#completely alternate things. i think its neat!

[bmpmp3]

really adore that thing some early voltage inc games did where they just used the same boys for two separate games. the guys in my sweet bodyguard and also her love in the force. yamato had a whole different situation going on in my wedding and 7 rings than he did in my forged wedding. i wish they kept it up, if i was an otome game dev i would do that all the time

[jaeminvore]

Credit Card Baby | Z.CL

“Who do I gotta fuck for barricade tickets to Sabrina Carpenter around here?”

PAIRING: Chenle x Fem!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Four days, three broke girls, two possible outcomes, and one solution. What are you willing to sacrifice in exchange for a night seeing a long-awaited Juno pose five feet away from your eyeballs? Your dignity, probably because it just so happens that one (1) Chenle Zhong could be the solution to your current girl problem. Only, you don’t really do well with charity. Nothing in life was free and everything had a price, but Chenle likes to think differently—that he's simply helping a friend out. Like the many times he did before. There should be sugar-daddy-sugar-baby joke around here somewhere.

alternatively: ‘three dumb bitches telling each other ‘exactlyyyy’.’ — ‘A sugar-daddy (kinda) au with no age-gap, but with a financial gap that no one asked for’.

WORD COUNT: 15.5K

NOTE: first Chenle fic kinda nervous but also excited because I've been wanting to write for pookie for a loooong long while!! So I gathered all the remaining brain cells I have and came up with this hot garbage (affectionate). This is legitimately the most unserious piece of fiction I’ve written so far, so if you’re in the mood for some fun and entertainment centered around vibes n mild-horniness you’ve come to the right place! The title comes from a song with the same title which is funny to me because the song itself (Credit Card Baby by Wham!) is the complete opposite of the story I'm telling here LMAO

CONTENT TAGS & WARNINGS: mildly suggestive themes (as in, there's very little implication to sex and masturbation here if it bothers anybody. Just to put it out there so proceed with caution), crude jokes and language, crack treated seriously, comedy, college au, fluff, friends to a secret third thing, sugar daddy au (kinda), Chenle majors in business, MC majors in architecture, everyone yaps a lot... for some reason, Chenle’s also a micro-celebrity (streams and posts on TikTok), brief discussion of OnlyFans, but I am in no way encouraging it.

DISCLAIMER: none of this is meant to represent anyone in real life. This is purely fictional and for entertainment purposes only.

According to an article you’d come across, an OnlyFans creator earned an average of one-hundred-eighty dollars a month. Multiply that four or five times, you’d have enough for one ticket.

“Alright,” you sighed, bringing your knees up as your eyes glued to what laid out in a neat pile right before you and the girls you lived with. “how much do we have all together?”

“Twenty-seven dollars and thirty cents. One banana flavored condom. Three sticks of gum—a chewed piece of gum, ew—a crumpled tissue and a… hairball.”

Jesus. This was getting ridiculous.

“Fantastic!” You clapped, looking at both girls with a wide smile and desperate eyes. “Anything else?”

“A maxed out credit card,” Minjeong sniffed as she threw the offending piece of useless plastic onto the pathetic pile. “That’s all we have to our names combined. We��re broke as shit.”

No, really. You had everything you needed for a flourishing career of flashing your nether regions to the world behind a paywall.

A laptop with a webcam. A pretty face. A small collection of toys. Very small. A pink two-in-one vibrating dildo the girls had gotten you as a gag gift for your birthday still in its packaging type of small. Vaguely resembling a swirly ice pop you’d get on a hot summer day, and you had lovingly named it ‘Pinky’ before it had gotten shoved into the depths of your drawer, never to be seen again.

Your imaginary audience probably wouldn't mind, right? So long as they’d get an eyeful of a pretty girl playing out starved men’s depraved fantasies.

Then again, the idea didn’t seem too hard in theory considering how far gooners were willing to throw a couple of dollars for a  five seconds long clip. They wouldn’t even notice the difference between an overexaggerated moan resembling a cat’s mating yowl and a genuine moan of pleasure, far too busy jerking it until their keyboards were dank from their own mess. You’d be earning enough to broaden your pathetic sex toy collection.

Simple-minded people were easy customers and you sure had no problems capitalizing off of that.

It was a good plan. A perfect long-term plan even, if it didn’t earn less than minimum wage and if you weren’t racing against time.

“This sucks,” Yizhuo whined, throwing her head back and staring forlornly at the ceiling. “Where the hell are we gonna get that kind of money in four days?”

Minjeong raised a groomed eyebrow. “Can’t you ask your parents? Say it’s an emergency or something.”

Yizhuo’s head lolled to the side, frowning at her. “They still have me cut off, remember?”

And the thought wasn’t just devastating to Yizhuo who, up until a few months ago, had been living the life of a spoiled princess with the world right in the palms of her dainty, never-worked-in-her-life hands. Naturally, being the closest to Yizhuo where you all were practically sisters, you and Minjeong were tangled up in the punishment as well. That meant leeching off of her and her unlimited access to her parents’ money was ineffective until she learned her lesson. 

After all, she was the reason why you and Minjeong had a roof above your head because apparently buying a house out-of-pocket was much more cost-efficient than renting, leaving you girls the responsibility of paying for groceries and sparing you just enough to spend for personal items. Yizhuo handled the rest as she had become somewhat of a sugar mommy.

“Apparently Daddy thought I was being very irresponsible with their money.” Yizhuo rolled her eyes. “Whatever that means—that I spend most of my time shopping rather than studying, which is so stupid when I already know the business like I know Daddy’s card details by heart! Why should I go to university when I’m set for life?”

She had gotten a job a week after spending what was left of her savings in a fit of panic. Lavishly, one could say, where the amount of clothes, bags, makeup and accessories had your eyes bugging out at the exorbitant prices printed on each receipt. Minjeong hadn’t been responsive all throughout. You didn’t think she was breathing either when she stared hard at a receipt from Prada.

Lucky for Yizhuo, Minjeong’s job at a thrift store had recently let go one of their former employees after her boss had caught them doing lines in the break room.

It was perfect for Yizhuo, low effort as she’d be manning the cashier and would occasionally keep the racks in stock. And best of all, she won’t be alone. She’d be with Minjeong which also came as a relief to you since it was a huge adjustment from not lifting a finger all her years on Earth thus far, to suddenly contributing enough to keep your mouths fed for at least twice a day.

“Wow,” Minjeong drawled, “your life must be so hard.”

“Ugh,” Yizhou groused, crossing her arms as she leaned against the foot of the couch with a moue reminding you of a spoiled child being told ‘no’. “You don’t even know.”

Judging by the look on Minjeong’s face, she was not having Yizhou’s tone-deafness in the slightest, and while you silently shared the sentiment—that the youngest of the household could have refrained from flaunting her privileged life, you didn’t want any casualties that could potentially turn into a court case. Because as sweet as Yizhuo was, she could be just as evil and vindictive to anyone that wronged her in some way.

“At least your parents let us keep the house,” you joked, patting Yizhuo’s knee with a smile. She at least appeared genuinely apologetic by the situation. “Any ideas on how we could get at least fifteen hundred dollars for three barricade tickets in”—you glanced at your calendar app—“four days?”

“Girl, you are asking for a goddamn miracle,” Minjeong sighed, “even Jesus took three days to resurrect.”

You nodded sagely and added, “took him six days to create the world,” which got a confused noise from Yizhuo.

“I thought it took seven?”

Minjeong shook her head. “No. He rested on the seventh day. Didn’t you go to Sunday School?”

“Not really. I barely lasted half a day.”

Well, all of you were definitely losing the plot here, quoting holy scripture, or whatever, but Minjeong was right; none of you were divine beings capable of pulling miracles out of your proverbial asses in time when the goddamn concert was in four days.

One could argue that you were given a long enough timeframe to save up for pre-sale, but when you had a friend like nepo-baby heiress Yizhuo Ning who had connections everywhere, it was guaranteed that you'll get the best seats at a concert of a big-named artist with her influence regardless of the limited time frame. Perhaps backstage passes if Yizhuo liked them enough. And she liked this one. A lot. She could never resist Sabrina Carpenter’s big blue eyes and bouncy blonde curls.

So, no. None of you had the forethought of pulling out the ‘Saving Up For A Concert For Dummies’ manual. Not when you had Yizhuo and her endless pockets full of hard cash to fall back onto.

Then she lost access (temporarily) to the Ning family vault, with barely anything saved up from her job because her spending problem wouldn’t vanish with just a snap of her father’s fingers, apparently. Now here you were: sitting in a circle on the plush, mauve, floral embossed carpeting that must have costed a fortune with crumpled dollar bills and junk you found deep in your purses like you were all trying out a crude summoning ritual for fat wads of cash.

Nothing could get worse than this. You’ve been through worse than this.

“We could sell feet pics?”

“Hell no. Feet freak me the fuck out,” Minjeong shivered.

You plucked the condom from the pile and lifted it up at face-level. “Would a used condom sell a lot to some weirdo freak out there?”

“Maybe,” Yizhuo replied the same time Minjeong said, in absolute disbelief that one of you would ever think of something so unhygienic, “I wouldn’t know, I’m a lesbian.”

“Yeah, no.” You wrinkled your nose. “You would not catch me pulling out a condom with some guy’s jizz in it from the trash. Ew.”

“How about a sugar daddy?”

“Eh. I’m not really into older men.”

“You saying you wouldn’t let the guy who played M-C-U Bucky Barnes hit?”

“Oh sure,” you said, sarcasm dripping thickly with each word that followed, “let me just hit up my buddy, my pal, Sebastian Stan on Instagram. Maybe I should call his phone number too! Y’know, the number that I don’t have.”

“Okay, sheesh. You don’t need to be so mean about it,” Minjeong mumbled.

“Oh! OnlyFans!” Yizhuo suggested with reverence as if she figured out how to attain world peace, earnest as her eyes rounded with excitement. “I’ve heard plenty of success stories. It can’t be too hard for any of us.”

A beat of silence, and then—

“Not it!” Minjeong exclaimed, touching the pad of her index finger to the tip of her nose.

“Not it!” came Yizhuo’s shrill voice a close second, copying Minjeong.

“Not it—fuck!” you wailed, half from being the sacrificial lamb and half because you smacked yourself in the fucking face from momentary panic which the girls didn’t seem to catch, too busy shrieking and hugging each other in relief. “No fair.”

“Oh, I think it’s plenty fair,” Minjeong shrugged, pressing her cheek against Yizhuo’s. “You were just slow.”

“And if anything, this’ll be easy for you!” Yizhuo cheered.

“Easy? okay—this“—you motioned wildly to your own body—“isn’t for the masses.”

Minjeong snorted. “Oh, sure. Tell that to the three guys you keep on rotation.”

“They’re just three guys. God forbid a girl has a healthy sex-life,” you whined. It was either wither away when you weren’t agonizing over your Architectural Design course—any of your courses, really—or fuck around with the guys you’ve met through mutual friends as your mode of relief.  “and why does it have to be me? I’m sure either of you could pull off being an O-F model.”

“One,” Minjeong raised a finger, “don’t ever call me that. Even if it’s in a hypothetical sense. And two, the thought of men being the majority of my audience unnerves me. I don’t think you could make it so only women could see me, so fuck that.”

“Fine. I’ll allow it.” You turned to Yizhuo with an expectant look. “What about you?”

She returned it with an unimpressed one, bordering on disbelief the longer you stared at her, waiting to say her piece.

“You’re kidding, right?” No, you were not. Was there a joke hidden in those three words forming a question? Not that you knew of, so you gestured for Yizhuo to get on with the program. “I’m like, the last person you should send to the wolves.”

“Why not?” You pouted. “You’re like, the most charismatic of us three. Got a pretty face too, if that wasn’t obvious enough.”

“Uh-huh, yeah—calling me pretty won’t change my mind,” Yizhuo said, firm and that meant she won’t tolerate any more of your pushing, yet the pretty blush tinting her cheeks told you enough that you almost got through her. “I’m an heiress to one of the largest Chinese conglomerates back home. How’d you think that would look for me?”

Bad, I’m guessing, and you knew this first-hand. 

There was an approximate six-thousand mile distance from where Yizhuo was brought up to where all three of you resided, yet that didn’t stop the Chinese media from getting their updates on how Yizhuo Ning was faring as an international college student.

You had a few run-ins with the paparazzi just dying to get dirt on Harbin’s sweetheart, fought with some too which had caused quite a buzz on both Weibo and Xiaohongshu when pictures of Yizhuo stumbling down the stairs of a frat house, looking drop-dead gorgeous were shared. No one could tell she was barely clinging onto sobriety. Or that she had already emptied her stomach twice in one of Sigma Chi’s bathrooms and a plant that surely had seen better days being under the care of jaunty frat boys who barely knew the concept of photosynthesis.

There was also a handful of you elbowing one of the paparazzi in the face when they had gotten too close. Your face, thankfully, had been blurred out. Same with Minjeong’s who had been trying her absolute damndest to keep you from getting aggravated assault charges while being tipsy herself.

If they had somehow caught wind of Yizhuo being involved in something so obscene—and you knew they would eventually—her life would be over. And yours. And Minjeong’s, because God forbid her parents might as well treat you as their own children with how often their darling daughter talked about you during their weekly check-up calls.

“And my parents would literally kill me if they found out their only daughter isn’t as virginal as they thought!”

“But you haven’t been a virgin since sophomore year.”

Yizhuo rolled her eyes. “They don’t know that, obviously.”

“And so that leaves me to be the breadwinner of this fucking household,” you said, heaving a conceding sigh. “God I hate you rich people.”

“I know you do. You say ‘eat the rich’ at least three times a day like it’s ‘grace’.” Yizhuo didn’t even sound remotely annoyed by your diss, basking in the relief of not taking your place and sacrificing her dignity. “It’s just until we get the tickets. Then you can be boring and gate-keep yourself until we have to slut you out again.”

“My body is a temple,” you said, feigning offense as you crossed your arms, cupping your breasts in a protective hold while Minjeong cackled. “Besides, OnlyFans might be easy on paper, but executing it? Four days won’t be enough. There are many factors involved and engagement won’t be that easy from how oversaturated it is. I’d be a no name. It’d probably take me months to get the amount we need and Miss ‘have you ever tried this one?’ would be in Europe by then.”

“And you did the math for that?”

“Only since we took all the shit out of our purses.”

“Right, because you always do the math for everything.”

“It’s a reflex.” You shrugged. You could even say it had been ingrained in you, haunted by the fact you almost failed Calculus I. You struggled less with it now, spending all summer drilling numerous Youtube tutorials into your brain and electing one of your classmates as your tutor. “How do you think we’ve survived this long without your parents’ money?”

Yizhuo shrugged. “Fair enough. Nerd.”

She gets a pillow to the face for that.

“Well,” you said with a clap. “If that’s all, I gotta go in”—you glanced at your watch and then panicked as you scrambled to get up—“five minutes ago. Fuck, I’m gonna be late!” The pop in your knees made you wince when getting on your two feet, making a bee-line towards your bedroom and stumbling over Minjeong’s thighs in the process.

“For a dick appointment?” 

“If you count AutoCad fucking up my chances for a four-point-oh, then sure.”

So maybe you had lied about the dick appointment, but in your defense, you actually had shit to do.

It just so happened Renjun also majored in Architecture, and that you shared all of your classes with him because if you were walking into five years of hell, you sure as hell weren’t going to suffer alone. You were simply hitting two birds with one stone.

If only those two hypothetical birds you hypothetically murdered coughed up fat wads of cash enough for three tickets, then you’d be set.

You let out a defeated sigh. “I need fifteen hundred bucks.”

Renjun, who just got back from a shower, blinked at the bold request.

“Say that again? You need how much?”

“Fifteen hundred bucks,” you repeated.

Renjun's face twisted as he stuck his pinky into his ear and wiggled it around. “I’m definitely hearing things ‘cause there’s no way.”

You rolled your neck to blankly stare at him. “I can say it again in Mandarin, if you want.”

“Please don’t,” Renjun shook his head, not minding that you were trying really hard to set him on fire with your eyes. “That’s like, using what I taught you for evil.”

“Well that’s too damn bad,” and you repeated what you said in near flawless Mandarin.

The conversation should have ended there. He just had the most underwhelming orgasm to-date due to whatever weird headspace you were in throughout your—ahem—session that made it less passionate and more robotic, but getting blue-balled was considerably worse than having to act as your last-minute financial adviser.

He simply could ignore anything that had just left your mouth when your attention was set onto the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to his ceiling, but the unfortunate thing was that Renjun was nothing but indulgent at the moment. 

Dregs of lust in his brain prevented any of his usual no-nonsense approach and it certainly didn’t help that he could never say no to a girl—a pretty girl, no less—no matter how insufferable they were. Specifically you with his sheets wrapped around your still naked body. Renjun was still a man, and his IQ could still lose a few points if a girl so much looked his way.

Since you were both things, a girl and pretty, he calmly graced your dilemma with an answer.

“I can only give you orgasms, I’m afraid.” He said with a pout you knew was meant to be patronizing, mocking almost, especially with a detached lilt to his voice.

This wasn’t new to you as it was one of his methods to get under your skin. He knew you hated it, and you could definitely tell he’d prefer to discuss something else. Or nothing at all, but he had already poked the bear which meant he had to listen to you whinge until you either 1.) get it out of your system yourself or 2.) or he did something about it, and Renjun knew exactly the choice he made, yet that obviously didn’t work.

“What’s the fifteen hundred for anyway?” he conceded, barely tampering down the reluctance of circling back on your current financial struggles while rubbing his hair dry.

“Barricade tickets to Sabrina Carpenter,” you said shifting onto your side so you could face him properly. “VIP too if possible. For me, Ningning and Minjeong.”

He closed his eyes, jaw clenching. Saying other girls’ names post-coitus should be considered an act of violation or something, but he digressed.

“I thought Yizhuo got you tickets already?” His eyes snapped open to regard you with a lost look. “Before the whole cutting her off from her parents’ money fiasco?”

“Well, no one was really expecting her to go broke. She didn’t think it was a priority when she could just get the tickets last minute.”

“And since they took away access…”

“No money for us until further notice.”

Both of his eyebrows rose at the sheer ridiculousness of Yizhuo, self-proclaimed number one Sabrina shooter who could not go one day without singing Feather as much as her lungs could take, not being able to cop tickets. “The concert is in four days.”

“Oh don’t I know it.” When it rang like a giant alarm in your head, it was hard to not think about it. “I’m thinking of taking out a loan from my bank.”

“Absolutely not,” he snapped and tossed his damp towel onto your face. You shrieked and clawed it away because, ew, gross. “No way in hell are you going into debt because of a concert. Are you fucking crazy?”

“It’s not like I can ask someone to buy them for me either!” 

Renjun just barely resisted the urge to groan at the fact your persistent yapping almost ruined your then stellar bed chem.

“Like, who would be dumb enough to buy me a ticket? Let alone three?”

It’s surprising how you were able to come up with coherent sentences aftergetting your brains fucked out, but Renjun had always thought you were a weird one. Stamina on good days, yet a common cold could have you acting like you were knocking on death’s door.

“I’m sure I can name at least one person,” he said, thoughtful.

“Does this person have two-toned hair, perchance?” you wheedled, rolling onto your stomach to cup both of your cheeks with your hands looking like a flower in bloom for him. “Is his name Renjun Huang? A-K-A my favorite guy in the whole wide world?”

“You’re cute,” Renjun snorted, sitting on the foot of his bed. “But no.”

Your bottom lip jutted out in a pout. “You’re no fun.”

“There’s Jaemin,” he offered.

You grimaced. “Too needy.”

“Haechan?”

“Too mean.”

“And you still go to that asshole?” Renjun asked, incredulous. 

“He’s a good lay?” you offered, sheepish almost under the glare of his disbelief and the full force of his eyebrows. “C’mon, at least one ticket for your best girl?” you cooed, laying it on thick with a flutter of your eyelashes. “The other two can probably work something out.” 

Minjeong and Yizhuo were your girls. No one could ever doubt the love you had for them, being housemates for two years and counting, but desperate times called for desperate measures. It’s every man (well, woman) for themselves and if there was an opportunity right in front of you, might as well take it.

“Yeah…” he trailed off with a wince and you already didn’t like what he was about to say when he glimpsed at you and then at some random spot behind. “about that—“

“Whatever you’re about to say, don’t,” you ground out.

Renjun pretended like he hadn't heard you. “Someone from the student association gave me a ticket.”

“And you’re going?” You hoped he wasn’t.

As if he read your mind, Renjun’s mouth parted in offense. “It’s Sabrina Carpenter. It’s a great opportunity to clout chase.”

Oh he was definitely going to be insufferable on Instagram, talking about it for days on end. Just like you would be.

“Seriously?” you exclaimed, both hands covering your face, muffling your scream. This felt way worse than the time you almost didn’t meet the deadline of a plate submission that made up a large chunk of your grade. “Is everyone and their goddamn moms going except me?”

“Guess so.”

You peeled your hands away to Renjun scrolling through his phone in mild interest.

“Can you at least pretend to feel sorry for me?” 

Renjun let his phone drop in between his crossed legs. “My condolences that you won’t get to see Sabrina do her Juno pose five feet away from you.”

“You’re the worst,” you groaned, sitting up and holding the blanket tightly to preserve your modesty. “I’m literally out of options and you’re already kickstarting the FOMO.”

“And what were your”—he waved absently to the air—“options exactly?”

“There was the OnlyFans route—and before you say anything else,” you gave Renjun a look that was sharp enough to make him think twice about his needling. He said nothing, thankfully, but his pursed lips and scrunched eyebrows said a lot. “yes, I did the math and we all agreed—surprisingly—that it would be impossible to earn that amount of money before the concert. Then Minjeong suggested a sugar daddy, but I’m not really up for being a geraitric’s pretty play-thing. What if he dies mid-sex—”

You got cut off from Renjun doubling over with laughter. “Sugar daddy? Why don’t you just ask Chenle then?”

“Why should I ask Chenle?”

“Why shouldn’t you ask Chenle?”

“That’s why I’m asking you,” you quipped back.

Renjun laughed again. A rich, belly-deep equal parts loud and grating. “You cannot be this dense,” he said as he calmed down. “I just mean—you guys are close, right? Close enough that he bought you a replacement T-square.” He watched you, amused, as you considered the question. Renjun can almost see the gears turning in your head, chin resting in his palm and using his leg to balance his elbow.

“It was an emergency,” you stressed with an eye-roll, though you didn’t exactly fight the fond smile settling on your lips at the memory of Chenle getting rung up for a new sixty-four-inch long acrylic T-square while you perused the rows upon rose of cute stationery. You hadn’t meant for your old one to snap cleanly in half, but when there was a guy who didn’t take ‘no’ for an answer and, well, there was a reason why the running joke of a T-square doubling as a weapon was still relevant to this day.

“Doesn’t he pay for you guys when you hang out?”

Renjun snorted. “Sure. If you count him demanding us to Venmo him later.”

“Huh. He usually just pays for us both.”

Actually, now that you’ve thought about it, his housemates hadn’t ever gotten the privilege of Chenle covering for any of their expenses, much less a cheap meal from a well loved hole-in-the-wall restaurant. You didn’t think it was favoritism either. Was that a thing in friendships too? You had no idea, and you never had to ask when Chenle never thought twice to remind the waiter or waitress that he was paying for two. For me and her—he would nod his head towards you—only and leave the rest to settle their shared bill among themselves.

“Huh.” you repeated.

“Yeah-huh,” Renjun echoed with one corner of his mouth lifted up in a smirk. “Seriously, if you’re that desperate to see Sabrina up close, I’m sure he can work something out for you. What’s fifteen hundred gonna do?”

You both knew the answer to that. Nothing, because although Chenle wasn’t as high profile as Yizhuo and her family was, you had a vague idea on how deep his pockets ran if he barely spared a glance at his receipt from Gucci for a track-suit set he’d been meaning to get. He might as well have slapped you in the face with a thick stack of one-hundreds.

It would have invoked the same feeling of being too poor to even breathe inside the store and it had been a relief you thought of dressing up that day too despite the fact you’ve pulled an all-nighter to complete a handful of plates for design class the night before. You were at least spared from any judgment from the sales reps.

Still.

Renjun clicked his tongue, sensing your mental turmoil. “Just ask him. If he says no, then there’s your answer.”

Just ask him. Easy for Renjun to suggest when he wasn’t the one stewing away in a puddle of anxiety. He already had a ticket! Of course he’d think nothing of it. 

Walking into Yizhuo’s obscenely large living room, you were once again reminded how excessive it was.

There was a grand piano in there, for fuck’s sake, in the far end after the actual living area with the plush seating, yet none of you could play any elaborate musical pieces except for Twinkle Twinkle Litter Star. Right next to it was a sunken conversation pit with a modern fireplace built into the large concrete column and there were a series of floor-to-ceiling windows and glass sliding doors encompassing the pit.

Other than overlooking the luscious, grassy backyard, the doors led straight to the deck where a round pool resided as its main attraction. There was a goddamn fountain just beside it, too. Who needs a fucking fountain in this economy anyway?

Actually, everything about the house was ridiculously extravagant for three college girls to live in. Your bedroom included. Yizhuo ended up giving you one of the bigger rooms and you were sure the drafting table you bought off of a grad student for cheap would do its job and cramp it up, but you knew the saying about gift horses and Mom raised you better than complaining about convenience being handed to you on a silver platter.

The round floor table of the conversation pit was vacant, though there were scattered papers, notebooks, textbooks and all sorts of pens on top of the reflective glass surface. That meant either one of the girls was home. Or both, as Minjeong’s and Yizhuo’s voices grew louder by each step towards the kitchen.

“Guess who might have found a solution to our ticketing problem!”

You slid onto the cushioned seats of the breakfast nook—a breakfast nook, Jesus—right across from Minjeong sipping her to-go cup of thai milk tea. She wordlessly slid on towards you. You took a generous drag of the stuff.

“Actually, it was more of Renjun’s idea—which I am effectively stealing.”

Yizhuo, who was in the middle of plating a hefty amount of pad see ew, looked like she swallowed something toe-curlingly sour. “Oh so you were with Renjun-ge.”

An easy smile curled on your lips as you lifted a shoulder to shrug, sweetly batting your eyelashes. “What can I say? The guy gives good head—” (“I did not need to know that.”) “—anyways, my idea.”

“Mine was probably better.”

“Oh yeah?” you drawled, egging Yizhuo on. “Let’s hear it then.”

“Breaking into the thrift store and stealing everything from the cash register.”

“What?”

“She claimed if her parents found out about her crimes, they’d have to bail her out from prison and then restore her money privileges,” Minjeong glared at the youngest who simply whistled to Espresso as she carried on with the food. “Then I had to remind her of her reputation.”

“Good thing you did ‘cause that’s the dumbest fucking idea I’ve ever heard,” you said and you made sure it showed on your face as Yizhuo wilted underneath your tangible disappointment that she would even risk an integral part of her privileged life when she had used it as a counter-argument to the whole OnlyFans thing. “So we’re going with my solution to our broke-ness—Chenle Zhong.”

Yizhuo did not look pleased whatsoever. “What does Caillou have to do with Sabrina Carpenter?”

You ignored Minjeong shrieking with laughter. “Chenle’s got money,” you said as if you were talking to a toddler barely getting a grasp on words having their designated meanings. “And do you know what we need to get tickets? Money, and Chenle has a lot of it.”

“It took Renjun for you to realize that Chenle could be our solution?” Yizhuo exclaimed in disbelief, head in her hands. “Oh my God—it took Renjun telling you, then you telling us that he could be our solution? How could I’ve been so stupid?”

Her head jerked upwards, ponytail swishing along and gave you a look so sharp and abrupt that you jerked in surprise. You fixed your posture so fast that your grandmother would have been proud. For once. “You’re definitely asking Chenle.”

“Uh—first of all, why me? Don’t rich people have, like, some sort of kinship with one another? Like, hey, can I borrow ten-thousand dollars? I’ll pay you back with five-percent interest.” That definitely wasn’t how deals between rich people were made, but whatever. “Second, why not you, money bags?”

“He’ll never say yes to me,” she said brusquely, clicking her tongue. “I kicked his ass a bunch of times in PUBG and he’s still bitter about it. It’s not my fault he sucks absolute balls. There’s like, a compilation of him complaining on stream about how I was cheating”—Yizhuo made air quotations—“on TikTok. It’s so funny. Actually, I’ll send you the link—”

You turned your gaze towards Minjeong for help, eyes widened a fraction for an added pathetic flair as the younger one focused on scrolling through the damn app.

“Don’t look at me. Chenle’s just cheap with everyone—actually, maybe except for you,” Minjeong pointed a long, black almond tipped nail in your direction. “the favorite.”

“You say it like it’s an insult.” You slurped your milk tea at an obnoxious volume, shrinking in your seat. “Maybe he’s just nicer to me because I’m nice to him unlike you two.”

“Is that what we’re calling it these days?” Minjeong said, eyeing you curiously.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She moved her gaze elsewhere. “Nothing.”

You squinted. “Uh-huh.”

“Anyways,” she said, pointedly keeping her gaze forward. “He started it. I asked him if I could borrow money for my Lyft and he laughed in my face.”

You pressed your lips together to keep yourself from laughing too because, yeah, the image was a little funny. “You’re exaggerating,” you said evenly.

Yizhuo made a half-wince, half-smile sorta thing with her face. “Are we though?”

“Lele’s not that much of an asshole,” you defended. “He drives me home. You could have hitched a ride with us is all I’m saying. And if I can remember correctly, he still gave you more than enough for your Lyft.”

“He didn’t have to laugh at me, then.” Minjeong looked like she was heavily debating whether she should smack you upside the head, or not. “For someone smart, you’re real stupid.”

You frowned. “Hey.”

The argument still carried on deep in your weekly ‘everything shower’.

“Face it, babe. He’s like your personal A-T-M.”

“Chenle doesn’t always get me things.”

You were aching in places you never knew existed as you passed the foamy loofah over your skin, yet the girls had denounced what it meant to have boundaries, making themselves at home in your bathroom to prove their joint points.

Yizhuo scoffed from where she sat on top of the closed lid of the toilet. “The shampoo you used earlier? That was imported from Japan.”

“So? He noticed I ran out the last time he was here. It’s just shampoo.”

“From Japan,” Yizhuo countered.

You pulled a face. “Is that supposed to mean anything? It’s fucking shampoo.”

She just threw her hands up in the air, visibly annoyed.

“And the body wash you’re using? From Chenle.” Minjeong piped up from the separated bathtub, pointed at the towels hanging on the towel warmer and added, “The bath towel set? Chenle.”

“Alright, fine, maybe—”

“The year’s supply of assorted sheet masks in the fridge we use?” she offered.

“The gargantuan tin of tea leaves you’ve mentioned you liked.”

“Okay. I get it—”

“A new backpack because your old one ripped at the seams.”

“Your underwear—”

“Hah!” You pointed triumphantly in Minjeong’s direction. “No, he hasn’t bought me any.”

“Not yet,” girl-in-bathtub emphasized, resting her chin on top of her arm propped on the tub’s edge. “Shit, he probably bought everything you own.”

“Okay, now you’re definitely exaggerating.” You snorted, walking into the spray of the shower to rinse off the suds. “I’m not that broke.”

“Should I also mention that if it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t have met us? Or that you would have been homeless?” Well, yeah, and you would have figured something out eventually, but you weren’t expecting Yizhuo to bring that up to one-up you in an argument.

“I can’t believe you would use the ‘you would’ve been homeless if it weren’t for me’ card against me.”

“If it weren’t for Chenle, you mean,” she corrected, propping her cheek on top of her bent knee. You glared at the needless addition, though the usual effect wasn’t as strong with warm water sluicing down your face. To Yizhuo, you were definitely doing an almost perfect rendition of ‘wet cat’. “You can’t be this stupid. You’re literally his favorite. I doubt there’s another guy out there that would willingly—again, listen—willingly spend money on you.”

“Does Jaemin buying me a pack of gum the other day count?”

“Oh my fucking God, you’re hopeless.”

Minjeong shrugged. “Maybe he was lowkey telling you your breath stinks.” (“Ex-fucking-scuse you?”) “Didn’t Chenle buy you a ring that looked like a bent nail?”

“As a gift, yeah?” Your wince was immediate the moment Yizhuo gasped at your confirmation.

“That was Cartier!” She whipped out her phone from fuck knows where and showed you the website and its price. Did she have that tab open all this time just for a ‘gotcha!’ moment? Jeez, she scared you sometimes. “Look—Juste un Clou ring. Classic model. I would’ve given you rose gold, personally, but the white gold looks pretty too,” she mumbled, nodding approvingly. “He knows his stuff, at least.”

“Viola!” You turned to Minjeong making jazz hands with flourish. “If he can blow three grand on you without blinking, fifteen hundred would be nothing.”

You let out a heavy sigh, rinsing the loofah free from the suds. “How sure are we that there are any tickets left? Last I heard, three nights sold out.”

“It’s Chenle. He has connections everywhere. He’ll probably end up tracking scalpers too if he could help it.” She weighed her own words for a moment. “As long as you’re the one asking.”

“If you say so,” you trailed off, still not entirely convinced even by her radiating certainty.

“Uh-oh.” Yizhuo promptly sat up. “That’s not good. What’s wrong?”

“It’s just—I feel kinda weird. Asking him. Like, I’ve never really had to ask him for… stuff before.”

“What,” the girls said in a way so dry that you most likely would have broken out in sweat with how serious their faces were right now. Thunderous even.

“What do you mean by ‘not having to ask him’?” Minjeong asked, deathly calm.

“Just as I said. He just does it on his own. Without me telling him.”

In hindsight, Chenle might have been an option right from the very start if the thought of simply asking for help financially didn’t bother you in the slightest, but that’s the thing. The idea did bother you to your very core because, again, it wasn’t like you were broke. A victim to capitalism? Absolutely.

Once you broke the news to your parents and brother about your acceptance to one of the top universities in the state on a full-ride scholarship, they had insisted on a monthly allowance. They hadn’t minded extending a helping hand at all, and it was the least they could do to lighten the burden with the condition that you should be devoted to your academics.

Consequently, you were also good with multi-tasking, so you’ve managed a healthy work-play balance so far. What your parents and brother didn’t know wont hurt them and you hadn’t given them a reason to not trust you on your own, miles away from home, either. Not yet at least.

Deciding for a part-time job was after the realization that majoring in architecture was a bit heavy on the pockets from the consistent need for materials and printing out your designs brought to life by the handful of software provided by your department. The café pay was decent, you were tipped just as okay, and you wouldn’t say no to some cash on the side. Adding that to the remnants of your monthly allowance, it was enough to buy a thing or two at the end of the month as a treat.

And then came Chenle, guns ablazing, with no qualms swiping his card on your behalf.

You never really had to ask him.

Literally.

He would already have it taken care of before you could even pluck your wallet out and split the cost. You couldn’t remember if you had a time where you outright asked (begged) him for a few bills, and if you did, you always always promised to pay him back.

That being said, Chenle wouldn’t let you fight him on it either. When his mind was already made up, it was like talking to a brick wall, standing tall and impervious to almost everything. A losing battle when you’re up against someone headstrong yet so goddamn stubborn.

That’s where your hesitation had stemmed from, because it could either go two ways: he could say no and you could kiss your chances of brushing hands with Sabrina Carpenter goodbye, which would be the best case scenario, or he’d say yes, and once he said yes, there was no turning back. A yes from Chenle was law—signed and sealed that not even expressing the preconceived regret of asking a favor would shake him.

This was entirely different from Chenle just doing whatever the fuck he wanted with his own money without any of your persuasion. You never had to ask him for anything before and the fact of the matter was, you were damn terrified of asking if Chenle could be a bro one last time and drop what was equivalent to the price of a newly released iPhone for you.

Asking him would literally be so detrimental to your conscience that you would probably go insane with guilt and you couldn’t afford getting thrown into the nearest psych-ward when you had tons of deadlines to meet.

Minjeong leaned back to stare forlornly at the ceiling. “Lord, I see the luck you’ve bestowed upon this girl so stupid.”

“Hey!” You whined.

“Congratulations on getting a sugar daddy,” Yizhuo said, dry. “Can you ask him for tickets now?”

Oh God, you thought with abject horror. What if Chenle is my sugar daddy?

Technically speaking, though, you both fit the description. Minus the ‘sugar’ part so, quasi-sugar-daddy then?

Okay, no. That’s definitely not a can of worms you’re gonna open, like, ever. Chenle just happened to be there whenever you had to go out and buy shit. Just happened to be faster whipping out his wallet than you were. After all, he’s the spry athlete while you were five cans of Monster Energy away from keeling over.

What you’d like to get into now was how this conversation developed backwards where you had to be naked and wet to get some sort of pep-talk. Was this even considered pep-talk? This was somebody else’s form of nightmare for sure.

“This is really weird,” you said, neither confirming or denying Yizhuo’s so-called congratulations as you glanced between the two girls unabashedly staring at you in your birthday suit, expecting. “Can you guys leave?”

“Nothing we’ve seen before.” You met Minjeong’s eyes for a second before they strayed to your naked breasts and back up again. “Bet Chenle would love to see you right now.”

For whatever reason, Yizhuo mirrored Minjeong’s sentiments as she bobbed her head so fast you would think the idea was exciting for her. “Only right for you to give him some sugar, too.” 

“Or—get this—I don’t do that?”

“Why not?” Minjeong frowned. “You fuck anything that moves.”

“Correction: I do not. I’ve only been with, like, five guys my entire life,” you said, brandishing one hand so they would get the picture. “And Chenle’s my friend! We’re like this”—you crossed your fingers, shaking them for emphasis—“tight, y’know? Literally everything’ll change if I go… do that.”

“You and Renjun are also”—she copied your crossed fingers—“like this, but you’re still fucking.”

“Well… that’s—that’s obviously different! He doesn’t count!” you said with each word increasing in pitch.

“Oh pray tell why you wouldn’t sleep with Chenle Zhong,” Minjeong goaded. “I may not like guys, but looking at him through an objective lens, he’s one of the good ones.”

“There’s no risk with Renjun because it’s strictly casual and platonic, and I know I wouldn’t get attached and develop—” you quickly clamped your mouth shut. Shit. “Uh—um—you’re breaking up,” you blurted, closing your eyes as you stepped into the heavy downpour of the rainfall shower. “I can’t hear you,” you said, though that likely sounded like incoherent blubbering. You were sure you’ve got your point across with that piss-poor save anyway.

“We can literally see you.”

You turned your back to them. They could talk to your ass if they wanted. Out of sight, out of mind. “Not anymore, you don’t.”

You hoped that was the end of it, though it was made clear time and time again that the girls weren’t satisfied with your hedging. A growl was heard, followed by the quick plap plap plap of feet against the cold tiles. As the glass door squeaked, the brief water prison you’ve enclosed yourself in stopped soon after and you opened your eyes to a hand retracting from one of the knobs.

There was barely a second for you to complain before an undignified yelp was forced out from your throat when you were spun around to find Yizhuo’s dour face, her hands clamping down on your shoulders.

“You’re just admitting this to us now?” she said, incredulous, and a little surprised that you’ve managed to keep a crucial detail from them for this long. 

“It wasn’t like an immediate thing I needed to resolve!” you argued, “but the thought was always there, I guess. Just sitting in the back of my mind until you brought up sex with Chenle. And I’m busy, in case it wasn’t obvious enough to you non-architecture majors. Never had the chance to explore it, y’know?”

Busy was the biggest understatement of the year. Your life revolved around sketching, drafting, rendering—hell, even printing your designs on sheets of paper almost (more or less) half your height had never been this stressful. Adding a part-time job to that? It was a miracle you were still kicking.

With all that combined, you didn’t have the time to give a damn about relationships running deeper than casual, less emotionally charged flings. Those were easier to manage without the messiness of feelings involved. 

“Well, Dora the Explorer,” Yizhuo tendered as she handed you your heated towel. “you better start explorin’ because you’re gonna fuck him either way.”

You swiped the towel from her. “No I’m not.”

“No you’re not,” Yizhuo agreed, and maybe the shrewd glint in those beady eyes of hers was only your imagination, toweling yourself dry and wrapping it around you once you were less damp. “but at least keep it as your trump card if he gets difficult—which I’d doubt, really.”

“You guys’re that confident he’d say yes?” you mused, pushing past Yizhuo to grab the other towel for your head. “It’s gonna be so embarrassing if he says otherwise.”

“To the tickets? Or the sex?” Minjeong then heaved a dramatic gasp, eyes wide as her voice dropped to a staged whisper. “Or worse, your alleged feelings.”

You puffed out your cheeks, ignoring the rush of warmth blooming onto your face. “Now I’m hoping he says ‘no’.”

“Oh, girl, trust me when I say ‘no’ is the last thing he’ll say to you.” Yizhuo said, looking very sure of herself. “So. How soon can you get to him?”

“God I hate you rich people.”

Yizhuo beamed. “I know.”

Well, it wasn’t like you were a stranger to testing your luck.

You: wyd

Lele: ? Lele: I’m not one of your groupies Lele: need something?

You: wanna get groceries with me? :D

Lele: be there in 15 Lele: need to grab Daegal’s kibble too

You: ur the best ✨✨

Lele: i know i am

You: girl whatever.

Lele: ❤️

“You know, when you said groceries, I was expecting personal stuff—like skincare or some shit,” Chenle said loftily. “Pads? Tampons? God forbid a menstrual cup—“

“How do you even know what a cup is,” you muttered. “and my period ended a week ago.”

“I know.” You looked up from your work to Chenle squinting down at his phone. He caught your eye and beamed, pocketing the device. You were too afraid to ask what that was about. “We could have gone to Sephora after.”

Oh you definitely could have if you had been more specific with what groceries meant, but you simply said to take both your asses to the nearest H Mart. Cute as the thought was, you weren’t exactly in the mood to watch Chenle try and figure out which products were on your current rotation. It would have made good content for him though, a sure hit for his predominantly female fanbase, yet the looming three days left to secure tickets above your head kept you from suggesting that.

“Well, I can’t exactly cook you a five-star meal with hyaluronic acid now can I?” 

He blinked and answered with a bland, “I have no idea what that is.”

You squinted at him, taking in the way he’s got his head tilted at an angle where the lighting hit one side of his pale face just right. No texture whatsoever, like a smooth, almost blank canvas marked by a singular mole on the cheek.

“‘Course you don’t,” you grunted, envious of his near perfect skin.

Chenle’s gaze slid towards the pot on the stove, then to his wooden chopping board where a humble spread of your additional ingredients had been neatly organized in small piles with two open noodle packets. “Also, that’s just your classic Shin ramyeon and some crab balls.”

“Well damn, Chenle, I’m no Gordon fucking Ramsay,” you snapped, swatting at his arm. “So ungrateful.” An elaborate recipe was out of the question when you were too busy panicking about how the hell you were going to pull this off.

(“The one thing you’re gonna ‘pull off’ is your top,” Yizhuo instructed as she followed you out the gargantuan front door. “You know how guys are with boobs. They’re like catnip for them.”

“Please don’t compare my tits to catnip.”)

He cackled, tucking himself into your side with an arm thrown around your shoulders in a side-hug. “Thank you,” he cooed, and like a cat, rubbed his head against yours. “You didn’t have to do all this, but I’d never say no to food.” You couldn’t exactly see his face like this, but you could hear his appreciation. Your heart squeezed at the press of his cheek against your temple.

See, it’s little moments in time like this were what jump-started the on-going betrayal you would never expect from your own beating heart, and Chenle made it extremely hard for you to not entertain any straying thoughts formed by the casual intimacy between you. It really didn’t help that Chenle was physically affectionate, and it especially didn’t help that you spent most of your time with him despite majoring in vastly different programs.

Starting the day with Chenle waiting in his car to take you to school, ending it with him driving you home and everything in between was a sure gateway for neutral feelings to gradually do a one-eighty. Reaching that level of comfort where you felt safe with him was just as inevitable, too. Chenle was safe. Always has been.

But for both of your sakes, it had been a conscious choice of burying yourself into your work—letting yourself get fucked over by the workload you had to do. The minor breakdowns you’ve had every time your calculations went wrong, or when color or material swatches didn’t seem to go together than you’d originally thought saved you from overthinking every single interaction with him.

You wouldn’t risk it. You couldn’t risk it.

“What’s the occasion?” Chenle prodded. Still there. Still close. Still trying his hardest to weld himself to your side that he would soon figure out something was up the moment you went stiff in his hold, but you were just as quick coming up with some bullshit excuse to save your own ass. Though it begged the question whether it will hold up against Chenle’s incessant need to stick his nose into anyone’s business.

The longer he stayed quiet, the more your nerves fried. His house—house because Chenle was a loose cannon with money like Yizhuo—was always set to a cool temperature and you wore an outfit that wasn’t meant to cover up much at all, yet you could feel yourself break into sweat the moment he pulled himself away from your space. You still stood there frozen and the pot was taking too long to fucking boil.

“No occasion!” you exclaimed, spinning on your heel to face him with the sweetest and most disarming smile you could muster at the moment. A drop of sweat trickled from your temple down to your cheek when all Chenle did was wrinkle his nose as he took a step back. “‘was just in the mood to cook… something. For you—uh, for us. I was craving ramyeon.”

“You were craving Shin ramyeon,” Chenle echoed, not looking at all convinced. “Shin ramyeon that Yizhuo has stocked in her pantry.”

“That’s why I asked you to get groceries with me,” you replied in haste. “We were running out.” 

Which wasn’t a lie. Technically.

The three of you used to gorge on whatever there was in the kitchen, fridge or pantry, or DoorDash when any of you craved something specific. Key words were ‘used to’ because snack options had been limited to cheaper alternatives and what was cheaper and filling than a packet of noodles that took less than five minutes to cook? Really, it was like you were back in your freshman dorm, living off of instant noodles.

“Running out.” The more Chenle repeated whatever you said, the more you started to realize how deep of a grave you had dug for yourself. “You bought just enough for two people to eat.”

“Right.” You drawled, snapping your fingers and hitting him with the finger-guns. Might as well make yourself look even more like a jackass than you already are with the dogshit lying. “Right—so no plans later? I could use another H Mart run.”

Chenle cracked this time. “You’re a shitty liar,” your name tapered off into laughter. “You want something, don’t you? You’re never this nice to me.” He simpered with a certain type of fondness you’d usually see in people witnessing a puppy scaring itself with its own bark—he should really stop that. You were already kind of a mess from the way he’d freely insert himself in your bubble like he owned the space. You didn’t need the ooey-gooey, cavity-inducing stares to go with that too.

This was all clearly very amusing to him—you stumbling over your own words picked out from throwing darts at random in an attempt to gaslight him. He shouldn’t find any humor in this, really, but Chenle had always been chill like that. Marching to the beat of his own drum or however the saying went that the ease of falling into character, the jester to his court, wasn’t surprising.

If it made him that happy, then you’d continue shaking your fool’s cap for him. As a friend, of course.

“What? Me?” you said, guileless and with a hand flat on your sternum, eyes rounded with that faux gleam of innocence for the full effect. “I have never wanted anything in my life.”

“Anything?” he pressed and received a firm nod. “Not even barricade tickets to Sabrina Carpenter?”

You gaped at him, stuttering out words that weren’t even qualified to be in the English dictionary until you settled with a broken, “who told you that.”

Chenle smiled serenely in kind, not at all fazed by your brain blue-screening in real time. “Renjun.”

The mention of a name sobered you up in record speed.

“That snitching bitch,” you seethed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I only told him because I was hoping he'd help me think of options, or buy me a ticket himself. The girls could figure something out.” You paused, absorbing the situation as your hand fell back to your side. “Less work for me, though. I've been shitting my pants since, like, yesterday.”

“Yeah?”

You huffed a short laugh. “Oh yeah. There’s this theory going around—not that I believe it—that it’d be easy convincing you.”

“Easy,” he huffed, amused.

“Easy as in—I just have to ask you.”

Chenle tilted his head, considering you for a moment. “Alright. Ask away.”

You balked, grasping straws for a response.

“Ask away?” Nod. “Just like that.” Nod. “I’m not asking just for me, y’know? I’m also asking for Minjeong and Ningning. Since we’re broke and desperate girls who just happen to love the same singer.” Chenle only raised an eyebrow, slowly nodding in a way that said, ‘yeah. I know. What are you trying to say?’.

“Are you not worried how much it’s gonna cost you? Even just a little bit? I’m already feeling sick just thinking about it.” You grimaced.

“Not really, no.” He shrugged, slanting an easy smirk.

You pursed your lips. Right. Okay. So maybe you had severely underestimated how disposable money was to him, then. It didn’t seem like he minded at all, barely showing any negative emotion sans the boredom slowly coloring his features.

You, on the other hand, were already knee-deep in a bog of guilt and regret that you could honestly spit-up today’s lunch from how nerve-wracking this was; standing in front of him while carrying as much audacity a human being was allowed to and asking for something so expensive.

“You’re insane if you actually say yes. I don’t know about you, but if someone asked me for a thousand bucks and told me, ‘oh, bee-tee-dubs, I’m not gonna pay you back. Like ever.’, I’d consider suing the hell out of that person until they have to file for bankruptcy.”

“I mean, money’s never been an issue so I don’t see why my attorney should be involved.” The fact that he actually has an attorney (or a full-blown legal team. You never know) at the ready did not bring you comfort in the slightest. Chenle still tried though. You could at least appreciate that. “I wanna circle back on your so-called theory, though.”

“Don’t look at me.” Both of your hands raised in defense. “I’m not the one who came up with the ‘I’m Chenle’s favorite’ theory. The girls did.”

“Did they?” And for some ungodly reason, he looked delighted by the claim. “Well, can’t say they’re wrong.”

“Chenle,” you warned with a tone so biting you would think it’d have him think twice with this blasé approach.

Though maybe there was something on your face that betrayed the annoyance you’ve vocalized when all Chenle did was smile genially as the syllables making up your name passed through his lips in smooth succession.

“I’m not a charity case,” you muttered, flexing your fingers then curling them into fists. You weren’t too sure if you were pleased hearing it from the source. That you were Chenle’s favorite, confirmed by the man himself. Whatever that meant, or more annoyed that he really couldn’t care less about the money he’d wasted on you because you were his favorite. “You know I don’t take charity as well as normal people would.”

“Why do you think I never let you argue?” He said cheekily. “It’s easier and faster that way. And it’s no big deal! Seriously,” Chenle emphasized quickly at the sight of your deepening frown.

“But it is to me! If there’s one thing I know, it’s that nothing is ever just free. People these days are always expecting something in return. Maybe not right away and what if you’re just letting me rack up enough debt so you could ask me for my soul, or something.”

Chenle snickered. “So this is an exchange, then. Your noodles for concert tickets. You drive a hard bargain,” he wondered with an impish quality to his words, giving you a once over. Twice. It made you a little self conscious, shifting from foot to foot the longer sharp, cat-like eyes passed over your form. “Is that why you’re dressed like that? In case your cooking didn’t make a good bribe—oh, sorry—exchange?”

“Like what, exactly?” You asked, a little offended that he wouldn’t completely fold—or at least crease—at the first bite of a dish that earned its Michelin stars back in Yizhuo’s kitchen. Or that your chosen outfit wasn’t creaming any pants.

“Didn’t you wear this exact outfit when you skipped class to meet with Haechan that one time?”

“It was a different top, I think.” A top that was just as fast to remove too, so you understood the confusion. “How do you even remember that?”

“I remember lots of things,” he clarified, closing the distance until you could make out the top notes of his five-dollars-per-spray perfume with each inhale. “Like how you dress differently whenever you meet with one of your guys.”

“Gee what a coincidence. I wonder why I’m dressed like I am about to meet with one of my guys while in your kitchen.”

This time it’s Chenle who got the surprise of a lifetime, eyes almost bugging out of his skull as those lips you had once imagined yourself kissing just to see how they’d give under the soft pressure parted in a delicate ‘o’. He was quick to recover though, with a sly uptick of his mouth replacing the initial shock of finding out that, yes, you’d probably sleep with him if it came to that.

“Didn’t think you’d be that desperate for tickets.” He’s closer now, too close for comfort that you backed into the edge of the kitchen counter. “Is that how you’re gonna repay me?”

“It’s charity work,” you answered blithely, emboldened by Chenle’s interest because, fuck, might as well. “Fuck knows if you’ve been getting your dick wet or not. I’d literally be doing you a favor.”

Chenle didn’t seem to take offense to that as he threw his head back in raucous laughter.

“Charity for charity.” He grinned. “Seems fair.”

And the words had never sounded sweeter until they came from Chenle’s mouth. You could already hear yourself screaming with the crowd filling up the arena, with your girlfriends who you absolutely did not resent for essentially pimping you out to the one guy who could arguably make your dreams come true—

“I’ll think about it.”

Both Minjeong and Yizhuo were dead to you.

“Think about—” you paused, taking steady breaths until you were calm enough to start talking again. “Chenle. Lele,” and out came the big guns, being sweet to him and using the cutesy nickname the girls from the Chinese Students and Scholars Association would croon to get at least five seconds of his attention. Watching that play out from the sidelines always left a sour aftertaste, how they all would go as far as touching him when they decided holding eye-contact wasn’t enough to fuel their delusions. 

You’ve soon come to realize that it was jealousy that caused your eye to twitch when Chenle’s capitalistic smile turned honeyed towards his junior. Because there wasn’t a day where you were short of his attention.

Perhaps the thought was a little unhealthy, but what if you said it was what you were used to? Can anyone fault you for being a little catty after that interaction?

Calling him Lele worked, you thought. Or so you hoped. You weren’t sure rendering him silent was a good thing, actually. Silence never bode well with larger-than-life Chenle Zhong whose entire personality was being loud, especially with eyes as expressive as his. Dark as shots of espresso you’ve brewed countlessly at work laced with something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

“The concert is in two fucking days! There’s no time to think—you know what? This was a bad idea. I don’t know how Ningning talked me into—” you shook your head, pressing the back of your hand to your cheek with a heavy sigh. “We can just eat the goddamn noodles and forget all this. I’ll just tell the girls they were wrong, and you said no—”

“Oh, no no no,” you would never admit to making such an undignified sound when Chenle pulled you back by his steady grip on your wrist. “you can’t make that offer and leave just like that, c’mon.” And he had the audacity to whine on top of it.

“Well that’s before I—what are you doing.”

“Making sure I am getting something out of this,” he murmured, crowding in on you further where all you could see right in front of you was Chenle, and whatever you could see over the slope of one hoodie-covered shoulder.

Which by all means wasn’t a lot to begin with, him being taller and broader than you. And Chenle wasn’t even super tall. You knew plenty of people that exceeded the one-hundred-and-eighty centimeter mark, like that Jisung kid who hung out with you both on occasion. Wasn’t even built like a brick shithouse like Jaemin and his friend, your on-and-off tutor, Jeno.

Yet the way he had you cornered, hands planted firmly on the polished quartz countertop boxing you in, kind of screwed with your perception—made him appear bigger than he actually was. Perhaps it was the intensity of his gaze, pinning you down with deep pools framed by gradually thinning rings of brown the longer this stare down went on.

Coupled with the heat radiating off of Chenle, from standing so much closer where it totally crossed the limits of what it meant to be platonic, something just as heated unfurled beneath your navel.

“What—whatever you want,” you stuttered, swallowing thickly when the soft material of his jacket brushed along the strip of skin left exposed by your cropped top.  

“Whatever I want?” Chenle’s tongue darted out, wetting his lips as he studied you. “Even outside of sex?”

It was really hard trying not to not stare at his mouth. “I think being your errand girl will get you your money’s worth than a regular pump n’ dump.”

“The mouth on you.” Chenle cracked a lipped smile, wide enough that a hint of teeth peeking between the soft rosebud pink of his lips. “‘My girl’ does have a nice ring to it.”

Warmth creeped up your neck. “You forgot the word ‘errand’.”

“I know what I said,” he murmured, coming in closer that the tip of his nose gently nudged yours. “Kiss me.”

Your breath hitched, eyes growing into saucers because kiss me could imply anything. Everything.

“What—“

“You said whatever I want,” Chenle pointed out. “and I want you to kiss me. Or I want to kiss you, actually. Real bad.”

Words, apparently, weren’t enough to prove how much Chenle could want something as simple as a kiss.

Slender fingers splayed themselves along your waist, just marveling that you’re allowing him to touch you like this—with reverence. Palms cooled by the counter and the calluses earned from years of basketball raised gooseflesh along your skin when dragging them along the expanse of your stomach. The dips of your waist again—like he couldn’t resist how softer you were there—your back, until one of Chenle’s hands settled beneath the curve of your spine, the other just shy under the side of your breast. 

Chenle was impossibly closer now and your body’s natural response was to arch into him and—oh, he’s hard. So hard—straining against the fly of his jeans pressed against your stomach, and you’ve barely done anything except letting him feel you up, leaving phantom brands of his touch along the way.

“Feel that?” Chenle said, voice low and gravely, delivered like it was a secret only you two should know. He pushed his hips further into yours causing him to groan quietly as you gasped, your hands laying flat on his chest to steady yourself. “You’re definitely getting your tickets if it’s the last thing I do.”

Somehow, out of everything Chenle said, that knocked the breath out of you. The utter conviction. How positive he was in his own right that he will get those tickets for you, one way or another.

Frankly, you couldn’t care less about them now, nor what you had to do in exchange for what was essentially overpriced pieces of paper. All you cared about was who you were getting them from: Chenle, his mouth just a couple of centimeters—all yours for the taking, how secure his hold was around you as if the mere thought of you drifting away any second unnerved him, and the fact that he wanted to kiss you.

Because maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t at all one-sided. Maybe what Minjeong and Yizhuo had been speculating held some substance that, yes, it wouldn’t be too hard if it was you appealing to Chenle’s sweeter side. Maybe the notion was that gratifying to your dwindling self-esteem because how could you deny his simple request? 

So with a breathy, almost breathless, “just—just shut the fuck up about the tickets for a second,” you cupped his face with both hands and yanked him down for a kiss.

Chenle’s kisses were syrupy-sweet, if not purposely drawn out as though he was savouring a once in a lifetime opportunity; uncertain if he’d ever get the chance again. The most surprising thing about kissing Chenle, other than the act itself, was the unhurried pace. So unlike the man you would see loping over with this restless energy ready to leave him bursting at the seams, harrying his friends (anyone, really) to play ball with him. 

It had been near impossible, forcing him to sit still when all Chenle knew was to keep on moving. Keeping close at his heels was a fixed workout you didn’t remember ever signing up for. It was only to your relief that he made sure to keep you right behind him. Beside him, rather. There wasn’t a time where Chenle would knowingly leave you behind and if that ever happened, he would always wait for you to catch up.

There was no rush, and maybe that was the point of it all. Chenle’s willingness to adjust for you with no terms and conditions applied, and you have yet to see him stop.

With each push and pull, worrying teeth on lips and a shallow press of a warm wet tongue, Chenle kissed you like he was a man starved, stumbling upon an oasis and letting himself drown after a drought lasting so long. He kept with the pace, not doing too much or too little, lips slotting together like perfect puzzle pieces. Sweet and deliberate, each movement holding intention. Chenle really wasn’t fucking around when admitting he wanted to kiss you.

You shared that want too. More than you had initially allowed yourself, but that was to be expected when you’ve basically repressed every not-so-platonic thought regarding Chenle for a long while. And you know what they said about bottling it all up.

It came bursting in a flurry rush of movement. From their tender cradling, your fingers reached up to curl into Chenle’s freshly dyed jet-black hair just as he mirrored your own growing need, lithe arms coiling around your torso as your mouths grew greedier by the second. A show of teeth pulled an airy moan out of you turned muffled the second he licked into your mouth.

From there, kissing just became a mere afterthought. Devolving into a carnal dance of tongues, lapping it all up to get your fill.

Chenle tasted just as sweet as he kissed before, like the lemon ginger candy he had stocked around his house, his car and sometimes you would catch him plucking a piece or two out of his pockets. And it was quickly becoming a problem where you just knew there was no coming back from this.

That nothing will ever be the same once you walk out of that door when all of this is over. You couldn’t go back, not when you’ve gotten a taste of what it was like swapping spit with the guy, the same guy who you had thought wasn’t worth the risk.

Fuck it, might as well risk everything, then. You’ve already kissed him, already bulldozed past that boundary you swore you would never cross. So long as Chenle wouldn’t mind a kiss, or two, or three—until he has to pry you off of him and say enough is enough, you’d let yourself crave the sensation of having his mouth give under yours.

Just like how you chased after the plushness of his lips with a meek whine when he drew back, grinning at the state he reduced you to—a needy little thing this high strung over a kiss.

Please. As if he didn’t pop a boner at the thought of kissing you.

Just as you were about to voice out the retort, one of his hands raised to cup your cheek. You leaned into the touch, feeling small under his thoughtful gaze as his thumb swiped over your kiss-swollen lips. You chased after that feeling, too, each drag winding the coil of your self-control tighter and tighter ‘til it snapped like you did, catching his thumb in between the edges of your teeth.

Chenle’s gaze darkened then, no traces of the playful glint you were used to seeing as he surged forward and kissed a searing path from the corner of your mouth, all the way up to the swell of your cheek. Then lower, and lower until the scrape of teeth under the hinge of your jaw made your knees buckle from the sensation with a gasp.

You gripped his hair tighter, though you made no move to pull him off. “That—this is more than just a kiss,” you lightly chided, voice shaky. “Greedy.”

“So what if I am?” He mumbled, mouthing his way down your neck. Your fingers left his hair and curled around his nape. “Want me to stop?”

Pulling him in further by his neck told him enough. The vibration of his pleased humming against where your pulse was at its strongest made you shiver. You could feel him smirk. Like a knife to your neck.

“Thought so.”

Staying true to his words, he didn't stop. Chenle latched onto your mouth again and you’ve quickly grown familiar with his rhythm. Only this time, his hands joined in the fray, seemingly needing more than just having you secured in his arms.

Though perhaps you bit off more you could chew. 

Like, yeah, getting fucked by Chenle wasn’t the most horrible idea you’ve had so far in your early twenties, but thinking about it was vastly different from actually doing it.

So you were definitely in your right to squeal when one of your best friend's wandering hands went up your skirt.

Chenle stilled and pulled back with his eyebrows knitted together. Your face was on fire, both from his bold move and the embarrassing sound you made.

“You okay?” He asked, the same hand that was under your skirt—right below your ass cheek—rubbing soothing circles. It was anything but soothing. When you’ve got thighs as sensitive as yours, the only thing Chenle was helping with was making you hornier.

If he moved his hand a little further up and a little further in, he would have felt just how soaked your panties were.

“I—uh—I’m not ready.”

He blinked. “My hand is literally up your skirt that’s barely covering your cute little butt,” he pointed out as his hands trailed higher and squeezed the plump flesh. “and you’re not ready.” Now he’s looking at you like you’re crazy. Shit, maybe you were. And it’s his fault. He’s just as crazy for calling your ass cute to your face, too.

“I mean yeah, that’s nice and all—your hand is really warm, um—but I may or may not have been talking out of my ass about fucking you.”

Chenle snorted. “I dunno. Your outfit clearly screams ‘fuck me!’. Cute shirt, by the way.” A stray hand wedged itself under the tight fit of your tube-top, earning him a sharp intake of breath when his fingertips grazed the underside of your tit. His touch didn’t go further than that, hand simply splayed across your ribs. “If you can call it that.”

“You bought me this shirt, dumbass.”

“Even better,” he said, delighted by the thought. “Feeling cold?” Chenle wondered, almost in an innocent, offhanded manner you wouldn’t think much of if the twitching of his mouth slipped under your radar. You caught his leering stray south, too. Just what could he possibly be intrigued by when he was quite literally sharing your breathing space?

With eyebrows furrowed, you let your curiosity get the best of you, tracing his line of sight.

You should have stayed curious.

Better yet, you shouldn’t have acknowledged the change of his focal point because of course he’d take notice of your nipples poking against the soft material of your shirt; as if they were saying ‘hi’ to the man who had come so close to giving them some attention.

Chenle dissolved into a fit of cackles. You could only imagine how embarrassed you looked to him. Why were you even embarrassed? You chose to forgo a bra in hopes of distracting him with your boobs if all else failed.

“Yeah, yeah,” you acquiesced, keeping your chin up as you blindly reached for his hands. “Hands where I can see ‘em, pervert.”

Only, you don’t exactly take his hands off of you. This was like, casual touches here and there dialed up to an eleven, right? It wasn’t a foreign concept to you, being held by him. Being friends with him for this long and counting, hugs were a thing you were frequently subjected to, and Chenle loved those, so you did your due diligence of settling his hands on your hips as a pseudo form of it.

A peace offering, if you will, for cutting the closeness short and a little because you were starting to like the warmth emanating from a more intimate touch.

Seemingly pleased by your initiative, Chenle graced you with the sweetest of smiles, squeezing you. That got him a snort and a fond shake of your head, though the amusement dimmed into contemplation as you lingered on the silver padlock-shaped pendant hanging from the dainty chain of the same metal around Chenle’s neck, not knowing where to go from here.

Eventually, you found your voice. “That better be worth fifteen hundred bucks,” you joked because if there was one thing about you is that you had a knack for making light out of an emotionally charged situation.

“I’ve spent more on you before, and you're worth every single penny so far.”

That shouldn’t have flustered you. Really, it shouldn’t have you hot in the face when you weren’t sure if he meant the dig towards you unintentionally milking him of his fortune. But Chenle’s ease of letting weighted words spill from his mouth was the sure contender here, and to deliver the final blow was the charming grin that ensured you everything was going to be just fine. He’d make sure of it.

“That’s definitely something a sugar daddy would say,” you said with a wry curl of your mouth. “Are you my sugar daddy? Because I can’t remember the last time I had to pay for my shit when you’re around.”

There was one time you went out for a bagel on your own, though that didn’t seem like a big girl purchase compared to your ergonomic chair he had ordered from Amazon. The look he had given you when you told him you made do with the many dining chairs Yizhuo had around her huge glass dining table had been the funniest thing you had ever seen. Like stiff chairs having multiple uses was a foreign concept to him.

You didn’t have the heart to tell him that you were mostly on your feet when you had to (by hand) draft floor plans and vignettes that took up almost the entire space of your choice of paper. And the chair was comfy. Good for your back too.

“It does look like that, huh?” Chenle laughed at that, shaking his head as he did so out of endearment because you just wouldn’t get it. “What if I just like taking care of you?”

Now wasn’t that an insane thing to say out loud? Granted that you could kind of see where he came from as he did save your sorry ass a bunch of times with either a tap or a swipe of his card, this was Chenle you were dealing with. The likelihood of him just pulling your leg under the guise of flattery was great and backing down that easy had never been your forte. No matter how sweet he was being about it.

You could count the serious conversations with him on both sets of your fingers and this regularly scheduled bout of psychological warfare won’t even count.

“You just want to get in my pants,” you accused with a defiant raise of your chin.

“You almost let me in your pants,” Chenle pointed out, his fingers gently grasping your chin so he could tilt your head back at its normal angle. “My hand was literally up your skirt and I heard no complaints until you got stage fright.”

“Fair,” you allowed with a shrug. “Still not gonna fuck you though. Not now at least.”

“Whatever you want,” he said softly as he bent down to catch your gaze. “and you know I won’t do anything you don’t want to.”

You hummed, thinking Chenle’s words over. “I’ll give it a few days until you’re on your hands and knees begging to stick just the tip in.”

Chenle’s smile wobbled then turned pained. “If I have to.”

It took three whole seconds for his admission to register in your brain before you sputtered a laugh, falling forward until his shoulder cushioned your forehead. No wonder you and Chenle worked so well. There was not a serious bone in any of your bodies and you wouldn't want to change it for the world.

“Down, boy,” you teased, still cackling as you nuzzled into his neck. “Who’s desperate now?”

He huffed. “Like you weren’t trying to eat my face moments ago.”

You pulled back with a pout. “I could say the same about you.” You poked him in the chest. “Were you actually trying to suck my soul out?”

“Regret anything yet?” Chenle’s question was posed as playful, but there was undertone of uncertainty to it too and over the years, you’ve gotten good at figuring out his tells. The uncharacteristic sudden stiffness in his frame, the way he chewed the inside of his cheek (subtly as he could) and the tightness around his eyes—he thought you did. Regret it, that is, but it was the farthest from what you were feeling right now.

“The only thing I regret is not seducing you sooner.” 

And that did it. Anything that fell in the same vein of uncertainty gave way to the radiance you were much more familiar with.

Chenle looked like an absolute winner—the cat that caught the canary and washed it down with cream in celebration of his win before diving in for his prize.

Until Daegal barked at the sound of jingling keys the moment your lips were a hair breadth away from touching, her excitement piercing through the bubble and granting you awareness from beyond it; namely the pot barely having any water being left on the burner for too long. 

There was a flash of white from your peripheral as you shared a panicked look with your qausi-sugar-daddy when the front door opened, followed by one of Chenle’s housemates, Beomgyu, announcing his arrival with a loud, “I’m home!”

“Shit,” you whispered and the two of you set into motion. Harried, if anything, yet still efficient with the swiftness Chenle displayed in fixing your clothes just as you smoothed stray strands of his hair back in place.

For a quick moment, he took a good look at you, a crease in the middle of his eyebrows before he was shucking off his hoodie and urging you to wear it.

“Didn’t take you for the protective type,” you teased, yet took it without question as Chenle rolled his eyes with a gentle shake of his head, watching you pull on the sleeves; a smile equal parts warm and mischievous playing on his lips.

With the zipper in place, you glanced at him then down to his very obvious problem beneath those denim jeans. “You gonna do something about”—Chenle’s eyes blew wide in alarm and stuck his hand in his pants—“yeah, okay,” you mumbled.

His smile widened into something annoying and you quickly pushed him towards the kitchen sink, a silent command to wash his hands once Beomgyu walked right into the kitchen, surprised that you were here. Daegal trotted closely behind, her tail wagging happily as you bent down to pick her up.

“We’re going to get groceries after some noodles,” Chenle answered the silent question for you while pouring water into the pot. “Want some?”

“I’m starving,” Beomgyu groaned. “I’ll eat anything.”

“Hope you’re excited for Shin ramyeon and crab balls, then.”

Over Beomgyu’s shoulder, Chenle winked at you and you nuzzled into Daegal’s fur, hiding your smile.

In the end, after letting Beomgyu devour most of your noodles, Chenle did take you out for another H Mart run.

“Are the two carts necessary?”

You didn’t think so. One full cart was pushing it, but two? For a second, you feared he might just buy out the whole store if you dared him. Then again, Chenle wasn’t familiar with the concept of limiting oneself and it seemed like it applied to you too. Well, in a way where he showed you it was okay to want things. That it was okay to ask him for things.

Because it’s Chenle who did most of the shopping. Fresh produce, different kinds of meat that didn’t need to be cooked in complicated ways for it to come out edible—namely the humble samgyeopsal. Quick, easy and absolutely delicious—he glossed over most of the condiments seeing you still had them at home, then he absolutely went insane when it came to the snacks, ice cream and, of course, packets of instant noodles.

Chenle had another pack of a different variant in his hands, tossed it into the snack-filled cart he was pushing around.

“You’re really playing into the sugar daddy thing,” you said as you mentally calculated the amount of debt you were in now with the addition of groceries that could last you and the girls the whole month.

“Better than you starving,” he said cheerfully, grabbing a dozen of Buldak Carbonara noodles and dumping them into the cart like a dad finding out their kid’s favorite snack. “Wouldn’t want you living off of shin ramyeon and crab balls.”

You scowled. “It wasn’t that funny.”

Chenle laughed and laughed and laughed anyway because your failed seduction plan was that hilarious if he was still making jokes about two-person groceries.

The drive home was quiet. Peaceful. Less awkward than you had initially expected when the soulful drone of music filled in the spaces with you sat in the passenger’s seat, reaching over to feed Chenle the Pepero you elected on sharing. When it all ran out, you relaxed in your seat and just… watched.

Watched your best friend in his element with his hand on the wheel while the other patted his thigh along the beat of the current song. He looked good. Unfairly so. With the lights glinting off the watch that likely made up your yearly university tuition and the high points of his face, the ruffled look of his hair and the way his jaw flexed every time he sang along the melody.

All this filled you with the urge to kiss him. Reach over and plant one on him and the thought still lingered even as you drove past the house’s gates opened with an app on your phone.

As Chenle helped put away the groceries while you pretended not to notice the leering from the peanut gallery.

As he helped himself to a Melona while keeping up with the verbal spat between him and Yizhuo munching on something yoghurt and blueberry flavoured.

It was all you could think about as you saw him out the door, and if you couldn’t help yourself and acted on it—a quick peck to the corner of Chenle’s plush mouth as thanks—leaving a sheen of your lipgloss, then that was between you, God and the security camera angled to where you stood.

Yizhuo wouldn’t notice if you deleted a few seconds of footage anyway.

Late into the night and you could still feel it. Feel him—the ghost of his kiss, his touch as everything that had transpired in the afternoon played on loop in your head.

You couldn’t sleep. Not when your mind was chanting Chenle Chenle Chenle like a mantra set to summon him. Like an itch you couldn’t get rid off no matter how hard you scratched.

If only…

That night, you decided to get well acquainted with Pinky, fishing her out deep within your drawer.

Mornings like this were rare, where all of you were awake at the same time. Even rarer that you were all up before ten, quiet. Relaxed.

No sense of urgency found on anyone’s person. No school, no jobs to clock into, no not-so-secret meetings—none of you girls had anything of priority today.

There was breakfast, arguably the most important meal of the day, though it seemed Minjeong and Yizhuo weren’t exactly in a rush demanding their eggs be cooked just the way they liked. Just fine with nursing a steaming cup of whatever energized them for the day ahead as they sat at the island counter.

Your phone chimed in the middle of cooking Yizhuo’s scrambled eggs. A text from Chenle—a sent photo to be specific and—

You screamed, nearly dropping the spatula.

fine shyt: [IMG_6969]

You: WWHAT THEBFUCJ

fine shyt: got your tickets 🤓

You: YEA I SEE THAT???????????

When you screen faded into Chenle’s caller ID, a photo of him holding up Daegal, Minjeong immediately took over the cooking as you rushed towards the living area.

“You got the tickets,” you said as you accepted the request to FaceTime, half in wonder and in disbelief that he was able to nab tickets in less than twenty-four hours and a day before the concert. You really should stop doubting Chenle and his ability (see: privilege) to get whatever, whenever. “Not that I doubted you, but the first night usually sells out quick—so how the hell.”

“You underestimate how far money can get you,” Chenle laughed. He looked sleep-ruffled, like he had just woken up. This was his cutest state yet and you really wished you were with him right now. “Think you’re ready to find out?”

“As I’ll ever be.” As long as he held your hand through it, sure. What the hell. You could survive future heart attacks caused by six figures by sheer will alone, you thought. “I asked for three tickets though. Who's the fourth one for?”

“Me,” he answered, beaming. “Someone has to drive you girls.”

“What? I mean—thanks.” That was one less thing to worry about then. “But since when do you listen to Sabrina?”

“Since last night. Still at it, by the way.” he clarified, a little too happy and if you listened closely, you could make out Sabrina’s crooning of Read your Mind on his end. “An enlightening experience, I might say.”

“Good luck on memorizing twenty-one songs then.”

“Oh, Princess. I released an album when I was eight. Memorizing the setlist is light work. Bet I could sing louder than you.”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll grill you on the album thing next time because what the fuck.” The ‘Princess’ thing you elected to ignore, too early and dire to suffer an aneurysm when a concert was waiting for you.

“I’ve lived quite the life,” he mused (“oh I’m sure.”) combing his fingers through his hair. “So what do we say?”

You scoffed, fond and grateful for his generosity whether you were deserving or not. “Thank you.”

“Thank you what, baby?”

Your face twisted in horror, quickly clocking what he was trying to get you to do. “Bye Chenle.”

He was cackling when you hung up, your face on fire, yet you didn’t put in any effort to tamper the giddy grin threatening to split your face.

The tickets were yours. Chenle got the tickets and they were yours. Gosh, this was probably the best morning in your life so far and nothing could dampen your mood from doing your girls proud.

“Now do you believe us when we say you’re Chenle’s favorite?” Yizhuo asked with a mouthful of scrambled egg.

You laughed, cheeks aching from how hard you cheesed at a simple fact. “I’m starting to.”

And selfish as it sounded, you hoped that it would remain that way for a long time because you couldn’t remember a life so dull when Chenle walked in with colors so bright that it sung, and because he was your favorite, too.

a/n: waow you've reached the end! Here, have a cookie 🍪 as always, thank you soo so much for reading until the end! I'd like to thank the girls: Aria, Moon and Aeriel for letting me talk my shit about this fic and help with ideas! and yes, brainstorming with them is an almost daily occurrence and it's great mental exercise imo lol! I hope you had fun reading the chaos that was this fic. I know I had fun laughing to myself writing all this 😆 and please please please let me know your thoughts! Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated <3

TAGLIST: @jaylaxies @hoondrop @gojosmojodojo @justalildumpling @dammit-jjk @learnthisfeeling @90s-belladonna @spacejip @ykvdani @drunkhee @neozon3nha @dinosaurtoothbrushwithninjasauce @sunghoonsgfreal @champagne1221 @yuyita-rosier @grimlinshere @jvngw0n @nanaxwi @kissesfromdarling @peterm4rker @haechology @evergreeneyesx @bbina @nctseventeensworld (special thanks to those who asked to be part of the taglist!)

[wildflowersandvibranium]

Muscle Memory : Chapter Three

Pairing: CHILDHOOD FRIENDS TO LOVERS Restaurant Owner Bucky Barnes x Cardiac Surgeon Female Reader Alternate Universe

Summary: In a town that never forgets , she thought she could hide the bruises behind a perfect smile and life. But someone from her past sees too much—and remembers everything. sorry its so vague just don't want to give too much away!

Word Count: 3.8k+

Chapter Warnings: Domestic Violence (never bucky to reader)! , mentions of: surgery , hospital/doctors , bruises , injury , abuse , depression , self doubt , blood , anxiety , Ft: Peter Parker , OC Tyler (readers fiancé)

Authors Note: SURPRISE ditched my usual posting schedule and chapter three is hereeee i really think you all will enjoy this chapter!! next chapter shows Buckys life and a look into his feelings and POV heheh let the rollercoaster beginnnnn Also i'm mainly focusing on my series right now instead of my lots of oneshots and I have another series in the works right after this on is finished! eeeee!

Series Masterlist

<- previous chapter - next chapter ->

The harsh , bright glow of the operating room lights was a heavy contrast to the shadows lingering inside Y/N. Her hands moved with practiced precision as she placed the final suture inside , her focus absolute and her stitching , perfect. 

The rhythmic constant beeping of the monitors was like a metronome , steady and grounding.

She carefully finished and checked the closure one last time , her gloved fingers pressing lightly against the patient’s skin. 

“Forceps ,” she murmured to the scrub nurse , who handed her the tool without hesitation. 

Her team moved like a well-oiled machine , everyone anticipating the next step she makes , waiting for her instruction.

The patient’s vitals were clear and stable. Alive.

The incision site was cleaned up , her stitches neat and precise as she checked over them one last time. 

She let out a small breath of relief happy with work.

“Great work , Dr. Y/N,” her resident said from across the table. “Another successful vascular repair.”

“Thanks ,” she replied , voice steady even though her heart was still racing and coming down from the high. “It was a tricky case , but I’m glad we caught it early.”

The resident gave a small nod agreeing , eyes crinkling with pride behind the surgical mask. “Finish it all up and meet me in the lounge when you’re done. We’ll go over the next few cases for tomorrow.”

“Will do,” she said , exhaling a breath she didn't realize she was holding.

She finished completely with care , then gave the patient’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “You’re going to be okay,” she whispered , though the patient couldn’t hear her , currently still sedated and peaceful. 

Sometimes , most of the time she said it more for herself than for them. 

The post-op debrief was thankfully quick and painless. 

She stripped off her blue latex gloves and paper gown , dropping them into the biohazard bin before scrubbing her hands once more. 

The warm water and antiseptic clear soap was another comforting thing for her , a ritual she’d repeated so many times. Another rare safe constant in her life.

Walking out in the white hallway , she ran into Martha , one of the senior residents she’d become friends with during her short time here at this hospital. 

She had that easy motherly type grin that made people feel at ease , Y/N gave her a tired but kind intended smile in return. 

“Hey, Dr. Y/N ,” Martha said. “Nice save in there. I was watching from the gallery—a perfect textbook vascular control.” 

She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear that fell from her tied up bun. “Thank you. Yeah , that one had me sweating for just a minute.”

She chuckled. “You? Please. You’re a steady rock in there. I wish I could be that collected under pressure , especially when it turns into a non-routine procedure.”

She shrugged. “You’re getting there. It’s all about practice.” 

They walked down the hallway together, past a couple of nurses chatting near the buzzing station. Jamie flipped through a tablet , checking off and updating her many post-op notes. 

“So,” she said, glancing over at her. “Tomorrow’s going to be another busy one. You’re on that complex ortho case with Dr. Lee, right?”

“Yeah,” she said. “And then the transplant consult on zoom for that case in Michigan after that. It’s going to be a long day.” 

She whistled. “Dang , You’re a perfect machine , Y/N , you sure you don't have a metal arm or cyborg brain hidden from all of us?”

She forced a small laugh , though inside she felt anything but laughing.

Martha turned to her, setting down her tablet , expression softening as she reached out to touch her elbow. 

“Hey… can I ask you something? Off the record and not hospital related.”

“Sure,” she said , adjusting her posture slightly , sitting up straight.

Martha gestured to her own face , a crease forming in her brow. 

“I… I couldn’t help but notice , there’s something on your jaw. Is that…?”

She stiffened automatically , her heart skipping a beat.

 She reached up instinctively , her fingers grazing the edge of a fading bruise. 

Despite the heavy layer of makeup she’d carefully applied that morning, the sweat from her day started to wipe it away and it began to peek through now.

“Oh—uh, yeah,” she stammered , her voice carefully overly casual. 

“It’s nothing. I… hit my face on the medicine cabinet door in my bathroom last night. Total klutz moment.” she said, huffing a laugh rolling her eyes at the memory.

A lie.

Martha's eyes narrowed just a little , forehead creasing slightly. 

“That’s a pretty bad spot for a door. Are you sure you're okay?”

“It’s fine,” she cut in , a little too quickly. “Really, Martha . I was just tired and not paying attention , it will go away , I'm all good.”

She didn’t look convinced , but she gave her a slow nod. 

“Okay. Just… if you ever need to talk , you know where to find me , right?”

She forced a bright smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “To talk about how much of a klutz I am? But thanks.”

The hallway suddenly felt too bright , too exposed. She shifted her weight from foot to foot under Martha’s eyes ,  fingers fidgeting with the hem of her scrub top.

“Hey , I’m going to head to the lounge ,” Martha said,  in a gentle tone. “But… if you ever need to get out of here for a minute , coffee’s on me.”

“Thanks,” she repeated , and she meant it. 

She always appreciated her kindness—she was one of the few who noticed the little things , though she never pushed anyone to talk about them.

Martha gave Y/N one last smile , then turned and walked away , the door to the lounge swinging shut behind her.

Y/N exhaled shakily , feeling the tension in her shoulders all the way down to her tingling fingertips.

She couldn’t stand here any longer , not with the bruise so close to the surface in a place where more people could see it. 

She felt it throbbing under the thin layer of makeup like a mark permanently brand on her soft skin , a secret she couldn’t let anyone else see or know.

What would they think of her , a successful heart surgeon , healing and repairing everyone around her and then getting her own shattered and broken at home almost everyday.

She shook her head pushing the thought deep down.

Turning on her heels with a squeak of her shoes on the nylon floor , she murmured something about needing the restroom to any passing nurse who happened to hear her , then quickly ducked into the nearest bathroom. 

The door locked and clicked shut behind her , muffling the gentle hum of hospital life outside.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror, her breath catching in her throat.

The bathroom had slowly become a sanctuary to her , her home away from home , her safe place. A place in the hospital with no prying eyes or people wanting answers from her.

Its cracked white and gray linoleum floors and faint scent of bleach and antiseptics are a small comfort compared to the chaos of the operating rooms and waiting areas.

She leaned slightly forward over the sink , eyes locked on the reflection looking back in the mirror. 

The girl staring back at her looked… tired–exhausted. 

She was frayed around the edges.

Letting out a slow deep breath she was focusing on the bruise along her jaw bone. It wasn’t as dark as yesterday , but no amount of concealer could erase it wholly and completely. 

She dabbed carefully with a sponge she brought in her bag on mornings like this just in case  , and began laying the foundation and color corrector in layers until the shape of his fingerprints was just a ghost beneath her skin.

A soft knock at the door startled her. “Sorry Dr. L/N , didn't mean to scare you” A nurse walked in. “It's alright Hadley , what do you need?” She answered while hastily picking up her makeup , tossing it haphazardly in the bag.

“Dr. Kim wanted to see you about the patient in three. His blood pressure is high again and his wife has questions about recovery.”

She blinked at herself, shoulders tightening snapping back to her job mindset. “Alright thank you for relaying the message i'll be there shortly, ” she called , voice smooth and steady, even as her heart hammered against her ribs.

She gave her reflection a final glance before walking out —eyes bright but wary , lips curved in a soft smile that didn’t reach her eyes. 

She’d perfected this mask a long time ago.

Just another day , she thought , walking out and across the halls into room number three. 

“Hi, I'm Dr. Y/L/N , I heard you had some questions for me?” she said with a smile. 

Another day.

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

The hallways of the hospital buzz with busy hardworking people moving from one task to the next , the air filled with the low murmur of voices and beeps from machines and the rhythmic squeak of shoes on polished flooring as the rush is in full flow. 

Y/N moved through it all with practiced ease—dodging gurneys and wheelchairs , scanning charts handed to her , offering quiet reassurances in the hall and sweet greetings passing fellow doctors and hospital staff.

To her every patient was another small universe , each with their own fears , pain and obstacles.

She liked that—being needed , being able to fix other peoples worries and problems.

Being able to focus on someone else's life , even if only for a few minutes at a time with consultations or spending hours mid-surgery , she craved that distraction but one that also healed in the process.

She’d grown good at wearing that gentle smile and kind voice like armor. 

Sometimes it almost felt real.

Almost. 

Till she was drug right back to hell the moment she smelled the whiskey or heard the car door slam too hard after or before work.

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

A few hours after the late morning rush , she found herself in the staff lounge again , stripping off her surgical cap and rubbing a hand through her hair and her fingers pressing into her temples. 

Her cheeks pink ; flushed from the heat of hours standing in the OR , her hair sticking to her neck and forehead. 

She leaned back against the counter next to the ancient coffee pot , letting the air of the A/C cool her skin. 

She could almost pretend she was just another surgeon , exhausted but content , and ready to go home. 

She sat up stretching and started gathering her charts walking through the halls with her intern for the month , Peter. 

Today she was showing him how to edit a chart and put in notes and log vitals post-op.

As they rounded the wide curve of the 1st floor hallway , Peter spoke up and asked a question about where to add a new note about the recent surgery schedule change for the next day  , pointing at the paper chart but she didn't hear him.

All she heard in that moment was a low , familiar voice from the lobby desk , edged with warmth and breathy laughter.

“…yes ma'am , Sam Wilson asked me to deliver this to room 504 it's his Aunt ,” the voice was saying.

Her head snapped up harshly. 

She turned , heart speeding in her chest , eyes wide , and peered around the corner into the lobby.

And she was met with exactly who she thought and hoped she heard. Bucky.

He stood at the reception desk , leaning in with a crooked smile. His hair was styled perfectly up , the ends curling slightly. He wore a worn leather jacket over a soft henley , sleeves pushed up slightly. And In his hands was two brown paper bags and a bouquet of pink flowers.

For a second , she felt like the ground had shifted beneath her feet.

“Dr. Y/L/N….did you hear my question?”

 Shoot , she forgot about Peter! 

She quickly answered his question and told him to go ahead and have lunch. 

Peter nodded, glancing at the man she had her eyes locked on and left , pulling out his phone almost immediately texting his fellow interns.

Y/N did her best to flatten her mused hair and took a deep breath walking towards the desk.

“Bucky?” she called out , her voice catching just a little.

He turned at the sound of her voice , blue eyes widening in surprise before a slow , warm smile curved his lips.

“Hey , doll,” he said , and God the nickname was a soft echo of a different time— a secret only they shared.

It made her knees buckle but she continued and stepped forward , pressing her charts to her chest instinctively. 

She could feel her pulse in her neck pounding , but it wasn't out of fear but a flicker of safety that she hadn’t felt in a long time.

“What are you doing here?” she asked , a little breathless.

He lifted one of the paper bags a little. “Sam’s aunt just got cleared to eat after her surgery,” he explained , his voice calm and easy. 

“I thought I’d bring her something better than the cafeteria , nothing they got here is any good. No offense.” he said smiling at the end.

“None taken,” she replied , her laugh light and real despite everything tucked inside.

He tilted his head , studying her face. 

“You look good,” he said softly. “A little tired , but good.”

She flushed , tucking a strand of hair that had fallen behind her ear. “It’s… it’s been a busy morning. But good. Yeah , I love it , you know.”

He shifted his weight , his fingers drumming lightly on the paper bag. “Wanda said you were running the department , couldn’t believe it at first. But… it suits you , I mean the white coat and everything.”

She swallowed , heat creeping up her neck.

She did a cute little turn showing off the white coat. “I know, pretty official huh? You think it fits me?” she asked , smiling truly wanting his opinion.

For a moment , everything else seemed to fade—the beeping of monitors , the chatter of nurses and families. 

It was just the two of them , suspended in a moment that felt achingly familiar as he watched her.

“Doll , you're living your dream you wanted since we were kids , you were made for this , of course it suits you” He said , voice dropping a little laced with something she couldn't quite place.

That nickname again. 

He was going to be the death of her if he kept that up.

══✿══╡°˖✧✿✧˖°╞══✿══

The moment stretched a little longer , quiet and comfortable , like slipping right back into an old rhythm.

They chatted softly , catching up in small bits and pieces , the little details of their lives , weaving a delicate thread between them.

“Still got your truck?” she asked , remembering the way when they were not running from something he used to take her riding through the winding back roads just to feel the wind on her face.

He grinned, that boyish flash of teeth burned happily in her memories and the same one she missed all too well. “Of course. She’s temperamental , but I can’t give her up.”

She laughed. “Sounds familiar.”

He smirked , shaking his head. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

If only you knew , she thought. 

If only he could see the bruises beneath the carefully applied makeup , the way her shoulders tensed every time someone raised their voice.

She escaped one situation just to fall back into the next. Hasn't changed since they were kids. 

Just at the hands of a different person.

Their conversation continued to just flow effortlessly—talks of mutual friends , stories of Sam’s endless antics nowadays , and little memories that bubbled up like warm spring water.

She glanced at the flowers Bucky held , he noticed and brought them up to their faces—a small bunch of pink lilies and tiny babies breath mixed in throughout.

 “They're Sam’s aunts favorites,” he said. “I figured she could use a little color in her room.”

“They’re beautiful ,” she murmured , her fingers brushing the soft petals. “You’ve always known how to make people smile on their worst days.”

He shrugged, a touch of sheepishness in his eyes. “Just trying to help. You know how it is.”

Yeah , she thought. I do. Because she’d seen him do it a thousand times—patching up her own bruised knees , and of course offering warm hugs when the world felt too harsh and too cold.. 

He’d always been that way. And she was beaming knowing he's still that same boy she lov…cared for deeply , inside.

She didn’t want the moment to end between them. But the hospital never slept , and the hands of the clock marched on not caring of who or what begged it to slow or stop. Life is resuming right back to its pace.

She reached for her phone to check the time—almost 2:00pm . She had to observe a surgery at 3:30pm , and then a consult waiting for her at 4. 

She sighed , already feeling the weight of it all pressing down again.

Just as she was about to excuse herself , her phone buzzed in her hand.

She glanced at the screen and felt her stomach twist.

Tyler <3 

She really needed to change the contact name.

“Sorry it's Tyler ,” she showed him the contact glowing on her screen , stepping back a little as she answered. 

“Hey Babe ,  I’m just finishing up with rounds.” she cringed using the name but she couldn't let anyone, not even Bucky suspect they weren't a happy in love couple.

“Where are you?” Tyler’s voice was calm , but there was an edge to it that made her chest tighten. “I’m outside. Need to switch cars with you.” he continued.

She frowned. “Oh. Okay, I’ll be right there.”

She hung up , turning back to Bucky with a sheepish smile. “Sorry. Tyler wants to switch cars , he needs the car ,  I guess I’ll have to grab lunch on the go.”

Bucky’s brows furrowed. “You haven’t eaten yet?”

“I… no.” She offered a small shrug , trying to keep it light. “Like I said, busy morning.”

“Doll,” he said softly , and the word felt like a balm against the raw edges of her heart. He reached next to him grabbing the second brown paper bag. 

“Take this. I brought it for myself but I'll grab something on the way back to the restaurant , it's that grilled chicken salad you ordered the other day.”

“I can’t—”

“Please,” he cut in , his voice gentle but insistent. “I’d feel better knowing you actually got something in you.”

She hesitated , her fingers brushing the edge of the bag. 

She should say no–

But the kindness in his eyes , the warmth of it… it was too much to resist.

“Thank you,” she whispered , taking the bag carefully. 

Their fingers brushed , and for a moment , the world went quiet yet again.

She was tucking the bag under her arm when she saw Tyler marching in.

He was striding across the lobby , tall and immaculately put together—his dark slacks crisp , his dress shirt rolled to the elbows to reveal tan forearms. 

His jaw was set , his eyes sharp as they swept over her and Bucky.

She felt her stomach clench , a flicker of unease twisting through her gut.

“Hey,” she said brightly as he reached her side. “Just grabbing some food.”

Tyler’s eyes narrowed for a split second before he smiled , all white bleached teeth and easy charm. “Yeah? Looked like you were having quite the chat.”

She forced an awkward laugh. “Just catching up. Bucky was dropping off food for a patient and had some extra for me.”

“Mm,” Tyler said , his gaze sliding from her to Bucky and back again. He leaned in , brushing a kiss against her temple all for show.

 “We should go ahead and do this quickly. Don’t want to keep you from your surgery.”

She nodded , her fingers tightening around the paper bag. “Yeah. Just needed to get something to eat”

Bucky shifted , his hands sliding into the pockets of his pants. 

“Good seeing you , doll, ” he said , his voice soft. “Take care of yourself, yeah?” he gave a stiff nod at Tyler.

“I will,” she promised, her throat tight. She watched as he stepped back, his smile gentle but his eyes… his eyes were searching , as if he could see all the things she was trying so desperately to hide.

He lifted a hand in a wave as he turned to go , the late afternoon sun catching the edge of his brown almost carmel hair. 

She watched him cross the parking lot , watched the way his shoulders squared against the world.

He paused at his truck , turning back to catch her gaze one last time. He lifted a hand again waving , and she felt her heart catch in her throat.

She waved back , a small smile on her lips.

She turned to Tyler then, slipping her hand into his like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

Like her pulse wasn’t roaring in her ears at the contact.

“Let’s get to the cafeteria,” she said softly.

He squeezed her fingers , his smile easy , happy she was back in his grip. 

But she felt the steel beneath it , the way his hand tightened just a little too hard.

As they walked away together—her hand in his , the scent of Bucky’s flowers he brought was still clinging to her skin. 

Tyler’s fingers tightened around hers , the pressure pulling her back to the present. 

She turned to look at him, and he was already watching her—brown eyes sharp and assessing.

“What was that about?” he asked , his tone light , but she could hear the darkness beneath it.

“Just saying hi ,” she said quickly, her voice carefully even. “Like i said he was dropping off food for a patient.”

“Mm,” Tyler hummed, but his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Looked like more than just saying hi to an old friend to me.”

She swallowed. “It wasn’t.”

He watched her for a moment longer, then his smile widened, all warmth and easy charm. 

A play.

“Good. Let’s go grab something to eat, yeah? You’ve got that surgery soon , and I'm starving. Had meetings back to back.”

“Yeah,” she murmured, slipping her hand more firmly into his. “Let’s go.”

They walked together into the elevator, hitting the button to the fourth floor , her fingers still wrapped in his slightly twitching wanting escape—his grip was harsh enough to remind her who she belonged to.

She stood idle as the elevator started ascending , but in her racing mind Bucky's final wave and smile lingered , smokey taking up her thoughts.

But as Tyler’s hand guided her toward the cafeteria doors feeling the warm sun on her face from the window lined hallways  , she felt the usual chill settle back into her bones.

And she knew that no matter how bright the sun was , the shadows weren’t done with her yet.

-end

Comments , Reblogs , Likes and Requests are always loved!

(although if you liked this fic please consider reblogging so it can reach a wider audience)

They let me know that you are enjoying what I'm publishing and gives me motivation to write more and more! :33

Taglist: @cupid4prez @valyriantarg @mgchaser @rosylnsworld @iyskgd @starstruckfirecat @vicmc624 @sebastians-love

[rafayelgod]

🔞WARNING THIS IS ADULTS CONTENT🔞

NSFW, Fanfiction, Not for kids!, 18+, Dominance, BDSM

What if They Caught You Watching Porn in Their Bedroom? 🔞💦

🔞 Please be advised: This story contains explicit sexual content, including descriptions of masturbation and consensual sexual interaction, and explores themes of possessiveness and dominance by the character. Reader discretion is advised.

Okay Hunter (MC/You) here are five individual scenarios depicting how each of the Love and Deepspace characters would react if they walked in on you watching porn in their bedroom within this alternative universe.

1. Rafayel

You were sprawled out across Rafayel's ridiculously soft bed, letting the afternoon sun warm your face. He was supposed to be at the studio, sketching or dealing with some gallery drama. Perfect time for... research. You'd found a particularly interesting video online and were completely engrossed, the screen glowing with explicit details.

Suddenly, the bedroom door burst open with a cheerful, slightly dramatic flourish.

"Cutie! I'm home! Guess what I got you-"

You jumped, slamming the laptop shut with a speed you didn't know you possessed. Your face instantly flamed, blood rushing to your cheeks. Rafayel stood in the doorway, eyes wide not with anger, but with surprise, his signature playful grin already starting to form. He had a small box in his hand, likely a gift.

He tilted his head, purple eyes sparkling with mischief. "Whoa there, Miss Bodyguard. What's got you looking like a ripe tomato?" He took a step closer, his gaze flicking towards the closed laptop on the bed. "And what were you hiding?"

He sat on the edge of the bed, leaning in conspiratorially. "Don't tell me... were you watching something spicy?" He wiggled his eyebrows, completely unashamed. "Getting ideas, Cutie?"

Your embarrassment was a physical wave. "N-no! It was... uh... a documentary!"

He let out a light, musical laugh. "A 'documentary,' huh? Does it feature... anatomy in great detail?" He leaned closer still, his voice dropping to a playful purr. "You know, you don't have to watch static images on a screen when you have the real thing right here. Isn't my physique much more... artistically inspiring?"

He reached out and gently traced the line of your jaw, his grin turning softer but still full of knowing charm. "Maybe I could offer a private, live-action tutorial instead? Much more... interactive, don't you think?" He didn't seem jealous, just highly amused and eager to turn the situation into a chance to tease and flirt.

"So," he whispered, his face close to yours, "about that 'documentary'... care to share what you learned?"

2. Zayne

You were in Zayne's impeccably neat bedroom. He had an emergency shift at the hospital, giving you unexpected free time in his quiet, sterile space. You'd been feeling a bit stressed lately and decided a distraction was in order. You found what you were looking for on your tablet, headphones on, lost in the private world on the screen.

The door opened quietly, no preamble, no loud entrance. You didn't even hear it until you felt a presence standing near the foot of the bed.

You pulled off your headphones with a gasp, the bright screen still visible in your lap. Zayne stood there, dressed in his scrubs, looking at you with his usual calm, intelligent gaze. His expression was unreadable for a moment, then his eyes drifted down to the tablet screen.

Your face felt like it was on fire. You fumbled with the device, trying to turn it off, wishing the floor would swallow you whole.

"Honey?" His voice was soft, carrying an unexpected hint of surprise but no harshness. He didn't look away from the screen immediately, his expression remaining composed, though you thought you saw the tiniest flicker of something in his green eyes.

Finally, he looked back at you, his expression gentle, almost clinical in its lack of judgment, yet with that specific tenderness he reserved only for you. "Is... everything alright, Baby?"

You stammered, unable to form a coherent sentence.

He walked closer, sitting carefully beside you on the bed. He didn't snatch the tablet or scold you. Instead, he just looked at you, his gaze steady and reassuring. "There's no need to be so flustered, Honey. It's... a natural human interest."

He paused, a very faint, almost imperceptible smirk touching his lips. "Though, I must admit, I'm curious. Are you... studying something specific?" His voice was low, simple, devoid of any overt flirtation, yet the implication hung in the air.

He reached out and gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "Perhaps if you have questions... or require further practical demonstration... you could just ask me, Baby." His eyes held yours, calm, rational, but with an underlying sweetness that made your heart flutter even amidst the embarrassment. "I'm always available to help you... understand."

3. Xavier

You were relaxing in Xavier's room, the one place you both felt truly safe after a long day hunting Wanderers. He'd said he was just grabbing something from his car. You took the opportunity to browse, and well, ended up on a site that definitely wasn't about alien biology. You were captivated by the on-screen action, forgetting about the world outside the glow of the screen.

The door opened slowly, and Xavier shuffled in, looking typically sleepy, eyes half-closed. "My Love, where did you put my..."

His voice trailed off as he saw you, eyes wide with surprise, laptop open on your lap. His sleepy haze vanished in an instant, replaced by sharp alertness as his gaze fell on the screen. His blue eyes narrowed slightly.

Your heart leaped into your throat. You slammed the laptop shut with a cringe. "Xavier! I... um..."

He stood straighter, the charm fading into a look of intense focus. He walked towards the bed, his earlier weariness completely gone. He sat down beside you, not roughly, but with a possessive closeness.

"My Love," he said, his voice low and serious, a hint of possessiveness already coloring it. "What were you watching?" He didn't wait for an answer, his eyes searching yours. "Why are you looking at that?"

His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking softly, but his gaze was firm, almost troubled. "Do you... do you need something more than I'm giving you?" The question was laced with insecurity and fierce protectiveness. "Why look at strangers... when you have me?"

He leaned closer, his scent of ozone and something uniquely him surrounding you. His voice dropped to a gravelly whisper. "Let me show you, My Love. Let me show you there's nothing on that screen that compares to what we have." He leaned in, kissing you with a depth that was both possessive and desperately wanting to prove his point.

"You only need me," he murmured against your lips, pulling you closer. "Just me, My Love."

4. Sylus

You were in Sylus's luxurious, almost intimidatingly large bedroom. He was out handling Onychinus business - something involving 'negotiations' and 'asset management'. You felt brave enough to occupy his space, and maybe just bold enough to indulge in something equally bold on your tablet. You were enjoying the explicit display when a deep voice cut through the silence.

"Well now, kitten. What have we here?"

You froze. Sylus stood in the doorway, a tall, commanding figure leaning casually against the frame. He wasn't smiling, but his dark red eyes held a glint of amusement and something undeniably predatory as they scanned you and then the tablet screen in your lap.

You snapped the tablet off, your face burning. "Sylus! You're back early!"

He pushed off the doorframe and walked slowly towards you, his movements smooth and confident. He didn't look surprised or embarrassed, only intrigued. "Early? Or just in time?" His gaze lingered on the tablet, then back to you, a slow smirk spreading across his face. "Getting ideas, sweetie?"

He reached the bed and stood over you, his sheer size making you feel like a tiny creature caught in his gaze. He reached down and gently took the tablet from your trembling hands, placing it aside without looking at it.

"You know, kitten," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated with power and charm. "I find it incredibly... stimulating... knowing you're in my personal space, thinking about carnal things." He leaned down, bracing his hands on either side of you on the bed, trapping you.

"But," he continued, his voice turning more dominant, "didn't I tell you? The only man you need to study... is me." He lowered himself further, his face close to yours, his eyes intense. "Let me show you how a real man pleases his sweetie. Let me show you all the things you were only dreaming about."

His smirk widened, bold and unapologetic. "No need for a screen, kitten. The show is live, and you have a front-row seat."

5. Caleb

You were in Caleb's room, which was a chaotic mix of military neatness and personal indulgence. He was often away on duty, leaving you to occupy his space when you missed him. You were watching something particularly intense on your laptop, lost in the visuals, when the door swung open sharply behind you.

"Pipsqueak? Thought I'd find you here." His voice was light, playful, but there was an undercurrent of something else you knew well.

You flinched, spinning around, trying to hide the screen. Your face must have given you away instantly. Caleb stood there, already shedding his jacket, but his playful expression vanished as he saw your reaction and the laptop on the bed. His black eyes, usually warm with affection, turned sharp and intense, the purple depth within them seeming to darken.

He didn't say anything else immediately. He just walked towards the bed, his footsteps deliberate. He reached you and his hand shot out, not to touch you gently, but to snatch the laptop closed with a sharp snap.

"What the hell were you watching?" His voice was no longer playful. It was low, rough, laced with possessiveness and a controlled fury. His eyes bored into yours, demanding an answer.

Your breath hitched. The casual charm was gone, replaced by the dark, obsessive side you knew existed beneath the surface. "Caleb, I... it was just..."

He leaned over you, his body language dominating, trapping you against the headboard. "Just what, Pipsqueak? Looking at other people? Imagining things with someone who isn't me?" His grip on the laptop tightened, his knuckles turning white.

"Didn't I make it clear?" he growled, his voice dangerously soft. "You belong to me. Your eyes are only for me. Your thoughts are only for me." He tossed the laptop carelessly onto the floor. "Why do you need that when you have me?"

He leaned in closer, his face inches from yours, his intensity overwhelming. "You will only see these things with me, Pipsqueak. Only me." He gripped your chin firmly, his thumb tracing your lip. "Now, let me remind you who you belong to." His kissed you, not sweetly, but with demanding possessiveness, a clear statement of ownership. "You're mine. And you will never look at anyone else like that again. Understand?"

© Melody (Follow for more hot story) 🔞🌚💋💦

[angeliccss]

The Quite Ones

Pairing: Mona Wassermann/Reader

Words: 3.9k

Summary: She said it was love when she asked you to move in. You didn’t notice the walls closing in until they felt like home. Now there’s another girl wearing your old fear—and you, draped in silk and power, wouldn’t have it any other

Warnings: Toxic Relationship, Manipulation, Moral Corruption, Being Controlled But You Like It, Suicide (not reader), kidnapping

AO3

AN: This did a complete 180 from what I expected it to be, Oopsies. Enjoy Xx (Requested by: @luvpone)

The eggs are already plated when you wake.

Soft-scrambled, just the way Mona likes them—creamy, a hint of chive, barely touched by heat. The toast is dry, cut diagonally. The grapefruit has been halved, segmented, dusted with sugar.

You blink the sleep from your eyes and sit up slowly, like you’re afraid to shift the balance of the morning. The sheets are still warm beside you, though she’s long gone. You smell her perfume before you see the tray. Sharp. Floral. Unmistakably hers.

A folded note rests beside your water glass.

Remember your pills. Wear the blue sweater today. I’ll be home at six. Don’t make me come looking.

– M

You stare at the handwriting for a long moment. Neat. Severe. Looped just slightly at the tail ends, like she wants to seem softer than she is.

You do exactly as she says. Not because you’re hungry, but because she’ll ask. And if she finds the plate cold and untouched when she gets home—no. Better not to find out.

You chew mechanically, gaze drifting across the apartment. Her apartment. All clean lines and pale marble, glass so spotless it reflects the sky, not the city. Everything in its place. Just like you.

There’s a faint hum of music playing through the built-in speakers—one of her old jazz records. Mona likes music in the mornings. She says silence makes you brood.

Your phone buzzes once. Then again. You already know who it is.

Have you eaten? Send me a photo.

You don’t hesitate. You snap a picture of the empty plate and send it without comment. The read receipt pops up within seconds.

Good girl. Now the sweater.

You rise, dutiful, and make your way to the closet. Not yours—hers. Everything you own now fits into a curated space of her choosing. The blue sweater is already laid out on the ottoman. You didn’t put it there.

It still smells like her. You slip the sweater on. It’s soft, expensive. Cashmere, probably. Mona doesn’t buy anything that isn’t the best.

It still fits perfectly, even though you’re sure you’ve lost weight. She says that’s good. Says it makes you look “kept.” Like you’re being taken care of.

You sit on the edge of the bed, sweater clutched around yourself like armor, and let your thoughts drift—just for a moment—back to before.

Back to the beginning.

Mona had been kind, then. Overwhelming, yes—she swept into your life like a storm with perfect posture—but kind. She asked questions no one else thought to ask. Remembered the name of your cat, your mother, your favorite wine. She touched your arm when you were nervous and said things like: “You don’t have to be afraid with me.”

And you believed her.

When she offered her guest suite, just for a while, just until things “settled”, you didn’t think twice. You were out of work. The lease was ending. She looked at you like she couldn’t bear the thought of you struggling.

You told yourself it was temporary. She told you, gently: “I want you safe. That’s all. Let me give you that.”

You never even noticed the moment your keys stopped working. Or when she started answering your phone. Or when your old clothes vanished, replaced with carefully chosen alternatives. Mona said they “didn’t suit you.” She said this with a smile, holding a silk blouse to your chest like a gift.

And maybe it was. Maybe that’s what’s so confusing.

She loves you. She tells you so every day. She holds your face in both hands like it’s precious. She kisses your temple when you’re quiet too long and murmurs things like: “You’d fall apart without me, wouldn’t you?”

The worst part is—she might be right.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The lock clicks at exactly 5:58 PM. She never rings. Never knocks. This is her home. Her space. Her rules.

You’re already sitting on the couch, sweater smoothed over your lap, a book open but unread in your hands. You’ve been in that position for twenty minutes, heart fluttering with anticipation you’d never call fear.

She walks in without hesitation. A black coat draped over her shoulders. Lips painted like blood and wine. Hair perfectly set, not a strand out of place.

Mona Wassermann doesn’t rush. She arrives. “Darling.” Her voice is warm, velvet-thick. “You wore the sweater.” You nod, managing a smile. “You said to.”

She hums, low and pleased, and crosses the room in heels that echo like punctuation. “You listen so well,” she murmurs, and cups your jaw in one hand. Her thumb strokes your cheek, her touch feather-light. “That’s what I love about you. You know how to be cared for.”

You swallow. “I made tea.”

“I’m not thirsty,” she says, still smiling, still touching. “But I’ll sit with you.” She takes the book from your lap and sets it aside—delicately, like it’s fragile. Like you’re fragile. Then she sits beside you and pulls you into her side, your body folding against hers out of habit more than choice.

Her arm curls around your shoulders. Her lips brush your temple. “There,” she whispers. “Isn’t that better?”

You nod again. Because it is. It’s easier than questioning. Safer than pushing back. And besides, Mona’s warmth is real. Her grip, firm but comforting. Her attention, intoxicating.

If this is what love looks like, you think, maybe you can learn to want it this way. You close your eyes and let her hold you. And you don’t ask why the door locks behind her with a soft mechanical click.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

You don’t notice when you stop checking the time.

Mona keeps the clocks set fast by exactly six minutes, she says it keeps you sharp, but you don’t need them. You know her rhythms better than your own now. You wake when she tells you. Eat when she expects you to. Breathe easier when she walks through the door.

You used to wonder if this was normal. If it was healthy. Now you just want to make her proud.

She’s sitting at the dining table with her glasses perched low on her nose, reading something dense and contractual. You curl up beside her on the floor, rest your head against her hip. You don’t say a word. You don’t have to.

Her hand slips into your hair like it belongs there. “I could get used to this,” she says absently, still reading. You tilt your head up. “To what?”

“This. You. Obedient. Quiet. Sweet.” You beam like it’s praise. Because it is. “I just want to make you happy,” you say. She sets her papers down and looks at you fully, her expression unreadable.

“You do,” she says. Then softer, almost to herself, “You really do.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

She still tells you you’re beautiful, but now it’s in the same tone she uses when approving a purchase order—decisive, possessive. Her hands roam absently when she walks past you: a hand at your waist, a gentle grip at your nape, a brush down your spine that makes you shiver in ways you pretend not to understand.

And when she kisses you, it’s with a kind of ownership that leaves no room for doubt.

One night, you whisper to her in the dark, just as sleep starts to take you both: “I love you.” You feel her go still behind you, just for a second.

Then her hand curls around your middle, pulling you closer. Her mouth finds the curve of your shoulder. “I know,” she murmurs. “I love you too.”You smile, eyes fluttering closed.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

You meet for coffee because Mona said you could.

She picked the café. Chose your outfit. Had the driver wait half a block away. “Let her feel free,” she’d said with a smirk, lips brushing your cheek. “It’ll make her easier to ignore.” You’d laughed. She kissed you again.

Now you sit at a small table by the window, sweater sleeves neatly pushed to your wrists, hands folded in your lap the way Mona likes. You’re early, of course. You always are.

When your friend arrives, she looks different. Or maybe you do. She hugs you too tightly, too long. She smells like a life you used to have—street food and secondhand bookstores, not rose oil and Mona’s Chanel.

“You look…” She hesitates. “Good.” You smile. “She takes care of me.”

“Yeah,” your friend says, pulling off her coat. “That’s what I wanted to talk about.” It starts softly. Little questions. How have you been? Are you still painting? Do you see anyone else? Do you ever go anywhere alone?

You answer like you’ve been coached—because you have. “She just wants what’s best for me,” you say. “She’s protective.”

“Protective,” your friend echoes. “Or controlling?” You blink. “What’s the difference?” She stares at you. Her expression shifts—fear, maybe. Or pity. You hate it.

“She’s cut you off from everyone,” she says quietly. “You used to call me when you couldn’t sleep. You used to laugh more. You used to talk about leaving.” You stiffen. “I don’t want to leave.”

“She doesn’t love you,” your friend says, voice flat. “She owns you.” You flinch like she slapped you. “No,” you say. “No, she does. You don’t understand her.”

“I understand you,” she says, leaning forward. “And I know when you’re not okay.”

You push back your chair, carefully. Not angrily—Mona taught you better than that. You gather your coat, your phone, your bag. Everything Mona picked out for you.

“I’m fine,” you say, voice even. “I love her. And she loves me.” She grabs your wrist. “She’s conditioning you.” You yank free.

“She saved me,” you say, quieter now. “When no one else did. I’m not going to apologize for being loved.”

Your phone buzzes. A single text: Time’s up. Car is waiting. You don’t look back. You leave with your head high, pride stiff in your spine.

That night, you curl against Mona in bed. She brushes your hair back and kisses your forehead. “She’s worried about you,” she murmurs.

You nod against her chest. “She doesn’t know what we have.” Mona hums. “No,” she agrees, stroking your back. “She doesn’t.” She holds you closer. You don’t see the way her eyes stay open long after yours have closed.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The friend doesn’t stop.

She starts texting. Calling. Leaving voicemails that pile up unheard in your phone’s hidden folder—Mona showed you how to mute her without blocking. “Cruelty,” she’d said, “is giving them hope.”

At first, you ignore it. Then, you listen. She sounds tired. Worried. Pleading.

This isn’t you. You used to fight. You used to have your own mind. I’m not going away.

You play the last message twice. It ends with silence, then a quiet, broken whisper: Please come back. You delete it.

Later, you tell Mona. She’s in her study, barefoot, swirling a glass of red wine. You sit on the arm of her chair, your hand resting gently on her shoulder. “She won’t stop.” Mona doesn’t look up from her book. “Then block her.”

“She was my friend.” Mona hums. “And I’m your future.” You hesitate. Then: “She said I’m not myself anymore.” That gets her attention. She closes the book. Turns to face you fully.

“And what self would you rather be, hm?” Her voice is soft, slow. Seductive in its certainty. “The one who cried herself to sleep in an empty apartment? The one who begged for scraps of affection from people who couldn’t give a damn?”

You’re quiet. She leans closer, brushing her lips over your jaw. “Or this version? The one who’s loved. Protected. Chosen.” You nod. But something cold settles in your chest anyway. It starts to show.

At lunch with Mona’s acquaintances—never your friends—you speak less. But when you do, it’s with precision. You echo Mona’s cadence, her sharpness, her subtle threats wrapped in silk.

Someone makes a joke at your expense. You smile, cool and unbothered, and say: “Careful. Mona doesn’t like people touching her things.”

Their laugh falters. You finish your drink. Mona beams.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

You dream about locking the doors behind her. You dream about telling someone they’re not allowed to leave. You wake with a sick flush of guilt—and something else. Something hotter. Thicker.

You bury your face in Mona’s shoulder. She strokes your hair and doesn’t ask what the dream was. She knows.

Your friend corners you outside the florist’s. You don’t know how she found you. “You’re scaring me,” she says. “You’re starting to sound like her.”

You look at her—really look—and realize she’s smaller than you remember. Not physically. Just… less. You tilt your head. “She’s not hurting me,” you say calmly. “She’s making me better.”

“She’s changing you.” You don’t answer. You don’t need to. The look in your eyes says it all.

That night, Mona kisses your neck and murmurs, “My sweet girl. You’re learning.” And you are. You just don’t know if you’re becoming what she wants—or something even she should be afraid of.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The friend comes back. She looks worse now—drawn, desperate, tired of begging but still clinging to the idea that somewhere beneath all this, you’re still you.

You open the door without hesitation. “Come in,” you say smoothly. She hesitates, but steps over the threshold. The lock clicks behind her.

You lead her to the sitting room, where the lights are low and the air smells faintly of Mona’s perfume, amber, spice, smoke.

She doesn’t sit. “I just want to talk.” You nod. “We will. But not yet.” You cross the room and pour a glass of wine, watching her in the reflection of the cabinet mirror. She’s uneasy already. Good.

You hand her the glass. She doesn’t take it.

“Mona will be home soon,” you say softly, brushing a stray hair from her shoulder. “You should stay. Since you want me so badly.” Her brow furrows. “What?”

“You keep saying you want the real me back.” You smile, all teeth. “She’ll want to see that.” She takes a step back. “This isn’t funny.”

“Oh, I’m not joking.” You move closer. Not threatening. Not yet. Just present. “You chased me down. You barged into my life. You said you weren’t leaving until I came back.”

You lower your voice. “So stay.” You motion toward the couch. She doesn’t move. You don’t force her. You just watch. “Let’s see what Mona thinks of your loyalty.”

When Mona arrives, the energy in the room shifts instantly. She closes the door, tosses her keys on the side table, and pauses when she sees the two of you.

Her eyes land on your friend. Then flick to you with a slow, dangerous smile. You stand and walk to her, all grace and control, and press a kiss to her cheek.

“She wants to save me,” you murmur, just loud enough for your friend to hear. “Tried again.” Mona’s eye glint. “How sweet.”

“She’s staying,” you add. “For now. Since she misses me so much.” Mona looks at your friend like one might look at something pitiful on the street.

“How generous,” she says, curling an arm around your waist. You lean into her easily, effortlessly. Your voice is silk. “She doesn’t understand yet. But she will.” Mona kisses your temple. “She won’t like what she sees.”

“She never does,” you reply. “But that’s not our problem, is it?” Your friend stands frozen, uncertain if she’s still here to help—or if she’s already become part of the performance.

You smile, slow and cruel. “Don’t worry,” you say gently. “You wanted to see the real me.” You lace your fingers with Mona’s, lift them to your lips. “Well. Here I am.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

She stayed. Not by choice. But she stayed.

It was supposed to be a confrontation. A rescue. But one look at Mona, one long, bone-deep silence between the two of you, and your friend lost her footing. You saw it in her eyes—the moment her resolve cracked.

Now she sleeps in the servant’s room. You didn’t even know the house had one. Mona called it “practical.” She doesn’t call her by name anymore. Just “the girl.”

“She’s useful,” Mona says with a wave of her hand. “Good hands. Quiet. Mostly.” You don’t ask her to leave. You don’t apologize.

Instead, you hand her empty teacups. You set your shoes by the door and let her clean them. You watch her as she dusts the shelves you used to daydream beside, and you feel…

Nothing. No guilt. No ache. Only power.

Mona sees it in you. The way your shoulders don’t hunch anymore. The way you speak with weight. The way you look at her like you’ve finally earned her.

And when she fastens your necklace in the mirror, she speaks low against your ear: “I’m proud of you.” Your eyes flutter shut. You lean into her touch. You’re warm all over.

She still tells you when to sleep. What to wear. Where to sit. And you let her. You want to. Because every time she buttons your collar closed or brushes her thumb over your lip to wipe away a crumb, your body reacts before your mind does.

Heat. Obedience. Desire. You used to wonder if it was wrong. Now you just want more.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

One evening, you catch your reflection as you pass the mirror in the foyer. You pause. Step closer. Study yourself. The posture. The lipstick. The velvet around your throat.

You turn, slowly, admiring. Behind you, the girl—your friend—sets a tray on the table. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t meet your eyes.

You watch her in the mirror, then shift your gaze back to yourself. “Mona,” you say casually as she enters the room, “do you think she’s in love with me?”

Mona raises an eyebrow. “She’s afraid of yoi.” You smile. “Same thing.”

Mona laughs, low and delighted, and crosses to you. She kisses you slowly, possessively, not caring that the girl can see.

And you melt into her, fingertips grazing the curve of her waist. Because fear isn’t love. But it keeps people close. And that’s all you’ve ever wanted.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

It’s raining the day the girl tries to leave.

You find her in the foyer with her old coat and a canvas bag that still smells like the life she used to have. She’s trembling, soaked from the open door. Eyes darting, frantic.

She doesn’t speak at first. Just looks at you like she’s begging without words. You don’t say anything either. You just close the door. Quietly. Then you call for Mona.

The aftermath is silent. No shouting. No threats. Just the door locking. The coat taken. The bag burned.

Later, Mona wraps an arm around your waist as you sip wine by the fireplace. The girl kneels at the edge of the room, eyes fixed on the floor, hands folded neatly in her lap.

“You handled that well,” Mona murmurs, brushing your hair back. “I knew you would.” You smile. You should feel triumphant. But what you feel is settled. Like the final piece of something has clicked into place.

That night, you lie in bed with Mona’s hand at your throat and her breath in your ear, and it hits you: You’re not afraid anymore. Not of her. Not of what you’ve become. Not even of what you’re capable of.

You want her power. You want to share it. And you know now—you were never her victim. You were her creation.

The rain has stopped. There’s a stillness in the house that’s almost sacred. No birds, no wind—just the faint hum of quiet obedience in every room.

You pad barefoot into the kitchen the next morning, Mona’s silk robe wrapped around you like armor. It still smells like her—amber, smoke, power. You don’t bother tying it.

The girl is already there.

Kneeling by the oven, scrubbing the tile. Her movements are too fast, too frantic, like if she works hard enough she might disappear.

You stand in the doorway for a moment and just watch her. The tremble in her spine. The quick glance over her shoulder. The way she immediately ducks her head again.

You love it. Not in the way you used to love. Not the soft, giving kind. This is something deeper. Sharper. Almost holy.

You walk to the counter and sit. She stiffens when she hears the stool scrape the floor. You let the silence stretch. Then: “Coffee.” Your voice is low. Even. Calm. But it cuts through her like a blade.

She stumbles to her feet and obeys. Hands shaking. You don’t help. You don’t thank her. You just watch.

When she sets the cup in front of you, you reach out—slowly, deliberately—and take her wrist. She freezes. You don’t squeeze. You don’t threaten. You just hold her there. Make her look at you.

And when she does—when her eyes meet yours, wide and frightened, pleading—you smile. “I could’ve been you,” you say softly. “You know that, don’t you?”

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to. You release her. Take a sip. It’s perfect. Behind you, you hear the soft click of Mona’s heels approaching.

She enters without a word and leans in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you. You meet her eyes. She’s beaming.

There’s something almost tender in the way she looks at you now. Something reverent. “Look at you,” she murmurs. “You’ve found your footing.”

You glance back at the girl, who has quietly returned to her corner. Head down. Knees bruised. “Fear,” you say, swirling your coffee, “is a kind of worship.”

Mona crosses the room and kisses your forehead. “I knew you’d understand,” she whispers. You rest your head against her shoulder, looking out at your kingdom. The kitchen, the house, the girl. All of it. Yours. Hers. Forever.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

It happens on a Tuesday.

You find her slumped in the servant’s room—wrist pale and open, sheets stained a dull brown. She must’ve done it hours ago. No note. No drama. Just quiet defiance. Or maybe desperation.

You stand in the doorway and look at her for a long time. You don’t cry. You don’t scream. You just sigh.

“She couldn’t even finish the floors,” you say that evening, curled in Mona’s lap, her fingers idly combing through your hair.

Mona hums in mild irritation, swirling a spoon through her espresso. “I told you she wasn’t built for longevity. All that conviction—useless without structure.”

You stretch, slow and catlike, lips brushing the underside of her jaw. “We’ll have to place an ad.” Mona groans dramatically. “Ugh. Interviews.” You laugh softly. “Can we get one that doesn’t cry?”

“Or pray.”

“Or try to save me?” Mona tightens her grip around your waist. “You’re not in need of saving,” she murmurs. “You’re perfect.” You smile into her throat.

Later that week, a new girl arrives. Young. Eager. Nervous. She calls you “Miss.” You offer her a drink. Something calming. She takes it with both hands.

And from the top of the stairs, Mona watches you with pride gleaming in her eyes. You’ve learned to play her game. No—your game now.

And the house? The house remains hungry. Always hungry.

[pipwasreal]

Day 31: spooky + intercrural sex

Alternate prompt today. Well... kinktober just had a list of extra prompts for the last day rather than specifying. So let's go out with a (thigh)bang!

Characters: Edwin Payne, Charles Rowland, Crystal Palace (mentioned), Niko Sasaki (mentioned)

Content warnings: forces beyond our ken, helplessness, trauma, thigh sex

Now with an illustration by jube-art!

Another year nearing its end means another Samhain to weather together.

Edwin begins tidying the office around midday. He ensures all paperwork is filed and books shelved, then stows fragile items away in boxes and drawers.

They had warned Crystal and Niko that they would be entirely indisposed on All Hallow's Eve, but, as an extra precaution, Charles barricades the door.

"Hatches officially battened," Charles says, with a tight smile.

"As the sailors probably do not say," replies Edwin.

Charles chuckles obligingly at this rather feeble joke. Anything to ease the mounting tension.

By mid-afternoon, there is nothing left to do but wait. Charles paces and Edwin sits, staring out the window at the gathering dark.

Despite the looming clouds and spitting rain, they both know exactly when the sun sets. They feel it, like a tingling, a tightness to their spectral skin.

Within minutes it's an itch, then a crackle. There are no lights on in the agency, but they do not need any. They begin to glow.

It has been a long time since Edwin has thought of himself as human. It's easier for him, he thinks. He cannot remember much about how it felt to be alive. Charles, however, still mentions foods he enjoyed and activities he misses, still tries to recall various smells or sensations.

But the fact is that they are two very dead boys. And, once a year, they are forced to remember it.

Charles' carefully constructed appearance flakes away and Edwin knows his own is doing the same. His neat polo and trousers give way to a sodden vest and tracksuit bottoms. He begins to shiver, curls dripping phantom water that disappears before it hits the floor.

Edwin tries to take calming breaths, but finds himself panting, peeled back to his bloodstained undergarments and his fear.

His bare feet are no longer touching the floor. They never do, of course, but he considers it polite to pretend gravity affects him. Rather than choosing to drift upward, he feels pulled now, and sees the same thing happening to Charles.

Limned with sickly light, they hang, suspended in midair. Charles reaches out his hand and Edwin grips it tight. Hot blood and icy water combine to drip from their entwined fingers.

Nothing happens for a moment.

Then there is a jolt. Time and space fold around them, and the whole office shudders.

Edwin feels a tug below his spectral ribs, and he knows Charles does as well. Their deaths call out to them, hooks trying to pull them back to St Hilarion's, to the place they were both killed, decades apart.

They fight it, neither willing to return.

With an effort, Edwin turns to Charles. His eyes are wrong, white on white, and bruises have bloomed across his face and arms. He looks frightened but determined, and Edwin loves him completely.

"Stay with me," Edwin gasps. "Stay here, now."

Charles nods, teeth chattering in his clenched jaw.

"C'mere," he forces out. "Hold me."

It is a struggle, but they manage. As soon as Edwin has both of Charles' hands in his own, he feels another jolt, as if there is a current running through them. He could not let go if he tried.

The tug at his ribs lessens, but the pressure building under his skin only increases. He spins Charles around so that his back is pressed to Edwin's front and both their arms are wrapped around his waist.

They seem to vibrate against each other, all pent-up energy with nowhere to go. Edwin stiffens against Charles' backside and cannot help but grind forward.

"Don't want... these clothes," Charles grits out.

"Nor I these," Edwin pants.

They will their last layers away and curl up close, pressed together, naked in midair.

"Want to feel you," Charles murmurs. He spreads his legs, just enough for Edwin's cock to slip between them, then squeezes them together again. Edwin thrusts forward, rubbing against Charles' perineum and bollocks. They groan in unison.

They cling to each other, as if to become one entity. And as their pleasure grows, they find a double release.

The annual ordeal is overcome, more sweetly than ever before. They're figuring things out, together.

[tobiasdrake]

Hi, I know that the newly canon Super Saiyan Four is a wet paper towel compared to the god forms, but I kinda love that about it? I have super mixed feelings about GT's initial take. Daima's, however, makes me wish that Goku hadn't gone to Beerus' planet 'cause I think Goku relying on a comparatively weak transformation that he invented himself (apparently) instead of completely walking back his desire to fight with his own mortal strength is much more interesting to me. Goku becoming a wide eyed student again doesn't sit right with me anyway, especially since he's directly called the GoD position "horrible" and that kinda clashes with training under Universe Seven's GoD Maker. I like Super Saiyan God's initial concepts (and I'd say it's Toriyama's first crack at incorporating aspects of GT's Four, even, which makes me even more soft on it) but Goku's initial dislike of the form begs a counter approach from him. Humility is Goku's greatest strength but still. Vegeta being the only one to train on Beerus' planet would both fit his character better-- (that being the first time Vegeta tried to develop in a way that wasn't first done by Goku as a direct attempt to mimic his success since the time chamber, and Vegeta also has a much more personal connection to Beerus) --but it would also meaningfully set them on different paths. Which DBS ultimately wants. I say this as a bonafide Vegeta hater, though. I think Vegeta's character suffers immensely when he's put front and center alongside Goku all the time. D'you have any thoughts on all of this? I'm sorry for the word vomit.

I think, ultimately, Vegeta suffers from the same problem as Goku: He doesn't have anything left to do. He's said all he can say. His story's done and there's no where left for him to go, so they kind of just... have to walk him back to an earlier point in his characterization in order to make his role as Forever Deuteragonist work.

Arguably, Vegeta gets hit by this worse than Goku. Because Vegeta can never be allowed to just be done, to just end his story and go away... but he also has to be Goku's sidekick and not the protagonist in his own right. He doesn't even have the luxury of being the guy, being the one in the spotlight doing all the things. Instead of tying off his story in a neat little bow, he has to be the Robin to Goku's Batman forever.

The problem with DBS Vegeta is most firmly demonstrated by Ultra Ego, I think. Ultra Ego is the absolute nadir of Vegeta's decay into the role of Goku's hapless sidekick.

Vegeta sees Goku learning the ultimate technique of the gods and throws a hissy fit because he wants an ultimate technique of the gods that doesn't have Goku's cooties on it. There's been no indication that any alternative path to the highest power exists, but Vegeta stomps his foot and demands one anyway.

So Beerus takes him aside and helps him develop an alternative technique that will be the opposite of Ultra Instinct in every way. Instead of effortlessly dodging all attacks, Vegeta's new technique relies on never dodging anything and instead taking every hit until he falls down and dies. It's stupid, but it satisfies his intense need to be pointlessly contrarian.

Now, the thing about Ultra Ego is that it sounds dumb on the face of it. But all it really needs in order to become dignified and awesome and make people go "WHOA CHECK OUT THE COOL NEW FORM" is a good showing. All Vegeta needs to do is break out Ultra Ego and win something that Goku couldn't. To prove its merits by overshadowing Goku and demonstrating that Ultra Ego truly is a worthy power.

But he'll never get that.

Because it's not his job to win things.

He's just a sidekick.

In his spontaneous crusade for divergent character evolution, he is now stuck with a dumb transformation that can only be vindicated by winning something. And he'll never be allowed to win that something, because he's just here to make Goku look good. He has nothing else left to do. That is the only purpose he can fill.

This is about as far from the "going out on a high note" of the Buu arc as Vegeta could possibly come.

[basil-does-arttt]

Devil May Cry 2. The pimple-faced teenager of the series, widely regarded as the worst game in the franchise.

While yes i agree with this viewpoint to some degree, and i think all the jokes about it being the worst one are funny... i honestly dont think the game is THAT bad. In fact, i think people give it too much shit.

Ill start out by saying this: no, the game isnt amazing. Its under-developed, rushed, and in no way is it up to the same standard as the other 4 games. Im not saying its this perfect game, but its not as horrible as some make it out to be.

Ive played through the game on the original PS2 version and the remastered version, and although im yet to complete Lucia's campaign, i can confidently say the game is mediocre at worst really.

First the gameplay: Boring? Yes. Definitely. Do you like standing in one place and shooting everything for 15 minutes untill it drops dead? This is the game for you. But you dont have to do that, it just happens to be the easiest option because the controls are so jank. I spent (some) time myself learning the combos, turns out it depends on the way you angle the joystick, and once you get the hang of it, its not that difficult to S rank combat encounters at all. Its annoying, but not impossible, and the combos can honestly look pretty cool imo.

The movement is also another thing, the dodge animation takes way too long to perform but i do like the forward dash. Its a nice alternative to using stinger as a makeshift movement dash, i wish they kept it for furture versions of Dante. (Yes i know theres the trickster dash, but he doesn't do a flip)

I also really love the flying mechanic with aerial heart, and the different kinds of core thingies you could combine as a whole. A unique feature that kinda got combined into other things in Dante's design.

A few of the bosses, if they had been fleshed out and maybe balanced a bit better, could've been just amazing too. Furiataurus for example. One boss i feel was done well though was The Despair Embodied, and although you can just stand around and shoot it to death like everything else, you do actually have to put effort in to not get hit and die. (Trismalga is also kinda in that boat too, a well(ish) done fight you actually have to put effort into, but i personally didn't like it.)

Next, level design: You have to admit they did some cool things with the level design. *some*. The whole "grungy city" vibe is something i found very interesting, and the trippy purple iteration of lower town was, while infuriating to navigate thanks to the camera and graphics (esp on the ps2 version), was actually quite neat. I also really liked the clock tower in Lucia's campaign.

And also, the music. Can i just say, i think dmc 2's soundtrack is my favorite one out of all 5 games. The ambient background tracks are almost dreamy, especially Lucia's ones, the boss themes honestly go hard and the piano track that's repeated throughout the whole soundtrack just sounds good. If you take anything away from this post, its that you should listen to the soundtrack. (I reccomend the tracks "Unholy Relics", "Cry for the Moon", and "Shoot the Works")

The character designs are another thing i think they did well in this game. In my humble opinion, Dante's dmc 2 style is the best looking one in the whole series. Lucia also looks quite cool, her devil trigger form especially.

The characters themselves, Dante especially, need work, but might i remind you the developers were rushed when making this game. They didn't have enough time to do everything they wanted to do, 6 months before the game was supposed to release they didn't even have it in working condition. It was only thanks to Itsuno stepping in as the director that we got this game in the first place, and all he could do was salvage what the team had already created and get it in a releasable state before launch.

If only they had a bit more time (and maybe resources), dmc 2 couldve been quite the cool game. Though, on that note, if it werent for dmc 2's catastrophic faliure and Itsuno's prompt pestering for a sequel so the franchise didn't die outright, we wouldn't have gotten dmc 3. Though i think Capcom would've made a 3rd game regardless of the scenario.

All in all, i dont think dmc 2 is that horrible of a game. If you have the remaster collection, or even the original PS2 version, at least try it. Give it a go, play through the first few missions and kill one or two of the bosses.

Don't take it seriously, just have fun and enjoy the game in all its janky half-finished glory. If you look at dmc 2 that way, i think you'll enjoy it a whole lot more.

Or dont. Yknow, its your choice.

[wasntthataparty]

Hi! Two things!

One:

👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀 I am part of anyone and I am so curious about your reasons, big agree on any “okay but what if it was horror” but I want to know your thoughts specifically

two:

And

Either my brain is completely short circuiting and has been for the past like 10 minutes (totally possible, today was a LOT) orrrrrr there’s a new ship you have gotten your claws into and as your moot who is VERY willing to wade into the mud after you then start drowning for ‘friend’s rarepair’(tm) I am very very curious 👀👀👀, looking at you with allllll the eyes :>

OKAY. ALBW RANT FIRST AND THEN IM TELLING YOU ABOUT THE NEFARIOUS RAREPAIR. under cut because im assuming im gonna yap for a while

okay okay okay. god. albw has SO much horror potential if it wasn't like. a silly game. first of all. LORULE. god. i think someone said this before but like. either live in a cycle of violence or let your world slowly collapse without it. pick your poison. and RAVIO. first of all. the. the potential? Your doppelganger shows up. his kingdom needs a hero. he's the complete opposite of you. you're a hero. What would Ravio be without you? Just a merchant in Lorule, right? But what are YOU without Ravio? What's a hero without anyone to save? AND AND AND !!! your doppelganger shows up and he just wants help. he doesn't want to replace you. he genuinely has no evil intentions (other than. what. wanting your money? you'll live.) your doppelganger shows up and he needs you. he needs a hero. Lorule has no hero (allegedly. ) !! and your princesses doppelganger? well. she NEEDS your triforce. she was born into a kingdom of decay and she's willing to do anything to fix it. what a ruler. and yet she can't see through yuga. but shouldn't she be wisdom? WRONG. power. your doppelganger shows up, and he's just like you, but he's the opposite of you, and something is wrong. he's not courageous! He's not like you at all, aside from the face. Yet he's greedy, so you must be selfless, right? WRONG !!! YOU'VE KEPT EVERYTHING YOU'VE FOUND !! YOU ACCEPT REWARDS BECAUSE YOU DESERVE IT. YOU'RE NOT GREEDY, BUT YOU SURE AS HELL AREN'T SELFLESS.

and. like. idk. the concept of there being an alternate world where you look just like you but you're just. so not you. and then he's in your house. running a shop. and you literally CANNOT get rid of him because you need the items he sells. Ravio himself could be like. a horror concept.

and something something the downfall of a kingdom can change people. ravio isn't just a coward yadda yadda there's SOMETHING he's scared of. and guess what. its hilda. he's scared of betraying hilda but he knows what he has to do. he's a hero in his own right,,,i think.

anyways,,,i just think it's neat,,, and could've been a terrifying game. you get to go to lorule - where your coward of a doppelganger came from. and it's full of people that want to be monsters, monsters that act like people, and as you defeat monsters, you realize they drop more rupees than hearts. and that's it. It's not just money, to him at least. you could make a living just smiting monsters. and THAT'S what he wants to look like. a hero. he doesn't want to be you. and yet.

and !! He betrays his princess. a true hero wouldn't do that, right? not with blind courage, at least. you need to be wise to see through someone like yuga. (DING DING DING. HE'S GOT WISDOM, NOT COURAGE) something something your reflection isn't your exact reflection. something something your true reflection is a villain. or whatever i dont know im not shakespeare.

anyways. onto the nefarious rarepair. so like,,,,lowkey. it started as a joke in my dms with Anna. coughs. so its like. okay. okay. dont kill me with rocks and stones for this but its SoC wars x lu hyrule. but not like actually its like. a concept cause warrahim sweep. basically we were like "what if fat people were the beauty standards in hyrule's time." boom. crossover where the lu links meet SoC links and hyrule is just ENAMOURED with SoC wars. and he's like "lmao im married" but this does not deter him in anyway. my favourite little homewrecker. basically its like,,,not a ship. but like. kinda. idk. its like. like we're just playing with them like dolls tbh.

[irlkomaedanagito]

ghdsfkjghdsf is that a common thing?

I don't really get how he'd be misdiagnosed anyway; it would need brain scans, especially since it's so rare at his age, and if anything it would have been misdiagnosed as other conditions for a while. Only going off cry-stars here- I have no expertise myself- but she's said that can happen and there was a recent case in Japan where a young guy's dementia was mistaken for depression for ages.

If we doubt Komaeda's FTD it can only be via doubting his honesty imo (but I still think he's telling the truth). I also love seeing analyses of him through the lenses of other disorders as comorbid instead of alternative diagnoses- especially autism, but I've seen interesting takes wrt OCD and BPD too- but canonically I feel like bvFTD, extreme post-traumatic stress and political radicalisation adequately explain his issues.

TO BE FAIR it probably isnt As common as i think it is, i just saw one reddit post thst explicitly claimed the FTD was a misdiagnosis and that it totally makes way more sense for komaeda to have autism and bpd, and a surprisung number of people... agreed? for some reason??

which i need to state for the record a) i am autistic myself and b) have absolutely zero problems with headcanons, even if they arent ones i ascribe to personally

what i DO have a problem with is people erasing canon neurodivergencies and/or erasing traits CENTRAL to a character in order to square-peg-round-hole the headcanon THEY have as the most correct one

"nagito has ftd and was autistic before that?" cool! neat! seeing how those two disorders being comorbid with each other could be really interesting!

"nagito does NOT have ftd, the devs were wrong, they actually wrote an autistic character and didnt realize it" stop talking.

this is very like, misanthropic i guess but after SO MUCH SHIT ive seen it just speaks to an unwillingness to empathize with or relate to anyone that isnt exactly like you. and you cant just headcanon real people around you with Misdiagnosed Autistic (most.... times....) so this pops up in fiction

like. i am autistic! i also have two (2) personality disorders, and neither is bpd. this has led to a non negligible amount of autistic people completely stereotyping my other disorders as evil in order to prop themselves up ("i thought i was a narcissist/sociopath, which wouldve been awful, but really i was just autistic! phew!!" with implicit, sometimes EXPLICIT value judgements being made)

i have had a friend i had in real life, to my face, say he didn't believe i had either personality disorder and really i was secretly just autistic

...if we had been better friends, maybe he would've known me well enough to know that that's almost... comically untrue. lol

so in my opinion there do exist a certain minority of autistic people who see autism as the only neurodivergency that Matters, or at least the one that matters the most. and the only way they can feel any sympathy for anyone else is if they are also autistic

and i know this is a minority! and i just see it a lot because i am an autist in fandom and a lot of other autistic people are also in fandom! AND that this is a mindset prone to ANY minority- most people think their Problem is the Worst Problem, it just... happens. however i am just as irrational and prone to biases as anyone else and ive chosen this as my completely irrelevant hill to die on

that one reddit post made me so goddamn mad bc of All This PLUS its double insulting when someone says "i have a special interest in psychology!" as a way to say theyre extremely knowledgable, and doing genuine analysis with the lens of "i am looking at the text and trying to make an objective diagnosis" and then STILL DO THIS!!! because they have this veneer of "im just a guy asking questions" before diving right into a weirdly consspiratory subset of "everyones an idiot about mental health except for ME"

...which tbf i dont think that about myself. i am very good at writing a wide variety of mental illness due to a combination of research and life experience BUT i could really only tell you like. actual non-surface level FACTS about aspd and to a lesser extent, npd. because thats what i chose to focus on. there are far and away lots more people that know more about me about other things, and im fine wit that

i am however also aware of this extremely hyperspecific social phenominon. and thus it is my burden to bear. my mountainous molehill.

also r/danganronpa just fucking sucks like in general. every time i see a kokichi opinion there i get a little closer to pulling the trigger. i think the real moral here is reddit is garbage and should not be used for anything other than product reviews

(also fwiw i agree w ur personal take at the end, with a lil bit of ocd tendencies that like, started off manageable and nowhere near diagnostic level badness, since things he might do to manage his cycle and even the constant thinking about it are very much reminiscent of obsessions and compulsions. but ftd in of itself can cause ocd symptoms so after that it got... worse. thats my personal take on it ^^)

[quantum27]

a lot of the mid 2000s (and even still today) post Shrek era of self aware fantasy films lack a crucial element of the Shrek universe and what makes that self awareness work. Now don't get me wrong I don't think every film that did this is bad. (For example, Happily N'Ever After is like technically a mid movie and does have some broken world building if you think about it too long, I think did this pretty well iirc)

What makes it work is that Not Everyone is Aware of Fairytale Tropes. For example the reason why Shrek is aware of them, is because he's shown to have actively read fairytales. Obviously we see this in the intro and the fact within his house he has a bookshelf. There's also some dialogue -

Donkey: Stairs? I thought we was lookin' for the Princess.

Shrek: The Princess will be up the stairs in the highest room in the tallest tower.

Donkey: How do you know that?

Shrek: I read it in a book once.

(Shrek )

Shrek, upon hearing the terms of the Happily Ever After potion:

Midnight, why is it always Midnight?

(Shrek 2)

In comparison, Donkey is NOT as aware of Fairytale Tropes. His experiences are usually all personal. This leads to him being surprised more often. Seemingly contrasted in the alternative timeline in Shrek: Forever After where Donkey is highly aware of the tropes in that timeline, while Shrek isn't. (Speaking of- Shrek doesn't know every single fairytale- not knowing who Rumpelstiltskin is allows him to be tricked.)

Puss on the other hand is super knowledgeable about the world around him and can point out the culture - likely due to his long term career as a thief, adventurer and assassin.

These varying levels of knowing fairytales and how they work isn't completely static between characters, instead varying.

Compare this to some of the other mid 2000 fairytale movies in which somehow, characters will be aware and mock tropes in the movies. Often more a fourth wall jab than anything else. Overuse of this leads to a weird fake feeling to the universe sometimes.

I just think this is a neat writing thing over all and another example of how Shrek as a movie series is able to have this world building feel clean. Similar to how you don't need to get its pop culture references to be funny. You don't need to know about the abundance of Starbucks everywhere to find the gag in the second movie of them running to another building across the street funny. That's another post entirely but yeah.

[system-of-a-feather]

Re-establishing Baseline Plan

Since moving, I've (completely understandably and expectedly) had my baseline kinda fucked (did not help by with financial stress + job incompatibility + ear infection + really bad post ear infection cold + probable norovirus in literally one month) and so I've been really overloaded, stressed, and just in a place of mostly survival mode where most of my energy is focused on maintaining my mental and physical state in the easiest manners possible

I have been holding up well all things considered and have set up for a probably more compatible job + my fiance has managed to get a job again that he feels will probably work out well for him and I have at least like a week off between jobs to reorientate myself

So to take a good and active effort to make the best of this time, I want to make a plan to set myself up for success. I actually do this every so often when I really need to pick myself up (historically Lucille would usually do it but pros of being basically fully integrated is that I am Lucille as well as me) and I figured it would be a neat thing to display and demonstrate here cause I'd end up making it *anyways* so why not share with the class

If anyone likes this, yall can borrow it ^^

-----

Question One: What current coping skills and hobbies am I currently doing and trying with my time? Are they affective and would I like to change them?

Art, Drawing, Character Design, Art Fight Prep, Story Planning and Writing

This is one of the easiest and most reliable positive coping mechanisms and has gotten me through the majority of the month mostly on it's own. Compared to other coping mechanisms, this one is almost always something I can drag myself to do or at least ask someone to supervise me to make sure I do it when I feel I need some sort of self care. It serves greatly as an alternative when I find that I am doing maladaptive coping that I would rather not do and when in doubt, it has access to some level of social engagement should I feel I need that. With that being said, having relied largely on this for a month, this is suffering diminishing returns and starting to lead to general lack of inspiration and so diversification from this coping mechanism would be ideal

Weekend Gym Trips

This is actually a really good way for me to release energy, give myself space and time to think, and just feel better moving and existing in my body. It also mandates time for me to listen to music and serves a meditative purpose. That said, I have only been doing this on Saturdays and only once on Sunday and I would like to expand that to be at least 3 times a week or at least more spaced out.

Reading Semi Regularly

This is a new habit and coping I picked up and its actually really good! It provides a unique sense of calm when I need it. Unfortunately I've started to drop off the past week due to general stress and illness, so I think its important to return to this. Perhaps set a general goal of "every other day" rather than every day to lessen the pressure.

Video Games

This was helpful but lately I have been not motivated to play anything and I believe its been burnt out. I think it would be good to resume this but it is currently impractical to force at the moment until overall wellness has returned.

TV with Boy

This is helpful but unforunately nothing seems to interest either of us to watch right now. (cri life is hard /lh)

Board Games with Boy

This is a new one and has actually been very nice. That said, it isn't always available and dependent on my fiance's ability to have the energy, time and interest to play them, particularly since I know he is less interested in board games than me. It is good to maintain the interest and offer, but not a coping skill to become reliant on.

Question Two: What sorts of things that I am currently not doing do I know tend to define behaviors, habits, hobbies, and interests that are done when I am out of survival mode and genuinely enjoying life?

Regular Birding, Particularly with Peers

Interest in watching anything on my own, youtube, TV shows, etc

Engagement in Music, Particularly my Musical Instruments

Engagement in Exploration and just independent travels without individuals

Engagement and interest in occasionally reaching out to Buddhist environments

Producing art work for the story that is more developed and inspired rather than "quick" or "reference" focused - actually focusing on the creative and artistic expression rather than the practical expression

Increased social circle communication irl beyond my online bestie, fiance, and online friend group chat; reaching out to individuals and developing new irl friendships

Question Three: Which of those hobbies do I think could be the most reasonable and easy to meet sooner than later (even better if I can make steps to start that right now / today)? In what ways could I make steps to make those first changes and help set myself up for success on expanding my engagement with life beyond survival mode?

Interest in watching anything on my own, youtube, TV shows, etc

While I am not extensively motivated in any manner to watch anything in particular, I am starting to randomly get a lot of bleach related stuff on my youtube and I have been meaning to watch TYBW arc. I have been postponing it because of arbitrary "I wanna read the manga first" and just general other excuses, but realistically those are putting up barriers that I may not get to at this rate and currently I could just use something I'm somewhat interested in to give me some independent relaxing engagement. I think I can set the goal of actually watching Bleach TYBW at least an episode a day starting either today or tomorrow and see if that can bring a momentum and habit into actually being able to watch things that interest me on my own.

Engagement in Music, Particularly my Musical Instruments

I can probably actually take my violin back out. The guitar would probably be better but for whatever reason I feel that my brain thinks that would require more - for a lack of better word - work, so I think I can at least try to find time this week to at least play a little bit of my violin.

Regular Birding, Particularly with Peers + "increased social irl connection [...]"

I can reach out and text my new irl birding connections to see if they are interested; if not I can at least plan to take a birding trip later

Engagement in Buddhist Stuff

I know there is an area I've been thinking of visiting that has free english services on Tuesday, I can make plans to go there that day, particularly since my Fiance should be working for the first day then anyways.

Question Four: What are additional goals and check points that we would like to try to bring us closer to the life style that we know tends to support a thriving mental state and life satisfaction rather than one of survival?

Independent Travels

During the time I have, I can keep in mind this goal and if I have down time think of potentially interesting and alternative places to go to explore; additionally I can plan birding trips to places I have not yet checked out.

Increased Social IRL Connection

It is dependent on if my now-ex-coworker still is interested, but I can follow up and see if we want to still play board games; if not I think potential more ways to reach out will be more viable to plan once a higher level of baseline is established; potentially see if there are any in person DnD groups around that I could make a habit of going to or any martial art dojos that we can afford

More Inspired Art

I think this is something that will come with time between lessening the burn out of my current art-as-a-coping mechanism goal as well as actually engaging in more media and independent interests as to gain more inspiration.

Question Five: Summarize the Key Points and Plans Discussed in This into a Bullet Points of Take Aways

Modifying Current Coping:

Diversify and lean off of using art as a main coping mechanism; give that one a break

Attempt to go to the gym more frequently or at least space it out more throughout the week

Continue reading; lessen the ideal to every other day in case demand pressure is adversely affecting it

Keep an open interest in playing board games with fiance

Changes I Want To Make Soon:

Start watching Bleach TYBW w/ at least one episode a day

Bring out my violin and try to at least play with it for one hour this week

Reach out to new bird peers to see if they want to plan a birding trip sometime, if not then plan one independently

Make plans to go to that place on Tuesday for the open Buddhist service

Changes to Keep an Eye Out For:

Opportunities to go somewhere new randomly for no particular reason or goal in mind other than to just see whats around us

Spoons and time availability to see out places to expand our irl social circles

Inspiration for art in general

Question Six: Set for Regular Follow Ups to Check Progress

Isn't tumblr's queue / schedule function super neat for this

[tblsomedoodles]

I have a hypothesis about the preferable alternative story.

I think its future donatello that's "possessing" donnie.

Their mannerisms are similar to donnie but like it's him but slightly to the left ya know? Like its him but just a bit off.

Their making weapons, like this individual knows the future events that are gonna happen (krang) and are preparing.

Also the big triangle thing in the last page looked like a portal to me, anyone else or just me? Like it could connect to one in the future timeline and those of that timeline will come out and help fight the krang maybe.

The favouring leg could mean future tello has an injury and isn't used to not having it but it's causing like a phantom limb pains.

Also just the pupils, the first part donnies eyes were completely black but now he has a small purple iris in the centre.

One thing confusing me is the whole gameboy thing, did he put present!donnies soul into the gameboy? If he did why was he about to destroy it? Was he gonna planning to posses donnie indefinitely? But that wouldn't make sense for when the future boys get brought to the past. And what about "I'm growing soft" line. That confused me.

But for now I'm sticking with this theory that it's either future tello that's possessing donnie, or at least some individual from the future apocolypse timeline.

Ooh these are all really good theories!

And i'm really excited to see you picked up on the change in his eyes! B/c yes they're different after the incident. Not just the little purple bit, but the shape as well.

Before-incident Donnie has rounder eyes while After-incident Donnie's are more angular.

Just a neat little, non-spoilery detail i figured i'd add. : )

Thank you!!

[dirtbra1n]

Hi db dirtbra1n marlacum3n (I'm pulling out the thesaurus for these atp) My friend, hope we are Well and Fine on this regular day! 9 2 and 29 for the writing ask game :))

hi malt my friend malt I feel very Well and Fine on this regular day. I think I sense no underlying ominous tone in your ask. I like the 9 and 2 theming. this is an ask game :)

9. start to finish, how long did it take you to write the last fic you posted?

okay I really like that you asked this one. let me go do some poking around. OKAY a few days worth of poking around later I’m gonna lazily cheat a little and say it started on september 26, 2022

because while the scene in which tashiro actually wraps wounds did not make the cut into the final thing I Think. Probably. I guess there was that snippet I posted maybe last summer that covered it Anyway. it was this line of thought that wound itself up into seven thousand words flat on ao3 this year. tashiro post took sooooo long malt it took so so long. so I guess like a year and three quarters, because I really was writing up until the last second before it went up

2. a character whose POV you're currently exploring

okay so the most relevant answer to this question is a spoiler so I’ll bite my tongue and tell you about the alternate answer. Really really been thinking about prev prez lately . like it’s really very serious to me. like especially in conjunction with Accidentally big and long director’s commentary on today you are a girl and its timeline relation to Prev Prez Gets Ice Cream With Hanzashiro it all has me thinking about how to honor a guy we know hardly anything about, his attitude towards his underclassman and chosen successors, and the wealth of personality he had in Actually let me go count—got distracted rereading it again Ha ha ha ha ha :phoenixheadinhands:—five lines of dialogue. I’m gonna fucking get this guy if it gets ME

29. how easy is it for you to come up with titles?

NOT EASY AT ALL!!!!!!! had help coming up with ‘current events’ Thank you @aranarumei . titles just don’t come easy to me in the least. like I know they don’t really matter in the grand scheme of things but it’s not really an anxiety of not having one that’s good enough it’s just my mind completely blanks on anything at all. and a title generally Does need to be anything at all. really really sucks for me. I think titles of fics that align with the way titles work for their source materials are neat though I’ve seen a lot of gintama fics that fall in this category. maybe someday I’ll get myself sorted. but honestly Really probably not

[practically-an-x-man]

Was watching Multiverse of Madness with my dad last night and we got into a discussion about Marvel multiverse theories... and I actually came up with one that I think is pretty neat?? Not that I genuinely believe this is the direction they're going with things... But it would be cool.

Gwen Stacy and Kate Bishop are the same person.

Explanation for this idea under the cut.

Now I'm trying to figure out how best to articulate this thought, so bear with me if this sounds a little funny.

First of all, the obvious point is that they're both played by Hailee Steinfeld - Gwen in Spiderverse, Kate in Hawkeye. Now, the MCU is kind of inconsistent when it comes to actors playing characters across the multiverse (Benedict Cumberbatch is always Doctor Strange, but there are three different Spider-Men, things like that), and I know most of this media-wise is just fan service for the audience, but I think I've uncovered a little bit of logic behind it.

Characters with innate powers are always the same actor, characters who develop powers are not. AKA, Wong and Mordo and Strange are consistent because they have a natural affinity towards magic, Professor X is consistently Patrick Stewart because he's always a mutant (assuming the James McAvoy version is meant to "age into" Patrick Stewart), and Wanda falls alternatively into either of those camps depending on what version of her we're referring to (she's either a witch or a mutant, but has natural abilities either way). However, Spider-Man is given powers by the spider, not born with them, so it can be a different person/actor. Same thing with Mr. Fantastic (cosmic radiation), Captain Carter (supersoldier serum), Captain Marvel/Binary (more cosmic energy), and the others we see in MoM that already have variants in different movies. Different actors, since logically those powers could be given to anyone in the right circumstance. Black Bolt is an Inhuman, but doesn't have another film version we've seen, so he's not a problem.

Now, Hailee Steinfeld plays both Gwen and Kate - neither of which have innate abilities. Kate is a skilled archer but doesn't have superpowers, and Gwen was bitten by a radioactive spider like any other Spider-person. So her being played by the same actor makes things... interesting.

There is the hitch that these characters have completely different names, but the MCU has already changed up some characters' names while maintaining the same character (i.e. Mary Jane Watson becomes Michelle Jones), so I'm not particularly concerned about that little discrepancy. So what if Kate Bishop is the version of Gwen that could have become Spider-Woman, but didn't?

Now let's think about things age-wise: Kate Bishop and Tom Holland's Peter could have been the same age. Kate is 23 in Hawkeye, and Peter is meant to be roughly 18 at the end of No Way Home - but Peter Blipped and Kate didn't, which explains how she's five years older.

Two superheroes, who pre-Blip were the same age, who both live in New York... what if they were on the same school trip?

You know the one I'm meaning. We don't see it in the MCU's Peter Parker, but the story is always that he goes on a school trip, gets bitten by the spider, becomes Spider-Man. But if Kate was with him on the same trip... that means there are two versions of how this could go:

The MCU version: Peter gets bitten and becomes Spidey, while Kate/Gwen takes an interest in archery and becomes Hawkeye.

The Spiderverse version: Kate/Gwen is the one to get bitten, and Peter ends up becoming that universe's Lizard instead (notice that the MCU/Earth-616 doesn't have a Lizard of its own either...)

But they're the same person. Genetically, multiversally, the same. Kate Bishop could have become Spider-Woman, but she missed her opportunity and Peter was bitten instead. Kate Bishop is the MCU's equivalent of Gwen Stacy.

(disclaimer that yes I know they're completely different characters and the comics are nothing like the film/TV versions, I know that Gwen and Kate have different backstories and family lives and all that, I know that Hailee Steinfeld was just cast bc she's a talented and popular actor right now, this theory is just for fun and I'm not trying to claim it's actually something Marvel is planning)

[dayfalwastaken]

Power Testing - Spider-Man fanfic preview.

Mirroring a lightbulb lighting up, he jumped to his feet, his mind racing with a few spots in seconds. The first place he’d thought of was Doc Ock’s underwater base, though that one had been flooded from top to bottom. There was Vulture’s so-called “Nest”, but that… Nope. The Lizard’s hideout in the sewers- a more acceptable alternative if he ignored the smell. Although… Nah, bringing the Symbiote down there would make him eligible to experience the “Lethal Protector Treatment™”, and if that’s what led to Venom he’d have no right to get mad. There were those couple of weapon cashes belonging to Mr. L that he’d busted, but they were too small for what he needed to do. Or…

He finally gave the warehouse a good, long look before letting familiarity take him down the wall and through a broken window. What he saw inside left him with his mouth agape.

Or he could use Mysterio’s old prop house. Peter shook his head. These were too many small miracles one after the other. He knew he shouldn’t jinx it, but something bad was going to happen in return, wasn’t it?

He’d forgotten all about this place after the Police had raided it. The building had been abandoned in every sense of the word so there hadn’t been a reason to keep tabs on it. Every nook and cranny had been inspected, all evidence collected and nothing of interest had been left behind. Even Mysterio had known better than to return here. Before he’d been imprisoned, that was.

“Man, I hope he’s real this time. If it turns out he’s another bot I’m breaking that snow globe of his and leaving him hanging off the Brooklyn Bridge.” He muttered as he dropped to the floor.

The warehouse was huge and filled to the brim with dilapidated movie sets and harmless props, the only things not to be stripped clean by the Police. In front of him was a large theater stage, complete with red curtains with golden accents and spotlights to shine on the would-be actors below. Surrounding it were the sets, which came in all shapes and sizes. One was an old town that looked like it had been ripped straight out of a western, another was a miniaturized castle that belonged in a Disney film. A mockup tropical island was stationed to the far left, featuring fake vegetation, palm trees and a greenscreen where the sea should’ve been.

Near the stage, to its left was a full-sized T-Rex animatronic, sitting behind a row of costumes ranging from astronauts to horror movie monsters and caped crusaders. Other such props were littered about, many in open wooden boxes and on… barrels of all thing. Dust had gathered in absurd quantities on everything, all surfaces having a hazy layer of grey to them. Not even the air had escaped, the roof’s skylight allowing the moon to shine through right in the middle of the warehouse, illuminating the particles throughout. Oh, and there were more cobwebs than he could count.

“Makes you think why a guy with so much money would put on a suit and start robbing banks.” He spoke out loud. He couldn’t say he related to those that chose a life of crime when they already had all they could’ve asked for. Were those types of criminals looking for fulfilment? Something to entertain them and stave off their boredom? Peter would never know.

Hideouts such as these fit the guy’s style more than Peter would’ve considered. Hidden in plain sight, being almost too obvious of a base for people to think they’d actually be used. The bad guys weren’t that dumb, right? Except that kind of reverse psychology was exactly what Mysterio specialized in. It explained why it had taken so long for him to be found out.

Peter walked to one of the barrels and picked it up, checking around to make sure he was alone. He wasn’t sensing… Was that breathing he heard? Or… No, that was literally the wind. A current must’ve formed from all the open windows, which- yep, if he zeroed in on them he could pick up the wind flowing in.

Neat. Couldn’t do that before.

The Symbiote sent something then. It was like a ping, a short vibration at the base of his skull, what his Spider-Sense could have sounded like in another life, to notify him of… He couldn’t tell. Like the tingles, he was given a vague sense of direction, pointing towards the stage, but it was too widespread to say if it was the stage or just in front of him in general. Even more like said power, a feeling of alertness flew through his being, making his hair stand on edge.

Peter took a stance and waited, expecting to be taken by surprise, but nothing happened. The Spidey-Sense itself didn’t trigger, which made him raise a brow. He knew how reliable it was. Unless he was too distracted to listen to it, the early warning system couldn’t fail him no matter what, so… if it didn’t ring then there was no threat in his proximity…

…Was Symby attempting to communicate or was it playing around with his powers, mimicking them for testing purposes? If so, had it gotten the idea from him? He thought the question again, more clearly this time, hoping for an answer only to be met with the usual silence. It was plausible this had been just a test- the Klyntar adapting to his body like he was to its and trying things out. But then… Peter was the host. He was the one who had to accept the foreign being, not the other way around…

And as he pondered that, the lack of ringing in his head kept on confirming he was under no danger. Not being spied upon or anything of the sort.

So… just a fluke? No bug squashing involved at this time?

No response.

Good talk. Well, I hope it was nothing. Because if it was then shouldn’t the faux sense have remained active to keep warning him? Instead, it’d been as brief as it could have, and Peter was fairly convinced it was in both his and the Symbiote’s best interests for enemies to be scoped out if they were hiding somewhere close. Whoever those enemies may’ve been, if they even were that. Keeping information about their surroundings hidden was detrimental to the both of them. A Symbiote, a being whose whole deal about bonding revolved around the “we” aspect would know better than to keep close threats hidden from its host.

So, it must’ve been a fluke. Or a test or whatever it was Symby was doing other than actually warning Peter, since keeping him in the dark about this was a dumb move…

You know, I mean, no rush- I know this is new for you too, but I hope the cold shoulder won’t last long. I’d really appreciate a second opinion in, well, everything really, `cause… if I’m being honest… Most of the time I’m just winging it… That, uh, haha, rolling with the punches- that’s kinda what I do. Even if I shouldn’t when I have all these memories to tell me what I can do better. I haven’t outgrown that yet… Ah, sorry for being impatient- I’d just love it if we could talk, you know?... Probably not. I dunno, sorry. Take your time, buddy. He tried to offer it feelings of encouragement, which he didn’t actually know how to do, but it was the thought that counted, no? Peter hoped so anyway.

A curt blink of acknowledgment was radiated back along with something akin to a metaphorical pat on the head, telling him his concerns were understood and would be addressed, before Symby severed the connection. He smiled slightly.

Heh, coming from the immortal alien goo that’s pretty comforting.

…Symbiotes were so above his paygrade, he couldn’t help but feel a little small when compared to the alien that hailed from the stars. Alien that had been alive for literal eons. The… expectations or standards a being like it must’ve had when it came to-

No, bad Spidey! Don’t thread that way if you don’t want to go into some dark places. Focus on the present.

Just the act of thinking… It was like working to defuse a bomb- trying not to mess things up permanently and second guessing himself at every turn, but then… What else was knew? Typical Parker luck. What was a new weight added to the balancing act, some more confusion to navigate through? He shrugged to relieve the distress.

Redirecting his attention to the barrel at hand, he clasped it with both hands and pressed them closer, caving the metal with a sickening whine. He froze when he realized that may’ve hurt the Other, but when his suit failed to produce a reaction he took it as a sign that he hadn’t accidentally harmed it. Must not have been loud enough, then. Continuing, he was left dissatisfied with the bent plate in his hands. Simply flattening it wasn’t what he wanted, so he crumpled the remains further into a ball the size of his fist. He repeated the process five more times before webbing the spheres together.

Nodding to himself, Peter began crushing it all at once- every one of those one hundred and eighty pounds of steel drums. He actually had to struggle the more pressure he applied, but it didn’t take long for those one eighty pounds to be compressed into something that could fit in his palm. That was over twenty thousand grams per cubic centimeter…

He closed his mouth as soon as it had started hanging open and dropped the metal pebble, staring at his hands. Whether in awe or terror, he wasn’t certain. He was leaning more towards terror.

This was how the Thing felt, wasn’t it? Always having to be mindful of the world around him since he could break it with a mere touch. Like it was made out of tissue paper. That must’ve scared him a little. Peter shared the feeling to a degree, superstrength did that to people, but this… was excessive to say the least. He’d had an understanding of it, but he hadn’t fully grasped just how strong the Symbiote had made him, and… He’d hate to have to use this much power against another human being, or any being for that matter. Ever.

Look on the bright side. Now you can give the world’s best bear hugs.