#about the endless and much easier ways

[yarrowleef]

I think at a certain point we all gotta stop referring to the wc incest issue as "accidents." Like, it can only happen so many times before it's obvious someone made an executive choice to ignore it. it feels like...removing/lessening blame to keep calling it a clueless accident

with the way these books are written, I suspect the wc team mindset is "anything the middle-grade target audience wouldn't remember/question doesn't need to be considered." Like, if Nightheart didn't acknowledge last arc that Bayshine was related to him, then he effectively isn't related to him in the eyes of whatever new reader picked up this arc for the first time. Therefore, might as well not exist. Nothing in this world matters except whatever will get them through the current plotline.

the fact they are writing about animals and consistently refuse to use relatable familial terms like cousin/aunt/uncle/grandparent etc probably makes them comfortable shrugging it off.

the new team especially writes as if they are soft rebooting every other arc. it's the ultimate have your cake and eat it too: they don't want to do the work required to change the world/status quo to prevent this problem (doing so might slightly impede the ease of their break-neck writing speed), but they still want to do standard cliche romantic drama with their new next-gen-protag kits, so…they deal with that road block by ignoring it. There hasn't been a financial incentive not to.

this lack of care is all deeply annoying to me. but we gotta stop calling it an 'accident' b/c that implies they would be motivated to avoid it if it were pointed out to them. dog they know 😭 and they clearly decided it doesn't count if they don't acknowledge it

[janebonbon]

new years resolution,,,,,,,,,,, draw more barnaby. end post

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Ask Around in the Morgue

Most times, Tim is not a fan of social interaction. If he can acquire the necessary data from literally anything written in text, without the need to actually talk to people, he does that. It's the logical thing to do, come on! People lie, or, even if they don't, they take ages to get to the point, and you can't put them on pause or set aside to return later. Some written resources lie as well, but that is, at least, way easier to prove by relying on several of them instead of a single one.

That saying, he can work in a team — Young Justice is great proof of that. Batfamily, not so much, but then, none of the Bats like working together. Because they are all hypercontrolling, manipulative, and paranoid.

And yet, keeping all that in mind, right now Tim is about to go and speak — using his mouth and words — to a GCPD mortician whom he's never seen or met before in his life.

All because of this report.

More precisely, because of the line 'pls come talk to me if u r a bat' that was inserted right into the file, just between the description of contents of the victim's stomach and the rather unappealing photo of the same thing. Tim supposes the placement was intentional — most people skip over that kind of information, jumping straight to the cause of death. Which is a homicide, by the way.

Not that it's anything unusual in Gotham.

Tim walks through the hallway, keeping his steps silent. Daniel Nightingale, the mortician, more accurately a pathologist, works graveyard shifts — very ironic and no less convenient — and most days, he does so all alone, so Tim is not expecting company. He is just keeping quiet out of habit.

And yet, as he gets closer to the autopsy room, he hears it. The chipper, amused voice from inside.

"You can't just make that shit up, I swear," it laughs, "Oh, Minerva. You were way too old to pull it off." There's a pause, and then it starts speaking again, filled with hidden laughter, "You don't say?"

The door is, thankfully, already half-open. Tim takes a quick look inside, hoping to figure out who's the other part of the alleged conversation, but the only person there — erm, the only alive person — is a guy in a gray uniform and a lab coat. Supposedly, Mr. Nightingale. There's also a corpse of an old lady on the table in front of him, of course, but Tim doubts she can hold up the conversation. A phone call? Or maybe he's just talking to himself?..

The guy raises his head briefly, turning to the door.

"Come on in, lurking in the shadows doesn't suit you," he calls, almost cheerful, and Tim pauses.

He's pretty sure he hasn't made a single noise.

Oh, well. Maybe he did. Maybe the pathologist has an alarm system in case of a zombie apocalypse. Maybe he sees the future. The possibilities are endless.

Tim steps inside.

"I'm here about your note," he says, cutting the greetings and niceties. The pathologist hums, his eyes still on the bare, skinless ribcage of the woman before him.

"Cool. Which one?" He asks without missing a beat. Tim stares; the guy looks entirely too nonchalant, given the circumstances, but that's not the only reason. Daniel Nightingale is way younger than Tim expected — twenty, at most — and he is... well, if Tim had a type, which he doesn't, he would definitely check all the boxes. Most of the boxes. A lot of boxes.

Okay, he's just good-looking, what is he even thinking about, this is getting sidetracked.

"There was more than one?" He asks because that's the logical, reasonable thing to ask. Daniel glances up at him. A tiny strand of hair escapes his pinned down bangs, and the guy huffs, shaking it away from his face. Shouldn't he be wearing a hat?

"Yeah, I put the bat alert in at least five reports I've written. Only two recently, though, so, if you could specify?" He asks. The loose strand of his hair moves all on its own, brushing itself up over Daniel's head. Then, one of the bobby pins comes out, hanging in the air briefly, and goes back into Daniel's hair, securing it from falling again. "Thank you, Minerva," the guy smiles politely, casting a glance to the side.

Tim is not sure what's going on but he has a hunch.

"I'm speaking about John Doe from last week?" He attempts, but Daniel only hums.

"Unfortunately, that doesn't narrow it down," he turns back to the table, looking down into the old lady's open abdomen with a critical eye. "Darling, do you think you'll be fine here all on your own while I speak with our dear guest?" He asks, almost demurely, and Tim is not dumb. Minerva is definitely the name of the lady on the autopsy table. The question is, has the GCPD hired a schizophrenic man during such dire times, or is the guy really some kind of ghost-whisperer?

The chances are, honestly speaking, 50/50. It's Gotham.

There's no response that Tim can hear, but Daniel straightens back up and takes off his gloves before turning to the other side, still away from Tim. "Mind cleaning up?" He asks again and then throws his gloves into the nearest bin. They don't land, but just as Daniel huffs and goes to retrieve them, the gloves float up from the floor like someone invisible picked them up and dropped them into the bin.

"Ah, thank you, Minerva," the pathologist smiles.

Tim feels an uncomfortable chill run down his spine.

"How many ghosts are in here?" He tries for casual, but fails spectacularly, judging by Daniel's chuckle.

"Five," he answers without any pause, "Six, if you count the nonverbal kid that's hiding in Page's cold locker. Anyway, John Doe?.."

A few of the instruments Daniel has used float up from the table and start moving towards the nearest sink.

Tim takes a deep breath.

Either he's gotten himself a new contact in GCPD forensics or a very alarming new meta. 50/50.

But Daniel's smile is 100 percent going to be a pain in his ass.

[alinathinkstoomuch]

A HELLO AND A KISS

pairing: aaron hotchner x lawyer!reader summary: aaron hotchner survives serial killers and endless paperwork—but apparently not you breezing past him without a hello, based on this request. (im so sorry, i got carried away and did not include the part of r meeting the team!!! pls dont hate me) warnings | an: jealous hotch, protective hotch, simp hotch, hotch is just down bad for his girl, one bj joke word count: 2.4k

✧ masterlist

You hadn’t come home last night.

Aaron had simply received a brief text: Don’t wait up. A case fell into my lap last minute. It wasn’t unusual—not in your line of work, and certainly not in his. You’d both sent that message before, more times than either of you could count. It came with the territory.

You and Aaron had always kept your professional lives separate. A clean, white, necessary line in the sand. It helped keep the bloodstained parts from crossing over and kept your dinner conversations from becoming post-mortems or courtroom recaps. After all, it was easier not to talk about the men Aaron arrested when you were the one prosecuting them.

He didn’t put it together right away.

But all five of his senses were attuned to you. Honestly? his sixth sense was you. He didn’t need to see you to know you were there—he could feel you, hear you, even smell you before he ever caught a glimpse.  It didn’t take much. Sometimes, it was just the sound of heels—your heels—that gave you away.

It was that click-clack rhythm that he had grown accustomed to over the months, filtering through early mornings when you forgot your keys, then your case notes, then your coffee. It trailed after you in the hallway, embedded in every corner where you’d left pieces of yourself scattered around his home.

And now, that same sound echoed from behind him, followed by the heavy thud of the courtroom door swinging shut.

“Can’t believe he’s actually trying to weasel out of this,” Prentiss muttered under her breath, just as you swept past their row.

The unsub’s public defender had filed a not-guilty plea days earlier—citing supposed evidence mishandling, mistaken identity, even floating some half-baked theory about a setup. It was desperate. Flimsy. But just credible enough to stall the trial, to buy time he didn’t deserve.

You didn’t look Aaron’s way. Didn’t slow your pace. You gave no reaction at all, just glided by, slipping into the prosecution’s chair like it was your usual seat at the office.

“New face,” Prentiss noted, leaning toward Hotch. “She wasn’t at the prelims was she?”

Hotch finally cleared his throat. “No.”

He meant to say more—something neutral, something about new counsel, something properly professional, something more him—but the words got stuck somewhere behind his ribs. Especially when the most him thing in the world was sitting right there, only meters away from a man he’d gladly kill with his bare hands if he so much as looked at you the wrong way.

Though, truthfully, he knew you’d get to him quicker with words, with strategy, with that cool, calculated tone that could cut deeper than any punch Hotch could throw.

You still hadn’t looked at him. Fully locked into that little world of yours, where the second you stepped into a courtroom, you grew fins and dermal denticles, transforming into a shark in couture and four-inch heels.

It stung. Just a little. But he knew why you were doing it. He just couldn’t begin to imagine what it must feel like to sit in a room and watch you give someone like that—worst of the worst—your full, undivided attention.

He’d only had the pleasure (and slight terror) of watching you in court twice before—neither case connected to the BAU and already, he was starting to sweat. Just a little. Maybe.

Aaron clamped his jaw tight, trying to keep his expression neutral, but the effort must’ve been visible because he caught Rossi huffing a laugh under his breath.

Of course Rossi knew. Rossi was the only one who’d actually met you off-duty. And the last thing Hotch needed was Rossi even hinting at the tiny, minuscule, barely-worth-mentioning fact that you wore Aaron’s old college t-shirt to bed, or that just a few hours ago, he’d been ogling your bare legs as you stumbled out of the shower, mumbling at him to go back to sleep.

Because as soon as Prentiss or Morgan—who already looked half-asleep in his seat—caught wind of it, it wouldn’t be a murder trial they were interested in anymore. No, it would turn into entertainment, something far more exciting than sitting at their desks, pretending to work through paperwork they never submitted on time anyway.

He shifted in his seat. No engagement was the best engagement, he figured.

Instead, he forced his eyes off you and onto the defendant, who was fiddling with his tie like that would suddenly make him more credible. Like anyone in the room would forget what he’d done just because he shaved and tucked in his damn shirt.

But the second you stood, rising slowly from your chair, Aaron’s gaze snapped right back to you, so fast it nearly gave him whiplash. Still, you didn’t look his way. Of course you didn’t. You were here to do a job. And right now, that job was dismantling a man with nothing but your voice.

He swallowed hard.

Yeah. He was definitely sweating now.

By the time the trial hit the halfway mark, he could tell your energy had changed—or was about to—with the unsub being called to the stand.

Hotch sat stiffly, watching you shuffle your notes with little effort. Morgan had finally roused enough to start paying attention, and Prentiss was scribbling away in the margins of her legal pad—none of which, Hotch would bet good money, had anything to do with the actual trial.

You stood once more, brushing that stubborn piece of hair away from your face—the one that always seemed to fall whenever you were reading something from above. He wished he could push it away for you, wished he could pull you out of this courtroom entirely, shield you from every ugly, broken thing the world could throw at you.

But then your voice cut through the room, reminding him that this was your job.

"Alright," you began, voice crisp but bored, like you were already three steps ahead. That’s what anyone else might think. But Aaron knew you were ahead five.

"Let’s go back to March 5th," you said, pausing just for a second. "You said you didn’t know Jessica Harlan."

"I didn’t," Tanner snapped back, so fast it almost made Hotch smile.

That kind of panic was never a good sign—and he knew it was one of your favourite tells. The second someone cracked like that, it was like flipping a switch, like flashing a green light across the battlefield. Go get him.

"Right," you hummed, nodding like you were humouring a stubborn child throwing a tantrum. "Right."

Another pause.

You were good at that—giving the poor soul on the receiving end (victim, really) of your arguing capabilities enough time to think. To second-guess themselves. Hotch had picked up on it early on, and when he’d once asked you about it, you gave him a dry, matter-of-fact answer: it gave people enough time to realise how stupid they sounded.

"And yet, a witness places your car parked across the street from her apartment two nights in a row. Same make, same model, same license plate."

Tanner shifted in the witness chair, but you didn’t rush him. You stood there, cool and composed, giving him just enough rope to hang himself.

��I –”

"Parked there?" you cut in, tilting your head like you were offering him an easy out. The trap was already set.

You reached for the remote, clicking the TV monitor on.

"Okay, that’s completely understandable," you considered with a polite nod toward the jury. "Though I’m not quite sure what your explanation is for getting out of the vehicle on the second night and standing in front of Jessica Harlan’s apartment for—" you glanced down at your watch, "—thirty-seven minutes."

You glanced back up, eyebrows raised just enough to look curious but not confrontational. Just a lawyer looking for answers.

Tanner opened his mouth, closed it, then looked down at his hands like maybe they’d have a better explanation than he did.

Aaron recognised the footage immediately, thanks to Garcia’s handiwork. The screen showed Tanner stepping out of his car, glancing around, and then just…standing there. Across the street from Jessica’s apartment building.

Doing absolutely nothing.

For thirty-seven minutes.

The same number of stab wounds Jessica and every other victim had endured.

You didn’t even glance at the screen. Your focus stayed fixed on Tanner like a blade against his throat.

“Maybe you were just out getting some fresh air. Though I’m not sure stalking is generally recommended for cardio.”

"Objection, Your Honour—" the defence attorney barked, already on his feet.

You raised a hand, before the judge even had time to respond. “Withdrawn.”

"I wasn’t watching her,” Tanner argued, drawing the attention back to himself.

"No?” you echoed, cocking your head to the side. “Then what were you doing, Mr Tanner? Practicing your standing endurance?"

He huffed out a weak laugh with no real humour behind it. It was the kind that people made when they realised they were cornered and didn’t have the tools to dig their way out.

“I just... needed some air,” he repeated, but even he didn’t sound convinced.

"I get it, I do," you agreed in faux sweetness. "We all need fresh air. Though it’s odd, don’t you think?"

“I’m sorry?”

“Jessica Harlan was stabbed thirty-seven times…" You took a step closer to Tanner, and Aaron had to physically stop himself from moving. Remind himself that you knew exactly what you were doing. That this was all part of the strategy. Even if, deep down, he wanted nothing more than to stand between you and every monster you faced.

"Which," you continued, "happens to be the exact number of minutes you spent outside her apartment."

Tanner swallowed, but that didn’t seem to faze you.

"Just like you spent thirty-seven minutes outside Eliza Horne’s place of work," you listed off, each word tightening the noose around Tanner’s neck. "Thirty-seven minutes outside the gym where Marissa Cole trained. Thirty-seven minutes at the caf�� Danielle Ruiz visited every Thursday—”

Aaron felt Prentiss lean in beside him. “She’s good.”

He didn’t look away from you long enough to answer.

Good didn’t even begin to cover it.

You were extraordinary. And somehow—somehow—you were his.

He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve you, what twist of fate had put you in his path, but he would be grateful for it for the rest of his life.

Grateful that you had let him in.

Grateful that he got to see you whole.

Whether it was in a courtroom, where you left your smile and affection at the door to tear the truth out of some of the worst people, or in the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed—the way you teased him for how he pronounced pecan—he had seen it all. And he wouldn’t trade a second of it.

A nudge from Rossi pulled Aaron out of what felt like a permanent trance—the one you had managed to put him in with no effort whatsoever.

“Everything okay?”

He nodded, absently rubbing a hand over his jaw.

"Got you reminiscing about your prosecutor days?"

Aaron let out a breath that almost passed for a laugh. "I think if I’d stayed," he said, glancing back toward you, "she would’ve put me to shame."

"Would’ve been one hell of a show,” Rossi murmured. “Don’t let her get away.”

Aaron’s mouth tipped into the barest hint of a smile. He wasn’t planning on it. Hell would have to freeze over before he let even the smallest possibility of that happen.

His eyes found you again—right where they belonged—just as you finished with Tanner.

The day wound down eventually, and Aaron doubted the trial would drag on much longer, not after what you’d done to Tanner and his defence team. There wasn’t much left of them by the time you were finished.

He lingered just outside the courtroom, waiting. He’d managed to come up with a half-convincing excuse to stay behind, though neither Morgan nor Prentiss seemed to question it. They were too busy arguing over whether they could convince Penelope to hack into your trial schedule just so they could sit in on another one.

Not that Aaron could blame them.

The courthouse entrance doors swung open again, and you finally stepped through, files tucked under your arm, eyes fixed on your phone as you breezed past.

You didn’t even glance his way.

Again.

Aaron blinked. Really?

"So I don't even get a hello?" he asked, stepping lightly into your path with a raised brow. “Twice in one day. Must be losing my edge.”

You looked up, startled for half a second before your entire face lit up at the sight of him.

"I’m so sorry!" you blurted, already smiling. "You know how much I hate it when things fall into my lap last minute. I've been running around all day just trying to catch up—”

"No, no," he interjected, keeping his face painfully neutral, though the corners of his mouth twitched, just a little. "It’s fine. I’m obviously not that memorable."

"And I thought I was the needy one." You shook your head, still laughing under your breath as you tucked your phone away and shifted your files into one arm.

“Come here,” you cooed, hooking two fingers into the front of Aaron’s jacket, tugging him down.

He went willingly—no surprise there.

You pressed a kiss to his cheek first, soft and easy, before leaning in for a slower one on his lips. The kind that made him forget you were still technically in public.

"Better?" you asked, pulling back just enough to see the answer written all over his face.

"Only a little," he murmured, and before you could so much as blink, he reached out and took the files and your briefcase from your arms like it was second nature, like he’d been carrying your things for years.

“You carrying my stuff now, too?”

“Maybe I’m just trying to earn my next hello.”

You laughed, the sound unwinding every knot in Aaron’s chest, loosening him in ways only you ever could.

“Keep this up and you’ll have my mouth doing a lot more than just saying hello.”

Yeah.

He was completely gone.

tags - @fandomscombine @pastelpinkflowerlife @hazzyking @bernelflo @risenqueen1521 @jazzimac1967 @camihotchner @abschaffer2 @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @pacmillo-blog-blog @stilestotherescue @kiwriteswords @anvdala @supersanelyromantic @yourallaround-simp @percysley

[awkward-teabag]

You also don't need to worry about baggage weight, how many bags you have (within reason), or be all but guaranteed your wheelchair will be damaged in storage. There's more leg room, too, and you can bring a bike so you have personal transportation at the other end.

High speed wouldn't work for some parts of the country while others it wouldn't make sense not to, though such trains can slow down if needed so there's no need to transfer to a different one. They aren't as fast as, say, a Boeing 787 coming in at ~200-250km/h versus ~900km/h but there isn't the need to reach altitude or refuel and you aren't restricted to airports.

There are also some bullet trains that are 300km/h or more, it really comes down to what the track is rated for.

The cost is also typically lower as mentioned and what VIA Rail is doing is a travesty, but that becomes about Crown Corporations being run like private companies with the goal of profite and having to fund themselves as they get little or no taxpayer money despite being a publicly-owned utility.

One of the big issues in Canada is how most of the rail is owned by private companies and they dictate the terms of its usage, which includes how passenger rail must give way to freight rail. Without changing that and having separate track, high speed rail won't happen and passenger rail is not reliable.

TLDR: it's cheap, has less overhead, pollutes less, is more accessible, is easier/safer for passengers, and is typically as fast or faster than flying.

Why do people like high speed rail so much?

Because its public transit, not private transit.

Its significantly cheaper to travel long distances compared to other options like flying or driving. In a lot of cases it may even be faster than flying, and even when its slower, its not slower by a large amount. Its better for the environment, and trains are just cool.

[theogonize]

fwb!suguru who knew he wanted to fuck when he first laid eyes on you. then wanted to take you out to endless dinners to chat his ears off when he first spoke to you.

fwb!suguru who grew to like you without fucking you, almost forgot it was what he wanted you for – a life together or a night together?

fwb!suguru whose dick got painfully hard when you taunted him, rolled your eyes at him or outwitted him. he lived for your sassiness.

fwb!suguru who happened to fuck you on a random night unexpectedly and it changed the trajectory of his life.

fwb!suguru who stayed after every dick appointment. cuddled with you on the bed, watched movies or your favourite TV show, ordered take out and held you in his arms till you both inevitably fell asleep.

fwb!suguru who couldve sworn he wasn't in love with you. he would still fuck other people (and then come back to you, poor baby was thinking of you the whole time)

fwb!suguru whose grown accustomed to your presence. he calls you when he isn't feeling okay, you call him when something bothers you. he's grown used to you telling him all about work, how you got your nails done, how you saw a cute cat near your apartment. trivial details, which coming from anyone else he would hang up, but he looks forward to them with you.

fwb!suguru who eventually stops fucking other people and is just your man, without you knowing.

fwb!suguru who is determined to mark you up in placed people will notice. your neck, your thighs, your collarbones.

fwb!suguru who believes in giving you his all. all of his long girthy dick that pumps you full it should be criminal, his long slim fingers that have made you orgasm so often and hit that deep spot with unbeat ease, his long tounge... oh god his tounge. he thinks maybe even his long life ahead is yours too, all yours. his little kids too maybe? he doesn't like to think too much about that.

fwb!suguru who has to have your pussy checked with his tounge daily. he has to lap up your insides no matter any circumstances. his voice purrs across your body when he talks you through your orgasm.

"mhmm yeah cum all over my face beautiful, I know you want to"

fwb!suguru who gets sick at the thought of you sitting so pretty for another man when you tell him you're going on a date. suguru who looks so disturbed at the thought of another man even looking at his pretty girl who isn't really his.

fwb!suguru who takes you to corporate events just so he can call you his girlfriend, even if it's just pretend. when you question him it's always "easier explanation than a friend i fuck on the regular, isn't it?"

fwb!suguru who knows how you like your coffee in the morning. he knows what you like for breakfast, your comfort food, your hobbies, your favourite movies, your least favourite movies, your icks, your past. he knows you like he knows himself. he thinks of you when he passes your favourite cafe, he texts you when he sees something in the colour you like.

fwb!suguru who is sure he hasn't felt this way before, who is so vulnerable with you that it scares the shit out of him.

fwb!suguru who is afraid, angered at everything about you. he's angry at how you lull him into a sense of security, how you hold him, how sweet your voice sounds when you call him by his name, how you take care of him, how you listen to him. he hates how your pussy clenches his dick for dear life, milking it dry and how you never let a drop of his cum go to waste, licking it up like a little slut. he's fearful too. about losing you. about where loving you the way he does leads. loving you? wait. he loves you? fuck. fuck. fuck. this hasn't been according to plan at all.

[sincerelyneo]

life is a highway | n.jm

“i wanna ride it all night long”

💿now playing: life is a highway by rascal flatts

❯ summary: Being a nervous learner driver is hard enough, but throwing in your older brother’s hot, smug, patronising best friend to be your instructor? Yeah...definitely not making things easier.

❯ pairings: jaemin x fem!reader

❯ genre: enemies to...fuck buddies? smut

❯ words: 3.5k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni!, arguing, hate sex, public sex, car sex, swearing, heavy petting, fingering, unprotected sex (don't do this!), creampie, dirty talk, very tame degradation kink, literally them just arguing with each other for the entire 3k words.

an: this is very influenced by the british driving experience—hence the manual car propaganda.

Look, driving a manual is hard. There’s just too much stuff to remember all at once—gears, pedals, mirrors, observations. Honestly, you don’t understand why anyone who values their sanity would choose to drive a manual car. If it were up to you, you’d be driving around in an automatic. But it’s not up to you. Because your brother, Mark, is paying for your driving lessons.

And Mark, being the car-obsessed gearhead he is, insists that everyone should learn manual—“So you can drive any car, no limitations,” he preaches. Even when you dragged yourself through the front door on the Friday night of your third failed driving test, you thought maybe, just maybe, your stubborn older brother would show a little grace. Let you switch, take the easy route.

He didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

Instead, he did something worse.

He sent Jaemin.

Na Jaemin.

Mark’s old college roommate—who, according to your brother, is the best teacher in the world, a saint suited with endless patience and encouragement. But if those qualities exist, they’ve never made an appearance around you. Because, from the very first lesson (four torturous sessions ago), Jaemin’s been nothing but a snarky, patronising ass. 

You hate him. And he hates you—clearly.

Sure, you may have driven on the wrong side of the road once. And stalled on a hill. And very nearly veered the two of you into oncoming traffic. But those were all accidents—you’re a learner. It’s not your fault.

Honestly, it’s Mark’s fault. 

Because you’re already a nervous driver, and throwing in a hot, built guy who slouches into the passenger seat like he owns the car doesn’t exactly help. Not with his long legs spread wide, and that muscled arm draped casually along the window, long fingers tapping a lazy rhythm against the doorframe.

It’s a distraction. He’s a distraction. A hot, smirking, condescending distraction with perfect teeth and zero empathy.

“The light is on green,” Jaemin says flatly.

You blink. “W-what?”

He doesn't even turn to look at you. Just gestures lazily toward the windscreen. “If you stopped checking me out, you’d see the traffic light has changed. That means go.”

Your jaw drops, and you finally peel your eyes off him, squinting at the green hue now glaring in your face. “I know, asshole.”

“Then go.”

You want to scream, but you don't. Instead, you slam the clutch, jam the car into first gear with more force than necessary, and the car jerks forward. You thank God, because you just narrowly avoidied stalling again, but Jaemin is never grateful. 

“You’re snapping the clutch up too fast,” he comments. “You have to find the bite, then add gas. Keep revving the engine like that and you’re gonna wreck the clutch.”

“I was not revving the engine,” you mutter, mostly to yourself. But of course, that doesn’t stop him.

“You were. Because you’re scared of stalling. But if you actually planned ahead and stopped rushing—”

“I won’t stall, yeah, yeah, I know.” You cut him off, gripping the wheel tighter. 

“Then apply it.”

You’re about to lose it. You hate the way he talks to you like you’re ten years younger than him—like you’re some clueless kid. It makes you want to punch him in that smug mouth of his. But that’d only prove his point that you’re immature and feed his ego. 

So, you grit your teeth, suck in a breath, and try to ignore the way your heart’s thudding against your ribcage and your palms go slick on the wheel. You’re trying. God, you’re trying. But he makes it impossible to concentrate.

“You can’t drive around in first gear, this is a thirty zone.”

“I know—”

“No, you clearly don’t—fuck—pull the car over!”

His voice slices through the air and your stomach flips violently. You yank the wheel toward the kerb, the tires bouncing as the car lurches to a halt. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Jaemin’s lip twitch (about to make some smartass comment about you mounting the pavement) but the fury in your expression makes him think twice.

The second the engine cuts, you explode.

“What the hell is your problem?” you snap, unbuckling your seatbelt and twisting in your seat to face him. “If you hate this so much, then don’t show up! Mark’s not forcing you to sit in this car with me, Jaemin. I could find someone else to help me.”

“Oh, totally. I’d love to make room for driving instructor number eleven,” he bites.

"Then do it," you sneer, slumping back into the driver’s seat with a shrug, arms folded tight across your chest.

He drags a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. "Seriously, Y/N, I’m trying to help you," he says. "But you don’t listen. You never listen—"

“Oh, I’m sorry, I must’ve missed the part where you actually helped. All I’ve heard for the past four weeks is how shit I am at this.”

“Because you’re not even trying! You act like my help is beneath you. You refuse to take any criticism.”

“Beneath me?” You laugh, bitter and breathless. “I’ve failed my test three times, you absolute dick! I clearly am trying! I’m trying so fucking hard. And all you do is sit there and mock me, which just makes it worse.”

“You need tough love! This isn’t a joke—driving is serious. People's lives are on the line. Your life is on the line.”

That makes you swallow.

“If you’re talking about that time I almost hit that cyclist, that wasn’t my fault—he came out of nowhere!”

Jaemin scoffs, shakes his head and tongues the side of his cheek. “You know what your problem is?”

“Oh, please. Enlighten me.”

“You’re so terrified of failing again, so you never give yourself a real chance to get it right. You can’t let go of your pride, so every little mistake makes you panic, and you do something stupid. And then you blame everyone else for it.”

Your jaw drops. Then a furious exhale leaves your lungs. “You are—unbelievable. You’re such a—”

“You’re not listening to me,” Jaemin growls, cutting you off. “Again. You’re not listening.”

“I don’t care. Fuck you—”

But before you can finish the very creative insult forming in your throat, his hand shoots out—fisting the front of your hoodie, yanking you toward him. And then his mouth crashes into yours. Brutal and angry and heated.

You freeze. For one heartbeat. Then another.

Your whole body goes still—except your lips, which betray you, parting instinctively for him. You sink into it before you can think better of it, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket like it might steady the way your heart is rattling against your ribs. It doesn’t. 

Because he tastes like cinnamon and black coffee. So fucking predictable. So him. And, of course, unfairly good. Which just pisses you off more. He tastes good, and you like it. 

The kiss is harsh. Messy. Teeth knock, lips drag, because even now, the two of you are fighting for control. There’s no rhythm. No grace. Just lust and resentment colliding together in the ugliest way possible.

His hand grips your hoodie tighter, like he doesn’t trust you not to pull away. Honestly, he half expected you to slap him for kissing you. He didn’t expect you to gasp, to open your mouth and let him in. Let his tongue slide against yours, hot and wet and so damn hungry.

You feel the press of his thumb against your sternum, the subtle tremble in his wrist, and it hits you—weeks of tension finally snapping loose.

It’s not romantic. It’s not soft. It’s—what the hell are you thinking?

You pull away first, shaking his grip off your hoodie. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Jaemin blinks, looking just as stunned as you feel—pupils blown wide, chest heaving. He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up further. "I don’t know... you just—fuck, you drive me insane," he mutters. "I just wanted to shut you up."

“Oh, so your first thought was to kiss me?” you snap, swiping your sleeve across your mouth like you can erase the feel of him. A small part of you is glad it doesn’t. “That’s how you deal with people who annoy you? Because if so, you need a HR department!”

“No,” he grits out, jaw clenched. “You’re not just people. You’re—you’re impossible to be around.”

"Maybe you’re the one with the issue!” you hiss. “Plenty of people enjoy my company. You just don’t know how to be around me without being a smug, condescending prick!"

His expression twists "I’m trying to fucking help you," he says. "But, clearly, you don’t want help. You just want to fight, don’t you? You want to pick a fight because that’s all you know how to do."

“Because you infuriate me!” you shout. “You barge in here, all patronising and hot, acting like you know everything, acting like you’re better than everyone, like you’re better than me—”

You don’t get to finish.

He lunges across the console before either of you can think better of it, grabbing your face and kissing you hard. Again. 

His seatbelt strains as he twists toward you. You meet him with equal force, kissing him back like you can knock some sense into him with your mouth.

He groans into it, deep and guttural, and then he’s hauling you closer, shoving his seatbelt over his head and dragging you half onto his lap. The centre console digs into your hip, but you don’t care. Your knees press against the door, your hand grips the headrest behind him. Every inch of the car feels too small for the way he’s kissing you. Too hot.

His hands are everywhere. One tangled in your hair, the other pressing flat against the small of your back like he’s trying to fuse you to him.

You gasp when his mouth trails briefly to your jaw, your throat. “You’re such a jerk,” you whisper breathlessly.

“Shut up,” he mutters, before his lips crash into yours again.

And you do. You shut up (for once) letting him kiss you breathless while his fingers slip beneath the hem of your hoodie, calloused pads dragging over overheated skin. You shiver, nerves buzzing from the way your body is betraying you in all the worst ways. With the worst person,

“You're a nightmare,” he growls against your mouth. 

“So stop kissing me,” you bite back, fingers fisting his t-shirt.

He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.

Your back hits the glovebox as he shifts, pulling you fully into his lap. Your knees knock against the dash, thighs bracketing his hips, breath catching as you straddle him in the cramped passenger seat. Your head tips back, knuckles going white where they clutch his shoulders. 

“This is so stupid,” you murmur.

“Yeah,” he says, lips brushing your throat. “Say that again when you’re not grinding on me.”

You shove at his chest—but not hard enough to hurt. “Fuck you.”

His hands slide lower. Gripping. Pressing. Desperate. “Oh you’re going to.”

He rolls your hips against him, firm and rough, and you feel him—all of him. Hardening beneath the thin fabric of his sweatpants. The pressure sends a jolt through you, because if you’re really ‘going to’ fuck him, the size of him already has you intimidated.

You whimper despite yourself. It’s pathetic. Weak. And it turns him on so damn much. 

His head falls back with a dull thud, eyes squeezing shut like he’s in pain. “Fuck—why can’t you make those sounds with me all the time,” he groans, voice hoarse, “instead of running that pretty little mouth?”

You don’t answer. Not with words. Just keep grinding down, breath catching with each pass over his straining cock. You’re soaked. Your jeans are too tight. Everything is too hot. Too much.

“Fuck,” you pant, “you.”

He huffs a laugh, then brushes your hair over one shoulder, exposing your neck. His lips find your ear. Teeth grazing. “We’ve already established you’re going to,” he smirks. “But first—”

His hand slides between your bodies. 

“—you’re going to get yourself off on my thigh like the filthy girl I know you are.”

You’re about to repeat those two words again, but he captures them with a kiss—swallowing them down with a simple swipe of his tongue before he looks down to where you’re rutting against him.

You’re not sure when your jeans became the enemy, but they are now—tight, rough, in the way. Every twist of your hips adds to the unbearable friction, your breath catching in your throat with every grind. You’re not supposed to be doing this. Not here. Not with him.

But Jaemin’s thigh is solid beneath you, and his hands—God, his hands—know exactly where to go, how to hold you steady and drive you crazy in the same breath.

“You’re such a pain in the ass,” he grits, fingers digging into your waist. “Can’t follow a single instruction when you’re behind the wheel, but now? Suddenly you’re fucking little miss obedient.”

You want to slap him. Or kiss him. Or both. Probably both.

“You think you’re funny?” you hiss, but your voice cracks as his thigh flexes, and your hips jolt in response. “You think you’re winning right now?”

He leans in, lips brushing your cheek—just shy of a kiss. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, condescension dripping from every syllable, “I know I am.”

“You’re soaking,” he adds, palm skating down your front before slipping inside your jeans, into your panties.

“You are the most arrogant, insufferable, smug bastard I’ve ever met,” you pant against his mouth. “And I hate you.”

“Good,” he breathes, before surging forward again.

His mouth trails downward—jaw, neck, collarbone. Tongue licking over one of the few marks he just made. Your hips jerk when he bites, just a little too hard—and he groans  like he felt it in his own skin.

“Can’t believe you’re this wet for me and still have the nerve to talk back.”

“I can multitask,” you gasp, grabbing his wrist as he reaches for your jeans. He pauses, looking up so his eyes meet yours—and for a moment, the lust between you stutters.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks, low and serious.

You hate how long you hesitate. Hate how breathless you sound when you whisper, “No.”

He smirks. “Didn’t think so.”

Then your jeans are open, and his fingers slide into your underwear—hot, teasing, and maddeningly slow. You cry out, head dropping to his shoulder, clutching at the back of his neck as two of his fingers start to circle your clit. 

“God, you’re shaking,” he groans, lips brushing your ear. “You’re gonna cum like this? From barely anything? What happened to all that attitude?”

“Shut up,” you whimper, grinding shamelessly into his hand. “Just shut the hell up—”

“Not a chance.”

His fingers dip lower, circling the wet entrance of your pussy before he presses in deeper, and your whole body tenses, that coil in your belly winding tighter with every thrust.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” he breathes. “Come on, sweetheart. Prove me right. I love it when you do.”

You hate him. You really do. But your body doesn’t care. It burns and trembles and demands more. Your nails dig into his shoulders as he curls his fingers just right—and then you’re falling apart, hips jerking, a strangled cry ripped from your throat before you can stop it.

Jaemin doesn’t stop until you’re trembling in his lap, wrecked and slick with sweat. When you finally lift your head to look up at him, he’s watching you intensely. Quiet for once. Hell, if you knew letting him finger you would shut him up, you’d have let him a long time ago.

Then, slowly, patronisingly slowly, he pulls his hand from your jeans, eyes locked on yours as he brings his fingers to his mouth.

You slap his shoulder. Hard. “You’re disgusting.”

He grins around his fingers. “You didn’t seem to mind a minute ago.”

“Whatever,” you mutter, still breathless. You glance down. His hands are still on your hips. “Let go of me.”

“Say please.”

“Fuck you.”

He leans in, lazily sucking another finger. “I already did.”

Your hand moves before you think—gripping his chin, nails digging into his jaw. Not a slap. Not a kiss. Just heat. Just challenge.

“You’re really starting to piss me off,” you whisper. “Keep pushing, and I might actually lose control and kill you!”

That look flashes in his eyes again—that dangerous glint that says he likes it when you fight. But instead of rising to the bait, he just smirks.

“I am pushing,” he says. “But you’re the one currently dripping down my thigh. So tell me, sweetheart…” His fingers slide into your hair, tugging just enough to make your breath catch. “Who’s really in control?”

You don’t answer. Just stare. Flushed. Still trembling, still aching. Then, leisurely, you lean in—close enough that his breath stalls.

“I am,” you bite, nipping his bottom lip as you yank his hoodie up over his shoulders. “And I’m going to prove it.”

He grins—wild and eager. “Then fucking show me.”

Your fingers tighten in his hoodie, dragging it off with enough force to make his smirk falter, only slightly. His eyes are black now—blown wide with want, with need—and for the second time ever in his life, Jaemin is silent.

He just watches.

And you take.

Your mouth slams into his, teeth biting at his lip before you drag your mouth down to his neck, sucking onto the skin to return your own mark. His hands fumble with your jeans again, this time yanking them down your thighs enough to slip your panties to the side. 

You help shove his sweatpants down past his ass—just far enough to free his cock. And then he’s wrapping a hand around himself, fisting his length with slow, deliberate strokes—taunting, as you watch with parted lips. 

He’s so big and thick and pretty, your brain starts pounding like it’s bitten off more than it can handle. You hesitate for a moment, but then you remember—this is about proving you still have control. You want this. You want to prove him wrong.

So, you slide back into his lap, straddling him fully, your bare skin meeting his with a gasp that rips through both of you. His hand slides between your thighs again, not to guide—just to tease. Just to feel how ready you are.

“Scared?” he mocks in a we whisper.

You glare, reaching down to line him up with your pussy. “Shut up.”

Then you sink down—slow, agonising—and you both break at the same time.

“Fuck—” he grits, head falling back, eyes rolling. “You feel—holy shit.”

You can barely breathe. He’s thick, hot, stretching you just past the edge of pain—grounding you in something that feels too good to be allowed. It’s not fair that a guy like him gets to be this good at fucking. But here he is. Fingers digging into your hips, guiding you into a rhythm that’s filthy, desperate, and anything but slow.

You ride him like it’s a fight. Like you want to ruin him. And he meets you stroke for stroke, jaw clenched, sweat collecting at his temple as your bodies slap together—fast, ruthless. No pretense. No sweetness.

Just want.

Just need.

Just hate.

“I hate how good you feel,” you choke out.

He bites down on your shoulder. “Say it again.”

You moan, louder this time, not caring about the volume or the fact that you’re fucking your instructor at the side of the road. Not caring that it’s Jaemin. 

“I hate you,” you breathe. “I hate you, I hate you so much—”

His hand snakes up to curl around your throat. It’s not tight but barely there. A light pressure, just enough, to make your head spin.

“Then cum on my cock,” he growls. “One more time. Hate me for it.”

And you do.

You shatter around him, body convulsing and twitching as your mouth falls open in a broken sob that catches against his lips. He follows a heartbeat later with a ruined, throaty moan, driving into you one last time as he spills inside you—deep, hot, messy.

And then it’s quiet.

You stay there, slumped against his chest  for a moment. His hand drifts up your spine, strangely gentle now, thumb brushing the back of your neck. But then, a moment later, it does hit you. 

You scramble off his lap, cheeks flushed, thighs sticky, panties already ruined as his cum starts to leak out of you. You refuse to meet his eyes.

“I still hate you,” you mutter.

“Sure,” he says, casual as ever, tugging up his sweatpants with a smirk. “I’m giving you another lesson tomorrow. Same time.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re insane if you think I’m getting in a car with you again.”

“You’ll show,” he says,” Because you want to pass your test, don’t you?”

“Yes, but—”

“But nothing,” he chuckles, brushing a finger against your cheek. “Now that I know you can follow instructions, if you listen to me—I'll make you cum again. You seemed to really enjoy yourself.”

You hate him.

[paarksunghoon]

resignation (2)

SUMMARY: For the last six years, you’ve dedicated your career to ensuring Park Sunghoon never misses a day of work in his life. But you’re tired of endless days that seem to blend together, and seeing him living his fun, luxurious lifestyle makes you think about what else you might be missing out on. When Sunghoon finds your resignation letter on his desk, he does everything in his power to convince you to stay.

NOTES: still could not tell you a single thing about this plot but who knows!!!! perhaps I’ll make a whole serious out of it (??). will probably be smutty eventually.

WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: slightest bit of sexual tension.

SERIES PLAYLIST + SERIES MASTERLIST

masterlist

let me know if you’d like to be tagged in any future chapters :)

***

The party is already in full swing by the time the two of you arrive. Sunghoon beats his driver in opening the car door for you after insisting that you stay put for him to do so. It seems a bit much, especially since Sunghoon has never held the door open for you in this manner, but you’ve learned not to stop him from pursuing what he wants. You feel a bit awkward when he holds his arm out for you to grab as you attempt to exit the car nonchalantly. It’s not commonplace for your boss to assist you in such a manner. 

Your fingers drum against the leather of your bag as the two of you walk inside. For the first time in six years, you haven’t got a clue as to why Sunghoon needs you here. Being his “plus one” usually entails business negotiations or seeking out potential connections. He’s never asked you to accompany him for the hell of it. There’s always work to be done and Sunghoon isn’t above having you put your weeknights into your work agenda. 

The venue is glamorous. A large chandelier hangs from the ceiling, and the staff carry around trays of alcohol and expensive-looking appetizers. You decline a glass of champagne but accept a small savory bite with loads of caviar on top of it (you don’t want to guess how much was spent on this dish alone). Sunghoon, on the other hand, grabs two champagne flutes and holds one out to you just as you shove your food into your mouth. 

“I’m good,” you say through a mouthful. Sunghoon chuckles.

“Let loose. You’re gonna be gone in two months. You might as well enjoy the perks while you can.”

“Are you accepting that I want to quit?” 

“Absolutely not.” He pushes the glass towards you until your fingers curl around the long stem. “But I am trying to get you to have fun.” 

“I know how to have fun.”

“You’re always on work mode when we come to these things. You could learn to relax your shoulders and not talk business all the time.”

You roll your eyes. “That’s my job, Sir.”

“Sunghoon.”

“That’s my job, Sunghoon.” 

“Not tonight. Don’t think about work. Matter of fact, if anybody talks about anything work-related, direct them to me or give them my email.” 

You look at him curiously. “Since when do you care about how much fun I’m having to the point of burdening yourself with extra work?”

“Since my favorite assistant decided she wanted to quit.” 

You don’t respond. He’s naturally a forward person, but he’s never commented on the nature of your working relationship beyond praising you on a job well done when you’ve clearly earned it. Sunghoon believes in proving oneself without any handouts, especially since his nepotism granted him the work he does now. You know it was significantly easier for Sunghoon to work his way from an intern to managing partner because his family legacy is Park Inc., but all of his accomplishments are on him. It’s why he believes in giving everybody a fair shot and kicking those who don’t perform well to the curb, even if their family is considered “well known.” 

When it comes to your job and the work you’ve done for him, Sunghoon keeps his praise to a minimum. He is polite and doesn’t forget to thank you if you’ve completed a task for him, but he keeps his praise to himself until you do something that truly amazes him. You could probably count all of these stellar moments on one hand, and it took you years of working alongside Sunghoon to stop seeking his validation so much. When you focus on your work and not his praise, you seem to get more tasks done efficiently. But all you’ll ever be to Sunghoon is his assistant. Despite all of the work and knowledge you’ve acquired through your years of working at Park Inc., you doubt you’ll work your way up to become a managing partner like him. 

Lee Heeseung and Park Jongseong, two of Sunghoon’s business partners and closest friends, provide a welcomed distraction when they approach the two of you with champagne flutes of their own. They both look just as prim and polished as Sunghoon in their tailored suits and reflective black shoes. You wonder if their assistants are here tonight.

“Always good to see you,” Jongseong says with a quick hug when he sees you before greeting Sunghoon. 

“Didn’t realize you were coming.” Heeseung looks at your boss. “I thought Hana was accompanying you tonight?”

Sunghoon waves them off. “Nah. Asked my trusty assistant to come with me instead.” Heeseung looks at your hands.

“And you’re…drinking?”

“He told me it was fine,” you said, gesturing at Sunghoon. Heeseung smiles and steps forward to pull you into a short embrace as well, hands kept as a respectable distance while balancing his own drink. “Where’s Jake?” 

“Business trip to Brisbane. It’s doubling as a family vacation since he hasn’t been back to Australia since he started his career,” Jongseong explains. “He’ll be back in a week.” 

“I’m sorry,” Heeseung interrupts. “I’m stuck on the fact that you’re actually drinking and not pretending to so people don’t give you a hard time about it.”  

“I told her to let loose and not think about work too much.”

“If she doesn’t, who will?” Jongseong snorts. He turns at you. “Are you going to grace us with your presence on the dance floor, or is Sunghoon making you butter everyone up until they inevitably do what you say?” 

“She’s here because I needed a plus one and she’s here to have fun,” Sunghoon responds for you. Jongseong chuckles and stuffs his hands in his pocket.

“Well, God knows she needs a night off. You make her work too hard.” 

Sunghoon tuts. “I do no such thing.”

“He can’t be worse than Daon. No could ever be,” says Heeseung.

“I guess you’re right.” Heeseung glances between you and Sunghoon before speaking again.

“If she’s here to have a bit of fun, you won’t mind if I took her to the face floor, would you?” Something unreadable flashes across Sunghoon’s face. 

“No,” he says with his jaw fixed. Heeseung grins.

“Perfect. Shall we?” 

You give Sunghoon your champagne flute and don’t look back, enjoying the idea of entertaining your awful dance skills with somebody you’ve known for nearly as long as you’ve known Sunghoon. Heeseung is charming in all of the right ways and you can see why most of your colleagues harbor small crushes on him. He’s extremely charismatic and good at getting what he wants. It’s a quality you wished you could possess. 

Heeseung’s hand rests on the small of your back while the other gently holds your hand as he sways the two of you to the rhythm of the music. You’re not one for the theatrics of dancing the night away like Heeseung is, but it’s nice to forego your professional duties and scuff up your heels for a change. 

“You’re thinking too hard,” Heeseung says, pulling you out of your thoughts.

“Sorry. I guess I’ve made a habit of being on the go when I come to these things.” 

Heeseung tuts. “Sunghoon’s pushing you to your limits, but I can see why you’re the only person he trusts to get things done.”

“I remember the days when he barely trusted me to get his coffee order right.”

“Well, you’ve come a long way since then.” 

Heeseung winks and places one hand on the middle of your back before you find him hovering above you. He doesn’t let you linger for much longer and pulls you back into his chest. The two of you have always had a friendly-yet-playful friendship, but something about him spontaneously asking you to dance and making you break your normal, party-going habits has you blushing. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“Sunghoon told me you’re quitting.” Your hand on his shoulder tightens for a moment. 

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to be thinking.” 

“You’re not the type of person who can just let things go.” 

“I hate that you know me well.” 

Heeseung winks again. “My assistants and I have learned to count on you more than we can count on Sunghoon. I’d like to believe I know you better than you think I do.” 

“Well…I’ve worked alongside him for so long that it’s making me wonder what else is out there for me, you know? Don’t get me wrong, I am so lucky to have been able to travel and learn alongside him, but it’s never because I want to. I don’t want to be a career assistant.” 

“What do you want to do instead?”

“I don’t know,” you frown. “I’ve spent so long cleaning up after him and catering to his needs that I’ve never spent enough time thinking about what I want to do with my life.”

“He seems choked up about it.” 

You scoff. “I handed him my resignation letter and he barely acknowledged it.”

“Jongseong told me he picked you up from your apartment.” 

“He accompanied his driver.”

Heeseung waves you off. “Same difference.” 

“And, well…he told me to stop calling him by his title and to start calling him by his name.” 

“Oh?”

“I know. It’s weird, isn’t it? I don’t think I could ever address him by ‘Sunghoon.’”

“You call me Heeseung, though.”

You swat his chest. “Yah. That’s because I don’t work for you and you threatened to get me fired if I treated you like a stuffy higher-up.” He grins at that.

“You’ll be missed, you know. I can tell Sunghoon’s starting to spiral about it. He doesn’t call me often to talk about himself, but he spent our entire meeting discussing his weekend golfing plans.” 

“He’ll function without me.”

“I don’t know if he can.” 

As it stands currently, your personal life barely exists. It’s hard to find time to do things by yourself when you’re constantly on call. Sunghoon is respectful of your personal time as much as any high power venture capitalist can be, but you often find yourself sitting with him during late night working hours and in the early morning when he asks for your presence. It’s not a terrible job, certainly not for the pay and how it used to give you a sense of purpose in life, but it’s starting to feel like the days and months are blurring together. You don’t think you could recall what day it is without looking at your calendar. 

Your working relationship with Sunghoon is near perfect. He can be a bit of a charmer when he wants to be and knows all the right ways to get you to say yes, but you can’t say you’ve had a horrible time working under him. Sunghoon is a fair boss who trusts you far more than you trust yourself. He’s given you incredible opportunities to learn and grow as a businessperson, and it’s far more than you can say for anybody else in that office. Sunghoon values his personal time, which leads him to valuing when you take time off (and, to be honest, is rarely ever). That is something you know you’ll struggle to find elsewhere. 

But this job has seen you work over the typical forty hours to the point where you lose yourself in it. You try to balance your time in and out of the office, but it’s hard to keep up a personal life when you care so deeply about your job. The projects you work on are important to you, as is contributing to businesses that have since become successful thanks to you and Sunghoon. It gives you a sense of fulfillment to know you can be part of the reason why a local eatery becomes a celebrated chain restaurant, or why a crowdfunded product becomes internet famous for all the right reasons. It’s your job and it’s your life, but that’s what you’re afraid of.

Sunghoon will never have to wonder what it’s like to worry about paying rent or utilities because his family comes from a long line of extremely successful venture capitalists. He could try his best to blow his fortune and wouldn’t come close to spending a fraction of it. You, on the other hand, budget wisely on your salary in order to be able to afford and maintain the lifestyle you have. Every cent is accounted for and splurging on things is a treat every once in a while, aside from the budget Sunghoon gives you when you travel with him. But even then, you’d consider yourself someone who doesn’t overdo it for the principle of it all.

Aside from having little to no hobbies that require stepping out of your apartment, you don’t meet people. You don’t hang out with anybody regularly enough to build connections or to explore romantic relationships. The people you see on a weekly basis are your elderly neighbors who praise you for being quiet during the nighttime, your colleagues at Park Inc., and Sunghoon. There is no time to settle down. While Sunghoon gets his fair share of taking women home and indulging in sex and dating, you find that you’re the one who he calls when he can’t seem to get rid of people who refuse to leave. The thought of explaining this situation to your date, and having them be okay with being a glorified babysitter, seems a bit far fetched.

You tell yourself that dating shouldn’t be a big deal. It isn’t, right? Not when you’ve learned to become independent and confident in the face of venture capitalist sharks that will eat you for breakfast should you falter. The thick skin you’ve managed to build feels more like protective armor than anything else. People who know you would say they’ve seen an immense amount of growth in how you carry yourself, and while you credit it to working in the environment you do, most of it is because you refuse to let yourself falter, even if for a moment. 

Dating hasn't been on your mind for the past few years. You were young, and you still are, but the years after graduating university were dedicated to figuring out where you belonged. This job at Park Inc. was a great blessing. Having to focus on getting your job done and learning about the business took up more time than you anticipated, so there was no time to think about relationships. You were very much in the mindset of pursuing a career before indulging in boys. Perhaps it’s your hyper independence that led you to push any yearning for romance aside. But it’s bubbling to the surface like a vengeance in the present day. 

And if you’re being honest, you feel incredibly silly. It feels stupid to watch movies or read books and wish you could experience the kind of love that leaves you breathless. You’ve never been one for the theatrics, but what if you were? What if you were the type to meet a guy and fall for him instantly? What would you be like if you were the type of person people naturally gravitated towards? If you were any different, would guys come up to you out of the blue and entertain you until one of you ultimately decided it isn’t worth it? 

You don’t have the time to consider these things beyond daydreams. Your days are filled with project meetings, phone calls, scheduling, and anything else Sunghoon requires of you. It’s gotten to the point where you’re considering asking him to get a second assistant to help you with the tasks you’re drowning in. 

You don’t have the luxury of meeting incredibly handsome men who want everything to do with you as Sunghoon does. People fall at his feet when he looks at them. With his warm brown eyes and devilish smile, he barely has to lift a finger to get people to fall to their knees. You’ve seen it one too many times, whether it be women who lunge at the chance to go home with him or potential clients who want his money for their business. Sunghoon knows how to sweet talk and he knows how to get what he wants without making the other person realize they’re submitting to his will. His charisma is admirable. You wish you could be a little more like that. 

Thinking about how little action you get compared to Sunghoon feels like you’re losing your mind, too. You’ve had shitty dates and failed hookups in the past that leave you wondering if trying is worth it. It doesn’t seem like that’s the type of lifestyle for you, and while you’re not necessarily looking to settle down with the next person you meet, you desperately wish you could meet somebody who doesn’t disappoint you by the time the check arrives. It’s almost aggravating when Sunghoon walks into the office with a post-sex glow to him. It’s irritating when he calls you to take women out of his house and see him in all of his glory (shirtless only—you’re crossing so many boundaries just by helping Sunghoon in this matter but damn, his abs are chiseled by the gods). 

You’d have to be completely blind to think Sunghoon isn’t attractive. Meeting him for the first time felt like you were meeting the child of Aphrodite. His hair naturally fell into all the right places and his suit was tailored to the nines. He was commanding yet soft, and his baritone voice felt like pure velvet the first time you heard him speak. Your knees nearly buckled when he looked at you and you imagine that’s what every woman must feel like when he gives them his attention. You know far too well just how charming and handsome Sunghoon is, and you’ve learned to push these thoughts and feelings to the very back corner of your mind. 

Sunghoon always is, and always will be, off limits. He’s your boss, for starters. In the early days of your career, you’d find yourself fantasizing about him and his otherworldly looks when desperate times called and when bad dates left you wondering what life would be like if you weren’t Sunghoon’s assistant, but someone he took home. It always made you feel guilty and shameful, especially when you’d walk into his office the next day and make any sort of eye contact with him. That feeling ate at you alive to the point where you had to force yourself to view this as a professional, working relationship only. Besides, there was no chance Sunghoon would ever jeopardize himself like that. He takes work too seriously to ever mix it in with his private life. 

Eventually, you learned to tune those feelings out and view him like your superior. Sunghoon’s always been a bit friendly with you, especially as your years of working together grew. You know so much about his family, where he lives, his goals and aspirations, to the point where you think you know more about him than you know about yourself. You’ve seen him stress over big projects and celebrate incredible milestones. You’ve been with him every step of the way for the past six years, and leaving his side is the scariest thing you’ve done in your life thus far. 

You know he’ll be just fine. Sunghoon might have to get to know somebody all over again and get used to working a different dynamic, but it’s not as if you’re irreplaceable. That thought tends to keep you up at night every once in a while. Not a single person has ever made you feel like you’re worth fighting for and nobody has ever gone out of their way to show you how much they value you. It comes easily to Sunghoon to the point where you’d be surprised if people didn’t want anything to do with him. 

Those kinds of things don’t happen for you very easily. Men don’t fall to their knees when they see you and they certainly don’t strike up a conversation with the hopes of scoring your number. You can count on your hand the number of times people have hit on you, and while it’s not a measure of who you are as a person, it does make you feel shitty about yourself when you start to compare your love life with your boss’s. 

So you find yourself here, standing in between Heeseung’s arm, feeling like a shy school girl who got asked to prom for the first time. It’s ridiculous. You’ve known him for nearly as long as you’ve known Sunghoon, and Heeseung has always been friendly in a way a colleague should. He never oversteps nor makes you uncomfortable, but the feeling of his hand on your back makes your mind drift to a scenario in which you’re dancing with the love of your life. It makes you feel small. 

“Mind if I cut in?” 

As if on cue, Sunghoon’s voice pierces through your wandering thoughts. 

“After this song, Hoon. I’m having quality time with your assistant.”

The song ends just as Heeseung is done speaking. It feels like the universe might as well be laughing at you.

“Would you look at that? The song just ended.” Heeseung steps away and winks at you before looking at Sunghoon.

“She’s all yours.” 

Sunghoon resumes Heeseung’s position and every fantasy you’ve had of him from the early days of your career suddenly makes their way to the forefront of your mind. No matter how much you try to push them back in their place, these desires keep coming up like a canon of confetti at the end of a concert. Your heart rate picks up slightly and you hope your hands don’t feel as clammy as you think they are.

“Having fun?” 

“I’d hardly count coming to a stuffy event as fun, but I’m not miserable.” 

Sunghoon tilts his head. “You don’t like schmoozing with men who only care about money?” The two of you share a laugh. It’s so easy to let your guard down with him.

“Ha-ha. No, Sunghoon, I don’t typically imagine this as my ideal way of having fun.”

“No?” He pulls you closer to his chest as he brings the two of you deeper into the dance floor. It makes you help in surprise and Sunghoon doesn’t bother hiding his pleasure when he grins. “What do you like to do for fun, hm?”

“I…I don’t know.” 

Sunghoon clicks his tongue. “It can’t be all work and no play, you know. That makes Jack a dull boy, or however the saying goes.” You roll your eyes.

“I’m too busy taking care of you, remember?” 

“Ah, yes, and what a wonderful job you’ve done. Come on. Tell me something you like to do when you’re not with me.”

“I like to read, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“I like to read. Better?” 

“Much. What kind of books?”

“Depends on my mood. Sometimes I like reading fiction, sometimes nonfiction. I like thrillers a lot.”

“You’re one of those types who likes to see if you can unravel the plot before you get to the end, aren’t you?” 

“Yes.” 

“Knew it.” He squeezes your hand placed in his. “Anything else besides reading?”

“I like traveling. I don’t do it much unless you request I go somewhere with you. But I like exploring places by myself without the pretense of work.” 

Sunghoon frowns. “You don’t travel much?” 

“No, not with the work I have to do.” You let out a small laugh. “I try not to be too jealous when you take time off work to go to Europe or America.” 

Sunghoon nods once and spins the both of you as the song’s tempo picks up. “You’ll have more time to travel when you leave me, no?” 

“Mhm.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“Osaka sounds nice. I’ve only ever been to Tokyo for a few business meetings, but we’ve never had time to go elsewhere. New York sounds like a dream. Maybe I’ll visit São Paulo or Rome if I’m lucky.” 

“That’s quite the bucket list.” 

“I’m an ambitious woman.” He squeezes your waist. 

“Don’t I know it.” 

“You know, this is probably the longest I’ve talked about myself with you.” 

“Is it?”

“Yeah, I think so. It’s usually business talk first thing in the morning, and then whatever you’ve been up to.”

“I don’t ask you what you do on the weekends?”

“Sometimes. Mondays are usually our busiest days, though.” 

He frowns. “I should’ve paid more attention. Maybe that’ll convince you to stay.” 

“You’re funny.” 

The song ends and Sunghoon doesn’t pull away like you think he will. He’s not somebody who generally enjoys spending time with his colleagues more than he has to, and that includes you. Part of you wonders if some innate guilt keeps him dancing with you, but you try not to think about the negative possibilities when you’re with him. 

“What are you going to do when you’re free?” Sunghoon asks as the next song begins. “Are you booking a plane ticket to New York or Osaka?” 

“I don’t know, honestly, but maybe I should. Who knows, I could find the love of my life on vacation and move to a brand new city if it works out.”

“Love of your life, huh?”

You shrug. “Dunno. I’ve been thinking about, err, my love life, or lack thereof, for the past few weeks. I don’t have time to date around when I’m at your beck and call. God, this is weird, isn’t it?”

“What is? Talking about your love life? Or, how did you say it, ‘lack thereof’?” 

“If I’m being honest? Yeah. I’ve seen you hook up with so many women in the years I’ve known you but that’s what assistants are for, right? Helping you out of situations without asking any questions?” 

“I suppose you’re right. You don’t keep to shy away from things all the time with me, though,” he reassures. “We’ve known each other for half a decade. I think that earns you the right to talk about yourself whenever you feel like it.” 

“Seems like I'm crossing a boundary.” 

“I’m telling you tonight that you aren’t. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk about a boyfriend before.” 

“Nope.” You tilt your head and keep your lips in a thin line when you smile. “Got my hands full with you.” 

“Some would say you’re in a lucky position.” 

He laughs when you roll your eyes. When you try to step away and take yourself out of Sunghoon’s grasp, he immediately pulls you back into him. It catches you off guard and you’re suddenly aware that he’s looking at you with those commanding brown eyes peeking through his bangs. It makes your breath falter for a moment. 

“I appreciate you more than you know. I hope you know that.” His baritone voice nearly makes you knees buckle.

“Thank you for saying that.” 

“I mean it. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” 

You look away. “I’m sure you could find someone else who’d be a better fit than me.” 

“Don’t downplay yourself. You’re a fantastic assistant who’s kept my head on my shoulders for the past six years.” 

“Sunghoon…” 

“Say it. Say ‘I’m a great assistant.’” 

“I’m a great assistant.” He grins. 

“Good girl.” 

Yeah. You must be losing it if hearing your boss say that makes you feel a little worked up. Those feelings from when you first met rise to the surface and you struggle to push them down. It doesn’t help that Sunghoon looks like a Greek God among mortals with his chiseled jawline and impeccable skin. You stare at him far too long to realize how long his eyelashes are and how he looks quite handsome when he’s looking at you like he’d do anything to make you change your mind about quitting your job.

Goodness, you think. I’m screwed.    

***

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[louisa-gc]

how to start reading again

from someone who was a voracious reader until high school and is now getting back into it in her twenties.

start with an old favourite. even though it felt a little silly, i re-read the harry potter series one christmas and it wiped away my worry that i wasn't capable of reading anymore. they are long books, but i was still able to get completely immersed and to read just as fast as i had years and years ago.

don't be afraid of "easier" books. before high school i was reading the french existentialists, but when getting back into reading, i picked up lucinda riley and sally rooney. not my favourite authors by far, but easier to read while not being totally terrible. i needed to remind myself that only choosing classics would not make me a better or smarter person. if a book requires a slower pace of reading to be understood, it's easier to just drop it, which is exactly what i wanted to avoid at first.

go for essays and short stories. no need to explain this one: the shorter the whole, the less daunting it is. i definitely avoided all books over 350 pages at first and stuck to essay collections until i suddenly devoured donna tartt's goldfinch.

remember it's okay not to finish. i was one of those people who finished every book they started, but not anymore! if i pick up a book at the library and after a few chapters realise i'd rather not read it, i just return it. (another good reason to use your local library! no money spent on books you might end up disliking.)

analyse — or don't. some people enjoy reading more when they take notes or really stop to think about the contents. for me, at first, it was more important to build the habit of reading, and the thought of analysing what i read felt daunting. once i let go of that expectation, i realised i naturally analyse and process what i read anyway.

read when you would usually use your phone. just as i did when i was a child, i try to read when eating, in the bathroom, on public transport, right before sleeping. i even read when i walk, because that's normally a time i stare at my screen anyway. those few pages you read when you brush your teeth and wait for a friend very quickly stack up.

finish the chapter. if you have time, try to finish the part you're reading before closing the book. usually i find i actually don't want to stop reading once i get to the end of a chapter — and if i do, it feels like a good place to pick up again later.

try different languages. i was quickly approaching a reading slump towards the end of my exchange year, until i realised i had only had access to books in english and that, despite my fluency, i was tired of the language. so as soon as i got back home i started picking up books in my native tongue, which made reading feel much easier and more fun again! after some nine months, i'm starting to read in english again without it feeling like a huge task.

forget what's popular. i thought social media would be a fun way to find interesting books to read, but i quickly grew frustrated after hating every single book i picked up on some influencer's recommendation. it's certainly more time-consuming to find new books on your own, but this way i don't despise every novel i pick up.

remember it isn't about quantity. the online book community's endless posts about reading 150 books each year or 6 books in a single day easily make us feel like we're slow, bad readers, but here's the thing: it does not matter at all how many books you read or what your reading pace is. we all lead different lives, just be proud of yourself for reading at all!

stop stressing about it. we all know why reading is important, and since the pandemic reading has become an even more popular hobby than it was before (which is wonderful!). however, there's no need to force yourself to be "a reader". pick up a book every now and then and keep reading if you enjoy it, but not reading regularly doesn't make you any less of a good person. i find the pressure to become "a person who reads" or to rediscover my inner bookworm only distances me from the very act of reading.

[lambilegs]

I adore your best friend's older sister! Sevika headcanons, literally been rereading since last night 😫

I had a thought, a little crumb, a little ✨food for thought ✨, but what about Best friend's older sister! Sevika getting jealous. Maybe they aren't together yet and she spots reader getting a lil too cozy with another friend. Or maybe they are together and Sevika is not liking the way reader's coworker is gettin a lil too comfy 👀😤

I've truly thought about this too often lol, sorry for the rambles ♡

best friend's older sister!sevika getting jealous <3

note to anon: BAE DON'T APOLOGIZE THIS IDEA IS SOOOO <33 and omg thank you so so much!! I'm so happy you like it hehe. so, I decided to expand upon the first idea you gave because it's so so good, though I LOVE both. like, thank you so much for sending these thoughts AHHH <33

so, I totally agree with you that best friend's older sister!sevika would definitely be possessive. it's only worsened pre-confession because you're not hers yet, so she doesn't feel like she has much of a right to do anything about it. at least if you guys were together, she could wrap her arm around your waist or kiss your head, something silent to signify to others that you're hers.

but, as much as you two have teased and been pushing and pulling these past few months, that's all it's been. push, pull, push, pull. no confession, no asking out, no dates. and, listen, sevika doesn't mind the long game necessarily -- she knew from the get go that if she was gonna be pursuing you, it'd have to be serious. she wasn't about to get into some vague, unidentified shit with her sister's best friend. not only would her sister kill her for that, but it's not even what she's interested in in the first place. it's easy to talk to you, to trust you. it's easy to want something longterm with you. but, longterm means she needs to put in the work of trusting you. and for her, that takes a while. so, she doesn't mind the long game.

what she does mind, though, is that taking things slow means that in this whole getting-to-know-you phase, she doesn't know exactly where your head is at. if you want something serious, if you're ready for a relationship. she knows she should be asking you these questions, but as much as she hates to admit it, it makes her uncomfortable to think of being so honest about these feelings of hers. and what being honest could potentially lead to, like a pierce into your guys' relationship, whatever the hell it is.

but, goddammit, is it fucking hard to not grab you, drag you to her room and show you exactly how she feels when you're on the living room couch, canoodling up to one of the girls in yours and her sister's friend group. she knows how it is for you guys. no boundaries, endless amounts of teasing, flirting, nasty jokes. but, that doesn't make it any easier to see you nuzzling your head into one of their shoulders, the two of you swapping and laughing hysterically over suggestive comments about leaving the room to do some "private activities."

sevika grits her teeth from where she can hear the conversation, gripping the handle to the fridge hard. she sucks in a sharp breath, shakes her head, and grabs her bottle of water from the side shelf. shutting it close quietly, she makes her way to her bedroom, sock-clad feet heavy against the wood.

when she walks past your group, practically cuddled in the living room, she nods quietly at the group of you guys, feeling her shoulders tense up when you and her make eye contact. your head darts off your friend's shoulder, and she nearly snickers. you really aren't subtle when it comes to paying her attention. and today, she doesn't feel like returning it, her stomach clenched in anger over the unabashed flirting she just overheard.

she's in the middle of tinkering at her desk, tweaking some annoying shit that keeps making a scraping noise every few hours, when a knock comes to her room.

"yeah?" she mutters, trying not to throw the screwdriver right at the wall.

when you poke your head in, she glances at your momentarily before continuing her work. she hates how her stomach flips at your arrival, how she suddenly feels clumsy with the tools under your gaze.

"what?"

you start from where you lean on her doorframe. "I just, um, wanted to check if we're good?"

"just peachy," she huffs out, dragging her wrist past her brow, which is sticky with sweat. "why?"

"well, um..." you trail off, shifting on your feet. "you usually smile or say hi now, and right now, you didn't."

she feels a flash of irrational annoyance. she doesn't like the fact that you can read her so easily, as though you have her constantly under a microscope. she doesn't wanna have to deal with her jealousy, her feelings, but you cornering and confronting her like this doesn't make that easy.

"I'm fine."

she blinks hard at the gears when her bedroom door softly clicks shut.

"no, you're not. sevika, come on, what's wrong?" you trot over to her desk, standing right next to her, shoving your presence into her space. "tell me."

she sighs, her body stiff with embarrassment and irritation at your stubbornness. god, things would be so much easier if you weren't so damn feisty, always snapping back at her. but, at the same time, though she'd never tell you, she can't help but like your persistence.

"do you have to be so damn flirty with all your friends?" she bites, immediately regretting the words as soon as they shoot out. so much for subtlety.

your head jerks back. "that's why you're upset? sevika, I've always flirted with them, you know that. I'm sure you've seen your fair share of it for years now."

"yeah, well, now, it's different." she keeps her eyes locked onto the desk, and when she realizes just how thinly veiled the implication of her words are, she rushes to add, "now, I think it's risky shit. you know, someone could get the wrong idea."

you scoff. "it's been like this for years. no one will get the wrong idea."

she rolls her eyes, grumbling incoherent words. she knows you're right. she's made her own fair share of jokes like that with her buddies, even the ones she wouldn't be caught dead with in any lifetime. and you're right, your little gang has always been like this. but, none of that helps to dampen the burning irritation that grows in her stomach when she sees you being so touchy with someone who isn't her. with someone who may think they have a chance with you, no matter how slim. she doesn't want you to have options, she wants to be the only one you see in that way.

"and I don't want you to get the wrong idea, either."

she freezes at the words, her hand stilling.

you inch in closer and your warm palm rests on her shoulder. she feels something stir inside her at the touch, wishing you'd slide the rest of your hand down her arm. you guys have touched briefly, sure, but it's usually fleeting, teasing. this, though? this is tender, and -- it's intimate. you're trying to reassure her, she can tell. she knows it's a nice thing to do, but a part of her cringes at the fact that her feelings were so badly concealed that you even needed to comfort her at all. she should be better than this.

"I don't see anyone in my group like that, okay?" you pause, and the silence between you two thickens. right before it becomes suffocating to the point of sevika forcing herself to respond, you add, your voice quiet and shaky, "trust me, it's not my friends whose attention I want like that. just one other person... who's close by."

her nostrils flare, her breaths feeling tighter than before. are you saying what she thinks you are?

"okay," she manages to get out.

"okay." your hand slips from her shoulder, and she feels the cold of your absence as you turn to leave. without thinking, her hand flies up, catching yours.

your head whips to her in surprise, eyes wide and curious.

she thumbs at your pulse point, some of her confidence regaining through feeling how it spikes. but, still, there's an undercurrent of discomfort, so she tries to steady her voice before saying, "you know, I have a pretty good shoulder too."

you laugh, ducking your head down. sevika tries not to pull you in closer, coax you to look at her when she talks. "yes, I'm sure you do," you respond, a sarcastic lilt to your voice.

"well, obviously. you're always checking me out when I work out."

you splutter, eyebrows scrunched indignantly. "well, that's because you insist on working out in front of us always! for all I know, maybe you're the one who's into someone in our group."

your voice is mocking, but sevika hears the tremors of it towards the end. are you nervous that she maybe is into someone else but you? or are you hopeful it's you?

you gave her a bit of assurance, so she might as well return the favour.

"maybe there is someone I'm trying to impress. someone who'd maybe notice that more if they weren't always shoving their face in other people's chests."

she can see how your eyes bulge at the semi-confession, your palm slick with sweat in her hand. your mouth flaps open for a few seconds, before shakily saying, "well, you did offer yourself up as a substitute."

her cheeks ache with how hard she's trying not to grin too widely. "don't get too excited."

you wring your hand from her grip, smiling coyly as you reach for her doorknob. "I'll try to contain myself."

[amirasainz]

landos little sister is super shy and does get along with the drivers but she likes to just cling to lando the entire time which he loves but oscar. she meets oscar and suddenly she has a favorite driver that’s not lando and lets oscar hold her and spend time with her. lando is not even mad because his sister’s personality is so much like oscar he knew she would love him. the others drivers are pouting

Enjoy reading and send some requests!!!

-xoxo babygirl 🧡

A Silent Connection

Yn had never been one for the spotlight, much like her brother Lando. While he thrived in the chaos of the Formula 1 world, cracking jokes and charming everyone around him, Yn was content to sit in the background, quietly observing, far more interested in watching the cars roar past than in the whirlwind of media, fans, and endless chatter.

She’d always been a little shy, a bit introverted. As a result, the paddock felt like an overwhelming place to be. She only had one person to lean on: Lando. He was her anchor. They’d grown up together, and even though they’d both grown up in the fast-paced world of racing, Lando was the only person Yn felt truly at ease with. So, when he invited her to spend time at a Grand Prix, she didn’t hesitate. It was easier for her to be around familiar faces, the ones who understood her need for space.

However, this particular weekend at the Italian Grand Prix in Monza, things were about to change in the most unexpected way.

---

It was a quiet morning at the paddock. Lando had gone off for a meeting with his engineers, leaving Yn alone on the couch in the McLaren hospitality area. She was sipping her coffee, gazing at the monitors around her that showed various bits of the weekend's events. The usual buzz of the paddock filled the air — the low hum of mechanics working on cars, the excited chatter of team members — but to Yn, it felt like all of that noise was in the background, fading into nothingness.

She had found a corner to nestle into, out of sight, where she could drink her coffee in peace. She’d done this countless times, sitting quietly and observing her brother’s world from a distance. But today, she wasn’t the only one sitting in the corner.

The door to the lounge opened quietly, and someone walked in. Yn glanced up to find Oscar, the young Australian driver, who had just joined McLaren that year. He looked around for a seat and, seeing the empty space next to Yn, he slid into the couch next to her without a word.

Yn, startled by his sudden presence, looked over at him. He was sipping his own coffee, staring blankly ahead at the monitors, his usual calm demeanor settling around him. She didn’t mind the silence. In fact, she liked it. There was no pressure to talk, no need for awkward small talk. Just the comfortable sound of people moving around them, the occasional chuckle of engineers, and the faint noise from the track outside.

Oscar, sensing her gaze, gave her a brief, polite smile. She smiled back shyly but didn’t say anything. He seemed to understand that she wasn’t much for words, and he didn’t push.

For the next hour, they sat there in perfect silence, each with their coffee, neither of them feeling the need to fill the air with conversation. For the first time in a long while, Yn felt a sense of peace. She didn’t feel judged or expected to speak. She could just… exist.

The moment was simple but profound, and it became something they both began to look forward to. Every time Yn visited the paddock in the following weeks, Oscar was there. It became their routine: he would quietly enter, glance at her, and then take a seat beside her. They would drink their coffee in silence, occasionally exchanging a nod or a smile, but mostly just enjoying the calm company.

---

It wasn’t long before Lando noticed the change in his sister. While Yn had always been content to stick by his side, she was beginning to spend more time in the lounge with Oscar. At first, he’d assumed it was just a coincidence, maybe they were talking strategy or something related to the racing side of things. But then he saw it for himself one day — the two of them sitting there together, silently enjoying their drinks, looking comfortable in each other’s company.

“You’re spending a lot of time with Oscar lately,” Lando remarked one day, raising an eyebrow as he slid into the seat across from Yn and Oscar.

Yn’s cheeks flushed slightly, but she only shrugged, her usual reserved nature still evident. “He’s… nice to be around,” she said quietly, looking down at her coffee cup.

Lando chuckled, not surprised by his sister’s understated response. He knew Yn well enough to know that “nice” was about as much as she’d give away. He didn’t mind, though. In fact, he was happy. Yn had always been so shy around everyone, and now she had found someone she could spend time with without feeling pressured. He had always wanted her to feel more comfortable in the paddock, and Oscar was a good friend — even if he wasn’t the most extroverted person, either.

Oscar, sitting beside Yn, shot Lando a casual smile. “We don’t talk much, but she’s good company. It’s… easy to be around her.”

Lando grinned. “I’m glad to hear that, mate. You’re welcome to hang out with her whenever you want. Just don’t steal her away from me completely.”

Yn’s face flushed again, but she didn’t say anything. She liked how easy it was to be with Oscar. Unlike the other drivers who constantly tried to engage her in conversation or expect her to join in their chaotic paddock discussions, Oscar didn’t push. He never tried to draw her out of her shell, never made her feel like she had to talk. He simply existed in the same space as her, and that was all she needed.

---

As the weeks went on, the friendship between Oscar and Yn grew. It wasn’t loud or attention-grabbing, but it was real. Whenever she had a free moment, Yn would be found with Oscar, sitting side by side, watching the monitors or sipping on their coffees in the lounge. It was a quiet companionship that seemed to suit them both perfectly.

Oscar, who had always been a bit reserved, found himself becoming more outgoing around Yn. It wasn’t that she asked him to, but somehow, his presence around her made him feel more comfortable, more willing to open up. It wasn’t like he was suddenly a social butterfly, but he’d start offering her small bits of conversation, teasing her gently, and making her smile. She didn’t feel like she had to respond, but she appreciated it all the same.

“You’re not as quiet as you used to be,” Lando said one day, his grin wide as he watched Oscar try to make his sister laugh.

Oscar shrugged sheepishly. “Maybe I’m just getting used to the silence,” he said with a grin. “It’s nice.”

Yn, for her part, didn’t mind it at all. She liked how Oscar had become a bit more expressive for her. It was like he had learned how to communicate in the way she preferred — without overwhelming her with noise or pressure.

---

The other drivers began to notice the growing bond between Oscar and Yn. They couldn’t help but feel a bit jealous, especially since Yn rarely spoke to them. Even the more talkative ones, like Max and Charles, found it a little odd that she seemed to reserve her energy for Oscar. It was clear that they were becoming friends, and the rest of the paddock wasn’t quite sure how to react.

“Have you noticed how quiet she is around us?” Max asked Charles one day, watching from the sidelines as Oscar and Yn exchanged a few words before falling back into their familiar silence.

Charles nodded. “Yeah, it’s like she only talks to Oscar now. It’s… strange.”

Lando, overhearing their conversation, couldn’t help but laugh. “Relax, guys. She’s not interested in being the life of the party. She’s got her own thing going with Oscar, and that’s cool with me. I’m just happy she’s found someone she can be herself around.”

Max and Charles exchanged glances. Maybe they were just a little envious that Yn, usually so shy, had managed to form such a quiet but solid bond with someone. But Lando was right — it wasn’t about stealing attention. It was about finding peace.

---

In the months that followed, Oscar and Yn continued to sit in their corner of the paddock, side by side, silent but comfortable. Lando was happy that his sister had found someone who understood her, and the drivers, while a little envious, began to understand the unspoken connection between the two.

It was simple. It was quiet. But for Yn and Oscar, it was exactly what they both needed.

[cobbled-peach]

˗ˏˋ જ⁀➴ The JJ Issue

when Spencer has to work late on a case with JJ, you find yourself spiralling with jealousy. And now, you're determined to make him remember exactly what he's been missing.

cw: 18+ Spencer reid x jealous!fem!reader. NSFW content. Mildly insecure reader, explicit language, alcohol use, mentions of masturbation, heavy making out, slightly toxic relationship and emotional manipulation if you really really look a/n: so this was a request, but I'm technologically inept and deleted it when trying to copy it to my word doc. ANYWAY, I feel like I veered slightly off topic, but I present my take on jealous!reader and some dumb bitch-ish Spencer™ for you mwah mwah please feel free to send in more requests i am happy to take whatever!!! wc: 3k

The clock flicks to 11:00 PM.

You watch the numbers change with quiet contempt, the harsh glow of the display slicing through the darkness. The sheets beside you remain cold and untouched. Empty. Too still and too silent.

Still no Spencer.

It’s the third night this week. The third night of cold pillows and even colder silence. The third night of laying in a bed made for two and wondering if your boyfriend was going to crawl in before the sun came up – or if he’d even bother returning home at all. 

He’d been busier at work in the past month, his absence only being amplified by the newest case.

You’d tried to follow along when he explained it. Something about Montclair, Virginia. Weird geographical patterns, overlapping jurisdictions, unusual victims. Apparently, it was the kind of bureaucratic mess that kept the BAU tangled in an endless supply of paperwork.

But all you’d really heard – what had stuck and started looping in your head – was JJ.

JJ.

JJ and Spencer. Working late nights in close quarters.

Beautiful, capable JJ. With her glossy hair and understanding eyes. Who could read a room in seconds and had helped Spencer through numerous cases. JJ, who had history with him. Real, lived-in history. She probably understood the way his brain worked in ways you hadn’t even discovered yet.

JJ. Who had the privilege of seeing him more often than you did lately, while you were stuck eating leftovers and watching the clock tick toward midnight.

You tried not to be the jealous girlfriend.

Tried so hard.

But it’s easier said than done when you’re alone in a dark apartment, with your texts left on read since 12:23 PM.

You can picture it too clearly – Spencer and JJ tucked away in some dim conference room, heads bowed over maps and files, shoulders brushing. JJ laughing softly. Spencer glancing up from his notes with that boyish smile that he reserves for only his favorite people. A room of shared trauma and comfort, of inside jokes and a history you can’t compete with.

You hate how vivid the image is. 

You hate how much it turns your stomach even more.

Your fingers curl around your phone, thumb hovering for a beat before you start to type:

Any idea when you’ll be home? x

You stare. Waiting.

The dot-dot-dot appears almost instantly. He’s always fast, when he can be.

No, this case is a mess. JJ and I are still trying to determine the geographical patterning. I’ll be home when I can.

That’s it.

That’s it?

No “I miss you.” No “Sorry for the late night.” No acknowledgement that its eleven-fucking-o’clock and you’re still alone, curled up in his shirt, half-hoping for the sound of him returning to break you out of this fog. Just plain, clipped Spencer-speak. Cold. Factual. Like he’s updating Hotch, not the person who shares his bed.

“JJ and I.”

Of course.

Your jaw tenses and you type again:

Should I leave the door unlocked, or is your work wife walking you home tonight?

No response. Probably back to his files. Or worse – laughing with her about something brilliant he said. You picture her touching his arm. Picture him not pulling away.

Two minutes pass, and you try again:

Let me know if she likes it when you quote Voltaire.

Maybe she even moans when you pull out statistics too.

Still nothing.

You throw your phone to the end of the bed with a dull thud, resisting the urge to follow it with your wine glass. You’re not drunk – not quite – but your veins are warm and the wine bottle is getting low. Almost as low as your patience.

You sigh, dragging a hand down your face.

It’s not that your insecure.

But it’s been a long week. And you’re tired. And lonely. And a little more than marginally horny.

And all that serves to make a deadly combination.

You glance at the wine bottle on your nightstand, dragged in here from when the living room started to feel too big. Half-empty now, or maybe half-full, but you don't feel like looking on the bright side today. Your fingers wrap around the stem of the glass like a lifeline, and you take a slow sip.

The taste of sour grapefruit and poor decisions.

It doesn’t take long for you to start wondering things you shouldn’t be wondering.

Like if JJ’s ever seen Spencer shirtless, skin flushed from an adrenaline-fueled takedown. Like if she notices the way his lashes flutter when he gets focused, and the subtle tick in his jaw when he’s trying to hold back a dirty comment. Like if she’s ever heard the quiet, shaky sound he makes when you touch him just right – a sound you haven’t heard in what feels like forever.

You huff, irritated with yourself.

This is not the kind of spiral you want to be in.

But how are you supposed to feel okay when the man you love has spent more nights with someone else this week than with you?

Someone brilliant and bright and right beside him.

Your mind drifts – dangerously, again – to what he might be doing if he was here. What you wish he was doing. Your hand plays absently with the hem of his shirt, sliding a little higher up your thigh, feeling the fabric brush over bare skin. Skin and air and silence.

You wonder if he’d even notice you were awake if he walked in right now.

Or if he’d still be thinking about JJ and her smiles.

Your stomach twists again.

You set the wine glass down, staring into the dark, heat curling beneath your skin like a storm on the verge of breaking.

You’re not proud of the jealousy. Or the spite. But tonight?

You’re not sure you care.

It’s 1:00 AM when you hear the door open.

You’ve migrated back to the couch now. Curled up like a forgotten thing in the quiet throb of the living room. A blanket is pulled tight around your shoulders, forging a cocoon of spite and cheap Sauvignon Blanc. The bottle on the coffee table is empty. There’s half a glass still in your hand, warmed by your palm. Your fingers are molded around the stem like its something keeping you grounded.

The door shuts gently.

Spencer enters the apartment the way he always does when he knows it’s late. Softly. Cautiously. The guilt doesn’t show on is face right away, but seeps in to the little things. The way he trades his leather shoes for worn slippers like they might squeak loud enough to wake you up. The careful way he sets his keys down, not with the usual absentminded clatter, but softly, like he might disturb you.

You hear the rustle of his cardigan being shrugged off and flung over the back of a chair. He moves through the apartment with the measured care of someone navigating a crime scene. Almost like a ghost; present, but not where you need him to be.

The bedroom door creaks. A pause. Then a soft, confused hum, like he’s surprised the bed is cold and vacant. 

You don’t move.

His footsteps return, still soft and hesitant, and then the living room light clicks on. It’s not bright, just enough to paint his face in a warm gold shadow. When he sees you, wrapped up and still, his features settle somewhere between relief and worry.

‘There you are,’ he says gently. ‘I didn’t think you’d still be up.’

His voice is warm. Too warm. Like he’s dealing with a wounded animal, already prepared for a potential fallout.

You don’t answer right away. Just lift the glass and sip what’s left of the wine. It brought warmth before, but now just feels thin and useless as it settles in your stomach. A comfort that has already faded.

Spencer looks like he always does after a long day – exhausted. Shirt untucked and wrinkled at the collar. His hair is tousled like he’s raked his hands through it a dozen times. His lips are parted, already searching for the right apology.

‘I couldn’t sleep,’ you say. The words land flat and cold. Sharper than you intended, but not enough to make you regret it.

His brow furrows as he takes a tentative step forward. ‘Oh no. Are you okay?’

‘Oh, just peachy.’ You flash him a malicious smile and tilt your head. ‘How’s JJ?’

‘JJ?’ he repeats. ‘She’s… fine?’

‘I bet.’

You see it in him. The subtle shift. His brain starts ticking, trying to process the change in tone, piece together context clues. His hands twitch slightly at his sides. You’ve seen it before, when he’s dealt with a particularly messy profile. It’s how he acts when trying to decode erratic behavior.

But this time, you’re the chaos.

‘What’s going on?’ he asks, slower this time. Careful.

You finally meet his eyes, steady and level. ‘You’ve spent more time with her this week than you have with me.’

He exhales and crosses his arms. Not intentionally defensive, but it comes across that way. Just the subtle shift of someone bracin against a growing storm.

‘Me and JJ? We’re working the same case,’ he offers. Not patronising, just explaining. ‘That’s how assignments work.’

A rational answer. Reasonable. Sensible. And completely useless to the part of you that’s been sitting in silence every night, nursing bitterness like it’s a glass of wine.

‘That’s not what I said,’ you reply.

You toss off the blanket and stand, wanting to be level with him.

His gaze drops, almost instinctively, to your bare thighs peeking out from beneath his shirt. Snaps it back to your face instantly. Like he caught himself doing something inappropriate, even if it wasn’t.

‘She get’s your attention,’ you say softly. ‘Your thoughts. Your little facts. Your laughter. Your time.’

His mouth opens, but no words come out.

You keep going. Getting closer enough to feel the warmth radiating from his body. 

‘And I get cold sheets and texts left on delivered.’

‘I didn’t mean to ignore you–’

‘She gets to share your space. Share your mind. Is that what gets you off now? Criminal profiling and shared trauma? Is that your kink, Doctor?’

His cheeks go red immediately.

‘She’s married,’ he points out, like that’ll resolve the tension.

‘Married women flirt too, Spencer.’

He’s still red, sputtering slightly now. ‘I don’t—I don’t think of JJ like that. I never have.’

‘Do you think of me like that?’ you challenge. ‘Or have I been bumped down your priority list below paperwork and tactical briefings? Do I need to start talking about blood spatter patterns during foreplay? Or maybe I need to join the FBI just so you’ll remember me.’

He swallows visibly, jaw tightening. ‘That’s not fair.’

‘No,’ you snap. ‘What’s not fair is me touching myself alone in our bed to the sound of your voice in some old Quantico press briefing because it’s the only version of you I could get this week.’

His eyes widen slightly. His breath catches. 

‘I think about you constantly,’ he says, almost desperate. 

You scoff. ‘Sure. Right after filing case summaries.’

‘No,’ he says, firmer now. ‘I do think about you. I just—I hyperfocus. And when I hyperfocus, my brain sort of queues everything else. It’s not about priority or importance. It’s about sequence. You’re just… waiting in line.’

‘Great,’ you say flatly. ‘I’m a fucking deli number.’

He winces. ‘That came out wrong.’

You look at him, taking a breath. Run a hand through your hair.

‘Do you think I’m crazy?’

‘No,’ he says quickly. ‘I think you’re angry and hurt. And I think you’re trying to make me angry and hurt too. Like earlier, your messages were mean. That’s why I ignored them... Now, you’re just sort of scaring me.’

That stops you. Not because you’re insulted, but because he looks genuinely lost. Innocent.

‘I’m not trying to scare you,’ you say quietly. You deflate slightly, some of the heat leaving your voice. ‘I’m just… trying to remind you that I’m still here. Wanting you. Waiting for you.’

There’s a silence.

Then–

‘I didn’t realise it was this bad. I thought you just wanted some space.'

You nod. Not spitefully, just confirming the truth.

‘Do you even remember what it was like?’ you ask. ‘When you used to come home and fuck me like you were starving. Like you couldn’t stand being apart from me. Like the space between us physically hurt you.’

He doesn’t answer. But you see the recognition in the way his jaw ticks, the way his hands clench at his sides. 

‘I miss that,’ you say. ‘I miss you.’

That look returns to his face, unsure if this is a test. If you’re being serious. If you’re going to snap at him for misreading your cues.

So you lean in – slow – until your lips are just inches from his. ‘You say you think about me constantly… prove it.’

He hesitates. Blinks. ‘You mean like—right now?’

‘Preferably in a way that makes me forget I’m mad.’

He pauses. ‘...Sexually?’

‘That would be ideal.’

He clears his throat. ‘I just want to make sure. Because sometimes when you’re upset, you use sarcasm to—’

You lift your hand, cutting him off. ‘No sarcasm now, Doctor.’

He shifts his weight, brows still drawn a little.

‘Right, okay.’ Another pause. ‘So, just to clarify – you’re asking me to have sex with you. Now. Because you want to stop being angry. Or is the sex part of the anger expression?’

You stare at him.

He continues. 

‘Because if you’re just using me to release emotional frustrations, that’s fine, I want to have sex with you, but I’d just like to know in advance so I can—’

You step in and kiss him. 

Not sweetly or softly. 

It’s the kind of kiss used to shut him up. Open mouthed and hard, tongue sweeping across his lower lip before he’s even realised your lips are touching his. For a moment, he’s caught between instinct and hesitation. Trying to figure out if this is you just getting back at him.

Then you feel him give in. His hands grip your waist, grounding himself, allowing his mouth to move with yours in a way that’s messy and uncoordinated – like he’s catching up with weeks of missed makeout sessions.

When you finally pull back, his pupils are blown wide, his lips flushed and slightly parted.

‘I’m not asking you to give me a therapeutic exercise,’ you state. ‘I’m asking you to stop thinking and touch me.’

He nods, too quickly. ‘Right. Touching… now?’

‘No. In another three days,’ you say sarcastically, grabbing his hand and sliding it beneath the hem of your shirt – his shirt – until his fingers are splayed across your ribs. 

His palm is warm. Touch a little tentative.

‘Do you even remember what touching me feels like?’ you ask, breath brushing against his cheek.

Spencer exhales sharply, the memory hitting him and punching the breath from his lungs.

‘I think about it all the time,’ he whispers.

‘Then why are you still just standing there like this is a goddamn team-building exercise?’

He snaps into focus. ‘I’m sorry. You’re just—when you’re mad, and basically half-naked, it’s hard to follow all the emotional subtext and my working memory has lost it’s buffer—’

You roll your eyes, pushing him backward until his knees hit the couch. He drops onto the cushions with a surprised noise. Part yelp, part breathless laugh.

His hands instinctively settle on your thighs as you straddle him. He stares up at you like he can’t believe this is happening. Like he doesn’t deserve for it to be happening.

You place your palm on his shoulder, playing with the soft cotton of his shirt.

‘Spencer.’

‘Yes?’

‘Please stop thinking.’

‘I’m trying.’

‘Try harder.’

You lean down and kiss him again. Slower, this time. Deeper. He responds instantly now, hands sliding to your waist, then up your back, holding you close to him. His mouth moves with less hesitation, more purpose.

‘I missed you,’ he murmurs between kisses. ‘Missed you so much. I’m sorry—I didn’t know what to say without it sounding like I was making excuses before.’

You shift your hips against him, just enough to feel him getting harder beneath you. 

‘I don’t want an apology,’ you say.

‘You don’t?’

‘No.’ You grind down again, a little harder. ‘I want you to make it up to me.’

He moans softly, head tipping back against the couch cushions. He nods in understanding, taking a moment to catch his breath before pressing his lips to your jaw, trailing them down to your throat, feeling your pulse fluttering beneath his tongue.

‘You’re so…’ he pauses for another kiss to your skin. ‘I mean, you always look good, but—God, you’re so, so pretty. I missed you.’

His fingers dig into your hips, and then his mouth is back on yours, rougher now. He’s kissing to make up for all the nights you went to bed alone, all the hours he spent at work while you touched yourself to a crackly echo of his voice. 

His hands slide up beneath your shirt again. Tracing your skin. He gets to your breasts, and gasps softly, like he’s surprised.

‘You’re not wearing anything under this.’

You roll your eyes at his astute observation.

‘You want to keep narrating?’ you ask, a little breathless. ‘Or do you want to do something about it?’

‘Doing something. Yes.’

He lifts the shirt off your body. Slow and tentative, like you’re something delicate. It’s a sight he’s seen numerous times before, bit his eyes still go wide as he takes you in. For a moment, he doesn’t move. Just stares.

‘Jesus, Spence,’ you say, nudging his shoulder, getting impatient.

‘Sorry. You’re just gorgeous. And naked. And still angry. And you—’ he pauses, runs his hand up your ribs again. ‘—feel like something I shouldn’t be able to touch.’

‘Well I’m letting you touch me.’

You grab his wrist, guiding your hand to press between your legs. He sucks in a breath, still looking up at your face.

‘This is how mad I was,’ you whisper.

His brain seems to short-circuit again. ‘I have… no response to that.’

You push your hips down against his hands. 

‘Then shut up, and make me come.’

a/n: i ummed and ahhed about putting an aftermath scene but decided not to because I lowkey like 'em toxic >:) We also do NOT hate JJ in this house, she was just convienient. I also (can you tell I like to yap?) don't know what era of Spencer Reid I pictured for this. Somewhere in the earlier seasons, maybe? But idk. You choose. I have a taglist now! Please comment if you want to be added, or go to this post here. I've decided not to put tags on my 18+ fics, just as I don't want any minor interactions with them Also, to the person who requested this: if it did not align with your request I'm so sorry and I can do if you really really want xxxx

[smoft-demons]

MC needs some extra love

_______

You’re having an off day. Your demons have asked to make sure nothing’s actually wrong, just to be safe, but they’ve seen you like this a few times before. They understand. You’re just feeling down for no particular reason. Just sad and low energy. Extra tired.

Nothing happened, no one hurt you, nothing’s wrong… you just woke up in a low mood. Because it simply be like that sometimes. You just… need some extra affection today. No reason. It’s okay, they’re not judging. They’ll do what they can to cheer you up a little—they love you, you know. They want to see you smile at least once today.

_______

Lucifer:

When Lucifer notices your mood, he softens towards you a lot. He asks if anything is wrong first of course—they all do—but once he learns that there’s nothing he needs to correct and no one he needs to punish on your behalf, he just softens. He treats you more gently than usual.

He expects you’ll get fed up entertaining all his brothers, with their endless chaotic energy. So he invites you to hide out with him in his office. You are invited to just sit with him and read, or put on some music, or play a game on your DDD, or just rest… or whatever it is that will help.

He’ll even let you curl up in his lap and cuddle with him if that’s what you want. That cheers him up too.

He quietly redistributes the most taxing of your chores for today amongst the seven of them, to give you time to recharge.

You’ll find Levi and Beel doing the dishes for you when it’s your turn, or if you’re supposed to make dinner you’ll find that Mammon and Asmo have already ordered everyone takeout, and they’re already in the middle of setting it all out on the table. You won’t have to do a thing! If you were supposed to clean up a common space in the house, it’ll already be done by some of your assorted pact partners. You might even find sticky notes placed amongst your homework in Lucifer’s, Satan’s, and Belphie’s handwriting, suggesting edits and books titles to check for better information, and pointing out any parts in your work that are particularly well done.

When you check your DDD later, you see that Lucifer had instructed his brothers to take on what they can from you to make your life easier today. He was not planning on letting you know that, clearly—because he sent that in the brothers group chat. You only know because Karasu’s spy feature showed you.

His support is shown in all these soft, quiet details. Peaceful moments. Simple, but unmistakable reminders of how loved you are. It’s okay if you don’t smile today, even though he would like you too. He will verbally remind you that loves you anyway.

_______

Mammon:

Mammon’s first instinct, of course, is retail therapy. He offers to take you shopping. He’ll even pay for your stuff! He doesn’t mind if it makes you happy!

You appreciate that very much—and maybe you’d be happy to take him up on that if you were sad for a reason, but… you just have no spare energy. Just thinking about going out exhausts you more. You’d have to deal with looking at things! And forming opinions, and deciding on stuff to buy! There’s crowds and cashiers and bright lights and just… stuff outside! You can’t, you just can’t. You have no energy and you can’t.

The first time Mammon sees you like this, he’s confused. You don’t wanna go out? You don’t want any new stuff?? He sure hasn’t felt like that before!

He puts effort into figuring out what will actually help cheer you up instead. He’s considerate that way.

He tries taking you for a long drive. He tries taking tasks off your to-do list. He tries trailing after you all day to keep you company, holding your hand, chattering all day so you can’t hear your thoughts, staying quiet so you don’t get overstimulated. He cycles through every possible approach over the months, on every random day you happen to wake up like this.

It’s all greatly appreciated—and hey, some of his ideas work better than the rest! You feel loved and cared for regardless. It’s impossible to miss how much he adores you.

Eventually though, he strikes gold!

That particular day, he had been telling you a stupid joke every time he ran into you, in an attempt to make you smile. He gets a weak grin for his troubles just about halfway through the day. He beams at you triumphantly at that, impulsively scooping you up for a hug and repeatedly kissing the top of your head, and—aha! THERE’S the smile he was looking for!

From that point on, he knows what to do!

The next time you wake up in this mood, he takes the first opportunity to give you a playfully over the top show of affection. Over the course of the day, he keeps doing it!

He runs into you in the hallway between classes, he (gently) aggressively ruffles your hair as he passes you. He finds you aimlessly walking through the house, you immediately get snatched into his arms for a nice long squeeze. You sit with him as he’s scrolling through devilgram, he sets it aside for a moment to squish your cheeks between his hands and cover your forehead and nose with loud, playful kisses. You go up to him and request attention? You get kiss attacked, and he won’t let up until you crack a smile!

Your brain hurts, he says, echoing your very first explanation. It’s okay though, he says. He’ll kiss it better, he says.

He is MORE than happy to completely discard the tsundere façade to lean into this… over-the-top affectionate silliness, as long as it continues to make you laugh and smile like that.

He won’t admit it, but… this is more honest. This is much closer to who he is at heart than his usual behaviour is. Try as he might, he can’t hide how much he cares to save his life.

The realest aspect of Mammon is not the dumbass, not the money-grubber, not the uncaring cool guy that he pretends to be… no, it’s the goofy dork who loves you SO much that he’d go to any amount of effort to cheer you up.

He’s damn good at it too! HE was put in charge of your well-being for a reason! He’s the best big brother/guardian/friend/pact partner ever, and you’re his to take care of. He’s not letting HIS human go without smiling once for a whole day! You’re the sole member of his family he can openly dote on, and dammit, he will!

_______

Levi:

Levi’s go-to is, of course, distracting you with media. He tries games first, but if you’re too low-energy for that, he gets it. He tries anime, movies, shows, videos, manga, whatever you seem to respond best to.

You’ll notice a theme of letting others help, confiding in friends, opening up to people. There are repeated instances of characters asking for support from the rest of the cast and then being helped and taken care of. Lots of power of friendship stories, lots of hurt/comfort and “it’s rotten work” “not to me, not if it’s you” and team-as-family.

Maybe, just maaaybe, he’s trying to tell you something!

He relaxes when you explain that you just woke up like this, sometimes this just happens and it’s no one’s fault, there’s no problem, he doesn’t have to worry about you. He gets that! Sometimes he wakes up like that too. It does happen!

But… you’re his player two! He wants to worry about you!

So he takes care of you the way he wishes someone would take care of him when he gets like that. Gives you the extra love he knows first-hand that you need right now. He lets you choose the entertainment, he holds your hand, and mirrors what you do to self-soothe.

If you wanna lie on the floor and stare at his jellyfish decorations, he’s right next to you. If you wanna tell Henry how you’re feeling, he’s right there with you doing the same so you don’t have to feel self-conscious. If you’re stimming, he will too. That one makes him happy as well! If you wanna burrow into a pile of blankets and plushies like a hognose snake, he totally gets it and will also do that. He does that anyway sometimes, just because it’s comfy.

There’s not a hint of judgement from Levi. Ever. He gets it.

When you guys HAVE to leave his room, like for meals and such, he lends you his headphones. So you don’t get overstimulated from all the noise his brothers make. He never goes far from you, either. He always stays close enough that you can reach for him if you want to.

After dinner, when you’re tired and done with trying to act normal (not that even one of your demons is fooled), Levi brings you back to his room. He asks if you have any requests, anything you want to do, anything he can do to help you. If you know what you need, he’ll just do it. If you don’t, he’ll offer comfort in some form that makes sense to him. He understands that all you really need is some extra love when you’re like this, so he’s not at a loss. He gets it, he feels the same way sometimes, he can do that!

You end up curled up in his lap, hiding your face in his shoulder as he watches an anime you’ve both seen before at a low volume. Familiar and comforting. He’s happy to just sit and chill with you until you feel like you’ve recharged enough. He knows you’d do the same for him.

_______

Satan:

Satan’s instinct, once he learns what’s going on, is to bring you to the quiet spot outside where the stray cats he has befriended gather and then plonk the chillest one in your lap.

Cats are perfect fluffy little warm purring bundles of free therapy, after all. How could you not be recharged by this?

He’s not wrong, the cat definitely helps. It is in fact a perfect creature.

But… well, you don’t bother to spend the energy on saying so, but being outside isn’t really helping. You cringe at every loud noise. The wind ruffling your clothes every so often is annoying you. You’re sitting on concrete and it’s making you cold. The streetlights feel particularly aggressive to your eyes today. Very stabby. There are smells outside! No one wants that!

You love the cats, but Satan is giving them all his attention and you’re getting just a little bit jealous. You as well are giving the cat in your lap all your attention, and—as stupid as you feel about it—you’re getting a little bit jealous about that too. You want attention too! All the cat has to do is be cute and soft and it can have all the petting and cuddling it wants! As it deserves, yes, but… don’t you as well, though..?

You try to push that feeling away and just pet the cat. The cat did nothing wrong, you still love it, you’re supposed to be feeling MORE recharged from this! Not… whatever it is you do feel. At the end of the day you still enjoy petting the cat and you don’t want it to leave. That’s still true and that’s what matters, you tell yourself.

Eventually the cat decides it’s had enough petting for now, and gets up. Satan checks on you, fully expecting you to be thoroughly cheered up! Instead he sees you staring forlornly at your hands, mostly zoned out. Confused, he asks if you’re okay.

You nod once, giving him a hollow smile.

Now he’s concerned. He takes a minute to finish petting the cats surrounding him—noting the hint of jealousy in your eyes as you observe him—then comes to sit on the concrete stair next to you.

He gently points out that he knows you well enough to detect a lie. Especially an unconvincing lie like that. You give a noncommittal hum in reply. That’s all you have the energy for.

He wraps an arm around your shoulders, letting you slump against his side. Your head leans against his shoulder. His other arm comes up to stroke your head for a moment, then drops down again to take your hand.

In a small, tired voice, you thank him. He gives your hand a gentle squeeze in reply.

Eventually he adjusts you so he can hold you more comfortably. Every so often he kisses the top of your head, or rubs your shoulder, or squeezes your hand, or says something quietly to you. Pointing out a interesting leaf shape, telling you something inconsequential about his day, prompting you to look when one of the cats does something cute, reminding you that he loves you and it’s okay to feel like this. That he enjoys your company no matter what mood you’re in.

This helps a lot more. Eventually you have enough energy to reply to him in full sentences! He’s visibly relieved at that. Still, he continues to hold you.

It’s after this point that a different cat comes up to you. It sniffs your shoelace then rubs itself against your leg. It flops over your shoe, stretching adorably with its little paws reaching up. It looks up at you all wide-eyed and cute, and finally you give a short puff of a laugh. Satan feels it more than hears it, but still!! He feels successful!

You pet this cat as it stands up and sniffs at your free hand. You look at it with a little smile. There’s a bit more soul in this smile, to Satan’s relief.

Later, as the two of you are leaving, he slips the cat a treat and whispers a thank you to it. Then he takes your hand again and leads you back home.

(He makes a mental note to himself for next time: pet the sad human first!! Then go see the cats!)

_______

Asmo:

Asmo notices that you’re having one of those days today, and he rushes to spoil you. Like Mammon, his first instinct is to take you shopping—but specifically for clothes and makeup and skincare products. Stuff that would cheer him up.

But you’re tired, and he understands that. It’s okay, he still knows what to do!

Asmo brings you into his room. You curl up in a sad, tired lump on his bed. He lets you chill there while he gathers up the stuff he wants.

He returns to you with his arms full of stuff! Nail polish, face masks, a hairbrush, moisturizer and hair oil, etc etc. Stuff for taking care of you.

He makes a point of only doing stuff that doesn’t sting at all. No plucking eyebrows or messing with your cuticles or anything like that. Just the stuff that feels nice.

Asmo quietly chatters about people he knows and stuff he’s used and whatever the latest gossip he’s heard is. Not even really to inform you this time, because he knows you’re probably not gonna remember much when you’re like this, but more to provide you with a constant, grounding backdrop of his familiar voice.

He speaks softly to you as he wipes your face with cleanser and then proceeds with his skincare process. He gently brushes your hair, spending twice as long as necessary just because it feels nice. He insists you don’t bother to move as he sits next to you and paints your nails.

At some point he runs out of stuff to do, so he ends up just brushing over your face with a clean makeup brush. No product on it at all, he’s just doing it to make you relax, because it’s soft and it feels nice. It’s meditative, honestly. For both of you.

He spends a good long while doing that.

He finishes up and lies down next to you. He pulls you into a cuddle. You offer to return the favour for him. Do his skincare and hair and nails and stuff for him, spoil him back—because he deserves the best.

For the first time ever, he declines. He shushes you and holds you tighter. This is the only situation in which he would ever refuse that!

He says you’re more than welcome to return the favour tomorrow if you like, but for now he just wants you to rest. He did all that for you to get you in this relaxed state you’re in right now, don’t get up and un-relax yourself so fast! Keep your brain turned off! It’s good for you sometimes!

… yes, Asmo is surprised by his own selflessness too—more surprised than you are by now, knowing him. He’s always been selfless for your sake since you first became his friend. It still surprises him though.

_______

Beel:

Beel is your best guy for validation. For quiet, thoughtful, unwavering support. He’s a lot more insightful than he’s often given credit for. He’s one of the best people in this family in terms of emotional intelligence, no question about it.

He knows just what to do. He observes you as the day goes on, taking the first opportunity to pull you aside and check on you without any others around. Just to make absolutely sure there’s nothing else going on.

His voice is soft, his hands are gentle, and he puts effort into understanding you. You’re family, he loves you so much! So of course he would.

He’ll share his food with you of course—both because he wants you to know that he loves you that much, and because he’s trying to remove a task from your to-do list. You don’t have to think about getting food and preparing it and any of that if he just. Does it for you. You can spend your very limited energy elsewhere.

He’ll take you with him on his routine walk, just so you can have a change of scenery and an opportunity to chat uninterrupted.

He listens to you complain about being outside with his characteristic placid sympathy—a combination that would be a bit contradictory if it came from anyone else, but somehow makes perfect sense for Beel. It’s soothing. Reassuring, somehow. He helps a lot, just by being himself.

When you inevitably run out of energy—much quicker than you usually do, but you expected that—he offers to carry you. Or rather, he automatically goes to do it on muscle memory, because that’s just what he does with tired loved ones (Belphie usually). He catches himself and realizes he should ask first in this case. Just to make sure. He’s considerate like that.

You are very tired… and you want contact. So of course you accept the offer. How could you refuse when he offers so earnestly?

He walks in measured, consistent steps as he carries you. The sway of his movement is deliberately relaxing. He’s trying to lull you into a meditative haze, or maybe put you to sleep. Either is good, he thinks.

The warmth of him makes the… everything about being outside when you’re feeling this way a lot more tolerable. The sounds of his footsteps, his breaths, his heartbeat… all of that drowns out the background noise just enough. Your face is pressed into his jacket, so the streetlights don’t stab your eyes and all the distressingly inconsistent outside smells are entirely covered by the spices-aromatics-soap scent of Beel. It’s a smell you know very well, and the familiarity of it is grounding.

Everything about him is grounding, really. He really did know exactly what to do.

At the end of the day… it’s okay if you don’t smile. He would like you to, of course, but he will meet you where you’re at. Anyway, it’s more important to him that you feel like it’s safe to show however it is you actually feel around him. He understands the amount of trust that takes, and he’s honoured by it. Nothing is more important to him than that trust.

So, you don’t have to smile. It’s okay.

Don’t be strong, he tells you. There’s no need, for now. Just let him. Rest, lean on his strength—he’s got more than enough for both of you. He’s got you. He’s not going anywhere.

_______

Belphie:

Oh, you’re tired? A bit sad, a bit grouchy? Damn. Looks like even HE has more energy than you today. That’s not something he sees often! Well, that’s fine. He knows what to do.

It’s straight to baby jail with you!

In his arms, that is. In bed, surrounded by his best pillows, covered by the least warm heavy blanket he has, so you won’t overheat but will still feel nice and covered.

He positions you so you’re facing each other, with your head tucked under his chin. So you have room to comfortably breathe and talk, but your face is still as covered as possible so you won’t be bothered by any lights.

Emotional intelligence may not be Belphie’s strong suit, but he is observant and he understands exhaustion. This may not exactly be the usual kind of exhaustion, but still! There’s no demon better equipped to understand what’s going on with you right now, just by nature.

He’s totally fine with cuddling you in silence if you don’t feel like talking. That really works for him, actually, because it allows him to nap.

Not that he doesn’t WANT to listen to you. He does. He’d be happy to. But he gets it if you don’t wanna bother with that. It’s okay.

He will, however, delay taking a nap until you doze off first. He just wants to make sure you’re okay. He’s not about to just fall asleep and abandon you if you still need attention.

If you’re not falling asleep very fast, he will help. Not with magic, surprisingly. He’s being more… gentle, he supposes, than that in this situation.

He talks quietly about nothing important. The soft drone of his voice, kept consistent and deliberately soporific, melts into your brain like butter, slowing it way down. Blocking everything else out. Gradually turning it off. One hand rubs your back slowly, almost as if to match the rhythm of his voice.

It’s so relaxing. You feel like you could stay like this forever and never want to move, you’re that comfortable.

Belphie knows what he’s doing.

It works really well! He makes sure you feel loved and cared for, then makes sure you get some extra rest. Mental and physical recharging.

Of course, you wake up feeling a lot better. Maybe not entirely back to your normal self yet, but definitely better. How could you not?

You’re a lot less tired after you’ve slept, and less sad too… so he’s succeeded—but you’re still not smiling!

He can fix that, right?

He lets you get up and stretch first, of course. He does the same. Before you leave the room though, he wraps you up in another hug.

He pulls back to examine your face after a minute or two.

Hmm… you look comfy, but still no smile! He can’t have that! So he hugs you tightly again, but this time his fingers start to lightly poke and brush over your sides. He’s trying to force you to smile by tickling you. He’s not gonna do too much, he’s not trying to overwhelm you. He stops as soon as you crack a smile.

There we go, he says as he gives you one last gentle squeeze. That was all he wanted, he tells you.

He doesn’t let go of you for long, over the rest of the day. Always holding your hand, giving you random hugs, draping himself over your shoulders—but without making you take all his weight for once, because he knows you’re still kinda tired. Enough of it to be soothing, but no more. Just so you don’t get lonely. He doesn’t want you to get all sad again.

If you do get sad again though, it’s okay. He will squish the sadness out of you all over again, as many times as you need. He doesn’t mind.

_______

[hyunebunx]

˖˙ ᰋ ── i didn't hear what you said, i just want to kiss you

﹙ʚɞ˚﹚. genre: fluff

﹙ʚɞ˚﹚. a/n: this is for all of my perfectionist students lmao. kind of self indulgent and super inspired by hyunjin's latest live. enjoy!! <3<3<3

For years now, your boyfriend has been your favorite study partner. Always patient, kind, and considerate of your needs, helping you tackle every difficult subject with a smile on his face. Bringing you snacks, urging you to take breaks whenever he sensed you needed it but most importantly, never pressuring you in any way. Despite your stellar marks, he always says:

“Don’t stress too much about it. Grades aren’t everything.”

And you believe him, you really do, yet the overachiever part of your soul is always louder, and never lets you rest, yelling in your ear until you comply and spend your whole day cooped up inside, studying.

You need to get the highest grade possible, otherwise you’ll shrivel up and die.

Hyunjin keeps you grounded, that’s why there’s no better person alive than your boyfriend. An angel in disguise who has somehow fallen from grace, lost his wings, and is now trapped on earth, forced to mingle with mere mortals like you.

And mingle he does. But unfortunately for him that’s not enough – he also has to teach you statistics.

“See? The difference between descriptive statistics and inferential statistics is quite simple. It’s easier to tell them apart now, right?”

“I guess…” You yawn, setting your glittery pen aside before stretching your arms above your head. “I need a break.”

Hyunjin cocks a brow, amused. “We just started.”

“Half an hour ago!” You point towards the clock on the far wall, hidden behind endless amounts of bookshelves.

“Exactly, we barely managed to scratch the surface.” He pouts, running a hand over his buzzed head in slight exasperation.

You have to resist the urge of squishing his cheeks together, not wanting to make a scene in public. Cuteness aggression was a real thing you fought with every day. “I’m not going to lie, my love. I stopped listening to whatever you were explaining 15 minutes ago.”

“What?”

You nod. “I didn’t hear anything you said.” Then, you scoot closer, gluing yourself to his side as your voice drops several octaves. “I just want to kiss you.”

Hyunjin’s eyes widen slightly at your confession, swiftly looking around to ensure the nearby tables are still vacant. Then, he tongues his cheek in the most attractive way you’ve witnessed, a smirk hanging off the corners of his mouth as he shakes his head.

“After you finish this chapter.” He eventually breathes out, allowing one of his hands to rest on your upper thigh and squeeze in encouragement.

Your head falls back with a groan, frustrated. “Come on, Hyun!” the way you drag out his name has him chuckling lowly, eyes sparkling. “Haven’t I suffered enough?”

“Suffer?” He laughs, poking your forehead. “You’ll only suffer if you fail this test.”

“I won’t fail.” You huff, jerking back. His hand then slips off your thigh and the lack of warmth has you scrawling right back, wounding your arms around his neck to bring him even closer, hoping he’ll cave.

Hyunjin’s eyes fall to your lips, and you know it’s a matter of time before the spell you got him under works its magic. “Of course, you won’t. I won’t allow it.”

Your bright smile snaps his attention back to your eyes, which he seems to get lost exploring, absorbed by the beautiful color. Without missing a beat, you lean forward to connect your lips, eager to taste the cherry chapstick you applied on him when he complained about his lips being dry.

You guess even angels can get dehydrated.

Making out at the library on a Thursday night was never on your bingo card, but with Hyunjin as your partner in crime, you wouldn’t mind doing anything. He makes you feel safe in any situation, but especially when you have to get out of your comfort zone, tackle life head-on when putting things on hold is no longer an option.

You manage to peck his lips, once, twice, and then three times before he brings you closer, big hands sliding down from your waist to your hips and squeezing, needing to feel your flesh between his fingers.

His tongue brushes against your lower lip, and as your mouth opens to allow him access to every part of you, a low moan escapes you both simultaneously. Alcohol was overrated – you’ve only ever gotten drunk on each other.

“We don’t even share a major.” He gasps as he pulls away, and your lips find his jaw.

“I know.” Another kiss graces the beautiful mole under his eye.

With the way you’re kissing him, your lips trailing down his throat, Hyunjin has trouble speaking. “I-I’ve never taken this class before.”

“I know.” You nod, pecking the base of his neck.

A shiver runs down his spine, and his hold on you tightens, almost like he’s ready to lift and place you on his lap, deeming you too far away. “So why do I keep helping you like I’m some dean’s list student?”

“Because you love me.” You finally stop to look into his eyes, heart fluttering at the way his chest is already weaving up and down after a few minutes of innocent kisses. Your touch has always had that effect on him, so you were never confused about his feelings towards you. Hyunjin wore his heart on his sleeve, body reacting faster than his brain could process, never failing to show you how near and dear you are to him. How much he adored every one of your endearing quirks, loving you unconditionally like it was a duty he never wanted to be free of. “As much as I love you.”

With a cocky smirk he barely manages to muster, he replies while tucking some hair behind your ear. “I think I love you a little more than you love me, actually.”

“That’s impossible, Hyun.”

And you were certain of it. Nothing could be bigger than the love you held for this angel.

[kquil]

JAMES POTTER | GENUINE

SUM. : your boyfriend finally takes a role who has a romantic interest but his expression is hardly convincing; only you can get a genuine reaction from him

LENGTH : 1.8k

TAGS : actor james potter au ; modern au ; muggle au ; singer reader au ; actor/director sirius black au ; actress marlene mckinnon au ; fluff ; celebrity couple goals ; james can't do romantic roles ; he's too loyal!

“CUT!” Sirius shouts and James drops his shoulders in disappointment, his expression of ‘hopeless love’ also slipping off his face. This is why he wasn’t suited for romantic roles. As Sirius shouts for everyone to take a short five-minute break, James catches Marlene sending him a sympathetic look before moving to her chair with the help of her make-up team, who lifted the heavy skirt of her wedding dress for easier movement. “Come on James, what’s gotten into you?” Sirius asks, making his way over as Remus touches up James’ hair and suit. 

“I’m trying Sirius,” the actor sighs, “I think I just need a break to collect myself and then I can finally get that winning take for you,” 

“You better,” Sirius playful threatens, “I know you’re a lovesick fool so I know the type of infatuated expressions you can pull. Just try to emulate that and you’re golden, okay?”

‘It’s not that easy if it isn’t her…’ James was tempted to protest but settled with a simple, “Okay…” satisfied, Sirius walks away with Remus to discuss some things with the camera crew while James leans against the set’s alter. 

As an actor, James should find it easy to perform his characters’ expressions and emotions, his stardom and recurring roles in thriller, action and adventure films were a sentiment to that. However, his current role requires romantic displays, something he had actively avoided in his acting career. 

Characters that had passionate, romantic and intimate scenes were roles James tended to avoid primarily due to his endless loyalty to you, his childhood sweetheart. As young teens, you and James fell in love long before your successes. Since then, you have only grown a deeper love for each other, fostered by the hardships that came with your dreams of becoming a singer and his of becoming an actor with Sirius. 

His best friend eventually divulged into directing his own films whilst James continued expanding his career as an actor — as much as he’s able to with the number of scripts he’s dropped for their romantic interests and amorous scenes. It didn’t sit right with him having to kiss another girl let alone look lovingly at someone that wasn’t you. He felt like a cheat. Many, including Sirius, however, have told him that it was part of his job but James was insistent on making no exceptions. He respected you and the love you shared too much. The same way you would play your own love interest in music videos while wearing a short wig and masculine attire. It was a show of mutual respect you both had for the other before and after your relationship became public. 

The only reason James had taken on this role was due to Sirius’ insistence as the director, the lack of intimate scenes as well as the dominating adventure, and fantasy genre. It would all be underpinned by small heartfelt moments with his character’s love interest played by his close friend Marlene McKinnon. The two characters’ love story will end in tragedy, haunted by the trope of ‘right person, wrong time’. James believed he could convincingly play his loving expressions only brought on by you in the rare, romantic moments his character shares with Marlene’s but it’s proving harder than he originally thought. Simply thinking about you wasn’t enough…

Mulling over his character’s story, James imagines you in Marlene’s place. He only had three minutes remaining to focus on how he should convey his character’s ‘hopeless love’ convincingly. 

To concentrate, he closes his eyes and thinks deeply, ignoring the sudden scuffle and whispers around him. On an adventure to rescue his unrequited love’s significant other, James selflessly volunteers to aid in her quest, protecting her and cherishing her throughout the arduous journey, putting his life at risk for a girl who would never love him back. Unselfishly, he continues forward without drawing any attention to the deep love he holds for her, the audience kept in suspense of his mysterious ambitions— that is, until the dream sequence. In his sleep, influenced by the surrounding, foreign plants’ effects, James dreams of his ideal future, one where he gets to marry his love, who will reciprocate his feelings wholeheartedly. It’s the moment all audience members realise James’ true motivations, encouraging a swell of heartache amongst them when they are forced to accept the reality his own character is made to face: that he cannot be with his love no matter despite his efforts. Her heart belongs to another and if he were to fall for the plant’s trap, he will never wake up from his heavenly dream-come-true and become living fertilsier to continue the plant’s life. The heartache of that realisation is further emphasised when James doesn’t stop loving her in his own, silent and benevolent way. 

This is going to be a big moment for James’ character; he needs to put his all into this!

Before he has the chance to open his eyes, however, James is already being led to his spot on the set by Remus. The brunette informs him that the short break is over and instructs him to start before his turn to face Marlene. 

“Again, the shot’s focus will be on your face, James, Make it a good one,” Sirius instructs from his director’s chair and, with a small pause cues for the start of the hundredth take.

Opening his eyes gradually, as if waking up from a dream, James takes a moment to analyse his surroundings. He meets the eyes of his groomsmen, shooting them a confused look before slowly turning and raising his gaze. He’s become familiar with Marlene in her wedding dress now so her off-centred placement doesn’t deter him. He also fully trusts in the team, if they saw it fit to make any changes, he’ll help follow through. Marlene is only slightly off centre, he realises, to accommodate the camera’s view of his expression more clearly. James fully expects to only see Marlene, however, when he finally raises his gaze, in the distance, he sees you by the camera. 

And James immediately smiles. 

He completely forgets where he is, rather, he savours the warmth that fills his chest at the sight of you, the burst of elation in his brain when he sees you smiling at him, dressed in his oversized sweater and your casual jeans. You’re not in a wedding dress nor dolled up the same way Marlene is for the take but you’re just as gorgeous. There’s a tingling itch in his fingertips to reach out for you and he almost does but stops when he remembers where he is and what’s happening around him. His look of sweeping joy and deep affection falters ever so slightly but is completely captured by the camera’s close-up shot. James’ internal berating of another failed performance barely begins when Sirius is suddenly cheering in delight. 

“CUT! AND PRINT!” Sirius claps and laughs at the success but James is left blinking in confusion. Did he hallucinate you? He looks in your direction again. No, you weren’t a figment of his imagination, you’re really here! “Finally! That was what I was looking for! Great idea on putting her beside the camera, Moony,” 

Remus nods his head in graceful humility as you giggle from where you stand. You had planned a surprise visit for James and called Remus beforehand for access to the set. It was the perfect surprise considering you had barely seen each other the last few weeks; he was busy filming with Sirius and Marlene while you were recording songs for your new, up-and-coming album. That only seemed to add to James’ favourable reaction, however. 

“BREAK!” Sirius announces with a wink directed at you, “Let's give the two love birds a moment, as thanks for finally getting the job done. Let’s give it ten!” it seemed as though succeeding after multiple failures had made Sirius a little too happy and laidback but who was James to complain? As Marlene knowingly smirks at him, he runs past and launches himself at you. With a squeal, you return his embrace and giggle into his shoulder. 

“I missed you…” he whispers into your crown.

“Surprise!” you announce despite the lateness and giggle again. Music to his ears. 

“Thanks for helping me with my scene, love,” he pulls away with deep affection swimming in his hazel eyes and he cups your jaw while resisting the urge lean in and kiss you endlessly. He loves the sound of your voice just as much as the feel of your lips against his own so, for now, he’ll willing listen. He can taste your sweet lips later.  

“I didn’t really know what was happening but I’m happy to help,” 

“You’re so cute,” he sighs and finally pulls you into passion-filled kiss before you can utter another word. "I can't believe you're my lady,"

"Your lady?"

"Yes," James giggles and kisses your cheek again and again and again, "my lady, the same way, I'm your man,"

"Mmm, sounds good," you utter against his lips, "I'll have to feature you in my new music video then~"

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅

“...tell me about that scene. It was such a big moment for the audience and your character. How did you manage to look so in love but then so heartbroken?” the interviewer asks, smiling but tilting his head in curiosity when Marlene burst out laughing. 

“Oh, this is such a good story!” James looks away, unable to meet his co-star and friend’s mischievous smirk and glimmering eyes, “Can I tell him?” she doesn’t even give him the chance to answer before ingeminating the tale, “James couldn’t get that moment right for multiple takes. We were all getting tired of him, really. But since Sirius knew he was capable of being a love-drunk fool, he persisted for over an hour! And this is just for a one minute section of the film!” James finally chuckles despite his flustered expression when Marlene makes a side comment about how the wedding dress was a chore to wear for such an extended period of time and didn’t appreciate James’ slow uptake, “there wasn’t even an after-party for me to let loose in, my supposed ‘groom’ had his brain elsewhere,” the two share a laugh and James picks up on the story. 

“Elsewhere, meaning my girlfriend. She actually planned a surprise visit during filming and was brought in by Remus. He put her right by the camera and the reaction you saw on film was my reaction to seeing her instead of Marlene.” his co-star coos at how adorable he is whenever he’s around you and gossips with the interviewer about how cute of a couple the two of you make behind the scenes. 

“Is that why you’ve become her love interest in the music videos for her new album?” the interviewer asks impromptu. He’s on the edge of his seat and is a clear fan of your music, which makes James happier than if the man was to say he was a fan of him.  

“Naturally,” James smiles to himself, “she did say I was the inspiration for her love ballads,”

NAVI.

A/N : this was inspired by this tiktok and a daydream i had! the anime is called 'Frieren: Beyond Journey's End', I've never watched it but it was on my fyp, i did some exploring and, now, here i am (๑˃́ꇴ˂̀๑) i hope you darlings enjoyed the read!

[theonottsbxtch]

TEEN IDLE | MV1

an: god this idea came to me while listening to teen idle by marina and lowkey kinda liked where i ended it, so i hope you enjoy it just as much and i won't write a pt 2 to this- unfortunalety for me my beloved friend hasn't proof read this one so apologies

wc: 2.8k

MAX VERSTAPPEN WAS RAISED FOR THIS. Before he could walk, he was sat in a go-kart; before he could read, he knew the weight of a steering wheel in his hands. His father made sure of that. Other kids had footballs, bicycles, summer holidays. He had telemetry sheets and tyre wear reports.

He was bred to be a champion, and so he became one.

By twenty-eight, Max had won everything there was to win. Multiple titles, records shattered, his name etched into the sport’s history books. And yet, looking back, it all felt like one long, unbroken blur—an endless series of podiums, press conferences, mechanics’ murmurs, and the relentless pressure of being the golden boy.

He could barely remember what it was like to be young, not properly. There were flashes, though. The sharp, acrid scent of petrol in the garage. The weight of his father’s expectations pressing down on him like a vice. The way his stomach had twisted before every junior race, knowing that second place was never good enough.

And then there were the times he could barely remember. That he should remember.

He had been seventeen, teetering on the edge of adulthood but feeling nothing like a man. She had been older—how much older, he wasn’t sure anymore, but old enough for it to feel like something forbidden. He’d told himself it was what he wanted, that he needed to do it. To feel something, to prove something.

Afterwards, he had stared at the ceiling, waiting for some grand revelation, some fundamental shift inside him. It never came.

He didn’t feel like more of a man.

And now, sitting in his driver room in another city, another race weekend, another meaningless milestone approaching, he wonders if anything ever really has.

He saw himself in the mirror across the room, still in his race suit, half unzipped, the fireproofs underneath clinging to his skin. His hair was damp, sticking to his forehead. He looked older than he remembered. Maybe it was the lighting. Maybe it was the exhaustion.

Maybe it was just the truth.

His phone vibrated on the bedside table. Another message he wouldn’t answer. He knew what it would say. Some journalist fishing for a quote. Someone from the team reminding him about media duties. A half-hearted invitation to drinks he had no interest in.

He ignored it.

Instead, he let himself sink back into the mattress, staring at the ceiling, replaying it all again. The wasted years. The wasted youth. The pretty lies, the ugly truth.

He had once thought that if he just won enough, if he proved himself enough, it would all start to mean something. That the hollow feeling would go away. But it never had.

He remembered being ten years old, crying in the back of his father’s car after a race he should have won. The slap, sharp and stinging. If you want to be the best, you can’t be weak.

He remembered being fifteen, standing on the top step of the podium, trophy in his hands, cameras flashing. His father’s arm around his shoulder, grip just a little too tight. See? This is what you were made for.

He remembered being seventeen, sheets tangled around his legs, a woman whose name he barely knew tracing her fingers down his chest. Was that what you wanted?

He hadn’t known what to say then. He still didn’t.

His driver room was silent except for the faint hum of the air conditioning, the city lights seeping through the gap in the curtains. He had spent years surrounded by noise—engines screaming, crowds chanting, his father’s voice drilling into his skull—and yet, in the quiet, he still heard it all.

He exhaled, long and slow, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. It was easier not to think. Easier to let the days blur together, one podium, one interview, one flight after another.

But some nights—like this one—he couldn’t help but wonder if he had ever really been alive at all.

He stayed there for a while, sprawled across the bed, staring at the ceiling as if it might give him some sort of answer. It never did. The room felt too still, too clinical, the kind of place designed for fleeting stays and nothing more. He had lived in hotels and motorhomes for most of his life, but none of them had ever felt like home.

Eventually, he forced himself to move. Peeling off his fireproofs, he let them drop to the floor, stepping over them as he made his way to the tiny en-suite. The mirror above the sink reflected someone he barely recognised. Shadows clung beneath his eyes, and a faint red mark on his forehead from his balaclava made him look even more exhausted than he felt.

He turned the tap on, splashing cold water onto his face, then braced his hands against the sink, head hanging low. He needed to get out.

Throwing on a plain t-shirt and an old hoodie, he grabbed a cap from the side table and pulled it low over his eyes. It was enough to make him anonymous—just another man slipping into the night, nothing special.

The paddock had mostly emptied by now, a few lingering mechanics finishing up for the evening, murmured conversations carrying through the cool air. He walked with purpose, shoulders hunched, hands stuffed into his pockets. No one stopped him. No one even looked twice.

By the time he reached the edge of town, he found what he was looking for. A pub, run-down but still open, the glow of neon signs flickering in the window. It wasn’t the kind of place anyone from the paddock would go, which was exactly why he chose it.

Inside, the air was thick with the smell of stale beer and cheap cologne, a low hum of conversation and the occasional scrape of a chair against the floor. A few old blokes sat hunched over their pints, barely sparing him a glance as he made his way to the bar.

“Can I help?” the bartender asked, barely looking up as he wiped down the counter.

“Whisky,” he said, voice hoarse from a day of interviews and radio calls. “Neat.”

The glass clinked against the wood a few moments later. He took it without a word, moving to a quiet corner, away from the dim overhead lights.

He took a sip. It burned on the way down, but at least it made him feel something.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, nursing the drink, letting the noise of the bar blur around him. Long enough for the ice to melt, for the world outside to fade into nothing.

For the first time in a while, he felt like nobody. And somehow, that was a relief.

The whisky went down too easily. He swirled the last of it in his glass, watching the way the light caught the amber liquid, then tipped it back, letting it burn its way down. He wasn’t drunk, not yet, but the edges of everything felt softer. Less sharp. Less real.

He was about to signal the bartender for another when she appeared. She slid into the seat opposite him without hesitation, eyes flicking towards the entrance before settling on him.

He barely had time to register her presence before a man followed, taller, broader, the kind of bloke who walked like he owned the room. The girl didn’t look at him, just leaned forward, resting her arms on the table as she spoke.

“See, I told you my boyfriend was waiting for me.”

Max didn’t move. Didn’t react. But he caught the way her fingers curled slightly, gripping the edge of the table just a little too tight. The man hovered for a second too long, gaze shifting between them, then exhaled sharply through his nose.

“Right,” he muttered, before turning and stalking back towards the bar.

She waited until he was gone before she relaxed, shoulders dropping ever so slightly. Then she looked at Max properly, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“Thanks for that,” she said, not sounding particularly sorry.

He didn’t respond, just pushed his empty glass aside, already regretting getting involved in whatever this was. But she didn’t seem bothered by his silence. She tilted her head, eyeing the glass, then raised a brow at him.

“What are you drinking?”

“Doesn’t matter,” he muttered, shifting slightly in his seat. He wasn’t in the mood for small talk, least of all with a stranger who had just used him as an excuse to shake off some bloke she clearly had no interest in.

But she ignored him, her eyes flicking to the last few amber drops in his glass before he could move it out of sight.

“Whisky,” she said, like she had figured him out. Then, before he could protest, she got up and strode towards the bar.

He sighed, dragging a hand down his face. He should leave. Finish the last drops, disappear into the night, let her deal with whatever mess she was in on her own.

But when she returned, setting a fresh glass down in front of him with a quiet clink, he didn’t move.

“Cheers, boyfriend,” she teased, raising her own glass.

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly, but picked up the drink anyway.

For now, he stayed.

She took a sip of her drink, watching him over the rim of her glass. He could feel her curiosity, the way she was studying him, trying to fit him into a story in her head.

“So,” she said eventually, setting her glass down, “do I get to know my fake boyfriend’s name?”

He hesitated. It was a simple enough question, but it felt like a trap. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was the whisky. Maybe it was the way she had just waltzed into his night without permission, without expectation. But before he could stop himself, he said, “Emilian.”

It was his middle name. He didn’t know why he hadn’t said Max, that was far more common that Emilian.

She raised an eyebrow. “Emilian, huh?”

He nodded once, taking a slow sip of his drink to avoid looking at her properly.

She didn’t question it. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, tilting her head slightly. “Alright, Emilian. What are you out drinking for?”

He considered lying again. Saying something easy, something normal. But the truth slipped out before he could think of anything else.

“I’m tired,” he said simply. “Needed a break from work.”

Her expression shifted slightly—not quite pity, but understanding. “Bad day?”

“Long day,” he corrected. “Long… few years, actually.”

That made her huff a quiet laugh. “Yeah, I know that feeling.” She took another sip, then rested her chin on her hand. “What do you do?”

He should have said something vague. Something non-committal. But the whisky was settling in now, loosening the grip on his thoughts, and the lie came out before he even knew why he was telling it.

“I’m a mechanic.”

It felt strange, saying it. Unfamiliar, but safe.

She hummed, tilting her head. “Huh. Thought you might be something like that.”

He frowned slightly. “Why?”

She shrugged. “Dunno. Just got the vibe.” Then she smirked. “Or maybe I saw the oil stains under your nails.”

His pulse jumped for a second before he realised she was joking. His hands were clean—too clean, probably, for someone who supposedly worked in garages all day—but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Must be a stressful job, if it’s got you drinking alone,” she added, watching him over her glass again.

He exhaled, glancing down at the whisky in his hand. “Yeah,” he said, and for the first time that night, it wasn’t a lie.

He rolled his glass between his fingers, watching the whisky catch the dim light. Then, without really thinking, he asked, “What about you? Why are you out this late?”

She exhaled through her nose, tipping her head back slightly. “Was walking home from a wake,” she said, matter-of-fact. “Then that bloke started following me, so I figured I’d use you.”

There was no shame in it, no hesitation. Just a casual admittance, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. She took another sip of her drink, then smirked slightly. “There’s always some sad sod drinking alone somewhere.”

He let out a small laugh at that—barely more than a huff of breath, but it surprised him nonetheless.

“Lucky me, then,” he muttered, shaking his head.

She raised her glass slightly in mock toast.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The bar buzzed around them, low conversations, clinking glasses, the occasional burst of laughter from a table near the back.

Then he asked, “Who died?”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t shift uncomfortably or drop her gaze.

“My dad.”

He blinked. “Shit.”

She shrugged, swirling the last of her drink.

“Sorry,” he said automatically, but even as the words left his mouth, he was already wondering—how would he feel if his dad died?

Would it be relief? Would it be grief? Would it be anything at all?

She must have seen something in his face because she let out a dry laugh. “Don’t apologise,” she said, tipping her glass towards him before downing the rest of it in one go. “He was a right old cunt.”

That made him snort before he could stop himself. He coughed, shaking his head as he took a sip of his own drink. “Christ.”

She grinned. “I mean, it’s true. Everyone was there, saying all this bollocks about what a great man he was, and I was just sat there thinking, what a load of shite.”

Max watched her, the way she spoke so bluntly, so freely. He tried to imagine standing at his own father’s funeral, people saying things about what a hard man he’d been, how much he’d sacrificed for his son, how proud he would have been.

He wasn’t sure he’d believe a word of it.

She leaned forward slightly, eyeing him. “Bet you weren’t expecting that answer.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “No. Can’t say I was.”

She smirked. “Well, you don’t look like the type to have a good relationship with your dad either, so…”

His grip tightened on his glass for half a second before he forced himself to relax. He didn’t reply.

She didn’t press.

Instead, she raised her empty glass, tilting it towards him. “Another?”

He should have said no. Should have left while he still had the sense to.

But he didn’t.

“Yeah,” he said, finishing the last of his whisky. “Go on, then.”

And just like that, he let himself sink a little further into the night.

The air was crisp as they walked, the quiet hum of the city settling around them. The streets weren’t quite empty—there were still a few late-night stragglers, people spilling out of pubs, voices carrying in the cool night—but it was calmer now, the chaos of earlier fading into something softer.

She shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket, tilting her head back slightly as she walked. “Where you staying, then?”

“One of the hotels by the track,” he said, not thinking much of it.

She let out a low whistle. “Bet that’s a nightmare with the F1 on. Must be packed. Loud as hell.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Something like that.”

She hadn’t connected the dots. Maybe it was the drinks, or maybe she just didn’t follow motorsport enough to care. Either way, he didn’t correct her.

They kept walking, neither of them in much of a rush to get anywhere. Her bus stop wasn’t far, but she didn’t break pace, didn’t cut the night short. Neither did he.

It was nice, in a way, walking with someone without expectation. Without small talk that felt forced or questions that felt intrusive. Just two strangers, filling the quiet.

Eventually, the bus stop came into view. She slowed, glancing up at the electronic sign before rocking back on her heels slightly.

“Well,” she said, turning to him, “this is me.”

He nodded. “Right.”

She looked at him for a moment, like she was considering something, then just smiled. “Thanks for the drink, Emilian.”

He let out a small breath of laughter. “Yeah. No worries.”

The bus pulled up, doors hissing open, but she didn’t move straight away. Instead, she tilted her head slightly, eyes scanning his face like she was trying to work something out. Then, without another word, she stepped onto the bus.

He didn’t ask for her number. She didn’t offer.

The doors shut, and he stood there for a moment, watching the bus pull away.

Then he turned and started walking back towards his hotel.

The night was still. The world felt quieter.

And for the first time in a long while, so did he.

the end.

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