#and most of the time he's so convinced that he's fucking it all up

[nothoughtsjustficrecs]

This was, without a doubt, a phenomenal read. Seriously, the humour is impeccable; my cheeks hurt from laughing so much. I’ll have to re-read this story one day, perhaps multiple one days (yes I’m aware that makes no sense). And their relationship is amazing, I truly love it and every second of this story.

Thank you for writing this absolute masterpiece and sharing it with us!

When I was reading, I decided to write down my thoughts as I go because I knew I'd forget otherwise so below this is literally just the thoughts I wrote down because I do not have the brain power to convert them into actual fully coherent comments [I'll put them below a read more cut for the sake of spoilers and such]

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“ “Smog?” The customer parroted incorrectly, scratching his hair as if the action would jog his memory. “Now why does this hobbit’s home have health violations?” ” this literally made me snort

Okay this lil comments are making me laugh “ he persuaded the idiot to get a rom-com instead / planning to rob the CDs ” he has such high hopes and thoughts of others 😂

“ Now, he did not want to sound pathetic ” oh no please do sound pathetic, I kinda like it

“ But then, who was watching Disney movies at that age? ” me, damn Vernon, go back to being pathetic

“ He had, in his own words, called you a hag. ” cackling

“ You had to grip the counter, cackling at the response ” we are one. Hags who cackle together and all that

“ Maybe life can be unfucked ” okay I need to stop highlighting every phrase that makes me laugh or else I’ll highlight half the fic at this rate, stop making me laugh (im kidding pls never stop)

“ Mr. Filmbro. Miss Disney-Hag ” aw they have cute lil nicknames for each other already

Omg is he about to rob his lil sister???

Omg Vernon you absolute shit omg

“ Filmbrother ” I have literal tears in my eyes why is that so fucking funny

“ The corners of your mouth, lifting upwards, had him almost nervous. “I was hoping you would say that.” ” okay, I officially love her

Those first texts just imagine receiving that, oh Vernon you silly boy. But tbf I probably would’ve forgotten to add my name too, so I get it

“ “I like my men a little pathetic.” ” you know, im starting to think you just wrote me in this story because she is so relatable

“ “That seems more like a you problem then!” ” okay im convinced you literally copy & pasted me now, I’m always saying that

But seriously im loving this so far! the shenanigans ehehehe

“ “Stop freaking out, my guy!” you called out, right on the top of the ladder. “I know my ass is crazy built but this is not the time.” ” I am wheezing

“ “And Batman is the same thing, except he dresses up as a fucking bat…stupid furry.” ” I have never heard someone call Batman a furry before but man now I’m never going to be able to forget it. Nananananana furryman!

Omg im laughing so hard at the disc swapping, and mingyu being dumb holy shit my chest hurts

“ “Let’s watch a fucking Disney Princess movie.” ” the man knows what to say to win a gal over

“ shuts down like a lagging desktop when it tries to run the Sims ” damn, that hits close to home

The whole lantern scene is so fucking cute and written so well I can so easily imagine it all, I love it

“ “If I am to be your exception, _____, then I suppose you can be mine.” ” SCREECHING THAT’S SO CUTE

If his favourite movie is anything other than Shrek I quit

“ “I think I could have fun with you anywhere…in secret or for anyone to see.” ” exhibitionist

YESSSSS SHREKKKK

“ VERNON LOST HIS VIRGINITY WITH SHREK PLAYING IN THE BACKGROUND. ” no but this reads like a newspaper headline and im just wheezing at the thought of seeing an article titled that

“ You swore if you recited the IMDB plot out to him during sex, he would have spunked within minutes (a mental note to experiment on that later) ” I snorted. But now im very curious how that experiment would go

“ Within this myriad of fans, you tried to search for the most mentally ill one ” im back to highlighting every other line because fuck did that make me laugh

“ “Where are you, kitten?” you purposely growled, lowering your voice an octave. “Daddy’s waiting.” ” omg “ “Kitten actually killed himself after hearing that,” was his purposeful monotone. ” I love them

“ a boy engulfed in all the pinks of the colour wheel ” I am flailing and kicking my feet omg I love a man who is down bad for his partner

I kind of wish they just stood there staring dumbly at each other with their phones to their ears still, just because the mental image makes me laugh, but you’ve done enough of that already my cheeks hurt so probably good you didn’t write that. My cheeks might break.

They are seriously so cute omg, partners who break and enter together stay together 💗

𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐦𝐛𝐫𝐨-𝐳𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐝

❝Who knew all it takes is a hot girl with top-tier taste for a man to admit he's wrong?❞

𝒈 𝒆 𝒏 𝒓 𝒆 : fluff, comedy, suggestive, college! au

𝒘 𝒐 𝒓 𝒅 𝒄 𝒐 𝒖 𝒏 𝒕 : 21.7k words

𝒔 𝒖 𝒎 𝒎 𝒂 𝒓 𝒚 : self-proclaimed movie mastermind chwe vernon minds his business—whether that be avoiding the popular, problematic kids in his college to reducing customer interest in his parents' film store. his plan of isolation, however, is completely destroyed when you, a seemingly insane disney fan, slam his perfect movie taste and ask for his help to take down an evil ex.

𝒄 𝒐 𝒏 𝒕 𝒆 𝒏 𝒕 : loosely inspired by watching the detectives, film major! vernon who owns an outdated film store, fem! reader is the baddest (but also the craziest) bitch in this fic, vernon is a loser, film major! mingyu who will be violated many times in this fic sorry king, mentions of many filmbro films which will also be violated, self-indulgent mentions of some of my favourite films, a few super dark jokes nothing serious though, kissing, mentions of sex and the act of cumming (all joking wise) but no actual sex because im fearing god today (super suggestive at best), barbenheimer reference <3

𝒕 𝒂 𝒈 𝒍 𝒊 𝒔 𝒕 : @hyuckworld @junyangis @hiraethmae @lllucere @intoanothermind @kokoiinuts @shnnzsworld @lilifiedeans @talkyoongitome @vanishingboots @cookiearmy @person1fys

𝒂 𝒖 𝒕 𝒉 𝒐 𝒓 ' 𝒔 𝒏 𝒐 𝒕 𝒆 : she is finally here !! so so sorry for taking so long </3 i never thought it would be finished atp but thank you addy and alice for pushing me to complete this lil fic !! addy ur film major info birthed the filmbro slander, and alice...no smut LMAO LOSER anyway do enjoy homies <33

𝒑 𝒍 𝒂 𝒚 𝒍 𝒊 𝒔 𝒕 : if you're too shy (then let me know) by the 1975 || q&a by seventeen || wonderful women by the smiths || confidence by ocean alley || talk talk by charli xcx || oh my! by seventeen

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“NO, THE HOBBIT IS SET BEFORE THE LORD OF THE RINGS.”

This particular customer, however, refused to grasp the concept. “But the Hobbit was released after,” he repeated, as if he had not heard twenty minutes ago, when he first entered the store. “Wouldn’t it make sense to watch the more recent movies?”

Vernon clamped his lips together, stopping himself from saying something that would lose him a potential buyer. Well, not that it would matter much, considering the man before him could not comprehend what a prequel was, but still—he had to make this idiot understand.

“I understand that, sir, but the Hobbit is a prequel to the Lord of the Rings.” Holding onto the DVD set, he pointed to the grand picture of the movie’s protagonist. “It’s based on Bilbo Baggins’ adventures.”

“But was that not the little fellow from the Rings?”

“No, sir, that was Frodo. Bilbo is Frodo’s uncle.” The boy then clarified, tone heightening, “You know, where he reclaims his home from Smaug?”

“Smog?” The customer parroted incorrectly, scratching his hair as if the action would jog his memory. “Now why does this hobbit’s home have health violations?”

The twist of his lips was inevitable. “Smaug,” he corrected. “The dragon…the villain…the whole reason the movie was created?”

“See, I only know that one slimy creature with the ring. What was he always saying…” The man snapped his fingers, a lightbulb switching in his otherwise empty brain. “Ah, yes!” He then completely distorted his voice, rasping, “My presh-shious!”

For a split second, Vernon was a little gob-smacked at the impression. Then, he remembered he needed sales, and made sure to laugh as if that customer was the funniest man that ever stepped foot in the store. 

This particular joker, who was clearly not understanding Vernon’s analogies, instead asked, “Well, which one do you recommend?”

Ah, the fated question. 

Besides from the Lord of the Rings collection, he had been asked this very question a few too many times, when customers would browse the films on offer and ask for his opinion. Not that he considered himself an all-knowing master of movies—

He smiled. Now that was something he could chuckle about.

“Well, sir, the Lord of the Rings is a timeless classic. I would recommend it to anyone interested in a well-written, well-produced fantasy.”

The man twisted his lips. “But I don’t really like fantasy, though.” 

Vernon could not help his smile dropping. I don’t get paid enough for this.

With as much strength he could muster, he persuaded the idiot to get a rom-com instead, and ushered him out. 

He sighed, going back to the desk. The store was never busy—unsurprising, since nobody buys DVDs anymore—but that was how he liked it. The less customers that bothered him, the better. He did not want to be that type of guy, but he would rather have his own company than those who thought that the Marvel movies were God’s gift to man. (The Spiderman movies, however, he had to leave out of his apparently controversial statement).

Vernon was about to close the shop out of pure boredom when someone stepped in. 

His eyes darted to the newcomer. 

They stayed as he beheld you.

Perhaps this was a gross generalisation, but he did not expect someone so cute walking in a store this run-down. Maybe you had mistaken it for a vintage shop, planning to rob the CDs, or thought there might be decades old clothing in here. He was certain you had walked in by mistake, but then you began to browse the movie sections.

His first thought was that you seemed to have excellent taste. 

You slowed your steps in the classics section, eyes roaming at the Fan Favourites shelf which was simply movies Vernon had seen this week. Still, they were amazing fucking movies, hence their place on the shelf, now being admired by the likes of you. He wondered what you thought of the one DVD you picked up, assessing the blurb at the back. Roman Holiday. The boy could have smiled—you truly had a knack for picking out special films. 

Your fingers lingered on the movies for only a couple of minutes before you saw the desk—first the counter, and then the person behind it. 

The fact that your first instinct was to smile at the boy behind the counter had a profound effect on him.

Now, he did not want to sound pathetic; he did not know you, had never seen you before, but someone this aesthetically pleasing did not come to stores like his. Someone who picks up Roman fucking Holiday and be this cute did not acknowledge boys like him.

But Vernon Chwe will be cool about it. He will not look like a loser in front of you.

He pretended to look over some DVDs on the counter desk as you approached him. “Hey, there,” you greeted, and only then he allowed himself to look up, glancing you over. Already you had propped your arms on the top, eyes darting around the store as if finding something which deserved your attention. “I wanted to ask about a specific film. Well, films.” 

Films? Vernon really thought all the intelligent minds had rotted in this lifetime, but clearly you were an exception. “Of course,” he said, setting the movie on the side. “What genres are you interested in?” he ticked his head towards the Fan Favourites. “You were looking in the right place, to be fair.”

“Hmm?” you only spared that shelf a momentary—dismissive—glance. “Oh, sorry! I was looking for a specific box-set, but I can’t seem to find it on the shelves. I was hoping you could have it out back.”

Specific box-set? Vernon tried to contain his smile. Of course you were looking for a collection of timeless classics. “What’re you looking for?” he asked you, hoping you were going to request Hitchcock’s best. If you asked for Wong Kar-Wai’s trilogy, he might have fallen to his knees. 

You smiled at him.

Then dropped the bomb.

“I don’t know if you’d have the Disney Princess box set? You know, the complete edition?”

Vernon’s eye twitched a little. What the fuck?

Your gaze on him did not shift. “Are you okay?”

It took a moment for him to realise that you had asked him a question. “Huh? Right, sorry,” he said hurriedly, mind rushing for the many possibilities as to why you had requested a set like that. Perhaps you were braindead? No, that was too harsh. But then, who was watching Disney movies at that age?

Then an idea came into his head, and it made him feel much better. 

“So sorry about that,” he reiterated, scratching the back of his neck. “Anyway…Disney Princess set, huh?” He sighed out a laugh. “A sweet treat for your younger siblings, then.”

“Younger siblings?” A swift shake of your head, still smiling. “Haven’t got any of those.” 

The twitching was back. “...anyone under the age of 12 you know?”

“Now you’re making me sound like a freak,” you mused, locking your hands together. “Is it that shocking that I’m getting the set for myself?”

Vernon’s any attempt to diffuse the conversation died the moment you said those words.

Disney. Princess. Movies. The box-set you wanted was a Disney. Fucking. Princess box-set. 

At this rate, his eye-twitching was very much visible to you. “Don’t tell me no one’s ever bought a Disney movie from you,” you said, surprised by his change of attitude.

“Well,” he jeered, “I usually have first-time parents with their toddler kids asking me about sets like that.” 

You then titled your head back a little, taken aback with the comment. “Are you saying I’m too old to watch Disney movies?”

“No!” he instinctively defended himself, though he had virtually no defence to offer. He had, in his own words, called you a hag. 

This was it—he was usually stellar at keeping his opinions to himself. Now, the one time he could have kept his mouth shut, it spluttered open and not only embarrassed him, but one of the only cute potential customers. He was his own saboteur. His own destruction. 

After catching the flurry of emotions on his face, you had a realisation. 

Did his stupid comments get to you? Perhaps they would have, had you not seen his like before. Not only that, you had a sneaky feeling he himself had no clue on what category he was slotted into.

So you let the corners of your mouth curve upwards—up to the point where you were smirking, completely catching the boy off guard. 

“My god, you’re a filmbro!” 

Those emotions that you had witnessed now all conjoined into confusion. “Huh?” was his intelligent answer to the accusation. Filmbro?

And then you began to chuckle—little bursts of soft giggles, which escaped your mouth the more the revelation settled over you. “Wait, wait,” you began, “I need to ask this first!” You wiggled your finger at him. “What is your favourite film?”

Again, the fated question. This time, though, he felt as if his answer would not be the right one. Still—if there was one thing he was confident about, it was his expertise in films.

He tried, as confidently as he could, to voice out his supposed opinion. “Nolan’s Inception is one of the greatest films ever made.” 

There was one, solitary, quiet moment.

It was ruined by the subsequent laughter, courtesy of your mouth, which could not shut after his answer. You had to grip the counter, cackling at the response, and Vernon could only gawk at you, face reddening with every second spent watching you keel over. 

After what seemed like a lifetime (but was only about thirty seconds), Vernon finally cleared his throat. “Alright now, that’s enough comedy,” he muttered.

Another thirty seconds later, you finally seemed to calm down. The mischievous mirth on your face, although would have had any man swooning at your feet, seemed to irritate him all the more. “I’m sorry,” you gasped out, wiping a slight tear from your eye, “You just…you reminded me of my boyfriend.”

Of course. Vernon nearly clicked his tongue in disappointment. Of course the pretty, borderline-mean, borderline-terrible-taste-in-movies girl was taken. Fuck my life, son.

Your smile flickered—almost as if it turned cruel. “My mistake…ex-boyfriend.”

His eyebrow then raised a little. Maybe life can be unfucked; maybe the pretty, not-that-mean-as-he-thought, changeable-taste-in-movies girl was still attainable. 

Your eyes wandered once more, but this time to your hands. “I was actually going to get the Disney Princess set for him.”

The eyebrow decided to raise further up. He was dying to know why you were 1) getting your ex-boyfriend a present and 2) getting your ex-boyfriend the worst fucking present. But of course, due to the lack of balls in his pants, he did not ask you.

The crazier notion was, maybe you knew the lack of balls that should be present in his pants, because you iterated for him. “I’m surprised you’re not asking why I’m giving my ex a Disney Princess movie set, Mr. Filmbro.”

That term had him immediately frowning. “I don’t particularly care,” he lied as best as he could. He then crossed his arms. “Plus, I’m afraid the store doesn’t have the sets. I’m gonna have to order them in.”

A tilt of your head. “Are you lying?”

The cross of his arms was gone—now his hands were raised in surrender. “No, no!” At least not the set order bit…

Although it was quite clear that you did not believe him, you spared him this once. “Alright…” you receded your arms from the desk, taking a step back. Instead, you pointed at him. “But don’t think I’m gonna leave you alone on this!” 

Vernon’s insanely suave, cool, mystique response was giving you a thumb’s up. “Of course.” 

As you walked back to the entrance, hand on the door, you looked back at him. “I’ll see you soon, Mr. Filmbro.” 

The eye-twitch was about to come back. He did not bother waving as you left the shop.

VERNON COULD NOT STOP THINKING ABOUT YOU FOR THE SEVEN DAYS BETWEEN YOU AND TODAY. 

It was slightly embarrassing—he supposed he should have expected some extraordinary meet-cute, where someone who looked and acted like you would waltz into his dusty-ass film store and ask for possibly the worst movie collection to grace the western cinema. 

But then you called him a fucking Filmbro, and now the self-hatred might bubble to the surface of his usual calm demeanour. 

The boy scoffed as he fixed the alphabetical order of the CD covers, located in the Classics section. Filmbro…what the fuck do I look like a Filmbro for…

He firstly supposed that he should consider it a compliment—so what if he had superior knowledge of movies over the average morons that wandered into the store? He was paid minimum wage for this knowledge! Fuck, he was doing a degree within this field! (Not that he was quite sure he would end up as a blockbuster director at the fine age of 21, but the arts majors were always told to dream beyond the realistic limits.)

The more he contemplated over the vicious term, the more it began to bother him. Filmbro…Film. Bro. God, it sounded like a classist clique—a club where the members considered themselves above the laws of society, but were horrendously ridiculed by the outsiders. At the end of the day, he had always been an outsider in these clubs—he did not enjoy being the laughing stock, even if it meant being a member of an elitist group. 

Whatever. So what if you called him a Filmbro? He had only spoken to you once; the opinion of one girl—regardless of how pretty she was—was not of any relevance to him.

But then you sauntered into his store, and suddenly he forgot that he was seething over you for an entire week. 

There you were, footsteps harmonising along the bells of the entrance, and he swerved back to see you. You, in all your frill-skirted, layered-shirted, gum-chewing glory, catching his eye and bringing back the smile which you had offered him the moment you bestowed him that term of little-endearment. 

“Hello again, Mr. Filmbro.”

Don’t be a prick, don’t be a prick, don’t be a prick—

It was fine—it was okay. Vernon was a man now—no longer in his teens. He could have a normal, pleasant conversation. He was mature and able enough to interact with a girl who just happened to disagree with him on certain interests. 

He would be cordial—kind.

“How can I help you, Miss Disney-Hag?”

His skin nearly crawled. I need to kill myself immediately. 

A bit of a low blow from his nickname, but you were laughing, a silly little melody. You must have been crazy, because any other sane, rational human being would have been offended—should have been offended. Vernon fought to keep his face straight. 

“I see you’ve been thinking about me then,” you said. 

That had him looking away, walking behind the counter. “It’s not everyday I get a grown-ass woman asking me about children’s films.”

You mocked a gasp, slapping a hand over your chest. “Ouch. Do you hurt every girl that walks into your filmstore, or is this special treatment reserved for me?

Vernon focused on the cash in the register. “When another girl asks for the special edition for the Cinderella trilogy, then I’ll hurt her just the same.”

You clicked your tongue. “I should have known all men suck in their own ways.” You then approached the counter, propping your elbows atop the surface. “At least show me you’re good at your job and bring me the movie set I ordered.”

At this precise moment, all the thoughts about your stubborn addiction, playful smirk and how terrible the Little Mermaid was had completely vanished.

Shit. 

Maybe his irrational dislike ran further than he thought.

“Yeah…” but then he realised he sounded incredibly suspicious, and cleared his throat, forcing a little assurance in his usual monotone. “Yes! Yeah, of course! The movie set.” He took a step back, nodding his head ever so slowly, as if his head was not churning out a million different plans. “Give me one second…”

“Sure,” you could barely get out before Vernon whirled on his heel, bursting through the backstage door, and into the Chwe flat. 

He did not know whether this was going to work out. 

Like lightning he ascended the stairs, hands brushing against the bannister as he went past his bedroom, door slightly ajar. Not the destination he was seeking, he stopped before the neighbouring door—this one firmly closed. 

The boy made sure to knock first. No answer. Perfect. Slowly turning the knob, he opened the door, peeking around just in case there was someone in the room, and then he would have to resort to more planning. Since the coast was crystal clear, though, he put his mind at ease, only focusing on the main plan.

The room he had entered was a myriad of pop culture references and childhood memories, plastered on the butterfly-covered walls, sitting atop bedside tables or hanging off the hooks. Vernon never realised how invested his sister was with certain TV shows or films till he saw Lindsay Lohan’s mugshot plastered next to her bed. He had asked about it once, but she only waved him off. You wouldn’t understand her impact, she had said to him, and went back to shitting about him to her friends. 

Prying away from the poster, his eyes settled on what he came for, settled in the middle of the huge book shelf.

Sofia prided herself with her book and movie collection, a hereditary trait which Vernon shared: the top and bottom shelves were filled with her all-time favourites, even resorting to furthering her obsessions with the merch related to her treasured characters. He remembered laughing at her ideas until he saw a Barbie FunkoPop figure staring back at him one day. That notion was already horrendous, but the black, soulless eyes had guaranteed its spot in his sleep paralysis the next day.

Thankfully, the little horror was not on show on her bookshelf—this time, right in the middle, was the very prize that he sought. 

The Disney Princess Movie Set—Complete Edition.

Packaged in pink casing, Sofia’s most treasured piece sat, almost with its head held high as the other movies orbited around its pull. As far as Vernon remembered, it held all the Princess movies, and was worth at least 6 hours of his wages.

The boy looked around the room, as if his sister would appear any second.

Then, like a thief in the night (even though it was broad daylight, and would definitely be caught), he swiped the set off the bookshelf, and hurried out of her room.

“Sorry, Sofe,” he could only murmur under his breath as he dashed down the stairs, hoping you had not been bored by his absence, and left him with stolen goods at the scene of the crime.

He opened the door adjacent to the shop, and he almost sighed in relief when you perked up, eyes darting straight to your apparent order. When he saw your face light up like fireworks in the night sky, he titled his head back a bit, stunned by your boisterous reaction.

“You actually bought it!” you exclaimed, drumming your hands against the counter as he set the movies down. “I had a feeling you would blow me off.”

“Business is business,” Vernon said, crossing his arms, “Shit taste in movies will not stop me from making my money.”

You clicked your tongue. “Spoken like a business major.”

“Film major, thank you. I would rather kill myself than submit to the horrors of finance.”

“Don’t die on me just yet.” Bringing out your purse, you fished through its contents, first setting your card on the counter. Then, you brought out a crumpled piece of paper. “I actually have a few more films I want to ask about.”

The boy was expecting another long list of early 2000s rom-coms—perhaps an opinion for every Disney movie ever made in its existence. He swore if he had to hear about Rachel McAdams’ versatility one more time, he might blow his brains out in front of a customer. 

Then you dropped the names, and he had to surge his head forward.

“What are your thoughts on Wolf of Wall Street, American Psycho, Pulp Fiction…Fight Club, Saving Private Ryan, Scarface…” You squinted at the list, finding the names neverending. “Jeez, this list keeps going, huh?” 

He could not help the scoff. “And you called me a Filmbro.” He set his forearms on the counter, locking his hands together. “What do you need these movies for?”

“They’re for my ex-boyfriend.” 

The term had him pausing. Of course—the ex-boyfriend. How has he heard of this man, but not know a thing about him? Shit, he did not even know your name.

“This ex of yours has…an interesting taste,” he said slowly. “What’s he like?”

“I can tell you he attends the same college as you. Well, us,” you clarified, jerking your head towards the college colours of your server’s hoodie. “Film major. Just like you, actually.” 

“Oh?” Small world. “What’s the name?”

“Kim Mingyu. Do you know him?” 

Vernon Chwe nearly shit his oversized jeans.

A hesitant nod of his head. “I have a few classes with him.”

“Oh?” Your stare was a little more intense now. “What do you think of him?”

Right. 

Another fated question—the people around him had to stop asking him such controversial questions, or else he was bound to piss someone off. You were already letting him off the hook too many times; one more judgemental comment, and he was having that Princess movie set smashed on his head.

Kim Mingyu. Fuckass Kim Mingyu. Film major—just like him. One of the most popular boys in the year—very unlike him. All the teachers love his essays, all the girls love his freakishly-perfect six-pack, which Vernon is extremely irritated (and devastatingly intimidated) by. 

What all these people failed to realise, though, was that Mingyu was the biggest piece of shit to grace the halls of his university—and the planet, if dramatics were in order. If you thought that Vernon was a filmbro, then Mingyu was Filmbrother. Filmcomrade. Filmnemesis. 

It was as if you could hear the thoughts churning in his head. “You can be honest, you know. He did dump me at the end of the day.” A smirk began to appear. “Say your worst.”

The reassurance did not help. “I mean,” he started, swiping your card, “He’s okay? I haven’t talked to him enough to have an opinion on him.” 

A half-truth—that should suffice. 

But because the fates like to shit on his head every now and then for kicks, they decided to leave you unsatisfied with his answer. “Or, you can keep lying!” 

Excellent intuition, really. “I’m not!” he exclaimed, slapping the card back on the counter. “I really don’t know much about him.”

The big man upstairs was testing him even further, when, with a determined gaze, you set your elbows atop the surface. You leaned closer, tilting your head to the side as you inspected him, and Vernon blinked back at the sheer lack of space you had created. His mouth twisted, eyes frantically darting at the features of your face, not quite taking in the entirety of your being. Your vision seemed to work perfectly, because it caught the slight flush at the tops of his cheeks, where it was just pale skin seconds before.

Your smirk deepened. “Judging by your blush, you’re either terrible at lying…or,” you offered, voice lowering a little as you drummed your fingers against the counter, “You’ve never had a hot girl this close to you.” 

Fuck everything and everyone, because that only made him blush more furiously. You could not help the chuckle that escaped, deciding to cease torturing him and take your card. “I’ll not say the answer, Mr. Filmbro, but I think you already know.”

Since he had no plans of turning into a human form of a ketchup bottle, he evaded the topic entirely, instead focusing on interrogating you. “You still haven’t told me how Mingyu is related to the movie list you made.”

That seemed to hold your interest. “Oh, of course!” Putting the list back into your bag, you began, “Well, the list holds my ex-boyfriend’s favourite films. I wanted to know your opinion on a few.”

He could not contain his sigh. Oh, he had an opinion on these films that you mentioned. Again, he would rather be buried with his thoughts on the specific genre than ever tell you. The curiosity, though, was eventually going to eat him alive.

So much for minding his business.

“I mean…” he began to think, trying to find the right words. “I don’t mind them? Godfather is a good film, but I’ve seen better from Brando. I like American Psycho, but again, people tend to miss the point of the movie.”

As you nodded, listening to his two-cents on the movies you mentioned, he paused, furrowing his brows. “Why do you care about my opinion?”

You smacked your lips together, folding the list back. “I don’t know much about you, Mr. Filmbro,” you began, “But you don’t run a filmstore without knowing a thing or two about the films you sell.”

“So?” He crossed his arms atop the counter. “Shouldn’t you have asked the guy who you made the list about?”

“Trust me,” you said, your smirk turning more into a rageful flash of teeth, “I know exactly what he thinks of these films.”

Don’t particularly know what to make of that comment. “Well, I don’t know what my opinion for these films is going to help you in any way.”

“It has helped.” You paused then, waiting to see if he would egg you on, asking how his seemingly tame opinions would play into the grand scheme of things. “All part of my master plan.”

Master plan? Vernon may have been interested before, but he was certain that, before, he could have hid it without letting you catch onto it. In a sudden flash, though, as if his mouth was beyond his control, he regrettably slipped out the words which had you smiling more than he would have liked.

“What master plan?”

He almost closed his eyes. Shit. Now I’m fucking invested.

The corners of your mouth, lifting upwards, had him almost nervous. “I was hoping you would say that.” 

Great. Brilliant. Fantastic. Fucking Stupendous. Vernon could not think of other pretentious synonyms. “I will tell you, Mr. Filmbro,” you began, once again settling your locked hands on the counter, “If you help me out with it.” 

That had his eyebrow shooting upwards. “What does that mean?”

“Exactly what I intended.” A pause. “Look, I know it’s a little crazy…being asked by someone to help in some mysterious plan. But hey!” you added, “You know who the target is, and you know I can be trusted.”

“Calling your ex-boyfriend a target makes this sound like a contract killing. Also, I actually don’t know that,” he corrected, crossing his arms. “The only thing I know about you is your weird obsession with children’s movies.”

“Well, buddy, that’s basically my entire personality, so you don’t need to know any more!”

Vernon sucked in a breath. “I don’t even know your name.”

Your eyes darted to his features, the sharp brows, the speculative eyes, the flared nostrils. His lips, which were twisted in a curious, bemused line. “That’s an easy problem to solve.” You decided to battle his frown with a smile. “_____.”

_____. At least he knew one important thing about you. He swore Mingyu had mentioned your name before, but then he should not also hold certainty—that boy’s favourite subject had always been himself. 

You snapped him out of his thoughts. “This is when you tell me your name now…or do you enjoy being called a filmbro?”

Man…he could not look you in the eye afterwards. “I don’t…” he got out, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “And it’s Vernon. Chwe Vernon.” 

“Vernon,” you repeated, lips curling upwards. “Alright, Vernon, since both of us know each other’s names, you can definitely help me now!” 

The said-boy tried to smile, which was more a grimace. “Well…”

“Tell you what,” you said, trying to find something in your bag. “Wait, give me a second…shit, where is that piece of paper…?” You finally managed to fish a crumpled piece out. “Right!” After catching sight of a pen lying around the counter, you took it and scribbled something quickly, sending it his way.

Taking it, he looked at the messy scribbles—your number. “You’re looking at it as if I passed you a death threat,” you snickered. Vernon gave an uneasy smile. “Just think it over. I need movie expertise, and there’s no one else I know who can help me more than a guy who runs a film store.”

The boy behind the counter listened to you, paper still in hand. Maybe Mingyu made some points breaking up with you—you did not know who Vernon was, save for the name that was tied to him, and the job he was forced to do by his parents. Realistically, he had to decline, because if he has ever learned something in his life—or from watching a myriad of golden age romantic tragedies—is that you never trust the beautiful, crazy girls. 

“Hey,” he heard you say, and he swore your chirp had softened. “I’ll go ahead with my plan in a week’s time. If I don’t hear from you, then I’ll know your answer. You don’t have to tell me now.” When he looked at you, he saw your expression shift. “That’s why I only gave the paper.” 

He supposed he could appreciate this sentiment. “Thanks,” he could only say, pocketing your number. “Is there…anything else you want? Aside from the—” a snide glance at the DVD set—”the movie?” 

“I saw that,” you scoffed, taking hold of the movie set. “And no, I’m alright. I’ll bother you about children’s movies another time.” 

“I’ll make sure these children’s movies are all conveniently sold out when you come,” he countered without thinking. 

You could only shake your head, trying to contain your laugh. “Careful, or I just might bother you after the plan.” 

Vernon did not know what he felt at that notion—would he want that? However, he did not have time to ponder, since you were already heading for the door. As you nearly left the store, bell ringing, he did not hear the door close. He glanced up, catching you looking at him with an indecipherable expression. “Yes?”

You waited a moment before parting your mouth. “I hope to hear from you, Mr. Filmbro.” 

With that, you swiftly exited the store, leaving this Mr. Filmbro even more helpless than he was between the seven days between your first encounter, and now this very second. 

“JO MADE SENSE WITH FRIEDRICH AT THE END. SHE SIMPLY…NEEDED A MAN AFTER PINING FOR LAURIE.”

The professor listened in the small circle, the rest of the students typing or writing down the answer. “Like, realistically,” Mingyu went on, twisting his mechanical pencil between his fingers, “The whole point of the movie is her relationship with Laurie, and that was shattered the moment he married Amy. Friedrich was like…” he pouted in thought, furrowing his brows. “The light at the end of the tunnel…does that make sense, Minghao?”

The said-man nodded. “Interesting take,” he noted, walking closer to the circle he was teaching. “So you agree that Jo needed Friedrich at the end of the film?”

“Absolutely.”

There were a few murmurs around the room, majority of them agreeing with the golden boy who was sitting at the head of the circular, white table. Vernon, who was sat one girl away from him, typed furiously in his laptop, adding to his notes. MINGYU IS A FUCKING IDIOT…CINEMATICALLY ILLITERATE…BORDERLINE MISOGYNIST…Okay, perhaps he was exaggerating on the last one, but his analysis of the question pissed him off. 

Did Jo need Friedrich at the end of the movie? Was what Professor Minghao had asked them about an hour ago. Vernon knew the answer immediately, and, although did not share it with the seminar, was surprised to be disagreed by the majority of the class. Not surprising, however, when his class was filled with men who could not imagine a woman in a film wanting anything else but a man beside her. 

Whatever, he thought, straying from the web page and instead checking the release date for Oppenheimer when he heard your name crop up amongst the discourse in the table. 

“Did _____ actually?” 

“Oh, yeah, said she thought Jo should have been on her own.” A click of tongue. “Not surprising, coming from her.” 

Vernon instantly perked up, fingers pausing on the keyboard. Not surprising? The boy was actually floored at that opinion—and how valid you were for expressing it. 

“I mean,” another girl, right next to him, chimed in, “Didn’t you say she was really stupid, Gyu?”

“God, I don’t know where to begin,” Mingyu said, aghast, and the boy who eavesdropped felt a little dread at every word that escaped his mouth. “Everytime I watched a movie with her she always got bored, or argued with me when I tried to explain shit to her.” 

“I remember we sat with her while we were tryna do our film project last semester,” the boy beside Mingyu recalled. “She had no fucking clue who Martin Scorcese was, man!” 

The group audibly gasped, save for Vernon, who could not help himself, refusing to mind his business. Nasty habit this—he made a note to call you out for this later on, should you walk into his store again. 

Fuck. He did not want that. Of course he did not. He should stop thinking about it too. 

You, that is.

“She’s gotta be the dumbest one yet, Gyu,” the boy snickered, snapping his laptop shut. 

“You don’t even know the half of it,” the dumper groaned, raking through his locks. “You know she was always watching those fucking Disney princess movies?” Vernon’s eyes widened a little. “Man, I remember she wouldn’t get enough of them. Like, what are you, six? Why the fuck am I watching a movie about a midget dragon?”

Then, Mingyu said the words that made the eavesdropper’s spirits shot down. 

“_____ may have been hot, but she was one stupid bitch. Thank god I got rid of her.” 

The others agreed. He may have spoken more on the matter of your lack of media literacy, but the professor was back, and the seminar had quietened, all in focus. 

All except for the boy who had not given his two cents on the matter, frozen solid at the conversation that occurred. What the fuck was that? He had first thought, over and over to the point that he nearly typed it in the seminar document. He had always known Mingyu was an asshole, but what he said about you gave him a very uneasy feeling.  

What sent him over the edge was that a lot of his grievances sounded identical to Vernon’s own words. 

Miss Disney Hag he had called you—to your face he had insulted your taste in films, and you had only laughed. He wondered how you felt when it was Mingyu amplifying those very opinions on a daily basis. 

A frown marred his features. Damn it. He knew he was a loser, but he did not know he was an asshole. Like Mingyu…

Vernon visibly shivered. 

As Minghao voiced out the objectives for the second half of the seminar, the boy brought his hand into his trouser pocket, slipping out the paper. He looked over your number, the messy scribbles dancing in his eyes. Darting to his phone on the table, he held it in his free hand, looking over the contacts. 

“Damn it,” he said under his breath. 

Was he going to regret this? Most probably. Will you probably make him do something that would result in a fatal injury, and land a permanent stain on his social record? One hundred percent. 

If he knew these things already, then what he should have done was toss the paper in the nearest bin. What he did instead, as he typed in some vital information in his phone, was something that changed his life (or at least the life he will live for the next few weeks).

vernon: u dont have to wait till next week 

vernon: ill help u with the plan

There. And now, he shall wait.

Which, he pondered as he saw the immediate response, was not very long. 

normal disney enjoyer: wait who tf is this??

Oops. 

vernon: oh mb this is vernon lmao

vernon: from the filmstore

normal disney enjoyer: oh damn why didn’t u say so !! freaky ass text 

vernon: ??? ive said it now tf

normal disney enjoyer: and im happy u have ;)

Well. Vernon sighed a little, trying to focus back on his work, but to no avail.

Let’s see what you have in store for the next week.

VERNON WAS WONDERING WHETHER HE STILL HAD TIME TO KILL HIMSELF. 

It could be quick—maybe if he jumped in front of the next incoming car, full speed, he might suffer a haemorrhage in his brain, and die bleeding out as his parents took him to the hospital. Of course, that does mean that it would be slow and excruciating, but he thought that nothing would be as painful as whatever you had planned for him.

Come on…maybe it won’t be that bad. Perhaps his thoughts were spiralling too quickly. Perhaps his assumptions of you were a stretch, and that all this anxiousness, pent up in him, would wash away the moment he saw your car pulling up to the store’s driveway.

He felt himself prepare mentally as, eventually, your small, red car slowed in front of him. Right before him, he saw the passenger window roll down, and he caught sight of your smiling face, teeth showing. 

Perhaps it truly would not be as bad as he imagined. 

“Get in loser, we’re going trespassing.”

Nevermind.

“Oh my God,” was the unsatisfying answer to your perfect reference. Seriously, you should not bother saving your precious material on such a lame boy, but there was something so exciting about his eyes sharply rolling, colour staining the tops of his cheeks. “I’m not doing this if you’re going to quote terrible movies the entire night.”

“First of all, fuck you. Mean Girls birthed half of your customers.” You flicked the lock on the passenger door, pushing it open. “Second, you don’t have a choice. You’ve agreed to ruin Mingyu’s life.”

“First of all yourself, I did not agree to that.” Begrudgingly, he settled shotgun, snapping the car door shut. “Second, Mean Girls was a waste of Rachel McAdams’ talent.” 

You scoffed, starting the car. “I don’t take opinions from men who can’t drive.” 

This shut the boy up nicely, clamping his lips together in quiet shame. He wished he could argue with that—you, he feared, had a good point. Despite that, it was not his fault that his parents insisted on the reliance of public transport; the bus was his greatest villain—aside from the middle school kids in his store that always ask for the next FIFA game. 

You could not help taking a second glance at him, chuckling at his defeat. “Don’t be sad, Mr. FIlmbro,” you reassured him, changing gears. “I like my men a little pathetic.” 

That did not help at all—his eyes widened, gawking at you, but you were already looking ahead, pressing your foot on the accelerator. 

“Jesus!” he exclaimed as he held onto his seat, taken aback by your sudden rush of speed. “I thought you wanted to kill Mingyu, not yourself!”

“My bad,” you only said, turning right. “I’m just so excited! You know, getting there.” 

“I can see that,” he mumbled, looking away from you into the back. Strapped in with the seatbelt, bizarrely, was Sofia’s Disney Princess Set, as if the dozen-movie box was a toddler in need of extra assistance. What the fuck…?

“I’m having these films in pristine condition, Vernon,” you explained, though it still made no sense in his head. “You understand, don’t you?”

Of course not. “Sure.” 

He waited for further explanation, which, as the silence continued, you decided to throw him the conversational bone. “I don’t just carry the set around with me, you know.”

Sure. “Of course not.” 

“It’s relevant to today’s plan,” was all you would offer, speeding more to reach the destination quicker. Vernon held onto the belt a little tighter, still eyeing the movie set rather suspiciously before focusing back on the road. 

The drive was not long—perhaps thirty minutes at most—but he knew he was leaving the rougher parts of the city when nicer neighbourhoods welcomed his vision, the litter on the roads disappearing, instead trees in an orderly line painting the sides of the pavement. The further you drove into these suburbs, the more he was surprised at the sheer luxury of the exterior of these houses; granted, he did not originate from poverty, but his idea of a holiday was three days in the comforts of his bed, bingeing the Miyazaki collection with a lifetime supply of mint chocolate chip ice cream on his lap. 

Vernon had to save his mouth dropping to the seat of the car floor when they rolled into the Kim household’s drive. 

He was aware that Mingyu derived from wealth—the former could not help noticing his pricey, flashy brands every time the taller boy sauntered into the Film Sound classes, but he did not expect this Bridgerton-ass looking house, nestled in between the other million-dollar homes in the neighbourhood. He was greeted with a clearer picture the closer you parked in their drive, surprisingly empty; it was around that moment that you noticed that all the lights were turned off in the house, almost a haunting image. 

The boy was on his way to make a comment about your terrible spying skills when you rebuffed him immediately, saying, “I know what you’re thinking. I have it covered.”

“Please tell me, Miss Bond, how are you planning to carry this out?”

You offered him an incredulous look. “I don’t know what that reference means, I’m too pretty.”

His answer to that was a thin, long line of his mouth. You chose to ignore it completely. “Mingyu’s parents are out of town right now, and his sister’s on a ski-trip in Austria.”

A glance of confusion. “In the middle of March?” 

A shrug. “You know what rich people are like.” Weirdly enough, he knew exactly what you were talking about. “But it worked out great for us.” With a hard exhale you got out of the car, the boy beside you reflecting your actions. “All the easier for what we have to do.” You opened the car door behind the driver’s one, unstrapping the seatbelt and carefully bringing out the movie set. 

“How’re we getting into the evil lair, then?” he asked dryly, crossing both his arms. “I assume the millionaires don’t happen to put a spare key under the carpet?”

“Imagine,” you said, sighing melodramatically. “I tried making them do it so I could sneak into his house, but for some reason, Mingyu never agreed to it.” 

“I wonder why,” he muttered.

“Worry not, young grasshopper!” You strolled to the very right of the house, where a thin wooden door was almost hidden from view. “Where there is a door closed, another is mysteriously open.” 

With a hard push, the door trudged back, swinging heavily away. He stared at it, not quite believing how someone can be so careless to keep their gates unlocked. “Another weakness of Mingyu’s—” You pointed at the cleared path into the house—”whenever he leaves from the garden, he never locks the gate.”

Vernon could not quite believe it. “Either the wealthy are incredibly secured in their safety, or stupid as fuck.”

“I think you know the answer to that,” you joked, going further into the journey, ushering him over. Like a siren calling his name, he followed you, unaware of the shit you might be getting him into. 

Into the fancy garden they arrived, clean-cut hedges bordering in dozens of flower bushes, peppered also with a few fruit trees—berries of every kind ripening on the green. While Vernon admired the natural luxury, you hurried to the nearby shed, where a ladder was situated right beside it. “Quick, help me out here!” you shouted in a whisper, ushering him over. Dropping the DVD set for a moment, you grunted as you held the large ladder up with his assistance, slowly making its way to the brick wall of the house. “Wait, line it up against that window over there,” you instructed, jerking your head towards the far right window, no doubt on the second floor. Once the ladder was lined up properly, you moved the boy out of the way, shaking the rails to make sure it stayed put. 

“I can’t believe we’re actually doing this,” Vernon muttered, watching you take the Disney Princess set in one hand, the other making the first step on the calendar. “We can still…you know, not commit breaking and entering.” 

“You can happily leave, Mr. Filmbro,” you offered, looking up at your destination. 

That had him scoffing. “My ass is not walking two hours back to my house.” 

“That seems more like a you problem then!” you chirped. “Now are you following me up, or pussying out?”

Once again, pussying out seemed like the obvious choice for the boy. He was not made for missions such as these—he was merely meant to watch other people act out said missions in front of his television. Unfortunately, because he was too far away from the film store, it was either sitting it out, waiting for you to come out and do something diabolical, or at least watch over you should you cross a line (if the latter were the case, then Vernon had already failed). 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he kept uttering like a mantra, waiting for you to climb up enough to hold onto the ladder as he began to follow after you. He made the mistake of looking up as you climbed up, and he got a full, HD view of your ass. He tried his very best to look away out of some semblance of respect, but you also made the mindful decision of wearing the shortest skirt known to man. His fuck, fuck fucks! rang louder, causing you to shush him.

“Stop freaking out, my guy!” you called out, right on the top of the ladder. “I know my ass is crazy built but this is not the time.”

“That’s not why I’m freaking out, _____!” he countered, but knowing you, you did not care for his explanations. He only waited as you pushed open the slight-open window, all the way to the top before climbing inside.

As he reached the top of the ladder, he watched you dust yourself before glancing back at him, ushering him inside. “Here goes nothing,” he said to himself, hands on the top of the window ledge as he put his foot on the sill, pushing himself inside. 

Vernon dropped into the unknown room, an oof! leaving his mouth as he landed rather ungraciously on his feet. Quickly, he looked up, surroundings rather dimmed due to the lack of lighting. Still, with the help of the moonlight, he could slowly make out the huge smart TV in the middle of the bedroom, beneath it a wide shelf filled with DVDs, some opened and scattered on the carpeted floor. The bed was on the opposite side, right next to the window the two of you had entered in, black and gold sheets tousled and unmade.

As you turned the light on, the boy then made out that Mingyu, in fact, did not have a bed frame, but just a mattress, with the sheets barely done properly.  The wall on his left was a full black-shutter closet, where he could see the collection of his designer clothing behind the gaps. Posters were plastered on the rest of the walls, most of them being the Tarantino classics —a reclined, raven-bobbed Uma Thurman watching him with bedroom eyes being the most prominent—with certain papers of autographs also stuck next to the posters. There was another poster—American Beauty and the girl surrounded with rose petals—which had him quickly looking away.

“Jesus,” was all he could say, but he supposed he should not have judged. He himself had only his posters in his room—except he did not have the same taste as a middle-aged incel.

“I know.” You looked around at the familiar space, and the memories you had made here. “Imagine having sex in this hellsite.”

Then the image of you having sex with Mingyu on that messy bed came into his mind, and Vernon could have combusted then and there. “I can’t imagine,” he mumbled out, walking to the door, opening to make sure no one was inside. “_____, are you sure no one’s here?”

“Swear on my life, Mr. Filmbro.”

He had to trust you now—or you had very little respect for your life. 

He kept eyeing the DVD set you had in your hand. “Are you still not gonna tell me what we’re doing with that?”

You marched over to the shelf beneath the TV, settling yourself down. “Come here and I’ll show you.” You patted the empty carpet space next to you for added emphasis.

Hesitantly, he obliged, sitting cross-legged next to you. Finger pointing as it scoured the shelf, you carefully brought out one of the films from Mingyu’s selection, all the while sliding out a Disney film from your own set. “Now, tell me,” you began, as you showed him the two movies. “Do you think The Dark Knight and Mulan are a good match?”

First pulling a face at the choice, he then resorted to keeping his twist of features as he turned to you. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“So like, you know Mulan is a woman disguising herself as a soldier in order to defeat the Huns and save her father’s honour, right,” you explained, though you had a small feeling he was not particularly listening. “And Batman is the same thing, except he dresses up as a fucking bat…stupid furry.”

Vernon could not understand how you compared one of the most beautiful, nuanced depictions of a broken, three-dimensional superhero into a furry, but he needed to get to the bottom of your plan, once and for all. “No, I mean, what are you doing? Why the hell are we here?” 

You tutted extra loud. “I’m gonna swap the CDs, dumbass!” You held up the princess movie. “Thought Mingyu could say to me that Disney princess movies sucked, huh?” Then, the classic DVD’s turn to rise. “Let’s see how he’ll like watching a talking dragon in China instead of a talking bat in Fantasyland!” 

The boy could only watch, shock growing with the successful swap of the movies, the secret Mulan CD safely tucked into the The Dark Knight’s DVD case. “It’s Gotham, actually,” he murmured, but he knew you were not listening. “Wait, _____, we really just snuck into your ex’s house to swap a few movies?”

You looked up briefly as you began opening another DVD case. “I mean, if you want to trash the place, that’s fine, but you can’t do anymore than what Mingyu’s dirty ass hasn’t done already.”

Fair point. “I think you’re going insane. Like, clinically.” He kept looking at the door, which was closed shut. “He’ll kill us if he catches us.” 

“Forget about us, you’re barely doing anything!” you exclaimed, tossing some of Mingyu’s movies to him. “Can you actually help me instead of complaining?”

What he should have done was argue with you properly, perhaps even make his escape and leave you to dig your own grave. Sure, he could not drive, but was it not just three pedals, a wheel and a dream? He could have left, never to see you again. 

But then his eyes wandered to the Inception DVD scattered beside you, no doubt collateral damage as you took out the other Nolan films, and saw a Disney Princess movie sitting beside it. Sleeping Beauty, it read out, with the picture of some skinny blonde chick slumbering with a man overlooking her. He thought it a bit strange, almost creepy how this brunette was watching her. 

And then an idea came into his head. 

He closed his eyes for a fleeting moment, clamping his lips together. Please forgive me, Mr. Nolan, for what I’m about to do. 

Hand reaching out to grasp both DVDs, he opened one of his favourites, unclipping the CD. You glanced at him, swapping the movies around. You could not help your stare lingering a little, watching his lips pout, brows furrowed as he fixed the new CD in the Nolan set, as if the task was a serious one. Well, it was a serious task for you, but you expected more complaining. 

When he looked up, he managed to catch a small smile on your lips before he quickly looked away. “And now you’re slacking,” he accused, closing the DVD and setting it atop the newly improved. 

“What’s the plot for Inception?” you asked him, cracking open The Princess and The Frog. 

“I thought you knew, since you laughed at me for saying it was my favourite.” 

“I don’t know the full thing,” you admitted. “The only reason I knew about it was because Mingyu never shut up about it…sorry about that, by the way.” 

Vernon sighed. “It’s fine…if I made fun of your Disney favourites, then bullying me for Nolan isn’t the worst…I think.” He looked at your new suggestion before picking out Alien from Mingyu’s selection. “A thief has to implant an idea into this powerful guy’s mind, and he does this through infiltrating other people’s dreams. However, he has to be asleep while he does it.” 

As you began to laugh, he threw you an irritated look. You shook your head, unable to erase your smile. “That’s a really good match.” 

His eyes widened for a moment, mouth parting. For a moment (and he did not know whether he was going to regret making this assertion), he did not care for Christopher Nolan’s disrespect, after seeing your reaction.

With that, the two of you sat in near silence, the crisp opening and closing of the DVDs, the sliding of the discs being the only sound between the two of you. The Princess of the Frog was successfully matched with the Alien—you, unsurprisingly, had not watched the movie, but Vernon had watched both (one against his will, which you could guess), and thought it the best match. Brave was slotted into The Revenant's case, while Beauty and the Beast went straight into Pan’s Labyrinth’s. 

“Okay so…” the boy held up the Pocahontas CD. “Native American princess falls for the coloniser? How the fuck are you defending this?”

You could only offer a sheepish smile. “The soundtrack is really good?”

“Knowing Disney,” he crowed, cracking open the DVD, “They probably have a song on how terrible the poor Natives are.”

You eyed him, surprised. “How the hell did you guess that?”

First, Vernon made a face, as if he himself could not believe his excellent intuition. Then, he only laughed a little, taking out the Dances with Wolves DVD from the shelf. “I’ve watched enough Disney movies with my sister to know how they work.”

“Oh, so you have watched them?” you mused, watching him exchange the discs. “All that time I thought you only watched what Mingyu watched.”

“No, I watch foreign indie films like an asshole,” he clarified, shutting the cases, and putting Dances with Wolves back on the shelf. “The thing is, I still have my grievances against the super popular films. You know the list you mentioned to me the other day?” You nodded. “Most of these film junkies get off on those movies. I’ll admit I like them, but I’ve seen so much better.” 

You snorted. “Like Inception?” Vernon watched you for a moment, biting the inside of his cheek. “What? You asked him, tilting your head. 

He followed your movement—he too, craned his head, his brown curls cascading along his forehead. “Like Inception…and better.”

“Better?” you gasped out, fingers rising to your bottom lip in shock. “Does Mr. Filmbro prefer a movie over Nolan’s grand—no, best release ever?!”

“Ha, ha,” he monotoned, only adding to your amusement. “It’s still his best film! But,” he added, shrugging a little, “I may or may not have lied to you the first time we met. Inception’s not my favourite movie.”

“What?!” you could barely contain your grin. “Oh my God, if I find out it’s a fucking Disney movie, I’m never letting you live it down!”

“Let’s not go that far,” he jeered, earning a harsh nudge of your elbow. “Hey! You should be thanking me for my honesty.”

“How about you extend that honesty and tell me which movie is your favourite?” 

Vernon mocked a ponder. “It’s a hard pass.” 

“Come on!” you pressed, scooting a little closer, almost reaching out as if to nudge him some more. “You’ve already committed a felony with me. Telling me your favourite movie is naturally the next step.” 

“Because that’s obviously how normal human interaction goes,” he countered, sarcasm clear in his voice.

“Tell me.” 

“No.”

“Tell me!” 

“Hmm…no!” he repeated, assembling the last of the DVDs. “Maybe if we raid Mingyu’s house next time.”

“Oh?” Leaning closer, you paused his hands on the movie sets. “Do you want there to be a next time?”

It was then Vernon realised the implications of your question, a consequence of his own suggestion. It was almost comical, how his eyes widened like full moons, and he immediately shook his head. “Now you know that’s not what I meant.” 

“Then what did you mean?” you asked him, and the way he exposed a slight stutter at your question had you laughing. “Would you want to see me again?”

What Vernon wanted to tell you was no, no, no, because another second with you would end with all the blood in his system rushing to his head, and other places. Damn everything and everyone, he would want to see you again—no. No. He wouldn’t. He would not. 

“You haven’t answered the question,” you said, snapping him out of his thoughts. 

The boy was about to stutter out an answer when the two of you heard a door slam downstairs. 

You whirled back, eyes instantly darting to the door. They then focused back on you, widened very much like his not long ago. “_____,” Vernon muttered. 

“Mr. Filmbro…”

The furrow of his brow appeared for a split-second before it disappeared at the shuffling underneath. “What the fuck do we do?” he gulped out, looking around to find anywhere to escape from. This was it—he thought he was getting away with trespassing just because you had convinced him to, but that fuckass ex-boyfriend was going to catch them in his bedroom, two inches away from kissing you, and—

“Wait,” you then said, catching his wrist in your hand. He barely had time to react to it before you shot up from your seated position, hauling the boy along with you. He stumbled, but then you nearly made him fall flat on his face as you ran to the shutter closets, sliding them straight open. The inside was a mess of branded clothing and boxes of sports equipment, but there was one opening with just enough for two people in trouble to hide. 

You first went in, and, with a harsh tug, pulled him in with you. He crashed into you, but you had enough control to slide the shutter door shut. There was so much commotion that when you both finally stilled, breathing harshly as you heard Mingyu enter the room, Vernon blinked back to see your face about two inches away from him. 

He was going to yelp—strong on going to, because you sensed his incoming shock, and smacked your hand against his mouth. His eyebrows could have touched the top of his forehead, but what you noticed the most was the warmth of his skin, burning the longer your touch lingered on his lips. 

The smile you offered him as you put a finger to your lips had him almost passing out. 

“Yeah, man, come round whenever,” was all Vernon could hear, still not comprehending Mingyu’s speech due to your hand. “No, Minseo’s not here, what the fuck? Why do you wanna know where my sister is?” 

Slowly, ever so carefully as not to alert him, you pulled down on one of the blinds of the shutter, spying the movie which he was about to see. Vernon should have been following your movements, but he could only sense you, inching closer and closer to him till you were pressed against him. Of course, you were only trying to better your vision of your ex-boyfriend, but the boy beside you could not focus. The hand on his mouth—God—he needed, so badly, to be put down. Your fingers were soft, and although his lips could not help brushing against your palm, everything in him resisted the urge to react.

Quickly glancing at your accomplice in glee, you dropped your hand from his mouth, silently urging him to watch. He could have rebelled against your pulling away, but he instead obliged. Bringing his face next to yours, he glanced at you one last time before peering at the vision that welcomed. 

There he was, the golden boy, raking his hair as he strolled into the middle of the room, observing the TV before him, and the DVD player sitting at the bottom. He kept humming, as if agreeing with whoever was on the phone. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll go to that party later…no, I’m not bringing _____! You know about that already!” 

The boy in hiding quickly snuck a peek at you, who soured a little at the mention. “Hmm? Yeah, whatever. What? Nah, I’m just gonna watch a chill movie before leaving.” Mingyu scanned the films on his shelf. Walking over, he leaned down, sliding out The Shape of Water from his collection, cradling his phone between his shoulder blade and his craned head as he opened the DVD. 

Vernon could not help pulling a face at Mingyu’s choice of a ‘chill movie’ being a film about a mute woman wanting to fuck a water creature. You probably did not understand the reference, but by the growing anticipation on your face, you only cared about the scene you two had created, and was about to unfold just then. 

Mingyu slid the CD into the player, pressing play as he made his way to his frameless bed, settling down in the sheets. “Yeah…no, no, it’s just starting.”

The two of you could hear clearly the opening credits, which began with the most obnoxious opening music of Disney’s intro. Vernon was taken aback by how Mingyu did not realise it from that very moment, but considering he was too busy chatting pure shit on the phone, laughing to himself, the boy assumed he was simply waiting for the action to occur.

“Any minute now, Mr. Filmbro,” you whispered, oh-so-fucking close to him. He did not respond, merely a nod.

Craning his head to see through the shutters, he noticed the animation come to life, the ship within dangerous waters sailing with uncertainty. He snuck a quick glance at Mingyu’s face, which started garnering a little confusion. 

“Are these extra credit scenes? I don’t remember any of this,” he heard the OG filmbro complain. 

You could not help the snort that escaped you. Vernon glared at you, but with little effect. “What?” you whispered. “I don’t remember him being this thick.” 

“What the fuck is this cartoon…” the two of you heard Mingyu pipe up. Finally, the buffoon is realising this is not the two-time Oscar winning animation, but the four-time Oscar winning CGI. “This wasn’t in the director’s cut.”

You still could not believe how your ex-boyfriend was taking this long for the realisation to hit. Even when Eric jumped up on the screen, holding onto the ship’s ropes, the watcher only regarded the character intently, as if he was somehow part of the stranger film. 

Only when, fifteen minutes in, Atlantis is finally introduced that something clicked in his brain. Mingyu tilted his head, thinking out loud. “What the fuck…?”

Getting up from where he sat, he ended the call, informing whoever was on the other side that he would meet later. He took out the CD from the player, examining its exterior. “Can’t see shit on this CD…” He was not wrong—you were smart, choosing the discs which did not have any images, confusing the boy all the more. “Maybe I put in the wrong one…”

He shrugged it off, taking out The Dark Knight instead, another easy, breezy movie to watch when The Shape of Water did not pull through. Now Nolan was a hard one to criticise—Vernon himself was a huge fan, but seeing Mingyu try to watch it irked him. A good thing, then, was it not, that he was bound for a second surprise?

Repeating the routine, he slid the secret CD, settling back into his frameless bed. “Great minds, huh?” you whispered to him, and Vernon only rolled his eyes, not enjoying the dig against him in the slightest. 

“You dated him,” he griped, watching the movie start up.

“Waste of good looks,” you whispered, your partner-in-crime nodding in agreement. The movie beginning had you both falling silent as a bird of prey hits on one of the soldier’s heads. The scene is set in the cold mountains of China, but the sole audience does not catch it immediately. 

“So fucking weird…” Mingyu trailed off again, leaning forwards. “This isn’t the robbery scene…”

Of course it was not—the idiot would not witness one of the best film openings in Vernon’s humble opinion. He would not feast his eyes to the workings of Joker’s bank robbery, nor the cold one-liners from the incapacitated bank manager. 

No, what he was served was the Huns crossing the Northern border, which, as the boy finally began to clock after a good ten minutes, was not what he was expecting.

“What the…” once again, he heaved himself up, walking over to the player. “Now I know something’s wrong…”

Both you and Vernon stretched further close, as much as the closet would allow, to peek at Mingyu’s frustration as he brought the CD out once more, examining the back and front. He then took out some more of his favourites, opening their cases and taking out the CDs, observing them closely. He was suspicious now. How could he not be, when he was expecting incel excellence, but was greeted with the same shit his younger sister—his crazy ex-girlfriend, even—would usually watch.

He blinked back. 

His deathly stillness had the two trespassers pausing. You two looked at each other, faces losing any humour, perhaps recognising that he had clocked on. You watched the scene as Mingyu rapidly added one CD after another, expecting one movie only to have a Disney-fied replacement, completely botching his plans. Every movie that received such Disneyfication further enraged him, the grit in his teeth heard, the tick in his jaw visible. 

The final straw was when the Godfather was slotted in, his all-time, unmatched favourite. There was darkness for the first few minutes, and he sighed too quickly in relief, about to lay back on his mattress. 

Then, a curly-haired girl, a toddler at best, in huge green glasses becomes visible, being told to open her eyes. 

“Is this where magic comes from?”

“What the fuck?!”

And as a conversation between the little girl and her elderly grandmother blossomed, there was a specific dialogue which sent the young boy over the edge.

“This candle became a magical flame that would never grow out…and it blessed us with a refuge in which to live…a place of wonder…An Encanto.”

You nearly burst out laughing. 

Mingyu, on the other hand, could have seen red. 

“Who fucked with my CDs?!” he demanded to no one in particular, though in his mind he knew there was a culprit. “My fucking CDs, man!” 

“Did you do the Godfather swap?” you whispered, barely able to contain yourself.

“Two special families with one heir that doesn’t feel connected to their lifestyle.” Vernon grinned at you, impressed with himself. “It was too easy.”

“Where did you even find the Encanto DVD? It wasn’t in our set.” 

“I found it in his little filmbro shelf.” He ticked his head towards the boy in physical agony. “My guess is that his sister is a Disney fan and left it in his mancave.”

“Oh my God,” you got out, watching the melodramatic scene of your dear ex show rage akin to a teenage boy losing Call of Duty online. 

“That fucking bitch,” he guttered, over and over again as he threw the Encanto CD across the room. Those words came out, and the boy behind the shutters stiffened. Okay—there is rage, and then there is straight up promise of violence. Vernon may not be much of a knight, but if they were caught, he knew he would have to protect you.

He hoped to everything that existed that it would not have to come to that—Vernon would rather fake having a heart attack and have you drag his body out of the Kim Manor. 

It seemed as that might have been a real possibility, until the boy called out a threat to a name they were not expecting.

“Minseo, I’m gonna kill you!” Mingyu roared as he stormed out of the room, undoubtedly on his way to destroy her room, even take his anger out on her Jellycat collection.

As you heard his frenzy disappear down the halls, the trespassers took this as the opportunity to escape the closet, Vernon already creating a little distance in case you come too close and cause his passing out.

“We need to get out now,” he declared as you crept out of the wardrobe, his head whipping to the door which Mingyu left from. 

You nodded, not quite looking at him as you dashed straight for the final DVD. “Oh, Jesus,” He groaned, watching you scramble for the movie, trying horrifically to hide it within your clothes. “You do realise he can come in any second!” 

“Okay, okay,” you said, hurrying over to the window. “Wait, you can go first.”

Vernon raised a brow, following after you. “How come you don’t want to go first?”

You only ushered him further, grinning. “You can peek at my ass again.”

“My eyes will be closed,” he sniped, already carrying it out, trying his absolute best not to imagine your ass in his mind—maybe stakeouts for goofy purposes were not for the weak-willed. “You know, just for that alone, you’re going down first.” 

“Whatever suits you, Mr. Filmbro,” you almost chanted, aggravating him all the more as you stepped out of the window, beginning the trek down. 

He looked down as you descended with one film in hand, still stealing glances at the only door in the room, terrified that the boy would burst through the door, see you both and bring about his downfall. Subconsciously, his fingers hovered just before his mouth, biting the skin around his nails. He knew he should have run himself over with an oncoming vehicle. A messy plan, but still fool-proof. 

“Stop panicking and come down here!” your voice snapped him out of his anxious frenzy. “I know you’re biting your nails off right now!”

The boy instantly repelled his hand, instead furrowing his brow. A little irritating—scary, as well, really—how predictable he was in your eyes. How quickly you had figured him out.

“Alright,” he said, absent-mindedly as he reached for the windowsill. He peaked down again, not realising how far down the descent truly was. Rationally, he knew it was not the worst drop he’d seen on the first floor, but the nerves had started affecting his mind. Now, this entire time he was watching you take one step, two steps down, but he did not have the strength to follow you. 

Still, he knew it was now or never.

Vernon was going to be at your heels (or, more anatomically correct, at your head) when he heard a shuffle from behind him.

He whipped his head around, anticipating the worst.

The worst arrived in all his golden-skinned, empty-headed glory. Holding one of his DVDs, Kim Mingyu stood at the doorway, his eyes widening with every second they beheld the intruder, one leg out of the house, the other a moment away from heaving him up.

Oh. Jesus. Christ.

“The nerd from film theory?”

Vernon’s face dropped. 

The Nerd from Film Theory? The Nerd from fucking Film Theory? 

It was then and there, in that exact moment of time, that the filmbro in question did not give a single care for what the popular boy thought of him. Vernon knew everything about this boy (whether he wanted to or not); his every class, his every terrible friend, even his film preferences, thanks to yours truly. Yet Mingyu did not even know his name—did not even bother to remember.

It was because of that that he managed to garner some essence of his bravado, finally settling both feet on the ladder steps. 

He also decided to add in some corrections to Mingyu’s knowledge. 

“Jo March did not need any man after Laurie…in fact, she did not need any male support, asshole.”

For added effect, he raised his middle finger, as if the burn was sick enough to hurt. 

Mingyu’s devastating response was a confused tilt of his head, clearly not understanding his reference. 

It was enough time for Vernon to hurry his descent down, catching the former more off guard. 

“What the fuck—” was all the boy heard before he quickly tried to travel downwards, feet nearly slipping on the steps by his sheer carelessness. Mingyu’s head popped out from the window, and saw the great ladder leaning against the sill, shocked gaze lowering to where Vernon was descending to.

When his eyes found yours, he could have choked on his gulp. Even more so when you smirked at him.

“_____?”

As Vernon finally dropped off the ladder, dusting himself off, he watched the two of you, staring each other down. When he gauged Mingyu’s fear of you, there was a small part of him that was filled with admiration.

Mingyu’s demand sounded more like a whimper. “What are you doing here?”

You only curled your lips further upwards, grinning like a wild animal. It chilled your ex-boyfriend to the bone when you held the Tangled CD up for him to see, with your other hand raising your middle finger. 

“This is for calling me a stupid bitch.”

His mouth dropped open. That gave you just enough time to grab onto Vernon’s hand, enveloping your fingers around his wrist. 

And run for your life.

Vernon let out a yelp as he was yanked forward by your hold, barely hearing Mingyu’s loud curses and retreating back into the house, no doubt to follow after you two—the trespasser could only guess, much too occupied by your hand, a guiding beacon of mischief, never absent in his life as you ran and ran and ran out of the garden, out of the sleek maze which you two first entered, catching sight of the open garden gate.

The boy heard distant footsteps coming from the house, and as you both saw your car parked beyond the greater gates, you fished out your keys, finally letting go of his hand to dash over to the driver’s side, jamming the key in the lock. Vernon let out a startled noise as the car unlocked, wasting no time to jump inside, heart beating loud enough for the entire neighbourhood to hear. Mingyu appeared at the main doorstep at the exact same time, even more shocked to realise he had not noticed his ex-girlfriend’s car casually parked before him. 

Just as you climbed inside, swivelling the keys into ignition, Mingyu began to run after the car, a mere ten seconds between him and catching you two.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, _____, just start it already!” the nervous boy in shotgun begged, his head swivelling back at every chance, heart lurching at every metre closer the filmnemesis crept.

The car revved to life at your signal.

It was time to get the fuck out of here. 

“GO, GO, GO!” Vernon screamed at the top of his voice, fisting the handle at the roof of the car as you slammed on the accelerator, racing out of the driveway with Mingyu’s bellowing following after you. Of course, since he was a mere, enraged college student, and you both were in a (slight) state-of-the-art vehicle, you zoomed out of the neighbourhood, his curses fading with every turn further out, you managing to escape. 

Vernon, because he had never done such a thing before, was still screaming to leave for the next ten minutes until you had had enough, swerving to the side of the road, not far from his DVD store. You almost crashed into the nearby park, frightening a few birds that expected peace within the sidewalk trees, only to be disturbed by a troublesome ex and a film-obsessed loser. 

You gushed out an exhale, fingers gripping tightly to the wheel, almost as stunned as the boy beside you, who seemed to take in the town’s worth of air in his little body. But then, you realised the gravity of the situation, the sole movie at the back which could not be swapped, and the valiant escape from something you never thought you would come out of alive.

Just then, you burst into laughter. 

The boy whirled his head to you, who could not stop the tumbles of laughter that escaped your mouth, hanging on to the car wheel as you cackled and cackled like the Wicked Witch of the West. Well, that was what you thought you sounded at that time, but you, as always, did not care.

Only that you were wrong—at least in Vernon’s eyes. You were wrong, because if you were laughing like some Disney villain, then he would have been more pissed off—enraged even. He was instead in awe, shocked at the raw guffawing that spluttered out of you without shame. Had the two of you not evaded a great danger? Nearly been arrested for your legally ambiguous behaviour? 

For the first time in his life, he was not embroiled with dread. 

There was no anxiety in his body, no essence of panic at the consequences of your actions. No, he could only stare at you and your mirth, and find himself raising his brows, the beginnings of a scoffed laugh creeping from his lips. 

The more he looked at you, the more his own laughter joined yours. 

And then you were both laughing, giggling beyond control at the narrow escape, and the near crash against some tree. Vernon knew how stupid this whole situation was, but strangely, he did not seem to care—not when you did not see it like that. A very odd prospect. 

After a few minutes, when it finally seemed as if you would settle down, you sighed, leaning back into the driver’s seat. “We should do that again.”

Despite the amusement lingering, he immediately shut the idea down. “Not a chance.”

You admired the ancient lining of the tree’s bark in front of the car. “The way you were laughing with me just now, you’d think you want to commit crimes from now on.” 

A dramatic roll of eyes. “I’m not going to jail. They don’t even have a TV there.”

“You and your fuck ass movie collection…”

That brought out another chuckle from the boy—you smiled at the notion. He then looked at the rearview mirror, where the last movie was splayed, all alone and away from the others. “Kind of a shame we missed out on one last movie.”

“Right?” You followed his line of sight. “Fuck, Tangled of all movies?”

“Wait, isn’t that the one with Rapunzel?” 

You let out an impressed hum. “A week of seeing my face, and you’re already catching on!” A mischievous raise of brows. “Another month with me and you can sing all the tracks from the film.”

“You really shouldn’t have this much faith in me, _____,” he said, shaking his head. “Plus, this might be the one movie I didn’t watch with Sofe.” He saw you perk up at the new name. “My sister. She’s the one who forced me to watch all those Disney films years ago.”

“I like her already,” you mused, a finger on your chin. You paused for a bit, looking down at your shoes, settled lightly upon the pedals. Then, you started the engine once more.  “So…Tangled is the only one you haven’t watched, huh.” 

A glance at you. “Yep.” 

You looked back, hoping to reverse away from the tree. “Right…” You checked your watch, the car slowly moving out of the pavement. “Interesting…super duper interesting.”

It was something insane, fantastical the way Vernon’s nerves seemed to hum at the implications. “I don’t like where this is going.”

“What? I just said that it’s interesting you’ve never watched Tangled…”

The boy scoffed, crossing his arms. “This is where you’re gonna force me to watch the stupid movie.” 

But then he caught the look of surprise on your face, as if you had been caught. “Oh, Jesus, you’re not gonna let me out the car, are you?”

“No, no!” you countered at once, raising your hands. “Well, yes as in I was hoping you would watch the movie with me, and no, I won’t force you.” You sighed a little, fingers back on the wheel. “You’ve already done so much today. If you want to go home, I’ll drive you straight there.”

He watched your expression, the prepared acceptance, the anticipation—the sliver of hope, hiding itself amongst the flurry of other emotions. In all honesty, he was tired; the entirety of this evening had exhausted his social battery (which he doubted he had to begin with) and he still had some sound image work left back at the college studio. If it was any other person asking, he would have happily bunked them off—pretended that he had suddenly developed a terminal illness in the span of minutes, and begged them to drive him back home to ‘live out the rest of his days’.

You, on the other hand, were a problem. He could not let you down—not anymore. Not after today.

When he let out a soft sigh, you were anticipating the worst. Then, he revealed the answer. 

“Let’s watch a fucking Disney Princess movie.”

VERNON DID NOT WANT TO WATCH A FUCKING DISNEY PRINCESS MOVIE. 

The moment you opened the door to your house—a shabby, student house about twenty minutes from campus—stepping inside, he realised there was no way back, and that he had to humour your wish, or else lose respect in your eyes. 

As you brought him down the small hallway, leading into the little living room, you quickly grabbed the takeout boxes of your flatmates, murmuring hurried apologies as you left the room. The boy looked around, the slight cracks of the blue walls, the 32” TV sitting at the opposite end of the fraying couches. Posters of Bridget Jones, Notting Hill, and other Hugh Grant movies were plastered on one end of the wall, while Vernon nearly had a jumpscare when he caught a life-size cardboard cutout of some Disney hero—this one unrecognisable. 

“That’s the love of my life you’re staring at,” came the voice behind him, and he whirled to see you, a huge bowl of popcorn cradled in your hands. “Why’re you standing in the middle like an idiot? Sit, sit!” Vernon obliged, making to settle on the sofas when you tutted. “Are you mental? No, sit on the bean bags near the TV!” 

How stupid of me to assume I could sit on furniture designed for sitting, he meant to crow, but the moment he settled on the bean bags, he instantly preferred their malleable comfort. When he let out a relaxed sigh, you huffed out a laugh, propping the bowl before him. “See?” 

“I was gonna say…” Vernon trailed off, watching you press a few buttons on the DVD player. “Where’s the CD?”

“Already in,” you said, picking up the remote as you settled in the beanbag next to him, scooting closer. Catching a look at his face, you bellowed, “Yes, Mr. Filmbro, I watched it recently!”

“How recently are we saying?”

“...yesterday evening.” 

“And this is the masterpiece you wanna show me,” Vernon murmured, sneaking a look back at the cardboard cutout. “Don’t tell me he’s the floozy that’s leading the film.” 

You turned the TV on. “Fine. I won’t tell you.”

He then looked at you. “Oh, Jesus.”

“Trust me!” you then reasoned, putting a hand on the boy’s knee—the mere touch had his brain rewiring, nerves all ceasing to work on the one point where your touch remained. You really had to stop—first your hand was on his mouth in that damned (blessed) closet, and now this soft reminder. He tried his best not to fix his eyes on your lingering fingers as you carried on, “This film is a modern classic. I promise.” 

Well shit, he thought. When you looked at him like that, you could have convinced him that Quentin Tarantino was a better foot fetishiser than a filmmaker. 

“Okay,” he said, almost believing in your words. 

With that, the landing page for the movie turned on, and there were the main characters; he assumed the chick with the long, blonde hair was Rapunzel, and the man behind her—which, Vernon thought, did not deserve to be celebrated as a life-sized cardboard cutout—was the love interest. Whatever. 

“Let’s just get this over with,” he mumbled as you pressed the fated Play, anticipating the worst. 

And as the two of you fell silent, Vernon still holding out on the popcorn, watching suspiciously at the screen, the voice of a man flooded the TV speaker.

“This…this is the story of how I died.” 

The boy immediately reacted, face dropping. “The fuck?” he got out, catching the WANTED! Poster of the very man he bad-mouthed not two minutes ago. 

“But don’t worry, this is actually a fun story…and the truth is…it isn’t even mine.” 

“Wait, this dude is already dead?” he asked.

“Just watch the movie!” you answered impatiently, making the boy sigh and lean back into the bean bag.

“This is the story of a girl named Rapunzel. And it starts…with the sun.”

You wanted to keep your eyes rooted to the screen, watch the unfurling of Mother Gothel’s backstory, but that was precisely when the incessant complaining began. 

“Now why are we already getting context of some random witch’s actions? Less telling, more showing, man!” Vernon kept his arms crossed, shaking his head at the TV. “Oh, great, poor little king and queen in their big ass castle!” 

“Having basic sympathy will take you great places, my guy,” you merely said, scoffing down the popcorn in the bowl. “Their kid just got stolen by some crazy bitch.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he murmured, piping down once more when the flashbacks ceased, and the present day was introduced into the story. On the screen, a small, green chameleon entered, camouflaging himself behind a pot of flowers. He guessed that the chick with the long hair—Rapunzel—would be finding him, and, lo and behold, he was right. In all fairness, though, it did not take a film degree to work that out.

He also did not need a film degree to guess that a musical number was about to be introduced, not even ten minutes into the movie. That he worked out all by himself, when the guitar riffs sounded. Beside him, you instantly brightened, smile widening as TANGLED morphed on the screen, the song about to begin. 

It was around that point when, as he spared you a glance, he realised you were about to sing along.

“Oh, Jesus—”

If his life was a romantic film, this would have been the perfect setup; the girl that made his heart flutter was seated dangerously close to him, bean bags already touching with shoulders barely following, watching the cheesiest animated movie. He could have seen the shot now, with his gaze turning rose-y as you would open your mouth and sing along to the song. Of course, you would sing beautifully, better than the original singer, and he would sit there, absolutely mesmerised. 

Oh, he was stunned alright. 

“SEVEN AM THE USUAL MORNING, LINE UP—!”

The boy flinched at the sheer volume of your chant—screech would be the better word for it, for he guessed singing was not one of your natural talents. 

You could not see his judgement at all, eyes closed and clutching your fists to your chest, continuing the song. “START ON THE FLOOR AND SWEEP TILL THE FLOOR’S ALL CLEEEEEANNNN—!”

A scoff escaped him, not quite believing the scene before him. He was shocked to silence, the movie’s music now in his background, the forefront being your attempt to outsing the princess. Either no one had told you how horrendous your singing was, or you simply did not care for the opinions of others. A part of him hoped that it was the latter—for you to be so comfortable in singing away, despite what others thought, made his judgement disappear. 

Shamelessly you sang the entire number, up to the point where the scene cuts and the supposedly hot love interest—whose name was Flynn Rider, apparently, which he should have known if he just read the poster at the start of the movie like a normal viewer—was now trying to steal the crown jewels. 

Vernon was too busy thinking about how stupid ‘Flynn Rider’ was as a name to realise that another song had just started. Immediately you changed your tune, your tone lowering, almost sultry. 

This time, you looked at him when you started singing. 

“Look at you, as fragile as a flower…”

“Ayo?” A glance at the TV screen, where Mother Gothel was now singing. “Another song?”

But you did not answer his question, only singing further as you reached your hand out to him. “Still a little sapling, just a sprout!” You continued, and, at that, your hand patted his mess of curls atop his head, mirroring Mother Gothel’s actions. 

Blinking back repeatedly, he could not even shrug it off, stunned once again by how you were casually able to touch him and not feel anything—while his entire system shuts down like a lagging desktop when it tries to run the Sims. 

The overdramatic flair was present in your singing, changed from the sweetness of the previous song. It was crazy how you remembered each word, not slipping at any chorus—you were a true fan, a committed admirer of the film. Even he could not comprehend knowing every single line of his favourites. 

It was admirable indeed—to love a film as you did this one.

It was what made Vernon smile a little, turning away from your melodrama and focusing on the screen, where Mother Gothel now threatened to never be asked to leave the tower. Again.

This time, he would give the movie a chance. Thank God he decided to wake up.

The movie picked up the pace instantly—he had not expected Flynn to meet—and be whacked out by Rapunzel’s frying pan—so quickly, and had reflected her dejection when the mother screamed at her. He could tell where this was going, especially with the thief now in the closet, but he found himself grabbing a handful of popcorn from the bowl without turning away from the screen.

By the time the third song of the movie came around, he was taken aback that it arrived further in, surrounded by the thugs of the Snuggly Duckling. Without realising, he turned to you, anticipating you breaking out into a song, but you were merely watching the movie, bobbing your head along to the beat.

Noticing his stare, you glanced at him. “Expecting a show?”

“Since you were giving them out without request, I figured this time would be like any other.”

You snorted, grabbing the popcorn. “I’m saving my heavenly voice for the best song, actually.”

Vernon mocked a gasp. “So you’re telling me Mother Knows Best isn’t the best feature?”

“Don’t chat shit, Mr. Filmbro, because Mother Knows Best is one of the top five.”

“I look forward to seeing which song you’re holding out for,” he only said, turning back to the movie again. The popcorn ran out about this time, and you shot up from your bean bag, promising more as you exited the room, leaving him to continue. 

By the time you returned, the protagonists were escaping, chaos ensuing all around them with the guards, his partners and that eccentric white horse chasing them. Ending up in the cave, they recognise a lack of way out, and although Vernon was aware that the movie ends on the happiest note, a small part of him filled with dread. 

That dread disappeared instantly when Flynn confessed his little secret.

“Eugene Fitzherbert?!” The boy demanded.

You chuckled at his disdain. “Yeah, Flynn Rider was hotter. Eugene Fitzherbert ages him about forty years.”

“Flynn Rider was silly, but Eugene is straight up diabolical.” 

“He is still fuckable regardless!” you shushed him, raising your pointer at him. “You wish you had his sex appeal.”

The boy rolled his eyes. “Yeah, let me just change my name to Bartholomew Whiteman real quick.”

“Hey!” you whacked him on the arm, this time laughing heartily at his quip. “Let my man live!”

He decided to spare your fictional man any more bullying, taking in the town atmosphere where the two adventurers and Maximus had now ended up. “Ooooo, the castle dances are my favourite scenes!” you gushed, scooping popcorn in one hand and eating with the other. “Wait, look, look at the braid!”

“Jeez, I’m looking!” he insisted, watching the girls braid Rapunzel’s hair. Flynn—which Vernon is continuing to identify him as, because Eugene was too much for him—stared at her longingly at the results. Vernon used the popcorn as an excuse to gaze at you matching Flynn’s longing at the screen. Your head rested on your knees, locking your hands in front of them, forming a lazy smile. This smile remained throughout Rapunzel and Eugene’s activities, even to the point when the couple were settled in a boat, waiting for the lights. 

“It’s happening,” you declared, the smile widening as you released your legs from your hands. “Oh my God, it’s fucking happening!”

Raising the volume, the boy watched the screen, where thousands of lanterns were sparking alight at the king and queen’s signal. The lanterns’ lights broke across the borders of the town, melting into the sea, the docked ships. Rapunzel had not noticed though, too busy dropping flower heads upon the water’s surface, Flynn helpfully holding out the bunch. 

As the princess dropped another upon the waterbed, she finally noticed the beginning.

It was then Vernon heard your favourite Disney song.

“All those days, watching from the window…All those years, outside looking in…” 

You followed this time, not as loud as the other songs, quiet and soft, as if letting the blonde shine in her song. “All that time, never even knowing, just how blind I’ve been…”” 

You exhibited the same excitement as Rapunzel, who, noticing the lanterns, threw off Flynn’s balance, hanging onto the curling bow of the boat.

The boy, however, was not really focused on the screen.

Because the music that surrounded the two crept into his ears, playing the strings of his senses; because the lights were off save for the TV, shining its dimmed lighting upon your face, making you glow with the dark purples, blues, golds of the Tangled scenery. He lost all interest in everything because you were looking something out of a daydream, watching the events of the movie as if they were scenes of salvation. The two of you were definitely not on any kind of boat, merely sitting on bean bags. Despite all of that, he began to float—swaying from where he sat, as if he was truly settled on water. 

“Now I’m here—” You put your hand to your chest— “Blinking in the starlight…now I’m here, suddenly I see…”

You kept singing the lyrics, voice more subdued than your last outbursts, and Vernon could only watch you, the pure love of this song radiating off your very pores. Vernon’s anticipation rose with every octave of the singer’s voice rising, eyes never leaving your face, the parted mouth. 

“Standing here, it’s oh! so clear…!”

As the viewers themselves were about to observe the thousands of lanterns Rapunzel witnessed, Vernon himself waiting, he made the mistake of averting his gaze from you, if only to see the grand reveal.

It was what made you unconsciously envelop your fingers with his, clasping his hand with yours.

He whipped his head to yours, eyes widening to the point of spilling. 

You were already looking at him. 

When you sang the next lyrics, Vernon could have melted molten.

“I’m where I’m meant to be!” 

And as the lanterns surrounded the protagonists, lighting up the entirety of the night, you sang the chorus to the boy in your little college flat, no one to witness it but two of you.

“And at last I see the light! And it’s like the fog has lifted!” 

Your voice was hoarse now, all the screech-singing catching up to you. Vernon, in another lifetime, would have instantly resisted, ran for the hills if it was literally anyone else in the room but you.

“And at last I see the light! And it’s like the sky…is new…” 

But it was you—you holding his hand tightly, you looking at him with the light of the lanterns in your eyes, you opening up to him in your little haven, away from anyone else. Granted, you could have offered this performance to anyone, but he liked to think—shit, he was truly hoping—that you would not have done this for anyone else. 

You would have only sang your favourite song to him. 

“And it’s warm, and real, and bright! And the world has somehow…shifted…”

Vernon watched you halt a moment, waiting for the next verse, your hand tightening in his. 

“All at once…everything looks different…”

You were right—the world had shifted underneath him, stilled under the dimmed lighting of this dingy living room. The two of you now faced each other, music still tuning from the TV, but the characters long forgotten, as if they never existed. Yes, you were right in that everything looked different, seemed different, as if he was seeing you for the very first time. 

“Now that I…see you.”

Shit. You were rather beautiful before him.

You paused then, watching his reaction. You tilted your head, thoroughly amused by the sheer awe that radiated from his face, but then you noticed his chest rise and fall, more unevenly the longer you observed him. 

The next detail you caught was how his eyes darted down—down to your lips.

It was the lips, which were watched so intently, that parted.

You attempted at a little humour. “Out of all my talents, I guess singing isn’t one of them.”

But Vernon did not respond with words. Sure, he would have agreed with you, but singing was irrelevant now. Out of all these infinite talents you possessed—your natural charm, your ease in making him laugh, your trespassing and eventual escaping of such crimes—Vernon could not have given less of a shit about singing. Not when you were before him, bathed in an unnatural, extraordinary light, soft music playing in the background. Almost as if he had adorned the rose-tinted glasses, courtesy of the universe.

In any romantic comedy, he would have kissed her.

The boy was not known to be courageous—anything but brave. Real Life, Not Clickbait Vernon would have left by now. The Real Vernon should have pussied out. 

You, however, looked a little too beautiful to be treated with cowardice. 

“Are you going to kiss me, Mr. Filmbro, or are you gonna make me wait till the end of the movie?”

He parted his mouth for a split second, gob-smacked at your question. The twinkle in your gaze, though, had him spluttering out a harsh chuckle, craning his head down at the sheer absurdity of it all. But then he looked up, smiling, not quite believing what he was about to do.

“I should make you wait.”

That was what he said. What Vernon instead did was finally grow the two balls that were supposed to be hidden in his pants, leaning in and pressing his lips against yours. 

Now the boy always wondered whether the movies were right—when mouths would touch, move against each other, whether a fire would ignite between souls, whether one really felt as if they were not of this world.

It seemed like Hallmark-level bullshit to him, but the moment his lips touched yours, he began to float out of this room. A soft hum reverated from you, approval at his actions, and he could have burst as he felt you smile against him. 

Maybe Disney was right. God, he really did not want to be in such accord with that stupid corporation, but they were onto something with the fireworks, the orchestral singing when couples kiss. He himself felt a choir-like chant all around him as he brought his hand to your face, angling it slightly so he could gain better access, boost your pleasure as he delved slightly deeper.

He was unstoppable. He was alive and ecstatic and delirious, opening his mouth wider, his other hand now finding your waist, snuffing out any distance between you two. It was not like he was a pro in these situations—he had only ever had one serious girlfriend, and that was at an age where a boy could get away with merely ‘french-kissing’ (as the kids back then would have gloated) your significant other. Again, he may have fooled around a little in college, too, but never had he experienced this haze of lust, this newfound desire. 

This desire enhanced further when you slipped your tongue from the seams, sliding it along his as an invitation for more, and he could have honestly thanked that heinous hag Walt Disney for making movies you adored so much, to the point of showing him and landing him in this situation. Of course he indulged you, opening his mouth enough to let you inside. The sensation of your tongue slipping past his lips had a soft noise releasing from his throat. 

Tangled was all but forgotten, the two of you too occupied being entangled with each other. You pulled him even closer, wrapping your arms around his neck, fingers brushing against the ends of his hair. The soft touches had every strand of his locks standing on edge, a wave of delight washing over him. 

You were sagged into the bean bag, Vernon’s weight upon you sinking you further, but you did not mind it—relished it, his scent engulfing you, the sighs and soft murmurs of his every exhale haunting your eardrums. Who would have thought that a boy who could recite every Joker quote from The Dark Knight—Virgin Supremism you termed the talent—had this kind of game hidden underneath? How was he able to ignite such powerful emotions from you?

How was Vernon ‘Filmbro’ Chwe able to make you feel so good you did not realise Tangled finishing right before you?

The two of you could have spent all night intertwined in each other, perhaps would have gone past the boundaries of mere making out. However, between the haze of his soft whispers to you, your own mist swimming in your head, you heard the starting music of the DVD reverting to the home page, and like instinct you opened your eyes, finding that the movie had ended.

You must have paused, because Vernon immediately stopped, concern staining his pretty features. His knitted brow, eyes laced with nervousness, shamed you for ever stopping. “What’s wrong? Did I do something?”

“Oh, no, no!” You felt like a fool for the answer you attempted to give him. “It’s just, um…”

He followed your line of sight, turning around. Once he realised, he looked back at you, you surprised to find a little shock replacing his concern. “We were going for that long?”

Your smirk had his stomach knotting. “This is what happens when you make out with someone you like, Mr. Filmbro.” 

He could not respond, looking away as his flushed face managed to redden some more. You only laughed at him, playing with the hem of his shirt, his arms still steady as they caged you. “You are so lucky, you know.”

He quirked a brow. “And why is that?” 

“I would never miss the second half of Tangled for a man.”

It was so incredibly stupid, how he felt a semblance of pride at the notion.“Happy to know I’m an exception.”

“You do know I’m gonna make you watch it again so you can say you’ve watched it.”

Vernon tilted his head to the side, lost in thought. You watched him, anticipating. “This is the part where you say you’d rather Mingyu jump you than rewatch Tangled.” 

“Well yes, but…” He glanced over his shoulder, where your shelf of DVDs were stacked, a particular movie which had caught his eye previously now standing out all the more. “I, uh…” 

He looked back at you, and the self-conscious glint in his gaze had you watching his every movement. “I was hoping to show you my favourite movie instead.”

You were ready to make a comment on how you prided on avoiding Nolan films like the plague, but then you remembered the conversation at Mingyu’s house. Your eyebrows could have touched your hairline. “You said I could never know.”

“Well…” a small smile escaped him, slowly pulling himself away. “If I am to be your exception, _____, then I suppose you can be mine.”

Gaping at him, you could only keep silent as he, with great effort on his part, heaved off you, making his way to the shelf. He was lucky, you thought—had he been a moment slower, that comment alone would have had you kissing him again. 

What quickly caught your attention was him sliding his pointer finger through your collection, a series of your favourites. The anticipation was rising, you not quite believing that Mr. Filmbro’s favourite film was within your arsenal. Weeks ago, you would have bullied him relentlessly for the ironic hypocrisy.

When he pulled out the fated DVD, you let out the greatest laugh.

The boy instantly frowned, but you did not realise, cackling and cackling away at the selection, the final boss of Vernon’s favourite film, nestled between his fingers. “Shut up,” he mumbled, but again, you did not hear him, lost in the shrill sound of your laughter, erupting the room to life. 

“Oh, Jesus—” Your chortling did not seem to stop, almost to the point of hiccups. “Your ass…this entire time—!”

“And suddenly I’m leaving!” Vernon announced, getting up and about to drop the DVD. 

He did not last long in his determination when you grabbed onto the end of his shirt, grinning still. “Thank God you’re not a Nolan kiss-ass…that’s all I’m saying.”

All he could do was stand like an idiot, the tips of your fingers caressing the skin just above his trousers. “But I am a Nolan kiss-ass,” he murmured, crossing his arms. 

“That’s what I thought, too, but this film—” you jerked your head towards the prize in his hand. “You’ve redeemed yourself.”

“Stop it,” he only said, crouching down to pull out the Tangled CD, replacing it with the new, and, in his opinion, improved movie. “This is why I didn’t want to tell anyone.”

“And nobody will know,” you assured him, watching the movie’s main menu pop up, the PLAY option highlighted. “This’ll be our secret.”

“First the trespassing,” Vernon began, sitting down beside you, “Then the tampering of movies, and now this.” He grabbed the remote, about to play the movie. “How much more are we gonna sneak around?”

You looked at him, and the smile you offered him had him glancing away—only for a second. “Have you not had fun, though? Sneaking around with me?”

Normally, in a situation where he had zero balls, he would have evaded such a question, not fanned the flames of your fire. But tonight he had watched a Disney movie with you, felt your fingers caressing his skin, had even kissed you in the purple hues of Tangled’s light. Tonight, he could conquer the world.

What would answering a heated question do any harm?

Vernon locked eyes with you then, trying to fight his smile. “I think I could have fun with you anywhere…in secret or for anyone to see.”

As something in your gaze shifted, he turned the film on (an entendre which was completely intentional). 

Once again, the two of you were in the same position, watching yet another film, this time another’s all time favourite. The narrator began in a strange, European accent, explaining the tale of an unfortunate princess, much like Rapunzel, and her dire situation. 

Although it was undoubtedly his most treasured film, the boy had a very hard time paying attention when all he could feel was that penetrating stare of yours, capable of revealing his very soul from beneath his measly shirt. Even when the stranger main character was introduced, following his main routine in his strangest abode, Vernon was not particularly concentrating anymore.

Not when he heard your voice, a soft question amongst the gaudy music of the 2000s. “Do you mean that, Vernon?”

And perhaps it was because you said his actual name, especially when your voice sounded like…like that. Like something from a perfect movie soundtrack, akin to the end-credits of an unforgettable TV show. 

Because he was too occupied with simply admiring you, he merely nodded, biting the inside of his cheek.

And because you were too busy admiring him, his words, the entire night where you had felt pure, euphoric joy, you did Mr. Filmbro a little dirty by making a decision that negated his film.

You shifted closer once more, hands reaching out to hold his face. 

This time, Vernon was prepared when you kissed him.

There was a certain eagerness in your lips this time which was newer—more enjoyable to his senses. It made sense now, why all these couples in movies made out for hours and hours on end. He felt as if he could kiss you forever, move against your mouth, delve inside until his tongue memorised your very imprint. 

You moaned a little louder this time, and the very sound had his heartbeat racing, moreso when, as he pressed you against him, shifting upon his beanbag, he knew then and there that something in the air shifted.

Last time, you had stopped. This time, there was no such indication—the very thought had him skirting his hands around you, holding you tight enough to never let go.

Still—even with such possibilities, there was no way you and him would escalate to the point of losing his virginity.

Whatever happens though, he will still watch the end of his favourite film. 

Whatever happens, Vernon would not be having sex with you if Shrek was playing in the background.

VERNON LOST HIS VIRGINITY WITH SHREK PLAYING IN THE BACKGROUND.

Certainly not his greatest achievements, considering he could not focus on his favourite movie, but it was certainly not his fault. You were—to put it quite plainly—hot as fuck.

He did not leave until the very next day because—as he had stated that night—he still wanted you to watch Shrek, and did, somehow, end up watching it properly. You did not stop teasing him, and he did not stop shutting you up by kissing you senseless. 

Unfortunately, the boy did have college the next day, so he had to leave at some point, but not without promises of meeting you again. This time, however, you two did not continue the crimes he committed with you. You and Vernon were not modern-day Joker and Harley Quinn.

When the two of you were not terrorising Mingyu’s livelihood, you decided to hang out at the filmstore, where it all began. Vernon would host weekly movie nights, and both of you would eat popcorn and watch each other’s recommendations, scoring them differently in accordance to what was most important for each other.

For the film majoring student, the rating was influenced not only by the actors’ performances, but also from the intricate storyline, the character developments, their relationships. A story, for him at least, was about relationships. Good cinema was about the chemistry between two actors, the emotional connection they had not just with each other, but also their effect on the audience. The actual editing of the film, too, was another bullet point in his criteria.

Your rating, on the other hand, differed slightly. 

“Michelle Yeoh is such a MILF,” was your only comment upon finishing Everything Everywhere All at Once. 

This comment nearly made Vernon lose his mind. “One of the greatest movies of this decade, and this is your only input?”

“But am I wrong, though?”

Vernon sighed a little at that—at the end of the day, you were absolutely in the right. There was a reason Crazy Rich Asians went platinum in his dingy little room. 

Of course, it was not just his personal recommendations that played. You had compiled a list of your all-time favourites, going beyond Disney’s borders, and Vernon was introduced to the dashing timeless genre of the rom-com. Now having a younger sister who (he thought) was a basic bitch meant he did possess some knowledge of the genre, but he had never really sat down and watched a rom-com without falling asleep in Sofia’s bed. 

For you, though, he braved the most famous romances, which he found himself enjoying more than he would have liked—more so when he found one of his favoured actors in 10 Things I Hate About You.

“Heath Ledger singing was something I never thought I needed,” Vernon commented as the ferocious couple finally kissed. 

“And this is the same fella who was the Joker in your little Nolan film,” you reminded him, as if he was not aware already. “Oh, and he was the gay cowboy in that movie.”

“Gay cowboy?” His confusion lasted for approximately thirty seconds before he groaned, pushing you over on your beanbag. “My god, are you talking about Brokeback Mountain?”

“Yes, that one!” you exclaimed, picking up the TV remote. “My guy has range, but him as a high schooler is still my favourite role.”

“You do realise how bad that sounds, right?”

“You know what I mean,” you said, waving him off as you began searching for the next movie. “Now, Two Weeks’ Notice or The Proposal?”

Vernon endeavoured to weigh in on the options. “Which one do you think I’d like?”

“Well, both have Sandra Bullock in them…”

He looked over both DVDs. “Now that’s a white woman I can get behind.” 

You scooched a little over to him, locking your hands together. “We can watch something you like…” When he knitted his brows together, not quite answering you, you went on, almost unable to look him in the eye. “You’ve been super nice, you know…sitting through all my favourites.” 

The boy could not help it, unable to let a smirk slip. “Is this _____ appreciating me for once?” The beginnings of his shit-eating attitude did not develop, since your smack on his arm completely snuffed it out. “Ow, damn!”

“You deserved that,” you muttered, beginning to scoot away until Vernon’s hand on your wrist stopped you. 

When you focused your gaze at him, he already beat you to it. “Let’s watch both today.” 

It was silly, how that made your heart beat faster. “Really? You would watch two rom-coms in a row?”

As his hand pulled you closer, his stare had you almost—almost—nervous. “I’ve done worse for you.”

“Very true,” you said, absent-minded, more lost in the twinkle of his eyes. “Very, uh…good point.”

Vernon thanked all the higher bodies that may have existed for the pure, unadulterated rizz he was attempting to spew. “I’m full of good points,” he crowed. “Now, are you going to stare at me all night, or are we going to watch Sandra Bullock?”

Although your cheeks burned, you pushed him off, earning a chuckle from him. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Mr. Filmbro. The only man I’ll be staring at will be Ryan Reynolds in The Proposal.”

All of the boy’s suave attitude dissipated at his shock. “The Deadpool guy?!”

“Ryan Reynolds did have range before,” you explained, shaking your head. “Then the superhero bug bit him.”

“What a shame,” he only said, as if Vernon did not follow the Deadpool universe to the point of possessing special editioned comics in his room. Still, he happily slotted the CD inside the player, and excused himself to make more popcorn for the two of you.

As the boy prepared snacks, glancing back every time at the opening scene, he managed to sneak a look at you, eagerly watching the screen. 

He could only smile, putting all the popcorn in the huge bowl before hurrying back to you. 

THIS WAS PROBABLY THE FIRST TIME YOU WORE A SUIT TO A CINEMA. PERHAPS THIS WAS THE FIRST TIME YOU WORE A SUIT AT ALL.

Admittedly, it was not as if you had intended to go into the cinema in formal attire—or, at least the only formal clothing you had. Your first plan was to steal something from your father’s wardrobe, but when you tried it on, it did not fit properly, and you refused to look like an idiot in public.

Not that you cared much about looking like an idiot in public before, but there was another person to look out for. And that person, although had already done embarrassing enough actions for you, did not want to push it further. One more ceremonious act of humiliation, and Vernon would have run a thousand miles from you—or that was what you thought. 

You observed your cinema fit one last time before your bathroom mirror, fixing the lapels for the nth time. Your rented three-piece suit was almost a second skin, waistcoat snug underneath the tweed jacket, matching coloured trousers adorned alongside. You borrowed some Oxford brogues from a friend, which made you realise that you had more posh friends than you knew. You tried to find a hat similar to the one Cillian Murphy wore in the promotions, but because you did not have the wardrobe of a middle aged man, you resorted to let your head rest. 

All of this elaborate planning to see Nolan’s (apparently) greatest release yet—Oppenheimer. 

Because the cinema was not far away from you, you decided to walk, messaging your date to let him know that you were on your way. You were certain he was already there in the cinema; Vernon, since you had started hanging out more with him, had only ever talked about Nolan’s upcoming epic. You swore if you recited the IMDB plot out to him during sex, he would have spunked within minutes (a mental note to experiment on that later). His excitement had you booking midnight release tickets, which consequently made him so happy you thought you had invited Nolan to the town cinema. 

The night, furthering along, had beautified the black sky, stars twinkling on your journey. The consistent vibrations from your phone indicated the boy’s imminent excitement, and you smiled, double-checking your formal attire once more. You would have romanticised the nighttime further but living in student area brought you right back to fearing slightly for your life, so you quickened your step, cinema already a close speck in the distance. 

You knew you were nearer to the destination when the flocks of pink and black grew, the cowboy hats and fake pipes all piling up in your vision. Seeing the pink reminded you of Barbie’s influence, also being released tonight alongside the more serious counterpart. 

A small part of you really wanted to see the midnight release for the new movie. The original plan most people were following was either to watch Oppenheimer and then Barbie, or the other way around. You were so close to procuring tickets for the latter, but decided that it was important to accompany Vernon to the seemingly bigger release. After all, you were never as excited about films as the dear film major you had rather grown to like.

Another vibration of your phone, and you finally decided to stop ignoring said-film major and text him, possibly informing you of his arrival.

mr. filmbro: yo where u at

mr. filmbro: they’re too many pink mfs out here im getting suffocated

You rolled your eyes.

_____: im coming to save u kitten.

mr. filmbro: :0

Once you were inside, it was a complete sea of pink and black and grey. Two sides, which one would assume would be opposing, were all celebrating, sharing their drinks, anticipating when the theatre doors would open to let everyone in. Within this myriad of fans, you tried to search for the most mentally ill one—the one who you were certain had a finer three-piece set than you, who would have happily stolen Cillian Murphy’s set clothes to truly honour the movie. 

Strangely enough, after a few minutes, you could not find him, even after confirming your seats. You searched for anyone wearing anything devoid of colour, but did not find the boy. This time, you decided to bother him, calling him and pressing the phone to your ear. 

“Where are you, kitten?” you purposely growled, lowering your voice an octave. “Daddy’s waiting.”

“Kitten actually killed himself after hearing that,” was his purposeful monotone. 

“Can you resurrect yourself for me real quick? I’m tryna find where you are.” 

“I’m next to the Oppenheimer popup.” Immediately you tried to find it, scouring through the crowds. “I figured you’d find me easier.”

Scoffing, you ignored the Barbie stalls, walking further ahead. “How very smart of you to wear Oppenheimer clothing while standing next to it. So much easier to find you, isn’t it?”

He did not retort back, instead inciting your excitement. “Wait, I think I can see you…?”

Your eyes darted over to the fresh faces of the Nolan fans, all taking pictures of the cast pop-ups. What you were observing were the men and women, all lack of colour. 

What your gaze ended up on was someone completely different. 

What you were expecting was a mini-Oppenheimer, the too-large blazer, the sashed hat upon pretty brown curls. What you received instead was a boy engulfed in all the pinks of the colour wheel.

Pink was the colour of his top, bubblegum pink the colour of the stringy fur coat sporting over said shirt. Magenta was the colour of his flared trousers, whilst rose was the colour of his converse. What topped off the entire look was the hot pink cowboy hat, sitting perfectly upon his wavy locks, completing his fit—a fit which was perfect for the Barbie movie. 

It was around that point that he caught on to your stare—through the oceans of opposing fans, he, too, finally found you.

Vernon heard your curse murmur through the phone. “Oh my fucking God.”

That was when his own gaze roamed over you, shocked and shameless amongst the crowds. Not that the crowds mattered, not anymore. He was a little nervous, he had to admit it to himself, only because there were so many people, and they were only watching for the fad, for the trend. A part of him wanted just you and him in this midnight cinema, the biggest official date yet. 

But then seeing you here, in all your black-clad, Oppenheimered glory, had stunned him to his core. Although he had specifically brought you here to watch the movie, he had completely expected you to arrive in the pinkmania fit. Because you had kindly booked tickets for his anticipated film, he thought at least to participate in the Barbie craze fit.

It was like instinct, how his steps gravitated towards you, his phone still pressed against his ear, very much like you. You followed him slowly, hearing his ragged breaths through the speaker, watching him walk closer and closer until you both were a mere couple of feet away.

Only then did you drop the call, your hands at your sides as you admired him. It was a while before any of you spoke. 

Like always, you spoke first. “Tell me the fur coat is yours.”

A ghost of a smirk. “Sofia’s.”

“Stealing’s like second nature to you now, isn’t it?” you taunted. 

Like always, he dodged your taunts. “I thought you were gonna wear all pink.”

“I thought you were gonna wear all black.”

He tilted his head. “Well, I thought since we were watching both movies…”

Your confusion was clear, the corner of his lips curling further up. “Wasn’t Oppenheimer first?”

He then went inside his flared trouser pockets, fishing out two tickets—its colours matching his outfit. “I know how much you wanted to see Margot Robbie be silly.” 

“I did!” you exclaimed, taking the tickets from him, admiring how pretty they were designed, especially when compared to the Oppenheimer marketing tickets. In your admiration, though, you noticed a detail which had your excitement faltering. “Wait, are you sure? It says the movie’s at the same time.”

Vernon then checked the timings, mouth parting. “Oh shit. Didn’t think about that.” He shook his head, mouth straightening in a line, dejected. “This is what happens when I try to do something romantic.”

“I have to give points for effort,” you offered, bringing your hands to his wrist. “Hey, it’s okay. Let’s watch Oppenheimer, honestly. Cillian Murphy is still hot when he’s old.”

“No, no,” he countered, clasping your hands on his wrist. “It’s chill.” He glanced down. “Let’s do Barbie first.”

You attempted to argue him on this, but he simply let go of your hands, with his one hand wrapping around your waist, and the other hand’s wrist being checked for the time. You bit back a smile at his mere actions, relishing his fingers skirting under the suit, the waistcoat. “Vernon,” you attempted. 

“_____,” he said back, staring at you with an awe that you would have deserved had you worn a couture gown, not some rented hand-me-downs. 

You knew he would not take no for an answer now. “But what about Oppenheimer?” you asked anyway as the two of you made your way to the cinema. 

Vernon only pretended to think extremely deeply of the situation, making you elbow him playfully. “Now tell me, Dear Disney Hag, how did we enter Mingyu’s house?”

“Why, we walked straight in!” you answered like an over-enthusiastic student, in which he sarcastically clapped for you. 

“Right on.” As you both walked towards the Barbie theatre, the opposing movie was being screened right beside you, where people were bursting in. “See how everyone is walking in right now?” He gave you a knowing glance. 

That knowing glance had you scoffing in excited disbelief. “My God! Look at you, all ready to commit crimes!” you looped a hand around his arm. “I have taught you well, young man.”

He patted your arm. “Mr. Filmbro has come a long way from chatting shit about your movie taste.”

“So you admit it?” you leaned in. “Disney makes better movies than your flop directors?”

“That’s a completely different claim,” he clarified. “My taste in films is objectively better.”

“Still doesn’t change the fact you're watching the Barbie movie before Oppenheimer.”

He rolled his eyes, tugging you closer. “That’s ‘cause I like you a lot, Disney Hag…”

You did not stop your smile from lighting up your entire face. “You’re not the most insufferable filmbro I’ve dated I guess…”

”I better be the last filmbro you date,” he muttered, watching over the last of the crowds, where they now stood, waiting to enter the theatre.

The longer you waited to answer him, the more incredulous his face became, brows knotted in disbelief. You only chuckled, leaning in and pressing your lips upon his. Of course, he was taken aback, but surprises like these were pleasant, welcomed with open arms as Vernon closed his eyes, pulling you in. 

The moment the line started quickening you broke away, only to make sure no one skipped in front of you and him, and thus deal with yours and his passive aggression. You could not help the giggle that escaped you at breaking away from his lips, relishing in his dazed state. 

Honestly—you truly would not have minded being anywhere with him.

When it was finally your turn to go inside the Barbie screening, you held tightly to his hand. “Let’s go, Mr. Filmbro.”

Vernon only smiled. “Right behind you, _____.”

And as the two of you entered the theatre, hand-in-hand, the boy learned that perhaps he, too, would have gone anywhere with you. 

[lacydollette]

Lol, this is from my own current personal angst in my life but I was thinking it can be used for an angsty Rafe x Reader. I have very low self esteem, I don't think I look pretty so I have a hard time accepting that a guy could be interest in me or find me appealing, especially cuz guys have called ''mid''. Right now I'm talking to THE sweetest guy. THE most greenest flag of all. Super respectful, mature and kind. I had a freakout and pushed him away, wanted to stop talking. He got super upset, send me a drunk text basically being like ''I'm so attracted to u and your everything I've ever dreamt of. I just wanna make you happy and make you smile. Your so special to me. I keep saying that your beautiful, amazing and gorgeous but you won't hear it. Please don't let your insecurites get in the way of us. I fkn miss you'' I mean...hey feel free to take whatever inspiration you want from that, change it, build on it, whatever you want! We just want a sappy head over heels Rafe who is heartbroken being pushed away (but with a happy ending)

a/n tysm for sharing this with me! and please don’t let your doubts get in the way of your happiness. you are BEAUTIFUL and you MATTER ❤️‍🩹 i hope u like this little piece.

warnings rafe cameron x fem!reader, reader with low self esteem, situationship, angst, fluff, rafe being a sweetheart

Rafe couldn’t really tell when it started, but he could feel it in your forced smiles and short responses. He tried to convince himself it was nothing, but the ache in his chest told him otherwise. Every attempt to figure out what he had done wrong was met with your dismissive shrug and a short, “I’m fine.”

But what Rafe didn’t know about was the chaos in your mind. You liked him—really liked him—but your insecurities were keeping you from letting yourself fall completely. You couldn’t ignore the way girls seemed to flirt with Rafe at parties, the way people whispered that you weren’t pretty or cool enough, to be with someone like him. It didn’t matter how many times he told you that you were beautiful—the doubt in your mind drowned out his words. So, you began to pull away, convinced it was only a matter of time before he realized you weren’t what he wanted.

And that’s why Rafe ended up going to this party alone, although it should have been a night that you two spend together. You had promised to go, only to back out at the last minute with a stupid excuse about not feeling well. Rafe knew you were lying. Obviously he didn’t want to go without you, but after Topper wouldn’t stop begging him, he gave in.

He spent the first hour trying to lose himself in the crowd, nursing a beer and pretending to laugh at Topper’s jokes, but it was useless. Every girl who tried to flirt with him only reminded him of you, and every drink made the knot in his chest tighten. Eventually, he escaped out into the yard, needing space to think—or maybe just to breathe.

The cool night air sobered him slightly, but not enough to stop him from pulling out his phone. His fingers hovered over your contact before he finally hit call. It rang three times before you picked up.

“Rafe?” You said softly, voice trembling slightly. You winced at how vulnerable you sounded.

“hi, baby.” he said, his voice breaking slightly before going right in. “What’s going on with you? Please, just tell me. Did I do something? Did I hurt you somehow? Because if I did, fuck I swear to God, I didn’t mean to.”

Your throat tightened, guilt twisting in your stomach. He sounded so desperate, so unlike the confident, self-assured Rafe you knew. You didn't know what to say, how to explain something you couldn't even fully understand yourself.

“Talk to me, y/n,” he pleaded. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep guessing what’s wrong. I care about you too much to lose you like this.” His voice cracked, and he raked a hand through his hair, his frustration spilling over. “I’m completely crazy about you. I don’t care about anyone else. You’re it for me. You’re the only one I want.”

Your heart shattered at his words. He cared about you, really cared about you. But how could he? How could someone like Rafe Cameron, with his perfect smile and effortless charm, care about someone like you?

"Rafe..." you whispered, unsure of what to say. “No,” he interrupted. “You have no idea how much you mean to me. I think about you all the time—when I wake up, when I go to sleep. You’re all I want, y/n. And if there’s even a part of you that feels the same way—then please, stop pushing me away.”

The silence that followed was unbearable. Rafe leaned against a tree, his heart pounding so loudly it drowned out everything else. Then he heard you breathe out, followed by muffled sobs, which you tried so hard to suppress by pressing your palm over your mouth. You wanted to believe him, wanted to let his words sink in and erase all your doubts. But the fear was still there.

“I didn’t think I was enough for you,” you finally whispered, voice trembling. “You could have anyone, Rafe. And people keep saying I don’t deserve you, and maybe they’re right.”

“Are you kidding me?” he said, his voice rising as he couldn’t believe that you’d actually think that. “Baby, you’re more than enough. You’re everything. Don’t let what other people say get in your head. They don’t know you. They don’t know us.”

Your sniffle came through the line, and he could picture you wiping your tears, head bowed like it always was when you were upset. “I just… I didn’t want to hold you back.”

“You’re not holding me back,” he replied softly. “You’re the only thing keeping me sane.” He paused. “Please, just let me in. Let me prove to you how much you mean to me.”

The sincerity in his voice was undeniable, and you believed him. Believed that he was serious about you two. “Okay.” You said. Relief washed over him, and he exhaled shakily. “Okay,” he repeated, his lips curving into a smile. “I’m coming to you right now.”

Your eyes widened, “No, Rafe, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he said firmly. “Stay where you are. I’m coming to you. We’ll figure this out together.” And with that, he ended the call, his heart pounding with determination. He didn’t care what anyone else thought. You were his, and he wasn’t going to let you go.

[solavita]

ultraviolence — sylus (l&d)

pairing ; sylus x fem!reader

words ; 4.0k

synopsis ; you were married to sylus because of an arranged pact he had with your father. and it seemed as if there was nothing you could do to get his attention.

warning(s) ; smut (18+), darkish themes, mentions of crime, mentions of sex, power play, manipulation/power dynamics, THIGH RIDING, themes of voyeurism and mild exhibitionism, fake relationship (basically), arranged marriage.

chapter ; 1/? (i might write more if ppl want it)

a/n ; i'm new to this fandom . . . . sorry if my lore isn't correct but also um. yeah! hi. sylus brainworms.

You were convinced that you were going to be in this golden cage forever. 

Ever since you had been married off to the leader of Onlychinus for your family to exchange your life for a significant amount of money for their access to exclusive protocores, you hadn’t had much of a life of your own besides the four walls of the huge mansion where you now resided. Sure, you were given a life of luxury that almost no one in the N109 would even dream of having, and you had more money than you would ever need, but the one thing that you wanted seemed so abysmal for a person like you. You’d always been primed to be sold off to the highest bidder and yet for some reason you thought the man you would’ve married would at least be there. 

But the only time you saw your husband was the meal in the morning and the meal at night, sometimes not even then. It was like he was keen on pretending that you didn’t exist, and it was beginning to drive you insane. This was not how you wanted your life to be for the future, no matter how many ‘gifts’ he seemed to give you while he was courting you, or how the servants were forever indebted to you. Was he seeing someone else? He was gone for long hours, sometimes into the night . . . Was he truly just not interested in you? 

It made your blood boil. Your blood pressure was at an all time high whenever you even began to think about it. 

You were friends with multiple women that you had known since birth, all daughters of the N109 zone’s elite — another name for the most influential criminals. They had all been married for longer than you, fawning over the praise and the love and attention they got from their husbands. What made you even more rageful was when they would talk about what their husbands were like in bed, always asking you what Sylus was like. After all, your wedding to him was something that made history and the gossip that surrounded you for being the woman who would get to share his bed was at an all time high. It had been two weeks since you had been married, they were itching to get even an ounce of gossip to go back and tell their families about. 

You sipped on your glass of wine, flicking at a feather that had fallen out of the intricate laces of your bodice, trying to come up with some type of deflection to get them to stop asking so many questions. “Oh, you know Sylus, he doesn’t like to have his personal life talked about,” you chided, hoping that the threat of being in his bad favor would get them to cease. Instead, it made them lean in closer, one of the younger girls giggling. 

“Come on. We won’t tell. Tell us, Y/N, what’s going on under all that black clothing? I just know he’s given you a good time,” She said in a hushed whisper. “We were surprised you could even walk when you came to the club today. The honeymoon phase is the most intense, you know.” 

You were fucked. 

How were you supposed to tell your closest friends that your wonderful husband has probably looked at you a total of five times (twice at your wedding) since you had been married? How he seems to act as if you are just another person that he can use for his whim whenever he wants to? You were certain that you didn’t even know anything about him. And he was the person you were supposed to be sharing the rest of your life with? It was infuriating. So infuriating that you eventually came up with a reason why you had to come home, having your driver come to pick you up and take you back to your shared mansion, your insufferable golden cage. 

You huffed, opening the door and shutting it with a ferocity you were not even aware you had, slamming down your handbag onto the grand table in the middle of the hall. You began to fiddle with the clasps of one of your golden bracelets. It was dark inside the house, as there was no need for all the lights to be on when there were never any guests here besides your husband's workers anyways. 

“Touchy.” 

You turned on your heel to the source of the voice, being met with the figure of your husband leaning against the doorframe. He was still wearing his outside clothing, like he just got back home himself. Dark black leathers with maroon tinged undertones colliding with the paleness of his skin, silver hair neatly pushed back. Sylus stood there, his presence commanding even in the dimly lit hallway. His unreadable eyes — piercing and cold — scanned you briefly before a slight smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t inviting. It was something else entirely. Something that made your stomach tighten with a mix of frustration and unease. 

“You’re home,” you said curly, your voice laced with the irritation you didn’t bother to hide. “What a rare occurrence.” 

Sylus arched an eyebrow. He cocked his head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "I could say the same about you. Didn’t expect you back so soon from your little gathering." Your heart skipped a beat at the way his words lingered, his tone deceptively casual. He knew. He always knew. You hated how he could so easily pull the ground out from under you.

“I wasn’t feeling well,” you lied smoothly, resuming your struggle with the clasp. Thought it better to come home early.” 

“Ah,” he said, stepping closer, invading your personal space that you were unsure was even yours anymore. “Funny, though. Your friends seemed to be having a . . . lively discussion about me. Or should I say, us?” 

Your hands stilled entirely, the bracelet slipping from your fingers, clinking loudly onto the table. “What are you talking about?” You asked as you shot him a glare. You assumed that he would know where you were at all times — being as controlling as he was over his assets — but there was no inclination that he would know what you were talking about. Did he always know what you were talking about with your friends? Or an even better question, how did he know? 

 "They’re quite the curious little group, aren’t they? Asking all sorts of... intimate questions."

Heat crept up your neck, a mix of anger and humiliation. You couldn’t believe that you were being cornered over something that wasn’t even your idea to bring up in the first place. And furthermore you couldn’t believe that he was willing to bring it up in the first place. It wasn’t as though he seemed to care about intimacy anyways. “It’s none of their business,” you snapped, meeting his gaze despite the flush blooming in your cheeks. “And it’s certainly none of yours.” 

“Oh, but it is my business,” he countered smoothly, his tone almost teasing. “After all, they’re speculating about me, aren’t they? Wondering what kind of husband I am. Whether I’ve been . . .” He paused, allowing for the words to simmer. “. . . attentive.” 

Your jaw clenched. He was enjoying this. Watching you squirm under his scrutiny. “If you’re so worried about appearances, maybe you should try actually being here once in a while,” you shot back, though your voice betrayed the faintest tremor. “Then people wouldn’t have to wonder.” 

He chuckled. “Oh, Y/N,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “You’re fiery tonight. I almost prefer you like this.” He leaned in just enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. “But let’s not pretend you’re worried about appearances. You’re angry because you don’t know. Isn’t that right?” 

You hated how his words cut so intricately through you, like he knew exactly what to say to make you even more irritated. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, though your voice betrayed you as it was barely above a whisper. 

“No?” His gaze dipped to your lips for the briefest of moments before returning to your eyes, his smirk softening into something more . . . calculated. “Then why are you blushing?” 

You took a step back, desperate to reclaim some semblance of control over the situation. “You’re insufferable,” you snapped, crossing your arms across the bodice of your dress in an attempt to shield yourself from his penetrating gaze. The anger in your chest burned hotter, fueled by his smugness, his cryptic remarks, and the undeniable pull he seemed to have over you. You stormed upstairs to your room, your heels clicking angrily against the polished floor. 

The nerve of him. He’d come home, cornered you with your own frustrations, teased you to the point of boiling over, and acted as if none of it mattered. As though you didn’t matter. The gall of the man was enough to make your blood boil — and yet, you couldn’t stop the way your heart was pounding or the heat that lingered on your skin from his proximity. 

You hated him for that. 

You hated him for making you feel anything at all. 

—

You barely got any sleep last night. It was partially because of your encounter with your husband, but also because you decided it was time to devise a plan. You would make him cave into desperation for you. You would wear your most frilliest, most revealing nightgowns to breakfast in the mornings. You’d make yourself look more appealing than ever, makeup done every day, hair perfect. Anything to make him cave first. 

You woke up with a renewed sense of purpose. But it was no matter, you had a plan now, and you weren’t going to back down. If Sylus wanted to play games, you were going to make sure you played to win. Your reflection stared back at you, confident and calculated, a far cry from the simmering frustration of the night before. Your nightgown was a delicate thing, soft and sheer, with intricate lace that hinted at everything underneath but revealed just enough to spark curiosity. It was utterly impractical, especially for breakfast, but that was precisely the point. 

You smoothed a hand over the silky fabric and inspected your work one last time. Hair perfectly styled, lips painted a tempting shade, and just the faintest touch of perfume — enough to linger without overwhelming your target. 

Sylus was already there, seated at the head of the table, his posture relaxed as he sipped his morning coffee. He looked up at the sound of your footsteps, his red eyes narrowing slightly as they flicked over you. For a fraction of a second, his gaze lingered on your nightgown, his jaw tightening imperceptibly. It was small enough that perhaps he thought you wouldn’t notice. But you had a long history of deciphering men’s faces. You suppressed a smile. 

Got him. 

“Good morning,” you greeted, your tone light and airy as you took your seat across the table at the other head, like it was a normal morning. Except this time, you made a point to adjust your nightgown enough to reveal the expanse of your collarbone. 

“Good morning,” he replied, his voice steady, though his gaze was sharpened. He set his coffee down and leaned back in his chair, studying you with a look that was equal parts amused and intrigued. “You’re up early.” 

You sighed, like it was something trivial. “Couldn’t sleep,” you said breezily, reaching for a piece of fruit. You took a small bite, ensuring your movements were slow and deliberate, before glancing at him through your lashes. “Thought I’d make the most of the morning.” 

Sylus didn’t respond immediately, his eyes lingering on you in a way that made your pulse quicken. “I see,” he said finally. He picked up his fork, his movements as calm and deliberate as ever, but there was a tension in his shoulders that definitely hadn’t been there before. 

Checkmate. 

He could act indifferent all he wanted, but the flicker of tension in his demeanor told you everything you needed to know. This was only the beginning.

You’d make him cave. You’d make him desperate. And you wouldn’t stop until you had the upper hand. 

—

Two weeks passed, and your efforts to make Sylus cave felt like a maddening exercise in futility. Despite your nightgowns, your perfectly styled hair, and your flawlessly applied makeup, Sylus remained infuriatingly stoic. He seemed to notice, oh yes—his lingering glances and occasional tightening of his jaw betrayed that much—but he never faltered. Never gave you the satisfaction of knowing you’d cracked his facade.

You were at your wit’s end.

That’s when the idea struck you: if he refused to react in private, you’d force his hand in public. You didn’t hesitate. Tonight, you’d wear the most scandalous dress you owned and make your presence impossible to ignore. Sylus had mentioned during breakfast that he had a meeting with some of his “business partners” in the main study. You knew what that meant: the criminals who operated under his shadow, men who thrived on power and weren’t subtle about their vices. If Sylus wasn’t going to crack under your teasing in private, maybe he’d crack in public — especially with prying eyes. 

The dress you chose was bold, scandalous even. The deep red fabric hugged your curves in a way that felt almost indecent, with a neckline that plunged daringly low and a slit up the side that revealed more than enough leg. You paired it with high heels that clicked against the polished floors as you made your way to the study, your heart pounding in anticipation.

The room fell silent the moment you stepped inside.

Sylus was seated at the head of the table, his silver eyes snapping to you instantly. The men seated around him — a motley crew of hardened faces and expensive suits — turned as one to look at you, their gazes lingering in a way that made your skin crawl. But you didn’t falter. You walked in as if you owned the room, pretending not to notice the way their stares burned into you.

“Y/N,” Sylus said, his voice sharp enough to cut through the thick silence. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, don’t mind me,” you said sweetly, placing a hand on the back of one of the chairs as you leaned slightly forward. You could feel the weight of their eyes on you, but you kept your focus on Sylus. “I was just looking for a book. Thought I’d stop by and say hello.”

One of the men let out a low whistle, and another chuckled under his breath. “That’s quite the dress for a library run,” one of them remarked, his tone dripping with suggestion. “Sylus, I didn’t know you were keeping such… exquisite company.” The room erupted into muted laughter, and you saw the way Sylus’s jaw tightened, his knuckles turning white where his hand gripped the armrest of his chair. His gaze flickered to the man who’d spoken, then back to you, and for the first time in weeks, you saw something crack in his composure.

Sylus stood, his movements slow and deliberate as he adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves. “We'll continue this discussion later,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. The men exchanged glances but nodded, rising from their seats and filing out of the room. A few cast lingering looks in your direction, but one sharp glare from Sylus sent them hurrying on their way.

When the door finally closed behind them, the silence was deafening.

“Do you have any idea who those men are? What they could’ve said — what they could’ve done — if I wasn’t there?” His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, neither of you spoke, the tension between you crackling like a live wire. Finally, he took another step closer, his presence overwhelming. “You’re trying to provoke me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “And it’s working.” 

The way that he was looking at you, like you were prey, was something that you knew you should cower under. This was when he expected for you to give it up, but with all the frustration that you had over almost a month of being with him, you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. He walked up to you, pinning you between the door and himself, ever so imposing, like he was trying to make you cower. Instead, you looked right back up at him, your eyes meeting him, almost begging him to do something. Anything. Sylus’ hand came up in between the two of you, his fingers toying with the expensive fabric of your dress, so close to your chest. And then, in the split of a second, that same hand came to your throat, forcing you to look up at him, showing you that there was no way of getting out of his trap now. Or was it your trap? You weren’t sure. 

Sylus pressed his chest to your own, hand on your throat squeezing ever so slightly, fingers clinging against the expanse of your neck. You could feel his wedding ring dig into your skin, a stark reminder that this was the man that you married. You waited for him to say something, to break the imposing silence that immersed the two of you. He slotted his knee in between your legs, pressing right up against the place where you wanted him the most. 

You gave him a look, a look of hesitation or confusion, you weren’t sure. 

He chuckled. 

“Well, you wanted me, didn’t you?” He asked, a condescending tone that made you want to rip your hair out. He pressed his knee even higher up, the friction of your panties and his clothed knee making you almost whine. “Then use me. Since you want to dress like that.” 

You stared, much like a deer in headlights. 

And then it hit you. 

Oh. Oh. 

He wanted you to use his thigh. 

The realization struck you like lightning, and your breath hitched in your throat. It was his trap. One that you’d walked into oh so willingly, and yet somehow still managed to underestimate. His knee pressed against you again, and you felt your cheeks flush, heat pooling in your core despite the anger and frustration that still simmered beneath the surface. 

“Well?” Sylus prompted, his voice low and dangerously calm, his fingers tightening slightly around your throat. “I’m waiting.”

Your pride screamed at you to push him away, to refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing you like this, but your body betrayed you. The closeness, the tension, the weeks of pent-up frustration — all of it coiled inside you, leaving you trembling and unsure whether you wanted to slap him or give in to him completely. You tried to speak, but the words caught in your throat. Instead, you moved instinctively, your hips shifting ever so slightly, testing the friction against his knee. His smirk deepened, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest as he watched you. 

“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice dripping with condescension. His free hand moved to your waist, gripping you firmly as he guided you, forcing your hips to rock against him. “That’s it. Don’t be shy now. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Your nails dug into his shoulders, half in resistance and half in a desperate attempt to ground yourself. The sensations were overwhelming, every movement sending sparks through your body. You hated the way he was watching you—like he was completely in control, like he knew exactly how this would end. “You’re insufferable,” you managed to hiss, though your voice lacked the venom you intended.

“And yet,” he said, his tone soft but cutting, “here you are, doing exactly what I tell you to.” The words sent a fresh wave of heat through you, your frustration melting into something darker, something you couldn’t deny anymore. Your movements became more deliberate, your breath hitching as you gave in, letting the friction build with every slow, grinding motion. You had purposely worn underwear that was barely there under this dress, and now it was your kryptonite, the friction of his clothed knee, the way you were practically bare grinding against him, the way his other hand guided you with such ease. You were beginning to feel dumb, your head lolling against the door as you chased the high that you had been wanting for what seems forever. 

You couldn’t even listen to what he was saying, something about you being so good for him, so malleable like this, how he should’ve done this sooner if this is what got you under control. You didn’t care, whimpering and closing your eyes, a conglomerate of his name and swears leaving your mouth. His hand left your throat, where you were sure were bruises, and instead came to join the other on your waist, setting an impossible pace to make you reach that orgasm that you so desperately wanted. It was so much friction it hurt, but you kept chasing it. You dropped your head down to lean against his chest, and sure enough, you saw the embarrassingly large wet patch that you had created on his dress pants. The seam of your panties got wetter as you moved, the pain of the friction all melting into your pleasure. 

“Beg me,” he ordered, much like how he commanded any space that he was in. 

You shook your head, not willing to give in. Even though you were practically the one who lost this game anyway. “No.” You said as he pulled you back and forth, your hips bucking as your legs began to shake. You were sure that if he wasn’t holding you up, you would’ve fallen to the floor. 

“Beg me,” he said through gritted teeth. “Or I’ll stop.”

“No, don’t — Sylus, don’t stop —”

“You want to cum? Then ask nicely. Just ask me and I’ll make it all better.” 

You could feel tears begin to prick in your eyes, the pleasure becoming too much. You were so close, just about to reach that edge, and yet his hands began to slow down. You whined, your hands pushing against his chest, which was to no avail. You were so fucking close, your hair you had perfectly crafted sticking to your face in a hot sweat. 

“Fuck, fine. Please, help me cum, please, oh fuck.”

And just like that, he continued the unruly pace, his head bowing into your neck, a mixture of lips and teeth meeting your skin. That was what did it for you, your legs squeezing his as you shook through every single second of your orgasm. You could feel every piece, every ounce of your essence in it. Your hearing went fuzzy, sighing, eyes rolling open as you tried to come back to yourself. Your hand was pressed against his chest, fingers creasing the black fabric of his dress shirt. 

When your eyes finally met his, you couldn’t look away. And Sylus? He looked at you as if he had won some type of prize. You were too exhausted to be angry though, your defiance nowhere to be seen. 

“I didn’t even touch you,” he spoke, with a tsk. “You’re such a needy wife.” 

You opened your mouth to say something, but before you could, Sylus was pushing away from you, causing you to lean your entire body against the door. His eyes scanned your face and then he was leaving out the door on the other side of the room, leaving you there. 

Leaving you to miss his touch. 

And it was then that you realized it was his game all along. 

[rafecameronssl4t]

I need to see reader calming Rafe down during a meltdown in a match and maybe she’s being firm and like telling him to stop and listen to her and to calm down and he shuts up because reader can get scary when mad lol 😂

Fault lines || Tennis player!Rafe Cameron x fem!reader

A/n: wag!reader stands on business 😙

Warnings: none

Word count: 1,441

MASTERLIST (tennis player!rafe au masterlist)

The sun hung heavy over Sydney’s Ken Rosewall Arena, and the crowd’s energy buzzed like static electricity. Team USA’s match in the United Cup had been one of the most anticipated games of the tournament, but all eyes were on Rafe Cameron. Not just because he was one of the best players on the circuit, but because his temper had become almost as famous as his forehand.

Today, the storm brewing inside Rafe was palpable. He was down a set and struggling to keep up in the second. The opponent, an unseeded underdog from Russia, was playing like a man possessed, returning every shot with precision that only fueled Rafe’s growing frustration. The boiling point came during a controversial call.

“Are you serious? That was in!” Rafe shouted, his voice echoing across the court. The crowd’s murmurs turned to gasps. His face was red with anger as his hands rest on his hips, his chest rising and falling rapidly. The chair umpire remained stoic, unmoved by the outburst. “Out. No let, Mr. Cameron,” the umpire announced, his calm voice doing nothing to quell the fire in Rafe’s eyes.

Rafe strode to the net, pointing furiously at the spot where he was convinced the ball had landed. “Are you blind? It literally hit the fucking line!” The umpire’s expression didn’t falter. “Warning for Mr. Cameron, please return to your position.” Rafe’s jaw clenched, his grip on the racquet so tight his knuckles turned white. “This is bullshit!” he bellowed, his voice cutting through the tense silence as he stormed toward the baseline.

With unrestrained fury, he slammed the racquet against the ground—once, twice, three times—until a deafening fourth strike splintered it into shards of graphite. The crowd gasped collectively, shock rippling through the stands as fragments scattered across the court. “Unbelievable!” Rafe yelled, tossing the mangled remains aside before stalking toward the Team USA bench, his frame vibrating with unspent anger.

His teammates and coach looked uneasy, unsure whether to intervene or let him vent. In the vip seats behind Team USA’s area, you sat with your arms crossed, your sharp gaze fixed on Rafe’s theatrics. Rafe threw himself onto the bench, oblivious to the camera following him as he mutters curses under his breath, ripping open a new racquet from his bag, his jaw clenched so tightly.

From your vantage point, you leaned forward, resting your arms on the barrier in front of you. You could feel the heat of his frustration from where you sat, and you knew he needed someone to pull him out of his spiral before he self-destructed.“Rafe!” you called down, your voice cutting through the murmurs of the crowd and the chaos on court. He looked up, his brow furrowed, still fuming. “What?”

You didn’t flinch, meeting his glare with the same intensity. “You need to calm down. Right now.” His lips curled into a frustrated sneer. “Are you serious right now? Did you see that call? It was bullshit!” “I don’t care about the call,” you snapped, your tone sharper than the sun’s glare. “You’re embarrassing yourself. Stop acting like a child.”

Rafe blinked, letting out an exhale. The crowd had gone quiet, all eyes were on the exchange. Even the cameras were trained on the two of you, capturing every moment of the heated conversation. “I’m not—” he started, but you cut him off. “Be the bigger person,” you demanded, your voice low but commanding.

“Do you think smashing your racquet and yelling at the umpire is going to change the call? Get your head in the game.” Rafe leaned closer, his voice lowered but still defiant. “You don’t get it. That point—” “I do get it,” you interrupted, narrowing your eyes. “What I don’t get is why you’re wasting energy on this instead of focusing on winning.”

“And now you’re handing the momentum to him on a silver platter,” you shot back, your voice firm but quiet. “Do you think your opponent cares about the call? He’s focusing on the next point while you’re sitting here sulking like a brat.” His jaw worked as he struggled to find a retort, but before he could, you leaned in even closer.

“Screw your head back in, Rafe,” you hissed, your words like ice water on a fire. “And get back out there. Now.” The way you said it left no room for argument. He stared at you, the fire in his eyes dimming slightly as your words sank in. Finally, he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You’re really not letting me off the hook, are you?”

“Not a chance,” you replied, leaning back slightly but keeping your gaze locked on his. “Now shut up, get your head in the game, and play like the champion I know you are.” A flicker of something—respect, maybe even a little fear—crossed his face. He nodded, more to himself than to you, before standing and grabbing his racquet.

As he walked back onto the court, he glanced back at you over his shoulder. You raised an eyebrow, silently daring him to argue again. He didn’t. The crowd began murmuring again, their attention shifting back to the match. But you stayed still, arms crossed, shaking your head in exasperation. The cameras, however, lingered on you for a few more seconds, capturing your unimpressed expression as Rafe got into position to serve.

The commentators couldn’t resist. “Well, that was quite the reaction from Y/n,” one said, chuckling. “I don’t think Rafe’s girlfriend approved of that outburst,” the other added. “And who could blame her? That’s another fine coming his way.” The match resumed, and while Rafe’s temper was still simmering beneath the surface, your words seemed to have had the desired effect.

He channeled his frustration into his game, hitting with renewed focus and precision. Each shot landed with a ferocity that made the crowd gasp, and slowly but surely, he clawed his way back into the set. When he finally won the second set in a tiebreak, the crowd erupted into cheers. Rafe allowed himself a small smile, glancing toward your seat in the stands.

The third set was a masterclass. Rafe played like a man possessed, leaving no room for error. By the time he won the match with a blistering ace, the crowd was on its feet, applauding his comeback. As the players shook hands at the net, the commentators couldn’t help but bring up the earlier exchange.

“Well, it looks like Rafe Cameron had some help keeping his cool today,” one of them quipped. “I’d say his girlfriend’s pep talk worked wonders.” Back on the sidelines, Rafe grabbed his bag and towel, his eyes landing on you. When he reached you, he leaned against the barrier, his expression a mix of sheepishness and irritation. “Happy now?” he asked, his tone teasing but softer than before.

You tilted your head, pretending to consider. “I’ll be happy when you stop smashing racquets.” “Fair,” he admitted, glancing down at the broken one still lying near the bench. “I guess I owe you for that.” “You owe me a lot more than that,” you replied, your smirk turning into a genuine smile.

As the crowd began to disperse, you sat back in your seat, finally allowing yourself a small smile. Rafe might be a handful, but if anyone could handle him, it was you. And judging by the camera footage that was already going viral, the world was quickly realising the same thing.

[p0ckykiss]

dream - lee haechan

summary -> kissing you feels like a dream to haechan

-> fluff, a lot of kissing

“haechan,” you murmured, “c’mon, I gotta go back to work.”

he ignored you, obviously.

sure, the back room of the video store wasn’t the most romantic place to make out, but you kept letting him in here, so he wasn’t going to stop coming. you were against a shelf, haechan's hands on your waist under your shirt, letting him kiss you silly despite your protests that you were employed. your hands had been travelling over haechan's shoulders and chest and neck for the last twenty minutes, but they were still now, your fingers playing with the hair on the back of his neck. haechan pulled back, though only enough to be able to speak.

“you can kick me out whenever you want, you know,” he grinned. “you like to make it very clear you work here"

“yeah,” you said, “and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“then tell me to go.” it was a challenge, it was always a challenge. you had gone through the challenge every other time you'd been back there, and one look at the scoreboard showed that haechan was winning by a mile. he added another point to his side when you leaned back in, humming into his mouth.

kissing you was a dream.

it was a weird dream, the kind that seemed normal when you were having it, but once you woke up, you realized how fucked up dream logic is. it was fucked up, in a way, that he was kissing you, and that he was doing so so frequently.

the crush had developed sophomore year, and it had been a gnawing thing, eating away at haechan every time he’d seen you in the halls. maybe it would’ve been easier to deal with had it been anyone but you. it was supposed to fade. it was supposed to mean nothing. haechan was supposed to hate everything about you, but maybe that’s what made it so exhilarating. instead, everything about you, made haechan feel fuzzy around the edges.

he never wanted to wake up.

you cupped a hand on haechan's cheek, pulling him closer. haechan could do nothing but smile against you. he tried to keep kissing you, he really did, but the bubbling in his chest was starting to get overpowering. he pressed his forehead against yours, while you were opening your eyes. those eyes — your stupid, pretty, fucking eyes — were going to be the death of him.

haechan opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a laugh.

“what?” you asked, your own smile growing.

“nothing, nothing. just…” he paused, taking in your features, copying them down to memory in his head. “god, y/n, I’m just—” he kissed you again, softly, purposefully — “i’m fucking obsessed with you, you know that?”

you raised an eyebrow. “you’re obsessed with me?”

“i can’t get you out of my head, like, ever.”

“well, it’s a good thing I’m kind of obsessed with you too.”

maybe it was the way the corner of your mouth quirked when you said it, or the enticing look in your eyes, or just the fact that it was you, but haechan's legs were turning to jello-o, and he wasn’t sure he could support himself like this much longer.

you both laughed as you kissed, pressing against each other like the only way they could get any closer was by crawling into each other’s chests. haechan's mouth found its way to behind your ear, which resulted in a laugh from you loud enough to make haechan shush you before you fell into another fit of giggles. when your lips met again, your hands found haechan's; your fingers intertwined, and every squeeze of your hands pushed haechan's heart closer and closer to bursting.

they only stopped when there was a knock on the door, but even then, haechan distracted himself with kissing you.

“are you guys done in there yet?” your co-worker called from behind the door. “i can’t do everything out here by myself.”

you looked at haechan, who looked back at you. he knew their time was up for now, but there was no harm in trying to convince you to ignore your colleague. and let you both have another five or ten or twenty minutes alone.

“i gotta go back to work,” you said softly, an apology stuffed inside.

haechan continued kissing at your jaw. “can you come to my place tonight?” he asked, like there was even a possibility of you saying no.

you grinned. “and what would we be doing at your place?”

lowering his voice further, haechan pressed his nose into your cheek. “guess you’ll have to come over and find out.”

there was another knock at the door. “hello? I can hear you guys,” she groaned.

“better get out there before she drags your ass out,” haechan said.

“and whose fault would that be?”

“watch yourself, y/n,” he teased, “or you won’t need to wait to get to my place later.”

“i can’t even look her in the eye after this,” you told him.

with one last kiss, haechan patted you on the shoulders. “go on, then, baby”

“you’re going to kill me one day.”

“can’t wait.”

you opened the door. your co-worker stood there with her arms crossed.

“hey, haha,” you tried.

all she said was, “you guys are so gross.”

while you seemed to be letting your soul leave your body out of embarrassment, haechan just grinned, walking past both of you. “my uncle leaves for work at eight tonight, by the way,” he said, leaning against the counter. the only thing that rivalled kissing, in haechan's mind, was pushing all of your buttons simultaneously and seeing how long it took for you to explode.

“yep,” you said, still flustered, “got it.” haechan added another point to his side.

“again,” said your colleague. she stood on the other side of the counter, across from haechan. “gross.”

to him, she said, “if you keep making me work alone, I will ban you from coming in here. you’re lucky it's a slow day.”

“oh, come on,” haechan mused, “you love me.”

“enough to let you and y/n suck face in the back room, apparently,” she said, bumping him with her elbow.

“and for that, I’m grateful.”

[a-lurking-fae]

It's 7 in the morning but I HAD TO WRITE THIS DOWNNN

What if Fontainian!Reader + A/B/O dynamics + ill reader?? But the reader isn't an omega, no. They'd be a beta, and as we know, betas aren't that suseptive to pheromones at all, some not even noticing it.

In a family filled with strong Alphas, a simple beta is just... there? A weak beta that's quite out of place, are you really sure you belong there?

You don't notice how people run from you. They're scared of you for some reason? You don't notice the furious pheromones of your family when someone tells you you're a stain.

Whenever Bruce lectures you, that's the only time you actually talk to him. You don't know that he as been emmiting pheromones that literally scream "It's ok." or "Don't be scared."

No. He's straight up intimidating, he doesn't know you can't smell pheromones, he never really took the time to know you. You could've been an omega and he would even know. So you think he's super angry!

But, apparently Bruce can't help the bitch face and rough tone (っ ͡ ͡º - ͡ ͡º ς). Now if Fontainian reader was sick, I don't mean like terminal diseases from earth— I'm thinking about the abyssal corrosion. If the reader was an adventurer, it wouldn't be a surprise if they ran into the abyss.

But let's add the fact your the Hydro Archon's granddaughter, and the fact that your also the Hydro Dragon's granddaughter! You'd make such a good target, if your cursed, you don't have much to lose anymore.

So you pack your bags and leave for Fontaine, leaving the family for good. So you left a note for Alfred, telling him all about your situation. He'd be distressed! Alfred would tell Bruce, convincing him to get you. You were his daughter, why would he leave you to die!

Bruce promised himself that he wouldn't let another of his kids die, but here you were, that thing in your system killing you painfully and slowly.

Bruce knows about Teyvat, that's where your mother was from. He never met your grandparents, he'd like to know them now. The family faces another problem though, how do they get there?

Dick would skimm through your journals and diary, trying to find any clues on how to to you. But you've written it in another language, something that never existed in earth. And if you were well-versed in most languages in Teyvat, you guys know that when your super angry, sometimes you speak in all of them.

So instead of Tim and Barbara finding a pattern in your stuff, it's filled with multiple mixes of mysterious languages. Any progress would end up with another dead end.

Duke is absolutely happy, the both of you were the same age! Basically twins, both your birthdays a few days apart. You were the only sense of normalcy that he always craved, something most of the fucked-up-and-traumatized family members couldn't do. But when you left, that sense of stability started to fade. He worries about you day-and-night, he hopes that you'll be home soon.

Cass would learn normalcy from you, she was a trained weapon, she didn't have any clue what to do with you. After all, you always did your best to understand and teach her about emotions. She appreciates you a lot. You took care of her when she was sick, bandaged her up when she was injured, and baked her snacks. She wants to experience it with you again.

Damian's family is very much traditional. So he most likely would be angry, how could you leave them? Not only are they capable Alphas, but they're powerful as well. It was your adventuring in that world that got you sick. You should have simply stayed at home. When you get back to the mansion, you'll sit tight until they find a cure.

If it was Nicer!Damian, then he would be angry at himself. He wasn't enough for you to stay in Gotham, he promises that he'll be a better brother. He knows you could die any time there with the abyss and all! He nags Bruce and Tim to find you faster. Motivating them with the fact Teyvat is dangerous, wars there are going on! It was finished, also, Inazuma was far as fuck!

All-in-all, they'd do everything in their power to reach you, so they'd recruit the Justice league, especially Diana. She's well versed in these stuff after all. The Al Ghul's would help too. Checking family records if there were any thing pertaining to Teyvat.

Meanwhile, in Teyvat. You're swimming with the sea lions with Neuvilette and Furina, who took time off to spend time with their grandchild.

[apocalypse-shuffle]

CREATURE COMMANDOS (DCU - animated)

—

“A Call To Motion” or Going to Carnival w/ The Creatures Commandos (Creature Commandos x Fem!Reader)

| Headcanons

| CHARACTERS: FLAG, BRIDE, PHOSPHOROUS, NINA, G.I. (platonic), WEASEL (platonic).

| SFW, 18+, minors dni, mission, team dynamics, fluff, caribbean setting, dancing, referenced sex (TW: stalking, murder, animal death) - monster!reader & caribbean!reader

| 6k+ words (some of which is a 900+ word mini fic w/ Phosphorus)

RICHARD “RICK” FLAG SR.

Rick should absolutely not be allowing you to do this, but he can’t take his eyes off you anyway.

There’s something mesmerizing about how you move to the music around you, the island’s atmosphere seeming to have rejuvenated you significantly. It’s like you were made of the sun, it seeps into the pretty brown of your skin like a homecoming and the way you bask in its warmth and smile takes his breath away.

Flag is old and more than a little jaded, taking his breath away — let alone getting him to start waxing fucking poetic — wasn’t easy. Why, then, you’re able to do it without so much as trying is something he can’t mentally grasp.

He can’t be too mad when you’re still clearly doing your job, though. Even with you singing loudly to every single song. Flag doesn’t even want to know how you know the newer tracks at all, let alone well enough to not be missing any words and wining your waist in time enough to be hitting every single beat.

And he is watching close enough to tell. He tells himself it’s because you’re too much of a wildcard this mission — on this island — but he’s hardly convincing himself. Feigning ignorance is his best bet anyway, even if he is kind of worried about whether he’ll have to bury your headless body in an unmarked grave because you slipped away using familiar pathways you grew up trekking he had no chance of knowing.

Regardless, even with you being covered enough to hide the monstrous parts of your appearance, very little about the way you’re dancing leaves much for his imagination to do. The way your ass pops, the freedom in your movements, the surety in your performance, it’s all like catnip to him.

Even in tactical gear you’re still working him up. Even though you were one of his goddam charges and he was too old to be acting like his love struck son did with that June Moon chick, too old to be falling for a woman who gave him nothing but shit consistently and who’d tried to claw him to death on their first mission the first time you and him fought together.

You were a lot of other things too, however: the first one to save him from an explosion, the first to earnestly ask for his help despite how begrudging you’d obviously been, someone who let him rant about shit without telling the others, who lit up so fantastically at certain things it made him feel a little lighter himself, the woman outcasted from your place of birth that talked him into (ie: verbally tore him apart) finally going to visit Rick’s grave at his, and you’re accent was like fucking silk. So really, who could blame him if he was falling a little in love?

A lot of people, but he’s choosing to ignore that.

Really, there’s better things he could be watching so closely. G.I. was one, he was always one, and Eric was unpredictable and volatile enough Flag was convinced he needed to be watched even closer than Weasel. Or maybe he could even be paying more attention to the literal mission they were on, but still it was you who’d captured his attention the most.

After he catches himself and realizes he’s been ogling you silently for the better part of five minutes he doesn’t watch you as closely as he genuinely wants to. You’re both not dancing for him and are supposed to be working, he needs to get himself under control.

Rick wants to keep his eyes on you, though, and has definitely been letting himself get dragged along in this game of push and pull that you're playing with him.

Jesus fucking Christ if Waller could see him now…

Because of you making a point to stare him down, raise a brow, and then step into the collective mass of dancing bodies to wukup and jam and sing in a shadowy part of the area — getting even closer to where their primary target was throwing back shots surrounded by a wall of women, and basically daring Rick to stop you if he thought he was big and bad enough — Rick ends up taking his frustration out on everyone else on the team.

You’re taking risks, but he can’t deny that even in between your singing the intel you're giving him is good. Plus, you didn’t want anything major going down in your home island any more than Rick did; more so than he did, even. So all he can do is redirect his frustration at you not following his instruction and potentially putting yourself in danger.

Rick wishes he could feel half of what you’re feeling. That he could enjoy the music shaking his teeth and feel the freedom you clearly do in your movements and in being surrounded, however briefly, by your people even ostracized as you now were as a “creature”.

Instead of that he’s been tasked to lead. He might not have you back under control yet — he’ll get to wrangling you back into working if you don’t do so yourself, but he wants you to enjoy the reprieve for now — but he can nitpick the hell out of everyone’s positions until he’s got a cacophony of people bitching and groaning in his ears and his lips are twitching up into less of a frown as he keeps half an eye on you.

Though nothing gets him as close to smiling as when you finally deem yourself satisfied (or as satisfied as you’re ever going to get as a imprisoned woman who’ll never be able to go anywhere uncovered lest she incite a mob) and slide up to him. You don’t do anything so transparent as laugh or cheer, but you do grin at him — your pretty brown eyes nice and wild — and for a second Rick feels himself grinning back.

THE BRIDE

The Bride is the main recipient of your uncharacteristically excited rambling (or uncharacteristically happy grumbling, depending on your personality), but that soft spot she has for you keeps her drawn in to listening to you talk yourself breathless instead of doing her usual and sleeping through the flight to Waller’s next suicide mission.

After you land and the two of you have been left more or less alone while the others stick closer to and/or bother Flag, you tell her all about your plans to slack off a little this go around. How you’re going to milk as much fun out of the Carnival experience as you can before you’re forced to wheel yourself back in.

When you ask that Bride please just let you have a little fun and not tattle, she scoffs. For one, she’s not a fucking child, she doesn’t tattle. For two, she wasn’t your keeper, so long as you kept out of trouble and didn’t get in her way she didn’t care what you got up to.

Except she’d really really hate to see you popped, actually.

The Bride is a bit flattered that you taught to consider her in your plans and that you wanted to ask her permission. She still thinks you're an absolute fucking idiot to risk yourself over something so small, though, don’t get her wrong. Even if she’s got little to stand on with her judgement there.

As far as you’re concerned there was little point in taking these missions if you weren’t going to maximize your “freedom” from Blackgate while it lasted.

Honestly it had been just your luck that this week’s mission from Waller had sent you to this part of the Caribbean during Carnival at all. Even if it wasn’t where you were from, the island and her festivities would surely be enjoyable regardless.

That your main goal for the majority of the first and second nights was recon and observation was an even better plus. Now you didn’t even need to sneak off.

It doesn’t take long for The Bride to be reminded of why she’s kept away from sandy areas in the last several decades. Sand was a bitch to get out of her stitches.

While you’re doing recon Bride just disinterestedly watches you dance around her and drinks from the almost comically small glass of spiked slushie in her hand, little green paper umbrella and all. She has like seven of these and isn't even near tipsy, and for someone who is trying to get drunk that tendency of her metabolism is really getting irritating.

The fact she lets you near her at all isn’t permission in and of itself to stay by her while you act a fool. Bride tolerates your presence just fine on a regular basis, but that was it. When she sees you vibrating where you stand, softly singing along to familiar songs you haven’t heard in years while bouncing in place to the beat, and then gestures halfheartedly in front of her where people are jamming all while raising a brow at you, though, that’s permission. Hell, it’s practically an invitation.

One that you take her up on very vigorously at that. Nina might be shaking head at the two of you, but you can see her hiding a little giggle when you start playing around while you dance regardless. And if it gets a little scoff out of Bride then that’s just a happy bonus.

You’re not going to act like coming down here to have fun wasn't your main goal. The second you’re out of Flag’s sight you start blowing the mission off. Of course you keep a passing track of your targets, but with the mission only being about observing the assholes you think it’s only fair you get to do something entertaining enough that you don’t die of boredom.

You wukup not because you have to, but because you want to. And you do it near where Bride’s leant against the counter of a pop-up bar because you want to too; want her to notice you, maybe make a move.

After all you guys were in lock up, not a nunnery.

You pull out every trick in the book that still flatters your inhuman body, letting the soca beats flow through you like a woman starved all the while, and if it weren’t for Bride’s occasional grunts in reaction to something you’ve done you’d think it wasn’t having any effect at all.

Internally Bride is a lot more invested in what you're doing than even you can tell, and definitely more than the bloody mission you're on. She just makes a good show of seeming like she isn’t.

The only bearable thing about the heat that saw Bride ditching her jacket in the vehicle Flag drove them in was the salt twinged breeze blowing through the short buildings with their colorfully tiled roofs. The fact that you were showing as much skin as you could get away with due to the heat wasn’t lost on her either.

Bride finds a beauty in you she hasn’t seen in anyone since Victor. A beauty that’s brought back to life some of the bits of her that died with her creator, and brings technicolor back to the bits of her that turned dull and grey as Eric continued his relentless pursuit of her.

She couldn’t deny you your whims or resist your draw if she wanted to.

The way her heart speeds up when you crack a joke about a song’s lyrics or a singer's entrance, and how she has to bite her tongue so she doesn’t laugh too obviously. The full on blush she sports when you start dancing with some drunk man in a way he clearly likes but only look her way as you work your waist in his hold, and how she wants to snap all of his fingers and wrench his hands off of you. All of that lets Bride know she’s in trouble and you’re liable to be caught in a crossfire that's been brewing for over a century.

She’s going to have to push you away soon, but ‘soon’ didn’t have to be tonight.

It’s one of the world’s most dangerous games of chicken, working around Eric Frankenstein’s unwanted possessiveness of The Bride. You’re fully aware he’s watching you and Bride too, you just don’t give a shit. Voyeuristic jackass.

Part of you likes antagonizing him.

Revels in the fact that he can’t kill you as easily as he’d like and the fact that you and the man both know it. That you were barely asking for Bride’s attention and she was willingly offering it when years worth of groveling for her attention yielded nothing for him but a fist to the face.

Every time Victor Frankenstein’s Monster comes into view and Bride clocks him lurking (and trying to set you in particular on fire with his gaze) she scoffs and makes a point of putting her back to him and moving you in the process.

It probably makes Eric blue vex every single time The Bride touches you just enough to nudge you from his view.

Bride is more gentle than she needs to be when she steps in closer to you and uses her knee to nudge you in the hip — she does it so softly, in fact, that you don’t fully comprehend her urging you to the side, it’s so out of character with what you’re used to from her, and just move.

Bride is quite fond of how easily you move at her prompting, reluctant as she is to admit it. Still, after she gets you to move, she backs back up to give you space again.

You mourn the way she towers over you in those scant few seconds. Like how harmless it makes you feel, how wholly encompassed by her presence you are, how much of her undivided attention is on you.

Despite everything Bride likes to watch, and it’s clear you're putting on a show for her even though she can’t indulge either of your desires.

You are most definitely not as on high alert as you should be as you’re jamming and singing along to the live bands them, but with Bride specifically at your back you couldn’t find it in you to feel unprotected. Bride was quick on the response, and there’d never been a time when you two were working together that she’d been laid out by a hit for long (especially if there wasn’t magic involved).

Bride notices how forlornly you stare at the women still in their colorful Carnival gear from the earlier parades and snags you a feather that matches the only accent color on your mostly all black uniform.

When you preen at her she grumbles to herself, brushing your thanks off, but you hardly let that stop you and start talking away about the importance of the feathers as you finally slip from the crowd to get back to work. And Bride let’s you.

You might want to fuck around with Eric’s self control, but The Bride knows what will happen and that’s a lot of the reason why she won’t show any obvious interest in you. Quite frankly it’s mostly the fact that you’re a woman that’s letting her have as much contact with you (and Nina) as she has because he hasn’t figured out that was an option Bride would go for, and she’d like to keep it that way.

In the end you all survive. Although, she has picked up a few more worries, most pressing being that you seem to enjoy egging Eric on and that she thinks smug looks quite sexy on you.

Once you’re all back in your cell block and she starts complaining about there still being sand in between her damned stitches she can’t help but grow a bit more smitten with you when you pull her grumpy ass to a bench and get to meticulously ridding her of any remaining granules.

‘Soon’ would have to wait another day more to come.

DR PHOSPHORUS | ALEXANDER SARTORIUS

Phosphorus wants to touch you so badly. He’s not blind, he can see all the ways everyone else is dancing together and he wants to get up underneath you like that, to feel your hips against his; for a second, honestly, he does consider it but he already knows what will happen so he doesn’t give in to the urge.

He’s not in any particular rush to get the shit knocked out of him today, or to honestly fight you.

It’s still decidedly entertaining to think about what he’d be doing if he could touch you though, if he could plant his hands on your hips without your flesh boiling beneath his touch cause he’s too excited to temper himself— and a little entertaining to think about what would happen if he touches you in reality, but really he can’t be blamed for mere curiosity. It couldn’t be helped.

Phosphorus likes you too much to actually want to hurt you anyway, just obviously not enough to stay away from you or stop managing to share close quarters with you (yes, even when you’re asleep).

He used to be far more considerate about things like that, he knows. Everything is just too distorted now, the man he was too purposefully forgotten to drag back up.

If he can’t touch you (even when his temperature control is stable) he figures he should at least be able to watch you as much as possible. The good thing about not having visible eyes, too, was that he could keep his gaze on you all the time and no one could call him out on it.

Phosphorus loves whenever you feel his gaze on you and turn your pretty head to glance around. Loves the little twitch of unease you give when you can’t quite figure out that he’s watching you out of the corner of his eyes, and just generally being able to catalog all your reactions and micro expressions to what’s going on around you guys without you noticing.

So you can imagine how much Phosphorus takes in his visual fill when you start bouncing in place while you guys are on lookout together; keeping the perimeter secure around your group of targets, making sure no one was unaccounted for, and the like.

You always operate particularly gingerly around him (so long as the mutation that made you into a monster didn’t make you impervious to long exposure to radiation) — an effect on you Phosphorous doesn’t fail to revel in; it makes him smile a lot when you tense around him, though you obviously can’t tell — and so he completely forgets about bothering to pretend he cares about the mission you’re on when you start tapping your finger on the handle of your weapon or tapping your hand on the side of your thigh.

If the tapping took him by surprise, then the way you start bouncing on the balls of your feet in time with the beat pounding around you makes him choke on nothing. You notice, and boy does he like the way it makes you startle, but the great thing about getting turned into the absolute freak of nature that he is now is that not having expressions for people to read makes them more likely to dismiss what his opinions on little things like being caught doing something mildly embarrassing might be.

You go back to ignoring him easier than most would assume and get lost back in your head when a song you clearly recognize starts playing and you start singing along. Automatically Phosphorus pays more attention to the punchy beats and slick lyrics, but it’s not his kind of music and there’s too much about the dialect he doesn’t understand so he dismisses it quickly as a ‘you thing’ and just raises his brow, smirking as he listens to you.

Even strapped securely in gear and covered in fur or scales or whatever your body’s still killer and a sight to behold when you finally start to move your hips. And when your ass starts to circle he isn’t ashamed to say he doesn’t look away.

Although your movements are subtle he’s enraptured anyway.

Everything about the way you’ve acted since you got to the Caribbean has been telling and after such a show Phosphorus kind of wants to know more. If only because it’s you and because he is bored.

It’s…rare for him to find himself legitimately interested in anybody anymore. Let alone the way he desires you, the way he wants to keep you. A lot of him doesn’t really want to succumb to that seeming howling need — the need to find connection in you, to touch, to possess. The parts of him he’d thought completely eradicated after his “incident” weren’t giving him much of a choice in the matter, though.

—

When he leans back into the wall behind him and its peeling colorful paint, he crosses his arms, gives up any pretense of caring about his mission parameters, and stares at your ass.

Wining your waist. That’s what you're doing if the punchy instructions to the song currently blasting through the night air are to be believed, and he likes it.

Phosphorus starts bouncing one of his legs some with the beat, too. In tandem with your sway and bounce.

He clears his throat.

“So, what’s all this for anyway?”

“…what…?”

At first when you turn to him it’s rather absent, you’re still noticeably trying to keep an ear out for the live bands and bask in the lively chatter surrounding you both from below. Once you clock his leant position and the angle of his head your mood shifts entirely, however.

You stand up taller, glaring, and Phosphorus shivers at all that undivided attention of yours trying to pin him in place.

It wouldn’t work. Far more intimidating people have tried to ‘put him in his place’ or have attempted even dumber shit like trying to ‘appeal to his humanity or humility’ before and it’s yet to work out for any of them.

Wouldn’t work with you either, didn’t matter how much he couldn’t get enough of those dark eyes staring directly at him. Part of him wants to pluck those pretty brown cognacs out to wear around a chain. He won’t, but your eyes were their own type of diamonds he desperately wanted to preserve in a collection.

“…Were you just staring at my ass?”

Phosphorus gasps, jerks himself upright.

He makes a show of acting like he’s about to refute you, like he could never. Like, he’s about to go ‘that’s presumptive’ and give you shit about not considering the fact that he’s visually a glow in the dark skeleton. Walking, talking, and killing, sure, but still with no discernible features.

He puts his hand over his heart for a second and everything.

Really, though, he’s just giving you a performance so you keep glaring at him.

“Spit it out already,” you snap.

The walking radiation bomb laughs. He does wave his act off still, leaning forward just to watch you jerk away in response to heat he’s only mostly keeping at bay— you could technically touch him right now if you wanted, but Phosphorus isn’t holding his breath.

“Alright alright,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets so he can shrug. “I was totally watching, you have a nice ass. I’ll stop if you want me to, though.”

There’s a herculean effort that goes into you not knocking him down two stories, he can see it in your body language.

“You’re stopping,” you demand.

He shrugs, “Fair enough.”

Phosphorus would absolutely be in mourning over it though.

When you close in on him, Phosphorus lets his back flatten against the wall where he wouldn’t in any other situation. He wants to see what you’ll do. To know how far he can push you.

He smiles. You clearly don’t notice. He doesn’t mind.

You bare your teeth— they’re sharp and he suddenly wants to feel them breaking his irradiated skin, “What do you want, Doctor?”

Doctor. Jesus Christ, he’d moan if he didn’t know that’d really make you throw him off the roof.

Phosphorus didn’t have much of an attachment to his old professional standing, and for good fucking reason, but something about how your voice wraps around such a respectful moniker in reference to him always makes him a little lightheaded.

Head tilting, he holds a finger up to point back to the expanse of writhing bodies beyond the roof.

“Well I did ask earlier.”

The fact that you don’t buss him upside the head is more a testament to your own patience — and no doubt your ability to bid your time — and less so Phos’s powers, especially since he’s not even using them.

You do spend the rest of the time explaining Carnival to him, but he’s not really listening. Not to your words.

He gets the vibe that you’re aware of his actual disinterest for your answers considering your monotone delivery. The whole time it’s like you’re being forced to give a middle school presentation with a gun to your head and Phosphorus doesn’t even mind because what he’s focused on is the tones of your voice, the restless shift of your body when a song comes on you’d clearly like to be paying more attention to, how you force him pettily to focus on the actual content of your words as you explain emancipation and why everything is so goddamned brightly colored.

The fact that he’s stealing your attention makes him deliciously frustrated. Phosphorus stands there for most of the night and learns more than he cares to while basically preening under your gaze the entire time. Hell, he nearly melts into a puddle when his eyes wander (his head tilting in response) to one of your targets leaving the perimeter and you grasp him by the jaw tight enough to ache. Forcing his attention back your way like you need his eyes on you just as badly as he does yours.

He wants to touch you. Wants to massage the plush of your ass, and rub you to completion until he gets tears to spring in your eyes and he aches for more. Wishes for certain nerves back for the first time in forever just so he can shove himself down your throat and come undone without burning his way through.

Subsequently, however, he’ll have to settle for your passive aggressive lecturing and relishing in the blood splatter from the way you pop the head of you two’s wayward target.

He kind of loves it.

Even if it is hard to pick back up that emotion relevant to someone else again.

NINA MAZURSKY | MERMAID

Even despite the fact that you’re still working, Nina keeps feeling the need to remind you to stay on task or else you could meet your impending doom from the bomb implanted in your neck.

It’s a real bummer, you tell her to live a little.

Despite her words, though, Nina both loves the more water based mission and loves listening to you talk about the place you grew up in. She hangs onto your every word and every anecdote you make about how free everything felt back when you were home and about how much you miss the smell of the sea. Nina gets missing the water, it might not be life and death for you but she still understands being homesick (and the bone deep longing for certain environments).

If there’s anyone on the team you’re roping into dancing with you, it’s Nina. She definitely expresses her concern about disappearing from the outskirts of the crowd where Flag can’t see you and into an alleyway of sorts, but you suck your teeth and toss out that there’s trackers literally implanted in your bodies as you drag her away.

She bitches the whole time but never once resists your lax hold or walks back to her post once you let her hand go.

The sea creature only occasionally bumps into anyone or is bumped into herself, and apologizes excessively all while looking at you bouncing effortlessly between people and turning back to smile at her every once in a while.

The two of you get stares, there’s no avoiding it when you resemble creatures out of a horror novel, but most everyone is far too intoxicated to dwindle on your appearances as you find someplace less crowded and with a bit more privacy.

When you finally convince Nina to dance with you — after urging her to relax with soft looks as you project your voice over the music to talk her through it and hold out your hands for her to grab — she starts off slowly, cringing at herself as she tries to find the rhythm.

It’s hard when she’s watching your hips to do it, trying to copy how you move your waist without being reduced to a stammering mess. She gulps and blushes through it, her steps stuttering as she slowly catches on to your movements and starts engaging her waist in a circular motion to wine, her eyes wide.

It’s a thing of beauty watching Nina let herself go loose. It takes what feels like forever, but once she starts shyly copying your movements — less a wine, more a sway of her hips side to side — Nina glances up to you with a wide smile, lashes fluttering as she looks for your approval, and for a moment you feel faint.

The both of you have a great time, though. Giggling and dancing and playing around over the sounds of music and people. And with Bride keeping a lookout for you, you don’t have to worry about people stumbling on your or Flag cutting your two person party short.

Only one person causes any actual problem for you both that night, actually. The culprit: some woman who thought you were eyeing her dude as they were walking past you and Nina, too drunk to realize that your tree wasn’t one she wanted to bark up.

When she turns to call you out, yelps as her eyes widen in fear and then snaps out a startled call of “freak” you’re already rolling your eyes. Once her man starts trying to start some shit too, puffing up his chest and staring at you and Nina like you’re evil you figure you’re going to end the night pissed off too. It’s not you who shuts them down, though; no, it’s Nina who tentatively pulls you behind her and then starts clumsily chewing the couple out for being stupid presumptive assholes.

Eventually you end up having to knock them out, Nina letting out a squeak of surprise as they both crash to the ground. While Nina angry is really doing it for you and you’re flattered that she’s come to your defense, if they got any louder you’d get people’s attention and that was the last thing either of you needed.

Nina’s gloved fists are balled tightly once the couple is no longer an issue and you run your hands over them until she relaxes. She apologizes profusely, flushing, but you wave her off and make her flush worse when you compliment her on her mean streak.

After having watched Nina promptly pepper they raas you’d swear your pupils had turned into hearts if you didn’t know any better. It’s like Bride can see them anyway when she snorts and rolls her eyes at you two when ayo finally emerge from the alley to get back to work.

By the end of the mission Nina’s relaxed again, has acquired plenty of beaded necklaces and desperately wants to try conch after watching it be prepared for fritters through a food truck's back window. The fried food itself wasn’t necessarily what she was interested in, though you did seem to enjoy the basket you snatched. Nina more so wants to get in the sea to taste them more sashimi style (but without the rice).

Nina also has to admit that she absolutely loves the availability of sea water right off of the house that was rented for the team to recuperate in.

When you sneak out to the beach just beyond your home base you’re in a bathing suit that makes Nina stutter and fully prepared to relax in the sand with a towel until the sun comes up.

Still, you relegate an hour or so to getting into the water with Nina. Marveling some at just how sure and competent she was in the ocean.

In the cover of night you guys can just exist without having to worry about people getting in your way. Can just freely be the ‘monstrous’ creatures you now are for this short amount of time.

Eventually everyone else trickles out of the house with similar ideas of enjoying the beach, even Flag, but Nina doesn’t mind. She just stays lurking in the water, her gums itching for blood in a way she can actually satisfy for once.

There’s no judgement in your eyes when she attacks a fish, your eyes just glitter and you move easily to share some sugar apple you plucked from a tree on your way back to base with her, wiping off the trail of blood coming from her mouth.

She lets you feed her the sweet creamy fruit, looking you in the eyes without the bowl as a barrier for once as her heart pounds a mile a minute in her chest. This is one of the better days of her life, and she tells you as much.

When you smile at her you're more captivating than the stars. When you tell her you're glad and that you agree, especially because she’s here with you, while running the pad of your finger over one of the fins atop her head she shivers and aches for a press of your lips to hers that’s way softer than a bite.

G.I. ROBOT

“Friend Y/n, is visibly excited; is it because there are a lot of Nazis where we’re going?” “—No! No, definitely not. There’s no Nazis there, G.”

Or, at least, not any you knew of (anything was possible and people came from everywhere). Certainly not enough people that were gonna be in the J’ouvert and Carnival crowds to justify letting G.I. get too excited about it.

G.I. doesn’t understand your excitement but he’s not going to begrudge you it or anything either.

In fact, I think G.I. would ask you questions about everything (so long as he saw you as a friend and not just as a handler of some sort).

You’re eager to answer him, eyes bright while you talk as you look him in the face. When he scans you and all signs point to you being happy G.I. feels a small sense of satisfaction at having helped.

When a group of people shove past you to get to the nighttime Carnival activities, you grunt as you’re checked and have to bite back the urge to yell at them and draw attention to G.I. and you. Instead you settle for glaring at them and cussing them out stink under your breath. Your irritation obviously doesn’t go unnoticed by G.I. — even if he wasn’t personally bothered by the shoves — and he offers to get rid of them for you if it will make you feel better. He shifts his hand into his usual embedded gun and all.

It’s such an insane thing to offer, but so true to the robot, that you snort and are knocked out of your angry ranting entirely. You redirect him after that, reaching up to fix the hood of his hoodie where it was pushed back and concealing his head back in its shadows.

G.I.’s eyes still glow red in the shroud of darkness and you tell him it looks sick as fuck before ayo go back to monitoring the parimeter as the rest of the team calls out updates about where the targets are.

After that you start back up telling him about the islands. You miss being home, miss the food, miss feeling the wind blow through your tight curls and dressing up in your feathers and jewels to ramp up and down while wukkin’ up your waist with no abandon. Hell, even now you can’t participate in Carnival and you fucking hate that.

G.I. doesn’t like how upset you are even if he can’t quite articulate how to help. Eventually he settles on asking why you can’t just dance while you’re with him since the music is loud enough to hear from your positions.

Reluctantly, you agree. Once you start dancing as you walk with him you’re far less grumpy though, laughing to yourself as you explain your moves to him while he silently studies you.

When you take one of his hands in yours while you’re patrolling in order to bounce his hand off your own to the beat, he only stares at you. He doesn’t object though and takes to inquiring about some of the more confusing (to him) lyrics in the songs and even starts humming along to the music with you as you dance around him.

He’s got the spirit.

You guys are dragged away before you can sneak off to the food trucks and food stands by the time the first leg of the team’s recon wraps up. To your utter mortification you can feel your lip quiver in your disappointment and keep to yourself more than usual the entire way back to home base, G.I. sitting beside you in the van.

It isn’t until you guys are parked outside the house you’re renting and you two are left in the van last that G.I. shifts and holds his hand out. In it sits a little cup of pastry and jammed fruit. And, yeah, the tart he’d snatched for you just came from his hand but you giggle and eat it anyway, moving to hug him from the side before you do.

G.I. can’t smile, but he does actively lean into your embrace and you take that as expression enough.

WEASEL

Because of the flight risk you present since the Commandos’ next mission is on the island you were born on during one of the busiest tourist days of the year, you’re stuck on Weasel Duty.

Even relegated to the van with him as you are, you’re still close enough (the target was using all the cuhruckle of Carnival as cover) to the festivities that you can hear the music clearly.

Weasel is fairly pleasant company all things considered, but you still throw a fit about being left with him and toss little glares at him every time a group of excited people pass close to the vehicle you're holed up in. It feels like salt being rubbed into a wound.

You want to kill something. Preferably Flag. Then you’d go for Waller.

All that frustration eventually coalesces into the burn of unshed tears in your eyes as you plop down on the floor with gritted teeth and push the heels of your palms into your eyes.

You were not going to cry right now. What the fuck?

Weasel rouses from where he’s squeezed himself into the corner furthest from you, making a small inquiring noise that you ignore.

He whines over your sniffling though, and shuffles over to you with his body still low to the floor while you’re too busy trying to beat your emotions back to notice.

He pokes at your hand with a clawed finger and you startle so badly you knock the back of your head into the metal wall.

Instead of running away his head tilts and his eyes squint in what you interpret as (possibly) sympathy.

Weasel sniffs. You sneer at him. He’s not scared enough to back off and only chitters in response.

It’s…weird. Weasel doesn’t smell or anything, but he is still effectively a naked human man covered in fur and you can’t stop yourself from squinting wet eyes at him as he lowers himself and curls up next to your leg on the van floor.

Weasel’s claws stay retracted the entire time despite your dubious looks. He just looks up at you with those ridiculously large eyes, his tongue lolled out of his mouth as he pants due to the heat.

There were laws against leaving dogs in hot cars, weren’t there?

All it takes is him nudging you with his nose and making another little noise to have you reaching down to scratch over his head. It makes his leg twitch like a dogs and it’s as endearing as it is fucked up.

It’s calming though and the soft content sounds he makes are nice. Allows you to be able to enjoy what little of your home you can bask in right then, the music mingling with the natural ambiance around you.

You definitely crack the windows though, it was too hot for that fuck.

In thanks (after everyone’s finished for the night) you sneak out with him to feed him goat. Live goat, obviously. Though you leave it at just the one for the stable owner’s sake.

The crack of bones and squelch of blood is tolerable mostly because you snapped the animal's neck before tossing it to him (otherwise the bleats would’ve given you away). The way Weasel peeks up at you from over the dead body, lower half of his face covered in blood, is even kind of cute. You’ll admit it, he wasn’t too bad.

Weasel does try offering you some meat off the things’ carcass but, face screwed up, you decline his offer with a short laugh.

NOTES: Hope you enjoyed!!! I want to write more stuff with The Bride, she’s so cool and there’s so many interesting character beats to delve into with her. I knew I’d love her.

I cannot fucking stand Frank Grillo, but Flag’s characterization is pretty fun to work with. I think Flag might just stay dead too, because in the comics “Frankenstein” (ie: Eric) is the leader of the team at times, but idk because we know Flag Sr. is supposed to appear in other shows and movies.

Also, listen, I don’t even like Dr. Phosphorus like that but playing around with his personality like this got away from me and I just started writing. Phos’s personality is taken from the episodes that have since come out, but with the last two episodes not out yet I am inferring certain aspects of his personality with only the scarce information from the 1x06 promo. Like, I think I wrote myself into liking him because then I was retroactively forced to reconsider him more closely and actually pay attention to his character.

The title of this is from the song “Movement” by Hozier; a decision I made after writing this and noticing how well the song fit, which is why this isn’t a lyric prompt type thing.

btw: if you’d like to leave a comment I’d very much appreciate it!

[neiptune]

santa, boy, you're the worst

cw: 3k wc, female reader, suggestive if you squint, oliver aiku is the most infuriating idiot you know and this holiday season you unfortunately discover he just so happens to also be maddeningly soft and generous at the community centre where he volunteers as santa for children in low-income families

“Here, this is where you can get changed”, Chiyo smiles kindly as she guides you into a small room filled with dusty boxes and christmas decorations, “thank you so much for doing this, we really needed some help this year”.

“Don’t mention it, I was really hoping you’d find a spot for me”, you take off your backpack and place it on an old table, “are you absolutely sure I’m going to be fine? Eiko said I just needed a costume but I’ve never-”

“Absolutely”, she vaguely gestures with one hand, “just follow Santa’s lead. He’s the one who’s good with kids”.

“I’ll just put this on, then”, you jut your bottom lip out, still not entirely convinced. She smiles again.

“I’ll leave you to it. We’ll be in the main hall!”.

They made a new elf costume just for you. Despite Eiko having a dreadful cold being a big bummer, you’re happy a few coincidences aligned to finally allow you to make something meaningful of the time you’d usually spend home, moping underneath a billion blankets.

There are no mirrors in the room, therefore you can only hope the costume looks good enough. You feel a bit ridiculous but, apparently, the hat is mandatory.

You leave your phone in your backpack and take out all the plastic bags filled with food instead: when you called her to inquire about what you could bring, Chiyo explained that they were all set with gifts but could’ve used some additions to the buffet. You brought all the alternatives for the kids whose gluten intolerance makes it hard to enjoy yummy snacks: carrot cake, peanut butter cookies, brownies, pizza, so many quiches. The previous day was spent cooking and baking but you wouldn’t have had it any other way.

The main hall is filled with colorful christmas decorations and a table so long, filled with so much food. Chiyo spots you right away and rushes to help you carry all the bags.

“I got this, you can go help Oliver”, she efficiently starts pulling out the containers and you’re flabbergasted for a second.

“Who?”

“Santa! They already started, go, go!”, she indicates the other end of the hall, where a guy in a Santa costume sits on a chair and all around him there’s a numerous group of children on the floor, fawning over him. A giant bag filled with what you can only guess are gifts, is placed at safe distance from pouty lips and grabby hands.

You make your way to them with a big smile, only slightly tense at the corners because you only know one guy with that name but what are the chances? He’s the most insufferable person you’ve ever met. A constant flirt with anything that moves, way too confident for his own good, so unfairly attractive and quick witted. What would he even be doing here, so close to the holidays? No, it must be another Oliver.

The way Santa spots you and instantly opens his arms, warm and welcoming, tells you otherwise. Fuck. You’re now close enough to recognize eyes no one in their right mind would be able to ever forget.

“If it isn’t my favorite helper!”, his tone is jovial and deep, a perfect representation of a jolly Santa. Suddenly, so many little heads whip around to look at you.

“Hello!”, you excitedly wave, “nice to meet you, everyone!”.

“She’s not the elf from last year”, as you position yourself right behind Oliver’s chair and next to the gifts you’ll later help him distribute, a little boy furrows his brows with a slight pout. Before you can come up with something to say, Santa ho-ho-hos his way into the conversation.

“That’s exactly right, Kenji. She’s my side piece”.

You choke on your own spit. A little girl politely raises her hand and Oliver grants her permission to ask her question.

“What’s a side piece, Oli?”.

Oh, god. This is so much worse than what you could’ve anticipated.

Once more, he doesn’t allow you to reply and the grin underneath his fake beard is nothing short of infuriating.

“It’s an elf who helps when my other helpers are too busy”.

“So she’s your side elf? Is she as nice as the other?”.

He shifts in his seat and you quietly sigh, still smiling awkwardly to the children curiously checking you out, prepared for another jab.

“She’s the best”, Oliver turns to look at you with a small wink, drinking in the surprise written all over your features, “why don’t you introduce yourself, side elf? My kids are great, they’re gonna love you”.

There’s really no time to ponder over the words, how sweet they sounded. He’s only been with them for what, a few hours, and is already so protective of them? If he’s faking it, he really is one hell of an actor.

You attention soon shifts to the little, curious faces staring back at you and the thought of Oliver is pushed to the back of your mind. You’re there to make the afternoon special for those kids and you’ll give it your all, whatever it takes.

He ends up being right, they are great. So intelligent, affectionate and welcoming. You introduce yourself and it only takes a few minutes for them to accept your presence completely. There’s an odd sense of familiarity in the way they climb onto Oliver’s lap one by one, sometimes wrap their arms around his neck. They play with his silver beard as they answer questions about what they asked for christmas and he leans down to whisper secrets to their ear from time to time, to either make them laugh or put them at ease.

Some of the younger children grow restless after a while and you patiently placate small quarrels, pick up kid after kid while they wait for their turn and jokingly twirl until they’re giggling against your shoulder, the fabric of your costume squeezed by little fingers.

“Does Oli really work for Santa?”, Riko asks. She’s been in your arms for a while now and you balance her better against your chest with one arm, your other hand wrapped around Kenji’s.

“He does. We’re both in direct contact with him”, you smile.

“Do you ever go to his workshop?”.

“Sometimes we have to, yeah. Santa always gives us so many cookies and big glasses filled with milk”.

Riko hums, enraptured.

“Will I smell as good as you if I eat so many cookies and drink big glasses of milk?”.

Surprised, you fail to come up with an answer for a moment. Then you melt into a chuckle.

“But you already smell sooo good, Riko! I could eat you!”, she squeals with a laugh when you take a fake bite out of her cheek and Oliver turns to look at you both as he helps another little girl down from his knees.

“Trying to eat my kids, are you?”, he grins.

“Just this one for now”, you jokingly wink and Riko giggles once more. Kenji reclaims your attention by pulling at your hand.

“You have to do the thing”.

Lips still curled into a smile, you tilt your head to the side.

“The thing?”.

He nods, solemn.

“Oh, right”, Oliver snaps his fingers, “the thing. Let my elf go, Riko, we have to perform”.

“We have to do what now?”, as you carefully let the little girl down, Kenji slips his hand from yours.

“Santa baby”, Oliver pats his knees and, horrified, you realize it’s an invitation for you, “it’s their favorite song. We did it last year too”.

You let out a nervous laugh.

“I’m not a great performer-”

“C’mon, side elf! You gotta do it!”, Riko’s palms press to the small of your back and, as she pushes you towards an awaiting lap, you don’t have the heart to ask her to stop calling you that.

Oliver welcomes you onto his knees like you belong there, one arm instantly wrapping around your waist and the other on your thighs. He’s warm, solid underneath you. It’s the closest you’ve ever been to him and you hate that you’re suddenly tempted to pull him even closer.

“No one told me about this”, you murmur between gritted teeth, tense smile causing a low chuckle to vibrate in his chest.   

“You’ll be fine”, the hand resting on your hip gives it a light, playful squeeze, “it’s acapella, by the way. Give it your all”.

You’re still smiling but fail to entirely conceal the glare as you try to position yourself better against him. Whether he does it istinctively or not, Oliver tightens his hold around your waist.

All chatter stops and, between hushed but still excited whispers coming from the group sitting at your feet, you start humming the familiar tune.

“Santa baby, just slip a sable under the tree for me. Been an awful good girl”, you briefly turn to the kids and give them an exaggerated wink that makes them laugh, “Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight!”, you twirl part of Oliver’s fake beard around your pointer finger and when you meet his gaze, it’s surprising how serious it is. Time to get up, for your own sanity.

While he is supposed to keep up the act and match both your goofy tone and exaggerated motions to make the song playful and appropriate for children, he just keeps looking back at you with something unreadable in those dangerous eyes of his.

“Think of all the fun I missed!”, you dramatically drop to your knees and grab his arm, “think of all the fellas that I haven’t kissed!”, he finally seems to be shaken from his weird stupor and gasps loudly, looking back and forth between you and the giggling audience.

“Next year I could be just as good, if you check off my christmas list?”, you pout as Oliver shakes his head no, feigning disappointment. A few kids whine in fake sadness.

“I want a yacht and really that’s not a lot… right?”, you beg for their approval and it makes you chuckle that they erupt in agreeing cheers right away, “been an angel all year!”.

“Santa baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight”, with a deep sigh, you desperately squeeze his hand for a moment before getting up once more and continuing your performance around the audience with a skip in your step, hands behind your back as you sway and twirl around them.

“Please help me ask him, everyone!”, you implore, “so hurry down the chimney tonight”. They do join you in your plea, to which Oliver audibly slaps a hand to his forehead.

“Hurry down the chimney tonight”, you slowly approach his chair once more and the playfulness in his stare seems to vanish once more, fingers twitching on knees you don’t sit on, “hurry, tonight”, with a small smile, you twirl one last time and then bow deeply as the audience immediately starts clapping at the end of your performance.

“Oli, I want a yacht”, Riko pouts and her sister next to her giggles.

“I’ll see what I can do, sweetheart”, he smiles, then looks at you once more, “wanna help me give out this year’s gifts? Maybe we’ll find a yacht somewhere”.

He doesn’t even get to finish the question: in a matter of seconds, you’re both surrounded by exuberant little kids who are way too excited to find out what Santa’s helpers have in store for them this holiday season. The youngest of the group, six year old Tsumugi, raises her little arms and Oliver bends down to pick her up, balancing her on his leg.

You didn’t think the community centre would be able to put together enough funds to get… all those presents. There are so much. Enough for each child to get three or four. Clothes, audio book players, lego sets, tablets, dolls, water marbling kits, headphones, books. An entire, separate bag is filled with signed soccer uniforms. You discreetly glance at Oliver, busy helping Hiro unwrap his third present.

You remember very few details about the blue lock project, from which some of the current top players of the globe suddenly came out years ago. You know he was part of it at some point and of course you remember his past as captain of the former U-20 team. Oliver is still one of the best known soccer players in Japan and clearly he is friends with those guys. But the fact that he went out of his way to make sure he had all those uniforms for these kids, stirs something in your chest.

As you hand out the shirts, little squeals make you smile.

“Riko, this one’s from Nagi”, the little girl practically snatches it from your hand, “wait, don’t push, there’s one for each of you! Who asked for the Kaiser one?”.

“Oli, will you keep your promise next year?”, Tsumugi, still in his lap, rests her head on his shoulder as she hugs a new teddy bear to her chest. He hums, one hand rising to boop her nose.

“You have my word, sweet girl. I told Yoichi you wanted to meet him and he was so sad he couldn’t make it today. He promised he’ll come next time”.

“Look what he sent you”, with a grin, you hand her the shirt Isagi signed for her. The way her eyes light up makes you wish for Eiko to be sick once more, the following year.

It’s the evening when parents slowly start arriving to collect their kids and thank everyone for the organization. You and Chiyo welcome them by the door and offer warm cups of tea. Those who are not in a rush are more than welcome to eat something despite the buffet having been more or less devoured by now.

As soon as you’re alone with Chiyo once more, the last remaining parents shaking hands with Oliver as they say goodbye, you deflate in a chair. Your legs hurt, you didn’t eat anything and you feel so tired but also immensely rewarded.

“It was fun, wasn’t it?”, with a smile, Chiyo pushes a water bottle towards you.

“So fun. You were right, he’s good with kids. Remembered all their names and everything”.

She chuckles.

“Well, I’d hope so. He comes every year”.

You stare back.

“Every year?”.

“Yeah, since forever. And he always gets so many extra presents for them, never accepted a single yen back”.

You sip on your water, unable to come up with something to say. Oliver Aiku, the same unbearably smug idiot who’d pissed you off endlessly each time you had the unfortunate chance of meeting him thanks to your cousin Shuto, seemed so different today. Patient, caring, attentive, fun. So generous.

You watch as parents bow to him and he bows back, ruffles their kid’s hair, laughs when Tsugumi hugs his legs. This is not good, not good at all, judging by the way your heart fumbles in your chest as he meets your gaze from across the room.

The elf costume is shoved into your backpack but the drawings and notes some of the kids made for you are placed on the table right next to it as you put on your coat. You’ll keep them in your hand, against your chest and underneath the warm fabric if you must, in case it’s still snowing outside. You’d hate for anything to happen to such precious cargo.

“You know, Riko has a point”, the gravelly voice so close to your ear makes you jump, “you really do smell good”.

“Try taking a shower”, your intention is to turn around with a scowl but the second you do, your back is pressed to the table as he leans forward and rests his palms on the rough surface. The sharp inhale you take makes him smile.

“Nah, I think it’s really just you”.

You stare back for a moment, then clear your throat, trying your best to not appear intimidated.

“Who knew you were so good with kids. They love you”.

Oliver pulls back, leaving you enough space to put a safe distance between your bodies.

“Well, who knew you were such a great cook. How long did it take to make all that food?”.

Much to your irritation, a smile threatens to appear on your lips. He deflects when complimented? Fuck. Off.

Your mind traces back to how protective he was of them. My kids. It’s sickening, really.

“You didn’t eat anything all day”, the softer tone catches him off guard for just a second, “take some leftovers”.

Oliver hums, something flashing across his features so quickly you may have imagined it. Then, he starts unbuttoning the red velvet jacket he’s still in.

“Don’t be so thoughtful, it’ll make me hard”.

Astonished, you look at him.

“What are you doing?”

He discards the jacket with a grin, hat and fake beard already discarded before entering the changing room.

“You didn’t think I’d leave in this, right?”.

“You could’ve waited until I left the room”.

Oliver rubs his chin in exasperating, fake pensiveness.

“Yeah, I could’ve”, his signature smirk makes you want to punch him in his handsome face, “but there’s this girl I like. Maybe if I impress her, she’ll finally give me a chance”.

You chalk the heat rising to your cheeks up to the thermostat temperature being too high. When you murmur a confused, hasty goodbye and attempt to make your leave, drawings safely tucked underneath one arm, Oliver gently wraps a hand around your wrist.

“It’s snowing. Let me give you a ride”, the way his thumb tentatively grazes the sliver of skin underneath your sleeve makes you shudder. He does it again, intentional, serious eyes boring into yours to make sure he's not crossing a boundary. Your mouth feels dry.

“Wait for me?”, Oliver offers, gentle. There’s no trace of his previous teasing and you’re painfully aware of how long the silence is stretching for, a weird vibration to the moment laced in your aching hesitation.

Another beat passes before you relax under his touch.

“I’ll be outside”.

[tojislibrvry]

★ ︵ @ nanami / reader , fluff , pre - relationship , slight power imbalance

being an intern is ... hard. the pay is barely anything, the work load makes death look appealing and the managers well, they hate you. at least they act like they do.

after a long morning of shadow work and running after your manager to print individual copies of meeting documents, you are sick. all you want to do is go home and pass out for the rest of the day.

you didn't have time for breakfast and with all the running around, not enough for even a pick-me-up drink. it's exhausting and you hate it but you need this stupid internship.

after a quick sob session in the restroom, you come back to throw yourself on a spinning chair that you are convinced is going to be the root cause of your premature back pain.

you are busy muttering curses under your breath when you hear someone clearing their throat. you turn your chair to see fucking nanami kento, a senior manager in the company and your work crush. he is the coolest, you've seen him diffuse the most complex situations in seconds and he's always so humble about it. never too proud despite his insane skill level.

"... everything good?" he asks, voice deep enough to make your body react on its own. you take a good thirty seconds to realise that he's talking to you.

eyes wide and lips parted, you answer.

"y-yes sir! of course, do you need me to print any documents?" you ask, palms sweating.

and he laughs.

he fucking laughs and it is the best thing you've ever heard. it's low and gritty but god he sounds so good laughing.

"sir? nanami is more than enough." he then looks around awkwardly before handing you something. you finally notice the coffee cup in his hand.

"huh?" "it's for you."

"oh." you giggle. you take a sip and it's perfect.

the temperature is not too hot, the coffee is not too sweet and it's the right ratio of whipped cream to milk. you don't know what he ordered but you do know that you can't go back to drinking normal coffee.

"uhm- thank you!!" you swallow, "this is perfect! but is there like an employee event today?" you still don't know why he got you the coffee.

"oh," he chuckles, "no, i just wanted to see you smile."

[crepezinhos]

omgeee. I see requests are open...can we please get wanderer orrr Kabukimono in a dress? A cute little smut fic? This stuff has me UGH. I just want to see him in feminine attire but I'm busy writing something else, so the next best thing is to ask someone else and HOPEE

No pressure <3 thoo

My Little Geisha~

“You know… I think I should start being more grateful for you. Wanna know why..?” You leaned down to whisper in his ear as you continued thrusting a dildo in his g-spot from behind, a spot that you had just discovered, actually.

“W-Why..?” He continued pushing his head against the pillow under him, mumbling most of his voice.

“Because if it weren’t for you, I would’ve never found out how beautiful you look in a kimono and a veil, and how fun it is to peg you on it while calling you a… good boy.” You made sure to coo when calling him a ‘good boy’, which forced a whimper out of his mouth.

“Y-You little— aAAH!!” He was about to rise his head from the pillow to insult you with his stare, but you made sure he didn’t do that by using a hand to slide under his body and hardly stroke his bricked, pre-cumming cock.

“What would’ve been of me if I hadn’t walked on the one and only, Hat Guy, trying out a random kimono and veil I’ve never seen while using my makeup and hairpins without my permission?” You proceeded to whisper on his ear as if you weren’t making the poor puppet scream for his dear life. “No need to feel embarrassed, darling, I think you look mesmerizing on it…” You kissed the back of his neck after reassuring him before continuing. “But if I were you, I would feel very embarrassed to have the dildo I used to fuck my girlfriend with being used on me.” Your tone changed to sexier tone that brought him to lean his ass up to you even more.

“S-Shut up and go faster..!” You could see his hands tightening their grip and the sheets under him as he tried to keep his voice stable.

“Faster? I’ll go faster…” You chuckled in the back of your throat as you rose your body up and begun being more precise with the dildo in your hands.

He couldn’t help but slide his legs apart from each other even more than before, melting at how you had quickened your pace.

“Such a good boy…” You tapped his left buttock as a way to approve his manners as you cooed like he was some little puppy.

“Why do you even like dressing up like a woman? If I knew about it earlier, I would’ve definitely helped you with your makeup!” You asked more seriously to him, but made sure to always keep him overstimulated.

“I don’t know…” He whimpered under the pillow, trying to ignore you to focus on the pleasure he was receiving.

“Oh, come on… tell me!” You begun stroking and jerking his cock faster to convince him, causing him to moan high-pitched.

You could even feel a few drops of cum sprinkling off him, all of them falling on the palm of your hand.

“G-Gonna cum..!” Wanderer announced the good news as if it was a war cry.

“Cum for me, my little geisha~…” You continued cooing to him in that same merciful tone although you were being merciless to him.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” He kept whimpering multiple insults and bad words as you obliterated his manually-lubricated hole.

You were struggling to push the vibrator in and out with how tights his hole actually was, no matter how much lubricant you applied to the dildo and him. It needed you to get up to make sure all of the precision and strength of your hands were being used to push Wanderer over his edge the same way he’d do to you when he topped.

His hands slid under the pillow where he was drowning his face at, trying to make the contact he did with it even harder for you to not hear to his shameless screams and failed makeup attempt. You didn’t care really for it, but it’s not only his first time ever being pegged by you, but the first time you’d ever seen him in such feminine clothes.

“Oh, I can certainly feel you cumming…” You cooped your palms on the leaking tip of his dick, trying to pump it out of it directly in your hands.

And those movements definitely brought his body to go insane with its hormones levels, resulting in a very precocious orgasm that left on him on edge of insanity. To have an enormous dildo shoved down his hole, bullying a sensitive spot, while his dick spasmed cum in your palm was a feeling that he’d never expect to feel so good. No matter if he used to torture you just like that, anal and oral sex, he thought it’d feel lame with roles switched.

Thank God you didn’t find his request weird… and thank God he got to experience what it was like to be the one receiving a cock.

“L-Listen… would you be ok if I asked you to try… uhm… to be… the one… thrusting..?” His puppy eyes, being accentuated by his pathetic makeup and feminine clothing made it impossible for you to neglect.

Just remembering him asking you that made you feel sorrow for the situation you were putting him in, but also glad to be the only one he trusts to do such an intimate act.

After a few seconds of Wanderer himself thrusting his hips against the air, you felt a final thin rope of cum add itself to the little thick pod of cum in the center of your palm.

“There you go~…” You gently leaned down and smooched his cheek with a whole load of love while he still drooled and breathed in exhaustion. “How do you feel?” You whispered in his ear.

“G-Good… Really good…” His hips were still shivering every now and then at the fact that the dildo remained shoved down his hole.

“Good boy…” You patted the back of his head.

“T-Thank you for… this…” He finally turned his head to the side, finally making eye contact with you.

“Open your mouth.” You quickly pulled out your hand that remained messy with his cum, and he obediently took the order like a trained dog.

He begun licking and swallowing the cum that rested in your hand, rope by rope, cleaning your hand crystal clear.



“Such a good boy..!” You patted his head in appreciation for he obedience, very glad that you were experiencing that side of Wanderer. “But seriously, why do you do it?” You finally laid down on the bed too by his side, still making eye contact with him.

“It’s nunya.” His eyes turned serious again, just like the Wanderers you fell in love with him.

“It’s all my business.” You argued back before he could even dare insulting you.

“I guess it’s just…” His hands finally started pushing him upwards, and Wanderer quickly turned and sat on the bed before finishing speaking. “I was supposed to be a girl when my mom first started drafting me, and I guess that led her into putting a lot of… estrogen… on me…” He looked away from you and pulled his kimono upwards, trying to cover his chest after having it exposed for so long.

“That’s cute.” You treated him with honesty, which made him immediately get triggered.

“No, it’s not! He screamed at you with that cute little annoyed face of his, looking even more pathetic with the makeup.

“Yes, it is.” You remained chill.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t start this.”

“I already did.”

And the conversation quickly enrolled into multiple other topics until both his and your eyes couldn’t keep themselves open anymore.

Taglist: @shyentsfoundherink @kindofshyent @the-stinky-winky @alatusorrow @bigmantiddys @luminieee @goofy-ego

[procyonloser]

Adam slammed the door open with a kick, tired of all the fucking meetings after meetings. When he'd agreed to lead the heavenly armies, he didn't think they'd actually ever have wars and shit. He didn't want to do paperwork and bureaucracy. He'd just wanted a title that made him sound awesome. Yet now, he was stuck going to meetings such as this one, which was too have a discussion on thinking about having a meeting regarding a vote as to if they should have a vote regarding changing the army trim from slate grey to meteorite grey.

"Let's get this the fuck over with- what the fuck?!" Adam always wore his helmet, but it didn't hide his shock at seeing Lucifer sitting inside the conference room. This wasn't the embassy in hell, they were in heaven. Lucifer wasn't supposed to be here at all.

"Hi," Lucifer waved like he didn't know how to move his arm, looking sheepish. "I'm sorry about lying to get you here, but it had to be convincing."

Adam opened his mouth to ask how Lucifer knew what kind of bullshit meetings the had here, but of course Lucifer knew. Adam didn't know exactly how old all of the angels were, some were created earlier and later, but he knew Lucifer was at least 100 thousand years old, if not older. They weren't quick to tell the humans, in fear of them not being able to process the sheer amount of time, making them go insane.

"Why the fuck are you here?" Adam snarled, guitar appearing in hand. Lucifer didn't look bothered by it, not exactly.

"It's... Well, you know I used to celebrate Lilith's birthday with her every year... It wasn't until she left and I realized we couldn't, that I thought... We never celebrated your birthday in Eden, Adam." Lucifer said slowly, fumbling over a couple words. All of a sudden, the room filled with balloons and streamers, confetti came pouring down from the ceiling, and cakes and food appeared over the conference table. "...So, ah ... happy birthday, Adam."

Adam looked around in stunned silence, part of his vision becoming blurred as a streamer hooked over his horns and hung down in front of his helmet. Birthday? He didn't have a birthday, he just... Existed. They'd never even told him what day he'd been created on, well, apart from the sixth day, but not a day of the year.

"You..." Adam started, voice wavering between anger and confusion. "You know my birthday?"

Lucifer, who'd never spent much time with him in Eden. Lucifer, who was thousands and thousands of years older than him. Lucifer, who had been thrown to hell and never seemed to care about not seeing Adam again. Why would he remember anything about him?

"Of course, your creation was the most important day of my life." Lucifer said with a half smile. Adam's heart did a weird thing, before the words turned bitter in his chest. Not because of him, no - it was only important to Lucifer because of Lilith. It was never him.

"... Yeah, well it was the worst day of mine." Adam said, and Lucifer's smile faltered. "Get the fuck out. I don't want your sloppy seconds. It was true for Eve, and it's true for this shit."

Lucifer looked hurt, standing up to say something, but Adam just brought his guitar down, cleaving the birthday cake in two.

"This shit is why Lilith left you," Adam hissed. "You don't give a shit, you don't do shit, and then you try to save grace by making these big fucking shows. Where were you when I needed you? Where were you when I thought we were friends? Where were you when I was starving? Fuck you, Lucifer Morningstar."

Lucifer looked close to tears, but he kept his mouth closed. He knew Adam was right.

"Happy fucking birthday to me." Adam said, turning and leaving from the way he came, tears stinging his eyes. He reached up and turned off his helmet, no one needed to see that.

[laswells-ashtray]

Okay, here me out on this. Gonna do this anonymously cause social anxiety is scary and I've never left an ask before, first time for everything I suppose. :')

I was randomly just watching the missions for MW3 cause I loved the concepts of some of them, just hated how most of it played out (Like how did Graves survive being blown up? Or how it felt like the story was rushed at points). Then I remembered the mission where Price got trapped in that silo thingy with the poisonous gas stuff that I cannot remember for the life of me what it is called (Think the mission was called Reactor,if you wanted to look it up if I don't explain it that well). Loved that mission cause to me it showed that Price wasn't this almighty powerful captain that doesn't get injured that badly compared to everyone else in 141.

Had a random thought of just the in-between part of when Price passed out to when he woke up on the helo. Was scrolling through the random posts and when I got to the one where Mac had met Price's team and stuff all I could think about was what if Gaz or Soap or anyone who's met Mac just tell Nik or Laswell to call for grandpa. I find it hilarious just the thought of Price's subordinates panicking over the fact that their captain, (and practically father figure sometimes due to how often he mother hens them), had inhaled poisonous gas then passed out and wanted help from someone who's known Price for years. Then cue Mac just showing up on base in Price's office or calling Price really late at night being like "You have 5 seconds to explain what happened and how in the world you got into that situation Mister. I do not care that you're a captain now I still hold seniority over you Price, I will pull that card you little shit." Cause despite the fact that Price was a pain in the ass when he was Mac's sergeant he still cares for the stubborn Brit's wellbeing.

Sorry if I started ranting, I love cod and finding the posts have made me do my happy stims. :) Especially reading the silly ones, always makes me feel better when having a bad day.

Made me get my glasses for this one, in a good way I'm just blind as shit. A little bit. Also never apologise for ranting, this is a safe place for ranting, rambling and threats of bodily harm but only if they're polite about it.

Firstly, I know exactly what mission you're talking about because I can't get past the second juggernaut and had to rage quit because I was giving myself a stress headache.

Secondly. I've missed writing more Mac if only because I have to write so English-ly for everyone else.

When the door opens, John doesn't look up. He assumes it's Nikolai coming to check on him, Ghost popping his head in to call him a twat again or one of the sergeants asking how he's doing. He doesn't expect to see the same, worn soles of some battered old boots that he's been trying to convince Mac to get rid of for over ten years park themselves on his desk.

Nor does he expect to see Mac watching him, arms crossed over his chest, and a look of blatant fury on his face that makes the hair on the back of John's neck stand up.

His chest is still tight and there's a familiar ache in his throat, he's too old to be getting fucking gassed anymore. Whatever cancer he'll be riddled with in ten years is not worth it.

"Well?"

He isn't stupid enough to answer that, leaning forward with his elbows on the desk. If Mac didn't look ready to deck him, he'd likely be lecturing John about "uncooked joints on the table".

"Jus no gonnae say a fucking hing tae me? Dae a luk like a store dug?"

He groans and ignores the rattling behind his ribs, running a hand over his face as he prays that maybe, just maybe Mac will go easy on him.

"What have you been told?"

He doesn't bother asking "and by who?" because he doesn't want to be annoyed at any of them, and it was likely Kate.

"Ye inhaled a fuck ton ae somehin ye shouldnae 've and a hud to hear about it fae someday else."

He nods, looking at the older man wearily. "That's about it, didn't think you'd need a play-by-play."

Mac lowers his feet off of the edge of the desk and drags his chair closer to the desk with a grating scraping noise that makes john wince.

"Right, lad. Genuine question, are ye a fuckin tit?"

It appears to be just that, a genuine question if the way Mac is arching a brow at him means anything. The Scot doesn't allow him the opportunity to answer before talking again.

"Ye must be, cuz we both ken launchin heed first intae somethin filt wae somehin that mangles ye is some biblical arsehole-ity, John."

John briefly considers slamming his head on the desk. It'd do no good to explain that it was for the mission, Mac would probably just skelp him over the back of the head for implying that wasn't something the retiree already knew.

"You did worse back in the day."

MacMillan only narrows his eyes at him, clenching his hands into fists on his lap.

"Dae ye take me as a gid fuckin example wae these things, son?"

John shakes his head, staring down at the desk in front of him.

"Swear tae fuck, ye pull a stupid stunt like that again and a'll huv yer fucking knees wae a crowbar. Christ, is yer self-preservation that far oot the fuckin windae?"

That has John looking back up at him through narrowed eyes, everyone kept jumping down his throat about it as if they wouldn't have all done the same for the sake of a mission. It was part of the job.

Mac slams his hand down on the edge of the desk, irritation washing over his face in waves.

"Dinnae fuckin luk at me like that, crabbit wee git. A get tae rip intae ye fir stupid shite like this or did ye forget that? The fuckin heart attacks ye put me through fir years and ye huvnae changed a bit? Ye canne be dain that tae every, ye might act like an ignorant arse but ye've got folk aroon here that actually don't like the thought ae attending yer fuckin funeral, ye daft cunt."

Maybe the older man can see the exhaustion that's settled in John's bones, wearing him away from the inside out. Or maybe this is just how MacMillan felt years ago, it might just be an inherited trait that presents itself alongside the captain title.

"Get tae bed, son. We're talkin aboot this the morra. And tea wae lemon fir yer throat, ye sound like ye've been gargling shrapnel."

[doomtrooper77]

I said my goodbyes and stumbled out of the party. It was about 2 a.m., and I was headed home. My friends told me I could stay, but I wanted to sleep in my own bed tonight. Brrr, it was cold, but then again, it was January 1st in the mountains of Oregon. My friend's house was a bit back up in the woods. It's not rural, just 10 minutes from a small town in Eastern Oregon. I lived in town and had been a resident for about 10 years. The air was crisp and clean. It was dark as I walked back down the road through the wooded area to the parking area for their house. I laughed as I thought how much my life had changed from 10 years ago. I lived in Chicago until it all happened. Then they moved me out here, and I thought I would go crazy in this quiet life. But here I am, happy and content.

When I got down to the area where the cars were, I started looking through my pocket for keys. This was a makeshift parking area where the 3 houses shared this part of the mountain gully. There was a single light over in the corner. That's when I first saw him.

Standing at the edge of the pool of light, he was huge—6'4 "or 6'5"—wearing a black 3/4-length car coat, black leather gloves, and, from what I could see in the distance, a black shirt and pants. Even from 75 feet away, I could see that the coat was stretched tight across his massive frame.

The way his head was turned, his face was in partial shadow but facing, looking directly at me. He didn't move an inch—just stood there. I had stopped, startled, and I stood looking at him. A feeling of cold fear started creeping up my spine. My car was 20 feet away, and I had my key in my hand. Something in my head told me to return to my friend's place, but then I thought about walking back up the road in the dark with him behind me. We stood there staring at each other for 20 seconds before I convinced myself I was being silly. I started walking to my car and took a deep breath; I said loudly, "Happy New Year". My heart beat fast as I got in my car and locked the door. I started my car and quickly pulled out of the spot. When I looked up, I frowned because he wasn't there anymore. Surprised, I said, "What the Fuck?" to myself and looked around to see if he had moved somewhere else. Honestly, outside that pool of light, it was so dark that you'd need a spotlight to see anyone.

I drove 100 feet to the road going back toward town, had my turn signal on, ready to turn, and looked in my rearview mirror. I almost screamed; I slammed my foot down and turned on the road, and drove damn near 100 miles an hour back toward town. When I looked in my rearview mirror, I saw him standing about 20 feet behind my car. Just looming in the middle of the road, bathed in the red of my tail lights. Just standing and staring at me.

In the 10 minutes it took me to get back into town, I convinced myself it was just some creepy dude visiting one of my friends' houses for New Year's Eve. Maybe he was out for a smoke. Fuck, maybe he was midnight hiking. Maybe I had even more to drink than I thought I had.

By the time I was in my house and in bed, I had pushed most of the encounter to part of my brain that swore I had been seeing things. However, just before I fell asleep, the thought surfaced.

It's been 10 years; they can't still be looking for me. Can they?

Do you want to find out if "THEY" can still be looking for him?

[mlobsters]

taking the question in good faith, I will answer in good faith. saw people are being assholes in the reblogs about misha's appearance, which is bullshit, regardless of my feelings on him as a person.

appreciate the points above and will add some thoughts of my own. I went into the show knowing destiel was a huge and popular ship, but not knowing much else. I watched the show in a relative bubble over a year plus. I was already deeply invested in sam and dean's canonical relationship and the wincest ship side of things by the time castiel showed up. I had a friend that was waiting to hear my thoughts on him and it took me a long time to even have an opinion. and by the time I did, it tended toward negative. I liked when he was snarky and powerful but his characterization flip flopped all over the place episode to episode the longer he was on the show. as I was writing up my little recaps I would often boggle over how the show would talk about how dean and cas were best friends and so close, but I (and might be bold to say we the audience) never saw it. he just wasn't around much! supernatural, when it wants to make a point or a parallel, is not subtle about it. it will beat you over the head with their point. I guess the only thing they were hammering home to me was, we aren't gonna take the screen time to show it but these guys are tight, trust us! it was weird to me.

I wrote about my reaction to 15x18 here which was basically where flying fuck did that come from

the longer his character stuck around, the more it reminded me of derek on teen wolf. a fan favorite character that it felt like they didn't intend to have on the show for very long and didn't know what to do with. but the teen wolf run was much shorter and hoechlin left. and I also found some similarities in how popular the ship sterek was, they were similarly working with crumbs of canon. but I didn't see that fandom get weird about it the way certain factions of destiel fans did. maybe they did and just weren't as loud? or since I wasn't around when it was at its peak I didn't see it? but I never got the impression there was this full court press by some to convince people that the ship had roots in canon people were just missing.

I was really soured on supernatural fandom in general by how loudly anti-wincest a lot of people are, I used to go scrolling through the main tags and regularly bump into wincest dni on, you know, gifsets from the show. which is strange and also like okay, yeah. message received, I don't want to be feeling shitty and unwelcome just trying to look around. I understand it's a squick for some people, but I've never been around a fandom that was so loudly hostile to a ship unprovoked.

and equal opportunity souring, within non-destiel fans there's people that hate one of the brothers, making arguments how canonically abusive one of them is, etc. I think that's what a lot of it comes down to for me, headcanon being stated as canon fact. there's always wiggle room in interpretation but so many things are so far outside the show I watched, I just get all riled up which helps no one so I stay away from most show/character discussions at this point.

and if I wasn't already soured on destiel enough, some of things misha has said downright left me appalled. the "balls deep" homophobic cw bullshit comment, joking about jensen's "bdsm paraphernalia." I personally think if most anyone else on the cast talked like this at cons, they wouldn't be invited back. but I guess it's okay with everyone involved or whatever is going on there, so I just try to avoid misha related content in general.

it's a bummer that I'm missing out on destiel fic because there's so much of it, but I wouldn't be able to enjoy it.

I was rereading my sterek bookmarks recently (my personal favorite ship on teen wolf is scott/stiles but there's very little of it comparatively) and now that I'm out of the thick of my tw fixation period, I notice how out of character they often need to push to make the story work. and that's totally fine and cool, but the way my brain works, I'm much more interested and invested in the ship that I see reflected on screen. even while actively wanting and looking for the sterek potential in the show, there just wasn't much of it. that was the one thing that did surprise me, how little fans were working with. I love the creativity and the way they've made so much with so little.

so I'm sure I could have enjoyed destiel fic at one point in the same way I did sterek if I was never exposed to spn fandom outside of AO3.

these days I make stuff for fandoms and read fic, but otherwise don't really engage with other people's stuff. I follow a few spn people that I know I vibe with, but that's about it. I'm too literal minded in some ways and inflexible about certain things, it's just best I stay away from most stuff.

and I usually avoid engaging in this type of post too but guess I had some things that have been bubbling around my head for a while that I wanted to get out

Non Destiel Shippers, what stops you from shipping them?

What are the reasons you don't ship them? Im just curious, not looking for a fight.

[soupandsorcery]

There was a post on here about how Davrin is single handedly propping up Rook's mental health by taking them out to touch grass, and that is so true for Davrin and Lysander. I like to think that Davrin times those little excursions for when he sees that Lys is really going through it and stressed out.

Lysander tends to burrow when he's fretting, to curl up in the darkness where he feels like he belongs, and Davrin's like nope, this isn't happening right now. You need sunlight.

But he's smart enough to know that if he phrases it like that, Lysander will insist he's fine and Davrin should take Assan out without him, so he works around it. Says it's for Assan's benefit because Lysander loves Assan. And then they go walk around in Arlathan, and Davrin talks about Eldrin and the Wardens and the griffons and whatever else. Lys is an amazing listener and asks good questions, and eventually he feels comfortable enough spilling his own problems. And Davrin's no therapist. He doesn't know how to help half the time, but he can tell that Lys feels better for getting stuff off his chest, and that's worth a lot. His eyes lose some of that haunted quality, his skin is a bit less pale.

They get back to the Lighthouse and Davrin turns Lysander over to Bellara and Lucanis so they can feed him and finish the job.

[peachyutdr]

i finished it, was kicked out of the game, and then spent the next 10 minutes drawing this. i will now go take a shower, most likely cry, and then go through the emotional turmoil of convincing myself to reset so i can do a geno run. i hate it here :D