#and...that's fine! If people have fun at it!

[fairyhaos]

◇ the way you make me feel // choi seungcheol

seungcheol x gn!reader, 2.6k+ words

tags: requested by anon, established relationship, fluff, mild angst, seungcheol is sooo down bad oh lawwd

warnings: pet names, 1 vvv mild curse word ig?? (ass)

notes: any fic where i get to write besotted cheol is a great fic! might be slightly ooc but oh well. who cares. ty anon for this request <3

“I'm going to be very honest, honey… this feels like a sleeping arrangement for a couple that's just had an argument.”

You laugh a little at the mild pout on your boyfriend's face as he stares contemplatively at the bed after you've suggested a rather… interesting sleep method that he's never really heard of before. 

“It's really not,” you assure him. “Other couples do this all the time! And I thought it would be fun to try out too.”

Your boyfriend, Seungcheol, blinks at the bed before looking over at you, mystified. 

“Really? People want to do this?”

“Yes, Cheol.”

“Hm.” Seungcheol frowns. “What did you say this was called again?”

“The Scandinavian Sleep Method,” you say cheerfully, hopping over to the drawers with all the different duvets and duvet covers that you and your boyfriend have collected over the years you've been living together. “Isn't it such a great idea? We sleep in the same bed, but we each have a different duvet so we get better sleep but still get to be next to each other.”

You begin pulling out different duvets, inspecting them and continuing to chatter as you do so. 

“I know how much you love weighted blankets, but you know they're not something I'm a big fan of,” you say. “And you really hate my fluffy covers, for some reason. But if we sleep this way, then both of us can sleep happily without causing disturbance to the other's sleep quality!”

With a flourish, you turn back round to Seungcheol, the offending weighted blanket and fluffy cover in your hands, as if emphasising your point. There's a bright beam on your face, evidently eager to try out this new idea, but Seungcheol? 

He's still looking a bit hesitant. 

Which, understandable. You're introducing a new sleeping arrangement three years after you've been quite happily living together. Anyone would find that weird. 

“If we don't like it, we can switch back,” you assure him. You shrug. “It's just a trend I saw online, Cheol. I thought it would be cool.”

Seungcheol pauses, and then smiles, nodding once. “Fine, fine. Let's try out, then. We'll see if the Scandinavians actually sleep well.”

You cheer, dropping the bedding and skipping across the room to launch yourself into Seungcheol’s arms. He catches you easily, laughing as he does so, amused at how delighted you are by his acceptance. 

“Yes! I love you. Now I get to make the bed all aesthetic with different layered sheets!”

Seungcheol laughs again. “All right, sweetheart. Tell me if you need more sheets to fit in with your vision, okay? I'll buy you whatever you need.”

“Oh my god, suddenly I love you even more.”

───────────── 🗝

Admittedly, Seungcheol does love hearing you say that you, the absolute love of his life, love him (and any self-respecting boyfriend would feel the same), but he's wondering if this entire thing is really, really all that worth it. 

Because, well. 

Seungcheol hates the Scandinavian Sleep Method. 

He harbours no hatred towards the Scandinavians themselves, of course, but their sleep method, for him, well and truly sucks. 

Of course, he can understand why people like it. There are aspects he doesn't mind, too: such as how it's currently way less likely for him to wake up at 4am with a cold ass because you've stolen half the covers from him again. Or how he doesn't have to worry about the fluffy, fuzzy feeling of your sheets pressing creepily soft kisses against his ankles. Or how he can now actually sleep peacefully without finding that he's been suffocated by your weight on his chest because now, you actually sleep on your side of the bed. 

Nevertheless, he hates this. 

Unfortunately, he can't bring himself to say anything about this, because—

“I seriously think my quality of sleep has improved so much,” you say to Seungcheol one Sunday morning, beaming over your cup of coffee as he makes breakfast waffles for you. “The Scandinavians really know what they're talking about, huh?”

And your eyes are bright, sparkling as you say this, so full of life even though it's nine in the morning on a Sunday. 

So Seungcheol smiles back, happy purely because you're happy, even though if you really pressed him, he'd admit that he's not really happy at all. 

“I guess they do,” he says, turning back to the waffles. “Do you want honey with the waffles? Or the new maple syrup I bought you?”

“Ooh, maple syrup, please!”

And then Seungcheol had done all sorts of fancy tricks with the bottle of maple syrup, and you had clapped your hands and laughed, delighted, and Seungcheol felt a little better, the weight of his guilt that he didn't share your opinion beginning to lighten. 

There's no real big reason why he hates this sleeping arrangement. Sure, it stops all your bad sleeping habits, but, truthfully, he… misses all those things. 

He misses waking up to you all huddled up in the blankets, looking all small and adorable whilst swathed in the thick fabric. He misses cuddling you close and entangling his legs with yours in order to escape from the weird fluffy texture of your sheets. He misses feeling the comforting weight of you asleep against his chest, warm and secure like the physical manifestation of his soul, safely tucked against his side. 

Now, you simply smile at him, face shiny and soft from your skincare routine, and give him a peck on the cheek goodnight before snuggling under your duvet, away from him, in your own little bubble of comfort. 

Without him. 

It makes him feel like an abandoned dog left in the rain outside of his owner's home. 

Excuse him for being dramatic, but he's literally slept with you curled up in his arms for a very, very long time now. And these days, now that you're no longer with him and are miles away on the other half of the bed, he can't fall asleep by himself. 

Withdrawal symptoms from cuddling must be a thing, because he's going through them right now. 

“Just talk about how you feel, then,” is what any sane person would say about this matter, which is very good, very sound, advice. 

However, it's also what Joshua says to Seungcheol when he complains to him about the new sleeping arrangement, and everyone knows Joshua is the least sane person in existence, so Seungcheol decides to ignore his advice. 

Joshua rolls his eyes, used to but not pleased by Seungcheol's stubbornness. 

“You're being silly,” he says, when Seungcheol vetoes his suggestion. “This is obviously impacting your sleep quality in a negative way, which is the exact opposite of what Y/N was hoping for.”

“But Y/N seems to be sleeping better,” Seungcheol argues. He rubs his eyes, and the world spins a little as he does so. “So I probably shouldn't say anything, right?”

“No, you should say something,” Joshua says firmly. “What do you think Y/N will do when it becomes obvious that this new arrangement is actively harming you, and yet you didn't say anything? Hell, if I found out my boyfriend wasn't telling me that kind of stuff, I'd get really mad.”

Seungcheol frowns. “What? Why?”

“Because you're my boyfriend?” Joshua says. “Uh—not actually mine, obviously. But that's how Y/N would feel. You need to communicate your feelings. That's what couples do.”

Joshua takes a sip of his tea, spinning around in Seungcheol's desk chair in his study whilst Seungcheol, the owner of the chair, is currently exiled to the small wooden stool beside it. 

“Just think about how you'd feel if you were in Y/N's shoes. How would you feel if your partner wasn't telling you that they're sleeping badly and feeling increasingly more terrible throughout the weeks because of something that could be easily fixed by them talking it out with you?”

And oh, now Seungcheol understands. Now it makes more sense. He'd want you to communicate your feelings immediately. 

Joshua must see the revelation on Seungcheol's face, because he snorts smugly. “I knew you'd get there in the end.”

“Shut up,” Seungcheol grumbles, and Joshua mocks him for how ridiculously macho-man he was being before. “I'll talk to Y/N about this tonight.”

“Well done,” Joshua says amusedly, spinning around in Seungcheol's chair so fast that its joints, even as expensive and well-oiled as they are, begin to groan in surprise. “I'm so proud of you.” 

 “Shut up,” Seungcheol says again, and Joshua laughs. “And get off my chair.”

“Hmph! You're so mean. I bought this chair for you, you know.”

“No, you didn't.”

“No, I didn't. But you believed me for a second, didn't you?”

“Definitely not. Now get out of my house before Y/N gets home.”

───────────── 🗝

It's one of those very, very rare days where you finish work later than Seungcheol, and so when you unlock the front door and finally make it inside, you're more than ready to just fall into your boyfriend's arms. 

Except, the entire ground floor of your house is dark when you get home.

“Where is he?” you say to yourself, mystified. “Cheol? Where are you?”

“In our room!” he calls back from upstairs, and you take off your coat and shoes, dumping your bag by the doorway and bounding up the stairs two at a time to get to your boyfriend. 

“Seungcheol! Why were the hallway lights off? Have you eaten dinner yet? What's— wait, what are you doing?”

In the middle of your bed, right over where the two halves of your bedding meet, Seungcheol is sprawled out in an upside down starfish shape, staring up at you balefully as you walk into the room, and you laugh a little at the state your boyfriend is in. 

“Hello,” you say amusedly. “You look like you're sulking.”

Seungcheol just continues to blink up at you like a displeased cat. 

You laugh again, bending down and kissing him on the forehead. “Definitely sulking, I see. What's wrong, baby? What happened?”

There's a long moment where Seungcheol doesn't say anything, and you continue to smile down at him, petting his hair fondly. And then, he frowns, and speaks. 

“What do you think of our bed?”

You look over at the head of the bed, scanning it briefly. “I think it looks fine.”

It's apparently the wrong thing to say, because Seungcheol frowns harder. 

“Why? Do you not like it?”

“I don't like it,” Seungcheol says, and sits up, turning around to face you. “I don't like this sleeping arrangement.”

You tilt your head. “Oh? I thought you didn't mind the Scandinavian Sleep Method.”

Seungcheol sighs. “I lied,” he admits. “I actually hate it so much. It's the worst thing in the entire world.”

Your face softens in worry, feeling something thick and bitter rising to your throat at the idea that you've been forcing Seungcheol to go through with something he hates. 

“I'm sorry,” you say sincerely, sitting down beside him on the bed. “I didn't realise. You should've said something, Cheol. I would've changed back in an instant.”

Seungcheol, for how big and manly and good at acting as your guard dog he is, still always melts under your touch, and the moment you wrap your arms around his neck, he softens into your embrace, burying his face in your shoulder. 

“Would you really?” he asks, muffled into your blazer, and you belatedly realise that you're still in your work clothes. You haven't even washed your hands. 

“Of course I would,” you say in your best don't be silly voice. “I don't want you to be feeling bad.”

His hands wrap around your waist, warm and comforting and he pulls you in closer, hugging you even tighter. 

“Sorry,” he says. “I feel like I'm being stupid. This isn't even anything big. It just… makes me feel really terrible, and I don't know why.”

“Hey, that's totally okay,” you say placatingly, threading your fingers through his hair and patting him consolingly on the back. “I told you we didn't have to carry on with this, baby. I said we could switch back whenever we wanted to.”

He squeezes you tighter, arms wrapping more securely around you. “I still feel bad. You liked this sleeping method.”

You laugh softly, resting your chin on his shoulder. “Yes, but not as much as I like you.”

If possible, he seems to melt even further into you at those words, and you smile, adoring how clearly he adores you. 

“Come on, sweetheart,” you say affectionately, kissing Seungcheol's ear before untangling yourself from his embrace. “Let's start remaking the bed then, hm?”

You pull away from his arms, and Seungcheol is staring at you with big eyes, irises all melty soft. And then he nods, smiling slightly, looking like a pleased puppy as he gets off the bed and begins helping you take the covers off the duvets. 

───────────── 🗝

It's unusual for Seungcheol to be so shy like this—normally, he's the one telling you to be more outspoken, more confident, so it's a nice change. You quite like being able to reassure him, gently tell him what to do, praise him and shower him with love in the way that he always does with you. 

“So why did you hate the Scandinavian Sleep Method?” you ask him a bit later as the two of you sit in front of the washing machine, watching it spin your bedding round and round. Seungcheol had insisted that you wash all of it right away, because otherwise the two of you were bound to put it off for a whole month. 

Your boyfriend shrugs. He watches the bedding get spun in circles again and again and again. 

And then, he finally looks at you, clad in your classic two-piece cotton pyjamas, hair all a mess, your face softened and natural now that you've washed up for the night, all ready to go to bed. 

You look so pretty like this, so open and comforting and god, Seungcheol had missed you. 

Even though he sees you every day. But that's whatever. He's missed being this close with you at night, in this kind of domestic setting, where it's just the two of you pressed close together in your house as the rest of the world sleeps. 

“That sleeping arrangement…” he begins quietly, and you look up. 

“Hm?”

Seungcheol holds your gaze very seriously as he continues. “It didn't let me hug you.”

You blink. “What?”

“It didn't let me hug you,” he repeats, as serious as ever, and you want to laugh in fondness because it really is that serious for him. “I couldn't cuddle you to sleep. I hated that.”

“Oh,” you say, positively melting away at his reason, so unbelievably in love with him that your heart is goo in your chest. “That's so sweet, Cheol, oh my god.”

You lean over and pinch his cheek, cooing over him, and he bats your hand away with a groan, smiling. 

“Go away,” he grumbles, but it's so full of warmth that the words carry no weight whatsoever.

“But then you can't cuddle me in your sleep,” you say, pouting exaggeratedly. “Unless… you don't wanna cuddle me any more?” 

You gasp dramatically, leaning away from him for full effect, and then yelp when he grabs you by the waist and pulls you into his side, preventing you from moving away. 

“Don't say silly things like that,” he reprimands teasingly, laughter tinging the ends of his words. He kisses your shoulder. “Of course I want to cuddle you. It's the only thing I'll be doing every night from now on.”

“That's awfully cheesy,” you point out. “Sap.”

“It's all your fault.”

“Huh, I suppose it is,” you say proudly, snuggling into your boyfriend. “Glad to know I have such an effect on you.”

Seungcheol sighs, fond, and kisses your shoulder once again. “Oh, if only you knew.”

fics tags: @jeonginssa  @weird-bookworm  @minhui896  @slytherinshua  @haowrld  @belladaises  @moonlitskiiies  @mirxzii  @zozojella  @kawennote09  @a-wandering-stay  @abibliolife  @wonranghaeee  @icyminghao  @sweet-like-caramel  @your-yxnnie  @odxrilove  @kyeomyun  @crackedpumpkin  @kellesvt  @eightlightstar  @onlyyjeonghan  @aaniag  @starshuas  @raevyng  @isabellah29  @hrts4hanniehae  @mcu-incorrect  @dokyeomkyeom  @suraandsugar  @tulsa24  @melodicrabbit  @dokyeomkyeom  @hopeless-foolery @aaa-sia

[thecoochiefairy]

belle. onyankopon.

𑄽𑄺 warnings 𑄽𑄺 15.7K word count. black original character, onyankopon, photogrpaher!onyankopon, sweet!onyakopon, dominant!onyankapon, arrogant!onyankopon, unprotected sex, vaginal penetration, lil bit of sweet talkin’, praising, LOTS of dirty talk, aggressive dirty talk, oral [f] [m], slightly tipsy sexy? nasty sex chile, just a fine ass black man, minors aren’t welcome!

𝒄𝙤𝒐𝙘𝒉𝙞𝒆𝙛𝒂𝙞𝒓𝙮 𝙩𝒉𝙤𝒖𝙜𝒉𝙩𝒔 .ᐟ had this one in the vault for a minute, and i feel like this tapped more into my romantic side + y’all may find that kinda boring, ugh. sorry. anyways, this is inspired by another black film me + bestie recently watched, the photograph, + i just hope you enjoy. song for this one is fade away, by lucky daye.

visual. visual. visual.

BRENT FAIYAZ’ FUCK THE WORLD ALBUM PROTRUDED ALONG THE PROJECTOR, multicolored lights waking him a minute before his alarm. He raised a tattooed arm over his face, equally greeted by the sunlight coming into his high rise apartment. It was the way he’d always wanted it—a sense of peace he’d perfected—but he couldn’t lie, it was lonely at times. Silent all the time. 

A small grunt falls from his lips as he forces himself out of bed—the warm water of the shower glides down his muscular frame, minty soap sticking to his skin even as he steps out. As he rubs a soft cloth along his dampened face, a ping comes on his phone. 

COLUMN IDEA DUE TODAY. RUN IT BY YOUR BOSS. 

“…Shit.”

Pressing the volume button on his phone to ignite the ceiling speakers, Been Away is the next song on the track list. Leaning closer within the mirror, he cleans up the sides of his hairline, redoing a couple of his cornrows—Another ping on his phone.

GOOD MORNING, ONYANKOPON. I’LL BE READY FOR YOUR COLUMN PRESENTATION TODAY. BRING ME SOMETHING GOOD.

The white tee he pulls over his head clings to his broad frame, leather jacket being paired with cargo shorts, tying the look together with his burgundy Nike dunks. He couldn’t help but to match the vibe of the weather outside, as he always enjoyed autumn in New Orleans—the atmosphere, people, food, it all flourished within October. 

He decided to make a quick stop today. Grabbing a blueberry muffin from the bakery close by his place, his blacked out G—Wagon sped down the road, screeching the tires entirely too early in the morning. 

If Onyankopon’s driving was too early for the bustle of New Orleans’ downtown area, the office he worked in wasn’t anything better—Cheery co-workers, coffee cups within their hands as they tapped along their computers, shifting in and out of the red room to present their ideas to their boss—it’s unfortunate that her attention was on her best editor this morning.

Unlocking the door to his office, he tosses the keys against the table, body thumping into his chair. Fingers running across his braids, he felt for a millisecond that he was in the clear. 

That’s until he heard a voice.

“Onyankopon.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, hand over his mouth to stifle the groan he has to restrain. Guess he wasn’t so lucky this morning. 

“Did you think I didn’t see you coming in?”

Her salt and pepper bob swung with each movement she made, pointed red glasses along her face, a singular eyebrow raised as usual. 

“I was tryna’ avoid you. Not gon’ lie,” he mutters.

“And you thought buying me a muffin would distract that?” 

“Better than all that black ass coffee you be drinkin’,” he retorted, lifting the bag towards her.

She snatches the bag from his hand, “Don’t be cute with me, Onyankopon. Do you have your column idea ready?“

His nervous energy spreads in a way that’s more subtle, his nails scratching at the bottom of his goatee. 

He murmurs, “Not exactly,” eyes shifting to the side as he said it.

She raises both her eyebrows, “I know my editor-in-chief didn’t just say he doesn’t have an idea for this month's column— Clearly his degree wasn’t just for fun?” 

“I—“

He sighs into his hand again, sitting up straight as he speaks, “It’s ain’t a lack of effort, aight?” his hand waves to the side, “I’ve been tryin’ all week—I got nothin’.”

She presses her lips together, giving him a one over. Onyankopon had been one of her best employees, which was why she’d given him the promotion months before. He not only had a degree in journalism, but was caught having an eye for taking pictures, which led him into being the one responsible for not only taking photos, but creating a story behind them. Don’t get him wrong—Onyankopon loved his job, and he loved taking pictures even more—but both could be exhausting, especially when his passions were becoming more of a demand.

She closes the door to his office, making the conversation more intimate as she questions, “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I was tryna’ figure it out myself before talkin’ to you about it. You know I don’t like to ask for help,” His voice was lowered, a whisper of a confession from him, “I’ve never not had an idea. Shit is irritating.”

The older woman sighs, “It’s okay to feel stuck, Onyankopon. Everyone here has gone through it. It’s also okay to say when you need help.” 

“I know. I know that.”

And really, he does know that. It was just the stubborn side of him that didn’t want to ask for it. He’d worked hard enough to even be in this position, and he wasn’t going to mess that up by asking for handouts. 

With a sigh, she says, “Look—we were originally gonna do a piece on black owned businesses last month, but scrapped the idea last minute. How about you do something with that?”

Onyankopon pauses at the idea, his brain turning it over silently. 

“Yeah. I can work with that,” his fingers scratch along the length of his cornrows, “Got sum’ in mind for the photo portion yet?”

She shakes her head, “That’s all the help I can give you. Take today to look around at some places, talk to some business owners, and you can decide what you want to do from there—but I’m counting on you, Onyankopon.”

He nodded in response, forcing a small smirk as he reassured, “I got you. Don’t worry about it.” 

But as quickly as the smirk appeared, it disappeared the minute she was out the door—Hell, this was going to be a pain.

A couple blocks down from the business district sat a cafe right on the corner of Decatur street, planted in the middle of the art district. It was quieter than places like Cafe Du Monde, but just as busy, if not more at times. 

It was the perfect mixture of calm and chaos—customers coming in to sit within the shop’s library to read the books off the shelves, inhale the scent of coffee grounds as they waited for a cup, or enjoy the sugary fluff of beignets—she let out a huff as she held a tray with one hand, going over to a crowded family table.

“Okay, I have a coffee—dark roast, two sugars, one cream?”

The father of the family takes a sip of the coffee she’d previously labeled, a satisfied groan parting from his lips as he compliments, “You are the only person I’ve ever met to get my order correct. You’re amazing.” 

A soft smile comes to her heart shaped lips, “Is there anything else you needed?”

The man shakes his head, his daughter and wife doing the same, too invested into their food to request anything else.

The moment she turns, her smile drops a bit, as she pushes back the wavering exhaustion that wants to hit her body. Her eyes flick to her only employee—seeing him glancing down at his phone per usual. 

“Eros, if it’s something that ain’t emergency related, imma’ need you to get off your phone and act like I pay you to be here—“

He holds up a finger to pause her rant, “Aht—honey ,” he taps on the screen of the phone, “I’m on break.”

She raises an eyebrow, “Oh? Taking a break you decided to go on yourself, nor clock out in the process. You’re nearly employee of the month!” 

Eros huffs in response, stuffing the phone back into his pocket. He questions, “Am I not employee of the month already?”

“In your delusions? Of course,” she pulls the handle from beneath the coffee machine, tipping the pot over into a chocolate brown mug, “Please go check on your tables.”

He calls out over his shoulder, “We’d go out of business without me here!” before disappearing amongst the tables.

Her eyes glance along the rustic interior of her shop—wooden chairs with intricate designs carved into them, round tables with miniature lanterns sat within the middle, green plants hung along different corners of the cafe—this was home to most people that came in and out, a serene place that she couldn’t be more happy to provide to her customers. She places a plate under the cup of coffee she’d just made, carrying it over to one of her favorite customers of all.

“Good morning, Mr. Boudreaux.”

She greets the elderly man, gently sitting the cup of coffee across from him, “How are you feeling today?”

The man’s wrinkly face softened at the sight of her, returning her greeting with a bright smile of his own, “Hello, Darlin’,” he responds, his thick accent slipping into each word that he spoke, “I’m doin’ wonderful. An’ how ‘bout yourself?”

“Tired—but here,” she replies, pulling the towel over her shoulder between her palms, wiping off any stains against her fingers, “You sure you don’t want anything else? I don’t need you just drinking coffee when you come here.”

Mr. Boudreaux chuckles, waving a hand in dismissal at her words, “I’m sure, sweetheart. Just my coffee is fine.” 

He lifts the mug closer to his face, breathing in the strong scent of it, “Wouldn’t want to ruin my waistline with your sweets,” he adds on, winking.

 She gives a soft laugh, “Of course—oh, I’ll bring you your extra sugars.”

 “My extra sugars?”

She pauses. 

Turning back towards him, she says, “Yes, Mr. Boudreaux. You always keep two sugars next to your cup in case your coffee is too bitter, remember?” 

“Oh…yeah. ‘Course. I remember,” the old man murmurs, his voice trailing off, a smile still on his face, but smaller than before. 

“Love? We might need another pitcher of the chicory,” Eros calls from the counter, leaning down to check if they had any more in the front.

“Coming.”

She gives the older man a weak smile, hand against his shoulder as she pulls away from him. Going into the back to grab a bag of the powdery root, she pushes her palm against the door as she’s back in the front to hand the ingredient over to her friend.

Eros questions, “How’s Mr. Bodreaux doing today, more senile than usual?” 

“He’s not senile,” she reminds, “He has Alzheimer’s. Don’t do that.”

Eros sighs, lifting the bag of chicory into the air as he shrugged, “Semantics,” he mutters, “Anyways, that’s not the only thing that’s empty—we need more espresso beans.”

You sigh, “Dammit. I knew I forgot to order something this morning. Uh—you can grab the emergency stash from the back, I’ll order some later tonight—“

She pauses, noticing as the customers within her shop are looking in the direction of outside. Her eyes follow to where they all stare, noticing a tall figure—but she can’t even look at him, all she sees is the camera pointed at her cafe, soundlessly snapping photos from the outside.

“Uh—you know him?” 

Eros squints against the sun outside, standing on his toes as he attempts to get a better look. 

“Don’t think so,” he mutters. 

She watches as he backs onto the curb, camera covering his entire face as he snapped more photos. But when she noticed the uncomfortable looks of her customers—she had to think quickly on her feet. 

Throwing the towel she holds, the bell jingles above the door as she exits the building. She’s a bit breathless as she waves, “Hi—Um, excuse me?”

Even when she tries to go unnoticed, she’s hard to not look at. 

A swirl between cinnamon and burnt orange sprawls around her head, the color outstanding even with being swathed under a loose scarf to pull her curls from her freckled cheeks. 

The pinstripe blouse she wears hugs the curve of her waist, squeezing the poke of her hips beneath the fitted cargo pants that pull the look together. Olive. It had to be one of her favorite colors. Her reddened hair mimicked the color of her eyebrows, equally matching her lashes—she was committed to gingers, browns and greens—pretty. 

But nothing was more pretty than her face. It was round like a doll, eyes feline, the caramel of her skin contrasting with the milky clutter of a birthmark surrounding her left eye, nearly swallowing that entire part of her face. 

She gains his attention as she questions, “Hello? What are you doing?” 

Onyankopon takes the camera away from his face, letting it hang around his neck as his head turns in her direction. His eyes roamed all over, trying to take in the entirety of her form as she stood within his site—The soft shade of her cheeks, the curls that peeked from their silk cloth, the color of her skin. 

He’s at a loss for words. 

Clearing his throat, he runs his fingers along the back of his neck as he replies, “My fault. I’m just—takin’ pictures of the building.”

His voice is low, attractive. Their native accent has his voice by the throat, heavy with every word that drops from his mouth. She’s quick to brief him over—even if she wanted a second longer to stare. There seem to be more tattoos along his body than clothes, even if his arms were covered by the leather jacket he wears. They start from his neck, dancing beneath the cotton material of his shirt. His brown skin is smooth, melting, complimenting the shine of the silver jewelry from his nose, ears and fingers. The cornrows on his head fit his face perfectly, jaw aligned by the goatee on his face—he was finer than fine. 

She clears her throat, crossing her arms, “I see that—But why, is what I’m asking.”

He hums softly, hands within his pant’s pockets as he responds, “You own this place, huh?”, nodding his head in the direction of the cafe.

She turns her head back to look at the building. 

Her breath exhales, “It’s mine, yeah.”

Onyankopon raises his brows, a small smirk crawling along his face as he responds, “Impressive.”

Stepping closer to her, his hands still tucked inside his pockets as he looked up and down her figure, “How long’ you been runnin’ it?”

“Why you’ askin’ so many questions? I’m the one tryna’ figure out why you’re taking pictures of my building.”

He gives a soft chuckle at her defensive tone, “Aight, aight. Chill. I’m just curious, that’s all.”

He tilts his head to the side, “You got a body hidin’ in there or sum’?”

The lower of her eyebrows soften. She flicks her eyes to the bustle of people walking, suppressing the smallest smile. 

She responds, “No, I don’t.”

“The world finna’ go cold—I think that was a smile I almost saw. You gon’ tell me yo’ name, or imma’ have to find it under a crime case?”

The sound of her laugh was soft, sweeter than what he expected. She points up at the sign, “It’s Nola, like the sign up there.”

NOLA’S BREW. 

She pushes a flyaway behind her ear, “My mom was a little too in love with her hometown as you can see.”

He chuckles, “It’s cute though. You was’ born here?”

“9th ward. You?” 

Nola pulls the scarf from around her hair, giving him a chance to see the color frame the shape of her face—she quickly ties it back as he looks a little too closely. 

“7th,” he replies, “You’ a long way from the West Bank. Whatchu doin’ over here?”

“My momma owned this shop since I was a baby, passed it down to me before she died—so…yeah,” she plays with a curl along the side of her shoulder, freckled cheeks flushed in her explanation.

He observes, “You’ gotta’ be a couple years my junior with that accent of yours.”

She raises an eyebrow, “What you’ tryna’ say? I’m twenty-five—although you ain’t supposed to ask a woman’s age. How old are you, stranger? Since you still haven’t told me your name.”

He grins, “Onyankopon. And I’m twenty-nine.”

Twenty-nine. 

It wasn’t anything crazy, but a man four years older than her might’ve been a little intimidating. Nola keeps her composer as she reminds, “You still never told me why you’re taking pictures of my cafe.”

“Imma’ photographer,” he explains, pulling the camera up from his neck, gripping it by the strap as his thumb rubs against the side of the device.

Onyankopon continues, “I’m doing a column on black businesses’ in the city, wanted to find something less local—smaller, ended up finding your shop.” 

His eyes won’t stop boring into her, “I’m glad I did.”

Nola didn’t want to be insecure. But she was, especially with a man staring at her the way this one did. She suddenly wants to swipe the birthmark off her face, shrink her hips to be slimmer, look more presentable then she did at this moment. 

She ignores his last comment, “You write on the column too? Not just take the pictures?”

“Editor-in-chief, unfortunately.”

The height difference between them now becomes a bit more prominent the moment he takes another step towards her. 

He notices the way she starts to shrink, the way she avoids meeting in his eyes—it’s almost cute.  

“You’ nervous or sum’?”

Nola blinks at the question. She twists a curl in her finger, coiling it as she responds, “No, I’m just—cold.”

Onyankopon then lifts his camera from his neck, angling it right on the entirety of her. Her body flares in panic, and she shrieks, “Woah!—What are you doing?”

“I gotta get some shots of the person who runs the place, right?”

“No—no,” she steps forward, pressing her palm along his lens, pulling it down, “Please don’t do that. I’m, um—not a big fan of pictures.”

The smirk on his face drops. The way she reacts has him confused—maybe even a little Concerned. 

His fingers lower the camera away, his voice lowering too as he questions, “What you talkin’ ‘bout? You’ pretty as hell.”

Nola still holds his camera within her fingers, close enough to smell the scent of cocoa musk. Giving a nervous laugh, she gently shakes her head as she replies, “That’s a bit overzealous.”

He frowns, “You serious? You really don’t like gettin’ yo’ picture taken?”

“No.”

Nola clears her throat, birthmark glowing under the sunlight coming from within the clouds as she gives a polite rub to his palm, “Look—um, maybe you should find another business. I can recommend some food trucks, other coffee shops. I don’t think my place fits your column.”

His hand still hadn’t moved from her wrist, the heat seeping through her veins—She smelled of everything that was good. 

Onyankopon rolls his full lips together, “You run a black owned coffee shop on the busiest street in New Orleans—prime real estate—and you’ tellin’ me your place ain’t good enough for my column?”

“Sounds a little local then, don’t you think?” 

She turns his words back on him, gently pulling her hand away from his, ���You want something that’s special, Onyankopon.”

“You’ right. So let a nigga take a picture of you, Nola.” 

That causes her mouth to part open a bit. She sighs, “Onyankopon—“

Her eyes glanced back to her shop, “I should go back inside.”

Onyankopon gently finds her wrist before she could take another step, pulling her back into place, “Nah, hollon’. Don’t be tryna’ run from me.” 

He’d be lying if he didn’t enjoy the way the sunlight bounced off her skin, the flush of her cheeks darkening from being nervous. 

“I’ll buy a coffee if you need me to.”

“Now you tryna’ buy a picture of me?” 

“I’m tryna’ get yo’ attention, girl. You’ stubborn as hell.” 

Nola tugs at the dark pink of her lips, tinted with brown as she glances over his face. Her curls fall against her shoulder as she tilts her head, “I’m sure they’ll be another woman’s attention you can find in another coffee shop.”

She hears the jingle of the door, Eros peeking his head out, “Nola! We need that espresso—“

He halts, glancing over his friend standing across from an extremely attractive man. 

“Am I—interrupting something?”

Nola shakes her head, “No, you’re fine. I’m coming.” 

She turns back towards Onyankopon, “I really have to go.”

Her soft spoken—yet stern—voice was like honey. She was a little difficult to figure out, which made her more intriguing in his eyes. 

“I’ll come back tomorrow then.”

She raises an eyebrow, “I never said I’d be in your column, Onyankopon.”

He shrugs, “You didn’t say you wouldn’t, either.”

Now both of her eyebrows raise, “And you think an additional twenty-four hours is gonna change that?” 

“I’ll wait an eternity if that means talkin’ to you.”

The sight of him hovering above her smaller frame has her heart thumping again. His words are stern, meaningful. She hates how they make her feel.

“Nola!” 

Eros becomes impatient this time. She pushes out a huff at the sound of her name, still racking her brain on even agreeing to his words.

She then says, “Tomorrow. But no pictures—you can only pull that camera out if I say so.”

He gives a lopsided smile, his eyes lighting up at her response.

“Aight, Mama. Nothin’ that ain’t on your terms,” he agrees, “Promise.”

The term of endearment makes that thump in her heart jolt. She pulls a curl behind her ear once more as she turns away, “I mean it!”

“Heard you. Imma’ see you—Nola from 9th Ward.” 

Her hand pressing along the door slows as she looks back at him once more, and that’s when the softest giggle pulls from her lips.

“Bye, Onyankopon from 7th.”

                                       𝓐ᥫ᭡

LOOKING WITHIN THE MIRROR WASN’T SOMETHING NOLA DID OFTEN. It became a habit of hers today—from looking into the reflection of the coffee maker, the small mirror on the counter, bathroom breaks—she was unsure why she had prepared for today’s new customer to enter the cafe. Maybe a small part of her was anticipating him to come. 

But as time passed throughout the day, and each jingle of the bell atop of the door wasn’t him, she began to think their entire conversation wasn’t anything she should’ve taken seriously. 

“You okay?”

Eros wipes the toaster on the opposite side of the counter, raising his eyebrow as he looks over at Nola who stares into space.

“Hm?” She turns, “Oh—sorry, yeah,” she looks to the door that opens, seeing as another customer comes in, “I’m fine,” her shoulders deflate a bit. 

“You thinkin’ about that boy, ain’t you?”

Nola blinks, “Boy? Who?” 

“Come on now,” Eros rolls his eyes, “I see the way you look every time the door opens.”

He comes closer, placing his chin over her shoulder, “I saw the way you were lookin’ at him yesterday. He was foiinneee.” 

“He was aight.”

He snorts as she gives her simple reply, “Oh bullshit. You were blushin’.”

His elbow knocks into her side, “What were y’all talking about anyways?”

“Said he’s a journalist—but it seems like his main passion is photography. He’s doing a column on black owned business’, ‘wanted the shop to be a part of it— I didn’t really give him a yes to that idea,” she briefly explained, beginning to brew a mug of coffee written along a sticky note.

Eros’ expression falls with her words, “You tellin’ me a fine ass man like that came in here asking you to be a part of his column— and you said no?”

“He asked for the cafe, Eros. Not me.”

“But he wanted pictures of you.”

“Yeah? What kinda pictures?” she retorts, “I’m good on’ being in his onlyfans portfolio. I told him I’d think about being in it, that’s it.”

Eros rolls his eyes, “You’re killin’ me.”

He leans in closer, “What’s the problem, Nola? Is this about your—“

“Eros,” Nola warns, “I just—let’s not get into that, okay? I’m allowed to say no to someone wanting to take photos of me. Can he just come, propose this column idea, and go about his business? Is that alright with you?”

Eros’ expression becomes solemn. He sighs, “Fine, Fine. I was just saying. But can I ask, when’s the last time you’ve been on a date?”

Nola rolls her eyes, “I went out with that lawyer that came here a month ago!” She points out, giving a polite smile as she hands off the warm mug to a customer, “Beignets, please.”

Eros moves to the display case. He scoffs, “Wrong—That don’t’ count, boo. That man was boring as hell. He talked about the history of coffee for two hours, and the date was here while you were on shift!” 

He grabs the beignets from within the glass casing, placing it on the tray.

She shrugs, “He said he was busy that day.”

She sighs, realizing how she sounded. Maybe she did need to loosen up a bit. She needed to give herself the opportunity to flirt with an attractive man—And Onyankopon was attractive. 

The moment she goes to reply—the jingle of the door catches her attention. 

A plaid black and brown button up covers the wife beater he wears, alabaster cotton clinging to the sculpt of his abs under the patterned material. He wears a pair of brown dunks today, cargos pulling together the entire outfit. His nose ring shines under the light atop of the door, cornrows always looking as if they were freshly done.

Her eyes flicker down to the bouquet of Lilies and delphiniums mixed within his palm, wrapped in sea green paper—Eros’ mouth parts a bit at the sight, “Just pictures, huh?”

Nola was a bit lost for words—Which wasn’t a thing for her. 

She looked different today. The sunset ginger of her curls are fuller, flowing down to the hips of her corseted dress she wears. The straps continuously slip from her shoulders, bustier full beneath the sweetheart neckline, lace trimming the drawstring tied between her breast. 

Nola’s face is already flushed. She gives him a childish wave as she greets, “…Hi.”

Onyankopon practically glares at the sight of her. He was unsure of what to say, but the feeling of holding the flowers in his hand gives him a bit of courage.

 His low voice greets, “You look pretty, Mama.”

Her full lips curl into a nervous smile. With eyes peering down to the flowers, “You forget to drop those off somewhere?”

Onyankopon glances down with her, his lips stretching into the lazy smirk that Nola hated to love, “Nah. They’re for you—Thought you could use some color outside of them’ plants you got around here.”

“Flowers after the second interaction, huh?” Eros questions, “Y’all hear them’ wedding bells?” 

Nola flicks her eyes towards her friend, “Eros—go away, yeah?” 

He gives a wink, “Already gone,” making his way around the counter, he stops, “You don’t happen to like

men too, do you?”

Onyankopon chuckles, “Nah. Just pretty women, like yo’ shy ass friend.” 

He sighs, “Too bad. I’m gone.” 

Eros goes to check on customers, blowing a kiss towards Nola’s death glare.

She apologizes, “Sorry about him. Um—thank you, for these,” she gently takes the bouquet into her hands, “Was traffic bad? It’s nearly six.”

Okay, she tried to say that without sounding like she was waiting for him, but she couldn’t help but question his whereabouts.

“Bad as hell. Why you’ askin’? You’ thought I was finna’ stand you up?”

“No!—No. I just—I figured you would come earlier this morning—not around the time I almost close up shop. It’s not my business to know what you were doing,” she shakes her head.

He leans against the counter, watching as she places the flowers onto the edge, “You cute as hell,” he grins, “I just got caught up with some other parts of

the column. I wanted you to be my last stop.”

“What other places did you find?” 

She turns towards the sink to fill a jar up with water, bending her body a bit to reach further.

Onyankopon eyes immediately drop down to follow the arch within her back, the way the fabric tightens around her hips, the shape of her ass—

He looks back up to her, biting the inside of his cheek as he forces his eyes back to her face, “Couple food trucks, and some clothing businesses.”

“That’s good. Hopefully you didn’t ambush them like you did me,” she teases, unrolling the flowers from the paper they’re wrapped in, beginning to place them within the water stem by stem.

“They were all friendly enough—One nigga didn’t even want the money I offered, just wanted his pictures taken.”

“Money?” she blinks, “Why the hell you ain’t say that when you first approached me—I would’ve been real friendly if I knew I was getting paid!” 

He raises his hand to his chest, “Is that all I’m worth? A dollar sign?”

“I was worth a cup of coffee if you recall,” Nola reminds, leaning herself against the counter, “I’m not pretty enough to be paid off?”

“Hell nah. You’ the prettiest fuckin’ belle in New Orleans.”

“Such a sweet lil’ southern boy you are,” she hums, leaning her face against her palm, “These lines work on all the belles of New Orleans?”

“Nah, they’ reserved just for you.” 

Onyankopon watches as Nola smiles, a flush spreading over her cheeks, “You got a cute ass smile. Got a nigga nervous— lawd,” he flaps the wifebeater he wears, making Nola giggle in return. 

She shakes her head, “You’re a mess. Want anything to eat?”

“Now you know I ain’t finna’ leave Nola’s Brew without her famous beignets. I asked around the city.”

She dips down to grab for a plate, “You wanted to know about me so bad that you asked around the city? Stalker, much?”

“More like a researcher. I was doin’ what any good journalist would,” He watches her place the pastries from the case onto the plate, “Besides, I ain’t think you���d ever agree to me comin’ back, so the only solution was to ask around.”

“Hm. I guess that’s fair,” Nola slides the plate over to him, “Want me to feed them to you?”

He raises an eyebrow, “That’s what you want? You tryna’ drop sum’ on my tongue already?” 

She rolls her eyes, “I was hoping that stuffing your mouth would keep you quiet—Feed yourself.”

Nola takes the vase off the counter, leaving him with that final comment. She begins to circle around the cafe, Onyankopon only able to watch as she hands the flowers out to each woman sitting within the building. He wasn’t used to being so starstruck by a woman, but damn, here she was. 

The moment she leaves, Eros comes speed walking in replacement, glancing over the shop before he quickly lowers his voice, “Nola will kill me if she ever knew I told you this—but she seems to like you, and I just don’t want her fight or flight to kick in if you pry on her issues with pictures.”

He makes sure she isn’t looking in their direction before he continues, “She had a girl throw acid on her back when she was a teenager—it caused really bad chemical burns that triggered her vitiligo.” 

Onyakopon’s eyebrows lowered, shock within his expression at the words that Eros spoke. Everything was starting to make sense. He glances behind himself, watching her face a customer with a cheerful giggle. 

He murmurs, “Is that why she was so uncomfortable? ‘Bout the whole picture thing?”

Eros nods, “She still has a hard time—being okay with the way she looks. So—just be patient with her. She acts like she doesn’t like the sweet stuff, but she’s really softhearted.”

“You over there messing with him?” 

Nola brings her attention back to where both men stand, crossing her arms over her chest with a raised eyebrow. 

Eros frowns, “Moi? Messing with somebody? Never.” 

Onyankopon shakes his head, grinning as she places her vase on the empty table, “He straight lyin’. He was in the middle of sayin’ how cool I was.”

He couldn’t lie, that story was still stuck on his mind. Something in him wanted to make her smile—Make her feel safe. 

Nola looks between the two, narrowing her eyes a bit. She says, “Hm. Okay. Anyways, how are you doing, Mr. Boudreaux?”

Sitting next to the elderly man who’s distracted in his own game of solitaire, she leans her curls against his shoulder, “You need another coffee?”

Mr. Boudreaux gives a huff, waving it off, “No, no. I’m fine, darlin’. If I drink anymore, I’ll be up all night.” 

Nola giggles, “Understood.”

She then look over to Onyankopon, “This is Mr. Boudreaux—He’s been coming in here since my momma owned the shop, but I’m starting to think he just likes my company,” she hums, wrapping her fingers around his arm, “Mr. Boudreaux, this is Onyankopon—he’s trying to do a column on black businesses in New Orleans, said he wanted to do a section on my cafe.” 

Mr. Boudreaux gives a hum, “Nice to meet ya’, young man.” 

Onyankopon gives a polite nod, “Nice to meet you, too, sir. How she’ treating you here? ‘She as friendly as they say?” 

The older man looks down at Nola, patting her head with a small smile, “That and more.”

“Maybe you can write about Mr. Boudreaux instead? Take the spotlight off me that you wanna shine so badly,” Nola suggests to Onyankopon, playfully spinning one of the cards on the table.

Onyankopon chuckles, “I want the world to know the good things ‘bout this place and the people inside— but you’ ain’t getting off the hook that easy. The owner has their own section.” 

Nola sighs, leaning further into the older man as she adds, “It seems he’s also trying to court me, Mr. Boudreaux.” 

Mr. Boudreaux chuckles in response, beginning to shuffle his cards as he says to Onyankopon, “I may not remember much, but I do remember one thing—my wife also hated a mass amount of attention. Barely enjoyed mine. She couldn’t see what I saw. You have to be a woman’s mirror sometimes— remind them why you’re always lookin’.”

Onyankopon watches Nola’s expression soften, those pretty freckles on her face shining under the lights of the shop as she listens.

That was definitely sound advice.

The last couple of hours were spent checking on customers that lounged around the cafe before closing, talking to other regulars, and even trying to reach Onyankopon how to make the perfect cup of coffee—Nola giggled as he politely served the cup to a customer, the older woman talking his ear off as she repeated how handsome he was.

She didn’t expect to enjoy his company with the short time of meeting him, but he was—sweet. He knew how to make her laugh, and he seemed to be interested in what she had to say. She might’ve liked him. 

Nola hands him a glass cup to wipe, using her own rag to clean the counter as she questions, “Anything you thinkin’ about saying in your column?”

“So now you gon’ let me do it?” 

She tilts her head, “Hm—not yet. But if I did let you, what would you say?”

“I would say that you got a real pretty cafe. Good ass beignets, Nice people, better coffee—And a boss who’s real’ easy on the eyes.”

“I’m serious, Ony.”

He chuckles, placing the glass back in the case, “I’m forreal’. Why ‘you always think I’m frontin’?”

“Cause a nigga that wants something will say anything to get it,” she replies, handing him another cup.

“And you’ think I want sum’ from you?”

“You want that picture, right? Maybe you’re all flirty so you can do your job, then suddenly I never hear from you again.”

She goes to place her final cup in the cabinet above the counter—but that’s when it’s snatched from her fingers, Onyankopon placing the cup above her reach, closing the cabinet before she can fully protest. 

His eyebrows lower, “Can I just wanna talk to yo’ cute ass cause I want to, or it always gotta be something malicious?”

Nola tilts her head to the side, curls falling against her shoulder as she sees his face. She sighs, “Okay, maybe I’m being presumptuous.”

She pushes a rag towards his free hand, “Wanna wipe down the tables to seem less malicious?”

Onyankopon smacks his lips, “Got a nigga doin’ free labor to prove that I like you? That’s crazy,” He takes the rag into his fingers, nodding nonetheless, “Yeah, aight. You good with sweepin’, or you need me to handle that too?”

“Just the tables.”

Nola watches as he begins wiping down the booths, muscles flexing beneath the plaid button up he wears. She hated how good looking he was. 

“So, you actually like this one or you just wanna make him a new employee?” 

Eros pushes the door open from the kitchen, gathering all of his stuff within his hands as he prepares to clock out. 

Nola keeps her eyes on Onyankopon. She replies, “He’s sweet.”

“Ain’t never heard you say a man was sweet before. He cleans, listens, calls you mama. You sure we can’t keep him?“

Nola nudges her shoulder against his, shaking her head as she mutters, “Get out of here, Eros.” 

Eros chuckles, throwing an air kiss to her, turning towards Onyankopon as he winks, “Later, Papi.”

Onyankopon shakes his head, “See you, Eros. Be safe.” 

He watches the bell jingle above the door, turning his attention back to Nola, “Yo’ friend is sum’ else.”

“Yeah, he’s a mess.” 

Reaching out for the rag, her voice is soft as she tells him,  “Listen—I wanted to say thank you for helping me close up tonight. It was kinda busy today—I hope I didn’t hinder any of your plans?”

“You good, Mama. I had this jazz lounge to head to later on—but the owner is on a business trip, so he won’t be able to do the column anyway, said I was more than welcome to go snap a couple photos.” 

Nola raises her eyebrows, “A jazz lounge? Don’t think I’ve ever been,” she murmurs, adjusting the seats under the smaller tables, “Sounds cool.”

“You talkin’ ‘bout it sounds cool, you thought you wasn’t’ comin’ with me?”

“Is that your way of asking me?”

“Maybe you was’ right on yo’ lil’ theory about a nigga wanting somethin’ from you, Ms. Nola from’ 9th ward—I might’ve helped you clean up ‘cause I want you to come with me to this lounge—Smart, huh?”

She’s unable to hide the amusement along her face. Nola barely remembered the last time she’d gone out with a man—besides that boring lawyer—and she enjoyed spending time with Onyankopon. A couple more hours wouldn’t hurt. 

She glances around the restaurant once more, a sigh passing her lips as she questions, “Do I need to change?” 

Onyankopon smiles. 

 Nola dropped her keys within the miniature purse she carried, tucking it under the seat of Onyankopon’s car as they parked at the end of Bourbon street. Beads hang from the top of multicolored buildings, street performers catching the attention of people walking by—an all around experience awaited each time someone peered at the corner of the French Quarter. 

The thinness of her golden heel stumbled as a group of drunken party goers passed by in shrills of laughter, Onyankopon’s attention on his camera, making sure his lens was focused. 

Nola’s fingers slipped into the warmth of his palm, leaning a bit closer to calm her nerves. She gives an apologetic exhale of, “Sorry—it’s been a while since I’ve been here.”

Onyankopon adjusts his grip to tighten around Nola’s trembling palm, her skin soft against his rough fingers as he continues to focus on the viewfinder, “You’ fine, Mama. Don’t apologize.” 

The beads of the buildings clatter in the distance, her nerves calming slightly when she leaned closer to him. Safe.

“Look.”

She tugs him in the direction she stands, now in front of a painted mural—it’s simpler than the ones planted all around New Orleans— clouded captures of green trees through an arched doorway that represent a forest. 

“Tromp l'oeil—means to trick the eye,” the French term rolls off her tongue effortlessly, staring back to the painting.

“You speak French?” 

 His camera lens focuses on the mural, capturing the trick in the painting, “You full of little surprises, huh?”

Nola giggles a bit, “My momma spoke it fluently— most creole people do. I wasn’t willing to learn it though,” she shrugs, “How’s it showing up on the camera?”

“You’ so interesting,” he murmurs, looking through a different view finder, “I’m tryna’ find the best lens for it.” 

His fingers fiddle with the focus, tilting his head back and forth to the painting, “Remind me to ask you to speak some French for me later.”

She rolls her eyes. Turning back to see his focus along the camera, she comes closer as she questions, “Can I see?”

“C’mere.” 

He turns the camera towards Nola. The lens captures the vibrant colors of the paint, the illusion creating a deeper archway with trees inside a building. His eyes watch as a slight smile forms on her face, admiring the work.

She clicks through the photos he’d already taken, stopping at a particular one as her acrylic nail gently taps the screen, “I like this one.”

“Yeah?” 

“Mhm. The colors compliment the shadows. Makes it all look like a dream.” 

Onyankopon’s chin nearly brushes against her shoulder, but not quite. His voice is a bit huskier than before as he murmurs, “I like it too. Looks good in color.”

When she turns to look at him, their faces are now very close—The heat radiating off Nola’s skin is almost felt. Onyankopon’s eyes flit down to her lips.

Her heart is back to thumping within her chest. A new feeling progresses within their interactions—his glare down to her face makes her clit throb, and she has to blink herself out of the fantasies that course through her mind like a flash. 

She clears her throat, pulling her curls behind her ear as she questions, “Wanna try a picture of me?”

His breathing becomes more of a soft, almost deep rasp, but he pulls a smirk as she suggests the picture, “You finally lettin’ me take a picture, huh? That mean you trust me now?”

She leans herself against the brick wall, “Hush. I just—I wanna know how you get people to be comfortable.”

He closes the camera lens, raising an eyebrow at her statement, “Comfortable? Nah— that ain’t my goal.”

Onyankopon moves forward, gently guiding her hands behind her back, his gaze lingering on the curves of her shape. 

He murmurs, “I want the people I capture to seduce the camera—not look comfortable.”

Nola frowns, “You want me to fuck the camera is what you’re saying?”

“Nah, no.” 

His fingers move to brush over her curls, gently pushing her hair to the side to expose her neck, “I just wanna see you natural—like how you’ be in the cafe—Just keep talkin’ to me.”

There’s a hesitance within her face as Onyankopon pulls the camera back up, Nola glancing around the area, feeling the shyness tensing through her body. 

If only she could see herself. Her hair frames her face perfectly, freckles daubed along her cheeks as the neon lanterns glow in between the snowy and caramel mixture of her skin. 

She blinks, “Uh—what should I say?”

His camera clicks in her direction, studying each soft feature within her face. The shyness in her expression makes his hands itch—but he wanted to see it. He wanted to capture her most vulnerable moments. 

“Lemme’ hear more about yo’ momma.” 

His voice was a bit more of a husk, but his focus never once left the lens.

Nola glances at him from behind the lens. She takes a deep breath, looking back at the crowd of people as she responds, “Um—My momma used to take me here when I was younger. She used to get her palm read by the ladies on the street. They terrified me,” she softly giggles.

“Yeah? Why they’ terrified you?”

“I think the idea of someone knowing my life before I did was a little spooky for me—Momma was worse than those women at times. Always telling me what I’d look like, who I’d be in the future.”

The softest smile is along her face, reminiscing at the thought of her mom. 

“…She also told me there was gonna’ be a time where I wasn’t gonna have her. I didn’t know she meant so early on in my life—Probably should’ve listened a little harder.” 

Her smile goes a little faint, almost forgetting the camera was there.

“You miss her?”

“…It’s hard to miss her when she’s always with me. In my mugs, my books, my plants, my beignets,” she softly laughs, “She’s everywhere with me. So, not too often.” 

The cool air of the night begins to wisp around her hair, it’s as if the temperature brings her back to reality—she finally sees the camera.

She walks up to him, covering the lens as she exhales, “Alright, boy. I’m done being your lil’ muse. Ain’t this supposed to be a date?”

“Date?” 

He chuckles at the term, “You callin’ this a date? You tryna’ get a nigga’s hopes up?”

She blinks, realizing what she’d just said.

“Did I say date? I meant—you finna’ be late to see this jazz lounge!” 

Her heels click against the ground as she walks, “C’mon!”

Onyankopon’s grin follows at her quick attempt to cover her words, letting the camera hang at his side as he follows after her, “Girl—you already called it a date—you can’t take that back now!” 

He follows behind as they approach a white-bricked, historic-looking building, a hum of jazz music slipping from inside as it draws them closer. A live band plays on the stage towards the back of the dimly lit lounge—Couples and friends moving to the rhythm, a mixture of flavor scented cigars dancing in the air.  

Onyankopon guides Nola to an open table, pulling her chair out for her before sitting across from her. His eyes glance over the interior of the building, the various people of differing ages laughing and socializing. The vibe feels—romantic.

Nola watches his fingers nearly itch for his camera. He peers through the darkness, clicking photos of the art above the walls, the dancing figures, the intimate tone the club sets for itself. 

“So,” her eyes flick from the candle in the middle of the table, up to his handsome features, “You never told me how you got into journalism.”

Goddamn her, he thought. Her freckles looked almost like constellations within the candle light, “That’s a bit of a story.”

“Oh. You one of them niggas.”

His eyebrow raises back at her, “What ‘you mean by that?”

“The one that wants to know everything about a woman, but the moment she wants to know something about him—he’s silent.”

“Maybe I’m just not a nigga who likes to talk about himself.”

“Well isn’t that boring?”

Nola’s voice is sarcastic, eyes turning away as she waves for the attention of a waitress. Her shoulders deflate a bit at his vague response, and that small speck of dismissiveness might’ve proved him too good to be true. 

“Can I have a frozen sangria?” she politely asks, handing the menu back to the woman as she smiles, “Thank you.”

He watches her order, his eyes narrowing as she avoids his gaze. He was a bit thrown off by how quickly her mood had changed. 

The waitress nodded at her drink request, turning to Onyankopon, “And for you, sir?” 

He muttered, “A beer. Thank you.” 

He waits until the waitress disappears, “So you don’t fuck with me no more?”

“You said you didn’t have anything to say, so why you’ still talkin’ to me?”

Onyankopon’s eyes narrow. His gaze becomes a little cold, “I didn’t say I ain’t wanna’ talk to you, Nola. I just said I wasn’t someone who like talkin’ about themselves—there’s a difference.”

“And if I said some shit like that to you, yo’ ass would’ve been all in my face lookin’ for an answer,” her accent becomes heavier the more she’s annoyed, “But you can say you don’t like talking about yourself and dismiss my question, huh? Yeah— okay.”

“Nah, shawty. I wouldn’t have been all in yo’ face. If you said you weren’t comfortable talkin’ about yourself—I would’ve left you alone. I ain’t pry about them’ pictures, did I?” 

She huffs, “Well maybe I just wanna know something about the nigga I like. I ain’t’ think that was a crime.”

His eyebrow raises at her confession. The cocky bastard has a grin along his face, “So that’s why you trippin’. ‘Cause you like me? Why you’ makin’ yourself all frustrated when you could’ve just said that?”

“Why would I boost your big ass ego?” 

He can see the way her face flushes despite her attitude. He can’t stop looking at her, Onyankopon’s gaze more serious as he confirms, “I like you too, Nola.”

Yeah, she was blushing. Again. Her eyes watched as people began to flood the dance floor, the band beginning to play a more calming tune rather than the upbeat instrumentals they carried on before. 

She reaches for his hand as she questions, “Come dance with me?”

Maybe this was her way of apologizing. She pulls him to a corner of the dance floor, placing his arms to the lower part of her back. Nola giggles as he places her feet along his shoes, noticing that she stood on the tips of her heels to wrap her arms around his neck.

He gives a soft chuckle as he pulls her closer, “You still mad?” 

She sighs, “I might’ve been a little mean earlier. I’m sorry. I just—I like you, and I wanna know things about you.”

He didn’t need her to apologize. He wanted to know everything about her, so it wasn’t wrong for her to want the same. Nola leans herself more into him, pressing her curls against his chest as she follows the rhythm of the music. 

That’s when Onyankopon says, “Imma’ photographer that went to school for journalism, and my pops thinks I’m wastin’ my life away. That don’t’ sound too interesting to tell anybody.”

“Why does he think that?”

His fingers tightened against her waist a bit, “He wanted me to be a doctor, and all I wanted to do was take pictures. He ain’t’ believe me when I said photojournalism was a real profession—you know how it goes with parents.”

“Are you happy though? That you followed your dreams?”

Onyankopon pulls her even closer, his nose lightly running against her curls as he murmurs, “I wouldn’t be here with you if I ain’t always go’ for what I wanted.”

Nola blushes, covering it with a snort, “You’re so corny.” 

He chuckles at her snort, keeping her body close to his, “Corny? Nah. Delusional? Maybe.”

Nola had noticed something about Onyankopon. As the night went on, drinking, dancing, she couldn’t pull away from the look upon his face each time he snapped a photo. He was almost—elated. 

It was the same eyes she had each time she opened her cafe, each time she made a customer happy—like she was exactly where she needed to be.

However, being exactly where she needed to be didn’t apply at this moment—as she was now standing at the doorway of Onyankopon’s condo, heart beating within her chest as she’d agreed to come over when the weather began to get bad outside. His place was closer to Bourbon street, and she’d decided to camp out here until he could drive her back home. 

It was a modern-styled condo. White walls, leather furniture, and wooden frames throughout the home. He seemed to love the color brown. The coffee table was covered in books and magazines, along with vinyls that he’d collected over years of traveling. 

“You want sum’ to drink?” 

Nola’s heart continuously thumps in her ears. She gives a weak smile, “Sure—a glass of wine would be nice.”

He gives a nod, his hand gripping her fingers to lead her onto the couch, “I got you. Make yourself comfortable, aight? I’ll be back.” 

The silence of the place was almost deafening. The only sounds Nola could focus on were the occasional car passing by outside, the rain, and the clinking of the wine glasses. 

She picks up a book off of the glass table, mindlessly flipping through the pages and looking at the pictures, distracting herself. Placing the book back down, she clears her throat as she places her heels next to the door, adjusting her dress as she comes down the foyer leading to the kitchen.

“You have a record player?” 

Her eyes caught sight of the machine first, but then she caught sight of him—his back was facing the hallway, plaid button up now removed for her to see the muscular bulge of his arms, coated in tattoos. Nola swallows.

Her gaze scans over his bare skin, his body chiseled,  muscular and strong. The black cotton boxers under his cargos ride a little below his hips, showing more of his tattoo work upon his skin. Down, down, down—

“Yeah, my pops said music sounded better on em’. He put me on.”

She needed another distraction. Squatting down, Nola pulls one of the vinyls—Al Green, Love And Happiness—pressing the button up top as she places the disc within the slot.

The needle moves around the record, playing in soft strums, mixing with the sound of the rain falling outside. It fits the moment well, but doesn’t seem to help the tension she feels.

Her eyes fall to the other corner of his living room—a makeshift backdrop hangs from his ceiling, another camera posted on its stick across from the white background. 

She calls from down the hallway, “You um—take pictures here, too?”

“Yeah, I do most of my test shoots here—Better than havin’ to rent a studio and the client says they don’t like their pictures.” 

He comes out of the kitchen, a bottle of chilled wine in one hand, her glass of Stella Rose Black within the other.

She gives a soft smile as she takes the glass, “Thank you. Um—does that happen a lot? Having clients not like their photos?”

“Unfortunately. Most people think they’ finna’ look exactly like they do in real life, but that’s impossible. They’ just picky sometimes.”

“Well—maybe you don’t know what it’s like to be the one in front of the camera and not behind it.”

She tugs him onto the backdrop, stepping back as she locks her fingers around the camera. She giggles, “Lemme’ get one of you. I’m sure you know how to take the perfect picture.”

Onyankopon stands in the center of the white cloth, his arms folded over his chest as he reminds, “This ain’t ‘bout me. I thought you just wanted me to talk?”

“We can multitask,” she mutters, looking at him through the camera—he seems bigger in the frame, taking up the entirety of it. Nola then prods, “So, tell me something, Onyankopon from 7th Ward, what do you love about photography?”

He keeps his face down, eyes almost glaring as he looks towards the camera, “That’s a broad question.” 

Onyankopon’s fingers itch, his expression hardening a bit more, “I like the control I get from behind the camera.“

Oh.

 Nola’s smile faintly drops from her face. Her heart was back to thumping in her ears, almost having the skin singed.

A photo clicks through her swallow, her eyes still peeking through the camera as she softly replies, “Control is a…word choice.”

He’s focused solely on her. Onyankopon murmurs, “Don’t try to act like you don’t get the same thing from yo’ lil’ cafe.” 

His voice is huskier by the second, “We all like bein’ in charge.”

“So that’s what you want? To be in control of the person you’re taking pictures of?” 

“You sayin’ you don’t want the same thing when you deal with people?” 

His gaze burns into her, “When they walk through yo’ doors, don’t you want them to know that you’re the one controllin’ the place? That you’re the one that runs shit?”

His words make her tense. The darkness of night begins to consume the room a bit, the moonlight coming through as the rain slows down. 

She’s back to playing with the curls of her hair, a nervous giggle spilling from her lips as she says, “I don’t think I’m too good behind the camera,” stepping herself back from the lens.

His eyes follow her every movement, his expression almost dark. 

“Why not?”

She’s unsure of how to answer that. 

“…You said you have a sense of control when doing so, but I feel a little awkward tryna’ take photos of you. So—maybe I’m more submissive, in that sense. Better at taking direction then giving it,” she pulls her hair to one side, coiling a piece beneath her finger.

The words out of her mouth have his eyes lowering to watch the motion of her fingers. He murmurs, “Submissive, huh?”

She wants to facepalm herself. She realizes how she sounds, shaking her head as she corrects, “I just meant—um, you know what I was saying.”

Nola steps forward, keeping her fingers twisted under her curls, “Listen, Ony. I just wanted to say that I—I had a really nice time with you today.”

He watches her stumble over herself, finding an adoration within her nerves. Cute. He steps closer to her. 

“Now she wanna’ be nice, ain’t that sweet?”

Nola softly laughs, “I’m serious. The time I’ve spent around you has been nice, you’re sweet—and—admitting again that I like you was a little embarrassing, so I’m hoping you didn’t say it just because I did— That you meant it.”

Her eyes waver as he’s closing the distance between them, his tall height looming over her frame to look down at her.

“I’d love to be in your column, Onyankopon.” 

He’s close. His breath almost brushed over her skin, “I like you too, witcho’ pretty ass.”

Onyankopon watches her stare up at him, her curls still in her hands, “And I still mean it.” 

That other feeling returns once again, a throb coming between her legs from the vibrations that pool through her lower stomach. Nola flicks her vision from his low eyes, to his lips. The nervous part of her encapsulates her brain, and her face lowers a bit as she nervously giggles, “Um—the rain slowed down—Maybe you should take me home?”

He hears the shudder in her voice, that giggle she does when her nerves get the best of her. His hand finds a tiny curl along the back of her neck, fingers gently placing there. 

“Nah. You’ fine right here.”

Her mind seems to spin like that record playing— Onyankopon lowers his jaw, rubbing his lips onto hers—which makes Nola release the quietest gasp, a small pout forming along her mouth, lashes fluttering in return. 

Her voice is different. 

“…O—Ony…” 

The moment he hears a whimper escape her, his thumb pushes up her chin to meet the pout of her mouth, kissing her. He’s gentle, the tone shifting into something—passionate. He can feel her heart hammering through her chest.

The taste of his tongue makes her feel drunk, almost in a daze. He won’t stop.

Another shift in the air—his tongue is now everywhere it doesn’t need to be—he’s in her ear, gliding along the sensitive shell—then, he’s dragging down her neck, a place that was generally her spot. She reaches up to tug at his cornrows, the sounds pushing from her lips intrusive—louder than she expected, a broken gasp stuttering from her lips as she pleads again, “Ony…”

Her neck is sensitive. The sounds spilling through her mouth are filthy, the way her fingers twist around his hair gives him a small sense of satisfaction. It gets his mind racing, just imagining what kind of sounds he can have her making later on.

“Why you callin’ me like that, huh?” 

He’s snatching pieces of her skin into his mouth.

“You’re making me wanna’ fuck.”

Her voice is a whine, pouty in the full sentence. She didn’t even think about those words before she said them. 

He grunts at that, Nola jolting out another gasp when his free hand spanks her ass from beneath her dress, gripping the flesh with a shake, “You whinin’ like you need this dick. You want it?”

Horny, Horny, Horny. That’s all she can think of. But somewhere, somehow, her senses begin tapping the back of her brain. She didn’t want to make any decisions based on temporary emotions, despite how intense they were—despite how she anticipated that side of him. 

“Wait.”

She tugs at his hair, able to pull his mouth off her skin. 

“S—stop…” she breathlessly instructs, “Hold on.”

“What you’ doin?”

His voice is rougher than usual, like it had been grated and sanded between sheets. But his grip softens on her waist, letting her pull away from him. 

“I’m tryna’ put you on this sofa and eat yo’ pussy the fuck out.”

“Ony, Jesus.” 

She now presses both hands to his chest, her tone still breathless as she admits, “I just— I really don’t wanna fuck this up by moving too fast.” 

Nola presses her forehead to his chest as she squeezes her eyes shut, “I’m sorry.”

Onyankopon stops. His fingers find a way to her hips, holding her in the gentlest way he’d done before. He refused to ruin this moment, and if she wanted to stop, he would. 

He’s looking down at her, a small smile lifting at the corner of his mouth, “Ain’t nothin’ you need to apologize for.” 

Nola’s quiet for a moment. Her voice then whispered, “…I think I should go, since I probably ruined the night.”

“Aye, nah. You ain’t ruin nothin’, girl. Chillout’.”

He takes her chin, lifting her head up to look at him, “Just ‘cause you got boundaries don't mean ruined it. I’m still fine, aight?” 

She nods her head. Her arms slowly make their way around his neck, “Um—well, can I just—we can cuddle, if you want? You’ can give me butt rubs?”

He chuckles. He’s amused by the request, her soft arms wrapped lovingly around his neck—His face is still close to hers, “You’re spoiled, mama.”

“I’m not spoiled,” she frowns, laying herself atop of his body, gently pulling his palm beneath her dress, “Your hands are just warm.”

She’s soft. He can feel her against his chest, sinking into him like she’s meant to be there. His words are rough, but his touch is careful as his palm grips the flesh of her ass, “Just say you wanna’ be spoiled. It sound’ better.”

Her eyes feel a little heavy. She can barely give him a reply, feeling sleepy as she murmurs, “I’m a lil’ spoiled…”

He can’t help the smirk along his face.

 “Spoiled and sleepy, huh?”

He lifts a strand of her hair, curling it between his fingers, “You really finna’ pass out on top of me?”

“Mhm,” she breathily whispers, “Your heartbeat is like a lil’ lullaby—They say if your heart is slowed, it reflects how at peace you are.”

A small laugh escapes from him, “Yeah?”

His body is like an oak tree, hard and sturdy, still.  She’s laying softly over it, almost like a leaf, the beat of his heart slow and steady against her—He murmurs to her, “Lil’ mama owns a shop and apparently got a degree in psychology,” which makes her softly giggle.

“I got a woman, everybody.”

“Onyankopon?”

“Hm?”

“Sleep.”

“Aight.”

Being with Onyankopon was different. He was patient—When she got frustrated, when she got nervous, when she just needed his comfort—he was there. He’d driven Nola to her apartment the next morning to shower and prepare for work, laying against the sofa as he rubbed his palm against her white Persian cat, Snowball, inhaling the scent of vanilla as she got dressed. He was constantly affectionate, pulling her into kisses that made her giggle, holding her hand as she rambled to him, keeping her talking as he snapped photos of her behind the counter of her restaurant. A kiss along her forehead was what he left her with as he had to go back to work—and then, he was gone.

Nola didn’t know she wouldn’t hear from him for the next five days. 

She told herself she shouldn’t have cared, but she did. It was when he didn’t answer the phone the first couple of times, nor a text message—she’d die before leaving a voicemail. 

Her emotions ran through her body as the days passed—from worried, to concerned, to irritated, to pissed off. Nola was trying not to jump to conclusions, but she was two days away from not hearing from Onyankopon for an entire week.

“Why you’ staring in the mirror like that?”

Nola pulled her face towards Eros as she made an espresso, not realizing her eyes peered directly within the small mirror they kept on the counter.

Her voice is soft as she murmurs, “I’m good.”

She didn’t want Eros to dramatize the situation if she’d told him, so she hadn’t. But, this was her closest friend, and she felt like she was going to explode if she didn’t express how she was feeling. Maybe she would only tell him a small part.

“I haven’t heard from Onyankopon in almost a week.”

“What?! That fuck ass nigga bro—“

Nola was pleading with her eyes for him to not make it worse—Eros’ expression softens, knowing Nola well enough that she was probably thinking of the worst case scenario—his anger wouldn’t help. 

He leans against the counter, his expression curious as he gently pries, “You’ve called him? Texted him?”

“Everytime I called it went straight to voicemail.”

She presses her lips together, “I probably should’ve stopped calling after he didn’t answer the first time.”

“You don’t think he blocked you, right?”

That makes her chest feel heavy. 

She admits, “I don’t know, Eros. Maybe? I just—“

She feels her throat becoming tight. She felt stupid to wanna cry, considering she’d known him for less than two weeks. Her fears of something like this happening kept her from saying yes to him, and when she did, it now felt like egg on her face. 

“—I’m fine. You mind bringing these sugars over to Mr. Boudreaux? I need a bathroom break.” 

She drops the sugars within his palm, already walking towards the restrooms placed within the front of the cafe— the moment she turns for the hallway, the bell jingles atop of the door, that cocoa musk scenting the entire shop in milliseconds. 

“Nola.”

There he was. Now, roses appeared within his palms. It wasn’t as sweet as the first time he’d done it. 

That deep voice would’ve made her shiver, would’ve sent warmth through her body—but she felt nothing of the sort. 

“What are you doing here?”

“I needa’ talk to you.”

“About what, Onyankopon? Whatever you wanted to talk about you could’ve said five days ago.” 

She’s already dismissive, flicking her eyes over the cafe to her customers, “I have to get back to work.”

He steps a bit closer, the flowers in his hands hanging low towards the floor, “You ain’t even gon’ hear me out?”

“You were too busy? You didn’t have time to text me back to let me know you were okay? You’re not ready for anything serious? Which one is it?” She crosses her arms, eyes narrowed at him.

Okay, he fucked up. Onyankopon had been working on his column, and when he got into his mode, he was nowhere near his phone—But that wasn’t an excuse to ignore her. 

“What you’ talkin’ bout?” He frowns, “It’s none of that. I just been workin’, Nola—That’s it.”

“How am I supposed to know that, Onyankopon?” She squints, “Look— you don’t owe me any type of loyalty to tell me what you’re doing every millisecond of the day, but if you say you like me as much as I thought you did days ago, a simple text wouldn’t have stopped your fuckin’ paycheck.”

Onyankopon eyebrows lower, “Look— I’m a grown ass nigga, Nola. You know that. I was just handlin’ business, I can’t sit there and be on my phone every five seconds.”

“Did I say that?” She raises an eyebrow, “‘Cause ion’ think I said that. You—“

She stops, realizing she was actually about to get upset.

“You know what? You’ right. I got a shop to run, so gon’ head and be grown, Onyankopon. I gotta go.” 

She attempts to step around him, irritated eyes flickering up the moment he moves in front of her.

His voice is lower, “So you’ done with me?”

“You ‘was done with me the moment you ignored me, Onyankopon. If I ignored you for nearly a week, I would’ve apologized, like a grown ass nigga actually would have!“

“And ain’t that what the fuck I’m doin’ right now?” 

“So you pursue me, decline my calls, don’t text me back—Five days later, you bring some stupid ass flowers and say you a grown nigga that got things to do? That’s your apology?” 

She gives a dry laugh, “Get the fuck out my face, Onyankopon.” 

“You finna’ piss me off, Nola—You know I want you,” he dips his face close enough to catch her scent, “Why you actin’ like this?”

She’s frustrated. Irritated. But ultimately, she was hurt. She hated being emotional, but she felt stupid for being this upset. For liking him. Nola’s throat felt heavy, her fingers trembling as she turned into the hallway leading to the bathroom, a glare of her tears shining as she dismissed, “I’m not finna’ get upset right now.” 

He takes the initiative to grab her hand, pulling her fully behind the wall as he grunts, “Nah, you about to start cryin’,” his expression softens, “Don’t do that, c’mon. I’m sorry, baby. Aight? I’m sorry.”

“No,” she whimpers, placing her palms beneath her eyes, “I shouldn’t even be…c—crying about this…”

“Quit it, Nola. C’mon,” he wraps his fingers along the back of her neck, “Don’t start cryin’ over me. Not over this, baby—please.”

“I just don’t wanna feel stupid, Onyankopon.” 

She can’t help the small cry that escapes from her throat, but she tries her best to keep her tears from spilling—He’s holding her tight, his hand running up and down her back as he murmurs, “You ain’t stupid, Nola. I’m bein’ stupid, and I ain’t tryna’ fuck nothin’ up with you. I promise I won’t do it again, aight?”

Nola takes a deep breath, swiping her fingers beneath her palm as she stops herself from crying. She’s silent for a moment, a deep exhale pushing from her lips. 

“…Sorry.” 

He rubs the tip of his thumb against her cheek, “‘Preciate you apologizin’, but you ain’t got nothin’ to be sorry about, aight? You got’ every right to be mad at my ass.”

She’s still pulling herself together, her face flushed and red. Onyankopon brushes his mouth against her jaw, “You want yo’ stupid ass flowers?”

The smallest giggle falls from her lips. She can hear Onyankopon grin, “A giggle? Hell freezin’ over again?”

She flicks her eyes up to him, “You ain’t funny, Ony.”

“Nahh, don’t be tryna’ front now.” 

He lifts his brow, grinning even wider. That’s when his fingers cup her flushed cheeks, his nose brushing against hers as he murmurs, “You missed me, crybaby?”

She shoves his arm, ignoring his chuckle as her entire face is still red. He smelled good—damn, she did miss him.

Onyankopon brings his eyes down, “I was tryna’ come tell you’ the expo for my column comin’ up this weekend.”

“You just now tellin’ me a couple days from it?”

“Three days—and I’m just now tellin’ you ‘cause you ain’t lemme’ talk before.”

She reaches her arms to find the comfort of his shoulders. Nola sighs, “I’m sure you have a million pictures of me for the column—you want me there too?” 

“Nah, ion’ just want you there—A nigga need his ole’ lady there.”

Nola tilts her head, a small smile spreading along her face. She rubs her palms against his neck, “I guess I can get pretty and come—Or, maybe I’ll disappear for five days. We’ll see.” 

Onyankopon gives her a glare, smacking his lips as he says, “You playin’. You ain’t funny.”

“I’m not?”

“Not at all.”

“I’m a lil’ funny,” she pinches her thumb and index finger together. 

“Yeah, aight—disappear and see what happens. Deadass.”

“We’ll see.”

Okay, maybe she was just messing with him. Three days later—her nerves were bundled within the tips of her fingers as she stood in the opening of a matte black building, cream marble floors reflecting the golden melt of her heels. 

It was like being in an art museum—multicolored lights blared along the alabaster walls, photos displayed under oversized lamps—colleagues standing around, conversing quietly as wine glasses clinked politely.

Eros adjusts the button up he wears, eyes slightly wide as he exhales, “So—this is an art expo.” 

Nola breathily whispers, “…Yeah. It is.”

Eros gives a smile to a waitress passing by, snatching a glass of wine from atop of her platter. The gallery itself held a bit of an intimidating air—the way the people around them held their chin up, the way they carried themselves—it was intimidating.

He murmurs, “I feel undressed.”

“You look nice,” Nola hums, adjusting the silk of his top, “Go find you an artsy cutie. I’m sure he’s in here somewhere.”

He winks, “Will do.”

Eros gives her a hip bump, and the moment he finds his interest in a man standing next to a painting, that’s when the scent hits her—cocoa musk. 

There he is. His attire was different from the streetwear he usually sported—the sleek black suit fitted to his muscular frame, watch along his wrist, jewelry along his fingers. His nose ring shines beneath the lights, looking as handsome as ever.

But Nola, she was pretty. God, she was.

Her caramel complexion glowed, contrasting with the dewey shine against the lighter parts of her skin, ginger hair perfectly tousled in a way that was careless yet elegant as is framed down to her hips. The cedar toned dress she wears clung to her curvy silhouette as it flowed to her ankles, sheer that it gives the slightest show of her areolas. 

And her eyes—gorgeous, honeyed and captivating to the point of wonder.

Nola’s smile spreads at him, that same breathless, “Hi,” spilling from her lips like the first time they’d met, “You look nice.”

Her scent wafts up his nose like the sweetest perfume. He can’t help but stare at the smooth curves of her hips, the way the dress wrapped perfectly around her body—her brown nipples seeping through the fabric a bit, peeking by the covering of her curls. 

Onyankopon leans down to press his mouth to her ear, “You look too muhfuckin’ pretty, love.”

Her face drops down to her hands as she hums, “Thank you. Um—I didn’t wanna come empty handed, and it may seem corny, but—“ she giggles a bit, “You like to bring me flowers, so I thought I’d bring you a lil’ plant.”

Her palms hold the tiniest succulent within a dark green pot, “It’s a jade plant— for good luck.”

Ony’s expression is gentle as he takes the pot within his hand, “Thank you, Mama. Shit is thoughtful—Lemme’ have a kiss, a nigga been thinkin’ about you all day.”

She leans against the tips of her heels as she gives him a peck—but she feels a little strange, as she notices that she has the eyes of other people within the gallery.

People acted as if seeing her vitiligo was like an animal walking on their hind legs—and now, Nola had the urge to cover her face with her hair. 

“I wasn’t late for anything, was I?”

His hand drops to the small of her back, fingers lightly rubbing in a circular motion as he can instantly feel her discomfort, “Nah, you ain’t miss me or nothin’. As much as I wanna enjoy this gallery with you—I gotta go find my boss to talk about sum’. You want me to go find Eros? Ion’ wanna leave you alone.”

Nola shakes her head, “I’ll be fine. Go put my plant somewhere safe, and come find me later, yeah?”

“Aight,” he murmurs, placing a final kiss to her forehead—his fingers finding her chin to make her look up at him, “You be good.” 

The moment he leaves her, a small exhale passes through her lips. Nola decides to take this moment to explore the gallery alone. It was interesting to see the other presentations, professional pictures under a beautiful capture of words to represent the photos. 

Yet, eyes were still on her. 

She was used to a strange glance here and there, but this was a little abnormal. She nearly had the urge to go find Eros, but when she turns for the next hallway—she stops.

Her ears catch a familiar voice, replaying on a loop through the static of a television. It’s low, soft, feminine.

“You miss her?” 

“It’s hard to miss her when she’s always with me. In my mugs, my books, my plants, my beignets. She’s everywhere. So, not too often.” 

That was Nola’s voice.

She picks up her dress as she follows to where the group stands, eyes peering through the ocean of people.

Her fingertips fly to her lips. 

“Oh my god.”

She was expecting to see a multitude of other black owned businesses’ within the biggest gallery of Onaynkopon’s expo, but she never expected that she was the muse for this entire column. 

Every picture he had taken of her was here. At the cafe, at the jazz lounge—she was everywhere. 

Nola’s eyes flicker down to the paragraph written below the TV that repeatedly loops the video. It’s bold, brown. 

The essence of a black woman is a unique blend. She is confident but not pretentious, soft on the outside but not a pushover, strong in her convictions, but not harsh. She is gentle with others, but she isn’t meek. She’s humble in her happiness and even in her anger. She’s sensitive. She over-thinks. She’s insecure. She grieves. She cries.

I was lucky enough to capture the essence of what that authenticity had to offer. To my southern belle—a woman who doesn’t even realize the depth of her beauty. Thank you. 

The moment she sees Onyankopon, there’s almost a shy look along his face. It was the first time she’d ever seen it. She’s unsure if her feet are still planted along the floor. 

Her head turns, voice shaken as her eyes gloss, “How did you—I thought this was a—it’s about me?”

He chuckles, hiding his face a bit as he looks down to her, “You’ been on my mind since I first seen’ you, Mama. You’re my inspiration.” 

She doesn’t know how to reply in words. So Nola grasps his chin, kissing him, unable to show her appreciation any other way. Her heart feels full—she can’t describe it.

“…Thank you—for this. For you.”

Onyankopon didn’t expect it—but his heart jolted. 

The moment he goes in for another kiss—a coworker apologizes as she interrupts the moment, “Sorry—um, a couple of people want to speak to you, Onyankopon.”

Nola readjusts his tie, wiping the lipstick along his jaw as she nods her head, “Go. Come find me later.”

He takes her chin in the grip of his fingers once more, the expression on his face is one of the softest she’d ever seen. 

“Aight’. I’ll find you.”

He gives one last lingering kiss to her cheek, disappearing off into the gallery.

In that same moment, Eros appears—choking on his champagne as he eyes the exhibit, “Holy shit—Is that you?!”

Nola had a confession to make. She was very much someone who enjoyed a man taking action, and this was an overstatement of what she expected of him. Not only did it make her feelings grow, but she couldn’t lie—she was now horny. 

She eyed him from across the building, watching his every move—the way he smiled, talked, chuckled, glared. It probably didn’t help that she was on her third glass of champagne, and it was going straight in between her legs. 

Onyankopon wasn’t stupid, either. He took her around to meet some of his colleagues, and he could feel her energy. In the way she fixed his clothes for him, rubbed her fingers in his facial hair as he spoke, pecking his mouth every chance she could, rubbing his arm—it was different.

Nola was tipsy by the time they made it back to his place, giggling as Onyankopon carried her bridal style into the house, “You’re so sweeet. My feet were hurting.” 

His voice is a low hum as he chuckles, “You tipsy as hell, baby.” 

He sets her down against the sofa, Nola groaning, wrapping her arms against his neck so he can’t fully sit her down.

She’s giggly, her face flushed, eyes glossy as she pulls him against her, legs wrapping around his torso to pull him even closer. 

“Mama,” he chuckles, gently pulling her legs from around him, “You need some water?”

“No,” she breathily replies, “You actin’ like I’m drunk or  sum’.”

“Imma’ get you a bottle.”

Nola rolls her eyes, leaning herself against the sofa as she watches him disappear down the hall. She sighs, “You ain’t take my shoes off, Ony…”

He comes back moments later with a full glass of water; “C’mere—I’m takin’ yo’ shoes off right now, aight?”

He kneels down to her feet and unlaced her heels, sliding the material off, “This how you gon’ act every time you drink?”

Nola leans her chin within her palm, hair sprawling around her body as she exhales, “I’m fine.”

A grin spreads along her face shortly after, “You’re so handsome, hm?”

He rubs her arch with the pad of his thumbs, taking the opportunity to feel the smoothness of her skin, “Yeah? You think so?” 

Her eyes are low, lashes nearly covering the brown of her pupils as she nods, “Mhm.”

“You been starin’ me down all night. Why can’t you keep yo’ eyes offa’ nigga, huh?”

He gives her ankle a kiss, which makes Nola giggle again.

She hums, siren eyes searching his face—Nola wraps her fingers along the back of her thighs, pulling her legs up as she sultrily giggles, “You make me horny.” 

The smirk on his face is lazy, gaze languid as he rubs her calf, “That’s how you feelin’—You’ crazy.”

He stands above her as he chuckles, beginning to remove the chains around his neck.

She sits up as she pouts, “No, don’t take em’ off,” running her fingers against his abdomen, touching him. She can’t stop touching him. 

“Aight,” he grabs for her hand, “You gettin’ touchy.” 

Her chest is flushed, fingers running along the cotton material of his shirt, rubbing the muscles of his abdomen. 

“Look so good, Ony.”

Yeah—sober Nola was nowhere to be found. 

She reaches for his chain as she tugs him down by it, sticking her tongue out with a giggle, awaiting for his mouth.

“Kiss me.”

He was trying to be good. But at the sight of her, Onyankopok licks at her tongue with a groan, fingers wrapping along her chin to keep her in place as he kisses her back. 

“Nasty ass.”

He’s murmuring against her mouth, Nola jumping as she gives her ass a harsh spank—he’s tonguing her down all the while, wavering the temptation he’d been holding back.

She’s hornier by the second. Nola’s eyes are like stars the moment she pulls her mouth away from his, breathless as she tugs at his briefs, dipping her fingers beneath the material to brush her palms against the veins of his dick. 

“Want your dick in my mouth, baby.”

“Nola—“

She moans as she molds her lips around his tip, eyes fluttering closed as she begins eagerly sucking him into her mouth. She’s lost within a newfound pleasure. 

Onyankopon groans, unexpected of her craving for him—he takes a grip of her fiery curls, her mouth spreading around his dick as she bobs her head back and forth—He can hear the wet noises of her saliva sucking him in and out, and it just makes him grunt, “Shit, mama. Hollon—you’ tipsy as fuck.”

He’s throbbing within her mouth, Nola’s tongue massaging the ripples of each vein within his length—she won’t stop. 

Her eyes are rolling as she rotates her palm at the base of him, low eyes flickering up as she whimpers, “Fuck my mouth.”

Onyankopon can barely comprehend her words, feeling the intoxication from her voice and the drunkenness of her expression. Her eyes are round, glowing beneath him. 

Her throat is hugging his tip at this point, Nola widening her jaw, parting her tongue further away from the roof of her mouth as she drops her nose to nearly kiss his abdomen—his girth knocks the air within her windpipe each millisecond. 

His voice is a husky rumble, "God damn," he exhales, "I ain't even got you naked yet."

Nola can feel the cheeks of her face begin to burn, but she can’t focus on the discomfort—the room nearly spins the moment she gags along his dick, sultrily panting as she pulls him halfway from her lips, slapping his tip against her tongue.

She then yanks up at the material of her dress, the brown of her nipples smooth against the lights pouring down onto the sofa. 

“Come play with em’.” 

Her mouth trembles a gasp the moment his full lips come down to lap at the bulge of her nipples, rotating in his mouth with the nudge of his head. 

“You feel so good,” she softly whines, lightly grinding her hips forward to meet his body.

“You look so muhfuckin’ good.”

His hand finds her ankles again, lifting her leg to drape over his shoulder, spreading her legs open for him as he buries kisses at the apex of her thighs—warm.

Nola feels like her entire body is buzzing. Her thighs shudder the moment he spanks the side of her ass, spreading her legs even more—a bubblegum pink shines beneath the caramel brown of her folds.

The sight of her—thighs spread, cheeks flushed, hair framing her blushed face. She’s trembling—Warmer.

“Pussy pretty as fuck, baby. You gon’ lemme’ drop my tongue on this shit?”

“Please.”

Her voice is high, vulnerable.

The sound of it causes Onyankopon’s jaw to lock. He’s unable to help himself as he buries his mouth in between her legs. His tongue drags against her pussy, giving the slowest lick, allowing her to feel every trace of his mouth.

She shivers, Nola pressing her fingers against the back of her thighs to hold them within the air, lips trembling into a pleasurable frown at the sight—Onyankopon’s just slurping her up, head shaking in her folds, nodding up and down as secretion sops against her flesh.

“Ony,” her mouth quivers, “Y—yes…”

His tongue winds around her clit before he sucks it, letting it pop free as he continues eating away at her.

“Shit tastes like muhfuckin’ dessert—a nigga ain’t never had no shit like this,” he muffles, spanking her skin—now, he’s becoming lost within the pleasure of her body. 

The wet noises of his mouth against her core is the most erotic thing she’s ever heard—she’s never had anyone taste her, touch her, or even smell her like this.

It’s as if she’s completely intoxicated—Like a bottle of champagne had been doused within her liver—she’s grinding herself against his tongue, placing her fingers along the top of his head to rock herself down to meet his mouth. Seeing her be so shy, sweet—to this, it felt like a dream. 

“I’m gonna c—cum,” she softly cries, “Put it in. Come fuck me, baby.” 

His tongue nearly wags along her pussy, a glare along his face as he pulls up, “That’s what you want, huh?”

His palm wraps along the base of his dick, smacking his tip along her clit— it makes her whine, “Yes.” 

Nola’s lower back hangs off the edge of the sofa, the strength of Onyankopon’s palms holding the back of her thighs to keep her from falling. Her knees press against her chest, head tilted as she watches his body hover above her.

They wanna take their time—but they can’t. It’s a burn at this point. 

Onyankopon’s tip slowly sunk in between her folds, spreading her apart, splitting her in a slow drag. Her mouth parts—her eyes lightly roll back as her lower body ignites on fire—it’s a rush of discomfort, mixed with a deep sense of pleasure. 

She reaches her hand up for his abdomen, her hips rotating a bit as he spreads her opening farther apart. She groans when he snatches her hand down. 

“Ony…”

“What you’ callin’ me for? This how you’ wanted it,” he grunts. 

Her body trembles. 

“You’re filling me up so fuckin’ good.”

He can’t help himself. He darkly chuckles, “You horny as fuck. Keep lookin’ at me with them fuckin’ eyes.” 

He snakes his hand lower to clutch the back of her neck, head knocking down, nearly cradling her by the strength of his arm, dropping her down onto his dick. The back of her thighs clap against his abdomen.

His eyes are locked with hers, and he can see her expression changing—her lips parting, her eyes rolling, her hands reaching for something to grab onto. 

Nola’s eyes meet his, she’s whining, “Oohshittt, Ony.” 

He pulls his palm away from the back of her neck, finding his fingers swimming back into the ocean of her curls—he yanks her head forward, placing it within a position to give her complete sight of his dick disappearing into her walls. 

“Ony what?” he grunts, “You keep callin’ me—Keep whinin’ for me. Open yo’ fuckin’ pussy, watch this shit cum.” 

Her mouth drops open, eyes rolling as she does watch—the girth of him somehow becomes swallowed by her walls, the cream of her arousal increasing with each stroke—Nola moans loudly, her hand sliding between her legs, fingers softly rubbing at her clit. 

Her eyes are blown, pleasured tears pooling at her brown irises as sniffles, “I’m c—cumming…f—fuck.” 

Onyankopon’s tip feels weighted as it’s choked by the snug of her walls, nearly pushing him out as her arousal gushes through the warmth of her folds. His own hand replaces hers as his thumb is lightly playing with her already sensitive clit, watching as her inner thighs fluttered in response. He’s still stroking, “Let it out, baby. Goood muhfuckin’ girl. Keep cummin’’.”

The emotions she feels pooling from her body overwhelms her, arm reaching up as she pulls him down for them to now be chest to chest. Onyankopon buries his face within her neck as she drags her other hand along his back, helping with his continuous thrusts, grinding him forward to go deeper into her. 

She clutches along his body, her shoulders trembling as she repeats to him in whiney cries, “I’m cumming…” 

She presses her nose against his cheek—her eyes boring into his, her pleasure, her tears, they flush along her face as she whimpers, “I…I need you, Ony…” 

Onyankopon growls against her throat, "I need you, too, Mama, “ His thrusts slow, deep, his hips rocking forward, “Youn’ know how bad I need you. A nigga ain’t going nowhere."

He swipes his thumb beneath her cheek, taking in the beauty of her face. Pretty from the moment he met her, pretty from the moment she opened up to him, pretty from the moment he wanted her. He gives her a low moan, his lower abdomen tightening as he glares, “I’m finna’ bust, baby—fuck.” 

Nola locks her lips against his, whimpering along his mouth, muttering to him, “Cum in me.”

“Shit got you talkin’ crazy,” his voice is dark, “Quit playin’.”

“Please,” she pressed her forehead to his, her soft cries making Onyankopon grunt at her pleas, “Please, Ony…” 

His dick is pulsing, beating inside of her—her voice is like an erotic poison—the warmth of his release makes her feel even more full, moans syncing together in a sultry symphony. Onyankopon presses his nose along her shoulder, latching kisses, giving her an affection he’d never stop giving her.

The pleasure they’d given one another is something neither of them expected. Nola is beneath Onyankopon, staring up at him with that face of hers. The alabaster of her skin is flushed, the caramel mixing between the complexion equally reddened, hair sprawled around the freckles of her cheeks. 

He rubs his thumb along the swell of her lip, “You prettier than a muhfuckin’ picture, Nola.”

She digs her face within his palm, shyly giggling, “I probably look a mess.”

“Nah,” he murmurs, “You so fuckin’ beautiful, ain’t no probably.” 

His hand drops to the swell of her ass, giving it a squeeze, “Imma’ need you like this all the time.”

Of course, she deflects from his compliments.

“…Wanna cuddle again? And give me butt rubs? I’m sleepy,” her voice is a bit of a murmur, “I wanna talk ‘cause I like you—but I’m sleepy.”

“Aight’—come‘ere.” 

He pulls her into his lap, the warmth of his body enveloping her, his hands sliding up and down the smoothness of her thighs.

“You heard me?” Her voice is soft, “I like you, Ony. Youn’ like me?” She questions, face already sunken within his chest, eyes closing at the same time.

“Now you’ all open and shit. You wasn’t like that before—“

A finger flicks on his cheek. He chuckles. 

“But forreal’—You know I do,” he murmurs, “You ain’t never gotta’ doubt a nigga again. Go to sleep.”

His fingers brush through her hair, massaging her scalp as she relaxes against him. It’s as if they remake the scene of their first night together—she lays atop of his chest, listening to the sound of his heartbeat that’s a comforting tune. They seem to have one more thing in common—the want to be like this, again. And again. And again. 

[pftones3482]

Awww someone doesn't have talent boohoo 🥲

Anyway reminder to fellow authors that you CAN prevent scraping on AO3 by making your works available to members only. Sure it isn't full proof, but usually people without a moral compass are too pathetic to make an AO3 account anyway.

Also "fun fact," the "don't repost" isn't in my blog description bc I think it'll do anything technical. It's there so that maybe people will think twice about being a piece of shit no talent who thinks that chatgpt is the epitome of art. Unfortunately, you're too dumb to understand context clues but everyone already figured that since you think stealing fic is fine and dandy. Not much going on up there I'm sure, sorry if the context clues were too hard for you to figure out 😌

This is the worst timeline. (x)

[goorgeousz]

commando | emily prentiss underwear trilogy

commando | emily prentiss

underwear trilogy

pairing: emily prentiss x fem!bau!reader

summary: emily became a professional in guessing your underwear. but one time she missed it.

content/tw: mentions of alcohol, emily guesses reader’s underwear, reader goes commando, flirting, (if i missed any please lmk! )

word count: 1.2k

a/n: I hate this fucking name (underwear) but I can’t think of anything else. There will be a part three (if you want me to tag you when it’s out, lmk!), fear not my horny emily admirers <3

tag: @snoopyaah

part one here

main masterlist

“Rough night?” you ask Emily, watching her rest her head on her hands, pressing her temples like it would magically make her brain come back to normal.

“Very.” she muttered, raising her eyes from the position to stare at you.

As always, her staring made you uneasy.

For the majority of your life, you were sure who you were. Your likes, your dislikes. About food, weather, clothes and people. It wasn’t like you labeled yourself, you didn’t. But you never actually questioned yourself. Ever.

Yes, you found women attractive. Yes, you’ve kissed one or two during college years. For fun. For science. But it wasn’t something you consciously thought about. You didn’t have a moment when you realized you liked women. 

You didn’t.

Right?

It wasn’t something you thought about. Like it was, somehow, out of your league. Something that your brain wasn’t capable of developing. You never thought ‘oh, I am straight’. You just also never thought you weren’t. 

And that wasn’t a problem. It never stopped you from sleeping at night. It was never a topic on your therapy sessions. You managed to get where you were (all the way up to the FBI) without thinking about it.

Your sexuality simply wasn’t a question for you.

Until Emily happened.

All it took was one heavy flirting and all your convictions shattered. One night at a bar she mentioned your underwear, and you lost it.

And then, you started to notice things. It’s not like you never noticed them, it’s just… different. For example, how the scent of her shampoo (coconut, because why not?) filled the entire room when she undid her ponytail, usually after a long stretch. How she always leaned back and wiggled her eyebrows proudly when she told a joke (usually a terrible one). How she pronounced your name, dragging the last syllable when she asked you a favor, sharp and pointed when she was annoyed, singing-songing it when she had something funny to say.

Emily was all up on you, being in presence (you were table partners) and in thought (you couldn’t get her out of your head).

“You want a refill?” you asked, pointed to the half-empty mug in front of her, the coffee in it probably cold.

“If I taste this cheap ass disgusting coffee I will throw up” she groaned, dropping her head down again. You chuckled. At the sound of it, she snapped her head up, her eyes slightly widened like she had an idea “Let's make a bet!”

“Let’s not.”

“Yes, let’s do it!” she disagreed, pushing herself up and smiling greedily. You rolled your eyes, because of course she would have it her way (you always let her) “If I guess your underwear correctly, you’ll get me a coffee from the cafeteria downtown.”

“Absolutely not! I just got here.”

“I’ll do all your paperwork if I guess wrong.” you eyed her suspiciously.

“Why don’t you ask Reid?”

“Ew. I can’t picture Reid in underwear. He’s like a sibling.”

“And I’m not?”

“Nope.” she answered with a ‘pop’, her stare warming you up inside. “I’ll do your paperwork for a week.”

“Fine.” you agreed, more to change the subject of her not seeing you as a sibling than the prize suggested.

She clapped her hands in delight, leaning back on her chair and watching you up and down.

“You’ll have to turn around.”

“Absolutely fucking not. That was not on the deal.” you pointed at her. She laughed, shrugging.

“Worth a try. Fine.” then resumed the staring. Just when you were close to calling the whole thing off (all the staring was actually doing a number on you), she started to speak “You blow dried your hair, and you’re wearing lip gloss. Which means you’re in a good mood.”

“Feeling pretty puts me in a good mood, oh you’re so good.” you snarked, sarcastically. She didn’t flinch, continuing her analysis.

“No, you woke up in a good mood. That’s why you’re all doll up. And you never wake up in a good mood, unless you’ve got eight hours of sleep.” she calculates a little more “You never manage to sleep eight hours when you’re in your period, so I can discard those comfy granny panties you own.” you roll your eyes.

“Was that really necessary?”

“Very.” she states, seriously “Alright, we’re almost there. You got here in time, so you had time to get yourself ready. You’re wearing a cotton candy colored bra, I can see the lace peeking out of your shirt.” you glance down horrified and close another button of your shirt, to which she just grins “You’re feeling yourself too much to not be using a matching set. So maybe a tong, cotton candy-colored and lace. Little pink bow on each side. Garcia gave it to you on your birthday. This earned me a cinnamon roll.” she pointed, giving you a cheeky grin.

“The fuck?” you whispered to yourself, getting your car keys and stomping outside. You sighed loudly as you heard Emily’s laughter in the background.

This started a tradition of some sorts. Everytime she wanted something (which usually included food, overpriced coffees and/or reports) from you, she made a bed. Somehow, she always got it right. And it never fails to make you blush furiously.

Which led you to another Saturday night, on your ‘monthly single-only exclusively night out’ (Garcia named it).

You, Emily, Garcia, Morgan and a not-very-excited-but-just-now-after-four-monthly-meetings-is-starting-to-get-used-to-it Spencer. The only singles in the team.

For some reason you and Emily got picked out to get the third round of drinks for the group, so now you were standing side by side on the balcony watching the bartender prepare five margaritas (to which Morgan was surprisingly excited for).

“If I guess your underwear right now, you owe me a shot.” she tried, already smirking.

You snorted, mimicking her smile before complying “Go on.” because there was no point in trying to stop it. You had just as much fun as she did, and right now the loud music and the previous two drinks did their job in keeping your worries far from your mind. So any thoughts of how you shouldn’t be feeling like that about your coworker just vanished, leaving you with nothing but her lingering eyes and how kissable her lips looked under that light.

“There’s no way you’re wearing lace under that dress.” she pointed out, making you laugh in agreement. That night you decided to go a little out of your way, choosing a backless skin-tight dark brown dress, its length stopping on your mid-tights. You felt good in it, and the ogling you kept getting from Emily did a poor job in humbling you.

“What else?” you encouraged her.

“You’re a freak for matching colors, so I’d say you’re wearing one of those invisible thongs. Probably the same color of your dress or something red-ish.” she decided, raising her eyebrows in expectation.

Your lips curled into a smug smirk, and Emily interpreted in a bad sign. “Oh oh.” she murmured.

Encouraged by nothing more than the alcohol-boldness and the desire stirring on the pit of your stomach from weeks of teasing, you leaned closer to her, speaking in a mix of teasing and amusement tone, your lips ghosting the shell of her ear.

“Oh, Em. I’m going commando.” 

[theliving-radio]

Sorry If this one is too confusing 😭 

So basically NRC (maybe Ortho too but platonic love) with a s/o that got turned into a cat by a potion mix-up, not naming names Grim and Adeuce 👀 (also, maybe reader could be like a maine coon? Idk but I love the idea of reader was a cat they would be bigger than grim but any cat is cute 😖) but the twist is that s/o is not a normal cat, but actually a flerken (If you don't know what that is, it's basically a space cat from marvel) So when Idia is petting them too aggressive or Floyd is squeezing them too tightly or if anyone is annoying them, they just open their mouth and swallow them up like a fckin snack, and maybe spit them back out when they're in a good mood leaving them so fckin traumatized. And the people witnessing it are like 🧍

I know about the Flerken! I used to be such a huge ass Marvel fan so many years ago! I fell off the band wagon right after Avengers: End Game. I even have an old fanfic posted on Wattpad for Marvel… I… haven’t worked on it in such a long time…

Please don’t attack me lol

Anyway, instead of just every character at once, I did every dorms reaction. Just to add some spice and fun to the mix!

And for the funnies

Warning: human consumption (but not gory or bloody. Just pocket dimension stuff), not part of the Big Brother Malleus writing, can be romantic or platonic (Ortho is clearly platonic)

And I do apologize for taking so long on writing this! Get distracted really easily.

Like REALLY easily. Anyway I hope you enjoy it!

“… Oops?”

Grim had no idea how it happened. He didn’t! You couldn’t possibly blame him for accidentally mixing up your drink with the potion assignment he was supposed to turn in!

But here you guys were, back in Ramshackle. Him looking up at your now fluffy fur body.

Cat.

You were now a cat.

“Listen, I can fix this!”

“Mrep…”

“Don’t doubt me hench… cat?”

Your cat self rolled its eyes and stood up on all fours. Before Grim was able to say anything, you picked him up by the scruff of his neck with your mouth and trotted out of Ramshackle.

The scene looked like a mother cat dragging away her baby kitten.

“MRAH! Let me go! I command it!”

You ignored him and went straight to the mirror chamber, hoping that one of your friends in the dorms will help you.

Heartslabyul

Ace and Deuce started losing their shit as soon as they saw Grim being dragged by a larger cat in the Heartslabyul garden.

“Grim, Who’s the fluffy one?” Deuce covers his mouth to hide his smile.

“Did you finally find your parent figure?” Ace teased.

“CAN IT, ACE!” You plop Grim down and trot over to Deuce who bent down to give you scratches.

Grim dusts himself off, grumbling under his breath. “I could have walked just fine! You didn’t have to drag me all the way here!”

You ignored Grim as you happily laid down in the grass and rolled over. Deuce’s eyes practically sparkled when you presented your belly to him, and he carefully rubbed it, making you purr happily.

“Mrah! Henchmen! Stop being difficult!” Grim shouted, his words causing Deuce to stop giving you pets and Ace to let out a strangled wheeze.

“P-prefect!?”

“Oh Sevens! What did you do this time!?” Ace crouches a bit as he begins laughing once again.

Grim crosses his arms and looks away. “I didn’t do anything! It was… it was them! They shouldn’t leave their stuff around in the first place!”

Offended! Scandalized! Wrong!

You picked yourself up from the grass and walked over to Grim…

Then swatted him.

“MRAH!?” Grim lets out a startled sound as he rubs his head. Before he was able to ask why you did that, you swatted him again. And again. And again.

Ace was on the grass floor laughing his ass off. It was like watching a cat hitting their child if they misbehaved.

“I would assume you’re finished painting the roses.” Ace stops his laughing and looks over to see Riddle, Cater, and Trey walking over. Riddle squints his eyes at the roses, seeing some of them still white and untouched by the crimson red paint.

“D-dorm Leader Riddle! We uh- we actually have a good reason why we aren’t finished!” Deuce tries to explain as he picks you up and shows you to the three upper class-men.

Cater gasps as he takes his phone out, quickly snapping photos of your fluffy figure. You only blinked at him and tilted your head, causing the ginger to squeal. “Oh my Sevens! They are totes adorbs!”

“A cat?! Why is there a cat here?” Riddle asks, his face showing confusion before he lets out a gasp. “The Hedgehogs! Are the hedgehog’s safe?! Did this cat do something!?”

“I’ll go check on them right now-!”

“There is no need to do that!” Deuce cuts Trey off. “This is the Prefect!”

There was a long pause between all the Heartslabyul students. The Three upper class-men processing what the first year just said. Riddle stares at Deuce and Ace before opening his mouth. “… what did you two do?”

Deuce sputters and Ace quickly looked offended. “We didn’t do anything! Grim was the one that did this!”

“Mew.” You let out a small meow and Cater broke out from his shock and started rapidly taking pictures once again.

Riddle groans as he takes a deep breath. Inhale, exhale… he didn’t want to blow his head off in front of the Prefect after all. “Grim, explain to me… what you gave the Prefect.”

“How am I supposed to know?! It’s their fault their water bottle and the potion bottle looked the same!”

“What was the potion you made?” Grim went quiet when Riddle asked the question. The dire-beast mumbles something under his breath and Riddle’s eye twitches. “Repeat that again.”

“It was supposed to be a Sleepy time potion! To help the drinker sleep better!”

“HOW DID YOU FULLY MESS THAT UP?!” Riddle full on shouts at Grim, causing the poor, small feline cat to flinch. “A Sleep potion? You messed up a SLEEP potion???”

“Riddle-,” Trey tries to calm Riddle down, but Riddle fully ignores him.

“In what universe could you possibly mix up a Sleep potion for a transfiguration potion?! And you didn’t even bother to check what you brought first before handing it to the Prefect?!”

Riddle continues going off on Grim, scolding him nonstop.

It was too noisy.

Your maw opens, an eldritch presence unnoticed by the others in the room, solely focused on Riddle. A single pink, flesh like tendril lulls out.

Targeting Riddle.

Nobody was able to progress what happened, it went by so fast. One second Riddle was standing right between Cater and Trey, the next he was gone. All they were able to see was a flash of… something… coming from you.

Deuce was the first one to snap out of it and let out a scream, dropping you in the process. Thank Sevens for cat-like reflexes! You landed perfectly on all hours and grabbed ahold of Grim once again, and bolted out of the Heartslabyul dorm.

Trey blinks at where Riddle was once standing, then the universe snaps him out of it. “W-wait! Hold on!”

“Suddenly… Prefect isn’t as cute as a cat anymore.” Cater spoke up as he watched Trey sprint towards the direction where you left.

“Would they even be considered a cat after what we just saw?! What the hell are they?!”

“I was giving them belly rubs this whole time… they could have eaten me too…” Deuce looks at his own hands in horror. Meanwhile Ace was cursing at the sky, and Cater was swiping through his photos he took of you.

Savanaclaw

Leona let out a loud snort when he saw Grim squirming around and getting dragged by a larger, fluffier cat then him. He had to cover his mouth to hide his smirk that threatened to break across his face.

You decided to try your luck in Savanclaw in hopes maybe Leona would help you out. He was in his third year after all!… even though he’s been held back a few times already due to being lazy and not giving a damn. Either way, you hope the lion beat-man can help.

“Prefect! Stop dragging me! You are the henchman, and I am the great mage! I should not have to be treated like this! And what was that from earlier! Why did you eat him?!”

Leona was on his way out to the botanical gardens to nap and get away from his noisy dorm. Now, he is more interested in what the hell is going on.

“Oui, Grim… who’s your new friend? Did you finally get a parent figure to treat your spoiled hind?” Leona couldn’t help tease the dire-beast as he strode over to the two of you.

When you spotted Leona making his way over to you, you casually dropped Grim off. When he was released, Grim immediately ran and hid behind Leona.

“Oui, what do you think you're doing? Get off.”

“No way! I ain’t getting close to the Prefect, after they turned into that… that thing!”

Leona looks over at your new fluffy body…

You were currently grooming one of your paws and rubbing it against one of your kitty ears.

“You turned the Prefect into a harmless house cat?”

“They ain’t a normal house cat! Nor are they harmless!”

As you were cleaning yourself, you felt a hand grab you from the nape of your neck and pulled you up. Leona held you in front of him and sniffed you… just by your scent alone he was able to confirm it was indeed you. But there was also something off with your scent, something unnatural…

“Housewarden Leona!” Leona pulls you away from him and glances over to where the voice came from, noticing Jack and Ruggie making their way over to him. Ruggie was currently eating a donut that Jack offered him just a while ago. He was even going to offer some to Leona.

“Ah, what’s with the fuzz ball?” Ruggie glances over at you and then see’s Grim hiding behind Leona’s leg, taking a bite from his guilty treat. “And what’s got you so spooked?”

“Leona, is that the prefect?” Jack speaks up.

“You smell them too, right? Yeah it’s them. Putting two and two together, I’m guessing Grim messed up some sort of potion.”

“I didn’t mess anything up!” Grim tries to protest as he looks up at Leona.

Ruggie snickers as he goes to take another bite from his donut… he never got the chance.

You lick your chops, eyes focused on the pastry in Ruggie’s possession. He noticed your intent a second too late, unable to protect his treat as you collect it like picking up a mug before swallowing it whole via tentacle.

Everyone went quiet.

You let out a small burp.

“MY DONUT!”

“THAT'S WHAT YOU'RE CONCERNED ABOUT?!”Jack yells at the Hyena beast-men. “Did you not see what shot out of the Prefect's mouth?!”

“See? See?! I told you!” Grim points his paw at you while looking up at Leona. Meanwhile the Dorm Leader wasn’t sure on what to do in this situation.

Sensing how Leona was unsure what to do, you decided it was time to go.

When you began to approach Grim, he took a step back. “Mrah! You stay away, Henchmen!” Ah, so he was gonna be difficult…

Before Grim was going to protest once more, a single tentacle shoots out of your mouth and grabs him. All three of the Savanaclaw students just watched in horror as you gobbled up Grim.

And went on your merry way.

“… I think I’m just gonna go take a nap in my room.”

“I’m suddenly not hungry anymore…”

“… shouldn’t we go after them?!”

Both Ruggie and Leona walk away from Jack. Not that concerned about what happened, or want to be part of it.

Octavinelle

“Jade?”

“Yes, Azul?”

“Can you explain to me why there is a cat sitting on the lounge bar?”

You sat upon the bar, lounging without a care in the world. When you left Savanaclaw, you hoped that maybe Azul would help out. Unfortunately Jade found you and decided to give you chin scritches.

You really enjoyed those.

Right beside you was a bowl of water and a small plate of cooked mushrooms that Jade really wanted you to try out. He wanted to see if cats could really eat mushrooms. Since you weren’t fully a cat, they should be fine… right?

“I found them in the dorm, they looked so hungry and lost… and I couldn’t just let them be.”

“… so you decided to feed them mushrooms…”

Jade smiles as he watches you sniff your plate before digging in. He’s been watching you eat the Turkey Tail Mushroom for 20 minutes now. This was actually your second plate, and Jade was more than pleased when he saw you scarf down the first.

“These mushrooms better not be harmful! I don’t want a dead animal to scare off our customers.”

“Don’t worry, these types of mushrooms are nonlethal to both dogs and cats.” Jade assures Azul as he gently pets your head, causing you to lean into his touch and purr. Azul only squints his eyes at you, placing his hand on his chin as he comes up with an idea.

“Why don’t we use them to lure in some customers? They seem well behaved.”

Just when you heard Azul say that, you sat up and jerked your body a bit. Azul panics, thinking the worst. “Jade, you said those were nonlethal!” The dorm leader looks at Jade, who looked just as confused as they watched you make coughing sounds and your body jerking.

Then you spit out a large hairball.

A hairball that shouldn’t come out of a cat.

Jade and Azul step back as they just stare in shock as Grim was laying on the lounge's bar face down, covered in saliva.

You went back to eating.

Grim lets out a gasp like he’s been holding his breath the whole time he was inside your dimensional body. He was able to breathe just fine, he didn’t have to be so dramatic.

Drama queen.

“Grim?! What in Sevens?!”

“FIX THEM!”

Grim scrabbles to Azul, only for the Octo-mer to back away from the slimy dire-beast.

“I don’t care if I have to sign a contract! Just fix the Prefect!”

“Oya~? Is that the prefect?” Jade looks in amusement as he watches you finish another plate of mushrooms. Maybe he should have given you something… better to eat.

Azul pushes his glasses up as he glances over to you. Grim didn’t turn you into some type of house cat… no, this was more weird than that.

“Eeh~ What’s with the kitty cat?” Before Azul was able to come up with a good idea to turn you back… and to scam Grim… Floyd walked into the lounge.

You looked over at the eel twin and saw his smile widen as he began to approach you.

Red alert!

Danger!

Activate distraction!

Your body starts jerking again and you cough off something much larger. Something more human like…

Floyd stops in his tracks as he watches you cough up a slime covered Riddle. The poor redhead was staring up at the ceiling, his eyes filled with horror and disbelief.

At least he’s more calm now.

Floyd bursts out laughing as he sees Riddle, the laughter causing him to snap out of it and to finally take in his surroundings. Jade was intrigued by events that were unfolding. Azul stared in horror at the slime that was getting all over the lounge floor, wondering if it would stain at all.

Distraction successful!

You take this as your cue to leave, this time not even bringing Grim with you.

“H-hey! Prefect! Get back here!” Azul chases you as soon as you see an opportunity to escape the Ocavinelle dorm.

As you run, all you hear behind you is Floyd laughing at Riddle's misfortune, and Riddle trying to inform Jade on what’s happening with you.

Scarabia

“Jamil! Jamil, look!”

Jamil was currently finishing up the dishes when he heard Kalim come running into the dorm's kitchen. He lets out a sigh, mentally preparing what Kalim was going to show him. When he turned around to face the dorm leader, it wasn’t as bad as he was expecting it to be.

Kalim was holding you out to Jamil, showing you off to his best friend. You slow-blink at Jamil who only stared at you with indifference. When he looks up at Kalim, he just expresses how unimpressed he was.

“I found this cat trying to get into the dorm!”

“… and you just let them in?”

“They might be hungry and are trying to look for food!” Kalim smiles as he changes his position on holding you, now cradling you in his arms.

You weren’t hungry after your mushroom meal, but you were thirsty. Thankfully, Jamil was able to pick up on that and began to prepare of bowl of water for you. Right as he laid it out for you, Kamil was more than happy to put you down right in front of the bowl.

“Can we keep them?”

“Kalim, you don’t need a pet cat. And it would be a terrible idea to keep them in the dorm. Look how thick their fur is, they would overheat, I wouldn't be too surprised if you hadn’t found them, they would have blacked out.”

Jamil's words caused Kalim to deflate just a bit, but he was able to bounce back up. “What if we find them a new home? That way they would be taken care of and be comfortable!”

Jamil already felt a headache starting to form.

In the corner vision, you see something scitter across the kitchen counter. You lick your lips as you pick your head up the water bowl and zeroed in on the small bug…

It was a harmless beetle.

But you knew for a fact that Jamil wouldn’t think so.

When the vice house warden saw your attention drawn away from the water, he looked at what you were staring at… only to tense up when he saw the beetle.

“Kalim…”

“I see it! Don’t worry, I got it!” Kalim was more than happy to help. The sweet sunshine child went to grab a napkin and a glass cup. When Kalim retrieved his items, he turned towards the beetle and slowly began to approach the counter.

But this wasn’t just any type of beetle.

This bitch had wings.

As soon as Kalim made his first step, the thing spread its wings out and started to take off. The house warden let out a startled yelp, and Jamil was ready to scream bloody murder as he grabbed his magic pen.

As much as you would have loved to enjoy this little chaotic show, you didn’t want to be in the crossfire between Jamil and his magic.

Before any spells were casted, you opened your mouth and a large tendril slipped out and grabbed hold of the beetle, and just as quickly… you drew it back in and swallowed the thing.

Like a frog.

Both Kalim and Jamil stared down at you; the silence in the room felt loud.

“Oh! Thank you very much!” Kalim put down his items and picked you up, raising you above his head and spun around. “You wanted to help, didn’t you? That’s so sweet!”

“Kalim! That’s not an ordinary cat! Did you not see what just happen?!”

“I’m gonna name you Froggy!”

You only let out a small burp as Kalim gave you your new name, swaying you side to side.

Jamil was starting to feel that headache. Just when he was about to protest about Kalim keeping the ‘cat’ again, a familiar voice made its way into the Scarabia kitchen.

“Ah, te voilà, trickster!” Rook walks in the kitchen with ease as he strode over to Kalim who was still holding you. Kalim beams as he sees the Pomefiore Vice house warden. “Rook! What a surprise!”

Jamil took you from Kalim and presented you to Rook. “I’m guessing you're here for… this… please take them away from here.”

“Oh, why thank you! Word has spread that the Prefect has turned into an alien-like cat, and I thought it was a perfect opportunity to take them to Roi du Poison.”

“THAT’S THE PREFECT?!” Jamil yells as his headache comes in at full force.

“Oui! I must go now! So thank you!” Rook doesn’t explain anything else as he whisks you away from Scarabia.

Kalim and Jamil just stand there in the kitchen, processing the quick retreat the vice Housewarden of Pomefiore made.

Jamil rubs his temples “ … I’m going to my room and taking a nap.”

“Ah, I’ll get the washcloth.”

Pomefiore

“CUT!”

Vil’s sharp voice echoes throughout the courtyard, making everyone in the Film Club stop what they were doing.

The Film Club was currently doing a short sci-fi horror scene. Vil wanted to give himself and his club members a challenge since sci-fi and horror isn’t their usual go to genre for filming. Thankfully, Ortho and Epel are helpful for stirring them in the correct direction.

“We’ve filmed this scene over and over… yet I feel like something is lacking in this… alien…”

Everyone looks over at one of the actors who was dressed up like a snake-mix-octopus-mix-crocodile.

The actor only gave Vil a little wiggle with his costume.

“Your acting is good, but the costume… I feel like I’m looking at a child's drawing come to life. Where did we get this costume again?”

“This was actually hand made…”

“So it is a child’s drawing come to life… truly a nightmare,” Vil lets out a sigh as he walks over to Ortho to go over the footage they captured. Epel was sitting off to the side to watch how everything was going.

“Roi du Poison!” Members of the Film Club looked over to see Rook. He was practically skipping over to Vil while holding a super fluffy cat. “I have found you an alien!”

Vil blanks as Rook presented you to him. You couldn’t help but slowly blink at Vil and meow at him. He didn’t look all that impressed by seeing you.

“This is a cat, Rook.”

“Oui!”

“Why, in the sevens, would this be an alien? It just looks like an ordinary cat you would find off the street.”

You were more than just a street cat!

Rook was already sensing you wanted to show off that you weren’t just some simple cat, so he took an apple out from under his hat.

Vil was ready to question him before Rook tossed it in the air.

You zeroed in on the fruit and opened your mouth, allowing the tentacle to zip out and take a hold on the apple, and bring it back to you. Students in the Film Club let out a scream as they witnessed the slimy appendage come out of your mouth. Vil didn’t really respond, but he begins to think on how to put you in the movie now.

“House Warden Vil! You have to let them in the short film!” Epel shouts enthusiastically.

“Are they trained?”

“Even better! It's actually the Prefect!” Rook smiles as he announces it was really you.

You nod to confirm it was, and that you understood what was going on.

Vil smiles as he claps his hands together, pleased with the new addition to his short film.

And that’s how you got to be the alien in Vils New Short Film. At first the Club members were a bit weary, but upon learning that you were the Ramshackle Prefect, they fully accepted you instead of just some weird cat Rook found.

Ortho kept staring at you in pure awe when the actors went to the scene to reveal the part of the alien. You let out a hiss and revealed the bunches of tentacles and tendrils, just a cluster of horrors.

Every moment when filming was over, Ortho kept doing scans over your new body. The results he kept getting back were quite curious.

You didn’t turn into an ordinary cat. And Ortho was intrigued by this, even going as far as to send his brother the scans and data he was collecting.

One of the scenes that the club needed to capture was when one of the characters gets taken away from the alien. And you happily delivered it.

By gobbling up your fellow Night Raven Classmate.

Members from the club screamed in horror from behind the scenes as they watched the poor victim be taken away in one gulp. Vil had absolutely no words to say as he watched you target the next sad victim.

“Rook, you mentioned to me offhand that they’ll be ok, right?”

“Oui! The Prefect has taken both Roi de Roses and Monsieur Fuzzball and spit them out in safe conditions!”

Vil raised an eyebrow as he stared at his vice Housewarden, “Define, in your words… ‘Safe conditions’.”

Just when Rook was going to answer Vil, you came padding along.

Then you coughed up the club members.

Both actors just laid there on the ground, looking absolutely wrecked. Meanwhile you just started cleaning yourself.

The Pomefiore Housewarden looked at his own club members with absolute disgust seeing them covered in questionable slime and saliva. “Both of you, shower… Now!” That seemed to have snapped the two members out of their small daze as they scrambled to get up and head to their dorms to freshen up.

“Vil Schoenheit,” Both Vil and Rook turn to see Ortho hovering towards them. “If it’s ok with you, after doing today's scenes, can I take the Prefect? I’ve been doing scans and collecting data on them. I got a message from Idia and he wants to check on them.”

“Well, Idia is more then welcome to have them. We are done for today anyway.” Vil glances over to you.

You were innocently laying on your back waiting for your next victim to pet your tum tum.

“The shots we’ve collected are better than I expected them to be. Prefect,” you pick your head up and look at Vil. “You did fantastic today.”

You slowly blink at him and begin to purr.

Ortho giggles as he moves over to you and gently picks you up. “Come on, Prefect, I’m going to take you to big brother. He’s quite curious about what you turned into… and he wants to play with you.”

You let out a small mew as you let Ortho float away with you. Vil waved Ortho goodbye as he looked over the footage, pleased with the results they got.

Ignihyde

“Wehehehe~ Prefect you have such soft toe beans~” Idia happily let you sit in his lap as he played with your tiny cat paws, he was even taking photos of you from all angles. You didn’t mind, you just sat there peacefully with your eyes closed and your tongue sticking out just a bit.

Ortho giggles as he secretly records his brother playing with you. It was too cute! Plus, their mom has been asking how Idia has been doing, and Idia has been dodging her questioning and all that. Now, Ortho can have something to send to her.

“The Prefect seems to be enjoying themselves, brother! It’s said that cats stick their tongue out when they want to be playful or are relaxed.” Ortho casually mentions the fact as he does another scan over your body. He floats over to Idia and shows him the x-ray scan of your body.

“There’s… no bones.”

“And I don’t seen a stomach anywhere, though I am detecting lots of tunnels reaching to different places.”

“Pocket dimensions,” Idia picks you up, holding you from under your front arms. “Wehehe~ you're an ultra find, Prefect. Like an SSR+ find!” Idia gets off his bed and places you in his gamer chair.

You blink at him with your tongue still out as you relax fully into the soft leather. You watch as Idia taps a few times on his hologram keyboard, pulling up photos from your acting scenes and the x-ray scans Ortho took.

“You can still understand what I’m saying, right? You didn’t turn into just a kitty cat with a smooth brain, right?”

You huff at that and fully sit up, meowing at Idia and flicking your paw at him as if saying “get on with whatever you're gonna say”.

“Perfect. Now, I’m gonna show you what you are… because you look like a cute kitty cat, but that’s your character armor. What you really are-,” Idia motions to his monitor, showing the x-rays. “-is a fleshy alien thing that looks like a large parasite crammed into your cat-like body.”

You stare at the X-ray certain of yourself. It should be concerning really, because how the hell did you turn into that thing? Just a few hours ago you were human, and now you're some type of… alien? Parasite?

Either way you look sick as fuck.

“You don’t seem to be that freaked out,” Ortho floats over to you.

To show you weren’t that troubled by it, you opened your mouth and let out a collage of tentacles. One shoots out to grab Idia’s opened bag of chips, causing the older Shroud to yelp. You bring it back to your mouth and fully consume it, spitting the plastic bag out when you were done with it.

“… make yourself at home I guess.”

“Ah! So you do have a stomach! I can see you digesting the chips!” Ortho exclaimed excitedly.

Ortho sends the X-ray video of you digesting the chips to Idia, making it pop up on one of the monitors. You watched with curiosity. Some would find it disgusting but for you- you just thought it was interesting seeing how your new body functioned.

“Now, I hope you don’t mind if we can do some tests on you, Prefect.” Idia begins putting on his lab gear, carefully watching your reaction.

Ok. Sure. Running some tests wasn't that big of a deal. You weren’t in a rush at the moment, and you were curious about what you are.

That all changed when you saw something that looked like a needle.

Before you had time to back away, Ortho picked you up. And you started yowling, trying to get out of his hold.

“Ah! Prefect, what’s wrong?” Idia turns to see his younger brother struggling to hold you, clearly confused on what got you all fussy.

“Ortho! What happened?!”

“I don't know! They just started acting up!”

Using the wonderful power of cat physics, you're able to escape from the younger Shroud’s hold. Your first instinct was to head towards the door… unfortunately it was closed and you didn’t know how to open doors with your toe beans.

Idia slowly approaches you from behind as you try to find another escape route. Idia then takes the chance to dive down to get you, but you dodge him and begin to scurry around the room. You run from one side to the other, hopping on Idia’s bed and then to his shelf with his Action figures.

“Prefect! You're gonna get hurt!”

“MREOW!” You run across the shelf, knocking down the figurines and making Idia freak out.

“NO! Those are limited edition!” You didn’t listen to Idia’s screams as you practically knocked off every single one of his figurines. You look around trying to find a way out of his room, and that’s when you saw it-

The vent!

A tentacle shoots out from your mouth as you rip the grate off the ceiling. You cast the grate in the general direction of Idia, hearing the sound of what remains of the merchandise fall to the floor. And Idia loud pitch shriek.

You hop onto another shelf and use another tentacle to give you leverage as you swing yourself into the vent. You left Idia and Ortho alone in the room.

Take that! No needles today!

Idia just looks at the mess on his floor, not really sure where to start. Ortho just floats over and pats him on the shoulder, knowing that his older brother was mourning the loss of several of his collectibles.

Diasomnia

When you were able to escape from Idia’s clutches, you immediately went to Diasomnia.

This should have been your first pick! Horton would be happy to help you!

When you entered through the mirror you went straight to the dorm lounge room, ignoring students in the process as they stopped to stare at the fluffy cat walking the halls. Some even tried to pet you or greet you, but you were on a mission!

Being this alien cat was all fun but now, it’s best to go back to living life like a normal human.

“Strange, what’s a cat doing here?” You were ready to ignore the student like you did the others, but this one was quick enough to pick you up.

You were ready to swat at them but stopped when you recognized them. Sebek held you from under your arms as he scrutinized you. “How did you get into Diasomnia?” He asks, and all you do is meow at him.

“No matter! I heard earlier that Master Lilia and Waka-sama were looking for a fluffy cat. Perhaps they were referring to you.”

“Mrew.” Yes! Take me to Horton!

Sebek positions you into a better way where he cradles you into his arms. You start purring immediately, which causes Sebek to stutter. “C-cease your purring! I’m just taking you to Waka-sama and then I'm putting you down!”

No complaints there!

Sebek begins to walk you over to the dorm's lounge room. And you couldn’t help yourself so you started batting at his tie. A few times Sebek scolds you, but doesn't have the heart to stop you.

Oh he would lose his head if he learned it was you, the prefect.

“Ah! Sebek, my boy! You're back, and it seems like you brought a friend!” You perk up hearing Lilia’s voice.

You see Lilia and Malleus sitting on the couch in the lounge, Silver pouring them tea and himself a cup as well. Lilia’s eye practically sparkled when he saw you, vibrating on the spot with excitement.

Oh no.

He knows.

“So you found the Prefect, good work Sebek.” Malleus praises Sebek as he takes a sip of his tea.

Sebek though stopped in his tracks. He was happy to be praised by his young master! But learning that it was you that he was cradling this whole time…

He drops you without thinking.

Silver was ready to take his pen out and have you land safely on the ground, but you landed perfectly fine on all fours.

Thanks to your cat-like reflexes.

“P-prefect?! Why didn’t you say anything?!” Sebek yelled at you. You only give him a glare and start batting at his foot, basically telling him you weren’t happy for the fact he dropped you!

Lilia starts cackling watching the exchange between the two of you. When you were done with fighting Sebek’s shoe, you began your walk over to the couch where everyone seemed to be resting and hop on the coffee table.

You don’t stay there for long until Lilia scoops you in his arms, twirling you around like Kalim did. “Ah! You're just so cute now, Prefect!”

Is he saying you weren’t before?

In response to that, you place your paw on his nose, causing Lilia to laugh more. Malleus hums as he watches, Silver on the other hand was starting to doze off after he took one sip from his tea.

“How long has it been since you transformed, child of man?” Malleus asked as he placed his own teacup and saucer on the coffee table.

You try thinking about how long it’s been. It had to be no more than several hours, right? Then again, you did notice how it was getting darker in the Diasomnia dorm. Didn’t you drink that potion this morning???

“Based on your silence, it’s been a whole day.” Lilia nods to his own conclusion as you try wiggling out of his hold.

A whole day?! Nope! You gotta change NOW!

“Fear not my dear friend,” Malleus gets up from his place from the couch and makes it way over to you and Lilia. Lilia smiles as he holds you out to Malleus.

“Meow?”

“As cute as you are in this form, I would prefer to have my best friend back to normal.” And with that said Malleus places his hand on your head, letting a bright green light come from his hand.

In a blink of an eye, you turn back to normal…

With Lilia still holding you up by under your arms.

“I like to be put down now…”

“Aw, but I’m still having fun!” You let out a shriek as Lilia spins you once again. Malleus couldn’t help but let out a laugh as he watched the two of you.

Silver was fully asleep now, and Sebek only stared at his hands in horror.

“I was cradling them the whole time in their cat form…”

“Were they ever truly a cat though?” Sebek whipped his head to look at Silver who spoke in his sleep.

Nobody truly understood what you were. What you turned into it.

All they hope is that it never happens again…

“Oh gods, my stomach…” you were back in Ramshackle, laying in your bed and holding your stomach. You were feeling such immense pain after leaving Diasomnia. You did eat a lot of things today in that other form, and spitting stuff out as well.

Grim was currently pouring you a glass of Bubble Soda, and set down some crackers by your nightstand… not without swiping some first. “Mrah, Silver told me this would help you with your tummy ache. How you should still eat something along with the medication he gave.” Grim hands you the packet he got from second year.

God bless Silver. Lilia did cook horrible meals, so it made sense Silver would have these on hand.

You thanked Grim as you popped a pill into your mouth and slowly drank the soda Grim messily poured.

He tried.

“I’m really sorry about today… it’s my fault you turned into some weird cat thing…” Grim apologized awkwardly as he sat at the edge of your bed.

You let out a huff and grab the dire beast by the scruff of his neck, making him yelp in surprise as you wrap your arms around him.

“I forgive you, Grim. Don’t sweat it that much, ok? You didn’t know, and you made a mistake, it happens! So don’t beat yourself over it.”

Grim whines from your hug but lets you awayway, wrapping his paws around your neck to hug you back. You also promised yourself that night that you were going to double check everything before you consume it.

Can’t have you turning into an alien cat thing again…

Unless to torture Crowley, then you would be down to do that.

[kamelika]

hiiiiii can i request hcs of like uhm reader who's just a complete air head when it comes to people showing romantic interest in them?? like mainly because no one has shown interest in them their whole life.

so imagine their shock when someone does do that and they dont end up realizing it

i think otoya with this would actually be hilarious ngl like he's trying so hard and vro gets NOTJHING

bllk men x oblivious!reader

a/n: this is my favorite request so far ngl

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨ ᰔ ୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

yukimiya kenyu:

-he couldn't be any more obvious.

-he was completely awestruck

-you were a top student in your school- kind, soft-spoken, empathic, and so on so forth. the one thing you weren't an expert in though- was romance.

-you two were partnered up for a science project

-you asked politely if you could go to his house to finish the project and he looked at you, flustered, cheeks and ears red, heart thumping as loud as footsteps and eyes dilated.

-but despite the obvious signs, you remained oblivious and innocently tilted your head and asked if he was alright.

-you place your hand on his forehead to check his temperature and he unconsciously leaned into your touch.

-"Yukimiya, if you don't want to, it's completely fine... We can finish it at school."

-you propose softly

-he vigorously shakes his head no and invites you to his house

-safe to say, he's thankful for your innocence.

karasu tabito:

-spots you at a bus stop

-recognizes you as that straight A, top student from a neighboring class and whistles at you.

-"Do I have to sign for your package?”

-you turn to face him with a blank stare

-"Package? I'm sorry, I don't think I have a package, you must have the wrong person, haha."

-you look at him so innocently and tenderly he felt like he was melting

-he sits beside you and slings an arm around your shoulder

-you two chat for so long, karasu throwing in some suggestive things here and there- in which you replied with tilting your head obliviously.

-when the bus comes, karasu can't bear to leave you so he pretends to have to get on the same bus with you just to chat with you more

otoya eita:

-you were pulled to a bar by your friends, you didn't know why, but you couldn't bring yourself to say no.

-he spots you sitting by the bar, with an adorable blank face and immediately becomes infatuated with you.

-he slides over to you and goes "Is it hot in here? Or is it just you?"

-instead of becoming flustered or anything of the sort, you look at him worriedly and gently speak out "No, It's pretty cold for me. Are you alright? Actually, I have a small fan in my bag if you'd like to borrow it."

-he stares at you wide eyed and he swears he just fell for you harder

-trying his best to make you fall for him.

-“Are you my homework? Because I’m not doing you, but I definitely should be.”

-“You must be yogurt because I want to spoon you.”

-“Baby, you’re so hot, you make the Equator look like the North Pole.”

-when he sees you just staring blankly, tilting your head slightly, pretending like you understand what he's trying to say.

-he sighs, seeing as nothing was working on you, but you know what? that might just have made him fallen for you harder.

a/n: THIS WAS SO FUN TO WRITE THEJSBAKAJQBKWSJNEE

[langevandreren]

Reblogging this because I more or less agree. With an additional observation:

An alarmingly large portion of humanity has (for as far back as I know) been outsourcing the cognitive functions that define them as being sentient. Apparently thinking hurts fragile human brains...

It was sort of fine-ish to turn some of those higher functions over to a person you, personally, know and trust. The council/leader/spiritual guide in your band of 200 people probably isn't going to screw you over for lolz. They might still take advantage of you, but probably not past certain accepted cultural norms.

But it does sort of look like the last few millennia have given rise to increasingly distant sociopathic god-kings. And their legions of rapacious mediators and functionaries, natch.

It will be...interesting...to see if people turning over their cognitive and ethical functions to the mad blind oracle of AI is better or worse than organized viral religions, or totalitarian ideology, or whatever contagious idiocy USAmericans are mainlining right now.

Probably, it will just make people that much more susceptible to the next charismatic sociopathic. And won't that be fun.

generative AI literally makes me feel like a boomer. people start talking about how it can be good to help you brainstorm ideas and i’m like oh you’re letting a computer do the hard work and thinking for you???

[emmiesoverthemoon]

what's a little ink?

pairing: han jisung x reader

word count: 7.3k

summary: you wanted the upper hand. you came for a tattoo. you also came for him. and somehow you ended up in his hoodie, eating his eggs, and wondering how a bet turned into this stupid, soft thing you just can’t resist wanting

tags: tattoo artist au, friends to lovers, fluff and smut. porn with plot. sweet, sappy, and gross romance. enjoy

requested by @burlesquerade hope u like it honey

It all started with a simple, completely ridiculous bet. You and Han had been hanging out for hours, as you often did, swapping old stories and making fun of each other’s quirky habits. Laughter echoed around the cozy living room, the kind of laughter that was easy and natural, the way it always was when the two of you were together.

"Okay," Han said, a sly grin spreading across his face. He leaned forward, eyes glinting with that playful spark you knew all too well. "If you can beat me at this stupid game one more time, I will get you whatever you want as a prize."

You raised an eyebrow, already suspecting he might be setting you up for something ridiculous. "Whatever I want? Really?"

"Yep. No holds barred. You name it, and it’s yours," Han assured you, his tone full of confident mischief. "But if I win…" He paused for dramatic effect, leaning in so close you could feel the heat of his breath on your cheek. “You have to let me tattoo you.”

You snorted, shaking your head. “Tattoo me? Really? That’s your big gamble?”

Han’s smile grew wider. “I’m a tattoo artist, remember? It's a fair trade. I think you’re too scared to let me do it.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped your lips, your fingers tapping idly on your cup. “Scared? Please. I’m not scared of a tattoo.”

His eyes narrowed, a challenge sparking in their depths. “Oh, so now you’re saying you can handle it? Alright then. You’re on. But we both know I’m going to win.”

You gave him a playful smirk. “Big talk for someone who has no idea what they’re up against.”

The game you were playing—a mix of cards, trivia, and guessing games—was silly, and it didn’t take long for the competition to become heated. But, much to your surprise, you did win. By a narrow margin, of course, but a win was a win.

Han’s mouth dropped open in disbelief, and you had to bite your lip to stop yourself from gloating too much. You had been expecting him to be smug, but now, as the reality of the situation sank in, you saw a flicker of something else cross his features.

“Alright, alright,” he muttered, trying to hide his grin. “You won. So what do you want?”

You leaned back in the chair, considering your options. There were so many things you could ask for—something extravagant, maybe—but you had been thinking about this for a while. Han had been inking people for years now, and you had always wondered what it would feel like to have him work on you.

So, you decided to go for it.

“I want a tattoo,” you said with a straight face, barely able to hide the excitement in your voice.

He blinked at you. “Wait… you’re serious?”

“Totally,” you answered, your grin impossible to hide. “You’re going to ink me, Han. And you can’t back out.”

He stared at you for a long moment, as if trying to make sure you weren’t joking, but then the challenge returned in his eyes.

“Well, if I have to do this, I get to choose where,” he said, his tone slightly mischievous. “No complaints, okay?”

You snorted, rolling your eyes. “Fine. As long as I get to decide what the design is, I’ll leave the location to you.”

Han smirked and held out his hand. “Deal.”

The text from Han came just before noon.

“Hope you’re not chickening out. Studio at 3. Wear something loose. ;)”

You stared at your phone longer than you meant to, heat crawling up your neck. Chickening out? Hardly. But that stupid winking face was another story. He always knew how to push just the right buttons—just enough to make your pulse quicken, just enough to stir things that should probably stay buried.

Still, you showed up. Of course you did.

His studio was tucked into a quiet side street downtown, its glass windows fogged slightly from the early spring chill. You had been here before—countless times, really—but never like this. Never with your skin on the line. Never with your heart threatening to beat out of your chest for reasons that had very little to do with ink or needles.

The soft chime above the door rang as you stepped in. Han was already inside, hunched over a sketchpad, his brows knitted in concentration. A pencil twirled between his fingers as he tapped it against his lower lip, eyes flicking to you the moment you walked in.

And just like that, the air shifted.

He smiled, slow and crooked. “You came. I’m impressed.”

“You told me to. I don’t exactly think that counts as bravery,” you replied, trying to play it cool, even though you were already peeling off your jacket, already catching the way his eyes flicked to your collarbone with something unreadable.

Han rose from his chair, brushing his fingers through his soft brown hair. “I sketched some ideas. Wanna see?”

You nodded, joining him by the desk where several sheets were spread out. The designs were delicate—subtle, intricate things, clearly drawn with you in mind. One of them caught your eye: a minimalist crescent moon nestled inside a trail of tiny stars, the lines fine and whisper-soft.

“I like this one,” you murmured, fingers brushing the paper.

“I thought you might.” His voice had dropped a bit. He was watching you closely, as if your reaction meant something more than approval. “It’s gentle. Quiet. But it lingers.”

You swallowed.

“I’ve decided where to put it,” he added after a beat, stepping closer.

“Oh?” you asked, lifting an eyebrow. “Do I get a hint?”

Han smiled, tilting his head just slightly as his eyes traveled—unapologetically—over your exposed shoulder, down the dip of your neck. “Upper shoulder. Right where it curves into your neck. Here.” He reached out, fingers grazing the exact spot, the barest ghost of a touch. “It’s a place you never see, but everyone else does. Intimate. Subtle. Kind of like the moon.”

You froze. It was a good idea—too good, actually. Because now, your body was responding to more than just nerves. The closeness. The delicacy in his voice. The way his fingertips lingered, resting there a heartbeat longer than necessary.

“I trust you,” you whispered, hoping it would ground you.

Han met your gaze. For once, he looked serious. “Then lie down for me.”

The chair was cold at first, the studio quiet but for the low murmur of music and the faint clatter of his tools. You lay on your side, hair pulled up and shirt slightly off one shoulder, baring the space where he would work. The air kissed your skin, but it was Han’s presence—his warmth—that you felt most acutely.

He cleaned the area with methodical care, the scent of alcohol and antiseptic somehow comforting. But it was the way his hand curved around your shoulder, the way his thumb brushed the nape of your neck, that made you hyper aware of every inch of yourself.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“Mhmm.”

“Tell me if it hurts too much.”

You chose not to tell him that it already did—but not because of the needle.

As the machine buzzed to life, the first kiss of ink stung. You flinched, just slightly, and felt his other hand firm on your back in response. Steadying. Anchoring.

He worked in slow, precise strokes, the pressure rhythmic, hypnotic. But each time his fingers brushed your skin, each time his breath tickled your shoulder from how close he leaned—it lit something warm and aching inside you.

His voice broke through the quiet after a while, low and slightly hoarse. “You’re really still. Most people twitch like hell when it’s here.”

You exhaled, barely moving. “I think I just… don’t want to mess you up.”

“You couldn’t,” he murmured. And for a second, the machine paused. His hand stayed, resting lightly over the fresh lines. “You’re kind of perfect like this.”

Your breath caught.

You didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare ask what he meant. But in the pause between one stroke and the next, the silence pulsed—thick with something fragile, something not quite spoken yet.

He resumed working, but something had changed. His touches had always been skilled, steady, but now there was a new kind of deliberateness in the way his fingers slid across your skin—slower, more lingering, more aware. The buzz of the machine became background noise to the static dancing along your spine.

Your breath came shallow and controlled, each exhale purposeful, but no amount of focus could erase the way heat pooled low in your belly each time he adjusted your position, each time he leaned in just close enough that his breath grazed the shell of your ear.

"You’re warm," he said suddenly, voice barely audible over the low thrum of music.

You tilted your head, cheek brushing the leather of the chair. “Is that your way of saying I’m sweating too much?”

A quiet laugh. "No." He wiped the spot gently, fingers spread wide against your upper back. “Just saying... your skin feels alive.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, willing yourself not to shiver.

He paused to dip the needle again, but his other hand stayed pressed against you—thumb dragging absently along the edge of your spine. And then, as though the words slipped free without permission, he added, “It’s kind of driving me crazy.”

The machine stilled. Your eyes snapped open.

“What?”

Han blinked, as if he had not meant to say it aloud. But the corner of his mouth lifted anyway, a half-smile that was equal parts sheepish and satisfied. “Nothing. Just... hard to stay focused when you’re under my hands like this.”

Your pulse spiked. “You’re the one who insisted on choosing the placement.”

“Maybe I wanted an excuse to touch you like this. To drive you crazy”

The air between you crackled. He was close now—too close. His hand still rested against your skin, fingers slightly curled as if resisting the urge to grip tighter. You felt it in your bones: the shift from friendly banter to something heavier. Something hungry.

The tattoo needle remained idle, forgotten for the moment.

Your voice came soft, but steady. “Are you always this... handsy when you’re working?”

He leaned in slowly, slowly, until his mouth hovered just behind your ear. “Only when the canvas makes it impossible not to be.”

Your breath caught. You could feel the heat of him, the deliberate pause before he moved again—not toward his tools, but toward you. His hand slid from your shoulder, knuckles brushing the side of your throat in a line so featherlight it made your skin pebble.

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “You said you wanted to drive me crazy, too.”

“Is it working?” he murmured.

You closed your eyes, exhaling. “I think you already know the answer.”

Han chuckled under his breath, but there was a tightness in it—like restraint stretched thin. Still, he didn’t kiss you. Didn’t push further. Instead, he pressed a hand to your waist and guided you gently back into place, the spell not broken, only deferred.

“I should finish,” he said, almost hoarse.

You nodded, breathless. “Yeah. Finish.”

But every second after that was charged. Every brush of his hand, every hum of the machine, every stolen glance when you dared to peek up at him—all of it thrummed with the knowledge that something had shifted. And neither of you could pretend it hadn’t.

You lost track of time. Moments bled into minutes, drawn out by the quiet rhythm of his work and the unspoken weight between you.

By the time he shut off the machine, your body felt like it had become a tuning fork—tight with tension, humming with everything unsaid.

“That’s it, you're done,” Han said quietly, voice thick.

He reached for a clean cloth, gently dabbing the inked area. The sting had dulled into a soft ache, but the way his hand moved over your skin—slow, deliberate, reverent—was what left you breathless.

He lingered there, thumb brushing just above the fresh lines. “You did good. Barely moved.”

You shifted onto your elbows slightly, twisting to catch his face. “Is that praise, or are you just surprised I didn’t faint?”

His gaze met yours. For a second, he said nothing. Then, a smile tugged at his lips—but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You’re a lot tougher than you let on.”

You sat up, pulling the collar of your shirt gently over one shoulder. “Maybe you just bring it out of me.”

Han stood there, still holding the cloth, still watching you with that unreadable expression. The tension between you was no longer subtle. It stretched between your bodies like a wire, thin and tight, vibrating with things neither of you had said out loud.

You looked away first.

“Let me pay you,” you said, reaching for your bag.

“Don’t,” he interrupted. “This wasn’t about that.”

Your fingers froze on the strap. You turned slowly. “Then what was it about?”

He hesitated, jaw tight. The weight in his gaze softened for a beat—something bare flickering through, like he wanted to say everything but chose instead to say:

“I wanted something of mine on you.”

The words landed in your chest like a drop of ink in water—sinking, blooming.

You didn’t respond right away. The silence folded around you again, but it was thick, pulsing, the air saturated with all the ways you almost touched.

Finally, you smiled, small but real. “Well... now you’ve got it.”

He laughed under his breath, but it was quieter this time. A little more careful. “Yeah. Guess I do.”

You moved toward the mirror, pulling your shirt slightly aside to see the finished piece that now lay protected by second skin. The crescent moon curved delicately against your skin, soft as a secret, sharp as a wish you hadn’t meant to speak aloud.

It was beautiful. It was everything you could have asked for.

You caught Han watching your reflection—eyes fixed not just on the ink, but the shape of you, the moment of you. Like he had never really allowed himself to look until now.

And still... he did nothing. And neither did you.

Just two bodies, standing too close, tied together by a single piece of ink and a silence that spoke louder than anything else.

You turned from the mirror, fingers brushing down the edge of your collar one last time. The skin was still tender beneath your touch, but not as tender as the weight in your chest.

“I should go,” you said, voice a little too light. A little too careful.

Han nodded once, but he did not move from where he stood. “Right. It’s late.”

You moved toward the door, bag slung over your shoulder, shoes forgotten under the bench. The silence followed you like smoke—slow and curling and hard to breathe through. You could feel his eyes on your back.

But just as your hand touched the knob, you paused.

“…I’m not usually like this.”

The words escaped before you could catch them.

Han’s voice came from behind you, lower now. “Like what?”

You didn’t turn to face him. “This affected.”

A beat.

Then: “Me neither.”

You turned then. Slowly. He was closer than he’d been a moment ago. Still not touching. Still not reaching.

But close.

The streetlights from outside filtered through the frosted windows, casting soft shadows over his face—his expression was unreadable again, but his eyes were not. They were dark and warm and searching. Like he wanted to speak with his hands instead of his mouth.

“I should walk you out,” he offered.

“I don’t need—”

“I know.” A pause. Then, his voice was gentler, “Let me anyway.”

You nodded.

He opened the door, and the cool air of the hallway hit your skin like a shock—like stepping out of a dream. The clack of your shoes echoed softly as you both walked, side by side, neither of you speaking.

You reached the door to the street. The city breathed on the other side. Stillness clung to the space between you like fog.

“Hey,” Han called, just as you stepped onto the threshold. His voice pulled you back. “Wait.”

You turned, heart stuttering.

He was standing close again. Too close. The kind of close that felt deliberate. His hand hovered near your waist, fingers flexing once, like he was debating whether to touch you again.

He didn’t.

Instead, his voice dropped. “If I kiss you right now… would that mess things up?”

Your breath hitched.

The world held its breath with you.

You let the silence stretch. Let the ache of it crawl up your spine. And then you said—quietly, honestly:

“I think not kissing me might mess things up more.”

And still—still—he did not kiss you. He only looked at you like he wanted to memorize the moment, the space between your mouths, the way you had just told him everything without saying it outright.

He smiled, slow and heavy with intent. “Then maybe I’ll wait until it really ruins me.”

Your throat went dry.

“Night,” he murmured, stepping back.

And just like that, the door closed between you.

But your heart stayed in his hands.

It was past midnight when your phone lit up.

"You still awake?"

You stared at the screen, thumb hovering, heart already answering before you could.

"i never really went to sleep"

Three dots appeared, then vanished. Then again.

"Me neither"

A beat of no incoming messages passed, then:

"I'm keeping myself up thinking about earlier''

Your breath caught.

"the tattoo?"

"Not exactly.."

You didn't respond right away. You didn’t have to. The air in your room had changed—thicker, tighter, like his voice might pour from the cracks in the wall's paint if you leaned in close enough.

And then the screen lit up again—this time, a call, to which you answered—not after panicking for a few seconds, of course.

“…Hey.” You whispered into the microphone.

His voice was low, rough from too many unsent words. “You looked good tonight.”

You swallowed the simmering embarrassment down. “You saw a lot of skin.”

“Not the part I meant.”

A silence stretched. Not awkward—intimate. It curled through the receiver like warm breath against your neck.

“Come by tomorrow,” he said finally. “I need to check your tattoo.”

“You just want to touch me again.”

“I'm not gonna sit here and lie to you by saying I didn't love every second of touching you. Come by tomorrow, please?”

Your skin flared at the bluntness. There was no smirk in his tone. No teasing this time. Just heat. Quiet and real.

You whispered, “Okay.”

The next day, you were back at his studio.

You told yourself it was just for aftercare, but the second you walked in, saw the way he looked up at you—eyes dark and steady—you knew you were both done pretending.

“Shirt,” he said softly, gesturing to the seat.

You sat. You peeled the fabric from your shoulder, the same stretch of skin that had sparked the night before and haunted his thoughts since. His hands were gloved, but his touch still felt like bare electricity.

He leaned in, inspecting the ink, but the space between you crackled. “Looks good,” he murmured. “You’ll heal fast.”

“So I can go?” you teased, voice thinner than usual.

He gave you no answer. Just peeled off the gloves, tossed them aside, and placed his bare hand against your back—palm flat, warm. Possessive.

“You came back,” he said. “That’s what I wanted.”

You turned your head, letting your cheek rest against your shoulder, watching him. “I did as I was told, Han. So what now?”

Han stepped around to face you. He reached up and touched your chin, tilting your face to his. The air between you shrank to nothing.

“Now I kiss you.”

And this time, he did.

His mouth was warm, unhurried, like he was tasting something he had waited weeks to touch. His fingers cradled your jaw, and you melted into it, into him, into the truth that had been aching beneath your skin for days.

He pulled back, just an inch.

“Still messing things up?” he asked, breath brushing your lips.

You smiled. “Only in the best way.”

The kiss tasted like every moment that came before it—charged, aching, sweet with restraint. His mouth moved against yours like a secret unraveling, like he had memorized the shape of your lips before ever daring to touch them.

You leaned into him, fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer like instinct. Like gravity. Han followed the movement without hesitation, one hand sliding around your waist, the other brushing the side of your neck—soft, reverent, as if you might vanish if he held you too tightly.

When he pulled back, just enough to breathe, your foreheads touched. Your eyes stayed closed.

“You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me,” he whispered.

You opened your eyes. “Then show me.”

The words cracked something open between you. Quickly, he sat beside you on the tattoo bed and pulled you onto his lap.

He kissed you again—deeper now, his hands no longer tentative. One slid under your shirt, fingers warm against the small of your back, the other braced at your hip like he needed the anchor. You shifted in his lap, and before you realized you had even moved, he groaned low in his throat at the feel of you straddling him, bodies pressed with no space between.

Still, he slowed. Just for a breath.

“You okay?” he asked, voice rough.

You nodded, nose brushing his. “More than.”

His lips returned to the bare side of your throat—soft at first, then with the scrape of teeth. Your hands threaded into his hair as you tilted your head for him, shivering when he dragged his mouth down the slope of your shoulder.

“Han,” you breathed.

He stilled for a moment, forehead pressed against your skin.

“I’ve wanted this,” he said. “But not just this.”

You stilled, heart thudding.

“I want every version of you,” he continued. “The fire, the softness, the silence. I want the way you look at me when I'm not looking. I want the way you talk like you are not afraid but touch like you’re terrified.”

You exhaled, chest caving. “You noticed everything?"

“I tried not to.”

He leaned back to meet your gaze. His hands moved with more intent now, but still gentle—still you-first. His thumbs traced the curve of your hips beneath your shirt, and you shivered under the slow build of it.

And then, still holding your waist, he laid you back against the padded bench—carefully, gracefully—like you were something rare. Like he had dreamed of this exact moment in the quiet between days.

Your shirt came off slowly, inch by inch. His hands explored like a map he was finally allowed to touch. Every kiss was a promise: I will not rush this. I will learn you inch by inch. I will memorize every sigh.

When his mouth found yours again, the kiss burned hotter—teeth clashing gently, breath shared. You tugged at his shirt, and he pulled it over his head in one clean motion, your hands already seeking skin, already desperate to feel.

Still, even in the heat, he slowed now and then—traced your ribs with a single finger, kissed the inside of your wrist. Whispers scattered between kisses.

“I want you,” he said. “But I also want you.”

You arched into him, fingertips splayed across his back, heart wide open. “You have me.”

The second his shirt hit the floor, your hands were on him—tracing the taut muscle beneath warm skin, nails catching just enough to make him hiss. His mouth was back on yours before you could take your next breath, more forceful now, more needy. Tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that made your spine arch and your legs tighten around his hips.

Han groaned when he felt it—your thighs drawing him in like a vice, like you already knew exactly how this would end.

“Fuck,” he murmured against your mouth. “You feel too good.”

“You haven’t even felt me yet,” you whispered back.

His eyes darkened.

He pulled you up in one fluid motion, strong hands gripping your thighs as he laid you down atop the workbench, your back pressed against cool wood, your skin burning beneath his palms.

He kissed down your throat, not slow anymore. Messy, greedy, open-mouthed kisses that left your pulse stuttering. He bit lightly at the curve where your shoulder met your neck, and you gasped—head tipping back, legs spreading instinctively, begging for more contact, more friction, more.

His hands slipped beneath the band of your pants, thumbs dragging over the sensitive skin at your hips.

“These need to come off,” he growled, voice thick with want. “Right fucking now.”

You lifted your hips to help, letting him tug them down along with your underwear in one swift motion. The heat in his gaze when he looked at you—all of you—bare on his table, flushed and panting, legs spread for him like it was the most natural thing in the world—

It made your stomach flip, made your core throb.

“You’re gorgeous,” he said, like he was angry about it. “So fucking pretty and wet already, and I haven’t even touched you properly.”

“Then do it,” you whispered. “Touch me.”

And he did.

One hand pressed your thigh open, the other sliding between your legs, fingers stroking through your slick folds in a rhythm that was maddeningly light. He teased your clit with the pad of his thumb, watching the way your hips jerked, your mouth parted around soft gasps.

“You gonna let me make you come with just my fingers first?” he murmured, leaning close, breath hot against your ear. “Wanna feel you grip them before I fuck you. Want you so messy I can’t think straight.”

You whimpered, back arching. “Yes—please, Han—”

He slid one finger in, slow, letting you feel the stretch. Then two. Then a curl of his knuckles that had you crying out, your hands scrabbling for purchase on the edge of the table.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Grind on my fingers. Let me see how desperate you are.”

You did—hips rocking, thighs trembling, your core clenching around him as he worked you open with deliberate pressure, circling your clit with his thumb until the pressure built fast and dizzying.

“I can feel you getting close,” he said against your throat. “You gonna come for me, baby? Right here on the table where I ink people’s skin?”

“Fuck—Han—yes—”

You shattered with a cry, legs shaking, body arching against his mouth as he kissed you through it—murmuring things you could barely process, words lost in the white-hot rush.

And when you finally came down, breath heaving, he leaned back and licked his fingers clean with a satisfied smirk.

“Think you’re ready for my cock now?”

You nodded, dazed. “Please.”

He undid his belt with one hand, gaze locked to yours as he stroked himself—slow, thick, already slick from the sight of you. Then he lined up, ran the head through your folds once, twice, teasing your oversensitive clit just to watch you twitch—

And then he pushed in.

You both groaned—deep, guttural—like relief and hunger all at once. He filled you in one slow, brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

You were soaked. Sore. Already wrecked.

But he did not stop.

He fucked you—hard, deep, each thrust lifting your hips from the table, your hands clawing at his back, your moans turning to whimpers, then cries. His name over and over.

Your moans spilled out in sobs as your second climax hit you like a dam bursting. It was hot—blinding—your release painting his cock in pulsing waves, your entire body locking up beneath him. All the hunger, the want, the times of aching tension you had swallowed back whenever he so much as looked at you with those dark, unreadable eyes—it all came out in that moment. You clenched tight around him, and he groaned loud and low, his head dropping to your shoulder.

“God—look at you,” he rasped, voice wrecked, pride and awe tangled in every word. “So good for me. So perfect when you come.”

But then, his hips stopped to a jarring halt. He was still buried inside you, forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged. You could feel the tension in his body—every muscle taut, his hips stuttering in that way that told you he was right on the edge, right there—

But holding back. Just for you.

You cupped his jaw, breathless but steadying. “You didn’t come.”

He shook his head, eyes fluttering. “Wanted to feel you first. Wanted to see—fuck—how tight you get when you come around me.”

Your body gave a little twitch at the memory, still oversensitive, still full. But a flicker of something else lit behind your eyes.

You kissed him—slow and deep—and then, with a sly smile, clenched around him deliberately.

He choked on a moan, arms trembling where they braced beside your head.

“Baby—don’t—”

“You always so in control?” you whispered, brushing your lips along his jaw, down his throat. “Or are you just that good at hiding when you want to break?”

He groaned, head falling to your shoulder. “Please—fuck—”

You rolled your hips beneath him, just a little. Just enough.

“You’re still so hard,” you murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. “Still deep inside me like you need to be. You want to come? Want to fill me up?”

“God—yes.”

“Then allow me.”

You pushed him gently, and he let you—collapsing back into the chair beside the bench, cock glistening and flushed as it slipped free, twitching with the aftershocks of restraint. He barely had time to breathe before you dropped to your knees between his legs and wrapped your hand around him—tight, slow strokes from base to tip that had him gasping and clenching the arms of the chair.

“You look so pretty like this,” you murmured, kissing the head of his cock, licking the slit just to taste the salt of him.

His hips bucked and he cursed—head thrown back, abs tensing.

“Sensitive already, aren’t you?” you purred.

“I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna come—”

You took him into your mouth before he could finish the sentence—deep and warm, tongue swirling as you bobbed your head, one hand cupping his balls, the other pressing down gently on his hip to keep him from thrusting.

He was loud now, whimpering, begging, gasping your name like prayer.

And when he came—god—

It was with a broken moan, back arching, thighs shaking under your palms. You swallowed everything, licked your lips, and looked up at him through your lashes as he tried to remember how to breathe.

His eyes were glassy, hair clinging to his forehead, chest rising in jagged waves.

You smiled. “Still in control?”

He laughed—wrecked, breathless. “Fuck no.”

You climbed into his lap again, your bare skin still warm, flushed and tingling, and curled against him with a quiet little hum.

He wrapped his arms around you like instinct. And then, softly:

“…Round two’s gonna ruin us both.”

You grinned against his neck. “Good.”

The studio held comfortable silence for a moment.

Only your breathing filled the space—shallow and warm, mingling with his where you straddled him on the tattoo bed again, skin flushed and shining in the low amber glow of the work light. The air smelled like sweat and sex, care, and ink—hot, heavy, and honest.

Han was still beneath you, arms slack, mouth parted. His chest heaved, his cock softening between your thighs.

You dragged your fingers along the lines of his jaw, smug and satisfied. “Speechless?”

He blinked once. Then again. Something shifted in his eyes.

“No,” he rasped. “Just… trying not to fuck you so hard this bed breaks.”

You laughed softly—until his hands shot to your hips and slammed you down onto his thigh.

You gasped, the sudden friction making your oversensitive body jolt.

“I let you ruin me once,” he growled, voice low and wrecked. “Your turn now.”

You barely had time to react before he stood, arms beneath your thighs, lifting you like nothing. Your back hit the nearest wall—your bare skin flush to cool concrete, legs wrapped around his waist, his cock already hardening between you again.

“What—Han—”

“You think you can just look at me like that,” he snarled against your neck, grinding up between your soaked folds. “Touch me like you own me. And then walk out of here? Nah.”

You shivered. His cock pressed right against your entrance.

“Han—”

“Look at me.”

You did.

He didn't give you a warning. Just a brutal promise, growled against your skin; “I’m gonna fuck you so good you’ll forget your own name—but still remember mine when your hands are between your legs for weeks after.”

Then he was inside you again—deep—in one smooth, merciless thrust, hips snapping forward so hard your back hit the wall with a dull thud.

You gasped—high and breathless—arms clinging to his shoulders, nails biting into skin.

“Han—fuck—”

He caught your cry in a kiss that was anything but sweet. All tongue, teeth, and desperation, lips crushed to yours like he needed your breath to survive.

Your walls fluttered around him already—sensitive from the first round, still dripping wet and raw, but ready despite the ache. He filled you so completely, so perfectly, it stole the air from your lungs.

“I felt this pussy clench around my fingers,” he groaned, pulling back just enough to slam into you again. “But it’s nothing—nothing—compared to how you grip my cock. So fucking tight. So wet.”

You moaned—helpless—every part of your body trembling as he started to move.

Hard. Fast. Focused.

Your back scraped against the wall with every thrust, the studio echoing with the filthy slap of skin on skin, the sound of your choked gasps and his rough groans.

“You want control?” he hissed, fingers digging into the underside of your thighs, forcing them open wider. “Then take it.”

He pulled out.

You nearly cried from the loss.

Then he moved you back to the table, your knees hitting the workbench edge as he turned you, bent you forward, pressed your chest flat to the table.

You barely had time to breathe before he plunged back inside from behind, the new angle making you cry out, high and broken.

“Louder!” he commanded. “Let the whole damn building know how good I fuck you.”

And louder you were when he found that spot inside you—over and over again, the pace brutal and relentless.

He gripped your hips, pulling you back to meet every thrust, the obscene sound of your slick arousal growing louder with every stroke. Your legs started to buckle—nerves frayed, every inch of your skin alight.

“F-fuck—Han—I can’t—too much—”

“You can. You’re taking it like a fucking dream,” he rasped, reaching down, rubbing your clit in tight, wet circles that made your vision blur.

Your whole body tightened—shaking, clenching, desperate to come again, and again—

He leaned over you, lips to your ear, voice hoarse:

“Come on my cock again, baby. Milk it. Let me feel that pretty pussy worship me.”

And you did.

You shattered—body convulsing, mouth open in a silent scream as you came hard, squeezing him so tight he cursed and slammed into you with one final, brutal thrust.

He came with a shout—loud, raw, high—hips jerking as he spilled inside you, his hands fisting in your hair, his teeth grazing your shoulder.

You stayed like that for a moment.

Ruined. One tangled, sweaty, aching mess.

Then his hands softened—smoothed up your back, traced the curves of your hips like reverence.

He pressed a kiss between your shoulder blades.

“…Still remember your name?”

You laughed, wrecked and breathless.

“Remind me?" you whispered.

You did not remember collapsing—just that one moment he was still inside you, and the next, you were draped across the tattoo bed like laundry left out to dry. Your skin tingled, nerves alight, thighs sticky and trembling, your mind still floating somewhere just above your body.

And Han?

Han was slumped in the chair again, legs spread, one arm thrown dramatically over his face.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered into the crook of his elbow. “I think I blacked out. You short-circuited me.”

You snorted, face still pressed to the cool surface of the bench. “You short-circuited me. I’m literally leaking.”

He scooted the chair to get a full view of what you were talking about, eyes glassy but mischievous. “Good. I want it dripping down your thighs next time you show up in those little skirts you wear.”

You blinked. “Next time?”

Han grinned, wicked and lazy. “Oh, baby. This is so not a one-time thing. I’m gonna put a stamp on you like a repeat customer loyalty card.”

You rolled onto your side, raising a brow. “You’re gonna fuck me five times and give me a discount on a flash piece?”

He laughed—loudly. Like you caught him off guard. “God, you’re a menace.”

“You’re the menace. Who says that shit mid-stroke?” you shot back, mimicking his earlier line with mock dramatics: “‘Forget your own name but still remember mine?’ Who writes you?”

He leaned forward, dragging his fingers up your bare spine. “No one writes me. I just improvise.”

You narrowed your eyes. “So… you freestyled your way into making me cum thrice and see stars?”

He winked. “What can I say? I’ve got bars and stamina.”

You smacked him with a rolled-up paper towel, but he caught your wrist and pulled you into his lap, arms curling around your waist like he never wanted to let you go.

Then—softer, like he almost did not mean to say it aloud:

“…I really like you.”

You stilled, looked over to him and kissed him gently, pouring every single ounce of reciprocation your being had to offer him. Because maybe he was a cocky, ridiculous, and insatiable man—but he was your cocky, ridiculous, and insatiable man.

Even when he was a little bit of a menace.

The silence after pulling away was heavy—not the uncomfortable kind, more like an exhale. A shared, serene stillness, your heartbeat slowing while his lips ghosted along your jaw, your collarbone, the tender edge of your throat.

He had not moved far.

Still close. Still inside your gravity.

Then Han shifted, propping his head on one elbow which rested on the arm of the chair, eyes sweeping your face like he was memorizing something. His fingers moved before his mouth did—brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, thumb dragging down your cheek.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

You blinked up at him, still dazed. “Hey.”

He hesitated—not out of uncertainty, but because this, somehow, felt bigger than everything you both had already done.

“You don’t have to go home tonight.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

His voice stayed soft, careful, “I mean… you could stay. With me.”

You stared.

He rushed to fill the silence, eyes darting between yours.

“Not just for more of this—though God, don’t get me wrong, I want more of this—but like. We could crash at my place. Order food. You could steal my hoodie. Wake up and make terrible coffee together. You could see what I’m like in the morning. Spoiler: not sexy. Kind of grumpy. But you’re good with chaos, right?”

You laughed—but something in your chest ached, cracked just a little.

Because he meant it—this wasn’t just about lust anymore. Not even about proximity or chemistry.

It was a choice.

He was asking you to stay, to see him past the high, into the quiet.

You leaned up, kissed him once—slow and certain.

“I’ll stay,” you whispered.

And the way he looked at you then—hopeful and smug and so unmistakably fond—made you feel warmer than anything else that night.

Sunlight crept in like it was in on a secret, painting lazy gold across your bare shoulder.

You stirred, slowly, blinking awake to the smell of coffee and something warm—eggs?—cooking in the kitchen nook. Your body ached, in all the right places. Inner thighs sore. Lips swollen. A fingerprint or five pressed like stamps into your hips. You stretched, wincing slightly, and smiled.

And Han—God, Han—was nowhere in the bed, but his hoodie had been draped over your legs like a blanket, his scent wrapped around you like a sigh.

You slipped it on, oversized and soft, sleeves swallowing your hands, and padded barefoot across the polished concrete toward the sound of gentle humming and the clatter of a pan.

Han stood with his back to you—shirtless, hair wild and sticking up in twenty-seven different directions, tattoos flexing as he flipped something in a pan. There were two mugs of coffee already out. One black. The other just the way you liked it.

You leaned on the doorway, biting your smile.

He sensed you, because of course he did.

“You’re up,” he murmured, glancing over his shoulder. And then, softer, like he couldn’t help himself: “Fuck, you look good in my hoodie.”

You padded up behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing your face on his nape.

“You’re feeding me. You really trying to make me fall in love with you?”

He chuckled, flipping the egg once again with a practiced hand. “That was the plan, yeah. Ruin your body, then win your heart with food.”

You laughed against his skin. “Tactical.”

He turned the stove off and turned in your arms, resting his hands low on your hips, looking down at you with sleepy warmth in his eyes. You felt it then—not just the physical closeness, but the easiness of it. The comfort. The pull.

“You staying the whole day?” he asked, voice quiet now, vulnerable in that way he rarely let show.

You nodded, brushing your lips over his collarbone.

“Only if you kiss me like that again,” you teased.

He grinned.

And did just that—slow, sweet, a kiss with no agenda other than to keep you there.

Later, with your stomach full, your limbs loose and drowsy from the best kind of indulgence, you found yourself curled up on the couch—Han’s head in your lap, your fingers absentmindedly playing with the messy strands of his hair.

Some terrible movie was playing on his television. Neither of you was really watching it. The remote lay forgotten on the floor. His fingers traced idle patterns on the bare skin beneath your borrowed hoodie, the both of you half-clothed, half-tangled, fully comfortable.

“This is dangerous,” you murmured.

Han cracked one eye open. “What is?”

“This. Us. You looking at me like I hung the stars and made your coffee.”

He smirked without moving. “You did, though. Kind of. That coffee was perfect.”

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks warmed anyway.

His expression softened, gaze dropping to where his hand rested just beneath your ribs. “You should let me tattoo you again,” he said after a long beat.

You looked down at him. “Now?”

“No,” he smiled, “not now. But someday. Something small. Just for me. Somewhere only I get to see.”

Your stomach flipped at the idea. You tried to play it off. “That’s a lot of trust, letting you draw on me permanently.”

His fingers slid a little lower, dangerously close to a place that still pulsed with the memory of last night.

“You already let me ruin you once,” he said with a grin. “What’s a little ink?”

You snorted, swatting at him half-heartedly. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“And you’re still here,” he countered easily, nuzzling into your thigh like he belonged there. Like he always had.

You sighed contently as you carded your fingers through his hair again.

“Yeah,” you whispered, half to him, half to yourself.

“And I'm here to stay.”

drops this in your hands and runs off into the sunset

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[lunarmoves]

you've been watching them for a while now.

automatons aren't new, by any means. you've seen them roaming around in the villages and towns beyond the treeline of the forest for years—decades, even. what they do, you're unsure, but you figure they aren't much different than the humans living their own lives day after day.

they walk like people, they talk like people, and they laugh like people, so you suppose they are people. strange and complex as they are.

this is the first time you've seen them in the forest, though.

nestled high above, between the branches of an oak tree, you peer down at the earth to watch two mechs picking their way past overgrown shrubs and tangled bramble. they're curious things, designed in such a way where their vivid colors stick out amongst all the verdant flora. your gaze lingers on the sharp rays framing the head of one of the mechs, before it trails to the starry nightcap adorning the other.

in a way, they remind you of the sun and moon. your gaze flicks upwards at the sliver of the daytime sky you can see through the tree's canopy. curious indeed.

they are dressed for travel, like all the other humans that have previously ventured forth into the forest. and you suppose they are after the same things as well. you've kept an eye on them throughout their journey deeper into the forest—keeping your distance, yes, but you have been growing bored enough to creep closer and closer with each passing day.

they amuse you, the automatons. with their connective designs to the universe and their gentle bickering you can hear from time to time. they have not stopped to rest for long, nor do they eat or sleep. a difference, you muse, from regular humans. it is so intriguing.

they are looking for the forest's treasures, that much is certain. and like all the others who have searched before them, you have no doubt that they will fail at their task.

but that doesn't mean you can't have your own fun.

the one with the sun rays has been scrutinizing an old map in his metal hands for the last few hours, turning it this way and that as he peers critically up at his surroundings. the leaf-ladened trees are painted in sunlight in a way reminiscent of a liquid gold coating. flowers and blossoms litter the dirt-covered ground like nature's version of a loose carpet. branches extend their scrawny fingers to tug at the mechs' clothes.

he huffs as he stops walking and seems to glare at a particularly thick tree covered in wisteria. "this is the third time we've passed this tree."

the other one chuckles as he comes to a halt next to his companion and peers up at his irritated face. "how can you tell? they all look the same."

"i can tell because i marked this tree!" the yellow mech says shrilly as he points to a spot where he'd peeled off a bit of bark on the trunk earlier. "you watched me do so, moon!"

"that could've been missing beforehand," moon replies in amusement. and when his companion only gives him a dry look, he relents. "alright fine. what do you want me to say, sun? that we're lost?"

sun and moon, you file away in your head in delight while you shift forward on your branch. your smile steadily widens. how concise and so very fitting.

"well no, but some help would be greatly appreciated!" sun says in exasperation as he throws his hands up. he points a finger at moon. "you've been letting me do all the mapping and navigating. i haven't seen you do anything other than look around and mimic the birds!"

and to your absolute pleasure, moon cocks his head at sun and does precisely what he has been doing for the last hour: he releases a sound similar to the call of a pheasant, short and musical. you are unsure how he is able to do so, but it is nothing short of hilarious.

sun gives moon a withering look. all it does is make moon break out into soft laughter.

sun sighs and it is a long, weary thing. "at this rate we won't ever be able to return to the castle. here, you try navigating." he thrusts the old map towards moon, who takes it easily. "if i have to look at that thing for one more second, i'll short circuit myself."

moon snorts and peers down at the map to hum at it. they are both standing just in front of the tree you're camped in. you look down to see if you can catch a glimpse of this map of theirs and have to hold back your own chuckle when you see how inaccurate it is. that certainly isn't helping—your own meddling aside.

moon hums. he turns the map left, then right, then completely flips it upside down. he nods to himself.

"yep, that settles it," he muses to himself.

sun tilts his head, crowding over his companion's shoulder to look down at the map as well. interestingly, one of his rays shrinks down to avoid poking moon's face. "settles what? did you figure something out?"

"yes. we're lost," moon announces, then crumples up the map to stick it into his pocket. you hold back a snort.

sun groans and runs his hands down his flat face. "why did i have to get stuck on this task with you."

when all moon does is cackle in response, you finally decide it is an appropriate time for you to make an appearance.

quietly, you make your way to a branch just in front of them, above their heads, and allow your body to swing backwards to hang upside down before their faces. "hi!"

abruptly, sun shrieks and leaps back. you grin as you watch him take on a defensive pose, his hand lingering at the satchel hanging from his shoulder. you have yet to see him open it. your gaze darts over to moon to see he has not moved an inch. instead, he stares at you with these ruby eyes that you are unable to decipher. but you can feel the way they analyze your form intently.

(earlier, as you followed them via tree, you could've sworn you saw moon glancing up occasionally at the canopies like he could sense your presence through them. maybe even see you.

but that was impossible, you dismissed. no one ever could.

he was just bird watching, you figured out later as you watched him follow the paths of the birds flitting over his head. that had to be it.)

you make a mental note to keep an eye on moon.

"you guys look mighty lost," you say cheerfully, your legs flexing a little where they're hooked around the branch. "want some help?"

you're looking at moon as you ask, but it's sun who responds.

"no, thank you," he says stiffly. he straightens, though he still keeps his hand near his satchel. there is wariness lining his body and the white glow of his eyes, that much is apparent. not that you blame him, really.

"aww, don't be like that." you lift your hands up to cross them behind your head; the picturesque form of nonchalant. "i don't bite, promise! no one knows the forest better than i do!"

"we know better than to trust random humans we encounter. particularly out here," sun replies cooly.

you giggle. "i'm not a human, silly. i'm a spirit of the forest. look!"

and with a small wave of a hand pointed at sun, you will tiny blossoms to start sprouting from his clothes—littering them like he'd just had a basket of flowers thrown at him.

sun jumps slightly as he looks down at himself and seems taken aback at the little buds. his gaze flits back up to you, though he is still just as cautious as before. "a forest spirit is just as untrustworthy as a human. there's a reason why this is called the forest of disappearances, after all."

you cock your head. "is that what they're calling it?" you hum thoughtfully. "i have not heard of this. surely you mean another forest?"

sun scoffs and brushes the flowers off of him. they flutter sadly to the ground. "i am quite certain it is this one."

"then why have you come here?" you ask curiously. flipping yourself off the branch, you land nimbly on your bare feet and straighten up with your hands clasped behind your back. you had not noticed it before, what with you sticking to the trees and all, but these automatons are rather tall. "it would be better to avoid a forest with so-called disappearances, no?"

"that is none of your concern," sun harrumphs and crosses his arms. for all the wariness he's regarding you with, he sure is willing to continue the conversation.

your gaze flicks briefly over to moon. he is still quietly watching you.

you look back at sun. "i am being genuine in my offer to help you, you know. don't you know forest spirits are kindred beings? it goes against our very nature to misguide."

"yes, well—" sun starts, but you do not give him the chance to continue.

"besides," you interrupt as you slowly start to circle the two. this close, you are now able to properly look them over—picking out all the minute details that make them real. "i have not encountered people like you before."

sun looks stunned, momentarily, though the expression quickly disappears. "people? no, you are mistaken. we are robots."

you tilt your head at him. they are both spinning around steadily to keep you in their line of sight. it allows you to take in the way they hold themselves—the rigidity of their limbs. "you act like people. therefore you are."

sun's mouth opens like he is about to refute you. but he stops when moon says his name in a low, warning tone. your eyes flick back and forth between them as you note each and every reaction. curious, curious. you decide to drop the topic.

"well, in any case," you continue lightly, "allow me to help you with your task. i insist."

"persistent, aren't you?" sun snaps out, then makes a motion like he is taking in a deep breath of air. "no. no, we are quite fine, thank you," he says shortly as he turns with finality to start walking off in a different direction. "come on, moon."

as moon slouches after sun, you deliberate stopping them, or making it apparent that you are following them instead of sticking to the trees. but ultimately you decide to let them go. for now.

"be careful!" you call after them, waving a little when the two glance back at you for a moment. "there are far worst things in this forest than a simple spirit such as i."

they do not bother you with a response. your smile is all teeth as you watch their backs retreating into the distance, your hand lowering so you can clasp your fingers firmly together.

oh this will be fun indeed.

[dexxtrosee]

Neverending battle

Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x reader

TW: mentions of canon character death, mass casualty event, grief, PTSD, lockdowns

Robby's sitting outside on the steps when you get home.

You reel back slightly, unsure. He has his head between his hands, taking deep breaths with his eyes closed. He's not dirty, still wearing the same cargo pants and black scrub top he left with in the morning. The face full of grief isn’t new either.

There's added weight to his shoulders though, you can see it. It’s almost like he’s doing an effort to stay upright against a crushing weight pushing him downwards, unsure of if he even wants to anymore.

You try your best to get closer without making a sound, slow steps and controlled breathing. His hands clench slightly.

"Jake's girlfriend died on me today."

You freeze.

"Remember I told you I'd give him the tickets so he could go with the girl he told us about? Her name was Leah," his voice breaks when he says her name, "I got to see her alive and happy through a call, and a few hours later I was covered in her blood and she was dead right in the middle of the ER."

You had seen the news, had called him a hundred times before it got through and Dana had answered. He talked to you five, ten seconds maybe, just to tell you to call Jake, to tell you he loved you, that he'd get home late. A watery chuckle was what he got back, and a 'be safe'. They had both sounded wrecked in that controlled way you knew so well, Robby had mastered it ages ago.

Which is why you don’t really know what to do with what’s pouring out of him right now. He hasn't moved, hasn't looked up at you, talking to the floor with his backpack by his side. He never tells you anything, never talks about what eats him alive and wakes you up when he starts crying at midnight.

He can talk about the funny, quirky cases, not with any other details but the fun ones. The girl who broke his arm trying to see how far she could jump, the boy who had a condom stuck inside, the teacher who had an accident in class and had been sneezing glitter for two days.

A month ago he got home laughing his ass off because a bunch of teenagers had gotten to the Pitt in a blind panic from their tongues being blue without "apparent reason", fearing the worst.

They just got high off his asses with a blue brownie and didn't remember, he kept saying, tears streaming down his face from laughing too much. It had made you so happy to see him like that, so carefree and finding something nice at work for once.

The man sat in front of you is a whole different person.

Your mind unhelpully supplies that Leah must have been around those teenagers' age.

"I broke inside the ped's room after Jake told me it was my fault, a-and it is, right? It is. Over a hundred people saved and I let my- I let Jake's girlfriend die."

Irrational anger flames inside your chest.

He's just a boy, you know.

He didn’t see Robby five years ago, though. Didn't spend months having to see him through the car window only, with dark circles around his eyes and thinner than ever. He has no clue about the first time he came back home and woke you up with his retching inside the bathroom, or the way he got paranoic for days and cleaned every single surface again and again. The blind panic that would show up on his face when you so much as sneezed, how he bought packs of facemasks that haven’t run out to this day.

But he’s just a boy, you know. And you know that you would hate anyone too if they were somehow even remotely capable of saving Robby and he died anyway, no matter how crazy it would be. Grief isn’t rational.

"I don't think we're gonna be seeing Jake anytime soon, babe. Sorry."

And he says it just like that, like that boy hasn’t been the shine in his eyes for years.

You sit down next to him, pulling one of his hands away from his head and clutching it between yours. He lets you, but doesn’t move otherwise.

"I think just us two will be fine for a while."

Not like you have any option, but still, he chuckles. "You think?"

Shrugging, you bury yourself into his side, ignoring how tight his entire body feels. You wonder if, this time, it was Jack the one who had to go up and talk. It makes you pull him closer.

"You sayin' I'm not fun enough for you now? Want me to go around pulling odd shit again, like when we first met?"

Finally, he turns slowly and kisses the top of your head. His body trembles slightly, adrenaline rush wearing off. You don’t dare mention it.

"As if I'd need anything else."

You smile.

You'll pressure him into going to therapy tomorrow, again. You're not sure if you should be relieved or worried sick at the fact that your chances at winning seem better this time around, not like the hundred times before.

"Whatever you need, Robinavitch."

You stay outside until his shaking calms down, and let him cry himself to sleep with his head on your chest.

In the morning, he finally agrees.

[loganofthenorth]

I KNOW RIGHT!?!

People are like: Remember when we were kids and our biggest problem was what to choose as our favorite colour?

And I'm like: ???

I don't know what your childhood was like, but I remember having zero autonomy and getting in trouble when I tried to figure out where we were going when my parents dragged me places

Like imagine if your land lord told you to get in the car and would pick you up and place you into the car if you refused

And most of the time they just like bring you to target or whatever

(I was Autistic and disabled however so that brings new flavours of hell into my childhood but I'm not talking about that rn)

But sometimes they brought you to a small white room where a stranger would proceeded to poke you for five minutes with various tools before talking to your parents for an hour while you had to sit there, often alone with your own anxieties, and wait

Or sometimes it was to their friends house where you don't know the rules and you have to stay still and we're only going to be here for a few minutes so don't sit down and the friend has a cat that's trying to get attention from you but you're allergic to cats and afraid of them so you step away and your parents tell you not to worry it's fine then one hour later they're still talking and you're still avoiding getting your already sore legs scratched up by this cat you don't know

And I was lucky and had parents that loved together and worked relatively well together. There was the common occurrence of one parent getting mad at me out of nowhere for doing something the other parent told me to do, which was frightening and frustrating, but I've known kids with divorced parents and that adds a whole new layer of stress.

Imagine being dragged around by two separate adults and the law now has a say in what house you're spending what nights at and you have like no say in the matter until you turn twelve.

And then when your family moves to a new place and you're just expected to completely drop your life and get a new one

Like you have no control over your life as a kid

Choosing a favorite colour as a kid was not your biggest concern

It was the coping mechanism

Trying to find out who we are as people is the one thing we have control over as children. Unfortunately some kids don't even get to have that, because they might like colours or toys or stories that they aren't 'allowed to' because of their gender, race, etc.

Like don't get me wrong, shits hard right now. I'm in a mental health rut at the moment so I often feel restrained in my room while the world moves around me and I hate it.

But if I had the energy, I could get a job, and start saving money to have a place of my own one day.

I can talk to people I want to talk to and no one is going to force me to hug a stranger if I don't feel comfortable around them

I have more resources and knowledge to work with than I used to and it makes it far easier to communicate with others

And you can still think about your favorite colour as an adult

I hate that people put age boundaries on fun.

You don't have to be dragged around by adults anymore. Get a colouring book of your favorite characters or something and watch your favourite shows. Have something you enjoy eating in your meals.

The world is on fire, capitalism has us on a choke hold, and burn out is the fucking worse. But I still prefer this flavour of hell over the one where I am at the mercy of the whims of the giants around me, who actually have no idea what they're doing either btw. I know that now that I'm one of them and it's fucking terrifying.

My favourite colours are blue and yellow btw

What are yours?

A friend has once again brought it to my attention that it is unusual to have an intact chronological memory of life prior to age 12 and you know what’s weird to ME is that the rest of yall forgot how to sing the clean-up song

[luna-azzurra]

Ways I Show a Character Is Secretly Lonely (Even When Surrounded by People)

I love writing characters who insist they’re “fine” while clearly radiating the desperate energy of a dog left home alone for eight hours with no enrichment activities.

They laugh too loud at jokes that aren’t funny. And not just a chuckle—like full-blown sitcom audience laughter. Because if they laugh hard enough, maybe no one will notice the hollow echo inside.

They overshare weirdly fast. First conversation? Congrats, you now know about their third-grade trauma and their mom’s weird obsession with Tupperware. It’s like emotional diarrhea: uncontrollable, messy, and a cry for connection they don’t even realize they’re making.

They get way too invested in minor social interactions. The barista remembered their name? That’s the emotional highlight of their month now. They’re writing about it in their journal tonight.

They cling to any group or friend who gives them an ounce of attention. Book club? Bowling league? Interpretive dance class for introverts? They’re signing up just to hear someone say, “See you next week.”

They’re the ultimate “life of the party” but go home feeling like they were never actually seen. Because if you're entertaining enough, nobody looks too closely at the emptiness.

Their texts are weirdly enthusiastic at 2 a.m. "OMG WE HAVE TO HANG OUT!!!!" followed by weeks of silence. It’s not flakiness, it’s a tidal wave of loneliness crashing into a wall of shame.

They constantly post selfies, group photos, “Having so much fun!!” posts… and yet, somehow, you can smell the loneliness through the screen. (If you could bottle that vibe, it would smell like stale wine and unsent texts.)

They stay in bad relationships just to not feel alone. Red flags? They’ve knitted a full quilt out of them. Because someone is better than no one, right? (It’s not.)

They sabotage good relationships because vulnerability is scarier than loneliness. "If I push them away first, they can’t hurt me!" - them, crying alone on a Friday night, claiming they're just "enjoying some me-time."

They have this glazed look when people talk about “close friends.” Like they know what it’s supposed to feel like, but they’re running on Google Image results and secondhand memories from coming-of-age movies.

[0cta9on]

Golden Hour Café

Length: 1.8k words

Genre: Fluff

Nmixx Kyujin x (G)-idle Soyeon x Male Reader

(Author's Note: Wrote this for a prompt thingy hosted by @woollypoison! Thenk yew ooly, it was very fun :] Also, using a different divider cuz I had formatting issues with the other one :> Enjoy!)

⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚✩࿐

The faint scent of roasted coffee beans wafts past your nostrils as you sweep the empty cafe. There’s no reason to—there hasn’t been any customers for the past couple hours—but it’s better than sitting around doing nothing, and your uncle will give you an earful if he catches you slacking off again. The summer sun casts long rays of golden light through the windows. It’s already hot enough even with the AC on blast, so you try to sweep around those areas.

Some song by The Beatles blasts through the speakers, echoing throughout the empty cafe. A favorite of your uncle’s, but not something you would ever listen to willingly. With the way Kyujin is bobbing her head as she wipes down the tables, it might become one of her favorites too. 

“Don’t tell me you actually like this song,” you mutter.

Your friend shrugs. “It’s kinda catchy.”

“It’s so… old, though.”

“Maybe I’m just an old soul.”

“Old soul?” you chuckle. “But you look like a—Ow.” She slaps your arm with a wet rag.

“Don’t even think about finishing that sentence.” Kyujin tries to glare, but it comes off more like an angry kitten rather than anything remotely threatening.

“Whatever.” You plop into one of the booths with a long sigh, dropping the broom at your feet. “So much for an opening day.”

Kyujin sits across from you, leaning her head on the table. “It wasn’t so bad. Five customers is pretty good for the first day.”

“Four,” you point out. “One of them was only here to use the bathroom.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but sinks into the table with a dejected sigh instead. “Just trying to be optimistic,” she mutters, voice muffled.

Your uncle waltzes in from the back, whistling along to the song. “Hey kiddos, how are we…” His voice falters as he sees the two of you sitting down, disheartened and exhausted. “C’mon, it’s just opening day. We’ll get more customers eventually,” he tries to cheer you up, but the uncertainty in his voice speaks louder than his words.

“I guess…” you utter.

“Yeah…” Kyujin adds.

You feel bad, but not for lack of trying. Your uncle spent months getting this cafe up and running, even quitting his old desk job so he could focus all his efforts on his real dream. It’s commendable, to say the least. You watched him put all his blood, sweat, and tears into this place—you just wish other people saw that too.

“Um, sir?” Kyujin asks, tentatively raising her hand.

“You don’t have to call me ‘sir’, Kyujin,” your uncle grins. “What’s up?”

“Do we… still get paid?” Your head shoots up at the thought of your first paycheck.

He sighs. “Yes, of course. Just not until the end of the week.”

You and Kyujin sink back into the leather cushions with a groan. You spent the entire day here, barely making a handful of drinks, and you have to do that four more times until you get paid? Working is a scam.

“Why don’t I go buy us some dinner while you two close up shop for today, huh?” your uncle offers. “What are we feeling? Pizza? Burgers? Chinese?”

Kyujin looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to choose. You stifle a smile as her wide eyes peer into yours. You almost forget to answer, too distracted by the way her eyes sparkle like the sun. “Uh, I’m fine with anything. You?” you ask her. Her lips curl into that giddy smile that never fails to make your heart flutter.

“Pizza, please!” she exclaims.

“Alright, I’ll be back in a few with some pizzas.” The door chime rings as your uncle makes his exit, leaving you two to close up shop. You run through the mental checklist in your mind, but considering you’ve done nothing but clean all day, most of the work is already done.

“Y’know, when the cafe gets busier, we’ll probably miss quiet days like these,” Kyujin comments as she stacks up the chairs.

“Maybe,” you shrug. “I’d much rather make drinks than pointlessly push the broom around for hours.”

She chuckles, her cheeks puffing up like marshmallows. For a moment, you imagine what it must feel like, pinching them in between your fingers. “Hey, at least your hands aren’t all clammy from that wash rag. If anything you got the easy job,” she says.

“Aww, you worried a little rag is gonna ruin your soft baby hands?” Kyujin suddenly attacks you with a flurry of slaps against your arm, but in all her fury, it just ends up tickling. “What are you doing? Stop!”

“Stop being mean!”

“I’m not being mean—”

The door chime jingles, and the two of you freeze. A woman with long black hair and dressed in a cool denim jacket stands in the doorway, eyeing the two of you oddly.

“Uh, are you still open?” she asks, gaze bouncing back and forth between you two.

“U-um, yes we are!” You quickly take down one of the chairs just for her while Kyujin scurries behind the counter.

“What would you like to drink, ma’am?” Kyujin asks in that customer service tone the two of you practiced last night.

“Just an iced americano,” the woman answers coolly.

“Coming right up!”

You join Kyujin behind the counter, both to help and so you don’t just stand around awkwardly. She grabs a plastic cup and shovels ice into it, the cubes clattering loudly. “Americanos are just espresso and water, right?” she whispers, glancing up at you.

“Yeah,” you answer. “You remember how to pull a shot?”

“Duh, I’m not you,” she smirks, twisting the portafilter into the espresso machine. You almost slap her arm, but stop yourself, not wanting to mess her up. Kyujin presses a button on the machine, causing it to hum to life before dripping liquid gold into the tiny glass underneath. 

She leans in, inspecting it closely. “Crema looks decent,” she mutters.

“Okay Gordon Ramsay, it’s not rocket science,” you tease.

“That doesn’t even make sense, he’s a chef, not a barista, stupid. Now move!” she hisses, waving you away as if she needs ample space just to pour espresso over ice cubes. She finishes it off with a splash of cold water, stirs the dark brown concoction with a spoon, and caps it off.

“One iced americano, for Miss, uh…” Kyujin blanks out.

“Soyeon. Thanks, kid,” she grins, taking the drink and bringing the straw to her lips. The two of you can’t help but watch in anticipation as she tastes the drink that the two of y— er, Kyujin made. “Not bad.”

You and Kyujin jump into each other’s arms, squealing and bouncing around in joy. Perhaps you hold onto her for a little too long or a little tightly, but if her laughter is any indication of things, she doesn’t seem to mind. After a long, boring day, it feels good to end on a win.

“Are you two dating or something?” Soyeon. chuckles, taking a seat near the counter. Kyujin suddenly scrambles off of you, her face turning pink like a sunburn.

“N-no! We’re not! Just friends!” she exclaims, waving her hands wildly in embarrassment.

“Y-yeah, just friends…” you echo, trying to mask the pain in your voice.

“Right…” Soyeon looks around the cafe, admiring the old time-y decorations that your uncle set up. “Is this place new? I don’t think I’ve ever seen it before.”

“Yeah, we just opened today. My uncle owns the cafe,” you answer.

“Ooh, cool. Must be fun working with your girlfriend.”

“S-she’s not my—!”

“I know, I know, ‘just friends’,” she chuckles. “Pardon my teasing, I had a bunch of meetings and I’ve had to act serious all day.”

“I-its okay,” Kyujin assures her, still red in the face. “If you don’t mind me asking, what do you do for work?”

“I’m an… artist,” Soyeon hesitates.

“Ooh, so you make music and stuff? That’s so cool!”

“Yeah, well, that’s what I’m supposed to be doing anyways.” The older woman lets out a long sigh, letting her jet black hair fall to the side. “These days, it feels like my job is to argue with old guys in suits just so I can make the music that I want to make.”

“Ah, I see…” Kyujin nods, feeling bad for accidentally dampening the mood.

“Are there any songs we might know from you?” you ask in an attempt to change the subject.

“Sorry kid, I really don’t wanna be rude, but I’d rather not talk about work right now,” Soyeon mutters.

“Ah, that rough, huh?”

“Yup.” She takes a long sip of her drink. “C’est la vie, I suppose.”

“Was that Spanish?” Kyujin whispers to you. “I barely passed Spanish.” You gently nudge her side, giving her an “I’ll tell you later” look.

“So, what about you two?” Soyeon asks. “Still bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I see. There’s still hope in your eyes.” 

“We’re just working here for the summer until next semester starts,” you explain.

“Ah, the sweet simplicity of youth.” Soyeon shuts her eyes, rocking back and forth to the song playing through the speakers. “No rules, no expectations, just pure freedom. How wonderful.”

Kyujin shoots you a confused look, but all you can do is shrug in response, not quite understanding what’s going on. “U-uh, yeah, it’s pretty nice, I guess,” you utter nervously.

Soyeon opens her eyes and sighs before walking up to the counter and taking out her wallet. “Let me give you a tip.”

“Oh, thank you, that’s very ki—”

“Run wild, run free, break the law, but most importantly, have fun.” Soyeon drops a fat wad of cash into the tip jar before walking off, nearly bumping into your uncle as he returns with the pizzas. “I’ll see you around, kiddos.” Without turning around, she flashes a peace sign before disappearing around the corner.

“Who was that?” your uncle asks, confusion written all over his face.

“I have no idea, but I think I wanna be her when I grow up,” Kyujin says, eyes wide as she fans through our newly acquired stack of cash. Soyeon could’ve been a witch or an escaped convict or whatever, as long as she keeps giving you tips like these, you don’t mind having her as your first ever regular. 

“Do you think she’ll come back?” Kyujin asks as she finishes washing the dishes.

“Maybe,” you reply, wiping off the counters. “Seems like she liked the place. Almost like she… needed it, or something.” “Wow, how thoughtful of you,” she giggles, gently elbowing your side. You chuckle softly, charmed by the way her nose scrunches up whenever she laughs. If every day is just like this, cracking jokes in the pleasant atmosphere with Kyujin, then maybe the quiet days aren’t so bad after all.

[quokkareactions]

Random attractive things they do: SKZ

Chan: Wearing a suit

He emerged annoyed from your room struggling with his tie.

"I thought I knew how to tie these things"

You chuckled and waved him to yourself.

"These are some talented hands you have. I'm surprised there's anything they can't do"

"Very funny" he rolled his eyes.

"I wasn't being funny... And done"

He pecked your lips and went for the front door.

"Thanks, baby. I'll be back in a few hours"

"Have fun, handsome!"

Minho: Taking charge during plans

"Don't worry about dinner tonight" he said, grabbing his car keys. "I've got it all figured out"

You raised your eyebrows.

"Oh really? Care to share the plan?"

"Not a chance" he replied with a grin. "You'll see"

He drove you to a cozy little restaurant you've never been before, complete with a view of the city lights. It wasn't extravagant, but the effort he put into surprising you in itself was enough to make you melt.

Changbin: Rolling up their sleeves

You watched as he leaned over the kitchen counter, rolling up his sleeves before starting to chop vegetables. The casual movement exposed his forearms, the slight flex of muscle catching your attention. He glanced up, finding you staring.

"What?" he asked, smirking as he kept chopping.

"Nothing" you replied, cheeks flushing "Just... You look good doing that"

He laughed shaking his head, but you could tell he was pleased. For the rest of the night you couldn't stop glancing at those rolled up sleeves and the effortless confidence they added to his demeanour.

Hyunjin: Driving with confidence

The way he handled the car was mesmerising. One hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift, his focus steady but relaxed. You couldn't help but stare.

"Take a picture, it lasts longer"

"Oh no need, this is already etched into my brain" you answered with a teasing smile.

"So this is why you never drive"

"No, I simply suck at driving... You looking hella fine is just an added bonus" you shrugged.

Jisung: Giving genuine compliments

"You know, you’re amazing at what you do" he said out of nowhere as you were walking through the park. You turned to look at him, surprised.

"What brought that on?" you asked, smiling.

"I just realized I don’t tell you enough" he said, hands in his pockets. "The way you handle things with so much passion... It’s inspiring."

Your heart skipped a beat at his sincerity. It wasn’t just the words; it was the way he said them, like he genuinely admired you. That moment stayed with you, a quiet reminder of how much he appreciates you.

Felix: Being good with kids

You were at your nephew's birthday pool party and Felix was in the pool, splashing around ith the kids. After watching them for a while, you leaned back on your sunbed, closing your eyes and enjoying the sun. When the sunlight unexpectedly dissappeared, you opened one eye to glance at the shadow.

"What's gotten you so smiley?" he inquired with a lovestruck grin.

"You..." you confessed while madly blushing "You're really good with kids"

He smiled and leaned down to kiss the top of your head before returning to the pool.

Seungmin: Pulling you close in crowded places

The street was packed with people, and you were struggling to keep up. Without saying a word, he reached for your hand and gently pulled you closer, his arm wrapping protectively around your shoulder.

"Better?"

"Much better"

He didn't let go until you were out of the crowd, and even then you didn't want him to.

Jeongin: Casual stretching

He was sitting on the couch when he suddenly leaned back, stretching his arms over his head with a groan. His shirt lifted slightly, revealing a hint of toned abs. You tried not to stare but couldn't help yourself.

"Everything okay over there?" he asked catching your gaze.

"Uh, yeah" you replied, quickly looking away, cheeks burning.

He smirked, clearly enjoying your reaction and stretching once again, just to tease you.

[rabotimagines]

As a fellow G1 lover.. who’s also newer to the transformers show and fandom. May I kindly request a really chaotic bot reader-

Chaotic in the sense of they very much have impulse control, they just don’t use the control part! They can and will say out of pocket things ranging from flirts to flat out saying some of the raunchiest stuff known to cybertronian kind. They love to hang off others if given the okay, will 100% just cuddle whoever if they’re allowed to.

But they also are super sweet, always willing to lend a servo or audial receptor- they love their friends, romantically or platonically. They just want to make sure their people they care for are happy in the war they’re all suffering in.

If it could be with the Autobot base? And maybe with my bots Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, and Jazz?? You’re free to add whoever else you please!!

I do adore your writing it’s amazing!! And easy to go along with to, I love just scrolling through a bunch of it! I hope you have a good timezone!! Take care and take breaks when needed. :]

I shall try to pace myself correctly. Frankly, the robots are the only thing keeping me sane considering the state of the world rn... The horrors may have a hold of my ass but I stay a freak about mechs...

"Chaotic" GN BOT Reader + Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, Jazz, Ratchet

Summary: You're Chaotic, affectionate, and, you mean well.

G1 characters: The Lamborghini twins, Jazz, Ratchet

Genre/Theme: Platonic

Pronouns: You, Your, Yours

Notes: I took the "chaotic" as an also off and on the battlefield trait.

Sideswipes one of the few Autobots that's actually usually fine with the physical affection. So it wouldn't be strange to see you hanging off of Sideswipe most of the time. Your arm around his pauldron or linked with his own arm. Sure, he's not a "constant wants to cuddle" type, though, so he'll usually have to revoke privileges when he's not up for it. But about eight times outta ten Sideswipes cool with you touching him in some way.

Sideswipe is almost exactly the same on the battlefield, so he can't exactly scold you for being chaotic there even if he thinks you're going too far. Which definitely takes a lot for him to want to scold you in the first place since Sideswipes impulsive and no bars when the potential to win a fight is on the line. Which usually leads to Cons out right avoiding you both if they see you and Sideswipe together on the battlefield. They don't know what you'll do, but they know sparkdamn well they aren't gonna like it.

If you're cool with it, then Sideswipe will drag you into physical bouts with him when he wants some fun. Wanna do some arm wrestling? Or a full frame spar? If you're game, then he'll be tossing you around and vice versa whenever he's bored and has nothing else to do. That or he's using you to help pull his pranks. Which does lead to you being in trouble, especially if either of you gets caught. But Sideswipe won't leave you out to dry since he's the one roping you into these in the first place. No mech left behind!

-

You better be glad you're getting your physical contact filled in with his twin, because Sunstreaker sure as slag ain't letting you touch him. He doesn't want you scuffing his frame or getting him dirty. Doesn't matter if you were just in the solvent showers- servos off and away. He's messaging Sideswipe to come be his shield whenever he sees you, even if you do respect his boundaries the first time he tells you no. Sunstreaker isn't risking it. Especially not when you're constantly grabbing everyone who lets you.

Sunstreaker doesn't think you're stupid- he knows you're stupid. Because you sure as slag do not seem to care about doing or saying dumb slag when you know it's not gonna go over well. At least it's the entertaining type of stupid. Sunstreaker usually crossing his arms over his chassis and silently stands on the sidelines and stares when you're doing whatever slag you've decided you were gonna do. And he watches the fallout from your own dumbaft choices.

Sunstreaker does take full advantage of the fact that you constantly seem to want to do things for them. Which usually gets him getting verbally reamed out by the officers when he gets caught again, putting his boring menial ark shifts off on you to go race. If he's not using you to get off his shift, he's having you be pack mule for him if he can't (Or doesn't want to) fit something in his sub space. Via having you carrying whatever he doesn't have to be carrying. He gets into it with Sideswipe sometimes because apparently his brother doesn't like how he acts towards you enough to start slag about it. Whatever. It's not like you were complaining about it.

-

Jazz is a bit concerned about your ol' lack of... control. He's used to your by the seat of your aft type behavior, so he's not typically surprised. But that usually doesn't stop him from shaking a helm or tutting his glossia with his signature smile in place. If whatever you're doing dumb is actually seriously dangerous or disruptive, then Jazz will usually scold you if he's gotta. But in all honesty, it usually feels like a mischievous adult cat trying to discipline a kitten. It'll have to be pretty severe if Jazz is gonna scold you proper.

Jazz is also not a mech shy about affection, at least on the ark. Wanna grab him for a few klicks in the cafeteria? Wanna hold his hand down the ark hallway? Go right on ahead. Jazz doesn't like you getting grabby with him off of the base however "Can't have you hanging off of me for the next few klicks. Need to keep up appearances, Capiche?"

Jazz is very nonchalant about you seemingly wanting to do everything and anything for him. He's not royalty or nothin' just your ol' second in command. So he usually has you do things for yourself whenever you try and do something for him. Wanna know what he wants? Go refuel for yourself. Go take a break. Come listen to these new tunes Jazz has saved on his sound system and tell him what ya think. Y'know simple stuff.

-

Your mouth and solvent. Name a more iconic duo to Ratchet, and he might not wash your mouth out with it. You'd be well antiquated with Ratchet due to your own impulsive and rash decisions leading to injuries both off and on the battlefield. You end up in the medbay for some dumb slag once again, and Ratchet would be staring at you with the same withering tired look. Until you start squirming before he's asking "Now was that a good idea?" And waiting to hear your sorry excuse for whatever you did this time.

Ratchet will try to get to the bottom of your own urge to be useful, especially if it's whats causing you to act rash in the first place. Whether it's a psychological one or just an innate part of your programming (or just you), Ratchet wants you to put yourself first, especially in battlefield situations. You wanna do something for Ratchet? Then can you do that for him?

Ratchets not particularly fond of physical affection. He's not adverse to it hardly. It's more something he'll only allow on the occasion. A sideways hug here, a pauldron squeeze from him there. Keep yourself together for the next major battle, and Ratchet will allow a full frame hug! (He says this is a one-time deal, but if you can do it next time as well, he'll give you another one. The tired sap.)

[fluff-cember]

Fluffcember in July 2025

Alright, the poll was faily clear: A lot of people want to do a summer Fluffcember. Which obviously is also fun! Remember, this idea came about due to people from the Southern Hemisphere noting, that all "december" challenges tend to focus on winter-related topics, while in the Southern Hemisphere it was summer.

So, to be fair, now another somewhat wintery challenge in July, when the Southern Hemisphere people have their own winter.

From December onwards, I will make sure the challenges will be two-sided. Summer-side and Winter-side!

Bonus challenge: Put your characters in the Southern Hemisphere for once. (Okay, this one is probably easier for the Dragon Age fandom xD)

Rules and Lists are underneath the cut!

Rules:

You can participate with fanfics, original writing, poetry, graphics, or art of any sort.

You do not need to write/create for every day. If you do only want to do every second day that is fine.

Please post your entries on the days or later though - not before.

If you participate with fics: please note that this account will only repost stuff that is written out. No "this is an idea of a fic one could write to this prompt". For prose writing the min length is 100 words (so the lenght of a drabble).

If you want this account to reblog post the entry under #fluffcemberinjuly25 and please also tag this account @fluff-cember.

Please make sure your post also note the fandom that your entry is for!

The fic should be somewhat soft or fluffy. It can however absolutely be fluff in a NSFW way. There is no issue with that.

The one thing I cannot allow because it is a bit iffy in regards to my homecountry's laws: RPS. Anything with real people who were alive in the last 100 years I cannot admit. If they are dead for longe than that it is fine.

There will be a collection for this opened in June.

The List

Day 01: Fire

Day 02: Candy

Day 03: Warm Hugs

Day 04: Charity

Day 05: Snow Angels

Day 06: The Southern Cross

Day 07: Kittens

Day 08: Snowman

Day 09: Scented Candles

Day 10: Long Nights

Day 11: Snowflakes

Day 12: Pillow Fort

Day 13: Glitter

Day 14: Five Course Meal

Day 15: Snow on the Beach

Day 16: Aurora

Day 17: Evergreen

Day 18: Rainy Winter

Day 19: Cozy Blankets

Day 20: Found Family

Day 21: Cabin

Day 22: Sauna visits

Day 23: Tea

Day 24: Cold Feet

Day 25: Ice Crystals

Day 26: Snowed-In

Day 27: Fireworks

Day 28: Family Gathering

Day 29: Gift Giving

Day 30: Hibernation

Day 31: Coming Home

Extra: Candy Cane, Hot Chocolate, Gift Wrapper, Well-Kept Secret, Full Moon