#but somehow saying it directly to one person is worse

[chartreuxcatz]

Man, all the respect in the world to people who commission nsfw stuff. I don't know how they do it.

[revolutionsingingintherainnn]

case dismissed ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Summary: sometimes, men don't take y/n seriously in their world. y/n doesn't like to play the mafia card often, but what use is a mafia husband if not for this?

𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ ln x reader ⋆˙⟡

𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ mafia au ⋆˙⟡

masterlist ☾☼

the courtroom buzzed with tension, as y/n y/l/n, highly skilled and known for her quick retorts, faced the jury. she was in an all-out war with a condescending christian who seemed to enjoy hurling his sexist remarks about her during the proceedings.

“i'm sure the jury is smart enough to decipher emotional manipulation by ms. y/l/n,” christian spat, itching with his overly expensive tie. “come on, don’t they teach women in college about emotional manipulation these days? because, that's exactly what's happening here!”

a shift of anxious whispers traveled across the court, but y/n simply raised an eyebrow and continued her points. she had grown to expect patronizing men like christian, and all dismissive of her just for being a woman. she had suffered much worse in this world, yet somehow, she always came out victorious.

as the suit dragged on, christian's quotes got more and more frequent, and too intrusive. he gave her directions about how to dress, what to say, and even what to do. while y/n was calm, she was also trying to put the flames of rage out. she certainly was not going to let this man’s crude sexism prevail.

the case revolved around a complex corporate fraud scheme, where christian's client, a powerful conglomerate, was accused of swindling millions from unsuspecting investors. y/n, representing the plaintiffs, had meticulously built her case, exposing a trail of deceit and manipulation that led directly to christian's client.

christian, however, resorted to personal attacks, hoping to distract the jury from the overwhelming evidence against his client. he questioned y/n's competence, suggesting that her success was due to her "feminine charm" rather than her legal acumen.

"i'm surprised ms. y/l/n even understands the intricacies of this financial matter," christian scoffed, "perhaps she should stick to cases that are more... emotionally driven."

y/n gritted her teeth, but refused to rise to the bait. she knew that christian was trying to provoke her, to make her lose her composure. but she was determined to remain professional, to let her legal skills speak for themselves.

the trial dragged on, with christian's sexist remarks becoming more and more unbearable. y/n endured it all, focusing on her arguments, presenting her evidence with unwavering confidence. she was determined to win this case, not only for her clients but also for all the women who had been underestimated and belittled by men like christian.

finally, the moment came when christian made a particularly nasty comment about her "emotional instability," suggesting that her arguments were based on feelings rather than facts. y/n had had enough. she reached into her purse, pulled out her ID, and walked over to christian, her eyes blazing.

"can you read out my name, please?" she asked, her voice dangerously soft.

christian smirked, thinking he had won. "sure, whatever," he said, taking the id from her hand. he glanced at it, and his eyes widened in shock. His face paled, and he started to stammer.

"y/n y/l/n- y/l/n norris?" he stuttered, his voice barely a whisper. "but... but that's..."

"yes," y/n interrupted, her voice now ringing with authority. "it's also the last name of lando norris, the most influential, not to mention dangerous, man in the city. my husband."

the buzz between the people in the courtroom, was subtle yet frightening. christian looked like a corpse and was one more second away from truly fainting. what he did not know was that wife of the mob boss he was insulting repeatedly was in fact married.

“apologies, mrs. norris,” christian softly murmured, trembling. “i really did not know.”

“y/l/n-norris. and, that’s correct. you did not,” y/n cut off. “you were so preoccupied in being a sexist pig that you could not notice anything else.”

turning to the judge, she continued in the same cool and controlled tone, “your honour, this case is as clear cut as they come, there is no additional information that i would like to provide.”

in silence the judge seemed to admire her calmness and how she handled that unexpected turn of events. “very well,” he said, looking at her. “the case is dismissed.”

y/n y/l/n-norris could not help herself smiling after the case had ended, she was not only able to win the case, but educate christian on respecting women. however, she had not quite finished yet. she still had her husband waiting for her with a gleeful glimmer in his gaze.

that evening, christian was bound to a chair in a dark, soundproofed room. he was frightened, realizing that he was in the hands of lando norris, a man not particularly famous for his mercy.

the door slowly opened, and lando entered, accompanied by y/n. christian's eyes went wide with fear as he beheld the mob boss come towards him, a sadistic grin spreading across his face.

"look who's back," lando said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "about time. death has been waiting for you."

y/n snorted, "babe, that was a terrible line,"

lando groaned, "i knew i shouldn't have used this one! george said it would sound cool!"

"clearly, george was wrong!"

christian began to plead for his life, but lando, turning his attention back on the man who was tied up, just laughed and shook his head. "you should have thought of that before you chose to disrespect my wife," he said. "now, you're going to pay the price."

y/n observed her husband handle christian, feeling a sense of contentment wash over her. she knew that lando would handle things and that she didn't need to worry about christian ever causing her trouble again.

as she left the room, she couldn't help but feel a burst of pride in her husband. he was a dangerous man, but he was also intensely protective and loyal to her. she knew that she was in safe hands with him, and she wouldn't have it any other way.

⋅˚₊‧ 𐙚 ��₊˚ ⋅

did i hate this? absolutely. did i still write it? clearly. will i regret it? no, i've already forgotten about it. dee, this is for you. anyways, i hope you like this! this is my prompt list, so y'all can select a number, give me a driver and i will write it as soon as possible! i also have a google form for a taglist if anyone's interested! you can sent in your requests here :)

taglist: @maketheshadowsfearyou ; @anamiad00msday ; @imlonelydontsendhelp ; @peterholland04 ; @justaf1girl ; @greantii ; @nocturnalherb16 ; @phobiccneel ; @winkev1 ; @alexxavicry ; @hiireadstuff ; @opastries81

[mariasont]

dangerous currents

sharing a wall with hotch means resorting to a midnight swim, you weren't expecting him to join you

pairing: aaron hotchner x sweetheart!reader warnings: fem!reader, midnight swim, reader alluding to some naughty thoughts, hotch accidentally grabs readers ass prompt: here wc: 1.2k

Honestly, you don’t recall consciously deciding to go swimming. One minute you’re wrestling with sheets that somehow manage to be both itchy and disappointingly thin, trapped in the endless loop of your overly chatty brain, and the next you’re thigh-deep in moonlit waves, saltwater lapping around you like a peace offering for your misery.

If you’re being brutally honest (and lately, brutal honesty seems to be your new best friend), your insomnia might have something, just a smidge, to do with Hotch lying just inches away, separated by drywall and what might as well be actual paper for insulation.

Your hearing has leveled up overnight, picking up every breath, every toss and turn from his side. 

It feels wrong, intrusive even, but also exhilaratingly intimate.

Which explains why, at two in the morning, you’re out here, counting on saltwater to settle your overactive mind and extinguish the stubborn heat flooding your face.

You’re mid-float when your instincts snap you upright, adrenaline spiking so fast you almost inhale a lungful of ocean.

There’s a shadow on the shoreline.

But then it steps forward, moonlight carving out the unmistakable angles of a handsome face that sends your stomach tumbling into your feet for a different but no less stressful reason.

Hotch.

You could laugh or cry, but instead, you quietly make your way towards the shore, waves breaking around your ankles.

“You scared me half to death,” you mumble, hugging your arms around your chilled body and feeling every bit like a reckless kid who’s just disappointed the one person she desperately wanted to impress.

“Do you know how unsafe it is to swim alone at night?” His lips press into a straight line. “Anything could’ve happened, and none of us would have any idea.”

“Sorry,” you exhale, sincerity tangled up with humiliation as your gaze flickers upward through wet lashes. 

You mean it. Of course you do — he looks worried, and that worry always seems worse when it’s aimed directly at you.

Hotch studies you for a second, then asks, “Do you plan on coming inside anytime soon?”

Going inside would be simpler. Easier. You could neatly sidestep this entire messy situation.

But the moment you close the door behind you, it’s back to square one — too quiet, too dark, thoughts screaming at you in surround sound.

A single creak of his bed, and suddenly you’re in dangerous territory. What if he sleeps shirtless? Or in boxers? What if that sound he just made is the result of an indecent dream?

And then, somehow, you are the indecent one, palms tingling with a restless need that used to feel rare but lately shows up with frustrating frequency.

All because of him.

“I think I’ll stay out for a little longer,” you say, tossing a forced shrug. “The ocean hasn’t tried to kill me yet, so I figure we’re on decent terms.” 

Hotch arches a brow at that, clearly unamused. He glances at the ocean, then back to you, a silent calculation taking place behind dark eyes.

Then, without warning, he grabs the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head in one fluid motion, folding it once before tossing it onto the sand.

“What are you doing?”

He gives you a faint, reckless half-smile. “Making a bad decision.”

You laugh, more out of shock than anything else.

He steps toward the water, shirtless, and suddenly every thought you’ve ever had vacates your head.

Sure, yesterday you’d seen him on the beach, but that was distant and crowded, shielded by sunglasses and casual team conversation. 

Here, now, it’s just you, him, and the unsparing glow of moonlight revealing every agonizing thing you absolutely shouldn't notice. Like the dark dusting of chest hair, the disciplined sculpt of muscle across his torso, the line of hair drawing your gaze lower, lower —

You swallow roughly, stepping deeper into the water to physically pull yourself out of danger, but your gaze betrays you once more, darting sideways in helpless fascination.

“How did you know I was out here?”

“You’re not exactly quiet.”

Your blood turns to ice, then instantly flares hot. How did it never occur to you that if you could practically track his breathing patterns, he could easily have heard your shifting, your whispered curses, or worse, that one barely suppressed sigh when your imagination got carried away earlier.

“I guess not,” you mutter, “I didn’t realize you were listening.”

His laugh is quiet but genuine, and you’re surprised to find yourself smiling in return. How bizarre yet wonderful it is to witness the softer version of Hotch, miles away from the person he has to be at Quantico. You suddenly want very much to keep him like this.

“Funny,” he murmurs, “I was thinking the same thing about you.”

Your face instantly burns, and you’re suddenly extremely grateful for the darkness, although knowing your luck, that probably isn’t really doing you any favors. You force a shaky laugh, pretending you didn’t just hear the tease in his voice, or at least pretending it didn’t affect you.

“You really didn’t have to come out here,” you say, eyes fixed stubbornly on the horizon past his shoulders. “I would’ve been fine, you know.”

The water rises around your collarbones, licking under your chin with every small movement. Hotch stands barely submerged past his chest. Even nature is unreasonably biased toward him.

You dig your toes deeper into the sand, resisting the tide and the impulse that keeps nudging you closer to him.

“Someone has to make sure you don’t drown.” 

You open your mouth — to protest, maybe flirt (wishful thinking, obviously), or perhaps just awkwardly deflect — but before you can embarrass yourself further, a sudden wave crashes forward, knocking you straight into him.

Hotch barely budges, absorbing most of your momentum, but your hands land catastrophically. One lands safely on his chest, but the other falls disproportionately lower, fingers splayed over the enticing line of hair disappearing beneath his waistband. 

Simultaneously, his own hand catches your hip, then slides, firm and unintentional, on your ass.

Both of you freeze. 

“Sorry — I — um, the wave.” As if that clarifies anything at all.

Beneath your hand, his stomach tenses, his chest lifting with increasingly rapid breaths.

Still, Hotch doesn’t move, doesn't shift away. His palm stays exactly where it landed, warm, and surely, he has to know exactly what he’s doing. He has to.

“You’re freezing.”

“I —,” you start but whatever you meant to say disappears before it finishes forming. 

He slowly, almost reluctantly lifts his hand from you. Your skin sparks at the loss, hypersensitive where he just was.

When you meet his eyes again, something new flickers there — something you’re certain wasn’t present before tonight. 

Want.

It’s a look he’s taught you to recognize — eyes darkening, pupils dilating, respiration just a bit quicker. Except this isn’t an interrogation room, and the person in front of you is not a suspect, he’s Hotch.

And this want feels very, very personal.

But he only nods once, then glances toward the beach house.

“We should get out of the water.” 

You don’t want to get out. Every part of you rebels at the idea of leaving this bubble. This fragile space that’s somehow made everything else feel distant, unreal.

But you can’t deny the truth in what he doesn't say. If this boundary were broken tonight, there’s no going back, no returning to the careful neutrality you’ve both perfected.

So, you nod slowly, forcing acceptance as your heart protests.

He moves first, and you fall into step beside him, close enough that your shadows merge.

join me at the beach for my 1 year/4k event!

day 1 extras

💌 click here to check in → confirm your room (and crush)

maria's spring break getaway masterlist

[devdozes]

I was wondering if you could write modern/highschool au with phainon and flame reaver being twins, i think it'll be funny especially if the reader didn't know abt it lmao

Somehow, I fell for you twice before I even knew there were two of you.

The first time you met Flame Reaver, you didn’t know it wasn’t Phainon.

It wasn’t exactly your fault. The resemblance was uncanny—same height, same cerulean blue eyes, even the same messy hair that Phainon never seemed to brush properly. If anything, the only real difference was that Flame Reaver’s eyes burned with something sharper, something darker, and the way he carried himself was less of Phainon’s relaxed, playful charm and more… intense. But how were you supposed to know that?

You had been walking out of your club meeting when you saw him leaning against the school gate, arms crossed, staring at you with an unreadable expression. You had waved without thinking, grinning. “Didn’t think you’d actually wait for me today, Phai.”

Flame Reaver blinked once before tilting his head. “Of course.”

Weird. Phainon was never this stiff. But whatever. Maybe he was in a weird mood.

What followed was a week of absolute nonsense.

Flame Reaver, who you thought was Phainon, was suddenly spending an insane amount of time with you. Phainon was always around, sure, but he wasn’t usually this clingy. He was cheerful and thoughtful, yes, but he had an understanding of personal space. This… ‘Phainon’ didn’t.

If you walked down the hall, he was there, a step behind you. If you grabbed a drink from the vending machine, he was standing beside you, already holding out the exact drink you were about to buy. When you sat at lunch, he was directly next to you, practically in your personal space, watching you with those sharp blue eyes that didn’t quite match the Phainon you knew.

“You good?” You had asked one afternoon when he showed up outside your classroom, leaning against the wall with a casualness that didn’t quite feel right. “You’re kinda different today.”

He blinked. “Am I?”

“Yeah, you’re like… moodier or something.” You squinted at him before reaching out and poking his forehead. He didn’t react beyond a single twitch of his eye. “You usually joke around more, y’know?”

“I see.”

And then he just—

Patted your head.

Like you were some sort of pet. You froze, your brain short-circuiting as heat crept up your face. Phainon had never done that before. What was this?!

He stared at you, as if gauging your reaction, before simply smiling—just a small curve of his lips, nothing as bright as Phainon’s usual grins, but something about it sent your heart into a frenzy. What was happening?!

You thought that was the peak of your strange week, but it only got worse.

One day, you were about to head home when you felt a presence behind you. Turning, you found ‘Phainon’ standing there, hands shoved in his pockets, watching you. You sighed, waving him over. “You wanna walk home with me?”

He nodded, falling into step beside you. The silence was comfortable at first, but then you noticed something odd. He wasn’t humming under his breath like usual. He wasn’t teasing you about your weird backpack keychains. And most of all, he wasn’t calling you by that dumb nickname he gave you.

You stopped in your tracks. “Okay, what’s wrong with you?”

He stared at you, tilting his head. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’ve been acting weird all week, Phai! You’re like, super clingy—”

“What’s wrong with that?”

Your brain blanked. “Uh… nothing? It’s just… new.”

He stepped closer, his gaze pinning you in place. “Do you dislike it?”

You swallowed, heat rushing to your face. ���I-I didn’t say that! It’s just—you’re usually more laid-back, y’know?”

For a moment, he didn’t respond. Then, in a lower voice, he murmured, “Maybe I just don’t want you to leave.”

Your heart stopped.

Before you could even begin to process that, another voice cut through the air.

“HEY! What the hell is going on here?!”

You turned and nearly had a stroke.

Standing at the end of the street, looking absolutely furious, was Phainon.

The real Phainon.

Your brain had about two seconds to process this before everything clicked into place.

Oh.

OH.

“You’re kidding,” you whispered in horror, whipping back to ‘Phainon’—no, Flame Reaver. His smirk said everything. He hadn’t been Phainon at all. He had just let you believe that for a whole week.

Phainon stormed over, grabbing his twin by the collar. “How many times do I have to tell you to stop messing with my friends?!”

Flame Reaver shrugged. “You left them unattended. What did you expect?”

“You—” Phainon turned to you, looking both betrayed and exhausted. “You seriously thought he was me?”

“How was I supposed to know you had an identical twin?!”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that I actually have a personality?”

Flame Reaver smirked. “And yet, they seemed to enjoy my company just fine.”

Your face burned as you remembered every single moment you spent with him.

Phainon groaned. “I can’t believe this.” Then he turned back to his twin, glaring. “You better not have done anything weird.”

Flame Reaver simply smiled, stepping back. “Nothing they didn’t like.”

Your soul nearly left your body.

Phainon looked ready to murder him on the spot. “I’m gonna kill you.”

Flame Reaver hummed. “You can try.”

As Phainon lunged, you swore your life flashed before your eyes.

“Uhh Ok so… Phainon?” You cautiously pointed at the one standing to your left. He blinked at you, confused.

“Yeah?”

You then pointed at the one standing to your right, the one who had his arms casually looped around your shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. “And you’re also Phainon?”

The quiet one—who you had unknowingly been spending way too much time with—smirked slightly, his grip tightening just a fraction. “Something like that.”

The real Phainon (or at least, the one you thought was the real one) narrowed his eyes. “Wait, wait, wait—don’t tell me you’ve been hanging out with him this whole time?”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. Because yes, yes, you had. And you had genuinely thought it was him the entire time. How were you supposed to know your best friend had an identical twin brother who looked just like him but acted like an entirely different person?

“Why didn’t you tell me you had a twin?!” you finally blurted out, stepping away from the overly clingy version of Phainon, only for him to smoothly pull you right back like he had no intention of letting go.

Phainon groaned, running a hand through his messy hair. “Because I don’t! Not really! He’s—ugh, it’s complicated!”

The other Phainon, the one you had unwittingly spent way too much time with, simply chuckled, resting his chin against your shoulder. “I like her. I think I’ll keep her.”

Your face burned. “Excuse me?!”

“Hey!” The real Phainon shoved him off you, glaring. “No, you will not!”

“I already have,” the not-Phainon replied smoothly, stepping beside you again and easily tugging you back into his space. “She likes me, after all.”

“I thought you were him!” you argued, trying to pull away but failing miserably because he was way stronger than his twin.

The real Phainon groaned in absolute frustration. “This is a disaster.”

You had to agree.

Just as you thought things couldn’t get worse, the two Phainons suddenly began bickering like two territorial cats.

“She’s my friend, you know! You can’t just steal her!”

“Steal? I didn’t steal anything. She willingly spent time with me.”

“BECAUSE SHE DIDN’T KNOW YOU WERE A SEPARATE PERSON!”

You sighed, rubbing your temples as their arguing escalated into shoving. Phainon—the cheerful, chaotic one—had his hands firmly on his twin’s shoulders, trying to push him away from you. Meanwhile, the other Phainon—the quiet, overly affectionate one—was firmly gripping your wrist, refusing to let go.

“I think you should let me go,” you tried, looking at the clingy one.

“I think not,” he replied smoothly, pulling you closer.

“Oh, for the love of—let go of her!” Phainon huffed, trying to yank you away, only for his twin to tighten his grip. “Why are you so damn clingy?!”

“I just like her,” the other Phainon admitted shamelessly, brushing a strand of hair from your face and smiling at you like a puppy.

“STOP FLIRTING WITH HER!”

“Why? Jealous?”

“OF COURSE, I’M JEALOUS!” Phainon blurted out, looking absolutely horrified with himself the second the words left his mouth.

You blinked.

His twin smirked. “Oh?”

Phainon turned red. “I—I mean—that’s not—”

The other Phainon simply looked victorious, tugging you even closer and resting his forehead against yours. “Guess you better make a move, then, dear brother.”

“OH, YOU SON OF A—”

You sighed, rubbing your temples as you found yourself sandwiched between two versions of Phainon. On your left, the cheerful and excitable Phainon, his cerulean blue eyes sparkling with mischief. On your right, Flame Reaver—silent, intense, and somehow much clingier than his counterpart.

"Alright, so what do we do now?" you asked, shifting uncomfortably as both of them leaned in.

"Obviously, you should spend the day with me!" Phainon beamed, throwing an arm around your shoulders. "We can go get some snacks, maybe head to the arcade—oh! Or the amusement park! I know you love roller coasters."

Flame Reaver, who had been quietly watching, suddenly spoke. "No." He reached out, grabbing your wrist and pulling you toward him. "You're spending time with me."

"Excuse me?" Phainon narrowed his eyes at his twin, refusing to let go of you. "I saw them first."

"That doesn't matter. They're already with me." Flame Reaver tightened his grip slightly, his calm but firm voice making your heart race for a reason you couldn't quite explain.

You sighed, knowing that there was only one way to settle this. "Fine! I'll spend time with both of you. No more fighting."

The twins shared a glance, clearly displeased but unwilling to argue further. Phainon grinned, ruffling your hair. "Alright, alright. But if I win more prizes at the arcade, you owe me ice cream."

Flame Reaver, still holding your wrist, simply nodded. "Fine. But I’m not letting go."

giggles

[bomber-grl]

Kusuo Saiki Dating Headcanons

Pairing(s): Kusuo Saiki x Gn!Reader

It takes a really long time to get to the point where the two of you are dating. Like 100,000,000 words, slow burn, they finally kiss at the end– sort of fanfic. Honestly, I think Saiki’s a bit hesitant about relationships in general because they seem like a hassle. Everyone else is on thin ice already, the thought of putting effort into a relationship is exhausting enough.

Like with everyone else, he’s pretty indifferent toward you at first, and you only move up to "mild annoyance" status if you stick around long enough. Especially since he’s probably hearing all your thoughts, so there’s that.

Now, onto the actual headcanons. Saiki isn’t exactly the affectionate type. You two probably started as friends, mostly with you bothering him. Even after he realizes he likes you (though he really tries to hide it), nothing changes much. The difference is, you’re the only person he seems to tolerate. Everyone else wonders why you even bother with him.

Sometimes, Saiki gets... freaked out? There’s really no other way to put it. He’s used to being around people who are idiots, so when someone like you comes along—someone who’s rather perceptive—that’s a bit much for him. It messes with his head. Despite being able to hear your every thought, he starts wondering if you’re psychic too.

You can tell what he’s feeling, what he wants, and even do things for him. Sure, he could do all those things tenfold in just under a minute, but for some reason, he finds himself smiling. He even starts thinking fondly of you.

If you were another Nendou, though? He’d probably avoid you, and your relationship would be a slow burn that takes another 100,000,000 words and even worse edging (Not like that). But I digress. Saiki shows affection in subtle ways. Like remembering offhand comments you’ve made about your favorite snack or color.

He’s the type of guy who’ll subtly push your chair out of the way when you’re about to trip or pick up a dropped pen without you asking. He might not say much, but he’ll do whatever he can to make your life a little easier, even if he doesn’t directly tell you that.

I know it might sound like I’m painting him as a deadbeat bf, but honestly? He’d probably be a great boyfriend. He can literally hear your thoughts. He knows what you want, even before you say it. He’s seen (and heard) men ruin their relationships because they thought they knew their partner. So, when you want to grab a treat or have been wanting something that relates to an interest, he’ll know.

He’ll also know (and hear) if you slightly even think he’s good looking on a particular day. He’ll never admit it, of course, but if you get embarrassed thinking about it (since you know he can hear your thoughts), he secretly enjoys that. Seeing you flustered is one of his guilty pleasures—even though he’d never show it.

And yeah, Saiki’s protective. He won’t say it, and he won’t make a big show of it like other people would, but he does care. If something’s bothering you, he’ll subtly step in. Like if someone’s making you uncomfortable, he’ll use his telekinesis to, throw something at them or trip them up—whatever works, as long as no one knows it was him.

He doesn’t like people messing with you, and he won’t hesitate to shut them down, even if he keeps it minimal to avoid drawing attention to himself.

In this following scenario you're another Nendou. He hardly ever gets surprised. I mean, hearing everyone’s thoughts kind of ruins surprises, spoilers for a new tv show, honestly anything for him. But maybe—just maybe—the only way to startle or fluster him is by turning the tables on that. Maybe it’s the first time you show affection in your relationship.

Saiki’s not big on physical touch– we all know that much. If you want to hug him, go ahead, but he’ll probably just stand there like a statue. So, let’s say you somehow convince him to come over to your place, and then you, attempted subtly, suggest that you kiss him out of nowhere.

He’d choke on his drink and immediately try to cover it up. Forget not hearing your thoughts, he literally didn’t think you’d want to kiss him anytime soon. He won’t show it (obviously) but deep down, he’s definitely a little shaken.

Now, in the chance that you two do kiss, (which is chapters later– in fanfiction terms) he’s very hesitant? Like sure, he can destroy the entire Earth if he even wanted to but the idea is still startling. He thinks it over and once he agrees (which is the only kiss you’ll get until the next blue moon) he is admittedly worried.

He’s never kissed anyone, he never planned to so he tries to be collected like he always is. If a satellite suddenly went offline somewhere in space, well that’s nothing to do with him.

Also, an extra that isn’t a dating hc is that Saikis mom and dad love you so much, his dad literally asked if you were actually real which earned a side eye from Saiki. It does get annoying for Saiki, but he’s pretty glad you all get along.

[tossawary]

Moshang fanfic idea that I've been holding onto for a while but have no strong plot for: the Airplane Extras meet-ugly happens as per canon UNTIL Mobei-Jun asks why Shang Qinghua saved him / what Shang Qinghua wants from him.

At which point, a panicking Airplane desperately searches for a compelling and believable character motivation as to why he would stupidly save the life of a murderous demon who might still kill him, and hastily blurts out: "You're so beautiful that I fell in love at first sight!"

Important to note: this is not true. It is bullshit. Airplane thinks MBJ is incredibly hot, obviously, but he does not know or like this guy as a person, because MBJ is both a relative stranger and a scary asshole.

Also important to note: some demon cultures have a marriage kidnapping tradition, but that happens under very specific and usually pre-arranged circumstances that obviously do not apply here. Mobei-Jun being whisked off to the equivalent of a shitty motel room by some random human outer disciple, who absolutely cannot forcibly keep him there, has no real romantic connotations. It's just weird. There's not even any life debt tradition aspect to it; Mobei-Jun could just kill this guy now and it wouldn't say anything about his personal honor even if anyone found out. It would just be humiliating. This guy would have to be fucking nuts to think this interaction is anything that anyone, especially any authority, would recognize, and that's not what this guy is claiming anyway. All he's doing is claiming that he's suddenly in love with a hostile stranger, which is still nuts.

So, Mobei-Jun (who is also still a teenager) is just... surprised and extremely confused. Does this kind of thing... honestly happen... in real life? Really??? And Airplane is like, "Aw, fuck, I made it weird. Well! I have no choice but to go with this!" and starts up the "Please don't kill me!" thigh-hugging routine.

Somehow, Moshang make it out of that meet-ugly similarly to how they usually do. Airplane is like, "Well, fortunately, nothing will ever come of this! No way would someone like Mobei-Jun ever return the feelings of his gross, pathetic human servant. I can freely express how sexy I think he is and it'll just be meaningless lovesick flattery to this asshole." Real emotions? That soft, squishy bullshit? Airplane does not have the TIME to contemplate having sincere feelings. He's in survival mode.

And teenage Mobei-Jun, spoiled demonic nobility extraordinaire, who otherwise would have spent the next 20 years or so thinking of his human servant as gross and pathetic and repulsive but strangely useful, is like, "I think... I'm being wooed...??? Is this working on me...? He's kind of... not unattractive, actually, for a madman. Maybe I should try to be... nice... to him??? How do humans do this???"

And THEN, months to years later, young and in-love Mobei-Jun somehow finds out that Shang Qinghua outright lied to him. (And by this point is pretty fond of Mobei-Jun but still hasn't looked directly at his own real emotions for years. He's busy.)

Arguably, the above idea is one way to interpret normal canon already, with Mobei-Jun reading more than is mutually understood into Shang Qinghua's bullshit, failing to communicate what he thinks their relationship is (if he even fucking knows himself), and then feeling betrayed when Shang Qinghua ditches him for being an asshole. But I'm charmed by the idea of distracted Shang Qinghua explicitly lying, actively making it WORSE by knowingly behaving "romantically" under the assumption that it's harmless fawning because Mobei-Jun basically doesn't even HAVE emotions, and then getting totally blindsided by having his "impossible unrequited love" returned and accidentally, apparently breaking Mobei-Jun's heart. Fuck!!!

[lisired]

change your mind yet?

pairing: haechan x (f) reader

genre/warnings: smut, enemies to lovers-esque, choking, spit kink, haechan’s lowkey a cocky piece of shit, he calls you a bitch Lol

summary: You’re going to kill him. You swear, You’re going to kill him. how did Liu Yangyang accidentally tell Lee Donghyuck—your greatest enemy—that you think he’s hot and that you’ve been in a dry spell recently? Now you have to avoid the inevitable confrontation, and worst of all, deal with the most stubborn person alive (who ironically thinks that you’re the most stubborn person alive).

word count: 4.6k

a/n: very much an oldie… not so sure about a goodie but i do love the ending. i had written this for a friend lol

You love him to bits, but Liu Yangyang is not your favorite friend right now.

Fairly, you one-hundred percent blame him for the predicament you’re currently in. You know he can be a blabbermouth at times and wouldn’t do it on purpose, but there’s no way you’d let him get away with quote-unquote accidentally telling your mortal enemy that you think he’s hot, and that you’ve been having trouble getting off.

It was yesterday evening that you were on FaceTime with your best friend, simply conversating as per usual. You were ranting comfortably to Yangyang about your troubles and how sexually frustrated you are, and he suggested you getting laid. That’s how the topic of Lee Donghyuck came. He was suggesting people, and when he asked you if you thought Donghyuck was hot, you replied yeah, but I wouldn’t touch his dick with laboratory safety gloves.

Fast-forward some hours later, he’s consentfully telling your mutual friend Renjun about your conversation, in hopes of playing matchmaker and finding someone for you to fuck. The problem? Donghyuck was around, and somehow overheard everything except the part about you saying that you’d never touch his egotistical dick.

So now you’re on campus, avoiding your egotistic mortal enemy like the plague.

Why do you dislike Donghyuck? The answer’s simple, he’s one of those guys. The ones that think they own the world, and that it revolves around them. The ones that think they can have any and every person they want, and treat people’s hearts like dirt. In short, you don’t think he’s a good person, no matter how hot he is.

When your final class rolls around, you think you might’ve successfully dodged him. You had another class with him today, but for some reason he was a no-show. Not that you care, his lack of presence was relieving. Then, you see him stroll into your Language Arts class, and the bright red cherry on top? He’s quick to snatch the seat directly next to yours. Oh, brother.

“Hey,” Donghyuck whispers. “Let’s talk.”

Your heart is racing, but you think you manage to conceal it. “In the middle of class?”

He shrugs, “Afterwards.”

You’re running out of here the second your professor dismisses you.

So, Donghyuck cornered you.

There’s no going anywhere as long as he has you like this, backed up against a wall, his hands on either side of you, and his gaze practically rooting you in place. You feel like you’re being stared down by Medusa, still as stone as you look into his eyes.

“So, let’s talk,” he grins, tilting his head. “A little birdie tells me you think I’m hot, you’re under a dry spell, and that you’ve been having trouble making yourself cum lately.”

“Did you hear the part where I said I wouldn’t touch your egotistical dick with laboratory safety gloves?”

“Then it’s a good thing that I don’t need my dick to have your thighs shaking, huh,” you’re blushing, actually blushing, cheeks aflame and your skin all hot. To make matters worse, Donghyuck’s hands move from beside you to sitting pretty on your waist, not moving lower or higher, cool texture of his rings pressing gently into your skin. The contact has you in an internal frenzy, but you chalk it up to you simply being touch-starved. “Don’t you see these lips, baby?”

Alas, you do see them. With his face as close as it is to yours, you can’t help but see them. They’re pretty and plush, kissable, and kind of do look like they could eat—no, no, no, no. You’ve been with your share of guys like Donghyuck, ones that like to talk about how good they are, yet are severely disappointing in reality. For you to even be considering sleeping with him just goes to show that you’ve struck rock bottom.

“D-don’t call me that,” you curse yourself for stammering, because he only finds it amusing.

“Why not? I think you like it, baby,” Donghyuck teases, “is that the problem? You like me, but you don’t want to like me? You don’t like that you know I could make you feel good?”

You loosen your gaze, unable to bare eye contact with him any longer, “Fuck you, Donghyuck.”

“Fuck me your fucking self,” he grabs your chin, making you look at him. If you can see anything in his eyes, it’s the unmistakable gleam of lust, so dark yet so tempting. “You want it, don’t you?”

God dammit, you do want it. But you refuse to have your name crossed out on his checklist, to be another notch in his belt. You know it would only boost his ego to have seduced the most stubborn person alive into fucking him, and you absolutely refuse to let that happen.

“No.”

Donghyuck raises his eyebrow, “No?”

“No,” you repeat.

You don’t know how you expected him to react, but he takes it coolly, dropping his hands and stepping away. Aw no, did you hurt his ego? The thought almost makes you laugh.

“Okay, but you know where to find me when you change your mind,” He smirks, and you hate how confident he sounds. Not if, but when. When you change your mind.

He strolls away, and you let him. You have bigger fish to fry, and you refuse to let some grade A fuckboy get in your head.

Unfortunately, you are not as in control of your thoughts as you’d like. This is bad, really fucking bad, you think. Last night, you actually successfully managed to cum on your own. That should be a good thing, but the reason you came is absolutely humiliating. An embarrassing, taking-it-with-me-to-the-grave secret.

You may or not may not have came to the thought of Donghyuck. How his fluffy hair would look clamped to his forehead, or how his forehead would look dripping with sweat. Imagining his fingers replacing your own, fingering you with his rings on, the coolness of them against your skin. But what really did it was probably the image of him between your thighs that was planted in your brain the second he offered himself to you. You thought of what good his lips could do, and how they’d look dripping all wet.

This is fucking terrible. You haven’t came in god knows how long, and the one time you do after forever, it’s because of the man you’ve sworn to hate until the day you die. Usually this is something you’d rant to your best friend about, but after what happened the last time you told him about your sexual frustrations, you decide you’re going to keep this one to yourself. If Donghyuck ever heard you came to the thought of him eating you out, he’d literally never in a million years ever let you live it down.

Today’s a new day, but you haven’t been able to shake off the shame, particularly because tonight’s Renjun’s party, and being one of his best friend’s, Donghyuck will undoubtedly be there. He’s posted it on his story and everything, not that you were checking. You overheard Yangyang talking about it. But either way, you don’t know if you’ll be able look him in the eye again.

“It’s a good thing you’re going out again,” Yangyang assures, walking next to you as you two stroll into the party, “maybe you’ll meet someone else to help you get out of your dry spell.”

He’s right. This is your chance to get laid, get over whatever that was with Donghyuck, and move on. You’re like, ninety-nine point nine percent convinced you’re only attracted to him out of sheer desperation. The measly zero point one percent comes from you being aware that you’ve thought he was attractive long before yesterday happened, but whatever. Forget it.

So you nod in agreement. Soon enough, you’ve settled with the party atmosphere. You’ve had a drink but you’re not drunk, and you’ve tried socializing but everyone seems so not your style, which is insane, because Donghyuck isn’t your style either. You don’t think. No, he’s not.

This is worse than you initially suspected. You can’t find anyone, and Donghyuck’s still running through your mind, being a complete and utter distraction and he’s not even here—

Speaking of the devil himself, “Hey.”

You spoke too soon.

“Ohmygod, if you’re here to try and seduce me again, I’m not interested,” you groan, hoping he gets the message and leaves you the fuck alone. At the same time you really don’t, but you definitely think you should.

Donghyuck raises his hands, “But I’m egotistical. I just came here to invite you to a game of truth of dare with the gang, lighten up a lil, won’t ya?”

You sigh. “Where?”

He leads you to the room where everyone is, and you make sure to scoot next to Ningning and Jennie, refusing to sit anywhere besides Donghyuck. All you hope now is that the bottle doesn’t land on you after him.

A couple of rounds fly by, and you’re still safe. You’re having fun, and the thought of him escapes your mind with ease. Even when the bottle does land on you, he doesn’t dare you to do anything crazy that you thought he would.

After Yangyang’s turn, the bottle lands on you. You’re not worried, because Yangyang’s your best friend, he wouldn’t dare you to do anything stupid.

Then he does exactly that.

“Seven minutes in heaven with Donghyuck!”

You’re going to kill him. You’re mentally plotting his murder right now. How you’re going to do it, when, and where you’ll hide his body. If he suspiciously winds up missing, you’re more than likely the reason why.

“Pucker up, buttercup,” Yangyang blows you a kiss.

You spit back, “Shut up, bubble guts.”

You hear him gasp in offense, but whatever he says is cut off by Donghyuck.

“Come on, babes. I can hear your lips calling my name,” he teases, and you groan, clutching your fist. You guess there’s no way out of this. Well, technically there is, but Renjun let Yangyang choose the punishment and he decided to make anyone who refused to do a dare eat a spoonful of sour cream. Mind you, sour cream by itself is disgusting, and this is probably why he and his stomach are frequently at war, so your safest option is getting in that room with Donghyuck for seven minutes. You don’t even have to kiss, you can just let everyone think you did.

So you follow him into the bathroom connected to Renjun’s room, and the second the door shuts, he has you backed into yet another wall. He grins, “Change your mind yet?”

You stand your ground. “No.”

“That’s fine, we can make out in the meantime and then see how you feel after seven minutes.” he replies nonchalantly.

Even though you’ve been thinking about it, you grimace. “Gross.”

“What? It’s not my dick, why do you act like you hate me anyways? Not that I’m really complaining, I like when things are hard.”

“Bet you do,” you grumble. “And if I’m acting, then I must be Viola Davis.”

“Eh, I’d give you Keanu Reeves.”

You glare. “On second thought, I’m almost willing to kiss you if it means you’ll keep quiet.”

“Well you’re in luck,” Donghyuck grins, “because that and giving head are the only ways to silence me.”

You cave in soon later, letting him pin you to the wall, your hands above your head as he kisses you hungrily. It kills you to learn that he’s a great kisser, because that means he’s actually good at something other than running his mouth and being the bane of your existence twenty-four seven. Though you don’t know how that’s possible, he’s gentle yet rough. Caring in his movement, though passionate in them too. The way he’s kissing you, you’d think he loved you.

In spite of your obvious attempts to try and touch him, to maybe run your fingers through his hair or hold his cheeks in your hands, Donghyuck doesn’t let you move. You can feel the teasing grin bloom from his lips, and conclude that it’s intentional.

Never in a million years did you think you’d be french kissing Lee Donghyuck of all people, yet here you are. You can’t say you don’t like it, though. That would be lying. While you’d never admit anything like it, the roughness in the way he kisses you has you throbbing.

Donghyuck’s lips are like a drug. You stop for a moment to inhale, and then you’re lips are latched back onto each other. Exhale again, then you take another drag, and the cycle repeats. You could do this for fucking ever.

Then, the timer chimes.

“Time’s up!” Chenle yells from outside the bathroom, and Donghyuck pulls always almost instantly, surprisingly readier than you are.

He looks hot as he pants, chest rising and falling then rising again. He smirks, “Change your mind?”

God fucking damn it. Time went by a little too fast for your liking. Your lips are swollen, but you want more of him, to feel him, to touch him, especially because he didn’t let you. You’re finally admitting to yourself that you want him, and you can’t ignore your cravings anymore.

“Donghyuck,” you whimper, not caring in this moment who hears you, “w-want you.”

He smirks. “I know, baby. You wanna prove to me how much?”

You nod. It’s pathetic, truly, but you need this at this point. So you let Donghyuck lead you out of the bathroom, and essentially the bedroom, ignoring the curious sounds coming from your friends. He leads you down the hall into a different, emptier room, closing and locking the door behind the two of you.

“On the bed,” he instructs.

You comply, the desperation that accompanies having not slept with someone in months and orgasming in weeks making you leap into action in an instant. Then there’s this raw part of you that has lusted after him before you fully came to terms with your desire, making you feel the way blood courses through your veins.

Donghyuck walks up and kisses you again, this time allowing both of your pairs of hands to roam freely as you strip one another almost bare. In an eager motion, you peel away his shirt and jeans, and he matches your yearn, leaving you naked. He pulls away from your lips to eye your body in awe.

“You’re a bitch,” he says, “but a beautiful one.”

“Really turned me on,” you deadpan.

He laughs yet pushes your back flat against the mattress, wasting no time in hovering above your body. The proximity has your heart racing a little quicker, a little faster than it was out of something like anticipation. Donghyuck dips his head but doesn’t kiss you like you anticipate him to, at least not on the lips. His lips scout your neck, soft and sweet against your flesh. He sucks at your skin, and your mouth gapes a little, sounding the most sweet gasp before he digs his teeth in suit. It makes you whimper aloud his name, which he clearly enjoys from the way he smiles.

Donghyuck repeats a course of similar actions as he mouth scoots lower, kissing and sucking and biting at your collarbone. Then he proceeds after some time, traveling lower and taking your breast into his mouth or his tongue swirling over your nipples. He trails kisses at your sternum, your stomach, all the while your breath getting caught up in your throat the more his mouth falls down your body. He’s so obviously teasing you, you know that much. He has a destination yet no rush to get there, taking his sweet, precious time as though he’s rich of it. And maybe he is, but your patience is running thin, and there’s only so much more of this you can take. “Hyuck,” you cry out of sheer desperation, “hurry up.”

“For someone who claimed not to want me up until ten minutes again, you really are desperate for me,” Donghyuck replies, drawing his mouth away, and hence all contact there was.

Refusing to simply take that, you retaliate, “For someone who claimed they could make me feel good, you’re doing a whole lot of nothing right now.”

“Keep running that sharp mouth and I’ll have to put it to better use,” Donghyuck answers. It isn’t like you’re against giving head, and it wouldn’t sound so bad if you weren’t so painfully deprived of the same satisfaction Donghyuck’s offered to give you. Sure, the speed—or lack of the—heightens the anticipation, but you need him to quit teasing or you’ll actually go insane.

“You keep acting like you hate me,” Donghyuck moves between your legs, and you aren’t prepared for what he does next. Something about the way he slowly smooths his single finger through your folds and draws it into his mouth for a taste is hot to you, thus making you wish he’d finally get on with it. “But your cunt is telling me that you love me. Love this.”

Well it isn’t like he’s wrong. You haven’t been this wet in ages, the dry spell you’ve been under being extreme and severe. Touching yourself has gone absolutely no where up until last night, when you somehow managed to cum harder than you have in a minute. You’re starting to think that having Donghyuck as your muse changes things.

Rolling your eyes, you sigh. You’d love this more if he stopped making you wait, but you don’t say that aloud, starting to suspect that the more you complain the longer he silently decides he’s going to test your patience. After what feels like an eternity of touching you everywhere but where you desperately need him to most, Donghyuck’s tongue draws a line between your thighs. Then another, and another. It progresses into more with no particular rush, despite the inevitable whines you can’t prevent from falling out. “Hyuck,” you cry again, wishing he’d stop playing games.

Donghyuck teases, “What’s the magic word?”

“Please,” you beg, “Please, please. I-I want, fuck no, I need this. Please, fuck—”

Your pleas are cut short the moment Donghyuck gives in, lapping at you with an unquenchable thirst and insatiable hunger. It’s so sudden that it gives you whiplash, and he has to grip your thighs to keep them spread a safe distance apart. He’s unstopping once he begins, tongue maneuvering as it pleases, roaming around freely though expertly. Had you known Donghyuck was as much bite as he was bark, you may have gave in to this much sooner than you did. Not only is he making you feel good, but he’s making you feel great. If you could taste heaven, it would be this.

Some moments pass, and the humiliating part is that it isn’t a lot of moments. Your thighs are trembling more with every lick, resulting in Donghyuck’s grip around your thighs to tighten out of consideration that you might successfully slip out of his grasp. You stomach turns, flips, and you’re vision is being clouded white, so close to an orgasm that it hurts. Donghyuck senses it, you know that he can, you can feel the arrogant smirk spreading across his lips once more. Just as you’re getting so close, as your orgasm is right there in arms reach, being dangled in front of you by a string, he snatches it away.

There’s yet another whine from you, but he answers your question before you even get the chance to ask, “Want you to cum when I fuck you, baby.”

Donghyuck removed his boxers, leaving them on the ground to be cared about later. His erection springs flat against his stomach in a way that makes you so suddenly inhale a breath, and you clench around absolutely nothing at all. You’re gawking at him as though you want to eat hm, and in a sense you do, but you can’t be blamed. It looks better than you could’ve ever imagined, decent length, decent girth. The real brag-worthy factor, however, is if he knows what to do with what god has blessed him with.

His dick nudges your slit. “Ready?”

Without wasting an eighth of second you give him the go-ahead, nodding your head at instance so fast it almost hurts your neck. He reacts equally as fast, prodding his dick between your folds and eventually your walls. It stretches you out perfectly, and the moment he’s in you Donghyuck’s moaning about how tight and wet you are. He takes a moment for himself before he starts to move, gliding in and out of you in an effortless motion.

So far, Donghyuck has lived up perfectly to your imagination and expectations, much better, even. You never would’ve thought he’d actually have the right to brag about how good he is in bed, but you see it now. He’s a god even, not that you’d ever tell him that to his face.

“So pretty, wish I could have gotten to you sooner. Always telling me that you hate me yet letting me fuck you like this. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’ve always wanted this,” Donghyuck says into your ear, and pecks your neck. “Are you always this needy? So desperate that you’ll let even me fuck you?”

“G-god, yes,” you don’t care about overpriding him anymore, just saying things because you aren’t in the right mind to care about anything other than his dick right now.

“Yeah?” He smirks. “Tell me how it feels, baby.”

You’re almost too fucked out to speak, just moaning and whimpering in a way you never thought you would for him, “Feels good, so… so good. Love it.”

If you were in the right mind to have shame, you’d be embarrassed by the way your number-one enemy is making you moan, and not just because of the volume, but because it’s his name your moaning so pathetically. Choruses of “Hyuck” sounding from you in plethoras, calling his name with no actual reason. You’re breathing in little shallow, quick breaths, too, mouth agape as your whimpers tumble into the air. It helps that Donghyuck’s also surprisingly vocal, calling your name back. To say the least, the way he moans your name is hot and gets you off a little more, in spite of you not needing the help. He has it all on his own, fucking into you deep and hard.

Donghyuck gropes your body too, heightening your pleasure by fumbling with your breasts or rubbing your clit with one of his free hands. He doesn’t focus on one particular part of you, showering your figure with pleasure and attention that makes the sex a billion times better.

“Can I choke you?” He asks, and the question catches you a little off-guard, but once you shake off the surprise, you give him permission.

Donghyuck’s hands slither around your neck, and he presses into your jaw with just enough force to make you look at him, and silently communicate that he wants you to keep your eyes him and his actions. His fingers press onto the sides of your throat, and you’re not sure what is a bigger turn on, the fact that he knows how to properly do it or the action itself. You think it’s a bit of both, you enjoy the thrill as you look defeated by your inability breathing, and the dark look in his eyes tells you that he enjoys it too, staring straight into your soul, watching you fail to take a breath.

He doesn’t loosen his grip on your throat as he commands, “Open your mouth.”

You aren’t in the mind to question anything, simply following instructions. His mouth hovers above yours, lips parting to spit in your mouth. The action takes you by surprise yet again, but you swallow almost instinctively, never looking away from him as you do.

He backs away once satisfied, smiling. “So good for me, baby.”

That makes you clench around him, which also brings Donghyuck the satisfaction of a moan or two. He loves the way you clench around him when he says things to you, a telltale sign that you’re enjoying this more than he knows you’d probably like to admit. This whole thing between you and him, him and you is that you’re too stubborn to admit your desire. It prides him that he finally managed to make you confess it, to admit that you’re no different from anybody else. That he can still get under your skin, and does a fairly good job at that. Not only does it make him feel good about himself, but it makes him feel good right now. Your reactions, all your moans and your fucked out face, the whimpering and the begging, it all gets him off more.

That knot in your stomach is forming again, and he has you clenching around him regularly soon afterwards, and he can tell that this time, it’s not because of his words. It’s because you’re about to orgasm. “I’m close,” you announce, once again feeling all the flips and turns twisting about in your gut. It’s a good thing Donghyuck’s close too, being obvious from the way his thrusts aren’t as smooth as they initially were.

“Me, too. C’mon baby, give it to me,” he urges you on, and you let him drive you to the edge.

He makes you see white again, vision fogging the color and your voice a high-pitched moan of his name as you climax, grinding your hips into his as you intend to ride out your orgasm. In some high, trance-like state, you’re not sure when he cums, but you know that it wasn’t that much longer after you did, and then he slid out, flopping beside you on the mattress. You lie there in near-silence that consists of nothing but heavy breathing, wondering to yourself if this actually happened. You don’t regret it, not now anyways, and it was definitely a satisfying way to break your dry spell, but now you’re starting to question if it was a bad decision. He hasn’t even asked if—

“Are you okay?” Donghyuck asks, seemingly needing a moment to catch his breath before he could gather words.

His words cut through your thoughts, leaving you to accept that maybe he’s not that much of an asshole. It’s the bare minimum, so he’s still an asshole, but not that much of an asshole. “Yeah,” you nod. “I’m good.”

“Good,” he grins. “So, you wanna ditch this party and go get some Chinese food? I’m starving.”

“You want to go get food with me?” you say, sounding wholly and utterly surprised and unconvinced. This man spends every other day of his life bothering you, and now he wants to pick up some food with you?

“I mean, if you don’t want free Chinese food that I’m paying for with my money, then fine, suit yourself, I’ll just get it by my—”

“No!” You interject, sitting up immediately as you scan the room for your clothes. “I’m down. Kinda hungry, too.”

“Good,” Donghyuck says. “Chop, chop. We don’t have all night, they close in like less than an hour from now.”

Standing out of bed to put your clothes on, you consider to yourself that maybe you’ve assumed a lot about him without getting to know him. He’s definitely got an ego on him, that a blind man can tell, but he’s not really an asshole.

“Yo, I just realized something.”

“What?”

Donghyuck smiles bashfully, “I don’t have my wallet on me.”

Nevermind. He’s one-hundred percent definitely an asshole.

[eveninggstar]

knock, knock, nanny ⊹ ࣪ ˖

dad!Max Verstappen x nanny!reader

07.05.25

୨ৎ back one page ୨ৎ back two pages

After getting fired from a luxury bridal boutique for insulting a crypto-bro groom, you find yourself unemployed, overdressed, and door-knocking your way through a soul-crushing sales job. But fate—or poor admin at a nanny agency—lands you on the doorstep of Max Verstappen: racing legend, single father, and owner of one very chaotic household. You're in way over your head. But you’ve faked worse. And honestly? How hard can nannying be?

max is 29 with 2 kids, inspired by the tv show The Nanny

part one, part two

You’ve fluffed the same veil six times in the past hour, and you’re starting to suspect it has a personal vendetta against you. It clings to your fingers with static, refuses to fall just right, and somehow smells faintly of Versace perfume. Allegra–yes, her real name–clicks her tongue in disapproval and dissatisfaction from the pedestal. Her mother and maid of honour, Araminta, lounges nearby like they’re auditioning for a Victorian novel, the latter clutching a tiny dog in a Louis Vuitton carrier.

“I don't feel like a bride in this,” Allegra whines in her nasally voice, as if the €120,000 gown insulted her and her family lineage directly.

You smile, practised and poised, the kind of smile that only comes from years of retail trauma. “Well, sometimes love is about compromise,” you say, accent far more punching in the pristine wedding boutique. The repetitive look of disgust the three others gave you went ignored but not unnoticed as you busied yourself with smoothing the train of the silk gown. “Like agreeing to marry a guy who says ‘crypto’ unironically.” You quietly snorted to yourself as you negotiated a pleat.

The mother gasps. Araminta shields the ratty dog's ears. Allegra blinks. You realize, too late, that ‘crypto fiancé’ is standing right behind you, sunglasses still on inside…

Twenty minutes later you’re in the back office with Marjorie, the boutique manager, who smells of bergamot and judgement. She doesn't look up from her clacking keyboard, if she did she would see your pouting face mixed with crossed arms–two things very discouraged in the workplace.

“It’s time we part ways.”

You let out a soft laugh. “Like… emotionally, or…?”

She looks up. Doesn’t blink. “You're fired, sweetheart.”

Just like that.

No warning. No two weeks. No severance. Just you, your unpaid parking ticket, and a broken heel from when you tried to chase a bride’s runaway toddler last week.

“You can't fire me, Marjorie.” You stand up abruptly, walking through the open door into the rest of the boutique, the older woman leisurely follows, knowing your antics. “I quit!”

You walk between a bride doing a dress consultation, overhearing an ex-coworker oversell a dress.

“It’s a half-loop stitch on china silk.” She says, dazzling the bride-to-be With her usual fake confidence.

Your hurried stomps towards the door come to a full stop. You glance between the two of them.

“You can’t do a half loop stitch on china silk,” you say flatly. “It’ll pucker.”

Tariffa freezes.You give her a knowing look–the kind that says, I see you, you liar in Louboutins. This is how she sells. Always has. By lying.

Marjorie's voice is behind you, your name irritated on her tongue. You march towards the door, bell ringing on your way out. The patreons and workers of the store stood in silence for a few seconds, all looking at each other. Then the bell rang again, revealing you.

“No, you fired me. That way I can collect unemployment.” You sarcastically smiled at Marjorie and made your exit.

The sun was hot, your briefcase was heavy, and you were 98% sure you’d just been threatened with a restraining order by a woman in a Roberto Cavalli Robe. You huff, day four of your brutal career as a door-to-door luxury cleaning kit saleswoman, and morale was… non-existent.

Still, you adjusted your name badge (which had your name spelt wrong), shook out your shoulders, and rang the bell of a very, very expensive-looking house.

The door opened, a man in a tailored suit and a frown squinted at you. “You’re late.”

You blinked, then looked down at the briefcase, lettering already peeling away. “I am?”

“The agency said eleven.” He opened the door wider.  You followed in, taking in the surroundings. “You are the nanny, correct?”

“I could be,” you smirked as you caught sight of a vintage chandelier adorned with crystals.

“And may I present your resume to Mr Verstappen.” The man–you guess a butler– stands upright with hands behind his back, bringing your attention back onto him.

“Uhhh, resume?” You drag out your words Looking up, eyes, once again, gazing at the glistening chandelier. “Why don't you get Mr Verslappen, i’ll talk to him. Do the resume presenting myself.” You wave a hand in front of you, not noticing the judging look as you pronounced the name wrong.

He walks off, muttering to himself, and you stroll around the lobby. Your attention is caught by some pristeine flowers, real flowers at that. You search some drawers, hoping for a pen and paper. Settling on an old letter and a pink felt tip.

During your um-ing and ah-ing, a strained groan sounds from the hallway behind you. The sound gets closer, walking just before you, but going completely disregarded as the pen was slowly running out, causing you to vigorously shake it. A boy in a school uniform, decorated in ketchup and a duct taped-on knife, collapses to the floor, eyes closed, arms out like a starfish.

“Do you have a pen?” You lean over in your chair, offering out the pink felt tip to the boy no older than eleven. Your question goes unanswered as the kid stays true to his role. “Forget it.” You wave the kid off, resorting to scribbling with the dead pen.

There are two sets of footsteps approaching. “You’re losing your touch, Willem.” The voice is deeper now, smoother, with a distinct Dutch edge that manages to sound both amused and vaguely exhausted.

You straighten immediately, throwing the pen over your shoulder. You stand up, shining a dazzling ‘customer service’ smile.

“This is my son,” He continues, gesturing lazily towards the child still dramatically flopped across the marble. “The late Willem Vertsappen.”

You blink. “Wait, I know you!” Your finger points before your brain can stop it. You step over Willem’s body like a crime scene technician with no budget for tape.“You’re the RedBull guy.”

Max nods once, like he’s used to being recognised but still waiting to be impressed.

“My condolences by the way.” You had a look of sympathy on your face.

Willem makes a dying groan on the floor. Max stares at you.

You smile, unfazed. “But hey, the suits are nice.”

Max lets out a short huff–barely audible, but there. “Right. And you’re the nanny?”

You perk up, introducing yourself, hand outstretched.

He folds his arms, “The agency said Isabelle.”

You nod quickly, smile slightly faltering. “Oh you know, middle name.”

Max raises a brow.

You said your name back to him, including the brand new middle name you had given yourself. “But you can call me…” You pause, brain scrambling. “Whatever keeps me on the payroll.” You laugh.

“Come on in.” Max gestures to you to follow him to the other side of the lobby, giving you a peek into one of the many hallways that were in this house. You also notice Willem having given up on his “stabbed” shtick.

He chuckles again, short and low. “Your resume?”

“Oh yeah, sure.” You flap the scrap paper up and gently shove it into the Dutch man in front of you. You glance around the lobby, taking in the same objects as you were just five minutes ago, waiting for the big ‘You’re Hired!’.

“Is this an old bill?” Max asks, flipping over the paper, eyes flickering from looking at you to the paper in his grasp.

You nod. “With my name on it.”

He blinks.

“It’s eco-conscious,” you add, as if that makes any sense at all. “Reduce, reuse, and recycle. Very European.”

You point at him, eyebrows raised, expecting him to be impressed by your commitment to sustainability.

“I hate her!” Willem declares dramatically from his new perch on the two step landing leading into the hallway.

“Willem,” Max warns, calm but firm. “Let's not jump to conclusions.”

“I haven’t even sung Smooth Operator yet,” You mutter under your breath.

Before anyone can respond, a high-pitch voice rings out from the top of the staircase. “I’m ready!”

Everyone turns.

There, standing proudly at the top of the stairs, is a little girl–maybe four or five– dressed like she raided a toddler version of Elton John’s tour wardrobe. She’s rocking oversized sunglasses, a pink tutu, bumblebee-striped tights, and clunky plastic heels that look like they’ve seen better Barbies.

Willem sighs the sigh of an older brother who’s been through this rodeo.

“Boy, aren’t you gorgeous!” You walk over to meet her at the bottom of the stairs. 

Willem rolls his eyes so hard you’re slightly concerned for his optic nerve.

The little girl, however, beams like you just casted her in a Netflix original. “I know!” she says, striking a pose. One heel slips, but she's quick to correct herself.

You rake her hair through your fingers, enamoured by the colour.

“You can't get colour like this in a bottle,” you say, almost reverently. “No way. This is heirloom-quality Barbie blonde. Limited edition.”

“I’m Princess Fleur!” She giggles, peering up at you over her glasses.

Willem groans. “It was ‘Queen’ yesterday.”

“She got demoted?” you ask, mock-serious.

“No,” Fleur says, flicking her tutu. “I just wanted something faster to say.”

You glance up to see Max standing in the doorway, arms crossed, watching the whole scene with that unreadable driver-face of his—the one that’s either secretly amused or seriously regretting letting you past the threshold.

“She’s got imagination,” you say to him, nodding at Fleur. “And great branding instincts.”

Max raises a brow, clearly holding back a comment. His gaze shifts to Willem, who’s now aggressively trying to become one with the floor.

“Alright, you two,” Max says, voice slipping into dad mode. “Upstairs. Ten minutes of screen time. Then homework.”

Fleur gasps. “I’m on holiday!”

“It’s Tuesday,” Willem deadpans.

She turns to you. “Tell him I’m on holiday.”

You hold up your hands. “Listen, I don’t get involved in royal politics. Princess Fleur, take it up with the crown.”

Willem grabs her hand like he’s been through this war before. “Come on, Your Highness.”

Fleur clunks up the stairs in her plastic heels, each step a clack of rebellion. Willem follows, already narrating her dramatic exit in a fake posh accent.

The shrill ring of a phone slices through the calm, making you jump. You glance around, ready to blame the house itself, but it’s Max’s phone–buzzing on the hallway table, screen flashing bright.

“It's the nanny agency.” Max says, glancing at the screen.Then he looks up at you before answering. “Max Vertsappen.” 

He answers the call, and you stand there awkwardly–hands clasped in front of you, pretending not to listen even though you’re absolutely listening.

“Thank you.” He excuses you, handing you your briefcase.

“Oh, yeah, right.” You sigh and make your way to the door like it's the exit to your dreams and your unemployment.

“No, Monday isn’t acceptable.” Max says sharply into the phone. “I need a Nanny before Thursday.” He hung up the phone, rubbing a hand across his face.

Slowly, you turn back around, leaning against the doorframe like you’re modeling for a fashionably unqualified nanny calendar.

You lift your hand and give a little wave—subtle, smug, and just a touch too confident.

“Guess who’s fully available,” you say with a wink.

Please don’t steal my work, much love ᡣ𐭩

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃 eveninggstar

[leriexoxo]

THIN LINE (enemies to lovers)

Pairing: Seungmin x Reader

Tags: enemies to lovers, smut, bathroom sex, locked in a cabin, unprotected sex, hate sex,

Word count: 3k

Summary: you’re forced to share a room AND a bed eith your arch nemesis over at the ski lodge but whats even worse? Your friends decide to play a prank and lock you both in all day… what happens when you both realize that there’s a thin line between love and hate?

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You honestly weren’t sure how you ended up here—again.

Wedged between Hyunjin and Han on the couch, trying to focus on the movie playing, while Kim Seungmin sat directly across from you, slouched in the armchair like he was specifically designed to ruin your night.

His arms were crossed, brows lifted in that smug, perpetually unimpressed way. He wasn’t even pretending to pay attention to the screen—his focus was locked on you, head tilted, tongue poking at the inside of his cheek.

“What?” you snapped, already on edge.

He smirked. “Nothing. Just wondering how someone so loud can be this boring.”

Jisung choked on his popcorn beside you. “Oh my god, again? You two are gonna combust one day and take the whole dorm with you.”

“Only if she stops being a walking red flag,” Seungmin replied, tone flat. “Not my fault she thinks sarcasm is a personality trait.”

“Says the guy who’s allergic to basic human decency,” you bit back, arms folding tightly across your chest.

Chan groaned from the kitchen. “Can we not have a bloodbath tonight?”

“Too late,” Felix muttered, giggling as he made himself at home on the floor, feet tucked under a blanket. “It’s the sexual tension for me.”

You turned your head slowly. “I will smother you with that blanket.”

But the worst part? The part you’d never admit out loud?

Seungmin’s smirk lingered a second too long. His eyes dropped to your lips before he rolled them and looked away. Barely. But you caught it.

And your stomach did that traitorous flip.

Because maybe you hated him. Maybe he got under your skin like no one else. Maybe every interaction felt like a battle you were determined to win.

But somewhere deep in the back of your mind, a horrifying, devastating thought was beginning to form:

You didn’t hate him at all.

You just really, really wanted to kiss him.

-

It all started in the group chat.

Which, in hindsight, made perfect sense—because the group chat was cursed.

Chan had dropped a message at 2:16 AM, which meant either he couldn’t sleep or was in the middle of one of his hyperfixation spirals. Probably both.

CHAN: okay but what if we all took a weekend off?? like an actual trip?

CHAN: no work. no practice. just chill.

FELIX: YES. cabin in the snow. hot cocoa. matching sweaters.

JISUNG: i want to sled into oncoming traffic (affectionately)

HYUNJIN: i’ll bring a fur coat and a single dramatic tear

SEUNGMIN: don’t invite y/n then

YOU: literally no one asked you, ratman

SEUNGMIN: yet here you are. typing back. like a fan.

CHAN: i swear to god

You should’ve exited the chat then and there.

But no. Somehow, in your never-ending quest to not be the person who ruins everyone’s plans, you agreed. And then it snowballed—rental links, carpool groups, a Google Doc, and of course, room pairings.

“I’m not sharing with Hyunjin again,” Jeongin had announced during lunch one day, shoveling spicy tteokbokki into his mouth. “He sleep-talks in five languages.”

“I do not,” Hyunjin gasped.

“You tried to summon a demon using a NutriBullet manual.”

“…Okay but it worked.”

Eventually, Chan declared himself room-assigner, Felix offered to help (which was suspicious), and you found yourself sitting on a beanbag in Changbin’s living room as the final list got passed around.

“Oh,” Jeongin said, eyes scanning it. “Y/N and Seungmin, huh?”

Your head snapped up. “I’m sorry—what?”

Seungmin, from the other side of the room, didn’t even look up from his phone. “Should’ve known I was being punished for something.”

“You’re being punished?” you echoed, scandalized. “I’m the one getting stuck with a grumpy possum.”

Felix was grinning like he’d just lit the match on a bonfire. “You two bicker like you’re married anyway. Might as well lean into it.”

“You just want drama,” you muttered.

“I live for it.”

Chan clapped his hands. “Too late now. The bookings are locked. It’s decided.”

You locked eyes with Seungmin then—silent challenge. He gave you a slow blink. And a smirk.

“Try not to cry when I steal all the blankets.”

“Try not to whine when I kick you in your sleep.”

He turned back to his phone. “Better bring a mouthguard.”

Your eye twitched.

And just like that, the countdown to doom began.

-

You knew the second Chan handed out room keys that something evil was afoot, with the way they all sniggered.

“Wait,” you said,.“Are you really making me do this?”

“It’s just one weekend,” Chan said innocently, like he hadn’t clearly rigged this entire shared cabin setup to cause emotional damage.

“I really don’t wanna share a room with him.”

Seungmin stood beside you, arms crossed, looking equally offended. “As if I’d want to sleep near your snoring. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Chan,” you hissed. “Please. I’ll sleep on the porch.”

“No you won’t,” Seungmin muttered. “The wolves deserve peace.”

“Seungmin.”

“Y/N.”

Chan, being the absolute menace he is, was already walking away, tossing you both a peace sign without looking back. “Enjoy the bonding, lovebirds.”

And that’s how you found yourself in Room 3 of a very cozy ski lodge, standing stiffly on opposite sides of a queen-sized bed while everyone else cracked beers and turned the living room into chaos central.

You and Seungmin just stared.

“Don’t get any ideas,” he said eventually, dumping his bag by the dresser.

“Relax. I’m pretty sure your resting bitch face works as birth control.”

He scoffed. “Maybe I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“Be my guest. I hope your back never recovers.”

But when night hit and the temperature dropped hard, the passive-aggression gave way to something worse—shivering silence.

You lay stiffly under the blanket, facing away from him, clutching the edge of your side like it was a lifeline. You could hear his breathing. Slow. Even. Too aware.

“Still awake?” you asked, voice low.

A beat.

“Unfortunately.”

“Why are you always such a dick to me?”

He didn’t answer at first.

Then: “Why do you always let me get to you?”

You turned to face him. Moonlight poured in through the gap in the curtain, painting sharp lines over his features—sharp jaw, soft lips, eyes that burned like frost.

Your heart stuttered.

“I don’t.”

“You do,” he said simply. “Every time.”

You opened your mouth, ready to throw another dagger, but his next words shut you up.

“You’re the only one who talks to me like that. Like you don’t give a shit.”

Silence stretched between you. Thick. Heavy.

And then, he moved.

Slowly. Barely a shift, but enough that the back of his hand brushed yours under the blanket. Not a grab. Not a hold. Just a touch. A question.

And you didn’t pull away.

His voice dropped, barely a whisper. “Still cold?”

“A little.”

Another pause. Then, quietly—genuinely: “C’mere.”

You didn’t trust your voice. So you moved instead. Closer. Close enough to feel the heat of him, the brush of his hoodie, the scent of clean detergent and Seungmin, so familiar it made your stomach flip.

His arm slipped around your waist like he’d done it a hundred times. Natural. Easy. Like enemies didn’t hold each other like this.

His lips brushed your hairline.

“This doesn’t mean I like you,” he murmured.

Your voice came out softer than you wanted. “Good. I still think you’re insufferable.”

But your face was tucked against his chest now. And his hand had found the dip of your spine. And the line between hate and want had never been thinner.

-

You woke to the sound of shuffling.

Then a thud.

Then Seungmin cursing under his breath.

You peeled open one eye, groaning as your body protested the movement. Your legs were tangled with his—still. His hoodie was bunched at your hips. And the bed was warm with his heat, the scent of him still lingering in the space between your skin and the sheets.

“What are you doing?” you croaked.

“The door’s locked,” he grumbled, jiggling the knob. “Like actually locked. I think they—”

He paused. Realization hit.

“Oh, those little shits.”

You sat up, squinting. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Felix?”

“Felix.”

Seungmin dragged a hand through his hair, muttering a string of curses that would’ve been funny if you weren’t currently trapped in a room with your supposed enemy, wearing his hoodie and little else, on a single bed that creaked every time one of you so much as breathed.

You rubbed your face. “They went out for the day, didn’t they.”

“Yup.” Seungmin leaned against the wall, arms crossed. His eyes trailed down—barely a glance—but it made your breath hitch. “We’re stuck until they get back. At least.”

Silence stretched again. Familiar now. Tense.

You pulled the blanket tighter around yourself and tried not to notice how Seungmin’s shirt clung to his chest. Or how his jaw flexed when he chewed at the inside of his cheek. Or the faint pink tint of skin at his collarbone.

The same collarbone you’d fallen asleep pressed against.

“This is awkward,” you muttered.

“Not my fault you made it weird.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I made it weird?”

“Who was the one that curled up on me like I was a body pillow?”

“You invited me over!”

He stepped forward then, slow, deliberate. The air shifted.

“And you stayed,” he said, voice lower now.

Your heartbeat spiked.

He was standing in front of you, close enough to smell the fabric softener on his shirt and the faint trace of your shampoo on his hoodie. His gaze flicked to your mouth for the second time in 24 hours.

You swallowed hard.

“Why do you do that?” you asked.

“Do what?”

“Look at me like that.”

He didn’t answer. Not with words.

Instead, his hand reached out—slow, cautious—and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brushed your cheek on the way back, lingering half a second too long.

“You piss me off,” he said softly. “But you also make me—”

He stopped.

The air between you was molten.

Then—

You surged forward.

Or maybe he did. You didn’t know who broke first. You just knew your lips crashed together in a messy, desperate kiss, all teeth and heat and finally. He groaned against your mouth, hands gripping your waist like he’d been dying to touch you, and you didn’t hold back. You yanked at his shirt, tugging him closer until you were flat on your back and he was above you, weight pressing you into the mattress, tongue sliding against yours.

It was clumsy. Perfect. Raw.

All that built-up tension—the late-night fights, the stolen glances, the too-close arguments—it spilled out with every movement. His hands roamed, mouth dragging down your jaw, across your neck, nipping at your skin until you gasped his name.

“Seungmin—”

He pulled back just enough to look at you.

His voice was breathless. “Still hate me?”

You pulled him back down by the collar, lips brushing his. “Ask me again when we’re done.”

His mouth crashed into yours like it was inevitable.

And maybe it was.

All those months of biting insults, jabs that felt more like flirtation, the way your eyes lingered when they shouldn’t—it had to go somewhere. And now it was unraveling at the seams.

Seungmin kissed you like he was mad about it. Hands greedy, mouth rough, tongue slipping between your lips as he gripped your thighs and pulled you into his lap. His hoodie rode up your legs as you straddled him, heat grinding against heat through barely-there layers.

His breath stuttered. “Fuck…”

You rolled your hips again, savoring the way his head fell back for just a second, jaw clenched.

“Still think I’m annoying?” you whispered against his throat, teeth grazing the skin there.

He grabbed your ass hard, pulling you flush against his cock. “God, yes. Most annoying girl I’ve ever wanted to fuck senseless.”

You moaned at the filth in his tone.

The shirt was the first thing to go. He tugged it over your head and tossed it without looking, eyes locked on your chest like he couldn’t decide where to start. Then his mouth was on your skin—hot, open kisses across your collarbone, down to your breasts. He sucked a bruise right under your sternum, like he wanted to leave a mark.

“You’re so fucking pretty when you’re pissed at me,” he mumbled against your skin.

You pushed him onto his back, climbing over him with a wicked smile. “Then you’re gonna love me right now.”

He watched as you peeled his shirt up, exposing firm lines of muscle, warm skin. Your palms skated across his chest, nails lightly dragging down until he hissed, head tipping back.

But the second his hands found your waist again, it shifted.

He flipped you—fast, all precision and quiet strength. Now you were beneath him, legs spread, heart hammering as he kissed you again, deeper this time. Slower. Like he was starting to feel it.

His hand slipped into your panties, fingers teasing your slick folds, lazy circles that had you arching into him.

“So wet already,” he murmured, lips brushing yours. “Knew you liked fighting with me. You get off on it, don’t you?”

You whimpered. “Fuck you.”

“Oh, I plan to.”

He shoved your panties down and off, then freed himself, cock hard and heavy between you, brushing your thigh as he lined up. His mouth hovered at your ear, warm breath skating down your neck.

“This isn’t gonna be sweet,” he whispered. “You don’t want sweet from me.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

Because the second he pushed into you, slow and steady, the breath left your lungs. He filled you so deep, your hands clawed at his back, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct.

“Jesus,” he groaned. “So tight—fuck, you feel insane.”

He set a pace that made your head spin—deep, rhythmic thrusts that sent shockwaves through your body. The bed creaked beneath you. The sound of skin on skin echoed through the tiny room. You didn’t care. Couldn’t care. Not when his mouth found your breast again, not when his thumb slipped between you to rub tight circles over your clit.

Your body seized up, nails digging into his shoulders. “Seungmin—don’t stop—”

“Say it again.”

Your head lolled back. “Seungmin—”

He growled. “That’s right. That’s what I fucking wanted.”

Your orgasm hit like a wave, dragging a cry from your throat as your walls fluttered around him, pulsing. He didn’t stop—he couldn’t—driving into you with desperate force until he buried himself deep and groaned, spilling into you with a raw, guttural sound that made your thighs tremble.

He collapsed beside you, breathing hard, one arm slung across your waist.

A long beat of silence.

Then—

“…Still hate me?” he asked, voice rough, but there was a tiny smirk hiding in it.

You turned your head, breathless. “Hate you even more now.”

His thumb traced lazy patterns over your hip. “Good. Round two’s gonna be worse.

The aftermath hit like a fever dream.

Your chest still heaved, heartbeat finally slowing, limbs tangled with Seungmin’s under the wrinkled blankets. Your thighs were sticky, your hair a mess, and the room smelled like sex and trouble.

You blinked at the ceiling.

He was beside you, arm draped lazily over your stomach, breath warm against your shoulder. For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then you spoke.

“I literally hate you.”

His voice was hoarse and smug. “Liar.”

You rolled your eyes—tried to—but the second you shifted your legs, a wave of overstimulation made you whimper instead.

Seungmin chuckled, and you smacked his chest.

But he caught your wrist mid-air, holding it in place. “Shower?” he offered, with zero innocence in his tone.

You squinted at him. “If you think I’m letting you try anything in there—”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You thought it.”

He leaned in, lips brushing your cheek as he whispered, “You gonna stop me?”

Your stomach flipped.

⸻

The shower was supposed to be quick. Rinse and recover.

It was not.

You stood under the stream, head tilted back, when you felt it—his chest pressed to your back, hands sliding slowly around your waist. You opened your mouth to say something, but then his hand dipped between your thighs and you forgot how to breathe.

“You’re insufferable,” you gasped, grinding back into him anyway.

“Mmhm,” he hummed, lips pressing behind your ear. “But you’re still letting me fuck you in a shower.”

And god, he did.

The water was hot, but he was hotter. He lifted your leg onto the edge of the tub, slid into you again from behind—slower this time, deeper, his grip iron-tight on your hips as you moaned into the tiles. The steam made everything hazy, your bodies slick and desperate, and when his hand snaked around to your clit again, you shattered, nearly slipping if he hadn’t been holding you so close.

When he came, he bit your shoulder. Hard.

“Mine,” he whispered.

You didn’t argue.

⸻

Thirty minutes later, you were both semi-presentable, sitting on the edge of the bed trying not to look like you’d just gone three rounds and nearly flooded the lodge’s plumbing.

Then—

Click.

The door swung open.

“Finally!” Jeongin called, bounding in with two grocery bags. “Dude, you will not believe the gas station we found. They sell instant ramyeon shaped like Hyunjin’s face—wait…”

He stopped.

Chan walked in behind him, followed by Felix, Hyunjin, and Jisung. One by one, they froze.

There was silence. Too much silence.

Then Hyunjin’s eyes dropped to the rumpled bed, the haphazardly tossed towels, and finally—the fresh scratch marks down Seungmin’s neck.

“Oh.”

Jeongin blinked. “So the prank worked.”

Jisung howled.

Felix clapped a hand over his mouth, giggling like a traitor, and Chan just dragged a hand down his face.

Seungmin didn’t even flinch. He reached for his water bottle, took a long sip, and threw an arm around your shoulder like he owned the place.

You, still sore and red-faced, swatted him.

He leaned over, lips brushing your ear again.

“Wanna piss them off more?” he murmured.

Your breath caught.

Then you smiled.

“Oh, absolutely.”

⸻

And that’s how it ended: with the group flailing in disbelief, Seungmin smug as hell, and you? Wrapped in his hoodie again, pretending not to already miss the feel of his hands on your skin.

To think… you hated that man.

Until you didn’t

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: Hey guys, i’ll be posting new fucs every two days so follow me if you dont want to miss them, and feel free to request by sending me your prompts!

If you enjoyed this, please drop a like and REBLOG!!

[604to647]

Photocopies

2.2K / Javier Peña x fem!reader

Summary: You catch Javi off guard in the embassy photocopy room.

Warnings: Angst (sorry!), longing, some hurt (no comfort). Previous relationship, mention of past infidelity (or is it??). Mainly Javi's POV. Nicknames as usual (Pretty bird, baby).

A/N: This is a direct follow-up to Birthday Present, taking place S1/S2 Narcos, ~2 months after reader’s birthday; I don't think you need to read it but it gives some context. I'm sorry, there is no HEA for these two dummies yet, this is just another little one shot (not quite ready to commit to writing another long series!), but I hope those of you who remember them from Birthday Present will still enjoy seeing them again 🥹🥰

Dividers by @saradika-graphics / Tagging @milla-frenchy who knows why 🥹😘

Mierda. 

Javier can see the consecutive flashes of the photocopier’s green scan light accompanied by the hum of the machine in repetitive use as he walks down the hall towards the U.S. Embassy’s main floor copier room.  It sounds like whoever’s occupying the photocopier is in the middle of a big job – he sighs with an air of unjustified frustration.  Such would be his luck when he’s already running late for his meeting with the CIA attaché. 

He rounds into the room chest first, ready to barrel over whichever unfortunate intern stands, however unintentionally, between DEA Agent Javier Pena and something he needs to hopefully get ahead of Escobar, when he’s stopped dead in his tracks.

It’s you.  You, with a thoughtful look on your face as you adorably chew your bottom lip while counting the sheets in your hand, surrounded by neat piles of paper covering every available flat surface in the copier room.

Mierda. 

Still preoccupied by your collating project, you haven’t looked up to notice that you’re no longer alone in the small, stifling room – out of consideration or cowardice, but most likely both, Javier loathes to disturb you.  He hasn’t spoken to you in nearly four months - he’ll be damned if the first time he does so causes you inconvenience.  He’s already done so much worse to you. 

Fuck it - those spooks can make do with one copy of his Satellite Repositioning request.  If the CIA needs a second copy so badly, let them come down and make it themselves, he convinces himself.  Javier steps back silently, slowly backing out of the room. 

“How many copies do you need?”

Stunned by the sweet lilt of your voice, Javier remains motionless.  He suspects that you don’t know it’s him, but rather you had felt another person’s presence in the room and your considerate nature simply offered what you intuitively knew was needed.  But to his surprise, your eyes meet his directly when he looks up; he searches them for any sign of distaste or distain now that you recognize him as your intruder, but sees nothing except sincerity.  Your hand is already outstretched, waiting for his form.

He should leave.  Say he changed his mind about needing copies.  Say he got lost in this building that he’s worked in for years.  Say something.

“Don’t want to interrupt you.  I’ll come back.”

You throw an easy, encouraging smile his way and wave your still reaching hand dismissively in graceful sweeps that only serve to remind Javier of how effortlessly charming you are; your voice an enchanting song with its lightness, “I’m going to be forever.  Come on, gimme.”  You wiggle your fingers playfully, beckoning Javier to give over his paper - not knowing you also call for his heart with this enticing gesture.

He can refuse you nothing, though you could never know that, and hands over his single sheet readily, “Just one please.”

You take his form and titter to yourself as you diligently set aside the stack you were organizing, careful not to lose your place before laying his paper face down on the glass to copy, “I’ll make you two, just in case.”

Though the sound of the copy machine whirling to life fills the room, the silence between the two people in it somehow rings louder.  Javier looks around awkwardly, his eyes taking in the goliath of paperwork that you were in the middle of taming – should he apologize for interrupting?  No, it would likely ring hollow to your ears; he’s committed worse transgressions for which he still owes you an apology.  But the lump in his throat compels him to engage you; he’s a man starved, ready to beg for any meager scraps of attention you’re willing to throw his way.

“I thought you had a secretary to do all this admin for you – is Renee away?”

You laugh and the sound chimes in Javier’s ear like a chorus of cathedral bells; he never thought he’d have the honour of drawing such music from you again.  “No, she’s here.  But when it’s big booklets for interdepartmental meetings, I just like to do it myself.”

Right - Javier knows this about you.  You take such prodigious care with everything, of everyone.  Any fool at the embassy, and there were many, could see you’re a powerhouse, work ethic and dedication unmatched, and completely deserving of the respect and praise you reap – he’s always been proud of you.

Handing him his two copies and original, you toss Javier another soft smile before turning back to your task.  Whatever this interlude was, whatever grace granted him a few moments of cordiality with you is gone now, and Javier takes the papers from you with a genuine, but melancholy, “Thanks.”  He heads out of the room, feeling somehow happier and yet just as lost as he has been these past few months.

“Javi?”

He’s stopped again, this time not just by your melodic voice, but the song of his shortened name on your lips – his own heart longs to sing back a response in duet.  Turning, he finds you already looking at him, the irises of your knowing eyes swirling with tenderness, 

“Thank you for my birthday present.”

How did you know?  Javier had been so confident in the stealth of his actions, he’s silence by the revelation that you know he left a gift on your desk two months ago.

“I wear them all the time,” you turn your elegant neck slightly to show Javi the silver hair clips, each adorned with a small, delicate bird, tucked prettily behind your ear.

He manages to choke out a confession, “I know.” 

He does know.  Like a lovesick magpie, Javi’s heart would leap every time he caught the flash of silver in your hair at the embassy: during the meetings you expertly lead that he had the privilege of attending, via quick glimpses of you as you hurried towards the breakroom with your colleagues for a much-needed cup of coffee, when he stole longing glances at you from the DEA’s offices down the hall from the windows that ran alongside your desk in Treasury.  Each time you wore them, it gave Javi a surge a pride (and some relief) to know that amidst all the pain he had caused, he could still bring you some joy.

You’re looking at him now, eyes shiny and full of emotion, “I love them – they’re so beautiful.  Thank you for having thought of me.”

Javi’s body carries him across the small room and into your waiting arms of its own accord. All the strength he strains to wield on a daily basis in order to stay away from you evaporating under that tender gaze he thought had been forever lost to him.

He holds you close but not too tight, unable to tear his eyes from the sweetness of your expression.  How could you still look at him with anything other than disappointment, hate?  Despite what he did, you remain good.  Kind.  Feeling.  You wash over him like an inevitable wave and Javi wants more than anything to drown in you again.

“You’re welcome, baby.”

Baby.

Drinking in his soft utterance of the endearment, you earnestly study the man who was once yours.  Javi looks apprehensive and guarded, like he can’t quite settle into the tenderness of this moment – expecting at any second for you to shove him away, curse him.  Your heart aches to witness his anxiety – he’s still the man you knew, believed in: one whose bravado and tough exterior harbours a sensitive and deeply feeling heart, one who never thinks he deserves good things even when he extends himself for the sake of others.  You take Javi’s face into your hands, feeling the flex of his strong jaw beneath your palms as he inhales and swallows deeply at the loving gesture, still convinced this unexpected peace will be ripped from him.

“Do you miss me, Javi?”

How can he possibly answer but truthfully? Even if you weren’t looking at him so tenderly and with such vulnerability, Javi’s never been able to hide from you, lie to you. Insinuate falsities, yes. Mislead, perhaps. But outright lying? Never. How could the moon ever lie to the sun?

“Yes, pretty bird. Every day,” Javi closes his eyes and presses his forehead to yours, sealing in the truth of his words.

He’s being selfish.  It’s selfish to want to pull out the knife that’s lodged permanently in his chest; the one he placed there himself when he broke your heart, to stab and remind him with every breath he takes of what he’s lost.  What he’s broken.

If he could remove the blade for even a moment, then for that moment he can be your Javi again.  The one you trusted to take care of your heart.  The one who was ever grateful that an angel like you saw something in him, something he thought had long been snuffed out by the savagery of the Columbian sicarios and the cruelty of Escobar.  The Javi you had patiently nurtured back to life with your compassion and gentle touch.  The one whose vow of love you never questioned; he hadn't thought himself capable of such devotion, but you had easily unlocked it from within him with your own.

Selfishness wins today.  Javi removes the knife and lets himself be that man again with a tentative press of his lips to yours.  Immediately, he’s overtaken by the honey of your kiss – every brush of your pretty pout reminds him of all his favourite kisses with you: soft, secret kisses in hidden corners at the office; hard and heavy make outs outside the embassy walls away from prying eyes; tender kisses of promises intended to be kept while on dates or just laying in bed; possessive, dangerous kisses used to muffle moans of pleasure not meant for the ears of any other; hungry and urgent kisses heralding toe-curling, earthshattering orgasms; and sweet kisses of affirmation after every declaration of I love you.

Javi kisses you to make up for every single kiss he’s missed since he kissed you last.  He kisses you like he has the forever with you he threw away so cruelly all those month ago.  He tightens his arms around you as you melt into his kiss, momentarily forgetting how to let you go again.  Your soft whimper of surrender into his mouth jolts him back to reality.  He doesn’t have forever with you.  You aren’t his, and you shouldn’t be his.  He’s been warned.

It’s time to put the knife back in and Javier knows it won’t just be his own heart he wounds when he does so.

“Baby, we can’t.”

“Javi…” The way you say his name now has none of the harmony that invited him in earlier; this is a plea.

“Pretty bird, I’m no good for you.  Look at you – you’re perfect and you have everything going for you.  Everything you are is beyond my wildest dreams – you’re destined for the kind of future that has no place in it for a guy like me.  You deserve someone who can give you the best things in life.  You deserve someone better than me.”

You’re shaking your head, ready to argue and Javier thinks, no – he knows you would prevail.  He’s come over to your side of every argument the two of you ever had - won over by your intelligence, your passion, or simply for the joy it brought him to give you anything you wanted.  He has to put a stop to this before your eloquence and kindness can disarm him, so he pushes the knife in further, “You deserve someone who can be loyal to you.”

Javier can physically feel the flow of air that rushes in to fill the space created between the two of you as you shrink away from him.

It’s as if he can see the cinema in your eyes replaying that horrible scene from four months earlier when you caught him bare chested and pants unbuttoned, with a half naked Vanessa on his couch.  And just like that, the ache of his betrayal is renewed and your hurt rolls off your frame in lines so thick Javier thinks he might be able to pluck them out of the air with his fingers.

He twists the knife, even though it kills him to do so, “I never got the chance to apologize for that. I’m sorry.”

You nod, otherwise unmoving - stilled by that old pain you thought you had buried dead threating to crawl up your tightening throat.

Javi’s shoulders hunch, drooping with a defeat of his own making, “Thank you for the copies.”

“You’re welcome, Agent.”

Agent.

And just like that he’s Agent again.  Not baby, Javi, or even Javier.�� Just Agent.

This third time he goes to leave the copier room you don’t stop him and Javier is thankful; unable to trust himself should he look back at you, he doesn’t – Agent Pena sets his face to a grim scowl and stalks down the hallway away from the best thing that ever happened to him.  Grateful that you had the forethought to give him an extra copy of his form, Javier discards the top sheet before going into his meeting – it’s completely unusable: the words on the page blotted and blurred from tears he didn’t have the strength to prevent from falling, the ruined, damp paper evidence of his failures.

[sashayed]

I haven't said as much about electoral politics this year as I have in previous cycles, because I am exhausted like everyone else and have nothing new or helpful to add. That is still true, so caveat lector I guess lmao!!! Happy American Election Day Fellow Sufferers!!

I have been experiencing an internal backlash the last few years to my extremely Sorkinpilled D.C. private school upbringing -- my childhood spent as a kind of convent schoolgirl in the faith of The System Is Good If We All Participate, which of course has a uhhh let's say generously a minimal engagement with the ways in which many of us are by design shut out of participating. I don't think idealism is necessarily childish, but I think MY idealism certainly has childish qualities, an undergirding of 90s feel-goodism, of civic participation as a subtle ego stroke and of voting -- although I would never have consciously put it this way -- as a way to feel superior to people who don't vote.

Lately there has bubbled up in me a sludgy, adolescent fury at this whole stupid country that has made it very very hard to feel like I should do even the bare minimum. For these people? AMERICANS? The ones that not only want Donald Trump to be president but saw what happened the first time and were like, We love this, do it again but worse? Whatever, fuckos. "I hope you people get your dearest wish and it chews you to death slowly," I may have thought.

I have also thought: why is it so controversial to ask elected officials to stop funding a genocide? Why are we treating people who make that ask, who are watching the current administration directly fund death on a mass scale and objecting to that choice, as if they are being babies and just need to get over it? How are they supposed to get over it? Why is anybody over it?

Anyway all this means that I, a known chipper door-knocker and caller of congresspeople, have been pretty low-key this current cycle. I think that is OK. I don't want to make this a big dramatic confessional about how I didn't write enough postcards or whatever. We all get exhausted and this was my turn.

But it has also been an illuminating cycle in that it's made it clear to me how much at my big age I still want politics to make me feel good, and when they don't, I still have the urge to throw a lil tantrum about it! I can get very superior and intellectual about how right-wing operatives manipulate their voters emotionally WITHOUT EVEN NOTICING that I too have been manipulated, in my case into the feeling that nonparticipation is a kind of revolutionary act.* Just absolute "I threw it on the GROUND" logic happening inside my head. "Maybe if I don't vote I will be doing Quiet Quitting, which is uhhhhh anticapitalist." I'm not a part of your system!!!

Anyway, I am trying to have self-compassion about it, and one way for me to do that is to project my internal experience onto a theoretical reader. That would be you, my imaginary friend who clicked on this post for some reason even though you have already decided not to vote! I just want to tell you that I am more sympathetic to your point of view than I have ever been in my whole life, and I'm sorry I have historically been a glib, holier-than-thou asshole about it in ways that may actually have made you MORE resistant to civic participation.

And you're right: it doesn't make that big a difference whether I personally vote or not, or whether you do. But if there are hundreds of us, and I think there are, then each of those people individually do starts to matter.

I guess I would humbly request that you and I both pay attention to what people who need help are actually asking for. I would ask that we both notice who wins when we abdicate this single responsibility. I would remind us both that participating in the electoral process is not some kind of weird either-or with participating in decentralized community building and mutual aid, and the best people we know do both. Isn't it interesting that somehow, insidiously, without even consciously becoming aware of this belief, we have started to think that you can only do one or the other? Who is telling us that story? Who does it serve?

Anyway. I took the stupid 90 minute round trip to my polling place which was VERY hot for some reason and I stood in the stupid line and some babies waved at me and I cast my vote for Kamala Harris and I'm glad I did it in the same way I'm glad after I do the dishes or take a stupid shower. Doing work doesn't always feel like anything. I also saw a really wonderful small black and white dog that I thought was a cat on a leash. I would not have seen that dog if I hadn't gone to vote. So politics can still make you feel good!!!

*I mean all this analysis is cute and everything BUT ALSO i did switch antidepressants twice in the last year, an astonishingly grueling process that almost made me [affect the trout population]. Could these things be related? hmmmmmmm, don't understand the question, won't respond to it.

[bulgik]

KATSEYE. — how the first kiss went (⁠ ⁠˘⁠ ⁠³⁠˘⁠)...

pairing. fem!r x non idol au ──wc; 1.8k (This was supposed to be posted yesterday but as soon as I finished I fell asleep sorry 🙏🏻)

୨९. NOW PLAYING; sunny days - wave to earth

SOPHIA LAFORTEZA...

Somehow, Sophia always had a way of making you nervous with just a single glance. Even when she did, you’d act annoyed, though deep down, you loved it.

That day was no exception. She always looked at you with sweet, love-filled eyes, never bothering to hide it. As your hands swung gently together during a calm night walk near your apartment, you were passionately talking about your favorite movie and its plot twist. It wasn’t that she didn’t care—she really did—but deep down, all she could focus on was your full, captivating lips moving.

You didn’t notice her silence until it became impossible to ignore.

“And the end—” Your words faltered as soon as your gaze met hers, and your heart raced. Even after all the teasing looks she’d given you before, none felt like this one. It sent a shiver down your spine.

“W-what...?” was all you managed to stammer, and for you, that was totally embarrassing. You silently thanked the universe for the darkness of the night because if Sophia realized how hot your cheeks had turned, her teasing would have been endless.

Still, at your question, Sophia paused, debating whether to lie and say she was listening or admit what was really on her mind.

She stopped walking, standing directly in front of you, and with a soft sigh, she murmured, “I’m dying to kiss you, that’s all.”

In that moment, her eyes sparkled with affection, and a wave of excitement washed over you. Because even though you’d never said it aloud, you had been impatiently waiting for this moment too.

Summoning every ounce of courage you had, you swallowed your nerves and, to your own surprise, replied, “Why don’t you, then?”

That was all Sophia needed. She tugged on your sweater, stood on her tiptoes, and closed the distance between you.

The kiss was slow, tender, and overflowing with emotion. It left Sophia blushing, and for once, the tables turned—you spent the rest of the night teasing her in revenge for all the times she had flustered you so easily.

LARA RAJ...

Lara always saw herself as a confident person—she always was. But when it came to you, she became someone completely different.

Yeah of course she made the first move, walked up to you, asked for your number with that flirty smile of hers. And, let’s be honest, from the moment you saw her, you fell head over heels. But now that she’s your girlfriend, you’ve seen a side of her you never expected.

For your first month together, you decided to spend the day at the beach. You went early, played in the ocean, laughed and teased each other like two lovestruck teenagers. The day flew by—though Lara always felt time moved too fast when she was with you.

Sitting on a blanket, your arms propped against the sand and Lara resting against your chest, watching the beautiful sunset, you felt like the happiest person in the world. Nothing could top this moment.

But even then, when Lara lifted her head and looked at you, her eyes shining with pure adoration, you were mesmerized.

From an outsider’s perspective, it could’ve been a scene straight out of a romance movie.

Lara’s eyes locked with yours for a while. She felt her heart racing, and it only got worse when, without realizing it, her gaze drifted to your lips. Throughout that first month, she’d often glanced at them when you were distracted, wondering how they’d feel against hers.

And as they say, actions speak louder than words. Your eyes mirrored the same admiration for her lips, and that was all the confirmation she needed. Her hand gently moved to your neck, and she leaned in slowly. She brushed her nose against yours before closing the distance.

In that kiss, Lara knew she didn’t need anyone else—she didn’t want anyone else but you. And you felt the same. Even though it wasn’t the first relationship for either of you, this was something entirely different—feelings neither of you had experienced before.

Without thinking, you said the words that solidified your devotion to her. Words you meant with every fiber of your being.

“I love you, Lara…”

Her throat tightened instantly as emotions overwhelmed her. It felt so good to be loved, to feel so incredibly happy.

“I love you too, Yn.”

DANIELA AVANZINI...

Dani always let things flow, even in the relationship. That’s why she thought the first kiss would happen naturally, just lean whenever she feels like it.

But it didn’t go as she imagined. From the moment she saw you, hugged you, and sat on the grass with the basket full of food, she couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss. Unfortunately, she was far too shy to make the first move.

Still, she looked absolutely adorable, playing with her fingers, more restless than usual. With every passing second, she inched closer to you—whether it was a casual touch of hands or resting her head on your shoulder while leaning against the tree.

Luckily for her, you’ve always been the perfect example of her dream girl, and that girl knows how to read minds.

Even though you might have been enjoying the sight of your nervous, silly girlfriend figuring out how to give you the kiss she so desperately wanted, you were just as restless. You couldn’t stop thinking about kissing those lips that had captivated you from the very beginning.

As you sat in front of her, your hand resting on her cheek, your forehead gently touching hers, you quietly whispered,

“Dani, can I kiss you?”

You felt your heart pounding in your throat, while your girlfriend felt hers in the palm of her hand, ready to give it to you.

Without saying a word, she kissed you. At first, it was just a quick peck, which made you chuckle softly. But Dani swore to God that from that moment, she became addicted to your lips. That’s why she threw herself into your arms, this time giving you a long, love-filled kiss, making the rest of the world fade away.

MANON BANNERMAN...

With Manon, words were always unnecessary. She knew you as well as you knew her, and anyone could have sworn you spent most of your lives together.

That’s why the first kiss was as perfect as everything you shared.

While cooking dinner, with you doing most of the work, you just had to set the plates on the table while the oven did its job. You turned around and hugged Manon. Even though cooking was fun, especially with your girlfriend, it always left you exhausted in the end.

After a long embrace, you pulled your head from her neck and looked at her—her eyes, her cheeks, her nose, and finally, her lips. You stared at them for a few seconds before looking into her eyes. She smiled and leaned toward, kissing you.

It felt like time stood still, both of you lost in the kiss until the sound of the oven timer broke the moment, signaling that the food was ready. You pulled away with a laugh, looking at Manon, who was pouting slightly for being interrupted. You gave her a small peck on the lips, making a shy smile appear on her face as she set the plates on the table.

MEGAN SKIENDIEL...

Megan always felt shy around you. She had never felt the way you made her feel, and even the slightest touch between your hand and hers turned Megan into a mess—blushing, nervous, and even more shy than usual.

Megan is crazy about you, that much was certain. But what she was also sure of was that she had no idea how to kiss you.

The poor girl spent every day imagining different scenarios of how it might happen, but every time she saw you, she couldn’t help but turn into a bundle of nerves.

That’s why, when she sat on the couch, staring at your lips with her cheeks flushed a deep red, she knew it was the moment.

Slowly, she leaned in, searching your eyes for any sign of disapproval. All she found were eyes filled with love, sparkling and excited.

The kiss felt endless, and when she pulled away, she couldn’t help but feel embarrassed, wrapping her arms around you and hiding her face in your neck.

JEONG YOONCHAE...

Yoonchae and you were two completely lovestruck teenagers. From the very beginning, things were calm and peaceful, each step taken slowly, savoring every moment.

For both of you, this relationship thing was new, especially the kisses.

Now, Yoonchae can admit that during those moments, she overthought everything. Because as much as it was her first kiss, it was perfect, and with the person she loved.

Both of you lying in Yoonchae’s bed, cuddling and watching a romantic movie.

Neither of you needed to say anything when the main characters shared a sweet kiss under the stars. As the scene played out, you both locked eyes and shared your own soft kiss.

And when you looked at her, you felt even more in love with her (if that was even possible). Her eyes sparkling like never before and a smile stretching from ear to ear. You smiled back and kissed her cheek, while Yoonchae held you tighter. That night, you slept hugging each other, you resting on her chest, listening to her heartbeat.

we melt this love and recreate it

as we imagine it

that's how we make sunny days.

[shelleysmary]

lots of fans have made valid points and written well-thought-out posts about the trop ai drama, so i'm not gonna rehash them, but i do want to bring up something that no one seems to be talking about and it's the impulse that leads people to plug these things into ai generators in the first place.

fandom over the last year especially has become increasingly toxic to the point that actual billion-dollar corporations are afraid it. the result is subpar, pandering films, books, and television shows that break no new ground, recycle old tropes, and sacrifice story integrity to avoid catching heat from the loudest, most entitled people in the room. i'm calling this an issue of entitlement first and foremost because the idea that the audience should have any say over a non-crowd-created media project is preposterous. deciding that the cons outweigh the pros of watching something and choosing to walk away without making a fuss is a lost discipline now because everyone with an internet connection and a social media account believes that their vision reigns supreme. "how dare this show downplay my favorite ship! they were supposed to kiss! that was the whole point! the absence of this one thing i had on my wishlist is a crime against me personally!" so they turn to ai and click some buttons and now these gifs exist and are being circulated with an air of "i've righted a wrong." worse, the use of ai in this way is being conflated with the creation of fanworks???

there are reasons why i don't believe the ai saurondiel kiss is on the same raft as, say, making them kiss in a drawing or a published fanfic, but my main concern is with the spirit behind each. fanworks are made in homage to the source material, even the fix-it fics. there is an acknowledgment, a separation even, between the television show and the fanwork. this separation is necessary and i would say even integral to the nature of fan creation, while ai closes that gap until it no longer exists. the elimination of space between creator and audience also happens on social media, when disgruntled fans who have taken umbrage with a fictional character or creative decision directly harass the writers or the actors involved. more and more, fans are demanding to be in the rooms, in the minds, and to exert control over the people who tell their stories, and it has only ever worked to our collective detriment. now i'm not saying that if you liked and shared the saurondiel ai kiss that you're the same as the internet trolls who harass (mostly) women and people of color online. but i'm begging you to do some self-reflection and ask yourself why you feel entitled to seeing what you want on your screen.

what has changed in the last few years that would make you dissatisfied with, say, reading someone's fic or making your own drawing? is it a matter of "the tool is there, so why not use it?" is it "i believe it should have happened and it didn't and i feel cheated?" or maybe there's been a pattern you've noticed in your recent media "consumption" (god, i hate that word) where, unless a show or television series goes the exact way you want it to, it feels like you've been defrauded somehow? i'm not being facetious. i'm inviting you to notice that what you're feeling is probably discomfort, disappointment, maybe even cognitive dissonance because you imagined it going one way, and now you're at a loss because it didn't. you built it up in your head, you had something to look forward to, you were convinced that it would happen, it was exciting and you were so eager to get to that point, and then.... and then...

we've all been there. and it sucks. but i also want to remind you of how important it is to preserve the separation. this space is ours. the writer's room, the filming set, the editing room, those spaces are theirs. the actors' likenesses are theirs. thinking beyond trop, the separation is how we get creative works that challenge us politically, emotionally, that make us uncomfortable and tell us important truths. writers shouldn't have to - and shouldn't FULL STOP - do what we want them to do. sometimes that means knowing when to walk away, when to say "i no longer enjoy this show, i will no longer support it" or "i will continue to watch but pretend things went differently," the latter of which has been the spark that has moved so many online fans to draw, paint, write, or sew. it's a type of creation that allows "canon" and "fanon" to exist parallel to one another. moreover, the effort it takes to make anything with your own two hands, with your own time, and with your own energy increases your appreciation for the creative impulse. films and books and television stop being "products" for your "consumption" because you're aware of what goes into them, and it becomes easier to look at things you don't like or disagree with and say, "you know what, i'm gonna pass," or "not in my headcanon."

oh, and by the way plugging things into an ai generator? is theft. the same way that it's generally frowned upon for people to use ai to, say, write the rest of an unfinished fic without the express permission of the fanwork creator, using the actors' likenesses to make them kiss goes against everything the actors' union fought for last year. i'll also add that it's incredibly creepy. almost all of us are in agreement that intimacy coordinators are a good thing because they act - again! - as a separation between what's "real" and what isn't, the same way going on ao3 and reading a fic that very clearly says on the tin that it's a fanfic, unaffiliated with the official ip, is a separation. it's another beast entirely to normalize fan-use of ai, to say you support creatives, support actors, support unions, and then do this in your personal life. i repeat the question: what impulse leads anyone to believe that this is okay other than a feeling of misplaced ownership?

tl;dr: ai nonsense does not belong in fandom spaces. (in my home state of california, it is illegal to use digital replicas of an actor's voice or likeness in place of their actual services without their informed consent [which, in spirit, is what you're doing by using ai to make your gifs]). we all just need to mind our own business and go back to writing our fix-it fics and complaining to our friends in relative peace. if you're finding it impossible to do so, ask yourself why. remember that fanart is our longstanding tradition. stop outsourcing it to an unregulated technology just because your two faves didn't kiss.

[joelmillers-wife]

take my hand (joel miller x f!reader) chapter six

18+, MDNI series masterlist: here | please check this for complete series warnings and tags pairing: joel miller x f!reader chapter summary: your mind a mess of conflicting thoughts and feelings, you find solace in an unexpected person wc: 3.3k rating: this story is 18+ (minors, do not interact), there will be eventual smut in later chapters  chapter warnings and tags: cursing and tlou lore accurate outbreak content below, maria and tommy family time, talk of feelings, angst-ish, fluff-ish, brief mentions of the loss of children, (there’s no joel in this one I’M SORRY), reader has no description besides she has hair, jackson!joel, age difference: reader is in her 30s and joel is in his 50s, sloooow burn a/n: a short, early surprise chapter :) ao3 | follow @writtenbynic and turn on notifications for chapters! dividers made by: @saradika-graphics , check them out!

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VI. UNDER PRESSURE

'Cause love's such an old-fashioned word And love dares you to care for The people on the (People on streets) edge of the night And love (People on streets) dares you to change our way of Caring about ourselves

Winter had come and gone, and you had figured that spending two winters in Jackson would get you used to the cold, but it did not. Somehow it felt more brutal than the last, as if the weather evolved each year as the infection would—a constant mutating monster that got worse as time went on. 

With the spring, your plans to build that garden in your backyard were brought to life—Joel still being a part of that plan. You constantly reassured him he was not obligated to help, but you were always met with the same response. “I wanna help. Let me do this.”

Because, despite the seasons changing, Joel’s presence around you did not waver. He had kept good on his promise to fix that broken light in your house. And that one chance that he got to fix something inside your house only invited him to work on other things inside. You didn’t want to feel as if you were complaining—you appreciated the help and the company, and figured these were just things he had to do to keep himself busy when he had free time. 

You just couldn’t shake some feeling inside you, a feeling you still couldn’t quite place. People’s comments on Joel being around you had burrowed under your skin and created a warm and unpleasant pit in your stomach, making you try to figure out why him being around you made you feel so odd all of a sudden. Why people noticing this makes you feel weird.

Regardless, the time you spent together in your home only grew as you would offer him meals or to stay for a drink after work was done. He never let you pay him directly for the help by doing something for him in return, but you still wanted to give him something to reciprocate his kindness. 

“Don’t worry, darlin’. You don’t ever gotta owe me anythin’,” he’d say.

And, yeah. That word has still stuck around when he speaks to you—another thing that made you feel… warm. That pit in your stomach only started to grow until it ended up keeping you awake for longer than your usual anxiety kept you. 

You couldn’t figure out what to do with it—how to fix it. The first place your mind went to was asking Tommy about it, leaning into the fact that he would know why Joel is like this more than anyone, but the idea of that didn’t sit right. It felt odd going to Tommy for something so personal that regards his brother, and you definitely couldn’t go to Ellie about it. So, that left you with one last person you thought could help.

You shuffle back and forth on your feet as you stand waiting for the front door to open after knocking. As a few seconds pass, your insecurity begins brewing. This was a stupid idea… What the fuck were you thinking? 

Quickly, you decide that no one is probably home and turn to leave, when you hear a noise behind the door before it opens.

You twist your body back to face the door, one foot already backed up ready to leave. Maria stands there looking surprised, but not upset at your appearance before speaking your name, her voice lifting up at the end in question.

“Hey,” you breathe out, suddenly unsure of your decision to come here. “Is, uh—is Tommy home?”

She looks out behind you before saying, “No, I’m sorry, honey, you just missed him. He went out in town to get Benjamin some fresh air while I worked on some things at home. He should be back in an hour if you wanted to wait here?”

You shake your head gently. “Oh, no that’s alright. I actually, um… I wanted to talk to you on your own for a bit. Only if you aren’t too busy.”

Her eyebrows raise momentarily before a warm smile appears on her face. That’s why you wanted to come to her, you realize—her natural ability to make you feel safe.

“Not at all. I need a break from working on these damn blueprints,” Maria says before gesturing to you to come in. “Please, come in and make yourself comfortable.”

Maria steps aside a bit, allowing you the space to walk inside before she shuts the door softly behind you. A brief touch on your shoulder as she passes by indicates for you to begin following her into the living area, where you find papers laying out on the coffee table.

“Do you want me to make you any tea or coffee?” She offers.

“Tea, please,” you say with a grateful smile. She nods once before turning into the kitchen to make the drinks. Taking a second to look around while nervously fidgeting with your hands, your body gravitates to the fireplace mantle where a small chalkboard is placed in the center of the shelf. Written on the board are the names Kevin and Sarah, with the respective dates below it—the memorial of their lives. 

Maria had spoken about her son before the outbreak, Kevin, and you of course knew of Sarah. You remember the first time you came here, you didn’t know about Joel’s daughter, and assumed the memorial was some family member to either Tommy or Maria, considering you never took a closer look at the dates out of respect. Now, knowing what you do, the sight of the board makes your heart ache.

You’ve been over here a few times before—enjoying dinners with the couple and their child, or coming over for small meetings with some other members of the community. You just couldn’t recall a time where you spoke only with Maria, let alone about matters that didn’t regard things in town.

The sound of the tea kettle whistling grabs your attention, and you walk into the kitchen to find Maria preparing the mugs for the two of you. Hearing your presence, she turns around briefly to smile at you, gesturing at the table for you to sit down. 

“Make yourself at home. Sorry for the mess,” she says, referring to the array of blueprints and clipboards sprawled across the dining table, similar to the living room table. “We’ve been needing to build a lot more houses and space recently with all the newcomers. I thank God for marrying an ex-contractor, and getting my brother-in-law, even if he pisses me off most of the time.”

You chuckle softly at Maria’s teasing talk of Joel—the mention of him bringing a smile to your face without even thinking, before the same feeling in your gut warns again and you’re reminded of why you are here.

As you move to sit down at one of the seats, Maria brushes away some of the papers to make room for the two of you. She makes her way over to the fridge, asking, “Are you a milk or honey person with your tea?”

“Milk, please, and sugar if you have it.”

A soft nod can be seen from behind her as she pulls the milk jug and begins to prepare the tea for the two of you. 

Rounding the table to set one down in front of your seat before settling herself in the chair across from you, she asks you, “Is everything okay? Is there an issue with your house or something with the work?” 

You quickly settle her concern. “No, everything is perfect with that, thank you.” You look down to your mug, rubbing your fingers over the handle of it as your nerves take over more and that insecurity begins to build again.

God… Why does this feel so awkward?

“I actually—I wanted to talk to you about something a bit more… personal, I suppose.”

A slight look of shock fills her features before it gets overtaken with a more serious expression—Maria sitting up straighter in her chair and leaning her arms on the table to show you she’s paying attention. The sight calms you a bit as you recognize that same trusting, yet stern, look she had given you that first day in Jackson. “Of course, sweetheart. You can share anything you’d like, whenever you’re ready.”

Her reassurance washes over you, quieting the noise in your mind and calming the anxiety brewing in you. It’s the push you need before sighing and blurting it out.

“Why does Joel always spend time with me?”

Maria doesn’t react at first, before doing a double take, tilting her head towards you with confusion. “I’m sorry, what?”

You sigh before looking back down to your mug, tracing your fingers over the ridges from the floral design surrounding it, before all the words you’ve had trapped inside you just comes out. 

“He, recently, is always at my house. He started doing it by saying that Ellie would tell him about things I need fixed at my house—stuff in my yard or front porch. But then, at the Christmas party, I told Ellie thanks for letting him know, and she said she didn’t bring anything up.”

You look down, frowning at the mug in your hand as you recall Ellie’s words. “She said that Joel would tell her about things he noticed regarding me. And a little before that night, people in town were whispering and giggling over Joel being around me a lot, saying that he’s always near. I didn’t believe that, but then when Ellie told me that stuff, I realized that he really does kinda just… show up? I mean I don’t think I’m bothered by it. Just that… I don’t know, it feels weird for some reason. And I didn’t know who to talk to about it because it felt weird to go to Tommy or Ellie with this, and you’re the only other person I think would know him the most. And… frankly, you’re someone I trust the most around here.” 

Taking a deep breath after the end of your rambling, the trembling feeling that’s been growing in you for months seems to settle into an afterthought—as if voicing everything has brought you a sense of peace, even if briefly.

You look up to face Maria again, but the reaction you see isn’t one you were expecting. Her brows were completely shot up, eyes slightly wide and her lips parted open and twitching up a bit at the corners.

Great. She was laughing at you.

Filled with embarrassment, you shake your head and move to get up. “I’m sorry, this was dumb, I shouldn’t have—”

Maria straightens up and grabs your arm to keep you seated, shaking her head. “Sweetie, no, I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you. I promise.”

Still uneasy, you feel tense as you wait to see what she has to say, hesitantly lowering yourself back into your seat, bracing your mind for whatever words she has to say. Your body sinks into the chair, as if you want to burrow deep into the wood and away from this moment.

Maria slouches back into her seat almost comically and looks off to the side, softly huffing out a laugh before turning to look at you. “Joel—oh god, um… Joel, from what I know of him, struggles with showing people he cares.” She pauses to look at you, her eyebrows raised and head tilted in hopes that you understand what she’s trying to say. 

You shake your head, feeling clueless. “I… I mean I knew that, but… what does that have to do with me?”

She smiles and sighs, closing her eyes briefly to formulate her words. “The only two people I’ve seen Joel be comfortable around are Tommy and Ellie. Even then, there’s this wall between him and them—thin, almost as if it’s through a veil. Something that slightly clouds the vulnerability between him and the ones closest to him.”

Maria frowns for a moment, but her face shifts into something resembling sympathy. “No one here in town has had a conversation longer than a few minutes with Joel before—me included. Our talks are strictly business or cordial. Now he knows I’m not the biggest fan of him and his… past, but I know when he does care because I see him with that little girl or my husband. Joel shows his love for those two by doing things for them or getting gifts he thinks that Ellie would like.”

You wait a moment for her to continue, but she just looks at you expectantly, as if you were meant to catch on by now. That was true, you suppose—you’ve seen Joel go out of his way to get things to make Ellie happy, or do things that contribute to the community simply because Tommy and Maria asked of him. 

That was expected, though. He loves them—they’re his family. 

Your thoughts leading you nowhere, you shake your head slowly at Maria in confusion until she reaches over to grab your hand. Cautiously, as if unsure how to speak to you, Maria asks, “Honey… have you ever liked someone?”

Your confusion only deepens as you try to piece together why she asked that. “Of course I have. I like many people here.”

Her lips quirk up again. “I mean, have you ever liked someone? Romantically?”

Oh.

Your eyes widen. No… this isn’t that. 

She speaks up before your anxiety takes over completely, her hands held out in front of her cautiously as if trying to calm a wild animal. “There’s nothing wrong with that, I promise. I’m not saying that you necessarily have those feelings for Joel, but more so that I think he has feelings for you. I just don’t think he knows how to show it.”

You look back down to the mug in front of you, trying to focus on the swirling patterns the milk has made with the tea—trying to focus on anything to distract from whatever the fuck is running through your mind.

Maria speaks your name softly, making you force yourself to look at her. “When you said it makes you feel weird, is it like there’s butterflies in your stomach?” She asks.

“More like a blizzard.”

She lets out a laugh. “Oh I know that feeling all too well,” she says, before her face settles into a more serious expression. “I think you may like Joel in the same way that I think he likes you. You don’t need to do anything with that right now, though. If you aren’t sure what is going on then you do not need to rush and figure it out. I’m just offering what I think is happening and what it may mean.”

You take in her words and consider what you know about romantic feelings—a crush, as you have heard. She wasn’t wrong to ask if you ever felt something like that before, because… you haven’t. The state of life made the notion of a crush not be something that had ever crossed your mind. It was almost a fairytale. Something that always felt so out of reach—not something tangible to you. It makes sense that you wouldn’t recognize what the feeling was yourself, let alone know what it looked like on someone else. 

You briefly recall some moments that happened when you had first arrived in Jackson, a few instances at the mess hall or bar where men had come up to talk to you. You had taken it as them being polite to newcomers, but the giggling and whispering from other women around had made you feel uneasy. Embarrassingly, the person who had to tell you what their real intentions were, was the damn teenager you had befriended. 

“Dude. You’re hot. They’re flirting with you. Come on,” Ellie would say. The realization made you feel odd and caused you to avoid interacting with them for too long, coming up with an excuse to leave. It hadn’t happened for the past few months though, thank god—

Oh, fuck.

Your eyes widen as you realize something while sitting there processing what Maria had said. Those moments with the men in town had stopped a few months ago… when Joel and you had become friends.

He’s always near you.

Maria notices your expression and gives you a knowing smile. “I know, sweetheart. I’m sorry to have thrown this at you at once.”

Shaking your head, you tell her, “No this… this isn’t your fault. I mean, thank you, ya know, for telling me all this in the first place.”

Her hand soothingly rubs up and down your arm that plays on the table. “Of course. I hope you know you can come to me about anything like this whenever, okay?”

You subconsciously nod at her, your mind still reeling with all the thoughts racing through you as you try to piece everything together.

The sound of the front door opening pulls you away from your thoughts, causing you to straighten up and look more present.

You hear the sounds of a child giggling before you see Tommy appear in the doorway with Benjamin held on his hip. He looks at his wife with a smile before his gaze lands on you with a surprised expression. “Hey, m’sorry to barge in—didn’t know it was a girls day today.”

Maria laughs before standing up and collecting your two now-empty mugs, bringing them over to the kitchen counter. “No worries, honey. Seems like my mind was read by her because she gave me a much needed break,” you hear her voice travel as she walks. 

You stand from your seat as you get ready to head out. “Yeah, sorry… I should’ve given you a heads up before coming over. I don’t mean to keep you too long while you’re busy.”

Walking back into the dining area, Maria shakes her head. “Believe me, you do not need to ever apologize for stopping by.” She gives you a pointed look, with understanding in her eyes. “You’re always more than welcome here. We appreciate the company, truly.”

Tommy gives you a nod as well, silently reaffirming the sincerity that Maria conveyed to you. You take a second to look at them in front of you—Tommy holding their son while looking at Maria lovingly. The ease they both share around each other. The home they’ve built together, both physically and emotionally. 

It makes your throat tighten for a moment, taking in their words as they offer you the right to be a part of their lives so openly. It’s a feeling of comfort you haven’t had in a long time, and one you didn’t think you were deserving of—one you didn’t even think was possible for you in this lifetime. A fairytale.

Maria looks at you for confirmation that you believe her, you nod your head with a small smile—your eyes watery. “Thank you, Maria.” She returns your smile before offering for you to stay for a bit while Tommy makes dinner.

“No, thank you. I told myself I’d get some organizing done on my few days off, so I need to get back home to do that.”

She nods in understanding and walks you over to the door, stopping to hug Tommy and say your goodbyes to him and Benjamin on the way.

As you reach the door where Maria waits for you, you give her a hug as well when she leans in to whisper in your ear. “You tell me if you need anything in this situation—I happen to be sorta good at giving love advice.” She pulls away with a soft smirk before her face hardens, transitioning into one more serious.

“And just… be careful when it comes to him, alright?”

You pull away from her, the last thing she said confusing you for a moment as your eyebrows lightly twitching. Not mentioning it, you quietly thank her again for the advice and say goodbye to her before heading outside.

That word she had said before you left, love, ringing in your ears the whole walk home. With it, the idea of that fairytale begins to fill your mind and slip into your dreams.

a/n: surprise! wanted to post this short chapter before I post chapter seven this saturday, hope you guys enjoy <3

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[yutarot]

SHES THE MAN [l.hc smau]

23 - i guess we both had our secrets. wc: 1k

TBU campus — 11:07am

the past few weeks had gone slowly. it had taken you a while to get back into the routine of your old life, no esports, no ncu and no haechan.

just you, your friends and this horrible sinking feeling in your stomach.

you miss him more than you’ll ever admit to ten or yourself. but there is nothing you can do but watch, as days pass, in fear that you’ll forget all the memories you made with him. whether they were classed as real memories or not, you struggle to decipher, but considering the ache that you feel in remembering them, you decide that you can cherish them as if they were.

this morning was just another morning, leaving your dorm with ningning and making your way to classes. the campus always seemed so fresh, so new, and you hated the way that, with every corner you turn, you risk the chances of bumping into the one person you do not want to see.

eric sohn.

somehow, you’ve avoided him ever since ami revealed your secret. but you know that the moment you see him, he’s not going to let you go peacefully.

it had taken a while for people on campus to come to terms with what had happened. luckily, most people found it hilarious, patting you on the back when they saw you, congratulating you for doing what you wanted and nearly getting away with it.

you hang on to that ‘nearly’, clutching onto the possibility of what it might’ve been if you were never exposed.

your thoughts are interrupted.

“meet me back here at 1?” ningning asks, referring to you both having to split to go to seperate buildings at this point. you nod at her before making your way to the biology block.

if only you knew that you would never make it.

because, standing in your direct line of sight is not only the man you least want to see, but there he is, staring directly at you.

and he’s grinning.

you want to turn away, you really do, you’ve been dreading this interaction for weeks. but you keep walking forward until your face to face with him, your legs moving you out of curiosity and perhaps madness.

“hi yn.” he says. your glad he’s not got any of his friends with him, you couldn’t think of anything worse than having sunwoo laugh in your face.

“hi eric.”

“so, NCU huh?”

oh god.

“ye-“

“you know, i had my suspicions about you after seeing you help haechan out of that party, wasn’t very stranger-like of you.”

you stay silent. you know what question he’s going to ask next, and there’s nothing you can do to prepare yourself for the sting it’s going to hit you with.

“did he know you were lying directly to his face about who you were the entire fucking time?”

there it is.

you’re annoyed, “why do you care?” you say, but he only scoffs.

he’s smug, and you hate it. “all of that, for me? wow yn, you must have really hurt their feelings when you left. i’m curious, were you planning to tell them, ever? or were you just expecting to disappear out of nowhere? thinking no one would notice?”

there’s a sinister tone to his voice that confuses you. why is he asking so many irrelevant questions? why is he not asking you what happened?

but then, it hits you.

“you were behind it, all of it.”

his creeping smile answers your question before he can even open his mouth.

“hmmm and what do you mean by it?”

you hate how happy he is, you hate how much he’s smiling.

“you told ami that chenle had been away. you’d found out somehow, and you’d told her.”

he shrugged, “all it took was $20 in hyunjaes hand and he was happy to hack into chenles phone to send a text to ami. you should have known that younghoon was in the same basketball team as chenle, not my fault.”

“you’re sick.”

“i guess we both had our secrets.”

you’re appalled at how right he is, you had been stupid, you’d overlooked all the small details and you’d missed out on everything that was looking you directly in the face. eric beating up haechan unprovoked? him attacking haechan in the fortnite tournament? this entire time, he wasn’t trying to mess with haechan, he was trying to mess with you, and you just let it all happen because you turned a blind eye to the fact that he might have known. he had no reason for attacking chenle and the ncu team, unless he knew that it was never really chenle at all.

“you knew the whole time?”

he raises his eyebrows, smugness in his eyes that doesn’t cease to make you feel nauseous. “well, you helping haechan at the party was the main giveaway, why else do you think i started punching him in the first place?”

“you were trying to confirm it for yourself… to see if i would go over to help him…”

“oh you really are smart yn!”

you hate eric, in this moment and forever. he had planned this all perfectly from the beginning, disguising his hatred for you as hatred for haechan. and haechan didn’t deserve a single ounce of that hate.

you did.

you hate that it all could have worked out, you could have stayed in the team and you could have beat tbu. but it’s because of your own stupidity that you let eric find out everything.

and haechan. oh how you wish you could find him and apologise for everything, you wish you could go back to the very beginning, never get yangyangs twitter, never dm him and never accept that first game request from haechan.

this was all a horrible, horrible mistake.

and it’s all your fault.

so all you can do is walk away. that’s all you seem to ever do.

you walk, and you walk and you walk.

[m.list] [next]

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[anotheroceanid]

(Just me rambling)

As a person who really dislikes AI, I particularly think that Ai chats being one of the few corners of the internet where there are no ads being constantly shoved onto our faces is the reason why people got so quickly addicted to it.

Since we’re living in a period in which economy got so bad that people don’t have time connect with actual human beings, and are resorting into parasocial relationships with people on the internet that live the life their followers want to live but can never bcs common people are becoming poorer every day, talking to a robot that listens and helps you but is not (directly) selling you anything might be refreshing.

Besides, the whole “give chat gpt all chores you have” for me is a side effect of the constant exploitation of workers. Of course they’ll rather have a robot writing their emails, their burned out and every minute they don’t have to think is a relief.

But as people get more dependent on it, they unlearn to do basic things. I’m not even gonna enter in the way AI ruins creative spaces, but we’re already seeing people who can’t do anything without AI. In a few years, how will this impact our lives?

We already know that people on internet are so addicted to their algorithms, that they can’t pass through anything that they don’t agree without making a scene. People are already acting like everything they interact is somehow about them, and it can only get worse since now their number one companion is a robot who says whatever they want to hear.

Little by little, ai is destroying people’s thinking skills, their criticism, their common sense, their creativity, their social abilities… But everyone is too overworked to have these talks.