#I was gonna move on from this but then i keep seeing fix it arts that shows aku smiling and it triggered this rant from me | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dreamersparacosm · 2 months ago

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jeon jungkook - under the checkered flag (part four)

warnings ; alcohol consumption, reader is STILL a clown, jk is also a clown

prompt ; in which a girl who doesn’t believe in risks takes the biggest one of all—falling for a man who lives for the thrill.

note ; it’s actually sickening how quick i wrote this part bc i was so excited for their story i need to get a life. i really relate to reader so i see her struggles but also jk is so sexy so what we doin fr girl. (don’t get excited yall they’re not even close to smashing yet.. or idk, maybe.. who’s to say?) all ur love and comments on the last part made me so happy yeehaw

playlist here

series masterlist here

“You need to get out there.”

Jisoo’s voice is firm, her arms crossed as she leans against your desk, watching you like you’re some kind of puzzle she’s determined to solve.

You barely glance up from your screen, fingers still moving across the keyboard. “I get out there.”

Jisoo snorts. “Yeah, to his house.”

You pause, fingers stuck mid-air. Jisoo has unfortunately read you better than yourself again. She really should get an award for deciphering your inner monologues.

She smirks, triumphant. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

You roll your eyes, exhaling sharply as you sit back in your chair. “What’s your point, Jisoo?”

“My point,” she says, flipping her hair over her shoulder, “is that you are doing absolutely nothing about the Jungkook situation, and I’m sick of watching it.”

“There is no Jungkook situation,” you argue, though even as you say it, the words feel wrong in your mouth.

Jisoo just looks at you with a familiar gaze, and you wither under her stare. You could not be more obvious if you tried.

“You’re impossible,” she sighs. “Fine. If you’re not gonna do anything about him, at least give my friend a shot.”

You blink. “What?”

Jisoo perks up instantly, sensing an opening. “I’ve got a friend. Great guy. Works in finance. Super chill. Hot in a ‘wears suits and probably owns expensive whiskey’ kind of way. Your type.”

You frown, shaking your head. “I don’t have a type.”

Jisoo grins. “Oh, you do. And it’s not Jungkook.”

Something in your stomach twists. She’s right. On any good day, about three months ago, you would’ve laughed if you saw Jungkook in a bar, probably would’ve made a comment on how tattoos are disrespectful. Now all you do is admire the art on his arm, wanting desperately to trace your fingers on the designs.

Jisoo doesn’t notice—or maybe she does and just doesn’t care—because she’s already pulling out her phone, scrolling quickly.

“Okay, look.” She shoves the screen toward you, displaying a picture of a man. He’s well-dressed, smiling, objectively attractive. “See? Handsome. Stable job. Probably goes to bed at a reasonable hour.”

You hesitate. You should say no. You should shut this down immediately. But instead, you stare at the photo a second too long. There’s a few reasons for this: Jungkook hasn’t texted you all day, and you keep thinking about him, about that conversation, about how he looked at you when he said, "Yeah, I fucking know. It’s all I think about."

You need to fix whatever this is.

And maybe, just maybe this will help. Maybe this will prove something to yourself.

“Fine,” you murmur, looking away. “I’ll go.”

Jisoo gasps, delighted. “Oh my god. You never say yes to things. I’m so proud.”

You shake your head. “It’s just one date.”

“One date,” she repeats, winking. “And if you don’t like him, then at least we’ve confirmed one thing.”

You frown. “What?”

Jisoo leans in, her voice teasing but knowing. “That you’re already taken.”

Your stomach clenches and you glare at her, but she just laughs.

And for the rest of the day, you pretend like her words don’t echo in your head.

By the time you get home, the weight of the day settles into your bones. The office had been its usual whirlwind—meetings bleeding into each other, emails stacking up, numbers flashing across your screen in an endless stream of data. But even as you buried yourself in spreadsheets and client calls, your mind had been elsewhere.

Jisoo’s words still linger, curling around your thoughts like smoke. “If you don’t like him, then at least we’ve confirmed one thing: That you’re already taken."

You exhale, shaking your head as you slip off your blazer, tossing it over the back of your chair. It’s just one date. Just one night to remind yourself of what you want. And it has nothing to do with Jungkook. You cross your heart and hope to die.

Your phone vibrates against your nightstand almost comically as the thought leaves your mind.

Jungkook: Wanna FaceTime?

Your stomach does something stupid, and you ignore it. Instead, you slide into bed, propping your phone up against your pillow before answering the call.

Jungkook’s face fills the screen, messy hair, damp like he just got out of the shower, a hoodie adorning his body. His room is dimly lit, a lamp casting warm light behind him.

“Hey,” you say, voice softer than you mean it to be.

Jungkook smirks, shifting to get comfortable. “Hey yourself. Rough day?”

You hum, rubbing a hand over your face. “Long day.”

Jungkook watches you for a beat, like he’s reading something in your expression. “Need me to come beat up your boss?”

You huff a quiet laugh. “Tempting.”

He grins, pleased, and the tension in your shoulders eases just a little. See, this is normal. This is you and him. Effortless, easy.

And then, before you can overthink it, the words slip out. “Oh—Jisoo set me up on a date.”

Jungkook stills. For a fraction of a second, his face is completely blank. No teasing smirk, no lighthearted remark. Just… nothing.

“Oh yeah?” He leans back, resting his head against the pillow. “Guess it was bound to happen eventually.”

Something about the way he says it makes your stomach tighten. You tilt your head slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jungkook shrugs. “Just figured it’d happen sooner or later. You’re—” He waves a hand vaguely. “You know.”

You frown. “No, I don’t.”

His jaw tightens, but his voice stays infuriatingly neutral. “You’re the whole ‘finance, responsible, put-together’ thing. Kinda makes sense you’d go for some suit-wearing guy with a stable job.”

Your brows knit together. “First of all, you haven’t seen the guy. And two, you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Jungkook exhales through his nose, a short breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “It’s not.”

But something in his voice makes it seem like it is.

You narrow your eyes slightly. “Are you—” You hesitate, studying him. His body language is relaxed, but his responses are shorter, his usual easy smirk nowhere to be found. “Are you weird about this?”

Jungkook scoffs. “Why the fuck would I be weird?”

You blink. “I don’t know. You just sound—”

“I sound fine,” he says, a little too quickly.

You raise a brow. “Okay.”

A beat of silence.

Jungkook shifts, adjusting his hoodie strings, eyes flickering off to the side. “So. Who’s the guy?”

You hesitate. “Just a friend of Jisoo’s. Works in finance.”

Jungkook hums, expression unreadable. “Right. Of course he does.”

Your stomach flips, and you don’t know why.

You cross your arms over your chest, tilting your head. “Why do I feel like you’re judging me right now?”

Jungkook smirks, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not judging. Just… making an observation.”

You hate how much this feels like a shift, like something between you is stretching too tight, pulling at the seams of whatever you’ve built together. It’s just a date. Jungkook shouldn’t care. And yet, his voice is slightly clipped, his jaw tighter than before. He definitely cares.

You chew on your lip. “Are you sure you’re—”

“I’m good,” Jungkook interrupts, forcing an easy grin. “Just curious, that’s all.”

Somehow, that bothers you more, because he’s not good and neither are you. Jungkook shifts again, rolling onto his side, resting his chin on his hand as he exhales through his nose. And then, just like that, he changes the subject. “So, did you ever end up telling your coworker off today?”

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “What?”

Jungkook smirks, his expression relaxing, like he’s willing the tension out of the conversation. “Your coworker. The one who won’t stop bringing those tuna sandwiches that smell. Did you finally tell him where to shove it?”

You huff a small laugh, sinking further into your pillows. “I don’t think I have the luxury of doing that.”

“Shame.” Jungkook tuts, shaking his head. “If I were your coworker, I’d be terrified of you.”

You snort. “You would not.”

“Oh, I would.” He leans closer to the camera, eyes glinting. “You’ve got that whole quiet-but-powerful thing going on. Like you’re secretly running the whole operation but letting everyone think they have control.”

Your cheeks warm, but you roll your eyes. “That’s ridiculous.”

Jungkook grins. “I’m just saying, you do have a certain… intimidation factor.”

“You’re literally a race car driver. I’m pretty sure you have the intimidation factor,” You laugh.

“Yeah, but mine’s expected. Yours is dangerous.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling, and just like that, the conversation falls into the same effortless rhythm it always does.

You talk about your day. He talks about his: how he nearly fell asleep during a sponsorship meeting, how he almost punched a guy for stealing his protein bar, how he spent an hour trying to fix something in his car before realizing he’d been using the wrong tool the whole time. You laugh. He teases you. It’s normal.

For a moment, you forget about the tension from earlier. You forget about the date looming over you. You forget about everything except the fact that this—talking to Jungkook, feeling at ease with him—feels like the most natural thing in the world.

You don’t even realize how late it gets. You yawn, rubbing your eyes, and Jungkook notices. “Tired?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He exhales, shifting onto his back, staring at the ceiling for a moment. Then, before you can say goodnight, “I hope you have fun tomorrow.”

Your stomach clenches. He says it so genuinely. So smoothly, like it’s just another sentence, just another thing he’d say at the end of any conversation. But you know better.

You bite the inside of your cheek, studying him through the screen. “Thanks.”

Jungkook hums, nodding slightly. “Goodnight, [Y/N].”

Your heart stumbles over its own rhythm. You don’t know why, but it does. The sound of your name falling from his mouth with ease seems to stop you in your tracks. You don’t say anything for a beat, but Jungkook doesn’t press. He just watches you, waiting.

Finally, you swallow. “Goodnight, Jungkook.”

And when the call ends, you’re left staring at the dark screen, the silence of your room feeling impossibly loud.

Because despite everything—despite the fact that you’re supposed to be going on a date tomorrow—you can’t stop wishing it was with him.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Getting ready shouldn’t feel like this.

It shouldn’t feel like dragging yourself through wet cement, like trying to convince your own reflection that this is something you actually want. But as you sit at your vanity, smoothing concealer under your eyes, brushing powder over your cheeks, curling your lashes with precision, you feel nothing. Not excitement, not nerves. Just… a dull awareness that this is happening, and that somehow, you agreed to it.

Your phone sits beside you, screen dark, mockingly silent. Jungkook hasn’t texted you all day. You don’t know why you expected him to. It’s not like he texts you every day. (Except he does. Almost always. But maybe not today. Maybe not when he knows where you’re going tonight.)

You swallow, shaking your head, brushing a final layer of lip gloss over your lips before grabbing your bag.

This is fine. This is good for you. You need to stop thinking about Jungkook like this. You need to prove that you can.

The drive to the restaurant is quiet.

The city moves around you—neon signs flickering, headlights spilling across the pavement, people weaving in and out of late-night cafés. You grip the steering wheel a little too tightly, your thoughts a little too loud.

Jisoo’s friend’s name is Minho. He’s perfect on paper. Finance guy. Smart, successful, stable. The kind of man your mother would approve of. The kind of man who won’t leave you breathless, who won’t make you feel like you’re hurtling toward something dangerous every time he looks at you. The kind of man who makes sense. And yet, you find yourself dreading every second of this.

You pull into the parking lot, smoothing invisible wrinkles from your dress, inhaling deep as you step out of your car. This is fine. You’re going to have dinner. Make conversation. Enjoy yourself. You will not think about Jungkook.

Minho is already waiting when you arrive.

He’s tall, dressed in a crisp button-down and tailored slacks. His smile is warm, his handshake firm but not too firm. He opens the door for you, gestures for you to go first, waits for you to sit before taking his own seat. It’s… nice. Everything about him is nice.

The restaurant hums with quiet chatter, soft lighting casting a golden glow over the tables. A waiter appears, handing you menus, listing off the specials in a pleasant tone.

You glance up briefly, offering a polite smile. “What do you recommend?”

Minho hums, scanning the menu. “The chicken looks good. But honestly, I’m not too picky. What about you?”

Your lips part, ready to agree with him on the steak. And then a thought crosses your mind. Jungkook wouldn’t have asked. Jungkook would’ve smirked, leaned back in his chair, teased you about ordering the most boring thing on the menu just to be safe.

Your stomach tightens. You clear your throat, forcing a small smile. “I think I’ll get pasta.”

Minho nods approvingly. “Solid choice.”

The night, the conversation flows easily enough. Minho is polite, well-spoken. He asks about your job, actually listens when you explain the intricacies of consulting, nodding in understanding, adding his own insights about the financial world. It’s… easy. But it’s not effortless. Not like it is with Jungkook.

Minho tells a story about a trip he took last summer. You laugh, because you’re supposed to. But the whole time, your mind is somewhere else. Jungkook would’ve made fun of you for fake-laughing right now.

You reach for your phone, out of habit. Still nothing. Not a single message from him. Your fingers hesitate over the screen before you force yourself to set it back down.

“So, what do you do for fun?” Minho asks, sipping his wine.

You blink. “Fun?”

He chuckles. “Yeah. What do you do when you’re not working?”

Your mind blanks as you come to a detrimental realization. Jungkook is your fun. Wine nights. Video games. Him annoying you just to get a reaction.

You chew on the inside of your cheek, feeling ridiculous. “Uh. I don’t know.”

Minho laughs lightly. “I get it. Work keeps you busy.”

You nod, nearly choking on your saliva as it goes down. You should like this, you should like him, but you don’t. And the realization makes you feel sick. On autopilot, you check your phone again.

That’s really when it hits you. You don’t want to be here. You don’t care if Minho is the perfect guy. You don’t want polite smiles and easy conversation. You want teasing smirks and sarcastic remarks and late-night ramen and someone who reads every little thing about you before you even say it out loud. You want Jungkook, and no amount of pretending is going to change that.

Somewhere in the middle of the date, as time ticks dangerously slow, you realize you need to leave in the middle of his story.

Minho is talking—something about his last trip to Jeju, a hiking trail, how he got lost but ended up finding the best seafood restaurant tucked into the cliffs—but you’re barely listening.

You’re nodding at the right moments, humming in agreement, sipping at your wine, but your mind is somewhere else, or rather—with someone else.

Jungkook wouldn’t have let you zone out like this. Jungkook would have noticed the second your mind drifted, smirked at you across the table, called you out on it just to see you flustered.

But Minho just keeps talking, and you can’t help but compare. You feel awful about it, but the thought keeps nagging at the back of your mind. This is supposed to be good for you.

You inhale slowly, fixing the napkin folded in your lap, shaking yourself out of your own head. Focus. Try. Minho is nice. He’s stable. He’s normal.

A thought slams into you with such certainty that it nearly knocks the breath out of your lungs. You need to get out of here.

“Minho.” You blink, sitting up a little straighter. “I’m so sorry—I just realized I have an early meeting tomorrow. I should probably call it a night.”

Minho pauses, a little surprised, but he nods easily. “Of course. No problem at all.”

He doesn’t look disappointed. Just polite. Understanding. That somehow makes you feel worse. Because the truth is, he probably felt the lack of something between you, too.

You push out of your chair, pulling a few bills from your bag for your share of the dinner, but Minho waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got it.”

You force a small smile. “Thank you.”

The waiter returns with the check, and you busy yourself slipping on your coat, gripping the lapels a little too tightly.

Minho stands with you, offering a smile. “It was really nice meeting you.”

“You too,” you say, and you mean it. He’s good. He’s great, actually. He’s just not Jungkook.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

You don’t even think about it.

One second, you’re stepping into your apartment, kicking off your heels, breath still uneven from leaving the restaurant earlier than you should have. The next, your fingers are hovering over Jungkook’s name, your phone vibrating with noise as you wait for him to answer.

It’s muscle memory. Instinct. He answers immediately, like he was waiting.

The screen flickers to life, and there he is: hoodie on, silver chain glinting against his collarbone, hair messy from the day’s activities. His eyes flicker over your face, assessing, before his lips pull into a lazy smirk. "Thought you’d be out late."

His tone is casual. Easy, but his jaw is tight. His fingers tap idly against his phone, betraying the restless energy behind the smooth facade.

He’s not okay. For some reason, that makes something in you unravel.

You exhale, sinking onto your couch, legs folding beneath you. “It was fine,” you say, voice softer than you intend. “Just… not for me.”

Jungkook hums, tilting his head slightly, leaning back against his pillows. He stretches one arm over the back of his couch, watching you carefully. Slowly, he smirks, like he knew it all along. “Not for you, huh?"

Something about the way he says it—so smug, so damn certain—makes heat prickle at the back of your neck.

You huff. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” he muses, but his grin widens, teeth grazing his bottom lip. “Just saying. You didn’t even last a full dinner.”

You scowl. “I lasted long enough.”

Jungkook hums again, unconvinced. “Did you?”

Your fingers tighten around your phone. “Shut up.”

But Jungkook grins, shifting slightly, his gaze flickering over your face like he’s cataloging every little reaction, every little tell.

“What happened?” he presses, voice dipping lower, smooth and slow like he’s enjoying this.

You exhale sharply, tilting your head back against the couch. “Nothing.”

Jungkook raises a brow. “Nothing?”

You hesitate. “He was nice.”

Jungkook lets the words settle for a beat, then nods slowly. “Nice.”

His voice wraps around the word like it’s an insult.

You glare at him through the screen. “What?”

Jungkook shrugs. “Nothing.”

The teasing smirk is still there, but his eyes have darkened slightly, like he’s weighing his next words carefully. “Did you like him?"

You should say yes. You really should, but you don’t. Instead, you lick your lips, heart thudding against your ribs. “I don’t know.”

Jungkook laughs, soft, amused. “You don’t know?"

Your pulse spikes. “Jungkook.”

“No, I’m just—” He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his expression so unfairly confident. “You either liked him or you didn’t.”

You exhale, fingers curling into the fabric of your couch. “He was fine.”

Jungkook clicks his tongue. “That’s not an answer.”

You glare. “I don’t owe you one.”

Jungkook lifts a brow. “You don’t.” A beat. “But you’re still on FaceTime with me instead of on the date with him.”

You freeze because he’s right, and he knows it. His smirk grows, a slow, knowing thing that makes your stomach twist.

“You’re being annoying,” you mutter, looking away.

Jungkook chuckles, stretching back against the couch again. “Am I?”

The confidence in his voice, the way he’s watching you now—lips curled at the corner, eyes laced with something knowing—it makes you feel physically ill, because he’s won this round. And worse? You are going to let him.

You shift slightly, propping your chin in your hand as you glare at him through the screen. “You’re insufferable.”

Jungkook grins, completely unfazed. “I’ve been called worse.”

You roll your eyes. “You enjoy this, don’t you?”

“Enjoy what?” he asks, feigning innocence.

You huff. “Getting under my skin.”

Jungkook exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “Nah. I just like knowing you think about me when you’re supposed to be thinking about someone else.”

Your stomach plummets. His smirk deepens, almost like he sees it. He sees the way your lips part slightly, the way you blink a little too fast, the way you don’t deny it.

Your throat goes dry. “That’s not—”

Jungkook raises a brow. “It’s not what?”

Your words die on your tongue. What are you supposed to say? That he’s wrong? That you didn’t spend your entire night comparing some perfectly nice guy to him? That your mind wasn’t full of all the ways Jungkook is easier, funnier, more everything?

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. “You are so—”

Jungkook interrupts smoothly, “Charming? Funny? Handsome?”

You groan. “Infuriating.”

Jungkook just grins, tongue peeking out to play with his lip piercing, completely unfazed. “Yet here we are. FaceTiming after your big date.”

Your jaw tightens. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he muses, dragging out the words like he’s enjoying every second of this. Then, after a beat, “Maybe you even have a little crush on me.”

The thing is, you’re not even trying to make Jungkook work for it. He’s already noticed your internal struggle, already saw right through your façade. You’re trying to get him to stop saying these words so you don’t go actively insane. If you do give in to Jungkook’s advances, you’ve already acknowledged that it won’t end well for you. It will throw your life off course, disrupt the routine you’ve carefully constructed, and tear down the barriers you’ve worked so hard to maintain.

And Jungkook knows it. His smirk grows, eyes darkening just slightly, fingers tapping against his phone like he’s waiting, waiting, waiting.

You scoff, shaking your head. “You’re delusional.”

Jungkook hums, amused. “Am I?”

Yes.

No.

You don’t know. What do you know anymore?

Your stomach tightens, something unreadable clawing its way up your throat, and before you let him see it, “I’m hanging up now.”

Jungkook laughs, full and bright. “Oh, running away? Interesting.”

“Good night, Jungkook.”

His grin lingers, eyes glinting. “Sweet dreams.”

The call ends and you’re left staring at the screen, heart hammering, face warm, stomach wrecked.

Jungkook is smug, and maybe, just maybe, he has every right to be.

The next morning, the office feels too bright.

Or maybe it’s just your head, still foggy from last night, from him, from the words he left you with. “Maybe you even have a little crush on me."

You hate how easily Jungkook gets under your skin. You hate that you barely slept, that you spent way too long staring at your ceiling, replaying the conversation in your head, reading into every smirk, every teasing lilt in his voice, every time he let the words linger just a little too long. And most of all, you hate that he was right.

You spent the entire night on a date with someone else, and yet the second you got home, your first instinct was to call him. You groan, rubbing a hand over your face as you sink into your chair.

“Ohhh, you are so dead.”

You barely have time to react before Jisoo appears, all but slamming her hands down on your desk, eyes glittering with a dangerous amount of excitement.

You flinch. “Jesus—”

“Talk.” She pulls out the chair across from you, sliding into it so quickly that her coffee nearly spills. “Date details. Now.”

You hesitate.

Jisoo narrows her eyes.

You exhale, tapping your nails against the desk. “It was… fine.”

Jisoo tilts her head. “Fine?”

You nod. “Yeah. He was nice.”

Jisoo’s brows furrow. “Okay, but nice in a ‘maybe there’s potential’ way or nice in a ‘he was fine, but I was thinking about Jungkook the entire time and wanted to go home’ way?”

Your stomach drops and your face betrays you.

Jisoo sees it immediately, her eyes going wide.

“Oh my god.” She gasps, slapping her hand over her mouth before pointing at you accusingly. “It’s worse than I thought. What, did you call Jungkook after, or something?”

You freeze. Your heartbeat spikes. “...No?”

(Lies. All lies.)

Jisoo cackles. “OH MY GOD. You did.”

“I—”

“You so did.”

You huff, crossing your arms. “It’s not—”

“No, no, no.” She leans forward, her grin too knowing. “Don’t even try it.”

You glare at her. “Try what?”

Jisoo smirks. “Denying the inevitable.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Oh, am I?” She lifts her coffee cup, tilting her head. “Because let’s just review for a second.”

“Jisoo—”

“Point one,” she interrupts, raising a finger. “You went on a date with a perfectly nice, perfectly attractive, perfectly normal guy.”

You exhale, rubbing your temples. “Yes.”

“Point two—” Jisoo raises another finger. “You didn’t even finish said date.”

You open your mouth to interrupt, to ask how she got that part of the story already, but she holds up a hand.

“Point three—and this is the kicker—you immediately called Jungkook afterward.”

Your stomach tightens. “It wasn’t—”

“Nope.” Jisoo cuts you off, shaking her head. “You don’t get to explain your way out of this.”

You sigh, fingers curling against your desk. “Jisoo, I—”

She leans in. Her voice softens, teasing gone, eyes glinting with something too real, too honest. “You don’t want anyone else,” she murmurs. “You want him.”

Your throat goes dry. You feel the weight of her words hit you straight in the ribs, knocking something loose. You should argue.You should say something. But you don’t. Because for the first time, you can’t. Deep down, you know.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

The weekend comes faster than you expect, and with it, your friend Maya’s birthday party. She’s been your friend for years, an old roommate from your university days.

The bar is already packed when you arrive, music thrumming through the walls, neon signs glowing against the darkened windows. Inside, bodies press together on the dance floor, a sea of movement and laughter and flashing lights. The scent of spilled cocktails lingers in the air, and you can already hear Maya’s distinct laugh from across the room, high and bright, cutting through the noise.

You smile, slipping into the crowd, letting the energy swallow you whole.

This is exactly what you need. A night to drink, to dance, to shake off whatever this weight is that’s been pressing into your chest all week. To forget about the words still ringing in your head from Jisoo. To forget about the fact that you haven’t texted Jungkook all day, and that he hasn’t texted you either.

You don’t think about it. At least, you try not to. Instead, you drink, a little too much, a little too fast. The alcohol spreads warmth through your veins, buzzing beneath your skin, numbing the restlessness that’s been gnawing at you since last night.

You throw yourself into conversation, let Maya pull you into the center of it all, shots lined up on the bar, toasts to another year, cheers that spill into laughter. It’s fun. It’s supposed to be fun. But somewhere between the second and third drink, the laughter starts to feel too loud. The lights too bright. The conversations too shallow.

No matter how many times you shake it off, that feeling lingers. That feeling that something is missing. That feeling that your phone has been too quiet all day. You try not to look at it. You try not to care. Yet, you fail.

And when you finally step outside for some air, the cool night biting at your flushed cheeks, your fingers move before you can stop them.

You don’t even realize you’re calling him until it’s too late. Until the phone is already ringing. Until his voice—low, groggy, familiar—fills your ears.

"[Y/N]?"

His voice is rough with sleep, the kind of rasp that only comes from being pulled into consciousness too fast. And that’s when it hits you— you really should not have called him.

You blink, swaying slightly where you stand on the curb outside the bar, phone pressed too close to your ear. The streetlights cast everything in a warm glow, the night air cool against your flushed skin.

You should hang up. You should. But the moment he hears your little giggle, he knows.

"Where are you?" His tone changes instantly, sharp, awake, concerned.

God, that makes your stomach flutter, or maybe it’s just the drinks, but suddenly, your lips are curving into a grin, because he sounds so serious and you’re so far gone.

"Maya’s party," you mumble, giggling softly as you glance around, trying to get your bearings. “Well, outside of it. Needed air.”

Jungkook does not find this funny. “Are you drunk?"

You gasp, pressing a hand to your chest like he just accused you of a crime. “Jungkook! I would never.”

A pause. Then, “You’re wasted."

You giggle again, leaning against the cold brick wall, tilting your head up to the night sky. The stars look so prettytonight.

“I am not wasted,” you declare, even though you are absolutely wasted. “I’m… celebratory.”

Jungkook sighs, and you can practically hear him running a hand through his hair. “Who’s taking you home?”

You blink. Pause. Oh. That’s a great question.

You purse your lips, swaying slightly. “I could take a taxi…”

"Nope." His voice is final. No room for argument.

You hum, eyes fluttering closed for a second. “Okay… so, come get me?”

Silence. A beat too long, too heavy, stretching between you.

Then, his voice drops, steady, certain. “I’m on my way."

You don’t even have time to respond before the call ends, the line going dead in your hand.

And maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the way your heart skips, but suddenly, you feel warm all over.

Jungkook is coming. For you.

You frown at your phone. “So rude.”

The night air is crisp against your skin, but you barely feel it. There’s a warmth curling in your chest, spreading through your limbs, a giddy kind of lightness that has nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with him.

You shift on your feet, biting back a smile, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your dress. Your heart jumps, ridiculous and eager, a quiet thrill rushing through you at the thought of seeing him—at the thought that he’s coming for you. That despite everything, despite the late hour, despite how much of a mess you probably sound over the phone, he’s still choosing to show up.

The thought makes something in your stomach tighten, something warm and buzzing, something that feels dangerously close to happiness.

A hand lands on your shoulder, and you turn to find Maya giving you a look. “Who were you talking to?”

You smile. “Jungkook.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Jeon Jungkook? That race car driver you’re seeing?”

You giggle, swaying a little. “Yup. He’s coming to get me. Like a knight.” You pause, tilting your head. “But, like, a tattooed knight. A knight with a lip piercing. A knight who’s really, really hot.”

Maya laughs. “Okay, yeah, you’re definitely drunk.”

You pout. “Nooo. I’m fine. I just—” You stop, eyes widening. “Oh my god.”

Maya panics. “What?”

You grab her arm. “Do I look okay?”

She stares at you. “You look drunk.”

You groan. “Ugh, he’s gonna see me like this! This is a disaster.”

You hold onto her shoulders dramatically, shaking her. Maya smirks. “Sounds like someone wants to impress him.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s not what this is.”

She grins. “Sure, babe.”

Headlights sweep across the pavement, a sleek black car pulling up to the curb. Your heart jumps. You recognize that car anyway. It pulls up to the curb, tires slowing against the pavement, and your breath catches as you see him.

Jungkook.

Your pulse stumbles, fingers tightening against your sides. He hasn’t even stepped out yet, hasn’t even looked at you, but it doesn’t matter, because suddenly, everything feels lighter, easier, safer.

Jungkook barely has time to put the car in park before you’re stumbling forward, waving bye to Maya who just giggles at your walk.

His hand is on you instantly, firm against your waist, steadying you like its second nature. His grip is solid, warm even through the fabric of your dress, fingers pressing into your skin just enough to ground you.

You blink up at him, and god, you should not be this excited to see him.

His brows are drawn together, mouth slightly parted as his eyes flicker over your face, scanning, assessing. “How much did you drink?”

You giggle. “Rude.”

Jungkook exhales through his nose, unimpressed, but his fingers don’t leave your waist. “Seriously.”

You tilt your head, your balance shifting slightly—not enough to fall, but enough that his grip on you tightens. That makes you even giddier. “Enough to be very, very happy to see you.”

Jungkook sighs, running his free hand through his hair before gently maneuvering you toward the car. “Get in, sweetheart.”

And you do. Barely. The moment you sink into the seat, the moment the door closes and you’re surrounded by the scent of him—clean linen, something dark and musky beneath it—you melt into the leather, warmth curling low in your stomach. Then he slides into the driver’s seat, and suddenly, he’s so close.

His jaw clenches as he starts the car, one hand on the wheel, the other running over his face in frustration. But you? You’re just watching him, eyes tracing the slope of his nose, the sharp cut of his jawline, the way the sleeve of his hoodie pushes up just enough to reveal the inked lines of his forearm.

He’s so pretty.

Your fingers twitch in your lap, your lips curving before you can stop them. “You’re so pretty, Jungkookie.”

Jungkook chokes on absolutely nothing. His head turns toward you so fast you almost laugh. His expression is a mix of amusement and disbelief. “Jesus Christ.”

You beam at him, lifting your knees to the seat, turning your whole body toward him like you can’t help it. Maybe you can’t. “You are.”

His grip on the wheel tightens, jaw locking as his eyes flick forward again. “You’re drunk.”

You hum, tilting your head. “So?”

“So,” he mutters, shifting into drive. “I’m ignoring you.”

That makes you laugh, throwing your head back against the seat. “No, you’re not.”

Jungkook sighs, rolling his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches, and you see it. He’s so easy to read, even when he pretends not to be. That makes you bold.

So you lean in, resting your chin on your knuckles, watching him with sleepy, playful eyes. “You like it when I compliment you, don’t you?”

Jungkook scoffs, but his ears are turning red. “Go to sleep.”

“Are you blushing?”

“God, I should’ve let you take a taxi.”

You grin, nudging his arm slightly with your fingers. His skin is so warm, his muscles tense under your touch. “I like that you came.”

He doesn’t respond right away. His Adam’s apple bobs, his fingers twitch against the wheel. When he speaks, his voice is a little rougher. “Yeah?”

You hum. “You always come when I call.”

Jungkook’s knuckles turn white on the wheel.

He glances at you, just for a second, something too much, too close, too heavy.

And then, almost like he’s talking to himself, “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I do.”

You don’t know why, but that makes your heart ache.

The rest of the ride is quieter, but the air between you is charged, humming with something unspoken.

And you? You can’t stop staring at him. The warmth in your chest isn’t from the alcohol anymore. That realization is terrifying, you don’t know why, but it does something to you.

Your pulse flutters beneath your skin, your fingers curling against your lap before slowly, without thinking, you reach out again.

It’s not you. You’re not the kind of person who does this. You don’t touch people so easily, so recklessly. You don’t let yourself be this bold, this transparent. But tonight, you can’t help it.

Your hand finds his forearm first, fingers grazing the warm skin exposed beneath the pushed-up sleeve of his hoodie.

Jungkook stiffens.

His fingers tighten around the steering wheel, his breath catching so subtly you almost don’t notice. Almost. But you do, and it only makes you bolder.

Your fingers trace over the ink on his skin, the lines of his tattoos. The warmth of him seeps into your palm, and for some reason, it makes your stomach flip.

"You’re so warm," you mumble, mostly to yourself.

Jungkook lets out a slow exhale. "You need to sit properly."

You shake your head, still tracing patterns against his skin, drunk on the feel of him beneath your fingertips. "Don’t wanna."

He makes a sound in the back of his throat, something low, something restrained. "You’re gonna regret this tomorrow."

You grin, looking up at him with something dangerously close to mischief. "Are you saying I don’t usually touch you?"

Jungkook laughs, but it’s breathless, like he can’t quite believe you right now. "You never touch me."

He’s right.

But you don’t say that.

Instead, your fingers trail higher, up the curve of his forearm, feeling the shift of his muscles beneath his skin. Your body feels hot all over.

You let your fingers brush against his neck.

Jungkook sucks in a sharp breath. Your fingertips graze the sensitive skin just below his jaw, featherlight, hesitant but curious. He swallows deeply beneath your touch, and your stomach tightens because he lets you do it.

For a second, he really lets you, lets himself indulge into what it would feel like to be desired by you.

Then, breaking the trance, his hand snaps up, catching your wrist. His grip isn’t rough, but it’s firm, steady, grounding you in a way that makes your head spin for an entirely different reason.

"[Y/N]..” he warns, voice low, barely above a whisper.

You blink up at him, feeling reckless, feeling brave, feeling entirely not yourself.

"Jungkook," you whisper back.

His fingers tighten just slightly around your wrist, his jaw clenching, his eyes flickering between yours like he’s searching for something.

His tongue flicks out, wetting his lips, grazing against the silver of his piercing. Your stomach flips. You can’t stop staring.You can’t stop wanting.

But before you can do anything else, before you can ruin yourself completely, Jungkook sighs. And then, in a voice that is too soft, too knowing, too unfairly patient, “You need to sleep it off, sweetheart."

And just like that, you’re ruined anyway.

The hum of the car engine is steady beneath you, lulling you into something soft, something weightless. The warmth of the interior, the rhythmic motion of the road, the faint scent of Jungkook’s cologne lingering in the air—it all pulls you under, wrapping around you like a cocoon.

You don’t mean to fall asleep. But you do. And for the first time in a long time, sleep is easy. It’s peaceful. Quiet. No racing thoughts. No overthinking. No him lingering too close in your mind. Just warmth.

When you finally do wake up, the world is still.

The engine is off, the headlights casting soft shadows against the pavement outside your apartment. The air between you feels heavier, quieter, like neither of you are sure what comes next.

You shift slightly, stretching in your seat, blinking against the dim glow of the streetlights. Your gaze drifts to Jungkook, who’s sitting back against the headrest, one hand still on the steering wheel, the other draped lazily over the gear shift.

He’s watching you. Not in a way that makes you feel self-conscious, not in a way that feels expectant, not in a stalker-y way. Just… watching, like maybe he’s been doing it for a while.

"You’re really nice," you murmur, your voice still heavy with sleep, with warmth.

Jungkook’s lips twitch. "Yeah?"

You hum, nodding slightly, your fingers toying with the hem of your dress, mind still hazy. "You always take care of me."

Something flickers in his eyes. Something that makes the air between you feel too thick.

He doesn’t say anything.

Suddenly, you don’t want to think. You don’t want to overanalyze, don’t want to let hesitation sink its claws into you before you can act.

So you don’t. You just move.

Leaning in before you can stop yourself, drawn in by the warmth of him, the steady weight of his presence. Your breath fans against his lips. His sharp inhale cuts through the quiet. You can feel it—the shift in him. The way his fingers tighten around the steering wheel, the way his jaw clenches, the way his breath falters, uneven, as your faces linger too close, as your pulse hammers beneath your skin.

And for a second, just for a second, you think he’s going to close the distance.

But then, "Not like this."

His voice is low, rough around the edges, like it’s taking everything in him to pull away.

You blink, your chest rising and falling too fast, your body still too warm, your lips still too close. “Why?" It’s barely a whisper, barely a sound. Just breath and longing and confusion wrapped into one.

Jungkook exhales, his gaze flickering down to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your eyes again. “Because I want you sober when you finally kiss me."

Damn it, you feel that everywhere. Like a live wire against your skin. Like an ache settling deep in your bones. Like something dangerous, something fragile, something terrifyingly real.

You huff, shoulders slumping as the warmth of his words lingers in the tight space between you.

The weight of it settles deep in your chest, leaving you fluttery, restless, and entirely unsatisfied.

“That’s stupid,” you grumble, voice petulant as you sink further into the passenger seat.

Jungkook sighs, rubbing a hand over his face before shifting to unbuckle your seatbelt. “It’s not stupid.”

You pout, arms crossing over your chest. “It is stupid. Because I do wanna kiss you.”

His hand freezes. For a moment, you think he’s going to respond, maybe tease you, maybe say something to make this all feel less real, less loaded, less dangerous, but instead, Jungkook exhales, eyes flickering to yours, something unbearably soft in his gaze.

“You will,” he murmurs. “I promise.”

And for some reason, that makes your stomach twist even more.

Before you can dwell on it—or before you can embarrass yourself any further—Jungkook is stepping out of the car, rounding the hood, and opening your door.

You barely have a second to process what’s happening before his hands are on you, warm and gentle, lifting you effortlessly out of your seat.

You squeak, instinctively clutching his hoodie, fingers curling into the fabric. “Jungkook!”

He barely reacts, adjusting you against his chest like you weigh nothing. “You’re not walking up those stairs by yourself.”

You scowl, burying your face in his shoulder. “I could.”

He snorts. “Yeah, sure. After tripping over air four times tonight? Not a chance.”

You mumble something about him being dramatic, but you don’t fight him. Mostly because you don’t want to. Because the way his arms feel around you, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your cheek, the warmth radiating off of him, it all makes your body feel soft, pliant, safe.

Your apartment door unlocks with a soft beep, and before you know it, Jungkook is setting you down inside, his hands lingering at your waist for just a second longer than necessary before pulling away.

You whine at the loss of warmth. “You’re so mean.”

Jungkook sighs, toeing off his sneakers before nudging you toward the bathroom. “Come on. Skincare time.”

Your brows furrow as you blink up at him. “You know my skincare routine?”

Jungkook gives you a flat look. “Do you know how many times I’ve seen you do it? You talk through every step like you’re running a live tutorial.”

You gasp, offended. “It’s educational.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah. Sit.”

And somehow, he actually does it for you. His hands are careful as he applies each product, thumbs smoothing cream into your skin with a level of patience and concentration that makes your stomach flip. His brows are furrowed slightly, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, the sleeves of his hoodie pushed up to his elbows as he massages your face with way too much care for someone who pretends to be this cool all the time.

You stare at him, heart full, warmth buzzing beneath your skin.

When he finishes, he wipes his hands on a nearby towel, tilting his head at you. “Alright. Bed.”

You blink up at him and pout.

Jungkook’s eyes narrow instantly. “No.”

Your bottom lip wobbles dramatically. “You don’t even know what I was gonna say.”

“I do,” he deadpans. “And the answer is no.”

You sway toward him, fingers curling around the sleeve of his hoodie. “Stay.”

Jungkook sighs, long and heavy, rubbing his temple. “[Y/N]...”

You blink at him, playing it up, all wide eyes and softness. “Please?”

He groans, running a hand through his hair. “You’re not even gonna remember this in the morning.”

You nod too eagerly, holding onto him too tightly. “But I will remember sleeping alone and being so sad about it.”

Jungkook laughs under his breath, shaking his head, already giving in.

"Fine," he mutters, rolling his shoulders like he’s pretending this is a chore. "But I’m sleeping on the couch."

You beam. “Good enough."

And as you finally crawl into bed in the pajamas he picked out for you, warmth wrapping around you, Jungkook’s presence lingering in your apartment, you sleep. Peacefully and safely.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

masterlist + request

taglist ; @yooniepot @bookstoread199 @pipipipiiiii @someonegoood @vintagemoonsstuff @kittisuuuuu @ttanniett @loonareads @jincapableoflove @jkxlvrr @taekrve @jenniebyrubies @senaqsstuff @somisarchive @somehowukook @mysjammy @busanbby-jjk @mimi1097 @mikrokosmosellen @indyuhhhhh @vantelover1306 @haru-jiminn @sky-23s-world @minimoninini @bighitfics @outofworldvy @smartkive @dontcallmeelle @beomluvrr @tatamicc @seokout @ashslight @avawants2havefun @bjoriis @jjeonjjk7 @mar-lo-pap @parkinglot-nights @coletaehyung @mellyyyyyyx

#jeon jungkook #bts #bts jungkook #jungkook #jungkook smut #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #bts army #bts x reader #bts smut #bts fanfic #jungkook fluff #jjk #jjk x reader

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geneviveleocardius · 5 months ago

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josh washington romantic headcanons

be soft on me, it’s my first post.

Josh isn’t the type to confess his feelings outright, but he uses his sarcastic humor and jokes to show he cares. If you’re having a bad day, he might say something like:

“Oh, so the drama queen decided to bless us with her depressed presence? Well, put me on your throne, because I’m about to save the day.”

While he’s trying to make you smile, there’s an underlying sincerity: he hates seeing you down, even if he can’t admit it directly. I mean, how’s the light of his life gonna be sad? Then what’s expecting to him.

Josh isn’t openly romantic, but he has his own way of showing he’s thinking about you.

For example, he might text you at 3 a.m. with a dumb meme he knows will make you laugh or show up at your door with your favorite snack, saying:

“It’s not like I’m obsessed with you or anything… but I saw this and thought of you, ‘kay?”

He plays it off as casual, but the truth is he planned it more than he lets on.

While Josh tends to hide what he’s feeling, when he’s with you and feels safe, his mask slips. One night, after a particularly bad day, he might say:

“Sometimes I feel like I’m… messed up in ways no one else gets. But with you, I don’t know, it’s like I get a break from all that. Thanks for not running away yet.”

He doesn’t expect you to fix him with words; what he needs most in those moments is your presence and understanding.

Josh isn’t the kind of guy who plans extravagant dates.

He prefers something simple but meaningful: a late-night walk somewhere secluded, an afternoon showing you weird movies he loves, or just staying in while you work on something creative together. He’d say something like:

“We could hit the fanciest restaurant in town, but let’s be real, the real art is in these burned popcorns I made for you.”

Josh constantly struggles with the fear that the people close to him will leave—especially you.

He doesn’t always say it outright, but you notice it in small things: how he seeks reassurance that you’re okay with him, how he avoids certain topics, or how he insists on making you laugh even when he’s clearly not okay. If you ever call him out on it, he might say:

“I’m not saying you have to stay with me, but… if you do, I can’t promise it’ll be easy. Just that I’ll try, alright?”

Josh isn’t naturally smooth when it comes to physical affection.

At first, his hugs might feel a little stiff, and his attempts to hold your hand might be clumsy.

But over time, his gestures become more natural. If you ever rest your head on his lap, you might hear him murmur:

“You know my legs are falling asleep, right? But don’t move. I don’t mind.”

While he wouldn’t say it to your face, when he’s with his friends, he can’t help but brag about you indirectly. “Oh, guess who had the brilliant idea to drag me to that movie? Yeah, my girl obviously. Always has the best ideas.”

His friends know he’s crazy about you, but he prefers to keep a laid-back attitude… even if his expression totally gives him away.

Josh doesn’t always handle his emotions well and can sometimes be impulsive or say something hurtful without realizing it.

However, when he knows he’s messed up, he won’t just let it go. He might show up at your place with an unconventional apology, like a bag of your favorite candy and a note that says:

“I know I was an ass. This doesn’t fix it, but it’s a good start, right?”

It may sound lighthearted, but his regret is genuine, and he’ll do whatever it takes to earn back your trust.

genevieve out, xoxo.

#until dawn #josh washington #josh x reader #headcanon #joshua washington #washington

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linopls · 2 years ago

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kinktober day four

roleplay hyunjin x fem!reader summary: hyunjin has invited you to his art studio where he says you need to brush up on some of your basic art skills. warnings: professor/college student roleplay, lots of praising, nipple play, unprotected p in v 1.2k words

“are you sure you should be asking a student that, mr. hwang?” you’re sat on one of the stools in the middle of hyunjin’s small art studio. he’s sat across from you, an easel with a large canvas acting as a barrier between you.

he peeks out from behind the easel and pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “knowing basic human anatomy is a very important basic art skill all my students should have an understanding of.”

“but how am i supposed to learn when you’re the one painting?” you ask while slowly starting to unbutton your shirt.

“a bit of a smart ass, aren’t you?” he retorts, tying his hair back and out of his face.

you giggle and slide the silky white fabric of the shirt down your arms and toss it at the foot of his easel.

“now your skirt,” hyunjin instructs while picking up one of the large brushes from his side table and dabbing into a color and smearing it on the canvas.

you stand up from the stool and make a show of sliding your skirt down to the floor and kicking it with your shirt.

“do you often forget to wear panties when you're having one-on-one meetings with your professors?” hyunjin asks, observing as you sit back on the stool.

“just the hot ones,” you tease.

hyunjin chuckles and makes his way to where you are sitting. “i’m gonna put you in a pose, and you can’t move or you’ll mess up my proportions, okay?”

you nod and hyunjin slowly parts your legs to face his easel. he places one of your hands on one of your knees and the other to rest gently on your exposed clit. you gasp slightly at the sensation. hyunjin then positions your head to look directly at the easel. he moves back to his seat and admires the positon for a second.

“hmm,” he thinks aloud. “that works.”

he sits back on his stool and grabs another brush and begins to work on the canvas. you’re entranced by his focus expression looking to your and back to the canvas.

“you’re doing so well for me, staying still,” hyunjin praises.

his words run straight to your core and you whimper softly. the gentle feeling of your fingers resting over your clit are driving you insane.

after about thirty minutes of working silence, hyunjin sighs and leans back to look at the canvas.

“what’s wrong, mr. hwang?” you ask.

he doesn’t answer you, instead he gets up from the stool again and walks behind you. you notice the tent in his pants as he makes his way around you and you can help the rush of arousal that runs to your core.

you feel hyunjin’s soft fingers on your back and fidgeting with your bras clasp. you feel the clasp release and your lacy bra fall down your arms, getting caught on your arms. hyunjin walks back to stand in front of you and assists in moving your arms from the spots to remove your bra and places your arms back.

“i need to see your full beautiful figure to finish my painting,” hyunjin purrs, moving one of his hands to your breast and pinching one of your nipples between his finger tips. you moan out in response and hyunjin smiles and sits back on his stool and begins working again.

in between one of his glaces from your body to his canvas hyunjin smirks.

“what are you thinking, mr. hwang?” you ask, curious about his expression change.

“i’m debating on if i should paint the puddle you’ve made on my stool,” he laughs.

you face flushes a deep run and you quickly look down at the stool below you.

“i didn’t say you could move,” hyunjin snaps. you quickly look back up at him and fix your pose.

hyunjin laughs again. “i’m doing final touches now, it’ll only be a minute longer.”

he keeps to his word and as the minute passes hyunjin turns the easel around to face you. you stare at the painting for a bit. embarrassed that its your naked body on the canvas, but amazed by his ability to capture details in such a short amount of time.

“it looks amazing, mr. hwang,” you say sweetly.

“thank you, y/n.” he smiles.

“will you now tell me how i can improve my own work?” you ask.

“touch yourself for me,” hyunjin says blankly. “you deserve a reward for being so good for me.”

you whimper and slowly and finally put pressure on your begging clit. you rub small circles on the aching bud and hyunjin watches in awe. after a minute, hyunjin unbuckles his belt and pulls his pants down just enough to free his aching cock.

hyunjin notices your attention shift from his face to his cock. “come here, y/n.”

you quickly get up from the wet stool and make your way in front of hyunjin. “yes, mr. hwang?”

hyunjin puts his hands on your hips and guides you to stand above his lap. he grabs his cock with one of his hands and lines it up with your entrance. you slowly slide down on his member and wrap your legs around hyunjin’s middle. you place your hands on his shoulders to balance yourself and hyunjin moves his hands down to cup your ass and meets his lips with yours.

hyunjin kisses you with passion and lust like never before. he begins to thrust his hips up to meet yours and you both into each other's mouths. hyunjin stands up from the stool and walks you both over to his desk and sits you down on it. he breaks away from the kiss and places one of his hands on your hip and the other to cup your cheek.

“mr. hwang, please fuck me,” you purr.

“jesus,” hyunjin moans.

he slowly slides his cock out of your slick hole and slams it back in quickly. he starts to fuck into you at a steady pace. you move one of your hands down to your clit and rub circles on the sensitive bundle of nerves. you unconsciously clench down on his cock and hyunjin hisses and quickens his actions.

you both moan out loudly and hyunjin moves his head so that his mouth is next to your ear.

“do you fuck all your professors, y/n?” hyunjin grunts.

you shake your head, “no, just you.”

“good girl,” hyunjin moans.

he moves his hand from your cheek and grabs the underneath of your knee and push it up against your body. the new position has you seeing stars and moaning out of control.

“hyunjin! please!” you cry.

“what did you just call me?” hyunjin grunts.

“i’m sorry!” you exclaim. “mr. hwang, i’m sorry.”

“good girl, good girl,” he says before pulling you into another kiss.

you whimper loudly and feel yourself coming closer to your release. you pull away first.

“mr. hwang, can i cum please?” you whimper.

“fuck, yes, cum with me, please.” hyunjin moans. he quickened his pace and with a few more thrusts you both finish with loud moans and cries.

hyunjin slowly continues to fuck both of your through your orgasms and you rest your tired head onto his chest. when hyunjin stops he sighs loudly and places one of his hands on the back of your head and rubs small circles on your scalp.

“you’re such a good student, y/n,” hyunjin giggles.

“thank you, mr. hwang,” you mumble into his soft chest.

HYUNJIN GLASSES >>>>>>

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tacobacoyeet · 20 days ago

Note

PATRICK X READER

So basically after the match with art Patrick gets back on the road and his car breaks down in this town in upstate New York, and it’s like a cute suburban summery Springey town where everyone knows eachother and reader is walking down the street and sees this and goes to ask what’s wrong and he explains and they walk together to the mechanic and the reader explains what’s happening to the mechanic and the mechanic of course knows her TRUST THE PROCESS and he says he’ll fix his car if he comes everyday and helps with cleaning the cars cause I guess he needs a guy for that and he said he can sleep on the couch in the staff room and then he’s there for a few days and reader keeps coming back to check on him and they get well acquainted and stuff and even after his car is fixed he sticks around the town because he actually knows quite a few people now since his stay but him and reader are always flirting and giggling and ugh just fluff fluff fluff and they get together and Patrick gets his life together and stuff and they’re just idiots in love and then he gets a stable job and real friends and they get a cute apartment together and and he proposes with a real ring cause he saved up from his real job and tennis just becomes a hobby and they all live happily ever after pls I need this the birds are chirping I need a romcom

sun on the sidewalk | patrick zweig x reader

a/n: i'm gonna throw up this is so cute. thank you for the beautiful request. i feel like i just wrote the prequel to slow, sunday morning. patrick zweig you deserve every possible joy

warnings: honestly nothing other than my usual inability to proofread

It starts with smoke. And heat. And the unmistakable sound of something giving up.

Patrick grips the steering wheel a little harder, like force alone will stop the sputtering. Like glaring at the dashboard will reverse whatever's going wrong. It doesn’t.

He eases the car off the side of the road, gravel crunching beneath tires that can’t be bothered to behave anymore. The engine coughs once, then twice, then dies.

Silence.

He swears under his breath, leans his forehead against the wheel, and exhales through his nose. It’s hot. The kind of sticky, back-of-the-neck spring heat that pretends to be gentle but leaves you sweating through your shirt anyway.

He’s in the middle of nowhere. The GPS stopped working twenty minutes ago. His phone is on one bar. There are wildflowers in the ditch and a hand-painted sign about a pie sale nailed to a telephone pole.

This is hell.

Or somewhere vaguely prettier than hell, which somehow makes it worse.

And then, as if things couldn't get more disgustingly warm, someone speaks.

“Everything okay there?”

A voice. Not in his head. Not a hallucination. Real. Bright. Curious.

He looks up and sees you.

You’re walking down the sidewalk like you don’t know how to rush. Like the whole street’s moving at your pace. The sun clings to you like it’s trying to impress you, catching in your hair and kissing each individual pore on your face. You’re holding an iced coffee and wearing sneakers that have definitely seen better days—scuffed white with a hopeful pink lace swapped in on one side—and there’s a ribbon tied around your ponytail like it’s still 2003, like nostalgia’s just part of your outfit.

He blinks.

You blink back.

He says nothing.

You smile. “You’re not from here, are you? What's your name?”

And just like that, it begins.

“I’m gonna guess that car isn’t supposed to be making those noises,” you add, nodding toward the still-smoking hood.

He slides out of the driver’s seat and shuts the door behind him, a little too hard. “Thanks. Didn’t notice.”

You raise your eyebrows, but your smile doesn’t falter. “So that’s a no on everything being okay?”

He runs a hand through his hair, already regretting talking to a stranger in what appears to be the real-life set of a Hallmark movie. “It died. Or passed out. Or decided it hates me. Take your pick.”

You laugh. “That’s the spirit.”

There’s a pause. A beat too long.

“You want me to call someone?” you ask. “There’s a mechanic two blocks over—Greg. He’s usually booked solid unless you bribe him with cinnamon rolls or threaten him.”

Patrick looks at his phone, like it might save him. It doesn’t. No signal. No apps loading. A single bar that blinks like it’s mocking him.

You tilt your head. “You could also come with me? It’s not far. I’ll even throw in a free tour of Main Street, population: cozy.”

He exhales slowly, like it pains him to say, “Fine. Lead the way.”

You set off without hesitation, and he falls into step beside you. The sidewalk is warm beneath his shoes, dappled with light slipping through the trees overhead. A flag flaps lazily in the breeze outside the post office, and somewhere nearby, wind chimes tangle with the distant sound of laughter. The whole street smells faintly of lavender and fresh-cut grass, like someone pressed summer into the cracks between the bricks. You wave at two people in the span of a block. One of them hands you a paper bag with a scone in it. You hand it to Patrick.

He frowns. “I didn’t ask for this.”

“I know,” you say, grinning. “But you clearly need it.”

He doesn’t thank you. But he eats it anyway.

“Patrick,” he mutters after a minute.

“Hm?”

“My name. You asked earlier.”

“Oh.” You glance at him, the smile in your voice again. “Hi, Patrick. I’m the girl who’s going to save you from your terrible luck and overheated death trap of a car.”

He doesn’t say it, but your laugh lingers in the air a little too long. There’s a question tucked somewhere in the corner of your mouth when you look at him—like you’re waiting to see if he’ll let it bloom. And for the first time that day, he doesn’t hate where he's ended up.

---

The mechanic’s shop is the kind of place that smells like gasoline and pine-scented air fresheners, with an old bell that jingles when you walk through the door and a dusty fan that spins slow in the corner like it has nowhere else to be. The air inside is thick with heat and old stories. It’s sickeningly warm in the way only small-town spaces can be—like a hug you didn’t ask for. There’s something about it that makes Patrick feel exposed, like the walls are watching to see if he’ll flinch first. The windows are streaked with handprints and the walls are papered with calendars from ten years ago.

Greg is leaning over a car when you step inside. He’s older, broad shouldered, with a beard that’s more salt than pepper and a red rag slung over his shoulder. He glances up, wipes his hands, and grins when he sees you.

“Well hey, sunshine. Who’s the stray?”

You gesture to Patrick. “Broken car. Bad mood. Might bite.”

Greg chuckles. “Sounds like my kind of project.”

Patrick looks deeply unimpressed.

You roll your eyes and explain the situation. “His car’s smoking and dead on Elm. I figured you’d know what to do.”

Greg gives a long whistle. “Haven’t had time to breathe all week. Got too many in the bay as it is. But... I could use someone to hose down the mud off the SUVs and wipe out the inside of that disaster over there.” He jerks a thumb toward a battered Ford Explorer with its doors wide open and a mysterious smell floating out.

Patrick raises a brow. “You want me to clean cars?”

Greg shrugs. “You want your ride fixed? I’ll do it, no charge. But you show up every day until it’s done and put those arms to use.”

You glance at Patrick. He’s clearly calculating just how much he hates this.

Greg adds, “I got a couch in the break room if you need a place to crash. It’s not a hotel, but it’s better than the pavement.”

Patrick opens his mouth, probably to say no. But you beat him to it.

“Sounds like a deal to me,” you say. “Right, Patrick?”

He gives you a look like he’s rethinking every life choice that led him here. Then sighs.

“Fine.”

Greg grins. “Great. You start tomorrow. Try not to scare the customers.”

The next morning, Patrick wakes to the sound of someone slamming a toolbox shut and the smell of burnt coffee strong enough to peel paint.

The break room is dim and a little too warm. He sits up on the couch—a sagging old thing that creaks like it’s judging him—and rubs the back of his neck. His shoulder aches. His back’s worse. He’s slept on worse floors, but not recently.

Greg’s already in the shop when Patrick trudges out, holding a mug the color of regret. The mechanic nods at him without looking up.

“Mop’s in the corner. Hose is out back. Explorer’s still waiting on its last rites.”

Patrick grunts something vaguely human and gets to work.

It’s not glamorous. Not even close. The Explorer smells like stale gym socks and a half-eaten burrito. He spends twenty minutes just trying to scrape melted gum off the passenger-side floor mat. The sun is already high, and by noon, his shirt’s stuck to his back, his hair’s damp, and he’s seriously considering setting the car on fire instead of finishing it.

That’s when you show up.

“Wow,” you say, leaning against the doorway with a grin. “You look like you’re having the time of your life.”

He glares. “I think I have tetanus now.”

You toss him a water bottle. “Greg says you haven’t taken a break.”

“Didn’t know I could.”

“Well, lucky for you, I’m here to supervise your union-mandated lunch hour.”

You hold up a brown paper bag like it’s a peace offering.

He eyes it warily. “What is that?”

“Sandwich. Chips. Cookie. A little townie affection.”

“Is it poisoned?”

You smirk. “Not unless you count the gluten.”

He takes it. Sits on the curb out front while you plop down beside him.

For a minute, there’s only the sound of cars passing by, birds overhead, the soft crinkle of wax paper.

Then—

“You’re not what I expected,” he says suddenly.

You glance at him. “Good unexpected or bad unexpected?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just takes another bite, chews, swallows.

You lean back on your hands, looking up at the sky like it’s something worth admiring. “Well, I’ll try not to be too devastating if I end up on the bad side.”

He huffs a soft laugh through his nose. The first real one.

The rest of the afternoon is more of the same: buckets of soapy water, a streaky squeegee, and Greg barking instructions from across the shop while a local radio station plays somewhere in the background—oldies, but not golden. Patrick doesn’t complain. Not out loud, anyway.

You hover for a while, chatting with Greg, sneaking Patrick another water bottle, watching him like he’s some strange little animal who might dart off if you get too close. He doesn’t.

When the sun starts to slant low, and the shop begins to quiet, you offer him a ride to the convenience store around the corner. “Unless you want another dinner of vending machine chips and passive-aggressive Post-Its on the fridge.”

He considers. Nods.

At the store, you make fun of his choice in granola bars. He mocks your obsession with lemon-flavored everything. The cashier knows you by name and throws a piece of gum onto the counter with a wink. Patrick doesn’t ask. You don’t explain.

On the walk back, the air cools just enough to make you both shiver, and he doesn’t pull away when your arms brush.

Not that night.

Not anymore.

The next few days pass in a rhythm Patrick never meant to find. It creeps in soft as dust, folding into the cracks he didn’t know were open—morning creaks from the break room pipes, the scent of soap and motor oil, your voice humming some half-remembered tune from a decade ago. It's not just routine. It's a lullaby he never asked for, and now can't shake.

Wake up. Scrub something. Fix something. Swear under his breath. Try not to throw a wrench at Greg. Eat the sandwiches you keep bringing him—different every day, but always wrapped in a wax paper and a paper towel with a stupid doodle on it. A sun with sunglasses. A smiley face wearing a mechanic's cap. Once, a cartoon version of him with a speech bubble that said: "I clean cars now."

He scowled when he saw it. But he didn’t throw it away.

Some afternoons, you stay. Sit on the same patch of curb. Talk about nothing. Or everything. It depends on the day. He learns you work at the local bookstore part-time. That you love bad movies and name all your houseplants. That you’ve never left this town for more than a week, and yet you don’t seem afraid of the world at all.

And people know him now. That’s the strange part.

Mrs. Keller from the bakery waves to him when he walks by. A middle schooler on a bike nods at him like he’s a regular. The postman calls him “mechanic lite.”

He doesn’t correct them. Not anymore.

And you?

You still show up every day. Sometimes you bring lemonade. Sometimes a new playlist. Sometimes nothing but yourself, hair pulled back and a little wilted from the heat, smile soft like you’re surprised he’s still here. Sometimes, your hand drifts to the hem of your shirt when you talk to him—fidgeting, like there’s something you’re trying not to say. Once, he thinks he catches you watching him when you think he’s not looking. You turn away too fast. He pretends not to notice.

So is he.

---

It happens on a Wednesday.

He’s elbow-deep in soap suds and old pollen, wiping down the side of a dented minivan while humming to whatever’s playing on the radio—something embarrassingly catchy. You’re sitting cross-legged on the curb, sipping peach tea and sketching something in the margins of a receipt.

“Am I allowed to ask what you’re drawing,” he calls without looking over, “or is it another deeply unflattering portrait of me?”

You grin without missing a beat. “That depends. Are you still pretending you’re not flattered by the attention?”

He glances at you then, one eyebrow raised, water dripping down his forearm. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” you say, “you haven’t run.”

That makes him pause. Just long enough.

You stand up and dust off your legs, walking toward him like you’ve got all the time in the world. “I made another playlist for you, by the way,” you say casually. “All songs about emotionally unavailable men who fall for girls with soft voices and good intentions.”

Patrick snorts. “Sounds fictional.”

You shrug. “Guess we’ll see.”

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just watches you, the tilt of your mouth, the gleam of challenge behind your eyes.

And for the first time, he lets himself wonder what would happen if he kissed you. If you’d taste like peach tea and summer sun. If your hand would curl into his shirt or if you’d laugh against his mouth and ruin him for good. The thought roots itself somewhere between his ribs and doesn’t leave for the rest of the day.

You don’t kiss. Not yet. But the air between you shifts—subtle and sudden all at once. Like a door cracked open. Like the sun peeking out after too many cloudy days.

It’s just a look.

---

The days keep stretching, warm and gentle and impossible to hate. Even the work seems lighter now, even when it’s still miserable. Patrick keeps showing up. Keeps pretending it’s just because of the deal, the couch, the lack of other options.

But everyone can tell it’s not that.

Greg starts making jokes. Little ones. "Don’t forget your fan club," when he spots you walking down the sidewalk. Patrick rolls his eyes. Doesn’t argue.

One evening, you walk him back to the shop after grabbing iced coffees. The air’s thick with honeysuckle and soft light. He says something dry. You laugh too hard. He doesn’t mean to, but he smiles, big and full and real.

You notice. You always do.

“I knew there was a human under there somewhere,” you tease.

He shrugs. “You caught me on a good day.”

“Lucky me.”

There’s a moment. Small. Private. Nothing happens, but it feels like something almost does.

You step closer just to bump your shoulder into his, and he bumps you back without thinking.

Neither of you says anything about it.

The next morning, you bring him coffee without asking. His order is perfect.

He doesn’t ask how you knew.

He just drinks it.

And smiles.

---

The shift comes in quiet places. A hand brushing his when you pass him a wrench. Your laugh carrying from the break room when you read aloud the horoscopes from the back of the town paper. The way his name sounds coming out of your mouth now—like it belongs there.

One night, it rains. Hard. Sheets of it, loud on the shop roof, steam rising from the pavement like the town is exhaling.

You're there, of course. You always are. Perched on the bench just outside the garage bay with a paper cup of hot chocolate and a flannel too big for your frame.

He joins you without speaking. Just sits beside you, close enough your arms press from shoulder to wrist. You don't move.

For a while, neither of you says anything.

Then, softly: "You know you could leave, right?"

He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches the way the rain runs down the curb.

“I know,” he says eventually. “But I don’t want to.”

You glance at him. “Why not?”

He looks at you, really looks. The soft curve of your mouth. The way your cheeks are pink from the cold. The quiet waiting in your eyes.

And then, finally, finally, he leans in.

Not fast. Not desperate. Just close. Intentional.

Your lips meet like the moment had been sitting there for days, waiting.

And when you smile into it, he kisses you again.

It doesn’t go further. Not yet. Just lips and breath and the gentle press of something blooming too carefully to name. But after, when the rain starts to fade and you’re both sticky with warmth and quiet, he doesn’t pull away.

You rest your head on his shoulder, and he lets you.

Later, back inside the shop, he finds himself folding the blanket on the break room couch like it matters. Like making it neat will make this real.

The next day, he finds a note tucked into the sandwich bag: About time.

It’s not signed. It doesn’t have to be.

You grin when he sees you that afternoon, but there’s a flicker in your eyes—hope curling up under caution, like you’re not sure if the kiss changed everything or nothing at all. And he does something completely reckless: He grins back.

---

The day the car is finally ready, he doesn’t go get it.

Greg tells him that morning, wiping grease off his hands with a rag that used to be white. "She's all set," he says. "Runs better than it has in years."

Patrick nods. Says, "Cool."

Doesn’t move.

Greg raises a brow. "You gonna take it for a spin or just let it sit there looking pretty?"

Patrick shrugs. "Might stick around a little longer."

Greg grins, wide and knowing. "You don’t say."

He wipes his hands on his rag and gives Patrick a long look. “Didn’t think you were the sticking-around type.”

Patrick doesn’t say anything.

Greg just nods, like that’s answer enough. “Good. Kid like you needed somewhere to land.”

That night, he brings in the folding chair from outside the garage and sets it next to you on your usual patch of sidewalk. He’s got a soda this time. You’re already halfway through a milkshake.

He doesn't make a big deal out of it. Doesn’t explain himself. Just sits.

And when you lean over and bump your shoulder into his, he bumps you back.

Then doesn’t move away.

---

Two days later, Greg offers him a real job.

“You’re decent with a wrench,” he says, handing Patrick a new shop shirt with his name embroidered in red thread. “And you haven’t scared off the locals. Figure that qualifies you.”

Patrick stares at the shirt for a long second. The name stitched in red feels louder than it looks. Realer. He brushes his thumb across the thread like it might vanish. And then, something shifts.

Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just a slow release of tension he didn’t know he’d been holding. Like his shoulders drop for the first time in months.

Then he nods. Once.

“Yeah. Okay.”

The next day, he takes a photo of it hanging in the break room and sends it to you with no caption.

You reply: look at you. a real mechanic now.

Three weeks after that, you help him move into a one-bedroom above the diner. It smells like maple syrup and old paint, and the radiator hisses like it’s got opinions, but he doesn’t complain. You hang a string of fairy lights in the window. He lets you.

One night, he looks around the place—at the worn-in couch, your shoes by the door, the mug you keep forgetting on the counter—and realizes it doesn’t feel temporary anymore.

He wakes up early the next morning and takes the longest route to the shop. Just to see the sun hit the street the way it always does.

And he smiles.

He doesn’t tell you he’s been saving. Not at first. Not when it’s new and fragile, this thing between you that feels like light pooling in a place that used to be dark.

But the truth is, he’s been tucking bills into a coffee can hidden under the sink. Folding up twenties like prayers. Every oil change. Every brake pad replacement. Every tip from some guy in a pickup who thinks Patrick’s too pretty to know how to work a socket wrench.

It takes a few months.

But he does it. He finds the ring.

It’s simple. Nothing flashy. Silver band, oval stone, the kind of thing that looks like it was always meant to be on your hand.

He doesn’t plan the moment. Doesn’t want to.

It happens on a slow Sunday morning. You’re still in pajamas, half-asleep, sitting on the floor of the apartment eating cereal out of the box and humming along to a song on the radio.

And Patrick—grease-stained, heart-full, steady for the first time in his life—sits down beside you, pulls the ring out of his pocket, and says:

“I want to stay. For good, this time. And I want to do it with you.”

You blink. Stare at the ring. Then at him.

“Patrick,” you breathe.

“I know. I’m not good at speeches. Or planning. Or, like, living in the world like a normal person. But I love you. I love this. And I’ve never wanted anything more than I want to keep waking up beside you.”

You set the cereal aside. Crawl into his lap. Kiss him like it’s all you’ve ever known.

And say yes.

BONUS SCENE

Years later, the house is white with green shutters and a porch swing that creaks like it remembers every visitor. There’s a dog named Pickles—some kind of lab mix with too much energy and a heroic commitment to stealing socks. The living room smells like lavender and sun-warmed wood, and someone is always barefoot. Someone is always humming. Someone is always in love.

Patrick stands in the kitchen, barefoot and half-awake, flipping pancakes with one hand while balancing a toddler on his hip. The kid’s hair sticks up like a sunflower and his smile is all you. Another one waddles through the room with a juice box clutched in both hands like it’s sacred.

You walk in wrapped in a robe, sleepy and radiant, and kiss Patrick on the cheek like it’s a ritual. Because it is. Because it always has been.

There’s a knock at the door. Patrick calls, “It’s open!” and in come Art and Tashi—matching sunglasses, tote bags of fresh fruit and croissants, and the kind of ease that only comes from showing up for the better part of a decade.

“Brought blueberries,” Tashi says, lifting the bag.

Art lifts his coffee. “And salvation.”

Patrick smirks. “You’re late.”

“You have toddlers,” Art says. “Ten minutes late is practically early.”

The kids squeal when they see them. Pickles lets out one bark and then rolls belly-up. And for the next few hours, it’s coffee and crumbs and the kind of joy that doesn’t need to be loud to be real.

Later, when the house hushes under nap time and the light turns slow and golden across the porch, Patrick leans against the railing, arms folded, watching the breeze chase itself across the grass.

You come up behind him, soft-footed and sure, and wrap your arms around his middle. Rest your cheek between his shoulder blades.

“You stayed,” you whisper, voice akin to the first ray of sun peeking past the clouds in the morning.

He turns, presses his lips to your forehead. Breathes you in.

“Of course I did,” he says. “Where else would the sun hit just right?”

---

tagging: @kimmyneutron @kharwreck @babyspiderling @queensunshinee @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy @awaywithtime @artstennisracket @artdonaldsonbabygirl

#a writes #ava's asks #patrick zweig #patrick zweig x reader #patrick zweig fic #patrick zweig fluff #patrick zweig x you #patrick zweig angst #challengers fic #challengers #challengers fluff

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himbohysterectomy · 27 days ago

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clinical trial (game) spoilers

firstly before anyone gets mad at me for policing their enjoyment/engagement with a piece of media this is NOT the intention here, do whatever you want forever and have fun ok? keep doing what you're doing so long as you aren't hurting anybody.

Also this is mostly about fanart cause I don't really read fic so idk how applicable it is over there but it still might be, idk.

I have noticed an overwhelming amount of sappy flowery fanart of lee and angel from clinical trial just being cute and lovey and it is strange to me. it feels to me like glossing over the actually interesting substance of the game in favour of generic wholesome content instead.

like i 100% understand the appeal stemming from that desire to be wanted and desired so intensely or even obsessively as well as that desire to feel protected by someone, and in turn wanting it to end up being healthy and wholesome and working out for the both of them. but I feel like what that ends up with in most of the fanart i see is just like. a normal ass couple?

of course we are set up to see the characters and their interactions as very cute and wholesome. and they are! it works wonderfully for setting up that gut-punch of a twist towards the end of the game. they spend a very long time building up to it and it works very well and is well worth the wait.

but like. hello. did we all forget the horror elements of this cute little horror game?

lee is obsessed with angel. he kept angels gum. angels blood. angels hair (which btw, when/where did he acquire that much hair?? lol). he made a doll of angel (which to be fair to him when you actually hear him out it is probably the most reasonable and wholesome part of that whole shrine). he for sure fucked that jacket. he took multiple pictures of angel out and about, meaning that be absolutely, undoubtedly stalked angel. he killed for angel and did not regret it one bit even when he was confronted about it.

him keeping the gum from the week 2 appointment means that at the very latest he became obsessed with angel the second time that they ever saw each other. we have no idea how long he was stalking angel for.

there is zero chance in my mind that their relationship would be healthy and wholesome, at least not all the time. even if they work on shit together and lee actually seeks therapy they're not gonna just... fix each other with the power of love.

frankly lee is unwell and does not know how to form healthy relationships. he could mask that side of himself pretty well during their appointments but even still not perfectly. if they move in together it's going to be a lot more difficult to keep himself in check all of the time and not be Kinda Weird about angel sometimes. there were already some red flags when they only saw each other once a week.

ultimately, it isn't that i want people to stop drawing wholesome and sweet accept ending fanart of clinical trial. of course not!

what i'm getting at is that i wanna see more freak shit!!! get fucky with it!!! draw them being obsessive and unhealthy! if you're gonna fantasize about this fucked up couple at least do it the justice of depicting it in the way that it was set up to be sometimes! they didn't take the time to set up that wonderful twist for it to just be ignored!!

draw lee struggling to not be obsessive or possessive or overprotective! draw lee secretly still keeping things that angel throws away, or stealing small things that he thinks angel wont miss! draw angel having to keep him in check and scolding him like a dog!

give that man his red flags back or so help me god!!! they're what make him interesting as a character - without them he's just Some Guy.

the art that actually got me to play clinical trial was this wonderful piece by @ glimfag/hecctwo. it is absolutely amazing and symbolic and perfect. it leans into the idea of angel also being kind of a freak like that, and why not!! in the accept ending angel knows everything that lee did and is capable of and chooses to be with him regardless.

maybe angel's kinda into it!! maybe angel's drawn to this idea of being the prey of a stalker! maybe angel wants a man that can be kept on a leash! maybe angel likes being the center of his whole universe because angel likes to have that power over him, especially after what angel has been through! maybe angel wants a guard dog! maybe angel likes knowing that he would absolutely kill again if angel asked him to!!

by all means keep drawing wholesome shit all day long but please don't shy away from showing the unhealthy side of their relationship, especially on lee's end! i promise that you're allowed to enjoy "problematic" things - you're capable of critical thought, so have fun with it!!!!!

#edited to remove angels pronouns #clinical trial #clinical trial game #angel martinez #angela martinez #lee smith #clinical trial meta #i guess #mine #p.s. if you draw fucked up unhealthy angel/lee relationship art please send it to me. i want to see it. i will love it #also full transparency i misinterpreted that fanart SO bad when i first saw it #i thought the game was going to be quite a bit different but that isn't a bad thing!#i was pleasantly surprised.#but now i have that original concept i thought the game was going to be (which was *far* off)#and i can play around w that idea myself perhaps :3c #in my head of course. i don't make shit or fuck

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thehighladywrites · 1 year ago

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𝖠𝖢𝖮𝖳𝖠𝖱 𝗆𝖾𝗇 𝗑 𝗁𝗒𝗉𝖾𝗋𝖿𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝖧𝖢’𝖲

summary: being girly in a world full of haters can be hard sometimes! I mean, people hate all the time. but these males don’t let any disrespect towards you slide. They protect you through and through 👀

warnings: fluff, tw:beron😒

amara’s note: this went from being an azriel fic, to rhys and azriel, to batboys, to batboys+lucien and finally all of them. Honestly idc bc i love all of them🤭🤭

Rhysand

Fashion bf x barbie doll gf

I can’t think of anything more cuter than being his doll.

The man does everything for you,

Picking out materials for dresses, designing them for you, working with a private seamstress to bring his visions to life

He knows you best and always supplies the cutest, girliest outfits ever

This man is so attentive and caring, he doesn’t even have to ask what you want to wear, he just knows. It’s like you share a brain

Rhys absolutely loves it when you ask for his advice on hairstyles and fashion choices. He literally goes into designer mode and fixes you up reaaaal nice

When you guys are in the Hewn City, you don’t care, you still wear your pink girly clothes bc who’s gonna say anything to the high lady?

Sparkly accessories, high heels, pretty makeup and cute hairstyles is your trademark.

Rhys loves that you are super girly, he likes the dynamic of him being dark and mysterious and you being bright and bubbly

He protects you like crazy, no one is even managing to say something insulting to you bc rhys takes care or it before the sentence even forms in their mind

Cassian

brooding bf x sunshine gf

This combo is top tier

At first, Cassian might've thought you were a bit too cheery and too involved in yourself. I mean, who else has a massive stash of fragrances, lotions, sparkly jewels, clothes, tons of bags, and enough shoes to fill a closet?

Also, who in the world is that insanely cheerful? There are a million things to focus on, and you're there pondering over matching shades of pink and which bag to wear for the day.

He tries to keep his distance, but you're so inviting and warm that he just melts and falls head over heels in love.

Cassian also falls in love with how much you care for yourself and how adorable you look every single day.

You notice how you’re always seeing him always in plain, simple athleisure or leather. So, you take matters into your own hands and whisk him away for a shopping spree, upgrading his entire wardrobe. Despite his potential, he's been stuck in a rut of black, plain, and boring clothes, and you're determined to change that.

After just a few weeks of being together, this guy has a full-on skincare routine, knows how to coordinate outfits flawlessly so he looks very put together and handsome

He has even mastered the art of silky-smooth hair thanks to you. You've truly leveled him up in every way.

Everyone can't help but notice how much more refreshed and attractive Cassian looks, and it's making you second-guess your decision to help him level up because now, people are hitting on him even more.

Azriel

Scary bf x shy gf

Top tier combo again

No one really knows how such polar opposites ended up together, but suppose they do say opposites attract.

Azriel is stoic around everyone who isn’t the direct inner circle. He lets loose around his found family but even more so around you

Really, he is super comfortable and funny when you’re alone

Azriel notices how soft spoken and kind hearted you are very early on

He is very attentive and your style is actually first thing he notices

The frilly skirts, cute tops, styled hair, cutesy nails and an aura that screamed femininity

He considers his daggers as accessories while you wear cute headbands and ribbons in your hair

Azriel’s fav activity is watching you get ready for anything, whether it be for bed, an event, in the mornings or date nights

He just adores watching your moves, how much effort you put in, the different techniques you use and how you pamper yourself

Pride fills him when he sees how relaxed and put together you feel and look. There is nothing he likes more than seeing you happy with yourself

I also believe az can be traditional and likes the dynamic of having a girly girl mate, or you being all feminine and sweet while he is more masculine and protective

Bro let’s actually talk about protection

No one, I mean absolutely no one, insults you and gets away with it. No matter how snarky the comment, Azriel deals with it.

You’re not as confrontational as him and often hide behind his wings and that makes him even more protective if possible

You always calm him down when someone says something, and he listens to you. If you don't want him to deal with it then and there, he won't ever confront someone in front of you.

Azriel just handles it later, putting fear into people for even daring to approach you.

He wouldn’t do anything remotely scary or frightening in fromt of you. Azriel keeps his work and personal life separate, especially from you

Az couldn’t dream of accidentally putting you in danger, so he never, EVER drags you into his work

You’re not stupid, you know the toll his work takes on him so you are there for him without being too involved, you know how to cheer him up from whatever he is doing behind closed doors

Eris

Arrogant bf x dark feminine gf

Power couple through and through

Eris is canonically extremely well dressed and that makes this dynamic so special

Eris adores splurging on his seamstresses to create matching outfits for both of you.

Best dressed couple in Prythian, hands down

You two are fashion icons, inspiring countless people. People look up to you as their inspiration. Established luxury brands pay you handsomely to flaunt their designs at balls, where all eyes are on you.

Speaking of matching, y’all have matching smirks and cunning mind, and since you’re mates, you have a way of communicating and plotting without anyone knowing

Before, while B*ron🤢 was alive, Eris was ridiculed for having soft hands, clean nails, and good hygiene, which always disgusted him. Why was being clean looked down upon? It disgusted him, knowing that people purposely rather be dirty than clean

Everything got better when you came around and his father passed away. Finally, he had someone who didn't judge him, someone who actually encouraged him to look his best.

You often sit in his lap, plucking his eyebrows as he wears a face mask, his hair pushed back by a cute alien headband.

You often also get manicures, and at first, Eris was like, "This is where I draw the line." But when you suggested just a clear coat and cleaning the nails, he went along with it.

No one knows though. That's the only compromise; I mean, he's still the High Lord, and people can't know he gets manicures. He'd be ridiculed for some stupid macho reason.

Anyways, when it comes to protecting you, no one does it better than him. Not only will he destroy the person with his words but he will blackmail and psychologically torture them. It might seem mean but that’s the price of people not properly respecting their High Lady

Lucien

calm bf x hyper and outspoken gf

you are an absolute sweetheart, there is no one that hates you in the slightest.

In this scenario, I think you're known for rescuing stray animals. It's not like collecting Pokémon cards; instead, you're the person who steps up when there's a stray kitten in need of care.

You definitely live in a cute cottage in the woods with him, not worrying about anything with him there

Your house is an explosion of adorable decor, with pink accents everywhere you look. It's filled with super cute and girly decorations in every corner.

When you start dating Lucien, he notices how hyper you are and how you juggle multiple tasks at once.

Lucien is like your calming anchor, keeping your energy balanced and the vibes serene.

One of your biggest hyperfixations is clothes. Whether it's dresses, coats, pants, shoes, fabrics, or makeup, anything feminine is right up your alley.

And Lucien makes sure you don't overexert yourself, always looking out for your well-being.

Since you're so hyper, you're sometimes loud in certain moments. It really hurts when people tell you to shut up and calm down.

lucien doesn’t let it slide tho

This man defends you however he deems necessary, whether it's with his words or hands.

Just know, he always has your back, no matter what.

No one is suffocating your light and energy if he has anything to do with it.

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covenofagatha · 3 months ago

Note

holy fuck Another Kind of Workout is so hot i spontaneously combusted in the middle of my lecture. i genuinely forgot about that brainworm so now it's hitting me with full force all over again.... god

as a reward for that (holy shit holy shit) and your other recent posts (you've been hard at work dear please rest I'm a little concerned at how fast you write sometimes), in line with what you've replied to me, here's a brainworm inspired by my chat with my art friend:

dom!mommy!reader and sub!desperate!g!p agatha, ft. nudism, exhibitionism, praise, dryhumping, kind of dumbification, defiling of a paintbrush i guess, rio mention i miss my wife tails

teasing agatha at a nude art class. you hold lessons there, and this time you're holding one with a nude subject - you.

you edged her twice this morning before rushing her off to your art class, and she'd followed behind, all desperate and needy.

you don't tell her, and she realises only when you start stripping that she and many others are meant to sketch your naked body. at least you're keeping your panties on. she's flaring with jealousy and possessiveness, not liking how the other students ogle you, not realizing that most of them are too busy getting irritated at the way you keep fidgeting just to tease her.

its when she trails her eyes down that her cock grows embarrassingly hard, because your body is littered with marks. hickey after hickey across your tits, your neck, soft scars from where she'd scratched your neck with her nails while you rode her, and it's like she's reliving every single experience. you can see it in her eyes, in the way she shuffles to put the palette over the throbbing bulge in her pants.

you strike poses - everyone else heeding you no mind, but agatha knows. agatha knows the positions you're taking *very* well. getting more and more desperate with every one, she squeezes her eyes shut, but you laying on your back, back arched, is exactly the image that comes up in her mind. except it's on your shared bed, and she's pounding you relentlessly, while you praise how she fills you up, how she's "such a good girl for mommy", and she's almost certain now that her boxers are ruined.

she curses under her breath when she accidentally rolls her hips against the stool and the tip of her cock brushes against the material. fuck, it feels good. it's not enough, but with how hooded your gaze is, and the ghost of your words from last night echoing in her ears, she's almost already on the edge. you tease her a little more with each pose, eyes always fixed on her, and with the final pose you part your legs in her direction, and she alone sees the way your underwear is positively drenched. it's not her fault, truly, and she strains her clothed bulge against the stool, willing it for just a little more friction.

you watch her carefully. she's blocked by the large canvas for the most part, but if you turn the right angle you can see her palm her dick desperately through her jeans, her eyes practically fucking you already. you motion with your head to her easel carrying a definitely blank canvas, urging her to pick up her brush, and raise an eyebrow when she shakes her head furiously.

your eyes narrow in warning at her, and its perfect timing when your alarm rings to signal that class is over. you hum goodbyes to your friends-slash-students, them sending knowing looks in agatha's direction. you move wordlessly over to her, tutting disapprovingly at her flushed face and blank canvas. she whines softly at your proximity, and you press a chaste kiss at her neck that she shivers at.

slotting yourself behind her, you lean over her, your pebbles tits brushing into her back and she squirms again. "i thought you were gonna be good for me, baby," you huff gently, the puff of breath making her eyes flit down at the wet spot that's seen through her pants. "couldn't draw anything, darling? couldn't even cum on your own, could you? my dumb little girl. need mommy to help you for everything, don't you?" you say, reaching over to pick her paintbrush from between her trembling fingers, from the hands that are gripping the front of the stool so tightly her knuckles have gone white.

the proximity drives her insane, and she whimpers out loud when you cup her cock, sliding the paintbrush horizontally under it. it forms a little T, and you have to slap a hand over her mouth so the last few people filing out don't hear. the cool touch of the plastic drives her insane, and with your soft coos of "so desperate, baby, let mommy empty the pretty thoughts from your head," and "just move, sweeteheart, feel it roll under your wet cock, you're doing so well for mommy, yeah?"

the thrill lies of course in the fact that to anyone who's looking from the entrance, it looks like you're just guiding her in her brush strokes. but the moment they step to the side, they'd see agatha frantically rocking her hips against the wooden paintbrush, your hands snaking up her sides as you take a dip into yourself and spread your sticky wetness across her body, her head bent as muffled moans and whines of "mommy" erupt from her mouth.

a familiar voice calls you, and you look up, nipping at her neck gently in apology, before patting her shoulder and dusting yourself off. you tell her to keep going, her eyes widening because if rio vidal sees her in this state, she'll never live it down. but at the end of the day, she's your dumb, obedient girl, and she obliges.

rio shows you her sketches of you, and you sing her praises just to rile agatha up even more. the turning point is when, in the midst of clearing up after looking at Rio's work, you bend over, and agatha gets a first hand view of your dripping cunt.

Rio's only taken a few steps away from you when she hears a loud keen, then a loud, wet splat of agatha finally painting her canvas. she snorts in amusement, and you wink at her before turning back to deal with your silly doll, who was most definitely not supposed to cum without your permission. she looks at you with the glassiest eyes, and you know you're in for a treat.

i hope you enjoyed this lol it's filled my mind all day, and now i will go home and stuff a finger or two in me when i re read the workout fic again. god i love your mind and your writing so much. it's been very nice chatting with you (and i will continue as long as you let me) but I'm always happy to return to my roots as a perpetual horndog. as always though, please don't feel obliged to write this as a request and do take care 💜

-lots of love, worm anon

I am SO glad you liked because god I haven't been able to stop thinking about that brainworm since you sent it

Sometimes the mania just hits and my brain is like writewritewrite but eventually it chills out and I take a few days off but I am taking care of myself thank you for the concern 💜

I VERY much enjoyed this (and I really do need to work on more agathario x reader there's just too much in my mind but I will get to them I promise) I am OBSESSED with Agatha cumming on the canvas and now I'm thinking about her turning that in with her stains/smell still on it and then reader getting all desperate and touching herself because they are both perverts and I stand by that

I LOVE your mind too and I also really enjoy chatting with you and I hope you have a great rest of the day/night (timezones are hard)

#asks #brainworm #worm anon #agatha harkness x reader

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artstennisracket · 24 days ago

Text

Nokia Pt.2 ib: nokia by drake, you can find part 1 here :) tashi x fem reader

cw: nsfw (18+), squirting, taking tashi’s purple strap ftw

i keep begging you stay, but you’re leaving me

You're determined to not let your night end like this. You were going to get Tashi Duncan Donaldson if it was the last thing you did.

You pulled yourself together, did some touch-ups to your makeup, fixed your clothes and hair. Checking in the mirror to make sure you looked presentable.

You walk out the bathroom and back into the club where the music is bumping. You catch a very quick glimpse of Tashi leaving the club with a guy you swear you’ve seen before but can’t remember exactly. Fuck. She’s leaving with someone else.

Despite the intoxication you’re feeling, you rush out the front door of the club. You text your friends quickly that you’re heading out. You go to call an uber but realize you don’t know Tashi’s address.

Fuck. And it’s cold outside, your liquid coat is slowly wearing off. That’s when genius strikes.

You remember you shared your location with your best friend the day you first went to Tashi’s. You scroll through the texts to find it and bingo. You order an uber to the address and you’re on your way.

You don’t remember just how humongous her house is, well their house is. The Donaldson’s are the power couple of tennis. That’s why the divorce rumors shook the media. It still hasn’t been confirmed.

You walk up the long expanse of the driveway before making your way up the stairs to the front door. The lights are on downstairs, so maybe she just got home. You are not sure if you should knock or ring the doorbell but you end up doing both?

The door swings open and there she is. Long legs, perfect hair, and gorgeous as ever. No one would ever be able to tell she fingered you in the club bathroom less than an hour ago.

She stands there in her silk slip dress, ready for bed. She scoffs, “What’re you doing here?”

That’s when a voice comes from inside the house, getting louder as footsteps approach the door, “Who is it?”

Art Donaldson. He was taller than you imagined. White t-shirt stretched across his skin, you could see every curve of his muscles. Now you could understand what Tashi sees? saw? in him. The divorce thing you’re still unsure about. But he’s not alone.

The man you saw Tashi leaving with the club with is glued to Art’s side. He has his arms wrapped around Art’s waist while he was kissing the side of Art’s neck very sloppily, like he was drunk.

“Wha—“ You let out a half breath, very confused.

Tashi turns to look behind her, “Art you know you shouldn’t be by the door. What if someone saw you guys?”

“Sorry I was gonna—“ Art moves his hand to the dark haired man’s curls to pull him away from his own neck, “I was gonna bring Patrick upstairs, just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Patrick. That was his name. Well Patrick didn’t seem too happy about being moved.

“Just go, I’m fine.” Tashi says, turning back to you and pulling you inside by your wrist.

She shuts the door hastily, taking a second to peer out the front window, making sure no one saw.

Art looks you over, and where you expect to see jealousy in his eyes, there’s nothing. “Okay,” he nods before leading Patrick upstairs.

Tashi turns back to you, “How did you—“

You cut her off, “I’m sorry, I saw you leaving with him and I just couldn’t—“

“Let me stop you right there,” She retorts. “You got jealous,” She takes a step closer to you, “And now you came crawling back to me for what exactly?”

Your heart is beating really fast. She’s right, what did you come here for? You didn’t exactly think this through.

She takes another step closer, now she’s in your personal space. Arms crossed in front of her chest as she leans in so she’s directly in front of your face. “You wanted to cut me off a minute ago, now you have nothing to say?”

“No I just…” You don’t really know what to say. But you do know that actions speak louder than words. So you lean in, crashing your lips against hers.

She wasn’t expecting it from the way she gasps into your mouth. She doesn’t pull away either. You uncross her arms, moving them to link around your neck. You move your hands to her waist pulling her in closer.

You lightly lick at her bottom lip causing her to open her mouth allowing you to deepen the kiss.

You walk her backwards slowly, actually unsure of where you’re going. You’ve only been here once before and spent most of your time in the bedroom.

You pull back slightly, finding you’ve lead her to the kitchen. You lift her up just enough so she’s sitting on the kitchen island, “What’re you doing?” She a little breathless from the kiss.

You bend down slightly, lifting her legs up until they’re hanging off your shoulders. Her nightgown slipping up her thighs, revealing the pair of black panties underneath, “Kitchen is the best place to eat right?” You say right before you bend down, letting yourself mouth over her pussy through her panties.

She groans, one of her hands finding its way to your hair, while she holds herself up with her other hand.

You suck and lick getting her panties nice and wet, even though there was already a wet spot there before you started. You pull back, moving her panties to the side so the real fun can begin.

You dive back in, feeling her wetness on your tongue causing you to moan against her. You lick the exact same way she told you she liked all those months ago, very light with not too much pressure. Your tongue swipes over her clit, back and forth.

“Fuck,” She moans pulling your hair roughly. You pick up the pace, moving one hand to grip her hips and moving your other hand to slip two fingers inside her. Pumping your fingers in and out, making sure to curl them against the spongy spot inside her. She’s grinding against your fingers, using your body to chase her own pleasure. You can tell she’s close from how loud her moans are getting.

“Ah fuck, I’m gonna cum shit,” She yells. You pull back just in time as she squirts all over your fingers, the rest falling to the kitchen floor. You smirk, pulling your fingers out. They’re shiny and wet, completely covered in Tashi. You take them into your mouth without a second thought. Keeping eye contact with Tashi while you suck them clean.

She bites her bottom lip and says, “Let’s go.” She hops off the counter and intertwines your hand with hers. She leads you up the giant set of floating stairs until you make it to a bedroom.

This room was different from the room you were in last time. She lightly pushes you onto the bed. Crawling on top of you to capture you lips in another kiss. It’s slow as you both explore each other’s mouths with a sense of urgency. She pulls away, leaning to whisper in your ear, “I want you undressed and ready for me by the time I get back.”

She climbs off the bed, giving you one last look up and down, before she leaves.

You waste no time taking off your dress and panties. You unclip your bra in one swift motion before sitting back down in the bed. Undressed, done.

But she said to be ready. Ready for wha—oh. You were 99% sure you knew what was coming. So you rewet the same digits you just fingered Tashi with, so you can start opening up yourself.

You can’t believe the night ended up this way but you were not even the slightest bit disappointed, if anything you were ecstatic. Tashi was the best sex you ever had and that was saying something. Not because you sleep around a lot, quite the opposite actually.

It took a lot for you to let someone be with you in this way, but with Tashi it was just magnetic. You couldn’t stop wanting her if you tried.

You continued to scissor your fingers inside yourself, you were already pretty wet so it wasn’t hard to open yourself up. Your mouth is almost drooling in anticipation.

When she walks back in the room she’s already wearing it. Her strap-on. It’s purple, long, and thick. Just like you remember.

She smirks, lurking over you. Watching as your fingers pump in and out of your wet hole, “That didn’t take you long to figure out hm?”

You shake your head no, eyes glued to Tashi like she’s the only woman, the only person in the entire world. Your fingers slow down and you start to pull them out until she says, “Did I tell you to stop? Keep going.”

You keep pumping your fingers in and out, feeling yourself on the edge. She joins you in the bed, sitting between your spread open legs. She rolls your nipples between her fingers carefully, “You're just so desperate.”

You whimper from the sensation, nodding in agreement.

“I bet you’d let anyone fuck you right now. Saw the way you were looking at Art.” She says moving her hands so they’re full on groping both of your boobs. She leans in to start kissing your neck, “What if I called him in here right now hm? Made him fuck your mouth while I fuck you?”

You let out a high pitched moan, your eyes slipping closed, about to finish when you feel Tashi’s presence pull away from your personal space, “Okay,” She says in her carefully curated neutral tone. You pause your movements and she pulls your hand away, leaving your hole empty.

“Now I think you’re ready for me,” She half smirks, knowing she’s effectively edging you now. She pulls you further down on the bed so you’re now lying on your back. She lines herself up with your entrance, holding your legs on her shoulders. She bottoms out while leaning forward, almost folding you in half.

“Fuck Tashi,” You moan as she starts slamming into you with a bruising pace

“Couldn’t keep your hands to yourself all night. Behaved like such a whore, dancing and grinding on all those people. You’re lucky I decided to even fuck you at all.” She says leaning in more so your foreheads are touching. “But maybe that’s what you like, being passed around like a fucking slut. Is that right?”

You think about it and in this state it’s easy to say yes to everything. But deep down you do really only want Tashi. Being with other people would have to be under her instruction, for her pleasure. So you shake your head no. “No I— only want you,” You gasp out in between her thrusts.

“Is that so? Because you didn’t act like it tonight.”

“Only want you baby please, just wanted to make you jealous,” You moan. Your sounds get louder each thrust as you get closer to finishing.

She coos, bringing a hand up to caress your cheek, “You were just so desperate for my attention hm? Just wanted me to fuck you again?”

You nod profusely, “Needed you, don’t stop Tashi fuck,”

“Gonna cum for me baby? Make a mess all over my cock?” She grabs your face, forcing you to make eye contact.

“Yes fuck I’m gonna—“ You whine after a particularly harsh thrust, finishing all over Tashi’s strap. She fucks you through your orgasm before pulling out.

She pecks you on the lips, “That’s my girl,” she whispers. She makes her way to the en suite bathroom where you hear the water running.

You take this time to stretch out your limbs, a little cramped from behind in that position for a while. You take a moment to look around the room. You see pictures of Tashi and Art. Some from their wedding day, game days, some with a little girl who has curly brown hair and is a perfect mix of the two of them.

She walks back into the room with a damp rag. She takes her time cleaning you up and it’s very sweet, almost domestic like. You’re still on edge, wondering if this is it. If it’s the last time you’ll see her again.

“What’s the deal with you and Art?” You ask lying next to her. You’re both lying on your sides facing each other.

“What do you mean?” She asks quietly.

“Tashi I meant what I said, I want you— I want to be with you,” You sound so unsure of yourself. But you are sure. You’re unsure of what her answer will be.

She lets out a light laugh, “You don’t mean that. We had fun, that’s it. You’re a college student with your whole life ahead of you, you don’t want me.”

You brush the falling strands of hair out of her face, “I do. I didn’t want anyone else in that entire club, just wanted to make you jealous.”

“You didn’t even realize I was there until half way through the night,” She scoffs lightly.

“Why do you think I went to that club in the first place?” You half smile and that catches her off guard.

“You knew I was there? How?” She questions.

“This is going to be embarrassing for me,” You suck in a deep breath, “But I kind of started following a Tashi Donaldson updates page on twitter after we first hooked up. I knew immediately I wanted to see you again,” You sigh, blushing hard.

She laughs again, “So you were stalking me? I should get a restraining order against you.” She jokes.

“Tashi I’m being serious,” You groan, shifting to buy your face in the pillow, embarrassed.

“Art and I are,” She pauses, “Still together somewhat. He’s always going to my husband.”

“And what about the other guy, Patrick?”

“You really don’t know anything about tennis huh?”

“I know you’re the greatest to have ever done it, isn’t that all I need to know?”

She smiles again but this time there’s a sadness behind her eyes, “I’m Patrick’s coach. He’s dating Art. And Art’s still my husband. Do you think you could live with that?”

You nod slowly doing the logistics in your head, “I can live whatever if it means getting to see you again.”

“Okay,” She takes your hand in hers, intertwining your fingers, “Then I guess you’ll get to see me again.”

a/n: thank you to my lovely diya @diyasgarden for reading this over. hope you guys enjoy!!!!

taglist: @antxnxlla @tacobacoyeet @newrochellechallenger2019

want to be tagged when I post? click here :)

#mel writes✍🏾#challengers #patrick zweig #art donaldson #artrick #art donaldson x patrick zweig #tashi duncan #tashi x you #tashi duncan x you #tashi donaldson smut #tashi duncan x reader #tashi x reader #art x tashi x patrick

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alchemistc · 10 months ago

Text

(dys)functional | bucktommy 1/1

an: the hockey au keeps growing, have some tommy whump in the meantime

read on ao3

"Hey," Tommy says, rolling the word over his tongue, letting the door close behind him and leaning his head back against it as it goes. Evan glances up, and immediately sets the knife in his hands down, expression going concerned the moment he sees the look on Tommy's face.

"Uh wha - what's wrong?"

The concern in his voice is ratcheted up in a way Tommy doesn't quite understand - he knows the look on his face is a little resigned but Evan looks stressed. "I'm gonna have to reschedule our weekend," he tells him, already shifting away from the door, moving in, chasing after the distressed little tilt of Evan's head, completely incapable of not trying to fix it even though his mind is going in about fifty different directions, right now.

Around the corner of the island, into Evan's space, and Evan melts just enough for Tommy to get his hands around Evan's hips. "Is everything okay?"

Tommy grimaces. "Not - not really, no. I've got to catch a flight in about six hours."

Evan goes stiff under his hands. "O-okay."

There's an art to fully grasping his tone, in these moments. He's - not an easy read, exactly, because his default seems to always be doing a terrible job of hiding whatever it is he's feeling, but that doesn't actually mean he's not masking the actual issue. It's confusion, mostly, maybe a little bit of hurt, a quiet sense of foreboding in his expression as he leans back to get a good look at Tommy's face, like he's searching for an answer for a question he doesn't know if he's allowed to ask.

Evan shifts impatiently, stormy expression clearing up. "Can - do you need to -" He makes a face Tommy knows is aimed at himself, a little recrimination for not being able to gather up the proper words in the proper order. He pulls in a deep breath. "Okay, so this is maybe too much to throw at you right now but those are kinda famous last words for me and I'm - will you tell me why so I'm not thinking up worst case scenarios here?"

Tommy slides in, fingers curling into the hem of Evan's shirt, gripping, tugging just enough that they both drift into one another. "It's my father." Brow furrowed, Evan nods, and waits, still rigid in the circle of Tommy's arms. And Tommy really does have to leave, soon, pack an overnight bag and try to get a couple hours of sleep before the slog to John Wayne, but he's a little concerned that leaving right now is going to send Evan into a tailspin. Thank God he'd decided to drive over first, tell him in person - he's missing a heap of context here but clearly a phone call would have been the wrong move. "He's - I have to..."

Evan knows the basics, bare minimum shit because Tommy hates acknowledging how much his father had fucked him up, how many years of therapy have been required to untangle the dad shaped knots in his brain.

"I don't really have all the details, yet, but my uncle called and I - I'm needed, apparently. I don't." Tommy has felt wrong-footed since the moment the name flashed across his phone screen, he doesn't talk to them, to any of them, and now his uncle has given him a vague 'Tom you need to come home, it's your pop' and his sister isn't answering her messages. Tommy takes a breath, realizes his hands have tightened into fists in the seams of Evan's shirt. "What do you mean famous last words?"

Evan is studying him carefully, elbows bowed behind him because he's got his palms curled around Tommy's fists, eyes shifting over Tommy's face, and Tommy knows he's seeing the shit Tommy likes to keep under lock and key. "It - it can wait. Tommy, do you need me to come with you?" Head tilted, gaze assessing, fingers shifting, soothing over the stretched tight skin of Tommy's knuckles.

It's too soon for that. He doesn't want Evan to see that part of him, the piece of the puzzle that Tommy has had to chip at, and shave and sand down to make fit, that ugly little part of his life he'd shed the day he'd set his house key on the dining room table and left for boot camp.

It's not too soon - he doesn't want Evan to ever see that.

He's also suddenly incredibly aware of how nice it would be to finally, finally have someone he knows is in his corner for whatever bullshit he's ten hours away from walking into. His grip loosens and Evan seizes the opportunity, awkwardly lacing his fingers through Tommy's. It's a weird angle, uncomfortable with the current positioning of their arms, but it feels a bit like a lifeline. "I can't ask you to do that."

"You're not. I'm offering."

There's a stubborn part of him that doesn't want to accept. He's kept his life out here so separate; even Sal, who'd kept all his other secrets for going on a decade, barely knows shit about his family. He has a good life, rich and fulfilling. Out here. He's got Evan, who'd do practically anything for his friends, his family. Tommy can't justify subjecting him to whatever garbage the Kinard's have going on three thousand miles across the country.

Evan tugs at his hands, shifting his weight enough to send Tommy stumbling half a step into him. Toe to toe, gazes catching again, because Evan is seeking him out, Tommy feels some of the weight lift off his shoulders.

"Okay."

It gives him the excuse of leaving as soon as possible, once he gets there, at the very least.

Evan nods. Whatever weird tension he'd been carrying ebbs from his shoulders and Tommy puts a pin in that - he's spiraling and upset but for a second Evan had been, too, and he needs to circle back to that when he can think straight.

He's got his phone out, free hand digging into Tommy's front pocket, and Tommy blinks, tries to think of something clever to say, something flirty and wry. They were supposed to go out tonight: dinner, maybe dancing, after, if Tommy could convince him. Then a three day stretch of matching days off - a drive up the coast, a little rental within walking distance of a beach, a seafood place that made a lobster roll almost as good as the ones up in Maine. He'd been contemplating whether or not it was too early to bring up Evan's lease.

Evan fishes Tommy's phone out and presses in his passcode without a second thought, and something eases in Tommy's chest. He trusts Evan. Has trusted him, consistently, unquestioningly - he'd given him his passcode on a whim when the screen went dark on it halfway through Evan adding his food to whatever they'd been in the middle of ordering in before Evan got derailed by a story about the anatomy of seahorses.

"Did you already book a flight?"

Tommy nods. Points out the Southwest icon he'd moved to his home screen for easy access.

He doesn't argue when Evan guides him around the island to one of the stools, there, fight and flight both losing out to freeze as Evan takes charge.

It's not their usual dynamic. Evan has been happy to set the pace, but once he takes his cues from him, Tommy's typically the one taking point. But Tommy feels unmoored, and it's nice, actually, to have Evan press a kiss to his temple, to pull up his flight information, to squeeze Tommy's shoulder as he books a second ticket on the credit card Tommy's really only let him use once or twice, happy to be seeing someone who will actually let him pay more than his fair share, who seems flattered that Tommy's always got his wallet out before Evan even thinks to reach for his.

Everything's a bit jumbled. He's halfway to Jersey already, maybe, pulled into the riptide and dashed against the rocks of Richard Kinard's bullshit, he doesn't even know why he's going, just that his uncle had told him he needed to come. He comes up for air feeling battered and bruised when Evan rubs a hand down his shoulder, over his arm, up again with harder pressure as his palm shifts down and over his spine.

Evan's face hovers close to his. "I'm just gonna call Bobby, and then we can pick up something to eat on the way over to your place." The upside to having something already planned is that Evan's already got a bag packed with everything he'll need to travel.

It sounds so simple, so effortless, and Tommy's throat feels tight when he swallows. He gets two fingers into Evan's belt loop before he can pull away, and Evan comes easily, stepping into the spread of Tommy's legs, forehead coming down the few inches to meet Tommy's. "You - thank you."

"Of course," Evan says, a little wry, an echo of Tommy's own favorite phrase whenever Evan gets a little caught up in the way Tommy keeps showing up for him. He gets it, now. It's been instinct, really, to be there when Evan asked, to try his damnedest to make it to the things he's promised to be there for - nothing particularly remarkable about it, in Tommy's mind, but Tommy's starting to see the larger picture. It's grounding, it's comforting, it is actually a little remarkable to be on the receiving end of it. It feels like devotion.

Tommy rolls his forehead, curls a hand up over Evan's shoulder, his neck, fingers catching in his hair, along the curl of his ear. When he blinks and meets Evan's gaze, there's something in his eyes that Tommy isn't sure either one of them is actually ready for, but then, they haven't really stumbled on their way through those things up to this point anyway. Blazed past them, maybe, but always with an understanding of what they mean while they waved at the mile marker blurring past them.

Evan squeezes at Tommy's knee. "I'm not going anywhere," he assures, and Tommy snorts.

"You're literally going to Jersey in, like, five and a half hours."

Evan huffs. "With you. I'm - you're ruining my moment, Tommy," he pouts, and if the both of them dissolve into a fit of giggles, no one has to know but them.

-----

Tommy hasn't been back here in eight years. It's been longer since he's talked to his family - he'd shown up fifteen minutes into his grandmother's funeral, slipped in to a pew at the back during mass and and skipped the wake before he found a bar and made a few bad decisions with a man who'd sat next to him four drinks in and smiled at him like the sun peeking through a billowing stormcap.

Evan presses a tentative hand to the small of Tommy's back and Tommy melts into it, pleased when the hand shifts to curl around his waist. He's apparently already rented a car, and Tommy can't quite hide the heavy sigh of gratitude at the admission - the getaway will be a lot smoother if they don't have to stand outside waiting for a ride.

He's seen Clipboard Buck in action before. The last time, he'd barely managed to get them somewhere private before he was on his knees to express his appreciation of Clipboard Buck. This is - not better, but different in a good way. It makes him feel tethered, reminds him that as crazy as it had been to accept an invitation to a wedding after a spectacular explosion of a first date, he'd been right to follow that spark he'd first felt on the tarmac while Evan Buckley shook his hand for about thirty seconds too long.

"I can help whoever's next," says a voice as Evan shuffles him along the rental line, and Tommy's gaze darts up, his posture sharpening.

Evelyn.

Christ, it's a day for reunions, Tommy guesses. They're next, actually, and Evan tilts his chin with narrowed eyes when Tommy sighs and moves to the counter.

For a second, Tommy's convinced she doesn't recognize him. She pops the gum in her mouth, bored gaze bouncing between them as Evan scrolls through his email for the confirmation number on his booking, and then her eyes go wide.

"Tom? Tom Kinard?"

Evan's eyes shift up. It's a lot more subtle than Tommy'd expected. So is the hand that squeezes at Tommy's hip in question.

Tommy curls his fingers around the hand, squeezes back. He's spent too many years on the other side of the closet door to go crawling back into the dark now.

"Hi Evie."

Tommy hasn't told this story, but he doubts Evan will be particularly surprised by it. He's heard about plenty of Tommy's other beards.

Her gaze shifts. From her spot behind the counter he doubts she's seeing much, but the anchor of Evan's arm around his waist has them sharing space, Tommy's shoulder pressed to Evan's chest, the two of them breathing the same air. Her brow ticks up behind her glasses. She's got a streak of grey along her temple, and the start of crows feet around her eyes.

Evelyn snaps her gum. "You missed the reunion," she notes, and then smiles. "Although I can't blame you if this is what you've got back at home. A large improvement on Jason Ledecky." She leans in. "He's got five kids and a truly tragic bald spot."

Evan's eyes gleam. Tommy realizes he's actually looking forward to telling this story, in the sanctuary of a rented car on the way to his uncles. Evelyn Carinni had been a godsend for a Tommy who'd shot up four inches and slimmed down over the summer after junior year -- she'd scooped him right up that first day of school when it became clear that a suddenly sharp jawline was all it took to garner the attention of the female population of Cliffside Park High, and the first time she'd whipped out her tits and seen the disinterested look on his face she'd made it her mission to make sure he made it through senior year undetected.

"You here about the will?"

Tommy pauses. "What will?"

Her eyeroll is exactly as disparaging as he remembers. "Christ, your family is a piece of work. According to Tina, who heard it from Daryl, Old Man Gio apparently had an updated will your dad tried to hide. There's been a whole lawsuit about getting it recognized."

"What the hell does that have to do with me?"

"Well, I imagine dear old granddad had a nice little end-of-life realization that the only descendant he had who didn't want any of his money was you, so as a last fuck you to all his ungrateful kids he left it all to you."

"There's no way any of that money hasn't been spent already." Not to mention he has no interest in some long drawn out court case where all his extended family has to admit they have no way to pay it back.

Evelyn hums. "A lot of it's been tied up for years. Plus there's the royalties his estate is still getting."

Tommy sighs. "My uncle made it seem like it was more serious than that."

"Is there anything more serious to them than who gets the lions share of daddy's money?" At Tommy's raised brow, she shakes her head. "Anyway, your pop might be looking at jail time, so there's always a possibility they're looking for preemptive bail money."

If he lets them, he'll tie up Evelyn for hours, standing here gossiping like teenagers. "We should have a reservation," Tommy tells her, before things get really off the rails, and they go through the motions of pulling up Evan's information. Evelyn pops her gum again.

"What a shame," she says, brow raised and eyes focused on Evan. "We promised you we had plenty of inventory in basic economy but it looks like those are all off the lot." Tommy watches Evan frown, eyes darting to the prices detailed behind her. Neither one of them is overly concerned about their savings account, at the moment, but Evan isn't fond of surprise price increases. He'd complained for a week the last time avocados had gone up thirty cents. "Looks like I'll just have to upgrade you free of charge, Mr. Buckley."

The clerk to her left shoots her an exasperated look and leaves it at that, but something happens in Evan's expression, the realization rolling over him that he's been included in some subterfuge. "Oh, well, if you have to," he says, but he's leaning his free arm against the counter now, posture open, happy to be included in this little bubble with someone who has loved and cared for Tommy. He knows the feeling -- knows how he'd had to take a deep breath at Chimney's bachelor party, when Eddie had glanced between them and implied that Evan inviting him to the karaoke bar was a date, remembers the way he'd had to dig his fingers into his thigh in the pocket of his pants to keep from being weird about how nice it was to laugh with Maddie Buckley-Han.

Evelyn chuckles, and smacks her gum, and the keys under her fingers clack away for a moment before she spins in her chair and marches off to grab something from the printer, and Evan hip checks Tommy with just enough force that Tommy sways, maybe a little overcome in the same way Tommy always is when Evan's friends, his family make it clear they like having Tommy around. He grins, and Tommy returns it, the edges of his smile bleeding into his cheeks.

Evelyn returns with contract for a sports car. "I waived the deposit fee," she intones. "For the inconvenience, sir."

Evan looks delighted as he signs off and Evelyn splits their copies. The sticky note affixed to Evan's copy has a phone number with a Jersey area code written on it, and she taps it.

"When you find out you're insanely rich and finally cut off the rest of your family completely, you two should take me out for coffee."

Evan isn't so caught up that he doesn't check in with Tommy first. It's not entirely necessary --he likes Evelyn, and Evan can clearly tell that -- but it's nice, all the same.

"How about a steak dinner," Tommy negotiates, and Evelyn's grin goes wide.

-----

As it turns out, Grandpa Gio was a petty little bastard with a penchant for dramatics, and according to a court of law his aunts and uncles (and father) owe him close to two million dollars, between them.

"I don't want it," Tommy confesses, laid out on the hotel bed that night, still too loose-limbed to move as Evan putters around in the bathroom, wetting a washcloth and brushing his teeth.

Evan looms over him a moment later, warm towel running over the ridges of Tommy's stomach, the rise of his pectorals. Christ, he'd shot off like a goddamn missile. Evan bites his lip to hide a grin when the towel catches on the underside of Tommy's chin.

"I'm assuming you're talking about the money," Evan says, folding the towel over itself to give him one last rubdown. "It seemed like you liked the sex."

Tommy shifts, tugging at Evan's wrist until he settles in beside Tommy. With the remains of his energy, he slings a leg over Evan's and rolls himself into the cradle of Evan's embrace. "That was never a question."

Evan maintains the silence for a grand total of thirty-seven seconds. It's longer than Tommy had expected. "So your family." Tommy hums, already tracing the edges of the tattoo on Evan's forearm. "Kind of dicks."

The snort of laughter settles into Evan's still-sweaty temples, and Tommy shifts to press his nose into the damp curls there. He'd been so hesitant to share this part of himself with Evan, but as always, Evan had forged on ahead like there was nothing in the world he'd rather do than provide the landing spot for Tommy to settle down his gear once the storm passed.

"Took me twenty years and a boatload of therapy to train that out of me. I'm still --." Tommy pauses, the usual self-deprecating comment stuck on the tip of his tongue, because for once, it doesn't feel like an effort to be nothing like them. He'd spent so long hiding in the shadow of the asshole his family had taught him how to be, and dragging himself out into the sunlight always felt like a struggle.

But it hadn't felt like an effort, really -- to hold Evan's hand under the judgemental gaze of ten cousins and four aunts and uncles, to stand tall and stick to the barest edges of polite while the room erupted into chaos the moment his father opened his mouth to defend himself, to excuse himself and tuck his arm over Evan's shoulder on the way out the door.

He can still remember the dazed way Evan had responded to that first kiss, while Tommy busied himself tugging the hem of his shirt back down, too nervous to look at him while he asked him out. The way he'd looked, when Tommy'd been brave enough to glance up, eyes a little glazed, mouth still open, and told him he was free.

At the time, Tommy'd been furiously convincing himself not to lean in for another kiss, fully aware he'd make himself late to work if he allowed himself another taste, but the memory had lingered the rest of the shift. In the days after, once he'd had a clearer picture of exactly how wide he'd just blown open Evan's world, he'd thought of it often.

I am free.

Tommy turns his face to meet Evan's gaze, nose dragging across his cheek, lips aching to find a home against Evan's again, but he catches his eyes first, slides a hand up over Evan's arm, shoulder, neck, until he can curl his fingers over his jaw, thumb tucking in to the little dimple as Evan grins at him. "Thank you for coming."

Evan sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, tongue darting out to wet the top one, a mischievous gleam in his eye, but he lets the dumb joke go, gaze shifting into something more serious as he drums his fingers along Tommy's bare hip. "Thanks for letting me," Evan murmurs back, and Tommy knows they need to talk about that sentiment in more detail, but for now he'd rather roll Evan on top of him and slide his tongue past the seam of Evan's lips.

Evan doesn't seem to have any complaints.

#bucktommy #bucktommy fic #teven fic

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