonna lie down"

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it!

I'm now finally done with my final exams, and let me tell you. They were fucking difficult.

I'll probably get the results in the next two to three weeks, and I hope to god I passed because he put too much effort and energy into this just to fail so close before the finish line.

If I did pass, I'll probably be spending most of my time writing job applications. But we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

Oh btw. I've seen the 2.0 Trailer for ZZZ and that Black thiren dude peaked my interesst. Hopefully he won't just be an NPC, that would break my heart.

Anyways, I hope you're having a wonderfull day.

-Elio

[sleepyyzzz]

Wc: 1.5K

Warnings: This IS smut, read at YOUR own risk. Reader is a female, Hange has a dick, and Exhibitionism / risky sex.

Also this is not proofread!! 

You and Hange have been together almost a year now. However, you two have had to keep everything private and secret. 

Why? 

Well that was because you are a cadet she’s a commander. If anyone were to find out about you guys relationships, it would get you both in trouble. Even if you were 18+ it was still not seen as appropriate since Hange was nearly in her 40’s and like before, you are a cadet she’s a commander.

It’s been times that you guys have done stuff that has almost got either one of you in trouble.

 It’s the coming in with red lipstick marks on her white shirt or you coming in with painful looking hickeys.

Because of this and because of her Titan research, has been a little more distant with you. She feels like y’all are being a little too risky with the relationship.

But you wanted to see her so that’s what you did.

When you walked into her office, you weren’t greeted with a sight that would please you much. Hange was in her office, the palm of her hand rested on her forehead while her elbow sat on the table with a clicking pen in her hand. She was looking really stressed out right now.

 She had beads of sweat coming down her forehead, a cup of coffee next to her and scattered papers on the walls on the floor and on her desk. 

“Hange, what’s going on with you? You’ve been drowning yourself in work and you’ve been avoiding me. I miss you.”

“It’s work.. As much as I care about these Titans. I’m the only one contributing into the research of them. Erwin is dead, so it’s pretty much just been me and everything keeps piling up and it all ends up coming down to me. I don’t know what to do anymore.” Her gaze shifted to the papers all on her desk.

“why don’t we take a break, hmm? I can take your mind off of it for a while..” You said in a suggestive tone.

Hange perked up when she heard what you said, her tired expression becoming more lively. 

Your smile became a smirk as you went up to her and sat on her lap. 

She took in your lips, kissing you with passion. Your hands came up to cup her face, her own hands heading down to hold the waist that she loved. 

You began to soft grind onto her, deepening the kiss by adding a little bit of tongue. You can feel her start to get hard under you. 

She wasn’t the only one having a reaction.

You felt your pussy’s wetness soaking up your underwear. Soon you pulled back, both of you panting with a saliva trail holding y’all’s lips together. Once you had caught your breath you climbed under her desk.

“I don’t wanna distract you too much, so you can get back to it.”

She looked down, her mouth slightly open. “Okay..” She got comfortable before starting to study again. She was way more motivated by what you had did to her so she scribbled away on her paper. Lost in studies, she hadn’t realized that you were still under the table unzipping her pants.

 It wasn’t until the tip of her pulsing dick was in your mouth. Her lips quivered and she nervously swallowed, one hand finding your head. Her slim fingers thread carefully through your hair, making way through your tangles till she managed to get a solid grip. 

Just then there was a knock on her office door which was opened right after. It was Levi. Hange tapped your head with her fingers trying to tell you to stop. You did so, you mouth hovering over her swollen pink tip.

“Have you finished the paperwork yet?” Levi asked.

“Ye-yeah.. I’m almost done with the paperwork!” Hange replied, trembling over her own words.

“I’ll come back to get them, try and have them done by 5:00, sharp. Don’t spend you time messing around..”

“I got yo-“ She was cut off by the feeling of her entire dick being engulfed by the warmth of your mouth. Her thighs clenched around your head, crushing you a bit. 

Levi raised an eyebrow. “The hell?”

Hange sat stiffly, the feeling of you sucking her overwhelming her.

“I don’t even want to know..” Levi walked to the door and stopped in front of it. “Have those papers done by the time I’m back.” He said before leaving, closing the door behind him. He said something as he walked away but it was audible enough for you guys to hear.

“Y/N! You can’t be doing that! You could’ve gotten us in trouble..” Hange said a little panicked. 

However you looked up at her with those puppy eyes while sucking her off. She couldn’t stay mad at you at all. She leaned back in chair, her head falling as she panted and gasped. The feeling of your mouth was taking over her body. 

The veins in her dick were pulsing more than before.

Hange was getting close now. She grabbed your head and started to fuck your face. Her dick was coated with a bunch of slobber from you now. She dick a few hard thrusts into your mouth that made you gag, till she painted the back of your throat white. 

You were quick to pull back, catching your breath. Hange let the rest of her cum out onto your tongue. When she was finished, you swallowed the salty sweet cum and wiped off your mouth. You got from under the desk and stood up, your back facing her way.

She grabbed your pants and slipped them off, you panties falling with them. You lowered, your hips hovering over her dick. She positioned it towards your leaky entrance, shoving it into you.  

You moaned loud at the feeling. “Shh..lower your voice baby..” she whispered in your ear. After taking a few moments to adjust, you began to bounce on her lap. The sounds of your skin hitting hers filled the quietness of the room. 

You panted, occasionally letting out moans and squirms. You didn’t wanna upset Hange by being too loud so you kept your volume to a minimum. 

Your bouncing was boring Hange so shhe slid herself out of you. “Wait what?..Why’d you pull out-“ She stood up and bend you over onto the her desk, a bunch of paper falling to the floor. 

She put her dick back into you, your pussy quickly wrapping back around her.

“Fuck Y/N..” She said in a husky voice. She began to thrust into like an animal. You were panting heavy, a tear coming out of your eyes.

“I told you to lower your voice, not to be quiet. Lemme hear you baby..”

Which eat each thrust, you began to get louder and louder. Hange liked that so she smacked your ass, plunging her cock even deeper into you. When you pushed past your cervix and into THAT spot, you couldn’t help but make another loud moan, arching you back.

“Oh?..right here hm?” 

Never let Hange find your g-spot because you knew she would be abusing it until you came on her dick. And that’s just what she did.

Her thrusts had more force in them now. Hange put your face into the desk you gripped onto the edge of the table for support. You were being too loud so she had to shush you one way or another. She smacked your ass, slowing in speed and higher in force.

The clapping that filled the room was so loud now. Your pussy felt like it was on fire. You reached down to rub yourself but Hange swatted your hand and did it herself. She flicked your clit until it was SORE. You felt something coming, and it wasn’t just orgasm.

All of this was too overwhelming. Tears fell from your eyes and you were drooling all over Hanges paperwork. Your mind was hazy, the only thing that your mind could register was the feeling off her dick slamming into you.  Your legs were starting to get numb under her.

The feeling of your pussy clenching alarmed Hange. “You gonna cum, hm?? Yeah cum on this dick..” She said, recklessly flicking your clit side to sides you let that pressure that was building up inside you out. You had squirted all over Hange and her abdomen, for the first time. It turned Hange on so much..

“Damn..that’s a lot..” She said, as she kept going. The feeling off your weak pussy clenching her making her wanna cum even more

“P-please..no more..it’s to much..!” You moaned out, but Hange didn’t listen. She wasn’t gonna stop until she got to cum too. She thrusted into you harshly before filling you to the brim. She groaned out loud.

When you tried to pull away, she didn’t let you. “Mm mm..keep it in mamas.” She felt thrusting the cup inside of the you, not letting it out. Slowly, you relaxed and submitted to her as you had no other choice.

“That’s my good girl..”

[ysmtttty]

Again

Chapter 12

Read on AO3 or below || Chapter 11 Chapter 13

Lawyer AU where Eris and Nesta used to be rivals before she got married and decided to leave the field. But now she is divorced and determined to return to the legal field, even if it means working with Eris, not against him.

Eris knew it was a bad idea the moment his father called and asked for a favor. Beron Vanserra didn’t ask for favors. That would put him in a position of debt, and if there was one thing Beron avoided more than losing control, it was becoming indebted to anyone.

That was exactly why Eris approached the conversation with deep skepticism, briefly entertaining the idea that his father had been taken hostage.

Especially since they hadn’t spoken in over three years since the moment Beron had nearly destroyed his firm, just to prove that he could. Well, also because it had gained him some marginal profit through a secondary deal. But Eris knew the old bastard never cared that much about that money—it was the power trip, the satisfaction of making Eris crawl back and beg for a position at Vanserra Enterprises.

And yet, there he was, boarding a flight to Boston, heading back to his childhood home for a few days to help his father with some mysterious bullshit.

Of course, Eris was enough of an idiot not to tell anyone where he was really going. He told his assistant that he had a business meeting with new clients—big ones, the kind you take a plane for. He even asked her to book him a hotel room, otherwise she'd start asking questions about where he planned to stay.

Letting his brothers know that he was going to see their father was entirely out of the question. The only one who might have suspicions was Asher, to whom Eris had dumped all of his dogs and handed over some cash for the “inconvenience,” asking him to watch them all. He also silently prayed his younger brother wouldn’t interpret that as permission to steal another dog.

There were only two people Eris didn’t want to lie to. His mother, for obvious reasons, but for those same reasons, he hadn’t told her right away that he’d agreed to help. She would have tried to talk him out of it, and Eris would’ve gone anyway.

And Nesta. Nesta was the one he wanted to tell everything. To be fully honest with, no matter what. But burdening her with his family problems felt idiotic, especially considering her own family was no paradise either.

He just promised himself he would tell them all. Eventually.

Right now, he was trudging through the airport, dragging behind him a minimalist black suitcase with his golden initials on it. Eris reminded himself one last time that he was only doing this because afterward, his father would owe him. Then, maybe, he could finally demand Beron stop interfering in his life and business. Stop throwing wrenches into things at the most random, inconvenient moments, ruining Eris's sanity and progress.

He spotted a man in a suit holding a sign with his name. Eris handed him the suitcase without a word and followed him to the parking lot, where a black limousine was already waiting. He climbed in without hesitation.

His hometown stirred a strange blend of nostalgia and melancholy in him. But it wasn’t really about childhood memories—more about adolescence. That carefree, reckless youth where he had ambition in spades and not nearly enough brains to understand how to execute it.

They drove through familiar streets toward Beron’s office, and Eris didn’t bother with his suitcase, knowing it would be taken care of.

He lingered outside the office for a moment, partly collecting his thoughts, partly just taking in the view. Still the same Back Bay he’d left behind. Maybe, if it weren’t a matter of principle, Eris would’ve preferred to stay here. He always liked Boston more.

With a deep breath, he entered one of the skyscrapers. At the reception desk, he told the young woman that he was expected, and he was. She politely walked him to the elevator and gave directions on where to go next.

When the elevator reached the top floor, it announced its arrival with a characteristic chime before the doors opened. Eris had no trouble locating his father’s office, which he entered without knocking because when it came to this man, manners were optional.

Beron, predictably, was not pleased with this display of disrespect. His graying brows drew together in a scowl, his face twisting with irritation—a sight that mildly pleased Eris, not that he showed it.

“I thought knocking was one of the first things I taught you,” Beron grumbled, settling more comfortably into his chair.

Eris just shrugged indifferently and shut the door behind him, understanding that this conversation would likely be long and certainly not peaceful.

“You wanted to see me. Well, here I am,” he said, taking the available seat and crossing one leg over the other.

“That’s the first thing you say to your father?” Beron asked, his tone steeped in obvious displeasure. There was something bruised in it. Maybe even hurt pride.

Eris, however, could not have cared less about what the old man was feeling. He just wanted to get this over with and get the hell out of here. As much as he loved Boston, being in the same city as his father for more than a few hours felt like someone was sucking all the oxygen out of the room and kicking the ground out from under him “just to keep him humble.”

“I’d be much more interested in skipping to the part where you tell me why you called me here,” Eris remarked dryly, interlacing his fingers.

His father simply huffed and muttered something about poor manners as he rummaged through his wooden desk, presumably looking for his precious little box. Eris noted how nothing had changed. There he was, pulling out that same wooden case where he kept his cigars. There he was, lighting one. And there it was—that acrid smell reaching Eris’s nose, making him wrinkle it in distaste.

Then Beron lazily reached for the landline phone and called his assistant, who probably rotated several times a year, each time replaced with some attractive young woman he had likely cheated on his former wife with in the past.

Eris sat in calculated calm, knowing full well that this performance of “authority” no longer had any real power. He just watched as his father barked an order for two cups of coffee and then hung up without waiting for a reply.

And, naturally, they sat in silence until two minutes later, a flustered young woman burst in with two steaming cups she barely managed not to spill, setting them down on the desk. Eris gave her a quiet thank you before she scurried away.

“The favor,” he reminded him when the door closed again. “You asked for one.”

Beron took a sip of coffee and winced, whether from the bitterness or the reminder, Eris couldn’t say.

“Yes,” was all he said.

And silence fell again.

Eris noticed his leg bouncing and forced himself to stop.

“This is the part where you tell me what kind of favor you need,” he said in a soft voice, as if speaking to someone with dementia. The patronizing tone was something he could get away with since his father clearly did need help.

Beron grunted, recognizing the tone immediately. “You should show more respect to the man whose office you’re sitting in. And whose house you’ll be living in.”

“I could leave this office and this city right now. No need to live in any house but my own.”

“I still don’t understand what I did wrong raising you.”

The fact that Beron even called his behavior “raising” was disgusting. Eris bit back a sarcastic comment, knowing they’d be stuck in this verbal shitstorm forever if he didn’t rein it in.

There was no point. Beron would always believe he’d been right. Eris would always think he was a complete bastard. He didn’t even call him “father” in his head all that often anymore.

The last time they’d seen each other in person was about three years ago, and even that had been too much. As for anything resembling a family setting, they hadn’t had that in even longer.

“I need a lawyer,” Beron said sharply.

“Tried reaching out to the firm you sold half my personal files to?” Eris asked venomously, smirking. He hadn’t meant to escalate things, but there was something about the audacity of this man that forced his hand.

“Holding grudges is bad for the heart.”

“Arrogance is bad for your chances of getting my help.”

They kept staring at each other like a round of staring could somehow resolve the shit piled between them. Mountains of resentment. Countless battles. Long ago, they’d stopped being father and son. Eris couldn’t pinpoint the moment it happened, only that he’d never regretted the shift.

“I’m not a mind reader, so how about you start explaining what happened,” he said, calmer now, though the tension still clung to his voice.

Beron stayed silent. So long, in fact, that Eris was sure it was some kind of game. Another manipulative move or indulgent whim to make him wait as long as possible. Maybe even squirm, despite the fact that Beron was the one in need.

Then something clicked.

His father was humiliated. The whole situation, this conversation—it reeked of shame. He was silent because admitting he needed help, even to himself, was beneath him. Explaining the details? Even worse.

Eris smirked to himself at the realization, though outwardly his face remained cold and detached. They were speaking as businessmen, not family. That tone had to be preserved.

“I’m being accused of something,” Beron finally said, reluctance thick in his voice. His jaw clenched, tension forming visible ridges beneath his cheekbones. “Something serious.”

“How serious?” Eris frowned.

Beron looked him straight in the eyes, then exhaled loudly. “Federal level.”

Over the next half hour, Eris dragged more information out of him, word by painful word. “Federal level” wasn’t nearly specific enough. It took considerable effort to get Beron to say more than two sentences at a time, but eventually, he did. And what Eris heard wasn’t what he wanted to hear.

“Tax fraud?” he nearly groaned in exasperation and disappointment.

Beron only clenched his fists tighter, his scowl deepening.

“Seriously, what the hell did you need those twelve million for when we’ve had family money our entire lives?” Eris frowned again, utterly baffled by the greed.

It was one thing to engage in such idiocy when you were broke—still wrong, still unethical and dumb, but at least marginally justifiable. But when you were from an old-money family with millions in the bank, why the hell would you jump into fraudulent schemes just to make a buck?

“Says the man who built his career defending people like me,” Beron growled, slamming his fist against the desk. The sound involuntarily made Eris tense, just for a second. A betraying second.

“At least I can confidently say I don’t have problems with the feds,” Eris snapped back.

Beron rose sharply from his chair. Eris’s entire body tensed, but he held his gaze steady, eyes narrowing, refusing to show any sign of being affected.

“I asked you here to help me fix this, not to deliver lectures, son,” Beron hissed, leaning over his chair.

Eris straightened, meeting his father’s eyes without flinching. “And I came here to hear your plea. I never said I’d accept.”

“You’re my son. Like it or not, your reputation is tied to mine,” Beron said with a predator’s smile, clearly thinking he’d found the perfect pressure point. “It’s in your best interest to keep me out of prison.”

“Keep you out?” Eris arched an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t the priority be making sure no one takes your house and drains every last penny from your accounts?”

He saw the reaction. Caught the flash of something like fear in his father’s eyes. Beron Vanserra was a greedy bastard—the idea of losing even a single cent was intolerable to him.

Eris took a dark satisfaction in seeing that flicker of panic. Something to remember fondly during worst days. The moment karma finally caught up.

Of course, Beron masked it quickly—his face hardened within a split second. He looked more irritated than scared, more disgruntled than shaken. But Eris knew what he’d seen, and he was pleased.

He also knew that, in some twisted way, his father was right. His reputation would suffer if Beron were convicted of fraud. And worse, how would it look? The father of the best defense lawyer in the city behind bars? And Eris hadn’t helped? Or worse—had failed to help?

They’d eat him alive.

As much as it stung, public perception held more sway than truth. No one would care about the nuance of their relationship. All they’d see were headlines painting Eris as a callous, ungrateful son. And they’d make their judgments.

That’s when Eris realized he’d have to make the dumbest choice imaginable.

“I’ll think about it,” he said instead of giving a clear answer, rising from his chair.

Somehow, Beron read his face. He knew Eris wouldn’t need to think at all. The smug smirk on the old bastard’s face made that perfectly clear.

“We’ll talk more over dinner sometime,” Beron said.

Eris didn’t respond as he walked out of the office.

***

Eris took a cab to the hotel his assistant had booked for him. He hadn’t planned to actually stay there, but now the idea of going to the family house was unbearable. He needed space. A neutral environment. Anything not tainted by Beron Vanserra.

Coming here had been a mistake. Thinking that Beron asking for help could somehow lead to future gain was an even bigger one. Technically, it was true—he could leverage this. But Eris wasn’t a miracle worker. He couldn’t promise a win in such a shady case.

He stood on the balcony, regretting that he didn’t smoke.

It was one of those unshakable principles he’d set for himself at seventeen and never broke. Smoking was a financial sinkhole, not to mention the charming bonus of lung cancer. Eris had turned away from the habit early on. Tried it once or twice, didn’t like it, never continued.

Still, standing there now, he thought smoking might’ve felt damn appropriate.

Instead, he gripped the railing with both hands, leaning forward against it with his whole body.

The scent of a nearby bakery drifted up from below, and Eris couldn’t help but think of Nesta. He’d passed by and seen chocolate croissants in the display—she would’ve liked those. Lately, he found himself constantly caught in thoughts like that. Would she like this? Would that make her smile? Everything he saw, every idle moment, seemed to orbit around her in some small way.

Eris knew without a doubt she wouldn’t approve of him considering this mess of a case. They had both built their careers quickly and ruthlessly, mostly by taking on guaranteed wins. That was part of why the legal community had grown to resent Eris so quickly. But he couldn’t care less.

A good portion of the city’s lawyers still hated him, but that had never stopped them from lining up to apply for a job at his firm. Hate was hate—but when it came to opportunity, they all knew where to go.

His phone buzzed in the pocket of his trousers. Then again. And again, before Eris finally pulled it out to see who it was.

It was Astrid. And he couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips.

“Thansk for the trip to the doggies!”

“It’s u!”

Below the two messages was a doodle of a stick figure with a wild mop of orange hair. Eris laughed aloud when he saw it.

His fingers danced across the screen, typing out a reply.

“To be drawn by such a talented young artist? I’m honored.”

“hihi! Thansk”

Eris was about to slide the phone back into his pocket when Astrid kept messaging.

“r we going to the dogs again?”

“We are.”

“This weekend?” And several pleading face emojis.

Eris smiled. He wanted to say yes. But first, he needed to check with Nesta before Astrid started pestering her with “but he said we could.” And second, he wasn’t even sure he’d be done with all of this shit by Friday. Most likely, he wouldn’t.

“Not this weekend, little lady. But we’ll go again. Promise.”

Astrid replied with a flood of crying emojis, then sent three hearts, and that was the end of their conversation. Eris smiled at the screen, scrolling through the message thread filled with stickers.

Then he set the phone down and rubbed his face with both hands, exhaling.

He needed a drink. He needed to dig up every detail about this case. He needed to solve it as fast as possible and forget this trip like a bad dream. He was an adult. He could say no.

Even if it might hurt his career...

That’s what pissed him off about his father. Whether Beron was present or not, he still managed to fuck up Eris’s life by sheer gravitational pull—an ancient curse made flesh.

Seriously, the man could either intentionally sabotage him or simply ruin things by existing in the same universe. It was unfair. And deeply, deeply annoying.

***

Eris had lunch at a small café, let his assistant know he’d be staying longer than planned, and ended up running into an old classmate he hadn’t wanted to talk to—but the guy turned out to be persistent.

“Vanserra! I thought I was seeing things,” the man said brightly, already moving as if to hug him. But Eris saw it coming and extended a hand for a handshake instead, offering a polite smile.

“Tamlin,” he said, hoping he hadn’t gotten the name wrong. But the blond man beamed, clearly thrilled he’d been remembered. Well, this was going to be awkward.

“It’s been years since graduation,” Tamlin grinned. “Got time for a coffee?”

“Why not?” Eris said smoothly.

They used to be something like friends. A very loose “something,” but it counted. Tamlin had often walked around alone, not by choice. Eris also walked alone, by choice.

Tamlin had always been painfully awkward, incapable of talking to girls—hell, to guys, too, if he tried at all. Eris had found it amusing, hanging around him as a kind of free comic relief for the monotony of school days. Especially since Tamlin would chatter endlessly about houseplants and greenhouse techniques, subjects he clearly knew far more about than the law.

Eris had often wondered what the hell he was even doing in law school. Eventually, he’d gotten an answer: Tamlin’s father wanted him to be a lawyer. So a lawyer he became.

“How have you been?” Tamlin continued smiling. He looked much better than in their university days. His long hair was now well-groomed, and he’d filled out a lot. There was even a pleasant energy to him now.

Of course, like many of Eris’s acquaintances, Tamlin had that certain tiredness in his eyes—the kind that came from being overfed on life, from some unspoken kind of sorrow.

And so they talked.

They spoke for almost an hour, during which Eris learned Tamlin had five cats, a string of failed and toxic relationships behind him, and had recently had to walk away from a major client due to a conflict of interest.

Eris, in turn, offered scattered bits about his firm, what he was doing now, and of course, he couldn’t not talk about his beloved dogs. The conversation about pets felt especially easy. He never would’ve guessed he’d be chatting about his furry children with an old classmate.

Eventually, it was time to part. Eris clapped him on the shoulder, said he was glad to see him, and, in the usual style of such encounters, agreed to meet again sometime soon. He seriously doubted circumstances would allow it, but when Tamlin suggested it, he couldn’t bring himself to say no.

***

For the next three days, Eris stayed at the hotel, avoiding that so-called “family dinner.” He holed up in his room, working remotely on whatever he could to overload his brain. Then he would just wander around the city without any destination.

He wanted to help Nesta with her custody appeal, but she’d told him she was still waiting for a court date—one that suspiciously never seemed to materialize. Eris made a mental note to look into it but kept letting it slide, especially when Nesta insisted she could handle it herself.

Handle it? Sure. But should she have to handle it alone? Absolutely not.

Still, since she kept him at a distance on this one, Eris didn’t push. He did, however, scroll through his contacts occasionally, debating which judge he might call to get a real answer on why things were stalled.

They also kept calling each other in the evenings.

The first time, Eris called to ask about the court update and discuss a few work things.

The second time, Nesta was the one who called. She asked if he was busy and if he had time to talk. After that, they ended up chatting for almost an hour, just talking about their days.

She told him about a particularly annoying client she was currently dealing with—one her small legal team was working hard to manage. Eris just laughed and asked if he should add the guy to a blacklist, to which she objected.

Eris didn’t tell her the details of his trip, though he wanted to. He put it off for now, figuring it was better to talk about these things in person rather than over the phone. He only mentioned being in Boston, and Nesta replied that she’d love to visit the city again. He made a mental note right then and there.

By the end of the week, Eris finally went home. If the place could still be called that.

He hadn’t been there in so many years, he’d almost forgotten what it looked like. Red brick walls, an abundance of greenery on both sides, intricately shaped hedges, rose bushes lining the fence—bushes his mother had once planted herself. Though most likely, these were new ones.

He was greeted by maids with polite smiles, but he waved them off, saying he didn’t need anything, and they left him alone. Climbing the creaky stairs to the second floor, Eris entered his old room. It was just as he’d left it.

Bland, grey, and nearly empty. There was a desk with a chair, a large bed, and an empty wardrobe.

He wandered through the now-empty halls. Long ago, they’d echoed with children’s laughter, before Beron’s hatred for noise silenced everything. Eris hoped, deep down, that the old bastard missed those days—because there was no chance he was actually enjoying the oppressive silence that now filled the house.

He took a walk around the property and chatted with the few remaining staff members he still recognized from childhood. As dinnertime approached, he descended the stairs just as the clock struck seven, knowing his father was unlikely to deviate from his rigid schedule.

Just as he expected, Beron was already seated, waiting to start the meal. His lips were pressed into a thin line, brows furrowed. Angry, no doubt, that Eris was a few seconds late—something Eris found mildly amusing.

He took the seat at the far end of the ridiculously long dining table, because that’s where the place had been set for him.

How they were supposed to hold a conversation across that distance was a mystery. They’d have to shout just to be heard. Still, the maids left the room and closed the heavy wooden doors behind them, effectively sealing off any sound.

“Have you thought it over?” Beron asked impatiently.

The whole situation made him uncharacteristically nervous, which in turn made Eris tense.

He looked up at his father. A man whose grave Eris had fantasized about spitting on. A man he’d once sworn revenge on, plotting to bring down his business in such spectacular fashion that the grey hairs on his head would multiply exponentially. A man who had cheated on his mother and made her life miserable until she finally won the divorce.

This wasn’t the kind of man Eris would ever help.

No. He should stand up and leave. Right now. Let the media scream all they wanted—Eris wasn’t going to sell his principles. He shouldn’t even be entertaining the thought of helping. If Beron went to prison, so much the better. Eris could personally make sure he ended up in the worst one possible and sleep peacefully at night.

“No,” he said firmly, methodically slicing his meat. The tone was calm, casual, almost indifferent—he knew how much that irritated Beron.

“How much?” his father asked.

“I don’t need money.”

Silence. The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife, but Eris continued eating, unfazed, even though his appetite had disappeared minutes ago.

“There must be something you want,” his father pressed stubbornly.

Was there anything he wanted from the man? Maybe once. But not anymore. Eris truly needed nothing from him.

“Tit for tat—every resource I have at your disposal,” Beron kept going, clearly desperate to gain some leverage. He needed control, and the desperation behind his words was impossible to miss.

Eris looked at him again, lazy and unimpressed. One thought had been circling in his mind, and he decided to finally say it aloud.

“I could ask you to stop interfering in my and my mother’s businesses,” he said coolly, suppressing the rage he’d buried years ago. “But if I let the feds lock you up, you’ll stop anyway. So I’m not sure I really need anything from you.”

If Beron thought Eris and Aurora hadn’t figured out who was behind the periodic attacks on her brand, he was sorely mistaken. His sabotage attempts—clumsy or otherwise—rarely succeeded, but their frequency was a pain in the ass.

“Then maybe you should start packing and head back home,” Beron said too calmly, and that didn’t sit well with Eris.

There was something in his voice. That faux indifference they both knew how to fake. Something clicked in Eris’s brain, and suddenly Beron wasn’t anxious anymore. Whatever he was planning, Eris wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

“Maybe you’ll have time to stop by someone who’s waiting for you,” Beron added cryptically.

A bluff. A clean, familiar, painfully transparent bluff.

He didn’t know anything about Eris’s life. Certainly not who was in it. That line was a blind shot. It had to be.

“Pathetic shot,” Eris said flatly.

“I only need a few hours to set things in motion.”

He couldn’t hold back the cold smile. “Can’t convince me, so you’re turning to threats?”

Beron only shrugged. “What can I say? If my ship is sinking, I’m taking down as many people with me as I can. You’ll be first on that list.”

“You’re not helping your case.”

“And you’re not helping the people you care about,” Beron sneered. “I can make people’s lives very difficult. No one knows that better than you.”

Eris really wanted to throw a knife at him and see what happened. Would he scream? What would the maids do? How fast could he escape? How hard would it be to cover up a patricide? Well…

“The only thing I can offer you is not joining the feds pro bono when they inevitably grab your sorry ass and drag you into court,” Eris said sharply, eyes glinting cold. “If you think threatening me is going to make me save your sorry hide, too bad. Not happening.”

He exhaled and stood up from the table.

“We’re done here,” Eris said.

Beron shot him a furious glare. The old man clearly still wasn’t used to having zero control over his own son. Eris took pleasure in how hard it was for him to accept the new order of things.

“We are not done,” his father thundered. “If you think my words are empty, I can quickly remind you otherwise,” Beron went on, his hands clutching the silverware so tightly it looked like they might bend.

The phone buzzed in Eris’s pocket, and he reached for it, ignoring the seething look his father threw his way.

“Eris Vanserra, I’m talking to you,” Beron growled.

Nesta’s name was on the screen, and that was all that mattered. Eris’s career, his reputation—none of it meant anything in comparison.

“I’ll be back,” he muttered, walking out the door and ignoring Beron’s protests.

The moment he shut the heavy wooden door of the dining room behind him, Eris answered the call and heard sobbing. His heart clenched sharply, then started hammering with anxiety about what might have happened.

“Nesta? Are you okay?” he asked urgently, gripping the phone tightly.

A quiet sob, a muffled “fuck,” car horns in the background. And then her voice.

“Eris, I…” she exhaled shakily. “Can you come?”

“I’m in Boston—”

“Shit, right, I didn’t—”

“I’ll be there in two hours. Will you be alright until then, love?” Eris asked, hating himself for this entire damn trip. He should’ve been there.

“Yes,” came her soft reply.

“I’m coming, okay. Just wait a little for me, yeah?”

A few reassuring words, and he hung up. He was about to bolt for the door, ready to head straight to the airport—he’d deal with the stuff left at the hotel tomorrow—but a hand gripped his shoulder like a vice.

He turned to find Beron holding onto him. Thick fingers, calloused skin, heavy rings on every knuckle. Eris remembered too well what it felt like to be hit by that hand. It didn’t scare him now, but the memories it unlocked were undeniably unpleasant. For a split second, he felt a phantom taste of the coppery tang of blood in his mouth.

“I don’t know where you think you’re going, but I can block every road home for you with a single phone call,” Beron hissed.

So much for that soundproof door. Eris had definitely overestimated it. And he’d definitely fucked up.

Jerking his shoulder free, he shot his father a murderous glare. He had to go. He needed to book the next flight, not stand here buried in someone else’s ancient mess.

“I’m leaving regardless,” Eris hissed back. “And it’s in your best interest not to be in my way when I do.”

He didn’t give a single damn about consequences right now. He wasn’t listening to a word of the bullshit his father was spewing and simply walked out of the house. That door had always been there, always in view—now he had the strength and the courage to step through it, without a second thought about what might happen if he ever came back.

Media scandals, federal investigations, his father’s threats—all of it faded into static. The only thing Eris knew was that Nesta needed him, and he was going to keep his promise and get to her as fast as humanly possible.