#I have more thoughts but they’re not totally formed yet

[yieldtotemptation]

CRASH ft. Wonyoung

wonyoung x male reader smut

11k words

When she wanted to be (and it was often), Jang Wonyoung could be a real fucking bitch.

If you were to ask her, she’d probably say the same about you.

And yet, that doesn’t stop her from calling you in the middle of the night, slurring about some shit with her manager, telling (not asking) you to come pick her up.

You’re inclined to recommend that she fuck off and find her own way home.

But of course, you don’t. (You never do).

-

“Sorry boys, my ride’s here!”

There’s a collective groan of disappointment that ripples through the crowd that’s formed up behind Wonyoung; each face falling one after another as they realise that ultimately none of them get to be the lucky suitor that takes her home.

Moths around a flame, unable to do anything but watch as she sashays through the neon haze towards your car. Hips sway with a drunken grace, a dangerously short skirt dances around her thighs, high heels strapped to her feet make her legs seem endless.

It’s a view, that’s for sure.

It probably makes the pain of rejection a little more bearable, makes them forget that they’re being abandoned on the sidewalk with all the rest of the has-beens and ‘who the fuck were you again?’

Her ‘co-workers’, technically. Some you recognise, most you don’t. But they’re all basically the same insecure douchebag in a different shade of overpriced streetwear.

You’d probably be doing the world a public service if you were to steer your car onto the pavement and run them all down.

It’s an idea you entertain a little. Doing it would really ruin her night.

That’d almost make it worth the dent it would put in your brand-new car.

Still, you can’t completely blame the gaggle of potential casualties, not really.

It’s Wonyoung.

Girls like her are the reason they invented the word ’idol’ in the first place, because calling her ’pretty’ or ’hot’ is like calling the Mona Lisa ‘a nice portrait’.

It doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Like the starlet she is, Wonyoung waits until she’s at your car to make her grand exit. A turn to her adorers and a final goodbye: a casual flick of her wrist, a sweet, flirty smile and a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it wink that’ll have them deep in their group chats ranting about how they definitely had a moment with the Jang Wonyoung.

You just roll your eyes. You’ve seen that wink a hundred times.

You know exactly how much it’s worth.

After all, it’s your car that she’s climbing into, slamming the door behind her like it’s her name on the registration; leaving behind her new fan club with nothing but their dicks in their hands and their heads swimming with fantasies of what totally could have happened.

You’re no better though, are you? The second she slides into the passenger seat, you’re judging the shortness of her skirt, eyes greedily tracing the length of her thighs, all the way up to a hint of lace that’s destined to be ruined later.

You’re not subtle. And in that outfit, she’s not either.

“What took you so long? I swear to God I’m going to punch the next guy that asks me ‘how much of a baddie I really am’.”

No thank yous, no pleasantries, not even a look in your direction.

To think that you used to be impressed by how quickly she could drop the act: gone is the sugary sweetness that she’d fooled those simps with back at the club; the pretty, airheaded, ‘lucky Vicky’. As fake and useless as the glasses resting on the bridge of her perfectly shaped nose.

Next to you is the real Wonyoung, the one that you’ve become intimately familiar with: intimidatingly smart, unfathomably hot, and all too aware of how dangerous a woman those two traits made her.

“Why is this car black? I thought I told you to get the red?”

You glare at her. The gall on this woman.

“What are you waiting for? Drive.”

Barely a minute in and she’s setting a personal best record for time taken to piss you off; impatiently kicking off her heels, tossing them over her shoulder and into the back seat (of again: your car, not hers).

You can be just as childish: you slam your foot down, pedal to the floor, wheels screeching, and you peel off into the night. The acceleration forces Wonyoung back into her seat, scrambling for her seat belt, yelling, “What the fuck?”

Now she’s looking at you. You’re casual, offering, “Oh, sorry, did I scare the passenger princess?”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Yeah, and you’re welcome,” you grumble, slowing to a more reasonable (legal) speed as you turn onto the highway. “Remind me, when was it that I started operating a taxi service for wasted idols?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” She rolls her eyes, puts her hands together, bows her head down low. Rich, coming from someone who’s never had to genuinely apologise for anything in her life. “Didn’t realise washed-up trainees had such precious schedules.”

It’s a low blow, her go-to insult for you. Nothing you’re not used to; it’s been years of this, after all.

Years of Wonyoung, the living reminder of your biggest failure, making your life her personal pet project. Years of her smugness, of her flaunting her success in your face, of her demanding more from you, demanding better.

Years of you pushing back, pushing her, and somehow always ending up in the same place, the same bed, the same tangled mess of sweat and spite.

To think it all started when you saw her across that shitty practice room and one of you (you forget who, though it was probably her) said the wrong thing at the wrong time, and it was pure hate at first sight.

“Couldn’t get literally anyone else? Don’t you have friends?” You throw the question out there, keeping your eyes on the road, and not down at her legs, crossing and uncrossing, teasing and taunting.  It’s a herculean task—she’s practically ninety percent leg anyway; so fucking easy to admire, so right wrapped around your waist.

“Trust me, I tried. None of the girls have their license, I definitely can’t call someone from the company, and the last time I tried to get a taxi the fucker recognised me and threatened to leak my address. So that leaves me with you,” Wonyoung sighs. “The last resort.”

“Wow, what an honour,” is your reply. You’re still not looking—not sneaking glances at her stomach, as she stretches in your passenger seat.

As an exercise, you pretend she doesn’t exist. Pretend that the hem of her shirt isn’t rising up, peeling back to grace you with a glimpse of her midriff, that waist, her abs tight and exerted after a night spent out on a dance floor.

It nearly works—for a second, you forget you’re supposed to be annoyed at her.

Right until Wonyoung laughs. Not that fake, high-pitched giggle that she knows you find so grating. No, this has an edge to it, a bite that she reserves just for you. “Don’t pretend like you weren’t waiting for me to call. Or were you in the middle of jerking it to my fancams again?”

There’s the memory, the one loss in territory you haven’t quite recovered from. (A reminder: be less blasé about what you choose to name your saved playlists.)

You fire back with, “Yujin’s actually, but nice try.”

“Whatever, pervert.” Your attempt at a riposte doesn’t work, it’s dismissed, leaving Wonyoung satisfied that she’s won this exchange.

As for her prize, she does what she always does—gets touchy with your property.

She busies herself, fiddling with the touchscreen on your dashboard—’What the fuck is this playlist?’ and 'Why do you listen to this group? You know all those girls are absolute bitches, right?’.

“Stop that.” You reach over to slap her wrist before she starts getting too ambitious and messes with the temperature controls again.

"Hey!” Wonyoung yelps, recoiling, and then pauses. You turn to her, see her annoyingly flawless features scrunch up in disgust as she asks, “What’s that smell?”

You curse under your breath as you realise what’s coming. Wonyoung’s frustratingly sensitive when it comes to scents; she’s got a nose like a bloodhound—and a penchant for sticking it in the parts of your life she doesn’t belong.

She’s gone as far as 'gifting’ you every perfume you’ve owned, every body wash, every shampoo, even your fucking laundry detergent.

Just another way she’s tried to take over your life.

You give your own car a whiff, if only to see if this is just another case of Wonyoung being a brat.

It doesn’t smell bad at all.

In fact, it smells sweet. Too sweet.

“Ew, seriously, what is that? Is that you?”

You’re too slow—she’s got your forearm now. For someone that looks so delicate she’s got a grip like a vice. She brings your wrist up to her nose, sniffing, making her way higher up your arm.

“Let it go, Wonyoung.”

She’s not listening at all, unbuckling her seat belt, leaning over the console, pulling herself closer to you, pushing her body against yours. Whatever little respect Wonyoung had for your personal space is gone; her nose is on your neck, her breath hot against your skin.

“It smells like…” She pauses, getting even closer, taking a deep inhale as she tries to place the fragrance. “Why do you smell like a whore?”

Her voice is low, coloured with a barely noticeable slur. You can feel it: the powder keg about to explode, Wonyoung getting ready to go from zero to a hundred. So, you deflect, “Sure you’re not smelling yourself?”

“Fuck you, I don’t use that cheap shit,” she snaps. “You fucked someone tonight, didn’t you?”

You don’t reply. It’s not like you owe her one, anyway—she’s not your girlfriend, you’re not her boyfriend, you two are…

Rivals, mortal enemies, fuck-buddies, friends-with-benefits (except without the whole friendship part).

(Take your pick, call it whatever you want, or in Wonyoung’s case: don’t call it anything at all.)

“Who—who was it this time?” Wonyoung’s fingers tighten around your arm, and there’s that spark in her eyes.

Every chance she gets, she’ll insist she gives so few fucks about your personal life, but one mention of another woman and she’s diving right in the mud, for once not hiding the fact that she may actually give a shit about you.

It’s probably why you do it.

“Who’s the slut dumb enough to spread her legs for you?”

Now it’s your turn to avoid her gaze, to pretend that having her this close isn’t doing wild things to your heartrate. You make an unforced error: “None of your business.”

“So you did fuck someone.” Her hand moves down your arm, dragging her fake acrylics across your skin until they find purchase in your thigh, digging in hard enough to make you flinch. “You fucked someone I know didn’t you. Who…” She’s reading you, trying to find the answer somewhere in the stress lines of your face. “Hyewon. Yena. Yuri. I swear if it was fucking Eunbi, I’m going to—”

“Going to what?” You challenge. You know this game. You’ve played it before—every damn time she gets like this (and you know where it leads). “Going to lie to me about your own personal survival show back there?”

Wonyoung scoffs. It’s a throaty sound that seems almost foreign coming from her—too impolite, too uncouth for the elegant, refined image she’s painstakingly cultivated. But she makes it anyway, because she’s had a few too many drinks and you’re the only one who’s around to see her like this—raw, unfiltered. “Those losers? I’m not like you, bringing home every pair of tits that strokes your ego.”

“Good to know that I’m special then,” you smirk, but she’s not smiling back.

No, she’s just looking at you, in that annoying, Wonyoung way. It’s those big, doe eyes of hers that you’ve seen do so much damage before—make men bend over backwards, light themselves on fire just to get her to look their way. “You wish.”

You push on, push her just a little bit. “Drop the act, Wony. I wasn’t your last resort—I’m the only one you even considered. You needed your daddy—isn’t that what you were calling me before?”

“I never said that.”

“Wony—”

“And if I did, I’ll never say it again,” she declares, before emphasising. “Never. Again.”

But you know her better than that. You know her lies just as well as she knows yours; it’s in the quickness of her response, the defensiveness—the vulnerability.

“I doubt that,” you say, making the most of the tiny crack in Wonyoung’s armour. “I remember you screaming it. Had you cumming like a fountain—ruined a perfectly good set of sheets, you know?”

“You’re disgusting,” she hisses, but she’s got the same memories in her head—that same night, so similar to this one (so similar to every night before).

The fighting, the fucking, the endless cycle of pushing each other’s button until one of you snaps.

“And what about you? You got here awfully quick for two in the morning,” she says. Her hand’s still on your thigh, less nails, more fingertips now, tracing patterns through the denim of your jeans. “Couldn’t bear the thought of me with someone else, could you? Lie to me—tell me that you weren’t waiting to get your hands on me again.”

Your denial dies before it even makes it past your lips—your own body turns traitor on you, provoked by her hand rising higher. There’s a smile as Wonyoung finds what she was looking for, the proof in the stretching of your jeans, the outline of your cock begging for more of her attention.

“At least this part of you is honest,” she muses, fingers dancing around your growing stiffness.

You grit your teeth, doing your best to keep the car steady, managing to grind out, “Please. It’s like you said, any decent pair of tits does it for me. Even your tiny ones get the job done.”

Her hand freezes on your thigh—you’ve hit a nerve, hit that dark part of her that’s so desperate for validation. “You think you can replace me? Find someone else to fill your sad, lonely nights?”

She’s closer now, her breath against your neck, her fingers drumming a beat right over where the head of your cock is. It’s a heady feeling, one that you hate and crave all at once.

“Was she even good?”

You know what she’s really asking: Was she better than me?

And you know the answer: How could anyone be?

But you don’t say that. You don’t need to. Instead, you reply, “It’s not a competition.”

“Everything’s a competition.”

Wonyoung’s hand relaxes, nails retreating from your thigh, leaving you flustered and fighting against the constraints of your own jeans. She settles back into her seat, having done her damage.

And for a moment, silence reigns inside your car, allowing you to actually focus on the road. Not that it really matters, you know the route to her apartment by heart—you could drive it blindfolded if need be. It’s just a welcome distraction to avoid dealing with the state she’s left you in.

The quiet survives a beat, two, and then Wonyoung’s squirming, shifting in the passenger seat.

And then she does it again.

And again.

You should keep your eyes ahead—you need to keep your eyes ahead.

You know exactly what you’re going to find if you look over at her.

That’s the problem with you and Wonyoung. You know each other too well. Your likes, your dislikes. What gets you off. What makes you mad.

What drives you fucking wild.

And yet, because you’re a sucker for punishment, you still risk a glance, and see Wonyoung, leaning back in her seat, her hand sliding up her own thigh, so casually drifting up her soft, bare skin, higher and higher.

The skirt rises, inch by torturous inch, and it’s those panties—the same set that was around her ankles the last time you had her bent over your couch, swearing she’d hate you forever. The same set that’s probably already soaked, just waiting for you to rip them off again.

You have to tell her to stop, to keep her hands to herself, to not do this to you, not now. Not while you’re trying to keep you both on the fucking road. But your mouth is dry, and all you can manage is a choked, “Wonyoung—”

Her fingers have slid past the hem of her skirt, now playing with the lace that’s the only barrier between her and open air. She’s biting into the plumpness of her bottom lip, staring at you, expecting your full attention, even now. There’s no subtlety with her, there never is, it’s one of the few things Wonyoung’s bad at.

You swallow hard, finding your voice. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Making myself comfortable,” she says, a little breathy now, as her fingers slip under the lace. “You got a problem with it?”

There’s the flash of skin, a gasp as her fingers find purchase between her folds. So wet that you can hear it—the slickness of her arousal, the quiet sound of fabric sliding against her skin.

You’re straining, gripping the steering wheel so hard, it’s a miracle it doesn’t snap in two. Her hand’s dipping lower, her finger sliding inside herself; not deep, not yet, just teasing. Enough to make you want to pull over, to grab her and throw her on the hood of your car, to show her exactly why you’re the only she thinks about when she’s lonely and desperate.

But you don’t, despite the way your body is begging for you to do something, anything, to ease the ache in your cock.

Because if you stop, it’s over. You know how this ends—or rather, you know how she’ll want it to end. She’ll want you to apologise for even being in the proximity of another woman, she’ll want you to beg for her forgiveness so that she might bestow upon you the privilege of touching her again.

If you’re lucky, she just might let you. But only if you play her games.

So you drive faster.

You push the speed limit, weaving through the mostly empty streets.  You’re racing to a finish line, except all that’s waiting at the end of it is the taste of Wonyoung on your tongue, the feeling of her wrapped around you, the sweet victory of making her scream.

It’s hell—ignoring the sound of her pleasure, the wetness of her fingers working in and out of herself. There’s glimpses of her in the corner of your eye; she’s still watching you. Enjoying this, loving every second of it.

“What’s wrong?” She asks, oh-so-innocently, even though she doesn’t expect an answer—she just likes to hear her own voice. “Getting distracted? It’s a long, long way back to my place. No one can blame you if you need to give up and pull over.” 

Wonyoung’s getting bolder now, pulling her skirt up to her waist, parting her legs for you, so you can see her hand moving faster, her hips rising to meet her own touch. So you can hear her, hear the fucking sound of each stroke of her fingers inside her, punctuated each time by a wet slap of her palm against her cunt, reverberating through the car, taunting you.

“You want it, don’t you?” She throws the question out so casually, like of course it’s only natural for her to be fingering herself in your car, of course she should be doing everything in her power to make you want to drive into a fucking wall. “I can tell, you’re so desperate to touch me. Definitely going to die if you don’t fuck me soon. Maybe even right here, right now?”

Your foot slips and the car swerves a little—it’s not much, but it’s enough to let her know that you’re losing focus, that she’s winning.

“Careful,” she laughs. “You wouldn’t want to crash before we get to the fun part.”

“You can’t wait until we get back to your place?” You finally ask, the question burning in your throat.

“No. You need to be reminded that you’re-ah-mine,” comes Wonyoung’s answer. “You’re going to fuck me anyway, so why not-mmph-why not save us both the trouble and get started on my own?”

“You don’t own me, Wonyoung.”

To that, Wonyoung raises a carefully sculpted eyebrow.

It’s not even worth a proper reply. Without a word, Wonyoung reclines back into her seat snaps open the buttons of her shirt. Casually revealing the swell of her breasts, the darkened peaks of her nipples.

No bra—they’re just there. Right there, in your face—those tiny, round, perky tits that you’ve had in your hands, that you’ve had between your teeth, that you’ve covered with your cum more times than you can count.

She’s not shy about it—never has been—arching her back, pushing her breasts out even further. It’s the confidence from knowing every other idol (hell, every other woman in the world) would sell their soul to have a body like hers. So why the fuck not flaunt it?

“Somehow, I don’t think that’s true,” she says, reaching up to her chest. A palm finds her tits, pinching and rolling the sensitive nubs, making them nice and red and swollen for you.

She’s moving faster now, grinding down on her own hand, teeth sinking down into her bottom lip so deep you’re surprised she hasn’t drawn blood. Her breaths are getting shorter and shorter, she’s so close, she’s so fucking turned on, she’s so hot it hurts.

Her eyes remain fixed on you; seeing you struggle only makes her hotter, spurs her to circle her clit faster. She’s drinking you in—the tightness of your jaw, the way your eyes can’t decide whether to keep on the road or on her, the way you swallow, trying (and failing) to keep it together.

The worst part of it all is this wicked smile that’s settled on her lips; thoughts of wiping it off her face with your cock flash through your mind. She’s just so fucking smug about it, so sure of herself.

And maybe she should be.

“Admit it,” Wonyoung purrs. “Admit that you need me.”

“Why would I? You’re just a convenient hole to fill.” It’s not true, of course. You’ve never believed it; none of the hundred times you’ve said it to her before—and she’s never once been fooled.

Wonyoung is back in your ear, “You’re a bad liar.”

Her hand’s returned to your thigh, teasing closer and closer to where you really want it to be. You grunt a weak, “Wonyoung, if you think that’s going to work—”

But she doesn’t listen (she never does).

She reaches for the bulge in your pants, far too quick for you to stop her from wrapping her fingers around you, from taking a hold of you and squeezing.

“See?” She whispers, thick with satisfaction, feeling you throb in her grip. “You’re already about to burst. You can’t resist me. No one can.”

You’re not backing down. You’ve got your own pride to think of, after all. “Save it for your fan club.”

Wonyoung’s never been one to take no for an answer. Her hand moves with purpose, sliding over your zipper and giving it a forceful tug. The sound rings through the car, and it’s an out of body experience; it’s all in slow motion as she pulls out your hard, aching cock.

Fuck.

“Last chance to pull over.” Wonyoung takes a hold of you, fingers curling around your cock with a firm grip that leaves no room for doubt—she’s not letting go until she gets what she wants.  “Who knows what will happen if you keep driving like this. Wouldn’t want to ruin these expensive leather seats with your cum, now would we?”

“Not a fucking chance.”

“Your funeral,” she answers, her smile widening into a full-blown grin as she starts to move, stroking you, her hand gliding up and down your shaft with familiar ease. “Or ours, I guess.”

She’s not making it easy—there’s the slow, deliberate pumps, her thumb circling the head, her fingers teasing the sensitive skin. It’s so natural for her, so goddamn good. 

“Are you sure you can handle this?” Wonyoung’s question hangs in the air, joining the sound of her fist pumping your cock, the squish of her own fingers plunging in and out of her cunt. It’s a taunting metronome, the more you try to ignore her, the tighter she squeezes, the fastest she strokes you, the louder she moans in your ear. “Are you sure you can handle me?”

“I’ve done it before and I can do it again,” you grit out. “You’re going to be the one begging for it in the end. Like always.”

She huffs, and you’ve found your mark. “Oh, really? You think you’re so much better than me? You think you can just ignore me like that?”

“Better than you? Easily,” you answer. “You’re just a pretty face and a pair of legs that can’t keep itself shut.”

That makes her stroke you harder, tighter now, firmer, she’s trying to make this hurt. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

“What gives you the impression I even think about you at all?”

“Oh, I know it keeps you up at night—thinking about me, wondering if I’m thinking about you, wondering if any other slut can make you feel the way I do,” Wonyoung’s leaning on you, chin propped up on your shoulder, a devil in your ear. “You hate it, don’t you? You hate that it’s my cunt that you can’t get out of your head, that it’s my pretty lips that you need so badly around your cock.”

"Are you sure you’re not just projecting, Wony?” You ask, glancing down to her hand between her legs, her fingers deep in her folds, her cunt dripping with juices and making a small puddle beneath her. “Look at how wet you are at just the thought of having my cock back between your pretty lips again.”

“Fuck you.” Wonyoung’s panting, short harsh breaths. There’s no conviction in her voice, no denial to be found—this dance of spite and lust has her so fucking heated. All of it—the hate, the competition, the push and pull: it’s all just foreplay. “You’re nothing to me. Nothing but a back-up plan, a toy I play with when I’m bored.”

“Now who’s a bad liar.”

“Go fuck your—”

You don’t let her finish her insult. You’re tired of the back and forth, the games, the fucking power plays. You take your hand off the steering wheel, grabbing her by the hair, wrenching her head up to meet your eyes.

“What the fuck do you think you’re—” Wonyoung’s mistake is opening her mouth in protest—you push her face down onto your cock; not giving her a chance to argue, not giving her a chance to do anything but suck you dry like the skinny little slut she is.

She chokes, hacks a cough as you plunge your cock down her throat, her nose meeting your waist, and it nearly has you emptying into her mouth then and there.

Turns out, she’s right.

You do need this. Need to feel her perfect, pouty lips on you again, her teeth grazing against your skin, her tongue giving in and worshipping you like she’s never done with anyone else.

You keep a hand wrapped up in a fistful of her hair, but you don’t even need to hold her down—she doesn’t fight you, doesn’t even make the slightest noise of protest. No, she just takes it; never mind how much her eyes water, her mouth drools.

“Fuck,” you’re moaning before you can think better of it, and just like that, you’re conceding the smallest victory to her.

And it makes her smile around your cock.

You grunt in response; buck your hips, feed her your cock, make her gag (make her regret it).

You don’t ease up, because if there’s one thing you know about Wonyoung (one thing you know about fucking Wonyoung), it’s that the most insulting thing you can do to her is to take it easy on her.

Just fuck her face and behold the sight of Wonyoung taking your cock. God, her pretty lips wrapped around you, her throat bulging at your length, her teary eyes staring up at you with a mix of defiance and something that’s eerily close to adoration.

It almost makes you forget that you’re supposed to be driving, and it takes a honk from a car behind you and a smile and a curt nod from Wonyoung to remind you of the world rushing by outside.

You pull your eyes back to the road, both hands on the steering wheel to right the car back on track, barely escaping death by deepthroat.

Wonyoung laughs around your cock, a muffled sound that sends vibrations up your shaft. You try to ignore it, but she’s already seizing the opportunity, taking full advantage of the distraction to push down on her own accord, to take you deep—to start properly sucking.

You swerve again.

Her mouth is absolute heaven, pure and simple—she’s a fucking master at this. Your cock’s been in her mouth so many times before that she could probably write an instruction manual on exactly how to make you come unglued.

Too much all at once—you’re groaning now, unable to help it. She’s not even trying that hard; just taking your cock between her lips, sliding it all the way down her throat, a few gentle licks here, a swirl of her tongue there, but it’s more than enough. It’s what keeps you coming back. No one else feels like this—no one else has mapped out your cock like she has—every inch, every vein.

It’s the rhythm that she’s got down to a science: how fast to take you, how much pressure to apply, when to break from her pace to keep you teetering on the edge.

You can feel her eyes on you, scanning you for any sign of weakness—this is precisely where she wants to be. Like this was her decision—like everything leading up to this was part of some messed up strategy to provoke you, to make sure that your cock ended up in her mouth.

You don’t get a chance to dwell on that thought, not when Wonyoung’s teeth is at the base of your cock, her cheeks hollowed out, her tongue doing these little flicks that make your toes curl.

And there’s the question in her eyes: ’is that all you got?’.

Fuck it—risk taking your hand off the steering wheel, it belongs in her silky, dark hair. Make her eyes widen, make her take you deeper, kiss the back of her throat with the tip of your cock, force these divine fucking sounds.

The noises when she gags around you, when the spit is hacked up and drooled down your cock; she’s so sloppy, so filthy.  

And she takes it, takes all of it.

Push her down before pulling her up by the hair, choke her, gag her, have her slobber all over your cock, make her feel you.

Wonyoung takes and takes and takes.

It’s fucked up how you’re treating her (how she’s letting you treat her); she’s an idol for fucks sake. But that’s the last concern you have on your mind—all you can focus on is how fucking good it feels to do this to her, to have her fighting for air around your cock, fighting to keep her eyes on you as you fill them with tears.

Wonyoung’s not giving up though—she’s timing it, timing you. When to relax her throat to take you deep. When to suction her lips. Where to dart her tongue to find that sensitive spot along your shaft.

She’s battling back, in her own way, just as determined as you are to not lose this war of wills. But in the end, you’re the one in the driver’s seat.

“Mmmph,” she’s the one moaning now, moaning around your cock. Shivering in your lap, body jerking and trembling; you can tell her fingers are still buried in her cunt, playing with herself.

She’s so fucking shameless, so fucking pretty, even like this—cheeks flushed, makeup smeared, eyes watering.

You want to kiss her, but that would mean separating her lips from your cock. You want to tell her how much you hate her, but the words won’t come out—they’re stuck in your throat, lodged between your grinding teeth.

“Wait—fuck.” You realise you’ve missed your turn, a split second too late. You jerk the steering wheel, needing both hands as you pull a sharp U-turn. The tires squeal as you try to correct your error, Wonyoung’s mouth around your dick scrambling your brains.

She pulls her lips off from your cock with a hollow ‘pop’. “I thought you could handle me?”

You try to reply—try to form a single coherent thought—but the chance slips by as Wonyoung’s back on the offense, back throating your cock so quickly that your vision swims.

A deep breath is what you need to keep it together. You’re barely thinking straight, holding onto the steering wheel for dear life, doing everything you can to keep yourself from giving up (giving in to Wonyoung’s mouth).

But it’s hard. So fucking hard.

You’ve blown far past any normal speed limit, trying to keep from spinning out with every one of her enthusiastic bobs—it’s by some divine benevolence the car hasn’t completely flipped over by now.

Wonyoung’s relentless, her mouth’s a fucking black hole, sucking you in, stealing every thought from your mind until there’s nothing rattling around your skull but the feel of her wet, warm lips on your cock, and the obscene sounds of her fingers sawing in and out of her pussy, fucking herself.

You’re almost there, and Wonyoung knows it. You can feel it in the suction of her lips, in how hard she’s working you over. It’s the sweetest kind of torture—knowing that she’s got you right where she wants you, that she’s got you on the edge and you can’t do anything about it.

You’re not going to last much longer.

Neither is she.

So you drive. You drive like your life depends on it, because maybe it does. Maybe the only thing keeping you sane is the promise of your eventual release, of filling her mouth with her cum, of pulling her onto your lap and fucking her cunt raw until she screams your name.

“Come on, you can do it,” she’s taunting you now, lathering your cock with just her tongue, dragging it along your length, licking you all the way from your balls to your head. She’s giggling as she steals the pre-cum from your tip, the fucking bitch—like she’s got all the power in the world.

You can see her apartment building in the distance, a beacon of light in the darkness.

You’re almost there.

You reach for the garage remote, mashing the button as you get closer and closer (you’re going to break it). The gate sluggishly opens, and you make a sharp turn to swerve into the dimly lit building, not bothering to slow down.

You can’t, not when Wonyoung’s balancing your cock on her tongue, her hand now squeezing at your base, stroking so fast, so erratic, determined to have you cum in her mouth as soon as fucking possible.

“You’re going to cum for me, aren’t you?” she asks, expectantly. “Cover me in it, give me what I deserve—show me how much you need me.”

The car’s screeching to the closest parking space, the sound echoing through the garage, as you skid between parallel white lines.

You’re cumming before the car’s even completely stopped.

It’s explosive; a white-hot heat searing through your veins, a roar in your ears as you shower Wonyoung’s perfect face with ropes of cum. She’s still jerking you off with her hand, her mouth hovering around the head of your cock, slurping up every drop she can get.

“All mine,” she chants, greedy for it. You pulse in her hand, your cum spurting over her cheekbones, across her nose, painting over that tiny dark freckle above the corner of her mouth.

She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink; she’s a statue, a goddess demanding her sacrifice. Her grip is ironclad, stroking you through your orgasm, not stopping until you’re drained, until your cock is twitching in her hand and there’s nothing left but a sticky mess plastered across her big, wide grin.

You feel the last of your orgasm pulse out of you, dripping down her dainty fingers. She licks her lips, smearing your cum across her cheek with her thumb before she sits up straight, basking in her victory.

“Fuck, Wonyoung,” you somehow manage to choke out.

“Mm-hmm,” she nods, not looking away from you, not breaking the eye contact that’s holding you hostage. “I knew you couldn’t resist me.”

She’s not done yet—she still has to take her victory lap.

Wonyoung pulls herself off you, giving the tip of your cock a parting kiss as she sits back in her seat. She lifts her legs up—those endless stretches of porcelain skin—one after another, slow, dramatic, placing her bare feet on the dashboard.

Her skirt rides up, and with a stretch she drags her panties up her thighs, along her calves, and off her feet; the lace is soaked with her juices, leaving a trail of stickiness as she reveals herself to you.

The panties disappear somewhere into the backseat of your car, another spoil of war, and she spreads her legs wide, so wide, making sure you have a perfect view of her gleaming cunt. You can see her clit, peeking out from between her folds, and it’s all you can do to keep your hand from reaching over and taking over.

But this is her show, isn’t it? This is all for her, all about her getting off. And she’s fucking drowning in it—fingers in her cunt again almost immediately, so wet, so hot, so shameless in your car, so confident in her ability to get what she wants from you.

Her hips rock up and down, she’s fucking herself in front of you—for you. She’s daring you to look away, challenging you to deny how fucking hot she is.

You can’t.

“I’m going to cum now.” It’s a low hush, confident. “Watch me. Don’t move. Just fucking watch me.”

Wonyoung’s eyes are crystal clear, staring deep into you with the look of a girl who’s gotten everything she’s ever wanted in life. It’s that look she gets right before she shatters, and you know she’s there—right fucking there.

Her other hand reaches up, cradling your cheek, needing some connection, needing you to be with her. It’s not enough to just simply cum, she needs you to see it, to be a part of it in some twisted way.

“Just look at you,” Wonyoung says, like she’s not the one that’s covered in your cum, that’s not bucking her hips into her hand, working herself into a frenzy, like she’s trying to tear herself apart. “You can’t keep your eyes off me, can you?”

And she’s right—you hate her, you love her, you want to fuck her, you want to strangle her—it’s all a jumble of emotions in your head.

“That’s it—keep looking at me—don’t fucking take your eyes off me—fuck—yes—I’m going to—”

The only warning you get is a strangled gasp as Wonyoung cums, feeling it through her entire body, forcing her to keel over by just the force of it, making her fall into you.

Her hand on your cheek drags down to wrap around your neck, anchoring herself to you, pulling herself closer so she can smash her mouth against yours.

She’s kissing you, really kissing you, mouth open and hungry, all teeth and tongue, sloppy and wet. She’s marking her territory now, claiming you as she cums, and fuck, you can still taste yourself on her lips—salty and bitter.

Wonyoung’s hand is still working her clit, prolonging her bliss, and then she’s climbing on top of you, straddling you, grinding down on your half-hard cock as she rides out the last of her orgasm.

Her thighs are sticky with her juices, her skirt riding up so high that you can see the bare, plump skin of her ass, and you’re fighting the urge to just push it aside and plunge your cock inside her—

But she’s not giving you that satisfaction—not yet.

Her climax dies right on top of you—her hips rolling on her fingers, her body living and dying on the last embers of pleasure.

Finally, Wonyoung stops, collapsing against your chest, and you let out a deep sigh, feeling the weight of her body pressing down on you. She’s a mess, a fucking disaster, and you hold her tight, your arms around her impossibly tiny waist, your cock coming back to life between her thighs.

It’s intimate, almost kind of romantic in a way that’s entirely fucked up, considering, well everything. You’re both a mess of cum and sweat, panting against each other, intertwined together in the driver’s seat of your car, the garage lights flickering overhead like some kind of sick mood lighting.

Wonyoung laughs.

“You’re all sticky.” She leans back, taking her finger and swiping it across your cheek, coming away with a glistening strand of your own cum, a rope that must have strayed from her face and onto yours.

There’s a glint in her eyes, a dirty little idea, and before you can even react, she’s leaning in again, her tongue tracing the line of your jaw, collecting the rogue drops of you.

She rolls her hips down and over you as she does it, stirring your cock back to attention, because apparently she’s not done with you yet.

“You’re a fucking bitch, Wonyoung,” you reply, but there’s no venom behind it. You’re just stating a fact: the sky is blue, the sun rises in the east, and Wonyoung is a bitch.

It’s just the way she is.

You can feel her smirking against your neck, you can picture the look on her face—like she’s already won. It’s infuriating, really, and you’ve got to even the score.

“What are you going to do, take me upstairs and punish me?”

“No,” you say, the word sticking in your throat like it’s made of honey. “Not upstairs.”

“Here?” Wonyoung looks around your car, doing a terrible job of feigning shock (as if she doesn’t know what you’re about to do to her). Yes, she’s a horrendous actress, but it would take an Oscar worthy performance to mask the heat radiating from her thighs, her cunt dripping down onto your lap. “What makes you think I’d let you?”

“What makes you think you have a choice?”  

A press of a button has your seat sliding back, giving you just enough room to lift Wonyoung up, hoisting her above you like she’s a trophy you just won. Congratulations, here’s your Grand Prize—Wonyoung’s tight body, yours for the night (yours for every night).

She can’t do anything but be held by you, have her hips positioned, her cunt aligned with your cock—in your hands, at your mercy, under your control.

“Wait, wait—fuck—”

And then you slam into her.

“Daddy!”

That word. That filthy, devastating word is fucked out of her mouth, a gasping scream as you bury yourself deep into her.

You’d do anything to hear it again.

You don’t bother with gentleness or foreplay—this isn’t a romantic reunion after a long day apart. It’s your hands on her narrow hips; hers doing its best to brace herself on the roof of the car, the window, anywhere she can get a grip.

“Say it again,” you grunt, pulling her back down on you, so hard that she bounces back up, only to be met by another thrust.

“Fuck you,” she spits out, but she’s moaning with every thrust, tightening around you each time, her body betraying her words.

“Fuck you, who?” You’re laughing now, the sound thick and low in your throat as you watch her squirm in your grasp. “You’re going to need to be more specific than that, baby.”

“You know who,” she says, her eyes flying open, glaring at you as she catches her breath. “You always know who.”

“Then say it.”

“Fuck you, daddy.”

“That’s fucking right.”

Her legs are trembling around your waist as you drive into her, nails digging into the threads of your shirt. She’s begging you for more—harder, faster, deeper—because that’s all she wants from you, all she needs from you. It’s always been like this—no soft embraces, no tender kisses. Just more, more, more.

Wrap your hand around her throat, not enough to cut off her air, just enough to remind her who’s in charge, who’s giving it to her. You lean in, so close her eyes cross, whisper in her ear, “This is all you���re good for, you know that?”

Wonyoung’s response is to tense her muscles, clench her cunt around you, buck her hips to slap her ass against your thighs. Another battleground in your endless fight for dominance. Fighting for control, trying to dictate the pace, to set the rhythm, to be the one doing the fucking and not the one getting fucked.

And fuck, she’s tight.

Her cunt, her waist, her body. God, it’s like she was built for this.

Designed to fit perfectly in the palm of your hand, to be filled by your cock, to have her skirt hiked up to her waist like a flag of surrender. You’ve got her right where you want her, where she’s always been, where she always will be.

“I fucking hate how good you are at this,” she gasps, the confession spilling from her lips.

You laugh, “I fucking hate you too.”

She’s kissing you again, fingers in your hair now, scraping the back of your scalp, as she rises and falls on your cock. Reflex has your hand tightening around her throat, feeling her pulse quicken beneath your thumb, making her choke out another ‘daddy’.

You’re fucking her like you hate her, like you’re trying to punish her for every sharp word and cold shoulder she’s ever thrown your way. And she’s taking it like she loves it, like she’s been waiting for this all night, all year, all her fucking life.

Wonyoung looks so fucking good, so perfect riding you like this, it’s starting to piss you off. Her hair’s framing her face in perfect waves, not a single strand out of place, even though you’ve had your hands all through it, your fingers tangled in it. Her makeup’s smudged—you can see the tracks of your cum on her cheek—but she wears it like a fucking badge of honour—and like all things, it looks good on her.

It’s like the universe took one look at her and said, ‘nah, she’s too pretty to let any of that shit ruin her.’

But you’ll try.

Keep going—keep fucking; each moan into your mouth, each push of her tongue against your own, each graze of her teeth against your skin—tells you you’re getting there.

Like you’re trying to fuck out all the spite and anger that’s been building up between you, like you can somehow purge it from your systems and just be left with the good parts.

(It’s never that simple.)

“Wonyoung—” you start, but she cuts you off.

“If I could just have your cock without the rest of you—without your stupid mouth, without that fucking look on your face—fuck yes, just like that—without all the bullshit and fighting—fuck, fuck, fuck—”

You don’t believe her, of course—you’re not just a cock to her, the same as she’s not just a pussy to you. But you let her have her fantasy, let her keep pretending she’s just using you for a good time.

“You’re such a bitch,” you murmur, making her chuckle in your ear, her teeth finding the sensitive skin of your lobe, biting down and making you hiss.

Wonyoung’s confession: “Only because it—gah—makes you fuck me harder.”

And it does—it makes you want to show her, prove yourself to her, make her feel it the next day and every day after. Fuck her until she’s nothing but a trembling, whimpering mess, until she’s begging for you to stop. Until she’s begging for you to never stop.

You’re both getting sloppier now, Wonyoung’s hips stuttering as you pound that spot deep inside her, the one that makes her see stars and scream your name, the car shaking with the force of your fucking.

It’s a badly-kept secret you’re keeping from the world outside—the car’s rocking, the lights inside are on, making no efforts to hide what the two of you are doing (doing to each other).

If anyone looks closely enough, if the security cameras in the garage get curious and zoom in, they’ll see your silhouettes; her body arching back, your hips thrusting up and into her.

They’ll see Jang Wonyoung, the princess of the industry, getting fucked in the front seat of a car like some common whore.

And she’s loving it. The danger, the thrill of being seen, the risk that anyone could walk by and hear her moan your name, her voice strained by your hand on her throat. It’s the fact that she’s letting you do this to her, that she’s letting you fuck her like this, even when she’s telling you she fucking hates it.

This moment—Wonyoung—right here, is what you live for.

You want to save it, to bottle it up and keep it with you forever. You want to remember how she feels, how she tastes, the fucking sounds she makes when she’s just about to cum. You want to replay this in your head every time you’re alone, every time you’re with someone else—because even though there might be someone else, they’ll never come fucking close to her.

And then you get an idea.

It’s a terrible idea, one that’ll surely end in disaster—like all the best ideas.

You hold down on Wonyoung’s hips, stopping her mid-thrust, and she’s whining, letting slip just how good you’re making her feel.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she snaps, taking short, sharp inhales, replenishing all the oxygen you’ve fucked out of her.

You ignore her, reaching for the dashboard camera that’s been silently facing outside, towards the wall of the garage. It’s been switched on the entire time, waiting to record the car crash inside—you and Wonyoung tearing each other apart.

Wonyoung’s scared. “Oh no, don’t you fucking—”

But she can’t stop you. You’re already spinning it around, pointing it directly at her cum-covered face, her sweat-drenched body.

“Smile for the camera, Wony.”

Her mouth opens, but she can’t muster the words. You’re fucking her again, the camera watching everything, capturing every moan, every slight quiver of her body. It’s a side of her nobody gets to see—the side you’re most familiar with.

Wonyoung at her most honest, when she’s undeniably yours.

Just her—getting used (using you)—and fuck, there’s nothing more worthy to be captured and preserved for all eternity.

Her eyes dart to the camera, then back to you, her mind racing a mile a minute. You can see the gears turning—she’s trying to figure out how to get out of this, how to win back some ground, but she’s lost.

You’ve got her, and she knows it.

You’re fucking her, and she has no choice but to follow—whether she likes it or not.

“Fine,” she says, the admission torn from her throat as you push back into her. “But if this leaks—if you ever show this to anyone, I’ll fucking kill you.”

You just laugh. “You really think so little of me? Like anyone would believe it anyway.”

And you mean it. You’re not that stupid. But the thought of having a permanent record of this moment, of Wonyoung, begging in high definition—it has you hooked.

You can’t help but add, “But we’ll always know it’s there, won’t we? Forever.”

Wonyoung narrows her brows at you, but she doesn’t protest anymore. Instead, she does the opposite. She starts to lean into it.

She tips her head back, arching her spine so that her tits are pushed up, giving the camera a picture-perfect shot of her body, her chest, the stiffness of her nipples—everything.

Jang Wonyoung—always the performer.

A free hand runs through her hair, flinging it back over her shoulder, and she starts to roll her whole body; fucking herself on you in a way that’s so deliberate, so fucking pornographic.

“God, I fucking hate this.” Wonyoung puts it on public record, eyes never leave yours as she performs for the camera—or for you, it’s hard to tell.

“What’s that, baby?” You tease. "You hate how good this feels?”

“I hate that it’s you,” she says, the words forced out between gasps. “I hate how fucking hot you are.”

“The feeling’s mutual.”

You’ll never understand it. How someone you despise so much, with every fibre of your being, can fit so perfectly around you, feel so downright incredible on top of you. It’s a cruel joke that the universe decided to play on you both.

But you play along, let her ride you like it’s her fucking birthright, lock you in some petty staring contest, keep your mind filled with nothing but the tightness of her cunt.

You’re both panting now, sweat slicking your skin, making it easier for her to slide up and down on your cock. Her small tits bounce with every movement, and you can’t help but reach out to grab one, pinch it hard, making her wince, making her gasp.

“Fuck—you should quit whatever the fuck you’re doing,” she says, trying her best to form complete sentences through the pain, the bliss. “Work for me.”

“And do what?”

“I don’t know.” Wonyoung looks down at you and you can see it on her face: the fucking slut is dead serious. “Manager, bodyguard, assistant. Whatever I can do to keep you close so you can fuck me like this whenever I want. If Yujin can have her drummer boy, it’s only fair that I get you.”

“Why the fuck would I want to spend all day waiting on you?”

She corrects you: “Spend all day inside of me.”

There’s your fantasy—mornings fucking Wonyoung in some hotel room, drinking all the juices from her pussy in the car on the way to work, having her suck your cock backstage at some concert, making her scream your name every night before going to sleep.

And then waking up and doing it all again.

There’s no hiding the smirk on your face. “Go fuck yourself, Wonyoung.”

Wonyoung mirrors your grin, that wild, cock-drunk look in her eyes. “Why would I do that when I have you?”

“No.” You’re pulling her close, holding her body tight to you, making her feel it. “You’re mine.”

That word again—'daddy’ on her lips, turning into a desperate cry as her thighs tense on either side of you, her hands locking behind your neck. She’s holding on tight, because you’re not giving her a choice, you’re not giving her anything but what she’s begging for.

You watch her face in the reflection of the car window—the way her mouth hangs open, the way her eyes flutter shut and then open again, searching for something, anything to keep her grounded.

"Fuck me like I’m yours,” Wonyoung pleads. “You own me? Then fucking treat me like you do. Treat me like I’m your fucking whore, daddy.”

It’s too much, all of it. Wonyoung: her face—those lips, her body—those fucking legs, her voice—the way she says your name, how she calls you daddy, like it’s a fucking curse. You’re so close to the edge now, so close to cumming again, cumming inside her. You can feel the beginnings of it, the tension coiling in your balls, the white creeping into your vision.

But she’s still talking—and so are you, you realise.

One of you cries out—holy shit—answered with a—so fucking good—followed by an exchange of—fuck yous—and—I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.

It keeps going, this fucking, this using, this hating—whatever this is.

“I fucking hate you—”

“Hate you too—”

“Hate how good your cunt feels—”

“Hate how big your cock is—”

“Hate how perfect you are—”

“Hate how much I want your fucking cum—”

“Fucking slut—"

“Daddy—”

“I’m going to—"

"Please!"

And that’s it.

It’s over—your cock pulsing deep inside her, Wonyoung’s cunt clamping down around you, and you’re cumming—together—tightening and writhing and calling each other every name under the sun, except maybe the one that actually matters.

Wonyoung’s head falls back, losing control of her own body, the camera catching every glorious moment as she cums, her orgasm ripping through her in a scream that you feel in every inch of your body.

You kiss her—her tits, her neck, her jaw, her lips—claiming her, making sure she feels every drop of you. You hate her, you love her, you hate that you love her, you love that she needs you, you hate that you need her.

And all the while the camera keeps rolling, capturing your sweaty, heaving chests; capturing you filling her, spilling out of her, giving her the cum she so desperately pleaded for. It’s so much more intimate than any kiss, any love confession, any of that romantic shit she sings about.

But it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

It’s every twitch, every shiver, every little pulse of your release flooding her. How she tenses and clenches around you, soaks you with her wetness, drowns you in her tight, drenched heat.

And she keeps calling you it—whispering it—‘daddy’—over and over again, even as she’s coming down from the high, even as she’s gasping for air, even as she’s forcing her tongue into your mouth.

Wonyoung slumps against you, your cum dripping out of her and down your cock, staining the leather of your car seats. You can feel the stickiness of it, the mess you’ve made together. It makes you want to do it all over again.

To make her say it again, to make her scream it again.

“You’re so fucking mine,” you murmur against her neck, kissing her collarbone, tasting the salt of her sweat.

Wonyoung just nods, too exhausted to argue, too satisfied to care. Her hand finds yours, weaves your fingers together, and you hold onto her, tight. It’s sickeningly sweet, and yet, despite your best efforts, the insult, the quip to break the spell doesn’t come.

Because in the end, you don’t want to kill the moment—not when it’s so perfect.

You don’t want to ruin it with talk of the real world, with the harshness of the light that’ll be waiting outside the car door.

You stay there, parked in the garage of her apartment building, the headlights dimming down to black. The air is thick with the smell of sex and sweat, the taste of it lingering on your tongues. It’s a bubble you’re both loath to burst—because once it does, once it pops, you’re just Wonyoung and some guy she fucking hates again.

“Thank you, daddy.” Wonyoung’s breathing slows, her grip on you loosens. She’s drifting off, the stress of the night and the alcohol finally claiming her.

You don’t know how long you sit there, the two of you tangled together. It’s quiet except for the occasional hum from her, a cute little sound that she’s probably unaware she makes. It’s soothing, almost sweet.

But reality has a way of crashing in, doesn’t it?

You know you can’t stay here forever. You know you’ve got to get her upstairs before someone sees, before the cameras (the dangerous ones, the ones you don’t own) spot you. Before the rest of the world catches up.

You ease her off your cock, she whines, her eyes struggling open. “Take me home,” she mumbles, still not fully coherent.

“Already am, baby,” you reply, gently untangling her body from yours.

With a bit of effort, you manage to get her into an almost presentable state—straightening her skirt, buttoning her shirt, dabbing the cum that’s pooled between her thighs. She watches you as you do it, through a hazy gaze, still recovering from being fucked into oblivion.

It’s an act. Partly at least. A way to save face—pretend that it’s only the exhaustion, that she doesn’t really need you, doesn’t really want to be taken care of like this. Doesn’t want to nuzzle her head into your shoulder, or hug you tight, or have you kiss her on the forehead and tell her that you’ve got her.

Tomorrow she’ll yell at you for it, probably call you an overbearing asshole for treating her like a delicate flower. Make fun of you for going soft, for totally falling under her spell.

(And sometime even later, in a moment when she’s all quiet and feeling vulnerable, right after you’ve fucked each other and hated each other and ended up holding each other for the millionth time, Wonyoung will say:

“You’re the only one who can keep up with me.”

You’ll know what she means right away; you’ll kiss her again and you’ll answer:

“I know.”)

Because despite the fact that when she wanted to be (and it was often), Jang Wonyoung could be a real fucking bitch, you’re also kind of in love with her.

And, if you were to ask her, she’d probably the same about you.

[ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat]

wake up call - spencer reid fem!reader

a night partying turns the morning into one big whirlwind of figuring out how the hell you ended up in your coworker's bed

genre: fluff wc: 1.4k warnings: bau!reader, odd!reader, reader momentarily thinks she slept with spencer, reader walks in on spencer in a towel, embarrassment a/n: this is for my build a fic!!! thank you so much for 500 followers i can't believe it i feel famous💗 side note: this is dedicated to my baby @esote-rika i love you so much mwah mwah

see polls here

The funny—or rather, awful—thing about drinking is that it almost never leads you to good places. It leaves you floaty, giggly (more so than usual), and without any feel for what’s appropriate. Boundaries are tossed out of every window, crashing harshly onto the street below and ruining everything in its path. Shy demeanors flake away to reveal unfortunately weird girls.

Fun and games, they say. It starts with partying with your coworkers and ends with one big group of drunk idiots. Drooling on each other, placing far too much trust in each other’s unsturdy hands.

Far too wasted and stumbly for your own good, you couldn’t possibly drive yourself home.

You knew that.

Yet…

Your eyes flutter open as the flurry of memories from the night previous remain that—a flurry. Each snapshot of laughter and secret spilling lasts only a moment each. Looking down at your legs tangled within sheets that aren’t yours, you realize you don’t know how you got here. And, more importantly, you don’t know where you are. You scan the room with hazy eyes.

Navy blue walls, wooden old furniture, scientific posters on the walls, books.

Spencer?

Yes, it was his apartment that said partying took place but why are you still here at—you look to the small clock on his nightstand—6:47am?

It’s not like you could’ve possibly…

Could you? Surely not, right?

Of course you think he’s smart, awkward, totally your type, but that doesn’t mean anything.

You think he’s adorable because, well, you have eyes.

But at the current moment you’re not sure you can place your trust in them.

So, does that mean you’ve slept with your coworker?

Your eyes drop to your legs again, this time noticing that they’re still covered by sheer black tights. That’s a good sign. One you’ll take to heart happily.

When your feet hit the ground, you’re unsure where you should go.

The side of the bed you hadn’t slept on is slightly disturbed. The pillow has the imprint of a person in it. You wonder if he slept alongside you for the entire night. You wonder if he felt it every time you repositioned yourself.

It’s not something to put thought into, you conclude.

With not one teensy ounce of consideration or any form of forethought, you pad toward the door and slip through. The remnants of last night litter the floor. A trash bag sits by the leather couch, filled with bottles and wine corks and paper cups. A blanketed silhouette haunts the couch. She’s blonde, pink lipstick faded and smeared in a not-so-fashionable manner. Soft snores fall against the leather.

Penelope.

Your graceless feet stumble back toward the bedroom that’s not yours. Frantic eyes search the room like it’s the first time you’re seeing it (it’s the second). Your shaky hands push the door closed, letting it softly click.

On the (not so) off chance you really did sleep with Spencer, Garcia is not the first person you want to know. Although, who is?

Not relevant.

Finding a spot on the floor, you cover your face. A soft groan passes your lips—a groan filled with pure self hatred. Because how did you end up here? In a very abstract way, you suppose it’s beautiful how every tiny decision—spontaneous or planned—affects where you end up. In a very realistic way, it sucks.

You think your impulse control accounts for at least half of the places you end up. As if to prove that point, you stand and walk to what you know leads to the bathroom. Mindlessly, your hand finds the doorknob of the bathroom door.

When it swings open, you’re welcomed with the sight of Spencer. Half naked and afraid—mortified really. In only his boxers.

You squeal, eyes being covered by your hands as quickly as possible. “I’m sorry! I didn’t—uh—!”

“It’s okay! Really—I should’ve…” his jaw goes slack when he realizes that you’re actually the one to blame. Not that he’d ever develop the capability to blame you for absolutely anything.

Spencer stares at you, standing there with your eyes covered and head low. His eyes trail over your crumpled clothes, your sweater, your shorts, your tights.

“I’m really sorry, I should’ve knocked or at least stepped really loud or—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong!” You can practically hear him shaking his head.

You nod and squeak, “I’ll leave.”

Your back is to him in an instant. Cheeks hot to the touch, you let out a long breath. You feel as though this whole morning has been plucked from your own personal nightmares. First, waking up with no memory as to what (or who) you spent the night doing. And then the horror you just caused.

You wipe smeared mascara from your under-eye, loathing yourself a little more every second that passes.

The door creaks open slowly before the silhouette of your coworker peeks out. Now, he’s in a hoodie and sweatpants—possibly the most casual you’ve seen him. Clearing your throat, you look down at your feet.

“I’m really sorry,” you mumble before going on a pure tangent, “I woke up and didn’t know where I was or how I got there or why I got there… and then I saw Garcia and then walked in on— well… you know.”

Spencer clears his throat in the same way you just did. “I know.”

You lift your head to find his eyes–wide and innocent.

“I’m really sorry!”

“It’s okay! I promise. I—I mean, you’ve seen other guys… like that.”

While he’s not lying a big lie, that’s not relevant information, is it? “Well, I— Yes… but I— That’s not—!”

“I just meant—!”

And then… silence.

Filled with awkwardness and tension, the room falls into utter quiet. You swallow to hopefully ease the queasy feeling settling in your gut. You’re unsure whether it’s caused by your liver trying to survive or by the man in front of you (and how you can now picture him naked). That is not a thing you’re trying to do, by the way.

“I know… what you meant,” you mutter softly, an awkward half-smirk finding your lips.

His eyes sweep over your face, taking his time to properly inspect each feature–eyes, nose, lips. This might be the first time you’ve been this close. In numerous ways.

You watch as his hand raises slowly to your face. Time is nothing but a unique concept understood only by the ones who crafted it. Slowly, gently, the pad of his thumb swipes away black product from your under-eye. It’s as if the slope of your cheek was sculpted for the purpose of slipping into place with the other half—him. Perhaps one lump of clay formed both of you. Those thoughts are redundant, anyway. Why not let them overtake you, even if only for a moment?

But the thought that still plagues you is if anything happened last night.

“What… uh… happened last night?” you ask shakily.

Spencer’s brows draw together. And his hand drops, cheeks pink. “You don’t remember?”

You shake your head, a frown haunting your lips.

His teeth dig into his lower lip so hard you think it could pierce the velvet skin.

Your mouth opens and closes several times, making you look like the closest thing to a fish out of water. But then you manage, in a high pitched mumble, “did we sleep together?”

Based solely on the comical widening of his eyes, you presume no. And you now want to curl up in a ball and roll under the nearest rock and set up camp for life.

His head profusely, insistently, shakes. “No, no, no! I would never– uh– you were intoxicated, I wouldn’t—”

“Okay!” you squeak, lips pressed into a thin line. That rock is starting to sound really homey.

He nods, his awkward smile mimicking yours. He clears his throat like he remembers something, and then walks to the side of his bed—the one you slept on. He leans down and picks up a pair of black Mary Jane flats. Yours.

He brings them to you and places them in your unsturdy hands. Your eyes meet and, frankly, you have to force yourself to look away. “Thank you,” you say to the floor.

You feel him nod.

With a lift of your head and the flats, you bid him farewell with a small smile.

And then you’re sneaking past Garcia, shoes dangling from your hand and eyeliner smudged.

A total cliché.

[callowestyouthintown]

Possibly everyone’s been saying this but I haven’t seen it yet so: Milchick’s moment with the marching band in 2x10 is specifically him as drum major, which is a band role unique to the HBCU style, practiced, as the name suggests, at historically Black colleges and universities, such as Jackson State:

Obviously, these guys absolutely ate and Milchick’s routine is much chiller—they’re 20 and he’s not—but to everyone saying it’s Milchick’s theater kid moment, I think it’s actually his Black band kid moment.

To me this feels very compelling for his arc this season, where he’s clearly been grappling with the erasure of his blackness as a Lumon employee, divorced from that part of himself except for the moments in which Lumon chooses to aggress on him (police his vocabulary, glass cliff his employment record, for god’s sake the kier blackface “gift”.) I’m obsessed with the implications here—Tramell Tillman’s quote about whether or not Milchick “knows he’s Black” is answered in seeing him perform this very Black art form with the energy he brings to all the other moments in the show where he gets to set the tone. He’s creative and loquacious and weird and he plays games with the innies and dances to defiant jazz with them! And Lumon does NOT seem able to stop him from doing that, performance review be damned.

On the very key OTHER hand: the HBCU style and its drum majors has roots in American minstrelsy. It originated in military bands, which was then used by minstrel performers, then reclaimed by Black performers, adapted by marching bands in Black institutions in the midcentury, and finally solidified into the iconic HBCU style that we see in modern universities today. So is this performance actually Milchick’s? Why does Lumon have a department of mostly Black musicians, when there are a total of four Black employees in all the other departments we’ve seen?

If we take this as Milchick’s own planned moment to shine, though, it also builds implications for his life before Lumon: he seems to have so much more cultural world to pull from than the likes of Cobel—I would argue he was clearly not raised in the Lumon cult in the way she or Miss Huang have been. I absolutely love the writing for this character and how complex his role is in this world as arm of a corporate power that also stamps the life out of him. His self-flagellation with the paper clips vs his self-display with the band…

So much of that is down to Tramell Tillman’s work. If he doesn’t win an Emmy for this season we riot, obv.

Anyway, I’m not Black, nor am I a band kid, so if anyone wants to weigh in, prove me wrong, or anything else, please do. I want to hear every Milchick thought yall have forever

[robo-writing]

hihi friend <3333 requesting something a little more different bc as someone who loves a good breeding kink (in form of dirty talk and dirty talk only!!) i still do not EVER want kids and cannot fathom the whole birth process. can i ask for what logan’s reaction would be a reader who doesn’t want kids?

maybe they’re not that established in their relationship and they’re fooling around (awink) and when logan brings out the breeding talk she just kinda panics and pushes him off/uses her safe word because she does NOT want kids

like i said kinda different but ur one of my fav logan writers and i can’t find anything like this so i wanted to request it 🫠 🫶🏼

As someone who also doesn’t want kids but has a massive breeding kink, real. (Also FAVORITE???? EEEEEEEEEEEEEKKKKK)

Logan with an s/o who doesn’t want kids!

✦ To be entirely honest, Logan never thought of himself as a fatherly type, hell, he never thought of himself even staying in a relationship long enough to even have kids.

✦ You however, are the exception.

✦ He can see himself growing old for once, more importantly, he can see himself growing old with you.

✦ So is it surprising that somewhere along the line instead of just you and him, he started imagining a kid hanging off you too?

✦ He wouldn’t even know how to bring it up, and he’s still of the belief that he’d be a god awful father

✦ But if you’d have him, he’d try his damndest to be the best father a kids ever gonna have

✦ He doesn’t tell you that he’s even thought of having a kid, too afraid to bring it up in case you get scared

✦ But one night it accidentally slips out while he’s got you pinned under him

✦ It really was an accident, you just sounded so good and you were squeezing his cock just perfectly—

✦ Something inside him snaps, tears it’s way to the forefront of his mind, eyes fixated where his cock almost bulges against your stomach—

✦ Right where you’d be carrying his kid

✦ He bows over you, practically covers you with his body, head bent and panting into your ear like a wild animal.

✦ He’s not totally aware of himself, almost as if he’s a spectator; he feels everything, maybe even too much.

✦ You’re scratching at his back, moaning his name so pretty, begging him for more, more, don’t stop, please—

✦ It was an accident when he holds you by the hips, growls in your ear—not gonna stop, not until I’ve put a kid in you.

✦ You’re always the most beautiful thing he’s laid eyes on but for that moment, when you locked your legs and begged him to breed you, you looked like Aphrodite herself. The way you milked him for all he’s worth, he’s not sure he’ll ever reach a high like that again.

✦ The next morning he wakes up beside you, a dopey smile on his face when he sees the evidence of your love-making on every inch of you.

✦ His hickeys, fresh and dark, painted across your neck, all the way to your collarbone.

✦ Quite simply, you look like you got attacked

✦ However, even better than those was the proof of his love, your cum-stained thighs, just slightly spread apart as you slept.

✦ He won’t lie, it took him more than a bit of self-control not to take you again after seeing that.

✦ Lucky for him, your eyes fluttered open before he could pursue that train of thought.

“G’mornin’” you groan, stretching your very sore body. When you feel the remnants of last nights affairs on your skin it’s as if a switch is flipped, the slight frown on your face, the hesitant look you give as you quickly waddle to the bathroom—he did something wrong, he just doesn’t know what yet.

He waits until after the waters stopped, giving you a peace offering in the form of his t-shirts. It overshadows you, but it’ll do.

“Did I do something wrong?” He asks nervously. Logan’s never been good at talking much, but he tries his best when it comes to you.

“No, no,” you deny, but it’s written on your face. You can barely look at him, fiddling with the ends of his shirt.

“You sure? Because you ran out of bed like a bat out of hell.”

Again, you can’t seem to keep your eyes on him. “It’s not you per se, I mean…”

“Say it,” he insists. “I can handle it.”

A pause. “Did you mean what you said last night?”

Even the mention of last night makes his body tingle, the remains of each and every memory fresh in his mind. There’s a lop-sided smile on his face when he answers, lackadaisical even. “I said a LOT of things last night darling, you’re gonna have to be specific here.”

You bit your lips nervously. “What you said about being pregnant.”

Oh, he thinks, and now the shoes finally dropped. At the time you seemed enthusiastic, but looking at you now…you look scared out of your mind.

He’s quick to move closer, inviting you to sit beside him with a couple taps to the bed. The moment you do he’s got you in his arms, making sure he can feel you relax before he says a word.

“Darling, be honest with me, do you want to have kids?”

You tense in his hold, both dread and fear evident in your voice. “I don’t know? Maybe in the future?”

“Maybe ain’t an answer.” He says, stroking your hair. “No need to lie.”

You should’ve known Logan would see right through you. You shake your head with a sigh, unwilling to look at him in fear of the disappointment you’re certain is painted on his features.

“…Not really, no. But if you wanted them—“

“Stop, don’t finish that,” he sighs. “If you don’t want kids, then that’s it. No kids.”

Shock, relief, a flurry of emotions take hold of you when you pull away, staring him down for any hint of dishonesty. Your heart soars when you don’t find any.

“Are you sure? Because it didn’t seem that way last night,” you stutter, and he’s quick to soothe your worries.

A quick peck to your lips, and he makes himself crystal clear. “Listen to me, I’m not gonna force ya to do something you don’t wanna do. If you don’t want kids then there’s nothing to worry about, I’m not an asshole.”

Your eyes almost water, the weight of fear lifting off your shoulders as you weakly chuckle. “Y’know, the amount of times I’ve had this conversation—it always ends in a break up. This is…really refreshing, honestly.”

“You’ve been dating a bunch of assholes,” he taunts, kissing your temple. “Don’t worry though, you’ve got me.”

“And you’re not an asshole?” You chuckle, leaning forward to kiss him.

“Mhm,” he mumbles. “Not to you, at least.”

As he does so, he makes it a point to pull you closer, bury his face into your neck and inhale. “Even if you don’t want kids, I still get to breed ya, right?”

[dee-writes-anime]

Labor with Satoru Gojo

FEATURING Satoru Gojo x Reader

SUMMARY You weren’t sure what you expected labor to be like, but one thing was certain—Gojo was going to be an absolute drama queen. And, unsurprisingly, you were absolutely right.

CONTENT WARNINGS fluff, crack, Gojo being Gojo

AUTHORS NOTE I thought about making this a more serious, maybe even angsty fic, but then I thought: "I don't often have the opportunity to write for Gojo a lot." Which then led to this monstrosity, hope you like it ;)

SERIES MASTERLIST

The world was ending.

Or at least, that’s what Satoru Gojo was convinced of as he careened through the hospital hallways, wailing like a banshee as if he were the one whose body was actively trying to rip itself in half.

“She’s dying! My wife is dying!”

The nurses barely spared him a glance, unfazed by his dramatics as they guided the actual patient—his heavily pregnant, very much in labor wife—into the delivery room.

You, between gritted teeth and with the kind of calm reserved only for people at the edge of their patience, hissed, “I am not your wife, Gojo.”

“Semantics!” he wailed, tossing his sunglasses somewhere into the abyss, raking his hands through his already disheveled hair. “You’re the mother of my child, my future, my life—oh god, we’re going to be parents. Do you know what that means?”

Another contraction slammed into you like a truck, and your response came in the form of an agonized scream.

Gojo, rather than reacting like a normal, supportive partner, let out his own bloodcurdling shriek in response, gripping onto the nearest nurse like a lifeline. “IT’S HAPPENING! OH MY GOD, GET HER THE DRUGS! GET ME THE DRUGS! I CAN’T HANDLE THIS—”

A hand—your hand, fueled by the strength of a thousand ancestors—snatched him by the collar and yanked him down to your level, your noses nearly touching.

“Satoru,” you said, voice eerily steady despite the hurricane of pain. “Shut. Up.”

He gulped audibly, nodding furiously.

The doctor, who had clearly drawn the short straw and was now responsible for delivering Gojo Satoru’s firstborn, sighed and patted your shoulder sympathetically. “Alright, let’s get started.”

Gojo perked up immediately, regaining his usual swagger as he dramatically rolled up the nonexistent sleeves of his Jujutsu Tech hoodie. “Alright, team, let’s do this. I’ve seen Grey’s Anatomy. I can totally—”

“OUT.”

You pointed a trembling yet resolute finger toward the door, and a nurse, a saint among mortals, immediately grabbed Gojo by the arm to usher him out. He flailed in protest.

“No, no, I’m sorry, I’ll behave, I swear!” he pleaded. “Please don’t make me leave, what if I miss something? What if they switch my baby? What if they give me the wrong one and I don’t notice until they’re like, fifteen and suspiciously bad at Infinity—”

A collective groan echoed through the room.

The doctor, sensing the only way to avoid further delays was to placate the nuisance, sighed. “Fine. You can stay. But if you cause any more trouble, you’re out.”

Gojo brightened immediately, plopping down beside you and gripping your hand. “Don’t worry, baby, I’m your rock. Your anchor. Your—”

Another contraction, another bone-crushing squeeze.

Gojo screamed louder than you did.

Hours later, when your cries had quieted, and the room settled into an exhausted peace, a tiny, wailing bundle was placed in your arms. Tears welled in your eyes as you gazed at your newborn, every ache and agony fading into insignificance in the face of the tiny life you had brought into the world.

Gojo, standing beside you, peered over your shoulder, his infinity dropped, his cerulean eyes wide with something raw and unguarded.

“She’s so…” he trailed off, lips parting slightly. “Wow.”

For once, he was speechless.

A smile curved your lips as you nudged him. “Satoru?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you like to hold your daughter?”

He blinked rapidly, nodding so fast you feared he might get whiplash. Carefully, as if she were made of the most delicate glass, he took her into his arms, his usual arrogance replaced by pure, unfiltered awe.

“Hi, little one,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over her impossibly tiny fingers as they curled around him. A choked breath left him. “I’m your dad.”

The world was ending.

Or at least, the world as he knew it was. Because suddenly, nothing—not Jujutsu High, not the higher-ups, not even his own untouchable power—mattered more than the fragile, perfect little being in his arms.

You watched him, exhaustion tugging at your limbs but warmth filling your heart. “She’s got your hair.”

Gojo grinned, eyes still locked on her. “Poor kid.”

You laughed softly. “She’s doomed.”

He leaned down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “Thank you.”

And for once, there was no exaggeration, no over-the-top theatrics—just Gojo Satoru, the man who loved you, the man who loved your daughter, the man who, despite everything, was wholly and irreversibly yours.

“…Okay, but seriously, I almost passed out like four times—”

“Satoru.”

“Right, right. Shutting up.”

“Five times, actually,” the nurse muttered.

Gojo gasped, clutching his chest. “Betrayal.”

TAGLIST

@makingtimemine @strawbrrycat @soraya-daydreams @shokosbunny @saltypuffin1040 @danilights2021 @startwithrecords @obeythebutler @sparklykeylime @surielstea

[suzukiblu]

Thank-you sentences for derpsheep behind the cut; “a fake cryptid and a real romantic”. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

Tim had originally wondered if Superman was something along the lines of Metropolis’s version of the Batman before finding out that Clark Kent existed and that Superman’s voice did not actually sound like an entire star cycle happening all at once. He’d heard about Krypton long before that, of course, but hadn’t been sure that wasn’t just what humans heard instead of the actual truth. 

It’s not like the Batman actually looks like the Batman, after all. 

Well, except for when he does, obviously. But, like–that aside. 

Tim still hadn’t been entirely sure what to think when he’d found out Superman was actually just a totally normal alien who’d just decided he really liked this one specific human city, just one that was primed for the local environment to the point that if there were literally any other Kryptonians around they’d probably count as an invasive species. Like, probably the planet should be a lot more worried to have found out that Superboy’s genetically stable than anyone actually seems to be? Because Superboy being genetically stable at least implies the possibility of human/Kryptonian crossbreeding, right? And also implies that Superman now very definitely knows that there’s at least a possibility of human/Kryptonian crossbreeding. 

And if there’s any chance that half-human DNA might absorb yellow sunlight better than pure Kryptonian does, given humans evolved under a yellow sun to begin with . . . 

Well, that’s . . . definitely a thought, yeah. 

Possibly Tim should give those files of Superboy’s that he . . . creatively sourced from Cadmus another go-over or two. And maybe go looking in its systems again to see if he missed any classified ones or if there was anything that might’ve been misfiled anywhere in there. Just, like . . . for everyone’s sake. 

He definitely did not forget the whole “lab-grown weapon built like a brick house who is technically capable of disassembling him down to his individual atoms with one little tap and about two seconds' worth of thought” thing. Not even slightly did he forget that thing. 

Unfortunately Tim apparently finds that thing attractive, so that’s something he knows about himself now. 

Well, just file it in with “the idea of being stalked by said lab-grown weapon makes Tim feel admired and interesting” and “the percentage of his very brief lifetime that said lab-grown weapon must’ve spent learning how to form and cut a perfect diamond is mortifying Tim into several different awakenings”, he guesses. 

And like . . . probably something about the whole thing with Superboy finding out that Robin was sort of a freak and just immediately deciding to match said freak. Probably also that. 

Anyway. Off-topic, definitely. Superman definitely isn’t dropping Superboy off for the date-night patrol that the Batman is currently trying to crash, but even if he did, at least he wouldn’t show up sounding like an entire star cycle about it. Which . . . 

Tim does think that he’s heard a voice that sounds like that star cycle somewhere in the reflected daylight, just . . . once or twice, maybe. Come to think of it and all. 

( doesn’t Robin know it yet, it wonders?

it’s not as if a Robin’s never heard one of them before, after all. )

Just–sometimes. Sometimes he thinks that. 

Though it never quite fits, either, and he always seems to . . . 

Wait. Off-topic, right? They’re off-topic. 

. . . what was he thinking about again? 

“Just–we’re going to go nest, okay?” Tim finally tries, though it’s probably the most mortifying thing he’s ever had to say to the Batman. Like, even more mortifying than trying to explain Steph was. Still, it’s the same theory as using Robin’s body language to get his point across, right? Or at least basically the same theory, anyway. “Like. Superboy and I. Collectively. Together. We’re going to go . . . nest. Together.” 

The Batman . . . pauses. Tilts its head a little too far for a human to manage, and also a little too far for anything existing in just three dimensions to manage. Tim’s sinuses throb briefly and he smells fresh blood and burnt gunpowder for a flashed moment in the dark. And . . . popcorn, weirdly. 

He’s never been able to figure out the popcorn. 

kitten, the Batman says musingly. Tim represses a sigh. Body language, he reminds himself. Just–body language. Yeah. 

“Yeah,” he says. “My, uh–kitten and I are gonna go nest.” 

Tim will never, ever live down this conversation. Ever. Even if the Batman never mentions a thing about it again and no one else ever hears a word of it, he will never live it down.

[johnwickb1tsch]

lessons in anatomy XV

a yandere art professor John Wick x drawing model muse! reader AU... (also featuring Matt from River's Edge. If you haven't seen the movie that's ok, I will fill in the gaps as we go...) warnings: dark adult themes, violence, sex, drugs, obsession, yandere shit. plz don't read if u can't handle it ->chapter map

XV.

You stare at each other in perfect stillness for what feels like an eternity, a sparking live wire in place of your spine. Adrenaline sings through your veins; is he angry that you invaded his space, or contrite at all about this obvious fixation with you? You cannot read him. 

He hid it all so well. 

“John…what is this?”

“An art project?”

A total body of work, was more like it.

“Why?”

He looks down at the floor, his hands in his pockets. 

“I can’t…stop looking at you, y/n. Since…the moment we met.”

He raises his gaze to meet yours; his glittering black eyes shining dark pools of agony, and your heart breaks for him, even if deep down you know this is probably a cause for alarm.

Your pulse thunders in your ears. He takes a step towards you, and out of pure instinct you back away. 

He holds up his hands in a gesture of peace. “Please, don’t be afraid. I would never hurt you.” 

“John…” You look around at the scope of this body of work again. “This is a lot.” 

“I know.” He lets out a shuddering breath, looking to you like you could be his salvation, or his absolute damnation. “I’m sorry. I…I know.” 

He takes another step towards you, as though he can’t help it, drawn to you like a magnet. But again, you retreat. 

Some of the sketches feel more like scenes from your day to day, rather than what he could just concoct in the studio. There’s the coffee shop you frequent.

There’s the dress you wore last week. 

A cold dread worms through the marrow of your bones. “Have you been watching me?” 

He tilts his head, and you can tell he’s gauging how to answer this. “I see you around the neighborhood.” 

“We don’t live in the same neighborhood.” 

He answers this with silence, and your heart falls. 

Again, you look around at the staggering quantity. It could amount to a drawing a day, since the start of the semester. But you have to admit…they’re stunning. You hardly even see yourself, in the way he’s arranged your form and lines. He’s transformed your paltry flesh into something wonderfully other. 

“This is how you see me?” you dare ask, your voice small and fragile as hand blown glass. 

“I told you, y/n. You’re beautiful.” 

You’re not the sort of girl who could ever be on the cover of a fashion magazine. But to you, this is infinitely more beguiling. To be the muse of an artist like John Wick is a certain form of immortality the likes of which you thought you could only dream. It’s disturbing and flattering, all in the same package. 

Yet you remind yourself that just because he likes to draw you…doesn’t mean he cares for you.

“Do you even like me, John?” 

It sounds so third grade, but in the moment you don’t know how else to voice it.  

“Like you?” he scoffs. “I adore you, y/n. Isn’t it obvious?” He gestures around the room agitatedly, like he’s trying to tell you something but you’re too thick to grasp it.

Yet you can’t help but think about how distant he was in class, after the Jackalope incident, and then your little blowup about Matt’s critique. 

“It didn’t feel like it.” 

His bottom jaw juts as he grinds his teeth thinking about it. “I…may have overcompensated a bit.”

You narrow your eyes. “What, like…when a boy likes you on the playground he pulls your hair?”

He frowns at the comparison–but he does not negate it. “I knew it wasn’t…appropriate. I tried to stop.” He shrugs, looking around the room, and he doesn't have to say it aloud. See how that worked out? “I never thought I’d feel this way about anyone, after my wife died, y/n. At first…I didn’t want to.”

Your heart aches for him at that moment; you understand that all too well. Love is wonderful…but it’s messy, and it hurts, and it requires regular offerings of blood, sweat, and tears to keep it alive, much less to make it grow. It makes life worth living–but one way or the other, it always takes its pound of flesh in the end. After enduring such a loss, you sympathize that this poor man didn’t want to open himself up to all that again. 

And yet, here you are, in a room that almost feels like a sanctum, and somehow you are his icon of devotion. 

You should be on your guard, for surely this is a form of mental illness–and what does it say about you that you assume a man must be ill, if he is this into you?–but no one has ever wanted you so completely, so obsessively, before. 

It’s more titillating than you’d like to admit, and you have to mentally knock yourself upside the head not to give in to this. 

You wonder if he's been with anyone since his wife passed, and your heart breaks for him all over again. How much of this has to do with that, you wonder? Again, you find yourself assuming this fixation isn’t actually about you, but some external circumstances that makes you convenient to him. It's how most of your relationships have started, looking back, and it never ends well for you in the end. You look around at the shrine he's constructed in this studio. So he likes your shapes in their particular order. But what does he even know about you? 

You don't realize the answer is far more than you want to know. 

Then another thought occurs to you. “Were you cruel to Matt…over me?”

A sigh escapes him that seems to come from the bottom depths of his soul. “I wasn’t cruel,” he grumbles, looking away at a drawing of you. 

“You were definitely extra.”

He growls at this, a primal sound that more belongs in the time of the caves than here in this elegant old house. It lifts every hair on your body. 

“Fine.” He approaches you with one slow step, hoping not to spook you. “Maybe I was mean to him, but I was never dishonest.” Another step, and you can only watch as he approaches you like a slow-stalking predator on those impossibly long legs, looking at you like he might like to eat you if he catches you. 

“It drove me mad, thinking about you together, when I knew that boy had no idea how to handle a woman like you.”

He keeps advancing with that hungry look, and finally you remember how to move, scrambling backwards until your butt bumps into something solid. Too late, you realize he's backed you into his paint-stained worktable. You regain some sense, skittering around it just as he tries to close the distance between you. 

He’s being lazy about it, you realize. A man built like that could snatch you up in a second–he is but a panther toying with a mouse. 

“John…wait.” 

“I’ve been waiting,” he grouses, leaning on the table, letting you put it between you. He grips the edge of it with those huge hands as though holding himself back, the muscles playing in his bared forearms, his cuffs rolled up from doing the dishes. You cannot help but stare. This man should not be allowed to be so ridiculously good looking, when he is possibly so very unstable. 

He’s so beautiful. Fuck is he beautiful, but this…is borderline insane.

When he speaks his voice is low and full of gravel, rough with desire, the sound of which makes you press your thighs for some relief. “I know I’m not a good man, y/n. But I would be so good, to you.”

After the magic of earlier in just sharing a meal with this man, talking easily over food and wine with his dogs at your feet…you're afraid you believe him. There's a part of you that wants that, so badly. The logical part of you, however, cautions that it’s surely too good to be true.

You’re afraid you’re like a moth to the flame, unable to stop yourself from self-immolation. You just barely escaped something terrible happening to you via Matt’s friends. You have got to be smarter than you were then. 

“John…maybe…I should go home to think about all this.”

“Don’t go home,” he pleads, though it somehow also sounds like a command. “Stay here with me a little longer. We were having a nice time.” 

It’s true. You were, while blissfully ignorant of this smoking gun just down the hall. With your heart in your throat you know you shouldn’t even be entertaining the thought…but here you are. “What happens…if I stay?” 

Like…do you want to wear my skin? 

“Anything you want,” he answers gently, doing his best, you can tell, not to scare you. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m a patient man.” 

You were smart enough not to go to Matt’s apartment where his predatory friends hung out, and your instincts were right. You know you should listen to your instincts now. Why is this harder? You shake your head, at yourself as much as him. 

“No. No. I'm going.” You turn to make for the door, and you were right about him. He is fast as lightning, and when he grabs you up the most embarrassingly girly little squeal escapes you. You flail, knocking a stack of papers askew, some fluttering to the ground. His arms are like iron bands around you, not hurting you but there is no escaping his hold. All you manage is to turn, so that your back is pressed in an agonizing line against the solid wall of his front.

He is warm, and strapped with muscle, and it should not feel this good to be engulfed by his larger frame. 

You push on his arms around your waist, to absolutely zero avail. 

“Y/n, please, calm down.” 

You scan the worktable, hoping for some tool to help you that might startle him without doing any real damage. You don’t want to hurt him. You just want him to let you go. Your eyes settle upon one of the unearthed papers, and that’s when you freeze in your struggles, going still as a stone. 

“Oh my god.”

It’s a paper filled with sketches, of the sort a sculptor might make before executing a project. It has views from the front and sides, various variations of designs.They’re plans for a mask–in the shape of a wolf’s head. The same stylized masquerade style half mask that you’ve been seeing in your fractured memories and your hazy dreams. 

Exactly like the one that still rests on your nightstand. 

“It was you.” 

You cannot raise your voice above a whisper, your fingertips like claws digging into his arms. You don’t know why you go limp in his grasp, your head rocking back on his shoulder. Shock, surely, or a reluctant acceptance. His voice is a low grumble beside your ear, his nose nuzzling in your hair.  A wave of gooseflesh erupts across your body, and the most shamefully delicious thrill shoots down your spine. 

“You’re finding all my secrets tonight, aren’t you Little Red?”

Your Lone Wolf has got you, and you’re afraid there’s no escape.

TBC...

___

->chapter map pinterest board/ photo credits

[lovemomhatepolice]

lando norris nswf alphabet (part 1) (minors DNI!)

navigation taglist requests

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex) No matter how rough and long you have sex, Lando behaves like a typical Lando afterwards. Of course he giggles under his breath, as if it was his first time. And he freaking blushes!!! He then loves to cuddle up to you even more (as he stresses - you need to appreciate the contact of naked body to naked body) and you lie together for a long time before you go to prepare a bath together or a quick shower (depending on your mood) while you wash each other. Oh, how he loves to wash your hair….

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s) Lando loves his abs in himself. Well, I beg to differ, superbly muscled, gym-trained…. Yes, Lando is definitely proud of it, and especially when he sees that you like it too. That works on him the most. He also likes her eyes, I think for many reasons, but I beg - who wouldn't love those bright beautiful eyes? Exactly!!!

What does Lando love about you? I think it will also be the eyes. The boy loves to look into them and could do it for hours. They are such a damn mystery to him, and yet he knows them so well. He loves to look into them when you are happy and they sparkle or when you squint them with laughter. But he definitely loves to look into them when you close them from the euphoria that grips your body during your sex. A better view Lando has never seen before, I promise.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically) Lando loves to see you in his cum. I know how it may sound, but there is no better sight for him than your lips around his cock or your shapely breasts that are all in his seed.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs) Without hiding it, Lando has fantasized more than once and more than twice about being completely dominated by you. The very fact that he adores you on top during sex says a lot. He loves it when you take control, and all he has to do is hold your hips to support you as you bounce. Even so, this doesn't happen too often and mostly Lando takes control, but in his head for a very long time exactly such thoughts have been forming….

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?) I wouldn't say that Lando is some very experienced. He had a few sexual experiences with other women before you, but nothing binding (except his previous girlfriend), so I think he only started to discover the depths of sex with you. But you can't deny that he is vague or can't do something. God, I swear, Lando is the fulfillment of your every need.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying) Nothing fancy, let's not kid ourselves - despite the fact that you are young, you do not overdo it. Lando's and your favorite positions? Oh, definitely cowgirl. Norris loves to see your breasts bouncing right in front of his face. When you let out a quiet moan as he fills you to the brim. When he can look at your face constantly and sneak kisses that aren't very precise. And his other beloved position is total wall sex. No matter where - whether in the shower or in the kitchen or even in the hallway. Lando loves to do this, especially since at this point you are completely dependent on him and he hugs you with his whole body.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.) Well, I beg you - you know Lando. The giggles in your bedroom (and not just your bedroom) are an integral part of sex. As I mentioned - the boy also blushes all the time. So no, serious sex with him is not an option. Even if you have a damn intense and romantic moment, Norris will always pull out some funny line and say it. Unless he is angry, oh, then his laughter you won't hear for a damn thing, but how long does it last? A maximum of two hours and it passes. Lando can't get mad.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.) I don't think this is one of the thoughts that occupies his head in any particular way, but I think he has a neat. He shaves there out of habit, but it's not always a 100 percent shave, so I think you've seen a light stubble more than once. And as for you, I think he doesn't have too many requirements either. As long as it was neat and hygienic, yes it gives you free rein. After all, it's not his body (well, kinda like that…), the decision is yours.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect) Well, all right, but despite his giggles and funny tics, you will hear from his mouth lots and lots of comments about yourself. How good you are to him, how great he feels, how much he loves you…. Lando is a romantic - he may not show it too often in a serious way, but all of his still small youthful acts (even though he is already 25) are infused with love. If you tell him once that you want to make love by candlelight in a bathtub full of foam - voila! The next day, or maybe even the same day, your wish comes true.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon) Well, Lando does not shy away from masturbation. Rather, he doesn't practice it often because you are constantly next to each other and his level of sexual gratification is in the right place, but if you happen to be away, why not? But it should be acknowledged that he has never masturbated to any videos or photos or anything not related to you since your relationship began.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks) Dom/Sub sex - As I mentioned before, Lando often has thoughts in his head that you should totally dominate him. But I don't mean some kind of BDSM (although…) or degradation. Simple domination over him, though, here. Since you are 50/50 in life…. Well, and maybe a little voyeurism - he wouldn't mind if you entered the room, if he was just masturbating. Or the other way around. He himself also would not forgive such a view.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do) Couch or shower. I don't know why, Lando just has it that way. He loves sex on the couch probably because then you're mostly upstairs and he can spread out on your damn comfy couch. And the shower? That's the realm of greater intimacy for him. He really enjoys taking a bath with you, even when it's just a simple bath - without sexual overtones.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going) You. Simply you. Lando still has a boner with you, which is of course damn funny for you, but well, don't kid yourself, we both know that you also get your panties wet at the sight of him. Whether morning or evening, whether in sweatpants or a elegant dress. It doesn't matter to him. You are so damn beautiful and exciting to him that such silly things as clothing go away. You could even be in a straitjacket and he would continue to appear extremely clingy next to you.

A/N: part two is already here! english is my second language i will be very pleased if you leave something behind - orders are open, and I am very close to 200 followers! maybe I can get in by the end of the week?

please do not copy and translate my works! in case of any issues related to this - I invite you to discuss privately :)

[n0tamused]

Hello!! I’ve been following you for a little bit, and I just haven’t reached out much because. I’m scared🧍‍♀️(not of you, just reaching out in general because for some reason I think people will bite me if I try to interact)

alsoyourworkislovelyandsoisyourocandsoareyou. <3

But!!! If you’re stilling doing your 1.5k follower event (congrats btw!!) would it be alright if I made a request for Dr. Ratio, action prompt 14 (romantic) pretty please? :3 Love my wife fr. He needs to come home 💔

Thank you, and have a lovely day/night! Congratulations again on your milestone!! ❀

˖ ࣪⊹Morning fuss

Prompt: action 14. First kiss

A/n: Hello! And dw I totally understand you lol, but I'm so happy you decided to reach out now and make a request! <3 I can totally whip up some Dr Ratio, anytime hehe. I had different ideas as to how to do this, but I settled on this one primarily because it is set in a private space and where Ratio is arguably at his most vulnerable and it's just lots of fluff. I hope you enjoy! Thank you so much for your kind words! Wishing you luck on getting Ratio!

Contents: Dr. Ratio x Reader, gn reader, fluff, morning cuddles, reader has a wack dream

Words: 895

Ko-Fi |  1.5K followers event(closed)

He had never sounded so carefree. The moment nearly felt like a distant dream as bed sheets still clung onto both of your forms with sunshine streaming through in pale yellow lances. Perhaps carefree was not the most correct term, but the way he laughed and the fact his face was devoid of any hard line or angry wrinkle failed to remind you of anything but liberty.

It started off with you waking up from a sleep you could only explain as a fever dream, you woke up believing you were still held within the confines of those halls, looking for the walking, upside down rabbit and all you could think of is to warn Veritas of the deceiving shampoo and the seal walking on flippers. 

Veritas, also freshly woken up, didn’t have the brains yet to comprehend your confusing talk, and for several moments he made an effort to ask questions and to understand you better, to calm you down from your groggy rambling. 

His hand found your shoulder, rubbing with tender care, his eyes taking a bit too long to open after every blink. “What are you talking about?” he asked, at long last starting to grasp the strands of reality.

“The seal..Veritas, I..” you bumble and mumble, but slowly come back to your senses, and when your eyes meet his you could almost see your own realization reflected back at you as his own eyes flushed off the sleep they carried. Reality set in and silence followed.

Then you began to chuckle, flushing in embarrassment as you had drawn almost flush against him under the blankets in your previous stupor. 

Giggling, you bury yourself in his chest, apologizing over and over again until you feel him move and his chest shake with his own laughter. 

“In the name of.. Have you seriously fallen so deep into slumber that you thought a seal was a threat to you, me?”

“A seal can be a threat! Don’t act so clever with me now, you damn well know what seals are capable off”

“Clearly. One more thing you forgot to add is that they’re capable of flight and I would’ve believed you” he bit back at you with humor dripping off every word. You have wormed your way on top of his chest, and he patted you on your back as if to console you for your embarrassment. “Although, I can’t deny your care is endearing”

“Is this the closest I’ll get to you giving me a direct compliment?” you quip, a cheeky smile on your face as your head shot up, looking down at him and the way his messy hair made him look nearly ethereal in the morning sun. 

Ratio scoffed, “Like I don’t give you enough praise already, do you want to be spoiled now as well?” he groaned as he shifted, just enough to grab the runaway blanket and pull it over your back again. It was too early even for him to get up, a few more minutes of warmth wouldn’t hurt.

“Spoiling your partner isn’t all that bad” you argued, propping yourself up more comfortably on his chest. “For caring for you no less, you’re such a handful at times” you added with a yawn, noticing how his brow twitched in amusement.

The distance between the two of you was disregardable. Your noses were nearly touching and Veritas couldn’t help his hand when it rose to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Me being a handful is only a natural reaction to you being an arms full” he told you, a smug looking expression nestling into the lines of his face.

You only tilted your head and felt your expression grow into the silent question of ‘really?’. “You’re being such a handful right now. I worry for you even when I am not awake, and this is your thanks?” 

“Hm, you may be right, in some way” he nonchalantly mused, relaxing into the mattress with a sigh. His hand had fallen down, caressing the side of your neck. “I thank you for your valiant service, for being so willing to defend me against the feverish animals your mind conjured, the ones that wished to harm me, although I highly doubt they wanted anything at all” he chuckled again, his thumb brushing against your jawline.

“..now was that so hard?” you ask in a whisper as sleep tempts to take you again, his warmth wishes to lull you back to sleep. Your head is feeling heavy and without much thought you let it fall closer, and your lips fall onto his own.

Veritas’ eyes fall closed and his hand tightens its grip at your nape ever so lightly, displaying his disbelief and mild shock, but accepting it regardless. He holds you close, his breath stopping in his throat.

A beeping sound echoes in the air, separating the two of you. It wasn't a hard guess to figure out what it was - Veritas’ alarm had brought a sour expression over his face. For a few moments he let it ring on, hoping to ignore it as he rested against the pillows and returned his eyes to your own, a silent apology woven in his colored eyes. He then leaned forward and kissed you sweetly on the cheek before reaching for his phone to turn the offending sound off.

Ⓒ n0tamused/jarttavia_. Do not repost, translate, edit, and/or copy any of my works. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

[mintsturniolo]

are you mad at me? (c.s)

bf!chris sturniolo x f!reader

a/n: another in class writing session. only place i be getting motivated lol. i feel like i haven't written for chris in forever. if you don't like the pre-add the name, you can add your own name or not. totally up to you 🤍

summary: laila wants to see how chris reacts when she doesn't say "i love you back"

Laila was on the couch trying to see how she could get a reaction out of Chris today. She was bored and she knew Chris was on his way out to spend time with some of his friends. One thing Chris never did was leaving the house without saying “I love you.” Laila decided this was how she was going to get Chris’s attention.

“Hey love,” Chris said, approaching the couch. “I’m heading out.”

Laila smiled as Chris kissed her cheek and moved to kissing her lips. “Stay safe,” she replied, kissing him back. “Have fun.”

“I will,” Chris replied. “Do you need me to get you anything while I’m out?”

Laila shrugged as Chris kissed her again. “Maybe pizza from Dominos? I don’t know. I’ve been craving that lately.”

Chris agreed and made his way towards the door. “I can do that. Bye. I love you.”

“Bye,” Laila replied, resisting the urge to say she loved him.

Chris paused at the top of the stairs. “I love you,” he said a little more eagerly.

“Have fun,” Laila said, forcing back a smile.

Chris dropped his backpack at his feet, a worried look crossing over his face. “Are you okay my love?” he asked.

Laila nodded, not moving from her spot on the couch. “I’m good. Why?” she asked, playing dumb.

Chris frowned as he tried to read Laila’s facial expression. “Are you mad at me?” he asked, taking a step towards the couch.

“Why would I be mad?” Laila asked nonchalantly.

“You tell me,” Chris muttered, starting to get agitated. “You’re acting weird.”

Laila felt bad, but she didn’t think she was ready to back down yet. She heard the sound of a car horn outside and glanced up at Chris. “I thought you had to go. They’re waiting for you.”

“They can wait,” Chris replied returning to the couch where Laila still hadn’t moved. “I need to know what’s going on with you.”

Laila did her best to look confused as Chris forced her to look at him, cupping her chin in his hand. “You’ve never gone a single day without telling me you love me. What’s going on? Do we need to talk about something?”

Seeing the hurt in Chris’s eyes, Laila ran her fingers through her boyfriend’s hair. “I’m sorry my love. This was a prank. I wanted to see how you would react.”

“Huh?” Chris asked as Laila hugged him. “What do you mean?”

Laila pulled up a video on her phone and showed it to Chris. He watched intently, realization forming in his eyes. “Don’t stress me out like that ma,” he groaned resting his head on Laila’s shoulder. “I thought we were about to break up or something.”

“I could never break your heart like that,” Laila reassured Chris.

“So you promise you’re fine? You’re not mad or anything?” Chris asked, wanting to be sure he hadn’t done something to upset Laila.

Laila kissed Chris gently on the lips. “Trust, I would let you know,” she said, earning a small laugh in response. “Your friends are still waiting for you by the way.”

Chris shrugged as he pulled out his phone. He typed a quick message before returning his attention back to Laila. “I’d rather be here with you,” he replied.

“You’ve been planning this for days,” Laila insisted.

Chris unfolded a blanket that was laying next to him and pulled Laila into his arms. “I can go bowling with them any time I want. I want to be with you right now.”

Laila smiled as she reached for the remote. She turned on the TV, scrolling through several different shows as they tried to figure out what to watch. “SpongeBob?” she asked.

“Sure,” Chris replied glancing at the screen.

The couple laid in silence as the show played on the TV in front of them. Laila absentmindedly ran her fingers up and down Chris’s arm as she felt herself drifting off. Chris’s breathing slowed as he fell asleep. Laila smiled sleepily to herself, knowing that she was going to get to spend the whole evening with her boyfriend. She really hadn’t wanted him to go out today.

Almost two hours passed before Laila woke up again. She sat up, earning a small moan from Chris who was just starting to wake up. “Sorry. Did I wake you up?” she asked.

“Mmmm,” Chris hummed, his eyes still adjusting to the light. “No. I was already kind of awake.”

“Are you hungry? I am,” Laila said as she checked the time on her phone.

“Yeah actually. I haven’t eaten since I woke up this morning,” Chris replied. “I’ve been wanting pizza since you mentioned it earlier though.”

Laila leaned forward, getting her car keys off the coffee table. “Shall we?”

“Let’s go,” Chris said.

“One last thing,” Laila said, grabbing Chris’s attention. “I love you.

Chris smiled, kissing Laila’s cheek. “Damn, you finally said it,” he said playfully. “I love you too, ma.”

Taglist

@adirtylittleheart @sturniolo04 @yourenogoodforme @flouvela @mattyblover07 @sturnioloveniamh @slutforsturniolos

[muiitoloko]

Hi, first of anything I love and ate up every single thing you wrote. That said I NEED a story where Sev is about to be a dad, they are both in the last week of pregnancy just waiting for the moment the little girl (why do we all see him as a baby girl dad tho?) and he's just reflexive on how his life is right now after suffering so much and thinking he would die alone. If you want to add the birth and baby birth that's even better 💔 thanks.

Title: The Twin Stars in Snape's World

Summary: Severus's world shifts entirely with the birth of his daughters, filling the shadows of his past with light and love that he never thought he’d experience.

Pairing: Severus Snape × Fem! Reader

Warnings: None

Author's Notes: It’s not exactly what you asked for, but I was already working on a third chapter for my fanfic Daddy Snape's Dilemma, and your request totally nudged me to finish it up and post it! Hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it!

First, Second and Third part here.

Also read on Ao3

The final week of your pregnancy arrived, and Severus Snape was, without a doubt, more nervous than you had ever seen him. Over the past months, his protectiveness had gradually intensified, but now, as you neared the end, it had reached an almost comical extreme. He refused to let you out of his sight, shadowing your every move with the intensity of a hawk, his tall, lean figure looming close no matter where you went.

At Hogwarts, his vigilance took on a new form. Snape had all but bullied Dumbledore into hiring a temporary teacher to cover your Ancient Runes classes. You could tell Dumbledore found the whole thing rather amusing, indulging Snape’s demands with a patient, almost fatherly tolerance. As for Snape, there was no humor in it—his determination was fueled by what seemed to be genuine, bone-deep fear.

Instead of teaching, you were relegated to a bedroom at the back of the Potions classroom, with Snape popping in between his own lessons to check on you. You had never seen him so anxious, his usual stoic facade cracking more with each passing day. He would pace outside your quarters, shoulders tense, the dark circles under his eyes deepening. Despite his best efforts to hide it, he was deeply stressed, behaving as if he were the one about to give birth.

You noticed that this worry manifested in another unexpected way: the matter of naming your daughters. Every day he would bring you lists, scrolls of parchment filled with options he had painstakingly compiled, poring over the names with the same scrutiny he’d apply to brewing a delicate, dangerous potion. Each name had to be perfect, meaningful, and worthy.

He had presented you with everything from mythological names to obscure, poetic words he’d found in ancient texts. You, however, had a different approach. “Severus,” you said one evening as he handed you yet another list, his expression serious, “I know you want to have everything planned, but… we’ll know their names when we see them. Don’t you think?”

Snape’s gaze turned sharp, his dark eyes narrowing slightly as if the suggestion was almost sacrilegious. “And what if we don’t?” he retorted, his voice low and pointed. “What if we look at them and realize we’ve failed to give them names that reflect who they are meant to be?”

You bit back a smile, reaching out to touch his hand, feeling the tension radiate from his slender, calloused fingers. “Severus, we won’t fail them just because we haven’t decided on names yet. They’re our daughters—they’ll be extraordinary no matter what we call them.”

He sighed, his shoulders relaxing a fraction as he looked down at you, the intensity in his gaze softening. “I’m merely trying to… prepare. It is my responsibility as their father to see to it that they have everything they need—even a name that will protect them from the start.”

His protectiveness tugged at your heart, and you squeezed his hand. “You’re already giving them everything they need, Severus. They’ll have you.”

Snape’s expression shifted, a rare vulnerability flickering across his angular face, though he quickly hid it. “Yes, well…” he muttered, glancing away. “I still believe we should at least shortlist a few options.”

Over the next few days, you managed to narrow down the lists together, though every time you thought you’d settled on something, he’d return with yet another alternative he deemed equally worthy. It became almost endearing, watching him struggle with his need for control over something as uncontrollable as birth.

You chuckled one evening, teasing him, “You do realize, Severus, that the girls might decide their names for us? They could arrive and look nothing like any of these.”

His frown deepened, though a hint of amusement flickered in his dark eyes. “They will look like you,” he replied, his voice almost possessive, as though that was an immutable fact. “And if they resemble you, then any name I choose will be worthy.”

In the quiet moments, you could see past his impatience, his need for everything to be just so. He was terrified. The great, imposing Severus Snape, who had faced dangers most wizards could scarcely imagine, was terrified of this unknown journey. And though he hid it behind his meticulous planning, his anxiety was evident in every line he wrote, every name he researched.

One night, as he sat beside you, poring over yet another scroll, you couldn’t help but place your hand over his, stilling his movements. “Severus,” you said softly, your voice gentle, “it’s all right to be scared.”

He didn’t pull his hand away, but he didn’t meet your eyes, his jaw tight. “I am not afraid,” he replied, though his tone lacked conviction. His voice was softer, almost strained. “I simply… cannot afford any mistakes. Not with them. Not with you.”

You placed a hand on your belly, feeling a gentle kick as if one of the babies could sense his unease. You guided his hand to the spot, letting him feel the movement.

“They’re already telling us they’re fine,” you whispered, smiling as his eyes softened, a faint blush creeping up his pale cheeks. “And you’re going to be an incredible father.”

For a brief moment, the tension melted from his face, replaced by a rare, unguarded expression. He watched you, his hand lingering on your belly, his thumb tracing small, soothing circles over the spot where he’d felt the kick.

“Two girls,” he murmured, almost to himself, his voice filled with a strange mixture of awe and dread. “I don’t know if I’m prepared for this.”

You leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, your heart swelling with love for this man who had, against all odds, become so much more than you’d ever dreamed possible. “You’ll be ready, Severus,” you assured him, your voice full of conviction. “They’re already lucky to have you.”

In that moment, as he held you close, his face buried in your shoulder, you knew that no matter what names were chosen, no matter how unprepared he felt, your daughters would be loved beyond measure. And for Severus, that was the truest magic of all.

Snape sat at his desk, his gaze flickering over the rows of students carefully attempting the day’s potion. A faint curl of distaste tugged at his lips as he caught sight of Potter, who, as usual, seemed perilously close to ruining his cauldron’s contents. Snape had already reprimanded him once that morning, his words slicing through the dungeon air with the sharpness he reserved for the boy. Yet now, as he sat in silence, the other students barely daring to breathe, his attention drifted elsewhere, pulled toward thoughts far removed from the dungeons of Hogwarts.

Just behind him, a faint rustle and creak filtered through the door to your shared quarters. The faint sounds of movement as you stirred from sleep. A warmth crept into his chest, breaking through the stoic shell he maintained with such precision.

As his gaze returned to the students before him, he felt the familiar, bittersweet pang of Lily’s memory—his first love, and his greatest regret. For so long, her shadow had been his constant companion, filling him with a cold, unrelenting ache. Protecting her son had become his purpose, his penance. And after her death, he had accepted that this mission would likely be the only meaning his life would ever have. There had been a time when he thought he might die carrying it out—perhaps even hoped for it.

But then you had entered his life.

A sigh escaped his lips, almost inaudible beneath the simmering of potions and the scratch of quills. The world had shifted when you came into it, and now, with the prospect of your daughters’ arrival in only three days, he felt that shift more acutely than ever. A sense of purpose, something wholly separate from his debt to Lily, had taken root within him.

You had given him a reason to live that went beyond atonement. The life growing within you, two delicate lives entwined with his own, felt like a redemption he had never believed possible. For the first time, he could imagine a future not defined by sacrifice and solitude, but by something richer, something gentler.

Snape’s hand tightened briefly around the edge of his desk, and he watched his students, their heads bent over their cauldrons, oblivious to his thoughts. He had spent years mastering his emotions, transforming them into weapons, shields, armor against the outside world. But now, he realized that he could no longer afford to wield that armor so thoughtlessly.

These children, his daughters—they would be born into a world fractured by war, a world where he had a role to play in the coming darkness. Yet for them, he could not allow himself the luxury of despair or surrender. For the first time, he couldn’t imagine simply fading away into the shadows after Voldemort’s defeat. It was no longer an option to leave this life without knowing that his daughters would grow up strong, safe, and surrounded by the kind of love he had never known.

As the thought took root, Snape’s jaw tightened, a new resolve settling over him like a cloak. He would survive this war. He would survive, not because of some duty to the past, but because of a responsibility to the future—to his family. He would see his daughters grow up; he would teach them, protect them, stand by their side as they learned about the world and perhaps even found their own places in it.

For once, the prospect of living beyond the war held something other than pain. A faint vision of two young girls, with bright eyes and curious minds, drifted through his mind. His daughters, growing up, asking questions about the stars, about potions, perhaps even about love. And you—by his side, guiding them with the warmth he could only hope to echo.

The shrill sound of a student’s cauldron hissing sharply brought him back to the present. He narrowed his eyes at the offending student, who paled under his glare and quickly adjusted the heat, stammering an apology. Snape stood up abruptly, his dark eyes narrowing as he prepared to address the room. But before he could say a word, a loud crash echoed through the dungeons as the door to his quarters burst open.

He whipped around, dark eyes narrowing, but whatever sharp retort had been on his lips vanished as he took in the sight before him.

There you stood, gripping the doorway, your face flushed, one hand braced against your lower back and the other cradling your rounded belly. The look on your face was equal parts determination and alarm, but it was the words that followed that sent his heart racing.

“It’s happening,” you gasped, your voice shaky but clear.

For a moment, Snape stood frozen, your words echoing in his mind, the meaning of them almost surreal. Happening? He glanced down, his mind racing. Surely not—

His thoughts halted abruptly as Ron Weasley’s voice, loud and tactless, filled the silence. “Why’s she peeing herself in front of everyone?”

Hermione’s horrified gasp quickly followed, and she smacked him on the arm, whispering furiously, “She’s not peeing herself, Ron! Her water’s broken! She’s giving birth!”

That was all it took to snap Snape out of his stunned stupor. The babies were coming—now. Much earlier than planned. His eyes widened, and he lunged from behind his desk, moving to your side in an instant, his usual composure nowhere in sight.

“Merlin,” he muttered under his breath, one hand hovering awkwardly near you, unsure whether to support you or hold back in case he only made things worse. “You… you’re sure?” he stammered, though he immediately realized how absurd that question was.

You managed a small, pained laugh. “Quite sure, Severus.”

His mind raced as he attempted to regain his bearings. The portkey to St. Mungo’s—they’d had it prepared weeks ago, but it had seemed more like an overcautious precaution at the time. Now, with the urgency of the situation hitting him, he felt his calm shatter.

He shot a look around the classroom, and his gaze landed on the nearest student—Hermione Granger, who was watching with wide eyes, clearly understanding the seriousness of the situation. “Miss Granger,” he barked, his voice laced with barely concealed panic, “fetch Professor McGonagall. Tell her to cover this class immediately.”

Hermione jumped to her feet, nodding fervently as she dashed from the room, her own nervous energy amplifying the urgency. Meanwhile, Snape turned back to you, his heart racing as he tried to mask his worry.

“Severus,” you breathed, clutching his arm. “The portkey—”

He nodded quickly, releasing a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “Yes, of course.” His hand moved to his robes, fingers fumbling as he retrieved the small, inconspicuous glass vial enchanted to transport you both directly to St. Mungo’s.

He held the vial up to you, and you grabbed it, your other hand gripping his arm tightly as the room around you vanished in a whirl of colors. The bustling noise of Hogwarts faded, replaced by the sterile quiet of the St. Mungo’s ward as you both landed in the reception area, nearly stumbling from the sudden shift in location.

A Healer rushed toward you both, her eyes widening as she took in the scene. “Mrs. Snape—oh my, it’s early!” she exclaimed, gesturing to an available stretcher as she signaled to her colleagues. “Let’s get you to a delivery room.”

Snape’s hands hovered near you, his face a mixture of worry and focus as he helped you onto the stretcher. As the Healers moved you down the hallway, he kept pace beside you, his long strides easily matching their quick pace. He reached out to take your hand, gripping it tightly as you squeezed back, the intensity of the contractions beginning to set in.

“You’re doing fine,” he murmured, his deep voice steadier than he felt. “Just breathe.”

A faint smile crossed your face despite the pain. “Severus Snape, giving breathing advice. Now I’ve seen everything.”

He quirked an eyebrow, though his expression softened. “Mock me all you like, but keep breathing.”

The Healers moved efficiently, ushering you into the delivery room and setting you up as Snape hovered close, his dark gaze flicking anxiously between you and the medical staff. He could feel the old fear surfacing—the fear of the unknown, the helplessness of standing by while others took over. But your hand in his grounded him, your presence reminding him that he was exactly where he needed to be.

A Healer turned to him, her expression calm and reassuring. “It may take a few hours, Professor. These things are rarely quick, and with twins…”

Snape’s jaw tightened, but he nodded, settling into a chair beside you, his hand never leaving yours.

Hours passed, though they felt like mere minutes to him. He was acutely aware of every moment—the sound of your breathing, the tightening of your grip during contractions, the reassuring words from the Healers. He remained silent, his face a mask of concentration, his own discomfort forgotten in his focus on you.

The hours stretched, each contraction increasing the tension in the room. Severus remained by your side, his hand firmly gripping yours, his dark eyes watching every move the Healers made with suspicion. But the moment the lead Healer suggested you get up and walk to help progress the labor, his calm snapped.

“Walk?” His voice, usually controlled and low, rose sharply, filled with uncharacteristic alarm. “You expect her to walk in this state? Are you out of your minds?”

The Healer, a kindly-looking witch with graying hair, gave Severus a reassuring smile, accustomed to nervous fathers. “Professor Snape,” she began gently, “encouraging movement can help speed things along. It’s quite common, especially with twins.”

Severus’s mouth opened and closed a few times, his face paling even more. “Common?” he echoed incredulously, his gaze darting from you to the Healer. “My wife is in labor, Madam, with twins, and you want her to walk about like she’s merely out for a stroll?”

Despite the contractions, you couldn’t help but chuckle at his outburst. “Severus,” you managed between breaths, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “It’s fine. I can walk a little.”

He looked at you, his dark eyes wide with concern, clearly torn. The thought of you enduring even the smallest discomfort was driving him nearly mad. “If—if you’re certain…” he muttered, though his grip on your arm was firm as he helped you out of bed, as if preparing to catch you at the slightest misstep.

The Healer guided you both down the hall for a short, careful walk, Severus muttering under his breath with every step, shooting fierce looks at any Healer who dared suggest you keep moving. When you paused, wincing as another contraction hit, he practically growled at the Healer. “If there’s any risk to my wife or our daughters…” He let the threat linger, his face a mask of furious protectiveness.

Finally, you were able to return to the bed, and though the labor continued slowly, Severus remained at your side, holding your hand and murmuring soft reassurances. His fingers trembled slightly as he brushed back your hair, the love and worry in his gaze evident even as he tried to keep his composure.

It was nearly dawn when the sound of footsteps echoed down the hall, followed by a cheerful voice that could only belong to Albus Dumbledore. The headmaster entered, his arms laden with trinkets, including tiny stuffed owls, a miniature cauldron, and a set of rattles that jingled softly. He looked as though he had raided the entire children’s section of Diagon Alley.

“Severus, my boy!” he called warmly, his blue eyes twinkling as he approached. “I heard there was a new arrival or two on the way. Ah, and Minerva!” He turned, gesturing as Professor McGonagall entered, a faintly amused smile on her face as she took in Severus’s tense form by your bedside.

Dumbledore began to hand out trinkets, placing the little toys on the table near your bed, each accompanied by a soft hum and a lemon drop he popped into his mouth with relish. “The finest wares from Diagon Alley,” he declared, his tone bright. “Only the best for the future Misses Snape!”

Minerva moved closer to you, her expression softening as she reached for your hand. “How are you holding up, dear?” she asked, her Scottish accent laced with warmth. “Severus here has kept us all quite informed on your progress. I daresay I’ve never seen him in such a state.”

“Nor has anyone else, I assure you,” you replied, managing a tired smile. Severus shot Minerva a look that could have melted cauldrons, though his hand never left yours.

Dumbledore continued to rummage through his collection, holding up a small toy wand that emitted a shower of harmless sparks. “I thought this might suit,” he said with a wink. “We must start their magical education early.”

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the Healers gave the signal. Severus held your hand tightly, his face a mix of awe and terror as the final stage of labor began. You saw a single tear slip down his usually composed face, his grip tightening as he whispered, “You’re incredible. I— I am so proud of you.”

The Healers wheeled you down a quiet, dimly lit corridor, Severus’s tall, shadowy form looming beside you, never letting you out of his sight. His dark eyes, usually hardened and calculating, were softened with a mixture of awe and profound vulnerability as he took in every detail of the room being prepared for the birth of your daughters.

The faint echoes of magical murmurs from the Healers filled the room as they adjusted the equipment and spells needed. Severus moved to your side, his long, slender fingers brushing against your hand with a tentative gentleness. You could feel his nervous energy, the intense worry that he tried so desperately to mask beneath his stoic exterior.

As the contractions intensified, he bent down, his pale, angular face close to yours, his hair falling forward to shield his expression. His deep voice, usually sharp and guarded, softened as he whispered, “I’m here. You’re not alone, amore.”

The Healers instructed him to step back slightly, readying themselves for the delivery. Though he complied, his piercing gaze never left you, as if he were willing every ounce of his strength to help you through this moment.

Moments later, the room filled with a powerful, almost sacred silence as the first cry rang out—a thin, wailing sound that sent a tremor through Severus. One of the Healers approached, cradling a tiny, wriggling form swaddled in soft white fabric, and extended her towards Severus. His expression froze, and for a split second, he seemed almost paralyzed by fear.

The Healer’s voice was gentle. “Would you like to hold your daughter, Professor Snape?”

He nodded, though his hands trembled as he reached out. Carefully, she placed the baby in his arms, her tiny face peeking out from the blanket, her features so delicate and small they seemed otherworldly. Severus looked down at her, his dark eyes filled with a mixture of wonder and disbelief. His usually cold demeanor melted away, replaced by an intense, overwhelming tenderness that softened every line of his face.

“She’s…” His voice faltered, thick with emotion. His eyes glistened, and he swallowed hard, blinking back tears as he took in every detail—the soft curve of her cheeks, her tiny fingers curling into fists, her miniature nose. She was perfect, and in that moment, he realized he would do anything to protect her. He bent his head, his deep voice a reverent whisper. “You’re perfect.”

Just as Severus seemed to settle into the awe of holding his daughter, your voice cut through, strained yet filled with strength as the next contraction began. He looked up, his dark gaze flickering between you and the tiny life cradled in his arms, torn between staying with his newborn daughter and being by your side.

“Severus,” you managed, breathless, a smile breaking through the exhaustion, “go on… be there for her.”

He nodded, his gaze lingering on you for a beat, his expression raw with admiration, before he gently passed the baby to a nearby Healer, ensuring she would be safe. He crossed the room quickly, his dark robes sweeping behind him as he returned to your side, his long fingers slipping back into yours. You felt his grip, firm and unyielding, grounding you, as he whispered encouragements, his voice unsteady yet filled with pride.

Minutes later, a second cry filled the room, high and clear, and you saw Severus’s shoulders tremble with relief and elation. One of the Healers brought over the second newborn, a twin as delicate and perfect as her sister, and Severus stared at her, his heart swelling in his chest.

“She’s beautiful,” he murmured, almost to himself, his voice choked with a depth of feeling he rarely revealed. He took her into his arms, his slender fingers cradling her small head, his thumb gently tracing her cheek. His usually cold, intimidating face softened into something unrecognizable, a fierce love that lit his dark eyes with an intensity that left you breathless.

As he held her, the first Healer approached, bringing the other twin over to you, her tiny face nestled in the blanket. Your heart filled as you looked down at her, at the small, precious life you had brought into the world. In that moment, the room felt full of magic, not the kind that could be taught or brewed, but the kind that was born out of love, pure and unconditional.

Severus looked over at you, his expression softened beyond recognition, his piercing gaze filled with an almost painful tenderness as he watched you holding your daughter. For once, his stoic mask was gone, replaced by the vulnerability of a man who had finally found something worth living—and dying—for.

“They have your eyes,” you whispered, noting the dark lashes and tiny features, a hint of his unmistakable presence in them already.

He nodded, speechless, his voice catching as he tried to speak. When he finally found his words, they were barely above a whisper, his voice thick with emotion. “They’ll have your spirit… your kindness. And they’ll know they are loved.” His gaze met yours, a profound, unspoken promise shimmering in his eyes.

He reached out, his long fingers gently touching your cheek, and for the first time, you saw the walls he had so carefully built around his heart crumble, replaced by the love he had tried so hard to hide. Here, in this room, with his daughters in his arms and you by his side, Severus Snape had found his redemption. And it was more beautiful than he could have ever imagined.

[daydreaming-in-letters]

Hi! Is it possible you could do one shot about Andrew x reader having an intimate moment and him sharing his favorite poetry with her while they’re relaxing? Something sweet and fluffy (could possibly turn into something steamy totally up to you)

Please, please, please, send me more pictures, writing these ficlets is giving me life.

I kept this one fluffy. Enjoy!

The unhurried caress of gentle fingers slowly pulled you from your light slumber. You had not moved an inch in the time you had been gone, your head still resting against his chest, the steady drum of his heartbeat right next to your ear. The rest of your body lay safely secured between his legs, a blanket draped across the both of you to keep your joined heat close.

It seemed he also had not moved an inch, probably not to wake you, and the thought warmed your heart. You did not dare to stir in his arms either, afraid he might stop the absent-minded movement of his fingers in your hair. But your own body chose to betray you, the lure of his warm form underneath your own too tempting. And so you let your hand glide along his stomach and chest before it slid down to his side where it squeezed the pliable flesh affectionately.

“Welcome back, love,” he whispered, his lips finding the crown of your head in a tender kiss mere seconds later.

“Still deep in the Heaney, hm?” you deduced as, from the corner of your eye, you spotted the book that was sitting in his other hand. As it had been ever since the two of you had cuddled up on the sofa together.

He hummed in affirmation, the guttural sound rolling through his chest and spreading onto your drowsy form, as if you had needed to be soothed further. As if that was even possible.

“Will you read to me?”

There was no chance you could have seen the blissful smile on his face without moving, but you could hear it, loud and clear, in the fervent, “Yeah!” that followed your request promptly. He was always so happy to share his beloved poetry with you and you basked in his enthusiasm, his melodic voice and passionate recital. It was heaven.

But as his hand left its destined spot on your head to turn the pages, you almost regretted asking. An agonised whine broke from your lips upon the loss of contact and he could not help but chuckle at your antics, making his attempt to shush you not nearly half earnest.

“Sh, love, focus now. This is a beaut.”

“I can’t!” you protested. “Not as long as your hand is not back where it belongs.”

You knew he was shaking his head in amusement, still his fingers catered to your needs immediately and it was only then that you felt yourself relax against him again, ready to hang on every little word he would grace your ears with.

“Scaffolding, by Seamus Heaney,” he began, the heat of his breath wafting through your hair, and you were home.

“Masons, when they start upon a building, Are careful to test out the scaffolding;

Make sure that planks won't slip at busy points, Secure all ladders, tighten bolted joints.

And yet all this comes down when the job’s done Showing off walls of sure and solid stone.

So if, my dear, there sometimes seems to be Old bridges breaking between you and me

Never fear. We may let the scaffolds fall Confident that we have built our wall.”

He paused for a moment to let the words sink in, but it did not take long for his enthusiasm to break loose.

“Isn’t that a lovely one?”

“It’s beautiful,” you confessed, feeling compelled to lift your head and glance up at him. The most genuine, heartwarming smile awaited you and his happiness about your approval was everything. How on earth you deserved this man was absolutely beyond you, but who were you to question his choice? All you really could do was enjoy every single moment the two of you were granted together. He must have thought the same, even if he did not tell you so. It was evident, written all over his face. In the softness of his eyes, the placid smile upon his lips, in the touch of his hand as it ever so gently cupped your cheek, the book lying abandoned somewhere on top of the blanket now.

“Come here,” he whispered, but he did not wait until you moved, his head already leaning down, eager to meet you halfway. Still, when his lips finally touched yours, there was no hurry in their movement. You had all the time in the world. And hidden within his sweet taste on your tongue, there was a truth so plain and yet so absolute, that whatever storms there were to come, the two of you had built your wall.

[mxlti-fand0m-imaginess]

Hell Is A Teenage Girl - Prologue

series summary: Y/n is finally a part of the most popular clique in school, something she’s always wanted. The only catch is they’re total airheaded bitches, making her dream life not everything she had dreamt it would be. But when new girl Hazel Callahan finds her way into y/n’s life, everything changes.

chapter summary: Brittany has made it her mission to make Annie’s life miserable, and she’s forcing y/n to help. Hazel watches the chaos unfold in the cafeteria and decides that everyone at this school is just as horrible as everyone at her last one. Well, everyone except y/n.

warnings: bullying, crying, language, jeff and tim talk about girls in a really disgusting way

word count: 1.3k

a/n: fem!reader, ik this chapter is kinda short but i wanted to stop teasing this series and finally put some of it out! i’ll try to make the next one longer, but i can’t necessarily guarantee that. i hope you enjoy!!!

series masterlist

******

Dear Diary,

Brittany told me that she teaches people real life. She said real life sucks losers dry. If you wanna fuck with the eagles, you have to learn to fly. I said so you teach people how to spread their wings and fly. She said yes. I said you’re beautiful.

Sitting on the bleachers in the gym, y/n scribbled her thoughts down in her diary. Being a part of the most popular clique in school surely had its perks, but it’d be a lot more enjoyable if her friends weren’t such uptight bitches. Stella Rebecca and Isabel weren’t so bad, sometimes y/n could actually stand being around them. Brittany was the problem. The queen of Rockbridge Falls. She was a mythic bitch.

“Come on, y/n!” Stella Rebecca said, startling y/n.

“Geez, what’s your problem?”

Stella Rebecca sighed. “Don’t blame me, blame Brittany. She told me to haul your ass to the caf pronto.”

Isabel nodded. “She said she needs to talk to you.”

Y/n sighed, closing her diary and slipping it into her bag. “What is it this time?”

Isabel smiled. “Brittany found out Annie has a crush on Tim. She’s going to destroy her.”

Huffing, y/n followed Stella Rebecca and Isabel to the cafeteria, a pit forming in her stomach. Because of her insanely high IQ, she had the unique ability to be able to copy anyone’s handwriting exactly, a talent she always found useless. Brittany, however, just loved to use that to her advantage; whether that be making y/n write her an absence note, or in this case using it to utterly humiliate someone.

Brittany grinned, her bright red lipstick accentuating her already perfect smile, as she saw Isabel and Stella Rebecca approaching, y/n in tow.

“There you are, I’ve been waiting.”

Y/n forced a smile. “Hey Brittany.”

“I got my hands on a paper of Tim Phunk’s. I need you to forge a hot and horny, yet realistic note in Tim’s handwriting and we’ll slip it onto Annie’s lunch tray,” Brittany said, grinning wickedly.

”Shit, Brittany. I don’t have anything against Annie, she’s one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met.”

Brittany huffed impatiently, crossing her arms over her chest. “Well it’s not like you have anything for her either. Just do it, it’s going to be hilarious.”

”I’ll think about it.”

”Don’t think.”

Y/n glanced over at Annie, cheerfully chatting to Sylvie in the lunch line, blissfully unaware of the plot being formed against her. Brittany held out a pen and a piece of paper, and y/n reaches for it almost involuntarily, having been practically brainwashed to do Brittany’s bidding.

Brittany grinned, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. “Good choice. I’ll tell you what to write. Y/n needs something to write on. Isabel, bend over.”

Sighing to herself, Isabel turned around and bent over, presenting her back to y/n to write on. Y/n placed the paper on Isabel’s outstretched back, waiting for Brittany to dictate what she wanted her to write.

~

”Think she’ll ever talk to me?” Josie wondered aloud, her gaze fixed upon Isabel.

PJ scoffed. “Who? Isabel? Not a chance. No way in hell are you getting the attention of someone as popular as her.”

Josie sighed, turning to look at PJ. “As if you have any better of a chance.”

PJ smirked cockily. “Are you forgetting that I went out with Brittany?”

“Yeah, on one date. And then she never talked to you again,” Josie said with a laugh.

“She still could, you never know. At least I have more of a chance than you.”

Josie chuckled to herself, turning her attention back to Isabel. “Whatever you wanna tell yourself.”

“What are they even doing? Why is y/n writing on Isabel’s back? There’s a table right there,” PJ grumbled.

Josie paid closer attention, noticing how Brittany kept glancing back at Annie and laughing, and frowned. Of fucking course. For the past few months, Annie had been Brittany’s main target because for some reason she had decided to utterly destroy her. Now Josie wasn’t exactly friends with Annie, the two barely saying a word to each other outside of class, but she still cared about her. Annie was one of the nicest people she’d ever met, definitely not someone who deserved being targeted so heavily. Though she had never said a word to her, Josie hoped that Isabel wasn’t as enthusiastic about this plan as Brittany was.

”Probably another plan to humiliate Annie. I wish Brittany would grow up and finally stop making everyone miserable.”

PJ huffed in annoyance, slapping Josie’s arm with the back of her hand. “Hey! Don’t talk about her like that. She’s perfect just the way she is.”

~

Hazel sat in the corner of the cafeteria, picking at her lunch with disinterest. Not even one week at her new school and she could already see through everyone here. The popular kids and the so-called “losers”, this whole social hierarchy bullshit, she’d seen it at every other high school she’d been to and it was always the same. A small group of painfully fake assholes running the school and making the lives of everyone around them miserable. She was fucking tired of it.

Watching in mild amusement over the stupidity of the whole thing, Hazel watched as one of the cheerleaders, Stella something?, took a folded up piece of paper and snuck it onto another girl's, Amy’s?, lunchtray. The girl didn’t even seem to notice, continuing to walk with her friend, engaged in a cheerful discussion.

Rushing over to her two cheerleader friends, and someone else?, Hazel watched as they laughed, their eyes locked onto the girl. Well, the cheerleaders laughed. The fourth girl with them, however, didn’t even seem amused. No longer bothering to pay attention to the situation at hand, Hazel found her eyes drawn to her. She was pretty cute. Extremely cute, in fact. Plus, she didn’t seem to be getting off on this crude display of bullying. No, she was different.

Hazel couldn’t help but want to know more about her.

~

Jeff and Tim sat together, staring at y/n and the cheerleaders, gleefully talking about them to each other in the most crude manner, not seeming to give a thought to the fact that they were real people and not just some dolls they could fuck.

“I wanna set Brittany on my johnson and start spinning her like a fucking pinwheel,” Tim said, staring directly at her.

“Hell yes. It’d be so fucking hot to be in a y/n-Brittany sandwich. Punch it in!” Jeff said, a smile on his face as he held his fist out towards his best friend.

Tim slammed his fist against Jeff’s, not processing his words until a moment later. “Wait. Dude, aren’t you still dating Isabel?”

Jeff shrugged. “So? She doesn’t have to know I think her friends are hot.”

Tim sighed, shaking his head. “Bro, she barely took you back the last time you cheated on her. Just be careful to make sure she never finds out.”

”Relax, she won’t.”

Annie approached the table, a nervous smile on her face and a slightly crumpled note held in her shaky hand. “Hey Tim…”

~

Hazel’s gaze was pulled away from the girl when she heard a horrendous, barking laughter. Turning to the table it came from, she saw… Annie! that was her name!, Annie standing in front of two jocks, one of them holding the note she was given, as they laughed in her face, the cheerleaders soon joining in. Annie’s face dropped, tears welling in her eyes as she bolted out of the cafeteria, a girl with long blonde hair wearing a beanie running after her.

Everyone kept laughing, everyone except for the pretty girl that caught her eye. She really was different. But everyone else at this godforsaken school, they were exactly like she thought they’d be. Cold-blooded monsters. Something needed to be done about them. And Hazel was going to be the one to do it.

tags: @hazelvrr @ohnomywenis @fictionalgap @ihyperfixatetoomuch @usuck @mxqdii @girlsarecool @thestarkinternship @bluerazberrystarz @riverrivrio @cannibalsclass @lesbodietcoke @dangladam

join my taglist!

[orimuraa]

chapter 9: operation ynki is a success!!!

chapter warnings: swearing, a kiss wc: 530

confused, you set down your phone, grabbing your coat and heading out the door to go meet riki.

you’ve been so thankful for him for the past month as he’s been so kind to you and teaching you korean.

it makes you really think about your feelings for him. does he like you back? or is he just being nice?

you thought back to a conversation you had with ningning one time, remembering how she said riki is “totally crushing on you”. and the thought of that made your stomach spin.

deciding to clear your thoughts, you open the door the café, immediately dragging your eyes over to your usual booth.

there sat riki, looking as fine as ever and he quickly saw you too, a smile forming ok his face as he waved you over.

“hey ynnie! sorry for late notice,” he apologizes, sheepishly scratching his neck.

“no worries!” you smile, sitting down across from him. you notice that riki looks slightly nervous but you don't comment on it.

“so, did you have anything to tell me? or just a sudden hang out,” you ask, glancing at the menu for a drink.

“o-oh, right..yeah i just wanted to say,” he stutters, taking a deep breath before looking you straight in the eye. “y/n, i really like you and i don’t know if you feel the same but i just wanted to get that off my chest. i’ve really enjoyed hangout out with you for the past few months and in that time, i think i’ve really fallen for you,” he confesses, never breaking eye contact with you.

and woah, are you shocked. riki likes you back??? riki likes you back!!!!!

“riki….i feel the exact same way,” you laugh, feeling like you want to cry tears of joy.

at a loss for words, you cover your face with your hands, feeling very flustered at the moment.

“really?? then…will you be my girlfriend?” he asks, softly grabbing your hands to look at your face.

his eyes are soft and they’re genuine. he has a hopeful glint in them and god do you want to kiss him right now.

“yes!! riki a hundred times yes!!!” you exclaim, a little too loudly and it catches the attention of some of the other customers.

but you don’t care. you just pulled nishimura riki!

“can i kiss you?” he asks shyly, waiting for your approval. you nod shyly, slowly forgetting about the world around you.

he slowly leans in, moving his hand to softly hold your cheek as he connects his lips to yours.

the kiss is everything you ever wanted and more, soft and sweet yet full of love.

when you pull away, you smile softly at riki, feeling the blush dust your cheeks as you stare into his eyes.

“let’s get outta here, yeah?” he offers, holding out his hand for you.

you gladly accept, and you and riki walk hand in hand all the way back to your dorm.

~~~

currently, you’re in the arms of riki, laying in your bed. you’re comforter is already starting to smell like riki but who are you to complain.

you’re just glad he’s yours now.

back / masterlist

ahh we made it to the end!! even tho this may not be the best smau series ever, i sure had fun with it and i hope you all look forward to my future series!!! mwah! i love you all so so much and they you to everyone who supported off my face <3

𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬: @en-diaries, @k-films, @k-nets

⚘. Perm taglist: @vmpivory, @yuvany, @seozii, @pinknjm, @greentulip, @jomisu, @nxzz-skz, @ancnymcnzjy, @hyukabean

taglist: @hearts4hansol, @lonelylandofan, @sirens-dreams, @jiiyen, @inaisis, @right-person-wrong-time, @pshfan0812, @cherrybeomm, @rairaiblog, @tasnemluvs, @miniaturemartian, @mydearyeseo, @enhamonsterghoul, @fairysungx, @kittsnewera, @jellyluv4eva

[bitethedevil]

If you’re taking writing prompts consider-

Raphael reacting to Tav/Durge confessing they’re in love with him

I made it a Durge because I haven't written a lot of Durge stuff (fun fact: the first longer fic I ever wrote was with a Durge warlock that had Raph as a patron, but I never released it). Raph is being a bit of a manipulative dick in this one, but what's new. Also, I'm slow as fuck at replying to my asks (especially prompts)

Love

Clack clack clack clack…clack clack clack clack…clack clack clack clack.

His office was deadly quiet except for the sound of his claws tapping on the hard mahogany of his desk, a dangerous rhythm that she knew immediately what meant the second she heard it. The rhythm echoed her heartbeat as she waited for her patron to say something. She was in trouble.

He was leaning against his desk, looking at her and keeping her in suspense. A cruel smile stretched over his face, as he saw how she was beginning to feel uncomfortable. She had defeated monsters, mindflayers, gods…even the biggest monster of them all, her father. Still, nothing made her stomach churn more than the thought of Raphael’s wrath.

The feeling humiliated her as much as it thrilled her and drew her closer to him. She had been a god in her own right with all the lives she took under Bhaal and the cult she had led in his name, but this mere cambion brought her to her knees.

She was like a moth to his fiery flames. Everything about him excited her: his cruelness, his gracious mercy at times, his power plays. He felt like home. There was something safe and known in that cruelty that drew her closer. It was something she understood the rules of.

Click clack…

“I have always questioned your loyalty,” he finally said and moved his claws up to his face to look at them as he spoke. “It is no secret that I am prone to play favorites, but perhaps I made a mistake when I took you in…”

His yellow eyes looked up at her. His comment hit her like a punch to the gut and she knew as well as him that that was the intended effect. She hated the feeling of disappointing him. She hated that she felt that way about it even more. She cleared her throat.

“What is this about?” she asked quietly.

That was the wrong question. She could see it from the way his tail flicked in irritation. She had taught herself every one of his physical cues. They were subtle sometimes, but easier to read in this form. The man had total control over his body, but the devil was just a tad less composed.

“What is this about?” he repeated his question in a smooth, even tone. “Many things, my dear.”

That was another thing she had learned: it was never just one thing. Raphael held grudges. He archived every little mistake in his head in neat files, so he could throw them in your face when you stepped out of line.

“You came crawling to me after your father spat you out, after defying me at every turn and without a crown for me. You begged me to take you in, and yet I question your devotion to my cause. You owe me a grand debt when it comes to loyalty. A debt you have not yet paid back with your services, and one that I now question if you will ever pay back if you keep associating yourself with the wrong people.”

She had wanted to give him the Crown of Karsus. She had liked him even back then. Her companions had fought her every step of the way, and with her dealing with Bhaal, she had too much on her plate to fight them on it.

“It wasn’t my choice, Raphael,” she pleaded. “You know—”

“Yes, yes,” he cut her off impatiently with a wave of his clawed hand. “I have heard all your endless excuses…and I graciously forgave you, didn’t I? You would have been a bloody stain on my carpet long ago if I had not. What I cannot forgive is disloyalty.”

“Raphael, please,” she pleaded quietly. “Just tell me what I have done. I’ll make it right.”

Another flick of his tail. His nose wrinkled and his eyes narrowed, but he quickly schooled his features back into one of indifference.

“What were you doing in Waterdeep?” he asked slowly, each word as heavy as a brick.

That was what all of this was about. She had visited Gale. Gale who had been the very reason that the Crown of Karsus did not go to Raphael. Gale and her had started out as friends, but it evolved to something more along the way. It did not work out. Gale was too perfect, too functional for her. She broke his heart, and she would be lying if she said that this fact wasn’t taken into consideration when she gave up on trying to give to the Crown of Karsus to Raphael.

“I was just visiting,” she admitted. “Nothing more.”

“Just visiting,” he repeated with a hint of venom in his voice. “Just visiting an old flame that snubbed your patron of what was rightfully his, is that right? Is he well, our dear Gale? Does his new unburdened life suit him?”

“We are friends—”

“Friends,” Raphael said with a cruel laugh. “How awfully sentimental of you, dear. How soft you have become. I remember a ruthless woman who murdered her way through Baldur’s Gate. That woman, I could have used. It seems that your father has stripped you of everything that once made you interesting.”

That comment made her furious. It made her blood boil, but then why was she on the verge of crying instead? Why did she find herself pleading instead of yelling?

“Gale and I have been through hell and back,” she said. “It doesn’t change my loyalties for you. Please, Raphael.”

“I will NOT be made to look a fool!!” he roared with a sudden fire in his eyes.

The sound boomed through his office. She flinched. His tail flicked from side to side now. He looked her up and down. It seemed to please him how she was turning pale at his words and tearing up. He returned to his calm and collected demeanor as quickly as he got angry.

“Why are you crying?” he asked without a shred of sympathy in the question.

She tried to stop, but she couldn’t. She just wanted him to understand that she was devoted to him, and that this was all a mistake. She had not meant to cross him or make him angry, but merely to visit an old friend. His nails started tapping on the table again as he waited for her to speak.

“Can’t you— can’t you see that I’m only loyal to you?” she sobbed. Clack, clack… “I made a contract with you because I wanted to work for you. I’m yours, and only yours.” Clack, clack, clack. “Can’t you see how I only want to please you? How much I love you?”

Clack.

He froze for a moment at the oddly heartfelt confession that escaped her lips. She had not meant for that to come out, but he was great at pressuring her into saying things she didn’t want to admit. It was a humiliating confession. She hated being so vulnerable and weak. She wished that she could stuff the words right back down her throat. He wasn’t supposed to know.

A smile spread over his otherwise frozen face. He looked her up and down and let out a small huff of laughter. He looked like a man who had just been handed the perfect weapon. His hand left the table and beckoned her closer with a finger.

She walked over to him, unable to look him in the eye. He tilted her head up with a claw under her chin. He towered over her in that form.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

She looked into his yellow eyes. He was smiling at her.

“Say it again.”

“I love you,” she repeated.

The humiliation in the confession was more apparent this time, and he was eating it up like it was the best meal he had had in centuries. He laughed her straight in the face.

“Oh, dear,” he said with a chuckle. “A creature of habit, aren’t you? You poor girl…”

She swallowed hard. She should have just shut up. His thumb ran over her jaw and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. The touch set her aflame, despite the excruciating embarrassment she was feeling.

“Do I remind you of your dear old papa?” he asked, still smiling like the cat that got the cream. “Is that what this is about? It is always the fathers, isn’t it? Still searching for the approval of a cruel master, even now. Perhaps you haven’t changed at all, my dear…”

She kept quiet. He leaned closer as if sharing a secret. She could smell wine and tobacco on his breath. His thumb rubbed circles on her jaw.

“Tell me,” he whispered to her. “Where did your dear Gale fit into this picture? I’m awfully curious.”

Her eyes flicked to his lips for only a second, but he didn’t miss it by the way his smile widened.

There was only one acceptable answer and she prayed that she would choose the right one. She shrugged.

“He didn’t,” she said quietly.

That was the right answer from the way his smile widened.

“No, I would imagine not,” he said. “Too…boring…wasn’t he? He was not enough of a challenge for you, so you discarded him.”

There was a hint of guilt in her eyes at his words. He tutted gently and caressed her cheek.

“Who could blame you?” he cooed. “People like us won’t concern ourselves with boredom. You were right in choosing to focus on greater things. Gale was easy. Pleasing him was easy. He would not make you fight for it like I will.”

That promise made a shiver go through her. Raphael grabbed her arm and tugged her even closer, until she was standing between his legs with her chest pressed against his. His hand came to rest on her hip. He pressed his forehead against her, his nose touching hers. He was tantalizingly close.

“You are mine then, aren’t you?” he asked. “Only mine.”

She nodded. He gave a dangerous smile.

“You want to please me,” he said. “To make me happy…”

Another nod.

“You love and adore me.”

Another nod. His lips were so close she could almost taste them. His thumb was rubbing circles into her hip. His tail was flicking side to side, but not in rage. It was more like a cat that is ready to pounce on an unsuspecting prey that it had been sneaking up on for a while.

“You will write a letter to Gale Dekarios and say that you are unavailable for any future visits,” he whispered against her lips. “That you have already done plenty for him and that you never want to see him again.”

His lips brushed lightly against hers before he pulled away, stealing her breath. She chased his lips, but he only smiled and pulled away further. She knew she had to earn it.

“Go. You wouldn’t want to disappoint me, would you?” he said with a smile and let go of her.

[eliza-and-her-monsters]

the tortured poets department

Info Post

Moodboards

Part I

Prev Part < - > Next Part

Contains/TW: not really a ton of tws for this one if any! just general funny banter and i SWEAR on god that millie has game 😤 anyways! glad to finally be back! probably could’ve carried this on longer but i figured you had waited long enough <3

WC: 4.3k

Part V

The Alchemy

Caitlyn probably lived in what Americans could’ve called a ‘frat house’. A large co-ed ‘almost’ mansion on Oxford campus specifically for upperclassmen. For a while now it had felt more like hers with tenants however. People moved in and out every semester, she stayed.

Whenever I woke up I was already tucked into Caitlyn’s bed, the same fancy silky sheets she had insisted on always having and getting me too. From next to the bed Ellie’s green eyes blinked, a hand extended as if in an offering. “Hey, morning, sunshine.” She said with a weak smile. I stretched a hand over to enclose around hers, squeezing as if afraid I’d lose myself the moment I let go.

“How long was I out?” I whispered in a hoarse voice.

Ellie blew out a long sigh and brought her free hand forward, gently brushing her soft fingers against a tear streaked cheek. “Long enough to hopefully make up for last night? You’re not quite to 8 hours yet but… almost.” A look of guilt filled her expression, puppy dog eyes almost as her brows furrowed together and eyes widened. Innocent eyes. Gentle eyes. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I never should’ve let you go in there without me.”

“Els, it’s not your job to be there 24/7.” I shook my head in denial. A sharp pain seemed to shoot through my skull the moment I attempted to push myself up to a sitting position. The post breakdown headaches were always the worst. Concussion-level pain that made the room spin the moment I tried to move myself at all.

“Careful, don’t sit up too fast.” Ellie moved forward in worry, a strong arm slipping around my shoulders as she slid into the empty spot next to me. “I know it isn’t my job, persay, but… I still have this awful sense of self importance that makes me feel like if I was there it- it would’ve been easier.”

“Ego dissolution, remember?” I questioned as I attempted to twist around to face her. A little flush growing on her cheeks at the subtle call out.

“You’re right, ego dissolution.” She remarked, a soft thumb stroking my shoulder from where her arm still stayed draped around me. “We can go a different day… maybe whenever there’s classes and there isn’t too many people there. Besides, you definitely need to sign up for The Oxford Writers because they’re in charge of the student publication that comes out every semester. Plus I think they even have like slam poetry events and-”

“Els, I just lost the plot entirely just at the mere thought of entering the first day of club rush. What makes you think I can get up on a stage in front of people and read some of the most personal things I’ve ever written in my entire life!” I exclaimed probably with exactly the flourish you’d need to be a slam poet.

“But what about getting published? I mean, people need to actually read your stuff to get published.”

“Actually reading it aloud in front of a bunch of people is a totally different thing.” I added with a little shake of my head. “I’m definitely going to join it’s just- I don’t know about actually performing at these events myself.” I remarked as I slumped down in the bed, letting my body slightly flop over onto Ellie’s. Her arms slid around me like always, letting me rest my head against her slowly growing bicep. “There’s something really really wrong with me, Els.” I whispered, eyebrows furrowing together as I felt that same ache forming in my chest.

“There’s nothing wrong with you.” I could practically already see the shake of her head as she bent forward to place her lips against my throbbing temple as if she wanted to kiss the pain away. “You’re just… you. Beautiful, and talented, and kind, and smart, and brave…”

“I don’t think I’m very brave.” I denied, tilting my head backwards against her chest until I could see her peering down at me.

“Being scared doesn’t mean you can’t be brave.” I shifted in her arms as she spoke, whirling around to face her until I was nearly being cradled in her lap, as if I was a bride about to be swept up and carried over the alter. “You’ve been through a lot. You’re going through a lot. But you make it through every single time. And that’s brave.” My eyes softened as I looked into her green ones, gentle and grounding eyes that changed my life the moment they first saw me.

“Promise me something, Els?” I murmured just before lifting a curled together fist, pinky finger extended. “Promise me we’ll never grow apart. Even whenever love tries to complicate things like it, you know, tends to do. Just… p-promise me you’ll always be here?”

The corner of Ellie’s lips just barely twitched upwards in a mini smile before she blew out another heavy sigh of her own. “Always and forever, Mills.” She wrapped her own pinky around mine, a secondary promise to the first one we had made in the hospital. A friendship based entirely off of pinky promises and trust, it was stronger than I could’ve ever expected it to be. “Is this about your date with Vi?” She wondered after a passing moment, her arm still wrapped around me as I settled my head back against her chest.

“It’s not really a date.” I spoke in a muffled voice with my face buried into her hoodie.

“Hmmm, let’s see… Webster’s Dictionary refers to a date as ‘a social engagement between two people that often has a romantic character’-”

“I know what a date is, you fuck!” I groaned as I gave her another playful shove before promptly rolling off of her with a huff.

“Really? Because you seemed to be a little confused-“

“It’s just I’ve… never really been on a date before.” I spoke almost nervously as I hugged my knees to my chest with a small frown.

“Well, that much is definitely obvious.”

“Ellie!” I whined as I smacked an embarrassed hand against my face.

“Okay okay… relax, I’ll be serious for a sec.” She added though not being able to fight back her own little giggle. “Do I need to give you the unbiased version of ‘the talk’ not from somebody you’re related to or…”

“No, she- she promised she didn’t wanna see me just because of that.” I flushed almost painfully as I fiddled around with my fingers currently wrapped around my shins. “That- That kind of stuff still freaks me out.”

“I get it.” She was back to being soft again as she leaned back against the headboard. “Virginity itself is such an archaic term anyways, it’s so stupid. Just make sure she takes care of you or else they’ll never find her body.”

I let out a giggle at her statement even though I wasn’t entirely sure she was joking, and the look on her face read that she wasn’t. From outside the door however our conversation was quickly interrupted by the typical sound of whisper yelling bleeding through the paper thin walls. “Don’t, Vi! Don’t! She has finally been sleeping for once since she got here-”

“Did you give Ellie the same shit whenever she got here?! Or is it just because you have this fucked up personal goal to never let me near her? Is that it?!”

“If Ellie makes her feel fucking safe then she never has to get my approval to stay with her while she’s asleep!” Caitlyn seethed, and meanwhile the arguing only felt like it was going to do my head in.

With a glare forming on my face I swung my legs over the side of the bed to finally stand up. “Mills, be careful, you could still be dizzy.” Ellie was up to her feet with a start as she rushed over to my side. I hissed in pain at the pounding in my head, hands latching onto Ellie’s arms as if to better hold myself steady. “It’s okay, I’ve got you. I think there’s pain medicine in your bag.” She slowly lead me forward until everything came back into focus.

“Guys, it’s okay, I’m awake.” I voiced once I swung open the door nearly causing the arguing pair to jump in response.

Caitlyn’s face visibly softened as she peered down at me, arms still folded across her chest much like they were every time her and Vi argued. Which seemed to be a regular occurrence nowadays. “Hey darling, how’re you feeling?” She asked, reaching a hand out to gently rub my arm.

“I’m okay, my head’s just… pounding.” I answered, trying to massage out one of the aches that stretched across my eyebrows. From behind me I felt Ellie pressing two pills into my free hand before holding out my water bottle. “Thanks.” I voiced before tossing them both back almost without swallowing a drop of water.

“Cait, let’s give them a second to talk, okay?” Ellie cautiously began, extending an arm out to grab Caitlyn’s arm as if she was a rapid zoo animal, just waiting for a lashing. One look seemed to communicate it all though, you won’t stop her from seeing her. She’ll find a way regardless.

“Fine, but I’m just downstairs.” I wasn’t sure if she meant it as a threat towards Vi or if she was trying to reassure me, but either way she let Ellie take her arm to lead her down the hallway. All the while Ellie glancing back over her shoulder at the two of us to shoot us a knowing wink.

“Uhhh sorry… about that.” I spoke with nearly bright red cheeks as I twisted around to face her. “Caitlyn can be kind of… ummm, intense, but I guess you know that already. Do you do the same thing with Jinx’s suitors or-?”

Vi only laughed with a little shake of her head, muscles bulging even as she just simply crossed her arms. “Oh hell no, Jinx would kill them before I even got the chance. You, on the other hand…” She added, the lightest hand reaching upwards to grasp my chin as she ever so slightly nudged it upwards. “Look like you’d let someone walk all over you if it wasn’t for Caitlyn.”

“Having an overprotective sister certainly helps.” I shrugged, the pink tint on my cheeks only growing more and more by the second.

“So,” she began with a clear of her throat, my breath catching in my own as I felt her hands unravel to cup the side of my face. “How’re you feeling?”

“Embarrassed.” I huffed, leaning right into her touch however, lifting a hand upwards to wrap around her wrist. Only in some attempt to get her to draw closer. “Sure you still wanna be seen with me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” She answered with a softened expression, the lightest touch brushing underneath my cheekbone as she pulled me in. Sometimes I wondered if her cologne had pheromones in it, something akin to laughing gas that had me losing all sense of control. I think I would’ve given anything to not be someone who fell so easily. I know I barely knew her, but it didn’t take much whenever you were me. I also knew, deep down, how much I wanted love. How desperately I found myself searching for it in every unlikely place. Every place that I just had a sneaking suspicion would hurt me. “C’mon baby, come back to me.”

“Hmmm?” I hummed against her chest before I could feel her nudging my chin upwards to meet her face once more. I didn’t even realize how much things seemed to disappear whenever she held me until she was nudging me back to reality.

“You got quiet there for a second, I… wanted to make sure you hadn’t dozed off.” She chose her words carefully, a slight hint making me feel like they actually implied something else.

“Sorry I uhhh, I’m okay. Just kind of spaced out there for a second I think.” I chuckled nervously with a little shake of my head. “Do you… you know, still wanna see me tonight?”

“As long as you still wanna see me. I know you’ve had kind of an eventful day.” I flushed once more as I let out an airy chuckle just before I caught myself dragging my fingers up her muscular arm. “I do know if you keep touching me like that though I’m gonna have to see you.”

“Sure you’re not just a smooth talker?” I let a little smirk tug on my lips as I softly drew my fingers along her bicep like it was the most delicate thing on the planet. And I could’ve sworn I nearly heard her breath hitch.

“Yeah no… I’m gonna need to see you. For sure.” She slotted my chin in between her thumb and forefinger, lips hovering just inches from mine as she was waiting for permission or trying to tease to the best of her ability. Either way it drove me crazy. “Pick you up at 8?”

“You better.”

~

“You may enter!” Ellie called out in a sing song voice the moment I lifted my fist to knock on her cracked door. “What’s up?” She said with a sweet smile as she swiftly paused whatever game she was in the middle of. Though with one glance I could already see her eyes going wide before she sent the controller flying across the bed as she whipped around to face me. “Woah.”

I snickered a bit to myself with a little flush before spinning to face her full body mirror currently leaning haphazardly against the wall, “Do you like it? You don’t think it’s too much?” I wondered with a tilted head, back to studying my appearance in the mirror. Maybe the navy blue sweater was a bit too similar to Caitlyn, and had I gone for jeans rather than the black skirt I currently had on it definitely would’ve been. But I at least hoped that that would’ve thrown it off enough.

“Y-Yeah, I-I mean yeah, you look… wow. Y-You look really good. Like, really good.” I heard her stammer as she rose up to her feet, gnawing on her bottom lip. “I-I mean not to say that I haven’t always thought that you were beautiful because you are but-”

“Els, breathe, it’s okay.” I laughed, lifting my hands as if to tell her to relax, and on cue I could already hear the expelling of a long breath from her lips. “Now… do you think you can help me put these on?” I wondered as I unearthed the pearl necklace from my pocket, though the action didn’t seem to calm Ellie down any.

“H-Holy shit, am I going to get hit by an ancient curse the second I hold these?” She stammered with widened eyes as I dropped the pearls into her palm.

“Of course, your bloodline is screwed for at least the next ten generations.” I joked with a little smirk as I whipped around to face the mirror once more, lifting my long mane of hair out of the way.

“Good thing the cursed Williams bloodline dies with me then.” She added as she gently wrapped the necklace around my neck and fiddled around with the clasp for at least a hot minute before finally securing it.

“Oh yeah? Going for a childless cat lady kind of look?” I hummed with a light touch to the pearls as I whirled back around to face her.

“More like a childless dog lady, not that I should ever be expected to take care of another living being.” She shrugged casually causing me to let out a little chuckle as I stepped forward to slip my arms around her.

“Well, you’re at least a pretty damn good friend.” I muttered as I let my cheek rest against her shoulder. “I do feel really bad… you know, leaving you by yourself already whenever we just moved in.”

“Don’t love, seriously, it’s okay.” Ellie whispered, lifting an arm upwards to hold my head. “Go make friends, fall in love maybe… I’ll be okay, and I’ll be right here, regardless.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t do the same.” A little frown formed on my face as we pulled away. And I hated how hesitant I felt to do anything that Ellie wasn’t involved in. I know it was unhealthy, I didn’t need anyone to tell me that. But from the moment I met her it was as if there was some invisible string tied between the two of us.

“I will… I’m sure I will, just don’t worry about me, okay? Honestly, I mean I spent the first 16 years of my life alone. One night isn’t gonna kill me.” She brushed off with a weak smile before the sound of a knock on the door interrupted us both.

“Oh god… I didn’t realize it was almost 8. A-Are you sure I look okay?” I stammered, not even noticing the anxious pit that had grown in my stomach until I finally stole a glance at the clock.

“You look beautiful, now c’mon don’t leave her standing out there.” Ellie urged with a laugh as she gave me another gentle push towards the front door.

My eyes widened in surprise once I saw both of the brightly colored heads of the siblings however once I threw the door open. “Oh, Jinx! Hey-”

“Hey lesbians!” She interrupted with a grin just before sweeping inside without a second thought.

“Sorry, she insisted on keeping Ellie company while we were out and apparently she lives in the same complex so-” Vi began with an embarrassed tint to her cheeks.

“This unit’s so much nicer than mine though. Damn Ellie, are you also a nepo baby or something? Oh well, I guess being bffs with a Kiramman helps.”

“Oh my god, do you ever stop yapping?” Vi groaned to herself causing me to let out a tiny chuckle.

“No, it’s okay… open door policy here.” Ellie said with a nervous little smile of her own, cheeks reddened as if slightly amused herself.

“Yeah, stay as long as you want.” I repeated before finally letting my eyes sweep briefly up towards Vi. Still in that same leather jacket with a maroon button up underneath this time, undone just enough to drive me nuts and have to work twice as hard to keep myself from ogling. “So… ummm, a-are you ready?”

“Whenever you are.” She said with a little jingling of her keys before offering a hand for me to take.

“Vi, take care of her or else I’ll kill you, got it?” I heard Ellie’s protective voice over the anxious roaring in my ears.

“Yeah! And I’ll help!” Jinx exclaimed defiantly as she popped out from behind her.

“Alright, down tigers…” Vi snickered before I felt the weight of her muscular arm encircling around my shoulders, my heart stuttering to a skip in my chest as she did so. “I’ve got her.”

“I’ll see you later, Els?” I spoke just before lifting a little hand to give the two a wave.

“See you, Mills, have fun.” She remarked with another soft and subtle smile before letting the door slowly drift shut.

“Wow, you’re an American foreign exchange student with a car, I’m actually impressed.” I couldn’t help but flush even harder once we made it outside. An endless burn to my cheeks as we approached the large truck currently parked quite illegally on the curb.

“Really? I guess that’s a good thing, Kiramman’s seem quite difficult to impress.” She teased lightly as she trailed behind me towards the passenger side door.

“We can be, I’m not saying you don’t have your work cut out for you.”

“Well, challenge accepted.” The corners of her lips upturned in a smirk that made my insides twist, the raised entrance to the passenger seat not at all helping as she pulled the door open. “May I?” She questioned with an extended hand.

“You may.” I said with a small smile of my own as I slipped my hand into hers. She held my balance well as she hoisted me up into the vehicle, a gentle hand sliding around my back as if to keep me steady.

“To be fair, trucks are kind of hard to come by in england… Oxford specifically. You think it would be more because of the whole… you know, people moving into uni thing but-” my cheeks heated all over again as I watched her curious eyes scanning over me once she was situated behind the wheel. “S-Sorry I’m yapping. I- I yap a lot whenever I get nervous.”

Vi let her head tilt slightly, that same little smirk remaining on her lips. And I swear it was going to drive me crazy one day, if it hadn’t already. “Do I make you nervous?” She stated before firing the truck up into gear with a lifted brow.

I hesitated a moment, weighing the question around in my head before I propped my elbow up on the center console and shook my head, resting my cheek against my hand as I gazed up at her. “No, you don’t. And I’ve been trying to figure out why since yesterday.” Her eyes glanced over towards me, watching them stay locked on mine for a moment long enough to make my own widen. “Wh-What?” I muttered, now suddenly feeling as if nervous was the right word as she shook her head.

“Nothing, you’re just… wow.” She finally said, a smile tugging back on her lips before reaching forward to fire up the engine. “I mean I thought you were ‘wow’ before but now that you’re actually in my passenger seat it’s like, a different story, you know?”

“What? You didn’t think I’d go for you?” I wondered with my cheeks flaring as I glanced down towards where her arm was now propped up against the center console. A bruised hand almost beckoning me to slip my fingers through it.

“Are you kidding me? Have you seen you? Have you seen me-?”

“Oh right. Bad boy in a leather jacket covered in tattoos who also happens to be an icon on the hockey rink. What innocent little doe-eyed femme would actually wanna go for you?” I sarcastically drawled on causing her to snicker with a brief roll of her eyes.

“You know, you do have a bit of a bite to you, you know that?”

“Well, Caitlyn Kiramman is my sister… and she taught me well.” I remarked almost proudly as I twisted a long strand of my hair around my finger.

“I bet Ellie cried the first time you used that sarcasm on her.”

“She did ask me if I was mad at her, but in both of our defenses we usually think people are mad at us if their vibe even slightly shifts.” I explained with a clear of my throat, finally giving in and letting my hand slide across the console to Vi’s. My fingers cautiously slipped through hers, so much smaller it was almost comical. She didn’t seem to mind though, another little smile forming on her lips as I slowly tugged her hand over towards my lap. “Just so you know though she isn’t this innocent little deer either, like, she could kill you… she could fuck you up if she really wanted to.”

“Oh trust me, I know, I mean have you seen her on the rink whenever she isn’t terrified of Anderson? Like she’s good. She’s really good. Contrary to popular belief I am going to try and not get on her bad side.” Vi added, and I don’t know why but the way she did speak so highly about her was refreshing. There wasn’t any jealousy between the two, at least for now, and I really hope it stayed that way. “Speaking of which, we’re here. I know we could’ve probably walked but what can I say? I wanted to show off the truck.”

“The ice rink? Geez, do you ever leave?” I questioned with another chuckle as I peered upwards to see the same stone building. “I thought they locked this place up at night.”

“They do, for outsiders.” She grinned as she brandished a key clipped to a silver carabiner before shutting off the engine and climbing from her seat.

“We’re- We’re not gonna get in trouble, are we?” I asked the moment she swung open my door with my eyes going wide. And suddenly the goody-two-shoes had possessed me once again.

“Baby, I’ve got a key. What could we get in trouble for?” She laughed before extending a hand to help me slide from the large vehicle. My heart nearly skipping a beat in the process. “I mean, your parents probably paid for this building anyways.”

“Well, not this one specifically, you’re thinking of the Anderson family.” I added, the feeling of her hand sliding back into mine nearly catching me off guard. “So ummm, what are we doing exactly?”

“You ever been skating before?” She wondered before gently tugging me towards the entrance, the question causing me to halt right in my tracks.

“Oh… Vi- th-this is a really sweet idea but I’m absolutely ass at skating. I went once with Ellie and cracked the shit out of my ankle- a-and I don’t even have skates!”

“Relax, I can get you rentals.” Her warm arm draped itself back over my nearly quivering shoulders. I don’t know why but it was almost calming, letting her drag me towards the entrance while I anxiously caught my bottom lip in between my lips. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep you and your very sensitive ankles safe.”

“My ankles are not sensitive.” I huffed, expression shifting into a scowl as I tried to give her a playful shove, but she didn’t buck nearly as easy as Ellie did.

Vi only let out an airy chuckle before whipping out the carabiner attached to her belt loop once more and slipping the key to the rink into the lock, “Sure thing, princess, I’ll take your word for it.”

Credits: dividers by @saradika-graphics

Taglist: @sawaagyapong @autisticgirlkisser @macamilarofe @nombreuxx @snowbunnyboo @lils-1979 @myrruwrites @baylegend6 @withyou-withoutthem @lil7-I @cloudy-fay @liliwritin @primarina-diamandis @soodle-noup @livil589 @riches-expresso @deepobservationcherryblossom @pixieolives-blog @roseannih @fernanda-2022

i’m new to tag lists so please let me know if i missed you! a couple of your tags wouldn’t work either! you can join my taglist here!