#articles say there are quite a few changes

[poirott]

A Haunting in Venice Advanced Screening Reactions

An early screening of the movie was shown at the El Capitan Theatre in Los Angeles, California, USA, September 7 2023, to largely positive reviews.

The Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel's Blossom Room had a spooky setup, fun photo-op backdrop for selfies, masked Venetian gondoliers floating about, and the film's costumes on display!

Source (Photos): stacilaynewilson, dennis.tzeng, asadayaz, idkgravity, joerussotweets, izumihasegawa, zack.quin Instagram Stories

[noisilyscreechingsong]

It’s canon that Jason Todd had a brother named Danny Todd. All we know is he died being a look out for a local gang. Who’s to say he didn’t die at the age of fourteen and come back? Maybe the Fentons were investigating the levels of ectoplasm in the area and somehow got their hands on an amnesic kid who died and didn’t quite stay dead? Perhaps they wanted to make him their side experiment, or they wanted to see if they can teach it to be good and not evil. Who knows. But as soon at Danny steps foot in Gotham, the entity of Gotham is there to greet him, welcome him home and remind him of who he was. And does he remember.

Danny is just a year or two younger than Dick and he was supposed to be starting a new job in the R&D department of WE. Instead he’s pushed back his start date to do research.

Of course, the first thing he looks up is his family, his original family that he can’t believe he forgot, to find out his mother, his father, and his little baby brother are all dead and buried. He has to take a break to sob uncontrollably on the kitchen floor for a while before gathering himself back up to find out what happened. He is unimpressed with the lack of information on Jason’s death, but he did find lots on his adoption to mister rich guy Brucie Wayne.

So it’s with almost no hesitation that after finding every single article and snippet he can on his brother and still find it lacking, he drives his motorcycle, that he built himself thank you, to Wayne Manor where he rang the buzzer repeatedly with a little too much force.

It takes him a while to finally bully his way through the gates, arguing with the butler and telling little white lies of ‘of course I don’t want to harm Mr. Wayne, I just need to ask him some questions’.

Sure he could have waited and got close to him through his new job or had some other cunning plan, but Danny has always been a straightforward kind of person and that didn’t change after his death. No, he prefers to get what he wants straight from the source.

That’s how he ends up pacing the length of the sitting room the British guy left him in with a deep glare and tense shoulders.

It was a nice place. Clean. Taken care of. Expensive. Jason lived here once upon a time. Too bad it didn’t last.

Mr. Wayne does show, surprisingly, and takes the time to assess him like a threat as he BS’s him with a ditzy expression.

Danny walks right up to him and sticks out his hand to shake because Jazz raised him with manners.

“Mr. Wayne,” he greets with a stiff nod.

Mr. Wayne hesitantly takes the offered hand.

“Uh, nice to meet you, I’m sorry, Alfred didn’t tell me your-“

As soon as the handshake is over Danny socks him with a right hook straight to the face. The force throws him back a few steps but he recovers quickly. Danny shakes out his hand.

“My name is Danny Fenton. Before that though my name was Danny Todd.” He sees Wayne’s eyes widen a bit in recognition. The next part didn’t really need to be said but he did it anyway. “My little brother was Jason and no I don’t have proof so you’ll just have to take my word for it. You are going to tell me exactly how he died and I’m not leaving here until you do.”

His words had fallen back into his Gotham Crime Alley accent with how emotional he was. He forgot how he even used to talk. How does that even happen?

He walks back to sit on the couch, getting comfortable because he has a feeling this guy will drag this out like pulling teeth.

“I’ll ask Alfred to get some refreshments,” Wayne says after several minutes of silence.

“You do that.”

[ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat]

i can fix him - spencer reid x fem!reader

reader makes it her entire life's purpose to restore the spark she's sure spencer reid used to have before prison turned him gray but it doesn't quite work out...

genre: angst with some smut wc: 1.3k warnings: post prison but no spoilers, grumpy x sunshine, sunshine!reader, age gap (reader is 25), lowkey enemies to lovers, spence chokes an unsub, sex used as manipulation, unprotected sex, teasing a/n: anon request!!! based on i can fix him (no really i can)

“He hasn’t been the same since he got out.”

The words rang delicately in the back of your busy brain like a constant dial tone. A conversation with Penelope brought forth a realization in you.

When you joined the BAU, replacing the youngest member with your fresh face and a childish desire to make the world a better place, you thought of Spencer Reid as untouchable. He was rational, scientific, gathering all of his beliefs from the articles he cherished. He was right, always. Every last syllable that left his chapped but plush lips was guaranteed to be the uttermost truth. Cited, sourced, and verified.

At first, it was irritating and unbearable. You couldn’t say one word without an infuriating, “actually,” following.

The fact that he practically ignored your existence didn’t help.

It wasn’t until an enlightening comment that your view changed.

“A day in a prison, how fun,” you had said.

Garcia, ever the one to gossip, had replied with, “yeah, poor Reid, I wonder if he’s going today.”

“Well, why wouldn’t he be?”

“You don’t know. Oh, you don’t know!”

Her eyebrows raised as her mouth gaped. But then she looked away, as if telling herself to keep quiet. “He should really be the one to tell you. Or Emily! Even–uh–okay, okay, I'll tell you!”

And so you sat, wide-eyed and shocked at the things she described so easily. All of it was bad. She had mentioned his mom and drugs which honestly left you confused.

Every time you looked at him, you saw the shadow of a man he has every right to be. You saw a heart that could grow three sizes if given reason.

You knew he wasn’t always this way. You could see it every time his eyes lit up when he was about to lay some new information on the team. Right before he was shut down.

Because nobody really cared about the guy who only has seventy-two items to his name (including his underwear).

You saw the way he looked at you.

With a longing–a pondering that you found yourself wanting to know its meaning.

The rest of the team communicated their impression with how wise you were despite your amount of acquired wax candles.

He never blinked.

You figured it had to do with his already large amount of knowledge. But it felt like more. Every time you contributed to a case with a smile that proved your pride, he stared at your profile almost like he could picture the day you would dwindle. And he never once allowed an UnSub to come near you.

It was like he couldn’t figure out if he wanted to protect your innocence or ruin it altogether.

Something that used to infuriate you now seemed so… insignificant.

It was wrong, you knew, to be feeling so sad for a grown man, but it came on its own. His random facts now intrigued you.

You were sure he picked up on the change in your demeanor. Because he changed too.

When you laughed at an unfunny joke, his lips would curl into this nervous but confused half-frown-half-smile that you were now determined to make last.

And so, with the knowledge that your very own laughter cracked his tough armor, you decided to take it further. You wanted him to be who he was before all the hurt. You knew you could bring back his spark if you tried hard enough.

An optimist at heart you were.

It started how it was destined to–with a convincing kiss.

Strategically, you asked for help with organizing your bookshelf. A few lingering glances and he was right where you wanted him.

Your lips met and you knew your plan would work.

Spencer was touch starved. The second you straddled him, he was yours.

All of him crumbled the first night he spent in your bed.

And then he never left your side.

Like a puppy, he followed you around and did everything you said.

It started with small things. You asked him to smile more, say “good morning” to Anderson, and remember that bad people will still be bad even if he stays the night at the BAU.

It worked too.

He was happier. He made jokes, he laughed, he did physics magic.

You trained him almost like a dog, praising him after every time he did something nice for someone else. Because–according to Garcia–he came to work and went home unlike how he used to be.

Since you, a younger, outgoing adult, forced yourself on him, he came out a bit.

O’Keefe’s was now familiar with him. Thanks to you, that is.

And, of course, an older man, you didn’t mind. Spencer was older, experienced. He made you feel grown. And you could fix him. You turned a cold, antisocial man into a silly, awkward man again.

But there were still setbacks.

For one, he allowed his anger to come through when he thought you were in danger.

There was a day where an UnSub was taking young girls who reminded him of his ex. You just so happened to resemble that ex perfectly.

When you cleared the bathroom, you forgot to check behind the shower curtain. A mistake you were sure had been made before quickly put you in the way of Spencer. His hand had wrapped around the guy’s throat so hard you thought he might actually kill him. Apprehending him against the hard tile wall, his eyes met yours in a silent scolding.

The EMT’s fingers brushed the wound on your forehead as she bandaged the cut. Spencer’s converse came into view but you didn’t look up.

Not until he spoke.

“Are you… okay?”

Two pairs of glass eyes met and you watched as his struggled not to dwell on the bandaid. “I’m fine,” you said.

But you resented how he couldn’t be the version of himself the world deserved.

For months, he’d been perfect, how come he couldn’t stay that way?

Your twenty-five-year-old brain wasn’t enough to fix the much older man in front of you. You thought that if he smelled enough strawberry lip gloss he’d change and become a boyfriend. Yet that change never happened. He didn’t seem as grumpy or isolated, sure, but it wasn’t enough for you.

You strived to fix him.

You remembered the first time you slept together.

“What are you doing?” Spencer asked, rolling his eyes.

You simply hummed, pressing another kiss to his jaw. “I was thinking… maybe… we could have some alone time? Just the two of us. Before O’Keefe’s?”

“I already told you I’m not going to the bar.”

“Maybe you’ll change your mind? Be nice to a few people? I’ll make it worth your while…”

Another sloppy kiss to his neck.

“How about that?” you inquired softly.

No answer came, only a harsh kiss. His tongue parted your lips and his hands slid under your skirt. In a second, your panties were pushed over. His belt went to the floor.

You wasted absolutely no time in running yourself over him and sinking down immediately onto his length.

Spencer’s mouth dropped as he grabbed your ass. It burned every time he slammed into your cervix but you took it, because the look on his face was everything. Groans left him every time your hips met.

A quick, frenzied pace was set. It was pathetic how fast he unravelled.

Furrowed brows and a scrunched nose gave away how long he was going to last.

“Already close?” you teased.

“God–”

And he was coming inside you, messing your skirt effectively. But you couldn’t resist.

You felt him throb as your hips rose and fell slower. “Stop it,” he croaked.

Graciously, you nodded, pressing a sticky kiss to his lips. Your head found a resting place on his shoulder.

“O’Keefe’s?” you suggested after a few beats.

Of course, he agreed.

Because who was he to disagree with you?

[multifandomgirl08]

The End of An Era [Mini Verstappen Series]

Dad!Max Verstappen x Mother!Reader (Established Relationship)

Summary: A chapter all about Max's retirement from Formula 1. The Article announcing his retirement. And the last race of his F1 career.

Warning(s): N/A

A/N: Finished writing this during qualifying of Abu Dhabi 2024.

Words: 2.8k

Previous Part → Next Part Mini Verstappen Masterlist

October, 2029

It had been a quiet night in. Max had been unusually quiet during dinner. Nikita was asking Max questions about helping him put his train set back together since he had found out how to take it apart. Nico ended up changing the subject pulling Niki into talking about the model car sets that he had gotten for his 9th birthday. Nik was sitting in his high chair eating, and you were holding Nicole as she drank from her bottle after eating her way through a packet of rice crackers.

You had helped Max clear the table while Sophie had taken the kids into the family room downstairs to watch a movie. Max was cleaning the dishes, and putting everything into the dishwasher. You had put away the last of the leftovers, and looking back you saw how tense Max's shoulders were.

You walked up behind him, placing one of your hands at his side before pressing yourself up against his back, almost as if his broad shoulders were sheltering you from the outside world.

Max stopped scrubbing at the pan, gripping the sponge in his hand. You pressed your chin into the back of his left shoulder.

“You okay?” You asked.

Max gave what looked like half a nod back before you heard the sponge drop into the sink with an almost audible Splat. He moved to turn around, and moved back only slightly.

“I’ve been thinking about retiring.” He said leaning back against the marble counter. You widened your eyes at his words. You didn’t know that this was on Max’s mind. You knew that he had another year on his contract with Red Bull, you just thought that when Red Bull offered him a new contract you could talk about it then, not now.

“Do you want to retire?” The current season wasn’t over for another month. If he wanted he could call it quits this year, Red Bull would have to take the hit for his contract.

“Maybe after next year.” Max moved his hands down to your sides, pulling you into his chest. His hands, although wet, were warm against the loose shirt that you wore. “They are like family to me. I can’t do that to Christian, or anyone in that garage.”

You would never ask Max to retire. It wasn’t your place. He loved racing and you would never ask him to give it up. You know that Red Bull had become like a family to Max. Christian and Geri were like a second set of parents in a way. Not just when it came to Max, but they were also a set of grandparents to your kids.

“Always, I’ve wanted to do more than just Formula 1. But now, with the kids…” He started to say and then stopped himself dropping his eyes down to the floor. “I also want to be home and spend time with them. Maybe racing in a category with a shorter schedule would be for the best.”

“You could always take time off,” As the words left your mouth, you could see Max’s brows furrow in discontent, quickly lifting his head to meet your eyes. “Not now, but once you want to retire or you feel like you’re ready. Take six months off before jumping into anything new.”

You had to think back to when you had thought about no longer working and staying home with the kids full-time, but ultimately you loved your job and thought you would be setting a better example for your kids in the long run. It was about 4 months after Nik was born. You couldn’t bear the thought of having to leave your kids with a sitter all day even if you had been working from home. Your job still took time away from them. So, you took a few months of letting someone handle a few of your clients, and not long after you found out you were pregnant with Nicole. Sometimes it was hard working with both yours and Max’s schedule but you always managed to find a way to make it work.

“I will be out of shape if I choose to get back into racing after.” You could tell that Max was running the logistics over in his head, weighing the pros and cons of stopping for a while.

“You can always hire a trainer.” There were probably hundreds of trainers who would kill to work with Max to get him into racing shape for whatever he chose to do after Formula 1.

“I don’t know.” He said at first as if he was going to move to hang his head, dropping his chin to his chest. He pulled his head up quickly. “Them, you, mean everything to me.”

Max pulled you into his side, pressing a kiss to your temple. “It is a year away.” He muttered into your hair. “I will figure something out by then.”

“Whatever you want to do Max, we’ll be there.” You couldn’t help but run your fingers over the white gold band of the Rolex that you had gotten him just after Nikita was born. It no longer had three birthdays engraved on it but five now.

NEWS

Eight-time champion Max Verstappen to retire from Formula 1 at the end of the 2030 season

F1 Corresponder & Journalist D'Angelo Markus

14th August, 2030

It was announced earlier today that after the end of the 2030 season, Max Verstappen would not be coming back in 2031 with a new contract from Red Bull.

The Dutchman, who made his debut with Scuderia AlphaTauri at the 2017 Australian Grand Prix. Verstappen was the youngest driver to ever make an F1 debut at the age of 17,  a record that he will now forever hold as the FIA had changed that particular rule because of him.

Verstappen won all eight of his championships with Red Bull, four from 2021-2024 and the remaining four from 2026-2029 and is first on the all-time list of Grand Prix winners with 115 victories.

WATCH: Max Verstappen’s 10 Best Overtakes

Verstappen had a few tough years when he was first called up to Red Bull resulting in various engine failures. With the regulation changes, Red Bull and Max were able to capitalize on them pulling out various championship wins with Max at the helm season after season.

Ahead of the Belgian Grand Prix, Verstappen - who races alongside Isack Hadjar - announced that this would be his 15th and final season in Formula 1.

“My championship runs were very different from one another. The first four were in no way easy despite what 2023 looked like. There were constant obstacles from not just outside people but the team as well.” Verstappen said. “The last four were very different as my family was growing as the championships were happening. The team always had my back and year after year were able to give me the best possible car to compete with.”

“I wish them all the best in for the coming season. Being able to work with Adrian [Newey] when he was here, Christian [Horner], Helmut [Marco] who believed in me when I was younger, and GP [Gianpiero Lambiase] who has been a great engineer to work with.”

READ MORE: ‘I have so much more to offer racing then just being a driver.’  - Read Verstappen’s retirement statement in full

When asked about why he was retiring he had this to say, “I’ve achieved so much during my time in Formula 1, but after having won eight championships and being able to achieve that. It’s time to focus on my family. I love this sport and I won’t ever stop racing in some way. But it’s time to watch my children grow and be there to support them in their chosen endeavors.”

On the cusp of winning his 7th world championship, Verstappen’s daughter Nicole was born on the Monday before Verstappen would head to Abu Dhabi for the last race of the season. She’s the youngest of the four children that he has, three of them with his wife Y/N Verstappen. At the time there was a rumor that Verstappen wouldn’t be in Abu Dhabi because of his wife giving birth.

“I thought when my daughter was born I wouldn’t win the championship that year. I wasn’t even sure if I would go to the race, but my wife said, ‘Go, it’s a few days she will be without you but when you come home, even if you don’t win. You will get to hold her and know that you did your best during the race because you were fighting to come back to us.’ She was right, I fought hard to come home to them and walked away with the championship as a result.”

The points race was close that year by a small margin compared to years past being very reminiscent of his first World Drivers Championship in 2021.

After winning and accepting the trophy, Verstappen was quick to leave the track and fly back home to be with his wife and the new addition to his family. The day after he had won the championship, he posted a picture with his family after he was back home in Belgium. His daughter in one of his arms with a glass of champagne in his other hand, in celebration of his recent win with his wife by his side. His three other children were absent from that particular picture.

“Another long season, another win to share with those I love most.” His caption read.

“It will be tough to say goodbye to the team that I have known for my whole career in the sport. I am still a part of the Red Bull family, I will just be racing in a different category in the coming months if everything goes well.”

“I feel like I have so much more to offer racing then just being a driver, I have my own team ‘Verstappen.com’ where sim drivers have to opportunity to go from racing online to being in a real car. It’s something that I’ve been passionate about for years and I’m very excited for this to further come to fruition now that I will have more time to focus on that.” Verstappen said when he was asked what he plans to do after Formula 1.

November 24, 2030

Max didn’t think this day would ever come. Y/N and the kids were in the paddock today for his last race in Formula 1. Nico had been hanging out with Christian for most of the morning on the pitwall, Niki and Nik were with GP in the garage, and Nicole was holding Y/N’s hands. His daughter who had just turned two a few days ago had slipped away into Max’s arms tugging at his race suit wanting to be picked up.

“Papa,” She whined, with a tug of his sleeve. Max lifted her up and placed her on the table in front of all of the screens. Nicole pressed her face into his shoulder while he was talking with Jonathan. He tried to keep one of his hands on Nicole’s back while he was trying to explain something with his hands that had happened during qualifying the day before.

About 20 minutes later, Y/N and the kids were behind the viewing area in the garage. He fist bumped the boys, kissed Nicole on her forehead, and quickly kissed Y/N on the lips while running his finger over her chin. He pulled away from them putting his balaclava on, then slipped on his helmet before climbing into the car.

Getting through the race would easy. He was starting on Pole.

“Radio check for the last time Max.” He heard GP say.

“Loud and clear, GP.” He said. GP told him that it would start in a minute, and he could see the other mechanics pull the tire covers away from the car and some leaving to go back behind the pitwall and the others back to the garage. He was given the all clear for the formation lap, drove around the track before he was back before the start line. Another minute and it would be lights out and away we go for the last time when it came to racing in Formula 1.

Max kept his eyes on the track, taking in GP as he told him about engine settings during the race. He called for a pit stop for new tires, and Max finished off that lap before coming in. He had sat in the car, watching the mechanics work before he was off again out of the pit lane and onto the track again.

He overtook a few of the younger drivers on the grid, Doohan, Bearman, Piastri… Pink, Red, Orange…

“Max, strat 7, strat 7.” He heard GP over the radio. He immediately pressed the needed button on his steering wheel and made the adjustment that GP gave him.

A few laps later there was a yellow flag called, debris needed to be cleared off the track after a collision between Williams and Audi. Then before Max knew it GP was in his ear again, “Okay Max it’s up to you. You can come in for fresh tires and go for a fast lap or just ride it out till the end.”

Max knew what that meant. One last lap. He didn’t even have to think, “I’ll box for softs.”

“Box then.” GP replied.

Max kept driving before he made it to the pitlane and then drove through for a set of fresh softs. He met the mechanics, felt the car go up for a moment, the used mediums being taken off the car and the new set of softs be bolted on before the car was placed back down. It took him half a second to start driving to exit out of the pitlane. He exited the pitlane, and then did everything that he could to push for one last fastest lap. Max knew that he was pushing the car as much as it would let him, but he couldn’t help but feel that everything was slowing down as he got to the start of the long straight of the track.

The track was clear ahead of him. He kept on until he knew that he had made it across the line and the checkered flag had been waved.

“Max,” He heard Christian in his ears. “Thank you for everything you’ve done over the years mate. What a way to finish off your last race in F1, Pole, top step of the podium, and a fastest lap. It’s been a pleasure.”

Max knew that Christian was just saying this for the radio message. He would be seeing Christian in about a week for Niki’s birthday, and then again for the FIA Prize Giving.

“Yeah, thank you Christian. It’s been a ride. I said that I wanted to do this for 10 to 15 years more, so these years with the team have meant so much. Sending my best to the team, I’ll miss seeing them.”

Max kept driving before he finally heard GP chime in. “Well done, Max. It’s been special working with you.”

“Yeah, I’ll miss working with you too GP, racing won’t be the same.”

Max managed to pull his car up and then to a stop behind where the number 1 plaque was. He went to remove the steering wheel and then carefully got out of the car, placed the wheel back and then stood on top of it with his arms up in triumph.

He stepped off the car and ran towards the mechanics for the last time into their waiting arms. He got head pats before being placed down, moved to take off his helmet and then got weighed before leaving it on the stand. He looked out further to see Y/N and the kids around her, Nicole in her arms, Nico ever present at his mother’s side, with Niki and Nik doing their best to lean over the barricade.

He walked towards them, embracing his wife as soon as she was in arms reach. He had pulled away, only for Nicole to hug him and yell, “Papa!” into his ear, he had squeezed her to his chest for a moment before letting go. Then the boys all tried to hug him at one time awkwardly piling on top of each other, and it almost felt like he was being embraced by all of the mechanics again even though they were his own sons.

He had walked back over to where the other drivers were, exchanging handshakes and congratulations, some even saying goodbye as if they would never see him again. He looked out to the Abu Dhabi circuit one last time, and then turned to Will Buxton, who was waiting to ask him questions.

He had walked over getting ready for what Will threw at him because after today he would no longer be a F1 driver. His time in Formula 1 had officially come to an end.

Mini Verstappen taglist: @karmabyfernando, @barcagirly, @sachaa-ff, @iamahallucinationnn, @glow-ish, @nonsensical-nonsence, @champomiel, @gothicwidowsworld, @lighttsoutlewis, @itsalwaysgay, @mynameisangeloflife, @ursforever129, @aundercover, @bborra, @mindless-rock, @cixrosie, @barcelonaloverf1life, @konsti081, @mellowarcadefun, @brekkers-whore, @thedecalcomania-blog, @xoscar03, @em-gvf01, @haikyuen, @shelbyteller , @geniusalpaca, @princessria127, @mysticalnightenthusiast, @green-thots, @leah-also-known-as-creatoronwp, @ellelabelle, @lilypat, @dreamercrowd

[dostoyevsky-official]

not only did the NYT propagate anti-trans stories feeding today's EO ban and refuse to acknowledge elon's nazi salute, they went vichy-media mode by banning paul krugman from the op-eds:

Last month I retired from my position as an opinion writer at the New York Times—a job I had done for 25 years. Despite the encomiums issued by the Times, it was not a happy departure. [...] I believe that the story of why I left says something important about the current state of legacy journalism.

[...] During my first 24 years at the Times, from 2000 to 2024, I faced very few editorial constraints on how and what I wrote. For most of that period my draft would go straight to a copy editor, who would sometimes suggest that I make some changes — for example, softening an assertion that arguably went beyond provable facts, or redrafting a passage the editor didn’t quite understand, and which readers probably wouldn’t either. But the editing was very light; over the years several copy editors jokingly complained that I wasn’t giving them anything to do, because I came in at length, with clean writing and with back-up for all factual assertions.

This light-touch editing prevailed even when I took positions that made Times leadership very nervous. My early and repeated criticisms of Bush’s push to invade Iraq led to several tense meetings with management. In those meetings, I was urged to tone it down. Yet the columns themselves were published as I wrote them. And in the end, I believe the Times — which eventually apologized for its role in promoting the war — was glad that I had taken an anti-invasion stand. I believe that it was my finest hour.

So I was dismayed to find out this past year, when the current Times editors and I began to discuss our differences, that current management and top editors appear to have been completely unaware of this important bit of the paper’s history and my role in it.

[...] In 2024, the editing of my regular columns went from light touch to extremely intrusive. I went from one level of editing to three, with an immediate editor and his superior both weighing in on the column, and sometimes doing substantial rewrites before it went to copy. These rewrites almost invariably involved toning down, introducing unnecessary qualifiers, and, as I saw it, false equivalence. I would rewrite the rewrites to restore the essence of my original argument. But as I told Charles Kaiser, I began to feel that I was putting more effort—especially emotional energy—into fixing editorial damage than I was into writing the original articles. And the end result of the back and forth often felt flat and colorless.

One more thing: I faced attempts from others to dictate what I could (and could not) write about, usually in the form, “You’ve already written about that,” as if it never takes more than one column to effectively cover a subject. If that had been the rule during my earlier tenure, I never would have been able to press the case for Obamacare, or against Social Security privatization, and—most alarmingly—against the Iraq invasion. Moreover, all Times opinion writers were banned from engaging in any kind of media criticism. Hardly the kind of rule that would allow an opinion writer to state, “we are being lied into war.”

I felt that my byline was being used to create a storyline that was no longer mine. So I left.

That’s my story. What are the broader implications?

[...] What I felt during my final year at the Times was a push toward blandness, toward avoiding saying anything too directly in a way that might get some people (particularly on the right) riled up. I guess my question is, if those are the ground rules, why even bother having an opinion section?

[...] On a somewhat different issue, it became clear to me that the management I was dealing with didn’t understand the difference between having an opinion and having an informed, factually sourced opinion. When the newsletter was canceled, I tried to point out that I was almost the only regular opinion writer doing policy. Their response was to point to other writers who often expressed views about policy, economic and otherwise. I tried in vain to explain that there’s a difference between having opinions about economics and knowing how to read C.B.O. analyses and recent research papers. It all fell on deaf ears.

[reniberries]

TRIPLE THREAT . choi seung-hyun and kwon ji-yong

extras . chapter one sneak peak

summary: in which three of the biggest k-pop idols in 2016 can’t seem to stay away from each other, even as the media tries to tear them apart.

warnings: choi seung-hyun x female reader x kwon ji-yong, polyamorous relationship, smut, angst, toxic industries

total wc: 508 words

31/12/2023 . Y/N’S APARTMENT . 12:34

You had told yourself you weren't going to read the bloody article. That you didn't care what the world had to say about you anymore, and that anyone who was still using your name was only doing so for nostalgia's sake. Even the stupid title was pissing you off, 'looking back on Korea's biggest idols!', how utterly ridiculous, it had been almost six years since the world had heard from you, yet they were treating your name like you'd been dead for two decades.

It took a few seconds of scrolling to find your own name, kindly placed at number three out of the mere fifty-odd names mentioned.

'L/N Y/N, more commonly known as SOL, was one of the most well-known idols between the years 2013 to 2017. her unique alternative sense of fashion, and her hybrid mix of Korean pop and rock set her aside from other idols around this time. Having signed with YG Entertainment, who wanted to defer from the typical idol aesthetic, solo artist Y/N was used as a test to kickstart this new sub genre of K-pop.' Where did they even get this information from? Wikipedia? Famous birthdays?

It wasn't incorrect, per se, but the wording left an icky feeling lingering inside your stomach. They'd made you seem important, as though you'd actually managed to make some kind of change within the industry. You had tried, God, you tried, but there was only so much you could say when nobody was willing to listen.

Against your better judgement, you kept reading.

'As part of the YG family, Y/N was well acquainted with their other artists, such as BIGBANG and 2NE1, and has participated in many collaborations with the aforementioned groups.' Christ Almighty, you were half tempted to throw your laptop across your living room. Technically, you had asked for this, to relive the past, but actually reading it, seeing the words on your screen, brought the memories of your past crashing down on you in waves.

You should have stopped there, as soon as you'd caught a glimpse of their names written in an ugly font. Perhaps it was curiosity, or some sort of morbid punishment for yourself, that forced you to read on.

'At the beginning of 2018, L/N Y/N was involved in a series of controversies relating to BIGBANG members Choi Seung-hyun (T.O.P) and Kwon Ji-yong (G-Dragon). After a whistleblowing incident, it was revealed to the public that Y/N had been partaking in the act of smoking marijuana, along with rumours of an inappropriate relationship between herself and the two aforementioned males. These issues were detrimental to her fall in fame and respect as an idol.'

That was the last straw. The one that made you slam your laptop shut and quite literally chuck it to the other end of the couch. Then, you yelled. Screamed until your throat became raw and then screamed some more.

As if they knew the truth, as if they knew anything about you and the people you love— loved.

author’s note: hi! the amount of love shown to triple threat already has been so nice to see, and i’m super happy to share the story! i thought posting a little sneak peak would keep you guys excited for the first chapter

�� reniberries . please do not copy or repost my work on any other platforms !

[mirroredmemoriez]

A collection of Amanda Young’s outfits (PT 1)

As the title states, this is just all the outfits I can source from Amanda Young from the franchise but also any game adaptation too. This will be broken into parts because of the image limit.

1.) The Reverse Bear Trap (RBT) outfit

One of her most iconic and recognisable fits. She has a purple tank top with matching sleeves to go alongside, presumably kept in place by the pink bands on her upper arms? Amanda in this wears a black skirt with ripped fish nets and kinda shiny boots- Other things include the eye makeup, nail polish and the only time we ever see her have the clawing panther tattoo on her shoulder.

2.) Rockstar outfit

I've generalised this as the ROCKSTAR outfit- Because this specific shirt comes up a few times, not just in that cut scene. It seems there is actually two shirts? The blue graphic one on top and a grey one underneath. Amanda's hair and jackets change! There is the light grey jacket and then the black one and even things like how heavy her makeup is are different... The main place we see this look is when she is setting up Adam for his game. Of course she has boots on as always and I guess I'd call the jeans she has on cuffed? One extra is she has a watch on.

3.) Junkie outfit

BECAUSE I WAS A FUCKING JUNKIE!!! Anyway, with this I had to brighten the image to see what the design on the tank top was... From there I went, ''I think I've seen this before...'' And yeah, I had- Shawnee Smith has worn this logo a few times, so that's why I've added the last two images for a clearer reference. Amanda here looks quite gaunt and sickly and we can't see the rest of this outfit such as trousers.

4.) Visitor outfit

I'll dub this the Visitor outfit because of the badge of course- I would say this likely is Amanda's most simple outfit? Black shirt and skirt. The most striking thing about this look is the RBT scars she has... It's also one of the only times outside of Saw 3 we see Amanda with a ponytail! I can't lie when looking at her hair here, it almost looks two toned in places such as the side burns? Almost grey in parts? (Edit: This may be a dress actually.)

5.) The Red Pig outfit

This is my personal favourite when it comes to her in movie pig looks. She has a red coat/cloak which the length goes all the way down to her boots- Looking there I think the lower half from seeing the cuffed like jeans is probably the exact same as her Rockstar outfit. Her eye makeup is heavily smudged and the mask itself in my opinion is one of the best shaped pig masks, with what seems to be ''blood'' coming out of the eye sockets and black slash brunette hair.

6.) Bow Dress/Clinic outfit

This scene and the follow up is so depressing but she's so cutesy here- It's a simple black dress, but the bow is very Amanda. I have no clue whether the shoes she has on in the first image are actually apart of the outfit or just something Shawnee had on whilst testing it out. 7.) News Report/Scott Tibbs outfit

May be my overall favourite Amanda outfit.... She has on a grey hoodie jacket, possibly another article of clothing from her Rockstar outfit? Her iconic skull sweatpants with a belt and then boots that I would say are more akin to her RBT outfit. I can't really tell if the shirt she has got on is layers or just has different materials- Amanda's RBT scars are also very visible in this look.

8.) Suffocation outfit

At first I started doing these as two separate outfits? One for when she kills Adam, the other for when she wakes up from her nightmare- However, I'm pretty sure this is the same outfit through and through. Amanda has on a long sleeved orange shirt with a grey tanktop over it. The jacket is leather with noticeable silver studs and she has on cargo type trousers and as always... Boots.

9.) Nightmare outfit

Another personal favourite! Once again we get to see the skull pants and this is how I was able to gage the material a bit better. I honestly have no clue how to describe the specific items of clothing she has on her upper half? A corset type shirt going on? Details I enjoy are the safety pins around the shoulder and bottom half and she has a watch on.

10.) Saw X outfit

I decided to not have this pig look separate. Anyway! This is Amanda's most recent outfit with Saw X having come out in 2023.... Simple grey t-shirt alongside cargo trousers with a belt. The boots she's got on are very combat/work like and Amanda also has a black choker and earrings here- Her coat/cloak is black with red detailing such as the cuffs and the inner lining.

[theonottsbxtch]

MATCH MADE IN HELL PT2 | MV1

an: and ladies and gentlemen, one of my favourite versions of max i've written following preacher's daughter

wc: 2.9k

part one | part three

SHE SHOULD HAVE KNOWN IT WOULDN'T BE THE END OF IT.

A week later, Nathan was at it again.

His latest interview had dropped that morning, and it was already spreading like wildfire. The headlines were all the same. “Carter Speaks Out: ‘I Don’t Know Who She Is Anymore.’”, “Nathan Carter Breaks His Silence on Ugly Breakup”, “Carter: ‘She’s Not the Woman I Loved’”. All of it perfectly curated to paint himself as the wounded party.

She read the article once, twice, then threw her phone onto the sofa in her driver’s room.

She should’ve expected it. The man had been a manipulative little snake their entire relationship. Why would it have changed now?

Still, it pissed her off.

The door swung open without a knock, and Max strolled in like he owned the place.

He’d been doing that lately.

“You see this shit?” he asked, tossing his own phone onto the table.

She shot him a look. “Do I look like someone who hasn’t seen it?”

He snorted, dropping onto the sofa beside her. “Didn’t think so. He’s getting desperate. He wants people to like him.

She grabbed her water bottle and took a slow slip, jaw tight. “It’s pathetic.”

Max leaned back, arms stretched over the top of the sofa, watching her. “So, what’s the big plan?”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

He gave her a look. “You’re not just gonna let this slide, are you?”

She tilted her head, studying him. “Why do you care?

Max exhaled, shaking his head. “I don’t.”

She arched a brow.

“Alright, maybe I do,” he admitted. “I just hate the way he gets away with this bullshit. Like he’s some innocent victim.”

She let out a slow breath. “Yeah. Me too.”

For a moment, they just sat there. Not quite friends, not quite enemies. Somewhere in between.

Max’s phone buzzed on the table. He glanced at it, then sighed. “They want us at the fucking media pen.”

She smirked. “Don’t sound too excited.”

“Oh, I love answering the same five questions over and over again,” he drawled, pushing himself up. “Highlight of my week.”

She shook her head, standing too. They walked out together, heading towards the inevitable shitshow of press.

Just before they reached the paddock, Max slowed, glancing at her.

“For the record,” he said, voice low, “I meant what I said last week.

She met his gaze. “About what?”

Nathan. The press conference. The way he’d stepped in without hesitation.

Max held her stare for a second, then smirked. “That you owe me.”

She rolled her eyes, shoving his shoulder as they stepped into the flashing lights of the cameras.

Yeah.

Things were definitely changing.

The media pen was its usual chaotic mess, cameras flashing, microphones shoved too close, journalists circling like vultures.

She kept her expression neutral, giving the same rehearsed, carefully worded answers to the first few questions. Max was a few feet away, leaning against the barrier with his press officer waiting for his turn, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

Then, inevitably, someone brought up Nathan.

She was mid answer when she caught the shift in the journalists’ posture. A smirk here, a glance there. She knew that look. Someone was about to start shit.

The reporter stepped forward, eyes alight with manufactured curiosity. “There’s been a lot of talk about Carter’s recent interview. He said he doesn’t even recognise you anymore. That you’ve changed. What’s your response to that?”

She felt the heat creep up her spine, but before she could speak, Max cut in from the side of the barrier.

“Oh, she’s changed alright,” he said, voice dripping with amusement. “She’s in a faster car and winning races. Must be so hard for him.”

Laughter rippled through the reporters.

Her lips twitched.

The journalist, clearly thrown, tried again. “But he’s saying-”

Max didn’t let him finish. “Yeah, yeah, we all know what he’s saying. Poor Nathan, the man’s been absolutely terrorised by the consequences of his own actions.” He tilted his head as the camera panned to him. “Tragic, really.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, fighting back a smirk.

The interview moved on, but the damage was done. The clip would go viral in minutes.

Once they were finally free, she turned to Max, walking beside him through the paddock. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

He grinned. “Obviously.”

She huffed a laugh, shaking her head. “You’re gonna make this worse.”

Max shrugged. “So?”

She stared at him for a moment, something unreadable passing between them. For all his arrogance, all his sharp edges, Max had been the only one to publicly stand by her side through this mess. Not just in a ‘teammates’ way, but something else.

Something she wasn’t quite ready to name.

Max glanced at her, something flickering behind his eyes. “Anytime.”

And just like that, he walked off, leaving her standing there, pulse just  a little faster than before.

The flirting started slow. Almost too slow for her to notice, until suddenly, it was a thing. 

It started during one of the team’s social media shoots. Red Bull, as always, loved shoving cameras in their faces, forcing them into ridiculous challenges for the fans. Normally, she just went along with it, answering the stupid questions, playing the games, smiling when necessary.

But this time, Max was involved.

And that made things different.

They were filming a game called Truth or Hot Wings, which in her opinion, was basically a corporate approved way to stir up drama while forcing them to eat wings slathered in ungodly amounts of spice that their trainers definitely wouldn’t approve of.

The rules were simple: Answer the question or eat.

The first few questions were easy. Racing memories, funniest moments, all the usual. Then the media team got bored of playing nice.

“Who’s your least favourite driver on the grid?”

She barely had time to think before Max answered for both of them.

“Nathan.”

The Red Bull media team lost it. Laughter, gasps, someone actually clapped.

She blinked at Max, torn between shock and amusement. “Did you even hesitate?”

He smirked, plucking a wing from the plate out of pure hunger this time. “Why would I?”

She laughed, shaking her head, but didn’t argue.

The questions kept coming. The wings kept getting hotter. And somwehre in the middle of it all, the teasing started.

“Who’s your biggest competion this season?”

She smirked, “Me, obviously - 12 points difference and I’m leading.”

Max let out a dramric sigh. “You see what I have to deal with?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” she deadpanned. “Must be so hard for you.”

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping just enough to be dangerous. “You have no idea.”

Her stomach did something stupid.

The cameras caught all of it.

The video went live a few days later with a bleep over Nathan’s name, and suddenly, the comments were flooded with speculation: Were they dating? Was this a thing?

It wasn’t.

Not really.

After that, the flirting got worse. 

Way worse.

And by worse, she meant everywhere.

It was in the paddock, when Max would lean just a little too close to read over her shoulder, murmuring sarcastic comments in her ear. It was in interviews, where he’d smirk at her across the sofa, as if they were in on some inside joke. It was on social media, where fans were going absolutely feral over their interactions.

Are they flirting?

Is this a thing?

Is she managing to make Max Verstappen likeable??

It had been chaos when the Truth of Hot Wings video dropped, but the real meltdown happened after a press day in Vegas.

They had been filming some teammate trivia segment answering questions about each other to test how well they knew one another.

It started off normal.

“What’s my go-to coffee order?” she asked, reading from the card.

Max barely even looked up. “Double espresso, because you’re odd.”

She scoffed. “Rude, but correct.”

The next question? A trap.

“What’s my type?”

She barely had time to react before Max answered smoothly, “Apparently, F1 drivers.”

The media team lost it.

She just stared at him, mouth slightly open. “You cannot say that.”

Max just grinned. “I literally just did.”

And that was it. The video went live, the comments exploded, and suddenly, people were convinced they were secretly together.

They weren’t.

Not really.

But then came that night.

The paddock was empty.

The kind of empty that made the whole place feel different, quieter, heavier. The floodlights cast long shadows over the garages, the faint hum of generators the only thing breaking the silence. Everyone else had left hours ago, but she was still here, tucked in one of the team rooms, eyes locked on telemetry data, trying to find an edge.

She didn’t hear him come in.

“You know,” Max’s voice cut through the quiet, smooth and amused, “there are easier ways to be the fastest driver on the grid.”

She didn’t jump, but it was close. Looking up, she found him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, still in his race suit, unzipped at his waist, the fireproofs beneath clinging to his frame in a way that was far too distracting. 

She scoffed, forcing her eyes back to the screen. “Like what?”

Max stepped inside, slow and deliberate. “Well, you could just do what Nathan did and sleep your way to an advantage.”

She let out a sharp, unamused breath. “Right. Because that worked out so well for him.”

“True,” Max smirked, pulling out the chair opposite her and straddling it backwards, resting his arms on the backrest. “But then again, if I were you, I’d have picked someone better.”

She raised a brow. “Better how?”

He tilted his head, his light eyes locking onto hers, voice dropping just slightly, just enough to make her pulse skip a beat.

“You know how.”

The room suddenly felt too small. Too warm.

Her fingers tightened around her water bottle. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” Max said, his eyes flicking over her face like he was committing something to memory, “you haven’t told me to leave.”

She should.

She should tell him to fuck off, laugh it off, roll her eyes like she always did.

But she didn’t.

Because there was something in the air now, thick and charged, like the seconds before the lights went out on race day.

Max must have felt it too because his gaze flickered down to her lips, then back up again.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Careful, lieveling,” he murmured, voice like warm honey. “Keep looking at me like that, and I might think you actually like me.”

Her breath caught.

He was close. Closer than he should be. And she wasn’t moving away.

Neither was he.

Then-

The door swung open.

“Wow.”

The moment shattered.

Nathan stood in the doorway, arms crossed, smugness radiating off him in waves.

“Didn’t take you long, did it?” he drawled, eyes flicking between them. “Barely a few months, and you’re already-”

“Fuck off, Nathan” she snapped, standing abruptly, anger replacing whatever that moment had been.

Nathan ignored her, locking eyes with Max instead. “What’s the deal, mate? Going for my championship wasn’t enough? Had to go for my ex, too?”

Max hadn’t moved. He was still leaning against the chair, but the tension in his shoulders was unmistakable.

Nathan smirked. “I mean, I get it. She’s great in bed.”

Her stomach dropped.

She barely had time to register the flash of fury in Max’s eyes before he moved.

“Max, no-”

Too late.

Max was on him.

His fist connected with Nathan’s jaw with a sickening crack, sending him stumbling backwards against the doorframe.

Nathan clutched his face, eyes wild with fury. “You’re gonna regret that, wait until-”

Max just shook his hand, looking completely unbothered. “Okay, Draco Malfoy.”

Even through her frustration, she snorted.

Nathan, still holding his jaw, glared at both of them. “You’ll be hearing from the FIA. And my lawyers.”

Max smirked. “Oh no, not your lawyers.”

Nathan let out a furious breath, turned on his heel, and stormed out.

Silence.

Max exhaled sharply, flexing his fingers. “Fucking prick.”

She turned to him, heart pounding. “You punched him.”

“Yeah.” Max rolled his shoulder. “Felt great.”

She let out a slow breath, rubbing her temples. “You’re an idiot.”

Max grinned before he stepped out the room. “Yeah, but I’m your idiot.”

Her stomach did that stupid thing again.

This?

This was getting dangerous.

The penultimate race of the season. Qatar.

The tension in the paddock was suffocating. The championship was down to the wire - just a handful of points between her, Max, and Nathan. Every session mattered, every lap, every decision, everything.

And yet, the only thing she could think about was him.

They hadn’t talked about that night. 

Not the moment in the dimly lit team room. Not the way he had looked at her- like he was about to ruin her. Not the way she had wanted him to. Not the way he had put Nathan on his arse.

Not the way she hadn’t been mad about it.

But now, she felt Max’s eyes on her everywhere. In meetings, in the garage, across the grid. When she caught his gaze, he didn’t look away.

It was infuriating. 

She was focused. She had to be. The championship was everything.

And Max Verstappen was a problem.

And that problem reached its breaking point after qualifying.

She had taken pole.

Max was P2.

Nathan was P3, which meant she had the pleasure of seeing his smug fucking face in parc ferme. But she didn’t care about him. She should have been focused on the race tomorrow, on strategy, on every single thing that could decide the championship.

Instead, she was hyper-aware of Max standing just a few feet away.

His fireproofs clung to him, still damp from the heat, hair a mess from the helmet, jaw clenched like he was barely holding something back. He hadn’t looked at her once since they got out of the cars.

And for some reason, that pissed her off more than anything.

So when she made her way back to the Red Bull motorhome, she wasn’t expecting to be cornered.

She had just stepped into the hallway near the driver’s room when a firm hand caught her wrist, tugging her back.

She spun, already half ready to throw a smart remark, when she was suddenly pressed against the wall, hard.

Max.

He was right there.

His hands planted on either side of her, caging her in. His chest rose and fell in sharp breaths, his eyes burning into hers.

“Are we ever going to talk about it?”

Her pulse spiked.

She swallowed. “Talk about what?”

Max huffled a dry laugh, shaking his head, like he couldn’t believe she was playing dumb. Then, slowly, he leaned in, so close that she could feel the heat rolling him.

“That night,” he murmured, voice like gravel. “The way you looked at me. The way you wanted me to kiss you.”

Her breath hitched.

Max’s eyes flickered down to her lips, then back up again. “You’re good at lying to yourself, lieveling, but not to me.”

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. “I don’t-”

“Don’t,” he murmured, closer now, his breath warm against her skin. “Don’t bullshit me.”

She hated how easily he unraveled her. How, despite everything, despite Nathan, despite the championship, she wanted this. Wanted him.

Max exhaled sharply, his forehead nearly touching hers. “If you don’t want this, tell me now.”

Silence.

She shook her head.

Max’s jaw ticked. “That’s what I thought.”

And then he kissed her.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was everything- weeks of tension snapping all at once, his hands moving to her waist, gripping her like he had wanted to do this since the second she walked into Red Bull.

She gasped against his mouth, and that was all the invitation he needed. His hand slid to her jaw, tilting her head, deepening the kiss until all she could feel, all she could think, was him.

She didn’t even realise her hands had found his chest until she was gripping the fabric of his fireproofs, pulling him closer, heat coiling in her stomach.

She should stop this.

She had to stop this.

But when she pulled away, the words barley came out as a whisper.

“I can't do this.”

Max went still. His fingers, still resting on her waist, tensed slightly. “Why?”

She swallowed hard, pulse thundering in her ears. “The people. The media. The fans. They’lll talk.”

Max exhaled sharply, his eyes searching hers. Then, slowly, deliberately, he tilted her chin up with his fingers, forcing her to look at him.

“Let them talk.”

And then he kissed her again.

That time, she didn’t stop him.

Didn’t want to stop him.

Her hands fisted in the fabric of his fireproofs pulling them out of his race suit, pulling him closer, until there was nothing left between them but heat and tension and weeks of wanting something neither of them had dared to admit.

His grip on her waist tightened, like he was staking a claim, his mouth moving against hers with a kind of slow, devastating intensity that made her stomach plummet.

It was reckless.

It was dangerous.

It was everything she shouldn’t want.

But right now?

She wanted nothing else.

part three...

taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby @iamred-iamyellow @isaadore

[samsno1]

Dream Of Me

Sam Winchester x F!Reader

i was going to do this fic much, much longer, it would have a whole plot and all but i am so exhausted i wasn't feeling it so have this short horny ass one-shot because i was ovulating while writing this lol

Summary: You quite literally got into Sam's head...

Warnings: SMUTish, m. masturbation, use of y/n, descriptions of nudity, *almost* cunnilingus (read it so you will understand lmao), kissing, nipple sucking, marking (?), english is not my first language

You can learn how to change "Y/N" for your actual name here

Read it on AO3

Read Part Two

WC: 2.3k

enjoy!

Sam kissed you deeply, his lips dragging against yours eagerly. His big hands grabbed at your hips, blunt nails digging into your skin through your clothes. His tongue sinfully entered your mouth, exploring the warmth and groaning at your taste.

Your hands wrapped themselves behind his neck, fingers brushing through his long locks, lightly tugging at each lap of his tongue through your lips. He slowly walked you back, your knees hitting the edge of the mattress and Sam gently held your upper back to place you softly over the covers, mouths never leaving each other. His long hair tickled your cheeks, his nose bumped into yours. His desire was almost palpable as his kisses became more and more desperate, his hands clawing at your back as one of his knees supported his weight between your thighs. His long torso angled itself in an arch to keep his assault on your mouth.

When he finally pulls away, a whine escapes your throat, your raw lips begging for more as your eyes watch his flushed face. He panted above you as he straightened up, his arms crossing to grab at the hem of his shirt and pull it off, the collar of the clothing lifting his hair and then making it bounce back in place perfectly, a stupid grin on his face – a sinful, I know you like what you see grin – as he catches your beautiful eyes analyzing every bit of exposed skin.

He places both his hands on each side of your head, his hair framing his face, a little curtain to hide the absolutely hungry look on his eyes.

“Like what you see, pretty girl?” He questions and you nod in affirmation. He dips down again to attack your neck with open mouthed kisses and bites, making you whine and mewl on his ears and your hands reach for his back, your nails digging into the flesh. His hands drag down your front, bumping against your hard nipples and going low enough so that he can drag your shirt up, his obnoxiously long fingers brushing against your hot skin and throwing even more wood in the fire that was in your belly.

He pulls away momentarily and you lift your arms above your head so that he can take the shirt off for you, the clothing blocking the stunning view of an aroused Sam Winchester for a few seconds as it goes through your head. When he finally throws the shirt away on the ground he practically pouts when he sees the bra covering your breasts and sensually – slowly – trails his hands to your back, leaving yet another mind blowing kiss on your lips, humming, fucking humming in delight, just for being able to do this to you.

He unclasps the undergarment, and you feel him smile against your lips as if he was saying finally I can really see you. As he takes yet another article of clothing off of you he really eyes you down – I mean really. He registers every curve, every scar and every single particle of your skin, his lust-blown eyes eating you alive right then and there, your chest going up and down with deep breaths, your abused mouth half open, your hands splayed beside your head – everything.

He takes a single hand to caress over your skin, starting low at your neck and slowly coming down at the valley of your breasts, down your belly until he’s below your belly button then his other hand joins the action, one on each side of you, dragging up your waist and feeling around your ribs until they finally grab at each boob, squeezing. You groan and grab at both his wrists to keep him there, the little stimulation you got better than anything. He hums above you, his head dipping down to leave feather-light kisses over your collarbones.

“So pretty” He murmurs against your skin “So, so beautiful for me Y/N”

You sigh as he massages your breasts, his mouth dragging down to one of your nipples, wrapping around it and hollowing his cheeks, sucking on your skin and circling his tongue around your tit. You arch your back, a low moan rippling through your throat as you roll your hips, trying to find any kind of friction for the ache between your thighs.

“Sam…” You plead, grabbing at his hair to tug. He groans at your action, biting lightly on your nipple and you shriek. He lifts his head up, chuckling lowly, evil even, a smug smirk on his face, his dimples making him look even prettier above you. He lets your breasts go and smashes his mouth to yours again, swallowing your complaints.

His hands hold you at your belt loop and he bumps his crotch against yours and oh my god. You let out a cry, breaking the connection, and hide your head in his shoulder, your mouth kissing below his ear lobe as you whisper to him:

“Please, please, please, do something, Sam” You beg and he hushes you, one of his hands going towards your lower back to hug your naked tummy against his defined body. He squeezes your skin, wanting to mold into you and turn you inside out.

“Shh, beautiful, I’m gonna take care of you” He says, kissing your neck and unbuttoning your tight jeans with one hand. Excitement runs through his veins, his mouth still marking your skin.

His hand finally manages to unzip your pants and he flattens his palm against your lower belly to drag his fingers below the waistband of your panties. He swipes one teasing middle finger between your folds making you buck against his hand and let out a cry of desperation. He brings his finger out, making you groan in complaint until he lifts his head up, grabs your chin and makes you stare at him in the eyes.

When he’s sure you’re looking, he inserts his slick soaked finger into his mouth and sucks on it, pleasurable noises coming out of his throat as he savors your taste on his tongue, his eyes closing in bliss. The sight is beyond unholy, the action making your cunt clench into nothing, your glossy eyes couldn’t look away and Sam was taking advantage of that. Nothing you’ve ever experienced with anyone before made you feel so needy for someone's mouth between your thighs, eating you out with all their want, need, for you, nose deep into your pussy. Sam did that.

He takes his finger out of his mouth with a pop, licking his lips with his tongue and he opens his eyes to look at you and you are, for sure, looking at him, completely hypnotized by his spell. He grins and dips his head close to your ear, his hot breath sending goosebumps all over your body.

“I’m going to eat you out until you’re begging me to stop, until you’re physically unable to take anything anymore” He whispers and bites at your earlobe and jesus fucking christ where did this man get this mouth. You let out a shaky breath at his words, the fantasy making you squeeze your legs together.

“Please, please, please” You beg as Sam starts kissing down your body, open mouthed kisses left and right. His mouth bit and sucked at points he learned made you tingly inside and your hips roll below him. When he gets to the waistband of your pants he hooks two fingers of each hand through it to drag both your underwear and your jeans down your legs. It felt cold for about three seconds until the sight of Sam looking up at your face through his long lashes, eyes filled with lust, burned you from the inside out.

Once you were completely bare under him he left kisses in each of your inner thighs, his calloused hands kneading on the skin. You look down again, his hair brushes your legs, his mouth so close, so, so close that you could feel his breath against your soaked cunt. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you and you felt like the last woman on earth, wondering how this man could be so perfect, inside and outside. He finally starts to approach your folds, his mouth slowly opening to wrap around your clit and…and…

“Sammy wake up!” Sam’s shaken awake by a hand on his arm and takes a deep breath in. He rubs his eyes, trying to adjust to the light that got turned on by whoever disturbed his sleep – his very good and desirable sleep. His blurred vision starts to focus on the figure besides his bed. Dean towers over Sam in his robe, an unfazed look on his face and a cup of coffee in his hand that isn’t holding his arm.

“Dean?” He questions, voice hoarse from sleep, as he sits up on the bed, the covers falling from his chest to pool around his hips, still hiding his legs below it. Dean drops his hand from his upper arm “What time is it?”

“About 10AM” He says “We might’ve found a case, we need your help with research” He affirmed and Sam nodded. Oh my god. You. How was he going to face you? How was he going to be able to concentrate on your explanation of the case to him when he just fantasized about his mouth between your legs eating you – scratch that – almost eating you out? I’m screwed. “Clean up and meet me and Y/N at the library” Dean says finally, snapping him out of his thoughts and giving him a slap on his back, to which Sam groaned in annoyance. He leaves the room soon after, closing the door behind him.

He lets out a shaky breath, his hands supporting his upper body against the mattress. Just now did he notice the blood pulsing between his legs and the way he seemed hotter than usual. He rubbed both hands over his face, get it together, God damn it. He threw his legs off the side of the bed and stood up, making a beeline to the bathroom. He needed a cold shower, an ice bath, drown in the lakes of Alaska, anything to cool his body and his thoughts.

Every time he blinked there you were, his disheveled hair and lust blown pupils looking up at you. It had been some time since he started developing a crush on the huntress, your kind and caring – but at the same time firm and assertive – personality got him hooked pretty quick and your smartness always impressed him. Dean often made fun of you for being sort of a nerd – in his words – but that just made you even more desirable for him. And, of course, you looked incredible. Your killer body and beautiful features made you look amazing even when you were covered in monster guts.

Peeling off his clothes and turning the water to the coldest setting definitely helped. But, his boner was still there. He cursed to himself and hesitantly wrapped a hand around his cock, eyes closing and teeth digging into his lips to hold back any noise. He started rubbing slowly, up and down, visions of you on his head, beneath him, hair messed up by his hands and skin marked by his mouth and teeth. He wondered how your pussy would taste on his tongue, which noises you would make when he finally brought you over that edge just with his mouth. Then with his fingers. Then…

He quickened his movements, his chest going up and down quickly with deep breaths. Sam should feel bad for touching himself to the thought of you, he should feel bad for dreaming of you that way but he just couldn’t. The images of you flashing into his mind were making him feel thoroughly euphoric, his heartbeat could be felt in his ears and he couldn’t stop himself from imagining your cries of pleasure as he pumped into you or the different positions he could put you in. Fucking you against the shower wall or over the map table.

His drenched hair fell besides his face, the cold water running down his head and back as he slightly hunched over. One of his hands supported his weight against the wall while the other grasped tightly at his shaft. He thought about you moaning his name, much like you did in the dream, and how it sounded so sweet yet so arousing. 

His breathing was shallow, his hands were shaking and with a sigh of your name he finally came. He was in bliss, the orgasm hitting him like a truck. He pressed his forearm against the wall in a horizontal position and rested his head over it, his softening dick still in his hand. He opened his eyes, the sound of the water falling to the ground finally being processed by his brain again.

Jesus Christ.

The guilt suddenly hit him and he shook his head, partially in disbelief at what his body and mind made him feel. And do. Even if his body calmed down, his brain still had that dream practically memorized. He sighed, cleaning himself up all over again, the mess he made going down the drain, hiding the evidence. He got out of the shower, toweling his hair and drying his face.

He stood in front of the mirror and looked at his reflection. His cheeks were still flushed but, besides that, nothing could give anything away. He breathed out a chuckle.

“God damn it” He whispered to himself as he proceeded to dry the rest of his body with a different towel than the one he used in his hair, then wrapping that towel around his hips and going back to his room to change into different clothes. Today was going to be a long day.

A/N: Notes and reblogs encourage me to keep writing, feedback makes those writings better. Thank you for reading, Xoxo

Read Part Two

[misctf]

I had a dream once I found a pair of cleats and tried them on, and transformed into a big, dumb, horny football jock, then came load after load of cum , all sweaty and drooling as my new team arrived. How I wish I could experience that, do you know a way?

Huh, a dream you say? And just once? Part of me doubts that. And I can tell by how you’re blushing that you’ve likely had this dream a few times. And each time, you’ve woken up with your boxers soaked with jizz. Okay, okay... maybe I didn’t need to call you out like that. Anyway.... A big, dumb, horny football jock. Look, I’m not here to judge, but are you... of course you are.... Sigh.... Well, I’ll stop wasting our time. Risks yada yada, things going wrong yada yada... You get the point. Now follow me...

You follow close behind as I lead us through a few pairs of double doors. I have to unlock a few more doors and suddenly, we find ourselves within a large warehouse. There are thousands of articles of clothing. Underwear, socks, athletic shirts... you look around in awe.

Yes, I know, very impressive. We have a lot of magical items that we’ve collected over the years. Let me just grab a pair of gloves... Some of these items are quite potent actually. Like just a touch and bam! Stupid jock! Okay, maybe not that dramatic, but... And here we go! A pair of red football cleats... Just like in your dream? Well, what can I say, I’m a miracle worker. Okay, I’ll put them down right here. Look at that, they’re brand new too, they even have the paper still stuffed in them... Just give me one second, I have to grab a special tool. I can tell this pair is quite potent.... Wait... Don’t try to remove the paper with your... Fuck.... Didn’t I say... Hey! Don’t get too close!

The cleats are stuck around your hands. You’re shaking your hands, looking up at me desperately. No matter how much you flail, they seem locked in place. You’re breathing heavily. A sense of panic filling you. Something feels very wrong. You feel warmer and you’re sweating profusely.

This is very bad... Okay, give me a second to just... what do you mean your hands hurt? Oh fuck... Ok not good, not good... I need to...

You cry out as you feel your hands start to shift and change within the cleats. It feels like your hands are lengthening, while your fingers are painful shortened. But it’s not just your feet. You watch as your forearms start to shift and change. Packing on muscle that more resembles thick calves rather than forearms.

Oh yeah, these cleats are quite potent. Okay... uh, I would be lying if I said I’ve dealt with this before. This is something we in the business call a... okay yeah, maybe I’ll spare you the details. But... Oh careful now!

Your legs suddenly give way and you’ve fallen onto you’re abdomen. You let out another cry as your arms start to shift and change even more. They’re forced above your head and you yelp as thick muscle starts to fill in. Your once mediocre arms are now a set of two built legs, crushing your head in between new thighs. But the pain in your new legs pales in comparison to the feelings from your dick. It’s throbbing in a mixture of pain, then pleasure. You feel nauseous as the room is filled with the sounds of your body cracking and shifting. Yet you moan as your body continues its metamorphosis.

Oh fascinating... I’ve never seen this before... So the pecs become the abs, and the abs become the pecs. Fuck, they're getting huge too... What am I talking about? It’s uh... oh! Give me a second! Well, hello there... Huh, still barely a whisper... Who am I talking to? Well, uh... it’s complicated. But...

You yelp when you suddenly feel your body push itself up. You’re forced to look down at the floor, and it feels like you’re doing a handstand. You clearly see the red cleats,  and the firm calf and thigh muscles that used to be your arms. You try to crane your neck to look up, but are unable to.

Well fuck... this is, uh... What did you say? I can’t... your voice is a bit garbled now... Something salty? Yeah... I think that might be semen... Really? Come on, isn’t is obvious? Are you getting the idea now? Oh, don’t look at me like that, there were risks...

You yelp as a firm hand suddenly wraps around your neck. You’re afraid you won’t be able to breath, but instead, you just feel the salty liquid leave your lips. And as the hand moves up and down, more of it dribbles from your mouth. You try to speak, but you find your mouth has been forced to remain in a small “O” shape, no matter how desperately you try to move it. Worse yet, you watch as your hair falls from your head, decorating the floor beneath you.

Yeah, I doubt he’s gonna be able to talk much at this stage... So what did you say your name was....? Brett? Makes sense, you definitely look like a Brett. I gotta say, watching your arms grow in was quite the sight. And the muscle here... your biceps are so firm... oh sorry... right I’ll let you finish...

The deep moans that fill the air are not your own. You’ve never heard moans like this before. But soon your vision and hearing dwindle significantly. Instead, all you can feel is the rough calloused hand that jerks your hardened body, as well as the stream of cum that’s leaving your new mouth. And as the pressure builds and builds, so does the pleasure. It’s numbing. Numbing to the point you feel your complex thinking dwindle. All you can focus on is pleasure. Anyway, anyhow. And then you feel it. Cum bursts from your new mouth, and Brett lets out a loud moan, falling back against the wall. You feel your body softening, your mind only able to focus on your need for more.

Okay... I guess I’ll be cleaning that up... Oh? What’s happening? The room is spinning and... Wait, where are we...? The locker room? Damn, those cleats were potent... Oh sorry, you gotta get ready for your game. And I can hear your teammates coming in... Wait... You’re already getting hard again? And you’re already leaking? Shit... Well, I guess this isn’t what we expected. But, you’re certainly a horny, dumb football jock. And you’re certainly drooling there quite a bit, just in time for your team to see.... Well I guess I should go....Huh? Wait for you...? After the game...? In the locker room...? Sigh.... you stupid jock types are my weakness... see you soon...

[floral-ashes]

Canada’s First Trans Healthcare Ban

Alberta’s anti-trans bills have dropped. A few observations. 🧵

The first thing I notice, and which is cause for hope, is that the bills do not invoke the notwithstanding clause. They can thus be challenged in Court, and struck down as unconstitutional. 

The healthcare ban is worse than they announced, at least in its present form. They ban all gender-affirming surgeries until 18, as expected. They also ban puberty blockers and hormones for minors. So far, the same as we expected. 

However, the bill is set up so that the ban is total for all minors *unless* the Minister creates an exception for some. This means that even 16-17 year olds whose parents consent cannot receive puberty blockers or hormones. They may plan to allow it, but it’s not in the law. 

There is also no clause that allows youth who are alreadyon puberty blockers or hormones to continue. This is especially concerning because it means they’ll lose access if there’s any delay with planned Ministerial orders—if they even plan to make an order. 

Unsurprisingly, it seems that the law wasn’t drafted by someone who is knowledgeable about trans realities. As a result, transition-related surgeries are defined as those that “treat gender dysphoria or gender incongruence.” 

While the loophole is unlikely to work, a literal reading would allow transition-related surgeries that are motivated by gender euphoria, framed as cosmetic, or understood through a depathologizing lens. The fact slightly amuses me, but again it’s unlikely to actually help. 

The name and pronouns policy is as expected. Trans minors will be forcibly outed to their parents if they request a change of name or pronouns that is related in some way to their gender identity. Parental consent isn’t required for those aged 16-17, but they still get outed. 

There is no exception to the outing requirement, even if it poses a grave risk. All it says is that schoolboards must give counselling or other assistance before outing the kids, in such a case. 

This creates a small loophope—willing schools could delay outing for some time and argue that it still respects the law. However, they still can’t respect under-16 trans youth’s name or pronouns without parental consent, and they must still out them eventually. 

If the law is applied negligently or unreasonably, and a child ends up seriously hurt or dead? Too bad—the law strongly protects people from liability if they believe they’re applying the law and are doing so in good faith. 

For an overview of why these rules are dangerous and unconstitutional, here is my recent Alberta Law Review article on the topic:

How about sexual education? Well, it’s basically dead. The law makes it mandatory for schools to receive Ministerial approval for any material primarily and explicitly related to gender identity, sexual orientation, or human sexuality. 

In addition to the material needing approval, any third-party who delivers the material must be separately approved by the Minister. 

Even if the material is approved, teachers must (a) notify parents at least 30 (!) before teaching it, and (b) ensure alternative instruction for students whose parents didn’t consent. 

This isn’t really an opt-in system. While it’s superficially opt-in, the requirements are so absurdly onerous that nobody will teach materials related to gender identity, sexual orientation, or human sexuality.

It’s as simple as that—sexual education is dead in Alberta. 

The only small comfort is that only regulating materials “primarily and explicitly” about these topics could serve as a good loophole for rebellious teachers. Incidental and indirect discussions of gender identity, sexual orientation, and human sexuality are expressly allowed. 

Lastly, the sports ban. To my surprise, there’s actually no ban on trans women in sports. One less thing on my plate!

Now there is indeed a law about sports, it just doesn’t quite reach the level of a ban. Instead, the bill tells schools and sports bodies to create a policy on fairness and safety in sports, including eligibity requirements and procedures for verifying eligiblity. 

The law also creates a mandatory reporting mechanism for any complaints related to that policy or to (more or less) trans inclusion in sports. This is unsurprisingly hypocritical—conservatives love surveillance states as much as they love to complain about ‘big government.’ 

This bill doesn’t so much ban trans women from sports as provide a cover for any organization that wants to do so. That they should ban trans people is a thinly-veiled subtext, but it’s legally-speaking only a subtext. 

The law also includes broad protection from liability for mostly anyone—including sports participants—who is trying to implement the act ‘in good faith.’ If racists decide to harass a Black woman and claim that she’s not a woman, as we have seen all-too-often in elite sports? If an adult decides to do ‘genital verifications’ on a child? They’re effectively protected from civil liability, so long as they claim it’s in good faith. Scary stuff...

That’s a wrap, but I’m happy to answer any questions about the bills!

[just-some-random-blogger]

Tender Cuts

Gwayne comes home battered and beaten, and so you kiss his busted lip and tend to his wounds.

Gwayne Hightower x Reader | 700< | cw: fem!reader, wife!reader, mentions of injury/blood, hurt/comfort, fluff, softhours, typos, etc.

A/N: i cant help myself. the unholy unspeakable things i want to do to this man... and yet here i am offering you some fluff

Tagging: @lancedoncrimsonwings

Gwayne watches the way I undo his armor. He sighs and straightens from his chair, turning to the vanity mirror, "I am uninjured."

"And so you say, yet on your lips therein lies the lie you offer, husband," I retort as I finally remove the final piece of steel upon his form.

I bend over as he sighs once more. His tired eyes remain on my face as I unbutton his top. He places his hands on his thighs as he spreads them, "I am not gravely injured."

I forfeit a response and continue to touch him with care, as not to accidentally cause his unexposed injuries any more irritation. By the time I have his top unbottoned, Gwyane removes it along with his undershirt before I can do so. He stands and takes my hands. His eyes are more awake now as he places my palms on his bare chest, "inspect me yourself if you distrust me so."

His tone pinches my heart. "It's not that I distrust you, love," I rub his shoulders, "it's just that you've grown numb to your pain, and I do not wish any ailment to sneak up on you."

Gwayne's eyes slowly shut as I rub his arms then caress the sides of his firm belly. "So?" he grumbles, "shall I rid myself of my pants?"

My expression perks, "you might as well."

He opens his eyes and furrows his brows.

"I will bathe you myself."

Gwayne does not protest, save perhaps for a few more sighs as he rids himself of his last articles of clothing and steps into the preprepared tub. I waste no time and drag a stool to the side, eager to get him clean. He melts into my touch as I scrub his skin.

I splash his arm a few times before moving onto his chest. The room is silent, apart for the sound of sloshing water. Gwayne's head feels heavy, I can tell. I rub his shoulders to encourage him to relax.

"You don't have to mother me, you know."

I tilt my head as I find one of the freckles on his sternum, "I am a mother. You should know, you were there when it happened."

"You mothered my children, not I." He rests his arms on the sides of the tub.

I lift my gaze. His eyes look heavy.

For a moment, my husband is not he, but a child abandoned. I look upon his tired face and recall the soft confessions he'd whispered as I laid in his arms, confessions of his loneliness, his longing. He recounted all the memories of his mother that remained with him. He vented out his hurt over his father who he grew without.

I knit my brows and put down the sponge in my hand, "do you not want my touch?"

He drops his head then grabs my wrist, "I do not want you to worry." Gwayne pushes closer to me. The water around him splashes. He leans on the rim by my side and kisses my pulse. He repeats softer, "I do not want you to worry."

I press my lips into a line and brush his hair back with my free hand, "oh, my love," I sigh, "unfortunately, I worry regardless."

He rests his head upon my hand when I caress his cheek. I comb my fingers through his hair as much as it will allow me in its matted state. He closes his eyes. I trace the shape of his nose with my palm.

Gwayne has never said it out loud, but I know that sometimes he feels undeserving of the attention I so freely shower him in. The wounds of his younger self that never quite healed make the affections he's so craved quite hard to take in.

"My sweet boy," I whisper, gently rubbing his lips, "let me do this for you."

His blue eyes slowly open. They are shrouded with red exhaustion. He finally relents, eyes closing again as he leans back and offers himself completely to me.

I decide to wash his hair for a change, and as I do so, I sing a folk song from the Reach. He rests his head on the tub, sinking slightly into the water as he allows himself to relax.

I only stop singing when he mutters something unintelligible. I lean towards him, "what was that, my love?"

His lips barely move, "thank you."

A soft smile finds me.

"I love you."

I immediately press my lips into his. I make sure to do so delicately, so not to disturb him or the cut on his lower lip. I look at his face for a few moments before pulling back, "I love you too."

I continue singing from where I left off.

[papaiya8818]

WHO ARE YOU

―The caring and loving of someone will lead to the loss of a loved one.―

Welcome to my AU. These are called wayAU I had this nightmare early in the new year, so I thought I would make it AU. The concept is “if your girlfriend who went missing a few years ago has come back, but she's looking strange.” I think it will be an erotic and gory story.

「I came back for you, darling.」

She is Ragatha. Whatever anyone says, she is Ragatha. She went missing a few years ago and was found in a cave by Jax. She seems to have a memory problem or can't remember much.

「Of course I love you Jax… I believe you love me too.」

「Don't leave me again, please.」

Jax married Gangle after losing Ragatha. New life, new partner, his life must be going great. But he will never again have what he truly desires from the bottom of his heart. A life of empty love and living on would be the life he deserves. Gangle, a popular novelist, got the love of her life when she married Jax. Even if it was a mistake, she did not want to lose it.

Jax finds the treasure he lost that day. Their lives fall apart.

「We're best friends! Right Pomni？」

「I am waiting for you. I miss you, my friend.」

They are friends. Even if you want change, you can't change the choices of the past. Maybe not if you have the courage to move forward. But they are still friends, the best friends FOREVER

「Pomni! You should join my company! If not, you'll end up waltzing with a duck in a beret: ！！！！」

「Joining this company is my biggest regret.」

This is Caine, CEO of Amazing Publications, and Zooble the editor-in-chief who works there Amazing Inc.

has a wide range of books published, from Amazing articles, comics and novels The company is particularly well known for its recent books by popular author Gangle.

Zooble has Gangle's rep for quite some time. CEO Caine likes to gossip and is considered dangerous among celebrities. Caine's latest problems are that freelance photographer Pomni won't join the company and his secretary Bubble's teeth are gross.

[biolumien]

Hi Hi! first time requesting like this and I just recently finished watching the latest episode of Kaiju number 8. I was wondering if your could write something for Vice Captain Hoshina.

I was thinking something along the lines of a reincarnation storyline? Maybe Reader is a renowned painter or something. And one day they come across a dream of Hoshina in their past life and they paint his face. And Hoshina is suddenly bombarded by a few officers/cadets a few days later about a sudden article blowing up online with a painting that had extremely similar structure to his face. And maybe they'd end up meeting because of it?

I love your writing. Particularly the one with the glasses reader that I read a few days back. You're free to change things as you see fit. And I'm sure whatever you come up with will be very nice. Sorry if my words are confusing. I don't speak english language that well. 😊👌 Thank you if you decide to write for this ask.

notes: ok the way i am. actually obsessed with this i hope you enjoy!!

every 'one line' drawn.

soshiro hoshina x gn!reader no warnings, i think wc: 1768

in your dreams, you always see the same face. red eyes watching your face, purple hair framed over his face and the feeling of a callused hand on your hand, on your cheek. and every time he leans into kiss you, you find yourself pressing your face closer to his, as if desperate, and then you wake up. 

and when you wake up, you always feel the telltale trickle of a tear down your face, the feeling of salt on your tongue. 

there’s no time to wonder what the dreams ever mean, what with your job as a painter. you lived commission to commission—and while your customers were always high brow and paid generously, still meant that you couldn’t be lost in daydreams forever. 

and in your studio, with the pungent smell of turpentine and linseed oil, with your hands inevitably smeared with oil paints, it was easy to forget the stranger whose hands felt rough and weary, and yet held your face with measured gentleness. it was easy to forget him—up until you went back to bed, and you’d always be back in the same dream. 

“i keep seeing you,” you murmur in your dream. “who are you?” 

the man laughs. 

he seems sad, for a second. 

“a dear friend,” he responds. you see it on his face, the way his lips twist at his words, that it’s not quite true. and he leans in again, watching your face. “it’s okay if you don’t remember me.” 

“but i do,” you say in protest. you think you remember this face. “i want to.” 

you must remember this face, surely—this face that, upon your words, looks sadder. and then you wonder if he’s even real—or if this is simply your subconscious, saddened that you can’t remember. saddened that your mind replays this moment, again and again, a repeated brushstroke pulling open the blank canvas underneath. 

“we all want things we can’t have, sometimes,” the man says. 

he leans into kiss you, 

and you jolt up out of bed, awakening to a phone call from your manager. 

“hello…?” you mumble into your phone, pressing it against your cheek as you rub the sleep out of your eyes. “it’s rare you call me randomly like this…” 

“tis no random call,” your manager responds. “you’ve received a request to exhibit some of your works from a museum. will you do it? i hear the pay’s pretty good.”

“mmm… any specific theme?” you ask. 

“not really. they said to let your imagination go wild.” 

“hm.” 

you touch your lips, and when you close your eyes, you see a hint of those crimson eyes again. 

“alright. i think i’ve got a pretty good muse this time,” you say. 

[…]

hoshina wasn’t exactly someone who was very in the know about art. his job, for one, meant that it’s not like he would exactly be interested in art in general, and it’s not like he was even spending his days off on art museum trips or admiring the local art scene. 

so why was it that everyone seemed all abuzz about art today?

and why did it seem like there were more eyes on him than before? not that he particularly abhorred attention or anything, but the eyes seemed to be looking at his face specifically. 

his eyes flit to some of the new officer recruits—iharu, reno, kafka… fuck, even haruichi and aoi? what the hell was going on—huddled around a laptop. haruichi’s brow furrows as he stares at the illuminated screen, and then flits up to look at hoshina. when hoshina stares back, harder, haruichi’s gaze immediately ducks back to the laptop.  

okay. 

well, something was definitely up. 

hoshina strolls over to the recruits, who immediately seem to start panicking—the panic is written across kafka’s face more obviously than the others, and reno elbows kafka in the side. 

“what’s all this about? if you’ve got time to huddle you’ve got time to run laps—” hoshina starts, leaning over at the screen before—

“about that, vice captain,” iharu says. 

hoshina’s in stunned silence staring at the screen, because… isn’t that—

“holy shit,” hoshina says. 

“holy shit indeed,” haruichi says grimly. 

on haruichi’s laptop screen is a painting of— him. hoshina’s damned face, brows gentle and a softened smile on his face. it was a beautiful painting, and yet—there was something sad about the smile, the brows belying deep sorrow. 

“this painter’s pretty well-known, too, aren’t they?” kafka asks. “for like… the psychedelic stuff.” 

“no,” reno says. “they’re like our modern-day monet or something. impressionist paintings.” 

“impressi-what? how do you know this much about art, reno?” iharu asks, wrapping his arm around reno’s neck in a headlock. reno coughs, slapping iharu’s arm. 

“shut up,” reno chokes out, but even as the bickering picks up, hoshina’s gaze is still transfixed on the painting. 

it’s him. no doubt about it. 

“i’ve never talked to them before,” hoshina says after a moment. at once the arguments rattle to a halt, but in the empty relief of silence is the carved truth—that the painting is definitely of him, and its painter was a person who he’d never talked to before in his life. 

“the artist is going to be doing a panel about their exhibition soon,” haruichi says, glancing up at hoshina. “i think they can get me a ticket if i ask.” 

“… just don’t expect me to lighten your laps around the training course,” hoshina says with a chuckle. 

[…]

you hated speaking in front of an audience. cliche, of course, the introverted artist that squirrels away in in their studio—but that was often your reality. you liked to say you wanted your work to ‘speak for itself’, as it were, so you didn’t often make public appearances. 

but your most recent exhibition, featuring the painting of your mysterious dream visitor, created far more buzz than you could have asked for. suddenly everyone and anyone wanted an answer as for who your muse was, why he had a very striking resemblance to soshiro hoshina of the japan anti-kaiju defense force’s third division, and had you gotten permission from hoshina to do it? did you have a specific message surrounding your work?

“just stick to the script,” your manager says to you. “i talked it through with some of the reporters and i wrote some answers for you if you’re scared.” he hands you a slip of paper, and your eyes scan the page, and you swallow the lump in forming in your throat. 

“i shouldn’t have done the painting after all,” you say.

it was strange. in the days and weeks you’d worked on the painting, you hadn’t seen your muse in your dreams at all. you’d been forced to rely on only the memory of the dream–which only seemed to get fuzzier and fuzzier until it became barely a wisp. and now, in those ensuing weeks that the painting has been on exhibition, you almost felt embarrassed of the painting–its vague subject matter might have been charming and a little kitsch, but charming and a little kitsch wasn’t supposed to garner this much attention.

“nonsense,” your manager says. “it’s a wonderful painting.” he pushes you by the back, gently urging you forward. “they’re ready for you.”

you push past the door separating you from the reporters–and then are immediately flashbanged with cameras and lights, and jumbling, layered voices creating a discordant symphony that made you wince.

“um. thank you… for…” you wince as your grip fumbles on your microphone, nearly dropping it, the feedback screeching across speakers. “um. sorry. i’m not exactly the best public speaker–my repertoire of events… like this, isn’t many. but thank you for attending this panel… surrounding my exhibition of my latest work. i’ll answer… a few questions.”

the reporters looked like a jumbled blob for the most part–a thrumming organism of similar faces that melted together into one homogenous mess, a splotch of badly-mixed paint on the palette that you’d scrape away with a knife and discard. 

reciting your manager’s written responses wasn’t the hard part. as you continued to banter, your eyes swept across the crowd.

what were you even doing here?

you wanted to crawl back to your studio, already, and go back to painting. at least then the idea that you’d dreamed up some man who bore a striking resemblance to someone who already existed would fade away with time. and then your eyes found that telltale shade of crimson and purple–for just a moment. and you think his eyes meet yours, too–crimson eyes the exact shade as the one in your dreams. 

his eyes widen. 

“... as you were saying?” a reporter’s words float back to your ears, ephemeral, and you pause.

“can we… no more questions.” you shake your head, finding your vision swimming, blurring, and you raise a hand wiping tears from your face. “sorry. something just… came up–”

and you push into the crowd, trying to find the face from your dreams.

that had to be him, right? his face? it was like as soon as you saw him, the underpainting of your memories flowed back to you–a heartaching loss pounding in your chest. something was wrong. something was missing, because you’d forgotten–and now that you’d remembered it, it hurt. 

“i’m sorry,” you say. 

“you’ve nothing to be sorry for,” the man says to you, and leans in to kiss you. “i’ll find you again in the next life.”

“i’ll remember you,” you say. 

the man watches you, a somewhat sad look on his face.

you press your thumb to the corner of his lip.

“and when i do, i’ll do something big. to capture your attention. and then your eyes will be on me forever.”

you finally manage to catch the man in the crowd, and you realize you’ve seen him before. only once or twice, though–on a small poster or on television. soshiro hoshina, of the third division. you did know this man–but just barely.

he lets out a surprised noise as soon as you collide with him, and you gasp breathlessly. 

“i’m sorry,” you say, looking up at hoshina. “i just… have we…”

“met?” hoshina answers your question, cocking his head, blinking down at you.

“yes,” you say. “i think… i think so. maybe. we… you look familiar.”

hoshina blinks, and then smiles.

it’s so different than the way he smiled at you in your dream. the corners of his lips quirk up, his eyebrows relax almost as he watches you. 

“i thought so too,” hoshina says, and you hear relief in his voice. “so… um. hi.”

“hi,” you respond, and he laughs.

[gdinthehouseee]

Born To Die (CHAPTER 2): KWON JI-YONG x READER

summary: returning to work, you're bombarded with questions but your closest co-worker manages to save you from it all and you grow even closer. you finally get the mystery man's name and everything feels normal again... so why does it still feel like you're being watched?

word count: 5300

tags: mystery, light angst, slow burn

prev. chapter ⛥ series masterlist ⛥ next chapter

The moment you walk into the office, the usual hum of activity is accompanied by an unusual tension in the air. Your colleagues are all whispering to each other, glancing at you in between conversations, and you immediately feel their eyes on you as you pass by. You’ve only been back for a few minutes when your boss approaches you with a brisk pace before you can even reach your desk. His tone is light but there’s an underlying curiosity that you can’t escape.

"So, how was the masquerade?" He asks, a playful grin on his face. "Any good stories for us, or were you just there to rub elbows with the high society crowd?”

You pause, blinking as your mind whirls. His question is innocent enough, but it opens the floodgates to all the things you still can’t quite wrap your head around—the charismatic man in the silver mask, the heavy air of the night, the feeling of being watched at every turn, even the location itself. 

You force a smile and casually shrug. "Oh, you know, just a low-level influencer stunt. It was one of those things, mostly for show. Nothing too interesting.”

“An influencer stunt?” 

“Yeah…”

“I thought it was more than that—no secret meetings or exclusive interviews? I figured there’d be more than that.”

"Yeah, I was expecting something more too, but honestly, it was all just smoke and mirrors. A lot of masks, a lot of flashy people pretending to be more important than they were.”

The words come out smoother than you expected, and they’re easier to say than you thought. You don’t even have to think twice about how you’re phrasing it. Why is it so easy to cover up something that’s clearly gnawing at you? Why are you covering up in the first place? And why can’t you stop yourself? 

Wanting to end the conversation, you step towards your desk while he processes what you said. But the questions don’t stop. The noise of the office surrounds you, but your thoughts are elsewhere. You glance down at your phone, as if it might save you. It was supposed to be just one night—a little change up to how you usually spend them, stretched out in the living room, re-watching your favourite show for the billionth time. But it’s not just one night, is it? You can’t shake the feeling that something important happened. But why won’t you let yourself admit it? Why won’t you tell anyone?

You’re seconds away from leaving early and working from home, when a familiar voice cuts through your colleagues’ nonsense—

“Did someone die… or are you all just fishing for gossip?” 

Youngbae. 

He’s been working here for longer than you have, and he was the first to make you truly feel welcome in this place. You don’t exactly hang out together or anything, but his presence is a relief. A saviour even. While the rest of your team breathes caffeine and deadlines, Youngbae always feels like he’s just come back from a peaceful retreat.

“She’s not telling us anything about that weird party,” someone from across the room piped up.

“You actually went?” Youngbae turned to you, a curious smile and a quirked brow on his face. 

“Article potential… it wasn’t anything special. Influencer stunt.” You shrugged again.

He keeps his gaze on you and hums before turning to the others, tone light but firm. “Well, sounds like it was boring. Let her breathe, yeah? You’re all acting like she came back from war.”

A few chuckles. A few eye-rolls. But the moment breaks just enough that the circle disperses—some off to refill their coffee, others back to their screens, the energy of interrogation dying down.

You glance up at him with barely concealed gratitude. “Thanks for that.”

Youngbae pulls up the chair at the desk next to yours, tossing his bag down and opening his laptop. “No problem. You looked like you were one more question away from setting the printer on fire.”

You laugh under your breath. “I might’ve.”

“Just so you know, your excuses need work.”

“Huh?” 

He shoots you an amused look. “Influencer stunt? Really?” 

“Not you too…” you groan. “Don’t tell me you ushered them away just so you can hear about it first?” 

“So you admit something did happen?” He looks back up at you, leaning forward, and revelling in his little ‘gotcha’ moment. 

You roll your eyes. “Why do you care so much?” 

“I don’t,” he said as he then raised his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll call it even if lunch is on you.” 

“Wow, okay.” You scoff out a laugh, and he joins in on the laughter. 

He knew better than to keep prying. It was pretty obvious something had happened, if anything he boiled it down to meeting someone interesting, which wasn’t all that far from the truth. But he wasn’t the type to make you uncomfortable just for the sake of intel.

The two of you sat in a relaxed silence, losing yourselves in your respective work. The hum of the office is steady and familiar—keyboard clicks like rainfall, the low whirr of the printer, someone’s too-loud phone conversation from the corner no one ever uses for actual privacy. You stare at your monitor, squinting slightly against the harsh blue glare, your fingers hovering over the keys, unmoving. Your coffee's gone cold, half-forgotten on your desk, right next to your half-scribbled notes from the last editorial meeting. You pick up your pen, tap it twice against the pad, and try to recall the article you’re meant to be writing. Something about startup culture. Or was it an expose on digital branding?

“Hey,” Youngbae says gently, his voice cutting through the static in your brain. “You planning to eat today or just feeding off the existential dread?”

You shake your head, as if trying to clear it. “What time is it?”

“Almost one,” he replies, amused, already slipping a folder back into his bag. “You’ve been zoned out all morning. I thought maybe you transcended this realm.”

You offer a tired smile, just as he fumbles with a stack of papers and winces.

“Shit,” he mutters, pulling his hand back. A thin, bright line blooms across the pad of his finger.

You reach for the tissues on your desk, handing him one. “Papercut?”

“Yeah. The deadliest wound known to office workers,” he jokes, holding the tissue to his finger.

“Maybe the paper knew you were making fun of it.” You lightly mocked. 

“Wouldn’t be the first time I was cursed by a spreadsheet,” he grins before discarding the tissue. “Come on, I know a place that just got their new spring menu.”

You pick up your bag and follow him out. The air outside is warm, a spring breeze cutting between buildings, brushing across your skin. You walk in silence for a while, surrounded by city sounds—footsteps, distant horns, someone yelling into a phone.

“You okay?” Youngbae asks as you wait for the light to change.

You nod. “Yeah. Just… sleep-deprived, I think.”

He watches you for a second, thoughtful, like he can sense there’s more you’re not saying. But then he just offers a small smile and nudges your shoulder with his. “Does food still fix everything?”

You smile back. “Yeah. Still does.”

The two of you cross the street together, and you find yourself grateful for the realness of it, the weight of your shoes on concrete, the ordinary hum of the world—the simple comfort of someone who doesn’t ask too many questions. You both duck into a small restaurant just around the corner from your agency, the kind of place that smells like buttered toast and coffee grounds, all chrome edges and cracked vinyl booths. After ordering, you sit across from Youngbae near the window, watching the street while listening to your co-worker.

He’s mid-story about how he accidentally sent his mother a meme meant for his fiancée when he pauses, grinning. “I’m getting married soon, by the way. Did I tell you that?”

You blink, surprised. “No! Oh my god, congrats!”

“Thanks,” he beams, picking at the corner of his paper napkin. “We’ve been together forever. Like, since uni. She’s definitely the patient one in the relationship.”

“I mean, I have seen your email inbox.”

He laughs, a full-bodied sound that makes the waitress behind the counter glance over fondly. “Touché. She’s actually calling now—probably checking if I remembered to send the caterer the final menu.”

His phone buzzes again, vibrating against the table. He stands, mouthing one sec and stepping outside to take the call, his voice already softening as he greets her.

You watch him go, then shift your gaze to the window.

Across the street, you notice two figures. One tall, dressed in a charcoal overcoat with sharp, elegant features and an unreadable gaze, holding an umbrella. The other, a little shorter, holds himself like he’s posing without trying, hands in pockets, shoulders relaxed like the whole world moves at his pace. He looks a little too familiar, but you’re not sure why. Your gaze lingers on the two men longer than you mean to. The taller one is already looking elsewhere, scanning the area, but the shorter man turns his head slightly, as if sensing something. You still don’t place him. Not yet. He says something to the other man—too far to hear, but it’s casual, low—and starts walking toward the diner. You look down instinctively, busying yourself with the condensation on your water glass. You’re probably mistaking him for someone else.

“Didn’t expect to see you so soon.” 

That voice. You glance up slowly, your eyes catching on the curve of his mouth first—the hint of amusement tugging at one corner—and then the rest of him. Familiar, but in a way that sneaks up on you. That outfit, the way his hair sweeps across his forehead, the glint of something secret in his eyes.

“You…”

The word slips out before you can stop it. You blink, your mind stumbling. He says nothing, just watches you with that same quiet interest, like he’s flipping through a book only he can read.

“You were at the masquerade.”

His smile deepens. “You remember.”

“Of course I remember. That night was…” you trail off, unsure how to finish the sentence without sounding completely insane. You decide to change the subject a little. “I didn’t catch your name,” you say, studying him.

“Didn’t offer it,” he replies, smooth as silk. “But I suppose that’s only fair. You didn’t give me yours either.”

You’re not sure why you do, but you immediately tell him your name. His eyebrows raise at your eagerness. Before you wish for the floor to swallow you whole, he offers you a sweet smile and says your name as if to try it out. 

“It suits you. Matches your beauty, princess.”

“Alright,” you glance down, feeling your cheeks flush immediately. “What’s your name, then?” 

His expression shifts slightly, before his voice lowers into something softer, “it’s Ji-yong.”

You glance out the window. Youngbae is still on the phone, pacing a little, laughing softly. When you turn back, the man is watching you in that same quiet, amused way. Waiting. Not impatiently. Just… present. You tried to ignore feeling as small as you did, given both men were practically towering over you.

“I was starting to wonder if it had all been a dream, Ji-yong.” You half-joked, wanting an excuse to say his name. His eyes noticeably gain some sort of spark as he steps a little closer and leans closer, one arm leaning on the back of the booth behind you.

“Would’ve been a shame, hm?” He tilted his head, his dark eyes never leaving you.

“Yeah—” 

“You looked beautiful under the chandeliers, even more so in the moonlight. I almost didn’t want to let you leave.”

That made your breath hitch. “Almost?”

“I’m still deciding. I guess it depends on if you plan on… vanishing, again.” 

Your lips part as you’re about to speak, when you hear the bell of the front door chime again, and Youngbae steps back into the café, sunlight catching on the curve of his smile as he makes his way toward your table. You smile in return, already reaching for your cup—but the air beside you changes before he even speaks.

Ji-yong doesn’t shift much. Just another tilt of his head. A quiet inhale through his nose. But it’s enough. Still silent, his friend glances at him. 

And then you see it: the thin smear of red on Youngbae’s hand as he presses a napkin to a fresh papercut. Still slightly bleeding.

Ji-yong’s jaw flexes.

Youngbae drops into the seat across from you. “Sorry,” he says, oblivious to the tension humming through the space. “I accidentally picked at it and it started bleeding again.”

You laugh softly. “That’s what you get for showing up late.”

Ji-yong leans even closer, voice light, almost sing-song. “So is this the lucky man who gets your attention?”

“Coworker,” you explain. “Same department.”

“I basically bribe her with food to deal with me. Works like a charm.”

That teasing smile is still on Ji-yong’s lips, but there’s something simmering beneath it now—his fingers brushing the edge of your booth like he’s deciding whether or not to dig them in. “Ah,” he says, eyes flicking to the napkin again, “so even when he bleeds for you, it’s all strictly professional?”

You blink at him, startled by the phrasing.

His friend exhales quietly through his nose, a barely-there sound, and shifts even closer to Ji-yong’s side. His presence is steady—heavy in the way mountains are heavy. He doesn’t say a word, but Ji-yong seems to breathe a little deeper because of it. They must be close, right? Still, that gleam in Ji-yong’s eye doesn’t fade.

“Must be nice,” he continues, eyes never leaving yours, “having someone so… dedicated.”

There’s something in the way he says it—velvet and knife-sharp—that sends heat curling up your spine.

Youngbae chuckles, still oblivious. “You two know each other?”

Ji-yong’s gaze lingers on you as he answers, “You could say we’ve met before.”

That makes your cheeks warm. Before you can reply, Youngbae winces and dabs again at his cut. “Okay, ow. That might need a bandage after all.”

And that’s when Ji-yong shifts again. He blinks, sharp and sudden, and turns his face away for a moment—just enough that the flicker of something darker behind his eyes disappears from view. His tongue swipes across the inside of his cheek, jaw visibly tense. His friend leans in and murmurs something too low for you to catch. Whatever it is, Ji-yong nods once, breathing out through his nose like he’s pulling himself back down from something high and hungry.

“We should let you eat,” the man says at last, the first words he’s spoken.

“I’ll see you again,” he says, soft but certain. Ji-yong lingers a beat longer, eyes fixed on yours. Then they’re gone—leaving the door swinging gently behind them, your pulse rushing in your ears, and a strange pressure in your chest that you can’t quite name.

Youngbae raises a brow. “So… who was that?”

You shake your head slowly, voice quiet. “I don’t know.”

But that’s not entirely true. Not anymore. Youngbae takes a bite of his sandwich, watching the door slowly swing shut behind the two strangers. His casual expression falters just slightly. You notice the way his brows pull together, just a bit tighter than usual.

“You okay?” You ask, trying to sound nonchalant, but even to your ears it comes out a little too breathy.

He glances at you. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

You stiffen, then force a soft laugh. “I’m fine. Why?”

“That guy—I don’t know, you just looked like you’d seen a ghost.”

“It’s not like that.”

He doesn't press immediately. He takes another bite, chews, swallows. But when he sets his sandwich down, there’s something different in the weight of his tone.

“You sure? ‘Cause you looked like you knew him.”

You try to brush it off. “I met him once. Kind of. At a thing. It’s not a big deal.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “The masquerade?”

Damn it.

You nod, still playing casual. “Yeah. He was there.”

“You said that you didn’t meet anyone important there.”

You elected to stay quiet, taking a sip of your drink as he studies you for a long moment. Then he leans back, folding his arms. 

“So why’d he look like he wanted to kill me for sitting with you?”

“I don’t know…”

Youngbae takes a bite of his sandwich, still chewing when he glances at you again with a smirk. “So… are we just gonna pretend you didn’t turn into a shy schoolgirl the moment your mystery man showed up?”

You choke slightly on your drink and glare at him over the rim of your cup. “I did not.”

He raises his brows, clearly enjoying himself. “You barely looked up. All blushing and blinking like you forgot how to function.”

“I did not blink like I forgot how to function.”

“You did,” he says with a grin. “It was cute, honestly. A little weird—since you’ve been chewing up every press event and assignment this month like a machine—but cute.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch upward despite yourself. “Shut up.”

“I mean, look. I get it.” He leans back with a light shrug. “If I didn’t already have my heart claimed, I’d be just as dumb over my fiancée. I’d follow her through a damn haunted mansion if she asked.”

You raise a brow. “That’s oddly specific.”

He grins. “She’s into spooky stuff.”

You both laugh, and for a second it grounds you—his warmth, his ease, the way he makes everything feel less surreal.

Youngbae picks at the corner of his sandwich and adds, more gently this time, “But really, I get it. When someone makes your brain short-circuit like that? When they make you feel something even when you’re trying not to?”

You glance down at your hands.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “It’s something.”

“Just… be careful, alright?”

You nod, but there's a strange heaviness clinging to the center of your chest. Because even you don't know what you’re being careful of.

The days begin to blur again, smoothed over by the rhythm of work and deadlines. You wake to alarms instead of moonlight, fall asleep to the glow of your laptop instead of candlelit chandeliers. The masquerade becomes something you fold away in the back of your mind, like an old photograph—strangely vivid, but too dreamlike to trust.

The newsroom returns to its usual chaos: coffee-stained notes, editors barking for rewrites, the distant whirr of printers chewing through drafts. You slip easily back into your role, tapping out columns and headlines, pulling interviews from people who would rather stay quiet. The hum of the office becomes your pulse again.

Youngbae starts to stick around your desk more often—easy, familiar, always arriving with a joke or some takeout he picked up “accidentally” in double portions. There’s a quiet comfort in his presence, the kind that sneaks up on you in the silence between meetings. Sometimes you find yourself laughing louder when he’s around. Sometimes you glance toward him before saying something, waiting for the glint of amusement in his eyes. You start to learn the way his voice softens when he talks about his fiancée. You like the way he always walks you to the train if you both leave late.

But in the still moments—those seconds between paragraphs, between breaths—you can’t shake the sense of something else. A tingle along your spine. A weightless pressure just behind your shoulder. Like someone’s watching.

You start to catch yourself glancing at darkened corners, reflective windows. Nothing’s ever there. Not really. But sometimes, the light seems to bend just a little too strangely in your periphery. Sometimes, the back of your neck prickles like someone’s just stepped out of reach. You brush it off, tell yourself it’s just residual nerves, or too much caffeine. You keep writing. You keep moving. Still… sometimes, late at night, you pause mid-sentence—staring at the blinking cursor—heart skipping for no reason at all.

And outside, beyond your apartment window, the shadows never quite stay still.

The office is nearly empty, quiet and golden under the dimmed lights of the after-hours lull. You’re finishing up a final draft, fingers clicking softly against your keyboard as the city outside hums low through the windows. Behind you, Youngbae is moving slowly, gathering his things—coat, phone, the last few stray papers on his desk. You glance back when you hear the rustle of fabric.

“You’re still here,” he says with a tired smile.

“Same as you,” you reply, stretching in your chair. “Don’t tell me you’re pulling an all-nighter the day before your big wedding.”

“Nah. Just tying up some loose ends,” he says, slipping his phone into his coat pocket. “Tomorrow’s going to be… something.”

You swivel your chair toward him, grinning. “I can’t believe I didn’t get an invite. I thought we were work friends.”

He huffs a soft laugh. “Private ceremony. Just close family. Small. Quiet.”

“Sounds nice, though.”

“Yeah,” he says, but his smile flickers — not quite sadness, but a kind of reflection, like he’s holding something tightly just behind his eyes. Probably the realisation of such a big life event finally setting in.

The way he says it makes you falter for a second, but you brush past the weird weight of it with a smile. “Well, you better at least bring photos next week. I need to rate your tux.”

Youngbae chuckles, then steps over, tapping a knuckle lightly on your desk. “Promise. Just don’t work too late. You always get stuck in your head.”

“I’ll head out soon,” you promise.

“Good.” He hesitates, then adds, quieter, “Take care of yourself, yeah?”

You nod, a little confused by the gravity in his voice, but say nothing. He leaves with a small wave and a soft smile. You don’t realize how long you sit there after he’s gone, fingers resting still on your keyboard, your screen dimming slowly as the office around you goes still and cold. Ten minutes later, you finally pack up, grabbing your bag and making your way to the elevators.

The lobby is mostly empty when the doors part, save for a figure leaning casually against the glass wall—backlit by streetlights, sharp coat, posture lazy and confident. Your steps falter. It’s not until he lifts his head and smiles—crooked and knowing—that you recognize him.

“Late night?” 

The breath catches in your throat.

“You again.”

Ji-yong pushes off the glass as you approach, that same smile curving at his lips—something half-charmed, half-patient, like he’s been waiting.

“Thought you might be the last one out,” he says. “You always look like you’ve got a hundred thoughts spinning in your head.”

You blink. “You’ve been watching me?”

He shrugs, unbothered. “I notice things.”

You should feel unsettled. Maybe a part of you does— the part that flinches at how familiar he feels. But instead, you find yourself saying, “That sounds like a line.”

“It could be,” he replies smoothly. “If you want it to be.”

His gaze flicks down to the way you shift your weight between your feet, then back up — something amused and unreadable behind his eyes.

“Walk with me?”

He doesn’t wait for your answer. Just turns toward the glass doors and holds one open, glancing back at you. And like the first time—like the masquerade night that still lingers in your dreams—you follow. The air outside is cool and sharp, the city humming low beneath the late hour. Streetlamps paint the sidewalks in gold and shadow, and your footsteps fall into rhythm with his without effort. You follow him down the quiet street, where the orange glow of streetlights gives way to the muted hush of shadows and old brick. It’s late enough that the world feels paused—no cars, no footsteps but your own, just the low murmur of city wind threading between buildings.

Ji-yong walks a step ahead, glancing at you over his shoulder with a smirk that’s almost too knowing.

“I have to say,” he drawls, “for someone so mysterious, you’re dangerously easy to read.”

You laugh, a little breathless from catching up. “Dangerously? That’s dramatic.”

“Oh, I’m very dramatic,” he says, turning toward you slightly. “You just haven’t seen it yet.”

There’s something different in the way he says it. Not heavy, not overbearing—just a touch more forward, his gaze lingering longer than it did before, voice smooth enough to feel like it’s brushing right up against your skin.

You try to keep your cool. “Is this your usual routine?”

“Only when I actually like someone.” His smile tugs deeper now, almost lazy. “I don’t do this often, you know. The whole… moonlit stroll, charming conversation, letting someone see me like this.”

“Lucky me,” you tease.

“Very lucky,” he says, no hesitation, no grin this time—just a quiet certainty.

You glance away, the tension winding in your chest so unexpectedly it makes your hands a little clammy. He steps closer—not enough to cross a line, but enough that the space between you shifts.

“You know,” he murmurs, “I don’t mind the way you look at me like you’re still trying to figure me out.”

“I’m not,” you say, heat rising in your cheeks. “I mean—I am, a little, but—”

He tilts his head, clearly entertained. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

You give him a look, but you can’t help smiling. “You’re trouble.”

He shrugs, unapologetic. “Maybe. But I’d say it’s worth it.”

You’re not sure what makes you laugh—the audacity or the way he somehow says it like it’s a promise.

You reach your building before you even realize it, the soft tap of your shoes on pavement slowed to a reluctant stroll. The evening is heavy with warmth, the kind that clings to your skin and makes the air feel rich, like something is about to happen. Ji-yong’s presence beside you hasn’t dulled since you left the café—it’s only grown, like a second pulse just a breath behind your own.

He stops with you at the gate to your place, one hand casually tucked into his coat pocket, the other brushing his fingers against the iron bars as he looks up at the façade of your building.

“So this is where the enchantress disappears at night,” he says, voice all velvet and smoke. “Fitting.”

You smirk, leaning against the gate, arms folding loosely over your chest. “Enchanted now, are we?”

His mouth curves slowly. “Oh, I’ve been under your spell for much longer.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying to play it off with a laugh, but there’s something in his tone that makes your breath catch. You’re not entirely sure if it’s a line or the truth—but either way, it’s working. Too well.

“You always say things like that to strangers?”

“You still think we’re strangers, my love? You wound me.” 

You chuckle, but it comes out softer than intended. There’s a tug in your chest you can’t quite explain. You should feel like this is too fast, too flirtatious, too much… but all it feels like is familiar. And safe. And entirely too compelling.

You glance toward the entrance behind you. “I should probably go in.”

“You probably should,” he says, but he doesn’t move away. “Unless…”

“Unless?”

“Unless you want to make this moment last a little longer.”

Your breath hitches. There’s barely a foot between you now. The faint glow from the streetlamp overhead turns his eyes gold around the edges, and you can feel the heat from his body in the little space left between you.

“You say that like I’m not already stalling,” you murmur.

“You say that like you don’t want me to notice.”

You meet his gaze and find it steady, daring, but not unkind. His lips part slightly, like he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. Instead, he reaches out, brushing a loose strand of hair from your cheek with maddening care. His fingers linger just a second too long. You draw a breath, but it catches in your throat. Your heart is beating too loud, and you feel it in every inch of your skin.

“Are you going to kiss me?” You whisper, surprised by the breathlessness in your voice.

He smiles, slow and sure. “I was waiting for permission.”

You don't answer with words. You just lean in.

The kiss, when it happens, is warm and slow. His lips move against yours like he’s been waiting, like every inch closer is a step into something sacred. His hand finds your waist, steadying you, drawing you in as though letting go simply isn’t an option. You sigh softly into his mouth, feeling your fingertips clutch his jacket without meaning to. He deepens the kiss only slightly, but it’s enough to send a current skimming down your spine.

When you finally part, your forehead rests against his, both of you breathing a little harder than before. Neither of you says anything for a few long seconds, like speaking too soon would shatter whatever just passed between you.

He’s the first to speak.

“I was right,” he murmurs.

“About what?”

“You’re very good at making moments last.”

You laugh, cheeks flushed, lips still tingling. “You’re very good at ruining goodbyes.”

“I’m only good at goodbyes when I know I’ll see you again.”

That makes your smile falter, just a little—but before you can dwell in the weight of his words, he straightens up and presses a kiss to your knuckles with a charm so casual it makes your stomach flutter.

“Sleep well,” he murmurs. “Don’t dream of me too much.”

You arch a brow. “Too much?”

“I’m giving you room for dignity.”

You laugh again, low and surprised, and by the time you’ve caught your breath and looked up—he’s already halfway down the street, his silhouette flickering in and out of shadow like something half-real. You touch your lips, still warm from his kiss, and let yourself lean against the gate for a moment longer before finally heading inside—wondering what you just stepped into, and why it felt so eerily meant to be.

The next morning starts like any other. There’s sunlight peeking between your blinds, warm and unassuming. The city hums outside, muffled and steady, and your apartment carries the faint scent of last night—smoke, roses, a touch of his cologne still clinging to your scarf. You feel it all in pieces: his smile, the feel of his hands, the way his kiss left you breathless and wanting more. But now it’s morning, and you’re back in your usual rhythm. Shower. Clothes. Half-burnt toast. The mundane grind. You barely remember the walk to the subway. You barely feel the eyes on you.

By the time you step into the office, ten minutes behind schedule, everything feels… off. Not loudly. Not obviously. Just enough. The kind of quiet you notice too late. No one’s talking. No music playing from someone’s phone. No keyboards clacking or printer jamming or someone cursing under their breath. Just muted whispers, heads down, movements that feel too careful. And then, as you turn the corner toward your department, your feet stall.

Youngbae’s desk.

You don’t realise you’ve stopped until someone brushes past you. Your eyes are locked on it. It’s too clean. Chair tucked in, screens off. No snack wrappers. No tangled charger cables. No scribbled reminders on post-its. Just a small vase of fresh lilies—pale and crisp and wrong. Your chest tightens. The absence is louder than anything else. And just as you take one slow, unsure step forward, someone at your side—low, almost gentle—says it.

“Yeah… he’s dead."

taglist: @emmiesoverthemoon @mirahyun @riddlerloveb0t @onyxmango @sherrayyyyy @seunghyunwifey @mattsturniolosbabymama @redhoodedtoad @bettelaboure @cinnamonbear22 @xxxicddbr88 @infinetlyforgotten @babygirlewis @loveesiren @tulentiy @babyrvis @ldydeath @wcnderlands @eru-vande @breakmeoff @petersasteria @aizshallnotbefound @sevendaysummer @ttturnitup @mashtatosworld @ilovethe141 @allthoughtsmindfull 

[versadies]

FOR ME? (neuvillette x gn!reader)

SALUTATIONS. for me?

ADDRESSED. neuvillette (x gn!reader)

STAMP. in which he came back from his trip to qiaoying village and brought a few things for you!

CONTENT. ooc (?), fluff/no-angst, established relationship, possibly cheesy, possible grammar errors, takes place during hustle and bustle quest from the recent lantern rite update!

POST-SCRIPT. here’s my post dedicated to @staarri’s birthday and milestone event — congratulations on your milestone and happy belated birthday to you, zira! furthermore, this fic is inspired by a wriolette fanart made by @/visualkid_n that i saw on my feed !!

LINKS. masterlist / taglist

For a man such as NEUVILLETTE who is as busy as can be and rarely leaves Fontaine, you thought you were in a different universe when your lover first told you that he’ll be going on a trip to Liyue and visit Qiaoying Village. It’s not often to find your lover taking a break from his duties as the Iudex, let alone travel to another nation with his busy schedule, yet here he was.

He tried to invite you really, telling you that he’d like you to come with him and spend time together, but given your schedule, you could only turn him down despite wanting to accept.

And so you spent half a day with your lover away from the nation, often wondering how he is and if he’s not sulking too much about you not being able to come with him. Though, knowing how he is, you’re sure he’ll be alright – he can live in not seeing you for a day.

Take note, it was only half a day.

To your surprise, Neuvillette came back home much earlier than expected, standing by your doorstep with a few bags in hand, his eyes brightening at the sight of you.

“How was your trip?” You asked as you provided him some water for him to drink after he came inside your shared home.

“It was… quite enjoyable, but not as much as I longed for you to be there with me.” He responds softly, thanking you for the drink before taking a sip.

You gave him an apologetic smile, sitting down next to him on the sofa. “Sorry.. I’ll come with you next time when you decide to travel again.” You spoke, before glancing at the numerous items that are placed on the floor. “Though may I ask, what are all these items for?”

Neuvillette placed his cup down, glancing at the items as well before saying casually, “Ah, they’re for you, my dear.”

Come again?

You blinked a few times, staring at your lover as if he just told you the most absurd thing.

“Eh? All of them…?” You clarified.

It didn’t help that the Iudex looked unbothered, as if this is almost nothing for him. “Yes, of course. Why do you look so surprised?” He asks. “I was only thinking of you and how you were while I was away, and I happened to find a lot of things that reminded me of you.”

“Neuvi…” You said, staring down at the bag, still processing the fact that your lover bought so many things in one day just for you. “I do hope you’re aware that you didn’t have to do such things! This is quite shocking for me!” You commented.

He hummed. “I am aware, of course. But I happen to find myself making a few spontaneous decisions that’s inspired from my trip. Do forgive me, my dear, I did miss you after all.”

You could only sigh with a smile of defeat. “Well, it’s not as if I can reject such thoughtful gestures from you, but do go on and tell me more about your trip. How was Qiaoying Village? I read Charlotte's article about Liyue’s tea industry earlier.”

“The trip is quite refreshing. I took the opportunity to try their local spring water, and the aftertaste is much purer than what was delivered to me in Fontaine.” He said with a pleased look.

You find yourself listening intently to him as he goes on about the waters of Liyue, not being able to hide the amused look on your face from how fond he is about tasting water, and it only took a few minutes before he changed the subject to something else.

“Ah, that reminds me, I mentioned earlier that my trip happened to inspire a few spontaneous decisions, and one of them happened to be trying out ceramics.” He explains.

“My, the Iudex trying out ceramics?” You teased, causing his mouth to twitch upwards more.

“It’s quite an interesting activity. I’ve never once thought about how quotidian vessels were crafted until I participated in their very making. Nonetheless, I made something for you.” He adds.

To your shock, Neuvillette brought out a tea set with a design that reminded you of a certain sea creature. Who knew your lover would be amazing at the ceramic arts?

“Neuvi, you made these? For me?” You ask, aweing at the cute design that he made. “They’re so cute! You did such an amazing job, you made it by hand and everything!” You flattered him.

He smiled more from your compliment, placing the tea set down on the coffee table for you to touch and admire his work that he made just for you. “I thought it’d be good to give you this. It’d mean a lot to me if you’d accept.”

“Of course I will! You made this yourself, I couldn’t ask anything more than that.” You replied.

Suddenly, an idea came to your mind. “Tell you what, why don’t we use this for water tasting together when the next delivery arrives?”

“That’ll make me all the more happier, my dear.”

PENPALS. @scaraslover @saving-for-xiao @dawgimsohot @ragnvdnr @chiruru @aqualesha @renamichii @mrkamisato @shenhesl0ver @serami00 @serenareiss @hiqhkey @emperatris-rinaka @bystander36 @irisxiel @ladycoleigh @034ven @dear-dairiess @owozi8 @hadesaedes @chiro-chiro-kun @hersscherofyatta @mariusvonhangme @yuzuricebun @nejibot @hoshikistarlette @solaaresque @crowbird @lordbugs @flowersforayato @headintheclouddd @estelwrld @giyusimpsassemble @irethepotatosblog @moonlightaangel @alice0blog @shotosbrainrot @sniffoat @chihawari @mxsomn @kuni-kuzushii @jiminscarmex @mitsukii14 @ylimeprive @sachispet @loreleis-world @sn-owo @starforecasts @someonetookmynamelmao @ceylestia @astrequa @ymikkos @reallysporadicarcade @melodyyamino @dudufodd @somberrock @yevenly @lemontum @nghing @shaiah @miss-lady-witch @yashe @imkaaayy @badlywrittens @0rah-s @totallynotaraidensimp @garlicforthewin