#anyways without getting into it the testing they would do would be bad enough

[bloomseishiro]

DAYDREAMING, WITH MY CHIN IN THE PALM OF MY HANDS — ITOSHI RIN

౨ৎ — sure, rin may be an asshole, but for some reason he offered to help tutor you in your worst subject, english. so maybe he’s not as bad as you thought. maybe he’s actually someone you could find yourself falling for. 

itoshi rin x fem!reader. fluff, high school au/no blue lock au, pining, the long awaited part 2 of “it’s impossible to ignore you” :3 ahh i loved writing this omg reader and rin r everything to meeee!! pls enjoy xx

word count. 6.3k 

“Rin is going to tutor you?” your friend, Akemi, asks with her jaw on the floor. “The same Rin who rejects girls by saying he doesn’t have time for them?” 

You nod sheepishly, just as surprised as she is. “He knows if I fail one more exam, I’ll have to retake the class during summer. And he offered to help me. Still, I won’t do it if you don’t want me to.” 

Her eyes widen as she takes a bite of her beef rice bowl. “Why would I not want my best friend to get help from the best English speaker in our grade? I don’t want you to fail!” 

“But he broke your heart just yesterday!” 

Akemi sighs, waving her hand dismissively. “Yeah, he did. And he sucks for that. But I guess I was more infatuated with him than in love. I mean—what’s his favorite color anyway?” 

You shrug.

“I don’t know either. Someone in love should probably have known at least that,” she giggles. “You don’t need to turn down a great opportunity on my account.” 

Giving her a grateful look, you mumble, “I really do want to pass English. Do you think he can actually help?”

“If he can’t, who can?”

“The Tooth Fairy? Maybe if I find a tooth to put under my pillow…” 

She makes a face. “First off, that’s gross. Second, I think the Tooth Fairy only gives you money, not a passing grade.”

You groan, placing your head in your hands with an exaggerated movement. 

Akemi simply laughs at your dramatics. “Oh, come on. Studying won’t be that bad. When’s your first tutoring session, anyway?”

“It was supposed to be now,” you reply, twirling a strand of hair as you glance away to avoid her incredulous stare. “But I just couldn’t start without making sure you were okay with it first! I asked Rin if we could postpone…”

“Y/N!” she exclaims, practically slamming down her bowl of rice onto the cafeteria table. “That’s so stupid of you! And sweet. Very sweet. You’re the best friend ever. But you could’ve been at least three times more knowledgeable about English by now!” 

You give her a sideways look. “Three times? Don’t you give Rin too much credit?” 

Akemi raises her brow at you. “Have you ever paid attention to him speaking English? Three times better in one session is the minimum. Go text Rin and reschedule for after school.”

“But—”

“No buts,” she says sternly. 

“But,” you continue in an exaggerated tone, “he has soccer practice after school.”

“Tell him you’ll wait for him then,” Akemi offers as if it’s the most obvious solution in the world. “You are the one who cancelled your lunch session at the last minute, after all. It’s the canceller’s duty to reschedule.” 

“That’s not even a word.”

She glares at you. 

You sigh in resignation, holding your hands up as you swallow the last bite of your food. “You’re right. I have English with him next period. Apparently. I’ll ask him if he can tutor me this evening when I see him.” 

Akemi nods in satisfaction, giving you a wide grin and a thumbs up. “Good luck, Y/N. I know you’ll ace the next test!” 

Exchanging a small smile, you nod in determination. “I will definitely pass. The next exam will be mine!” 

At least, you hope so. That is what Rin told you, after all, and soon it’d be time to see if he lives up to that promise. 

Half of you expects Rin to say no, that he’s too busy to tutor you tonight and it’s totally your loss for cancelling on him in the first place. But to your surprise, he simply nods. 

That’s how you find yourself sitting on the bleachers as you watch Rin playing soccer at his after school club. 

Oddly enough, it seems you aren’t the only one. 

“Oh, my god! Rin is so good,” the girl to your left, a few rows away from you swoons. 

“Yeah, he’s totally in charge on the field,” says another in a similar, dreamy tone. “So intense!”

A guy sitting next to them snorts, folding his hands over his arms. “Too intense. All he cares about is soccer and winning. Nothing else.” 

You raise your brow, looking over at the group with your peripheral vision. There was no doubt in your mind that the guy had a crush on one of the girls he was with, but she was too hopelessly infatuated with Rin to notice. 

The classic highschool love triangle.

Sort of. Maybe it’s more of a broken love line.

As the sun begins to set, the coach ends the practice and tells everyone to keep up the good work before dismissing them. 

You silently watch Rin down a bottle of water before grabbing a clean towel to wipe his face and neck. Seeing as the practice was over and it would likely be time for your tutoring session soon, you make your way down to the field.

“Not another one of Rin’s secret admirers,” one of his teammates groans to another. “I’ve seen enough rejections this week to last a lifetime.”

If Rin can hear them (which, given he’s only three feet away, there’s no doubt that he can’t), he chooses to ignore them completely. Instead, he saunters over to you and nods in greeting. 

“Give me a minute to change, then we can go,” he says, brushing his hair out of his face with his fingers. “Wait for me by the door.” 

From the corner of your eye, you see his teammates’ jaws drop as Rin begins to walk away to clean himself up.

“Is he willingly…speaking to a girl?” whispers one with a bleached blonde streak in his fringe. 

Another shivers, a horrified look on his face. “I feel like the world just turned upside down.” 

You stifle a laugh at their dramatics. The concept of Rin willingly interacting with someone of the opposite sex shouldn’t be that revolutionary. But, you have met Rin, after all. His stoic and uncaring persona did run rampant at times. Perhaps their shock isn’t so misplaced.

Much to your pleasure, you don’t have to wait long for Rin to finish up in the locker rooms. The outfit he changed into is a casual one—a simple crew neck and black joggers—but he somehow manages to look fully put-together. 

He comes up to you and you wave, finally allowing yourself to smile. “Hi, Rin.” 

“Hey,” he says, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “Ready?” 

You nod, walking side-by-side with him as you skip over to the school library. It’s not open for too much longer, but it should be enough for you to get a good hour of tutoring in. 

“How was practice?” you ask conversationally as you make your way down the hall. 

Rin shrugs. “Nothing special.”

You huff to yourself, glad to see he was as chipper as ever. And to think you two almost had a moment after that train ride… It must’ve been your delusions talking. 

As he enters the library, he finds a table for you to sit at near the back, away from the librarian and remaining students so as to not disrupt them with your talking. 

“The last test we had in the class was about reading comprehension, right?” asks Rin, pulling out a children’s picture book written in English and handing it over to you. “Is your issue that you don’t know the words, or you don’t understand the meaning?”

“Of course I know the words!” you cry indignantly, proving yourself by reading a random page of the book and translating them out loud in Japanese. “Back when all we did were vocabulary tests in the previous years, I aced those. It’s the…putting it together I don’t get.” 

He nods as if he expected it. “I figured you would know how to translate it. You are in the advanced English class, after all,” he says dryly. 

“Somehow,” you murmur.

“Knowing how to translate each word to Japanese is different from understanding it in English.” 

“That’s what the hard part is,” you agree miserably.

Rin snorts, “Then maybe you shouldn’t have done Advanced English. You would’ve done just fine in the normal classes. This is the only teacher who actually cares about our conversational and comprehension skills.”

“But I always take the advanced classes!”

“How’s that working out for you?”

You glare at him. “Well, it’d be better if my English tutor was actually helpful!” 

He rolls his eyes. “I’m getting there. I have to gauge how bad you are before I know where you need help.”

You heave a sigh, unable to argue with his logic. 

Rin searches something on his phone before showing it to you. “Here, can you read that?” 

Nodding slowly, you say the title in Japanese, “Analysis of relative gene expression data using real-time quantitative—”

“In English,” interrupts Rin exasperatedly. 

You frown. “But… I don’t know how to pronounce it.”

“It doesn’t matter. Just try.”

Try and make a fool of yourself? No thanks. 

You shake your head stubbornly. 

Rin pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales loudly. “Okay. Well, you can theoretically translate a research paper, but you don’t know how those words go together. And you can’t make sense of it in English.”

“Sounds accurate,” you sniff. 

“All that knowledge about vocabulary and grammar won’t do you any good if you can’t understand the source language,” he comments, deadpan but not rude. 

“Well, how do we fix it, doctor?” you say sarcastically. 

He huffs, taking his phone back from you in one swift motion. “We put you through the most intensive training regimen I know. Watching English movies.”

Your next tutoring session is at Rin’s house. 

It’s a nice house, but rather empty. There are pictures of him, his parents, and someone you assume to be his brother scattered throughout the hallways, but no one else is home. When Rin opens the door, he doesn’t even have to greet anyone or introduce you to his parents before bringing you to his room. 

The session starts with Rin going over some grammar and sentence structures from an earlier class (one that you definitely slept through), and segues into you reading another children’s book. This time, he demands you read it in English and give him a summary about what it’s about instead of translating each word into Japanese. 

“The larger context is more important than each individual word. Even if you don’t know a few words, you should still be able to understand what’s going on,” he says, already sounding impatient. But really, you think that’s just the perpetual tone of his voice.

This time, you dutifully listen. You had to put your trust in Rin’s tutoring skills if you wanted a chance to pass the class. 

As you read through the picture book with a giant elephant on the cover, your brows furrow in confusion. You aren’t sure if you’re just complete ass at reading English, or if the story was genuinely this bizarre.

“Rin,” you say hesitantly.

“Hm?” 

“Is this really about an elephant finding a small planet on a speck on a clover? And no one believes him because they can’t see it? Until they… Yopp?” 

Rin nods, looking thoroughly impressed. “So you can understand some English.”

“I don’t think half of the words in this book are even real!” 

“Exactly why it’s a perfect way to force you to focus on the context over translations,” he retorts. 

You can’t help but laugh at the absurdity. Still, it did help you find some confidence in your comprehension skills. If you can read English on a paper, maybe understanding it audibly isn’t so far out of reach. 

Turning the TV in his room in, Rin lazily turns to you. “Time to start the intensive part. Let’s watch a movie in English. I’ll keep the Japanese subtitles on for a bit, but then change it to English subtitles only.”

You bite your lip, fiddling nervously with a thread on your sleeve. “I don’t know… That sounds a lot harder than reading a picture book meant for five year olds.”

“We can pause when you need to and go slow.”

Reluctantly, you nod. “What are we going to watch?”

“The Conjuring.”

“What’s that about?”

“You’ll see.” 

Rin sits on one side of his bed, gesturing for you to join him. Your cheeks begin to burn at the implication of joining him in bed, but the butterflies instantly turn into dust the moment he so obviously scoots away to put the most distance he possibly can between you two. 

As you blink at him questioningly, he simply explains, “My TV is better than the one in the living room. I’m not trying to…” 

“Yeah. I know.”

“Yeah,” he finishes awkwardly. 

The moment the movie comes onto the screen, your eyes widen with dread. It’s dark, and eerie, and you immediately know what this is. 

“A horror movie?!” you cry indignantly. “I did not sign up for this.”

“The plotlines in American horror movies are relatively simple,” insists Rin. “It should be easier for you to follow compared to a drama.”

You squint at his explanation, taking a pillow from his bed and hugging it close to your chest. “That sounds like baloney.” 

He snorts in amusement, eyeing the way you are clutching his pillow in a death grip. “Why? Are you scared?” 

“No!” 

Rin sighs, “I’ll keep the lights on.” 

You pause before muttering, “Thanks.” 

The movie starts and you immediately regret all your life choices. Is Rin trying to help you pass your English class, or is he secretly trying to torture you?

Rin really is an asshole…

It doesn’t take a genius to feel the sense of suspense and unease in the film, even if you didn’t fully understand what the actors were saying. You knew there was some demonic supernatural shit going on and you immediately hated it. 

Rin extends his leg and you can’t help but yelp at the sudden movement. 

Your head snaps to his, eyes wide and alert. 

“I was just getting a cramp,” he says with a hint of laughter in his voice. 

Of course, you were scared out of your mind and he was laughing. What do all the girls even see in him? 

You huff, sinking deeper into his bed and allowing his pillow to block more and more of your vision. In your fear-clouded haze, you vaguely notice Rin offering you another one of his pillows to hold. Those fluffy feathers would certainly be enough to fend off any evil spirits. 

During a particularly intense part, you find yourself abandoning the pillows and creeping over to Rin’s side of the bed, too scared to register how you grabbed his arm and buried your face in it. 

“I’m going to turn off the subtitles now,” he says, but you don’t let go of him as he reaches for the remote to change the settings. He glances over at you, his lip curled up. “Do you need a break?”

“No.” You shake your head fervently. “Let’s get this over with as soon as possible.”

He shrugs and resumes the movie, almost unfazed as you attach yourself back onto his side. 

This isn’t something you’re used to doing when you watch a movie with someone. In fact, you’re normally perfectly content sitting in your own personal space. But this movie was terrifying and you were willing to use anything that provided some source of comfort.

Besides, it doesn’t seem like Rin minds… Knowing him, he would’ve shoved you off the bed or told you to move if he got too uncomfortable. Plus, this situation is all his fault anyway. 

To your surprise, you understand some of the phrases the actors are saying despite having only English subtitles. Though, it comes at your own demise as you grow even more scared at the movie. 

You yelp as a jumpscare scene occurs, hiding your face behind your hair and pressing your cheek against Rin’s arm. 

A stifled laugh comes from beside you and you’re about to tell him off for finding enjoyment from your misery when he casually brushes your hair back behind your ear. The words on the tip of your tongue instantly become nothing but a forgotten whisper as your stomach flip-flops about ten times in the span of five seconds. 

The gentleness of his touch still burns your face. You look up at him, confused. 

“You can’t watch when your eyes are covered,” he says with his attention already back to the movie. 

You huff in annoyance. Trying to read Rin is harder than English.

For a moment, you’re tempted to put on a brave face and pull away, but you catch Rin looking over at you once more. This time his gaze is covert, as if he doesn’t want to be noticed. But it’s there. Though his expression is neutral, his eyes are bright as they burn into yours. When he sees you staring back, this time he doesn’t attempt to look away. 

Okay, so maybe you could understand why he had girls always swooning over him. 

The intensity of his gaze almost makes your cheeks flush. Almost.

Luckily for you, a sudden and loud noise from the movie jolts your mind away from…whatever that moment was.  

As the movie comes to an end and the plot is left unresolved, you are still as unsettled as you were when the movie first started. That is to say, Rin really screwed you over by making you watch this. 

“I officially hate you,” you proclaim as he turns the television off. 

“Again?” He raises his brow. “Why now?”

“Because, what kind of asshole makes someone watch a horror movie that will traumatize them for the rest of their lives?!” 

“It’s just The Conjuring.” 

You glare at him but he pays it no mind. 

“If you’re scared, that must mean you understood it,” he says smugly. 

“It’s not difficult to understand when there’s creepy music and dark shadows and everyone sounds slightly insane!”

“See, it’s all about context.” 

“I hate you.” 

“Do you?” he challenges. 

You sigh, “No. Well, maybe temporarily because there is no way in hell I’m going to be able to sleep tonight.” 

Rin fixes the pillows on his bed as you get off. “Are you really that scared?” 

“Yes! Do you think I’m faking this for dramatic effect?” you ask, incredulous. 

“No, but it’s just a movie. You don’t need to be scared once it stops playing.”

“Tell that to my brain.” 

Rin snorts and you fold your arms over your chest, looking out the window and wincing once you notice just how dark it is. 

“The sun’s already down?” you say with a small voice. “Maybe I should ask my mom to pick me up…” 

“Don’t you live nearby?”

You nod, toying with a strand of your hair nervously. “Yes, but a demon can still get me within the ten minutes it takes to get home.”

Rin shakes his head but grabs a jacket as you begin to pack your belongings. “I’ll walk you home, then.”

You pause as you’re shoving your pencil case into your book bag. “You will?”

“Better than having someone come all the way here just to escort you,” he says dryly, leading you out the door. “And…I guess it might be slightly my fault you’re scared.” 

“Slightly?” you retort. “It’s definitely all your fault.” 

“That’s a funny way of saying ‘thanks for the tutoring session, Rin.’”

You pull a face, crinkling your nose as you repeat monotonously, “Thanks for the tutoring session, Rin.” 

He rolls his eyes but there’s a softness to his movements. “Yeah. Sure. You really are improving, you know?” 

Begrudgingly, you nod. When he wasn’t making you read weird books and watch scary movies, he was surprisingly patient explaining concepts like participles and tenses. That part was certainly easier for you than trying to read and comprehend in English, so you were glad he pushed you to do that as well. Though today, it may have cost your sanity. 

“I guess I should be more genuine,” you say guiltily. “I really am thankful for your help. I know you could be doing lots of other things with your time. Like, practicing more soccer or…watching scary movies. Or… Actually, I don’t know what else you do in your free time.”

He shrugs. “That’s about it, really. I play horror games, too, I guess.”

“With friends?” 

“Does it seem like I make friends?” asks Rin in amusement. 

You shake your head sheepishly. “Your brother, then?” 

He frowns at the mention of his brother, his bright eyes growing dimmer. “No. Definitely not with him. Alone. I play alone. I like it better that way.” 

Sensing that you accidentally overstepped on a touchy subject, you clear your throat and look away. “Well, that’s fun too.” 

After a few moments of awkward silence as you walk down the poorly lit street, Rin offers, “Sorry.” 

You spare him a questioning glance. 

“For snapping,” he continues with an annoyed exhale. “We’re not on good terms. My older brother and I.”

You nod in understanding, lightly bumping your shoulder against his. “I could tell. I’m sorry for bringing him up.” 

Rin waves you off. “It’s whatever.”

It’s definitely not whatever, but okay, you say to yourself. 

The two of you continue walking down the street, turning the corner in silence, but this time it’s not awkward or uncomfortable. Just a neutral calmness. That is, until you hear the sudden ring of a bicycle bell and jump in fear. 

Rin coughs to hide a laugh. 

“I don’t even want to hear it from you!” you sniff, haughtily crossing your arms and walking ahead of him. “You’re the one to blame for my jitters. How will I ever sleep tonight?”

He raises his hands in surrender. “I know, didn’t I say I’m sorry already?” 

“A sorry isn’t enough,” you say with a humph. “How will you atone?” 

“You sound crazy,” he says, but humors you nonetheless. “I’ll send you funny cat videos until you fall asleep.”

Your ears perk at the offer. “You drive a hard bargain. Fine.” 

“I don’t have your number.” 

Rin hands you his phone and you swiftly add yourself as a contact. 

“Did you really add yourself as ‘Rin’s Worst Nightmare, devil emoji, devil emoji’?” 

You nod proudly. 

“Just remember you said it, not me,” he smirked. “What will my name be on your phone?”

“Probably something like, ‘Number One Pain in my Ass.’” 

“Creative,” he drawls. 

You stick your tongue out at him.

Your walk continues and soon enough, you see the outside of your house come into view. There’s a light visible through the window and you thank the stars you won’t be coming home to a creepy, dark house. 

“This is my stop,” you announce with a smile. “Thanks for walking me home.”

“Yeah. I guess I did owe you for scaring you shitless.”

You laugh in acknowledgment. The movie was scary, but at least there were moments you could get your mind off it. “And don’t forget you still owe me cat videos!” 

Rin nods. “I’ll send them after I get ready for bed. Try to get some rest now.” 

“You too, Rin.”

“How are your tutoring sessions coming along?” asks Akemi, laying down with her head hanging off your bed. 

It’s Friday night after school and Rin told you that he would be too busy to tutor you tonight, which makes it the perfect time to catch up with your friend.

“Good, actually.”

“Why do you sound so surprised?” she laughs. 

“I thought he would change his mind and leave me to dry,” you reply with a giggle. “Rin’s offer was so sudden, you know? I was partly expecting him to take it back.” 

“That does seem like something he’d do to most people,” Akemi agrees, then shoots you a devilish grin. “But not to you. He must like you.”

You shake your head in denial. “There’s no way that’s the case.” 

“But what if it was?” she asks, wiggling her eyebrows. “Would you be happy? Maybe you even like him back?” 

Groaning, you throw a pillow at her face to stop her incessant questioning. 

There’s simply no way Rin liked you. He was just slightly nicer to you because he thought you were someone who is actually worth his time. Whatever that means. 

And there’s an even less chance you like him! 

Rin has his caring moments, you will give him that, but most times he’s arrogant, emotionally unavailable, and ruthless. Somehow, those qualities suit him…

You catch yourself, shaking your head feverishly at the thought. 

There’s no way you could be developing a crush on Rin. 

So why do you feel yourself getting butterflies as you think about your next tutoring session? 

This session is at your house this time. 

You’ve had a handful of meetings in the library over the past few weeks, but Rin decided it was time for another intensive training session— Meaning, it was time for you to watch another movie. 

“It won’t be horror this time,” he assures you, tone only slightly mocking. “I think you’ve gotten decent enough that you can graduate to a more confusing genre.”

“Like romance?” you say excitedly. If Rin forced you to watch a scary movie that gave you nightmares for two weeks straight, then you could force him to sit through some romance movies you know he would hate. 

Heaving a sigh, he begrudgingly shrugs. “Student’s choice. Also, it’s your house. I don’t know what movies or streaming services you have.” 

“So you’ll watch 10 Things I Hate About You with me?” 

“It can’t be a movie you’ve already seen,” Rin says, folding his arms as he leans back on your couch. “The point is to try to piece together the plot and what the characters are saying, not recite something you’ve seen a million times.” 

You pout, sitting on the opposite end of the sofa. “But it’s a good movie…”

“We’ll watch it another time. After you pass the exam.”

After you pass? So Rin’s implying he wants to keep hanging out with you even after these tutoring sessions are over? Your cheeks flush at the thought. 

As you scroll through numerous streaming sites, you finally find a title that sounds familiar. 

“My friend told me this one is good! How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days,” you point out eagerly. 

“You must like the number ten,” he comments. 

“You’ll love it too after this!” 

Rin stifles a chuckle, and you realize you’ve been hearing him semi-laugh more often lately. The ruthless ice prince does have a fun side to him. He is still, after all, just a high school guy in your grade. And you hate to admit that it fills you with some sense of pleasure knowing you’re the only one in school who has likely ever heard that noise come out of Rin’s mouth. 

“Since it’s my first time watching too, we can compare our summaries after.” 

You groan, almost forgetting that this was a tutoring session and not just a movie night with a friend. “Compare summaries? What’s next, do I have to cite my sources?” 

He rolls his eyes at you. “Keep it up and I’ll say yes, you do.” 

Immediately, you shut your lips, desperately wanting to avoid as much outside-of-school work as possible. 

“This is so cheesy,” complains Rin as the two of you watch the movie in silence, both invested in the plot. “He has a bet, she has an ulterior motive, they’re going to fall in love while using each other, the reveal is going to split them apart, then they’re going to make up somehow and then the movie will end. I don’t even need to finish it to know.” 

You glare at him, eyes fixed on the screen as Andie exchanges a touching conversation with Ben’s mother. “Spoilers, much?” 

“I’m not spoiling, it’s an educated guess.”

“Keep it to yourself,” you demand playfully, sticking your tongue out. “Some of us like to be surprised.” 

He exhales loudly but turns his attention back to the TV. 

The rest of the movie passes by peacefully until you get to a certain scene where the main characters have their obligatory romantic kiss. The kiss is slow and playful, and the scene is so intimate you almost have to look away. 

Bashfully, you take your eyes off the screen and see Rin following suit, the apples of his cheeks colored a faint pink. 

He looks rather cute. 

Your mind starts to wander, picturing you and Rin sharing a kiss like the one on screen and you find your throat getting dry. Would his lips be soft or chapped? They look soft. Would he be the type to hold your chin, your cheek, or your jaw as he kisses you? Maybe even the back of your neck, if you were lucky. You wanted to find out…

Slapping your hands to your face, you silently tell yourself to snap out of it. 

He looks over at you, alarmed. “Did you just hit yourself?” 

“I thought I felt a fly.”

“On both cheeks?” 

“A fly on one side and a mosquito on the other.”

Rin’s brows shoot up before he shakes his head, knowing sometimes, it’s better not to question your logic. “Okay.”

Slowly, the scene escalates from a couple of gentle kisses to the characters taking each other’s shirts off. 

Your eyes widen as your gaze is forced away once again. 

“Hey. What the hell is this rated?” Rin coughs, his voice strangled. “Aren’t your parents home?”

Through your embarrassment, you glance at him in surprise. Did he really sound flustered just then? So Rin really does have the capacity to feel normal human emotions after all. 

“Um, PG-13, I t-think,” you stammer, painfully aware of the actors continuing to make out topless on the television. “My parents are gone for the weekend, anyway.”

“Oh.” 

It’s not until the scene is over that you and Rin both let out a sigh of relief, as if the tension could finally escape your bodies. You sink into the cushions, glad that you and Rin decided to sit on opposite sides of the couch. Otherwise, you would’ve been even more aware of his presence and curious about his kiss. 

Neither are good things to focus on. 

When the movie ends, you wipe away a stray tear at the conclusion. Of course, Rin was right about the entire plot, but that didn’t make it any less amazing. 

“So, what’s your rating?” you ask once the credits finish rolling. 

“For a movie that’s not horror, maybe a four.”

“Damn, tough crowd,” you say with a tsk. “I loved it! I would give it at least an eight.”

“You’re too generous,” retorts Rin. “What’s your summary?” 

You rattle off the happenings of the movie from start to finish, even going so far as to talk about your favorite moments.

When you finish talking, Rin nods, looking pleased with himself. “So you understand. We didn’t even use Japanese subtitles.” 

“You’re right!” you exclaim, eyes full of excitement as you exchanged glances with him. “I’m definitely ready for the exam! I feel so much more confident in English comprehension already.”

“Told you you’d pass with me as your tutor.” 

“I haven’t passed yet!” 

“But you will,” he says, his tone overly-confident. He would be insufferably arrogant if he didn’t have the skills to back it up. Luckily for him, he did. “Soon, I won’t need to tutor you anymore.”

A barely-there frown crosses your face at the reminder. 

Would there be no reason to see each other outside of school once you passed the class? 

Something about that unsettles you. 

Minutes of silence pass before Rin waves his hand in front of your face. “Hello?”

You swallow, forcing a smile. You don’t need to be thinking about that right now. “Sorry, I just spaced out there.”

“I can tell,” he says, somewhat amused. “It is getting late, maybe you need some sleep.”

That isn’t the case, but you nod in agreement. 

“I’ll head home, then,” Rin states, standing up and slipping his jacket on. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

You wave, walking him to your door and watching him walk away. “See you! And thanks for the help.” 

He looks back briefly, raising his hand in acknowledgment and even that single shared glance is enough to send jitters through your body. 

Closing the door, you rest your head back and groan. There’s no point in lying to yourself anymore. Not after you literally fantasized about making out with him while he was sitting right next to you. 

You have a crush on Rin. And you are so screwed. 

“Rin! I passed! Look, look!” you exclaim, holding your test paper out excitedly. 

Class just ended and the teacher handed you your text back with a swift, “Nice job.” That might’ve been the best compliment you received in this class all year. 

Naturally, the first person you wanted to show it off to was the one who helped you get the grade in the first place, Rin.

He pauses at your desk, peering closely at the grade on your test and nodding once. His lips are turned up in the slightest smile and he ruffles the top of your head. 

“You did it,” he says. 

You smooth down your hair, trying not to pay too much attention to how nice and warm his hand was. “All thanks to you.”

“I know.” Rin begins to walk to his next class and you follow along, bouncing on the balls of your feet nervously. “You did good too, I suppose” 

“Gee, thanks,” you remark dryly. Still, an excited cheer comes out of you. “I don’t need to stay after graduation! How great is that?”

“You can enjoy your summer before we are thrown into adulthood.” 

“I know!” you chirp. “And I really couldn’t have done it without you. Hey, how about… Never mind.”

Rin pauses, hanging around the hallway instead of entering his next lesson. He lifts an eyebrow in question. “How about what?” 

The words get stuck in your throat as you open your mouth, your nerves getting the better of you. You aren’t someone who finds it easy to confess, and you know Rin’s track record with confessions isn't exactly great. 

Yet, you want to ride the momentum of this excitement and ask. It’s now or never.

You take a deep breath before you ask, “How about I treat you to some dinner this Saturday? You know— As a thank you for your help.”

You can barely look Rin in the eye as he stares at you, cheeks dusted pink. 

“I told you before we started you don’t need to give me anything in return,” he insists. 

Immediately, your face falls. Of course, he would say no. At least he sugarcoated it for you instead of his typical cutthroat rejections…

“But, we can still get dinner this Saturday.” 

You lift your head in surprise. 

“It’ll be my treat, though.” 

You blink. “Like a…? As in a…?”

Rin’s brows furrow at your nonsensical mutterings. “A what?” 

“A…” 

“Can you say it already?”

“A date?” you blurt. 

He snorts, shaking his head in amusement. “Now, was that so hard to say?” 

You pout at his teasing, sticking your lower lip out as he chuckles. “Hey. Don’t be mean.”

“Sorry,” he amends, though his smirk tells you he’s not actually sorry. “The answer is yes.”

“Huh?”

“It’s a date.”

“Really?!” you ask, unable to contain your excitement. Before he can even reply, you bounce closer to him, throwing your arms around his waist as giving him a hug. 

He stiffens for a moment before slowly returning your embrace. Rin’s hand rests on the small of your back and you want nothing more than to stay like this. 

Until the bell rings and snaps some sense into you. 

You jolt at the sudden ring and Rin coughs to hiss his embarrassment at the public display of affection. 

“Oh, shit! I’m late. So late,” you cry, holding the strap of your book bag and spinning around frantically. “Bye, Rin! Let’s talk about our date after school!”

“I’ll see you after practice then,” he calls out as you run off. “We can plan it while I walk you home.”

Your cheeks heat up and you feel thankful he can’t see the embarrassment evident in your expression. Who knew Rin could be smooth like that? Saying he’ll take you out on a date and walk you home today so casually? 

It’s another side of him you want to get to know more about.

There are times he can be an asshole, and honest to the point of being uncaring. But he’s also surprisingly nice at times. And even patient.  You hope the next layer for you to unravel, which is perhaps the most exciting of all, is to learn how Rin is as a boyfriend. 

You giggle to yourself at the thought. Would he be teasing and mean? Or doting and affectionate? Maybe a bit of both.

Shaking your head, you stop yourself from fantasizing. It’s just one date, that doesn’t mean he’s your boyfriend yet. But you’re in no rush. The most fun part is the journey it takes to get there.

[jbsforever]

i'm having a bit of a rough week and just remembered i wrote this silly little drabble some months ago for the Faster Than The Batmobile Zine that the wonderful @babblingbookends put on. i forgot to post it, so here it is for anyone who might like to read <3

- - -

Jason once tried to kill Tim (“kill” being a relative term, honestly), but now he’s pulling Tim out of the frozen lake he just fell through, so Tim thinks maybe they’re even and Bruce can finally stop sulking about it. 

“Shit, shit, shit,” Jason says, grabbing at him. 

There’s really not much Tim can do. He’s numb all over and shivering like crazy and he’s trying to preserve whatever heat he has left inside him, which basically means forcing Jason to haul him all the way out of the water on his own, without any help. 

Tim would apologize, but he’s maybe still a little bitter about the whole Jason-trying-to-kill-him thing too. And anyway, karma’s a bitch. Or, well, karma’s a cabin in the snowy woods where Bruce forced them all on a “holiday vacation” because “we’re a family and families vacation in the woods in the dead of winter,” but whatever. 

“God, you’re such an idiot,” Jason says as he slides out of his jacket and wraps it around Tim. “Who the hell doesn’t test ice before they step on it?”

“Hockey players,” Tim says, shaking all over. “Figure s-skaters.”

“They would if they were skating on a frozen lake,” Jason says, yanking Tim up. He has to take most of Tim’s weight, and Tim doesn’t feel that bad about it considering Jason keeps muttering, “Fucking moron,” and, “God damn Bruce Wayne and his charity cases,” all the way back to the cabin.

“Can you s-stop talking?” Tim begs. “I’m miserable enough already.” 

“Fuck you,” Jason says, but he keeps a hold of Tim until he can dump him onto the living room couch and then he races off to get blankets, leaving Tim to fumble with his soaked clothes. Tim’s made exactly zero progress when Jason returns a second later, so Jason does it himself, working fast through all his layers until he’s stripped down to his boxers and then wrapped in blanket after blanket. 

“I can’t f-feel my toes,” Tim says weakly. 

“It’s all right,” Jason says, more gentle than he ever is. “We’ll get you warmed up. Just hang on.” He calls for Bruce while he shoves a pair of dry socks over Tim's feet, and then calls for Dick when Bruce takes longer than a second to appear. 

“Hang on,” he says again, sitting next to Tim and tightening all the blankets. “You’re gonna be fine.”

Tim nods. He’s pretty sure it just blends in with the rest of his trembling. “Good chance to k-kill me, if you’re still looking.” 

Jason rolls his eyes. “Maybe next time,” he says, and pulls Tim close to warm him up. “Hypothermia is too boring.”

“Sure, y-yeah,” Tim agrees. “Real boring. Don’t recommend.” 

“Well, hopefully now you’ll remember to test the ice,” Jason says, like an asshole. Tim would push him away if he didn’t desperately need his body heat.

“I liked it more w-when you hated me,” he complains, and Jason just pulls him closer, laughing. 

“Me too.”

[julesnichols]

If one more person is surprised I don't like doctors I'm gonna mcfucking lose it

[selfinflictedgunshotwound]

sorry for only saying this type of shit lately but i kinda wanna drive a car straight into a brick wall at the highest speed possible

[quietwingsinthesky]

🌹:O

:3c

Lucifer doesn't care how the labcoats say it works; he knows there's no such thing as a clean break from a drift the minute the plug is pulled. Instead, Michael goes from a second consciousness beside his own to being dragged out of Lucifer the further Lucifer gets from him, both of them gripping tight to the connection until it slips, until it snaps, with a violent recoil that knocks Lucifer's brain out of alignment and reminds his legs that they don't work. His next step falls too fast, too heavily, and refuses to take his weight. It's only Michael, now only a voice outside of Lucifer's head yelling his name, catching him from behind that allows Lucifer to collapse to the floor with his dignity intact.

[calebrity]

separation anxiety

⤷ caleb experiences a rut after a long time, and it just so happens that you’re in his path.

cw. 18+ smut, hybrid! caleb, knotting, dubcon if you squint, breeding, obsessive/possessive behavior, perv caleb, fem human! reader, ruts, size difference, also a lil breeding, 3.5k words because i physically struggle to write smut without a preamble, reader is ovulating and it triggers his rut this time for whatever reason

an. saw this trope going around & wanted to try it <33 he’s got that DAWG in him 💪 also i cant decide if hybrid caleb gives german shepherd vibes or samoyed vibes…. that moments post lives rent free in my mind tho idk (>_<)

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, & 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒂��𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅! (๑´ `๑)♡

Caleb would say he hates you for the time you’re gone, but it’d be a big fat lie. His love for you, big and bursting in his chest, deepens in the quiet windows where you’re present at work or running errands throughout Linkon before returning home to him.

There’s a permanence of you in his mind and being. He wants it no other way.

His devotion for you doesn’t necessarily drown him- no, you’re always there with a lifering waiting- but it certainly sweeps him up and threatens to.

He gets a bit ahead of himself sometimes, he’s aware of that; energetic, bulging at the seams with vigor; whether it’s an integral part of his personality or just a consequence of his breed, the pound he came from never quite knew. Your Gran never figured that out, either, and for as sweet and trying as she was, she soon realized she couldn’t foster him for long.

Because he was a big boy, hungry for attention and wired to please, well-meaning but oft over involved with personal space— and he brought a loaded package that your Gran just couldn’t sign her name off on, not after a few months, anyway. She tried her best before nudging him into your care, because she sure as hell wasn’t about to give him up to that squalid pound or the streets again- and besides, the mutt liked her granddaughter; all those visits she paid throughout the summer obviously endeared Caleb to her, and quickly.

You admit, it’s a mite difficult to juggle between long days at work, little tasks that drag you from point to point throughout Linkon, and your own personal life on top of caring for a hybrid stowed away in your shoebox apartment— but your grandmother was all but sapped of her energy then, turning to you for aid although she seldom ever did, and you’d always lend a hand where you could.

The mutt- Caleb, is his name (and you call it fondly even as he’s pawing at your thighs for attention or drooling on your collar)- has grown on you considerably in the past half year, anyway.

You won’t let him down or leave him at the curb. He’s yours. The red collar you bought him says as much, printed with your number on a silver plate, and he wears it not because you make him but because he’s proud of it.

He’s a good boy, he is. He always has been and for that you’re thankful.

Except, this week he’s… different.

As of a few days ago, it’s like he’s been testing the waters- and your patience- on just how far he can go before you tell him off or say bad dog. He must find them warm because he’s just been diving deeper as the week progresses.

You don’t know what to do. He’s oddly aggressive. It’s not rare at all for him to follow you all around your apartment, but he’s foregone the very last shred of respect for your personal space and nips when you try to push him away. Not hard enough to actually hurt- the yip you make is more surprised than anything when he pulls you back in and licks at the small red patch- but you look wounded at it.

Because Caleb doesn’t bite— he just doesn’t.

He wraps you up in seemingly endless embraces and breathes your smell in until he’s dizzy, laughing into your neck like a giddy child. He does this every time you try to leave for work and he’s made you late for it.

Maybe it’s just because you’re ovulating and a little hormonal, but it makes you quite sour and the mood stays even when you return in the afternoon. He’s never liked when you’re gone, sure, but he’s always been there to see you off at the door with a pout as you scratch behind his ear- more or less tame about it.

Your patience really frays at the odd uptick in his possessiveness, though. It’s hurtful.

You’ve always treated him less like a pet- a hybrid- and more like a friend, and you feel quite indignant for it when he growls and tells you that he hates the smell of other men on you, hearing none of your excuses that it’s ‘just coworkers’, glaring at you like some brainless extension of him. You feel less like a person and more like an object, a streetlamp in which he emerges from the shadows for just to piss on to show it belongs to him.

He’s touchy. Snippy. Glued to your side at all times. It’s concerning and frustrating and confusing all at once.

By the fifth day mark, on Friday night, you’re tuckered out by it and don’t question where he is when you return home early from a shift and he’s, uncharacteristically, not there to greet you.

A red collar however, laid on the floor, its tag glittering under dim hallways lights, strikes you as both curious and unsettling.

He never takes that off. No- says it’s his way of showing you and the whole world that he belongs to you, and— have you been too impatient with him lately? Brusque? Maybe you’re a little hormonal but it’s no cause to get short with him, even when he’s acting up, and what if he no longer wants you as his owner—

A gasp.

You find him in your bedroom, humping your pillow, yowling as he comes undone- unawares- and the walls spin as you nearly faint.

You drop your purse. “Caleb!” You shriek, and a visible shiver rolls down his spine as he turns around.

“Bad dog!”

✦

You sleep on it.

Well, you wash your sheet and your pillowcases- and then you sleep on it.

Maybe you overreacted. If anything, you should be grateful for what you walked in on because otherwise, he wouldn’t have known how to tell you he’s been going through a bit of a hot phase- the first of his you’ve experienced- and doesn’t know how to control himself.

You blush just thinking about it, shame knocking in your chest as your heart beats heavy. You feel awful for walking in on him for a number of reasons. One of them being he came all over your bed- and his tummy- and you had to clean both up through furious tears as you peeled your covers off the mattress and pointed him off in the direction of the bathroom, telling him to run the faucet and quick.

A pass of guilt, the fear of you being angry with him, made its round across his kicked expression but he held off on arguing.

For the first documented time in the whole week, Caleb appeared mellow- not agitated, restless, or tense- and rather crestfallen, and you noted it only vaguely as you irately turned on the washer.

Now, it’s in the forefront of your brain.

Well, if he’s been going through some kind of rut lately, it only makes sense he’d be all kinds of pent up, and that his release (albeit in an inconvenient way and place) would provide some relief.

It’s closer to noon when you finally exit your bedroom and meet him at the sofa- the same one you’d all but banished him to last night. He prefers to spend his nights with you, either curled up at your side or splaying his full weight over your back- a breed-relative habit, you’re sure. You’ve heard of some other kinds who enjoy a room to themselves or do just fine with the couch, on their lonesome— But not Caleb.

He looks tired but perks up when he hears you patter down the hall, violet eyes lighting when you timidly take a seat.

With a bit of hesitation, he inches closer until you sheepishly wave a hand and he barrels into your arms.

“Ah- Caleb-“

Before you can even apologize for your jumping the gun last night, he beats you to the punch. “M’ sorry. You don’t hate me for it, do you?” He sighs into your collar and you shiver, “I wish you could understand what it feels like- I wouldn’t have done it if it was somethin’ I could control, I hope you realize that.”

You swallow, digesting his words as you belatedly place a hand on his head to pet. He positively melts. “Y-Yeah,” you mumble back. “It’s okay. I actually wanted to say sorry too. I- I didn’t understand what was going on…”

A deep groan looses from his throat, his chest swelling with content as you itch that spot behind the furry ears say upright on his head. They give a few twitches as he leans against you and wraps his muscular arms around your middle, resting his chin by your shoulder.

“It’s my fault, though, not yours. I didn’t know how to tell you- I was worried you’d just end up scared’a me, or…”

His pause instills interest in you. Your fingers smooth back his brown locks, mussed from fitful sleep, and he sighs. “Or what?” You press softly.

You pull him back just enough to get a look at him, his cheekbones almost shiny with a dusting of pink. His thick brows furrow together.

“Or that you’d leave,” he whispers.

Your eyes widen. You lasso your arms around his neck and pull him to you, your head slotting above his shoulder as his fingers quickly move to support the position, one hand perched at your thigh and the other braced at your side.

“Nonsense,” you grumble at his ear, a bit angry at the suggestion. “I’d never leave you.”

Something hard, then, prods at your middle- too fleshy to be something in either of your pockets- and you stiffen at the realization as it comes a beat too late.

Caleb’s voice is breathy at your ear, low, his tail thumping on the cushion. “Yeah?” He murmurs, a pang of heat stirring in your belly at the sound. Suddenly aware, you gently go to push at his broad chest but he stops you with an imploring look- although the desire, brewing in dilated pupils, isn’t lost on you- and musters a pout.

It looks out of place, the wholesome gaze marred by hunger as it reshapes his puppyish look.

“Even when I am no better than a bad dog?”

Your brow quirks, “I didn’t mean it,” you whisper, wide-eyed as his eyes bore into yours. Every micro expression you make is being catalogued and noted with utmost care, his pink tongue darting out to wet his chapped lips as they grow dry.

“It’s okay if you did,” he murmurs back. “I’m just glad I have you around to remind me of my place…” Long, slim fingers reach up and you watch, unseeingly, as they stroke your cheek, his other hand creeping dangerously close to the waistband of your sleep shorts.

He chuckles, but the humor wanes quickly.

“Otherwise, I’d always be misbehaving. Do you even know what you do to me?” His voice is meaningful, torrid, as he draws in and the tip of his nose brushes with yours. You can’t find it in you to move as your thighs- the ones he slithers a singleminded hand in between- begin to roil with unexpected warmth.

You plant a hand to his chest, shying away, “C-Caleb-“

“Don’t worry,” he says sweetly, “M’ not gonna hurt you. I just….” He lets out a sigh, long and perhaps just a bit exaggerated- but it has the intended effect on you. You purse your lips and feel a trace of guilt twist in your heart.

“You drive me crazy. Y-Your smell- I don’t know why this is happening, either. Honestly? I haven’t had a rut in a couple years. But this…”

Caleb lets out a soft noise of pleasure, lending his full weight to you when he breathes you in and shakes.

When he speaks next, his words come out raspy and so low you hardly register them as his breaths grow labored- they’re all you can hear as the living room space shrinks down to just him and the knuckles that dare to dip into your panties.

“This is just too unfair. You won’t leave me hangin’, pretty,… w-will you?” Breathy. With an undeniable streak of need. You can’t miss the lust that usurps the softer parts of him and makes him look less puppyish and cheerful and more wolfish, calculating.

And, well, when he puts it like that, how could you?

✦

He doesn’t fuck you on the couch. He takes you to your bed and fucks you there like a lover would.

He fucks you deep and fast- to his credit, he doesn’t hurt you, staying true to his word, but the possibility of bruises becomes a nearer thing when he folds your legs back and his grasp becomes constricting, plunging in and out of your cunt with rapt focus. Indigo eyes glow with something feral, like you’ve given him no choice but to claim his ownership over you through sloppy kisses and clinking teeth as he pounds into you, driven him into a corner- but his touch turns worshipful when he presses his forehead to yours and moans.

“Ah- y-you feel so good, so tight,” he compliments, words almost slurred. His pupils expand and he looks no different than a drunken, babbling man, his cheeks a rosy red.

His murmurs are wet against your lips as they graze and mush with his, Caleb’s face so close to yours that his lashes tickle your brow as he gawks at you, so entranced by whatever it is he’s seeing to look away.

A fluffy tail sways unevenly behind him and touches your leg on occasion, almost like it’s trying to curl around you, prickling and eager. Every part of him gravitates to you. You’re the ground beneath his feet. Fertile land.

“And you’re all mine, okay? Nobody else’s. I want you to wear my scent- to carry me with you no matter where you go. You have to promise me you will- mmph- That sound good-?

“C-Caleb—“

You groan when he stuffs himself deeper inside and you swear you feel his length throb inside your walls, stretching. The veins running along his shaft carve out a new pathway in you, one special and just for him, as his balls- heavy and fat, with a hell of a lot to give- slap against your ass. Slick oozes out from the squelching seam of you, coating his thick cock but you still struggle to accomodate his size despite the lubrication.

He’s made to make you feel as if you’re losing your mind. You snatch your jaw with your own hand to keep the flurry of high-pitched sounds from spilling out lest they embarrass you, but he shoos it away and cuffs your wrists with a hand splayed over them.

“Nah- I wanna hear you, baby. You can’t keep holdin’ out on me like this... I’m giving you my all right now, so it should be pretty obvious that you can do the same, yeah?”

A mewl punches out from your lungs half a second later and he seems quite contented at that. He sighs, closing his eyes, saying,

“I’ve been good all along. Can’t you play the part, too? I just want you to see how much I really love you,” his confession is by no means considered casual what with the passion in which its conveyed, but you can’t help but feel it’s a little sudden, said a little too quickly, and you wonder if he means what he says or if the rut is responsible for all these novel, amorous feelings in him.

I mean, he’s probably too wrapped up in the moment to even contemplate his own admissions as they all spew out—

“Caleb, too big—“ you gasp, cutting him off, and he lets out a strangled kind of noise when your walls clamp around him.

Holyfuck holyfuck holyfuck do it again, he wants to say, suffocate me, but nothing comes out and he realizes after a long second that his vision has whited completely. He can’t see anything; he’s in a fuzzy, dazzling world with the blinders on and all he can smell and feel is you- your scent, sugar sweet and about as inviting as a barstool pulled out, envelopes him and he can’t breathe. Can’t speak.

He fucks into you with reckless abandon, huffs you in like it’s his final breaths, and then lets it all go without care for anything else. Far as he’s concerned, everything he knows is defined by you. This is a give and take relationship: he actually gives a damn about your opinion of him and takes all you have to offer.

He’s in love, puppyish and clumsy but fuck you lead the way and lead him on.

“Shh, I know,” he rasps out, steaming up your neck like a fogged window pane as he insinuates himself there. Your whole body feels like a furnace, burning up for him as he opens you up and tucks himself inside.

“I know it’s big, but you gotta be ready for-“ he clips his sentence short, thinking better of it.

He wants to warn you of his impending knot- the one that’ll no doubt leave you yelping and writhing away from him- you certainly deserve as much of a foreword to it, but part of him is just so terrified you’ll reject him or deny him the priviledge of shoving it inside you and fuck he can’t have that.

Caleb’s nothing if not loyal. He’s also nothing if not selfish. That’s always been a wriggling bug he’s tried to stomp out but it remains in the baser part of him, only amplified by the intense rut that came right out of the blue.

He wants you singing his name and bonded to him (or as much of a bond the two of you can form), and so that’s what he’ll get.

He’ll apologize later, and you will forgive him. So all’s fine.

“Y-You can take it,” is the simpler thing he settles on, and you let it pass, because between the fat cockhead splitting you apart deliciously and the sweet, somewhat perturbing nothings he gushes at your ear, you’re deaf to most of everything.

But when you come- unexpected and sharp, overwhelming your senses as your hips ruck up and he has to pin you down in place and ride it out with you as you cream around him- the scream you let out rings in your ears and so does his ferocious grunt. It’s loud and you’re so numb as seconds pass that feel like eons; pointed teeth teasing at the squishy chunk of your shoulder, invoking a buried sense of alarm.

And then he’s biting down hard- not just nipping- the pleasure thankfully driving off the pain as he ploughs inside, muffling a string of curses as he picks up his pace. Caleb gets sloppier and sloppier and then he’s burning white-hot inside you and moaning like a pornstar, pelvis juddering as he comes.

“Mmh- f-fuck- Good girl!” he rewards with half a brain, fucked out into perfect oblivion, and for a second you wonder why his voice sounds more meant for comfort than praise- until you expect him to pull out but he doesn’t, something big and round forming at the base of his cock that has his eyes fluttering back as it pops in. He goes boneless on top of you as every limb of yours stiffens and coils around his broad back.

You scream his name. He shivers.

It feels enough to shatter your mind- the pain searing you, but the ghost of pleasure that creeps up along your nervous system makes you go like jelly beneath him, helpless to whatever he’s got planned for you.

“C-Caleb, you-!”

“Yeah, a bad dog, a bad dog,” he stammers, whimpering at your earlobe, “I know, baby, I know. Just- don’t shut me out, okay? I- It’ll be over soon, just- ah- loosen up around it, okay? It’ll feel so much better that way. Just… hold on to me.”

“I-It hurts-!”

“Ngh, shhh…” He trembles out, shifting to sample a broken mewl from your lips, cupping your jaw with all the love in the world and staring at you as if you told the sun to rise this morning. “Be a good girl and take it, mm? Your pussy’s squeezing me so tight, I think she wants it too, but she has to relax a little first, yeah? Mm… I could give you a whole litter of pups. Give your Gran a bunch of cute lil granbabies to drive her crazy.”

You choke on your own spit, the brunet letting out a near delirious chuckle at the idea and your reaction to it before his brow gives a wince, your walls instinctively trying to push his swollen knot out.

“Wha- Caleb, is that even-?”

“I don’t know,” he kisses your forehead tenderly, his tail giving a heavy, excited thump behind him on the bed as you grab the sheets for dear life and they wrinkle, pinched like your conflicted expression.

“But I’ve been dyin’ to try it out for myself.”

[kaurwreck]

I think you're right that it's significant, and I think Mori is clever to recognize that Akutagawa is a rook.

Like a rook, Akutagawa is powerful, but generally contained and often undercut by his predictability. However, because he's keenly aware of his own constraints, and because others often aren't (especially regarding variables they've internalized as known), he's able to play into and against his own predictability to paradoxically surprise them.

He moves within the confines of his rigidity to shape outcomes, sometimes more effectively than his more dynamic opponents and peers. Rooks do that too, if you let them.

Me, knowing nothing about chess, probably overthinking the significance of referencing akutagawa in this scene, but is going to look it up later anyways

[inbabylontheywept]

the fine and subtle art of arguing with old men

it was a good week for testing which meant it was a slow week for me. most of my job is fixing the machine when it goes down. if it doesn't go down, i don't have much to do. 

fortunately neither did marc. in a site full of ornery old bastards, he's the oldest and the orneriest, so it goes without saying that i enjoy spending time with him. he reminds me of my grandpa. hell, he reminds me of a lot of people. i've befriended enough grumpy old men that i've got a sort of momentum to it now - you know how it is, when you meet someone that reminds you of someone else you really like. you get to start that friendship off half built, because you already have an idea of how to like that guy, and some of that old warmth can be brought to the new friendship. a little ember to start the stove up with.

(i think that's one of the really undersold beauties of getting older. you stop viewing people as strangers and more like remixes of friends.)

anyway, i was sitting next to marc and we were talking about the future. i've got my eye on having kids sometime soon (year or two? hopefully?), and he's very happy for me. i've tried asking him for advice, but all he says is that he didn't do a great job with his own kids and they still turned out okay, so i should stress less and trust myself more. i hope he's right. he believes it, at least, and it's a hell of a thing to have the faith of an old man. his faith is hard won.

as for his plans, he's retiring at some point in the next six months, and is hoping to sell his home and buy something in florida. he's republican, so he views the state as paradise, and i'm not inclined to even try talking him out of it. it's his dream, you know? i know for a fact my paradise would be a lot of people's hell. life's funny like that.

still, we kept going on, and it was a good time, and then he reminisced about the last time he got close to quitting - back around 2020. our job required getting vaxxed, and he refused, and there was a big kerfuffle about it before the job actually backed down. i know there's not a lot of sympathy for the unvaxxed out here, but the man's 62. you get the shot when you're under 30 to protect the people around you, but when you're over 60, you're just getting it to protect yourself and it's hard to be mad at someone for kicking their own ass. 

still gave me pause though. i knew he wasn't going to take it well, but half the job of collecting curmudgeons is keeping them around, so i said 

hey. i'm sorry they bent your arm over it, but.

but. 

you should really get that shot. 

and he looked over at me, and i looked at him, and he actually spat. not on me, just the concrete, but it was enough to show that he was mad. then he walked away, as abrupt as anything.

i felt bad about it. i wasn't sure what i'd expected, when he was willing to lose his job over it before, but i'd been so invested in his dream of retirement - the idea of him sipping margaritias on a beach next to his wife, the wife he calls every day during lunch, the wife he says is the one thing in life he ever got right on the first try. the wife that almost divorced him back when he was in the airforce because he just wasn't home enough. 

(but he can be home now.) 

and then he mentioned the vax thing, and it was like seeing a pin hit a balloon. he works out every day and takes all sorts of crazy vitamins and is generally committed to getting the most out of his pension and his life. i didn't want this dumb weak point to be his achilles heel. 

---

i wasn't actually sure how long marc would be mad at me. i've seen him stay mad at some people for weeks. i wasn't sure if being friends would make that time go up or down. 

it went down. i'm glad it went down. 

he stopped being mad about two days later. we were doing front end maintenance one morning, and it was just that simple mechanical rhythm - hex key, replace the anode sheets, punch some off-gassing holes, oil it up, put it back in - that put things at ease. it always does. people working there are too busy to remember grudges, and it has this sort of mandatory practical communication that helps smooth things over. it was going great, and then out of the blue he said babs, you gotta be careful giving advice. those shots come with complications. what would you do if i got that shot, had a stroke, and died? 

and i don't know what answer he was expecting, but i just told him the truth, which is that i would be devastated. i'd feel like i killed him. i thought that was a pretty normal response, but he looked taken aback. he asked why i said it then, and i said i'd have felt the same if he died of covid. that's just life. sometimes, there's no way forward that doesn't risk some kind of regret. 

we finished the tube after that, in a silence that felt heavier than peace but lighter than anger. it felt like the ball was back in marc's court. like it would be rude to take that turn from him. 

we parted ways with a nod and didn't speak until the next day. 

---

i was doing spreadsheet work when he found me again. standard paper engineering - thinking of things we might need and ordering them in batches, months ahead of time. it always feels a little like plugging holes in a dam with my fingers. 

but he popped up, and we didn't even exchange pleasantries. he just said i'm gonna die one day, and you can't blame yourself for that. 

which is a hell of a thing to just tell someone right off the bat. 

so i said what 

and he said babs, i am in my 60s. something is gonna get me eventually, and whether it's covid or heart disease, or a stroke, there will be something you could have said or done before. and that's okay. it's not your job to make me live forever. 

and you know, he actually made a lot of sense. so i said 

okay. 

i'll keep your business yours. i just

you were talking about your retirement before this. and i want that for you very much. you've worked hard for 45 years, and you deserve a break. we're getting to sick season, and it would be the saddest fucking thing in the world if you got this close to winning the race then tripped in the last ten feet. 

and we sat there a few moments longer. i wasn't sure what to say, and i wasn't sure what he'd say, but eventually he just shrugged and said

yeah 

then he left. i figured that would be the end of it. 

---

i did front end maintenance yesterday, after being gone a week. it's one of my favorite things to do. i like working with my hands. i really like working with my hands. i'm glad i went to college, but in a different life, i think i could've made a better electrician than an electrical engineer. 

and at one step, when we were both hoisting the plate back onto the machine, his sleeve rode up, and i saw two bandaids on his arm. 

we finished the install, and i was ready to go back when marc actually stopped me. 

i got the shot, he said, almost embarrassed. like he'd been caught. and i knew he was gonna say something dumb about it, so i just cut him off by giving him a hug. 

i was relieved. hugging old men is kind of like picking up cats. if they like you a lot, they'll tolerate it, but that's about it. we sat there maybe three beats before his hands went up, and then he gave me one overly-hard thump on the back. in my experience, this is how old men tell you that they're done, so i let him go.

carla talked me into it, he said, almost defensive. his wife. his one good decision.

tell her i said thanks, i said back.

trump got the shot too, he said, less defensive, but oddly pleading. like he was consoling himself.

like he was nervous.

then it's gotta be safe, i said, and he looked up at me, strangely searching, strangely vulnerable. i don't know exactly what he was looking for, but i guess he found it because after a few moments his shoulders relaxed.

yeah, he said, one hand on the back of his head.

it's gotta be.

[lvrclerc]

✶ STEAL YOUR HEART, TONIGHT!

summary: after the united states grand prix, the drivers decide to immerse themselves in the true american experience by going to the most infamous coyote ugly in austin to celebrate ─ needless to say, max is in for a culture shock, and maybe a little heart attack when one of the coyotes seems to take a fancy to him.

F1 MASTERLIST | MV33 MASTERLIST

pairing: max verstappen x coyote!f!reader

wc: 7.6k

cw: reader is implied to be southern/has a southern accent, reader smokes, alcohol, english is not my first language, sexual/romantic tension, i know next to nothing about coyote ugly this is based on vibes and vibes alone, use of y/n, bittersweet towards the end.

note: the idea of max verstappen just stepping in a coyote ugly is so funny to me. here's to lei @cntappen who wanted to see a max fic!

WARNING!

You may get wet

You may lose your tie

You may lose your bra

No men on the bar

No touching the girls on the bar - even if it’s your own girlfriend, do that at home!

We don’t serve free water

If you pick a bad song on the jukebox, you may get skipped

If you are easily offended, this isn’t the bar for you

Be nice and have fun!

YOU WILL GET DRUNK, YOU WILL GET UGLY!

What did Max get into?

The words were written hastily on a board in front of the bar with a black marker, making him wonder how it successfully stood the test of time. The night was dark around the slightly weathered wooden structure, but the obnoxious neon red sign made each detail of the street clear as day: COYOTE UGLY.

It looked like something out of a bad, anachronic Western film ─ scratched paint, flickering lights, the low hum of American dad rock vibrating through the walls. Still, there was a line out of the door and people littering the front porch ─ girls in jean shorts and cowboy hats yelling to each other above the music, guys already stumbling out with their shirts unbuttoned too far.

Daniel was the one who insisted.

He flew in to watch the United States Grand Prix, as it would be the only one he’d be free enough to attend and it had been a little while since he caught up with some of the drivers ─ including Max, Max who had been the happy winner of the aforementioned Grand Prix. “Come on Maxie,” he’d said that afternoon wearing a cowboy hat he definitely didn’t pack. “After-parties are always the same. Fake VIP tables, same music, same people. We need something different for tonight! Something fun!”

Max had muttered that he was fine drinking in a familiar place and that nobody really went partying after Austin anyway ─ it was just another win, and they had a day to pack for Mexico. That was without knowing Daniel, obviously, who had already sent a group text. Much to Max's surprise ─ note the sarcasm ─ most of the drivers had declined due to exhaustion and the general reputation of Coyote Ugly. He thought that would be the end of it, until Lando, Carlos, Pierre and surprisingly Charles had all jumped at the idea like it was the goddamn social event of the season.

Mostly because Daniel had the talent to sell a bad idea to someone like a lawyer. And that─ that explained why Max was there.

Carlos was already walking ahead of them, sunglasses on despite the fact it was nearly midnight, yelling something to a drunkard behind him in fast Spanish. Charles trailed behind, squinting at the building like he was trying to figure out if the neon sign was ironic or a warning ─ Max concluded he didn’t look up what a Coyote Ugly was before tagging along. Lando was busy taking a selfie with a wannabe cowboy and cowgirl who stopped him, already in his element.

And now Max stood between Daniel and Pierre, outside this absurdly American fever dream of a bar, and he was pretty sure people were getting murdered inside. He wondered if Daniel had finally lost his mind.

“You’re going to thank me for this,” the latter declared, hands out like he was presenting a five-star resort instead of a glorified wooden box.

Max raised a brow. “No. I’m already regretting this.”

“I love it personally,” interjected Pierre. “Smells like tequila and questionable decisions.”

Daniel threw an arm around Max’s shoulders. “See? That’s the spirit. Come on, Max. Live a little. You just won a Grand Prix, you should be dancing somewhere.”

“I’m a driver, not a dancer. Especially not that type of dancer,” he deadpanned.

Pierre smirked. “You might not have a choice. I saw a line dance when I passed by the window, and someone getting body shots done on the bar.”

“You’re fucking kidding.” Max could feel himself blanching.

Daniel grinned like the devil himself, and Max wondered why he wasn’t in his hotel room. “Oh it’s real, mate. You’re in America─ home of deep-fried butter and girls with fire hoses full of Jack Daniels.”

Lando, who had finally rejoined them, snorted. “You sound wayyy too excited about this.”

“I am! This is culture,” Daniel insisted. “This is history. This is─”

He was cut off as someone inside screamed, followed by the unmistakable sound of a whip cracking. Max stared at the entrance, eyes narrowing at the figure of a woman sliding across the bar and before he could catch another glimpse─ the blur of the people inside blocked his view.

“... Is that even legal?” He asked.

Daniel just patted his back in fake reassurance. “Too late to back out now, champ.”

He ran to catch up with Carlos in front of them, leaving Max stranded in his own hesitation. Was he really going to…?

Pierre laughed, following suit. Well, he guessed it was indeed too late to back out, and Max never left things unfinished, after all.

The door slammed behind him like a final warning.

The heat of the bar hit Max like a punch. Everything was sweaty, loud, alive, sticking to his skin and prickling it. The floor vibrated beneath his feet from the raucous movements of the crowd, barely walkable, and the scent of whiskey and cheap perfume hung in the air. People were everywhere ─ dancing, shouting, laughing, adding to the bass escaping from the humongous, vintage jukebox in the back of the room.

Someone threw a bra across the room and no one even flinched. Carlos cheered.

It was lawless. Much more than what Max was used to.

“Welcome to America, baby!” Daniel hollered over the music, arms spread around him like he’d just stepped into a holy place.

Max shot him a look, dread comfortably installed in the pit of his stomach. He brushed someone’s feather boa off his arm with a scoff. “Is that what you call fun?”

“A little different from Monaco bottle service, huh?” Daniel grinned.

“Right now I’m just doubting your taste in bars.”

“Eh…,” the Australian clapped him on the back. “It builds character.”

Why would someone want to get literally hosed down with whiskey to build character, Max didn’t know ─ and it’s not like he pulled the example out of his ass: a guy was taking a whiskey shower in the middle of the room, given by a girl in very tight clothing and run-down chaps standing on the bar.

He squinted. “How is this even sanctioned?”

“Man, you ask yourself way too many questions, just enjoy! Look at the others, at least they’re already having fun.”

Carlos was already gone, swallowed up by a pack of cowboy boots and red lipstick, while Lando and Charles were making their way toward the bar with wide eyes and the kind of expression Max hadn’t seen since their karting days. Pierre vanished. Someone bumped into his shoulder so hard it almost knocked the wind out of him.

In the end, he just sighed. He wouldn’t win that fight. “If I get anything poured on me, I’m leaving.”

Daniel laughed. “Don’t worry, they’ll only do it if you ask. Or not. Anyways, let’s get a drink!”

Max started walking toward the bar, following in Lando and Charles’ footsteps before Daniel could even finish his sentence. If he wanted to survive the evening ─ hell, even just the ambiance ─ he needed something to keep him going. Preferably cold. Preferably strong. Preferably now.

But that’s when the music shifted, the lights dimmed ever so slightly, and suddenly ─ everything changed.

A warm glow from old projectors cut through the red haze, casting gold across the surface of the bar like a spotlight, and just like that, the crowd moved. Turned their heads toward the long wooden structure like it was a stage and not the stickiest surface in Texas. Someone behind Max let out a whoop so loud it nearly startled him, “Hell yeah, that’s what I’m talking about!” 

In the shuffles of bodies and beer, Max lost sight of Daniel completely.

He would have cared in any other circumstances, and maybe a part of him did at the moment, but he was only human ─ his gaze caught on the bar as well. More specifically, his gaze caught on you as you stepped into the light.

Crimson red cowboy boots first, planted strongly on the bar top, followed by the curve of your legs and the ripped, distressed hem of your shorts, the glint of a belt buckle looking like it carried multiple stories. Your tank top clung to your skin in the heat, and you were probably drenched in something ─ what, Max wouldn’t want to guess. Your hair was catching on the light, wildfire-like, almost matching the red neons. One of your hands lifted in the air, claiming the moment, and the other held a mic ─ beat up, wrapped up in tape, completely yours.

You didn’t ask for the attention of the people in front of you, no. You commanded it.

“LET’S WAKE THIS DAMN CITY UP!” You shouted into the mic, voice hoarse and tone ecstatic, and the whole room erupted.

And the music kicked in again, louder this time ─ an unapologetic, southern rock anthem beating against the wall. You dropped low, hips rolling to the beat while your hands gripped the metal bar above you to keep you on your feet. You popped back up with a loud, teasing laugh, and, mid spin, someone handed you a bottle. You poured the liquor straight into a row of open mouths, feeding the fire you started.

Max couldn’t get himself to look away.

If all the other bartenders, or coyotes as Lando affectionately corrected earlier in the night, looked like they performed the overt confidence, you didn’t: you looked in your element, basking in the spotlight, the attention and the smell of burnt wood. And it wasn’t just the way you moved, no ─ it was the way you owned it. Unbothered, untouchable. Like the bar was yours. The music, the night? Yours too.

And then for a second, just one ─ you looked at him. Dead in the eyes, over the crowd. Over the sweat and light and noise, and you threw him a grin. 

You caught him staring.

It should have been meaningless, the moment barely lasted enough to make note of it, but Max’s breath still hitched. The beat of the music wasn’t the only thing making his heart stutter off rhythm.

The chaos dulled, the music softened and just like that, you were gone. Lost behind the bar in the sea of bodies crawling in front of it. Max blinked. He wondered if he hallucinated you. 

He shook his head to get rid of the haze his mind settled into. Before he could have time to think about anything else, or even try, an arm dropped around his shoulders and a cowboy hat was on his head. Daniel had reappeared. “What a show, huh?” He said.

“Where’d you go?” Max asked, rearranging the hat on his head. He knew that if he took it off now, Daniel would be quick to put it back on.

“Went to fetch you this. Stole it from someone puking in the corner,” Max's nose scrunched at the mental image. “Come on, let’s finally get that drink. Maybe the Coyote you’ve been ogling during the whole perf’ will serve you.”

He protested. “I wasn’t ogling.” Because he wasn’t. I mean ─ what else was he supposed to do? Look at the ground while you danced? But Daniel was already on his way toward the bar and this time, Max followed him without much of a complaint. Mainly because he had been eyeing the spot you disappeared behind for the entire conversation.

People crowded around the wooden counter like it was a lifeboat. Arms waving, voices raised, someone yelling for shots and someone else already halfway to a table with three beers in each hand. The bartenders, sorry, Coyotes, moved like machines ─ fast, efficient, ruthless. Max tucked himself between Daniel and Pierre, who had reappeared as well, with difficulty.

And then, he spotted you again.

It was more like flashes of you, really. A hand catching a bottle mid-air. A flash of glitter on your cheek. A bandana tied around your wrist. Your voice cut through the air like smoke, low and teasing and just loud enough to carry. That’s what made Max’s head snap ─ it was unsettlingly recognizable, even after hearing so little of it.

“That’s your third tequila, cowboy. You aiming to dance or blackout first?”

Someone laughed ─ a rough, lovesick sound ─ and you grinned without looking up as you slid another shot glass across the bar. Through their drunk delusions, everyone around the table probably assumed they were in love with you, Max thought.

He stepped up, hands braced against the edge of the counter, waiting. That was when you turned and for the second time tonight, you looked right at him, as if feeling his presence before he could even call for another bartender.

Jesus fuck─ up close, you were something else entirely. Sun-warmed and sun-kissed skin, your cheeks were flushed from the heat along with your sweat-slicked collarbones. Your lips were pulled into the kind of smirk he’s sure could cause car crashes, and your eyes sparkled under the bar lights ─ like you knew exactly what he was searching for.

If you did, spare the poor soul and tell him, because Max wasn’t sure he wanted that drink anymore.

“You lost?” You asked. Your tone was smooth, a southern accent dripping from every word. God, that was dangerous.

Max blinked. Oh, he was gaping. “No,” he affirmed, a little too harshly.

Your eyes, intense, dragged over him, twinkling a little brighter than before. “You look lost.”

Max suddenly felt very conscious of how much he had to be sticking out. He had no outfits or items of clothing that fit this type of place ─ the light-washed jeans, the tennis shoes, and the black, short-sleeved shirt with his Formula One number in the back was as casual as he could do without looking homeless. The cowboy hat had to add some more ridiculousness to it, he realized.

He cleared his throat, frowning slightly. He usually wasn’t one to really care about outfits. “Just a drink, please.”

You leaned in, close enough that Max could smell your perfume. Warm, sugary, intoxicating. “Name your poison, pretty boy.”

Pretty boy. He gulped. For fuck’s sake, where did the confidence he had a few hours earlier go, when he was brandishing the Austin trophy?

“Whatever’s strongest.” God knows he needs it right now.

You just gave him a look ─ just the faintest eyebrow raise, clearly amused. Grabbing a bottle from behind you with practiced ease, you poured without measuring, slid a glass toward him with one hand, and propped the other on your hip, where Max’s eyes lingered a little too long.

“Try that,” you said. “If it doesn’t knock the edge off, I’ll give you a second round for free.”

He reached for the glass. You looked too smug, challenging him like he was no one to you, which he probably was. But Max liked a challenge, he was known for never backing out after all. He handled stronger for sure and America wasn’t the place that was about to teach him alcohol. He threw the whole glass back.

It burned.

His eyes watered, and Max coughed so hard he thought fire was about to spill out from his esophagus. You, on the other hand, looked delighted, grinning widely at his misery.

“You hate it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

You laughed, and the sound echoed in Max’s chest like cathedral bells, so violently he froze. Must be the alcohol.

Noticing his lack of retort, you leaned your elbows onto the bar, eyes dancing. “Aww, ain’t you too pretty to be looking this miserable?”

You were going to be the death of him. The corner of your mouth curled as if you’d just lit up a fuse. Max swallowed, slowly recovering from the short circuit your voice alone had triggered. “Is that how you greet all of your customers─ uh…” He choked out, searching for your name on your shirt.

“Y/N.” The name sounded good sliding off your tongue. Max felt the need to know how it felt sliding off his. “And only the ones who look like they took a wrong turn at a country club,” you commented, chin propped in your hand, eyes still locked on his. Touché. “You got that look─ y’know, European.” You whispered that as if it was a bad word. “Quiet, repressed. Secretly judging everyone.”

“That’s harsh.” He raised an eyebrow. “I’m not judging.” He was. He just wasn’t judging you.

“Sure you’re not, Verstappen.”

Oh. Your tone was casual, tossed off like nothing ─ but the sound of his name in your mouth made something flicker in his chest. Not how you said it, even though the accent and the inflections played a part in it, but the fact you said it at all.

You knew who he was, and clearly ─ you didn’t give two shits.

“Anyways,” you kept on going, oblivious or choosing not to care about the semi-amused grin that slipped on Max’s face. “The drink in your hand says otherwise.”

He glanced down. He threw the glass back, yes, but the liquid was so strong he couldn’t even get half of it down before choking on it. “I’m drinking it.”

“Barely.”

Max straightened a bit. “Okay. Fine.” Again, his tone was harsher than he actually meant it to be. He just didn’t know how to handle whatever was happening there ─ your smiles, your presence. “What should I be drinking then?”

You didn’t answer right away ─ just tilted your head, eyes sweeping over him slowly, deliberately, like you were appraising a new kind of game. It sent shivers down his spine, and he was deeply ashamed to say he was enjoying it. “You trust me, pretty boy?”

There was the nickname again. “I don’t not trust you,” which was as far as he could go after knowing you for a dance and a drink. Maybe he needed more. Just to make sure you wouldn’t poison him.

“That’s a whole lotta syllables for yes!” You laughed, already moving, pulling down bottles Max could barely recognize, tossing ice into a shaker with a rhythm that matched the beat of the song playing overhead. Your hands moved fast, confident, dancing between ingredients as if you were born behind this bar.

Max was fast, yes, but not in the way you were ─ intricate, careful. Just like that, he was hypnotized again, eyes tracing your every movement.

It broke when you slid another drink toward him. Something golden, fizzing at the top, smelling like citrus and vanilla. Like you. “Go on, drink.”

He eyed the glass. “What’s in it?”

“You said you trusted me.”

“You put the words in my mouth.”

You barked out a surprised laugh. “Either drink or I’m telling your lil’ blond friend with the camera you can’t handle your liquor,” you nodded behind Max with a sharp grin. “Wonder how that’ll go down.”

He glanced over his shoulder, and Lando had his camera zeroed on him in a way that may have tried to be discreet but miserably failed. Max muttered a curse. First, because Lando had the bad habit of filming everything and for it to get leaked the day after ─ so if their little outing wasn’t public information already, it would be by tomorrow morning. Second, based on his first point, he couldn’t possibly be dragged through the dirt for going to a Coyote Ugly and have the reputation of a lightweight. His Dutch heritage would look like a joke. Max brought the glass to his lips.

It tasted like heat, honey, whiskey, and something floral he couldn’t name. “That’s… actually good.”

“Told you you should trust me,” you said, pleased. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, I taste-test all the cocktails before I serve them. I’m not that much of a degenerate.”

You wet your lips, and Max’s eyes caught onto them for a split second. He wouldn’t let himself acknowledge the thought that almost formed in his head.

Instead, he blinked. “Are you always like this?”

“Like what?”

“So… intense.” It was a genuine question. He met people with fire, he worked with them daily, and he could consider himself one in a way ─ however, it was the contained kind. The one that was shaped to work toward a goal. You were a forest fire, spreading, in constant reach of something. Max was sure your fingerprints could burn themselves on his skin if you let them linger long enough. 

You laughed ─ loud and shameless. “Apparently. Tends to flare up when I’m bored.”

And maybe it was the alcohol, or the raucous crowd ignoring you both entirely, making it seem like you had your own, private sphere, but Max leaned forward, just enough to make your eyes imperceptibly widen by the action. It made his stomach lurch with a strange kind of pride. “And are you bored right now?”

You looked at him, gaze heavy with meaning. “Not anymore.”

Max felt something stir low in his chest ─ heat, curiosity, the burn of your drink still coating his throat. He wished he could have lingered on it, maybe make sense of it but you took it from him, leaning back and breaking the tension with a sly glint in your eyes. A reminder you were in control of the room.

“You ever poured a shot before, pretty boy?” You asked.

That was a change of topic. “Uh─ no?”

“Well, that’s about to change.”

Before he could argue, or even ask what you meant, your fingers stroked his wrist and he forgot about everything he was going to say. That’s when you tugged him forward, He didn’t resist, more out of shock than anything else, but next thing he knew he was behind the bar, ducking under the pass-through from which Coyotes went and left. Pushing him into your world.

The heat was much worse with the change of scenery ─ the lights brighter, the music louder, you right next to him.

“Are we─ Am I even allowed back there?” Max asked, stumbling slightly as he knocked into a pack of plastic cups.

“Nope,” you answered cheerfully. Just as on cue, one of your colleagues piped up, something about ‘no men on the bar’ and the wooden board of warnings at the front of the bar flashed in Max’s mind. You flipped her off lightheartedly, saying something along the line that, technically, he wasn’t on the bar. Just behind it.

From under the counter, you took out a bottle of something probably lethal and a metal shaker. “Alright, Verstappen. Time to earn your keep ─ didn’t think those drinks were for free, were you?” So that’s what it was all about. “You’re gonna help me make a round of Flaming Coyotes.”

“No way in hell that’s a real drink,” Max frowned.

“Unfortunately yes,” you said, cracking ice into a tin. “And you’re gonna light it.”

Your fingers wrapped around his hand, and Max’s heart stuttered at how your whole palm could wrap around one of his fingers. You guided it to the matchbox you set on the bar. “Relax, I’m not gonna let you burn your eyebrows off… unless you’re chicken?” You gasped, mocking.

“You really want me to set something on fire? With no… prior experience?”

“Only a little.”

You’re insane, he thought. You’re insane and he was never going to leave this bar. But Max was not sure he wanted to leave as badly as he did earlier, that’s why he lit the match.

The crowd erupted when the flame caught on the shot glasses. In front of him, Pierre, Daniel, and Charles cheered and whooped as loudly as he could, and somehow Max forgot all about them in these 20 minutes. He looked up, breathless, adrenaline buzzing through his veins like engine oil. You were watching him carefully, looking like you’d just found something very interesting in me. “Look at you,” you said, tone playful. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

And Max smiled ─ actually smiled, for the first time since this night started. Wide, boyish, and wrecked by it all, and fucking hell did he look good, you allowed yourself to think. His chest swelled with something as you smiled back. And maybe it was the fire, maybe it was the cheers. Or maybe it was you.

The following hours were spent in a blur.

Not the kind of blur Max was used to ─ it wasn’t the sharp edges of a race weekend or the post-win daze of podiums and press conferences. This was so much more different. Warm, messy in a way that curled around his senses and dimmed the seconds together until the clock disappeared.

Shots kept appearing in his hand like magic, and he went from behind to the front of the bar as he pleased ─ most of the bartenders called him an ‘Honorable Coyote’, which shouldn’t have been as funny as it was at the time. The jukebox never stopped switching music, keeping him on his toes. Lando and Pierre had stolen a mic at some point, or maybe you gave it to them for the hell of it, and slurred She’s Country by Jason Aldean so off-key some of the girls threatened to cut them off, splashing them with ice-cold water. Daniel had tried to climb on the bar twice, failing miserably because rules were rules, Charles was attempting to dance with a girl in a cowboy hat three sizes to big for her head, and Carlos was desperately explaining race strategies to a group of drunken Texan who clearly didn’t know what Formula One was.

And then there was you.

Always moving. Always glowing, whether it be from the sheen of your efforts or the loud, obnoxious ambiance that sublimed your features. You’d disappear back into the rhythm of the bar and the beat of the dance, your natural habitat, flinging bottles in the air, laughing as someone tried to kiss your hand and you sent them waltzing away, yelling over the crowd without care. And now Max was convinced people there didn’t simply think they were in love with you. They undoubtedly were ─ six steps in and all that. And he would have been bothered in any other circumstances.

But whenever Max looked up, he caught you looking at him. Every time, you smiled like you knew exactly what you were doing.

Max didn’t know how much time had passed by that point, only that his throat was dry, his cheeks flushed bright red and hurting from how much he laughed, the back of his neck scorching from something stronger than just alcohol. Somewhere along the way, the night had stopped being about celebrating a win and started being about you.

Maybe that’s how he got roped in a messy attempt at a line dance.

He tried to resist at first. Truly. Max still stood by what he said at the beginning of the night: he was a driver, not a dancer. But when you shouted to ask if everyone wanted to see an F1 World Champion do ‘a little two steps’ and everyone cheered, including his friends and colleagues, the traitors, he couldn’t bring himself to say no. Not when you stood so close to him.

You’re Easy On The Eyes by Terri Clark twanged through the jukebox, loud enough to rattle the shelves and the floorboards, while Max tried to follow your explanations. His hands were on his hips, knees knocking together as he mimicked you except he was two steps behind and overthinking it. You were outwardly mocking him by now. “Your coordination’s better in a car, huh?” You teased.

Max huffed. “You call this coordination?”

“Aw, don’t pout, baby. You’re trying.” He rolled his eyes and you stuck your tongue at him. Daniel was somewhere in the back, filming, but Max had tuned the world out. 

Somehow, in the whirl of bodies, he caught you again, his hands instinctively flying to your waist to steady himself so he wouldn’t faceplant ─ that would be the highlight of his night. Before he could process it, and you always a step ahead of him, you grabbed the cowboy hat off his head and in one slick movement, settled it on yours with a wink. The crowd roared in approval. Someone let out a sharp whistle. Max wasn’t fluent enough in Southern to know what that meant, but the half-lidded look you gave him translated across every barrier.

Game on.

You roped him into much more after that. Max followed blindly, always rising to the challenge, stuck in the daze of you. In the decadence of Coyote Ugly. In the secrecy of the nighttime, where everything felt allowed and nothing had to make sense in the morning.

By the time he was able to breathe, he’d long dismissed the idea to try and find out where his friends had scattered to. The only thing he could feel was the warmth of your hand wrapped around his wrist, tugging him past the old, swinging saloon-style door and out in the thick, velvet air of the Texan night.

The back of the bar was quieter. The hum of crickets, the soft hum of the neon signs bleeding through ancient wooden slats, and the echo of music and laughter still pulsing behind closed doors. Cardboard boxes were lying around, swallowed by the wild, uncut grass. The sky was wide and open above him, seemingly endless, stars barely cutting through the heat haze but present nonetheless. Nobody was there apart from the two of you.

Back against the structure of the bar, Max quietly watched as you lit a cigarette next to him. It didn’t surprise him in the slightest. Wordlessly, you offered him your open back with a raised eyebrow.

“I don’t smoke.” He waved it off.

You shrugged, blowing a grey cloud out to the night. He didn’t mind it ─ driving every day of your life, you get used to the smell. “I don’t really like smoking either. It just gives my hands something to do.”

Max chuckled. That didn’t surprise him either, he already figured out life moved with you and not the contrary. 

It seemed like you didn’t appreciate it when conversations stilled because you were quick to speak up again. “Didn’t think I’d see the day a world champion let a girl make a fool outta him in public,” you said, leaning against the wall. Your shoulder brushed his. The number of times you touched him tonight was too numerous to count, but this one felt different. Innocent.

Max threw a smile at you, eyes darting to his feet for a second, still a little glassy. “I’m not the type to mind.”

And that, for some reason, made you look at him. Actually look at him. The type of look stripping away the chaos, the teasing, the fire-breathing version of yourself you wore so proudly behind the bar. You looked at him and Max was faced with the fact that you were just ─ you. Still half-wild, still sharp, but a little less guarded under the moonlight.

He liked it. A lot.

“D’you always enjoy losing control that much, then?” You asked with a small smile.

Max’s lips parted to answer─ pausing.

He thought about it. How rare this was, to be in a place he didn’t understand perfectly, being in Formula One for 10 years, you get used to the pattern of events, and you know what to target when things don’t go your way to make them bend to your will. Right now, he was tangled in things whose sense escaped him, and did not want to run from it.

His voice was quieter when he finally answered. “Only tonight.”

You took that in with a nod and brought the cigarette back to your lips.

“I’m glad you came tonight, then.”

That was it. No confessions, no fireworks, but Max felt his chest tighten just the same. You were just two people, sharing the silence, letting the sticky Texas air settle into your skins, wondering what the hell would happen when tonight fades. He wasn’t ready to find out the answer yet.

So, Max asked, “What led you to this?”

“To what? Coyote Ugly?” You raised an eyebrow, blowing out a slow stream of smoke and watching it curl around the humidity.

“Yeah. Why do you do it?”

“That’s two different questions, pretty boy.”

“Guess I want an answer to both.”

You hesitated, not because you didn’t want to answer, but because no one ever asked. Not your friends, not your colleagues, much less your family who was less than understanding about your life choices.

You shifted your weight, eyes flicking toward the parking lot in the distance. “Well, I came in looking for a job, obviously.” Your voice was softer now. There was still a bit of tease around the commas, but not nearly as much. “Needed rent money. Didn’t want a desk.”

Max hummed. “Makes sense.”

You tapped the ash off the cigarette. “And then I stayed ‘cause… I dunno. You ever walk into a place and, as crazy as it sounds, even if it’s a mess, I mean like pure chaos, and wild and loud you think ─ yeah. This might be the only place I make sense? I get to perform. I get to be myself. Take up space. Alive, not rotting in place like I was scared to. I wasn’t allowed to… do all that before.”

“I get it.” He nodded.

“Didn’t think you would.”

“I race cars for a living. I get messy.”

It was meant to be a light answer, something thrown back with a crooked smile and a shrug ─ but as the words settled in the small space between you, something shifted.

Max looked out in the dark, the flicker of neon reflecting faintly off the metal of a rusted old pickup nearby. He let himself sink into the silence for a second, and you waited until he was ready to speak up again. And he did, in a whisper, more to himself than to you. “Everything’s always so… calculated. In racing. It’s controlled and measured, even the mess, you know? It’s still part of the plan, of what’s expected, somewhat.”

You turned toward him slightly, hip still leaning against the wall, cigarette flickering between your fingers.

“You’re serious,” you said. Not accusatory ─ just curious. “Like, really serious.”

He glanced at you. “And you’re not.”

“Oh, I can be. I know when not to be, which just happens to be most of the time. And I like it like that, honestly,” you shrugged. “I don’t want to be stuck in something that’ll bury me before my time, and I couldn’t see myself anywhere else now, not when I get to be unashamed like that.” Your last words were just above a whisper. “Free.”

The term stagnates for a while.

Until Max lets out a soft laugh, barely even there. “I don’t think I’ve ever been allowed to be anything else but serious.”

The words surprised him. Not because he never thought about them, but because he never said them out loud. He didn’t think he meant them. Now, they felt unescapable, slightly suffocating ─ and the way you looked at him, patient, didn’t help in the slightest. He exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“It’s always about being perfect. Image, numbers, control. If I mess up, people lose money. I lose standing. Teams fall apart. Media goes insane. There’s no room to just.. exist? I guess?” His voice dips lower.

Max wasn’t about to say anything more. He sobered up too much to spill his guts further to a little more than a stranger. Yet, the way you looked at him ─ meeting his gaze with something softer than you’d shown him all night ─ and what you’ve told him, you didn’t feel like a stranger at all. You, who wore fire like perfume and laughed like a dare, stripped down to ashes.

You voiced what he was thinking. “So we’re not that different. I mean, we both perform. In our ways.”

He couldn’t figure you out, no matter how much he tried, no matter how much you’ve shown and hidden tonight but God, Max could have spent hours and hours trying to puzzle you back until you’d finally make sense.

Instead, he just dipped his head in agreement, which made you smile gently. You nudged him with your shoulder. “Alright, Verstappen. Guess you’re not just a pretty face, huh?”

Max choked on a laugh, and he couldn’t help himself. “You are, though. And a lot more.”

You rolled your eyes at his sad attempt at flirting, snorting, but the grin spreading your lips lingered for longer than it should have. Max shuffled a bit closer to you ─ subtle enough that it could’ve been the heat dragging him in ─ but not so subtle that he missed the way you shifted too, gravity pulling you both toward something unspoken.

Quiet still, you spoke up again, voice barely above the hum of the night. “It’s nice, though. People like us don’t get a lot of moments like this.” You gestured around, the empty half-alley, half-garden bathed in neon spill, the distant sounds of cricket, the sounds of the music and the people inside like a faraway dream. This. The in-between.

Max’s voice came back low, warm. “Then we should make them count.”

You turned to look at him, slower this time. And Max ─ he didn’t dare move. Just watched.

The way the light caught on your dewy skin. The glint of sweat at your temple. Your pupils blown wide, not just from the dark but from interest, curiosity. That sharp, electric pull that had lived between you all night, was finally quiet enough to be noticed.

Your eyes dropped to his lips, just for a moment. It was so fast that he thought he might have imagined it. His heart twisted anyway.

“And how are you planning on making it count, Max?”

His name, swirling around your tongue for the first time tonight ─ sweet, sharp, honey on a blade. It hit him square in the chest.

Something in his chest stammers, tires hitting gravel at full speed, and all reason is thrown aside after that. He doesn’t even know how it came to it ─ your back flush against the wall, his hands on your waist, your eyes boring into his and your cigarette half-smoked, forgotten on the gravel. He could feel your body heat as if it was his, your breath quickening at the contact. He could feel you and he wondered if you felt him just as intensely.

His eyes traced the curves of your lips and Max wondered what you tasted like. Smoke, citrus, spice. He wanted to memorize the taste, throw it into a drink he could get drunk on every night, threatening his health to grasp the memory of you again and again.

That was until─

“MAX?!” A shout echoed down the parking lot. Slurred, and unmistakably Daniel-sounding.

More followed.

“Mate, where did he fuck off to?”

“We’re leaving in ten, HURRY UP!”

It was muffled by the distance, but he knew you heard it as well. The half-smile on your face betrayed you.

“So, you gonna kiss me, pretty boy?” You asked.

It would’ve happened.

Max would’ve leaned in and would’ve chased the heat grasping his ribs whenever you looked at him. He would have mapped your mouth, the curve of your waist beneath his palms, would’ve swallowed every sound you made as he was starved for it. He would’ve kissed you and let you burn him alive, gladly, but─

The voices grew smaller. Daniel’s laugh, Pierre’s yell, Charles’ confusion. Reality bleeding back in. Max’s jaw tensed. If he waited a minute longer, he’d miss his ride. Miss the world contained in his hotel room that would stop spinning if he missed a minute off the clock.

He simply told the truth. 

“If I start,” Max murmured, “I don’t know if I’d be able to stop.”

That earned him a look. It wasn’t surprised, or angry ─ it was something a lot like expectancy, and in some way, it hurt a lot more.

You stepped forward, hand gently rising to meet his chest. The contact was light but the weight of it hit him like a crash and when you pushed, just a fraction, just enough, it wasn’t playful or teasing. It felt like goodbye dressed like mercy. You took the cowboy hat you stole from him earlier in the night and put it back on his head.

“Then don’t start something you can’t finish,” you whispered.

You gave him one last look ─ one he’d replay for days, conflicting emotions dimmed down to the flicker of a lighter in your eyes ─ and turned toward the door.

And Max felt awfully selfish when he asked the shadow of your figure, “Are you still going to be there next time?”

You didn’t even look back at him, but he saw your shoulders shake in a bittersweet sort of laugh, now out of his reach. “In a year, you mean? When the Grand Prix calls you back to Texas? I don’t wait, Max. My life isn’t drawn for me. I take my chances.”

You disappeared.

Max didn’t follow. He just stood there, the imprint of your touch still warm over his heart, wondering if this night would feel like a dream come morning. If you ever existed ─ or if Coyote Ugly had simply conjured you from the smoke and the music to remind him what wanting felt like.

He hadn’t kissed you, but he would never forget almost doing it.

When he climbed in the back of Daniel’s car, he evaded all the questions, the friendly mockery, the knowing glances, the snickering about the cowboy hat he still held in his hand like it was something breakable. Max just sat there, humming along to the comments Carlos made about the night, fidgeting with the brim and rubbing his thumb along the worn fabric like it might give him answers. Maybe it had caught something of you ─ your perfume, your voice, your laugh, the heat of your skin ─ and would let it slip back to him if he held on it long enough.

But it didn’t.

Later, Max crawled into bed with the weight of the night hanging around his ankles like shackles, dragging the air from his lungs. He didn’t sleep much. He didn’t want to.

He woke up with the sun, far too bright for the early morning, streaming through the blinds he forgot to close. He could feel his brain pulsing behind his eyes, his bloodshot eyes struggling to stay open, the remaining, chalky taste of whiskey sticking to his palate like cement. The evening flashed before him, a fever dream he wished he had the strength to push away ─ the obnoxious music, the sweat, the alcohol, and your smile.

Almost.

Max groaned, sitting up with difficulty on his bed. Every single one of his muscles ached, a sore reminder of the failed attempts at dancing and bartending he made last night ─ some spots hurt more than others, and in some measure, they felt like the shape of your hands.

The cowboy hat he had tossed last night, in the desperate attempt to stop anguishing about the brush of your breath across his lips, laid in front of him, miserable. Max couldn’t help himself and he reached for it out of instinct.

It felt cheaper than it did before, most imperfect underneath the daylight. He’d already memorized the texture and shape of the memento, obsessively tracing it, and yet it didn’t feel sufficient. He supposed it never would, and he’d have to live with this reality.

Max was about to put it back on his nightstand. To swallow down an Ibuprofen, chase it with an ice-cold shower, and carry on with his life like always. Another plane, another race, hopefully another win.

But something made him pause. He turned the hat in his hands again, just like he did a few hours before sleep took him by surprise.

And there it was. Tucked just inside the brim, where the lining met the crown ─ scrawled in smudged black ink he’d bet his life was eyeliner, barely visible unless you were compulsively looking for it─

if you dare.

A little heart, and a phone number scribbled right beside it.

Max blinked, mouth parting just slightly, heart mistaking the rhythm of his breathing for the first few notes of a country song. He read it again, and again until it stopped feeling like a trick of the light and started feeling like a choice.

He left thinking you were supposed to be one moment. One night. A blur of burn and guitar chords ─ but you’d left a door open.

And it was seemingly Max’s turn to take his chance.

©LVRCLERC 2025 ━ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

[mulloey]

distracted

bad students must face the consequences of their behaviour. it doesn’t matter who your boyfriend is.

words: 2.9k

part of my february festival event

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warnings: dom!professors matz x sub!student reader, teacher-student relationship (hongjoong x you), power dynamics, threesome, punishment, spanking with ruler, very light anal play, face fucking, double penetration (mouth & pussy), under-negotiated kink, unprotected sex, sir kink, degradation, light dumbification etc

i am not responsible for the content you consume.

“What is this?”

He waves the sheet in front of your face indignantly and you recognise it instantly as the test you’d taken last week; the red D scrawled in the top corner gives you away and you huff. “How did you even—”

“Seonghwa,” he says, cutting you off. You’d roll your eyes if you thought you’d get away with it right now.

You knew it was a bad idea, really, dating Hongjoong; he may not have been your professor, but he is a professor, so you should’ve figured he’d be in cahoots with your teachers. It’s not like discretion was a massive concern, anyway; your relationship is an open secret among the staff. It’s technically not allowed, but you’re a grad student, an independent adult and your parents donate enough money to the school that neither of you would be in too much trouble if anyone did find out anyway. So you suppose you shouldn’t be surprised that, when you turned in a piss-poor exam, Seonghwa had run off tattling to your boyfriend. Dickhead.

“I was just having a bad day,” you say. “I studied, really. I don't know what happened.”

Neither of you believe that, but you push your lips into a pout and do your best to look contrite—to play the sweet, innocent girl your boyfriend loves to ruin.

“Joong…” You try to sound scared but you both know you’re not; there’s nothing he could do to you that you wouldn’t enjoy, after all. You’re just as sick as each other.

Hongjoong chuckles, clicking his tongue. He looks thoughtful for a moment, like he’s pretending to be conflicted over whether to punish you or not, but he’s not very good at hiding his excitement. The regretful sigh he lets out when he makes his decision is laughably disingenuous. “Bad girl,” he says, shaking his head. “You know I can’t let you get away with this, sweetheart.”

You open your mouth to respond but he doesn’t give you time; he shoves you down harshly, bending you over his desk so your ass is sticking up in the air. It’s a familiar position that you’ve found yourself in time and time again since you met him and you body prepares itself automatically; expecting him to spank you, you stick your ass up higher and wait with bated breath for the first blow. It doesn’t come. You crane your head around, confused. “Joong, what—” Oh.

You don’t need to finish the question; standing behind you, next to Hongjoong, is the very man who’d got you in this predicament in the first place— your medieval history professor, Park Seonghwa himself. He tilts his head, smiling sweetly. “Good afternoon.”

Your jaw drops. You hadn’t expected this—when did he even come in, anyway? “Joong—”

“You think we didn’t notice how you look at him?” Your boyfriend asks coolly. It’s only because of the cock in his hand, hard and already leaking, that you’re not worried he’s mad at you; no, he loves this. You should’ve known.

“Is that why you failed?” Seonghwa asks. “Too busy dreaming about me bending you over your desk? You have a boyfriend; an esteemed colleague of mine, in fact.” His tone is chiding and you feel yourself flush.

Hongjoong snorts almost petulantly. “As if she cares about that.”

“No?” Seonghwa asks. “What does she care about, then?”

“Pull her panties down and find out.”

Your cunt throbs painfully at the surety of the demand and the dark look in Seonghwa’s eyes as he obliges without hesitation. He doesn’t ask permission before he touches you—he already has it from the one who matters, after all—but when he pushes your skirt up your back, his hands still momentarily; you smile into the wood as you realise what they’re both looking at—the white, lacy panties sitting snugly across your pert cheeks.

“Well, isn’t that a sight.” Seonghwa’s voice is hoarse and affected as he rubs a hand across the delicate material. You feel yourself tense under his touch, the unfamiliar feeling of his skin on yours, and he gently pinches the soft flesh. “Relax,” he mumbles. “Be good, yeah? I won’t hurt you, I’ll be gentle.”

A sweet sounding lie; you can tell from the heaviness of his hand as it comes to rest on your ass that he has no such intentions. He fingers softly at the lace of your panties, sighing ruefully. “These really are beautiful,” he muses. “I hate to have to take them down like this, but bad students have to learn, don’t they?”

“They certainly do.” You crane your neck to follow your boyfriend’s voice and find him leaning against the wall behind Seonghwa, staring you down with familiarly cold eyes. He cocks an eyebrow when you finally catch his gaze. “Got something to say, precious?”

“No, sir,” you whisper.

“Turn around, then,” he smiles. “I’m just here to watch.”

You turn back, though more so he doesn’t see you roll your eyes than out of a desire to obey him. Seonghwa has carefully shimmied your panties down to the middle of your thighs and the cold air of the office bites at your sensitive pussy.

“Spread your legs,” he says. “Show me how wet you are.“

Blushing furiously, you part your legs, spreading them as far as you can without snapping the panties bunched around your thighs. Seonghwa hums, running a long finger through your wet folds. The touch is unexpected but Hongjoong’s trained you well enough that you manage to stay still despite your surprise. You whine a little when he pulls away and you hear both men chuckle.

“Professor Kim,” Seonghwa says. His voice has a new quality; delicate and flirtatious as he addresses your boyfriend. “Come and taste how wet she is.”

You hear Hongjoong approach the elder and try to move around to see it, but Seonghwa’s firm hand on your neck holds you still. “I don’t think so, bad girl,” he tuts. “Only good little girls get to watch. Keep still.”

“Good call,” Hongjoong purrs. “She’s always loved seeing me with other people. Little pervert would probably start humping the table if she saw me doing this.”

You hear the wet, lewd sounds of Hongjoong sucking at Seonghwa’s finger, lapping up your juices with a noise of pleasure. “Delicious little slut,” he chuckles. “Let’s get her properly disciplined so we can play with her how she wants.”

Somehow you hear the wide grin in Seonghwa’s voice as Hongjoong backs away. “I quite agree.”

His hands rests on your ass again, squeezing it softly. “This is what’s gonna happen, little one. You got a 48 on my exam, didn’t you?”

You’re almost embarrassed to hear the number and you know Hongjoong is too. “Yes,” you whisper.

“Yes, Professor will do,” he says. “You’re not my friend, sweetheart. You’re just a wayward student being put back on the right path.”

Shame courses through you but it would be a lie to say it’s anything but thrilling. “Yes, professor,” you whisper.

He taps your ass appreciatively. “Good girl. So, you got a 48 on my exam. What was the pass mark?”

“60, Professor,” you mumble.

“Now that’s not very hard to achieve, is it Professor Kim?”

“It’s not. The pass marks in my class are higher, in fact.”

You want to roll your eyes at their smug, jovial tones but you’re too aroused now to do anything but anticipate.

“A pathetic score, really.” Seonghwa’s voice is closer than ever and you feel his presence just inches away. “Especially for such a bright young woman. I think you need to learn to separate your head—” he gathers a piece of your hair, gently folding it behind your ear “—and your pussy, hm?”

“Yes, Professor.”

“Good.“ Something long and thin taps at your bare skin and you recognise it instantly—the wooden ruler Hongjoong keeps in his desk drawer for when he’s feeling particularly on-the-nose about the taboo nature of your relationship.

“I’m going to hit you with this twelve times,” Seonghwa purrs. “For each of the marks you easily could have gotten if you hadn’t been too busy imagining my cock in your mouth. Yeah?”

You nod, feeling yourself pulse. “Yes, Professor.”

“Repeat after me, alright?” The first hit is quick and sharp, spread over your ass and it makes you gasp. Seonghwa chuckles and rubs the reddening flesh before he grabs your hair, yanking your head back to whisper in your ear. “One,” he says. “I’m sorry for being such a slut, Professor.”

You repeat it quietly and he tuts. “Louder than that, love. I’m sure your boyfriend wants to know you’re learning your lesson.”

You oblige, repeating it louder and he makes a noise of satisfaction before the ruler comes down again, this time at the tops of your thighs. “Two,” he says. “I’m sorry for thinking with my pussy instead of my head.”

“Two, I’m… I’m sorry for thinking with my pussy instead of my head.”

The next hit lands in the same spot. “Three. I’m sorry for dripping over Professor Kim’s desk just from being spanked.”

You blush in embarrassment; you’d half hoped he wouldn’t notice, but that was a tall order anyway. When it comes to Hongjoong and anything to do with him, you’ve never been subtle.

The next hits follow the same pattern, spread across your ass and thighs with each one making you gasp louder than the last.

“Four. I’m sorry for making Professor Park waste his time disciplining me.”

“Five. I’m sorry for daydreaming about choking on another man’s cock.”

“Six. I’m sorry for being arrogant enough to think I’d get away with such an embarrassing performance.”

The last one hits you right on your dripping pussy, making you scream and he grabs your hair, spinning you around to face him and your boyfriend; your eyes hone in on Hongjoong’s cock, pulsing in his hands before Seonghwa forces your attention back to him. “Twelve,” he growls. “I’m sorry for being such a cockwhore that I’m making Professor Park break his rule about sleeping with students.”

You can’t help but grin as you repeat his words, feeling proud. Of course, you knew from the moment you turned around and saw him standing there what was going to happen, but it’s nice to hear it from him. He smiles, grasping your neck gently. “Did you like that?” He asks. “Getting spanked by your professor while your boyfriend jerks off to it?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I liked it.”

“Well, now that you’ve learnt your lesson,” he says, “I think it’s time you got fucked, no?”

You nod and turn to your boyfriend; he tilts his head, nodding towards his hard cock. “You know what to do,” he says.

“Yes, sir.” You sink to your knees, staring up at Seonghwa and sending him a teasing smile before crawling towards Hongjoong. You open your mouth, letting him push his dick inside; after all this time together, he doesn’t need to ease you into it anymore and can go straight to fucking your mouth and you take it diligently, opening your throat the way he’s trained you to. You hear Seonghwa whistle, admiring.

“She sucks cock like a fucking pro,” he laughs; the arousal in his voice is thick and unmistakable. “You’ve trained her well, Hongjoong.”

Hongjoong laughs too, patting your head. “I had an excellent student,” he grins. You smile around him at the praise and he curses. “You’re too good at this, babe, Jesus. Gonna cum before I even fuck you.”

He thrusts into your mouth a few more times before pulling out abruptly, shoving you off of him and in an instant Seonghwa’s hands are in your hair as he pulls you to your feet and shoves you back over the desk. You collide painfully with the wood but you barely notice; you’re used to being manhandled by now, and it only makes you more excited.

Large hands you recognise as Seonghwa’s grab your ass cheeks, pulling them apart slowly; the air hits your exposed holes and makes you jump in surprise but you quickly regain your composure. As you still yourself again you feel Hongjoong’s finger running gently across your asshole, almost like he’s inspecting it, before it slides down to toy with your pussy.

“Hm…” Seonghwa’s voice is teasing. “What’s your favourite hole of hers, Professor Kim?”

“What a question,” Hongjoong chuckles and you hear the smile in his voice. His finger prods gently at your rim, making you tense unconsciously and he tuts, lightly slapping the tight little hole. It’s a subtle, painless chastisement but it makes you whine all the same. “Now, now, kitty cat,” he chuckles. “I didn’t train you to squirm, did I?”

“No, sir,” you mumble.

“Good,” he says. “To answer your question, Hwa, I’d have to say her pussy. I love her ass, of course, but nothing compares to the way that little cunt clings to my dick like it’s just begging for a baby.”

“Well that does sound nice.” Seonghwa’s hands leave your ass, returning to your pussy to spread you open. “It looks snug,” he says. “What do you think, little one? Want your professor to breed you?”

It takes you a moment for your brain to catch up with the rest of you and you frown in confusion. “I- you mean you, Professor Park?” You ask. It comes out as more of a strangled cry; your head is a mess of arousal and you barely even register what he’s saying to you, let alone comprehend it fully.

He laughs, patting your soft skin gently. “Yes, perhaps I should be more clear. It must be confusing to be bending over in front of two of your teachers.”

Your face burns at the obvious mockery; the degrading, sneering tone of his voice but you say nothing. Seonghwa hums. “So?” He asks sweetly. “You want me in your cunt, baby girl?”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Please, Professor.”

“There’s those manners,” he praises.

He keeps a firm grip on your hips as he slides in from behind; the feeling of his skin against your still burning ass is uncomfortable, but the way his cock is stretching you as he buries himself inside you is the only thing your brain can process right now.

He’s just as big as Hongjoong, maybe a little bigger, but his thrusts are more fluid and controlled; where Hongjoong fucks you like an animal hungry for more, Seonghwa fucks you with precision; with intention. His hands on your hips are firm yet gentle and the way he finds you in your deepest places has your head spinning with euphoria. “Jesus,” he curses. “Pretty little thing, aren’t you?”

You open your mouth to respond, barely getting a whine out before you feel hands in your hair, yanking at it to pull you forward. Hongjoong comes into view on the other side of the desk, his dick somehow still hard as he feeds it into your mouth. “There you go,” he coos. “Keep it hard, baby.”

You nod as best as you can and the friction against his dick makes your boyfriend groan. “Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re so fucking good with cock you could make me cum on accident.”

The feeling of two dicks inside you makes it hard to focus on either one; let alone to begin to process the filthy words they spit down at you. Intesd you close your eyes, letting the tears fall as Hongjoong starts to fuck your throat again; you’re limp against the desk now, held up solely by the wood and by the two men using you to satisfy themselves. “Oh shit,” Hongjoong says, seeing your dazed expression. “Baby’s gone dumb already.” He strokes your hair gently, a small comfort between punishing thrusts. “You okay, little dove?”

You groan in response, unable to do much else; it makes them laugh and Seonghwa pats your ass affectionately. “You’re doing so well,” he says. “I’m almost there, sweetheart. Gonna fill you up real nice, yeah?”

“Y-yeah,” you gasp.

The feeling of Seonghwa’s thrusts growing faster and harder and more desperate is overwhelming; coupled with the sensation of Hongjoong’s cock hitting the back of your throat again and again, it’s almost unbearable. Your fingers claw against the wood, surely leaving marks but you don’t care; you feel unlike you ever have before, stuffed full and used by two of the most attractive men you’ve ever even imagined.

You’re in so deep that you don’t even realise it’s over until the emptiness of your mouth and cunt becomes obvious; you feel cum leaking from your hole, a wet substance dripping down the desk and only when you look closer do you figure out what it is—squirt. You squirted. You squirted all over your boyfriend’s desk with another man’s cock in your pussy and you’ve never been more fucked out and satisfied than you are now.

When you stand up fully your legs, numbed and weakened by their abuse, start to give out but Hongjoong is there in an instant; he catches you in his arms, lowering himself to the ground so he can cradle you in his lap. You’re faintly aware of Seonghwa’s voice and strong hands stroking your hair before he’s gone, and it’s just you and Hongjoong.

“Good girl,” he mutters. “You took that so well.”

“Really?”

“Of course,” he smiles. “I only hope your performance in Professor Park’s class improves soon. Otherwise he’ll have to tutor you if you want to keep your spot in his class.”

Your heart jumps. “What?”

“Uni rules,” he shrugs, appearing nonchalant but the knowing smile on his face tells all. “If you fail two exams in a row, that’s what happens.”

You don’t know why he seems so surprised when you turn up in his office a month later with a D-minus and an already leaking pussy. He always knew you were insatiable.

Lucky for you, so are they.

—

comments/reblogs appreciated! i’m not sure im super happy with the ending but we move. let me know your thoughts! love🖤🖤🖤

ateez taglist: @pixie0627 @hon3ysun @bbdeongi @hwaromi @tangerineastronaut @fancypeacepersona @aloevendetta (unable to tag: @lemonkait00 @mylovelymito)

february festival taglist: @hohongsan @nopension

[keeryhours]

real love, baby - chapter one

Billy Hargrove x female! reader

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Billy Hargrove Masterlist

Summary:

You get some life changing news, and telling Billy doesn’t go as planned.

Warnings:

Pregnancy, angst

Word Count: 2.8k

A/N:

Yay a new series! I’ve been dying to write for Billy again. I hope you guys like this, your comments and support mean the world to me.

When Billy had arrived at Hawkins High for the first time, roaring into the parking lot in his blue Camaro and wearing the tightest jeans known to man, he had caught the attention of every girl in school.

Including you.

You weren’t exactly…popular. Actually, you were considered a freak. Best friends with Eddie Munson and proud member of the Hellfire club, you caught a lot of shit from your classmates. You knew from the second you saw Billy Hargrove that you never had a chance.

You had never been more surprised to be wrong.

You knew Billy had a reputation for going through girls like crazy, sleeping with them and leaving them high and dry. Yet you still found yourself falling for him. And when he approached you and asked you out, you said yes embarrassingly fast.

“Asking you out” ended up being a late night trip to Lover’s Lake, making out before moving into the backseat and letting him fuck you. That might sound crude, but there was no better way to describe it. It certainly wasn’t making love.

Your late night visits with Billy became a regular thing. It was kept quiet - Billy didn’t tell anyone, and he acted like he didn’t know you at school. The only person who knew was Eddie, because he was your best friend in the world and you told him everything. He did not approve, but he wasn’t about to tell you how to live your life. He was just scared you’d get hurt.

Which, of course, you inevitably did. But we’ll get to that.

You held out hope that one day Billy might see you as more than a secret hookup, that he might take you out on an actual date and show you off at school, but you knew those were just dreams. Deep down, you knew Billy was embarrassed to be seen with you. He showed up at Hawkins High and became the most popular guy in school - he wasn’t about to let anyone know he was secretly sleeping with The Freak.

This routine worked out for a while. That is, until you had the realization you had skipped your period while you were throwing your guts up before school one morning. Ice cold fear struck into your heart, and you realized you had really fucked up.

That day you went to school looking nearly as bad as you felt. Carol Perkins giggled as you passed her in the hallway, whispering something to Heather Holloway. You had too much on your mind to care. Billy gave you a strange look when he saw you, but didn’t say anything.

You found Eddie, Gareth, Jeff and Grant at your usual spot in the cafeteria. You walked over and took a seat, not even bothering to get anything to eat because it would just come back up anyway.

Eddie did a double take when he saw you. “Jesus,” he said, taking in your messy hair, bloodshot eyes and melancholy expression. “What happened to you?”

The other guys were deep in conversation about the latest campaign. You leaned closer to Eddie. “I skipped my period. And now I’m getting sick.”

Eddie just blinked at you. He looked like he didnt understand - you saw the moment the realization dawned on him. “Oh, shit.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, looking down at the table. “Oh, shit.”

“Did you…take a test?” Eddie whispered, leaning in closer to you.

“No.” You picked at a loose string on the sleeve of your hoodie. “I figured I would go to the doctor so I don’t fuck it up.”

Eddie looked around the cafeteria before his eyes landed on you again. “Do you want me to take you?”

Your head snapped up to meet his gaze. “You would do that?”

Eddie smiled. “Well, yeah, of course. You’re my best friend. I’m not gonna make you go alone.”

You felt relieved to hear that. This was scary enough without having to go through it all alone. “I don’t know how I would have even made it there by myself without alerting my parents anyway.”

“Eddie Munson chauffeur, at your service,” he said with a bow. You snorted.

“Thanks, Eds.”

That evening after school you rushed home before your parents could get there and picked up the phone. You dialed the number for your primary care doctor’s office with shaking hands and made the appointment, not telling the receptionist over the phone what it was for. You figured you’d deal with that when you got there.

The next day passed in a blur. You looked presentable at least, but you had to leave class twice to go throw up in the bathroom. Billy gave you a concerned look when he saw you in the hallway again, but you ignored him.

After school you met Eddie at his van. He opened the passenger side door for you - “My lady,” he said with a dramatic bow - before jumping in the driver’s seat and starting up the old vehicle. You noticed Billy watching you from his Camaro where he waited for his younger sister.

Eddie blasted music over the radio while you drove. It made you feel better because you weren’t in the mood for conversation. The butterflies in your stomach made you feel like you could throw up again. You took deep breaths as he drove to keep the nausea under control. Eddie always drove like a maniac.

He pulled into the parking lot of the doctor’s office, some older ladies standing by their cars giving you a dirty look as the van tore into the parking lot blasting Metallica. Eddie didn’t notice.

He walked with you into the office, taking a seat in the waiting room while you went to reception to check in. You gave the receptionist your name, and she handed you a clipboard and pen and told you to take a seat.

The questions on the forms were standard. Your personal information, health history, medications, etc. By the time you finished with it, a nurse was opening the door and calling your name. Eddie squeezed your knee before you stood, letting you know he was here for support and would be right where you left him.

The nurse had you do the usual tasks - your weight and height, pee in a cup, and they took some blood samples. You waited in the exam room for the doctor, kicking your feet as you sat on the tall table. You felt more like a child than you had in the past few years.

When the doctor walked in carrying a clipboard and saying your name, you felt like you could throw up for the millionth time. He looked at you solemnly, and you knew it wasn’t going to be good news.

“Your pregnancy test came back positive,” he said. “Based on your bloodwork, I would estimate you at about 6 weeks.”

The room spun around you. You suddenly felt way too hot and claustrophobic in this tiny room. You wished you had asked Eddie to come back with you. You felt incredibly dizzy, like you could pass out. This was not happening. It was not happening.

“You’ll need to start taking prenatal vitamins,” he continued, oblivious to your internal panic. “I’ll give you some brochures with information and resources.”

You left the doctor’s office with a handful of pamphlets on pregnancy, birth, babies, and motherhood. Your face was white as a ghost, and Eddie clocked it the second you walked back into the waiting room.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, standing as you approached him and wrapping you in a tight hug. The tears fell as you buried your face in his chest. He stroked your hair, whispering comforting words in your ear. “Hey, it’s gonna be okay. We’re gonna figure this out. You’re gonna be okay.”

Eddie helped you walk back out to the van on shaking legs. You couldn’t stop the tears now. Your life was over. Billy was never going to want to stick around for this.

Oh, god. Billy.

You didn’t even want to tell him. It was going to be a disaster. He was already embarrassed for anyone to know you were hooking up, but for the whole school to know he had gotten you pregnant? He would never allow that.

You were on your own.

Fuck.

You wanted to skip school, but your parents weren’t buying the “I’m sick” excuse. Of course it was the one morning you weren’t throwing up everything you’d eaten the night before. You got yourself together as much as you could, dressing yourself in a band tee and your favorite ripped jeans.

Eddie stayed by your side as much as he could at school. He met you in front of the school and walked you inside to your first class. You were grateful for his support.

It was halfway through first period when the nausea hit you again. Your hand shot up, asking “Can I go to the restroom?” and then sprinting out of the room before you even got a response. You barely made it to the bathroom in time, locking yourself in a stall and falling to your knees as you threw up.

When you were done, your eyes were watering. You grabbed some toilet paper and wiped your face, flushing the toilet and standing up shakily. You straightened your clothes and unlocked the stall door, walking out into the bathroom.

Only to see Carol Perkins, of all people.

She gave you a smug smile, tucking some of her curls behind her ear. “Hope you feel better, Freak.”

You rolled your eyes and pushed past her back into the hall, but you couldn’t help the pit in your stomach, the voice in your head telling you this is very, very bad.

You were surprised that nothing seemed to come of it as you moved on to your next classes. By the time you went to lunch, you were wondering if maybe she just kept it to herself for once.

That bubble was popped by Gareth Emerson.

The second you and Eddie placed your trays down at your usual spots, all the boys looked up at you. Gareth, Jeff, and Grant all looked at you with pity, which made your stomach twist into knots.

“…What?” You asked hesitantly, your blood running cold.

Gareth looked at Eddie, then back to you. “Uh…Carol Perkins is telling everyone you’re pregnant.”

If you weren’t already nauseous, you certainly were now. It was suddenly hard to breathe, your hands gripped onto your tray tightly as you tried to focus and calm yourself, but it wasn’t working. Your breaths were coming in shorter, like you couldn’t get enough air into your lungs.

The feeling of Eddie’s hand grabbing your arm brought you out of it. His rings were cold against your skin, grounding you to reality. Your reality wasn’t that great, though.

“Jesus, are you okay?” Jeff asked.

“It’s not…true, is it?” Gareth asked, his eyebrows raised.

You burst into tears. You couldn’t help it. You covered your face with your hands, crying your eyes out. This seriously could not be happening like this. You knew it would come out eventually - I mean, you could only hide it for so long - but you weren’t ready for it now. You’d only had one night to wrap your head around it yourself.

“Oh god,” Gareth said. “It is true.”

Eddie pulled you into his chest, rubbing your back and giving Gareth a dirty look over the top of your head. “Sweetheart, it’s okay. Calm down.”

“It’s not okay,” you sobbed into his shirt. “Everyone knows. That means Billy’s heard. The whole school has heard. My life here was shitty enough, this is a whole other level.”

“Wait, Billy?” Gareth said, exchanging a look with Jeff and Grant. “Billy Hargrove?”

Eddie gave him another look. He stroked your hair, the soothing gesture helping to calm your racing heart. “It’s going to be okay. I promise. You’re going to be okay.”

Billy flicked the ash off his cigarette before bringing it back up to his lips. He leaned against his car, talking with Tommy Hagan. He was just about to leave when Carol came walking over, smiling like she knew something they didn’t.

“Hey baby,” Tommy greeted her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and placing a kiss on her cheek.

“Have you guys heard?” Carol asked, like she couldn’t wait to say whatever she knew. Billy wasn’t particularly interested, dragging on his cigarette one more time.

Tommy took the bait, however. “About what?”

When it was your name that came out of Carol’s mouth, it grabbed Billy’s attention fully. He glanced up at Carol nonchalantly, but he was listening intently.

“What about that Freak?” Tommy asked with a laugh.

Carol giggled. “She’s pregnant. I caught her throwing up in the bathroom during first period.”

Billy felt sick to his stomach. He tossed his cigarette to the ground, stubbing it out with his boot. “No way that’s true.”

“Why?” Carol asked, furrowing her eyebrows at Billy.

Because you would have told him, right? And he always used a condom. There was no way. “That Freak? No way she’s getting any action.”

Carol and Tommy laughed like Billy had said the funniest thing they’d ever heard. “I don’t know though,” Carol said, “Tina said she’s been running out of class to go to the bathroom all week. She’s definitely knocked up. It’s probably Munson’s. Two freaks in love.” Carol giggled, and Tommy started laughing again.

Billy forced himself to laugh, but nothing was funny. He wanted to throw up himself. “Hey, I left something in my locker. I’ll see you guys later.” He pushed off his car and walked back into the school.

He had to find you. He had to find out what the hell was going on.

You closed your locker as you got the last book you needed for your homework. You had waited until most of your classmates had left, the hallway deserted. The looks from your classmates all day had been enough. You shoved your stuff into your backpack, preparing to leave to meet Eddie at his van.

As you were walking down the hall, the doors opened and you saw Billy walking towards you. You felt like turning and running the other way. As he reached you, he nodded towards an empty classroom.

You thought about ignoring him, about leaving and letting Eddie take you home and maybe transferring schools and never seeing any of these people again. Instead, you followed him into the classroom.

Inside the empty room, Billy was pacing, running his hand through his dirty blonde curls. Your stomach hurt as you closed and locked the door behind you. When you reached him Billy spun on you, his eyes wild.

“Are you pregnant?”

You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath. This was not how you wanted him to find out. You thought you’d have more time, time to think about what to say and how exactly to break the news. Fucking Carol Perkins.

“Yes,” you said, opening your eyes to look at Billy.

He looked horrified. “You’re- it- it’s…mine?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, nodding slowly. “Yeah. It’s yours.”

Billy let out a rush of air. He started combing his fingers through his mullet again, pacing back and forth in front of you. “I- we- there’s just no fucking way. I used a condom every time.”

“Condoms can fail, Billy-“

“Bullshit,” he said. “I mean, yeah, but it’s so rare. There’s…there’s no fucking way you’re- pregnant with my kid.”

“You’re the only person I’ve slept with,” you reminded him, your voice small. You knew you weren’t the only girl he slept with. “And I went to the doctor. They did blood work. I’m definitely…pregnant.” The word was still hard to say.

Billy shook his head. “You- this is fucking insane. I’m not raising some kid.”

Your stomach dropped. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying…” he breathed out another rush of air. “I’m not doing this. Whatever you want from me, I’m not doing it. I’m not ruining my life to raise a kid.”

The tears welled up in your eyes. “So you’re saying you’re abandoning us.”

Billy scoffed. “‘Abandoning.’ I have more to live for than this. I was gonna…I was gonna get out of here.” He laughed humorlessly. “I was gonna get the fuck out of this shithole town. I was gonna go back to California. I…” He shook his head. “I’m not doing this. I’ll give you money for an abortion, I’ll take you to get it, whatever. But I’m not doing this.”

And with that he left, slamming the classroom door behind him and leaving you alone.

The tears really fell then. It was worse than you imagined. You were really all alone in this. Just you…and your baby.

On your own.

tag list

@rincallistis

[lilhawkeye3]

“why do you keep bringing up racism when you talk about the Seam inhabitants, they’re Melungeon, they aren’t Black”

I’m going to hold your hand when I say this:

The Melungeon ONLY EXIST BECAUSE OF SYSTEMIC RACISM. That’s the ONLY REASON it’s even a term for us to use to identify this group with!

There used to be this fun thing called the one drop rule, or blood quantum laws. “One drop” of negro in your bloodline could see you lose any standing in polite white society, or at worst, see you enslaved! A great example of a common way people hid Black ancestry was by claiming indigenous ancestry— hard to trace, and more “noble” to claim (ever heard someone saying their greatx-grandma was a Cherokee princess? Yeah.)

The Melungeons are traced back to a group of families in 1800s Appalachia who were mixed-race. The term “Melungeon” is actually a slur for them, coming from the French word for “mixed” (mélange, thanks @midwesternfields for reminding me I left that out). They were part white, yes, but they claimed mixing with Native American tribes, Portguese, even the ancient Phoenicians (which… don’t get me started).

The thing is— they did DNA tests on the descendants in the past twenty years. The majority of these descendants were found to only have European and African ancestry, not Native American (one or two families were the exception). Being Black was so dangerous and shameful that they claimed a whole new ethnic term for themselves. And I’m not saying that’s bad. I understand why people would do that in that situation. And I agree that they have formed a regional culture of their own in the past 200 years.

The problem is y’all trying to pull the “I’ll accept the Seam people are brown but it’s because they’re Melungeon, not Black!”

Be so ffr. You’re continuing the same racist rhetoric that led to the whole reason they needed to create the term in the first place! You do not have one without the other.

Yes, the Seam population is not largely written as “Black” in the manner District 11 clearly evokes with dark-skinned kinky-haired farm laborers who work at gun point and with the threat of whippings, who have overseers and recognize Lou-Lou as theirs from a plantation hymn. But the commonality is there: Louella McCoy from the Seam had a near enough body double in the form of a Black girl from the fields of District 11 because Louella McCoy and enough of the Seam has African ancestry, because the regional population of Appalachia has it too, even if they still don’t like acknowledging it.

And then maybe you should consider why the easier group to think of as “Black” is the one compared to plantation slaves and field laborers, and not miners despite that history, too.

Anyways. Racism and colorism are a key point of the Hunger Games books and you don’t have one without the other.

this has been another tea time with hawk ☕️🦅

[rambling-at-midnight]

Pros and Cons of Midnight Snacks

Pairing: Jason Todd x Civilian!Reader. No pronouns so can be read as any gender!

Summary: Meet-ugly with the Red Hood due to a gas station robbery gone wrong.

Word count: ~2k

(I'm branching out to other fandoms, apparently. Let me know if you want a sequel. Enjoy!)

You weren't born in Gotham, so it sometimes still surprises you that you had adjusted so well to its particular brand of crazy.

You're from somewhere a little more south of New Jersey, although most places in the U.S. are a little south of Jersey unless you're a lobster farmer from Maine or a tree hugger from Vermont.

Both of those descriptions sound critical, but they weren't meant to be. Right about now you're seriously considering taking up lobster farming.

No one sane ever moves to Gotham. Everyone knows the stories, and even if most of the country didn't believe all of them, most people aren't stupid enough to disregard them. And you certainly weren't stupid. But rent was dirt cheap for a city, and so was tuition for GU's vet school. So you thought to yourself, "How bad could it really be," bought pepper spray and a taser, and accepted the admissions offer.

You'd always liked iced coffee more than green bean casserole and peach cobbler, anyway.

Reading news articles hadn't been enough to prepare you for the utter insanity of Gotham City, unfortunately. But you adapted. You always did. Upgraded your taser, memorized the bus schedule, learned the less sketchy areas of town, did your best not to get caught outside after dark. Kept your head down, ignored the crime lords and genetic experiments gone wrong and lunatics and vigilantes scurrying along the rooftops, and you'd survived for almost two years without many incidents.

But you'd gone to the library because you were critically unable to work in your apartment, gotten distracted by panicking about how little you really knew about next week's test content, and stared at the pages of your textbook for almost an hour as you fought back tears. So now you were running late and it was dark as you walked home because the buses were down. Of course they were. That lunatic that thought he was a crocodile had smashed a bunch last week and they hadn't been replaced yet.

Goosebumps prickle on the back of your neck, but you tell yourself it's nothing. Keep your head down. Criminals target the people that look most obviously paranoid first.

You're just burnt out. Severely. But the end of your sophomore year of veterinary school was looming, which meant you would have a relaxing three-month vacation before the next one started.

And no, you weren't thinking about next year's summer 'vacation' of clinicals. Because if this year was bad after a year of summer vacation, what will it do to you to have no break at all?

That's a future you problem, thankfully.

You're still feeling sorry for yourself when you reach the gas station right next to your apartment building. You walk right by it, remember what's in your fridge or pantry—thanks, grocery store self, thinking you don't need any snacking foods—then backtrack.

Since starting vet school, you've tried to be healthier with your eating habits. Brains lacking in nutrients absorb information less efficiently, after all. But you're still a sucker for Cheez-Its and energy drinks.

You won't drink it tonight, obviously.

Right as you put the items on the counter for the bored-looking cashier to scan the barcodes, something cold presses to your temple.

The cashier freezes, eyes blown wide with panic.

"Easy there," someone says to your left. A man, voice oily in a way that sets your teeth on edge immediately. "Do what I say, or I blow their brains out, then yours."

A gun.

A gun is pressed to your head.

Because of course it is. A shitty way to end a shitty day. You should have kept walking right past the gas station.

Before you moved to Gotham, you might have screamed and panicked, but you know better now. You know to stay calm.

You clench your fists to stop them from shaking so noticeably, but otherwise don't move. You've seen hostage situations before, because this is Gotham, but you've never been the hostage.

The gun feels heavy. And so cold, like it's sapping all the heat from your skin.

"Okay, dude," the cashier said soothingly. "You want the money in the register?"

The robber scoffs. "Obviously."

"All right." The cashier's voice is even and soft, unthreatening. You wonder if training for situations like these are required for cashiers in Gotham. It certainly hadn't been for your old job, although that hadn't been in New Jersey, and it hadn't been at a twenty-four seven gas station, either. "I need to get a key to unlock it, okay? So I'm reaching below the counter."

"Just get the key," the robber demands. The gun shifts against your temple. You fantasize for a half-second about acting like an action hero, disarming him and taking him down all on your own. But you're not a vigilante and you've never been in a real-life fight before. You don't think you're fast enough to get out of the barrel's way before he pulls the trigger. If you managed to shove it away, what if he fired and hit the cashier instead?

Then comes the sound of another gun clicking.

Great, you think half-hysterically. Just what we need. Even more deadly weapons.

"Lower the gun," growls a modulated voice, and everyone freezes.

The Red Hood is standing behind the robber, also pointing a gun to his head like the meme of people lined up in a church with guns aimed at the person in front of them.

The robber lets his gun dip a little bit. Distracted enough that it's not pressed directly to your temple anymore.

Not to brag, but you recover the quickest. It's probably the adrenaline.

Thank God you keep your keychain in hand while out at night. Your fingers shake, but you have your pepper spray up in a second, and the robber's turning to look at your sudden movement when you squeeze down on the nozzle.

The spray hits him directly in the eyes, and his howl of pain is immediate. But you don't stop spraying, even when the cashier starts to splutter and your own eyes water.

The gun goes off, once in the robber's hands, and a second time when it hits the ground because he's dropped it in favor of clutching his burning face.

You stop the stream of pepper spray, because now the air is spicy when you breathe, but can't force yourself to lower your hand. The Red Hood quickly handcuffs the would-be robber, which is only difficult because he's clawing at his eyes in pain, and executes a tricky-looking martial arts move to get him on the ground.

Despite everything, you're impressed.

The Red Hood is bigger than maybe anyone you've ever seen before. He could have punched the robber in half like paper, probably, but you appreciate the finesse a little bit more.

"Hey." A gentle voice, and gentle hands, take the pepper spray out of your grip. "Quick thinking there," you're complimented. By the fucking Red Hood, one of Gotham's most infamous crime lords. The first time you read about him in the papers, he was chopping off people's heads, and every story since has been similarly alarming. But he's not supposed to be here; the Red Hood stays in Park Row, which locals call Crime Alley, apparently, and you've always steered very clear from that part of town.

"Can you look at me?"

You do. Maybe he won't chop off your head if you listen well enough.

"Are you okay?"

You blink. That... does not compute.

The Red Hood doesn't save people. And he doesn't leave Crime Alley. So what's he doing outside of Crime Alley, saving people?

The robber is still screaming, eyes screwed up in pain. He's handcuffed on the ground.

"You should probably let him wash out his eyes, at least," you tell the cashier. "Pepper spray is pretty painful." You'd sprayed yourself once out of curiosity, realized how much it burned, then sprinted to the shower to rinse it off. Which, pro tip: not a good move, especially with warm water. Water reactivates it by opening your pores, or something, and when you're in the shower it just spreads all over your body.

Your eyes are watering. The Red Hood sees that, because he tells you, "Let's get some air," and tugs you out of the gas station.

He's right. The cool night air does feel good. You blink away the stinging in your eyes and he repeats, "Are you okay?" His voice is robotic from the mask, but kind of pleasant at the same time. You'd never guess just from listening to him that he's a killer.

"Yes," you say automatically. "Thanks," you add. You're lightheaded for some reason; you sway on your feet.

"You sure?" he asks critically. "You look... pale." Judging by the pause, 'pale' wasn't the word he really wanted to say. The red helmet tilts. "You weren't shot, were you?"

"I don't think so," you shrug. Then you look down at yourself and realize that there's a large bloodstain on your hip. "Never mind. I think I was."

"Jesus!" he yelps at the sight. It's kind of funny, actually, this grown man built like a brick shithouse yelping at the sight of blood. "Why didn't you say anything?"

You shrug and peel your sticky shirt away from the wound to inspect it. "I thought I just bumped something." Sure enough, it's just a graze. You weren't sure which shot had hit you, but you'd honestly been injured worse. Plus, supervising surgeries at the animal clinic you'd worked at for years has desensitized you to the sight of blood. Maybe it's also altered your perception on what 'serious injuries' count as; the amount of times you've been bitten by startled dogs...

"You need to go to the hospital."

"It's just a scratch," you argue. "I can't go to the hospital. I need to feed my cat."

"Your cat can wait. You're bleeding a lot."

"I'm already late, and if I miss dinner, he'll start pissing all over my apartment."

The Red Hood sighs. "Where do you live?"

Your mouth opens to answer on instinct. You snap it shut just in time and glare. "Why?"

"So I can feed your cat for you while you go to the hospital."

It's nice of him to offer, but... "No."

"No?"

Maybe it's not the best idea to refuse Gotham's most prominent crime lord, but it would also be pretty stupid to tell a strange man where you live. Especially when he happens to be said crime lord.

"Look," you sigh. "I'm a vet student. I have surgical tools at home to treat myself with, and I promise, under the blood, the bullet barely hit me. I've been hurt worse by Chihuahuas that hate the vet."

"There's no way I can convince you to change your mind?"

"It's been a long day," you sigh. "I really, really just want to go home." And he's blocking the path. Your apartment building is directly behind him, just calling your name.

"At least let me walk you to your building." He holds his hands up at your suspicious look and assures you, "I won't ask for the apartment number."

"I'm literally right there." You point.

He turns, sees how close you are to being home, and says, "Seriously?"

"Seriously. What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were some kind of villain."

"I'm reformed," he grumbles.

"Well, good for you."

You make sure you have your keys and your wallet, then step around him and make it all the way to your building's door before he calls, "Wait!" The Red Hood's jogging to catch up to you, holding the box of Cheez-Its and energy drink you'd almost died for. "You forgot these," he says.

"Thanks," you say, taking them. It would have been a shame to waste four dollars.

"You're welcome," he says. There's something odd about his voice, but you attribute it to the mask, scan to be let into the building, and make sure it's fully closed before heading to the elevator.

Your cat is unhappy about dinner being an hour late. He weaves between your feet, making his protests loudly and viscerally known. You wince. He's worse than the dogs that bark in this building sometimes.

Your poor neighbors.

You give him his wet food, then hop in the shower to clean off your hip. It bled a lot, but once the blood washes away, it's actually not as bad as you thought. You've stitched up animals before, but never yourself, and decide against trying tonight. If it heals a little unevenly, who cares? No one will see it, anyway.

You pad the wound with gauze, tape it over, and fall into bed. Staring at the ceiling, you're forced to admit to yourself that you may be looking up more in the future. Just to see if anyone in a red helmet is running on a rooftop nearby.

It was a long day. But, strangely, almost dying wasn't the worst part of it.

Actually... it may have been the best part.

~~

Forever tag list:

@lemirabitur @annymcervantes @queenmissfit @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @iksey @thehyperactiveteen @luxmoonlight @andreasworlsboring101

[suzukiblu]

Day seven of February’s second weekly WIP behind the cut, final day ( and still TECHNICALLY in before midnight!! ); “mistaken identities and interdimensional refugees”. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

“Well, we’ve arrived at your final resting place, Mr. Kent and young Mr. Kent,” Alfred informs them mildly as he turns off into the driveway up to Wayne Manor, which absolutely cannot actually be the local Bruce Wayne’s actual base of operations. Kon doesn’t care if the dude thinks he’s a version of Clark, there is no Batman who would just bring a couple of strange Kryptonians home without at least locking some blue K on them, whether one of them is a scared ten year-old or not, and the local blue kryptonite won’t even work on them! 

Except the moment the car stops in front of the front door and he can focus his TTK without the wheels spinning blurring anything, he absolutely can in fact feel the Batcave and all the connected cave systems that are sprawling underneath the place and clearly, like, functional and active. 

Really, he could feel that even through the wheels, they weren’t going anywhere near fast enough to actually blur his senses, but he just assumed he was somehow hallucinating that or something. Except he is definitely not, because he definitely does feel it. His X-ray vision is blocked by lead-heavy mineral deposits and there’s soundproofing and temperature control in the way of his super-hearing and infrared vision and knowing Batman there’s probably some random magic shit he got Zatanna to set up mixed in there, but his TTK can still feel a very obvious Batcave down there without even trying. 

Which, like–TTK is not really a power most people know to plan for or know how to plan for, given it’s basically just him and Match who have any remotely-developed versions of it and Match’s is kinda fucked-up with some of the degradation issues and all, and even red sun and kryptonite don’t totally cancel it out–plus those both have to be directed at him to do anything anyway, not his TTK itself–so like, yeah, in a reality where he maybe does not even actually exist–apparently does not even actually exist–prooooobably the local Batman did not ever solve that particular puzzle, no. 

This is definitely a trap. This has gotta be a trap. 

Alfred gets out and opens the car door for them with a polite incline of his head and Kon gets absolutely zero bad vibes off him, and has literally no idea what the fuck is going on with this weird-ass reality. 

“Okayyyyy,” he says slowly, and gets out of the car. Jon gets out behind him and grabs the back of his jacket, pressing up close against his back. Alfred closes the door; gives them both a pleasant little smile. 

“Allow me to get the door,” he says as he heads for said door, and also: “Earl Grey or oolong?” 

“Assam,” Kon says at the exact same time as Jon–zero percent surprisingly–says “Ceylon,” because all else aside, that was absolutely a test. Alfred never serves a guest Earl Grey unless he wants them to fuck off immediately and can’t be trusted to make oolong without putting milk in it, which is a crime against a drink that Kon doesn’t even particularly like but also a crime that he absolutely cannot handle right now. 

“Of course, sirs,” Alfred says, sparing them both a briefly thoughtful look before opening the door and holding it for them. Kon doesn’t really know what to take from that; did the guy expect something different? 

. . . actually, what does Clark drink when he comes over, Kon genuinely does not even know, he has been in the Batcave maybe four or five times max, and basically every single one was an apocalypse-level scenario that Batman was not actually on-planet for, except for the one time it was an apocalypse-level scenario that Kon was the only Kryptonian-class heavy-hitter who was League-vetted on-planet for. Which sure had been . . . an experience, as an experience. Like, a very weird and annoying and frustrating experience. Also Luthor’d already hacked his comms earlier that day to say some snide bullshit and try to boss him around about how to deal with said apocalypse, so that hadn’t really helped with his mood at the time either. 

But yeah, either way, he’s definitely never drunk Bat-tea with Clark. He’s pretty sure he’s only seen the dude drink coffee or whatever Ma’s got the kettle, in fact. So like, god knows what Alfred’s even thinking right now, because given Kon’s luck he either picked the exact thing Clark always drinks or something Clark just straight-up fucking hates. 

Probably the latter, given, again, Kon’s luck. 

This is totally a Bat-trap and they are totally gonna die here and he is totally gonna be embarrassed as fuck about it, he thinks resignedly, and then just heads into the manor with Jon still basically clinging to his back and seeming nervous again. 

“Thanks, man,” he says to Alfred, and then feels–

Oh, okay. That’s actually even weirder, Kon thinks, and tips back his head to blink up at the landing at the top of the entryway stairs where a presumably-local-but-who-knows Dick Grayson is leaning over the railing with a delighted grin on his face along with the “even weirder” sight that is a Jason standing next to him and squinting down at them speculatively. Like, a Jason in civilian clothes and the actual manor, not in vigilante-grade kevlar and the Batcave.  And like, he’s a lot less ripped than Kon’s version of the dude–like way more slender and maybe even a few inches shorter, which: what the fuck?–but he’s undeniably a Jason Todd. 

Also his hair’s black? Like. Fully black, no white streak or anything? 

So yeah, weird, Kon notes. 

Alright, well, maybe somebody’ll explain why there’s a Jason Todd who’s apparently willingly here to him after the local Batman shows up so he can explain himself to the whole Bat-belfry at once as opposed to having to go through multiple repeats of the same information and also, again, just in case this reality or this Bruce Wayne happen to be clone-racists or what the fuck ever or just have any opinions about “biological determinism” or any bullshit like that. Because that is still very much a conversation he wants to have in person and not–

“Oh my god, has Dad seen you yet?” Dick asks with a gleeful cackle, leaning even farther forward over the railing, and Kon blinks, a little startled. 

“You call him Dad?” he asks in reflexive bemusement, and Dick snickers at the question and folds his arms on the railing with an artful shrug. 

“Well, not in front of Vicki Vale and her peers or anyone with a recording device, but yeah,” he replies easily. “Take it your personal reality’s a couple decades behind ours, though.” 

“Actually–” Kon starts, though he has literally no idea how he’s gonna finish, but Jason’s already leaning forward too, bracing his hands on the rail and wrinkling his nose with a dubious expression. 

“Jesus fuck, who let twunk Uncle Clark wear designer?” he snorts. 

. . . okay then. 

“My date to the gala I was at before the multiverse got drunk and fell off its ass bought it for me,” Kon replies incredibly, incredibly dryly. Dick and Jason both blink in their own obvious bemusement, their heads cocking in opposite directions. 

“Your date bought it for you,” Dick repeats slowly. “For a Gotham gala.” 

“Yeah,” Kon says. 

“How the fuck did Aunt Lo afford that getup?” Jason asks, looking even more bemused. 

“She did not,” Kon says, because fuck it, whatever. “Like, Lois is cool and all but I could not handle her. Also, she is very, very married to both her Pulitzer and her husband. But my boyfriend's love language is 'spending his vast family fortune on unnecessary amounts of gift-giving', so like, not so much a concern?” 

“Your boyfriend?” Jason repeats incredulously, and Jon frowns in confusion and peers up at Kon’s face. 

“You’re not dating Mom yet?” he asks. “Mom married somebody? And you date–boys? That’s, like–okay?” 

“It is very okay, actually, but I reiterate: I am not Superman,” Kon says with a sigh as he gives the kid’s head a heavy pat, given it’s about the eightieth time he’s said it by now. “But also I don't wanna explain myself to every single Bat in the belfry one by one, so could we maybe convene somewhere and I can riff up a metaphorical Power Point or something?” 

“Uncle Clark, are you dating our dad?” Dick demands, looking torn between further delight and low-key horror. Kon stares at him. 

Alright, he probably brought that one on himself, considering. 

[0mg-bird]

Something Positive- S. Reid

Spencer Reid x Fem Agent Reader

Summary: 99 negative things and 1 positive. How will it ever turn out okay?

Warnings: season 7, mentions of pregnancy, pregnancy fear, nausea, mention of miscarriage talks, Spencer being scared and probably says the wrong things 😭 anyway, fluffy, but also depressing themes. I haven’t finished proofreading, oops lol idc.

You’re supposed to know your body and every little change it makes because, well, it’s your body.

So blame this all on your brain that often skips over the small things that it should really pay attention to. You could have suspected this earlier if you would’ve just slowed down for two seconds, but what difference would it make if you came to the conclusion earlier?

Absolutely none.

The test in your hand would still be positive and you would still have the feeling you do now.

A mixture of fear and devastation.

Spencer isn’t in the apartment you just moved into a month ago, he’s at Rossi’s with the rest of the team like you’re supposed to be. But you played the flu card and forced him to go without you. Then you forced yourself to the corner store and bought two pregnancy tests, a back up for good measure. It isn’t needed, the two lines are almost bold as they stare at you. The dates of the calendar back it up, as well as the queasiness about you.

You’re pregnant.

You. You are pregnant.

That can’t be.

You throw away the test, all the evidence goes into the trash and you try to calm your racing heart. You wash your hands and your face, though tears just keep falling no matter what.

This really wasn’t supposed to happen, it shouldn’t be happening. You’re traveling so often for cases, and there’s so much going on with the team. Emily just came back from the dead, literally, that’s already too much to deal with, you don’t need to add anymore stress to the team. You’re no help if you’re pregnant.

Spencer won’t be any help either if his main concern is you.

Staring at your reflection, you suddenly don’t feel real. You rub your eyes and push your hair back, overwhelmed with so many feelings, you can’t distinguish one from the other.

You do know one feeling from the rest.

The urge to bolt.

Blame the hormones, but you quickly leave the bathroom and slip into a pair of shoes, then grab for your coat and keys, and just like that, you’re gone.

Wandering aimlessly, you suck the evening air into your lungs as you walk the streets, past shops and people with different lives. You’re lost in thought, no better than a zombie as you continue to wipe your eyes.

It took you and Spencer long enough to even get together, you just finished placing your things in his apartment, there’s no room for a crib. He has far too many books, he’d have to sacrifice even more space for things a baby needs. The both of you work odd hours and sleep in bad motel rooms and fly all over the country and get shot at. You aren’t an expert but that doesn’t seem healthy.

There is no room for a baby in your life. Period.

The team has only experienced pregnancy with JJ and-

JJ.

Your friend who would know exactly what to do and how to help, the friend you have given the cold shoulder to ever since you found out that she let you mourn Emily, your best friend, for weeks and weeks. She let you cry and talk about how hard things have been for and Spencer, especially Spencer, and she didn’t say a single thing that she knew Emily was okay.

You have a feeling of bitterness now to join your emotion smoothie.

Up ahead, you see a tired mother trying to pull her crying toddler out of a drugstore. Her hair is tied up, she’s tugging at the child, giving up on arguing with him.

You turn around and decide home is actually where you need to be so you don’t vomit up your nerves in public.

When Spencer comes home, you’re sitting at the bottom of the tub, cheek to your knees as the spray of the shower hits you from above. You hear him take off his shoes and coat and walk to the bedroom, more than likely changing. He’s definitely tired.

He knocks on the bathroom door, checking on you.

“Hey, you feeling alright, angel?”

You sigh. He’s so perfect, arguably the best thing that’s ever happened in your life, and you’re going to ruin him with this news.

“I’ll be out in a second.” You call back, smoothing your hands over your hair, then look at the rings on your fingers.

Sliding one from your right hand to your left, you decide your ring finger just is going to stay bare.

“They missed you tonight, Emily said that you call her first if you need anything.” Spencer says as you rub lotion into your skin while sitting on the edge of the bed.

You hum.

“I think she’s just overcompensating, but she means well.” He claims, pulling the covers back.

You can’t tell him tonight, it’s not the right time. Instead you’ll just get some sleep, laying on your side, facing the window. As Spencer lays behind you, you push away his hand that splays on your stomach.

He goes a little stiff with confusion, but holds your hip without question, then whispers he loves you, like he does every night.

You live out a routine for the next following days to come. You wake up tired, you tell Spencer that you never get over the flu easily and that’s why you have the urge to throw up at any given second. When you’re tired of laying on the couch, you go back to work where everyone shares a look at how moody you can be.

“Is everything…okay?”

You look up from the evidence photos to find Hotch.

Most of the team is out all over the town you just got in, trying to solve the disappearance of three young girls.

Hotch suggested you stay at the police station with him for a while, giving Spencer some air after you snapped at him for no apparent reason.

“Everything’s fine.” You say, looking back down at the crime scene pictures.

“Is everything alright with you and Reid?” He pushes.

“Yes, we’re fine. I just hate it when he hovers, drives me crazy.” You huff, not giving him your attention.

Hotch had always been a sort of father to you. Almost like how Gideon was a mentor to Spencer, Hotch tried his hardest not to act like it but he was always very protective of you. No one could really blame him, he helped you through many things over the years, and along the way he became your family. So it makes sense that he’s questioning you now with a furrowed brow.

“I want you to know that if something is going on and you felt like you were alone…you aren’t. The whole team would move mountains for you.” He says in a very fatherly tone, a tone that has always seemed to affect you but never in the way it does now.

You quickly blink away tears and nod. “I just don’t feel well, but I’ll be okay.”

It’s quiet for a moment, and as Hotch looks you over, he proves how good of a profiler he really is. Slowly, he sits at the table and takes the papers from your hand, which is probably good, you’ve been staring at them for too long. Your eyes lift up to him.

“Does Reid know?”

Three words, and you want to flee.

“No.” You say hoarsely.

He nods in understanding. “This isn’t something you can do alone, but I understand if you need some time away to figure things out.”

You wrap your arms around your stomach, something you’ve been doing subconsciously. “This is my job.” You say.

“And it’s really stressful, so if you need some downtime, I’m glad to give it to you.”

Nodding, you understand. “Don’t tell anyone.” You ask of him, knowing he’d never betray you like that.

For two moments, you have a sense of peace.

And then Spencer and Morgan return, causing you to slip a mask back on and pretend you’re fine.

By some miracle, you get through the case and get home without any problems. Spencer on the other hand is convinced that you’re going through a mental break.

“Still tired?” He asks gently, at the end of the week, sitting on the bed and rubbing your leg as you bury yourself in the comforter.

You wordlessly nod, then try to sort out your thoughts.

“Baby?” He calls softly, a name he hardly ever calls you. “I think we should take you to a doctor.”

“Why?” You croak.

You know why. Spencer thinks you’re depressed, which you can’t really blame him, you’ve been laying in bed most of the day, turning your nose up at the idea of food, knowing it will all just make you feel sick. Your boyfriend is a great profiler, he notices your odd behavior these past couple days but he still can’t figure out why.

“I’m…I think they can tell you what’s wrong with you- not that anything is wrong with you but…there’s something wrong, isn’t there?”

Bless him and his softness he unconditionally shows you, but you just don’t have it in you to match his tenderness.

“I’m fine.” You state, tone not meaning it.

Before he can deny it and rub your leg again, you sit up too quickly and flee him, foolishly thinking he’ll stay put. Spencer is a golden retriever, though, so he follows loyally, only for the bathroom door to be slammed in his face.

“I’m concerned about you, okay?” He calls, voice muffled through the wood. “And I get scared when you just brush it off, brush me off.”

You stand at the sink, head drooped. The tears start slow, they fall into the basin. What was wrong with you? You have a man as good as Spencer and you’re ruining everything.

You fall into a dangerous storm of negative thoughts, all aimed at you like it’s target practice. The tears fall much quicker now, hot and sticky, your hand presses to your mouth to keep the sobs away.

Spencer hears you squeak, and immediately opens the door you should have locked.

You turn to face him, dropping the hand to your stomach.

His features twist into something of sadness and utter concern, he’s standing in front of you in just two steps.

“What is it?” He questions, holding your face in his hands, thumbs wiping at your tears. “What’s wrong, pretty girl?”

You can’t. You have to say it but you can’t.

A breath shutters through you and you shake your head. “Spence.”

“I’m right here, it’s alright.” He promises, so adamant that he can help.

“I…”

“Just breathe-”

“I’m pregnant.”

You’ve never seen him stop talking so fast. His mouth hangs open for a moment, then it closes.

All the years you’ve known Spencer, he’s never been at a loss for words. He’s trying so hard to just say something and he can’t. Maybe it’s the fear in your eyes that has him drawing a blank, maybe it’s the fact that he’s come up with ninety nine possibilities and this is the one he didn’t imagine.

“Okay.” He says after a heavy silence. “Okay, that’s, well it’s definitely something.”

Your tears don’t stop, in fact they might just fall heavier now.

He’s mad- no, he’s upset. He doesn’t want this and now everything is ruined. Your fears are coming true.

You pull his hands from his face, then brush past him.

He calls your name. “Wait, I don’t mean it like that. I just didn’t think about this, I haven’t planned for this yet.”

You pull one of his sweatshirts on and slide into your sneakers, not bothering with the laces before you slip from the apartment with a sense of deja vu, vanishing just like that.

- - - -

You’re not even sure how you got here, you’re sure you look like a wreck, but it’s too late to turn back now.

The door opens and JJ’s face morphs into confusion.

“Hey, Jay.” You try to smile, but when she opens the door wider and pulls you inside so quickly, it’s hard to maintain a composure.

You ramble, she lets you. For ten straight minutes you go on and on about everything, because you’ve had all of these thoughts bottled up and now you resemble something of a ship sinking beneath the waves. You apologize, you’re so sorrowful and tell her how wrong you are for saying all the hurtful things you said to her. She sits beside you on her couch while Will is upstairs with Henry. At some point she starts crying too because that’s what best friends do when their other half is saying she doesn’t know what to do. By the end of the confession and rant, you physically can’t cry anymore and your nose is red, face splotchy, and you just look at her, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Slowly, she takes your hand and says your name, grounding you.

“No one is going to say this to you so I will.” She says. “You’re not a monster for being scared.”

Your lungs exhale and she continues.

“But all of these concerns are just anxiety, they aren’t real. You can still do your job, the team won’t hate you, you are capable of doing this, life isn’t going to fall apart.”

She’s so sure, you’re practically forced to believe her.

“Spencer.” You mumble, watching as she takes a breath and nods like she knows.

“Reid is…Reid has the highest IQ and still doesn’t know the right thing to say. But this is news you sprung on him and he’s never had to deal with this sort of thing. He’s scared too.” She reminds, a little more honest with her words now that you’ve calmed down.

Just as you open your mouth to say something, her phone rings from its spot on the coffee table.

She squeezes your knee and grabs for it.

“It’s Spencer.” She says before answering it.

You can’t hear exactly all the words he says, but based off JJ’s reaction, he’s clearly panicked.

“Spencer- hey, slow down. It’s okay. No, she’s here with me. She’s fine.”

You feel guilty, so incredibly guilty. You left your cell in the apartment, not bothering to bring it with you, and the idea of Spencer freaking out because he has no way of reaching you, has your stomach churning.

Or maybe it’s the fact you’re starving.

Canons of your self destruction fire off at yourself, you’re sitting with your head hung as JJ talks him down. This wasn’t her job, this was yours. He’s your partner.

What are you doing?

As she hangs up, she gives you look, knowing you’re already heading for the door.

“Be easy on him, okay?” She says, squeezing your shoulder. “It’s gonna be alright.”

What a simple thing for her to say and a not so simple thing to do.

You go home, trying to rehearse conversations in your head. Surely, you look odd on the subway, whispering to yourself, trying to anticipate what Spencer will say. A few people shuffle off at a stop, and the seat across from you opens up. A woman takes it, she has a baby wrapped in a sling, it’s napping with its head on her bust and when she pulls the cover back, you can see it’s perfect round head. She gently strokes its fuzzy, brown hair and hushes it softly when it stirs.

Maybe life wouldn’t be so bad if that were you, feeling your child’s warmth.

When you get to the front door of your apartment, you take in one final breath and decide you can face the music.

You open the door, kick off your shoes and are immediately feel the rug getting yanked out from under you.

“You can’t just storm out!” Spencer says rather loudly, giving the reaction you didn’t want. “And leaving your phone here? Giving me no way to reach you? I called everyone!”

He’s angry.

“I was with JJ.” You say softly.

“Well, I know that now.” He huffs.

Shrugging off your coat, you gently approach.

“I’m sorry I worried you, please don’t shout.”

At your meek tone, Spencer immediately softens, scorning himself for being abrasive. He runs his hand over his face, rubbing his eyes, trying to get himself back in check.

“I’m sorry. Can- can we just sit down and talk about this, please?” He asks, moving to sit on the worn couch.

After a second, you follow.

He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He wants to reach out and touch you, but given the way you seem to shrink into yourself, he just rubs his knees over and over again.

“How long have you known?” He asks, though he has some estimates.

You slowly breathe out. “A couple weeks.”

His lungs burn. A couple weeks?

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Your fingernails dig into your palms. “I was scared…I’m still scared.” And all that work to avoid his eye, you finally meet that puppy dog look of his and immediately break down.

You just can’t seem to stop crying. Why are you crying all the time?

“I’m so scared, Spencer, I’m so scared.” You shudder out, and those hands he awkwardly kept to himself are now pulling you to him, cradling your head to his chest and putting your legs in his lap.

“Hey, I know, I know. And I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did, I made it worse, I’m sorry.” He whispers into your hair before moving his lips to your forehead. “I was surprised is all.”

“You aren’t mad at me?” You tremble, gripping his shirt. Never in your life have you been this clingy, and if the circumstances were different, you’d be embarrassed by this child like behavior. Spencer doesn’t mind it at all, he’s holding you like he’s the glue keeping you together.

“I’m not mad. I’m a little sad you didn’t tell me sooner, but I’m not mad. Why would I be mad at you?”

With his fingers in your hair, you take a few quick breaths. “I ruined everything.” You say as a cry.

He hates those words that just came out of your mouth.

Spencer shifts, pulling back to look at your face, red and tear streaked.

“Hey.” He coos. “You haven’t ruined anything, sweetheart, don’t even think that.”

Sniffling and wiping your eyes, you shake your head. “My career is over, the team is going to be inconvenienced, and you- you’re never going to be able to do your job the same. All the work you’ve done, it’s just ruined, I’ve done this to you.”

He cups your damp cheek. “Stop, stop. Listen to me, can you do that?”

You shut your mouth and nod.

“Good.” He says. “Now, you haven’t done anything wrong. It takes two to tango, yeah? The team is going to be elated, Penelope is going to throw this biggest party ever. We worked it out when JJ had Henry, we can do it again.”

There’s a way he can say all these things and it just makes sense in your mind. You nod along, this makes him smile.

“And as for me..” He tucks hair behind your ear. “I would give up all my degrees, I’d throw away all the progress and work I’ve done if it meant the only thing I had in my life was you and a baby that’s my own.”

You love him. You’ve never loved him more than you do now, in this moment, starving and crying and so scared. That’s why you lean forward and press your trembling lips to his, trying to steal the oxygen from his lungs.

Spencer is willing to breathe into your open mouth, even if it meant he’s have no part of himself left that was just his. In his mind, he doesn’t want Spencer to be Spencer, he wants your imprint in every part of himself so he’s no longer just him.

He kisses your hairline and then places your back in that space between his collar bone and jaw, it’s carved only for you anyway.

“Tell me everything that scares you.” He instructs, finger circling your bent knee.

You can’t say ‘everything’, so you say what you can form into words.

“It’s so soon, we haven’t talked about this yet.” You start.

“It’s a little early, but we have a home and a stable income and I love you and I want this if you want this.” He says so simply, as if he’s bandaging a paper cut.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, I could be really bad at it.” You state.

“We’ll figure it out together, I don’t know what to do either, but no one really does. But there is no way you will be a bad mom. That’s my professional opinion.”

You laugh lightly, he grins and subtly squeezes you.

“But what if it all goes bad? What if I can’t make it healthy, what if I…what if I lose it? Spencer, I don’t think I could live with myself if I was the reason you don’t get a living, breathing baby.” It hurts your chest to even say.

Spencer gently shushes you. “We won’t let that happen. We’ll make sure you’re healthy and doing everything you can to prevent that.”

You let that ease you into silence, then you wipe your eyes once more because you can’t stop crying.

“We’re not married.”

Did you say that out loud?

You must have because Spencer hums, not startled, but he mulls it over in his head.

“Does that matter to you?” He asks, genuinely curious. And you don’t know how to answer because you didn’t think it did.

But you said it, it’s been on your mind…so yeah, it might matter.

“Yeah, I guess…I don’t know.” You sigh, nudging your nose against his neck.

Spencer considers it, then hums like he does when he understands something. “Then we’ll get married.”

It’s the way he says it, so easy, makes you shake your head. “No, I don’t want you to marry me just because I’m pregnant now. Besides, planning a whole wedding is stressful.”

“That’s not why I said it, lovely. Yeah, we’re having this conversation because you’re pregnant but I want to marry you because it means something to me too. I don’t want to do life with anybody else besides you.” He states, dropping his chin to the top of your head, keeping you close to his pulse. “And a big wedding isn’t our style anyway. We can go to the courthouse right now if it’s what you want. Tomorrow you’ll have your name changed- or keep it, if that’s what you want.”

How perfect, how wonderful he is, and how lucky you are to be doing this with him.

Breathing in his scent once again, you nod. “I want to have the same last name as our baby. Oh god, our baby. That’s the strangest thing I’ve ever said.” You gently laugh.

“I like hearing it, though.” He says, a boyish smile, though he’s never been more of a man than in this moment.

You didn’t think your day would end like this, and perhaps this decision isn’t properly thought out, but the two of you want this.

You make it to the courthouse house just as they’re about to close, with the flashes of your credentials, they make a few exceptions. You don’t have rings, that part will get figured out later, and you there’s no grand catering, just Chinese food on the living room floor. It’s all perfect though, because you’re married and so in love with him and he’s giving you the last egg roll.

“You know, I didn’t think it was possible to be so hungry and nauseous at the same time.” You say, slurping up a noodle, washing it down with a Coke.

“You know, the fetal placenta produces a hormone called human chorionic gonadotropin that’s rapidly increasing, and if the mother is more sensitive to it, then they’re more nauseous.” Spencer states factually, proud that his knowledge applies to this.

“How do I cure it, Doctor?” You ask, a fond smile on your face.

“Don’t skip meals, like you have been doing. No more of that. We’re going to have to call your doctor tomorrow, and start prenatal vitamins. You know, if we push the dresser into the closet and shift the brown bookshelf over a few feet, that will free up space for a crib. You’ll want a side sleeper bassinet though, it slides right next to the bed so you don’t have to get out of bed as often.”

Having a baby with Doctor Spencer Reid was like having the next nine months planned out for you. As he rambles on with all the things that will need to be done, you laugh and lean over, kissing him to get him to pause.

“What was that for?” He asks, kissing you once more.

“I love you, that’s all.” I smile.

Tracing your jawline with his finger, he grins right back at you. “I love you too.”

After a moment, you speak again. “Am I a doctor now?” You ask.

“What? No.” He shakes his head.

“I’m technically Mrs. Doctor Reid.”

“Angel.” He laughs.

“That’s Doctor Angel to you.”

[miaoua3]

hey im sorry but can you make a hcs like the one you did for seungcheol and make it for mingyu? im sorry and i wanna tell you i love all of your writing so baddddd hehe keep on writing girllll im rooting for you

hi! first of all thank you so much for the nice words! you’re support really means a lot to me guys, it’s the reason why keep on going even on the days where i feel tired and not motivated enough to do it😭🫶

second of all, by “hcs like the one you did for seungcheol” i feel like you’re talking about the spicy one’s? but since someone already asked me for both soft and spicy one’s i hope you won’t mind that i will do soft hcs as well?

anyway, again, thank you so much for your support, hope you enjoy this!

Mingyu Boyfriend Headcanons:

•(sfw! hcs):

will literally follow you around the house all the time, you could be doing some chores and he will just follow you, maybe help a little, and yap 100 miles per hour, and when you don’t pay attention he will pull on your shirt until you look at him and say while pouting “babe you aren’t even listening to me, pay attention to me 3:(“

smitten, in love and absolutely whipped are some of the ways to describe mingyu since he met you and you two started dating, he’s always just staring at you with his big boba eyes and smiling gently, if it were socially acceptable (read: if the members weren’t around) he would probably be kicking his feet too

the cuddliest teddy bear ever, he will hug you no matter what you are doing- standing in front of a hot stove with boiling oil sprinkling everywhere? he’s on your back, hunched due to his height and leaning his head on your own (also complaining when a bit of oil sprinkles on his arms), standing in front of him and scolding him about something? his hands are locked around your waist while he pouts at you for scolding him instead of kissing him :( you get the gist of it lol

goes without saying but he’s constantly cooking you-breakfast, lunch either to bring to work or at home, and dinner, he’s constantly cooking for you, making you taste test everything and absolutely cooking way too much than you can eat, if you try to cook something for him for a change because you feel bad that he’s cooking that much when his schedule is much more packed than yours he will just be like “ 3:( baby what did i say about this?”

he’s so hyperactive that sometimes you have hard time catching up to him, he constantly wants to be doing something, be it sports or go out with friends and sometimes you just want to rot in your bed for 3 days straight- and ofc he won’t make you do anything you don’t want to, it’s just that he will probably pout all the time while doing the said activities and come home earlier because he missed you too much

hugs you to death when you two sleep together, to the point you need to smack him to go easy on your intestines or you will puke on his silk sheets lol

loves doing skincare together, it’s just relaxing doing it together while you two yap about your days, helping each other apply things correctly, and it always makes him feel easier seeing you taking care of yourself, he always worries that because he’s so busy he can’t see if you’re doing your best to take care of yourself (mentally) so seeing you being so happy and enjoying yourself while you two are doing this together makes him feel at ease

•(nsfw! hcs):

is definitely a service dom, so eager to please you, won’t stop until he feel you shaking with pleasure and sees tears streaming down your pretty face

LOVES PUSSY MORE THAN AIR, if he could, he’d be living between your legs, just lapping away at your clit while you trash in his hold, your legs over his shoulders, feet pushing at his back, whenever he’s giving you oral best believe he isn’t stopping for the next several HOURS (rip girl lmao), he just love how you taste so much, he’d literally just be moaning in your pussy and if he comes in his pants from just eating you out? well that’s nobody’s business but his (and yours by default)

has a praise kink too, but unlike the other boys who like to praise you, he want YOU to praise HIM, just grabbing his hair and moaning in his ear how good he’s fucking you, how big he is inside of you, how he’s simply the best for you-and if you let a little “good boy” slip out? well, let’s just say he will be cumming really quickly and that it will make him even more motivated to make you feel good

definitely gets off seeing your tummy bulge, just seeing how far inside of you he is and how your stomach moves when he is too gets him off like nothing else, makes his head spin and makes him moan so loudly (wonu definitely hates you two rabbits lmao)

insist on seeing jesus at least once a week by making you sit on his face, there’s nothing better than feeling your entire weight on his face, your smell surrounding him while he’s eating your pussy like its his last supper, and the fact that you aren’t touching and he isn’t able to grind on the bed how he would if he was just laying down between your legs? well, let’s just say mingyu might have a little thing for having his orgasms be delayed a bit (but don’t tell the gang, they will never shut up about it lol)

one of his favourite positions has definitely got to be cowgirl, just seeing you on top of him, bouncing up and down his big dick, struggling from time to time so he has to guide your hips or take matters in his own hands and fuck upwards into you, you tits bouncing as well- there may not be a heaven on earth but he comes close to it every time you ride him til he sees god

has stamina of an animal, can and WILL go for hours to no end, in the end you will just be with your face pressed in the pillow and ass in the air, totally limp so mingyu will have to hold your hips to keep them in the air, moaning away while he chases his high (he will take care of you afterwards and if he sees you literally can’t do it anymore or that it’s causing you more harm than pleasure he will immediately stop, dw)