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studioeisa · 3 days ago

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the way the cookie crumbles 🍪 chan x reader.

you need one good story to get your career off the ground. lee chan is on a mission to try every chocolate chip cookie in seoul. better start somewhere, right?

🍪 pairing. interviewee!lee chan x food journalist!reader. 🍪 word count. 14.4k. 🍪 genre/warnings. alternate universe: non-idol. slice of life, romance, angst, hurt/comfort. mentions of food, disease (which neither mcs have); profanity. themes of food/memory/grief, svt ensemble as journalists. 🍪 footnotes. this is part of the milestone: 100 collab. it’s been a while since i’ve written something that i feel like actually means something, and this is that fic for me. it’s my soul on a baking sheet, and i’m grateful that i got the chance to bring it to life. the two halves of my heart, a @chugging-antiseptic-dye & tara @diamonddaze01, proofread the outline for this months ago. thank you, @eclipsaria, @nerdycheol, @gyubakeries, and @shinysobi for the trust!!! 🎵 recommended listening ⸻ the way the cookie crumbles.

It’s taunting—the way the Google Docs cursor is blinking up at you.

You swear you’re going mad. How long have you been staring at this empty document? An hour? Three?

You heave out a sigh, slouching at your work desk until your forehead has landed on your mechanical keyboard. A couple of keys are smashed in the process, and you find an intelligible smatter of letters on your screen when you look up.

That’s the most progress The Story has had in a couple of days, unfortunately.

“You know,” a bemused voice calls from behind you, “maybe you’re trying too hard.”

The thought draws a snort of laughter from you. Trying too hard. It’s more like you’re not trying hard enough. How else to explain the sheer lack of progress in what was supposed to be your magnum opus?

You don’t wheel around to face your workmate. You already know who it is, anyway.

“Easy for you to say,” you grumble. “Aren’t you accepting a Hinzpeter Award next week, Mr. Humans-Write-Recipes-Better-Than-A.I.?”

Joshua lets out a low chuckle at the light jab about his capital-s Story. You poked your fun at your senior, but you had to give credit where credit was due; the article had been a riveting read, and Joshua deserves all his flowers for tackling it with such finesse.

“It’ll be your award next year,” he says with a certainty that should be comforting.

Instead, it reminds you of looming deadlines, of your prickly Editor-in-Chief, of your empty fucking Google Doc. Another sigh. This time, heavier.

“Or Seungkwan’s,” you say. “His ‘swicy’ story is doing crazy rounds on SNS right now.”

That was Seungkwan’s Story: A bold declaration of sweet and spicy— aptly called ‘swicy’— being the flavor of the 2025 food scene. Even the new guy, Vernon, had already managed to write something worth reading. Some feature about how foreign candy puts American candy to shame.

And you? Dozens of listicles and a couple of How-To’s later, you’ve yet to make your dent in The Korea Post’s Food beat.

You can’t see Joshua’s face, but you can imagine his expression when he sympathetically chides, “What did I say about comparing yourself to other people?”

You swivel around in your computer chair. Sure enough, Joshua is sporting a disapproving look.

“I’m not comparing myself to Seungkwan,” you say defensively. “I’m just factually saying that his article has over twenty thousand hits already.”

“Stop.”

“Okay, okay.”

Joshua’s demeanor softens a bit when he notices the palpable frustration on your face. “You’ll get there,” he reassures. “I’m sure you’re closer to it than you think.”

You’re tempted to call Joshua out for the platitude, to wax poetics about the Google Doc collecting cobwebs on your screen. Instead, you flash him a tight smile and go to change the topic—bringing up instead his most recent baking endeavor.

By the time Joshua has flounced away to go bother someone else, you’re ready to call it a day. Head home with your tail between your legs and watch Culinary Class Wars until you crash. It sounds as good of a plan as any, you gingerly think as you click on to Reddit one last time.

Crawling the web was typically a good source for inspiration. You’d been coming up empty-handed for the past couple weeks, but it never hurt to try. As you click through r/foodkr, your mind wanders to mala cream shrimp dim sum and—

A post catches your eye. You have to backtrack a bit to check it out, having scrolled too fast the first time around.

r/foodkr • 2hrs ago pichanlin

I want to try EVERY CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE in Seoul 😃

Now that I have your attention: Please name a cafe/bakeshop that sells chocolate chip cookies. Criteria: MUST be in Seoul, should be PURELY chocolate chip (no raisins, nuts, et cetera). Price is NOT an issue. Even if you personally think it is the worst cookie known to man, please please please name it. I am on A MISSION.

↑ 12 ↓ 🗨 8 ↷ Share

It’s a lot to unpack. The abysmal use of all caps. The ambitious declaration. Who the hell is this ‘pichanlin’, and what sort of death wish does he have? You tongue the inside of your cheek.

Closer than you think, Joshua had said.

The words ring in the back of your head as you go to send an invite message to start chatting.

For all intents and purposes, user ‘pichanlin’ isn’t the type who looks insane.

He’s bright-eyed and boyish in his attractiveness. He looks like he’s around your age, too, though that’s an assumption you make solely based on his megawatt smile.

Lee Chan, he had introduced himself prior to your meetup at Taegeukdang Bakery.

He sits across from you now, one leg crossed over the other. When the waiter comes to give him the warmed cookie he had ordered, he flashes the stranger a charming grin. It occurs to you that he’s not trying to be particularly winsome; it seems to be a natural quality.

You notice that his order doesn’t come with a drink.

“Just service water for me,” he explains when he catches your scrutinizing eye. “I’m already going to be blowing so much money on cookies, so I have to cheap out somewhere.”

You respond with a fake laugh. Such was the life of working in a corporate-adjacent setting. Mastering the art of the fake laugh was a must, and you’re convinced you’ve somewhat perfected yours.

You’re not on the same budget as Chan, so you can at least enjoy an iced latte. You absentmindedly stir the drink as you ask the million won question. “So, what’s up with this insane cookie run?”

The query is posed to be one that’s almost casual. When Chan responds just as coolly, you figure that you’re partly to blame.

“I like cookies,” he says simply.

You offer him a tight grin. “I like coffee,” you say, “but you don’t see me running around the city chugging Americanos.”

Chan’s responding laugh is far from fake. He sounds genuinely tickled. “Are you making fun of me?” he jokes, feigning hurt as he places a hand over his chest. “And here I thought you were a serious, no-nonsense journalist.”

A part of you bristles at this virtual stranger trying to poke and prod at you. You know he’s kidding, but the topic of being serious at work is a sore spot you’ve yet to find a balm for. You sip at your drink to try and forget the fact. The coffee is scaldingly hot, which makes you wince.

“I need to know what I’m getting into.” Your tone is surprisingly sage for your internal conflict. That gut feeling is beginning to tug again—that fear you’re pursuing a dead end, interviewing someone who’s not about to make sense.

It doesn’t help that Chan’s smile only breaks at your words. You want to snap that this isn’t a joke to you, but you’re trying to reign in that temper that’s given your editors so much grief in the past.

Fuck it. You should cut your losses. Head home and consider this yet another freak hoping to find his five minutes of fame with a viral TikTok series that won’t get more than a couple hundred views.

You open your mouth to excuse yourself to the bathroom from where you have no intentions of returning when Chan, seeming self-aware of how insane he sounds, motions for you to wait. He fishes through his backpack and—

It’s a map of the city. Not one of those folded, English maps you can pick up at the airport, promoting tourist traps like N Seoul Tower and Nami Island. No, it’s meticulously scribbled, with splotches of ink and hasty scribbles. Chan lays it out in the table between you with excruciating care, as if the map isn’t already battered with its torn edges and faint coffee stains.

There are dozens of hand drawn, red pins, indicating what you can only presume are the destinations that Chan wants to hit. Pain d’echo. Aoitori Bakery. Samarkand. It’s extensive, obsessive, and the work of either a genius or a lunatic.

Said genius-slash-lunatic smiles up at you, unashamed of what he’s presenting. “This,” huffs Chan, “is what you’re getting into.”

Touché, you decide, as you settle back into your chair.

Your editor, Minghao, doesn’t look impressed.

To be fair, it’s hard to impress a man like Xu Minghao. A part of you feels silly, proposing this cross-country cookie run to him. Minghao is a serious journalist. He brings to the table—no pun intended—narratives that are unheard of in the field of food writing.

His Story was a thrilling investigative on Chinese fleets and their impact on the seafood industry. It landed him in this gorgeous corner office, where he edits drafts with a 0.3mm Muji Gel Ink Ballpoint Pen. In red, of course.

He’s holding that very pen now as he surveys your pitch, printed on an immaculately crisp piece of A4 paper. Minghao is old school like that. He doesn’t believe in Microsoft Word; he wants you to get blood on your hands, in the form of his editorial genius.

He clicks his tongue. You wince, bracing for impact.

Instead, you get grace. “This has potential,” he says.

To hell with I love you. Those are the three words you want to hear most in the world. This has potential, from the world’s most anal proofreader.

You exhale. Let your guard down. “But,” he starts, and you have to scramble to bring your wits back together. “You haven’t filled out this part.”

You knew it’d be called out. Before Minghao can even tap his pen at the empty portion of your pitch, you’re already prepared.

Rationale. That’s what you’re missing. The reason why Chan is trying to speedrun himself into diabetes.

“Yeah, well.” You shift from one foot to another as Minghao peers at you from over his glasses. “I was hoping I could fill that out later on.”

“You’ve got balls,” says Minghao dryly, “for making a pitch when you haven’t got a reason for it.”

“It’s interesting.”

“So is the fact that cheese is the most stolen food in the world, but you don’t see us writing 7,500CWS for that, do you?”

You bite back a laugh. A corner of Minghao’s lip twitches upward despite himself. He’s not as formidable as people make him out to be. He just has the tendency to make interns want to cry, and writers question their entire existence.

You were already full of doubt the moment you stepped into his office, so—it cancels out, you suppose. Minghao sees right through you nonetheless.

“Is this guy a frustrated baker? Is he someone planning to start a bakery?” Minghao poses, handing you back your pitch. The carnage isn’t bad today. A couple of struck-out adverbs, some dangling sentences with eight question marks next to them. “You’ll have to figure that out, or else your story will have no gravitas. It will float.”

“Float,” you repeat, clutching your pitch closer to you.

“Float,” he confirms. “Like an astronaut jettisoned out into space.”

You’re not sure you get the analogy, but you suppose a man who gets paid an annual salary of ₩100,000,000 deserves to be a little cuckoo. He rattles off your deadlines. You mumble gratitude and get ready to chase leads for a short-form listicle.

You’re only halfway out Minghao’s office door before you’re pulling out your phone from your pocket. It’s your latest saved contact, which makes things infinitely easier.

To: [INTERVIEWEE] Lee Chan 🍪 I’m in.

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Lee Chan has a plan: To try every single chocolate chip cookie in Seoul.

Not every cookie, you realize a little later on. Just around a hundred. Which is still certifiably insane.

A bakery and dessert café off Itaewon is where you two start your mission. Passion5 is gorgeous in that probably-overpriced way, set in an art-gallery like space. They boast of everything being made in house—cakes, ice cream, sandwiches.

You and Chan don’t look too out of place. If anything, the two of you look like a couple on a date. It’s a horrifying realization, but it’s also a good cover. You like to think of your stories like that, sometimes. Like they’re something Actually Important instead of a lead followed from Reddit.

Chan orders his chocolate chip cookie. You get an iced matcha that you put on your company card.

“So,” Chan says loftily, setting the cookie down between you two.

“So,” you respond, voice carefully measured.

You wait. You weaponize the silence. It’s the first good tip you got about interviewing: letting the quiet stretch, so your subject might divulge more than necessary. But Chan doesn’t look like he’s about to spill his entire life story. He just stares at you for a moment too long.

“Are we gonna half or what?” he asks instead of—I don’t know, giving you a quote you could use for your story.

You force on a tight-lipped smile. “No,” you say. “Go ahead.”

Chan doesn’t have to be asked twice.

Being a writer has made you more attuned to the little things. Mannerisms that might make or break a sentence. Tics that could point to something just below the surface. Most of these habits are the kind you have to dig for, the one you need 20/20 vision to be able to clock.

Lee Chan is as subtle as a foghorn. His fingers are stiff when he picks up the cookie. His bite is deliberately slow. When he chews and drawls out a comical, exaggerated ‘mmm’, you resist the urge to face palm. He’s putting on a show.

You couldn’t care less, though. Chan can perform all he wants. You give him a beat, and he cracks. “Very chewy,” he says through his mouthful of pastry. “Uses chocolate chips. Mmm. Nice.”

You jot it down in your notepad, even though it makes you feel like a student highlighting things that won’t be on a test. “Anything else?” you prompt.

“It’s… sweet,” he says lamely as he swallows. “A bang for your buck.”

At least that makes you laugh. Bang for the buck. “I didn’t know value for money was part of your criteria,” you jab.

“It’s not,” says Chan, and you feel that slight thrill that comes with having an opening.

You spring the question on him. “What’s your criteria, then?”

It’s meant to be the first question to a dozen more. What’s your end goal? Do you come from a family of bakers? What’s the worst cookie you’ve ever had?

But Chan doesn’t give, doesn’t bite. He only gives a noncommittal hum, finishes off his cookie, and wipes the crumbs off his fingers. He pulls out his city map from his bag and crosses out Passion5. No ceremony, no fanfare.

You stare at him incredulously as he chirps, “Next stop?”

You build your days around Chan.

On days when you’re not expected to report to the office, you follow him on his mission. He agrees to not try anything while you’re gone lest he find himself finding whatever he’s looking for while you’re in Google Docs hell.

He always gets the same thing: a chocolate chip cookie, and a glass of service water. You get mostly drinks. Every now and then, you give in to something novelty—a cheesecake-cookie hybrid at Songpa’s Au de Cookie, a s’mores-flavored cookie at Cafe Chunk. You’re convinced you’re going to both be very broke and a couple pounds heavier by the end of this story.

If you can even call it a story. The visits go like this: he orders. The two of you sit across from each other for seven minutes, tops. He eats his cookie, gives a half-hearted commentary on it, then crosses it off his map.

You’re not stupid. Chan obviously has no fucking idea what he’s talking about when it comes to the cookies. He doesn’t make any particular comments about the ingredients, about the consistency. He isn’t consuming them with the criticality of a pastry chef. By the fifteenth café, you realize maybe you’re just asking the wrong questions.

You’re at Breadypost—another recommendation that looks like it’s about to be struck out—when you try a new approach.

“What do you do?” you ask, the end of your pen tapping the table. “When you’re not on a cookie rampage, that is.”

Chan chews at his cookie thoughtfully. You’re bracing for another evasion, some lackadaisical comment about his personal life, so you nearly jump when he answers, “I’m a dancer.”

Your pen skids across your notebook. Dancer, you write down without ever looking away from Chan. “Oh?” You fail to sound casual. At least you sound interested, which, to be fair—you are. “A professional one?”

“You could say that.” Chan brushes some crumbs off the front of his shirt. “My parents own a dance studio. I help run it.”

Dance studio, you jot down. “Like… ballet? Hip-hop?”

A boyish sort of smile tugs at his mouth. “All sorts of things,” he says vaguely. “I’ve been training since I was a kid, so it was pretty natural for me to start teaching once I got old enough.”

You feel dizzy. A dance instructor. No, dance prodigy. Has a better ring to it. You have a feeling you’ve struck gold, but there’s still that hint of suspicion. Whether the gold is real. Whether it’s just the truth wrapped in gold.

“Being a dance teacher,” you start, brain already working on overdrive, “is that something you’ve always wanted to do? Or is this one of those, like, tiger parent situations?”

Chan seems to catch on to the underlying question. Really, you have to start giving him some more credit. His smile breaks into a laugh, one that’s still rattling through his chest as he pulls out his map. “I want it on record,” he teases, “that whatever you’re thinking is wrong.”

You hiss in some air through your teeth. He knows you’re still trying to find that rationale, still trying to land on a reason for all this. “What is it, then?” you ask, frustration leaking into your tone.

It’s highly unprofessional; Minghao would probably flay you alive for speaking to a source like this. But going on just enough cookie runs have made you kind of crazy, and perhaps a little too comfortable around Chan.

He doesn’t clock you on it. He just gives the same, infuriating answer. “I like cookies.”

Your pen jabs into your notebook. A period to the same sentence spoken time and time again. Chan pretends not to notice.

You do notice, however, the slightest quiver in his fingers as he crosses Breadypost off his map.

“What should I do if my interviewee is lying to me?”

Seungkwan levels you with the most vicious side eye mid-salad bite. Vernon pulls off one of his earphones, pausing his transcription of his Ahn Sung-jae interview.

You’re caught somewhere between the two of them. A working lunch. Greasy fingers flying over your keyboard, chasing a deadline, as you try out KyoChon’s new dakgalbi.

“Is this the cookie monster?” Vernon asks.

“Ha. Cookie monster.” You snort out a laugh. “Nice one. I should have that somewhere in my title.”

“Only if you want Minghao to murder you,” Seungkwan deadpans, and Vernon gives a jerky nod of agreement.

You take a quick bite of your lunch. The gochujang is a little on the sweet side, but the perilla leaves are a nice touch. You briefly contemplate paying extra to have it with cheese next time.

“I’m just saying,” you say after swallowing. “He’s hiding something.”

“Everybody’s hiding something,” Seungkwan says loftily, brandishing his plastic fork at you. “That’s why you have to build trust with your interviewee.”

“This is a story,” you shoot back. “Not a relationship.”

Vernon, who has gone back to transcribing, grunts. “Most stories are just situationships,” he says absentmindedly, already half-tuned out of the conversation.

A muscle in your face twitches. “What does that even mean?”

“He means,” Seungkwan interjects, “that you’re building something with every story. Like one does with a relationship or—fuck it—a situationship. Conversation. Rapport. All that shebang.”

You’re sure the three of you sound crazy. Such was the life of the newsroom, anyway. Long-winded metaphors, thinly-veiled critique. You’ve all mastered the art of saying things the way each of you can understand, and Seungkwan’s explanation—no matter how insane—makes sense.

You rub the heel of your palm into your temple. “Okay,” you sigh. “Build trust. Got it.”

Seungkwan and Vernon share a look. Quick enough that it could be missed, but you catch it. Before the scowl can fully form on your face, Vernon is jumping in to explain. “What if he’s just… dunno.” He gives a half-hearted shrug. “A guy who likes cookies?”

“It’s pretty interesting in itself,” Seungkwan offers as he pops a cherry tomato into his mouth. His next couple of words are muffled. “A dancer with a sweet tooth.”

“Right.” You hit your Enter button a little too hard. The key gets stuck, and so you jam on it a second time until it clicks back into place. “Interesting.”

It could be, really. Chan’s attractive enough for the article to fly as one of those cutesy photo essays, and the mission is amusing in that semi-viral TikTok sort of way.

But you don’t want fifteen seconds of fame. You don’t want fluff about a ‘cookie monster’ dance instructor. You want a capital-S Story. The Story.

Seungkwan demolishes his salad and makes unsolicited comments about the croutons that came with it. Vernon complains under his breath about Ahn Sung-jae’s lack of decent audio recording despite being filthy rich.

You nod along as you think about what it means to trust and be trusted.

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There’s a secret to the perfect chocolate chip cookie, and only Lee Chan knows it.

The days start to blend together. Cookies. Iced coffees. Cafés and patisseries, places you’d never have thought to visit if it weren’t for Chan.

He keeps crossing out places on his map. You keep prying, slow but sure, snatching up every little piece of information he drops. Born in February. Came from Iksan. Graduated from Seoul Broadcasting High School. A breadcrumb trail.

After a productive day (five cafés!) that was ultimately futile (all crossed out!), you find yourself on the same path with Chan. Something about the nearest bus route being the same one you two could take.

You’re making small talk about the day’s weather when Chan’s ears perk up at a commotion. “Oh?” He cranes his neck in the direction of the crowd. “Let’s check it out.”

You really, really don’t want to. You want to go home, order takeout, and start your fourth rewatch of Inventing Anna. But Chan is already moving before you can politely deny him, and so you drag your feet towards the loose circle of people gathered in Seoul Plaza.

The noise hits you first. A The Boyz song on full blast. THRILL RIDE, you think it might be. People squeal, rush to the center.

Chan smiles. A kind of smile you haven’t seen yet. This isn’t cookie-induced, isn’t a grin given after you’ve made a dry joke. This one is bright and wide with realization. “It’s a Random Play Dance,” he says in explanation.

You give a small ‘ah’ in response. It’s not really something you care much for. You’ve seen it on your For You Page, sure, but this wasn’t the sort of thing you sought out. Chan, on the other hand, starts to shoulder through the crowd. You follow a couple of steps behind, mumbling apologies to the people you squeeze past.

“Have you ever?” Chan asks once you’ve come up to his side.

“Me?” A high-pitched laugh escapes you. “God, no.”

Chan’s grin is lopsided, a little crooked. You really wish he wasn’t so pretty; when he’s smiling like this, it’s so easy to get distracted. “Why not? Shy?” he prods.

Your nose scrunches on instinct. “Let’s go with that,” you say, and Chan drops it. For now, at least.

He has his arms crossed over his chest as he surveys the dancers in the middle. You realize he’s leaning down a bit, stepping into your space so he can whisper into your ear. “The girl in red has good form,” he says, his voice taking on the type of quality you personally reserve for discussing the merits of one-pot meals. “And see the guy over there—the one wearing Converse? His footing’s a bit off. Watch.”

You watch. Chan is right. Budget Juyeon is one step behind for the t-thrill ride, t-thrill ride, how ya feeling. “I wouldn’t have noticed that,” you say, eyes still fixed on the people have Chan pointed out.

He shrugs, feigning nonchalance. The smugness rolls off him in waves anyway. “‘S my job,” he says.

A new song strikes up. You’re startled when, only a beat in, Chan is already laughing to himself. Instant recognition. He shoots you a sideways glance before breathing out, “Give me a minute, yeah?”

And then he’s gone, again, but not somewhere you can’t see. You watch, both awed and mortified, as he skids to the center of the circle with practiced ease. A couple more people follow suit. The new song bleeds into the crowd. Hey girl, take you home tonight. Get that give me, get that give me, give me.

Lee Chan transforms before your eyes.

Gone is the boy who said ‘you too’ when a barista told him to have a good day. (Twice.) In his place, somebody else. Someone entirely new. A Lee Chan who moves like water, who hits all the marks. A dancer.

People make room for him, as if sensing just how much of a force he is to reckon with. Chan doesn’t notice. Doesn’t care, maybe. He just dances—perfect steps, controlled movements, one well-placed wink that isn’t cringe at all.

He’s so happy about it, too. You see it in the looseness of his limbs, the spark in his eye. He laughs with the people at his side, sharing that secret language that only dancers can speak, as he hums along to 2PM’s it’s alright, alright, it’s alright.

When the song transitions to something by aespa, you expect him to keep going. Maybe you even want him to keep going. He doesn’t, though. Just half-jogs back to you with beads of sweat clinging to strands of his bangs.

“Ready to go?” he asks offhandedly, and you can only nod. You don’t trust yourself to speak yet.

The two of you go back on your merry way to the bus station. “That was nice,” he huffs out; you have some vague sense that he’s fishing.

You bite. He deserves that much. “You were good,” you say. “Like, really good.”

His grin is very what, me?, but you cut him some slack. “I told you,” he shoots back. “Dance studio.”

Even the way he says it. The word ‘dance’. You notice, now, how his voice lilts a bit. Reverence for the craft. There is no doubt: Lee Chan loves to dance. He lives to dance. Which means—

You let out a groan. “I really thought you were a frustrated baker,” you admit, drawing a breathless laugh from your interviewee.

“I told you it wouldn’t be something like that,” he sing-songs.

Your shoulders briefly bump into each other. You put a half-step of distance between the two of you. After he’s caught his breath, Chan catches you off-guard: “What about you?”

“Hm?”

“You know. Is journalism just a pit stop before you become Seoul’s genderbent Gordon Ramsey?”

A laugh bubbles out of you before you can stop it. “No,” you answer without missing a beat. “Journalism is… it.”

“How long have you known you’d get into the field?”

You feel it, then. The bricks of the wall, sliding into place. Your next words feel like mortar sealing the cracks. “I’m supposed to be the one asking the questions,” you tease, your fingers unconsciously flexing at your side.

Chan does that thing again where one shoulder rises and falls with attempted nonchalance. Having spent enough time with him, you’ve started to keep a mental repository of his quirks. How he is when he’s faking it until he can make it. How he is when he actually thinks something is good.

He doesn’t say anything more. You wonder, briefly, if this is a page right out of your book. Waiting for the silence to stretch unbearably so the other person might be forced to fill it.

You clear your throat. You think of Seungkwan, of Vernon. Build trust. Conversation. Rapport.

You will have to give as much as you want to get.

“I’m a bit jealous,” you admit, your voice low like you’re sharing a secret. Maybe you are. It feels like it. “I don’t think there’s anything I’m passionate about outside of writing. And even that, I’m a slave to, you know?”

It’s supposed to be light. Supposed to be a joke. But Chan is looking at you like he understands, like he sympathizes. It’s in the wry way he smiles, the way he shoves his hands into his coat pockets as if to keep them from clenching and unclenching. He does that, you realized. When he’s excited about something.

“I hear you,” he says, and it strikes you that he means it.

So you keep going. It might not be the most ideal situation—could this qualify as trauma-dumping?—but Chan listens well. He nods in all the right places. Throws in a joke or two himself. The two of you are still discussing the whole turning-what-you-love-into-your-job debacle by the time you get to the bus stop, and the conversation is good enough for you two to linger by the benches and let at least two buses pass.

“Yeah,” you say as the conversation comes to its natural end. “It’s just—I guess I want to write something that matters.”

You don’t expect Chan to meet you halfway on that sentiment. You don’t doubt his dancing has its own legacy-making end goal, but story-telling is in an entirely different league of its own. Chan understands that much.

He looks at you, his smile softer at the corners. “Let’s hope I can give you that, then,” he says, the teasing dulled by the sincerity he can’t tamp down.

A story that matters.

The cookie list is halfway conquered now, sugar and flour and cocoa powder a familiar terrain you navigate with something bordering on affection. Each crossed-off name feels like a mission completed. Almond crinkle from a hole-in-the-wall near Hapjeong that melted on your tongue, a New York-style chocolate chip so thick it could double as a doorstop, a miso caramel that you and Chan argued about for a full subway ride.

You’re walking side by side, crumbs on your sleeves, when Chan, entirely unprompted, drops the bomb like he’s been carrying it in his pocket all day.

“Buttery. Chewy. Thick.” He ticks each word off with a finger, eyes trained straight. “Semi-sweet chocolate chips, probably. Definitely not milk chocolate.”

You stop mid-chew, blinking. “Wait. Are you—are you just now telling me your cookie criteria?”

He nods with all the gravity of someone revealing state secrets. “Yes. I’ve decided you’re ready.”

Your phone is in your hand within seconds. Notes app open. “Say that again,” you prompt. You’ll transfer it to your notebook later. “Slower.”

Chan repeats himself, voice low and deliberate. You transcribe dutifully, thumbs flying over the screen, but your brow pinches at the word thick.

“Thick?” you echo, narrowing your eyes.

“You can’t trust a cookie that flattens like a pancake.”

You honest-to-goodness gasp. “That’s slander. Thin cookies are elite,” you argue. “They’ve got edge crisp. They shatter when you bite in. That’s half the joy.”

He looks at you like you just confessed to liking soggy cereal. “And no raisins,” he throws in for good measure.

The indignation rises in you like steam. “That’s a hate crime. Raisins have their place!”

Chan grimaces theatrically. “In oatmeal, sure. But not in cookies.”

“But oatmeal is a cookie. It’s nostalgic! Textured! Wholesome!”

“It’s betrayal disguised as dessert.”

You snort. A full, undignified laugh escapes you, loud enough that a couple of people passing by glance over. You duck your head, pretending to examine a croissant in the bakery window. Chan, of course, is utterly unbothered. He’s basking in the win. In riling you up after days of indifference.

And then—

“See?” he half-joked. “You’re passionate about other things, too.”

You’re not ready for it. The words land like a thud in your chest. You blink, trying to play it off.

Because it’s such a throwaway thing for him to say. A casual observation. Still, it knocks something loose.

You’ve been clawing at meaning lately.

Tired drafts. Half-finished essays. Interview transcripts that go nowhere. You thought writing about food would save you, would make it matter. That if you turned love into narrative, maybe it would give you something to hold onto.

But here’s Chan, not even trying, reminding you of something you forgot: it’s okay to love something without needing to spin it into something useful. To just love.

You let the thought settle. The warmth of butter. The snap of a crisped edge. The comfort of chewing something that tastes like your childhood.

Maybe you’re allowed to love food for food’s sake. Maybe you’re allowed to love writing separately, too. And maybe—maybe it’s okay not to love them both at the same time.

You glance sideways. Chan’s attention is on a chalkboard menu now. He has no idea that he’s just pulled the rug out from under your existential crisis. No idea that you’re reordering your worldview between bites of cookie.

“I’m gonna grab a coffee,” he says, already stepping toward the register. “If we’re about to argue for another hour, I want to be awake for it.”

He grins at you before he leaves, a flash of teeth and a crinkle of eye. Easy. Unbothered.

You nod mutely, still holding your phone like a lifeline. The cursor blinks at the end of your note.

Buttery. Chewy. Thick. Semi-sweet.

You tuck your phone back into your pocket. Some conversations should be off the record.

You’re supposed to be writing about Seoul’s independent café renaissance. Instead, you’re staring at a blinking cursor and a blinking Chan.

Well. A photo of Chan.

He’s mid-bite in this one, cheeks puffed out slightly, eyes wide with theatrical delight. The cookie in question is half gone. There’s a second photo, blurry, of him doing a little wiggle in place, what you’ve now internally dubbed The Happy Dance. You remember the exact sound he made, too. Something like a muffled mmmph! that might’ve been embarrassing if it weren’t so endearing.

You exhale through your nose, set your phone down screen-first. Focus.

You pull up a different document and try to switch gears. An interview transcription. A listicle about croffles. A half-finished pitch about post-pandemic dessert trends. You give each one a valiant 30 seconds of attention before your mind veers off course.

Back to Chan.

Your fingers sift through the pages of your notebook. It started structured. Professional. Clean. Now?

hates raisins in cookies

buttery chewy thick semi-sweet ONLY

says thank you to bus drivers. every time.

does the happy dance when cookie is a 9.9/10, but will still cross it out on the map wtf

crinkles by the eyes when he laughs (every time??)

once said “i think choreography is just storytelling with muscles”??? what does that MEAN???

You stare at the last one for a second too long. You shake your head, as if that will rattle the thoughts loose.

You have a Google Doc named [Writer’s Close] Lee Chan Cookie Tour. You open it. Read the first sentence. It’s fine. Serviceable. You could probably write four more paragraphs after it, waxing poetics on Chan’s criteria and the fifty cookies you’ve seen him try so far.

It wouldn’t matter. It doesn’t say anything.

It doesn’t say that Chan cares deeply and easily. That he notices things like foot placement and poor form in a crowd of strangers, not to nitpick but because he believes people should move like they mean it. That he lights up when he talks about his students. That he grins with his whole body. That he likes cookies the way some people like vinyl. Specific, devotional, particular.

It doesn’t say that he’s surprised you.

You chew your bottom lip, flipping through your camera roll again.

Chan, reaching for a cookie with both hands. Chan, trying to stuff half of it into his mouth at once. Chan, dramatically pretending to faint after a good bite. You catch yourself smiling. Oh no.

You sit back in your chair, stretch your arms above your head like it might pull you back to objectivity. Like the physical act of recentering your spine might recenter your heart, too.

The blinking cursor waits. So does the draft. And you, God help you, are still thinking about the boy who hates raisins.

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How many cookies can a man have before he starts to go insane?

Coconutbox Cafe & Gallery smells like burnt sugar and acrylic paint. It’s the seventy-something café on Chan’s map—an exact number he could recite in his sleep but one you stopped trying to keep track of after number forty-three.

Today’s pick is sun-drenched and quiet, tucked between a pilates studio and a bookstore with faded signage. The playlist is indie enough to make you feel cultured but familiar enough not to distract you. Mismatched furniture fills the space in organized chaos: chipped wooden stools, velvet armchairs in colors that were probably fashionable once, and a swing bench that no one actually sits on.

Chan seems to like it immediately. He always does. There’s something about the newness of a place that makes his face go soft at the edges.

You’re halfway through your drink—something frothy and complicated that you didn’t mean to order but didn’t correct the barista on—when he leans across the table. Chin in hand, eyes curious. “Can I read it?” he asks.

You don’t look up from your laptop. “No.”

“Aww.” He drags the syllable out, mock-wounded. “Why not?”

“Because I want it to be honest,” you say. “No preconceived biases. No shifts in behavior. You might start… posing more.”

He glares at you, dramatically offended. “You think I’m that self-conscious?”

“You wore a beanie for three days straight because you didn’t like how your ears looked in that one photo.”

“Wow,” he mutters, sitting back like you’ve physically wounded him. “Low blow. Personal foul. Yellow card.”

You glance up. He’s pouting, full-lipped and cartoonish. You don’t feel bad about it.

“Just give me a little spoiler,” he pleads. “One sentence.”

You don’t tell him that one sentence is all you have. That you’ve written and rewritten that first sentence countless times in the past couple of months. To be fair, it’s the golden rule of journalism.

An article is only as good as its hook. With all the time you’ve spent with Chan, you want that hook to be foolproof. The kind they give a Pulitzer to.

Met with silence, Chan amps up his act. He gasps, clutching his chest like you’ve just told him he’s being cut from the final edit. “Am I that boring?” he bemoans.

You roll your eyes. “I’m still trying to find the right angle. The perfect execution. I’m biding my time.”

He narrows his eyes. “Uh-huh.”

Then he leans back, and you can see it happen. The spark. The tiny gleam of mischief in his expression. You’ve come to fear it. “Oh,” he says ominously. “Well, if I’m not interesting enough as is, maybe I just need to give you material.”

“Chan—”

Too late. He’s already on his feet. He grabs the empty coffee cup from your tray and balances it on his head like a crown. Then, he plucks a single dried flower from the centerpiece and tucks it behind his ear, like he’s a painter’s muse from a pretentious student film.

“This,” he announces in a deep, solemn voice, “is my artistic era.”

You stifle a laugh. It doesn’t work. “I’m a tortured soul,” he goes on, arms wide, spinning slowly in place. “Fueled only by caffeine and existential dread.”

“Please sit down.”

“Would a boring subject do this?” He strikes a pose in front of the gallery wall, back arched as if he’s modeling for an extremely niche fragrance ad. The dried flower falls out of his ear and lands in his sleeve.

You cover your face with your hands. When you peek through your fingers, he’s still going. Shuffling dramatically across the floor like he’s in a modern dance interpretation of heartbreak, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to make sure you’re watching.

You are.

You’re even laughing now, full and real and impossible to suppress. Your stomach starts to ache in the way it does when you laugh too hard and too long. The barista looks vaguely concerned. Chan doesn’t notice, or maybe he does and just doesn’t care.

Eventually, he returns to the table. Smug and satisfied, like this was all part of a well-rehearsed plan. He sips the last of your drink without asking.

“I take it the writer’s block is gone?” he says, not looking at you as he adjusts the empty cup back onto his head.

You shake your head, trying to steady your grin. “You’re insufferable.”

“Mm,” he hums. “But useful.”

You glance down at your laptop. The sentence still blinks, alone, on the screen. But your fingers twitch. The weight that’s been pressing into your ribcage for days now loosens, just a little.

You think, maybe, you’ve got your second sentence now. Maybe even a third.

You meet Minghao at a tiny place near the newsroom, the kind of café with two outlets per table, quiet lo-fi playing through ceiling speakers, and a chalkboard menu written in both English and a half-hearted attempt at French. It’s clean, minimalist, and exactly the sort of place he’d approve of. Muted palette, simple typography, no nonsense. Even the pastries are geometrically intimidating.

Your coffee arrives first. His, second. Then, without thinking, you add a chocolate chip cookie to your order. It’s not until the cashier bags it that you realize what you’ve done.

Minghao raises a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “That for you?”

You stir your drink like it’s suddenly the most fascinating thing in the room. “No.”

He watches you for a beat, then nods. Like he already knows, but he’ll let you say it anyway. He’s good at that. Letting you inch your way to honesty instead of forcing it out of you. It’s what makes him editor material; you both adore and despise him for it.

“It’s for Chan,” you finally admit, not meeting Minghao’s gaze.

The corner of his mouth twitches. Just barely. “You’ve grown to care for him.”

“No, no,” you say quickly, too quickly. “This is just—part of the mission. A gesture. Fuel for the fieldwork.”

“Sure.”

You glance at Minghao. He sips his coffee like it’s nothing, like he hasn’t just called your bluff in six syllables or less. “It’s okay,” he says after a moment, voice neutral but not unkind. “It’s not a sin to care about your story and the people who comprise it.”

You nod slowly, but wait. There’s always a but with Minghao. You know it’s coming. He’s not the type to leave things at kindness. You sip. You brace.

“But,” he says, as expected, “remember why you’re here.”

There it is. The bucket of cold water. No dramatics, just clarity. The kind that slices right through the comfort you’ve been pretending isn’t there.

You look out the window, where a new wave of commuters spills onto the street. People moving with direction, with purpose. Everyone headed somewhere. No one wondering if they’re already too close to what they’re supposed to be observing.

You came into this story ready to dig. To get close enough to see the seams and the flaws, to understand what drives a person to visit dozens of cafés in search of the perfect cookie. You thought it would be clinical. Interesting, maybe even charming. But not this.

You didn’t account for how Chan would worm his way in—through humor, through dance, through the moments between café visits. You didn’t expect to memorize the sound of his laugh or learn the difference between his fake pout and the real one.

And now, you’re too close. Not just to the story, but to the boy at its center.

“This is work,” you say as firmly as you can manage.

“It is,” Minghao agrees. He doesn’t press. He doesn’t need to. “So do the work.”

You nod, even if part of you bristles. Not because he’s wrong, but because he’s too right. You hate how much sense he makes.

The conversation mellows from there. You finish your coffees. You talk about deadlines, the new layout for the online features page. You trade stories. He tells you about the intern who once spelled sablé as sable and defended it with a passionate monologue about endangered animals. You laugh, and the sound is not forced. Minghao smiles, rare and real, like a crack in glass that somehow makes it prettier.

When you stand, he reaches for the cookie bag, peeking inside with an appraising eye. “Thick. Buttery. Semi-sweet,” he observes. He’s seen your notes. He has the memory of a goddamn elephant. “You remembered.”

You snatch it back with a roll of your eyes. “It was a coincidence.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” he says, tone dry.

He lets you go with a knowing look. Doesn’t say anything more. He doesn’t have to. That’s the thing with Minghao. You always leave with more questions than answers, and a better draft because of it.

Late afternoon has dipped into early evening, and you pull your coat a little tighter around you. The cookie bag swings lightly at your side. You walk toward the train station, footsteps steady.

When you pause at the corner, waiting for the light to change, you glance at the nearest trash bin. The thought creeps in: maybe it would be simpler to toss the cookie. Make it a clean break. Cut the thread before it knots.

You hover. One step closer, maybe two.

But you don’t throw it out.

You grip the bag a little tighter instead.

The light changes. Green. You cross the street, the lines, until your feet are taking you where you have to be.

The park is quiet, brushed in soft gold. Everything is painted in warm tones. Leaves, benches, kids on scooters, the worn path beneath your shoes. A dog runs off-leash in the distance. There’s a couple on a blanket sharing earphones. The air is warm, but not oppressive, touched by the early edge of evening.

You spot Chan before he sees you, and for a second, you don’t move. He’s crossing the field, steps light, head tilted slightly like he’s listening to music only he can hear. That same bounce in his gait. Hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair caught in the breeze. The sight of him tightens something in your chest.

You hate that it does.

You’re supposed to be the one in control. The observer. You even practiced the speech in your head on the train ride over. Professional boundaries, clarity, distance. Reminders of what this is and what it isn’t. You swore it wouldn’t get messy.

But then he gets closer, his joy unrepentant in the face of your internal conflict. “I got you something,” he says, lifting a small paper bag like it’s a peace offering.

Your hands tighten around your own little gift. “What?”

“Oatmeal. Thin as cardboard,” he sings. “Thought of you when I saw it.”

Your fingers close around the bag when he offers it, but you don’t look inside. You look at him. You were just about to tell him. Just about to say all the things you rehearsed. How this needs to stay professional. How you can’t afford to blur the lines any further. But now you’re holding this ridiculous cookie, and he’s looking at you with the kind of warmth that comes with preheated ovens.

The bag smells like raisins. He remembered, too.

You don’t think. Your body moves before your mind can catch up.

You kiss him.

The bag falls, forgotten between you. The cookie, you suspect, is probably flattened beyond salvation.

He freezes for half a second. Just half. Then one hand finds your waist, tentative but sure, while the other slides up to cup the back of your neck. He kisses you like he’s catching up. Like he’s been holding back and didn’t realize until now. There’s the briefest hitch in his breath, then something else takes over.

He kisses you like he means it—and for a second, you let yourself mean it, too.

But it doesn’t last.

Reality crashes in all at once. Too sharp, too loud, too late. You pull away fast, like the kiss burned you. Like the world has snapped back into focus and left you gasping for air. “This isn’t—” You inhale sharply, taking a step back. “God, it’s not right. Fuck!”

Chan looks stunned. “Wait, what?”

“I shouldn’t have done that,” you say, still backing up, swiping your hand over your mouth like it might erase the taste of his Chapstick. “It’s not appropriate. I shouldn’t have—”

“But you kissed me.”

“It was a moment of weakness,” you say, harsher than you mean. “It didn’t mean anything.”

His face falls, just a little. “Didn’t mean anything,” he repeats.

You can’t look at him. You start to turn, hoping maybe the wind or the silence will carry you away from this. “Don’t do that,” Chan says. His voice cuts through the stillness. More steady than you expect. “Don’t walk away like that didn’t just happen.”

You whirl back around, jaw tight. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me.”

He’s not screaming. Not really. But his voice rises just enough for a couple of heads to turn, and your stomach churns at the thought of this being some teenager’s tweet of the day. saw a couple breaking up at seoul park lol omg frfr.

You’re not supposed to be part of that. Part of anything, really.

“I can’t care about you,” you say. Your voice isn’t steady anymore. “I’m not supposed to. This is a job. You’re—”

You stutter. He waits. You wish he wouldn’t.

“You’re just a guy who likes cookies,” you finish, flat and hollow. “You’re nothing but a story to me.”

Silence follows, thick and immediate.

You can practically hear the rush of your heartbeat in your ears. The pain doesn’t register on his face all at once. It unfurls, slow and soft, like paper tearing. Chan nods once. He swallows. His mouth curves, barely, into something that might look like a smile if you didn’t know better.

“Okay.” He swallows hard. His shoulders are tight, drawn inward. As if he’s keeping himself from unraveling.

You want to claim you’re not being cruel. This was just the way of the world, the unsigned contract you two had drafted up. You were the journalist; he was the interviewee. You’re not cruel. You’re not cruel. You’re doing your fucking job.

Right? Right?

“Well,” Chan says, his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard it, “if a story is all I am, then I’ll make sure it’s one that matters.”

Your own words, thrown back at you. You dare say you deserve it. There are some lines you can’t uncross, and this feels like one of them.

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You’re back on the trail. Kind of. Not really.

Chan’s walking beside you, but the lightness in his step is gone. You feel it before you see it. Something dulled at the edges, like music with the treble turned down. The city hums around you, oblivious. There’s a café on every corner, but none of them look promising. They all look like endings.

You try to make conversation. About the weather. About the new seasonal menu. About how one of the cafés you visited last week now sells espresso in waffle cones. Chan nods, polite but absent.

The cookie tasting continues. Technically. The first café’s cookie is overbaked. Dry. Crumbles like disappointment.

The second one has promise—a good smell, a nice shape—but too sweet. He barely chews before passing you a napkin to spit it out. The third café? He doesn’t even bother tasting. One glance at the chalkboard menu and he’s out the door.

You finally say, “I’m sorry.”

Chan cocks his head to one side. “What?”

“For earlier. The park. The kiss. The... everything.”

He doesn’t stop walking, but he slows. Just enough to let the moment catch up. “Let’s just finish,” he says. Not cruelly, but measured in a way that indicates he is truly done with all this. He’s just… going through the motions. “One more left.”

The final café is small and tucked between a laundromat and a nail salon. It’s got a handwritten sign and a cinnamon-heavy smell. There’s a single cookie on display.

You both get one. You eat in silence. It’s chewy, at least. You observe Chan carefully, wondering if this is it. It would be a nice climax. The one hundredth store being the one.

Chan pulls the map from his back pocket.

You watch as he crosses off the last location.

He stares at it for a second too long. The whole thing is covered in tiny red x’s, like battle scars. You swallow your bite of cookie, tasting the weight of the world in the chocolate chip that’s not what either of you needed. “So,” you say delicately, “what now?”

He folds the map neatly, tucks it away. “You write your story.”

“And you?”

Chan exhales through his nose. A humorless little breath. “I never eat another cookie again.”

It’s supposed to be a joke, but the punchline never lands. You laugh anyway, the sound unconvincing and weak, because it’s better than silence. It’s better than the look on his face, the one a man gets when he’s lost something. When he hadn’t gotten what he wanted.

It’s beginning to feel like neither of you are about to get what you want.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, this time softer. Not for the kiss. For this. For the empty hands and crossed-out boxes.

Chan doesn’t speak right away. His jaw flexes. Then he turns to you, eyes catching yours—and this time he doesn’t look away.

There’s a beat. Two.

His gaze lingers, and it does something to you. “Yeah,” he says at last. “I’m sorry, too.”

And that’s it. That’s all there is.

You stand there beside him in the dying light, two people who went searching for something sweet and ended up with something else entirely. You don’t ask what that something is. You’re not sure you want to know.

The cherry on top is that you get tonsillitis.

Not metaphorically. Not poetically. Not the kind of ache that curls under your ribs or hides behind your ribs or flares to life when you pass a bakery that reminds you of a certain boy who used to smile like he’d invented happiness.

No. This time, it’s literal.

Your throat is on fire. Your glands feel like someone slipped rocks into the hollow of your neck. Your voice is gone, your sleep disrupted, and you can’t even swallow without it feeling like glass.

And of course, of course it had to come after all of that. After the story. The kiss. The silence that followed. The slow disintegration of something that was never meant to be more than an assignment.

You sit slouched in a hospital hallway, head tipped against the cold wall, wondering if you’ve somehow earned this. Tonsillitis as divine retribution. An inflamed throat to match an aching heart. An article that hasn’t even gotten past the first sentence.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Someone down the corridor is watching a mukbang on full volume. You are seconds away from shoving a tongue depressor in your own ear just to make it stop when a familiar voice cuts through the din.

You freeze.

It can’t be.

You look up—slowly, cautiously—and there he is.

Chan.

He’s standing not far from you, wearing a navy baseball cap and an oversized hoodie like he’s trying not to be noticed. He’s not alone. There’s an older woman beside him. Elegant. Unsmiling. Her features are drawn in that unmistakable way of someone with experience in the art of shutting people out.

You don’t catch everything they say, but you see it. The subtle tension. The way Chan follows half a step behind, reaching out like he might steady her. She brushes him off. Keeps walking.

Something twists in your stomach.

You don’t know what she is to him. A relative, maybe. His mother? An aunt? The resemblance isn’t glaring, but there’s something in the posture, the deflection, that feels practiced.

Chan calls after her softly. Not loud enough for anyone else to hear. You watch as he jogs after her, gentle hand at her elbow. She doesn’t stop. He falters. He looks around, helpless, and that’s when he sees you.

It’s a split-second flicker of recognition. His eyes widen, just a little. The barest twitch of his mouth. You can’t tell if it’s surprise or guilt or something else entirely.

But you look away.

Because it’s none of your business. Because whatever this is, whoever she is—you’re not a part of it.

For once, the Universe is on your side. The receptionist calls your name. You scramble towards the doctor’s office, the feeling of Chan’s gaze burning into your back. Dr. Jeon asks everything you expect him to, but all you can really manage are a few choice words that feel like barbed wire being dragged through your throat.

“It hurts,” you tell your doctor, voice broken and raspy. “It really, really hurts.”

Joshua pokes his head into your cubicle with a grin that immediately puts you on edge. “You have a visitorrr,” he croons.

You glare at him, throat still raw from last week’s tonsillitis-adjacent hell. “What kind of visitor?”

“The attractive kind.”

You already know who it is.

Still, you don’t expect to see Chan standing in the lobby of your workplace, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, eyes trailing absently across the ceiling like he’s rehearsing something in his head. When he notices you, he straightens. Offers a small, careful smile. Not his usual one. This one’s dimmed, as if someone turned the dial down on him.

You don’t say anything as you lead him to the cafeteria. The air between you carries the ghost of too many almosts.

The coffee here is terrible. The cookies are worse. Neither of you bother.

Chan settles across from you at a small table scratched with initials and hearts carved by interns who fell in love with the wrong people. His hands are clasped together on the table, thumbs twitching in search for rhythm. You realize you haven’t seen him this still in a long time.

“After everything,” he begins, voice forcibly steady, “I think I deserve to ask you one question.”

You suck in a breath through your teeth and ready for impact. For something heavy. Something that might break the room in half.

Do you love me? Why did you kiss me?

Instead—

“What’s your story with food?”

You’re not sure you heard him right. You stare for a minute too long, and he stares right back, as if saying yeah, that’s what I want to know. When you laugh, you’re surprised by how much it aches.

“Do you have the time?” you start, your heart rattling in your chest.

He nods.

You tell him about your childhood kitchen. The yellowing linoleum, the faded recipe cards, the way your mother used to hum while slicing scallions. You tell him about the little step-stool you stood on to watch her stir soups, how you’d sneak pinches of dough and get scolded half-heartedly.

You tell him about the messes you made trying to bake from memory. About the apple crumble that turned into applesauce. The birthday cake you forgot the sugar in. The ramen experiments that ended in smoke alarms.

You tell him that food was love before you ever had a word for it. That it stitched you and your mother together in ways language never quite could.

Then you tell him about your first story. The one that got you published. A noodle shop three blocks down from where you grew up, run by a ninety-two-year-old widow who spoke in proverbs and gave out extra toppings when no one was looking. You wrote about her hands. Her children. The lineage of flavor passed from one generation to none, and how storytelling, like cooking, could preserve things.

People. Taste. Time.

You tell him about the guilt, too. The constant, low hum of it. How ridiculous it sometimes feels to write about something so soft in a world that feels like it’s made of broken glass. How food writing isn’t just about what’s delicious. It’s about what’s been lost. What you’re desperate to hold on to.

Chan listens. He buys you a bottle of water when you start to stutter. He never looks away.

When you run out of breath, out of steam, he exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his own this whole time. His turn.

“I guess,” he says, “if I had to pick one story to explain me, it’s her.”

You don’t need to ask who. You already know.

“She always had this chocolate chip cookie in her purse. Same brand. Same crinkle on the packaging,” he says, and the look on his face shows he’s already half-lost to memory. “I don’t even think she liked them, but she made sure I always had one. She’d hand it to me at the end of every visit. Channie, for you.”

His eyes are glassy, but not wet. Not yet. “I know it was store-bought. She wasn’t a baker,” he goes on. “She burned toast. But that cookie—it stuck. It was her. A kind of love language, I guess.”

“And that’s what this was all about?” you ask. Gently. So gently. “Finding it again?”

He nods. “I thought if I could find that exact one, maybe it would… I don’t know. Bring her back. Even for a second. Maybe time might crack open a little and let her through.”

The implication hits like a truck. Your voice lowers. “She’s sick?”

“Alzheimer’s.”

He doesn’t say it for sympathy. He says it like he’s still talking about the weather. Inevitable. Slow and cruel and impossible to predict.

“She started forgetting where she put her keys,” he narrates. “Then names. Then faces. I thought it was just age catching up to her. I didn’t… I didn’t think it was this.”

He glances away for the first time, and you don’t demand he keep his eyes on you. You don’t ask if you can pull out your recorder so you can get all this verbatim. This isn’t that kind of moment.

“And now, she barely knows who she is,” Chan goes on. “I visit. I talk. Sometimes I sing old songs she used to like. Mostly, I just sit. I just sit there and hope. I sit with my hope, you could say.”

There’s no drama in the way he says it. Just grief. Lived-in. Paper-thin. There is no teeth in your silence. Not this time. There is only space for Chan to be, and that’s exactly what he does. What he gives you.

“I thought maybe if she tasted it again—just once—it’d click,” he finishes. “She’d remember me. She’d call me Channie again. I thought that would be enough.”

You want to say something. Anything. But there are places that words don’t reach, where no degree in journalism can help. Where you can hear the quiet, It was not enough.

You do what is second best.

Your hand rests over Chan’s. He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t reciprocate either. He just lets the warmth of your palm stay there. In fact, he stares at it as if the answer might exist in the spaces between your fingers. You have taken what he’s come to give. You’ve given what he’s asked.

He stands after a long while. The chair scrapes back with a reluctant sigh. “I should go,” he says, tight-lipped and dry-eyed despite the waver in his voice.

You rise with him. “Chan—”

“Thanks for listening.” It’s plain and simple. No frills. An echo of affection, maybe, but not the kind that demands.

You draw back. You give him grace. “Thanks for trusting me with it,” you respond.

This is where the sentence should end, where the line should break. But Chan offers you a rueful smile, hands stuffed in his pockets, head tilted just slightly. “You’re missing the point,” he says.

He walks away before you can ask what the point is. What’s the point of anything, really.

You’re left there at the table with its long-forgotten initials and hearts, feeling like something else is carving within you.

100% ▼ | Normal text ▼ | Arial ▼ | - 12 + | B I U A

Food is magic, because food is memory. A man named Lee Chan has tried to chase that magic for over half a year.

Minghao reads your first draft in silence.

You hate that you’re watching him instead of looking over your own work. Every flick of his red pen feels like a personal attack, even when it doesn’t land on anything at all. He’s halfway through page three when you realize you’ve been holding your breath.

You pick at your thumbnail. Regret it instantly. It throbs under the pressure, but the pain feels easier to manage than the tension building in your chest. When Minghao finally sets the pages down, you sit up straighter and prepare for carnage.

“It’s good,” he says simply.

You blanch. “Good?”

He nods. Crosses his arms over his chest. “Solid structure. Strong voice. A little long, but it’s got bones.”

You know you should be relieved. Instead, there’s this twisting in your gut. It’s like you ate something bad, and you try not to let it show on your face.

Minghao narrows his eyes, immediately catching on. “But?”

You try to deflect. “No but.”

“Liar.”

You deflate. “I’ve been so scared of screwing this up,” you blurt out. “Of letting you down. When you said ‘remember why you’re here,’ I thought... I don’t know. That maybe I wasn’t doing enough. That I was getting too close. That I was crossing a line.”

Minghao tilts his head. The sharpness of him softens, just a little. “You misunderstood me.”

He leans forward. Taps a finger on the table between you. “What’s the most important thing about a cookie?” he asks.

Your eyes twitch. “The... flour?”

He stares. “Okay. No,” he rephrases. “Let me rephrase. What’s the most important thing about food?”

“Salt?”

“God.” He presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. “People. It’s people.”

You stare. He continues, more gently now. “Vernon’s story about candy shone because it was about tradition. Culture. Community. The way a single sweet tied together generations. Seungkwan’s was about food tech, but really, it was about ingenuity. Human innovation in the face of resource scarcity. Even Joshua’s piece about AI ramen wasn’t just about automation. It was about how technology still tries to mimic human intuition.”

His voice is measured, but there’s something in it. A belief. The kind that only comes from loving something deeply, and for a long time. You’re silent, letting it wash over you. Letting it settle in the hollows of your chest.

“At the root of food,” Minghao continues, “behind every recipe that’s unwritten or winged, every craving, every comfort—there’s people. Someone made that dish for someone else. Or remembered it. Or passed it down.”

“The food we love is only as good as the people who make it,” he says. “The stories we tell are only as good as the people behind them.”

You don’t realize you’ve stayed quiet until Minghao looks at you with that familiar editor’s patience. The kind he uses when he knows you’re on the edge of a revelation, only needing a push.

You think of Chan. Not the cookie-searching version. Not the boy who tried and failed to track down a taste from his past. Just Lee Chan. His grin. His terrible jokes. His self-assured rhythm.

The corners of his eyes, the crumbs underneath his nails. The way his voice wavered when he talked about his grandmother. The weight he’s carried all alone. The hope, still flickering.

“I made him a punchline,” you murmur, the horror settling low in your gut. “I made him a mission.”

Minghao shrugs. “You made him a start,” he says, forgiving in a way you’re not sure you deserve. “Now you get to decide where you finish.”

You exhale. A long, unsteady breath. There’s a beat of silence. The air feels different now. Lighter, but charged. Like the moment before a storm breaks, or the second before a leap.

“I need an extension,” you declare.

Nobody asks Minghao for extensions. He runs the newsroom with military precision, and you can’t blame him. Journalism relies on clockwork—press cycles, deadlines in red pen. But you’ve come to understand that some things are bigger than that. More important. Worth going against everything you believe.

“Yeah.” You meet Minghao’s gaze, steady and unwavering. “I want to tell the story right.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then he taps the table once. When he smiles, it’s slow and small. Real.

“Okay,” he concedes. “Go write something that matters.”

This time, you know what that means.

You just have one thing to do before that.

You show up to Chan’s studio and immediately wonder if this was a mistake.

He answers the door in a hoodie too big for him, sleeves pushed to the elbows, hair damp like he’s just showered or maybe it’s sweat-slick from rehearsal. There’s a beat of surprise in his expression before it hardens, folding in on itself like wet origami.

“Hey,” you try, voice quiet but even.

“Hey,” he echoes, flat.

It stings more than it should. A hollow ache opens up in your chest, sharp and cold. You shift on your feet, offering a small, uncertain smile. “I have something for you.”

He raises a brow. “Unless it’s the cookie I’ve been looking for, I’m not sure I’m interested.”

You breathe through your nose. “Give me one chance,” you say, wincing at the sound of your own begging. “That’s all I’m asking.”

Chan looks at you, unreadable. For a second, you think he might actually shut the door in your face. You’d deserve it.

But then he sighs, grabs a jacket hanging from a hook behind the door, and mutters, “Lead the way.”

You’re not sure why he agreed, but you’re not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Maybe he took pity. Maybe there’s still some residual respect from the moment shared in your company cafeteria. Whatever it is, you know it’s temporary. Fleeting. One shot to get things right.

You take Chan to a co-baking studio tucked into a homely alley in Mapo-gu.

The air inside smells like vanilla and ambition. Stainless steel counters stretch out in clean lines. There’s sunlight pouring in through high, smudged windows. Rows of labeled jars—sugar, nutmeg, semisweet chocolate chips—stand like small sentinels. It’s industrial, but cozy. Clean. Bright. Full of possibility.

Chan squints. “What is this?”

“A baking studio.” You gesture around with a tilt of your head. “I booked us a session. You have everything you need to try again. One last time.”

His head snaps to you. “You want me to bake?”

“Yes.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“You do realize I don’t know how to bake, right?”

“That makes two of us.”

You see it, then. The tiniest crack in his demeanor. The corner of his mouth twitches, the beginnings of a smile surfacing, then retreating like a wave too nervous to reach the shore. He gives you the ultimatum you were already half expecting: “I’m not doing this without you.”

You sigh, mostly for show. “Fine.”

The instructor gives you two a brief rundown, gesturing toward the pre-measured ingredients and the recipe card in bold type. Then, mercifully, she disappears, leaving you alone.

The two of you pull on aprons that are slightly too big and immediately begin fumbling like contestants in a reality show neither of you signed up for. The butter isn’t soft enough. The sugar spills. Chan nearly drops an egg on the floor, and you burn your hand lightly on the oven door.

There’s flour on the counter, on your sleeves, in your hair. The vanilla extract sloshes over the measuring spoon. The dough looks more like cement than something edible.

It’s a disaster, but it’s yours.

You glance at Chan after a particularly clumsy attempt at whisking, and the two of you dissolve into laughter. It bubbles up from your chest, full and warm, like something you’d forgotten you still had in you. Chan looks startled to hear it, like he hadn’t expected joy to make an appearance.

“This is terrible,” he says, grinning despite himself.

“Objectively,” you agree, shaking your head.

His smile stays this time.

You lean over the counter to scoop a bit more flour, and in doing so, you miss the look he gives you—soft, open, maybe even wanting. He reaches out without thinking. His thumb brushes your cheek, slow and sure, wiping away a smudge of flour you didn’t know was there.

He doesn’t say anything about it. Neither do you. You don’t have to. The moment stretches, unspoken and delicate, like a string pulled tight but unbroken. There’s something in his eyes when you finally meet them. Something fragile and fierce all at once.

You look away first.

The cookies make it to the oven. You’re both perched on metal stools, watching the timer count down. The smell starts to fill the room. Warm, chocolate-laced, a little too sweet.

It’s not quite forgiveness. Not quite love, either.

But it feels like it could be.

“You don’t have to do this,” you say, which translates loosely to I don’t have to be here for this.

Chan shakes his head, as if to say, You should be here.

The fluorescents of the hospital lights are unforgiving. The only warm thing in the hallway is the tupperware of cookies nestled in Chan’s death grip. Your fingers instinctively brush over his knuckles, and he loosens his hold enough to let the plastic grip.

You’re standing in front of the hospital room. Once again, you have that striking feeling that you don’t belong. That this isn’t somewhere you should be, not a story you should be a character in.

But Chan is looking at you with please written all over his face, and who are you to deny him?

Your throat works around the words. “Ready?”

He takes a shaky breath. “Give me a minute.”

You would give him the world, really, if he asked. The two of you stand side by side for a couple more moments, until Chan breaks it with words that are edged with a healthy dose of nervousness. “Do you remember the conversation we had at the cafeteria?”

You nod wordlessly in response. His eyes dart skyward for a moment. “I said you were missing the point,” he notes.

Right before he’d left. You’re missing the point.

You think of Minghao’s claws retracting enough to tell you about the people behind food. You think of the stories you’ve written, the voices that bleed into every single one of them. You think of your own mother.

You think of kitchens you’ve outgrown, and people you’ve loved, and you understand. You know, now, what the point is. To Chan’s mission. To your article. To everything.

Your hand rests at his elbow. You give it a gentle squeeze. This story is bigger than the two of you. It’s always been, hasn’t it?

Chan nods and pushes the door open.

It’s all a little clearer with context. The silver-haired woman you’d seen way back then is undoubtedly a blood relative of Chan’s. The same nose, same set of lips. She’s still unsmiling, still closed off, and the knowledge of what she’s gone through has the puzzle pieces in your mind falling into place.

She looks up when you and Chan walk in. She says nothing, though, even as Chan pauses by the door. As if he’s waiting to be yelled at, to be told to leave. It makes your heart clench in your chest.

Chan’s voice is impossibly soft as he pads further into the sunlit room. “Halmeoni,” he greets. “It’s me. I’ve brought… a friend.”

She glares at Chan, face devoid of recognition, before glancing at you. You raise your hand in an awkward wave before folding into a clumsy bow. Chan’s grandmother says nothing about your abysmal manners.

You’re a stranger to her. That adds up. But Chan being a stranger to her—

You feel the sudden urge to cry. You have to glance away from this shell of a woman lest you actually do start sobbing. This moment is not supposed to be about you.

Chan approaches her as if he were nearing a particularly skittish animal. “I’ve brought you a snack,” he says, already popping the top off the Tupperware. His fingers are shaking as he says, “Do you want to try one?”

The smell of chocolate and sugar wafts through the room. Something shifts in the old woman’s expression. The slightest twitch. You watch, wretched, as Chan perks up.

His grandmother reaches into the Tupperware. Her bony fingers bring the cookie to her mouth, and she takes the smallest of bites.

Despite having already said earlier that the cookie is nothing like the one he used to have as a kid—too sweet, too crumbly, too obviously made by someone without experience—Chan looks devastatingly hopeful. He doesn’t look his age. He looks like a child waiting in the pleats of his grandmother’s skirt, hoping to be handed the love that was his since the moment he was born.

His grandmother chews, careful and slow. Considering, you want to believe.

She keeps chewing. She takes another bite.

Nothing in her face changes.

Chan’s shoulders fall.

You’re at his side in the next moment. You don’t say anything, don’t do anything drastic. A hand at the small of Chan’s back. That’s all you offer. A reminder of what has been done, who has been loved. Despite, despite, despite.

Chan looks towards you and breathes. In, out. An inhale that bears the weight of memory. An exhale that lets the grief unravel.

“Well,” he says, managing a smile, “I guess that’s it.”

You smile back at him. “It’s okay,” you say, even though it’s not, and Chan nods, even though he doesn’t think so, either.

Chan lingers for just a couple minutes more, giving his grandmother updates about his day even though she says nothing in response. She just works her way through the cookie, blank eyes fixed on Chan as he talks about his parents and the dance studio.

Eventually, Chan catches your wrist and gives it a gentle squeeze. “We should head out,” he says. “Visiting hours are over soon.”

You nod. You look to his grandmother who still has crumbs at the corners of her mouth.

“It was nice meeting you, halmeoni,” you say, and though you’re not quite sure why, you feel compelled to add, “Thank you.”

That, at least, makes Chan’s smile a little more genuine. Like he understands the weight of you thanking her. He keeps his hold on your wrist as you two turn away.

When his grandmother speaks, it’s with the musicality that undoubtedly runs through Chan’s veins. You catch the way her eyes crinkle—a joy that is inherited, passed down. Pressed into a grandchild’s hands at family gatherings.

“Where did you get this cookie, boy?” she asks Chan. “I think my grandson would like it.”

The cashier offers you a free cookie at the register—some kind of promotional thing—and Chan immediately shakes his head.

You glance at him. He glances back. A shared look. A brief pause. Then, unbidden, a laugh slips from your lips. It startles you in its ease. He chuckles, too.

You take the cookie, cradling it like something precious. “Old habits die screaming,” you say as the two of you slide into your seats.

Chan grins fondly. "Some things are worth keeping alive."

You sit across from each other, mugs nestled between your palms, steam curling into the space between you. The café hums around you. Low music, clinks of cutlery, snippets of conversation that blur into background noise. It acts like a privacy screen. Cocooning. Comforting. There’s a subtle stiffness to it, like a page that’s been folded one too many times.

It’s been a couple of months.

After the hospital. After your deadline. After you had to text Chan that the story was being banked for a bit, and he responded with a GIF of a cartoon otter sobbing. Romance didn’t click into place like you thought it might; it’s not like you were owed that, either. The two of you didn’t really keep in touch, but the tension nonetheless lingered in every pastry listicle, in every dance video, in every article about being one step closer to a cure for Alzheimer’s.

You were the one to eventually invite him out for coffee. You made it a point to choose a place that hadn’t been on his map, which had been a near-impossible feat.

“I’m sorry for disappearing,” he says first, thumb grazing the lip of his mug, his voice pitched low.

“You didn’t,” you say quickly. “Life just shifted.”

Shifted. That’s one way to put it. Chan nods, taking the grace. “My grandmother’s back home now. Out of hospice,” he tells you.

Your breath hitches a little at that. “That’s good,” you say, and there’s nothing feigned about your enthusiasm.

“It is. I’m with her most days now. She doesn’t always know who I am, but…” He cracks the smallest of grins. “Sometimes, she smiles when I sit beside her.”

Your chest aches in that quiet, bruised kind of way. You reach across the table, let your pinky hook against his. The contact is small. It feels monumental. “I’m glad she has you,” you say.

He gives you a look you can’t quite name. It lands somewhere between gratitude and grief. “And you?” he asks, pinky curling around yours like muscle memory. “What’s the story these days?”

You shrug, take a sip of your coffee. It’s a little too hot, but you welcome the burn. It grounds you. “Got assigned something called The Joy of Food.”

Chan’s face lights up. That same rare brightness you’ve always been drawn to, like a match flaring in the dark. “That’s your Story.”

You tilt your head, smile lopsided. “You’d think so. But I’ve spent more time polishing yours.”

He mimics you. Head tilted to one side, grin crooked in an endearing, confused sort of way. “Mine?”

“It’s not ethically sound to show an interviewee the final article,” you say, trying for professionalism. Failing miserably. You’re nervous. More nervous than when you pitched the sugar conspiracy article to Minghao.

“But—” you say, “I could show my boyfriend.”

Chan’s brows shoot up so high they disappear behind his bangs. Then, he laughs. Really laughs. Wide and real, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that familiar way you’ve come to adore. It makes something in your chest loosen. “Are you asking—”

You shrug again, casual in that not-so-casual way. “Depends,” you say, too quick to be casual. “Are you saying yes?”

He leans across the table, hand sliding over yours. “Let me have a taste first,” he hums, “and then we’ll figure out the rest.”

You meet him halfway.

His lips are soft, a little coffee-warmed, a little sugar-slick. There’s a stillness to it, the kind that comes after a storm. You feel the curve of his mouth against yours, and so you let yourself smile, too. Let the kiss be nothing more than a kiss. Not a story to tell, not a metaphor for anything else.

He pulls back just enough to murmur against your mouth, “Sweet.”

“Like cookies?”

“Even sweeter.”

You groan, but it’s affectionate. He kisses you again just to prove a point. You pull back this time, breathless and just the right amount of dizzy. “Don’t you want to see my first sentence?”

“Let me kiss my girlfriend for a little more,” he argues, mouth already chasing yours.

The Google Doc glows faintly on your phone screen beside the mugs, open but unattended. It bears the title you agonized over for weeks. The cursor blinks after the last sentence.

You don’t care if a thousand people read it, or if only one does. You don’t care if it wins awards or garners likes or clicks. It holds everything that mattered, all in a few thousand words.

It’s not your story anymore.

100% ▼ | Normal text ▼ | Arial ▼ | - 12 + | B I U A

In a Seoul hospice, there is a grandmother who loves her grandson more than anything in the world—even if she may not remember him.

#lee chan x reader #dino x reader #svt x reader #keopihausnet #svthub #lee chan imagines #lee chan x you #chan x reader #dino imagines #chan imagines #svt imagines #(💎) page: svt #(🥡) notebook

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afterdarkbean · 5 days ago

Note

Not sure if you have any interest in Queentenna but I imagine she completes the full spectrum of the wireplay skill gradient.

Spamton: doesn't know how Tenna works, doesn't care. Truly just crawling around in there animal-style ripping shit up willy nilly. Absolutely no aftercare just lights a cig lmao.

Ramb: doesn't know how he works, cares. Would try his best to put the guy back together but is just deeply out of his element.

Queen: knows how he works, doesn't care. Also yanking that shit but with, like, finesse. Still breaks stuff but unlike Spamton it's on purpose and she knows exactly what she's doing. Would at least put him pack together afterwards but would also make fun of him the whole time.

Mettaton: knows how he works, cares. Borderline clinical. Won't break anything unless Tenna wants it broken. Best communication, nicest aftercare.

Lmao sorry for spreading the Queentenna agenda... I like all the Tenna pairings a lot. Thoughts?

Consider your queentenna agenda spread because I haven’t exactly considered myself a queentenna shipper (though I’ve always Respected it) but the idea of Queen Fucking With Him On Purpose kind of sold me on it ngl. I like to think she also drags him around by his antennae whenever she wants to take him somewhere.

Ramb wanting to do a good job for his boss but not quite having the skill required is so good too. Again, not a ship I’ve necessarily been super interested in but in this context I find it really interesting. I imagine tenna going to ramb because spamton fucked with the wires in his back and he can’t reach so he needs a hand getting things back in order. I feel like tenna would be a bit of a brat with him too like, “You better do a good job or I’ll cut your pay >:(“ but then ramb tugs a particular wire and tenna loses his train of thought entirely.

Anyway thank you for the brain worm food here’s some queentenna just for you x

#queentenna #I love that tenna is Such a bottom he’s got like four doms now just to cover the whole spectrum of ways he needs to be Dominated #wireplay #suggestive #I should draw more queen stuff because fuck. fuck I love women.#Deltarune NSFT #rambtenna #spamtenna #mettatenna #multishipper #mr ant tenna

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vandme12 · 18 days ago

Note

Ronin x Reader, where ronin puts on a personal show (Hehe, a LIL murder in alleyway) for reader because they need inspiration?

TW : BLOOD, GORE

Beauty of Rot, Beauty of Him - Ronin x Reader

You were dumb.

Like, really dumb.

"Hey, can anyone with experience killing someone with a crowbar DM me?? it’s really important!! tysm."

You posted that. On a dark web board. Like some beginner in need of a walkthrough.

An ask for how to kill a person. With a crowbar.

And as it turns out? The best fucking mistake you ever made.

Error: UNKNOWN. Error: Not So Unknown Now. Error: You Got a Boyfriend Out of It.

Because someone did message back.

Not just someone. The Butcher. Your Butcher. Now your boyfriend. Rotten God of Uptown’s back alleys, crowned in cartilage and martyrdom, crowned in blood.

They say he gores people like he’s stringing violins from intestines, splashes the brickwork with bone-shards and sin. Swings that crowbar like a conductor, splatters skull into halo, makes murder into gospel.

And now? He’s yours.

You still remember when he dropped a key into your DMs like it was a gift from the Devil himself — well, maybe it was. A server. A red room. A laugh.

Don’t be so Obvious smh you’re Gonna Get Caught — that’s what he said. Right before giving you access to a Discord/j full of serial killers.

Butchered usernames. Gutted profile pics. Everyone trying to one-up each other in filth and finesse. You, though? You got something better. You got Ronin.

It’s been ten months since that fateful crowbar moment. Ten months of selfies Ten months of late-night convos about blood viscosity. Ten months of soft-spoken I love yous whispered between ruptured lung sacs.

Romance is bleeding. And your boy wants to treat you.

No dinner. Just a murder.

goreboy: hopin to see ya darlin

You feel it in your bones — not fear, not nausea. Anticipation.

Your own personal red room. You joked about it once — and Now, he's gonna put on a show.

You don’t know who the target is. Might be a monster. Might be some guy who cuts lines at the bank's Ronin never tells you until the blood’s already pooling.

That’s part of the fun. Inspiration on impact.

You're wearing boots that can step through brain matter. You took a shower before this, which was stupid. You’ll be showering in blood anyway.

You turn the corner.

There he is. Leaning against the brick wall like some kind of death-dealing delinquent Cupid. Crowbar slung over his shoulder. Eyes bright, blackhole-shiny, grin split open across his face like a peeled fruit.

He’s all gore and glamor, all ruin and romance, a boy made of butcher cuts and fucked-up poetry.

"Heya, Darlin," he drawls, teeth white like an Angel's ruin

You smile. You’ve always been ready.

You DMed him first, obviously. No shame. No fear. Just that familiar static in your lungs, that high of being this close to something filthy.

you:

hey butcher boy u swingin that crowbar tonight or just compensating again

goreboy

oh look. it’s my favorite little freak. thought i smelled ink and desperation u comin or what? red carpet’s wet. might be brain. might be yours. let’s find out.

you:

damn do u flirt with all your victims like this or am i special

goreboy:

only the ones who write poetry about spinal cords and call me cute after i break a jaw sideways hurry up darlin. don’t keep the devil waitin.

He always knew just how to say I missed you.

And then it dropped. The real thing. No flirting this time, not exactly.

Just:

EXECUTIONER: "come to Purgatory. tonight. bring whatever weird notebook shit u scribble in. I’ll give you something worth writing about." "devil says hi, btw.

"lil mean tonight. love that. keep talkin shit and i’ll carve your name in someone’s ribs. wanna see?"

He always knew just how to say I missed you.

And then it dropped. The real thing. No flirting this time, not exactly.

—

You pack a bag.

Notebook

Pen

Knife (not to use. just in case.)

A dream.

You saw him before you really saw him.

The man—his prey, his canvas—was huddled near a dumpster, shaking like a leaf in acid rain. Eyes blown wide, lips parted in a silent scream, knees buckled in a prayer that wouldn’t be answered. Sweat clung to his brow. His hands were bound, taped in a trembling little bow, like a gift no one wanted to unwrap.

And then there was Ronin.

He wasn’t even touching him yet.

No, Ronin was pacing slow, crowbar dragging behind him like a leash, metal shrieking against the concrete just enough to set teeth on edge. His steps were too measured, too graceful—it was a dance. A fucked-up, symphonic ballet of menace.

He didn’t even look at you as you stepped into the scene. Just kept circling.

Like a shark in a kiddie pool.

"Oh God," the guy whimpered. "Please, man, I didn’t do anything—"

Ronin tilted his head, cracking his neck with a sickening pop. Still no words. Just a smile. That smile—the one that made your spine tighten and your thighs clench. Not out of fear. Not entirely.

You crept closer, notebook in hand, but the man saw you now—you, not Ronin—and his face twisted.

"You—you’re just standing there?! Help me! This guy’s insane!"

You blinked, like a deer caught in headlights made of raw meat.

"I’m with him," you said quietly. Then added, "Kind of a date."

The man screamed.

Ronin cackled.

"Fuck, Darlin.. he gasped between laughs. "You’re really gonna make me blush sayin’ sweet shit like that."

You felt your face heat up, but not with shame. Not even guilt. Just... thrill.

"You’re scaring the hell out of him," you muttered, crouching behind the safety of your notebook.

Ronin raised a brow, licking blood from the side of his thumb like frosting. "I am the hell. C’mon. Say that one again."

You scribbled, breath uneven. Quoting yourself like a freak. “You’re scaring the hell out of him.” Then added in shaky ink: He is the hell.

The victim whimpered louder, rocking side to side now, muttering prayers like they were protection spells. You honestly couldn’t blame him. You felt the tremble in your own bones too. But it wasn’t fear—it was awe. That knife-edge thrill of watching a master at work.

You looked up.

Ronin was closer now. He’d stopped circling and was crouched in front of the guy, crowbar in one hand, the other under the man’s chin, lifting it with casual gentleness. It was obscene, the contrast. Like a lover about to kiss.

"Tell me a story," Ronin whispered to him. "Tell me why your blood’s gonna be special."

The guy was sobbing now, babbling nonsense. Ronin leaned in closer. "No? Then I’ll tell you one."

He turned to you, eyes glinting.

"You wanna write this down, Darlin"

You didn’t say yes. You didn’t have to.

Pen kissed page. And Ronin began.

"Once there was a man who liked to lie. Said he never hurt nobody. But lies?" He brought the crowbar up and rested it against the man’s cheek. "They rot the tongue. They rot the heart. I’m just the gardener."

CRACK.

You jumped.

The guy screamed. Blood bloomed across the bricks, painting the wall in fast, arterial strokes.

You’d never seen anything more horrifying. You’d never seen anything more beautiful.

You wrote that down too.

Ronin didn’t stop—not for a while. He moved like a conductor, crowbar rising and falling to an unheard symphony. The victim’s screams grew hoarse, then wet, then stopped altogether. The sound of metal on bone filled the air like church bells.

By the end, it didn’t look like a body.

It looked like art.

Red. White. Pulp. A rose garden of gore.

Fuck the guy's still alive.

Ronin finally straightened, shirt soaked, crowbar slick. He looked sated. Not tired. High.

And then, impossibly—he turned to you. Soft.

"You alright?"

You stared at him. Then down at your notebook. At your handwriting—jagged, fast, shaking. At the sketches in the margins. At how much you’d written. How inspired you were.

He steps back into frame like it’s stage left. Wipes the smile off his face and puts on something worse—an expression that’s all serenity. Peaceful. Reverent. Like a man praying before he wrecks something holy.

And that poor fucker on the ground? He’s trembling so hard his bones might rattle apart. You wonder if he even knows what's coming. Or if Ronin’s already told him. Whispered it sweetly in that honeyed voice, dripping rot like nectar, how he was going to make him into something worth remembering.

Ronin lifts the crowbar.

Not like he’s about to kill a man.

Like he’s about to paint.

CLANG.

It smashes into the ground beside the guy’s ribs again—just a tease. A wet warning. You watch as blood speckles the concrete. Not even from the hit—just from the fear. He’s bleeding from the nose now. A stress rupture. Ronin looks delighted.

“There it goes,” he says softly, watching the crimson dribble down. “Like clockwork.”

You find yourself breathing harder.

And you’re writing.

You don’t even realize it at first, not consciously. The pen scratches across the page like it has its own mind:

“He doesn’t kill for fun. He kills for structure. For design. For detail.” “Each bruise has placement. Each scream has volume.” “He doesn’t kill people. He erases them, makes meaning of them.”

Ronin kneels again. Cups the guy’s chin like he’s posing a doll.

“Don’t pass out now,” he hums. “We ain’t hit the chorus yet.”

You whisper, half-joking, “Tell him it’s for art.”

Ronin doesn’t even glance your way this time. Just smiles wider.

“It’s for art,”

The scream that rips out is pure animal.

You flinch. And then—you don’t. Because it’s addictive. The sound of it. The feeling of being here.

Watching Ronin twist something alive into something raw. Something else.

You’re starting to wonder if this was always inside you. If it just needed the right person to peel the skin back and expose the nerves. You look down at your page.

You’ve drawn him.

Not the man on the floor. Ronin.

Sharp cheekbones. Bloody hands. Wide grin like a god with no church but his own red room. There’s a halo of crowbars around his head like a saint of carnage. And beneath it, you’ve scrawled:

“I think I love him.”

You almost laugh at yourself.

But you don’t tear the page out.

Ronin’s looking at you now. Not saying a word. Like he knows what you wrote. Like he could taste it through the air.

He stands slowly. The guy’s still breathing—barely. He’s not dead yet. You think Ronin’s waiting on you.

“Darlin’,” he says, voice slick with mirth and menace. “You wanna pick the finishin’ touch?”

Your breath catches. He’s offering you the last stroke.

You stare. You blink. You swallow.

Then you nod.

“Yeah.”

You don’t know what you’ll choose yet. But you know you’ll write about it after.

You’ll write all of it. Every inch of this living nightmare.

Because you were never the hero of this story.

You were just looking for a muse.

And you found him—in blood and concrete, in screaming men and the lullaby of breaking bone.

You found him.

Your devil. Your butcher. Your art.

At first, just to remember. A little scratch of ink, a reflection. Something poetic to keep the nausea away. But it didn’t stay poetic, not really. Your hand cramped from the speed, from the need, and the page bled black with words the way the floor bled red.

You weren’t just watching anymore. You were documenting. You were translating murder into metaphor. Gore into gospel.

“He paints with pain. That’s the medium.” “He composes screams like violin notes, each snap of the bone a crescendo.” “His hands aren't hands. They're brushes. He doesn’t kill. He curates.”

You glanced up from the notebook and saw it again—how Ronin tilted his head just before he struck, admiring the posture, the pleading, the panic.

And you got it.

The way the crowbar slid through air—how clean it sounded, the whistling hush before impact. The way he didn’t grunt or pant. Ronin didn’t labor. He moved like he was dancing, like his body already knew where the final stroke belonged.

“He kills with rhythm.” “He kills with grace.” “He doesn’t need a reason. The act is the art.”

You looked at the man he was killing—not the man. The canvas. The collapsed figure with his face bent inwards and his ribs shifting like a broken accordion. And somehow, some rotten part of you—

—you thought it was beautiful. You understood him. You thought, “This is how he loves.”

And still, you wrote.

“I saw the art.” “I saw the beauty.” “I saw how he kills.” “He kills like a lover—softly at first, with admiration. Then all at once, with devotion.”

Ronin turned to you again. Bloody, heaving, smiling.

“You writin’ sonnets over there, Darlin?” he asked, tilting his head as the body gave a last twitch behind him. “Wanna read me one when I’m done cleanin’?”

Your mouth was dry. You licked your lips.

“I’m trying to keep up.”

He laughed. Low and pleased and ruinous.

“Darlin, if you keep writing like that, you’re gonna make me fall for you all over again.”

You looked down.

Your notebook was nearly full.

It was done.

The body lay still, sunken into itself like it was praying to the wrong god and got exactly what it asked for. Blood pooled like a frame around the chaos. Art, in the Butcher’s gallery. A ruined masterpiece.

You closed your notebook with a little snap, pen still trembling between your fingers.

“Thanks,” you said, soft. Honest. Like someone just cooked for you, and you meant it.

Ronin dragged the crowbar down the wall with a lazy scrape, shoulder slouched, chin lifted—swaggering toward you like a wet saint. Blood dripped from his chin like it was meant to. His eyes flicked over you with that look, like he was checking if you still breathed the same after watching him do what he was made for.

“C’mere,” he said, voice sticky with play. “You wanna help me sow ‘im up?”

You wrinkled your nose. “Nah.”

His brows raised. “Aw, how mean, Darlin’. I put on a show for ya, and you fuckin’ mean?” His voice pitched mock-wounded, but the grin was sharp, wicked—flirting. “Y’ain’t even gonna stitch the finale?”

You laughed, stupidly charmed. Your stomach was still a mess, your knees weak, but God—

Even if the Devil's scary, he can be cute.

He can be romantic, in that rotten way that makes your heart thump for all the wrong reasons. He’s the worst kind of sweetheart. The kind that calls you “Darlin” with a mouth still stained from slaughter. The kind that murders and flirts in the same breath.

He really is the god of gore.

He shrugged, licking blood off his bottom lip. “Next time, then. I’ll make it extra messy. You can pick where I break ‘em.”

And despite the stench, despite the twitch in your gut, you smiled and tucked your notebook closer to your chest.

“Deal,” you whispered.

#killer chat #kc #killer chat x reader #killerchat #killer chat ronin #ronin x reader #ronin beaufort #kc ronin x reader #kc ronin #killer chat ronin x reader #ronin killer chat #killer chat ronin beaufort #ronin beaufort x reader #ronin x #Ronin x reader #kc x reader #kc fic #kc ronin beaufort x reader

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rosy-hollow · 3 months ago

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｡ﾟ•┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ ꒰ა ʚɞ ໒꒱ ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈• ｡ﾟ╰┈➤ @lillycore ⦂ OH OH, since you’re requests are open, can I request high school au with sukuna (established relationship) where he asks reader out to prom and what they’d do there? 》 ✐ᝰ UHM YES?? I LOVE YOU THIS WAS SO FUN TO WRITE HEHEH

｡ﾟ•┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ ꒰ა ʚɞ ໒꒱ ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈• ｡ﾟ

If you ranked Sukuna Ryomen on a list of the classiest men alive, he’d be dead last.

You knew that when you started dating him. Hell, you’d been together for two years now, so if his lack of finesse bothered you, you wouldn’t have stuck around this long.

Which is why you weren’t even surprised when, in the middle of some random conversation, he just told you that you’d be going to senior prom together—like it was already a given. No asking, no buildup, just a casual declaration.

Because in his mind?

It was a given.

It was just a stupid dance, anyway. No need to make a big deal out of it.

Right?

God, he was so wrong.

Now, standing outside your door, waiting to pick you up, Sukuna feels something entirely foreign settle in his chest.

Nerves.

It’s almost pathetic, how anxious he is. Not even during high-pressure games does his heart race like this. At least then, he’s in his element.

This? This is uncharted territory.

Loving someone—hell, even dating someone—always seemed like something that happened in theory. Something that happened to other people.

But he didn’t just love someone.

He was in love with you.

So utterly and completely in love that the very idea of being without you makes him feel like a dead man walking.

You, with your pretty face and knowing smiles. The way your laugh makes his heart do annoying things. Your witty comebacks, your sharp tongue.

You make him feel alive.

And ironically, the second the door swings open—his heart stops.

You are breathtaking.

To be fair, you always are, but—god.

"Holy shit."

He doesn’t even realize he’s said it aloud until you giggle, stepping forward and shutting the door behind you.

Sukuna suddenly feels very grateful you insisted on matching outfits, because with the way you look right now—he’d be damned if you looked like anything but his.

Just the thought makes his feel strange - a good strange - inside.

You’re his.

And he’s yours.

“I… wow,” he mutters gruffly.

You hum, stepping closer, tilting your head in amusement. Teasing him.

“Is that a good ‘wow’ or a bad ‘wow,’ ‘Kuna?”

A large, warm palm finds the small of your back, pulling you in, his lips brushing over yours.

“Definitely good,” he murmurs, before pressing his lips against yours—the first of many tonight.

Some might call you a miracle worker for convincing Sukuna to actually drive to the venue. Because if he had it his way? You’d be heading straight back to his place, where he could have you all to himself.

It’s cute, honestly. The way he grips the steering wheel like it’s the only thing stopping him from devouring you whole. Like if he so much as looks at you for too long, he’ll lose whatever shred of self-control he has left.

You, on the other hand, have no such limitations, happily being the passenger royalty you are.

So you drink him in—the way the streetlights cast shadows across his sharp features, how insanely handsome he looks in his suit.

You were just as whipped as he was.

Just... better at hiding it.

When you arrive, the entrance is already packed with familiar faces, student IDs in hand, waiting to be let in.

Sukuna steps out first, then, to your delight, makes his way around the car to open your door for you.

You giggle at his rare act of chivalry, taking his outstretched hand.

Inside, the venue is stunning—twinkling lights, lavish décor. You definitely have to congratulate your friend on the prom committee for a job well done.

Sukuna, however, could not give less of a shit.

Because while you’re admiring the decorations, he’s admiring you.

The soft, awed expression on your face is worth more than any stupid floral arrangement.

When you glance back at him, his eyes are warm—softer than they ever are in public.

You smile, leaning in to kiss him again, and he happily obliges, though it takes everything in him not to pull you flush against him and forget the whole damn dance.

When you pull away though, there’s a mischievous glint in your eye.

Oh no.

“‘Kuna~?” you draw out, sing-song.

He groans. He’s screwed.

“Will you dance with me?”

Sukuna just stares at you blankly.

“Fuck no.”

“Pleeeeease?”

Oh, fuck you and your stupid puppy eyes and your perfect face and your perfect everything—he can’t say no to you.

And that’s how he finds himself standing in the middle of the dance floor, awkwardly shuffling while you happily bop along to the music, grinning like this is the best night of your life.

It goes on like this for a while—your poor, hulking boyfriend completely out of his element, staying only because he loves you.

Then—suddenly—the music shifts.

The bass-heavy beats fade, replaced with something slower, softer.

Sukuna’s eyes widen slightly as yours light up.

You step toward him, all soft smiles and adoration.

You bow teasingly. “May I have this dance?”

Sukuna clicks his tongue, rolling his eyes. But there’s no real bite. “Ain’t I the one who’s supposed'ta ask ya that?”

You hum as he tugs you closer, his arms encircling your waist, your own draping around his neck. “Maybe… but I like to keep you on your toes.”

He lets out a rare, genuine laugh before kissing you again—deep, slow, tender.

He rests his forehead against yours, voice lower now, softer.

“That you do.”

Your eyes shine, drinking in the way he looks at you.

“And unfortunately for you,” you tease gently, “I always will.”

Sukuna snorts.

“You’re a little shit.”

But you both know he doesn’t mean it.

A/N: AHHHHHHHHHH (that's it, that's all I have to say)

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rayhalloffame · 6 months ago

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NSFW MDNI!

Imagining being new to Art and Tashi’s relationship. They’re both so captivated by you that they need to get to know your body separately. They need to be able to take their time and play with you the way they really want.

Tashi figures you out quickly enough. She knows exactly what to say, knows how to move her hands on you. She’s the perfect balance of teasing and pushover. She likes to see how far she can take you but when you’re begging her to let you come, she can’t deny you. Tashi strokes your face and whispers to you while her fingers assault your clit. You come so hard your toes curl and your head presses back into the pillows.

Art doesn’t have as much finesse. He eats you leisurely, uses his fingers to add some intensity. And while it feels good, and he looks so handsome between your legs, you’re just not able to get there. To spare his feelings, you fake it, and he kisses you after gleefully.

This works for a few weeks while the three of you have yet to engage in sexual activities together. Until Tashi is kissing your neck and cheeks and squeezing her hand around your tit while Art makes himself at home between your legs. You feel good, like you always do, closing your eyes and really trying to concentrate on his tongue which has a better rhythm than his fingers. Truth be told, you want Tashi’s fingers, so you fake it in hopes of continued play. Art is rubbing your thigh and when you open your eyes Tashi is staring down at you. You silently plea with her to not make it a thing.

Instead, she releases the tension between your eyebrows with her thumb. “Want me to teach Artie how to take care of you, hmm?” Your cheeks flame and when you look to Art he has his own crease between his brows. He vocalizes his confusion and Tashi is very blunt. “You don’t know how to make her finish,” she says, but rubs a hand across his messy hair.

His eyes find yours, asks if that’s true. You nod, quick to add, “but it feels so good, please don’t be mad!”

Art crawls up to lay beside you, cups your cheek and kisses you. “I’m not mad, pretty girl. My ego’s a bit bruised but I’m not mad.” Your eyes are glassy anyway and he swipes his thumb beneath one before the tear can fall. “You have to speak up, alright? I want to make you feel good, give you what you deserve.” You bite your lip and nod.

Tashi rubs a hand across your belly. “Go on, tell him.” She nods encouragingly, hand moving to toy with your clit. Your hips jolt into her hand.

“I, uh, need you to talk to me. Y’know, tease me, make me desperate,” you say bashfully. “Tell me what you want to do to me, but don’t always give it to me right away.” Art looks like he’s taking mental notes, nodding seriously.

Tashi is in your ear then. She bites the lobe, tells you you’re doing so good, rewards you by speeding up her fingers on your clit which sends shivers down your spine. She nods at Art to try.

Art captures your gaze, whispers so close to your face that you can smell mint on his tongue, “I can’t wait to split your little pussy open on my cock.” Your eyes widen and you nod into the palm he still has against your cheek. Art licks into your mouth, moves his hand slowly down your body until his fingers tease at your opening. You nod, egging him on, but he just traces his fingers there.

You grip the back of his neck. “Just like that,” you praise. He pushes a finger into you. Tashi grabs his wrist and repositions it to an angle she knows you like, and when he curls his finger you’re mewling.

Art adds another finger, stretching you while he finds a rhythm you like. “You’re so tight,” he groans, pulling your tit into his mouth. His fingers fuck you in sync to Tashi’s rhythm on your clit.

Tashi kisses at the underside of your jaw. “I don’t know, baby, he might be too big to fit.” Art curls his fingers, and you gush. Art spends the rest of the night probing you to tell him what else you like and then getting to work. It’s Tashi who pulls him from you when you become visibly overstimulated, wipes a mix of spit and juices from his chin, says you all will have plenty of time to learn each other. They’re going to keep you forever.

#challengers #artashi #art donalson x reader #art donaldson #tashi duncan x reader #tashi duncan #artashi x reader

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harunayuuka2060 · 1 year ago

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Vil: You lack finesse.

MC: Do you want me to strike a pose while I'm fighting?

Vil: ...

Vil: That's not what I meant.

MC: I'll make a peace sign next time. That should do.

Vil: *kicks them*

MC: *blocks it with their hand* *then makes a peace sign with the other*

Vil: ...

Jack: I heard Vil complaining about you.

MC: I don't know. I just followed his advice.

Jack: ...

Jack: Anyway, want to spar with me? I learned some good moves from Leona-senpai.

MC: Using your doggy charm doesn't count.

Jack: I told you I never used anything like that during our fight!

MC: I'm just teasing you. You're easily to get caught off guard, Jack.

Jack: Grr- *sighs in defeat* You're right. I still need to learn.

#twisted wonderland #twst mc #twst vil #twst jack #twst chill mc

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astroa3h · 1 year ago

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midheaven through the signs 💖

The Midheaven is your career compass, pointing you towards your professional path, shaping your social standing, and painting the picture of your public persona. It's like the universe's way of saying, "Hey, this is where you're meant to shine!" Now, let's break it down by zodiac sign, shall we?

Aries Midheaven: If you've got this fiery placement, you're a force to be reckoned with in the professional arena. You charge into things headfirst, fearless and ready to conquer. Your public persona? Bold, energetic, and unapologetically authentic. People can't help but be drawn to your magnetic charisma, and your social standing? Well, let's just say you're not one to fade into the background. You make sure you stand out anyway you can.

Taurus Midheaven: Slow and steady wins the race, right? That's your motto if your Midheaven falls in Taurus. You're all about building a solid foundation in your career, taking your time to create something enduring and of quality. Your public persona exudes reliability and dependability, like the rock everyone can lean on. And as for your social standing? You're the epitome of stability and success, you have the midas touch even if it doesn't always feel like it.

Gemini Midheaven: Ah, the social butterfly of the zodiac! With Gemini Midheaven, you're a master communicator and jack of all trades. Your professional path might involve fields like writing, teaching, or anything that allows you to flex your mental muscles. Your public persona is witty, charming, and endlessly curious, keeping everyone on their toes. And in terms of social standing? You're the one everyone wants at their party, the ultimate mingler and networker extraordinaire.

Cancer Midheaven: Cue the emotional depth and nurturing vibes! If your Midheaven falls in Cancer, your professional path likely revolves around caring for others in some way. You're the empathetic soul who thrives in fields like counseling, caregiving, or anything that lets you tap into your nurturing side. Your public persona is compassionate, intuitive, and deeply connected to your emotions. And in terms of social standing? You're the heart of the community, the one everyone turns to in times of need.

Leo Midheaven: Get ready for your close-up because with Leo Midheaven, you were born to shine in the spotlight! Your professional path is all about creativity, performance, and leadership. You're the natural-born leader, commanding attention wherever you go. Your public persona is bold, confident, and larger than life, like a true Hollywood star. And in terms of social standing? You're the king or queen of the jungle, the one everyone looks up to with awe and admiration.

Virgo Midheaven: Precision, perfection, and pragmatism—that's your game with Virgo Midheaven. Your professional path likely involves fields that require attention to detail, organization, and problem-solving. You're the analytical mind who excels in areas like accounting, healthcare, or research. Your public persona is humble, reliable, and quietly competent, earning you respect wherever you go. And in terms of social standing? You're the trusted expert, the one everyone relies on for practical advice and solutions.

Libra Midheaven: Balance and harmony are your bread and butter with Libra Midheaven. Your professional path is all about relationships, diplomacy, and aesthetics. You're the peacemaker who thrives in fields like law, counseling, or anything that requires finesse and negotiation skills. Your public persona is charming, diplomatic, and effortlessly stylish, drawing people in with your magnetic charm. And in terms of social standing? You're the social butterfly, the one everyone wants to befriend and collaborate with.

Scorpio Midheaven: Hold onto your hats because things are about to get intense with Scorpio Midheaven. Your professional path is all about transformation, depth, and uncovering hidden truths. You're the detective of the zodiac, excelling in fields like psychology, investigation, or anything that requires digging beneath the surface. Your public persona is mysterious, intense, and magnetic, drawing people in with your enigmatic allure. And in terms of social standing? You're the power player, the one everyone respects and fears in equal measure.

Sagittarius Midheaven: Adventure awaits with Sagittarius Midheaven! Your professional path is all about expansion, exploration, and pushing boundaries. You're the eternal optimist who thrives in fields like travel, education, or anything that allows you to spread your wings and explore new horizons. Your public persona is adventurous, enthusiastic, and endlessly curious, inspiring others to follow their dreams. And in terms of social standing? You're the free spirit, the one everyone admires for your fearlessness and joie de vivre.

Capricorn Midheaven: Time to climb that cosmic ladder with Capricorn Midheaven! Your professional path is all about ambition, discipline, and climbing to the top of the mountain. You're the ultimate goal-setter who excels in fields like business, finance, or anything that requires strategic thinking and long-term planning. Your public persona is authoritative, determined, and fiercely independent, commanding respect wherever you go. And in terms of social standing? You're the pillar of the community, the one everyone looks up to for guidance and leadership.

Aquarius Midheaven: Buckle up because you're about to shake things up with Aquarius Midheaven! Your professional path is all about innovation, progress, and challenging the status quo. You're the visionary thinker who excels in fields like technology, activism, or anything that pushes the boundaries of what's possible. Your public persona is unconventional, eccentric, and ahead of your time, inspiring others to think outside the box. And in terms of social standing? You're the trailblazer, the one everyone looks to for fresh ideas and bold solutions.

Pisces Midheaven: Dive into the depths of your imagination with Pisces Midheaven! Your professional path is all about creativity, intuition, and tapping into the collective unconscious. You're the dreamer who excels in fields like art, spirituality, or anything that allows you to express your deepest emotions. Your public persona is empathetic, mystical, and deeply connected to the spiritual realm, touching the hearts of everyone you meet. And in terms of social standing? You're the healer, the one everyone turns to for comfort and inspiration in times of need.

xox astro ash ✨ Get your own Natal Chart Reading @ astroash.net

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marstons-angel · 1 year ago

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the evening stretch | warm-up series.

ft. the prompts, nsfw / "dinner" / arthur morgan.

✧ tags : afab!reader + fem!reader outdoors sex, oral (f!recieving), reader is an outlaw, established relationship, desperate arthur morgan, 18+

✧ wc : 2.7k

✧ a/n : hello! this is part of a little warm-up series i do on my other blog where i pick three prompts and try to come up with something. i normally do them in a rut. im working on a commission and im super stuck so.

this actually landed on javier four times in a row but im being kind and sparing a friend so. here's mr. morgan.

✧ synopsis : arthur thinks the place between your legs would suit him quite nicely.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆

Honest to God, Arthur's never been like this before.

He ain't all that pious to start, so perhaps the sentiment doesn't stretch as far as he would like it too. But it's true, all the same - that in all the lives he's lived, he's never experienced this much bone-deep desire for another human being.

Which is outright ridiculous, since right now you're just making supper. Dinner, you always clarify with that yankee accent. You're going to have dinner together, 'cause Arthur needs to eat. He works hard, according to you.

It's not much, but you're a better cook than Pearson. Even if that's not saying a whole lot. And you're insistent on making the man eat, always on his case about how it's hardly enough for a man his size.

Arthur can chalk it up to being that you love him, as you have told him foolishly many times. He's sure you're not gonna be happy with him in a minute since again - all you're doing is making dinner.

It's just... something. Something about you today. Dammit, he doesn't understand it neither. You've got a job together, and you and Arthur play convincing husband and wife since you practically are anyway. Arthur's been watching you today closely. You lie pretty. Smile with all your teeth, clever with a careful finesse and an honest knack for debauchery and indecency.

You love calling yourself an awful woman. Joking about dying an unweddable spinster given your crudity.

But Arthur likes it in you. Of you. Likes it so much he's done nothing but readjust his pants watching you squirm your way out of every difficult situation and sling the revolver on your hip like a tried-and-true gunslinger.

You're a fine woman to him. A fine one.

The fire crackles as you place a pot over the little flame of the faux stove. You've made a real dinner somehow - with some vegetables and creeping thyme and carefully butchery of meat. It smells good and you seem proud of it, stirring the thing with the sharp end of your knife. Careful not to scrape the pot.

Arthur watches the light glow orange on your face, carefully observing the way it shines on you. You don't look up at all when you speak.

"Gonna stare a hole into me, Morgan."

He feels something warm crawl up his cheeks. He scratches his beard instinctively, tucking his hat over his eyes.

"'m sorry," He says, unsure of how to cover for himself. "Been thinking about some things."

"Don't hurt yourself," You reply, sardonic and dry. Arthur adores you. He laughs to himself and feels warmed by the pleasant smile that seems to give you.

"I'll try. Ain't much used to thinking,"

"Penny for your thoughts, then Mr. Morgan." You reply, carefully moving the pot around so nothing burns. "Might help you clear your mind if you get some of it off your chest."

He's backed himself into a wall. Goddamn him and his big mouth. He hesitates, taking it off this time. Fidgety.

"Yanno, there ain't a lot women like you. Not that I've met at least."

You give him a look. Your lips pressed into a flat line, unimpressed by him.

"Is that so?"

He laughs to himself. "It is indeed. You're a real piece of work. 'Specially going around batting your lashes, making yourself out to be a housewife."

"Aw what, did you like seeing me all doe eyed?" You smile to yourself, teasing but not entirely insincere. "If it helps, since you're the fake husband, I'm only half-acting."

That makes him grin. Though you say it with confidence, the sincerity it makes you flush.

"It ain't that," Arthur says again, looking at your face for the second time in a few minutes. "Just that you're a fine woman to be around. What do they call it...resourceful. That's what I'm thinking of."

"Who taught you such a big word, Morgan?"

"Trelawny, I'd guess."

You laugh, loud and beautiful and Arthur smiles. You look at him from across the fire. "Well, I'm glad you like my company, Mr. Morgan."

"I do more than like it," He hums, offering a reprieve. He nods at you carefully, head tilted. "Come 'ere,"

Your eyes widen at him, but you don't deny him of what he's asking. For that he is awfully grateful. You're more than capable and much less than needy. There's victory in your deliberate desire for him, Arthur thinks. You want him enough to let him chase you.

You come sit by Arthur. You're a little awkward with him still but he don't mind. It adds to whatever he feels for you, sugar-sweet affection and all. You sit on your knees and Arthur turns his head looking at you.

Beautiful. Beautiful thing you are, really. He has a hard time finding the words to tell you.

He reaches up, hand cupping your face. You lean into the touch, palm resting on calloused hand. He adores you.

"And quit with the Mister Morgan nonsense. Drives me crazy."

"Arthur," You say, slow and deliberate. "You know you're looking at me like you wanna eat me."

'"Read my mind, then."

"Arthur," You repeat, scandalized. He would smile if he wasn't so serious. "We're supposed to be eatin' dinner. You got into a whole spat with them Leymone Riders just today. You need to recover,"

His smile widens.

"Lettin' me go down on ya will heal me just fine,"

You look at him exasperated. Arthur leans into your neck, placing chaste kisses down the line of your jaw. He kisses you just there - underneath your earlobe, knows it drives you crazy.

"Lay down, sugar. Help a poor, injured man heal."

You pull away from him with faux exasperation, fond smiling breaking your face.

"You can be such a dog some times, do you know that?"

"I'm afraid I do,"

You give him another unimpressed look, but you listen anyways. Arthur moves so you can lay down on the bedroll - his bedroll. He takes off his coat just before you lay your head, playing it underneath you to get you more comfortable.

"Dinner's gonna burn," You tell him, almost reflexively. He laughs as he looks at you, your hands folded over your stomach and flat. He laughs at you.

"Burn? You feeling warm?"

"Arthur!"

And he laughs again, catching your boot in his hand as you go to kick his chest lightly. He sets it back down as he stares at you. You're quite the sight. Adoration bubbles up into his throat, blooms out into a hum. The sound of crickets and owls and all sorts of night wanderers sound - but none are distracting enough to pry his gaze away.

"You're looking too much," You say, your voice a half tremble. He nods.

"Got too," Arthur hums, leaning forward into your space. You always smell good to him, some cross between soft earth, and sweet liquor and clothes left in the sun. Skin and salt and sweet. "Who knows how long I'll be around."

He presses his lips to yours gentle and you kiss him - but only once before pulling away. Your eyes suddenly serious, warm palm on his cheek.

"Don't say something so morbid. If you go, I go,"

"Sweetheart—"

"No buts." You affirm, pressing your thumb to his lip all serious. Your eyes meet and for a moment - just one minute, all he wants to do is stop time from moving. From stealing him from you in life at all. Even a few seconds, intolerable. "Don't feel to good to hear, does it? So don't say it."

"Alright, alright," He huffs, laughing against your neck. He kisses it again, right against your pulse - quickening under his teeth as he bites and scrapes. He mulls over how much he wants you, and how little time there is to do everything. "Jus' lemme...I dunno."

Now you're cheeky, smiling up at him. Lord above, you do something so terrible to him. "Now that's just not true, baby."

He laughs deep and raspy. It's not true, because he knows exactly what he's after.

Arthur lets his hands plane over your clothed body. He doesn't bother with the ritual of undressing you entirely - since the act doesn't deserve the intimacy. You do, maybe - but Arthur's head feels too foggy to do anything civilized. He has to settle for letting his hands grip the fabric of your skirt and push it until it bunches around your waist.

There's no real delicacy in it, save for the way your breath hitches as Arthur gives himself better access. He moves to lay on his stomach between your thighs. He wishes it were brighter to give him better view. He's seen it plenty but looking at your pretty pussy alone gets him harder than steel.

His hands go underneath every layer of fabric to undo the little tie of your undergarments. You squirm when Arthur takes them off, but you don't pull away.

It's pretty. Even with the dim light of just the moon and fire to let Arthur see it. What entices him mostly though is the scent, after a long day of riding out alone - there's something about the way you smell - sweat and all that makes the back of his mouth ache with want. Makes his teeth hurt just dreaming about it.

He doesn't let his animalistic urges take him yet. He knows you need the build up. His hand is soft as he grips onto your waist. He pulls your legs further apart and lets his lips brush the inside of your thigh. Starts at your knee and works his way up, his mouth burning hot - open kisses. You giggle at the sensation of his beard, but it's tamped down with lust Arthur knows like the back of his hand.

Slow, deliberate, sinful. He knows the way you liked to be touched so exactly, but the pace is set more by his desperation. It grows ten sizes listening to you sigh and huff, feeling your hands come down to touch his hair and play with it.

"Arthur," Your voice calls. Pleading. Wanting him. You're so good at making Arthur loose his composure with so little. It's hard to tease you as your voice clips off into a whine. "Arthur,"

"I've got you," He says, assured. He means it as much as he means anything he's ever said. He ain't a decent man, but this much he can say full ways. "I've got you, sugar. Ease up. Let me take care of you,"

And so you again, breathless - boneless and eager. You let Arthur into your space, and something about that. Something about you. His heart races, blood pumping through his body. It pulses in his ears, head swimming with nothing but praise for you.

You're a fine woman. You're a good girl. The best he knows.

Arthur can feel the way your clit pulses with want before he ever puts his mouth on you. Makes him chuckle, gloved hand resting on your navel. He uses his thumb to pull it back, before using both hands to spread you open. Then, in an act less then gentlemanly, spits on it hard. He watches it land, lewd as it drips between your fold. He laughs to himself.

Another pitchy call of his name and Arthur decides he's had enough fun to get him through the evening.

He kisses your clit first, thinks it's only gentlemanly. When your hips buck up trying to chase the feeling of his mouth - he laughs. His hands dig into your hips. You're soft, skin dimpling from just how tight he holds onto you.

When he finally gets what he wants, his own body lurches forward from want. He nearly slumps into the ground - half-way between relieved and utterly addicted. It's a sense of euphoria unmatched by the finest liquor or cigars money can be.

The taste of you fills his mouth as Arthur eats.

Arthur is not used to playing predator. Not interested in the act of devouring. You often compare him to some sort of herbivore. But there's something too hungry, too visceral, too primal for him to be anything but a coyote. A teethed thing, all screwed up from hunger.

He lets his tongue slip against the seam of your cunt, all the arousal collecting in his mouth. His senses flood with something heady, sweet but bitter and he groans shamelessly as a result. Spoiled by the taste and utterly debauched.

"Oh, god - Arthur, you're—"

Arthur is pleased by the way your words are cut off by your own moan. He slides his tongue back up, wet muscle firm as it lays flat against your clit. There's a slight twitch like it's asking for more attention.

Arthur is all to eager vtoo provide, closing his lips around the twitching bundle of nerves. He knows what you like. Learned over time just the amount of pressure he needs to suck with and the speed he needs to draw his tongue over your clit to get you right at the very edge of your orgasm.

He teases you to that pace. Slow increases in either or, until it's just at that perfect medium. Once he hits that spot, you always moan so pretty.

You shudder, your body lurching up as your hands get tighter in his hair. "Aah, fuck. Ngh, Arthur. Don't do this t'me."

You begging him not too makes him want to do it more. If Arthur were any less aroused, he would. But his brain can barely think up enough to stamina to do that. His own cock is strained against his work pants - hips instinctively rutting into the bedroll just beneath him. Silently seeking friction all while hoping he doesn't get enough to distract him.

It'd be a damn shame, he thinks - letting anything pull him from the taste of your pussy. From the smell of it, from the sight of it, from the feeling of you. Sticky, pulsing strings of arousal coating his tongue and turning all his thoughts to dust.

His cock throbs again as you rut against his mouth. Arthur pins you in place.

"Please," You say. A magic word he ain't much stronger than. "Please make me cum,"

You really are a good girl, the way you know exactly what makes him tick. Arthur moans into your cunt as he sucks and licks and eats. He'd die over it, and he does not mean it lightly. It's the only thing in the world he wants to do in the moment. He laser focuses on finding that sweet spot again.

And he knows he does when you start whimpering. Squirming and holding onto his soft brown locks and pleading for something you don't know about. He can feel how wet your getting - dripping along down his beard and face. Thick strings of your arousal stick and slide down his neck.

He's never been a messy eater, but you've been disproving many of his prior understandings of himself. He supposes it's only natural.

"Oh, baby," You say, not even his name. Arthur knows it's a warning that you're gonna cum. All he can do is encourage you. He hums into your soft, wet cunt and you groan again. "Fuck, Arthur. I'm gonna cum."

Arthur knows better. He doesn't do a thing but keep going. Lets you move and thrash and pull away but keeps you firm in his place and eats your pussy until you can barely think.

He knows the knot is untying before you do because of how much you squirm. When you cum, you cum hard. Your back arches up into a picture perfect curve, toes curling and hands tugging at his roots for purchase.

He can feel every pulse of desire as you finally do let go. You cry out, loud enough to startle any nearby critters. Your fingers grip tight at the base of his hair as the orgasm washes over you. It's just as magnetic as it was the first time.

He's sure that will always be true.

When Arthur pulls away from your pulsing, wet core - he can feel just how much of his lower face is sticky. He's sure you also know, if the way you laugh is anything to go by.

And he's not long to follow after. Not even a few seconds and he can feel something in pants tighten - a mess of white staining the front of the denim in an onset of lust damn near shameful. Is he a teenager again? Lord above.

Breathlessly, you look down at him after you've ridden your high out.

Pulling up Arthur by the collar, you look at him slowly and frown. You look impassioned and a little frustrated.

You kiss him tender after you've come too. Once, then twice, then a another time with your hand still drawn into a fist. Arthur grabs it closed, opening your palms before kissing the palm of your hands until you're no longer mad.

"Hate how good you are at that," You admit, a little drunk of the euphoria of all of it. "Make me feel so crazy."

Arthur beams at you unapologetic.

"It's good to be that with me, sweetheart." Arthur says, kissing the corner of your mouth. "Now how about you go and give me one more?"

You laugh breathlessly but don't go to stop him at all.

"Insatiable man."

"Only for you, my girl."

.𖥔 ݁ ˖˚☽˚｡⋆

#arthur morgan x reader #rdr2 x reader #arthur morgan smut #rdr2 smut #zero.arthur #this is OUTRAGEOUS. I WAS WARMING UP???#i need to sleep its nearly 8. jesus christ.#outlaws love letters

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billthedrake · 9 days ago

Text

THE FRAT HOUSE (PART THREE)

I leaned into Mike's body. I swear I'd already met twenty Mikes in this town. This one was way hot, on the older side in his early 40s but kind of looked young for his age. He had dog tags around his neck and had that Army or ex-Army look, hair still buzzed. Though maybe it was macho drag.

"He's good right?" he asked as he looked up from his boyfriend, Colin, who was slowly sucking my dick.

It was a great way to kick off a week at the beach.

I nodded. "Oh yeah. I don't even really like blow jobs."

He shook his head and gave me a deep laugh. "What dude doesn't like blowjobs?"

Mike leaned in. Our lips touched and parted. Dude's tongue slid in.

I moaned into that kiss. This was actually my first threesome, and I felt the thrill of Mike's strong hand wedge into my asscleft, rooting for my asshole with as much finesse as he had kissing me. Which was not a lot.

Colin pulled off and was now attacking his partner's dick. I leaned back and watched, and I think I gasped when I saw that cute blond pup deepthroat that hog like it was nothing.

Mike watched with a leer and looked up. "He can suck us off if you like, stud, or...." His hand hadn't left my ass.

I was a little buzzed from the bar, so it took me longer to pick up on the dynamic. Colin was the bait, and I was the catch.

"If you go easy," I said, which brought a smile to Army Mike's lips.

It wasn't just me being coy. I'd spent the last month trying not to be a whore. After my housemate and friend Alex topped me, I'd been horny as hell. Getting dick only made me crave it more, you know? I went on Grindr and found one top. He was a good lay, it was fun. But he was in an open relationship and probably wasn't my dating type anyway. Since then, nothing.

I was torn. Part of me wanted to go out and sleep around. Get Charlie Kenner out of my system, and just enjoy being 25 and desirable as fuck. The other part of me looked down on dudes who did that. Catholic guilt dies hard, and I still hadn't shaken off my conservatism as a closeted jock.

Now I was pulling Colin up for a kiss while Army Mike circled behind me, already lubing up my hole and teasing it.

****

Alex offered me the spare room in the beach rental. Charlie had originally planned to come but had backed off. A cut me a deal, payback for helping him with the home improvements around the house. I think it was also the gay big bro figure looking out for his little bro. Getting me out of my funk.

It's what I needed. I'm not a beach guy, but that first day on the beach I was surrounded by a fuck ton of hot guys. Gay guys, buff guys. Skewing older than my type maybe, but a range of bodies from great to perfect. I decided I was a beach guy, all right.

We went out for after beach drinks. Dinner. Drinks and dancing in the evening. We were two houses of guys who traveled together and hung out together. Me, A, my housemate John, and Zach and Daniel in one house. In the other house was Kevin Mulvaney, our hockey teammate Drew, and some other couple I didn't know - Randy and Will.

I didn't dance, other than the white guy shuffle at weddings. But this very cute guy my age and my height caught my eye. Blond, cute as fuck, he reminded me of one of my fraternity brothers. He introduced his partner. Oh well, but Mike's eyes were on me like a wolf, too. They dragged me to the dance floor. I went. They danced up against me, one then the other, then both. We kissed.

I decided then and there I was gonna go wild this week.

****

I tried to be quiet when I walked into the rental house after hooking up. Mike wasn't a great top, he's entered too fast and it took me a while to start to enjoy his dick. And he dropped some "bitch" stuff that was a turnoff. But it didn't matter. I decided loved having a threesome. Colin had sucked me off while I got plugged from behind. And just connecting physically with other men like that, spontaneous and no-strings, was exhilarating.

There was noise coming from A's room. Fucking, muted sex cries. Good for him, I laughed to myself. I slid into my bedroom and closed the door. I had the small room. Like tiny, just room for a double bed and little else. I didn't care. I was in love with this place.

****

The guys teased me the next day. They'd seen me go off with Mike and Colin and had seen me grind on the dance floor. I had a way of feeling self-conscious, but I also knew that's why they teased me.

Kevin had done a 180 since he'd lived in the Frat House, as I affectionately called Alex's place. Kev and I caught up on the beach, sitting side by side on the big towels laid out. He was also fair complected and joked about needing the sunscreen. We even applied to one another. It was flirty in a fun way, but no real edge there. He'd moved on, I think. He was telling me about a guy he'd been on dates with and wondering why he always second guessed himself. I had ideas, but who was I to give dating advice to anyone?

After a while Kevin went to swim. I begged off, just too damn cold.

I ended up napping. I'd have to pace myself if I was gonna party all week. But the sun felt good and I dozed off.

A voice woke me.

"You're getting red," he said.

I looked up and there was my housemate John, getting up from under his umbrella and picking up his lotion. "Want me to reapply?" he asked. "You might want to flip over anyway."

"Yeah, thanks," I said.

If there was any revelation I had from this trip it was that John Harris had a smoking hot body. Not hunky-big like Charlie's or jacked like A's or beefy like Kevin's. John was pure Crossfit-looking strong and toned, sinewy shoulders, and thick arms. He was completely waxed for the summer and wore preppy patterned mid-length trunks that were out of place at a gay beach. They looked right on him.

Army Mike from the night before had big hands. But John knew what to do with his. I'm pretty sure my housemate wasn't making the moves on me. But, well, some guys just have the Touch. John was making me hard with his.

"There," he said, after a final rub and pat. "You can get under my umbrella if you want."

"Probably a good idea."

I was still getting to know John. I always thought of his personality as quiet and shy, but nice. I still had that assessment. He did some sales job for high-end home finishings. He admitted he'd always wanted to be an architect but his parents made him study business instead. "Of course my first boyfriend was an architect," he said with a smile. "Only I was too jealous of his job."

He was getting out of a long-distance relationship, and I told him about the background I had with Charlie.

"Sorry, Brian," he said. To the other guys, I could be Powers or "Bri." John always called me by my full first name.

"I'm still figuring out how gay dating works," I said.

"Let me know when you find out," he said with a smile. He was about three or four years older than me. "You're having fun, through, right?"

I wasn't sure if he was referring to last night's hookup or in general. Either way, the answer was the same. "I decided I was gonna let loose this weekend."

John looked around. "Good place for it. I may try to get out of my shell while I'm here. Derek was going to come out and join me, but that didn't work out."

I didn't want this to get into a bonding session over our break ups.

"What does getting out of your shell mean to you?" I asked. I was trying not to flirt too hard, and it was probably a question I'd ask Zach or any number of friends.

He laughed. "I dunno. I'm not get-my-dick-sucked-on-the-beach kind of wild, you know?... but I just wanna be open to experiences, you know?"

I did.

Our eyes connected for a second, and fuck that attraction was there. I didn't want Charlie Part Two, where I dated a housemate, and I didn't want Kevin Part Two, where I fooled around with one and dealt with the fall out later.

Thankfully, John averted his eyes shyly and chuckled. "You must get a lot of attention," he said, looking out at the waves.

"Enough," I said. "You must, too." I dared to scope out his body next to mine. "You got a killer bod, dude."

"Thanks," he said, looking back at me. "That's a recent development." He explained. "I made a new years resolution three years ago I was gonna go for the body I wanted."

"Who the fuck keeps new years resolutions?" I teased.

He looked at me and smiled. "I know, right?"

"That's awesome, man."

"I guess deep down I still feel like the scrawny kid, you know?"

I didn't have that issue, really, but I wasn't going to tell him that.

Anyway, just then, Kevin and A came up, dripping wet and grabbing their towel.

"How's the water?" John asked.

"Terrific," Kev said. "You should get in."

I watched John get out from the umbrella and toss aside his sunglasses. He was half way down to the water when I decided to follow him.

But as he jumped in and started dunking under and wading in the swells, I got in up to my knees and turned back.

It was too fucking cold.

****

I was sunburned of course. Not too bad, but I felt tired when we went out that evening. I got a second wind, though. I hung out mostly with Zach and Daniel and Drew. I think people thought we were two intergenerational couples. But that was OK. A lot of our talk revolved around the "daddy" type and the appeal to younger guys like Zach. I wasn't immune exactly, but it just wasn't my main thing. Still as we talked, Drew and I traded eye contact more than once. We'd hooked up a couple of years before, just a one time thing.

I had a feeling it was going to happen again. Just reading him and his eye contact. I'd enjoyed sex with Drew before, and in general he was a good guy. The perfect antidote to Army Mike, not coming on too strong.

We were low key in exchanging deeper looks. There's this thing where sometimes you can flirt with friends without being too serious, and maybe that was happening here. Besides nothing serious was gonna happen with Zach and Daniel there.

Drew talked a bit about turning 50 and the good and bad that came with that, and his goal to retire early.

"That's one of the hard things with the age gap," Daniel chimed in. "We're not going to be in sync when it comes to stuff like that."

Zach quipped, "You're not gonna be my kept househusband, babe?"

Daniel shot him a playful middle finger. "You can't afford me, honey."

"That's true," Zach said.

Zach and Daniel called it an early evening, at least early by vacation standards. I was this close to going with them, since I was tired, too. But I wanted to see if anything would play out.

Indeed, Drew and I flirted some.

"You've changed some," he said finally.

"How so?" I asked.

"You seem to know what you want, or at least know to go for it."

"What do you think I want?" I teased.

"To get laid this week."

"Is that not what you want?"

"I want to forget I'm fucking 50."

I patted his back. "You're a DILF and you know it."

"Thanks," he said. "Wanna go fool around?"

We went to his place. It was nicer than mine, the house and room. We kissed. Not romantically, but like we were play-acting romance. I missed it, and I'd learn Drew did too. We swapped oral and made out and finally 69ed. Drew's body was just as toned and DILF-y as I remembered it.

"Thanks, Bri," he said as he lay back against the headboard, naked and cock soft. "That was fun."

"It was," I said. I was pulling my shorts back on. It might have been fun to sleep in his bed, but I didn't want the gossip.

"I'm gonna miss you guys next year," he said.

"What? You're moving?"

He shook his head. "Not doing hockey this year. Blew my knee out. I figure I don't want a replacement before 60."

Man, the aging thing had hit him hard, but the knee thing sounded like it sucked. "You'll be part of the gang, though... if you want."

"Yeah," he said. There was something about his tone that said maybe he'd move on.

****

I got a run and a workout in the next morning. I stayed out of the sun mostly, though I hung out more with John under the umbrella. And before drinks, I headed back to the house early and napped to catch up on some rest.

Going out was a blast. I decided I wasn't going to hookup. But I sure got a ton of attention. I ate it up, and I made an effort to mingle and not just cling to Zach and Daniel.

I saw Colin and Army Mike. They were part of a gaggle of guys from another city. I thought of saying hello but figured that was silly. Colin did see me and flashed a smile my way and a wave before turning his attention elsewhere.

Guys said hello, some came up to me. Two things I'm not good at are flirting with strangers and gay humor. So I leaned into the jock thing, talking to these guys like they were my college buddies or teammates. I got some ribbing at first, but I stuck to it, almsot as an experiment. Crazy thing is, it worked. I had a bunch of conversations and got a couple of numbers.

"Someone's gonna get a big ego," Zach teased as we walked to the restaurant.

"Come on man, I've had a shitty year dating. Give me this." It was in a joking tone but true.

"All right, Powers, just this once," he smiled. I do think Zach vicariously enjoyed me hooking up with guys. He and Daniel were monogamous and happy, but he'd had his single days, too, and missed the hunt.

I danced that night. Not well, but I just got smashed and enjoyed myself. And stumbled home, alone. I was happy.

****

Alex had been kind of missing for that first half of the week. I think maybe he'd found a dude he'd connected with. The second night out he'd gone off on his own, and on the third he stayed in watching a movie.

"You sure you don't want to go out, A?" I asked him.

He looked up with his sexy green eyes and flashed a smile. "I'm good, little bro. Just wanna enjoy some downtime, you know?"

But by day 4, the old Alex Ramirez was back, playing a competitive game of paddle ball at the beach, hitting happy hour with his hard seltzers, showing off his shirtless, jacked body. And he was in a social, talkative mood.

It was the day when we felt like a true posse. Nine dudes hang out and having a great time. I was the youngest, with Drew, Daniel, and that couple Will and Randy the older set, all at least 40. I was starting to enjoy the jokes thrown my way and was even getting into the catty gay humor of Will and Randy.

At some point, A went to get me another drink. I switched to hard seltzer, but I had to pace to keep from getting too sloshed. It was still only 6 o'clock.

"You having fun, little bro?" he asked.

"God yeah, A," I said. "Thanks for making this happen for me."

His hand rested on my back. Friendly and yet sensual. My housemate and I hadn't done anything sexual since we crossed that line a month ago. But the sexual attraction was still there and still mutual.

"It's nice to have some young eye candy in the gang," he said with a wink. His hand traveling lower.

The booze was relaxing me for sure, and A's hand felt very welcome. His touch was even making my nipples stick up in my T-shirt. My guard was down, which is why I said, "The House Bottom, bro?"

That caught him by surprise, but his smile came back. "I thought the idea offended you, little bro."

I shook my head. "Maybe at first, but I'll admit, it's been an inspiration some nights." I held up my hand in a JO motion, copying what Alex had done when he first mentioned the House Bottom idea. I hadn't really fantasized much about it, but the idea had stuck with me.

Alex leaned in and put his mouth to my ear. "Maybe you can pick the next housemate, little bro." We'd finally fixed up the fourth bedroom so A could rent it out. "Pick out a hot top for that hole of yours."

"Oh fuck," I hissed. It was wild fantasy, but A had a way of making it seem real.

He smirked when he pulled back.

Just then some guy came back. "Hello Muscles," he teased, running his hand up Alex's meaty bare torso, before flitting away.

Alex and I both laughed.

****

Dinner was a casual bite. I was hungry and scarfed it down. I stuck with soda water the next round when we went out for drinks. By 10, when Kevin and the other house were revving up to hit the club, Zach and Daniel begged off, saying they were going back to the house. They were in a very physical and affectionate mood, and I had a good idea they were eager to go have sex. Good for them.

Alex looked at me briefly, and then spoke up that he was gonna head back too. I took the bait and said I'd see the guys tomorrow. Hell, maybe sex was gonna happen with A, or it wasn't. Either way, some low-key bro time sounded perfect.

Alex must have been thinking the same thing, because as Zach and Daniel went to the privacy of their bedroom, A pulled out two seltzers and guided us out to the deck.

The air was cool, but I was loving just being here.

"You got some sun, Bri," Alex said.

I knew I was a little sunburned. "You always tan, fucker," I teased.

"Thank my Daddy," he said. I knew Alex had a lot of resentment about his father, so it was cool he was in a lighthearted mood that night.

"I'm definitely coming back here next year," I said, changing the subject. "Even if I have to save up."

"We'll work something out," A said. There were two sides to Alex Ramirez, one a money-savvy landlord who was fixated on building equity, the other a guy who liked to be generous with his friends.

We talked about general life stuff. I admired that A had his shit together and was a homeowner. I was saving money, but it'd probably be my 30s before I got real serious. Right now, I was just doing the career ladder thing and enjoying my 20s.

We talked about guys. Alex definitely had a thing for twunks, like young, college aged dudes, but he also realized maybe he didn't have the healthiest dynamic dating them.

"Maybe I need to expand my type, bro," he said. Then, "You think you could date a guy who's not a hockey dude?"

"Probably," I said. Then, "I don't know." A was perceptive. It wasn't just that Charlie had been my last boyfriend, it's that other than being into sex with guys, hockey was kind of my identity.

He laughed. Alex had a sexy laugh. "I just felt bad for that poor kid....Colin?"

I was caught off guard because a Colin had sucked my dick that week. Then it clicked. "Oh, Connor."

"Yeah, dude. Him. He was crazy about you."

"I know," I said. "I kinda feel bad about that."

"It happens, bro."

Just then the door opened, and John stepped out. He was in a "gay club" attire that seemed out of place on him. Super tight t-shirt, Chubbies shorts, and designer sneakers. If John dressed like that more, I would have noticed his rockin bod earlier.

He had a plastic cup in hand. John was a vodka tonic kind of guy. "Am I interrupting anything?" he asked. Perhaps he'd noticed A being close and flirty with me earlier.

"Nah, bro, come join us," A said.

"Decided not to stay out?" I asked.

John shook his head as he took a seat. "Wasn't feeling it."

A grinned and teased, "What's with the Chelsea kid get up, bro?"

He blushed. "I dunno, man. Figured I'd try to fit in, you know?"

"I like that preppy shit you got going on, John," I said. "Looks good on you."

"See? You're Powers-approved, buddy... doesn't get any better than that."

We talked a little and got a report. John was surprisingly shy when it came to pursuing guys. "I tried to talk up a couple guys, but I definitely don't have game," he said, laughing at himself. He took a sip of his drink and added, "Figured I'd come back here and see if anyone was on the apps."

"How long has it been since you've gotten laid, bro?" A asked with some real concern.

He laughed and shrugged. "Maybe 3 months. It's been a while."

"Fuuck, dude." Alex said. "Too long."

John kind of relaxed into A's easy going vibe. "Yeah. I need to get laid this week, for sure."

A looked my way and winked. "Well, Bri here's thinking of becoming the house bottom. Maybe he can help out."

I might have acted like a deer in the headlights, but that didn't compare to John's nervousness. "What do you mean?" he asked softly.

"Just a crazy idea Bri and I had," Alex explained. "He's a horny bottom bro, and could use some men to help him out."

Leave to A to make this happen. I had a chance to back out, or to say fuck off. Make it a joke. But I'd gotten prepped before going out and being around both these guys... yeah, the idea of making it with them was very appealing. My inner itch was kicking in.

I looked John in the eyes. "It's weird, right?" I asked. "But it'd be kind of hot.... if you were into it."

"Jesus, Brian, you're crazy hot," John said, his brown eyes getting clearly excited. He looked over at A. "You guys, um, done this before?"

Alex nodded. "Just once. Powers's ass is incredible, bro. You should try it bro."

A was laying it on thick, but his praise was getting me turned on.

"You should, John," I said. I was now enjoying being the hunter in addition to being the prey. "No strings, no expectations. Just dudes getting off."

He smiled but was clearly still shy. "Like, now?"

"Why not?" I teased. I stood up and undid my shorts. I had a jock strap on and turned to show off my ass. I flashed the guys for maybe five seconds then pulled up my shorts again.

"Fuck!" John hissed.

"Nothing like hockey ass right?" A said with a leer. He pawed at his crotch now.

John stood up. Very horny, in a way his mild-mannered personality didn't lead me to suspect. "Is Alex gonna watch?" He was stepping toward me, and tentatively reaching out to feel my chest. John was about 6 foot even and in his tight T-shirt I could make out the tight, sculpted brawn.

My mind flashed back to my first day here, and how much I enjoyed the threesome. "If it's OK with you, bro."

"Sure," he hissed. Then he leaned in and kissed me. John Harris could kiss. An easy approach his slipped his tongue inside and softly moved his lips.

"I wanted to do that at the beach, Brian," he said.

"I did too," I admitted.

Now A was standing up. That big boner in his shorts as he stepped up to us. "So... you ready to be the House Bottom, little bro?" he asked.

"Yeah... only Kyle's not here," I teased. Kyle White was our other housemate.

A chuckled. "White would fuck you in a heartbeat, bro. You know that, right?"

I didn't. And I wasn't sure if Alex was just doing horny sex talk to get me going. I turned to John. "You OK with this?"

He grinned. "New experiences, right?" he smiled. I kept his eyes on me as he reached down and undid those chubbies.

"Whoa, Harris went commando," Alex teased.

I looked down and there was a nice piece of uncut cock standing straight up. Thick and meaty, maybe shy of seven inches. John Harris had a nice tool.

I gave the man another kiss, hornier than the first and then playfully patted his hard pecs as I leaned back. "Don't cum," I urged, then right there on the deck I squatted down.

Up close Harris's dick was even better. Full and heavy and rock hard. I licked and teased the length and ran my tongue along the foreskin. Meanwhile A was pulling down his shorts and jerking the length of his dong.

I took John into my mouth and then worked further. I was an OK cocksucker, since I loved dick, and Lord knows Charlie Kenner had given my mouth a workout. But I still could use more practice.

I was getting it now, working John's prick deeper with each bob. I pulled off and moved to A. I fucking made love to my bro's dick. Up and down, extra suction, a lot of saliva.

Then back to John.

"Let's go to the bedroom," he said, nudging me off. He seemed to like the naughtiness of doing it outdoors, but it was still out of his comfort zone.

Even as as John pulled up his shorts, I could see he had an incredible ass. I'd heard the guys talk about "top ass," and while I still didn't know exactly what made a man have top ass, I knew for sure Charlie Kenner was the ideal I had in my head - strong and muscular but not overly rounded. John Harris was a tauter version of that.

There was an awkwardness as we three filed into John's bedroom, A shutting the door behind us. But John stepped back up and claimed a kiss that got me very into whatever was going to go down. He guided me back to the bed, and as I finally sat back down on the mattress, the guy peeled down his shorts again, now kicking off his shows and stepping out of his shorts. He smiled down on me then looked over at Alex.

"What did have you guys done?"

Alex was now naked and sliding in from the other side of the bed, scooting up behind me and gripping my shoulders with his strong hands. "Little bro had a horny hole one night. I took care of it."

I leaned back into his grip.

John grinned. He was a cute guy. "Scoot over," he urged, then stripped off his T-shirt.

A and I made room in that queen bed, and it was soon a tight fit. Two hunks on either side of me, helping me strip off and taking turns kissing me. This was different than my earlier threesome. More playful, and the guys weren't a couple this time. I felt like the true center of attention. Hands pawing at my toned ex-jock body.

At one point I turned to kiss John. It wasn't like I craved affection with him more than with Alex, but John was an incredible kisser and that body was new to me. Fun to caress and hold.

A didn't feel left out. He felt up my ass and dug into the cleft before leaning over my shoulder. "Where's the lube, bro?" he asked.

John pulled back and went to find it in his bag. I guess he hadn't had the chance to use it yet. "I don't have any rubbers on me," he said sheepishly.

"It's OK, Bri's on PReP," Alex answered and took the lubricant from our housemate.

John had a sly grin as he got back in bed. He and I kissed while Alex fingered and slicked up my hole.

Finally I felt A scooted up closer to my back and guide that big stick into my crease. The penetration was OK. He went slow then rushed it. But the last four inches felt amazing. This is what I wanted with Army Mike. A top who didn't make everything an Alpha show. Alex now gently pumped me while his lube-slick hand slipped around my front, holding me steady.

I moaned into John's kiss. He finally pulled back to watch my face.

"Feeling good, Brian?" he asked. He was turned on and yet really wanted to check in with how I was doing.

I nodded. "Oh yeah," I hissed. "Fuck."

"So hot," John said.

"Bro's got a sweet ass," A said. "Gonna take good care of his brothers."

The fucking got quicker. I think Ramirez had one speed he liked for fucking, fast. But the side position was perfect to keep it from being too intense. I was experiencing both speeds at once, hot-to-trot Alex doing me urgently from behind and smooth John making out with me from the front. If there had been any stimulation on my cock, I might have cum from that combo.

Instead I just rode out that pleasure and the sensual feeling as A got his nut. It didn't take long. I felt his muscles stiffen against my back and his arm pull me back in urgent need. "Day-um, Bri," he cried against my neck, giving me a soft lick.

It was like time was suspended for a minute. A was trying to regain his regular consciousness, John was horny as hell now but waiting his turn. I was in fucking bottom heaven, even if in the back of my head I wondered if this was all a mistake.

It didn't feel like a mistake when A's long dick pulled out, slick with his seed, and I knew I was ready for Harris's thicker one. I pulled him to me in an unmistakable sign, rolling us back in the spot vacated by Alex. John came with, supercharged with lust and attacking my neck and body with soft kisses.

I parted my legs and wrapped them around John. It took him a second to find my hole, but he nudged in.

"God yes," he sighed, pulling up from my neck and looking down on me with pure appreciation.

"Fuck me," I urged. I held on to his Crossfit bod and felt that thick cock plow in. Not roughly, but he was going right for it. My hole was already loosened and seeded, and it had been three months since John Harris has been laid. I was reaping the reward.

The guy fucked hard. Not rough, not fast, but with real strength, a steady dicking that was gonna make me crazy. I did NOT expect John Harris to be an amazing top, and yet here he was on top of me and giving me an athletic shafting that was just right.

"God," I hissed. My p-spot was truly alive, buzzing and wanting more of the Harris treatment. The guy seemed to respond in turn, throwing more of his strength and weight into each thrust. Or maybe he was just feeling his need to get off inside me.

"That's it, little bro," I heard A say with excitement. Honest to god, I'd temporarily forgotten he was there, but he was now scooting up and kissing the side of my head, snaking his hand down. "...just like when you were in the fraternity house, taking brother cock." It was A doing his fantasy talk and doing it well, sending me to that place of sexual need. "One after the other..."

John grunted on top of me. A's words were tripping his wires, too, and I felt him get close to his orgasm.

With perfect timing, A's hand wrapped around my hard as nails dick. His palm was slick with lube and he drew it up and down maybe twice before I lost it.

"Oh fuck!" I hissed, and caught it in a whimper, trying not to be too loud as I came. Zach and Daniel were just two rooms down.

It was a simultaneous O. I wished sex could always be this good. John kissed me as he rode out his orgasm, then I met A's soft lips. We uncoupled, sweaty and my body cum-covered in John's bed.

A had a content, sleepy look as he slid out. "That was hot as hell, dudes... hopefully we can do it again."

"Yeah," John said, kind of dreamy in his expression and resting his hand on my bare, spermy chest. "If Brian here's up for it."

"Definitely."

We watched A slip on his shorts and pick up his T shirt before slipping out the door.

John looked at me and smiled. "I'm so fucking glad we did that, man. Incredible."

"Incredible for me, too," I answered. I looked down at my body. "I should get cleaned off."

"Yeah," John said, removing his hand to let me get up. "If you want to sleep in here, Brian... no strings, but it's been a while for me. I miss it."

"Be back soon, bro," I said.

I slipped out to shower off, just a quick rinse, and brush my teeth. I'd have to figure out how much to tell Zach. I shared pretty much everything with him, but I didn't want to make things weird with him, or for him to think less of me.

I wrapped a towel around my waist and made my way back to John's room. Who knew what this House Bottom business meant. If it was really gonna develop, or if it was just some wild Alex fantasy we played out tonight. But I loved sex with A and sex with John. They were my friends, my bros, and they would be, fucking or not. I decided not to overthink it, to just see where it led.

John went to wash off and brush his teeth. Within five minutes he was naked again and slipping in bed next to my nude body. We spooned. John seemed to love feeling up my abs.

"You OK, man?" he asked softly.

"God, yes," I said. But I got a vibe. "Did the House Bottom talk freak you out?"

He laughed softly. "Nah. But you're the last guy I'd expect with a wild side."

"I could say the same about you, bro."

He patted my chest. "It's fun. Going all out for rebound sex."

He was talking about himself, but I realized it applied to me too. I still missed Charlie Kenner, but that night, falling asleep in John's arms, I missed my ex a little less.

#drakestories

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supernova-stardust · 7 months ago

Text

Bad Idea, Right?

jegulus | explicit minors dni | complete | word count: 9,351

direct sequel to "no one has to know what we do" on ao3

James has waited for months to hear from Regulus since he gave him his number after they hooked up in the ballet studio. He hasn't been able to stop thinking about him. So when he's out with his best friend, Peter, and receives a text from an unknown number, he instantly needs to know if that number belongs to Regulus. He's had a few drinks and before he knows it, he's knocking on Regulus' door begging to go inside.

James Potter is whipped.

***

Based on Bad Idea, Right? by Olivia Rodrigo

Full fic after the break or on ao3

James wasn't sure what he was thinking when Peter had asked him to go out for drinks and he had agreed. Really, he never said yes to going out, let alone to this bar—The Leaky Cauldron—full of shitty IPAs and even shittier music. But here he was, drinking an IPA that tasted more like piss than beer and watching as Peter tried his best to flirt with his third woman of the night. It wasn't that Peter was unattractive or that he was a bad guy, far from it, but he lacked tact. No matter how many times James had tried to help him or played wingman, Peter always managed to fumble his words and come off as a creep, even when James knew he really wasn't. He was still his best friend, regardless of his lack of social skills. James hoped that some day he would find someone willing to look past his nervous flirting and see him for who he really was: a kind-hearted man with very little social finesse.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He attempted to ignore it, preferring to stay present when he was out with his friend, but by the third vibration he said fuck it and dug into his pocket. Peter was preoccupied anyway.

Unknown: is this james? Unknown: it's been a while, so i'm not sure if this is still his number Unknown: sorry in advance if this is the wrong number, i know it's late

James quirked an eyebrow at the messages, his heart racing at the thought of who it could be. Regulus. He was the only one who James had given his number too in quite some time, and if he was honest with himself, he had nearly given up hope to ever hear from him again. Instead of texting, he decided to call the number. He needed to know for sure that it was Regulus on the other side of that unknown number.

The phone rang four times before it was finally answered, a long silence stretching out before James heard a soft "Hello?"

He immediately made his way through the crowd of people towards the back exit, needing a quiet space to speak to the man he hadn't stopped thinking about for months. "Hey, is this Regulus?"

"Depends. Is this still James' number?"

"Yeah. Yes. I've been thinking about you, baby. I had almost given up on ever hearing from you again."

More silence. James began to doubt that he had handled this well. Maybe he was more like Peter than he had realized.

"I've been thinking about you too, Daddy. Couldn't stop thinking about you, actually."

Fuck. Maybe nothing had changed between them after all. He felt the desperation to see Regulus, to be between his pretty thighs, growing just as strong as that first day he laid eyes on him. He knew in the first moment that he had seen him that he needed to claim him. Needed nothing more than to make Regulus his.

"What took you so long then?"

Regulus hummed. It sounded to him that Regulus was milking the time in an attempt to avoid answering his question. He almost didn't expect a response at all.

"I needed to be sure that I wanted you again and that I wasn't just dick drunk. Come over?"

James laughed. "I'd love to baby, but I'm drunk drunk."

"Take a cab. I'll text you my address."

"Regulus, I—" James heard the line go dead, Regulus determining that the conversation was over and that James would, in fact, be going over to his place. He wanted to say that he had more self control than to simply show up at Regulus' beck and call, and yet… he knew he wasn't. He knew that Regulus would text him his address and he'd immediately pull up the rideshare app on his phone, entering the address given to him.

He slid his phone back into his pocket and headed back into the bar in search of Peter. James might have been bailing on him in favor of seeing the guy he'd been fantasizing about since their last meeting, but he'd at least have the decency to tell his best friend that he was leaving early. He looked around until he saw Peter sitting alone at the bar, nursing his drink.

"Hey," James said, sitting down in the stool next to him.

Peter looked up at his voice. "Oh, hey. Wasn't sure where you went."

"Didn't go well, I take it?"

"Nah," Peter shrugged. "She told me she had a boyfriend, but I think she just wanted me to leave her be, so I came over here to grab another drink." He took a generous sip of his beer.

James felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, but he ignored it in favor of consoling his friend. "I doubt you'll find your soulmate in a bar like this anyway, man." He caught the attention of the bartender and ordered another beer. He figured he'd need it to give him a dose of bravery, even if it tasted like piss.

"I doubt it. But a quick fuck in the bathroom would do for now, y'know?"

"Not these bathrooms," James laughed. "They're disgusting. At least up your standards to the alleyway or something."

The bartender smirked as he delivered James' drink.

"I think I need to head home after this one," James said, raising his drink and nodding toward Peter.

James felt his phone vibrate again and he pulled it out of his pocket, glancing at the push notifications.

Unknown: you're still coming over, right? Unknown: don't ignore me daddy

Peter looked over his shoulder at his phone and laughed. "Home, huh?" He took a sip of his drink. "Who's that?"

"Look, I—"

"It's fine, man. You haven't gotten laid in months now, I think you're due. So, tell me about her."

"Not a her, first off."

"Oh, yeah? Don't let the team find out about that one. They can say all they want that they're accepting, and maybe they are individually, but you know you'd never make it pro if the rumors start in the locker room."

James took a long sip of his piss-beer. "Yeah, I know. We're just friends anyway, it's not a big deal."

They sat in borderline awkward silence for a few minutes, drinking and avoiding touching the subject that Peter had brought up. James knew that Peter didn't have a discriminatory bone in his body, but he also knew that he was right. A desperate part of him wanted to call Regulus his boyfriend and he had to wonder how that would work if he had to keep Regulus a secret. He doubted that someone who was so used to being in the spotlight would feel okay with being a secret behind closed doors.

His phone vibrated on the bar.

Unknown: [unknown sent you one image]

Peter looked down at his phone at the same moment he did and smirked. "Just a friend, huh?"

"Pete, shut the fuck up."

"C'mon, I just wanna see what your friend sent you after asking if you were still coming over."

Unknown: i hope this is tempting enough for you to tell me you're on your way

"Yeah, he's definitely just a friend." Peter laughed. "C'mon then, respond. We both know you're going over."

"I probably won't," James said. He wasn't sure if he was trying to convince Peter or himself. "I have an early class tomorrow and then practice."

"Uh huh." Peter downed the remainder of his beer and leveled him a disbelieving look.

James unlocked his phone and opened the text thread. "Fuck." He could barely breathe as he looked at the image Regulus had sent him.

It was a mirror selfie unlike any that James had ever received. Regulus was sitting on the floor in front of a floor length mirror, his back to the mirror as he looked over his shoulder. The phone blocked his face from view, but he could see his artfully tousled black curls, tempting him to thread his fingers there. He sensed that if he could see his face, Regulus' pupils would be blown wide and a blush would be dusting his cheeks. He wore nothing but a black silk robe, pooling around his hips, revealing his bare back but hiding his perfect ass and thighs from view. The pads of his feet were visible, and James could tell from their angle that his legs were parted and his ass was positioned in such a way that if he was there in person, he'd need to get a taste. Fuck.

James: yeah, i'm on my way. lemme say goodbye to my friend and grab an uber.

James saved his number in his contacts, saving him as Baby. He was sure that he was still in Regulus' phone as Daddy, and if he wasn't, he'd be changing that as of tonight.

"So," Peter said, drawing out the 'o' in the word. "Definitely a friend?"

"As far as you're concerned, yeah."

Peter laughed. "I'll see ya tomorrow then, don't show up with any marks you don't want the guys to ask about."

James pulled up the rideshare app on his phone and nodded to his friend as he entered the address Regulus had provided to him into the request. "See ya." He paid out his tab and headed outside to wait.

In the car, he tried to calm his nerves, but it proved to be nearly impossible. The driver had music that he was unfamiliar with blasting and kept yelling over it to ask him questions. He ignored them, feigning being unable to hear over the music. He looked out the window to watch the city pass by rather than attempt to have polite conversation. He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket again and dug into his jeans to check the notification. He smiled when he opened the text to see Regulus checking in with him again. After two months of not speaking to each other at all, he felt his stomach flutter at the thought of Regulus being just as anxious to see him.

Baby: eta?

He decided not to reply to the text. According to the GPS, he was only a few minutes away, and a small part of him wanted to make Regulus feel just a little anxious about not hearing from him. After all, Regulus had taken James' number when they saw each other those months ago and hadn't reached out until now. The least he could do was be patient for a few minutes. James had been patient for months. Regulus should be grateful that James wasn't making him wait to see him on his terms. Or at least, that's what he tried to convince himself. He knew deep down that the moment Regulus had texted him it was all over. James would trip over himself time and time again just for a taste of whatever Regulus gave him.

When the car stopped in front of an apartment building, James hopped out and made his way up the steps to a locked door. He pressed the button that corresponded to the apartment number Regulus had texted him, a loud buzz ringing out around him, and let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding. The door let out a quiet hum and he heard the lock click, indicating that he had been granted entrance. He couldn't help but wonder if Regulus was just as nervous as he was right now—waiting in his apartment at the door, peering out the peephole to see when James would arrive. He hoped that he was.

He finally arrived at the door labeled with the number Regulus had given him and as he lifted his hand to knock, the door flew open. Regulus stood there, draped in the black silk bathrobe that he had been wearing in the photo, looking like a fucking dream. Suddenly, all thoughts of irritation at not being texted sooner vanished. All that mattered was the man in front of him, draped in silk, but as James raked his eyes up those lean legs and the curves of his body, he noticed that Regulus was wearing an irritated scowl.

"Why didn't you text me back?" Regulus snapped, crossing his arms and blocking the entrance to his apartment by leaning against the frame of the doorway.

"I—" James was confused. He had never seen Regulus this cold and dismissive before. Why would him not texting Regulus trigger such a strong response like this? Especially when it had been months since James had heard from him.

"I know you saw the text. Your read receipts are on. So. Why didn't you text me back?"

"I was almost here. Can I come in? I'd rather not do this in the hallway."

"I'm not sure I want you to."

"Baby, come on."

"No."

The door slammed in his face. Usually, having a door slammed in his face would discourage him, and if it was only about the sex, he'd have a far easier time getting that at the bar that he had come from. But there was just something about Regulus that drew him like a moth to a flame. He listened closely—the door hadn't been locked and he had only heard a few steps away from the door. He let out a breath and rapped his knuckles on the door.

"Regulus?" he asked through the wooden barrier between them. "I know you can hear me. I'm going to open this door on the count of three. If you don't want me to come in, lock it before then, yeah? I'll leave if the door is locked."

He didn't hear a response, but he hadn't really expected to. He counted to three and tried the knob. It turned freely in his hand and he pushed the door open to find Regulus standing in the entryway, staring at the floor. Suddenly, he looked so small and fragile to James. He hadn't thought until this very moment about the potential of him being the reason that Regulus would have avoided texting for this long. He knew what Regulus had said—I needed to be sure that I wanted you again and that I wasn't just dick drunk—but when he thought back on their first interaction, he realized what an ass he had been before they had hooked up. He wondered if those words he had said were making Regulus question James' true intentions here. He wondered if those words had made Regulus question his very self-worth.

I don’t date…

Have you ever had a hot quarterback want to fuck you in the dance studio?

…It can stay between us.

And fuck, he wished that he when met Regulus that he asked him on a date instead of casually fucking him in the studio. He had never wanted to date before, but everything about their chemistry had felt life-altering and brain-rewiring. When Regulus had kissed him, he felt like that was the first time he had truly been kissed—like every kiss before then had been to prepare him for how earth-shattering a real kiss would be.

Every thought that had occupied his mind lately had been about Regulus. When the team had practice at the ballet studio last month, he had hoped beyond hope that Regulus would be the one teaching them again. When it had been a tiny woman with hair so blonde it was nearly white who had greeted him with a bright smile, he had almost felt bad for how coldly he had returned her greeting. He had spent the entirety of class thinking about what he and Regulus had done together in that very same space. When class had ended, he asked the woman—Pandora, he learned—about Regulus. She refused to give him a single detail, saying that if Regulus had wanted him to know anything then he would have reached out. It was obvious to James that the two of them were friends and that she was protecting Regulus, but the realization that Regulus needed to be protected from James because he had been such an asshole hadn't registered in his mind until this very moment.

"Why did you let me inside?" James asked in an attempt to let Regulus admit how he was feeling before James groveled over mere intuition.

Regulus' eyes snapped up, icy silver and full of something that James couldn't quite place. "Why didn't you text me back?" he threw back with venom lacing his tone, avoiding the question.

"Honestly? A few reasons. I was almost here being the main one. But I was also hurt that it took you this long to reach out to me. It made me feel like I had a little bit of the power back, I suppose. I wanted you to squirm for just a few minutes like I did these past couple months. For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

"I let you in because I'm stupid."

James flinched at that. "I think we can both agree that I'm the stupid one out of the two of us and that you're just far too forgiving."

Regulus quirked an eyebrow, his hurt and anger dissolving into something unreadable on his face. "I'm not sure which of us is more self-depreciating."

James gave a small laugh and took a timid step towards Regulus. "That's probably a tie, I'd wager." When Regulus didn't move away, James closed the space between them. "Why did you call me tonight, baby?"

Regulus looked away, a soft blush dusting his cheeks. "I—I just wanted to see you."

"Is that all?" James brushed a stray curl from Regulus' face and tucked it behind his ear. He used the movement to trail his fingers along Regulus' jaw and then with two fingers, tilted his face up so that he was forced to look at James. The blush on his cheeks deepened and it took every ounce of effort on James' part not to kiss him until they were both breathless. "I'm glad you called. I missed you, I couldn't stop thinking about you actually. I even asked your friend, or I assume she's your friend, Pandora? But she refused to tell me anything about how you were or—"

Regulus rose to the balls of his feet and pressed a tentative kiss to James' lips, interrupting his nervous rambling. He pulled back and looked at James, his eyes full of questions he was too afraid to voice, but James knew they were there. He had the same questions swirling in his own mind.

"Regulus, what are we doing?"

"I'm trying to kiss you. What are you doing, Daddy?" Regulus purred, his voice thick with desire.

Every semblance of control James had over his yearning for Regulus snapped at the use of that damn word. He had never thought he'd be so turned on from someone calling him 'Daddy' but the moment Regulus—the most demanding brat he had ever met—had surrendered control to him and uttered the word, he was done for. And Regulus knew it too, used it to his own advantage, swaying James from having a serious discussion to get him to bend to his every whim. He wondered if Regulus had ever been the one to surrender control to him, really. He hoped to one day be able to make Regulus feel so safe and cherished that he did.

"Fuck, you're gonna be the death of me." James crashed his lips to Regulus' and every part of him felt right. These last few months he had felt like every part of him was slowly coming undone, unraveling at the seams. Even his coach had noticed a difference in practices, making him run more drills and sprints than usual. There was no way that he could continue to go on without Regulus in his life. Every kiss they exchanged felt like coming up for air after nearly drowning. Their tongues explored one another and it was like returning home after far too long away.

Regulus pulled away after what could have been five seconds or five hours, James wasn't sure, but the whine he let out at the loss of contact was embarrassing. Or, would have been embarrassing if he was a proud man. He had just come to the conclusion that he would sacrifice all pride in exchange for even just one more kiss from the man in his arms.

"Shh," Regulus soothed as he snaked a hand down James' arm and threaded their fingers together. "Come to my room?"

"Anything." James said too quickly.

Regulus quirked an eyebrow. "Anything?" he asked deviously. "You may regret that."

James hummed, pretending to think about the statement. He didn't have to, he knew that Regulus could ask anything of him and he'd do everything in his power to make it happen. "Doubtful. Lead the way, baby."

Regulus took his hand and lead him down a hallway and into an open door. A large bed sat in the middle of the room, draped in black silk and plush cream blankets. Thick forest green drapes were drawn and a floor length mirror that James recognized from the photo Regulus had sent him earlier sat in a corner next to a vanity set. The entire room was the pinnacle of comfort and elegance and felt so very much like Regulus, he couldn't help but to smile. Regulus pulled him into his body and pressed a kiss to his mouth before pushing him backwards towards the edge of the bed.

"Sit," Regulus said.

"Feeling bossy tonight, baby?" James purred.

"I'm always bossy," Regulus replied as he stepped forward. James opened his legs so he could stand between, reaching out to pull Regulus in close. Regulus hummed and trailed a finger down James' jaw, his eyes hooded and hazy with desire. "You just caught me off guard the first time."

"You seemed to enjoy it all the same," James said. He turned his head towards Regulus' trailing finger and caught it in his mouth, swirling his tongue around the digit and hollowing out his cheeks as he sucked. He reached up and slid his hands under the silk robe to grab Regulus' ass.

"Safe words?" Regulus asked, pulling his finger out of James' mouth and looking down at him with an unreadable expression.

"Isn't that my line?"

"Not tonight, Daddy."

James moaned. He couldn't remember a time that he'd ever allowed the roles to be reversed. He always preferred to control the scene, to know everything that would happen, but something about Regulus made him want to relinquish that control. He trusted him, even if he barely knew him. He knew he'd be safe within the walls of this room with him.

"Red means immediately stop, in need of aftercare. Yellow means stop, check in. Green means good to go, please for the love of God, don't stop." Regulus nodded along as James spoke. He gently removed his glasses for him and walked away to place them on the nightstand next to the bed and then returned to his spot between James' knees. James leaned forward into his body and then he felt the sharp sting of a palm on his cheek.

"I didn't say you could touch me yet," Regulus said coldly as he stepped back, removing James' hands from his body and leaving him sitting alone on the bed fully clothed. "Color?" His voice softened as he checked in.

"Fucking hell," James massaged his cheek. He had never had anyone slap him before, in or out of the bedroom, and it stung in a way he wasn't expecting.

"James, we can't continue if you won't answer me."

"Sorry, yeah, green. I'm green. Never been on this side of it, responding is harder than I thought."

Regulus' eyebrows raised in surprise, his face softening in concern and trepidation. "Let's pause, yeah?"

"I said I was green, baby."

"I know, I know, but—"

"Keep going, please. I'll be so good for you, beg so pretty if that's what you want." James would do anything.

Regulus seemed to be lost in thought for so long, James wasn't sure that he would continue, and then he slipped away once more and walked over to the opposite side of the room where a dresser sat against the wall. He picked up his phone and began to fiddle on it and just when James was about begin to beg, music filled the space around them. Regulus placed his phone down on the dresser and opened a drawer, pulling out a black box. He held the box as he walked back over towards the bed, placed it on the bed behind James, and then slowly strode to the middle of the room to stand in front of James, but just out of reach. He began to slowly untie the silk robe, his long fingers moving with purpose, working the knot in methodical movements that were intended to drive James insane. When the knot was undone, Regulus pulled the silk tie from around his body and threw it at James. He moved his hips to the music the entire time, rolling his body and driving James crazy with want. He could feel his cock quickly thickening in his jeans, becoming uncomfortable with neglect.

As he danced, the robe gaped slightly, giving James all too brief glimpses of Regulus' toned body, his abs flexing with movement, and red lace panties. James' mouth watered, wanting nothing but to tear through the lace and get a taste of what was hidden beneath it. Regulus inched the robe down off of his shoulders and turned his body, arching his back and giving James a show of the silk slowly being removed. He barely caught a glimpse of the red lace cupping Regulus' ass perfectly before his face got covered with the robe being thrown at him. He quickly ripped it off his face and gaped at the view of Regulus swaying his hips as he walked towards him.

"No touching," Regulus warned as he approached.

James nodded, though he wasn't sure if he could abide by the rule. Regulus crawled onto the bed, nestling his knees on either side of James' body and resting his hands on his shoulders as he began rocking his hips in time with the music. At first, Regulus hovered, avoiding touching James as well, but then he leaned in. He began grinding his hips on James, both of them moaning at the friction. It took every ounce of self control that James had to keep his hips still and his hands firmly placed on the bed as Regulus ground himself on his cock. One of Regulus' hands slid up from James' shoulder and buried itself into James' curls. He gave James a sloppy kiss and when he pulled away, a trail of spit connected them.

Regulus pushed at James' shoulder and he allowed himself to fall back, laying on the bed with his feet off the edge and staring up at the beautiful man before him. "Fuck, you're gorgeous," he said, unable to stop himself from verbalizing the observation.

"I know, but I think you've seen enough, Daddy."

James' brows knit together in confusion as Regulus reached forward, grinding his hips into James as he did. James moaned at the friction, the sharp zipper of his jeans digging into his swollen cock and kissing him with a combination of pleasure and pain. He heard Regulus rummaging into something, the box he assumed, and when he sat back he held up a blindfold in question.

"Fuck," James moaned. "Yeah, okay. Whatever you want, baby. Just… please let me out of my clothes first?"

"Aw, poor Daddy. Fully clothed while his baby is dripping with desire." Regulus placed the blindfold on the bed next to him and dipped his fingers into his panties. James could feel his fingers swirling in the wetness gathered there through his jeans, nearly bucking his hips at the feeling. When Regulus pulled his hand away, his fingers were soaked with his arousal. He sucked his fingers into his own mouth, moaning as he pulled the fingers away and pushed them against his lips as his tongue swirled around them. James groaned and pushed his hips up into Regulus' body, seeking more friction as he watched.

"You're not going to cum until I let you, Daddy." Regulus made quick work of removing James' shirt and then shifted his hips so he had access to James' belt. He made a show of unlatching the belt and sliding the leather through the loops before holding the belt in front of him. "Hands?"

James looked up at Regulus' face as he held out his hands in offering. He felt Regulus wrap the belt around his wrists, looping the leather confidently, latched the buckle, and then checked the tension with his fingers. Then, Regulus picked up the blindfold and secured it over his eyes, preventing James from both seeing and touching what he most desired.

"Color?"

"Green."

"Good."

He felt the weight of Regulus leave his lap and whined at the loss of him. Left fully alone on the bed, he writhed in need. The loss of his sight was a sensation that heightened all other senses in his body and his leaking and aching cock began to overwhelm all of his nerves. He heard a rustling of fabric and then froze when he felt Regulus' fingers begin to work at the button of his jeans. He unzipped the fly of his jeans tortuously slow and then James felt his jeans being pulled by the loops. He canted his hips to aid in the removal of them and then felt Regulus' hot breath against his cock through the thin material of his boxer briefs.

"Look at you," Regulus breathed, nuzzling into his aching cock. "So hard for me and I've barely touched you. Leaking and desperate for me."

"Just for you, baby," James said as he thrusted his hips into nothing, seeking friction and finding none.

"Such a little slut for me," Regulus said. "Sluts don't get to cum though, do they?"

James let out a desperate whine. He could tell from Regulus' voice that he was no longer near his cock and his suspicions were confirmed when he felt the bed dip next to his head.

"Especially when they lack manners. You can't even beg properly." Regulus continued. "You'll have to work extra hard to cum, Daddy."

James felt Regulus crawling closer and then Regulus was hovering over his mouth, hot pleasure nearly dripping into his mouth. Regulus was so close, he could practically taste him. He let out a whine and lifting his head in an attempt to meet Regulus' body with his mouth, desperate to please.

A rough hand buried into his hair and held him in place. "Mind your manners, Daddy. Ask me nicely to sit on your face. Beg for my cunt, like the needy slut you are."

"Please, baby. Please let me taste you." Every thought had left James' mind, the only thing that mattered was dipping his tongue into Regulus' body. "I'll do anything you say, please, please. Baby, I just need to taste you. Please."

Regulus hummed and released his hand from James' hair. "Maybe you can be trained," he said, mimicking the words that James had said to him just a few short months ago when their roles had been reversed. "If you need to safe word, reach up and tap me three times. Show me, Daddy." James contorted his hands so he could follow the direction given and when Regulus was satisfied that James knew how to get his attention, he lowered himself onto James's face. He let out a loud moan as James dipped his tongue into him, grinding into James' face. James moaned right along with him—unable to see or touch, his senses became overwhelmed with everything that was Regulus. He rocked his hips as he continued to lick and suck and bury himself into Regulus' wet heat. He felt Regulus' breath hitch, aware of every movement the man riding his face made, and then Regulus was cumming. James' mouth flooded with the heady taste of Regulus' orgasm and he continued to lick him through it, relishing in the warm liquid pooling in his mouth.

"Fuck," Regulus moaned, grinding his hips down into James' face. "I knew we could put that mouth to good use."

James groaned, circling the bundle of nerves at the apex of Regulus' thighs with his tongue, hoping that Regulus knew he agreed with the sentiment.

"How many times can you make me cum, Daddy?"

James' hips bucked, seeking friction he knew he wouldn't find. He continued to lick and suck at Regulus above him, desperate to please the man riding his face. It didn't take long for Regulus to cum again and as James fucked his tongue into him, he felt Regulus ride the wave of one orgasm right into another, the taste of him sweet in his mouth. His hips were constantly moving of their own accord now, James barely aware of his own body, and wholly focused on Regulus' pleasure. He had decided that if he couldn't feel physical pleasure of his own, then he would tune himself into Regulus'.

"Do you want to cum, Daddy?" Regulus asked the question, but pushed himself so firmly onto James' face that he could hardly breathe, let alone answer. James moaned at the feeling and gave himself earnestly to Regulus for his pleasure, sucking at the nerves and tasting Regulus orgasm again.

Regulus let out a breathy moan, riding James' face through his orgasm, before he spoke again. "You've been so good for me, keeping that mouth busy to make sure I cum. So, so good. I think you get rewarded for being so well behaved."

When Regulus raised his body from James' face, he whined at the loss. He heard Regulus laugh darkly. "Little slut misses my cunt already?" A finger trailed his body, starting at his neck and working down his chest to a nipple, then pinched. "Answer me."

"Y-yeah. Miss it so much, baby. You taste so good. I could live off that cunt."

"Hmm," Regulus hummed in consideration as he continued to trail his fingers up and down James' torso. "If I let you cum, do you think you'll be able to fuck me and cum inside me after?"

"Inside? Reg—"

"I'm haven't—I'm still clean if you are. I have an IUD. Sorry, uh… Yellow? I shouldn't have brought this up while you're… like this."

Regulus began fiddling with the blindfold and James pulled his head away in a desperate attempt to make Regulus stop. He didn't want to break the scene, he had felt himself slipping into a subspace for the first time and wanted to allow himself to relish at the feeling. "No, baby. Green. I'm good. Better than good. I want that so bad, desperate for it actually."

"James, I'm the one who called the safe word… I have condoms, it's fine—"

"I don't want them, you only called the safe word because you felt like you were coercing me. You're not. I want this. I want you." James was desperate to make Regulus understand that he was fully aware of the decision, that he was truly fine with the decision. He hadn't been with anyone since he and Regulus had hooked up and if he was honest with himself, he didn't want to be with anyone else anyway. He trusted when Regulus said he had birth control and if he didn't… well, he'd even be okay with the consequences of that too. Fuck, Regulus made him feel insane.

He heard Regulus let out a breath, a long stretch of silence weighing heavy between them. Then, he felt a hand rubbing his cock between the thin material of his briefs. He hissed at the contact, his cock neglected for so long it grew hypersensitive. "Well, then you're going to have to answer the question, Daddy. Will you be able fuck me after I get you off?"

Regulus pulled his hand away and James chased his hand with his hips, desperate for the heady mixture of pleasure and pain that was the feather light touch of his hand on his cock. He nodded, shameless in his search for pleasure from the man who held him in the palm of his hand.

"Words, Daddy. If you won't answer, I'll just have to use one of the toys in that box instead while you lay here, pathetic and needy, listening to me cum all by myself."

"Fuck, baby. Yeah, yes. Please. Can I cum? Can you make me cum?"

"Well," Regulus purred. "Since you asked so sweetly."

James felt his boxers being pulled down from his hips and he shifted his weight to help, his cock sprang free and he hissed at the feeling of the fabric when it brushed against his sensitive skin. Before he had adjusted to his cock free from the confines of his underwear, Regulus had taken him into his mouth, swallowing his entire length in one fluid motion. He pulled back, brushing the flat of his tongue against the underside of his cock, then swirled his tongue around his sensitive tip. Regulus pushed his tongue into the slit, lapping at the pre-cum gathered there, then sucked his cock back into his mouth, taking him all the way to the back of his throat. He continued to bob his head, hollowing his cheeks and sucking before relaxing his throat and taking him impossibly deeper. James moaned, pushing his hips in time with Regulus' movements before he felt himself on the edge of his orgasm.

"Reg, baby, I'm gonna—" Regulus gripped his thighs and pushed himself down, holding James deep to spill down his throat. James thrust his hips as he felt himself dissolve into pleasure, the hypersensitivity lending itself to a powerful orgasm. He felt Regulus pull away and he whined at the loss of contact.

Regulus crawled up his body and ripped off the blindfold. James blinked a few times, adjusting his eyes to the light of the room after being deprived for so long. "Hi, baby. You look so pretty with your lips swollen from sucking my cock."

"You have a big mouth for someone who still can't use his hands," Regulus teased. James watched as Regulus reached over him towards the box on the bed. He rustled around until he found what he was looking for and instead of leaning back into James' body, he pushed himself up and away. James stared at his ass as he walked across the room, missing the warmth of his body, but relishing in the view. Regulus dragged a chair from the vanity in front of the bed where James was perched and sat down, propping his feet on the edge of the bed on either side of James' knees with a cherry red vibrator in his hand.

James sat upright, his legs dangling off the bed, and shifted his body closer to Regulus. "Baby, what are you doing?"

"You're going to watch until you learn to keep your mouth shut."

"You're really gonna fuck yourself with a vibrator that's my favorite color and expect me to be quiet?"

"If you want to fuck me after, yes." Regulus turned on the vibrator, the hum of the toy filling the space between them. "I am more than happy to fuck myself until I'm satisfied if you decide not to learn your lesson, it won't be me going home with an aching cock."

Regulus leaned back into the chair, opening his legs wider to offer James a perfect view of how soaked he was before he brushed the toy over the sensitive nerves. James whined as Regulus moaned in pleasure, his cock already half hard from the view before him. Regulus pushed the vibrator inside of him and writhed, rocking his hips and crying out in pleasure. James could practically taste the orgasm building inside Regulus already.

"Baby, you're so fucking pretty, I wish you could see yourself."

"Maybe I was wrong about you," Regulus said between moans, fucking himself on the vibrator without inhibitions.

James hummed and leaned forward, dropping his bound arms between his knees so he could get himself closer to Regulus. "Wrong about what, baby?"

"Maybe you can't be trained after all." Regulus gasped, arching his back as he rode through another orgasm.

"Probably not," James laughed darkly. "I've never let anyone boss me around before. Give a man a little credit for his efforts? You're irresistible after all."

"Fuck it—" Regulus turned off the vibrator and tossed it on the bed next to James as he lowered his legs. He reached forward and undid the buckle of the belt binding James' arms together and massaged the skin there, ensuring that he hadn't lost any feeling in the limbs.

James laced his fingers into Regulus' dark curls and pulled him in for a sloppy kiss, his head spinning at the taste of himself on Regulus' lips. "We could still use the toy, you know."

Regulus raised an eyebrow in question, giving James a nonverbal prompt to continue.

"You could keep fucking yourself with that toy, which I loved watching by the way, holy fuck— And I could fuck that tight ass of yours at the same time."

Regulus sat in the chair staring for a moment, seemingly too stunned by the suggestion to speak.

"If you don't want—"

"I want. I've just… I've never done that before. Both, at the same time."

"I'll make it so good for you, sweetheart." James leaned in for a quick kiss. "Get on the bed for me on all fours, yeah? I'm assuming you've got lube in this box of yours." He leaned back towards the box and rummaged through until he found a bottle of lube. As he searched, he felt the bed shift with Regulus' weight. When he looked back over, he saw Regulus on the bed with his ass in the air, staring at him with a glassy, contented expression. James picked up the discarded vibrator, turned it on, and handed it to Regulus. "Don't stop, baby."

He watched as Regulus adjusted his body so that he could fuck himself on the toy and moaned at the sight. Gripping Regulus' ass, James parted his cheeks and lapped at the ring of muscle while Regulus continued to writhe and moan beneath him. When James had determined that Regulus was thoroughly relaxed, he coated his fingers with lube and gently pushed in one finger.

"You take me so good, baby. Fuck, it's like you were made for this." He continued to work Regulus open, pushing his finger in and out in time with the way Regulus was moving the vibrator. He coaxed a second finger inside and felt Regulus tense at the change. James used his other hand to rub soothing circles into his ass, whispering sweet words to relax him. "Just breathe, baby. You're doing so good. So good for me."

Regulus preened, relaxing almost instantly at the praise. He pushed his ass into James further, begging for more with his body instead of his words. James continued to work his fingers, opening him gently so that he would continue to relax into the feeling. He knew it would burn when he pushed his third finger in and when he did, he heard Regulus take in a sharp breath, but he didn't tense like he had earlier. Instead, he rocked into his hand, never once faltering in fucking himself with the vibrator. James felt the vibrations up his arm and groaned at the thought of how obscene it was going to feel to be inside of Regulus in just a few short moments. He continued to scissor his fingers, working Regulus open and prepping him to avoid the burn as much as possible.

"Daddy, if you don't fuck me soon I'm going to lose my mind."

"I just want to make sure you're ready, baby." James moved his fingers slower, teasingly.

Regulus whined, pushing his ass back into James' hand. "Please, I'm fucking ready and you know it."

James hummed, pretending to be deep in thought and stilling his fingers. "I'm not sure you're begging nicely enough, baby."

"Please, Daddy. Please, I need your cock." Regulus arched his back impossibly further, tempting James with such a beautiful view he couldn't resist.

"Well, since you asked so nicely, baby." James pulled his fingers away and slicked his cock with lube before lining himself up at Regulus' entrance. "Remember to use your safe words, baby. If it hurts, pull the vibrator out, okay? It shouldn't hurt, just relax into it."

Regulus nodded.

"Words, baby." James was so close to losing his self control.

"Yes, Daddy. If it hurts, I'll stop. Now for the love of God, please fuck me already."

James laughed darkly and slapped Regulus' ass for the bratty behavior before he began to slowly inch himself inside. Regulus moaned, a needy and wanton thing, and James felt him slow the movement of the vibrator as he pushed himself into his body. The vibrations traveling through Regulus' body into his cock made his breath hitch with pleasure. He paused his movements when he bottomed out, waiting for Regulus to squirm or begin moving the toy again before he fucked into him with reckless abandon.

"Fucking—Move, James."

James slapped his ass again, not moving an inch. "That's not who I am to you right now, baby. And that's not how you speak to me."

"You're having a real fucking power trip for someone who was tied up a few minutes ago."

"You're having a real fucking power trip for someone who's filled up in every hole." James leaned forward and shoved two fingers in Regulus' mouth, pushing them deep and making Regulus gag from the surprise. When the shock subsided, Regulus moaned and swirled his tongue around. "I'm going to fuck you now and the only thing you're going to say is please and thank you, Daddy."

Regulus nodded around his fingers and James pulled away so he could finally move his hips. His pace was relentless, ignoring the pace that Regulus had set with the toy and fucking into him for nothing but the pursuit of his own pleasure. Regulus moaned and writhed beneath him, pushing his hips back into James in an attempt to keep pace. The vibrator continued to buzz, sending both of them into heightened sensitivity, and James knew that despite his earlier orgasm, he wasn't going to last long.

"Please," Regulus moaned. His back was shiny with sweat and when he looked over his shoulder at James, he noticed that his usual waves were stuck to his forehead. His cheeks were flushed with pleasure and James nearly came at the sight of him completely undone beneath him.

"Please, what, baby?" James asked as he continued pounding into him.

"Wanna cum. Want you to cum. Please, Daddy."

"Want me to fill you up, baby?"

Regulus let out a loud moan and James felt his body tense in pleasure.

"Fuck, baby. I've got you, cum for me one more time. I'll give you what you need."

That was all it took for Regulus to become undone and at the feeling of those muscles tightening and relaxing around him, James came hard and fast. He thrusted impossibly deeper inside of Regulus and spilled every drop inside of his body, marveling at the feeling.

Regulus pulled the toy out of himself and switched off the vibration before chucking it to the side on the bed and going completely limp beneath him. James collapsed on top of him, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him in close as he turned to his side, spooning Regulus while still inside of him. He didn't want to be apart yet. He needed this closeness after the intensity of what they had just done together. He kissed Regulus' shoulder and hummed a mindless melody to himself, completely sated and satisfied.

After a few minutes, it was Regulus who broke the silence. "James, you-you're still inside of me and we're disgusting."

"Shh, sweetheart. One more minute." James felt his eyes growing heavy and his cock softening inside of Regulus' body.

"If we stay like this for one more minute, you're gonna fall asleep. We're sticky and gross. I can't sleep like this. Let's shower."

He felt Regulus pulling away and teasingly bit down on his shoulder, earning himself a rare laugh from Regulus, and then Regulus did pull away and James let out a whine. He opened his eyes and while his vision wasn't great without his glasses, it was clear enough to witness the eyeroll reserved just for him. Regulus held out his hand in offering and James groaned as he grabbed it and got up from the bed, allowing Regulus to lead him into the bathroom down the hall.

James watched as Regulus leaned over to adjust the water on the shower, staring at his ass and the evidence of his orgasm dripping out onto his thighs. He stepped closer and brushed a hand along Regulus' upper thigh, trailing up slowly, and gathered the cum leaking from his body onto his fingers. Regulus hitched a breath and leaned in, encouraging James to push his fingers inside of Regulus' ass.

"Not satisfied?" Regulus asked on a breathy moan.

"More like you make me feel insatiable. Besides, you wanted me to fill you up. Seemed like a waste to have it dripping out of you already." He pumped his fingers a few times before pulling them out and smacking his ass playfully. "Shower's ready, yeah?"

"Hmm? O-oh, yeah." Regulus stepped into the stream of water and James followed right after, letting the warm water soothe his tired muscles. They went through the routine of showering, exchanging sweet kisses and pulling each other close. They washed each other's bodies and hair and James felt like he could cry over the small acts of intimacy that they shared. When they finished, Regulus turned off the water and James toweled him off slowly, methodically. He made sure to touch every part of his body with the plush towel, immediately followed by soft kisses. When Regulus was dry, James wrapped a towel around his own hips and kissed him gently, reverently. Savoring the taste of him on his mouth, he hoped that Regulus would know how precious he was without words.

"It's getting late…" Regulus murmured between kisses.

James kissed him again, pulling his body impossibly closer. "Can I stay?"

"James, listen—"

"If you want to keep this casual, I get it, I just…"

Regulus' brows knit together. "You're the one who said you don't date, James. The shower together was pushing my boundaries of domesticity for a casual hookup."

"I know what I said—"

"Look, it's late—"

"No, let me finish. Please?"

Regulus sighed, pulling away slightly and James shivered at the loss of him. "Fine, but can we put clothes on first?"

"Yeah," James nodded. "Yeah, let's get dressed and have some tea or something."

They padded back to the bedroom in silence and Regulus pulled out clean clothes from his dresser. James picked up his discarded clothing from the floor and winced at the idea of pulling them back onto his body when Regulus wordlessly handed him a pair of sweatpants and a threadbare band tee.

"They might be a little tight, but that's the closest I've got to your size."

"Thanks, sweetheart." James smiled and pulled the clothes on. Regulus was right that they were a little tighter than he'd usually prefer, but they were still more comfortable than his jeans would have been. He grabbed his glasses from the nightstand and placed them back on his face.

Regulus' body was lost in the sea of baggy sweatpants and over-sized tee that he picked for himself and James smiled at the memory of meeting him for the first time and having to pull off so many layers that he lost count. He followed Regulus out of the room, down the hallway, and into the kitchen where he filled a kettle with water and placed it on the stove to boil.

"I—"

"Peppermint?" Regulus asked, effectively stopping James from beginning the conversation he was itching to have. "I also have lavender?"

"Peppermint is fine." He answered. He let the silence draw out between them as Regulus worked to prepare their tea and when he was finally handed a steaming mug, he followed Regulus into the living room and sat next to him on the couch.

"Okay, now you can finish."

"I want to take you on a date."

Regulus quirked an eyebrow in disbelief. "A date? This coming from the man who said he doesn't date."

"I don't—"

"And yet here you are, asking me for something you don't do?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

James let out a breath, gathering his thoughts and his nerves. "I really like you—"

"You don't know—"

"Let me finish. You said I could finish." James looked at Regulus earnestly, begging him with his eyes to listen to what he had to say before reacting.

Regulus leaned back into the couch and waved a hand for him to continue.

"I don't date. I haven't ever wanted to until I met you. And maybe this is fucking crazy, I feel fucking crazy, but I feel like I've known you my entire life. Like I've known you in every life I've ever lived. Like I've loved you in every one of them. And sure, we don't know each other very well here and now, but I feel like I know you. Like I could grow to love you in this lifetime too. Those months where you had my number but didn't reach out? I felt like I was missing a limb I never knew I had before I met you. I didn't seek anyone out in our time apart, I mean— Fuck, the guys on the team made fun of me for not taking home girls when we'd go out like I usually did. For ignoring everyone who threw themselves at me. None of them were you. I don't expect us to just magically fall in love and live happily ever after, but I really want us to give this a real shot." James finally looked up at Regulus. His eyes were red rimmed and tears gathered there, on the precipice of being spilled. "Don't cry, baby, I'm sorry—"

"Do you mean it?" Regulus' voice was small and shaky, like he was afraid to be this vulnerable.

"I do. But I need you to know before you agree to go out with me that we'd have to keep us a secret. At least until after the drafts. I-I really want this, I really want us, but I've been working my entire life to get into the NFL and they're just…"

"You can't be openly queer in football." Regulus said, his voice hollow and empty of emotion. The tears gathered in his eyes rolled down his cheeks and James leaned forward to wipe them away with his thumb.

"Not yet. I can be the first, but I need to get drafted first. I'm willing to be the first, if it means I get to keep you, as long as you know what kind of attention would fall onto you too."

"What kind of attention?"

"The homophobic kind. The picking apart everything about you and your life kind. The transphobic kind, undoubtedly."

Regulus flinched.

"I don't need an answer tonight, it's late and it's a lot to think about—"

"Ask me again."

"Regulus…"

"Ask me again."

"Can I stay the night?"

"Yes, James. I'd love that. But on one condition."

James smiled. "Anything for you."

"You have to take me out to breakfast in the morning. On a date."

"I'd be honored, baby."

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hyddeplays · 5 months ago

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Aw I really like the new FR update. I'm surprised there's so much negativity given that it's so optional and disable-able. Though I guess the userbase is kind of the dedicated complainers of the internet (I say that lovingly, I'm one of them).

I agree that essentially all of them are not quite my cup of tea, but I'm excited for them to introduce more subtle and simple effects in the future, like a soft white glitter or floating fireflies or animated birds or something. I guess most of the time I just don't want my dragon changed that much! I also hope they won't shy away from releasing variations of existing ones. The ghost one in particular comes to mind, I really love the smoke and fade at the bottom, but I hate that it makes your whole dragon green. Quite literally all effects except for the butterflies feel like they can use a more low key version rn.

Anyway, great job FR. Completely unexpected and technically very impressive, just needs some finessing is all :)

#flight rising #flightrising

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kiana12113 · 2 months ago

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Modern AU︎ ₊˚⊹౨ৎ

Red Dead Redemption Headcanons, in which:

The Van der Linde Gang lives in the year 2025 — where most of them are in college.

Note: Very fluffy; I had a field day writing this. I know these dudes are in their mid-twenties. Let’s just play with our dolls a little. ( ´꒳` ) <3

John Marston

✦ Who shares a dorm with Javier. Despite the noisy rooms filled with the constant blaring of electric guitars, the dorm is quite well-kept. Mostly, the cleaning of Javier — who makes sure the room is presentable.

✦ Who owns band shirts for a living. An avid listener of Nirvana, Radiohead, Deftones, and Foo Fighters. There are posters put on his walls, along with his black Stratocaster.

✦ Who owns an electric guitar, put stickers on it, and thought it would make him cooler than Javier. He thought it would get him chicks, but it instead made him look more of a loser than he already was. Javier borrows the guitar frequently, using it more than John does. Argues that he knows how to play more songs than Smoke on the Water.

✦ Who won’t let Arthur touch it, though.

✦ Who doesn’t necessarily fail his classes, but doesn’t necessarily pass them either. He does them with incredible finesse that he is always at point 50/50. John barely studies before tests, either, claiming his stock-knowledge will help him pass.

✦ Who uses 7-in-1 shampoo. He complains about having dandruff, searching YouTube tutorials how to get rid of it — stubbornly refusing to stop using the shampoo even though Arthur had told him multiple times to drop it. John argues it’s because it’s effective, but it’s really just because it’s cheaper.

✦ Who crashed Arthur’s car, not once, but twice. After the following tragedies, Arthur no longer let’s John touch the steering wheel, getting an earful every time he even got close.

“Hey, maybe we should do this more often.” John says, in the passengers seat.

“Maybe we could if ya stopped crashing my car, Marston.” Arthur replies.

✦ Who gets high in his dorm’s bathtub, body wholly soaked in water as he listens to “Creep” by Radiohead. Tears flow down his red eyes.

✦ Who writes his number on a bathroom stall with a Sharpie. No one messages him, unfortunately. He told Javier about it and the Mexican laughed his ass off. “You’re truly something, John.”

✦ Who spent all his money on a concert, had the time of his life, and about a slideshow in his Instagram story. He ate canned corn and tuna for the whole week after, earning a trip to the clinic after ridiculous diarrhea.

✦ Who has about 500 followers on his TikTok, who apparently like to watch John’s rants and fit checks. He’s always talking and yelling about some niche issue like why there has to be different levels of water needed for specific rice. His video is always unGodly cropped, too, always just showing most of the ceiling and his face only until his nose.

✦ Who has people ask why his beard is like that and John says it came from a wolf attack just to seem cool. No one believes him anyway.

✦ Who was crossing the street once, in a really bad mood, when a car had stopped to only honk at him. He stared at the car for a moment, as if trying to discern if they were serious. He gave whoever asshole inside that car a middle-finger. It wouldn’t be uncommon to see John go viral for doing something vain and stupid.

✦ Who has large canine teeth, always showing when he smiles in pictures.

✦ Who has an hour in screen time for the calculator app and notes app. Not because he is a poet or a mathematician, but because he pretends to look busy when passing by people.

✦ Who almost burnt down his dorm one time trying to cook “gourmet” food. The CCTV footage of the event is pinned in the Van der Linde GC.

✦ Who survives off of food in convenience stores and ordering food. The only time he gets to eat real food is when Javier decides to cook (rarely) and he goes out with Arthur.

✦ Who meets a girl named Abigail — who Javier had suggested. They hit it off for the meantime, John frequently texting her and thinking to himself if he looked a little too desperate.

✦ Who played Mario Kart with Arthur when they were kids and he never won against him. He would always threaten to throw the console (Arthur’s) as he yelled out insults to him.

✦ Who has about $2 to his name.

Javier Escuella

✦ Who does pretty well in his classes, and actually tries.

✦ Who actually gets girls, unlike John. Although he never gets in a relationship that lasts more than two months. He always ends up getting cheated on, for some reason.

✦ Who played “Hotel California” by Eagles in a campus event and killed it. He got about 50 DMs after, him and John playing a guessing game on how high the numbers of notifications he would reach. Anyway, he gave his phone to John to reply to them.

✦ Who is well kept, clean, showers daily — unlike John, he actually has a deliberate shower routine and process.

✦ Who’s always talking to himself, muttering and mumbling in Spanish. John is weirded out when Javier’s toes hit the legs of the coffee table and it looks as if Javier’s cursing its whole oak family in Spanish. He’ll also do it in his sleep.

✦ Who gets baked. He contemplates the meaning and purpose of his life for an hour, then stares at the empty wall in front of him in silence for about twenty minutes. Promptly passes out after.

✦ Who loves his guitar more than himself. So much so that he actually named it “Boaz”. He accidentally hit it on his knee once and despite yelping in pain, he checked if the guitar had gotten a scratch first. It’s more expensive than his life.

✦ Who had gotten drunk off his ass once, and tried to serenade a woman. He was so wasted that he didn’t even notice it was merely a life-size cutout of a celebrity. People stared at him weird.

✦ Who casually has knives displayed in his room. John stared at him weird, entering once. “What? It’s a hobby. Never heard of it before?”

✦ Who cooks like a housewife, with music, hands on his hips, and with an apron on. He’ll even point at John with the ladle if he tries to steal his stuff.

✦ Who stares at the mirror for twenty minutes before leaving. He squints his eyes and makes sure his ponytail is nice, his clothes aren’t wrinkled, and he still smiles the same.

Sean MacGuire

✦ Who’s roommates with Lenny. He usually makes most of the noise, except for when Lenny crashes out while studying for an exam.

✦ Who’s naked most of the time, too. He’s found walking around the dorm without a shirt on and his boxers. Once he answered the door forgetting that he had nothing on but his underwear and he wondered why the pizza delivery guy was stammering and stuttering in confusion. “Whut? You wanna hang out?”

✦ Who is chronically online. He knows all the latest trends, the latest memes, the latest emojis being used, even brain rot. Presently, he’s been talking Lenny’s ear off about his undeniable hate for “Tung Tung Tung Sahur” or whatever.

✦ Who comments on most of the posts he sees. Arthur posting on Facebook about horses? “Well ya look like one, so that’s another one.”

Bill’s angry rant on Twitter? “Chill out Billy Badass!”

Karen’s Snapchat story? “I swear, they stared at me first. Honest.”

And he’ll spam Dutch’s posts with likes for fun. He’s a menace like that. Dutch’ll tag him minutes later in their group chat and go,

“@Sean MacGuire, stop liking my posts repeatedly. It’s not funny.” Sean’ll react a thumbs up to his message and keep doing it anyway for shits and giggles.

✦ Who’s always early to posts, too. So if the gang members are hoping it’s some thoughtful comment and compliment, it’s actually just Sean fucking around.

✦ Who switches his profile picture and changes his username every few weeks. People will wonder who this person liking their posts are, but it’s actually just Sean’s third account who’s changed his profile picture the second time this week.

✦ Who has his social media stories updated every day. Admittedly, they are entertaining, even if it’s just full of shit. He’ll post a picture of him and Lenny and the next picture once you tap it is an attempt at thirst trapping.

✦ Who’s beaten everyone in a drinking game before. He’ll bug everyone in the gang to drink with him and find a way to make it competitive. He’ll even throw in his phone for a time-lapse so it’ll be funnier.

✦ Who Lenny will try to help with his devastating grades. Lenny will say how he has no future ahead of him if he continues passing late homework and projects and Sean grumbles and mutters complains and rolls around the couch in annoyance.

✦ Who studies for a test one time in his life because it was worth half his grade and still gets a 49%. He had to retake the test after.

✦ Who is great at singing, especially in the shower, much to the annoyance of the people next door. Unfortunately he won’t be stopping because he’s realized his power and talent one time he tried duetting with Javier.

✦ Who copies off of Lenny’s work. (They have different classes).

✦ Who lost his front tooth in a sad attempt at skateboarding. Had it live streamed on Tiktok, too. He had to play it cool.

✦ Who stayed up so late with Lenny once finishing Breaking Bad. They vowed never to do such a marathon again because the following day their head hurt like hell and they stayed on the floor the whole day. There laid a comforter, though, despite it being covered in crumbs of leftover chips.

✦ Who has the most unhinged wallpaper ever. Like his profile picture, it changes every few weeks.

✦ Who’s the only one active in the Van der Linde GC. He keeps trying to change GC name and profile picture but Dutch always changes it back the next day.

✦ Who gets so drunk out of his mind after a party and slept with his mouth open and legs wrapped around itself. Lenny took pictures with flashes that night. Sean doesn’t remember a thing that happened, but claims he had several girls chasing after him then.

✦ Who jokes at the worst times, accidentally upsetting Lenny even more after joking about being a failure in life. Lenny had just failed an exam.

✦ Who celebrates Halloween for the whole month. His costumes are always top tier with realism — it’s the one thing he takes seriously other than St. Patrick’s Day. “Let’s fockin’ go, Ireland! Long live the Irish!”

Lenny Summers

✦ Who gets invited to parties, though mostly rejects them if he has something more important to do. He takes Sean for an example. But if he doesn’t, though, he’s going to get drunk, piss drunk until his legs feel like wet spaghetti and barely gets his keys to open the door. He tries at least ten different combinations of putting it in before it opens and his body falls down on the floor.

✦ Who has a part-time job, usually busy and exhausted the moment he comes home. Imagine being tired and seeing Sean without clothes greet you. That’s his life.

✦ Who is active on social media, taking care of his account. It’s actually organized and have meaningful posts.

✦ Who’s natural habitat is the couch, watching shows that rot his mind even more. Sean’ll have the remote in his hands and go through Netflix, asking “How about this one?” for hours because Lenny has seen all of them already.

✦ Who walks to his classes with EarPods on and blasting “Sunflower” by Post Malone and Swae Lee because he has to get through this day even though the dread is already catching up to him. He copes by pretending to be Miles Morales.

✦ Who knows how to drive a car properly. In fact, he’s the only one Arthur trusts driving the car other than Hosea. Maybe not while drunk, though.

✦ Who had once a long-time girlfriend when he was in high school and hasn’t moved on from her. He’ll be sharing posts like “still thinking about you” even though she’s blocked Lenny on all social media sites.

✦ Who can’t sleep without a blanket because he gets cold easily. He keeps adjusting the temperature in the dorm and Sean’s sleep walking ass keeps turning it down.

✦ Who banged his head against a wall so hard out of annoyance, it grew a red sore spot the next day. The annoyance got to him after trying to memorize all the acts in his Textbook. He looked like a clown.

✦ Who bought spicy Korean noodles once and attempted to eat it while on live stream with Sean. They cried.

Kieran Duffy

✦ Who got a one person dorm and loved it. He had all the space to himself and he didn’t need to get along with anyone — well, at first. Except his neighbors, and that Irishman who wouldn’t stop singing in the shower. He doesn’t get sleep.

✦ Who one time studied for a test so much he came to class shaking. No, not because he was nervous or scared (maybe), but because he drank so much coffee he was sure he was about to collapse. To add, he didn’t shower the whole week. He passed out after the exam, his unfortunate stinky body found by Sean.

✦ Who went to a baseball game and got a baseball directly swung at his nose. He wasn’t able to see baseballs the same for a few weeks, especially after how his nose-bridge shattered upon impact, bleeding endlessly.

✦ Who is financially stable. He’ll have savings and plans and control his spendings. He is the richest broke college student ever.

✦ Who still freaking loves horses — he’ll scroll through his TikTok For You Page and all that is there are about horses. He has his horse, Branwen, waiting for him back home. He visits frequently to see his Mammy and Pappy, as well.

✦ Who got invited to a party once and got more girls than Sean did that night. He left the party with his face filled to the brim with kiss marks of lipstick, and numbers written on paper in his pockets. How? He didn’t know.

✦ Who doesn’t use his phone much. While some people are reliant on in these days, he doesn’t see the catch. He’d rather spend his time elsewhere.

✦ Who regularly uses emoticons like “:)” and “:(” when he texts someone or posts something. He’ll be like “Went to visit Brawnwen today :)” in his story or “Bad news, guys :(”.

✦ Who is techy — for some reason, he knows how to fix a PC, the WiFi, the monitor. He says his Pappy taught him that when he was a teen.

✦ Who has the clearest, 20/20 eyes however has astigmatism in his left eye. He wears glasses sometimes when he wants to.

Arthur Morgan

✦ Who takes the gang in an outing once in a while — Dutch’s idea. They went to a beach once. On the way there Sean had blasted music and people in the back seat decided to eat inside his car even when he explicitly said not to. “I said not to eat in the car. You are all insufferable. All of ya shouldda squeezed yurselves in Hosea’s car instead.”

✦ Who groans every time Sean says “Are we there yet?” and John has to say “No, Sean.” and shut him up with a disappointed face. Lenny is admittedly annoyed out of his mind but cannot for the love of him talk to anyone in the backseat.

The only time Arthur had peace in that Godforsaken trip was when everyone fell soundly asleep and the radio played “Fast Car” by Tracy Chapman.

✦ Who owns a 1965 Blue Ford Mustang. He cursed John when he crashed it, causing the car to have a few scratches. He takes care of it very well.

✦ Who makes a living off being an artist and lives in a comfortable home with Mary. There also lives his dog, Copper.

✦ Who gets incredibly worked up when there’s traffic. He’ll grumble and insult everyone in front of him, honking his horn loudly if they’re on their phone while driving. He’s an impatient man when it comes to these situations. He loses his mind when the traffic light suddenly turns red just when’s he’s about to cross.

✦ Who has some knowledge on how phones work, as much as he doesn’t use them. He uses Facebook the most, scrolling through everyone’s posts and occasionally reacting a “haha” emote on a funny post. He’s usually at the Facebook Marketplace, though.

✦ Who won’t replace or buy something new unless it’s completely unusable. Those boots and shoes he’s been wearing? Yeah, that was from 2011. Still going strong.

✦ Who hates Starbucks. “It’s so damn expensive, ‘n for what? Cup of coffee?” He’d rather eat at the diner nearby — he isn’t a picky eater. He has a burning hate for minimalism, too. He wonders why people need to simplify already simple enough things.

✦ Who’s always the provider, bringing food when he comes to visit people. Times when he’ll get invited by Hosea and Dutch to do something he knows to bring at least two bottles of Whiskey with him. Or when he visits Charles.

✦ Who’s also unfortunately John’s babysitter — even if he’s gone to college already. He’ll pick him up in a random house after getting drunk beyond comprehension.

“Don’t throw up in the seat — open the window,” Arthur warns.

John begins to hurl.

“No no no not here — John!”

✦ Who has so much shared posts in Facebook it’s scary. It’ll cover a wide range of emotions. “Appreciate what you have in life”, “Careful who you ignore in high school”, “This deer decided to enter the pub”, “Traffic incident today”, “Happy Wife hapy Life” “20 minute sketches” and “Easy Baking Soda trick to remove stains from non-stick pan”.

✦ Who still prefers to journal with a pen and paper. He feels like it’s right.

✦ Who cried when he watched “Up” by Pixar. He couldn’t stop the tears from flowing.

✦ Who’ll need reading glasses when he’s settled down on the couch to read a book. Dutch gifted him a book written by Dostoevsky once and he’s been meaning to finish it so he can tell Dutch he did. He’s kind of confused, but he’s got the spirit.

✦ Who you’ll find in the deepest trenches of Reddit and Quora scrolling down to find the answer to the questions he asked for.

✦ Who’s the type of guy who’ll die before the grocery bags are lifted up two times. He needs to have all of them in his arms even if it weighted more than him, because he’ll be damned if he has to go back to the car when he’s already in his house.

Charles Smith

✦ Who lives alone and peaceful out in the suburbs — he’s the farthest from everyone. Most of the time he’s out, anyway.

✦ Who occasionally has boxing matches. He uses it to take out the anger in himself. If it isn’t enough, he has a punching bag that he uses daily.

✦ Who’s closet consists of hoodies ninety-percent of the time.

✦ Who has insomnia and can’t sleep without turning off the lights and taking sleeping pills. He gets so irritated if he’s just closing his eyes but not sleeping because the man is so tired; all he wants is to rest.

✦ Who has a controlled diet and exercises regularly, running every morning, eating fish and vegetables, all of that fiber. He lifts weights, too — he has decent discipline.

✦ Who, despite this, still has days when he would lay on the couch all day and let his brain deteriorate while eating a tub of ice cream. He finished it all in one night — despite it being family-sized. What a miracle that he was able to stomach it for dinner.

✦ Who has gotten a cat enter his house one time and meow endlessly for food. When he gave it some, though, it never left. It stayed inside and made itself feel at home. Charles thought it was brave and fierce — he named her Taima. So now he’s a cat lady.

✦ Who has a stable job and sideline. He’s doing well financially, and despite having the money to eat outside, he much prefers to be inside and cook his own meal.

✦ Who owns a bike that he uses frequently to get where he wants to, usually his work. He’s willing to let people borrow it, however, no one does — considering how far he lives away. He’ll have a helmet on and all of that gear. Women around him will often greet him and giggle. He is complete eye candy.

✦ Who posts rarely. He doesn’t pay attention to social media, always saying how it’ll eat you alive if you don’t notice. He avoids using his phone much, which causes him to see messages late. Arthur will send a message in the GC and Charles will react to it the next day.

✦ Who is a really good drummer. He performed a gig in front of a crowd once and people loved him. He now does it occasionally. The gang will attend his shows.

“The drummer! Show the drummer!” Arthur says. “Woo!” And he’s literally playing jazz. They’re treating it like it was a Metallica concert.

✦ Who had gone offline for roughly three weeks one time that Dutch got worried and sent Arthur to look at his state. He didn’t need another Trelawny — he says. That time, Charles had left his phone somewhere.

Hosea Matthews

✦ Who is retired and happy. On most days he’s found sitting on a chair by his front porch and reading novels, or listening to a radio. He lives near Arthur’s so he’ll often see him out and he’ll yell, with a smile, “Hey, Arthur! Bein’ a great husband?”

✦ Who was the one Arthur turned to when he wanted to buy a car. Hosea’s immense knowledge and taste will forever influence everyone.

✦ Who has a bunch of polaroid pictures in an album of the gang when most of them were still very young. He has a picture of him and Dutch in his car, Arthur as a rebellious teen, John in his underwear, a group picture full of smiles, the girls as teens posing while putting excessive makeup on and Miss Grimshaw telling them it was way too much. He has some of them hanged on his living room wall, and a picture of Bessie in his wallet.

✦ Who will be on the receiving end of Dutch’s shared posts. Dutch will send him posts with captions like “life is great when you follow the right path” or “the best leaders always make the best results” and Hosea will give him a thumbs up and an “Of course Dutch”.

✦ Who still has an old gramophone and plays different songs that remind him of his young days. Sometimes he will be slow dancing with Bessie in the living room. “Feels like the good ol’ days, eh? Darlin’?”

✦ Who plays Word games on his phone occasionally, and will ask Bessie for a game of Domino and Scrabble every once in a while. Hosea always wins when the Gang is playing Cluedo. And he’ll cheat along with Arthur when the game of Poker gets too boring.

The chaos that ensues during Monopoly is indescribable. Hosea and Trelawny are filthy rich, Sean never gets out of jail, John is in absolute debt, Sadie and Karen are arguing with Arthur because he’s pulling “new rules” out of his ass, Kieran is secretly winning, and Molly is watching it all happen with coffee in her hands.

Also, someone’s been eating the pieces.

“Who the fuck is eating the pieces? Where’s mine? El hijo de puta! I just went to get water!” Javier yells.

A Reverend who has suspiciously been burping shrugs, “Maybe it fell under the couch.”

✦ Who watched Titanic with Dutch, John, and Arthur in a cinema once and kept glancing at John and Arthur who were bickering about who was gonna cry first. They both did — failing to hide it.

✦ Who is like their father, the way John introduced him to Abigail. He raised a brow at John.

“You’re too good for this,” And John frowns, “Hosea — don’t say that to her.”

“What? I was talking to the girl. She’s too good for ya.” and he chuckles.

✦ Who accidentally clicks the button to call the GC. Dutch answers first, “What is it, Hosea? Is there a problem?”

Then Sean follows, “Ooh? What’s this?”

And then Lenny, Karen, and Bill pick it up as well. A few more minutes of silence ensure and Hosea’s camera is facing the ceiling, John and Arthur answer the call. Sean puts on a group filter.

Javier, Tilly, and Mary-beth do as well. The others catch up, all except for Strauss, Susan, Trelawny, and Charles.

Reverend frantically asks as he keeps incessantly sniffing, “What’s wrong?” And they’re left in constant confusion.

“Hosea?” Arthur asks.

“Who even called?” Karen adds.

Hosea picks up his phone because for some reason he could hear the gang. His eyebrows are furrowed while the camera shows his nose, the filter glitching in and out trying to detect his face. “Why are you all callin’?” He says, confused, and slightly irritated that his day got interrupted.

To which, in unison, they all say: “YOU called!”

Dutch Van der Linde

✦ Who is a big shopper. His clothes are all stylish and fashionable, making sure it makes him look classy and respectable. He takes care of his appearance very well, and his camera roll consists of primarily selfies and pictures of his rings and jewelry.

✦ Who is big on opinions, especially about current news and politics. Dutch will post a tweet on Twitter about the streets of America getting to crowded and how New York smells like shit — the only purpose it serves being a shiny pearl to foreigners.

He gets either two things: believers and non-believers. He’ll reply to them one by one because every notification from his phone is seen by him. Dutch’ll ignore the death threats in his DMs and say it isn’t even worth his time.

✦ Who’ll tag everyone in the GC every announcement, and every little thing. It annoys most of them. Arthur has considered muting the GC because of this — but he doesn’t, anyway.

✦ Who will also share every “inspirational quote” he sees and send glittery Good Morning GIFS in the GC.

✦ Who says games are a waste of time, yet is pushing level two-thousand in Candy Crush. He’s even got Hosea beat.

✦ Who will loudly talk to his phone, “Hey, Siri.”

“Turn the lights on and play Moonlight Sonata. Beethoven.”

He feels very powerful as the music starts and he begins to read a book.

✦ Who will try making those healthy shakes once. He’ll pretend to like it but secretly throw it away after one sip.

✦ Who has expensive wine cases and bottles decorated around his house. He has one of every brand, red and white wine.

✦ Who also regularly wears dark sunglasses, especially when outside or driving in his car. The man will smoke a cigarette, windows opened while his hand rests outside during traffic.

Someone will look at him wrong and he’ll further roll down his window, raising an eyebrow. “Got a problem, sir?”

Micah Bell

✦ Who will show up in gang outings without a word after saying he hasn’t got time to join them. He’ll give them a flashy grin and open his arms, expecting the warmest welcomes. “Well well well,” He starts. “Look who’s here. I’m sure ya all missed me.”

✦ Who is generally unemployed. He’ll try to pick up a job but will end up getting fired for inappropriate behavior. Then he’ll tell everyone he was too good for the company anyway.

No one knows where he’s getting his money from.

✦ Who is the master rage baiter. He is the rat whispering in everyone’s ears, especially online; primarily Instagram Reels. He’ll comment backhanded insults when someone changes their profile picture or shares posts. One time Arthur changed his profile picture to Copper and Micah replied, “Nice haircut, Arthur.” On other sites he will get banned every once in a while, though he’ll just make new accounts after.

✦ Who’ll also say the most unhinged and quite literally illegal opinions on 4chan. When it had shut down he shrugged and migrated to Twitter and Reddit — which he was using beforehand as well.

✦ Who also frequents sending death threats to people. He’ll get so worked up typing the longest essays in detail and will cry if they don’t reply shaking in their boots like he had imagined.

✦ Who keeps getting kicked from the GC by Arthur. Dutch adds him back a few hours later and will ask Arthur why he does this. In response Arthur will just tell him it was an accident, though it had happened about five times now.

✦ Who has one of those classic American motorcycles. It is well cleaned and kept, admittedly more than he is. He’ll go past the speed limit multiple times of the day, honk his horn for no reason, cut past people. He’s probably broken all of the traffic rules.

It’s his pride and life — his beauty. The love of his life, really.

✦ Who is often found in gas stations. He goes there for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Oh, he’s hungry? Gas station. Oh, he’s thirsty? Gas station. Oh, he wants a little snack? Gas station.

✦ Who lives in a garage-like apartment. He will often fight with the landlord and strive to piss him off every day of the week.

✦ Who tries to take care of his hair. He’ll buy shampoo and conditioner for one month before giving up because it always reverts back to being greasy at the end of the day.

Mary-beth Gaskill

✦ Who’ll also share a room with Tilly. Their room is the cleanest of them all, filled with decorations, posters, and bookshelves. They take turns in all the chores and making dinner. Her natural habitat is her bed, her desk, or coffee shops — where she likes to study.

✦ Who’s stuffed toys from childhood, crocheted plushies, and Squishmallows have more space on her bed than she gets, though she likes it that way. In fear that people will call her silly, she doesn’t tell them they all have personal names.

✦ Who is the ultimate final boss when it comes to thrifting and ordering online. She knows all the great spots and places. She orders so much that she personally knows the delivery guy, and Tilly does, too. It mostly consists of books, sundresses, makeup, and so.

✦ Who makes “GRWM before class”s and it’s the most aesthetic, cutest video you’ll ever see. She also posts book reviews and writing tips on TikTok, with a staggering thirty-thousand followers.

✦ Who’ll put makeup on Kieran if he ever agrees. The young man is hesitant at first before eventually letting her. Mary-beth experiments on him, and it turns out Douyin makeup fits him the most.

At the end of the day, he’ll be filled with pink kisses on his cheek. Maybe it is worth it, he thinks.

✦ Who makes Pinterest boards in an organized manner. There’ll each be a board for different pins, like “Clothes”, “Book Quotes”, “Writing tips”, “Romance”, “Games”, “Study Methods”, and “Food”. She’ll put an emoji in each board title that matches what it says.

✦ Who is a builder. Her world in Minecraft is well-crafted and has a number of detailed builds, along with her houses in The Sims, Stardew Valley, and Animal Crossing.

✦ Who often visits the others with Tilly since they all study in the same university. Sometimes they’ll conduct group dates and movie marathons when everyone’s schedules are all free.

✦ Who also have a Tumblr blog and an AO3 account. She hides it from everyone, even though no one shames her for it. It’s like a little escape for her, especially with the stress and how College Life is. Her followers love her work, and she feels really appreciated.

✦ Who’ll cry with earphones on, listening to her playlist. Tilly never hears the end of “Enchanted” by Taylor Swift — especially the bridge.

✦ Who Tilly will find huddled in two blankets, sitting with the intense glow of her phone so close to her eyes she might as well go inside it. This is a common occurrence.

✦ Who’ll smoke a cigarette when she gets stressed, mostly about exams and her future. Constantly, she will ask herself, “What am I doing? Am I supposed to do this?”

Tilly Jackson

✦ Who’ll either come to class with a well thought of outfit or a “fuck this” one. The latter is chosen often because she couldn’t care less about what people said — she can’t fail Calculus looking all prety. She’d rather pass it looking like she hasn’t slept (and she hasn’t).

✦ Who will ask Mary-beth to go and get their hair done and nails together; in which they get sucked in a spending spree and end up spending more money than they thought they would. But it doesn’t matter, because they’re giggling and feeling good at the end of the day.

✦ Who will also ask Mary-beth to accompany her in a party. As much fun they have, drunk young adults try to woo them and invite them to their dorm. While Mary-beth will firmly say no, if the drunkards are too persuasive, Tilly will get ready to throw hands.

“Tilly, you almost made a scene there,” Mary-beth says in a worried tone.

“Well? What was I gonna do? Let ‘em harass us?” Tilly replies with sass.

“No, I’m saying you shouldn’t try to take three men in a fight.”

✦ Who went to an amusement park with John and Arthur when they were kids. She thoroughly enjoyed the first part of the roller-coaster before she ended up reciting all the curse words in the dictionary.

Arthur, after, asks her where she even heard those things. She shrugs, “It just comes to me naturally.”

✦ Who, as a kid, had been gifted dolls by Hosea. He thought she enjoyed them, with the way she was smiling and always had her hands full with playing. When Hosea came to check out how she’s doing, he discovers that Tilly has been making deliberate and highly detailed drama scenes.

“But I still need you! You’re everything,” Tilly says.

The old man peeks and raises a brow, listening intently.

“What about everything we’ve gone through? Where those all lies? You’re a bastard, Martin! A sick, cheating bastard!”

Hosea laughs his ass off.

✦ Who claims she doesn’t care about gossip, but will suddenly know where John was last Monday if anyone asked. She’ll pretend to think and ponder before eventually disclosing the story of how royally drunk he was. All the details are there and there are even point of views. No one knows who she’s getting this information from — but the reliability is definitely there.

✦ Who’s favorite show and movie as a kid was Tinkerbell (AKA The Pirate Fairy). Which leads to her favorite song, “Who I am” by Natasha Bedingfield.

Karen Jones

✦ Who presents a presentation in front of the class hungover and mind still fuzzy and bleary. Reportedly, she was stuttering and slurring a little — and yet got herself a high grade.

✦ Who hated Molly at first when she had to share living quarters with her. She thought she was arrogant, and only cared for herself. Molly herself returned the feeling of dislike while at the same time picking up Karen from being wasted in God knows where.

“Why’re ya always pickin’ me up? Can’t ya just leave me alone, Molly?” Karen says sluggishly.

Molly will only huff and cross her arms.

✦ Who’s active on Snapchat for a few months before dreading to open it again since all she gets there are creepy men who follow and Snap her — along with Sean replying to every story she adds. It’s like he knows when she’ll post.

✦ Who’ll get high in her room, once. She started seeing patterns and had the feeling that someone was behind her. No — never again, she swears.

✦ Who, like Lenny, has a moderated account in Instagram where she posts meaningful posts. Like stories when she leaves town, or went to the mall with the girls, sunsets, like that.

✦ Who, in the morning, will listen to her voice recordings from last night she didn’t even remember making. Karen has got a confused look on her face while she listens to herself cry about an exam she failed seven months ago.

Her notes app has also got the most unexpected things. It will be normal for the most part, like grocery checklists and passwords, and then there’ll be a gut-wrenching poem out of nowhere, followed by one-word notes.

✦ Who’s helped numerous women after a break up while drunk in a bathroom stall. She has the best advice, too.

“You don’t need ‘im, girl,” She hiccups. “Damn men. You said ya needed a pad, too? ‘Ere. Have ‘em all.”

✦ Who occasionally keeps herself sane with yelling as loud as she can in a pillow.

Molly ‘O Shea

✦ Who always looks and smells good. Her outfit looks stunning, she’s got effortless makeup on, along with perfectly curled hair. She says it “doesn’t take too long” but the truth is — it does.

✦ Who replies back in a second, due to the fact that doesn’t have anyone else in her messages other than the GC and one or two people. She’ll also stalk people’s accounts when she’s got nothing else to do, scrolling through the profiles with her cheek rested on her palm.

✦ Who regularly reads “Am I the Asshole?” on Reddit and will get too invested.

✦ Who is the watcher. She’s practically known everyone’s secrets and what they’ve been doing. She doesn’t even do it in a way that she wishes to bring people down, she just can’t help it.

Once she had accidentally overheard Karen talking to herself, mumbling about how she could feel someone.

The time when the gang played Monopoly she had the time of her life. She did see Reverend eating the pieces, she did see Arthur smuggling cash, and saw it all. But would she say something about it? No — they were about to set the table on fire; it was too entertaining. Then, the next moment, John had flipped the board in complete anger and wrath. That day, a war had started.

✦ Who has a mini fridge. It’s full of Pomegranate juice because somewhere she had read it helps skin glow. Her diet is usually healthy, with her cooking her meals herself — enjoying the process.

✦ Who listens to sad songs made by women. She’s got a whole playlist in Spotify filled with Lana del Rey. She will buy Spotify premium if that means she won’t get interrupted by ads every two songs. It pisses her off beyond measure.

✦ Who’ll gain thousands of likes from a single picture. She’ll post a selfie once and the next moment her phone will be bombarded by notifications — but none of them befriend her for the sake of being friends. She sighs.

Others

✦ Sadie, who’ll buy a motorcycle for chores and work, before realizing it has garnered much unnecessary attention — from mostly women. They’d wave at her and giggle amongst themselves. Sadie will flash ger wedding ring. “Sorry, ladies.”

✦ Susan, who, despite rarely using her phone, will occasionally tag the gang in text messages if they’ve done something wrong.

“@Arthur Morgan, I heard someone in a BLUE mustang yesterday went honking around the highway.”

Arthur will reply, still like a teen, “It wasn’t me. It must’ve been Micah going around.”

✦ Reverend, who’ll send voice mails in the GC about the constant danger of the world ending. Dutch will tell him to stay off the Morphine.

✦ Bill, who is constantly lurking on Twitter. He’ll get in a bunch of petty arguments and fall for one of Micah’s accounts. Then, he’ll get banned, as well.

✦ Trelawny, who is barely active, if he is at all. The gang will suddenly find out he’s been in California with his family and the other day went to Japan.

✦ When the gang went to the beach, John stayed out of the water and had to stay under the shade with the ladies.

✦ Micah was “complimenting” them and other women on the beach, though he ended up being reported to staff.

✦ Sean flaunted his nonexistent abs and got sunburnt.

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