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sugurugetoshairbrush · 2 days ago

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Work Rivals with Office Siren!Suguru Getou

Getou Suguru is the worst.

The absolute worst. He makes your life a living hell, your job a warzone, and worst of all, he’s the most maddeningly attractive man you’ve ever laid eyes on.

You hadn’t always been mortal enemies. In fact, your first impression of him was something out of a cheesy rom-com.

On your first day as a junior accountant, you stopped by a local coffee shop to grab a medium, hot, cream, no sugar. The moment your order was called, both you and a sharply dressed man stepped up to the counter.

The first thing you noticed was his height—towering enough to make you tilt your head back. On the way up, you took in his impeccably tailored navy suit, crisp white shirt, and slim black tie. His sleeves were neatly cuffed at the wrists, revealing a deep bronze complexion adorned with a flashy silver Rolex and a few understated rings.

When your gaze finally reached his face, your breath hitched. He was striking. Long black hair tied back in a half-up style, sharp cheekbones, and a strong jaw. Black gauges and a gleaming silver eyebrow piercing accentuated his features, and a pair of rectangular glasses slipped slightly down the bridge of his nose. He eyed you with an air of irritation, violet eyes glinting behind the glare of the café lights.

“Is this yours?” he asked, gesturing to the coffee being held out by an increasingly impatient barista.

You had a perfectly charming response prepared in your head. But as luck would have it, your brain short-circuited, and what came out instead was less… ideal.

“Why else would I be here? Course it’s mine. It’s my first day, and you’re holding me up.”

The sharpness in your tone made you wince internally, but you couldn’t backtrack now. Crossing your arms, you tilted your head, doubling down.

His brows knit together as he huffed. “Could’ve done without the attitude. Just take it and go.”

You grabbed the coffee with a muttered, “Whatever,” and turned on your heel, heading for the door. But before it swung shut, you glanced over your shoulder at the disgruntled stranger. At least you’d never have to see him again, right?

Wrong.

When you arrived at work and sat through the orientation, you focused on staying out of trouble. That plan went out the window when you were led to your cubicle—right across from a familiar face.

Your guide tapped him on the shoulder. He turned, and when his eyes met yours, surprise flickered for the briefest moment before being replaced by irritation.

“—and this is Getou Suguru, your cubicle neighbor. It’s also his first day as a junior accountant, so don’t be shy. This job can get pretty isolating, so building relationships is important,” your senior said cheerfully.

Forcing a polite smile, you extended your hand, hoping he’d let your earlier encounter slide. His handshake was firm, his larger hand warm against yours.

“Nice to meet you,” he said smoothly. “Looking forward to working with you.”

Your senior walked off, satisfied. But as soon as he was out of earshot, Getou grabbed a bottle of hand sanitizer, pumping an aggressive amount into his palm.

“Enjoy sharing the same title,” he said coolly. “Soon, I’ll be your superior, coffee-girl.”

He spun his chair around, strands of sleek black hair whipping over his shoulder.

That was six years ago.

Time had not softened the animosity between you two. If anything, it had calcified into a rivalry so intense it pushed both of you to climb the ranks faster than anyone expected. You were both promoted to Corporate Controller—a position that typically took eight years to reach—on the same day.

It was supposed to be a single-person role, but after the CFO reviewed your identical performance stats, he decided to make an exception. Now, you and Getou are seated on the 36th floor of the company’s sleek high-rise, with matching titles engraved on silver plaques outside your offices.

The only thing separating you is a glass wall, through which you exchange daily glares.

Competition fuels everything. From routine tasks to major projects, you turn every assignment into a wager. The CFO, Nanami Kento, has become your unofficial referee. At first, he admired your drive. Over time, though, even his legendary patience has begun to fray.

“Getou’s management style is 2% less efficient than mine,” you declare during a performance review, presenting your meticulously crafted charts.

“Her sales plan took a 0.5% dip last quarter,” Getou counters with his own spreadsheet. “In hindsight, my proposal conserved more resources.”

“His data compression wastes company time!”

“Her budget oversight missed the social media revenue I proposed—”

“You stole that idea from me!”

“SHUT. UP.”

Nanami’s voice, usually calm and measured, reverberates through the room. He stands abruptly, the tension radiating off him like heat.

“I cannot take another second of your childish bickering,” he snaps, slamming a hand onto his desk. “You’re both brilliant, hardworking, and utterly insufferable. You’ve turned this office into a battlefield, and frankly, I’m this close to quitting just to escape you.”

The words hang heavy in the air.

If Nanami’s outburst isn’t enough to make it clear something has to change, the rest of the accounting branch soon makes it crystal. Your colleagues have begun avoiding you and Getou like the plague, steering clear of the drama that follows wherever you go.

Well, everyone in the accounting branch has turned against you and Getou—except for one person: your one and only work friend, Gojo Satoru.

Gojo, the accounting manager, ranks just below you. He is a walking billboard for excess, always dressed to the nines in custom Dolce & Gabbana baby-blue suits that match his piercing cerulean eyes. Every month, he carries a new designer briefcase, each more luxurious than the last, and you have yet to see him repeat one.

He wasn’t just anyone. Gojo is—or was—the heir to a global media empire. His great-grandfather had founded the conglomerate, which owned everything from cable networks to film studios and streaming platforms. But seven years ago, the Gojo family had severed ties with their infamous black sheep.

Gojo had always been a loose cannon, his antics splashed across tabloids with alarming regularity. When he was finally caught in a particularly compromising situation—a sleazy nightclub rendezvous involving a rival conglomerate’s heir and a bottle girl—his family decided they’d had enough. The Gojo media machine couldn’t suppress the scandal, and rather than shell out another fortune trying to salvage their name, they cut him off.

He went from riches to rags—or as close to “rags” as someone with Gojo’s charisma and wits could get. He clawed his way up the ladder at your company, and while his charm earned him plenty of allies, his ego alienated just as many. That left you as the only one who could truly tolerate him. Perhaps it was your shared arrogance, though yours stemmed from your relentless rivalry with Getou, while his was… well, Gojo was just Gojo.

Which is why you’re currently in a supply closet, your back pressed against the metallic shelving as Gojo shakes your shoulders like a madman, his usually smug face looking uncharacteristically panicked.

“You have got to end this feud with Getou,” he hisses, his bright blue eyes practically glowing in the dim lighting. “It’s spiraling out of control. The whole department’s gone to hell. Nanami’s snappy, everyone’s overworked, and the accountants are making more mistakes than ever because they’re so stressed.”

He runs a hand through his shock of white hair, sighing dramatically before adding, “You two have the worst reputation I’ve ever seen. And coming from me—someone who’s made global headlines for my bad behavior—that’s saying a lot.”

You open your mouth, ready to defend yourself, but Gojo raises a hand, cutting you off.

“Don’t even start with the whole ‘but our numbers are the best’ speech,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Because while your stats are impressive, they’re not enough to make up for the chaos you two create. And,” he leans in closer, a devious smirk curling his lips, “don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you look at him.”

You freeze, your heart pounding as if he’d just exposed your darkest secret.

“Oh, don’t play dumb,” Gojo teases, his tone sing-song. “You’re practically undressing him with your eyes half the time. It’s honestly disgusting. If this is your idea of flirting, you might be a masochist. Or a sadist. Or both. Either way, the rest of us shouldn’t have to suffer through this painfully obvious sexual tension.”

Your cheeks burn, and for once, you’re speechless.

Gojo straightens his lapels, his smirk widening. “I’ve had enough of this nonsense. I’m going to fix it, one way or another. Consider this your warning.”

Before you can respond, he spins on his heel and storms out, slamming the door behind him.

You stand there for a moment, your mind racing.

“What can he even do?” you mutter to yourself, laughing nervously. “He’s just an accounting manager.”

But you’d underestimated Gojo.

By the time you return to your office, he’s already marched into Nanami’s and laid out his nefarious plan. Meanwhile, you find yourself staring blankly at the income statement on your screen, utterly distracted.

Your gaze drifts to the glass wall of your office, where you can see Getou seated at his desk. He’s wearing a fitted chestnut vest over a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal his tanned forearms. His black hair is tied in a loose bun, a ballpoint pen shoved haphazardly through it.

As you watch, he reaches up to twirl a strand of hair around his finger, his violet eyes scanning a thick packet of papers. When he suddenly glances up and catches you staring, your breath hitches.

His piercing gaze darkens, and a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. He arches an eyebrow, his expression equal parts smug and devastatingly attractive. Then, as if to torment you further, he returns to his work, the faintest smile still lingering on his lips.

You shift uncomfortably in your chair, heat pooling in your cheeks. If your hatred of Getou is a defense mechanism, it isn’t working—if anything, it only heightens your attraction to him.

But you resolve to keep your distance, for the sake of professionalism.

That resolve lasts precisely one day.

The next morning, Nanami summons you to his office. Confident in your newfound clarity, you stride in—only to feel your confidence waver when you see Gojo lounging against the window like a model in a photoshoot, the sunlight framing him perfectly.

Then the door opens behind you, and in walks Getou.

He takes the seat next to you, his legs spread obnoxiously wide, oozing dominance.

Nanami wastes no time. “I’ve reached my limit with your behavior. The entire branch is suffering because of you two. So, effective immediately, you’ll both be attending the annual financial policy conference together as a team-building exercise.”

You groan. “Sir, with all due respect, I don’t think—”

“This is non-negotiable,” Nanami interrupts, holding up two plane tickets. “And to ensure you take this seriously, know that if this doesn’t work, I will demote both of you and give your positions to Gojo.”

Gojo grins triumphantly.

Nanami adds, “And don’t think I won’t be monitoring your behavior. The conference is hosted at one of our company hotels, so we’ll have access to surveillance.”

As you leave his office, the weight of the tickets in your hand feels suffocating. Later that evening, you seek refuge straight off of your shift, at the nearest bar, ordering a drink to drown your sorrows.

Slouching on the barstool, the straps of your dress slip down your shoulders, but you don’t bother fixing them. At this point, you’re too far gone to care. Nursing your drink quickly turns into downing shots, thanks to the kindness—or opportunism—of nearby patrons. Some, sensing your frazzled state, buy you a drink out of pity. Others, mostly men, let their eyes linger on your neckline before waving down the bartender to pour you another on their tab.

You lean your cheek against your arm, swirling the straw in your glass absentmindedly. The din of the bar becomes white noise as your thoughts spiral. Then, you sense a presence settling on the stool next to you.

“Rough day?”

The voice is low, amused, and far too familiar. You stiffen before letting out a slow, tired huff.

“Fuck off, Getou.”

You aim for venom, but your tone lands somewhere closer to exhausted. His chuckle vibrates through the space between you, and then you feel the warmth of his hand on your shoulder, his fingers tracing small, deliberate circles.

“Aw, don’t tell me I’ve finally worn you down,” he drawls, his voice dipping with mock concern. His hand moves, catching the strap of your dress and sliding it back into place with a languid tug. “Resorting to alcohol already? Never thought I’d see the day.”

You snap your head toward him, gathering the last scraps of defiance you have left. He’s leaning casually against the bar, his beige sweater hugging his frame a little too perfectly, the knit fabric stretching taut over his arms. His expression is maddeningly amused, dark eyes glinting with the kind of satisfaction that makes your blood simmer.

“Pretty cocky, aren’t you? Need some liquid courage for our trip, I assume?”

Instead of answering, he reaches forward and swipes your drink. He takes a long sip, his throat bobbing as he swallows. His teeth click against the glass when he sets it down.

“Strong,” he remarks before leaning closer, his voice dropping. “And speaking of the trip, I assume we’ll put on quite the show, hmm? Don’t get me wrong—I hate you. But I hate the idea of Gojo taking either of our jobs even more.”

He nudges your foot with his own, a silent challenge in his raised brow. You hesitate only for a second before extending a hand, your manicured nails catching the dim light.

“Finally, something we can agree on. Look, I’m willing to do whatever it takes to keep our positions. Yeah, maybe we go overboard sometimes, but we get results. We’re the best.”

“Damn right,” he replies, his smirk sharp and self-assured. His fingers brush yours as he takes your hand, and then he raises it to signal the bartender for another round.

You clear your throat, trying to regain control of the conversation. “It’s just a weekend. We can fake being civil for two days. We’ve never failed to perform before, and we’re not about to start now.”

His hand lands on your shoulder again, his touch oddly grounding. “We always exceed expectations. You always go above; I always go beyond.” He emphasizes the last word with a teasing smirk that makes your jaw tighten.

“Oh yeah? Always?” You lean in, narrowing your eyes. “Bet I can out-drink you. Hell, I already have. I’ve practically forgotten why I was even upset in the first place.”

“Big talk for someone who’s clearly lying.” His grin spreads wider, white teeth gleaming. “But hey, I’m all for proving you wrong. Again.”

The conversation dissolves into a blurry competition. Before you know it, the counter between you is littered with empty glasses. The room spins around you, your skin hot, your head light.

Somehow, in the midst of it all, your legs have tangled beneath the bar, Getou’s foot hooked possessively around your ankle.

When you glance at him, his bronzed skin is flushed, a pretty pink spreading across his high cheekbones. His hair is loose now, cascading over his broad shoulders in soft, inky waves. His glasses hang from the collar of his sweater, and he reaches out, his finger brushing against your chin.

“You’re spilling,” he murmurs, dragging his finger along your skin to catch a stray drop of liquor. He pulls it back and raises it to his lips, licking it clean with a slow, deliberate motion.

“Playing dirty, huh?” you mutter, your voice thick.

Getou takes the last sip of his drink, his cheeks puffing slightly as he holds the liquid idle in his mouth, and shrugs. The casual gesture makes something snap inside you. Desperate to turn the tables, you grab the collar of his sweater and yank him toward you.

His lips crash into yours, soft yet insistent, and for a fleeting moment, the world shrinks to the warmth of his mouth and the faint bitterness of alcohol lingering on his breath. Your tongue grazes his bottom lip, and he parts for you, letting the sharp tang of liquor transfer between you. A low groan rumbles from his chest as his hands tighten around your waist.

You swallow, leaning into the kiss, your fingers clutching at him as his hand slides up, tangling in your hair. He tilts your head back, deepening the kiss, and a moan escapes your lips before you can hold it back.

His other hand moves lower, pulling you closer until you’re perched halfway on his lap, the warmth of his body pressing against you.

“You might’ve had more to drink than me,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice teasing yet dark with intent. “But I bet I can have you begging for me off a kiss.”

His thigh presses between your legs, and your dress rides up higher than you’d like to admit. You’re soaked, the flimsy fabric of your underwear doing little to shield your dignity—or his slacks—from your arousal.

“Think you’ll have me begging?” he murmurs against your lips, his breath hot against your skin.

“You’re the one falling apart, sweetheart.”

Before you can retort, your phone buzzes on the counter, the vibration cutting through the haze.

A message lights up the screen.

Gojo Satoru: I just KNOW the hate sex is gonna go hard. Don’t thank me all at once, sweetie ;)

beautiful ass fanart by: _viziiro_ on twt/X

#NEED HIM #office siren #getou suguru #gojo real asf #getou suguru x reader #geto x reader #getou suguru x y/n #jjk x fem!reader #gojo satoru #geto suguru #getou suguru smut #jjk geto #jjk aesthetic #jjk crack #jjk smau #jjk smut #jjk au #jjk

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astrcmoni · 1 day ago

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℘ ࣪₊ bleeding blue ࣪₊ ㅤㅤ℘

MASTERLIST

synopsis: after destroying her hair, billie turns to you, her fiancé, in hopes of you being able to fix it.

genre: fluff

pairing: cosmetologist fem!reader x billie eilish

wc: 10.8k

warnings: slight cussing

authors note: i know y’all see how long this is, if there is any spelling mistakes or continuity errors ignore it, i was up for 2 days. enjoy x 💋

the hair salon is quiet now, the hum of blow dryers and chatter replaced by a peaceful stillness. the sunset pours through the large glass window, casting a golden haze over everything it touches. soft amber and pink rays stretch across the polished floors, catching on stray hair strands and scattering delicate reflections off the mirrors and the chrome edges of styling chairs. shadows of tall ferns and succulents perched on the counter sway gently, their movements dappled by the fading light. the air still carries the faint traces of shampoo and hairspray, mingling with the rich warmth of the evening, as if the room itself is exhaling, releasing the weight of the day into the tender embrace of the setting sun.

your last client had left over an hour ago, leaving you with just enough time to clean up and dream of how good your bed will feel once you finally sink into it. now, in the corner of the room, you’re sitting under the hooded dryer—not because you need it, but because it’s your favorite chair in your booth. its worn leather hugs your body, offering a secluded cocoon, perfect for resting after a long day of standing.

you lazily scroll through your phone, the cool screen contrasting with the slight ache in your hands. you tap open the messages app, clicking the second most recent contact—it pulls up your fiancé’s profile, her name sitting at the top in bold letters.

you: almost done, cleaning up and i’m omw home. 💗

a small smile tugs at your lips as you glance at the text, thumb hovering before tapping the blue arrow to send it. you’re about to switch over to instagram when the soft creak of the front door opening cuts through the silence.

your eyebrows knit together, your smile fading into a frown as confusion prickles at the edges of your mind. instinctively, your eyes flick toward the entrance, words already forming on your tongue, ready to tell whoever it is to leave and come back tomorrow.

but then, there she is.

billie stands in the doorway, framed by the last lingering rays of sunlight that sneak through the glass. she’s wearing her oversized tour zip-up, her name stitched neatly on the chest. the royal blue thread contrasts sharply with the heavy yellow fabric, the colors a loud declaration against the soft, muted tones of the salon. her thumb grazes her bottom lip, the tip of her nail caught lightly between her teeth as she crosses her ankles.

the lanyard of her car keys hangs outside the pocket of her sweats, a bold red and black that sways slightly as she shifts her weight. the key fob itself is tucked away neatly, hidden. her star beanie is tugged low over her head, barely peeking out beneath the hood of her sweatshirt, which is pulled up and cinched just enough to hide all of her hair.

“hey, baby,” she says, her voice syrupy, dripping with a softness that only she could manage. the corners of her lips press together in a tight, almost apologetic smile, but there’s a flicker of amusement there—a twitch of mischief that she just can’t seem to hide.

her wide, doe-like eyes dart toward you, then quickly away, like a child caught red-handed. guilt and playfulness swim together in her gaze, her cheeks tinged faintly pink. she bites her bottom lip, the expression teetering between sweet and sheepish, her fingers fidgeting at the hem of her hoodie as though it’ll keep her hands from giving her away.

it’s the kind of look that says: i know i messed up, but come on—you can’t really stay mad at me, can you?

you straighten in your seat, eyes narrowing as you take in her stance, her tone, her very presence in a place she knows she shouldn’t be after hours.

“what did you do?” you ask, your voice sharp with suspicion but softened by the ghost of a grin tugging at the corners of your mouth.

“okay, so please don’t be mad,” she says, stepping further inside, her voice carrying that sugary lilt she always uses when she knows she’s done something questionable. her fingers clasp loosely together at first, but then they start to fidget, her thumbs tracing uneven circles over each other—slow, deliberate, and trembling. the motion falters, sometimes smooth, other times jerky, betraying the nervous energy humming beneath her calm façade. with each rotation, her thumbs press a little harder, as if the movement alone could ground her spiraling thoughts. even when her hands shift positions, the circling doesn’t stop, the weight of her tension held in that small, silent gesture.

“billie,” you warn, your tone light but firm, enough to let her know you’re not in the mood for whatever nonsense she’s about to throw your way.

her feet shuffle as she moves quickly across the room, closing the gap between you with a hurried urgency. before you can say another word, she’s on her knees in front of you, her hands reaching to cradle your own. the cool press of her engagement ring brushes against your skin—a sharp but gentle reminder of the promises you’ve both made, the weight of forever between you.

“first of all, i love you,” she whispers, her voice careful, the words wrapped in precision as she tilts her head up to meet your gaze. her expression teeters on the edge of vulnerability, her wide blue eyes swimming with a confession she’s not quite ready to say aloud.

your eyes narrow as suspicion prickles up your spine. “billie.” the repetition of her name carries a sharper edge now, though it’s softened by the flicker of a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

“and second…” her voice trails off as she reaches for her hood. slowly, she pulls it down, followed by the star-patterned beanie covering her head. when her hair finally comes into view, the mess of it hits you like a freight train.

your jaw drops. the usual cascade of silky brown strands is now a disaster—a patchy, uneven palette of brassy yellows, burnt orange streaks, and sections so dark they seem almost untouched. the back looks half-finished, with random tufts sticking out like stubborn weeds refusing to blend.

in shock, you reach out, your fingers lightly grazing her damp hair before cupping her jaw to turn her head from side to side. the light from the window catches the chaotic patches, making the disaster even more glaring. your brows knit together as disbelief bubbles out in a soft, incredulous laugh.

“billie. what the hell is this?” you finally manage, your tone caught between amusement and horror.

she winces, the sheepish grin on her face growing wider. “i tried to do it myself,” she admits, her voice a hurried tumble of words. before you can respond, she’s already jumping to defend herself. “it was a box dye, okay? it looked so easy, but it wasn’t. now it’s a hot ass mess. save me, please.” her hands clasp together, fingers intertwining as she looks up at you with a desperate, pleading expression.

you groan, the ache in your feet from the long day suddenly feeling heavier. “of course, you would try to dye your hair at home,” you mutter, leaning back in your chair. your eyes scan the spotless, freshly cleaned station you’d been so close to leaving behind.

“but billie, i just cleaned everything,” you complain, dragging the words out with a soft groan.

“i’ll buy you dinner,” she interrupts quickly, her lips curving into a hopeful smile.

your eyebrow arches, unimpressed. “you buy me dinner all the time. you’re gonna have to try harder than that.”

without missing a beat, she grabs your right hand—the one adorned with the diamond ring she gave you—and presses a kiss to your palm. the warmth of her lips lingers as she trails kisses upward, along your wrist, the sensation leaving a soft buzz in its wake.

“and dessert,” she murmurs, her lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your wrist before working their way up your arm. her kisses grow slower, more deliberate, each one sending shivers racing down your spine.

“i’ll get you anything you want,” she whispers as her mouth grazes the curve of your neck, her words melting into the skin there.

your resolve wavers, her lips trailing a path of heat along the sweet spot of your neck until she finally stops, pulling back just enough to hover inches from your face. her thumb rubs soothing circles along the back of your hand, her eyes wide and shimmering as they lock onto yours. “baby, just please help me fix this,” she pleads, her voice soft and breathless.

you sigh, your gaze trailing over her disheveled form. she’s on her knees, hair an absolute wreck, begging you to fix it with promises of whatever you want. the vulnerability in her voice tugs at you, her cute, flushed face making it nearly impossible to say no.

“fine,” you relent, passing her your phone. the tension in her shoulders melts as she exhales a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. slipping your phone into her pocket, she stands, her fingers brushing against yours as you lead her to the salon chair.

“thank you so much,” she whispers, her voice soft as she peppers kisses over your knuckles. her lips are warm, reverent, each touch delicate and lingering, like a silent apology.

you grab the back of the sleek black chair, spinning it around so billie can face the large vanity mirror. the gold and white accent jibbitz on your black crocs catch the light as your foot pumps the chair’s pedal, raising it to your height.

the soft buzz of the hvac fills the quiet salon, mingling with the faint sounds of a reality tv show playing faintly in the background. you move toward the cabinet, the cool metal handle pressing against your fingers as you open it to retrieve what you need.

you gather the essentials—sectioning clips, brushes, bowls, dye bottles in various shades of blue, shampoo, and conditioner—all of it placed into a plastic tub. setting it on the counter in front of billie, you grab a cape and apron from the nearby rack, the fabric smooth and familiar against your fingers.

slipping the apron over your head, you tie it behind your back before draping the cape over billie’s shoulders. the velcro tabs fasten snugly around her neck, securing her for what you both know will be a long evening ahead.

billie digs into the pocket of her sweatpants, pulling out her phone with the lazy precision of someone buying time. her fingers swipe absently across the screen, scrolling through apps and notifications, but her focus drifts as you step behind her. instinctively, her head tilts back, her damp, tangled strands crumpling slightly against your stomach. the warmth of her resting there is an unspoken intimacy, one that almost softens your irritation—almost.

“did you at least put vaseline on your edges like i told you to?” you ask, already knowing the answer but holding onto a sliver of hope.

her scrolling halts. there’s a pregnant pause as she processes your question, her eyes darting to the side in the way they always do when she’s been caught. she sucks in a breath, her teeth grazing her bottom lip as she stares anywhere but at you, as if the walls themselves might save her.

“billie,” you whine, dragging her name out as your eyes instinctively roll toward the ceiling.

reaching for your hand on her shoulder, she turns her head just enough to press a quick, placating kiss against your knuckles. “i’m sorry,” she murmurs, her lips curving into that small, crooked smile designed to melt you.

“now when you start turning colors, i don’t wanna hear it,” you shoot back, exasperated. “how many times do i have to tell you to put some kind of protectant on your skin?” your voice lilts into an exaggerated dramatization because, without it, she’d never listen.

“i know, baby,” she coos, her tone dripping with faux contrition, and you can’t decide if you want to kiss her or strangle her.

with a heavy sigh, you let your fingers trail through her hair, the strands coarse and uneven as you assess the damage. the texture of her missteps lies in your hands, and though it’s a disaster, it’s a familiar one.

you exhale slowly, grounding yourself for what’s ahead. “okay, let’s see what we’re working with.” gently, you sift through her hair, pulling at a patch near the crown.

“girl…” you say, drawing the word out, “…what the fuck is this?” holding the brassy streak up for her to see, you tilt her head toward the mirror.

“i think that’s where i started,” she admits, her grin a sheepish curve that wavers as her eyes meet yours in the glass.

you shake your head in disbelief, spinning her chair so she’s facing you now. “do you know what that means?”

her brow arches in a silent question, waiting for your inevitable proclamation.

grabbing her hand, you guide her toward the shampoo bowl. the porcelain is cool against her neck as you ease her into position, your touch firm but gentle. your fingers cradle the base of her neck, their warmth grounding her as you lift her hair into the bowl.

“it means deep conditioning. lots of it,” you declare, the finality in your tone leaving no room for debate. “you better make peace with the dryer cap at home because it’s about to be your best friend.”

she groans, the sound low and dramatic, but she doesn’t argue. her resignation is written in the soft slouch of her shoulders as you step away, the sound of your footsteps echoing lightly in the quiet salon.

at your station, you grab what you need—a clarifying shampoo, a paddle brush, and a bottle of conditioner that promises miracles. your fingers graze the cool metal of the sink knobs as you return, twisting them to find the right temperature.

you test the water first, letting it pool in your palm before flicking a few drops toward billie’s face.

“hey!” she yelps, her head jerking slightly as she blinks up at you, mock offense written all over her face.

“what was that for?” she blinks rapidly, her blue eyes wide with mock betrayal, mouth slightly agape as if the water had shocked her soul awake.

“that’s because some people think it’s okay to be hardheaded and ruin their hair,” you retort, your tone sharp yet laced with teasing sass, the kind she secretly adores.

you grin, a mischievous edge tugging at the corners of your lips as you lean over her. “alexa,” you call out to the speaker perched in the corner, “resume my music.”

the soft strains of r&b flow through the air, warm and rich, filling the space between you. the song’s melody wraps around you both, threading its way into the moment as your fingers move to her hair.

“you better thank me for this later,” you tease, a hint of fondness creeping into your voice despite yourself.

her lips curl into a small smile, her eyes fluttering shut as you begin to work, the rhythm of the music syncing with the gentle movements of your hands.

you reach for the sprayer, its chrome gleaming under the soft light, and begin to rinse her hair. warm water cascades over her scalp in soothing waves, like liquid velvet flowing through each strand. the gentle pressure massages away the chaos of the day, and you can feel her body melt a little further into the chair.

leaning over her, your movements are both skilled and tender, the natural grace of someone who has done this a hundred times before but still finds joy in the ritual. you grab the red paddle brush, its bristles catching the light like a promise of transformation, and begin working through her damp hair. the knots resist at first, but the brush glides through with practiced ease, pulling softly, releasing each tangle like it’s freeing her from some invisible weight.

casting the brush aside, you reach for the clarifying shampoo. “this’ll strip as much of the box dye out as possible,” you explain, your voice a gentle melody against the background hum of water. “after that, i’ll tone it to fix the brassiness.”

the bottle makes a soft squelch as you squeeze a pearlescent glob into your palm, its silky texture catching the light. the faint, floral scent rises, intertwining with something sweet and clean, filling the air between you. rubbing your hands together, the shampoo blooms into a rich lather, and you hum softly along to the music as you work it into her hair.

your hands move with precision, starting at her roots. the pads of your fingers glide over her scalp, your acrylic nails grazing just enough to send a shiver down her spine. then you press a little harder, your movements circular and deliberate, coaxing the stubborn dye out while soothing her with each motion. the faint jangle of your bracelets punctuates the rhythm of your work, the charms clinking softly as you rub small, methodical circles along her forehead, her baby hairs curling as water meets skin.

at the nape of her neck, your pinkies trace gentle arcs, ensuring no dye lingers where her hair meets her skin. the suds build, thick and creamy, clinging to her strands like clouds ready to drift away.

you’re lost in the focus of your task until you feel her gaze on you, steady and soft, like she’s committing every detail to memory. glancing down, you meet her blue eyes, their depth catching you off guard.

“you okay?” you whisper, your voice low and warm, the question carrying more than just concern—it holds affection, reassurance.

her tattooed hand slips out from under the cape, inked angels adorning her skin as her thumb brushes against your forearm. her touch is light but insistent, pulling you closer until your arms rest against the sink’s edge, caging her in. her head tilts slightly, her smile soft and content as she hums a quiet acknowledgment.

you feel the weight of her trust in that moment, her complete surrender as her body relaxes under your hands. each movement of your fingers, each stroke through her hair, feels like an unspoken promise: i’ve got you. let me take care of this.

“i’m sorry. for real,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper, but the sincerity in it wraps around you like a warm embrace.

you pause, your fingers still tangled in her hair, your brows furrowing. “for what, baby?”

her lips press into a pout, their natural blush deepened by her vulnerability. “for messing up. i didn’t want to make you have to work again, but… i panicked.” her free hand finds your thigh, resting there gently as if to anchor herself in the moment.

“oh, do not apologize, my love,” you reassure her, resuming the slow, soothing massage of her scalp. “it’s my job to fix these kinds of things. besides, i like doing your hair. i was just fussing to fuss, okay? it’s okay to make mistakes—especially when you’ve got me to help you out.”

you lean in closer, your voice softening as your fingers thread through her hair, combing through the strands with care. “you know i’d do this for you any day, right? so don’t worry about it. just sit back, relax, and let me work my magic.”

a small hum of contentment escapes her lips as she nods, her pout still evident. you lean down, closing the space between you, and press a soft kiss to her lips. her lashes flutter against your cheeks, her lips parting slightly as she tastes the faint mix of her mint chapstick and your strawberry gloss mingling together.

her hands find your back, tugging gently as if she can’t quite get enough of your closeness. a quiet laugh escapes you, light and airy, as you pull back, planting one last peck before returning to your work.

turning the water back on, you tilt the sprayer toward the base of her scalp, the warm stream washing away the thick suds. swirling ribbons of old dye and shampoo trail down the bowl, the colors melding into a soft pastel kaleidoscope before vanishing down the drain. the water flows smoothly through your fingers, its warmth lingering as you work through her hair, strand by strand, washing away every trace of her mistake.

and in the quiet intimacy of the moment, the rhythm of your work and the softness of her gaze make everything else fade away.

her eyes flutter closed, a soft breath escaping her lips as she melts into the sensation of your hands moving with steady intent. you cradle her head gently, guiding the stream of water with care, ensuring no spot is left untouched. your free hand parts the damp strands, fingers slipping through them like silk as you coax out the stubborn dye that clings to the ends, reluctant to let go.

as the water runs, the colors begin to bleed away, the once cloudy liquid shifting to clear, signaling the start of something fresh, something new. your nails graze softly against her scalp, soothing and purposeful, like a gentle caress that lingers, making sure every trace of dye is gone. the motion becomes rhythmic, almost hypnotic, and you can’t help but smile at the way billie’s body relaxes, her posture softening under your touch.

“see? all clean,” you murmur, your voice a gentle whisper, comforting and warm as you turn off the sprayer. the water runs from your hands like the last traces of tension, and you brush a damp strand of hair from her cheek with the same tenderness.

once the water runs clear, you set the sprayer aside, your fingers still lingering in her hair, smoothing through the damp strands as they fall into place. with practiced grace, you gather the hair in your palms, squeezing gently to coax out the excess water. the droplets fall softly into the basin, their rhythm steady and soothing, like the quiet pulse of a heartbeat. your hands move with an almost reverent precision, mindful not to tug, only wringing out enough water to keep the hair from dripping too much.

you extend your arm toward the counter, reaching for a fresh, warm black towel that rests nearby. the heat still clings to it from the dryer, and as you drape it over billie’s head, you cup your hands around it, tucking the edges securely. you press the towel softly against her scalp, the warmth radiating through the fabric, soaking up the last of the moisture, comforting her like a quiet embrace.

“there,” you say, a smile pulling at your lips as you step back for a moment, surveying the work. “all rinsed and wrapped up. ready for the next step, love?”

with a gentle nod, she follows you back over to the chair, her presence still relaxed, her smile a soft echo of the comfort you’ve given. you walk over to the coffee table, grabbing the remote and handing it to her as you turn her away from the mirror. she flips through the categories, her fingers tracing the screen as you move to the black bar, retrieving your supplies from the black tub and setting them on the counter in their familiar, ordered arrangement.

the first bottle to emerge is the black dye, cool and smooth in your hand, its cap unscrewing with a satisfying twist. you squeeze a measured amount into a mixing bowl, the thick, inky substance pooling at the bottom with a weight that feels satisfying, as if it holds all the potential for the transformation ahead. next, the developer, creamy and faintly metallic, pours in a controlled stream, the contrast between the jet-black dye and the pale developer stark, almost artistic, like night meeting day.

grabbing your dye brush, you begin to stir with slow, deliberate movements, folding the two substances together. the black streaks through the white, at first marbled and uneven, then gradually blending into a glossy, midnight-colored cream. you lean in closer, making sure the mixture is smooth, scraping the sides of the bowl with the brush to gather every last drop of product.

next, you grab the smaller bowls for the blue dyes, each one its own vibrant hue. you pour the colors in, no need for developer, knowing these are semi-permanents, their vibrancy untouched by the need for mixing. the blues swirl together, each one vivid and intense, and you can feel the excitement building—ready to blend them with the deep, dark base.

the rhythm of the mixing is calming, a ritual you know by heart, each movement of your brush a practiced, soothing motion. the anticipation swells in your chest as you prepare to bring together the perfect blend for billie’s hair.

when the dyes are perfectly mixed, you turn back to billie, positioning yourself behind her once more. you shake the towel before gently unraveling it from her head, the fabric slipping off her hair with a soft rustle. her hair—now long and wavy—falls freely, cascading in fluid, graceful waves over her shoulders like liquid midnight. you take in the beauty of the moment, before reaching for your parting comb. you move with practiced ease, carefully dividing her hair into six sections, the comb gliding smoothly through each strand, as if the strands themselves are eager to fall into place.

you begin by clipping the top half of her hair, then sectioning the lower half into two parts, ensuring that the color will apply evenly, without hesitation. the clips snap into place with precision, each movement deliberate. slipping your gloves on, you start applying the dye to the roots, your hands steady and deliberate. the dye meets her scalp, each brushstroke a quiet promise, ensuring that every strand is perfectly coated. the comb moves through effortlessly with each section, your touch confident and fluid. billie can feel you behind her, though she can’t see what you’re doing. yet, there’s a trust that hangs between you, a deep and unspoken understanding that makes your heart swell with quiet affection.

“you’re so good at this,” billie murmurs, her voice low and admiring, watching as the color sinks in effortlessly.

“you can’t even see what i’m doing, babe,” you chuckle softly, setting the bowl of dye down. you lean over, placing your elbows on the chair as you spin it, bringing her face to the mirror so she can watch your every move.

“okay, but i know you, and i know you’re good at what you do. i swear, i’m never doing my own hair again.”

her compliment lingers in the air, a sweet echo, and you smile as you pick up the bowl once more, moving behind her with a sense of purpose. billie flinches slightly as the cold dye touches her scalp, but you smooth it out with gentle strokes, your acrylics gliding through her hair, the sensation soft and calming. you focus entirely on the application, taking your time to make sure each section is perfect. “it takes years to perfect,” you whisper, as the color settles into her strands, dark and even.

the tv show hums softly in the background, but you’re not really paying attention to it. billie’s eyes flicker between you and the mirror, her gaze never straying far from your hands, which move with precision and care.

“are you excited for the tour?” you ask, keeping the conversation flowing, your voice a steady current as your hands continue their work.

billie nods slowly, the slightest furrow of concern crossing her brow. “yeah, but… it’s also nerve-wracking. i mean, i haven’t toured in a while, so i’m a little anxious.”

you glance at her, surprised. “why are you nervous, baby?”

your hands pause, the brush hovering mid-stroke as you meet her gaze in the mirror. her eyes dart away, a subtle shrug rolling through her shoulders, hidden beneath the cape. “i don’t know,” she admits softly, her voice carrying a faint edge of vulnerability. “i guess… i’m worried people won’t connect with the new stuff, or that i’ll mess up. it’s been a while, you know?”

you set the brush down in the bowl, wiping your hands on a nearby towel, then moving to stand beside her. one hand rests gently on her shoulder, your fingers grazing the curve of her collarbone, your thumb moving in slow, reassuring circles against the fabric of her shirt. “billie, you’re amazing,” you say, your voice warm, but firm. “you’ve got nothing to prove to anyone. you’ve worked so hard on this, and i know it’s going to blow people away. plus,” you add with a playful smile, “if anyone’s got the nerve to doubt you, i’ll just have to handle it.”

she meets your gaze in the mirror, her eyes softening, a small, grateful smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “thanks,” she whispers. “it helps hearing that from you.”

you kiss the top of her head lightly, mindful of the dye, before stepping back to your place behind her. “anytime, love,” you say, picking up the brush again. “now hold still—i’m almost done.”

as you finish applying the dye, billie’s expression softens, her earlier tension slowly giving way to a quiet sense of ease. the warmth of her trust fills the room, wrapping around both of you, and for a moment, the low murmur of the tv fades into the background, leaving only the sound of the brush smoothing through her hair, each stroke a quiet act of care.

“what’d you wanna eat?” she asks, breaking the silence, her voice light.

“um…” you pause briefly, considering. “it’s whatever you want.”

she rolls her eyes, a playful glint lighting her expression. “you always say that,” she teases, her tone affectionate but laced with knowing. “but then when i pick, you’ll complain about it.”

you chuckle softly, setting the brush down and giving her hair a final once-over to make sure the dye is even. “that’s not true,” you counter, your grin betraying your words. “okay, maybe sometimes. but i promise, i won’t complain this time.”

she tilts her head slightly, her eyes flicking up to meet yours in the mirror, a smirk tugging at her lips. “mmhmm. so if i say vegan sushi, you won’t pull that face you always do?”

“no…?” you trail off, narrowing your eyes playfully.

“if you say so,” she laughs, leaning back in the chair, her shoulders relaxing at last. she pulls out her phone, the light from the screen flickering against her face as she pulls up the website to order food.

you grab your comb once more, your hand settling gently on the back of her head, tilting it slightly so you can part the back. the metal end of the comb glides smoothly through the mid to low portions of her hair, creating an even part with ease. gathering the spare hair in your hand, you bend slightly, reaching for a clip and securing it with careful precision.

turning back to your station, you pick up the light blue dye, starting to apply it about three inches down from the roots. the color glides on with a vibrant pop against the black, a striking contrast that’s already beginning to take shape. you feather the dye carefully, blending it seamlessly into the black, creating a smooth, ombre transition. billie’s hair is thick, and you take your time, moving with quiet intention, combing through each section to ensure the colors blend perfectly. with gloved fingers, you work the dye into her hair, making sure it’s just right, the blues flowing into the black in perfect harmony. you repeat the process with the other two shades of blue, each one vibrant, intense, creating a masterpiece of color with every stroke.

the atmosphere is calm now, the warm glow of the lights spilling across the polished surfaces, casting soft reflections that shimmer like a quiet symphony. every little moment between you two seems to stretch longer, the air thick with the deepening connection, the space between your souls growing closer with each passing second. you finish the blue ombré, your hands steady as you apply the final touches, then grab a plastic cap, gently placing it over billie’s head to let the dyes process. the room is silent, save for the low hum of the tv and the rhythm of your breathing, until a knock on the door breaks the peace.

you remove your gloves with a practiced motion and make your way to the door, finding a delivery man holding a bag labeled “take out.” with a soft smile, you reach into your back pocket, pulling out ten dollars for his tip, exchanging it for the food as you offer a quiet thank you. the door closes behind you, the warmth of the room welcoming you back in.

you retreat back inside, removing the black cape from billie’s shoulders, followed by your apron, tossing them carelessly into a corner, the fabric settling like memories discarded in haste. crouching down, you sit cross-legged on the floor by the coffee table, billie mirroring your movement beside you. you open the boxes of the chinese takeout, the aroma instantly filling the air—soy sauce, garlic, and something sweet and tangy all blending together, making your stomach rumble in eager anticipation.

the fluffy carpet beneath you contrasts against the cool, smooth hardwood of the salon, the softness of it grounding you in the moment. you open the boxes slowly, careful to not spill any of the steaming food. inside, the noodles glisten, their texture tender and inviting. the spring rolls are crispy, their golden brown crusts promising a satisfying crunch, and the stir-fried veggies glisten, coated in a savory sheen, the light catching each vibrant color like jewels in the dim room.

handing billie a pair of chopsticks, you take your own, your fingers easily finding their grip. you dive into the food, the two of you settling into a rhythm—eating, talking, and occasionally laughing at the little moments between bites.

“this is so much better than sushi,” you joke, nudging her lightly with your knee as you twirl some lo mein onto your chopsticks.

billie rolls her eyes, grinning. “you’re lucky i was in the mood for chinese. otherwise, you’d be starving right now.”

you laugh, taking another bite. the savory flavors burst across your tongue, comforting and satisfying, grounding you in the simplicity of the moment. “guess i owe you one, huh?”

billie raises an eyebrow, a playful glint lighting her eyes. “oh, you definitely do. next time, i’m picking. no arguments.”

“i told you to pick, but deal.” you say around a mouthful of food, earning a mock look of disapproval from her, but you both laugh, the sound of it rich and warm, like music in the quiet room.

the tv continues to play softly in the background, but neither of you are truly paying attention, too lost in your easy banter, too caught up in the gentle rhythm of being together. every so often, you catch her stealing a glance at you—her expression soft, her gaze full of unspoken things—and your heart swells with something quiet and content. you can’t help but smile back, the warmth in your chest blooming as if it’s something you’ve known all along.

as you twirl the noodles onto your chopsticks, the sharp bite of a voice from the tv slices through the air, pulling both of you from the comfortable rhythm you’d settled into.

“you know what? i don’t need this energy from fake ass bitch like you of all people!” a woman yells, her tone dripping with venom, and you both freeze mid-bite. the camera cuts to her, hurling a drink across the room, the liquid splashing like a violent cascade as gasps rise from the background.

“ohhh shit.” you gasp out, sounding like a toddler on the verge of telling on someone.

“wait, what the fuck jus’ happened?” billie asks, sitting up straighter, chopsticks suspended in the air like a moment frozen in time.

you squint at the screen, fingers reaching for the remote to turn the volume up, the faint hum of the tv now louder in your ears. “hold on—what’re we watching right now?”

billie shakes her head, a laugh bubbling out as she points to the screen. “i don’t know, but that was—did she just—was that a margarita?!”

“oh yea, most definitely,” you confirm, a grin tugging at your lips as you set your box of food down on the coffee table, the subtle thud of it breaking the silence. “who even does that?”

“apparently her,” billie says, gesturing to the woman storming off-screen, her heels clicking sharply against the floor like a declaration of finality.

you both watch, eyes wide, as the scene cuts to a confessional, the same woman ranting with a voice full of venom. “she thinks she can talk about me behind my back? please. i’m not the one with a cheating ass boyfriend.”

simultaneously, you and billie gasp, grabbing onto one another in shock at the confession, and then burst into laughter. the sound of it warm and effortless, a shared joy.

“oh my god,” billie says, leaning back onto her hands, her eyes dancing with amusement. “she’s so real. i kind of love it.”

you nod, picking up another spring roll, letting its crisp warmth settle in your hand as you sink deeper into the moment. “you’re so messy. like, look at you encouraging violence,” you tease, giving a light kiss of your teeth as you shake your head.

the two of you continue watching, caught in a tangled mix of laughter and genuine debate, the absurdity of the show now grounding the conversation. billie leans in closer, her chopsticks tapping absently against the edge of her box, the sound soft but rhythmic.

“okay, but listen,” she says, her voice animated, a new layer of thoughtfulness pulling at her tone, “i get why she’s mad, but did she have to throw the drink? i’m not gonna lie, that’s just embarrassing for her.”

“nah, i don’t know,” you counter, your voice playful but threaded with a hint of consideration. “if someone called me a fake ass bitch on camera, i’d probably snap too. but maybe i’d throw something less sticky.”

“like what?”

“water? a smoothie? i don’t know—something that doesn’t smell like tequila,” you answer with a smirk, the edge of your voice soft and teasing.

billie laughs, shaking her head with mock exasperation. “remind me never to cross you.”

you nudge her playfully with your knee, the motion light and easy. “just don’t talk shit, and we’ll be fine.”

by the time the episode ends, both of your food containers are empty, the remnants of your meal scattered across the coffee table like the final traces of a good time. you’re fully invested now, the show pulling you in deeper with every outrageous twist. you glance at billie, eyes flicking to the next episode’s preview, torn between indulging in another round or letting the dye process take center stage. billie grabs the remote, already clicking through, her focus sharpening as the screen changes, the night stretching on.

“one more,” she says, her eyes glinting with mischief, a sly smile curling at the corners of her lips. “just to see if they make up. we have time, right?”

“definitely,” you agree, but you get up from your place on the floor, your fingers lightly tapping her knee as you stand. “but we do need to get this dye out of your hair, so come on.” you move toward the corner, pulling her cape from the pile where you had tossed it earlier, and she follows you, reluctant but amused.

“fine,” billie grumbles, dragging her feet in mock protest as she moves toward the wash bowl. “but if i miss something, it’s your fault.”

you laugh, shaking your head, the sound light and free. “girl…you’ll survive. besides, you don’t want to leave the dye in too long. trust me, it’s not cute.”

billie settles into the chair with a long sigh, tilting her head back into the basin, the soft curve of her neck exposed in the dim light. “you’re the expert,” she says, teasing but soft, her trust in you woven into the words.

“damn right,” you reply, pulling the wet cap from her head, the colors leaving faint imprints on the plastic before you discard it, the faint hiss of it hitting the trash can like a small exhale. slipping on a fresh pair of gloves, you turn on the water, testing the temperature against your wrist before letting it cascade over her hair, the black and blue dyes swirling together in a quiet, colorful dance. the stream flows over her scalp, soft but persistent, coaxing a small hum of contentment from her, and you smile to yourself, pleased by the soothing rhythm.

“feel good?” you ask, your fingers gently massaging her scalp as you check to make sure all the dye is rinsed away, the soft friction of your touch making her relax even more.

“so good,” she murmurs, her eyes closed now, her body sinking further into the chair as the warmth of the water works its magic.

you can’t help but admire the way the rich black fades into the striking blue, the ombré already catching the light in delicate flashes, as if the colors themselves are in conversation. once the water runs clear, you turn it off and reach for a towel, gently squeezing out the excess water from her hair, your hands careful but purposeful.

“hold still,” you whisper, wrapping the warm towel snugly around her head. she lets out a soft sigh as the heat seeps into her scalp, the tension melting from her, her lips curling into a small, content smile.

“you really spoil me, you know that?” she says, her voice soft but sincere, the words a gentle confession.

“someone’s gotta keep you in line, besides if not me then who?” you tease, helping her rise from the chair, your fingers brushing lightly over her arm as you lead her back to the station. you turn around, your mind already shifting to the next step, reaching into your closet for the next set of tools—heat protectant, blow dryer, round brush, scissors, leave-in conditioner, straightener, parting comb, and clips, all free of dye.

you place your items on the countertop, moving with practiced ease as you quickly dispose of the dying supplies, along with your gloves, and dumping the bowls into the sink with a quiet clink! you grab the bottle of leave-in conditioner, squeezing a generous dollop into your palm. the creamy product is cool against your skin as you rub your hands together, warming it up before stepping behind billie. your fingers slip gently through the damp strands, working the conditioner in from roots to ends. her hair feels soft, pliable, and just slick enough as the product absorbs, and you take your time, your movements slow and deliberate, each touch soothing, grounding, and tender.

“gotta make sure this stays healthy after all that dye,” you murmur, the words soft, half to yourself, half to her, as your hands glide over her hair in slow, steady strokes. your nails graze her scalp occasionally, sending soft tingles down her spine, a delicate reminder of the connection between you.

once the conditioner is evenly applied, you plug in the blow dryer and straightener, the soft hum of the machines filling the space as they heat up. your hand rests lightly on her shoulder, a quiet comfort. “alright, let’s get this dried and looking perfect,” you say, your voice low as you grab the blow dryer and a large round brush.

the warm air begins to flow, a gentle wave of heat that seeps into her scalp, contrasting with the coolness of the conditioner. you work methodically, sectioning her hair, rolling it around the brush with a careful precision. each pull of the dryer tightens the strands, smoothing them, while the brush’s bristles tug gently, almost coaxing her hair into submission. the heat locks in the shine, giving it a soft, glossy finish, and your movements are rhythmic, like a quiet dance—the steady hum of the blow dryer blending with your occasional quiet remarks about the netflix show still playing on the screen.

for her, the process is a symphony of sensations—gentle tension from the brush, the comforting warmth of the dryer’s air, and the soothing, skilled touch of hands that know her hair better than anyone else. each stroke of the brush feels like a small act of love, a silent promise wrapped in care, leaving her hair light, fluffy, and full of life, as if it’s been reborn under your hands.

once the hair is dry, you set the dryer down with a soft click and pick up the flat iron, adjusting the temperature with a practiced flick of your wrist. “okay, babe, i need you to be absolutely still,” you say with a grin, wagging the iron lightly in the mirror so she can see that you’re serious. you section her hair once more, your hands steady, not wanting to risk burning her, knowing how delicate the process is.

you spray the heat protectant over her hair, the thick mist settling over the strands, a silent shield against the heat. then, with a steady hand, the flat iron glides through each section, releasing a soft, sizzling sound, like a whispered promise. the heat smooths the strands into sleek perfection, each pass making her hair feel even silkier, even smoother. she can feel the warmth of the iron passing through her hair, not too hot but just enough to make her scalp feel cozy, like a gentle caress. with every pass, her hair becomes more unreal to the touch, soft and straight, as though it belongs to someone else, someone who knows exactly how to treat it.

as you finish, you run your hands over the newly straightened hair, letting the strands slip between your fingers like liquid silk, smooth and soft. “there we go,” you murmur, stepping back to admire your work, the faint shimmer of the pretty blue peeking out from beneath the jet black hair, catching the light in the most subtle way.

your fiancé tilts her head slightly to get a better look at her sleek hair in the mirror, and you grab your shears and a fine-tooth comb, the tools gliding through your hands with ease. “let’s add a little shape, yeah? just some light layers to bring it all together,” you say, your voice warm and reassuring, a soft promise of perfection.

sectioning the hair again with clips, your movements are fluid, practiced—each step a dance of familiarity. picking up a strand, you comb it straight, the fine-tooth comb catching the light with every pass before snipping carefully. the soft snick of the scissors echoes in the space, each cut precise, deliberate. the loose pieces of hair fall away like delicate threads, spiraling softly to the floor, almost weightless in their descent. your touch is gentle, yet purposeful, your head tilting slightly as you examine the angle of each layer, making sure it’s exactly right.

the r&b music playing softly in the background shifts, slowing down to something older, smoother, soulful. without thinking, you start whisper-singing along, your voice low, raspy but sweet, a sound that carries the tune effortlessly as you work. “oh my gosh, this is my song,” you murmur with a small smile, not stopping your quiet singing even as you shift your position to trim the next section, your hands steady and sure.

billie watches you in the mirror, her gaze fixed on you, captivated by the way you hum and move in sync with the music. your lips form the words to a song that feels like comfort, like nostalgia, a piece of your soul woven into each note. it’s intimate—your voice barely audible over the sound of the scissors snipping, but the harmony of it all feels like a private concert just for her, the world outside fading away.

when the cutting is done, you set the scissors down with a soft click and reach for the flat iron again, the familiar weight of it in your hands grounding you. “now to finish it off,” you say softly, your voice still laced with the quiet energy of the song. as the flat iron glides through the freshly trimmed layers, you move slower, almost mesmerized by the way the hair falls perfectly into place, each strand a work of art under your touch. the song plays on, and you hum the last verse under your breath, your hand following the rhythm as you smooth out the ends with expert care, the warmth of the iron leaving the hair sleek, as smooth as your voice.

once the final section is done, you spray a fine mist of finishing spray, the light scent filling the air as it locks everything in place, giving her hair that glossy, healthy shine. stepping back with a soft smile, you run your comb through her silky layers, the strands gliding effortlessly, almost weightless. “there. perfectly layered, silky smooth, and bone straight,” you murmur, brushing a few stray strands away from her face, your fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary. “what do you think?”

billie turns her head slowly from side to side, inspecting the smooth jet-black color that bleeds into a bright, vibrant blue at the back, the contrast stunning against the sleek, rich darkness. she smiles, her eyes lighting up, a quiet satisfaction dancing in her gaze. “wow. you really pulled it off. i look… amazing.”

grinning, you wipe your hands on a towel, the soft fabric absorbing the last of the dampness. “i told you i could fix it.” pride blooms in your chest, warm and content. your fingers reach for the back of her neck, gently undoing the velcro tabs, removing the cape with a practiced motion, shaking off any excess hair that clings to the fabric. as you lean her body back in the chair, billie tilts her neck, her eyes locking with yours. a soft, playful smile forms on her lips as she puckers them, her gaze full of quiet affection. a small giggle escapes you, and you meet her in a tender kiss, your lips lingering, a momentary pause where everything else fades.

a sleepy smile tugs at the corners of her lips as she whispers between kisses, her voice soft and sincere, “thank you.”

“always. i’m not gonna let you walk around looking crazy, you know that.” you plant a soft kiss to her forehead, the warmth of your lips lingering for just a beat before you gently guide her to a chair, where she can relax while you finish up.

moving around the salon, you begin to clean up your station, tidying the space where you’ve spent the last several hours. the air hums with the low, steady sound of the television playing in the background, switching from the show you’d been watching earlier to a late-night talk show filled with random jokes and light chatter. billie sits in the corner, her eyes still sparkling as she admires her hair, now glowing softly under the warm, inviting lights of the salon. she pulls out her phone, capturing a few pictures of her new look, turning her head from side to side, caught in awe of the transformation.

as billie scrolls through her pictures, you wipe down the counter, returning your tools to their places with careful precision. but you can’t help but notice the subtle shift in her energy. her usual spark, that lively brightness, seems to dim as she leans back in the chair, her eyelids fluttering as exhaustion starts to settle in. the day has been long, and you can see it catching up with her.

with a soft, knowing smile, you hurry to finish the last of the cleaning—sweeping the floor, wiping down the counters, making everything neat. each motion is quick, purposeful. you want to get billie home, tucked in, where she can unwind after the whirlwind of the day. the thought of resting together, of the quiet comfort of home, fills you with a quiet urgency.

when you finish, you grab the remote, clicking off the tv with a soft sound, followed by the gentle hum of the alexa, music fading into silence. you gather your things from the rack behind the door, zipping up your jacket, slinging your purse over your shoulder. you walk over to where billie is softly dozing in the corner, and with careful fingers, you reach into her pocket, fishing out her car keys and your phone. her body stirs as she feels your light touch, but she remains blissfully unaware.

lifting her hand gently, you help her up. “come on, let’s get you home.” you turn off all the lights, the soft click of switches echoing in the quiet space, before locking the door behind you. the cool night air of LA greets you as you step outside. with a press of the key fob, the porsche unlocks, and you slide into the driver’s seat, feeling the weight of the day settle into your bones. billie slips into the passenger seat beside you, curling up in her spot, her head leaning against the window. the car roars to life with the press of the ignition, and you begin the drive home, the rhythm of the road steady and comforting as billie’s eyelids grow heavier with every passing moment.

the drive back is peaceful. the soft hum of the car engine creates a gentle lullaby, accompanied by the occasional sound of tires gliding over the smooth asphalt. the streetlights flicker in rhythmic succession, casting brief, golden glows that sweep over the streets in the night’s embrace.

your gaze drifts over to billie every now and then, catching glimpses of her peacefully dozing off, her features relaxed in the quiet of the car. the streetlights spill through the windows, bathing her face in a soft, warm glow that makes her look even more serene. it’s a perfect, tranquil moment, and your heart swells with a quiet affection. she looks so at peace, safe and calm, wrapped in the comfort of the night.

the car slows to a gentle stop as you approach a red light. the warm glow from the traffic light washes over billie’s face, painting her delicate features in a soft, crimson hue.

a smile tugs at your lips, tender and full of love, as you glance at her once more. billie’s lashes flutter softly, stirring ever so slightly, but she doesn’t wake. your hand moves away from the wheel, fingers grazing across her cheek before cupping her jaw. she leans into your touch instinctively, a quiet sigh escaping her lips. the connection feels like a fleeting, yet eternal, moment, a promise of care and warmth.

as the light turns green, you pull your hand back, placing it gently on the steering wheel. you continue the drive home, the rhythmic flicker of streetlights through the windows adding to the serenity of the moment. billie stays curled in her seat beside you, her soft breaths the only sound accompanying the steady hum of the car.

as the familiar sight of your shared home comes into view, you ease the car into the garage, the low rumble of the engine settling into stillness. putting the car in park, you turn it off, nudging billie softly as she stirs awake, her eyes blinking open slowly. you reach for your keys, her hand slipping into yours as you unlock the door to the house. the quiet of the night surrounds you as you lead her inside, slipping your shoes off before guiding her to your bedroom.

once inside, you cross into the adjoining bathroom. billie leans gently against the doorframe, watching as you crouch down, rummaging through the cabinets beneath the sink. you pull out two shower caps, the simple task feeling comforting in the stillness of the moment. you place hers on her head, tucking each strand of her black and blue hair under it with careful hands. then you repeat the process for your own hair, your movements slow and deliberate. once the caps are securely in place, you turn on the shower, adjusting the temperature to the perfect warmth.

turning back to her, you both begin shedding your clothes, each piece falling softly to the floor like whispered secrets. the air is thick with warmth and steam, and as you step into the shower together, the water cascades down in soothing rivulets, wrapping you both in its embrace. billie leans against the cool tiled wall, letting the steam unwind her body, and you quickly wash yourself, the soft sound of water splashing around you almost meditative.

“you okay over there?” you ask, your voice low, careful not to break the peaceful silence between you. you glance over at billie, her eyes barely open, her face softened in the steam.

without a word, she steps behind you, her warmth pressing against your back as she rests her head in the crook of your neck. the dewy droplets from the shower roll onto her skin, adding a shimmer to her closeness as she wraps her arms around your waist. her thumbs draw light, absentminded circles on your skin, the motion gentle and soothing.

the water flows steadily over both of you, its warmth sinking into your muscles, loosening any lingering tension. billie’s embrace is a gentle weight, her body leaning into yours as if trying to melt into you completely. you tilt your head slightly, allowing her to settle more comfortably in the curve of your neck. in that moment, everything else fades away—the world outside the shower, the thoughts swirling in your mind—all that’s left is the quiet intimacy between you, like a soft blanket wrapping you both in its warmth.

“you’re gonna fall asleep like this,” you whisper, though there’s no reprimand in your voice—only tender amusement, the rhythm of your breaths matching hers.

billie hums softly in response, her voice muffled against your damp skin, “can’t help it. you’re too comfy.”

your lips twitch into a smile, a soft sigh escaping you as you reach for her rag on the side. you grab the body wash next, squeezing it onto the cloth, and then rubbing it together, watching as the lather builds. the air fills with the fresh scent of citrus, mingling with the warmth of vanilla, a fragrance that blends perfectly with the steamy space around you.

“come here,” you murmur, your voice soft, as you gently turn her so her back faces you. your hands begin at her shoulders, moving in slow, deliberate motions, the soap spreading across her skin like silk, tracing the curves of her swirl tattoo as it slides down her back. each touch of your fingers against her skin sends a wave of relaxation through her muscles, the tension unwinding as you move down her arms, then back to her spine. the steady rhythm of your movements is mirrored by the soft patter of water on the tiled floor, the sound like a quiet lullaby that wraps around you both.

“you’re spoiling me,” billie murmurs, her voice soft, almost lost beneath the sound of the water.

“always,” you reply with a quiet laugh, your hands trailing down to her sides, making sure not to miss a single inch of her skin, your touch tender and precise.

turning her back to face you, her half-lidded eyes meet yours for a brief moment before fluttering closed, surrendering to the warmth and intimacy of the moment. you begin washing her front, your touch light, like a feather brushing against her collarbone, down her shoulders, and across her arms. she exhales softly as your hands dip lower, brushing against her stomach, her body swaying gently as the warmth of the water and your care lull her deeper into relaxation.

“all done,” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the water, guiding her under the spray to rinse away the suds. your hands move with care, ensuring that every trace of soap is gone, leaving only the warmth and comfort of the moment lingering between you.

you place a hand on her back, your palm gently meeting the light droplets still clinging to her skin, the soft scratch of your acrylic nails trailing across her damp flesh as you lean in to turn off the tap. the water’s rhythmic trickle fades into the background, and with a fluid motion, you slide open the glass door, stepping out into the steamy air. reaching for the towels hanging nearby, you wrap one around each of you, the plush fabric absorbing the last of the warmth from your skin. you remove your shower caps, stepping onto the soft mat, her damp body leaning into you as you guide her back toward the bedroom.

once there, you grab two band tees, one for you and one for billie, slipping them on as you moisturize your skin, the cool scent of lavender and vanilla mingling with the steam still lingering in the air.

you help billie into her pajamas with slow, careful movements, making sure every action is deliberate, your touch gentle as you rub lotion into her arms and legs. the scent of the lotion fills the space between you, wrapping around you both like a comforting embrace.

“i hope you know this is going into your girlfriend tax,” you say, your voice light and playful as you massage lotion into billie’s hand.

“don’t you mean wife?” a smirk dances across her lips, her hand pulling you lightly by the waist, her engagement ring catching the soft light from the bedroom as she tugs you closer. a small giggle escapes you, a sweet reminder of what’s to come. you reach behind you, taking her hand from your hip and guiding her over to the vanity.

you pull out the stool for her to sit, your fingers grazing her shoulder as you remove her shower cap, the remnants of water flinging away with the movement. grabbing a comb from the table, you part her hair carefully, your fingers soft and deliberate as you begin to weave two french braids. the light taps of rain against the windows add a soothing rhythm to the quiet room, the sound merging with the gentle flow of your touch, easing billie further into relaxation.

when you’re done, you reach into the drawer, pulling out a silky brown scarf. you open it with a delicate flick of your fingers, folding it into a neat triangle. aligning the longer side with her forehead, you tie it gently, making sure the knot is firm enough to stay in place, but soft enough to not cause discomfort. it rests just so, a quiet gesture of care before the night settles in around you both.

billie scrambles to your bed, her movements quick as she throws herself under the duvet with a soft sigh, sinking into the softness like she’s finally found her place. you shake your head softly, smiling to yourself as you grab a scarf, pulling it over your hair with the same practiced care. you make your way over to the bed, the quiet click of the lamp turning off filling the space before you slide in next to her. the weight of the day seems to lift in the darkened room, the only sound the gentle tap of rain against the windows.

reaching into your bedside drawer, you slip off your ring, placing it carefully in its box, the cool touch of the metal against your skin a reminder of the bond you share. you stretch your hand back toward billie, palm facing up, and she mirrors the gesture. the coolness of the .48-carat diamond meets your touch as she slides her ring into your hand. you place both rings in their box, closing the drawer softly, the faint sound of the wood settling a quiet punctuation to the moment.

billie drapes her arm over your torso, pulling you closer, her warmth seeping into your skin as your limbs tangle together, two bodies finding comfort in one another. your thumbs trace soft, lazy patterns on her arm, the motion slow and deliberate, a silent promise of peace. she buries her face in the crook of your neck, her breath warm against your skin.

outside, the rain continues its melodic tapping, the rhythm a lullaby as billie’s breathing slows. her body relaxes completely, her embrace a cocoon that shields you from the world.

as she drifts off to sleep, you press a soft kiss to her palm, the touch tender, a quiet act of love. your own eyes grow heavy as the night wraps itself around you both, cocooning you in its warmth. the sound of the rain serenades you into dreams, its rhythm guiding you to sleep, where you rest together, the world fading away.

astrc’s tag list: @zendayasredbottoms @bilsdillldough @billiesrighthand ; hit my asks saying “add to taglist” if you want to be on my regular taglist for all billie content!

#billie eilish x reader #billie eilish #billie eilish fanfiction #billie eilish fic #billie eilish gf #billie eilish imagine #billie eilish x fem!reader #billie eilish x you #billie eilish x black girl #billie eilish smut #billie eilish x y/n #billie eilish x female reader

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bewaryofpity · 1 day ago

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jack's sooooo clingy he follows you everywhere like a lost puppy, especially after a long day of not seeing you.

jack has been following you around since you came back from work, yapping about anything and everything that has happened to him since you left this morning. and you’re not surprised because he has the habit of lingering close to you when you’ve been gone for a while, especially on his rare days off. today is no different.

he does follow you everywhere like a very grown and very loyal puppy, today more than ever as he followed you to the bathroom where you're trying to get ready for your night routine. he’s sitting on top of the toilet seat, babbling about his day out with nico that obviously consisted of hockey related things.

you snicker to yourself when jack doesn't realize that you're taking longer than usual to get unready, or that he’s talking for this long, but you know how much he hates boredom so you let him be. it’s just that you weren’t expecting this.

it’s cute, yes, but now you’re more interested in seeing how long he’ll yap for or rather how long he’ll stay here with you. so you finish taking your makeup off before pulling the shower curtain back and twisting the knob to turn on the water and adjusting it to the right temperature. the idea that he could easily stalk you into the shower makes you smile so you play along to his not so little rant.

“and then nico lured me to the rink because apparently the kids were practicing and he wanted to surprise them. not that i didn’t like that but then their coach didn’t look too pleased, the kids were distracted for the rest of the practice, obviously.”

you hum, “is it because they took nico’s attention off you?”

“Uh, n-no. i mean i was the one hanging out with him first, so.” he mumbles “but that’s not the point!”

jack huffs, changing into a criss cross position on top of the toilet. and it’s taking everything in you to not laugh at him because he looks like a child, pout on his lips and looking so small in this position.

“well then, was it fun at least?”

“duh, baby.” hands flailing around him. “the kids loved it, they kept asking us questions and some didn’t make sense –they were like four years old, you know– and like, we had to stop for even longer because they wanted us to sign some of their stuff.”

that must be why he also took longer to text you throughout his day.

“i bet, love.” you nod along, pulling your hair up in a bun so it doesn’t get wet in the shower, finally at the right hot temperature. “i’ll shower now if you don’t mind.”

“oh, now?” eyes wide like you told a child you’ll leave him in the parking lot.

“i mean, we’re in the bathroom, and i’m in a towel, and it’s been a long day. so yes, now.”

and jack’s cheeks have a faint pink tint as he shamelessly watches you unravel your towel and step in the shower. totally not because he saw you naked for a split second, it’s just the steam from the really hot shower, right?

“uh yeah, okay” he says as he stand up. “i’ll get unready too before i go then.”

you hum in reply as you go on about your shower, but you’re actually simply standing under the water, trying to keep an ear out for his movements and words.

suddenly he’s taking his sweet time to wash his face and you think he might start brushing his teeth soon too for the hell of it.

but his talking doesn’t stop at all. he blurts out random thoughts in between before going on to ramble about some hockey plays he’s been looking over, asks you what you had for lunch. he even asks you which body wash you’re currently using –which is none yet because trying not to laugh is revealing to be harder than you thought. he’s truly finding the most random topics to fill the silence.

and the talking does finally stop, but it’s replaced by jack’s whistling, clearly out of things to say. yet you know your boyfriend better than he thinks so you know very well what he’s thinking about.

“you still there, jacky?” you call wittingly. you can see his blurry figure through the shower curtain, an excited nod coming from his silhouette.

and you bite your lip as one of his hands reaches to scratch at the back of his neck. “i guess i’ll go now. uhm… i’ll wait for you to come out. i’ll get us take out, anything you’re craving? because if you want there’s a new italian place down the street that luke suggested to me and he says it's really good, so i think maybe–”

omg he’s so cute.

you pull the curtain back, just with your head peeping out to find jack with one hand hovering the door handle, still lingering around.

“jacky?”

“yeah baby, what’s up?”

“do you want to shower with me?”

and like a kid opening presents on christmas morning, his eyes light up so quickly. his head shakes with an overly enthusiastic nod, and he’s already clumsy in pulling off his clothes that he almost trips getting his sweatpants off. you’re not surprised at all, the lack of grace and coordination are not exclusive to when he’s on the ice.

a stupid, wide, boyish grin spreads over his lips when he finally steps into the shower in front of you.

“hi, baby,” he grins, leaning forward to hold your face in his hands and peck your nose.

“you know, if you wanted to join me, you could’ve just asked.” your smile now matching his. jack squishes your cheeks between his palms, “well, where’s the fun in that?”

#jack hughes blurb #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes x you #jack hughes x y/n #jack hughes fic #jack hughes one shot #nhl x reader #nhl x you #nhl x y/n #nhl fic #nhl one shot

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daisymbin · 21 hours ago

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cookies & sprinklers - joshua hong

check out my masterlist! // shua's m.list

joshua punched in the passcode to seungkwan and jeonghan’s shared apartment, the beep echoing in the quiet hallway. he pushed the door open and stepped aside to let you in, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“it’s so like them to be late to their own plans,” he remarked as the lock clicked behind him.

you laughed, toeing off your shoes. “i feel like they secretly do it on purpose. but doesn’t it feel kind of wrong to just… be here without them?”

“they told us to come in,” joshua replied, calm as ever. “besides, if we waited outside, seungkwan would just call us irresponsible for standing around like we don’t know how to open a door.”

you tilted your head, smirking. “true. but it’s so quiet. what are we supposed to do?”

“we could just sit and wait like normal people,” he suggested, raising an eyebrow. “or maybe put on a movie?”

you snapped your fingers, a sudden idea sparking. “what if i baked something? as a surprise for them. seungkwan would love it.”

joshua looked skeptical, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. “in their kitchen? are you sure that’s a good idea? jeonghan’s super particular about his stuff.”

“it’ll be fine,” you waved him off, already heading to the kitchen. “i’ll make cookies. simple, sweet, and impossible to mess up.”

joshua followed reluctantly. “just don’t tell jeonghan i let you do this.”

you threw yourself into baking with enthusiasm, pulling out ingredients and chatting away. everything was fine—until it wasn’t. halfway through, a puff of flour exploded from the mixer, enveloping you and joshua in a cloud of white dust.

“okay,” he said, coughing. “not a great start, but we’re fine.”

“it’s under control!” you insisted, though your voice wavered.

then, in a moment of carelessness, the dish towel left too close to the stovetop caught fire.

“joshua!” you shrieked, pointing at the growing flames.

he didn’t miss a beat, grabbing a pitcher of water and dousing the flames in one swift motion. but before relief could set in, the apartment’s sprinklers activated, drenching you, joshua, and the entire kitchen.

“oh no,” you whispered, water dripping from your hair. “they’re going to kill us. we need to clean this all up now.” panic overtaking you.

the sound of the front door unlocking made you freeze.

“we’re here!” jeonghan’s voice called, cheerful as ever. his footsteps faltered as he entered. “what... happened?”

seungkwan followed, his expression turning from confusion to outrage in record time. “WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY KITCHEN?”

joshua quickly stepped forward, shielding you from their wrath. “it was me,” he said calmly, raising his hands. “i tried baking.”

jeonghan’s jaw dropped, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “you? you thought baking in my kitchen was a good idea?”

“you don’t even bake!” seungkwan screeched, waving his arms at the chaos. “my oven! my beautiful, perfect oven! she was pristine until you destroyed her!”

“i’ll clean it up,” joshua said, unflappable. “and i’ll replace anything that’s damaged. just... don’t be too mad.”

jeonghan crossed his arms, glaring. “oh, we’re mad. you’re never hearing the end of this.”

“i’m putting it in the group chat,” seungkwan added with a vindictive grin. “everyone’s going to know.”

“even jihoon?” joshua asked, his voice betraying a hint of concern.

jeonghan smirked. “especially jihoon.”

as they continued their tirade, jeonghan suddenly squinted at you. “wait. why are you so quiet?”

“yeah,” seungkwan agreed, his eyes narrowing. “you look guilty.”

you froze. “me? i —”

jeonghan pointed dramatically. “you're hiding something.”

“totally guilty,” seungkwan agreed. “spit it out.”

joshua stepped between you and their accusatory stares. “leave her out of this. it was all me.”

jeonghan blinked, momentarily thrown by the firmness in his voice. seungkwan hesitated, then huffed. “fine. but you owe us. big time.”

as they stomped off to inspect the damage in their closets, joshua turned to you with a soft smile. “don’t worry. they’ll forget about it in a week. maybe.”

you looked at him, water still dripping from his hair. “you really didn’t have to take the blame.”

“of course i did,” he said easily, his tone warm. “it’s my job to protect you.”

despite the chaos, a grin tugged at your lips. “thank you.”

he shrugged, the corner of his mouth lifting in that signature, gentle smile. “just don’t try to bake in anyone else’s kitchen, okay? especially not mingyu's or seungcheol's.”

#seventeen #seventeen imagine #svt #svt x reader #seventeen fluff #svt fluff #seventeen x reader #joshua seventeen #seventeen joshua #joshua fluff #joshua fanfic #joshua imagines #joshua x you #joshua x reader #joshua #joshua hong

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celli-ohs · 2 days ago

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I Can't, I Have Rehearsal

pairing: socially awkward!park sunghoon x fem!reader

genre: high school au; crack, comedy, fluff

synopsis: What happens when you get seated right next to the most handsome boy in your entire grade? Well you thought it'd be a great excuse to get to know him better, but the guy won't even talk to you! After a mishap in the science lab, you come to find out that Park Sunghoon, the cold-hearted prince of EN High, isn't in fact rude, he's just afraid of women.

before you read: character profiles

warnings: language, stalking mention, cooties, wild subplot(s), loser enhypen, rickrolling, bad april fools pranks

word count: 3.62k

taglist (open): @ancnymcnzjy , @frankenstein852

note: part 1 of my and scene! series, loosely based off en-drama.

Log 4: Monday - April 1st, 2024

“I’m gonna say it. Y/n has been getting on my nerves recently.”

Everyone snaps their necks to look at Riki like he’s just admitted to committing a crime.

“Excuse me?” Sunghoon is appalled. “That’s my friend!”

It’s been about a month since you and Sunghoon had begun his “girlducation” lessons (You named it, not him). And luckily he’s been faring well!

Everyone’s noticed how he’s more open and friendly, and just last week he was finally able to look his homeroom teacher in the eyes and have a full conversation (about how he’s failing Algebra 2).

Talking to his female classmates has gotten easier too. He can’t say much though, as he still gets nervous whenever the conversation gets too complex.

You’ve helped him make leaps and bounds regardless, and Sunghoon can proudly state you two are friends.

“Come on you guys, you know what I’m talking about,” Riki shakes his head, clicking his tongue.

“No. We don’t. What did she do to you?” Jongseong raises a brow. Riki groans, rubbing his face.

“Yeah, there’s no need to be angry at her.” Heesung adds.

“This is exactly why! You guys like her more than me, I’m being replaced!” Riki throws his hands up in the air.

“Uh, no duh we like her more,” Sunoo rolls his eyes. “She’s nicer, funnier, and she’s prettier.”

Riki gasps. “I can be pretty!” He crosses his arms. “I’m prettier than you!” This time Sunoo gasps. “You can’t say shit to me cause do you got some guy stalking you because he thinks your idol material? I think not bitch!”

“Stalker? Sunoo! I thought you got rid of that guy?!” Jaeyun pauses, now the attention is turned towards the younger boy.

“He’s been on my ass recently, he even knows my order at my favorite cafe.” He shrugs as if this isn’t a concerning matter.

“Oh that’s not…” Sunghoon makes a face, eyeing the others.

“That stupid Belift guy is so persistent. It’s like he doesn’t take no for an answer.” Sunoo sighs. They all look at each other, skeptical. "I’ll walk home with you today Sunoo,” Jungwon decides.

“Speaking of stalkers,” Jongseong clears his throat, turning to Riki. “You’re banned from my house.”

“What?” Heeseung squeaks out in shock.

“Oh, so you liked my April Fool’s prank?” Riki grins, dodging Jongseong’s fists. “You went and switched my alarm clock forward! I was on my way to Jungwon’s at 5am this morning,” Jongseong grumbles.

As the others laugh and praise Riki for his joke, Sunghoon laughs the hardest. “Maybe you should keep your clock that way, you won’t ever have to worry about your mom nagging you to leave on time anymore.”

Jongseong rolls his eyes. “Haha, very funny.”

“How did you even do that?” Jaeyun laughs. Riki waves him off, smiling proudly. “Just asked his mom if I could come over to change it really quick while he was at baseball yesterday.”

“My mom was in on it?!” Jongseong looks betrayed. The boys soon make their way inside their school building.

“I totally forgot today was April Fool’s! I should’ve planned something,” Heeseung laughs, opening his locker.

“Don’t worry, I’m just getting started, I’ve got something for all of you.” Riki sends them an ominous smile. “Heh, what do you mean?” Sunghoon tries to hide his fear with a smile.

“Nothing. Just think of today as karma for replacing me with Y/n,” Riki waves before he jogs down the hall, greeting his other friends.

“We never replaced you?!” Jungwon shouts at him, sounding worried. “Oh my god, I’m scared, what if I open my locker and there’s like a dead rat or something?” Sunoo whines.

“No, Riki’s not like that,” Heeseung shakes his head, before turning to the others. “Uh, right?”

“Last year he put ink on my glasses, so when I took them off I had lines all over my face and hands, no one said anything till lunch!” Sunghoon reminds the others.

“In middle school we shared a class, I fell asleep and he clipped a hair extension to the back of my head. No one told me I had a mullet until I got home and showered.” Jungwon recites, shuddering as his fingers ghost over the back of his neck.

“He gets bolder every year, and somehow he convinces people to help him. I think he’s bribing them somehow.” Jongseong concludes.

“What if I just skipped school today? Huh? Anyone wanna join me?” Jungwon tempts the others. “No! If I have to be here, so do you. Plus it’s unfair that only I got pranked so far.” Jongseong huffs.

“Don’t worry Heeseung,” Jaeyun comforts the oldest. “You’re new, Riki will probably go the easiest on you.”

Heeseung doesn’t look pleased by this. As his friends try to figure out a way they can prevent Riki’s chaos from unfolding, Sunghoon slinks off down the hall to a certain locker.

You stand with your back towards him, talking animatedly with your friend Taehyun. As Sunghoon approaches, he signals Taehyun to keep quiet with a finger to his mouth.

“Boo!” He grabs you by the shoulder, causing you to jump. “Ah! Sunghoon!” You huff, punching him lightly in the arm. “Don’t do that!” You smile nonetheless.

“April Fool’s,” Sunghoon grins. You wave him off, your fingers grazing his own. He feels his ears heat up.

“I’m gonna get you later. You better watch out.” You warn him, but Sunghoon only smiles, shaking his head.

Suddenly, Taehyun clears his throat, reminding the two of you that you weren’t alone. “I’m gonna find Hyuka, see you later.” He waves to the both of you before departing.

But before he turns around, Taehyun sends you a wink, causing you to stiffen up.

“What was that?” Sunghoon asks, eyes trained on the back of Taehyun’s head. “Huh? Nothing, let’s get to class.” You cough, pushing Sunghoon down the hall.

“You remembered to do your slides, right?” You ask Sunghoon as you two sit down in your seats. “Yeah, it wasn't that hard.” He nods.

Your history class has just finished a project, and today everyone will be presenting. It was a solo project, but you and Sunghoon helped each other out.

“You’ll be okay talking up there by yourself?” You worry. Sunghoon feels special to know that you of all people care about him. A few days ago you’d voiced your concern to him about his fear or public speaking (around women).

“I think so, I usually just look at Jaeyun.” Sunghoon admits, shrugging.

“Well if you need to, you could look at me.” You suddenly suggest. Sunghoon feels the heat from his ears spread to his cheeks. “O-Okay.” He nods, focusing on his desk.

Even after all his training, you somehow had a way with words that could cause Sunghoon to shut right up again.

Not just that, you still made him nervous, there were moments he found you too beautiful to even look in your direction.

Home room goes by like a breeze, and soon enough it’s time for history, and one by one students begin to present their topics in the front of class.

“Park Sunghoon.” Mr. Song calls out, and Sunghoon awkwardly stands up, grabbing his notes.

“Good luck!” You send him an encouraging smile and a thumbs up. Just that alone made him feel invincible.

With newfound confidence, Sunghoon strides to the front, pulling up his powerpoint on the history of soybeans. But when he turns to his fellow classmates, his ego disappears and he’s suddenly reminded of how many eyes were on him.

He begins to panic, his words stuck in his throat and his thoughts become sludge. Everyone was looking at him. Everyone was whispering.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Why is he taking so long?”

“Soybeans? That’s so boring.”

He can hear his teacher call out his name, asking him if he’s alright, but Sunghoon feels as if he’s been nailed to the ground, unable to move.

But as he focuses on his feet, he hears someone clear their throat loudly, his eyes shooting up.

You’re smiling. At him.

“You can do it!” You mouth, cheering him on. Suddenly it’s like he can breathe again. He can feel his body moving finally. All thanks to you of course.

“T-Today I’ll be talking about the history of soybeans in Korea.” Sunghoon announces suddenly, eyes trained on you.

You lean back into your seat, smile never disappearing as you listen intently.

“Where the hell is Riki?! I’m gonna kill him.” Jaeyun stomps over to the lunch table. Heeseung shrugs, mouth full of food.

“He’s not here, what happened?”

Jaeyun groans as he sits down, Sunghoon also taking his seat beside him. “He got Rickrolled.”

Jungwon snorts, choking on his food as he laughs. Jaeyun glares, picking at his lunch. “It’s not funny! He cost me my grade!”

“Pfft! Mr. Song docked you 10 points, you still have an A.” Sunghoon reminds him. The youngest of the bunch somehow got control of Jaeyun’s presentation, adding a bunch of memes into his slides.

“And ruined my 100 streak!” Jaeyun whines. “He won’t let me take any extra credit.” He sighs, letting his hunger take over as he shovels food into his face.

“Never gonna give you up! Never gonna let you down! Never gonna run around and desert you!” Riki sings and dances as he arrives at their table. He’s grinning from ear to ear, all the while Jaeyun glares mid-chew.

“Come on Jaeyun!” Riki nudges him. “Sing it with me! Never gonna make you cry-” He’s cut off when Jaeyun lunges at him, catching the boy in a headlock. “Nev-never gonna tell- a lie- ack!” Riki coughs as he continues to sing under Jaeyun’s grip.

“Shut up!” Jaeyun angrily sneers, just as Riki wriggles out of his arms. “Dude,” Riki is breathless. “Put on some deodorant or something! I almost died.” He gags.

“I’m seriously going to kill-”

Jongseong slams down his hand onto the table, making everyone jump.

“Uh, you good?” Jungwon eyes him. Jongseong zeroes in on him, his eyes ablaze. “No I am not good, Yang Jungwon.”

“Uh oh, cat fight,” Sunoo snickers to Sunghoon, earning a chuckle.

“Did I do something?” Jungwon eyes the others, before realizing Jongseong was only looking at him. “What do you think, Yang?!”

Jongseong suddenly digs into his pants pocket, and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper, tossing it to the first year. Jungwon catches it with ease, unraveling it suspiciously.

“Oh my God.”

“What? What is it? Show me!” Sunoo snatches the paper, his eyes reading as fast as lightning before he lets out a yelp, covering his mouth as he gawks at Jungwon.

“You’re being dramatic,” Sunghoon finally grabs the paper, sharing it with Jaeyun as Heeseung leans over the table to peer.

The paper turns out to be a list, and it has various names on it, including Jongseong’s and Jungwon’s. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. That is until he reads the title.

“How could you go behind my back and run for Student Council?! You knew I was applying!” Jongseong shouts.

“I didn’t!” Jungwon holds his hands up in the air. “Dude I promise, I think there’s been a mistake, I never even applied to be nominated!”

Jongseong eyes him, but concedes, looking just as confused. “But that doesn’t make sense. You can’t not know you’re running- for Student Body President!”

“Yeah, and to think you’re only running for Treasurer,” Jaeyun jabs. He earns himself a kick to the shin from Jongseong.

Riki is the only one who laughs, though it lingers longer than it should have, prompting suspicion.

“What did you do?” Jungwon questions. The youngest is too busy hugging his sides as he cackles.

“Oh my God! I’m gonna piss myself, you should have seen your face!” Riki wheezes.

“Riki, what did you do?!” Jongseong demands. After a few minutes, the boy’s laughter subsides. “We nominated Jungwon cause he fell asleep in homeroom,” He giggles.

“What?! Riki be serious.”

“Okay,” Riki shrugs. “Technically, I nominated Jungwon, but then everyone else voted for him. I found out the announcements were the same day as April Fool’s and thought it’d be a sick prank.”

“Someone’s feeling sick alright, me, that’s who.” Jongseong sighs. Sunoo pats his arm out of sympathy.

“Jongseong, dude, no one’s gonna actually vote for Jungwon.” Riki scoffs. “What kind of idiot votes a first year as their president?”

“The same idiots who voted for him to be a nominee?” Heeseung reminds him. Riki pauses. “That’s beside the point! Don’t worry, this will all blow over when they see how incompetent he is.”

“Hey! I’m competent!” Jungwon huffs. “I just choose not to be!”

“Make that your slogan, and you might just lose!” Sunoo teases. Jungwon rolls his eyes, rubbing his face.

“Hey guys! I heard the great news, congratulations!” Your sweet voice brings sudden joy to Sunghoon as you greet them all.

“Y/n!” He suddenly shoves Jaeyun to the side to make space for you to sit, causing both him and Riki to topple over. He ignores their complaints as you squeeze yourself in right next to him.

You finally take a good look around the table once you’re settled in.

Sunoo mindlessly picks at his food, beside him Jungwon seems to be experiencing his first ever existential crisis. Jongseong has a vice grip on a very beaten up piece of paper and Heeseung is too busy eating to notice the tension as Jaeyun keeps muttering about his grades. And Riki is blatantly glaring daggers at you.

The only person who seems relatively happy is Sunghoon.

“You guys seem to be having a really, uh- interesting day so far.” You cough. “As if you know what it’s like to be interesting- Ow! Jaeyun elbowed me!” Riki tattles.

“And you deserve it.” Jongseong sneers.

“Tough crowd today,” You whisper to Sunghoon as the others begin to bicker. “Yeah, Riki’s been burning some bridges, lately” He nods.

“Oh? Should I be worried?” You eye the boy, who is in fact now glaring even harder. “No.” Sunghoon shakes his head, trying to remain calm as you lean closer to him. “Um, maybe actually? Yes. Yes you should.” He finally decides.

“Uh huh.” You nod warily. “Well anyways, I was just wondering how you guys plan to run your campaigns? I have some experience since I helped last year when Taehyun was Secretary, and now he’s running for Vice President.”

Jongseong sits up straight, putting on a presentable smile. “I plan on winning by showing my responsibility and care for the students here at EN-High.”

The table goes quiet.

“Was that AI? Sounded like something ChatGPT wrote,” Heeseung looks around. “What? No! I’m trying to sound professional.” Jongseong sighs.

“Well I plan to drop out, I didn’t even want to be nominated, but someone thinks it’s funny to prey on the innocent.” Jungwon stares right at Riki, who is busy scrolling through his phone uninterested.

“I saw an opportunity and I took it, can you blame me?” He shrugs. “Yes! Yes, I can!” Jungwon shouts.

“Okay, so it sounds like both of you are losing.” You mutter beneath your breath. “Look, word of advice: students really value honesty and the ability to be realistic. People like it when you tell the truth.” You explain.

“Didn’t Taehyun win last year because he did magic tricks instead of a speech?” Sunghoon frowns. “Oh! I remember him! He was so cool! How did he pull that chicken out of that hat?!” Heeseung asks excitedly.

“He did have a speech, he just did his magic tricks after.” You correct him. “Also it was a parrot, not a chicken.”

“What does magic have to do with being on the student council?” Sunoo asks, looking confused. “If I vote for Taehyun, can he magically fix my grade back to 100?” Jaeyun questions. “Do you think if I partner with Taehyun, I have a better chance of winning?” Jongseong turns to you.

You hold your hand up to silence them, before looking at each of them individually.

“Apparently more than you’d think.” You say to Sunoo, before shaking your head at Jaeyun. “No, just take the L.”

“And yes, but only if you’re okay with him doing the Sawing-In-Half trick on you during the debate.” You tell Jongseong, who looks pale now.

Before you can say any more, the warning bell rings, signaling lunch would be over in five minutes. “Alright, see you guys later,” You stand up, getting out of your seat. “Let me know if you need more advice.” You joke.

“I’ll see you in class?” Sunghoon asks, as if you two weren’t seatmates. You laugh, and teasingly pat his arm, causing his whole body to burn.

“Yeah, see you!” You wave, running off. He watches you as you return to your friends at your table across the cafeteria, his heart swelling.

“Oooh! Someone’s got a crush!” Sunoo suddenly giggles.

Sunghoon feels his stomach turn excitedly, his ears burning a bright red. “Shut up!” He mumbles, covering his face.

His friends begin to tease him, Sunghoon shakes his head furiously, though he peeks through his hands to glance at you once more.

When you laugh at something Kai says, he begins to wonder if his friends are on to something.

“Ta-da!”

You’re grinning as you flip your paper around to present to Sunghoon.

He looks up, blinks, then frowns.

“You like to eat stomachs?” He reads your calligraphy. “Huh? No, I like to eat pears.” You look at your paper yourself, confused.

Sunghoon begins to laugh, before standing up to walk around the table to your side. “You need to press down lightly on this character.” He instructs, leaning over you.

Instead of taking your brush like he usually did when he showed you the correct way, he grabbed your hand.

“L-Like this,” He stutters, leaning even closer to you as you allow him to guide you on the paper. Your hand is really small compared to his own, his fingers are almost half as long.

Your skin is soft and warm, he doesn't want to let go.

“Oh!” You suddenly exclaim, and he jumps back, releasing your hand.

“So that’s how you do it? Let me try again.” You begin to attempt again on your own. He watches over you as you try your best, all of your focus on your calligraphy.

He finds the way you scrunch your face up as you focus endearing, you’ve made a lot of progress.

Your reattempt is still not the best, but Sunghoon can admit this time he could actually read it. “You’re doing a lot better,” He says as he returns to his seat. “Really? I’ve been practicing at home,” You admit.

“You’ve been practicing?” Sunghoon repeats, surprised at your dedication. If he were being honest, he thought your interest in calligraphy was only confined to the old library.

“Yeah,” You smile, getting shy. “I want to show you my best.”

Oh.

The two of you keep eye contact as Sunghoon feels his face and ears begin to heat up. He was probably red all over from just that one compliment. Didn’t help that you looked gorgeous while staring at him.

“I-I think-uh- You’re doing a really good job so far.” He finally looks away, his nerves getting the best of him.

“Thank you.” You hum, smiling to yourself. “Oh, it’s already almost four, we should probably get going.” You say, and begin cleaning up.

The two of you quickly grab your stuff and sweep down the table before heading out.

Outside the sun is still bright, yet it’s lower in the sky than before. You both walk down the street, shoulder to shoulder. Every time you bump into each other, Sunghoon feels his heart race.

“Hey, want one?” You suddenly ask, opening your palm to reveal two pieces of creamy milk candy. The bright bunny logo catches his eye.

The idea of sharing candy with you is exhilarating to Sunghoon. Your sweet nature mimicked the sweetness of the candy awaiting before him.

“Thank you,” He smiles at you, letting his fingers graze your palm.

Together you two unwrap the candies, poppin them into your mouths. Sunghoon takes a bite and-

“What the fuck?!” You spit your candy back into its wrapper, face contorted in absolute disgust. Sunghoon doesn’t hesitate to do the same, gagging as he does so.

“This is a crayon!” Sunghoon grimaces, wiping his mouth with his handkerchief. “Where the hell did you get these?!”

You shake your head, trying to get the taste out of your mouth, but to no avail. “I don’t- I don’t remember I just- Riki handed some to me, and-”

“Wait,” Sunghoon interrupts you. “Riki gave you these?”

You nod, first confused, then realizing what he meant. “Oh my god I’m so stupid.” You groan. “I should have known when he randomly apologized to me, he even suggested I share them with you!”

“He’s always one step ahead,” Sunghoon glares into the distance. “Ugh I can’t get the taste out of my mouth!” You spit.

“I swallowed a little, will I die?” He worries, voicing his concern. “I need water- juice, I need something!” You look around for a vending machine.

“There! A Family Mart!” Sunghoon points down the road. He turns to you with an eager expression, holding his hand out to you.

“Come on, let’s go!” He urges. You hurriedly grab his hand, and the two of you run down the street, groans of disgust soon turning into giggles of excitement.

Sunghoon's lesson he learned today was that he doesn’t mind holding your hand. In fact, he likes it.

He likes you.

Log 3: Wednesday - March 6th, 2024 | Log 5: Wednesday - May 15th, 2024

I Can't, I Have Rehearsal masterlist | and scene! series masterlist | kpop masterlist

reply/comment for taglist!

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siri-ike · 14 hours ago

Text

Summer of change

Part 2? 4?... part 4.

The morgue? No, thank you. Danny may be more comfortable with death than the average person, but he does not want to see what a dissected body looks like. He'd rather save that for when his parents finally catch him, and he finds out first hand.

Too bad Steph wasn't really asking.

"This isn't happening. This isn't happening. This isn't happening." He repeated in his head for every step down.

"Oh, come on," Steph calls from the bottom of the stairs. "It's just a basement."

"Nothing good ever happens in basements." He yells back.

The lights are harsh. It smells like bleach and other chemicals. Nothing like the lab at home. Sure, ectoplasm doesn't exactly smell good, or even unlike a corpse. But, ya'know, it's fainter. Like the memory of a smell. This smell is very present.

"Wanna lie down on the dissection table?" She teased.

The image of Vlad, both present and future, strapping him down to a metal table. He wouldn't want to experience anything like that ever again. Green blood goo everywhere. Flashed before his eyes. "No," He sneered.

"Fine," Steph said, defiantly hopping up on the table, "I'll do it." She lay down and stuck her tongue out, pretending to be dead.

She seemed to take joy in messing with him.

Wonder how she'd like it.

A devious grin replaced the fear on Danny's face. And he disappeared into the floor.

_______

She laid down on the dissection table. It was so cold that she wrapped her exposed arms over her stomach. She stuck her tongue out so he wouldn't notice her discomfort. It would be so embarrassing if she managed to make a fool out of herself in front of the only other person her own age.

She looked back to where Danny had been standing, but he was gone. She must have scared him off... like she always does.

She sits back up, her charismatic smile fading, and the lights flickered.

But then the lights flicker. There's a rattling from the office. Footsteps. And if she concentrates enough, breathing.

She gets down from the table, crosses her arms, and wishes she'd worn warmer clothes. "Who's there?" She demands.

"Who's there?" A haunting voice echoes, mocking.

Her heart races her eyes dart to various noises. No one is there. And then...

The lights go out.

The middle of an opperation room in a morgue, somehow, no longer feels like the best place to be.

She tries to run back to where she remembers the stairs to be, but then out of nowhere, just a head appears right in front of her.

"Boo!" It shouts, and she screams at the top of her lungs.

Then the lights turn back on, revealing the same boy from earlier. Head and body.

It takes her a moment to catch her breath, and once she does, she yells.

"You're gonna need a coroner when I'm done with you!" She threatened, but her tough words can't disguise the look of utter delight.

"I told you, nothing good happens in basements." Danny teases with a mischievous smile.

Funny. She could have sworn his eyes were blue.

_______

@confused-they ,you were right. There was a ghost in the basement.

Thank you to @bespoke-nautilus for proofing

@ladyredmoon13 @ryuukthehatter @sonrium @niamcarlin @sunnysolaria @tiffanyhart13 @tkiesai @not-your-average-url

#dp x dc au #dp x dc #dpxdc #dc x dp #danny phantom #harvey bullock #gotham #batman #dc #ghost #fanfic #fanfiction #i wish i had time to draw some things from these #but im too hyperfixated on writing

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cvnntagious · 1 day ago

Note

fb!matt getting flirted with by another girl and he entertains it but then realises he has you

standing beside his brother as he handed out little baggies of white powder to feining college students, matt paid no mind to the party as he scrolled his phone, red solo cup in one hand. the bustling of party-goers and flashing lights surrounding him had faded as he became focused on the mobile game he'd deemed more important.

"excuse me," he suddenly heard from in front of him, causing his eyes to flick up from the multi-colored blocks on his screen, "is your name matthew?" a pretty girl asked, dressed in fishnets with a miniskirt and tight top that barely covered her breasts as she flicked her long black hair over her shoulder.

he nodded, unamused expression unwavering. "matt," he corrected, lifting his hand to gesture a thumb behind him, "chris is the one with the drugs, if that-"

her hand covered his, pushing it down slowly as he shook her head with a smug little smirk splayed across her dark, glossy lips. "i don't want any of those drugs," she stopped him from further wasting his breath, voice a little lower now, "i heard you have one of your own that you're keeping from me though, and- well, i'm lookin' to get my fix."

matt immediately got the hint, a small smirk tugging at his parted lips before he let out an exasperated breath, looking the shorter girl over as he found himself crossing his arms at her. "yeah?" he asked, a chuckle that exuded confidence leaving his mouth, "and where'd y'hear that?"

"a friend—she said what you got won't do anything less than rock my world," she replied instantly, a flirty giggle falling past her pearly whites and eyelashes batting as she looked up at him. "just wanna see if it's true or not..." she then added, stepping in close to him so she could run her sharp, manicured nails up his tattooed arm.

matt's eyes followed her fingers, tongue jutting out to wet his pink lips so he could hold back the leer that threatened to creep onto his face. "mhm." and just as his mouth opened to voice the complacent reply that had popped into his mind, the memory of you having texted him earlier about not being able to make it to chris' party canceled it out, making him realize he'd forgotten to text you back. "shit," he muttered, any sign of interest in the absolutely stunning girl that was so clearly throwing herself at him completely dropping in his body language.

she quickly noticed the change in his demeanor, confusion replacing the flirtatious expression she once had. "what?"

a sigh was all she heard before she watched him roll his eyes at her seemingly out of nowhere. he pulled his arm from her touch, a sudden annoyance, and maybe even disgust apparent on his sharp features. "i got a girl," he then replied bluntly, a brow raising as if to say 'so get to movin'

the scoff of disbelief that left came from the girl in front of him made matt roll his eyes again. "you have a girlfriend?" she questioned, as if there was absolutely no way that could possibly be true.

"she's not my girlfriend, but uh... y'know," he countered, a smooth shrug as a cocky smile creeped on his face at the thought of having you wrapped around his finger, "i got 'er."

"yeah right. and you suddenly remembered you had her after you seemed all interested before?" another scoff, further proving she didn't believe him, "some boyfriend you are."

"where'd you say y'heard about me again?" he then asked, face dropping to one of disinterest as he looked over her again, no longer so impressed by her looks.

"my friend?"

"yeah," he chuckled lowly, finding her persistence the slightest bit amusing, "some friend you are." with that, his eyes fell back to his phone, swiping out of the game on it as he now ignored the girl before him, standing there for a moment in shock.

sweetheart

today 6:47 PM : ' i won't be able to make it to the party tn, sorry :( '

today 11:23 PM : ' and why's that? '

today 11:24 PM : ' actually whatever. done with this shit anyways. wya so i can come see you? '

#cvntagious #love grandma cvnty .ᐟ #✎ ꒰ rory's inbox ᝰ.ᐟ ꒱#↳ anon .ᐟ ‧₊#★ ⋮ fuckboy!matt #matt sturniolo #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo au #matthew sturniolo au #matt sturniolo fanfic #matthew sturniolo fanfic

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wangxianficrecs · 14 hours ago

Text

Rewind 2024 - Part IV

WangxianFicRecs - Rewind 2024

The final part of our favourite stories published in 2024. Thank you everyone for your support this year and most of all, thank you to all the dedicated fanfic authors this fandom has - you're really the heart of it all.

~*~

Thief's kiss

by danegen (@danegen)

E, 6k, Wangxian | Kay's Rec

Summary: "This time, I’ll run, and you can chase me.” Lan Zhan’s eyelashes flutter in delicate, adorable confusion. “When I catch you . . .” “If you catch me.” Wei Wuxian wags a finger at him. “If you catch me, you can do whatever you want.” That makes . . . something happen on Lan Zhan’s face. Something that makes Wei Wuxian shiver. Wei Wuxian accidentally tells Lan Wangji about their strange game of chase that night at the inn. His solution to this predicament? Obviously, they need to play again!

~*~

cookin' up a storm, piece of cake

by livinginaworldofnoise (@gh0st-0f-luke)

G, 9k, Wangxian | Kay's Rec

Summary: yiling_patriarch: first time making a cake with alcohol! it’s still in the oven but it smells great so far ↳ Gusu Lan Kitchen: There is no alcohol listed in the ingredients for this recipe. yiling_patriarch: i didn’t have any oranges or orange juice so i replaced those with a can of orange sparkling margarita! tasted super weird [★★☆☆☆] ↳ Gusu Lan Kitchen: Are you being deliberately obtuse? OR: life is tough for baker!lwj when online troll!wwx won't stop commenting on his recipe blog

~*~

In the end

by apathyinreverie (@apathyinreverie)

T, 4k, Wangxian | Kay's Rec

Summary: Wei Ying does not die. He falls. But he has fallen before. Death devours him. But the dead have devoured him before. He falls and he breaks and still he lives. Or something like it, at least. (An AU where WWX does not die. Well, mostly.)

~*~

Looked so alive, turns out i'm not real

by KatAnni (@kat-anni)

M, 36k, Wangxian | Kay's Rec

Part of MDZS Big Bang 2024

Summary: "Nothing leaves the Burial Mounds alive." Lan Wangji goes on a side mission night hunt with Wei Wuxian during the Sunshot Campaign, and finds out just how true that statement is. Inquiry rings through the room, and Wei Wuxian answers. This of course, has consequences. For the MDZS Big Bang 2024, Collab with @sweetlittlevampire

~*~

Devil Flute Upon Graves, Wei Ying

by cloudyrobinwrites (jwyoomi) (@chirpycloudyrobin)

M, WIP, Series, 53k, Wangxian & Hualian | Kay's Rec

Summary: Wei Wuxian received the news of his first death a little bit too late.

~*~

🔒 baby fever

by Mamoonde (@mamoonde)

T, WIP, 4k, Wangxian | Kay's Rec

Summary: Lan Zhan wakes to a pounding on his door in the middle of the night. For a moment, he assumes Wei Ying must’ve come over after all. Instead, it is Jiang Cheng, soaked and covered in mud, and holding a child— A child who looks up sheepishly, with the same light grey eyes as Wei Ying. “I told him we didn’t need to bother you, but he insisted you would want to help.” Jiang Cheng says. or: yet another wwx age regression fic. but modern cultivation au.

~*~

had a marvelous time ruining everything

by livinginaworldofnoise (@gh0st-0f-luke)

G, 8k, Wangxian | Kay's Rec

Summary: “Great news, though—well, actually, it may depend how you define ‘great.’” Wei Wuxian folds himself into a cross-legged position and makes a sweeping gesture with one arm toward the closet, from which Lan Wangji can now hear a strange rattling noise. “While you were gone I managed to catch another one!” “Another . . . cat?” Lan Wangji pulls the closet door open wider and stares at the cage he finds there, inside of which a small black cat is clinging to the ceiling bars with all the desperation of a cornered wild animal. “That’s Volcano!” Wei Wuxian says by way of explanation. “She’s a little spicy.” OR: 5 times wangxian's feral kittens get in the way of lan wangji proposing + 1 time they help

~*~

🔒 sweet decadence

by breaththrou

M, WIP, 27k, Wangxian | Kay's Rec

Summary: Lan Xichen breathed in sharply, a crazed laugh escaping him. He lifted his gaze to meet his eyes, a look of despair etched onto the hard lines of his face. "My brother... my brother has always been our mother's child. For that, he could not live. He is gone. I could not find him, and I could not have brought him home. I can only hope now that Wangji is at rest," he said quietly, the wind whipping the greying locks of his hair around his face. Wei Wuxian stared at him, horrified. Lan Xichen looked away as fresh tears rolled down his cheeks. "I have only ever wished happiness for my brother, but I fear I have instead brought him death."

~*~

Catharsis

by Starfell123

T, 9k, Wangxian | Kay's Rec

Summary: “Look, I know I’m probably foolish. I know that the chances of this not being a business-meeting are slim to none, but I need to know for sure. If Uncle Jiang wants to apologize, I’ll give him a chance to do so. If not, I want to tell him where to stick it in person.” Thirteen years after being thrown out by the Jiangs, Jiang Fengmian contacts Wei Wuxian and asks to meet. Wei Wuxian goes in the hopes of reconciling with his adopted family, but the circumstances he finds himself in wont allow that to happen. What will he do when his former guardian tries to arrange a marriage for him that will benefit the Jiang-sect?

~*~

To Love the God of Death

by Amber_Horizon

E, WIP, 27k, Wangxian | Kay's Rec

Summary: Jin Guangyao, God of the Sky, sees Mo Xuanyu's interest as an opportunity to gain control. Just before Mo Xuanyu is to be appointed the new God of the Underworld, he performs a self sacrificing ritual to escape his fate. Wei Wuxian returns from the dead after 13 years. He wakes in a new body, surrounded by evil talismans, and perhaps worst of all, face-to-face with Lan Xichen, God of the Sea.

~*~

Tides

by Anonymous

G, 1k, Wangxian | Kay's Rec

Summary: When their routine is interrupted, Wei Ying gets himself and Lan Zhan ready for bed.

~*~

咏红尘 | an ode to red dust

by auberjing (@wrecklwj)

E, 39k, Wangxian | Mojo's Rec to be posted soon!

Part of Bottomji Big Bang 2024

Summary: A-Fu apologises for intruding. Shall I bring you a woman?” Lan Wangji recoils. The question lands like a physical blow: violent, distasteful, and absurd. “No.” “Then,” A-Fu murmurs. “If you wish, I could… relieve you. As a servant, it is my duty.” Or: Crown prince Lan Wangji is taken hostage by Wen Ruohan, who has taken the throne after deposing the incumbent emperor. While imprisoned, Lan Wangji is assigned a handsome eunuch servant named A-Fu. Outwardly, A-Fu is mild and attentive, but his whispered hints at rebellion appear to be the start of something momentous and revelatory…

~*~

redemption, repentance

by stiltonbasket (@stiltonbasket)

G, 3k, Xuanli | Kay's Rec

Summary: Five months after the Sunshot Campaign, Jin Zixuan travels to Lotus Pier to ask for Jiang Yanli's hand in marriage.

~*~

Watch me ignite it

by tawaen

T, 10k, Wangxian | Kay's Rec

Summary: The news spreads quickly across the cultivation world – Wen Ruohan is dead and his murderer declared himself the new leader of the Qishan Wen sect. Wei Wuxian is described as a demon, as a brutal warlord, as a threat to the very existence of the cultivation world. He is also, unfortunately, the most attractive person Lan Wangji has ever met.

~*~

🔒 counting the hours back to you

by ribena

E, 17k, Wangxian | Kay's Rec

Summary: It has been three months, two days, eleven hours, thirteen minutes, and fifteen seconds since Wei Ying broke up with him, which is why he is the last person Lan Zhan expects to be knocking on his door at one in the morning. “Wei Ying,” he says, the name already strange and unfamiliar on his tongue, “what are you doing here?” “The trains are cancelled,” Wei Ying says miserably, and then looks up at Lan Zhan properly for the first time, if only for a split second. There’s nothing but utter defeat in his eyes. He wouldn’t be here, of course, unless all other avenues of rescue have been exhausted, because it has been three months, two days, eleven – “I have to get home. It’s my sister’s wedding.”

~*~

A Dragon's Tail

by IamTheLemonLord (@iamthelemonlord)

E, 36k, Wangxian | Kay's Rec to be posted soon!

Part of TopXian RBB

Summary: While visiting the Cloud Recesses for the first time, Wei Wuxian's tail intertwines with Lan Wangji's, a boy who wants nothing to do with him. Now engaged, the two have until they reach adulthood to get to know each other and decide if a future together is something they want. Things would be easier if horny voices in their head would stop yelling at them at inappropriate times.

~*~

Practical Considerations

by teawater & the_anthropologist

E, 96k, Wangxian | Kay's Rec to be posted soon!

Summary: After the Sunshot Campaign Wei Wuxian is fooling around in Lotus Pier, and Jiang Cheng decides that he'd be more useful to the sect if he was to enter a diplomatic marriage. Especially since Lan Wangji seems so keen on dragging him away to Gusu. Only Wei Wuxian doesn't expect any good to come from it...

~*~

Where No Flesh Decks The Bone

by deliciousblizzardshark (@deliciousblizzardshark)

E, 20k, Wangxian | Mojo's Rec

Summary: When Wei Ying falls into the Burial Mounds, he’s rescued not by the Yin Iron, but by a strange, twisted creature who heals his body and slips into his mind. Now ridden by Lan Zhan, a bodiless creature ignorant of human customs and brimming with the desire for revenge against the cultivators who threw his mother into the Burial Mounds, Wei Ying has the power to take down the Wen sect for good– if he and the creature can learn to work together. (Or the Venom-inspired canon-divergence Untamed fic no one asked for.)

~*~

Push It

by phonciblepbone

E, 7k, Wangxian | Kay's Rec to be posted soon!

Summary: "Wei Ying. Good morning. I assumed you had the same sex education as I had, and thus did not need to be informed of the existence of the prostate." "Not the existence, Lan Zhan, of course I knew they existed! I mean that it's…" Wei Ying trails off, looking at Lan Zhan imploringly. "Like that."

~*~

Comfortable in your skin

by Dooiney_Oie (@lexicals)

T, 17k, Wangxian | Kay's Rec to be posted soon!

Summary: "Lan Zhan?" he stuttered, his own voice too deep, looking into a face that should be his and which was now flushed pink with anger. "What did you do?" was the answering reply. Despite the sheer fury being directed his way, Wei Wuxian started to laugh. "Me?" he asked, feeling a touch hysterical, not least because he was being scolded by himself, "You were the one who broke it!" - That nightmare scenario where you end up stuck in the body of the one guy who hates(?) you.

~*~

💙 I'll Take Such Great Care of You

by CheekyBrunette

G, 49k, Wangxian | Kay's Rec to be posted soon!

Summary: Sizhui has grown up with a single father. Now, he learns what it is like to have a mom.

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for these hard-working authors if you like – or think others might like – these stories.)

#wangxian fic rec #wangxianficrecs #rewind 2024 #the untamed #wangxian #fandom event #long post #Mojo's Rec #Kay's Rec #Kay's Favorite #The Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation #MDZS #Mo Dao Zu Shi #December 2024

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flwrkid14 · 1 day ago

Text

Jason Todd: Dad Mode Activated

There’s a new dynamic in the Batfamily, and nobody saw it coming. Jason Todd—Red Hood, former Robin, perennial black sheep of the Wayne family—has apparently decided that Tim Drake is his son. And no one, least of all Tim, knows what to do about it.

It starts subtly, if you can call Jason “subtle.” He starts showing up when Tim’s been too busy to eat, tossing him a burger or some takeout with a gruff, “Eat, Replacement.” He’s there when Tim’s working himself to the bone, slamming the laptop shut and growling about how his kid isn’t going to die of exhaustion on his watch. When Tim’s in over his head, Jason’s suddenly there, guns blazing, a protective shadow with a deadly smirk.

Tim’s confused. Very confused. Jason has always been... antagonistic, at best. But now he’s... scolding him? Encouraging him? Telling him he’s proud when Tim does something impressive? The man even started calling him “kid” instead of “Replacement,” which is somehow worse because it makes Tim feel all warm and fuzzy inside. What is happening?

Eventually, Tim asks. And Jason, in true Jason fashion, gives an explanation that doesn’t explain much at all.

“Look, Dick’s already treating Damian like his own kid, Bruce is busy helping Duke figure out his place in the family, Cass and Babs are practically attached at the hip—like sisters or something. And you?” Jason shrugs. “You’re my kid.”

Tim stares. “I’m your what?”

“My kid,” Jason repeats, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re smart, you’re resourceful, you’ve got my stubbornness—which, yeah, is annoying—and someone’s gotta make sure you don’t get yourself killed. Congrats, kid. You’ve been adopted.”

It doesn’t really explain anything, but Tim decides not to argue. After all, Jason’s kind of a good dad? He feeds Tim, checks in on him, teaches him things like how to hotwire a car (Tim already knows, but Jason’s so enthusiastic about it that Tim doesn’t have the heart to tell him). And Jason has his back in a way that feels steady, solid. Like he’s not going anywhere.

The thing is, Jason doesn’t stop there. He starts talking about Tim in ways that make Tim want to crawl under a rock. To Roy, to Kory, to anyone who’ll listen. “My kid’s a genius,” Jason brags, his voice filled with so much pride it makes Tim’s chest ache. “Runs a whole company and saves Gotham on the side. Kid’s got a brain the size of the Batcomputer.”

And it’s not just talk. Jason drags Tim along to meet-ups with other vigilantes or allies, casually introducing him like a proud dad at a PTA meeting. “This is Tim,” Jason says, grinning ear to ear. “My kid. Smartest of the bunch, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Tim flushes, stammering out an awkward, “Uh, hi,” while Jason beams like he’s just presented a Nobel Prize winner.

The height of Tim’s mortification comes when Jason introduces him to Talia—not as a fellow vigilante or even a respected ally, but as his son. Talia, who had become something of a mother figure to Jason after the Pit, is apparently now being roped into her new role as a grandmother. Jason insists it’s only right that she meet her “grandkid” and treat Tim accordingly. Tim, meanwhile, wants to disappear into the floor while Jason beams with unrestrained pride.

“Yeah, this is my boy,” Jason says, arms crossed, radiating smug pride. “Smart, resourceful, better than Bruce—don’t even try to deny it.”

Tim wants the floor to open up and swallow him. But he also can’t help feeling... warm. Embarrassed, yes, but also kind of happy. Jason’s over-the-top pride is ridiculous, but it’s genuine. It’s not something Tim’s used to—someone being proud of him just for being himself.

And of course, Jason’s newfound dad energy throws the rest of the family into chaos.

Bruce tries to scold Tim about something minor—maybe staying out too late on patrol—and Tim just raises an eyebrow. “I’m gonna tell my dad,” he says, completely deadpan. And then he does. Jason shows up at the Batcave later, tearing into Bruce about how his kid doesn’t need this kind of negativity in his life, and Bruce is left speechless.

Damian tries to insult Tim, calling him a weak link or some other scathing remark, and Tim smirks. “Careful, Damian. I’m your nephew now. Better watch your mouth, or Uncle Jason might have something to say about it.”

Even Dick’s thrown off by it. “Jay,” he says one day, watching Jason shove a plate of food at Tim with all the grace of a brick. “You do realize Tim isn’t actually your son, right?”

Jason glares at him. “He’s mine. I’m the dad here. You’ve got Demon Spawn, I’ve got Tim. Deal with it.”

Tim doesn’t understand how or why this happened, but honestly? He’s not complaining. Jason might not be the most conventional parent, but he’s a damn good one. And for Tim, who’s always felt a little lost in the shuffle of the chaotic Wayne family, having someone claim him so fiercely, so completely, feels... nice.

So yeah. Jason Todd: Red Hood, vigilante, crime lord, accidental dad. Who would’ve thought?

#tim drake #jason todd #batfam #jason adopts tim #imagine jason gets together with roy and they get to co-parent both their chaotic children together #tim and lian would get along like a house on fire #kory would be such a good aunt for the both of them #bruce gets whiplash from tim being his son to becoming his grandson #how did this happen?!#jason is a good dad #damian cant berate tim without getting into trouble with jason #dick is baffled by the new dynamic

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cressidagrey · 2 days ago

Text

The moment I could see it - Part 2

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Ariel Cane (Original Character)

Summary: 5 Times that Gianpiero Lambiase thinks that Ariel Cane and Max Verstappen are weirdly similar…and 1 time he is just happy that the two of them are no longer pining after each other.

Warnings:

GP's POV, mention of cancer, mention of parent's death

Author Notes: I am back to my old tricks...which means I write from the most random of POV's just because. (I once wrote a chapter from a dog's POV so like, GP doesn't even really count.

About 3 months later, GP once again returned home from Race Weekend.

This time for good. Abu Dhabi had gone off well enough, Kvyat ending with a respectable 9th place... and Max Verstappen had ended up with enough penalty points on his special license that he was just 4 points away from a one race ban.

GP shook his head in weary disapproval as he thought of the young driver’s antics. Max really seemed to have no sense of when to stop.

Still, GP had some sympathy. Driving at that level was a high-pressure experience, and Max was still so young.

Well, he wasn’t GP’s problem. Thank god for small mercies…

Though that gritty determination and bravery bordering on stupidity… well, that was something that GP both admired and dreaded.

But…F1 was finished for the year, and he got to go home for christmas. So he would also get to ban all thoughts of Max Verstappen from his brain for the foreseeable future.

It wasn’t a very christmas-sy sight that greeted him as he turned his car into their street though.

Instead it was a hearse.

Parked right across their neighbour’s house.

In front of the house with the red front door.

In the three months since he had first met the Cane Family, Laura and him had indeed taken up Ariel on her offer to babysit twice. Both times Franny had been more than happy with her caretaker for the evening.

There also had been an ambulance at the house twice, once ending in a two week hospital stint for Paul Cane, as Laura had told him over the phone while GP had been in Singapore and Japan…

And now there was a hearse.

Immediately the fatigue of the weekend's race and travel seemed to vanish, replaced by a sudden sense of dread.

He parked and then climbed out of his car, his stomach in knots, and quickly crossed the street to his own house.

He walked up his front steps, forcing himself to take deep, slow breaths. He wasn't going to jump to conclusions. Not yet.

"Honey, I am home!" he called out for Laura. He found his wife in the living room, cuddling a sleeping Francesca. But she wasn't alone.

Emma was sitting on the couch, legs pulled up to her chest, staring emptily in front of her.

"Hey," Laura greeted him, a forced smile on her face, putting Franny down, as she came to hug him.

"Their father died this afternoon," she whispered. "Ariel dropped her off, so that she could deal with the..."

Laura didn’t need to say anything more. GP wrapped his arms around Laura, pulling her close.

"How is she?" he asked quietly, his eyes flicking to the girl sitting almost in a daze on the couch.

“How would you be if your only remaining parent died?” Laura gave back softly.

"Ariel?" he whispered.

Laura shrugged. “I think she is handling this with more maturity than an adult twice her age would,” she said quietly. “I offered to take Emma off her hands for the night, get her out of the house…”

GP smiled sadly at his wife. It was typical of her to be so generous. Despite the fact they had their own baby to look after, she wasn't about to leave the thirteen-year-old alone.

He looked back at Emma, who was still sitting on the couch, looking small and lost. It made his heart ache.

"Ariel refused. Said their older brother is on his way as well," Laura said quietly. "But he seemed...pretty much useless, to be honest."

GP felt a flash of anger at her words. Useless? How could their brother, a grown man, be useless in such a time of need?

He forced himself to take a steadying breath, reminding himself that he didn't know the details. It wasn't for him to judge.

"What do you mean, useless?" he asked, trying to keep his voice calm. He cast a glance at Emma again.

His wife sighed, looking rather frustrated. "He just...he just doesn't seem to be able to deal with any of this," she said, her voice low. "Ariel basically has to walk him through how to actually get here..."

Gianpiero shook his head, his respect for Ariel growing even more. She was already dealing with so much, yet she had to handle her brother as well?

"She's got enough on her plate already," he muttered, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

Laura laid a hand on his arm, giving it a slight squeeze. "I know," she said. "But she's doing all she can to keep things together."

He looked over at Emma again, sitting so quietly on the sofa. She was just a child, watching everyone around her fall apart. It was all so wrong.

GP took a deep breath, trying to push down the feeling of powerlessness. "When will her brother get here?" he asked his wife, struggling to keep his voice neutral.

"He said he'll be here within the hour," Laura replied quietly, her expression one of concern. "I can start dinner for everyone..."

GP nodded, knowing that his wife was trying to do whatever she could to help. But as he watched Emma sit on the couch, still looking so lost, he couldn't shake the feeling of helplessness.

He walked over and sat down next to her, careful not to crowd her. For a moment, he just sat there in silence, not sure what to say.

He stared at his own daughter, asleep and content…once Franny was asleep, nearly nothing was going to wake her up again.

Emma didn't say anything, just continued to stare out into space. Her eyes were dry, but her face was pale and stricken.

"Hey Kiddo..." he said softly, trying to draw her attention.

She turned her head slightly, casting him a quick glance before returning her gaze to the distance.

He continued in a gentle voice, "How are you holding up?"

Emma didn't respond, just pressed her lips together tightly, but the way her chin trembled betrayed her effort not to cry.

He had no idea what to say to her. What could he possibly say to comfort a child who just lost her father? Nothing, really.

"I remember when Mom died," Emma said suddenly. GP started slightly at the unexpected words. Hearing her bring up her mother's death so suddenly was a bit of a surprise.

But he quickly composed himself, keeping his own voice soft. "You do?" he asked quietly.

"Yes," Emma said simply. "Ariel was as old as I am now. I was 8. She took care of us. Dad was useless. But Ariel took care of us. Just like she takes care of everything now."

Gianpiero felt a pang of sadness. Emma was so matter-of-fact about her sister taking charge of the family, as if it was an expected outcome.

"Percy dissappeared afterwards. Left us alone," Emma continue weakly. "I don't think he wanted to be around us anymore."

Gianpiero felt his heart break a little at her words. "Why do you think that?" he asked gently.

"He went off to university.." Emma said softly. “Doesn’t come home until it’s christmas anymore. Some people say he's some kind of genius," she said with a roll of her eyes.

Gianpiero was taken aback by the scoff in her voice. It seemed like Emma had an opinion about her brother.

"You don't agree?" he asked curiously, keeping his voice gentle.

"Yeah well...I guess he's smart and all that," Emma said sullenly. "Good with numbers. Bad with people."

GP could hear the distaste in her voice. It seemed like there was some resentment there, towards her older brother.

“He just left us. Like we didn’t matter.”

He was tempted to ask her more about it, but the sound of a car starting pulled his attention...and then Emma was up from the couch, sprinting outside.

He followed after her, after a glance to Laura.

The hearse was pulling out onto the street.

By the time he was outside, Emma had already collided with Ariel on the sidewalk.

GP felt his heart ache as he watched the two girls hug, Emma clinging to her older sister as if her life depended on it.

Ariel hugged her back, her mouth set in firm line, as she watched the hearse carry their father's body away.

GP didn’t want to watch this. He felt like the worst kind of voyeur to see this…to bear witness to this moment, where he could see their grief laid bare like this…

And still he was rooted in a spot watching… He felt an odd sense of awe watching the girls. They were so young, so vulnerable, and yet so strong.

Ariel was clearly holding back her own tears, putting on a brave face for her little sister. Emma was sobbing quietly on her shoulder, her slender frame trembling against her sister's strength.

He felt a sudden rush of anger towards their older brother, Percy. How could he not be there when his younger sisters needed him so much?

He tried to push down the emotion; there was no point in being angry right now. He was about to turn away and give the girls some privacy, when he noticed a car pulling up onto the street, and then stopping.

The man that got out of the cab was clearly their brother, his red hair a dead giveaway. GP couldn't help but notice the lack of warmth in his movements.

Percy Cane seemed…nearly detached as he took a few steps towards the house, but his steps seemed slow, as if every step he took was something he didn't want to do.

Here were his younger sisters grieving over their father's death, and Percy Cane acted as if he would rather be anywhere else.

"Perce," Ariel greeted him, her voice soft.

Emma turned in her sister's arms, staring at him. "You came," she said, her voice somewhat…actually surprised.

"You are my sisters," Percy responded, nearly robotically.

There was something...off about the way he spoke...so emotioneless...so controlled…

He watched as Percy nodded somewhat mechanically at his little sisters, avoiding making eye contact with them. "Of course, I came," he added after a moment.

"For how long?" Ariel asked him.

"I am finished. I don’t need to go back."

GP was quite sure that he was missing some of the context.

"Finished with what?" Ariel asked him, staring at her brother.

"My doctorate," Percy answered. "I am finished."

Gianpiero's jaw nearly dropped. The boy had finished a whole damn doctorate? How old was he, twenty-two, twenty-three at most? And here he was, talking about it like it was a minor inconvenience…

"What do we do now?" Percy asked Ariel, and for the first time...GP heard something like shaking in his voice.

And suddenly it made sense.

Percy Cane wasn't an unfeeling monster. Even when he sounded like a robot or an emotionless asshole.

GP would have bet nearly everything that Emma's assessment of "Good with numbers, Bad with people" also involved "horrible with feelings”. Clearly, the young man was out of his depth dealing with the emotional fallout of his father's death.

GP couldn't help but wonder if his detachment was just a way of coping, a wall to shield himself from the overwhelming emotions. But it wasn't helping his sisters right now.

But Ariel didn’t let that stop her. Didn’t let it make her hesitate.

GP was struck by that fierce determination that crossed her face. She was taking on the responsibility for her family, no matter what.

"We'll get through this. We have done it before. We'll do it again."

It was a lot for a young woman her age, but she wasn't backing down. She was going to see her family through to the other side of this.

No arguments were heard...not when Emma buried her face against her sisters shoulder...and then for the first time...GP saw Percy Cane's hard shell break.

The usually emotionless young man looked utterly lost.

It was clear Percy hadn't quite figured out how to handle his own feelings about the situation. But his sister's words seemed to break through the walls he had built around himself.

And then…then suddenly he was hugging both of his sisters.

"You hate hugs," came Emma's muffled voice.

"You don't," was Percy Cane's simple answer.

He watched as the three Cane siblings embraced each other, their arms tightly wound around each other.

But it was Ariel...Ariel that was the tower of strength. Who was the center.

And the center must hold, regardless of anything else. Ariel was the foundation, the one who kept them from falling apart.

He could see how hard this was for her, how much she wanted to cry and grieve like any other girl her age. But in her mind, she couldn't. Not now. Her little sister and her oler brother needed her to hold it together so they had something to hold on to.

She was supposed to be a carefree college student, not the responsible head of her dysfunctional family.

Other kids her age only worry was from where to get cheap booze for the next night out.

Being the strong one, the one who had to hold everyone together, was one of the hardest roles to play. It took strength, resilience and a ton of emotional stamina.

And determination.

Ariel Cane seemed to have that gritty determination in spades.

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trashogram · 1 day ago

Text

A Bauble

Satan/f!Reader

Summary: You become the fair judge Satan’s typist. You’ll learn what a lonely job that can be.

Warnings: Possessive Behavior, False Imprisonment, Workplace Sexual Harassment (Taken up to Eleven), Mild DubCon, Penetrative Sex, Size Difference, Temp Play (?)

ఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌ

Whoever had made the decision to forgo introducing you and Satan had made a big mistake, which was made clear by the fact that, as the official stenographer, you were the one literally typing up his uncharacteristic pauses, stutters and stumbles throughout the trial. It was uncomfortably obvious that much of his speech delays correlated with his gaze boring into you as well.

By the end of it the defendant had been quickly disposed of and you were shocked to feel yourself being picked up as you read through a long scroll of “um”, “uh” and “er”s.

“Your Honor!” You clutched the court documents to your chest as Satan held you up to his eyes. The look in those four molten orbs left you feeling flushed and overheated… or perhaps it was being so close to the dragon’s mouth.

“Would you care to join me in my office, Miss?” Satan’s drawl left you blinking rapidly. “I would be much obliged to see what you wrote of these proceedings.”

His smooth countenance defied your initial impression of the Sin, and while you were bewildered at the change, there was no real way you could decline his invitation. You adjusted your spectacles and straightened up in the palm of Satan’s hand, nodding resolutely.

“Of course, Sir.”

ఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌ

The memory of your first conversation with Satan was fuzzy. At best, you could recall how his stare continued to shift while you spoke. Those eyes continued to warm you as they softened until you felt like you’d been wrapped up in an electric blanket.

Near the end, when you had run out of things about your prior work experience to say, you felt Satan’s large finger run down your flank. The tender gesture had made you shudder, and you crossed your arms over your chest at the eerie feeling of being exposed and undone.

“My court is lucky to have you.” This coming from the very soul that had been notorious for murdering a good many of his previous court reporters (and jury men, attorneys, defense lawyers, emotional support aides) in his rage made you balk.

“You are indispensable.” Satan continued. “We’ll need to provide you with better provisions to ensure you stay satisfied with your position.”

The dragon’s claw curled around you like a serpent, bumping you forward gently yet dragging your hooves over the ground. You had no choice but to steady yourself with a hand to his muzzle, nails digging into his skin unintentionally as he grumbled.

No, not grumbled. Satan purred.

He pushed you the rest of the way with that giant digit so that your front was pressed against his face entirely. Your eyes shut as hot air from his nostrils blew back your hair, and opened in time to see Satan’s eyelids flutter.

******

Your “better provisions” consisted of a podium modified to tower above everyone else save for Satan himself. You were in his direct line of sight, and the position of the podium had changed to somewhere much closer to the center of the room. It was a confusing change, although that confusion turned into discomfort when you stepped onto the platform to see your basic desk and chair had been replaced with luxuries.

The new, plush furniture that resembled bedding more than an office space did not distract you from the spire fence that had also been installed at the border of your podium.

“The barrier is simply to keep you safe.” Satan said when you questioned it. “We can’t let our treasured reporter fall and break her pretty neck, now can we?”

You swallowed, feeling small beneath the weight of his honey voice and warm blanket gaze and intimate closeness. Satan’s breath followed you, always billowing upon you gently until you smelled like smoke for the rest of the day.

ఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌ

Kept within the warmth and sanctity of his court, Satan had unraveled you so much that soon you couldn’t remember what it felt like to be cold.

The skies of Hell were accessible by looking through the window outside of your podium. Your temp agency had cut all contact with you. And although the counselor that flitted at Satan’s side had said he would get to the bottom of things, you felt as though he had also left you in the lurch.

Heat left you indolent. You lounged upon your priceless silk pillows more than you typed, hands busy fanning your face and wiping the sweat from your brow than continuing the farce of being a simple journalist.

Satan would open the gate once legal proceedings had ended, and he would take you in hand before adjourning to his private chambers. The breeze to and fro was a welcome relief — from the sweltering courtroom, the dizzying height, Yogirt’s insufferable grin, and Satan’s eyes following your every move.

He chuckled as he opened his hand to find you laid out on your back, exhausted.

“Oh little one.” The Sin brought his arm to his torso, cupping you to his well-defined chest. “The day has been long, hasn’t it?”

Your eyes rolled up to see the great dragon cast an indulgent smile upon you. The smile grew in size when lifted you higher, tickling your bared skin with a soft nudge and quiet snort.

His purr rolled over your muscles until you were numb, and the lick of his tongue on your midriff garnered no reaction. You sighed, resting your eyes again.

Satan jostled you. “Oh I know you’re tired, but there’s something I need to show you.“

“Another provision…?” Your own voice sounded so very far away.

It disappeared within Satan’s quietened laughter, still loud enough to echo around the room.

“You could call it that.” He murmured. “But it's not something I advertise, so you best keep it to yourself.”

ఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌఌ

“Fuck —” You gasped, feeling the heat of him sear you inside and out. This swelter was inescapable, no matter if the harbinger himself shrank down to be three heads taller than you instead of three-hundred thousand.

Satan had held you in his arms, crushing you to his well-kept physique of claret and golden scales. You awoke from your overheated daze to feel his body envelop yours and his smirk draped over your slackened mouth.

You felt his tongue slither in, still large enough that you could only suck on it. Satan groaned, igniting a flare up inside your belly. The flare pulsed and fluttered, growing into a roaring flame as the Sin carried you to the nearest plush surface. He laid you down, adjusting you with his tail wound below your behind.

Silk and satin and velvet brushed along your body in Satan’s caresses, his kisses and licks. Your thighs were pulled apart and the flames ate you up until you were screaming. Tears streamed down your cheeks as you were left begging for the Sin’s cock, even when at a glance it stood erect in angry, burning phosphorescent reds and oranges.

You dripped onto the bedspread as your lover turned you over and shoved pillows under your hips to elevate them.

The lordly dragon stretched you beyond your capacity, beyond what you had taken when he had delved into your sopping cunt with his thick fingers. The impale of his cock, felt deep into your womb, filled you too full.

“Oh please! Please move.” You sobbed. “I'll do anything, Your Honor!”

There was an audible snort of smoke as the Sin’s legs flexed and his length eased out of you. You shivered as you were nearly free, then squealed as he arched his hips and speared you again. The beast repeated the move again, before jarring you with a shallower thrust.

His experimental rhythm lasted for less than a minute as Satan found the speed that drew out the loudest and sweetest noises from your lips. What made you clutch his scaly fingers as they tightened around your figure, inching upward to palm at your breasts. You spasmed at the novelty of him being able to cup both of them with just one hand.

Satan draped himself over you, angular head resting over your shoulder while he lifted you up by the chin to look back at him.

“You’re enjoying yourself?” His gravelly tone rolled over your back.

You nodded. “Yes… yes… I-I’m gonna cum.”

Another groan rattled through you, with Satan losing control just enough to shove you into the mattress with his bulk.

“Please, can I cum?” You whined against the sheets. “Please let me cum, Your Honor.”

Satan’s hips smacked against your ass wetly, audibly. His thrusts came faster and harder as he humped into you with wild abandon. “Call me Satan. Call me — ! And I’ll give you everything, little one…”

“Sa-Satan! Can I c-cum?!” The words swirled together, slurred through a deluge of drool and mindless ecstasy. “Can I pl-please cum-m Satan? Plea-se Satan! Satan!”

The climax that savaged your body left you writhing and convulsing, barely able to comprehend Satan’s roar as he followed you into the abyss and glutted you with his white hot seed.

#helluva boss satan x reader #helluva boss satan #helluva boss x reader #satan x reader #smut #nsft

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babybearnation · 15 hours ago

Text

cause i've got a soft spot (i've got it for you)

⎇paul aron x m!team boss!reader - you don't play favourites, but with paul... (smau) ⎇author's note: my first ever non-texts post and AHHH this is so nerve-wracking omd!! pls be nice to me PLS ⎇content warnings: team boss/racer relationship, hate comments, suggestive content, implied homophobia, arguing,

Paul sighs, wiping his hands on his pants for the umpteenth time. His leg bounces restlessly and he's rather glad he got here after Arthur had already gone into the room to meet Y/n otherwise he's sure he would've annoyed his future teammate before the season could even start.

Paul's about to stand up and start pacing when the door clicks and swings open, Arthur walking out first. Paul watches as Arthur and Y/n exchange farewells before standing up and smiling when Y/n beckons him into the room.

"Paul, hi. Come on in." Y/n says. Paul crosses to the room, smiling as he enters the vast area. He's vaguely aware of the many thoughts he's having about Y/n and how young he is and how insanely attractive he is, but he's pushing them all down.

Professionalism, Paul, come on!

"So, welcome to the team." Y/n says as he sits down, folding his hands atop the desk as he smiles warmly at Paul. Paul finds himself flushing lightly, warmth lighting up his body.

"It's great to be here. Thank you for giving me this opportunity." Paul says, his words feeling thick and heavy on his tongue. Thank you doesn't feel good enough, but his English is clunky and he doesn't want to make a fool out of himself.

"Your post-season test with Alpine showed fantastic potential and we have the finances to invest in more... how shall I put this?" Y/n trails off, tapping his chin before shrugging. "More risky decisions, shall we say."

"Right." Paul says, an embarrassment flushing throughout his system. Do they really think he's gonna be that bad?

"Not that that's a reflection on you or Arthur, of course. I have my confidence firmly placed in both of your hands. But, well, you know how fans and higher ups can be." Y/n says, laughing softly. Paul latches onto the sound instantly, something flickering to life in his gut.

"I totally understand what you mean. Thank you for your confidence. I hope my performance can please you, Mr. Y/l/n." Paul says, all the drilled-in media training entwining with the words that drip from his tongue.

"Please, Paul, call me Y/n. I don't want this to feel like a job to you, but rather a family." Y/n smiles again and Paul finds himself naturally smiling back, all his previous nerves and professionalism replaced with a twisted sense of desire. "Now, about this family thing. Let's go get some lunch with the rest of the staff, shall we? I'm quite famished."

Paul thinks he might like it here.

liked by arthur_leclerc, cbaceracing, and 62,880 others

paularon_ Thank you to @/cbaceracing for signing me on as one of their 2025 drivers. I hope everyone is excited to see me on the grid next year. (And thank you @/aronralf for the silly cake).

comments

user1 let's go, paul on the f1 gridddddd

cbaceracing It's gotta be a good year when you've got Paul Aron on your team, huh @/hitechgp 😉 ‎‎‎‎‎‎‎ liked by paularon_ hitechgp Can't disagree with that, can we? 😉 liked by paularon_

user2 This is fucking insane, I'm so happy right now.

arthur_leclerc I look forward to racing with you next year, mate. liked by paularon_

user3 Arthur's gonna fucking run your shit into the dirt. You're awful. user1 ew, who asked you? user2 Jealousy gets you nowhere, mate 🙄

aronralf That cake was delicious, I think we can both agree. liked by paularon_ paularon_ Remind me who ate most of it again?

Y/n sighs, pacing back and forth as he drags his fingers through his hair. He probably shouldn't dishevel his appearance too much lest he come off as unprofessional or unattractive, but it's been his bad habit for years, so bad habit it shall remain.

His fingers drift down to his tie and he's just about to tug it loose and retie it when there's a knock at the door. He crosses over instantly, tugging it open with far too much excitement, smiling breathlessly when he spots Paul on the other side.

"Hello, come on in." Y/n says, stepping to one side to let Paul through. Paul greets him softly and enters the room, sitting in the chair closest to Y/n's one. Y/n's heart most resolutely does not flutter.

"What's happening? Is everything alright? You look like a mess, to be honest." Paul says. Y/n huffs out a laugh as he leans against the desk, gazing down at Paul.

"Something is plaguing me." Y/n says, wincing when a headache decides to form behind his eyelids. Why right now? When he looks at Paul again, the younger man has a troubled expression on his face.

"Is everything okay with the team?" Paul asks. Y/n wants to laugh. Paul's devotion to the team is already showing and Y/n hasn't even had to do anything to make it happen! It's adorable, it really is.

"Yes, yes, all good. It's more myself." Y/n says. The headache throbs and he reaches over the desk, snatching up his water bottle and drinking a greedy mouthful. A stray droplet trickles down his cheek and he wipes it away with a calculated finger.

"So what's wrong? Is there any way I can help? I mean... you must've called me here for a reason, right?" Paul says, as observant as ever. Y/n smiles softly at him.

"I was wondering if you'd like to go on a date with me." Y/n says, puffing his chest out in triumph. He did it, he said it, now hopefully he's not going to get rejected.

"I- is that not inappropriate? Won't people claim you favour me?" Paul sputters, his cheeks a delicate pink.

"I've held feelings for you for a while. No favouring claims have come out, have they?" Y/n says. He's practically baring the very depths of his soul to Paul right now, an embarrassing hue of red surely filling his face and trickling down his neck.

"That's true..." Paul says, looking away from Y/n's gaze. Y/n smiles and leans down, capturing one of Paul's hands in his own.

"You can say no. I won't react negatively, I promise." Y/n says. Paul nods stiltedly before smiling up at him.

"I'd love to go on a date with you, Y/n."

Every single member of staff who currently fill both Paul and Arthur's garages come pouring out as Paul crosses the line to start his final lap, Arthur hot on his tail. They cram along the fences and the walls around CB Ace Racing's pitbox as Y/n smiles at the screens in front of him.

A 1-2 finish. Every team boss's dream. Every team's dream. Whilst Arthur would surely wish he had finished first, Y/n knew he wouldn't hold that grudge and would celebrate just as hard, if not harder, than Paul would tonight.

One last corner. One last straight. One last bit.

"Paul Aron, you are the winner of the Silverstone Grand Prix!" Cheers and thunderous applause rise up throughout the pitlane as CB Ace staff pound the fences and hoot and holler in excitement over their hard work finally paying off. Paul's white and purple car continues on around the circuit as his radio crackles to life.

"We did it! I did it for you, CB Ace Racing! I did it for you, Callum! I did it for you, Y/n!" You smile as Paul thanks everyone, the tears that are probably soaking into the material of his balaclava audible through his voice.

"You did it, Paul. You did it." Y/n says, proud and triumphant. He listens to Arthur's radio and congratulates him as well before pulling his headphones off and slowly following the rest of his team over to parc fermé.

As he goes, Y/n thinks to himself about how big this was for them. A rookie team. Two rookie drivers. Hundreds of points and a handful of podiums under their belt. And now a win. It was a dream come true as well as a big fuck you to everyone who had doubted them.

Y/n lines up front and centre as he watches Paul pull into parc fermé, the white and purple of his car sparkling and practically iridescent under the British sun. Arthur's car comes next but Y/n isn't able to stare for long, Paul clambering out of his car seconds later.

Paul stands atop his car and cheers, all the mechanics and staff around Y/n cheering along too. Y/n claps, slowly and patiently, as he waits for Paul to get weighed. Before long, his helmet has been discarded and he starts running over.

Straight to Y/n.

"I did it!" Paul says as he all but collapses in Y/n's arms. Y/n holds him close, offering his hand to Arthur when the other man appears moments later. He rolls his eyes fondly at Paul and Y/n before moving over to congratulate the rest of the staff.

The interviews and the cool down room waiting period passed so quickly Y/n was almost sure he imagined them. Before long, however, he stands in a crowd of thousands, eyes fixed on his two drivers. On his boyfriend. On his staff. On the legacy they've created in only their first year. And there's still more to come.

As the Estonian and British national anthems fill the Silverstone circuit in rapid succession, Y/n feels ecstatic.

Paul knocks against the doorframe. Arthur's driver's room door is open, but Paul doesn't want to just barge in without getting some sort of consent.

"Paul! Come on in." Arthur says, looking up from his phone with a soft smile. Paul smiles in return and slowly enters the room, kicking the door shut behind him.

"Can we talk?"

"Of course." Arthur says, locking his phone and placing it to one side, all his attention fixed solely on Paul. It's a bit daunting. "What is up?"

"You know me and Y/n are dating right?" Paul says, watching as Arthur's eyes widen almost comically in shock. "That's a no then."

"No clue." Arthur clarifies, laughing softly. A small amount of tension bleeds from the atmosphere at that and Paul finds himself relaxing somewhat.

"Well we are and um, do you think it seems like he favours me?" Paul asks, wringing his hands together. The question was out there now, simmering in the air between them. Arthur hmm's, causing Paul to look up and meet his eyes.

"No, not at all. You two seem closer, but I've never felt like you were prioritised over me." Arthur says, shrugging with a wonky expression on his face.

"Oh thank god. I was so worried someone would think that was the case. People are already getting suspicious about us on Twitter." Paul says, all the tension seeping from his shoulders, allowing him to practically melt against the wall behind him.

"Ah, Twitter rumours. The place of all good F1 commentary." Arthur snarks, both of them laughing at the idiocy of his words.

"That's an understatement."

liked by paularon_, arthur_leclerc and 20,072 others

y/n.cbace Sorry everyone, but this one's mine. (Bonus Arthur with Paul at the end I guess? 🙄)

tagged paularon_, arthur_leclerc

comments

paularon_ Love you, kallikene 🤍 liked by y/n.cbace y/n.cbace Love you more 😘

arthur_leclerc What's that supposed to mean 😐 liked by y/n.cbace y/n.cbace Nothingggg! I love you equally, just in different ways! arthur_leclerc Uh-huh, sure 😒 liked by y/n.cbace

neonpinkleds I TOLD Y'ALL MOTHERFUCKERS !!!!

user3 Eugh, the only reason you got the seat is because you're fucking the team principal. user1 Just say you're jealous you're not getting your dick wet🙄 liked by y/n.cbace

#ᵔᴥᵔ fics #formula 1 #f1 #paul aron #pa17 #formula 1 x reader #f1 x reader #paul aron x reader #pa17 x reader #formula 1 smau #f1 smau #babybearnation

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childrenofcain-if · 3 days ago

Note

When I saw the snippet where Mc was being just plain mean, I came running to ask you how would it go if an argument breaks out between Mc and C because Mc is a little too condescending about C's broken knee which leads to them getting called out for being an arrogant jackass? My Mc means well but god they're such an asshole 😭

the only clearly audible sound in C’s suite was the low hum of the heater working overtime against the december chill.

but you could still hear C’s uneven steps, their limp heavier than usual as they crossed the room. you supposed that ever since they had told you about it, they’d gotten more comfortable about not hiding it from you anymore.

yeah, the limp wasn’t new, but it was worse tonight. C’s gait was uneven, jagged, every step catching slightly as if the bones in their knee were grinding against each other. you’d been watching it for weeks now, how they soldiered through it, jaw tight and posture straight, as though sheer willpower could replace cartilage.

tonight, though, after watching them wince when they thought you weren’t looking, you decided it was enough.

“C,” you began, and they stopped in their tracks. the way they turned, furrowed brows and jaw clenched, should have been enough warning to stop you from saying the next words. but you were you—brazen, brilliant, thoughtless. “i noticed you’re limping worse than usual. maybe it’s time to consider getting a cane.”

you saw their expression hardened immediately, but you kept going, your voice infuriatingly calm, like a teacher correcting a student.

“it would make things easier for you, don’t you think? i mean, i know it’s not ideal, but considering the structural integrity of your knee—”

“the structural integrity of my knee?” C repeated your words incredulously. “you’re really pulling out your SAT vocabulary for this, aren’t you?”

“what are you talking about?” you asked, your own voice rising now, confused about their reaction. “i’m just trying to help, C. god, i don’t know why you have to make everything so difficult.”

“are you this fucking dense?” C’s voice cracked on the word, and they took a step closer to you, their hands clenched at their sides. “you think i want to be like this? you think i don’t know how i look, how i walk? i don’t need your—” they broke off, shaking their head, their face a mask of barely-contained fury.

“i never said any of that,” you said, but it didn’t seem to matter.

“no,” C said, their voice cold. “you didn’t have to.”

you could feel the argument spiraling out of control, but you didn’t know how to stop it. instead, you reached for something—anything—to regain the upper hand.

“you’re being obstinate,” you said, and the word felt strange in your mouth, too big, too formal, but you didn’t care. “you’re acting like an overly sensitive child.”

C’s eyes narrowed, and they let out a harsh, humorless laugh.

“obstinate,” they repeated, rolling the word around like it was a sour taste in their mouth. “jesus christ, could you sound any more condescending? do you ever stop trying to sound like you swallowed a thesaurus? what, you think using words like that makes you better than me? smarter than me?”

“that’s just how i talk,” you snapped, your voice sharp and venomous, the words spilling out before you could think them through. “i’m sorry if it’s not simple enough for you to understand. i’m sorry you always jump to conclusions without hearing me out. i’m sorry that your father never bothered to teach you words like that—he was too busy bashing your head against the wall of your old house while you apologized for even existing.”

the room went silent.

C stared at you, their mouth slightly open, their chest rising and falling like they couldn’t quite catch their breath. their face was now pale, and their chalcedony green eyes blazed with something that wasn’t just anger—it was hurt. deep, raw, soul-deep hurt that made your heart squeeze uncomfortably.

“fuck you,” they said finally, their voice low and trembling with barely-contained fury and tears. “fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.”

“C—” you started, but they flinched when you stepped closer, their body jerking like you were the one who struck them.

“don’t,” they said, their voice sharp and broken all at once. “don’t fucking touch me.”

and then they were gone, the door slamming behind them so hard it rattled the walls.

you stood there, the words still hot on your tongue, searing and damning. you could still see the look on their face, the way their eyes had gone wide and vulnerable, the way they’d looked at you like you’d taken something sacred and smashed it to pieces.

you sank onto the couch, your head in your hands, the weight of your regret pressing down on you like a boulder. you hadn’t meant it. you hadn’t meant any of it. but meaning didn’t matter now. the damage was done.

you’d known—instantly, the moment the words left your mouth—that you’d crossed a line. not just crossed it, obliterated it. and now, the consequences were as painful as the regret slicing through you.

and you were alone, left to drown in the bitter aftertaste of your own words.

#so... how is everyone doing?#this was short and sweet 😋#don’t forget to like and subscribe 🫶🏻#out-of-touch MCs are a different breed #if: the ballad of the young gods #interactive fiction #interactive novel #interactive story #twine wip #ro: c lacroix #ro scenarios #the scenario is heavily inspired by chapter 38 of the raven boys #the quo

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fangdokja · 20 hours ago

Text

🔞He’s not just your sugar daddy—he’s a sadistic master who won’t let you go.

❤︎ Synopsis. A sugar daddy arrangement spirals into a twisted nightmare as a calculating, sadistic man grows dangerously possessive. Luxury becomes a gilded cage, and love is warped by jealousy, manipulation, and obsession.

♡ Book. A Heart Devoured: A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Sugar Daddy x Reader

♡ Novella #1. Bye, Bye, Bye - Part 5

♡ Word Count. 4,254

♡ TW. non-con, blood play, gun play, degradation, humiliation, overstimulation, choking / breath play, ass slapping, physical assault and violence, face slapping

He dragged you through the penthouse, his grip tangled in your hair like a steel trap, unyielding and merciless. The door slammed behind you, the sound reverberating through the opulent space like a gunshot. You stumbled, your feet barely keeping up as he all but hauled you into the bedroom. His breathing was heavy, uneven, and you could feel the heat radiating off him in waves.

The moment you crossed the threshold, he let go only to shove you forward, watching as you fell onto the massive bed with a graceless thud. Before you could scramble away, his weight descended on you, pinning you to the mattress like a predator with its prey.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he growled, his voice low and venomous, laced with something dark and unrelenting.

Your composure, the icy mask you always wore so effortlessly, cracked. For the first time, you squirmed beneath him, your hands pushing against his chest, your nails digging into his skin in a frantic attempt to shove him off. But he didn’t budge.

“Stop,” you said, your voice unsteady, the usual calm replaced by a sharp edge of panic.

He laughed, low and humorless, his face inches from yours. “Stop?” he mocked, his lips curling into a cruel smile. “You didn’t stop when you let him put his filthy hands all over you.”

He leaned closer, his breath hot against your ear as he hissed, “You didn’t stop when you kissed him like you fucking meant it.”

You twisted beneath him, your body writhing in a desperate attempt to escape, but his hands were everywhere—pinning your wrists, gripping your hips, holding you down with an unrelenting force that stole the air from your lungs.

“Kiss me back,” he demanded, his voice sharp and commanding, a thin veneer of control barely concealing the raw, frenzied need beneath. “Stop squirming and kiss me back.”

Your head turned to the side, your lips pressed into a defiant line as you refused him, your breaths coming in short, ragged gasps.

He snarled, grabbing your chin with a bruising grip and forcing you to face him. “Look at me,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Look at me and tell me you didn’t mean it. Tell me he meant nothing.”

You met his gaze, your eyes wide and glistening with something he couldn’t bear to name. Fear? Defiance? He didn’t know, and it made him furious. He needed you to submit, to stop fighting, to give in to him completely.

“You’re mine,” he said, his voice breaking on the edges of desperation. “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

When you didn’t respond, his lips crashed against yours, brutal and punishing, his teeth grazing your skin as if he wanted to devour you whole. You tried to turn away, your nails raking down his arms and leaving red trails in their wake, but he didn’t flinch.

“Stop fighting me,” he snarled, his hands tightening around your wrists until you whimpered. “You think you can run? Think you can fucking leave me? I’ll kill anyone who touches you, anyone who even looks at you. Do you understand me?”

Your breaths came in short, panicked gasps, your chest rising and falling beneath him as you shook your head, your voice trembling as you whispered, “Please…”

But he wasn’t listening.

The memory of seeing you with that man burned behind his eyes, a searing image that refused to fade. It was madness, this feeling tearing him apart from the inside out, but he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to.

“You don’t get to walk away,” he said, his voice softer now, almost tender, though the steel in his grip never wavered. “You’re mine. And I’m going to make sure you never forget it.”

His hands roamed over your body, rough and claiming, leaving no inch untouched. You struggled against him, your movements frantic, but it only seemed to fuel him further.

“You can fight all you want,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your jaw, trailing down your neck. “But you’ll always come back to me. You’ll always be mine.”

The weight of his body pressed you deeper into the mattress, his presence suffocating, inescapable. You bit down on your lip, hard enough to draw blood, but the pain was a small defiance in the face of his overwhelming dominance.

And yet, as much as you fought, as much as you resisted, he didn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop.

Because to him, you weren’t just a person.

You were an obsession. A possession.

And he would tear the world apart before he let you go.

────────────

Your heart raced as his free hand roamed over your body, ripping away the fabric of your dress with the ease of tearing through paper. His touch was like fire, leaving a trail of agony and revulsion in its wake. "Please," you gasped, your voice barely a whisper, "please, don't do this."

But he was lost in his own fury, deaf to your pleas. He yanked your wrists above your head, securing them with the cold metal of the cuffs. The pain was stark and immediate, grounding you in the horror of the moment.

"Call me 'Master'," he barked, his voice low and menacing.

"You're going to beg for me to touch you, to use you." The words were a knife to your soul, a twisted game that made bile rise in your throat. Yet, you knew resistance was futile; his grip was ironclad, his resolve unshakeable.

The gun hovered at the side of your face, a silent, chilling reminder of his power. He traced the barrel along your cheek, the metal cold and unforgiving against your skin. "Call me 'Master'," he repeated, his voice a serpent's hiss.

"Say it, or I'll show you how much your 'no' really means." The word stuck in your throat, a vile taste you didn't want to give life to. But the cold, hard reality of the weapon against your flesh made the decision for you.

You swallowed hard and forced the hated word from your lips. "Master," you murmured, the sound a betrayal to your very being.

A twisted smile curled his lips. "Good girl," he praised, the malice in his tone as clear as the gleaming gun. He leaned down, the weight of his body pressing into you, his breath hot against your ear.

"Now, beg for it," he whispered, the gun moving to press against your neck. His hand found its way between your legs, his touch as unwelcome as the metal of the cuffs biting into your wrists.

You clenched your teeth, willing yourself to find some semblance of strength.

"Please," you choked out, the word tasting like ash. "Please, Master, touch me."

His grin grew wider, a predatory glint in his eyes as he began to unbuckle his belt. The leather slithered through the loops with a sinister sound, the anticipation of what was to come making your stomach churn. He pulled his erection free, stroking it with a casual cruelty that made you want to retch.

"You want this, don't you?" he taunted, the gun digging into your skin. "You want me to fuck you with it." The words were a vile incantation, a spell you didn't want to be under.

But the fear of what he would do if you didn't comply was stronger than your pride.

"Yes," you whispered, the lie burning like acid. "I want you to fuck me with it."

He chuckled darkly, the sound sending shivers down your spine. "Good girl," he said again, the nickname a whip that stung your soul. He took the gun and placed it on the bedside table, reaching for a bottle of lube instead.

"But first," he said, his voice dropping to a growl, "we're going to get you nice and ready." He squeezed a generous amount onto his fingers and brought them to your sex, his touch as unwelcome as a serpent's embrace.

Despite your mind's protest, your body, traitorous and responsive to fear, began to betray you, growing wet and vulnerable. He noticed and laughed, his eyes gleaming with triumph.

"Look at you," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "You're just as much a whore as I knew you were."

With a rough thumb, he spread the lube over your folds, the coldness of it sending a shiver through you. "Master," you whispered, trying to keep the defiance out of your voice. "Please, no more."

But he was beyond listening to pleas.

He inserted two fingers into you, the intrusion feeling like a violation, a desecration of your most sacred space. He pumped them in and out, his gaze locked on yours, watching the play of emotions across your face as he worked to loosen you up. The sensation was a mix of pain and humiliation, your body responding despite your mind's rejection.

"See," he said, his tone smug, "you can't resist me. You're going to take me, every inch."

He withdrew his hand and positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against you. He paused for a moment, savoring the power he had over you.

Then, with one brutal thrust, he claimed you, your body arching off the bed in a silent scream.

The pain was intense, your muscles clenching around him despite your will to resist. His eyes bore into yours, a challenge and a threat all rolled into one.

"Beg for more," he demanded, his voice a harsh whisper. "Beg for your master to fuck you harder."

Through gritted teeth, you forced out the words. "Please, Master, fuck me harder," your voice a broken echo of the strong woman you once were.

He didn't need further encouragement, his hips slamming into you with the force of a hammer on an anvil. Each thrust sent a bolt of pain through your body, but he didn't care. He was in control now, and he reveled in it. You felt your will slipping away, the fight draining from your limbs like sand through an hourglass.

Yet, somewhere in the depths of your soul, a spark of rebellion remained, a stubborn ember that refused to die.

He leaned down, his breath hot against your ear. "You're mine," he whispered, his voice a toxic caress. "Mine to use, mine to break, mine to rebuild."

His hand reached up to your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek in a mockery of tenderness. "Say it," he ordered. "Say you're mine."

Your eyes searched the room for an escape, for anything that would take you out of this nightmare. But the walls were just as cold and unyielding as he was.

With a tremble in your voice, you whispered, "I'm yours, Master."

It was the hardest thing you've ever said, the most profane lie that had ever left your lips.

He took the gun from the bedside table, the cold metal a stark contrast to the heat of his skin. "Open your mouth," he said, and you knew better than to refuse.

The barrel of the gun was placed on your tongue, the taste of oil and steel filling your mouth. He began to fuck you with it, the gun moving in and out in time with his thrusts, the taste of metal making you gag.

"You're going to swallow this," he told you, his voice a mix of amusement and malice.

"You're going to choke on it like you're choking on your pride." Each movement of the gun was a violation, a degradation that made you want to scream.

But you didn't.

You couldn't.

The only sound that left you was a muffled whimper.

He watched your eyes water and your face contort in discomfort, his own arousal growing with every twitch of your body.

"Look at you," he said, his voice thick with pleasure. "You're so beautiful when you're suffering for me." His grip on your hair tightened, his other hand now gripping the gun as he pushed it deeper into your mouth.

You could feel your throat closing around the barrel, the panic rising in your chest like a tide.

"Swallow," he whispered, his eyes never leaving yours. "Swallow it all."

Your body tensed, your throat working involuntarily as you tried to refuse, but the pressure of his hand on the back of your head was relentless. The gun slid deeper, and you had no choice but to obey.

The cold metal filled your mouth, the taste of it coating your throat as you swallowed around it, gagging on your own saliva. His thrusts grew more erratic, his breaths coming in harsh pants.

"That's it," he murmured, his voice strained with effort. "Take it all." The gun slid back out, leaving you gasping for air, tears streaming down your face.

He laughed, the sound echoing through the room.

He withdrew from you and stood up, the smugness in his stance a stark contrast to your vulnerability.

"Now, let's see if you've learned your lesson," he said, grabbing the gun and pointing it at you again.

"Beg for it. Beg for your master to fill you up." Your voice was barely a rasp, your eyes never leaving the weapon.

"P-please, M-Master," you stuttered, the word still feeling like a knife in your heart. "Please, fill me up."

Your sugar daddy's hand cracks across your cheek, the sound of the slap echoing through the room like a gunshot.

Pain explodes in your face, your vision momentarily swimming. You feel the sting of his palm, the heat of his anger branding your skin. The gun, still in his other hand, wobbles slightly with the motion, a reminder of the power he holds over you.

"You think you can lie to me?" he snarls, his eyes narrowing to slits.

"You think you can pretend to submit?" He grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"I want the real you," he says, his voice low and dangerous.

"I want the part of you that's screaming, that's fighting, that's hating every second of this." His grip tightens, his fingers digging into your flesh.

"I want to hear it. I want to see it."

You struggle against the handcuffs, your eyes flashing with defiance.

"Fuck you," you spit out, the words raw and unfiltered.

The slap comes again, this time even harder, sending stars dancing in your vision.

"Wrong answer," he says, his voice cold as ice.

He straddles you, the gun now pointed at your forehead. "Again," he demands. "Beg me to fill you up."

Your cheek throbs, the taste of blood in your mouth a grim reminder of your situation. You swallow hard, trying to find the words that will satisfy his sadistic craving.

"Please, Master," you murmur, your voice cracking, "please fill me up."

The words feel like acid on your tongue, but the fear of the gun keeps them coming. "I'll do anything," you whimper, your eyes never leaving the barrel. "Just...please."

He leans in, his breath hot on your face, his eyes searching yours for any sign of deceit.

For a moment, it seems like he's going to believe you, to take the bait.

But then his gaze hardens, and you know you've failed to convince him. "No," he says, the word a knife twisting in your gut.

"You're not ready." He stands up, the gun still pointed at you.

"You're going to take this," he says, his voice a low growl, "and you're going to love it. You're going to beg for more."

With a sadistic smirk, the billionaire withdraws the gun from your mouth and lines it up with your exposed, trembling sex.

He slicks the barrel with the excess lube from earlier, the cold metal gliding against your sensitive flesh.

With a merciless shove, he begins to penetrate you with the gun, the pain and humiliation overwhelming as he uses you like a toy, his eyes never leaving yours. Each thrust is accompanied by the sickening sound of the metal sliding in and out of you, leaving you feeling more and more defiled.

Your body jerks and tenses against the invasive, foreign object, the pain a stark contrast to the wetness between your legs, a betrayal of your fear-induced arousal.

He watches your every move, the power in his eyes growing with every gasp and whimper you emit. He takes his time, driving the gun in deeper and harder with each pass, the barrel stretching you beyond your limits.

"Look at you," he sneers, "so desperate, so needy. You're pathetic." His voice is like a whip, cutting through the haze of pain and degradation.

"But you're going to love it, aren't you?" He leans down, his breath hot on your cheek as he whispers in your ear, "You're going to cum for me, like a good little slut."

His thumb finds your clit, pressing down hard, his cruel touch igniting a firestorm of sensations.

You want to scream, to beg him to stop, but your body responds to the mix of pain and pleasure, the hatred and fear warring with an unwelcome arousal. The room spins around you, the pressure building, your mind screaming for relief.

You feel his hand tighten on the gun, the barrel digging into you, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. "Beg for it," he demands, his voice a growl.

"Beg to cum for me." You want to tell him no, to spit in his face and defy him, but the need is too much.

"P-please," you stutter, "please let me cum."

His laughter is like a gunshot in the quiet room, a sound that sends a shiver down your spine. "Not yet," he says, his thumb moving in merciless circles.

"Not until you're begging for it like a dog."

The gun slams into you, the pain a crescendo that threatens to shatter you. Each thrust feels like a declaration of war, a battle you're losing more with every second.

But your body is a traitor, responding to his cruel touch, building towards something you know you should hate but can't help craving.

"P-please," you whisper again, the word a desperate prayer. "Please, let me cum." He smirks, the gun still moving inside you.

"Beg," he says, his voice a demand.

With a sob and breathless gasp, you do as he asks. "I'm begging you, Master," you whine, the word a curse that feels like it's burning your tongue. "Please, I'm begging you to let me cum."

His eyes light up with satisfaction, the sadistic gleam in them making you feel even dirtier than the act itself. He leans down, his breath hot against your cheek.

"Good girl," he murmurs, his thumb pressing down even harder on your clit.

"You're learning." And with that, he gives you what you've been begging for, pushing you over the edge with a final, brutal thrust.

Your body convulses, pleasure and pain melding into a white-hot agony that consumes you.

You scream his name, the sound torn from your throat against your will, a declaration of your defeat.

As the tremors subside, he pulls out the gun, his expression one of triumph. He wipes the barrel on the bed sheet, leaving a dark, oily stain. "You see?" he says, his voice smug.

"You enjoyed it." The words are a knife in your gut, a truth you refuse to accept. You turn your face away, the tears falling freely now.

"No," you murmur, the word a feeble protest.

"I didn't." But deep down, you know that right now, in this moment, you are.

Your sugar daddy discards the gun with a clatter, his lust-driven eyes never leaving yours. He leans in, capturing your bruised and trembling mouth in a fierce, possessive kiss.

His teeth graze your bottom lip, drawing blood and leaving a mark that stings as much as his earlier slaps. His tongue invades your mouth, tasting of your fear and submission.

He grinds his erection against your thigh, the heat of it a stark contrast to the cold metal that was just inside you.

He releases your wrists from the handcuffs, his grip shifting to your arms as he flips you over onto your stomach. His hands move to your hips, his breath hot on your neck as he lines up his cock with your sore and abused entrance.

The older man, fueled by your whimpers and the marks of his possession on your skin, enters you roughly from behind. His movements are punishing, his cock sliding in and out of you without mercy.

Each thrust is a declaration of his power, each stroke a punishment for your earlier defiance. You feel the heat of his grip on your hips, his fingers digging in, leaving bruises that will linger for days.

Despite the pain, your body reacts to his dominance, your traitorous arousal building again. He notices and smirks, his hips moving faster, pushing you closer to the edge of another forced climax.

You grit your teeth, trying to hold back, but his relentless pace and the sting of his fingers on your clit overwhelm you. You cum, your body arching against his, the sound of your muffled screams filling the room.

He doesn't stop, his rhythm unbroken as he uses your body for his own pleasure, bringing you to peak after peak of unwanted ecstasy.

Each orgasm is a new level of hell, each spasm of pleasure a twisted form of punishment that leaves you feeling more and more degraded.

With each slap, your cheek stings and your body jolts, the pain and humiliation mixing with the overwhelming sensations of his relentless assault.

Your moans become louder, more desperate, as your body succumbs to his will, each slap pushing you closer to the edge of another unwanted climax. The sound of your own voice, begging and pleading, echoes in your ears, a symphony of degradation that fuels his desire.

His thrusts become more punishing, his grip on your hips tightening as he uses you, his hand coming down on your ass with a sharp crack that sends a bolt of pain through you.

The hand that's not holding onto you snakes around to your throat, squeezing just enough to make your eyes water, to remind you who's in control.

You feel yourself slipping away, your resistance crumbling like sand in a storm, as he fucks you into submission.

"That's it," he grunts, his voice a harsh rasp in your ear. "You're mine. You're going to scream my name until you can't even remember your own."

His strokes become erratic, his breathing ragged, as he feels his own orgasm building. He slaps you again, the sting of his palm sending you spiraling over the edge, your body convulsing in pleasure against your will.

The hand around your throat tightens, cutting off your air, as he slams into you one final time, burying himself to the hilt. You feel the warmth of his release inside you, a disgusting mix of pleasure and despair that makes you want to retch.

But instead, you moan, the sound torn from your chest, your body betraying your mind once more.

He pulls out, the emptiness inside you feeling like a void. He flips you over again, his eyes scanning your tear-stained face, the marks of his possession branded on your skin.

"Look at me," he commands, his voice a low growl. You raise your gaze to meet his, the hatred and fear in your eyes clear as day. He slaps you again, the sting a stark reminder of who's in control.

"Say it," he says, his voice a mix of demand and need. "Say you're mine." The words stick in your throat, but the fear of what he'll do if you don't is too great.

"I'm yours," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. "I belong to you."

His hand moves to your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, a gesture that would be tender if it weren't for the bruises he's already left.

"Good girl," he whispers, the praise a knife to your soul. He leans in, his breath hot and ragged. His cock, still hard and gleaming with your arousal, presses against your stomach.

"But we're not done yet," he says, his eyes gleaming with a new form of sadism. "I want you to scream my name until you can't even think."

He grabs your hair, yanking your head back, exposing your throat to the ravenous hunger in his gaze. His hand moves between your legs, his fingers finding your clit, still swollen from his earlier torment. He begins to rub it, the sensation a mix of pleasure and pain that sends a fresh wave of arousal through your trembling body.

You want to fight, to resist, but the feeling is too intense, too overwhelming. Your body betrays you once more, arching into his touch, begging for more even as your mind recoils in horror.

"P-please," you whine, the word a desperate plea. "I-I can't." His grip on your hair tightens, his smile a cruel parody of affection.

"You can," he says, his voice a command.

"You will." And with that, he slams his cock into you, the force making you scream.

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