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[h2pro-beautylife]

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[p0orbaby]

It’s Called Free Fall

summary: therapy makes you realise a lot of things

warnings: none

a/n: there’s not actually any alexia in this, but she is mentioned

word count: 2.7k

part 1

-

The therapist’s office feels like it’s been curated for someone far more refined than you—someone who actually takes their therapy seriously, rather than as an ironic lifestyle choice. The walls are a pale, flat grey that veers perilously close to lifeless, and there’s this overwhelming sense of emptiness, like everything here exists for display rather than use. The chairs, two narrow-backed leather things angled just slightly towards each other, appear less like furniture and more like sculptures. You imagine some recent graduate from a New York art school positioned them just so, meticulously arranging each one to make sure it induced the precise mix of discomfort and luxury.

The table between you and Dr. Vargas is another matter entirely—a sleek slab of polished mahogany, thick enough that you could lean your entire weight on it without even a squeak of protest. Its surface is bare except for a single leather-bound notebook, a fountain pen and a ceramic dish, all aligned to a degree that feels almost militaristic. There’s not a single loose thread in the rug, not a fingerprint on the glass of the one window facing out onto a garden view that’s suspiciously verdant for the middle of winter.

Even the fern, perched in the corner like it’s waiting for its close-up, seems too green, too lush. It’s ridiculous, but it’s all part of the aesthetic, this carefully curated minimalism, the kind of cultivated restraint that says, “We don’t need embellishments. We’re here for the truth.” You’re here, supposedly, for honesty and revelation. But to you, it all feels a bit too staged, like a hotel that boasts a “homely charm” but is actually cold and sterile beneath the surface. You suspect Dr. Vargas might even mist the plant herself in some sacred ritual of maintenance, a sort of last-minute grounding exercise to fill the silence between clients.

You settle back in the chair, draping one leg over the other, and make a mental note to mention it next time you’re in some magazine interview. “Austere,” you’d say, “but in a chic way. I once caught my therapist hand-polishing the leaves of a houseplant.” You let yourself savour the image for a moment, glancing at the fern, which seems to return your gaze with silent judgement.

Dr. Vargas has her pen poised in that infuriatingly neutral way, a half-smile that somehow manages to be both welcoming and utterly unreadable. She’s mastered this look; the expression that says, I’m here for you while also suggesting she’s already a step ahead, already written your entire profile out in her head, neatly categorised into sub-headings like “Avoidant Tendencies” and “Control Issues.”

You begin with a sigh, throwing a glance at the ceiling in mock contemplation. “I’ve been thinking about another place. A chalet, maybe. Something in the mountains this time.” You pause, letting the idea sit, feigning like it’s just occurred to you. “Somewhere remote, where people can’t just… get to me”

You’re fully aware that she sees right through it. This isn’t her first rodeo; you’re sure she’s dealt with hundreds like you before, masters of diversion who fill sessions with banalities rather than facing anything real. But Dr. Vargas, in all her maddening professionalism, gives nothing away. She just tilts her head, the soft scratch of her pen against her notebook barely there as she writes something down.

“A place to escape,” she offers back to you in that maddeningly placid tone.

“Yes. Escape,” you echo, knowing full well the word holds no weight here. Escape from what, exactly? You let your leg bounce a little, as if the rhythm might lend some gravity to your words. “And there’s this new project I’m in talks with—A24, actually. They want me to do something… serious. A proper rebrand. Gritty. Artistic.” You drawl out “artistic” with the faintest of smirks, like you’re amused at the thought of it all. A lifetime of playing these games, and you’re practically a pro by now.

Dr. Vargas’s face betrays not a flicker of interest or amusement. She simply nods, that little encouraging tilt of her head again, like she’s waiting for you to get to the real point, the heart of the matter. But you’re not giving in so easily.

“It could be big, you know,” you continue, lifting your chin a fraction. “And I’ve got Alexia, of course.” The name slips out, deliberately nonchalant, though you feel its weight instantly, like it’s left a mark on the air between you.

Dr. Vargas raises her eyebrows, ever so slightly. “Alexia,” she repeats, not quite a question, not quite a statement. Just… acknowledgment, and yet it still feels as if she’s plucked something out of you without you realising. You don’t like it, the way she turns your own words against you.

“Yeah,” you say, shrugging. “She’s… brilliant. On the field, off it. You know, she’s—” You trail off, allowing a smirk to play on your lips. “Not bad to look at, either”

She gives no reaction, doesn’t even break eye contact. You imagine her poker face would rival that of any seasoned card shark. But it’s her silence that presses at you, coaxing out more than you intend to reveal. It’s a trick she’s used before, and yet here you are, willingly falling into it.

“Honestly,” you continue, almost laughing as if sharing some private joke, “you should see her after a match. There’s this… intensity, this rawness. Shirt off, sweat-drenched, eyes still blazing from the game. It’s… invigorating.” You roll the word around like a fine wine, savouring it as you go. “It’s like the universe threw me a bone, just when I was getting bored”

Dr. Vargas finally moves, a slight shift of her head, her mouth curving up in a near-smile. “And yet, you’re here”

Her words drop between you like a carefully placed stone. You scoff, rolling your eyes, but there’s something in her expression—an almost imperceptible softness that somehow feels like an accusation. “Therapy’s a hobby,” you shrug, leaning back, as if the very idea of anything deeper is laughable. “I’m always in therapy, Doc. News flash”

“Yes,” she agrees smoothly, not missing a beat, “but you don’t usually bring her up”

“Come on,” you counter, with a smirk that’s designed to look careless, “I bring her up all the time”

“Not like this”

Her voice is calm, almost gentle, but her gaze sharpens, pinning you in place. You feel a spike of irritation, or maybe it’s something else. You cast a look towards the fern, now faintly silhouetted by the afternoon sun, its shadow long and narrow across the wall, an unasked-for third party in this strange little dance. The absurdity of the whole scene hits you, but before you can fully detach, she’s speaking again.

“You’re talking about her differently. More… openly.” There’s no edge to her tone, no overt judgment, yet it feels like she’s peeled back a layer, glimpsed a part of you you hadn’t meant to reveal.

In the moments that follow, you stub out your cigarette on the pristine ceramic dish Vargas keeps on the table, the one she’s claimed is “not for smoking” but never actually moved after that one session. You’ve taken it as tacit permission, though you know damn well it irritates her—just another way to test the boundaries in a room that prides itself on having none. That’s half the point of these sessions: see how far you can stretch them. How much she’ll let you say, or not say. And you’ve mastered the art of saying absolutely nothing, all while filling the space with empty words.

Dr. Vargas doesn’t speak, doesn’t press, which is almost worse than if she did. There’s just the persistent softness in her eyes, the quiet implication that she understands more than you’d prefer. You remember Alexia’s eyes looking at you like that once, right after you’d tried to make some grand point about the nature of relationships—one of those pseudo-philosophical tangents you like to go on. She’d just looked at you, with a kind of bemused patience that felt a little too genuine, a little too close to knowing you.

You roll your shoulders, shake off the memory. But it clings.

“Alright,” you say, letting the smoke spill out as you form the words. “Maybe I don’t do ‘love’ like everyone else. I’m not here for a candlelit dinner and a mortgage. I’m not,” you add with a quick laugh, “one of those people who turn into some sap over a nice couple’s holiday in Santorini”

Dr. Vargas gives a small nod, an acknowledgement rather than agreement, her expression neutral but open, giving you room to continue.

“But, yes. Fine.” You take another drag, a deliberate pause. “Maybe I… care about her. I care about her. She’s different, alright?”

“Different how?” she asks gently, with an infuriatingly patient tone.

You groan, shifting in your seat. “Come on, don’t make me quantify it. That’s your thing, not mine.” You know you’re stalling, using your usual deflections, but there’s an itch underneath it, a part of you that feels raw just acknowledging that Alexia is, in fact, ‘different.’

You can feel her eyes on you, waiting for you to take the bait you’ve laid out for yourself.

“Fine, you want specifics?” you sigh, feigning annoyance, though you know you’re the one who’s led the conversation here. “She… laughs at my worst jokes. Like, really laughs. Not in a polite way, but genuinely, like she thinks I’m the funniest person alive, even when I’m barely trying. It’s stupid, really, but it gets me”

“And how does that make you feel?” Vargas leans forward, like she’s zeroing in on something significant.

You chuckle, low and dismissive, waving the question off with your cigarette. “How do you think it makes me feel? It’s… fine. Nice. A bit strange, maybe. I’m not used to being seen like that.” You pause, the weight of that admission lingering in the air between you.

She doesn’t react, doesn’t push; she just lets the moment settle, knowing there’s more.

You sigh, smoke curling up around you, as your mind goes back to other little things—the way she has this weird ritual of picking all the green M&Ms out of the bag and tossing them to you, claiming they’re “bad luck.” How she insists on reading the morning news out loud, in that silly, exaggerated announcer voice, just to make you laugh while you pretend to read emails. Or how she makes you tea at exactly the right temperature, handing you the mug with a grin like she’s just given you a priceless gift. These are things that, on the surface, should be forgettable, the kind of mundane moments that fade. But they don’t, do they? Not with her.

Dr. Vargas’s voice interrupts your reverie, soft but insistent. “You’re smiling”

You realise she’s right; you’re smiling without even meaning to, and it’s a small, stupid smile, the kind that feels too open. You try to erase it, but it’s too late. The vulnerability’s already there, a quiet confession written across your face.

You roll your eyes, more at yourself than at her. “Alright, so what? So she’s… alright, she’s fun. She’s got that energy, you know, that lightness. It’s kind of… refreshing”

The words slip out unbidden, and you feel a pang of something resembling regret. Refreshing. A word that implies something else by omission—that most of your life, most people you’ve known, have been exhausting. The irony isn’t lost on you: someone so completely different from your own brand of detached sarcasm, from your carefully cultivated ennui, has managed to slip under the radar and wedge herself into your carefully controlled life.

Dr. Vargas watches, her silence pressing you forward.

“Look, I don’t think about it too much,” you say, trying to inject a casual note into your tone. “I don’t need to psychoanalyse every smile, every inside joke. I’m not here to have my relationship broken down into neat little psych terms”

“Maybe you should think about it,” Vargas says gently. “Maybe that’s why you’re here”

You scoff, but there’s a softness in the sound, a hint of resignation. Because she’s right, isn’t she? You came here because, as much as you don’t want to admit it, this thing with Alexia has started to matter, in a way that’s both terrifying and strangely compelling. You’ve always prided yourself on staying a step removed, on being a spectator in your own life, observing rather than fully engaging. But with her, you’re finding it harder to keep that distance.

“Fine,” you mutter, leaning back, letting your head rest against the chair, staring up at the ceiling as though the answers might be written there. “Maybe she’s… special”

The words feel strange in your mouth, too vulnerable, too open. You don’t say “special” often, especially not in this context. But there it is, a reluctant admission.

“I mean, it’s not like I’m in love with her,” you continue, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “She’s great—don’t get me wrong. She’s amazing in bed. I can’t remember the last time someone made me cum so much. And she’s got this thing about her, you know? Like this fire, this intensity. It’s like when she looks at me, she’s looking right through me. And yeah, I guess that’s… intoxicating. But that’s all it is. Right?”

Dr. Vargas nods, a small, subtle gesture. “Why does that scare you?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you watch the smoke dancing away from your cigarette, dissipating into the air, leaving nothing behind but a faint, lingering scent. You think about what it is you’re so afraid of—because there’s something there, something you can’t quite name, a sense that if you let this thing with Alexia continue, it might change you in ways you’re not ready for.

“Because I don’t do… attachment,” you say finally, the words coming out sharper than intended. “I’ve built a life that doesn’t depend on anyone else. And she’s… she’s a complication”

You can feel Vargas watching you, sensing the weight of what you’re not saying, the unspoken truth that this isn’t just about Alexia, that it’s about something deeper, a fear of vulnerability, of losing control. She doesn’t push, though; she just waits, letting the silence do the work for her.

After a long pause, you take a breath, letting your gaze drift to the fern by the window, its leaves glossy and perfect, so meticulously maintained it almost looks fake. You wonder if it’s ever felt the strain of trying to keep everything together, to present a flawless exterior while something more fragile lurks beneath the surface.

“You know,” you say, almost to yourself, “it’s funny. For the longest time, I thought love was just a distraction, a temporary fix for people who couldn’t handle being alone.” You take another drag from your cigarette, exhaling slowly. “But with her, it’s… it’s different. It’s like she makes everything brighter, sharper, like she’s tuned into some frequency I didn’t know existed”

Dr. Vargas doesn’t respond, just nods, letting you continue.

“And the worst part?” You chuckle, a self-deprecating sound. “The worst part is that she’s getting to me. She’s in my head, even when she’s not there. I find myself thinking about her in the middle of the day, wondering what she’s up to, if she’s thinking about me too”

There’s a fragility in the admission, a crack in the armour you’ve built around yourself. And it terrifies you, this sense of letting someone in, of letting them get close enough to matter.

You stub out your cigarette, watching the last curl of smoke dissipate into the air. It feels like a metaphor for something, though you’re not sure what.

Dr. Vargas gives you a small, knowing smile. “Maybe falling in love isn’t as bad as you think it will be,” she says gently.

You shrug, trying to play it off, but there’s a part of you that knows she’s right. Because for all your detachment, all your carefully cultivated distance, there’s something about Alexia that feels like home, like she’s a part of you you didn’t realise was missing.

“Maybe,” you say, the words soft, barely audible.

Love. The word lingers like an uninvited guest. You try to dismiss it, try to laugh it off, but it keeps creeping back in.

[saphiccarma]

- The Red Means I Love You

Relationships - Mob Boss!WandaNat x Reader

Summary - After dating Natasha for just a little over a month, she takes you to meet her wife. That leads to some complications with an unknown person.

Warnings: Almost smut (not quite, it get's a little close but not actually there.), a knife. Let me know if I missed any

Pt.1

The anticipation you felt leading up to your meeting with Wanda was intense. It had been a month since Natasha first proposed the idea. Since then your relationship had only rapidly grown bolder and bolder, yet never going past heated make out sessions. Anxiety simmered in your stomach, overwhelming and all powerful, as you tried to pick out the perfect outfit. Not that you had many clothes. Digging through the small closet in your room, one of the only things in said room, you tossed the few clothes you had out - at least the acceptable one. A few pairs of dress pants, a couple shirts, a uniform, and a couple dresses.

You spent several minutes sorting through all of them, eventually deciding on a dress. It was a tad bit wrinkly from sitting in the closet for so long, much like you, but you had no iron for it so it would have to do. Slipping on the black dress that flowed down to your ankles and had straps that revealed your shoulders, you decided it would do without a sweater.

It was still summer, the air warm as you followed Natasha up to the house. She had picked you up in her car and wearing black dress pants accompanied by a white blouse. Your flats slapped against the hot concrete and the sun seared onto your back despite it being early evening. Grass swerved in the slight warm breeze, the edges tickling the tips of your ankles.

Natasha's heels, making her a good inch taller, clacked on the steps as she unlocked the door, her delicate hand pushing it open. A smoky scent drafted through the house as you stepped in, not in a barbeque way, but more so in a wildfire way. You admired the dark walls, the dim lights that shone gently above, and threatening, yet soothing, atmosphere.

Following Natasha tentatively, you were faced with the most beautiful woman you had ever seen, save for Natasha. Her hair was a light auburn color, tinted the slightest bit brown, that flowed down her shoulders in gentle waves. She turned to face the two of you, a knife in her hand, and you gaze flickered to her eyes. They were a striking emerald green, one that pierced your soul a bit kinder than Natasha's. The redhead had a hand on the small of your back, guiding you closer to Wanda.

"Wanda," Natasha began, her tone carefully measured and slow, "This is Y/N."

Wanda smiled gently, one that at first glance was kind. But at a second look you saw the sharper edges, carefully concealed.

"It's nice to meet you."

You swallowed thickly, "You too."

Natasha guided you with her hand towards the table, a dark wood that blended in the walls perfectly. You hesitantly pulled out a chair with sweaty hands, taking a seat. Sitting next to you, Natasha placed a hand on your thigh, her fingers dipping inwards. You soaked up the touch greedily, melting into her cool hand. Subconsciously, you began toying with the ring on her hand, one that had a bold diamond on it, small but standing out.

She never wore it when training you, likely due to keeping things professional, but now it sat upon her slender finger proudly. You fidgeted with it nervously as Wanda continued cooking. A part of you wanted to help, but when you tried to stand Natasha tightened her grip and fixed you with a look. She chatted smoothly with her wife, the conversation flowing as if you weren't there.

"How long have you been with Natasha?" Wanda directed her attention to you, her green eyes flickering with an unidentifiable emotion.

"Uhm- just about a month," you mumbled, the question making your hands tighten together nervously.

Wanda laughed gently, "Not like that darling, how long have you been working for her.

"Oh," embarrassment flooded you, "Around 8 months I think."

You glanced at Natasha for confirmation. The redhead smirked, the corners of her lips tilting up in amusement, nodding. Squirming in your seat, Natasha's hand a grounding weight on your thigh that was steadily creeping up from it's spot above your knee, you watched as Wanda delicately balanced three plates on her hands, bringing them to the table.

It smelled divine, heavenly even, as you stared down at the orange-ish sauce. It was laid over chunks of chicken, staining the white rice below. You uttered a quiet thank you to Wanda, who smiled at you, and took a gentle bite. Letting out a quiet moan at the taste, you closed your eyes. For the past months you had been having rather plain food, and this just tasted like bliss to your tastebuds.

"This is amazing," you said once you swallowed, heat filling your cheeks, "Thank you."

"I'm glad," Wanda laughed softly, the sound light and airy.

The night was filled with light chatter, thin stemmed glasses filled with red liquid, and Natasha's hand slowly inching up your thigh. Her fingers were light and danced delicately up your skin, but not once dipping below the fabric of your dress. You could feel yourself growing increasingly wet as her sharp nails traced patterns through your dress.

At some point you had tried to squeeze your thighs together to relieve the need you felt, but Natasha gripped your skin tighter, keeping your legs apart. You nearly whined in frustration and would have if it weren't for Wanda sitting across from you. Unbeknownst to you, Wanda was eyeing Natasha with a look of fond exasperation. She didn't mind at all, just a bit annoyed Natasha couldn't keep it together for one nice dinner.

Clearing her throat, Wanda gathered up the empty plates, her gaze piercing Natasha's soul, "Why don't you two go settle on couch. We can watch something and have some wine?"

"Great idea," Natasha said slowly, her hand tightening before loosening completely so you could stand. You obediently followed her to the living room, somewhat expecting it when she shoved you against the wall, her lips crashing into yours.

You gasped into her mouth, allowing her tongue to slip in. It wasn't much of a battle, Natasha taking dominance immediately, leading to a clash of teeth and tongue. Pulling away when you needed air, your chest heaved.

"Your wife-" you began, worriedly glancing towards the kitchen.

Natasha's hand clamped down your chin, forcing you to look back at her, "Do you have any idea how nice you look in that dress?" she snarled, her fingers dug into the sides of your jaw, "The way it shapes your ass perfectly and shows just the right amount of the cleavage.”

You whimpered when her knee slotted between your legs, touching your yet panties. A smirk flitted across her face, replacing the firm scowl she had.

"Aww, is someone yet for me already?" she cooed mockingly. She had teased you like this before, just enough to leave you wanting, but never getting to the point. It had been driving you insane. Something about this felt different, more intense.

A whine escaped your mouth, and you clamped your hands over your lips when you heard the sound. Natasha laughed, her fingers still digging into your chin, and with her free hand pried your hands off your mouth.

"Let me hear those pretty sounds," she whispered, leaning in so her breath was warm on the shell of your ear. She nipped your earlobe, drawing another small whine out of you, and began working her way down. She left a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses along your neck, nipping and licking the entire time. Her hand had removed itself from your chin, snaking its way down to your breasts. Teasing your hard nipples through your dress, you felt yourself grow wetter by the second.

Subconsciously you ground down her thigh, seeking to relieve the pressure you felt. You needed her. The redhead had teased you so much in the past four weeks and you didn't want to wait any longer.

"Natasha," you whimpered, pushing yourself into her, into her touch, "I need you."

She laughed softly against your neck and nipped harshly. Her touch was too much and too little at the same time. You pressed further down on her thigh, seeking some sort of friction. If you were any more aware you would have heard Wanda's soft footsteps against the cold wooden floor, but you didn't, and Natasha did. All at once, her touch was gone. Her cold hands, her hot mouth, her firm knee.

You whined, trying to pull her back, but she merely chuckled, "Go sit," she ordered. You had half a mind to protest but knew it would get you nowhere. Instead with firm pout on your face you sulked over to the couch and plopped down rather ungracefully.

Crossing your arms, you insistently ignored Natasha when she sat rather gracefully next to you, her arms draping across your shoulders. Wanda entered with three wine glasses in her hands, handing one to you before passing the other to Natasha. The redhead takes it gratefully, sipping it delicately with a small smirk in your direction. Wanda eyed you with a pitying look in her eye before sitting down on the other side.

A wave of uncomfortable feeling washed over you, and not just from the wet feeling between your legs, but because you were sandwiched between two women who were awfully hot and one of them was teasing you relentlessly. Wanda grabbed the remote, oblivious to your inner turmoil, and turned on some cheesy sitcom.

You spent the rest of the night with your thighs pressed together and stomach turning uncomfortably.

^___________^

"Natasha wants to see you," Kate peeked into your room, her eyes finding you on the bed. Almost instantly you folded the book in your hands, setting it down and straightening yourself out. Your heart beat like a caged bird.

"Thanks," you told her, slipping past her on the way out. Kate followed after insistently, an air of curiously floating around her. You sighed, "Yes Kate?"

She offered a joyful smile, "How's it going?"

You raised an eyebrow in her, not pausing in your pace. Natasha's office was a good ways down the hall and if she sent someone to fetch you then it must be important, and you'd rather not test her patience.

"How's what going?"

"Oh, you know," she whined, "Your thing with Natasha."

You rolled your eyes, pointedly ignoring her. It had been a week since you had met Wanda and Natasha had pulled away. You had barely heard from either of them and this was just the first you were going to see Natasha. Before Kate could get to ask another question, you had reached Natasha's office. Without bother to knock, as that would give Kate time to come up with a question, you pushed the door open, shutting it swiftly behind you.

The sight you were met with made you freeze in your tracks.

Wanda was seated on the desk, her hands digging into Natasha's shoulders as the two kissed passionately. A small whine escaped Wanda's mouth as Natasha pushed against her. The latter paused in her movements, glancing back at you. Smirking, Natasha patted Wanda's thigh, and the younger woman hoped off the desk. You stared open mouthed as bruises began to blossom on Wanda's neck and Natasha licked her lips.

"Close your mouth, dekta," Natasha said absent mindedly, moving around to sit in her chair, "You'll catch flies."

Your mouth snapped shut, watching as Wanda moved to lounge on the couch in the corner, her lips swollen, but still a gentle smile on her face.

Swallowing thickly, you forced words through your mouth, "You called?"

"I did, I have a mission for you." She slid a piece of paper across the table. It was a thin piece of paper with just a few words printed onto it. Carefully, you picked it up, scanning over the print. It had a date and time and simple instructions.

Reading over it a few times, you glanced up at Natasha, "You want me to just, watch a man?"

Her eyes narrowed at you, a dangerous expression that told you you were walking on thin ice, "Are you questioning me?"

"No," you shook your head, "Sorry." You averted your gaze down, feeling all too small under her scrutiny. A small sigh echoed across from you. Natasha stood, but you stayed still, as she rounded the desk.

Her hands gripped your collar, pulling you in for a sweet kiss. It was over as soon as it started, yet it left you wanting more.

"I'm sorry I've been ignoring you sweet girl," she whispered and you were all too aware of Wanda's eyes on your back.

"It's alright," you offered a small smile, "You're busy."

She gave you one more soft kiss, so different from her usual harsh ones, and gave you a pat on the shoulder before ushering you out. You left clutching the paper in your hand and making your way back to your room.

After packing everything you would need for the mission, you set out, borrowing one of the community motorcycles Natasha kept and slipping a helmet on. You spend down the highway to the address on the paper, the wind blowing against your face despite the helmet. You relished in the feeling - the feeling of freedom.

Parking the vehicle along the sidewalk, you made your way under the cover of night. There was a knife strapped to the inside of your boot, tucked away, and a gun holstered under your jacket. You were dressed casually, being out at night was suspicious enough, might as well make it seem like you were heading to a party. You had hardly made it a block before a strong arm yanked you into an alleyway. You hardly had time to react before a cold metal was pressed against your throat. Breath catching in your throat, you froze, your fingers twitching with anxiety.

"Don't move," A light voice said, distinctly feminine, "I won't hesitate to slit your throat." Panic surged through you, your heart beating rapidly in your chest as you fought to urge to struggle. That would get you in trouble. "It seems Wanda's little plaything isn't very good at defending herself." You brain short circuited as the woman said those words. You and Wanda had hardly interacted so how had she-?

"I wonder how she would react if I," the knife traced its way slowly down your throat, drawing a thin line of blood. A small whimper escaped your throat, "Aww, is someone scared? Don't be." Her voice as a teasing coo as the knife traced your neck, just lightly skimming above your skin so as not to cut. You flinched when her lips brushed against your ear.

"Tell her if she doesn't give me what I want here will be consequences."

The words sent a shiver down your spine and then the weight pressed against your back was gone. You spun around, grabbing at your gun, but the woman was gone, disappeared into the night.

Taglist: @macaroni676 @gaylorvader

[inkdrinkerworld]

dick literally spends every single penny on you it's CONCERNING, like every date he's dropping 2k in dinner, and you're like huh??? when he gets you gifts for no reason, would be VERY suspicious to me, cus i would instantly think that he's done something wrong and be all dramatic like "did someone die?? did you cheat on me?" and he literally just saw your favourite chocolate and flowers at the store and wanted to get you them..

“Gorgeous, where are you?” You’re in the bedroom, hair dripping as you step out of the shower- you shout back such to your boyfriend.

“I got you something nice.” Dick sing songs as he watches you reach for your blow dryer.

“Dick,” you say as you put it down and stare at him. Your boyfriend has a little problem- he has a shopping addiction but never for things for himself.

Sure he buys himself nice things but it seems like his brain derives the most pleasure and dopamine from getting things for you.

The first time he’d come home with something for you, you panicked. You remember asking him if someone died and he’d laughed so hard he’d started crying.

“No baby, that’s depressing by the way. I got you this just because.” He’d said as he pushed a box in your hands and you opened it to find a pretty bracelet with little bells on it.

Now, almost weekly- it would be daily if Dick had his way- he brings something for you.

“Before you get worried. No one died, I didn’t break your favourite mug or eat your chocolates this time.”

You gasp, “This time?”

Dick’s eyes widen, “Let’s not focus on that, here you go, baby.”

The bag crinkles in your hand as you take it, your eyes on Dick the entire time. “It’s not a bomb, open it.”

When you do you smile. Sitting in the bag is a pair of pyjamas that you’d been eyeing for a little bit- a blue and white striped set.

“Dick that’s really sweet of you.”

He shrugs, all smiles. “That’s why they call me honey, honey.”

You blow a raspberry at the joke. “Grayson,” you mumble as you pull out the pyjamas and find two bars of your favourite chocolates and a little box. “I should’ve known it wasn’t just one thing.” He sits on the bed, leaning back on his palm.

He nods, “You really should, I just like getting you things, gorgeous.”

When you open the box you find silver, wing shaped, bedazzled hair clips.

“I don’t know where you get half these things from.” Dick smiles as you walk over to him. The tips of your hair drip onto his shoulder as you kiss him.

“Oh you know, people just like doing things for about five hundred bucks a piece.”

You pull away from him and frown. “You didn’t spend one thousand dollars on hair clips Dick.”

His cheeks go a little pink, “What? No. I said about, gorgeous.” He kisses you again and then pulls away.

“We’ve got a brunch reservation for tomorrow too, at that place you liked last time. Let me do your hair and you can put on your new pyjamas yeah?” He strokes the apples of your cheeks and under your jaw to the point where you’re a little hypnotized.

“Put the honey hair oil in before your flat iron it okay?” Dick nods.

“I know how to do it right, sweetheart. I am a professional.”

“Professional what, Grayson? Money spender?”

He tuts, a smile playing on his lips. “Ha ha, no I’m a professional at taking care of you. Now sit your cute butt down so I can start.”

[chihoshisai]

Sweet Overtime

Nanami x Reader

cw : established relationship, kissing, nanami is madly in love, fluff fluff fluff and feelings // wc : 1.4K

Nanami hated overtime. 

Regardless of whether he worked for his unfulfilling past office job or as a current sorcerer, heaven would have more chance to fall down before he would clock out one minute later. It was an iron tight rule he had set for himself, to have control over his life after having his youth robbed by the constant going of society. But rules were meant to be broken, bent and sometimes ignored, as they served no purpose but to regulate and guide. All things considered, exceptions were a part of life and even Nanami had no control over it. 

You were an anomaly that came walking into his life, slowly and tenaciously clawing its way into his heart. At first, he disliked you like he did towards some other sorcerers — someone crazy enough to willingly do and enjoy the dangerous living of being a sorcerer. Someone who must’ve been completely out of their mind to fall for a fellow coworker and shamelessly pursue them at that too. But your consistency was enough for an opening to form in his heart, like a flower, it started as a sprout before blooming and leading to the complete surrender of Nanami’s feelings towards everything that partook in your existence. 

Despite his reserved attitude, he quickly acclimated himself to his role as your beloved — going on dates, the late night conversations, the emotional and physical intimacy which he insisted what mattered the most was what you liked, what you enjoyed while he promptly followed through. The hardest part was the vulnerability he had to learn to share with another, as you guided him through the thorny path of allowing himself to rely and lean on a fellow jujutsu sorcerer — who could lose their life at any moment. 

Despite all that, Nanami made it a point to separate all sentimentality while both of you worked — no sweet words, no stolen intimate moments. He treated you professionally.

And it slightly annoyed you, as you persistently tried to create opportunities that would make him fold only to fail miserably. Whispering honeyed remarks when no one was around, purposefully brushing your body against his claiming it was an accident and out of desperation, blowing a kiss in his direction. Though to be fair the last one did cause his face to flush. But his crimson self was the only act of fondness towards you that Nanami allowed himself to show. Even when his skin burned with desire for you, he knew better than to act on his incessant yearning. 

“Such behavior has no place here,” he would scold with his usual flat voice. But his eyes would soften at the look of your pouty lips as he whispered in a gentler tone, “we'll have plenty of time once we’re home.” 

The spoken words alongside the love filled expression of Nanami were enough for you to be willing to compromise, whilst a surge of motivation coursed through your body in order to finish your tasks of the day. After all, there was no mistaking that his affection knew no bounds once the veil of privacy was casted between the two of you, unraveling the mutual pining that he skillfully hid during the day. 

***

Today was just like the others — dull, boring but fulfilling enough as he had gotten the chance to exorcize another curse. With the clock that silently showed the passing of time, teasingly hinting towards the end of the day, Nanami’s longing for you had grown impatient due to your absence as he finished putting in order his report for the day. Earlier this morning you had left for a mission, depriving him of the usual sweet teasing he had taken for granted. 

While images of yourself danced in his mind, he was reminded of the way your lips curved to form a smile, how your eyes brimmed with delight anytime something catched your attention and most importantly the unparalleled warmth he felt everytime you uttered his name. His feelings overflowed like a waterfall and he just wanted to be done with this day so damn much.    

He just wanted to see you.

Dutifully focused on his task, Nanami didn’t notice the door you slowly opened as you poked your head through the entrance, just enough to see inside. 

“Kento,” your light voice floated to his ears and he perked his head up. The tender smile that emerged from his lip, sincere while also revealing the depth of his emotions at your sight, was enough to send a slight flush across your face. And following with a grin, you slid your body through the door and walked towards his desk, keeping eye contact with him, taking notice of the churning sensation that blossomed down in your stomach. 

“Aren’t you done yet?” You asked, well aware of the current time while sitting down in one of the chairs opposite his desk, eyes darting from his overwhelming paperwork to his sunglasses.

“Almost love,” he responded in a tender tone.

“Then I’ll wait,” you said on a hum, when in reality the need to tease him danced in your mind but you digressed in respect for his boundaries. Instead, you went to stroll around the room, letting your eyes trail alongside the endless bookshelves.   

Stealing glances at your pacing self in his office, Nanami promised himself not to get distracted by your taunts, even when his heart raced alongside the daydreams that previously filled his mind like soft rays of sunrise. But as none came, Nanami felt slightly disappointed at the lack of attention and before he knew it, the clock turned to five and he promptly put aside everything work related and his mind went on to focus on your nearby existence. 

Seeing as you still stood eyeing the bookshelves, Nanami discreetly went to wrap his arm around your waist from behind, gently holding and pulling you towards him as he did so and owning himself a slight gasp from your lips.

“That surprised me,” you said in a chuckle, as your skin prinkled at the touch of his fingers sliding around your waist. “Should we head home if you’re done?” You inquired, aware that Nanami disliked spending unnecessary time working as a sorcerer. 

“In a bit,” he whispered in your ear, “let me stay like this for a bit longer love,” he breathed down your neck, lips brushing your skin and draping you with his warmth. He had missed you. So much that he was willing to compromise on his unbreakable rule, enjoying this sweet moment he decided to bestow upon himself. A day apart was all it took for Nanami to abandon his principles, while he used his arms to make you face him, and bathe in your blushing face — his whole world. 

With a racing heart, you let your eyes lurk over his lips in an obvious manner, as your hands moved upward to grip his broad shoulders. His breath mingling with yours increased your desire to close the distance, but you felt unsure whether Nanami would be alright to cross such a line at work. For that reason, you pondered on the thought of speaking your worries aloud or letting the tension speak for itself. 

But your thoughts alongside your moment got quickly interrupted by the abrupt opening of the door and alongside it, the unsuspecting sight of Gojo. Who with a sly smile let his voice boom throughout the room. “Please don’t mind me and do continue,” Gojo chuckled, well aware that he was clearly interrupting. You eyed him, internally cursing the white haired man for his timing and how he made no attempt whatsoever of returning the privacy he had stolen.

Nanami however had kept his gaze on you all this time despite the disruption — he knew better than to indulge Gojo by giving him any form of attention. Instead, as he saw how your eyes had been robbed from his sight, Nanami grabbed your chin to redirect your focus on him. And while looking at your momentarily surprised face, he united his lips against yours, offering a kiss that hinted at his day long yearning and desire for you. It was only when the sound of the closing door which indicated Gojo’s departure that Nanami allowed his hand to reign free atop your body — one seizing your waist and the other ruffling your hair. His heart throbbed at the intimacy your presence offered and with much regret, he parted from the kiss, forbidding himself to go further for the sake of unraveling the deepest parts of your body only in the shared sanctuary that consisted of your place. 

“Let’s go home,” Nanami whispered, cupping your cheeks and smiling at the face that intoxicated every fiber of his body. 

You hummed in approval and felt Nanami slide his hand to weave his fingers alongside yours while he went and guided the way out and to more intimate moments. 

[chinolondoner]

Author looking for readers

I'm not sure of the best way of getting people interested in the work of an unknown writer...

Plopped down in the middle of a tropical, Latin American setting, Lullaby for Bishop is set to be a hard-boiled detective series with four main characters: a veteran private investigator in the twilight of his career; a muscle-bound professional wrestler fulfilling one of his pivotal, childhood ambitions of solving strange and wild mysterious; as well as a pair of rumbunctious, teenage, high school girls constantly causing a scene and tagging along for the thrills.

You can preview the first half of chapter one further down below and catch up on the remainder, along with the totality of chapters two and three, all completely for free if you visit my Patreon. It's going to be a little while before this first book in the series is actually finished and officially published, but I feel the smarter move would be to try and elevate as much of a buzz for the featured world and characters before then as possible. I also plan to put out additional pre-release chapters in the near future (likely three at a time). If I have somehow managed not to bore you and you're still eagerly reading, then I do hope you enjoy the launching meta in this tender work in progress and stick around for future updates. Thank you for your interest!

---

Chapter One

Nervously, Donny Boy had begun rubbing his fingers on the back of his neck, seated patiently a narrow foot away from the front of the desk while waiting for our bastard detective to stumble back into his office, suddenly realizing that the price tag had not yet been plucked away or removed from the fanciful hat he was wearing and was still dangling off the rounded edge of the brim.

Looking around the room for a trash bin he could use, Donny Boy's eyes gradually panned across the office, taking note of a few of the usual mosquitoes left splattered on the frosted, scarlet-lettered glass on the door. Dizzying groves of zigzagged patterns tying in the décor on the wallpaper, he spotted an old, unused desk tucked-away in the far, opposite corner of the room, heavy with dust and weighed down by sprawling stacks of postcards and unrecycled newspapers.

His wandering eyes glancing up the rearing rays of shattered sunlight filling in through the narrow, broken blinds on the window, Donny Boy had noticed the row of fancy kettlebells neatly arranged across a flat and sturdy, iron bench scooted against the wall, a dirty, rolled-up yoga mat, along with this stationary, exercise bike for the purposes of one's daily, cardio workout.

Looking up at the rougher dust build up over the years along the edges of the blades on the ceiling fan, Donny Boy was suddenly lured back from his current distractions after Detective Howl Bishop slid back into his office, tossing a used washrag onto his desk after wiping his face and smelling of minty, nicotine gum and aftershave.

“So, what do I call you, kid?” Howl had asked while taking a seat in his chair behind his desk.

“Don should be perfect. Growing up, my next-door neighbor used to call me Donny Boy.”

“Donny Boy, huh?” Howl fought against his urges to fidget with a stack of papers in his drawer. “Sounds good to me, kid. So… are you some sort of circus performer or something?”

“I'm not sure I know what you mean…”

“Your arms… They're freaking huge!”

“Oh… Yeah… I do struggle at times finding clothes that can fit me properly. Also, I wasn't really sure whether or not I should've worn a suit jacket.”

“Yes…” Howl would peek over the top of his desk and study Donny Boy up and down, a salient tone of fascination in his voice. “You really are quite the physical specimen, aren't you?”

“I suppose I do enjoy a good workout,” Donny Boy replied, a little bit bashful.

“You do have a basic understanding of the type of job you're here applying for today, don't you?” Howl asked.

“I believe so… The ads in the newspaper said Experienced private investigator in search of young and capable partner…”

“That's right. And being a private eye, it's important to have a plethora of tools at your modest disposal. One of those tools being the ability to effortlessly mesh into your surroundings. It's important not to stand out too much when in a public crowd or when casually photographing somebody's license plate from across the road. At the moment, I'm having some doubts on that possibly being a strong suit of yours given your current… how should I say… physique.”

“Oh… Well, to be completely honest with you, Mr. Bishop, I haven't even paused to consider that as a possibility.”

“Yeah, well, thinking a few steps ahead is also an invaluable tool to have.”

With more than a quarter of a century of busy detective work under his belt, his hair having grown white as Winter's ashes and the once buoyant Spring in his footsteps having lost some of its feather throughout the years, Howl Bishop was originally from the lands of sunny, Southern California, born on a weekday in a rushed and overcrowded hospital in the blighted city of Los Angeles.

Brought up in a bohemian household, Howl's anxious mother was a failed, Hollywood actress turned “new-age” healer and father was a meddling screenwriter that had spent more of his time obsessing over the quality of the ink in his typewriter than ever inundating his children with any orderly grants of wisdom.

Standing at six-foot even in height, a strong, conquering jaw and with an even tan across his arms and facial features, Howl was one of the many foreign expats sailing over from the States in purge of more permanent roots in Pan de Leones. Old, brown, leather belt holding up his wide, beige-colored slacks, Howl always wore floral, Hawaiian shirts when in settled eye of the public, mixtures of white and pink and with a couple of loose buttons up toward the collar.

With his sharp, Anglo features and light attire, it was entirely common to mistake Howl Bishop for a possible tourist visiting Latin America for the first time, sightseeing across the country and falling for obvious scams at the nearby market. That is, of course, until one caught an initial glimpse of Howl's encyclopedic knowledge of the city's urban layout and sprawling geography, along with his ease of verbal fluency when communicating in Spanish, often conversating with local barkeeps and store merchants on objects ranging from the wise and esoteric to the lurched, mind-numbing, and trivial.

“I would like to procure a general gauge on how comfortable you might be interacting with the more unsavory avenues of human society,” Howl would lean back into his seat and ask, clamping his hands together and placing his palms over his stomach.

“Could you be more specific?”

“In such line of work, one all too often will find themselves having to calmly intermingle with unrested eyes of broken glass and scoundrels. Do you possess any real-world experience dealing with scum and the morally compromised?”

“Uhm…” Donny Boy appeared curtailed by Howl's question, unsure of how to respond. “I once dated a girl that refused to pay off her parking tickets,” he said.

Without managing to reply, Howl simply stared in confusion from his seat across the desk, reevaluating his initial impressions on the kid. Then, squinting his eyelids a little, he felt inclined to change the current subject and asked, “I don't mean to suddenly swerve off topic, but… have we met before?”

“What?”

“Well, I'm looking at your face, right now, and… I can't help but get the feeling that this isn't the first time that we've been in the same room. Do we know each other?”

“I do not believe we have ever met, Mr. Bishop,” Donny Boy was quick to point out in response, laughing out loud a little to himself while nervously shuffling around in his seat. “I've always done alright remembering faces and my mother had always told me it was rude to forget someone's name.”

“Hmm… I guess in my advanced age, my average perception of things has grown a bit muddy. I suppose I simply must be confusing you for somebody else.”

Wide, rugged shoulders, preposterous arms, and with a large, outward, and muscular chest, Donny Boy was young and handsome and had shaded, bronze-colored skin. His lightly brushed hair was a wild, sunflower-blonde of which he maintained in perfect tinge and kept the darker shadows of his roots regularly dyed. Along with the fancy, finely tailored fedora resting on his head, the crumpled price tag of which he had just recently stuffed into his pocket, Donny Boy wore a normal pair of rectangular, blue-framed eyeglasses, granting him a bit of a barbarous librarian kind of a look.

Dark eyebrows and with the small patch of facial hair on his chin routinely trimmed, Donny Boy had entered the office wearing a short-sleeved, white, button-up shirt, the generous, overfed muscles of his upper body appearing to want to tear through the clothing and with a clean pair of ruby-red suspenders attached to the waistline of his denim-blue slacks, tugged and strapped-up over his mountainous shoulders. He also had on a dorky, red bowtie for the occasion.

“How old are you, Donny Boy?”

“I'm twenty-eight years old, Mr. Bishop.”

“And what's your sleep schedule like?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your sleep schedule. Have you developed the habit of going to bed around the same time, every night?”

“I believe so. I've never been one to indulge in any late-night festivities. Why do you ask?”

“Well, when living the demented life of a private eye, it's not uncommon to have to commit to some later hours on the unplanned occasion: car stakeouts after midnight; navigating the craze of urban nightlife on foot; purchasing some nefarious lawyer a hundred shots of overpriced vodka at the stripclub just for a few layers of common information. Do you drink coffee?”

“I've never been much of a coffee drinker, no.”

“Well, you definitely should be. Sugar highs and caffeine are going to be your most reliable friends on those late nights when you most need them. Either that or… well… you know…” Bringing his hand up to his face, Howl used his finger to tap the side of his nose.

“Oh, no way, Mr. Bishop,” Donny Boy immediately replied. “I wouldn't even think of touching that stuff. I've always had a firm stance against any illegal drug use.”

“That's good,” Howl said. “I've noted my fair share of innocent souls throughout my time wasting away from drug addiction. A found sense of longed-for excitement is what initially lures them in. And then, after enough restless days turn to night, enough sleepless nights turn to chaos, suddenly they look up and… the neon lights on the street don't seem as vibrant as they once used to…”

Donny Boy would look at Howl with a sort of strange sense of wonderment, our detective's eyes having slowly migrated across the room toward the window, perceiving what, to him, had appeared to be an expression of profound fatigue captured on his face.

The sound of the vehicle screeching to a halt could suddenly be heard outside on the street, trashcans tumbling over and followed by the angry voice of a young woman shouting profanities.

“Oh no…” Donny Boy muttered underneath his breath, his eyes suddenly wandering over toward the window.

“What about your relationships?” Howl asked. “Do you have a wife or girlfriend? One of the more unfortunate aspects of being a private investigator is the difficulty you might experience maintaining a healthy inner circle. This is often a critical detail that turns the most people away.”

Donny Boy was completely distracted and had failed to pick up a single word, a growing look of nervousness on his face.

“Donny Boy, are you listening?”

The frantic sound of sudden footsteps quickly marching up a flight of stairs could be heard just outside the door to the office, followed by the reactions from Howl's trusted secretary demanding an unknown grouping's identification and honest proof of appointment.

“Move aside, lady! You don't want to have to get injured!” a young woman's voice hollered in response.

“How have they managed to find me?” Donny Boy wondered out loud to himself.

“We have you outnumbered and we're very upset!”

“What the hell is going on out there?” Howl began to react.

Suddenly, managing not to completely fly off its hinges, the door to the office was viciously kicked open, creating a sudden gust of wind that would travel across the room, knocking over a slanted stack of printed papers off the corner edge of the desk.

Standing in the open doorway, visible tension throughout her arms as her hands were forged into concrete fists, a young, teenage girl had a rancid look of anger on her face. A dark, navy-blue blazer over a knitted, bright, yellow skirt, the young woman was dressed in a traditional, school-girl's uniform and had her hair cut down short, visible scrapes and bruises on her knees giving out impressions that the girl was perhaps a bit of a rowdy tomboy.

“Nayaiko! I found him! He's in here!” the young girl shouted back over her shoulder.

She would then come into the office, and shortly afterward, her thin silhouette appearing in the doorway, an additional and secondary, young woman showed her face and seemed equally upset at the current moment. Dressed in an identical uniform as the first, this second girl had her hair much greater in length and stood with long and beautifully braided pigtails poking out the sides of her head.

The second girl entered the office and shut the door.

Standing over Donny Boy who seemed to be trembling in his seat a little, the first girl snarled out of her nostrils and said, “This is the second time this week you tried to ditch us…”

“This honestly isn't the best time, girls,” Donny Boy said, his voice a bit shaky.

“You know, we were standing outside the changing booth for thirty-five minutes before we realized you weren't there,” the second girl would report. “You told us you were trying on some hats!”

“I did! Look!” Donny Boy then lifted the hat up off his head to showcase. “I ended up purchasing this really awesome fedora for myself. It's really cool, isn't it?”

Neither girl seemed to want to take the time to respond. They simply crossed their arms in defiance and stood with a pair of inconsolable scowls on their faces.

Continue...

[janeyseymour]

your personal and professional was soooooo good hear me out

pt 2 the date. reader takes their time and truly goes all out alt baddie for their date as per mel’s request. melissa realizes those weren’t the only piercings and tattoos reader was camouflaging. a top that accentuates her nipple piercing and a slitted skirt that shows leg tattoos for days mel doesn’t know how many more surprises she can take

ask and you shall receive. written half drunk, on the phone with my boyfriend, and inhaling a pad thai. not edited in the slightest and hoping it's good enough :)

Personal and Professional pt 2

Part 1

WC: ~1.75k

Melissa just had you pinned up against your desk, her mouth roughly on your own. It takes you a few minutes to even be able to function again, brain now all over the place as you try to process what just happened.

She told you to meet her at The Capital Grille at six… That’s a couple hours from now. And she doesn’t want you to wear the outfit you’re in now: your clean yellow blouse and sweater, your dress pants and flats. So you shake your head and practically sprint out to your car. If she wants the alt girl that you are, she’ll get it.

You spend the entire drive home planning what you’ll wear on this date. You know that The Capital Grille is a relatively fancy place to go out to eat, so you can’t roll up in the usual band t-shirt or tank top and your jeans.

But you know that have quite a few skirts that you wouldn’t wear to school, and you have more than enough tops to impress the woman.

When you get home, you immediately change out your clear stud for your nose ring, and your small hoops are exchanged for your bigger,  black hoops and put in your ear spike. Your blouse is switched out for a rather revealing, black top that accentuates the piercings on your chest. You swap out your slacks for the shortest black skirt that you own that has a nice slit up the side to show off the tattoos that make their way up your thighs and hips. The ballet flats that you chose to wear to school are off, and you instead lace up your heeled boots.

You glance in the mirror, and while you would usually change your eye makeup for something a bit more… daring, you decide to just touch up the light and minimal makeup that you had on for today. There should be at least some small aspect of you that the redhead can recognize. And besides, you think your makeup looks good today. So, you head for the bathroom and start heating up your curling iron. An hour later, your hair is curled into big bombshell curls, and you make sure the few front pieces frame your face.

You still have a bit of time before you have to meet her, so you head back into the living room, pull out some of your work, and grade some papers until it’s finally an appropriate time to start heading out to the restaurant.

You park your car, and text Melissa that you’re on your way.

I’m sitting in the back, she replies back. Do you want a drink?

Whatever you’re having, is your answer, and you continue walking towards the restaurant.

When you walk in though, she’s waiting by the door to escort you over to your table.

“Hey there, pretty lady,” you say suavely.

The redhead doesn’t answer right away. She’s too busy practically drooling over your appearance.

“Mel,” you chuckle.

She blinks a few times before she’s able to take her eyes away from your chest and the rest of your outfit. “Wow.”

“Like what you see?” you give her a little twirl.

“More than I think you realize.”

You roll your eyes playfully before looping your arm through hers. “You look beautiful.”

“You look… holy shit,” she whispers as she pulls you in close and kisses you with more passion than she had in the classroom.

You kiss her back, but you do pull away. Your cheeks are red and hot. Despite appearances, you still are the woman that you are at school, and you can’t help but feel quite flustered with the public display of affection.

She takes you into the back of the restaurant, where your table is. There’s a small bouquet of flowers waiting for you, along with two glasses of wine.

She pulls out your seat, and you gently kiss her cheek as she helps you situate yourself before she takes a seat across the table from you.

You smile softly as she practically drinks in the sight of you. Feeling just a bit flustered, you reach for the glass that she has waiting for you and wait for her to grab her own. The two of you silently toast to each other before you take a rather large gulp of wine.

“This place,” you say softly. “It’s… really nice.”

“I know I flirt with you rather crassly at school,” Melissa chuckles. “But you deserve the best, hun.”

You feel your cheeks heat up even more, and you can’t help the warm feeling that settles in your chest. “Thank you.”

You glance down at the table for a menu, but there isn’t one.

“Food is already on its way,” your coworker tells you. “I know what you like.”

She’s right. She had ordered you a nice filet minion, and she had ordered the same for herself. This food is to die for.

Conversation flows between the two of you easily, but you’ve noticed that the redhead has a hard time focusing on your eyes the way that she usually can at school.

“Penny for your thoughts?” you finally ask.

Her eyes flit from your chest to your eyes, cheeks flushed. Whether that’s from the wine or from her being caught staring at your tasteful piercings, you don’t know.

“I know I told you to come dressed as your little alt girl self, but…” she hums. “Wow. I wasn’t expecting… those piercings, or the flowery vines that travel up your legs.”

“You saw those?”

“Of course I did,”she whispers. “You look absolutely… stunning.”

You feel the way that her boot finds its way to your leg, and she runs it up your calf. You feel a shiver run up to your spine. But before you can really react, it’s gone, and she’s acting like nothing had ever happened.

The two of you are back to talking about your days and the things that your students had gotten up to today.

Before you know it, dessert is being brought out, along with two glasses of champagne. She moves from the seat across from you, and the teacher makes her way around the table and to your side. She takes up the seat next to you, daringly running a hand up your thigh. You can’t quite help the way that your body reacts. You nearly purr.

“You like that?” she whispers.

You nod, words caught in your throat. You don’t think you can answer without letting out a soft moan.

“No time for that now,” she says huskily. She dips the spoon into the tiramisu that had been brought to your table before bringing it up to your lips.

Deciding two can play at that game, you take the spoonful of dessert before letting out a moan. You lick the spoon clean as seductively as you can.

Melissa’s eyes go wide before she spoons another bite and taking it herself. The two of you finish off the dish in front of you, her hand on your thigh the entire time. She’s rubbing gentle circles on your skin with the pad of your thumb before tracing the tattooed vines up your leg as high as your skirt will allow.

“You cold, hun?” Melissa whispers into your ear.

You swallow harshly before shaking your head. Daringly, you take her hand and move it to your hipbone. She doesn’t know it, but that’s where the vines end- they’re attached to a beautiful flower that is engraved into your hip.

Her eyes linger where her hand has been placed before looking into your eyes. She pulls you in for a gentle kiss, one that conveys just how she feels for you: that this isn’t just some small fling but instead holds deep and passionate feelings for you. She gently squeezes your hip, and you whimper at that.

“Mel,” you mumble into her mouth.

She pulls away, and she can tell with the way that you’re looking at her that you feel the same as her. “Should we go to my place?”

You nod, and she grabs both of your bags before gesturing for you to stand.

“The bill,” you say softly, not moving from your place.

She shakes her head and rolls her eyes.

“We can’t just dine and dash… especially at a restaurant like this,” you whisper.

She waves you off. “My cousin Anthony owns this jawn. It’s fine.” She offers you a hand, and you take it gently.

As the two of you exit, she waves to a few of the people, expressing her thanks to them. They all give her small smiles, a few of them raise their eyebrows as they look you over, and the two of you walk out hand in hand.

“Where’s your car, babe?” she asks you.

“In the garage on Samson,” you tell her, and she walks you over.

“Anthony let me park by their loading docks,” she grins as she opens the door to your driver’s seat.

“Let me drive you back over then,” you offer.

“If you insist,” she chuckles as she makes her way around and settles next to you. Your hand rests gently on her thigh as you pull out of your spot and exit the garage, only to turn back onto the street that you had dinner on. Her car is waiting for her, and she gives you a quick kiss before heading to her car.

“Follow me over?” she asks. You nod and wait for her to start leading the way.

As you pull in behind her in her driveway, you glance at yourself in the rear view mirror. You make sure that your hair looks nice, you wipe away some of the makeup that is under your eyes, and you grin when you see her standing at your door waiting.

You open the door, and her arm is immediately out and waiting for you to take it. She leads you up the walkway before she unlocks her door.

You barely have a foot in the door before she has you pinned up against it.

“You have any other surprises in store for me?” she asks huskily as her mouth finds your neck.

You hum, entirely distracting with the things that she’s doing to you. “That’s for you to find out, isn’t it?”

Her eyes turn dark and full of lust, and as she’s leading you up to her bedroom, you silently thank God that she found you in that grocery store the other day.

[judesdrabbles]

The Cure (part II)

On a snowy afternoon, your car had broken down after a therapy session with your psychiatrist. Perhaps this was the perfect moment for him to get to know you better.

PART 1 / PART 3 / PART 4

word count: 1.4K

warnings: obsessive tendencies, yandere behavior, misuse of power position

A few weeks have passed since your first appointment. Every week you step into his office, and every week, Vincent finds himself wanting more.

Why only once a week? Why not twice? Or thrice? Surely, you’d benefit from more frequent therapy sessions. Therapy was about consistency, after all. And he wouldn’t mind. Not for you, at least.

The thought gnawed at him. The thought of you. Was this professionalism? He never really cared for his patients, he didn’t care about their troubles. Their feelings were merely a two-piece puzzle for him to solve. So easy. His fingers tap rhythmically on the polished wood of his desk, a soft tune for his thoughts. His eyes flicked to the pens- his anchors- arranged in their precise formation. A neat straight line. It was perfect. Controlled.

But it wasn’t enough. When you weren’t here, the silence became unbearable. He could straighten the pens over and over again, or he could iron his suit thrice a day until every seam and every thread was laying flat and obedient beneath the iron’s weight, but it was not enough. He needed more. He needed to see you.

Even as he worked, his thoughts circled back to you. You weren’t like the bleak wallpaper in his office like he thought you would be; you were not unremarkable. You were new. A breath of fresh air.

It was just professional interest, of course. It had to be. At least, that’s what he told himself.

And then, on one snowy afternoon in the dead of winter, it seemed like his silent prayers had been answered.

You returned to his office after your session, cheeks flushed from the cold. He looked up from his desk, surprised at your reappearance.

‘Um.. Doctor, I’m sorry to bother you,’ You say hesitantly and brush the snowflakes from your hair. This was embarrassing. It was already late and the man probably just wanted to go home. ‘You.. wouldn’t happen to know anything about cars, would you?’

Vincent rose from his chair, his lips curling into a polite smile. Fate had given him another chance to be near you. ‘Cars?’ He shook his head softly. ‘I’m afraid I’m not much of a mechanic, but I can certainly take a look. It might be something simple.’

He stepped around his desk, gesturing to the hallway. You let out a small sigh and smile. ‘Thank you, I’d appreciate it. It’s just-..’ You hesitated, glancing back at him as he walked. ‘The engine wouldn’t start, and I don’t really know what to do out here. I mean, it’s not like I can just walk home in this weather.’

Vincent’s chest tightened at the thought of you stranded and alone in this weather. The snow had been relentless all day, piling high up on the streets outside his office. It was as though the world had conspired with him to keep you here, within reach.

‘Of course.’ He said, his tone calm as always. ‘Let’s see what we’re dealing with.’

The cold hit you both sharply as the two of you stepped outside. Vincent’s polished shoes crunched against the fresh snow and you cross your arms against the cold as you look at your car in the parking lot. Frost was creeping up on the edges of the windows.

‘Do you have the keys?’ Vincent asks, turning to you. You quickly nod and hand them over, your fingers brushing against each other briefly. It was enough to send a jolt up his spine.

Vincent slips into the drivers seat, turning the key. The engine groaned, sputtered .. and then fell silent. Again, and again, and again. He pressed his lips into a thin line as he exited the car.

‘It’s not catching. It could be the battery.’ He says, glancing over at you. Your cheeks were rosy. You groan.

‘Figures. The one time I don’t have jumper cables in the car..’

Vincent paused, his mind working quickly. ‘No matter. Why don’t you come back inside while I call for assistance? No use in freezing out here, hm?’

Your shoulders relax slightly. ‘Thank you, I’m so sorry for the trouble, though.’

‘It’s no trouble at all.’ He responds, his voice smooth. Almost too smooth.

Inside, the warmth of his office was a nice contrast to the piercing cold outside. He gestured for you to sit on the couch, noticing the way you hesitated before sitting down on the leather.

It was perfect, Vincent thought. It was an opportunity, wasn’t it? An opportunity to get to know you better, to peel back another layer. To keep you here, with him, just a little longer.

‘Would you like something to drink? Tea? Coffee?’ He asks. His gaze lingers.

‘Oh, uh.. Tea would be nice. Thank you.’ You answer.

You were on the edge of the couch, one foot nervously tapping against the floor. The whole situation felt surreal. Your car breaking down, being stuck here with your new psychiatrist- it was something out of a bad sitcom. The meticulous order of everything in this room didn’t seem to help; like his weird tendency to keep straightening the pens on his desk, or that he always sat so perfectly still, like every movement was rehearsed. Like he was an actor.

After a while, Vincent returns, handing you the cup of tea. He made the tea just right- not too hot, a little bit of honey. No milk. The way he imagined you might prefer it. Would you notice the care he had taken?

He hoped so.

The steam of the tea curled around your face as you warm your hands with the cup. Vincent sat down across from you with his own. He seemed to relax more.

‘I called the tow truck for you. They’ll be here in a bit, the snow is kind of keeping them occupied.’

‘Thanks, doctor.’ You softly say, taking a sip from your tea. It was slightly sweet. Was it honey? ‘You really didn’t have to do that. I’m keeping you late.’

Vincent chuckled and waved his hand dismissively. If only you knew. Even if you had asked him to stay here the whole day and night, he wouldn’t mind. Not for you.

‘You’re not keeping me. I don’t mind at all.’

It was quiet in his office for a while. You watch the soft snowflakes fall down on the road next to his office. It was actually quite cozy. You decide to spark up conversation.

‘Your office is always so neat.’ You gesture around. ‘I often feel like I’m trespassing every time I walk in here with my muddy shoes.’

Vincent’s lips twitch into a smile. To be fair, he hated it when his patients stained his floor. When they mess up what he so perfectly cleaned. But he could bear it with you.

‘If you hint at your shoes that have been making my floor wet with snow, it’s fine.’ His eyes glance to your wet sneakers. ‘I suppose I do have a tendency to .. keep things in order. Keep them clean. It helps me think clearly.’

You chuckle. ‘Life is messy. Isn’t that what therapy is all about, doctor? That everything can’t be perfect all the time?’

His eyebrows raise. You were probing. Cheeky.

‘Poking around, are we? Very well. You are absolutely right, of course.’ He admits, placing his cup of tea down on the side table beside him. ‘But you’ll be surprised how much I can tolerate, giving the right circumstances. Even when I like things neat.’

‘You must think I’m a mess, then.’ You blurt out.

Vincent gaze lingers on you. ‘I don’t think so, Y/N. I really enjoy your company.’ He smiles. ‘This space becomes more meaningful whenever you’re here.’

The way he said that made your stomach flip- not necessarily in a good way. You focus on the tea in your hands, swirling it around the cup. There was something disarming about this conversation. Like he was trying to draw you closer without you realizing it.

‘You’re kind to say that.’

Vincent grins. He was scared he had overstepped a bit. But you seemed to accept it. If there was one thing he was besides a tad bit obsessed, it was patient. He would play the waiting game for as long as he sees fit. Reel you in. Really see you. Know you.

Outside, the sound of tires crunching trough the snow signaled the arrival of the tow truck. Disappointment flickered across Vincent’s face. ‘It seems your detour is over, Y/N.’

Later that night, he sat on the couch, on the same spot you had been sitting. He was softly brushing the edge of the tea cup you had left behind, deep in thought.

Next week felt too far away.

[h2pro-beautylife]

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[wwaheoh]

maid x master are overrated booo tomato tomato /hj

i want more maid x maid wlw cuz i think they're cute :3

well since we talking about maid here can i request alexandrina x shy fem junior/trainee maid, for short rina teach y/n proper etiquette as they spend time together they start flirting or something like that (y/n working for months so they know each other a bit)

sorry man I can't write good prompt :(

anyways get enough sleep, sleep good you deserve it

"The One in Which You and a Ghost Lady Fall in Love” Alexandrina Sebastiane x gnReader

a/n: decided to do gender neutral rather than female, hope you don’t mind! but feel free to change the pronouns and such in your head!

a/n²: ironically pretty bad at writing a relationship that doesn't end in tragedy

As the newest addition of Victoria Housekeeping, you had to undergo various types of training- as expected. Ranging from household cleaning to taking down Ethereals in a fast and professional manner. Honestly you sorta expected it- even having been warned as you applied for the position about the additional forms of work Victoria Housekeeping did.

Though to be honest, it was pretty fun, being given training and permission to let go and duke it out with enemies whenever the need arose. The problem was the whole ‘interacting with clients’, it was really hard not to tremble or cringe while talking, feeling as though you were embarrassing Mister Lycaon and the rest of Victoria Housekeeping just by existing.

So, you had been given more training in customer relations, with your main teacher being Miss Sebastiane- though she preferred you call her Miss Rina. She was your senior, a woman with a serene gracefulness, kind and gentle- yet not afraid to put pressure on clients who got too handsy or Ethereals that entered the property they were hired to keep. She was so kind, strong, gentle, firm, a smile that made you at ease and inspired you to keep pushing away from the mental barrier of interacting with clients. Beautiful, with soft hair framing her mature face, eyes of ruby that kept you mesmerized…

Then those eyes blinked.

Today Miss Rina had been teaching you how to dance, a semi-often requested service. For when a client didn’t have a partner- either through choice or circumstance, they would call on Victoria Housekeeping to be their partner. It happened more often than one would think.

Yet as she lead you through the steps, you had become transfixed on the older lady, still mirroring her but losing yourself in her. Something she noticed as you lost your usual unsureness, steps becoming more loose rather than the high-strung nervousness you usually exhibited.

Truthfully she was very flattered, where people usually looked at her, it was with either lust or a passing by before turning to the other workers like Lycaon or Ellen. You looked at her with love, heart stolen by her. She had her eye on you for a bit, the cuteness of your bashfulness, how you aimed to do your best- much like Corin, yet fell flat at the more mental problems. You were cute yes, but also strong in your own way, a trait you shared with Corin as well. Always aiming to protect, eyes filled with warmth even when in stressful situations.

As the two of you finished your dance, she dipped you low, holding you steady, gaze looking deep back at you.

Words escaped you, “Would you grant me the honor of going to dinner with you?” You immediately slammed your palms to your mouth- leading you to fall and hit your bum on the ground. Internally you were panicking, doing everything you could to not look at Miss Rina, hoping you didn’t ruin the relationship between the two of you, having overstepped the bounds of the work-place.

Out of your view, she relaxed, sinking down and cupping your chin. Softly directing you to look at her, you followed, puddy in her hands. “Nothing would make me happier.” With her free hand she held you by the arm, pulling you up alongside her as she moved with the serenity of a flowing river. “Tonight at 8?” You nodded, not trusting your words to be able to convey what you wanted. There weren't any words possible to let her know what you felt.

The two of you danced once more, steps in sync.

[fox-guardian]

I have thoughts and since I keep forgetting to draw it, I will write it out

✨️ fashion headcanons for the oiar crew ✨️

Alice (I've already drawn her but I'm adding it here again anyway):

General thoughts: she enjoys layers when possible, fits the "tiny top large bottoms" silhouette most often in her outfits, and tries to throw plaid/flannel into her outfits in some way as often as possible. It's a minor obsession. Jewelry-wise she's typically a silver girlie but is far from against mixing metals and likes wearing piercings with colorful plating

the oiar likely has a pretty solid dress code and I highly doubt she follows it, especially after having been there for nearly a decade

At work I think she keeps it relatively simple. Comfy flannel shirts and/or t-shirts, hoodie if she's cold, and maxi skirts or jeans. Sneakers. It's nothing super fun (the workplace doesn't deserve her at her most fabulous) but it's comfy

Jewelry is also kept simple, studs and plain rings for her ears (snakebites are a given). She also wears her fav bracelets

Outside of work she gets sillayyyy. Bit chunky jewelry, novelty pieces. More fun frilly skirts, some shorter ones. Her nicer outside-of-work looks are somewhere between "hippie" and "that one type of iconic fashionable older woman" she also wears makeup more often Outside of work

Concert attire varies but she gets more grungy with ripped/shredded pieces and band tees (obviously) and sluts it up with shorter skirts/shorts and cropped shirts

Fancy clothes are as 80s as possible. This woman owns multiple shoulder-padded button downs

Pajamas are usually basic sets (often mismatched) or just like. Old t shirt and underwear.

Sam:

General thoughts: priorities comfort and tries to stay comfy as much as possible. You have never felt a wardrobe more soft overall. He wears plain earrings and the occasional friendship bracelet, otherwise not much jewelry I also think he wears as little sock as possible (unless it's funny) (alice got on him for wearing socks with sandals one time back in uni and that's all he wore in front of her for months)

Idk what the exact dress code for the oiar would be, but assume he adheres as much as possible

Prefers soft cotton mocknecks/turtlenecks to crisp button downs, with a nice cardigan instead of a blazer. Trousers are sensible, but soft. He probably irons them

Casual outfits are. Very casual. Sweatpants and sweatshirts/pullovers.

Nicer outside of work outfits aren't very different from work outfits. Date nights might require jewelry (rings, maybe a chain or two). I think he's a gold guy

He does have like one nice suit for special occasions but he suffers through the stiff fabric

Pajamas are button-up sets or literally just his underwear.

Gwen:

General thoughts: this woman is so monochromatic to me. She's very "dark mode basic" if that makes sense. She's not trendy but her looks are always solid. Owns a lot of black. Most outfits are fitted and snug. Wears minimal jewelry and always silver (even though gold would look so good) has a secret love of nice vintage pieces

Work looks are professional and crisp. Pencil skirts, button downs, and a sensible sweater typically (its cold) and plan heels/booties. After having to flee from ink5oul her work wardrobe has graduated to Trousers And Flats For Booking It. Her "girlboss" outfit is a matching blazer/trouser combo

Casual outfits are still well put together. Enjoys miniskirts and tights (if she's feeling bold she'll wear tights with a pattern) and off-the-shoulder tops. Wears basic chokers and slightly more jewelry overall. If she's feeling balls to the walls INSANE she might wear a dark red lip.

She doesn't really have a nicer vs comfy casual wardrobe, so all that's left is special occasion stuff. A nice dress for get togethers with "friends". An especially nice vintage coat she snagged. These pieces might have color other than gray maybe.

Pajamas. Hm. I think she would either have simple button down sets or frilly nightgowns. She definitely dreams of having a nightgown fit for touring a haunted castle I think

Celia:

General thoughts: butch <3 she has learned she really likes the look and feel of a more masculine shape and fit to her clothes after getting a hard reset on her identity. She doesnt wear a lot of jewelry outside her ear and facial piercings, and it is all gold, and she also has snakebites but prefers studs (slightly less enticing for babies to grab than hoops)

Work outfits are nice. Vests and trousers, with the occasional cardigan if it's cold.

Casual outfits are jeans and nice fitted t-shirts. A denim jacket perhaps. I also think she works out in some capacity so there's shorts and muscle tanks also (no bras ever, shits shwangin)

Nicer outside of work stuff.... I don't think she owns any special occasion things right now?? She simply would not have an occasion/reason to have them yet maybe. Maybe she gets a fancy vest for date night idk. She'd probably signify This Is A Special Occasion with nice bracelets and rings. Maybe a neck chain.

Pajamas are usually t-shirts and lounge bottoms/comfy shorts. She is forced to be fully dressed lest she teleport in her sleep while half/fully naked

Lena:

General thoughts: this is already so difficult. I think she would dress very practically. No jewelry unless you count her glasses chain, no skirts, and only very short heels/flats. She keeps proper walking shoes with her if need be.

Work fits. She has a whole power suit in my brain that's just a matching white blazer and trousers, and then the red button down. The white is the biggest power move. I think she has a few of these in different colors (black and iron grey) but the white one is the main one.

Casual.... I don't even know man. Probably also practical over pretty. Probably only wears men's pants due to the pockets. Probably owns a very practical leather jacket. Whatever she wears, she does numbers at the lesbian bars

Nicer out of work clothes.... probably not much different than her work clothes. She may tolerate a dress if she needs to attend a wedding.

Pajamas: she either has the button up sets. Wears an old t-shirt and bottoms from a bygone era of her life and both are full of holes. Or she sleeps butt ass naked with a gun in her hand.

Colin:

General thoughts: office dress code can kiss his ass. He's comfortable but practical, and I think he enjoys graphic tees. He has silver earrings and maybe a secret body piercing but doesn't wear anything else visible. He doesn't really bother with buying new jewelry but wouldn't care about mixing metals if he did.

He wears jeans to work, graphic tees, and a button down so he can call it business casual. Sneakers also. Programmer socks (gift from alice) The jeans are ripped (partially from crawling on his knees dealing with the computers so often) and he patched them up. I think he's big on mending. Also sews his name into items he may leave unattended (thank you merch drop for this idea)

Casual isn't much different. Maybe no button down, maybe he keeps it for flair. At home he wears pants/trousers as little as possible I think. The programmer socks stay on tho.

Nicer outside of work stuff. He owns like one suit.

Pajamas: butt ass naked. If he's cold he just gets more blankets.

Teddy:

General thoughts: thank you alice for pointing out that teddy wears shades of pink im gonna eat this. I also think he wears gold jewelry and those would look so nice together so I am Extra Eating This. Beyond this I don't have toooo many thoughts? I think he enjoys fashion. Knows what different cuts of items will do for him. He likes piecing together a solid Fit even if it's simple.

Work fits include button downs and sweaters, with the classic argyle vest. I think he would enjoy a fun pattern.

Casual fits are practical but stylish, and I think he considers himself legally required to buy anything with Teddy bears on it that fits him. I think he wears light jewelry even on more casual days, he likes to sparkle a bit.

Nicer out of work fits. I think he owns a couple shiny button downs. Does it up with the gold jewelry, chains, rings, a nice watch, the woiks. He has at least one funky patterned pair of pants.

Pajamas: usually sticks to old tshirts and comfy bottoms, has like one button up set that's Christmas themed (twas a gift) that he only wears that time of year, and one (1) legally mandated teddy bear onesie.

those are the vibes. They are subject to change as we learn more ofc but here they are <3

[starryjkoo]

Kinda wanna remind everyone too, when Tae dropped that Hawaii pic of him and Jk with staff right before the AYS trailer and how it sent shippers into a frenzy and they started hammering on Jikook and AYS, saying it proved it was a fanservice show, blah, blah, tk real private yada yada, Tae sending us signals, claiming his man, you know the usual. And pretty much the entire fandom was at each others throats, like it was bad. Shippers vs shippers, solos vs solos. The harassment and targeting Jikook's relationship. Guess who came online immediately after? Jimin. Jimin who had been very quiet pretty much for a long time, came to say he was doing well, not to worry, but he said something very important, that he is now a soldier and careful of what he posts online. I think his message was clear and not only a subtle message to Tae, but the fans, considering Jikook were being attacked so bad & their show being called a fraud And that is exactly what JK did, this time coming online not even 24 hours after a hell storm. So they do both defend their relationship, the best way they can without just flat out saying back off. So yes, Jimin has come online in the middle of chaos, like JK. Maybe not as much, but he and Jk are the only ones who do it when a mess is made and fans start acting up bad. That should tell you something. That they clearly don't like it, but trying to remain professional.

JK has for sure swooped in with his lives a few times to try and calm fans down (I’ll never forget that post-FESTA dinner live 😭). I think he was probably already planning on doing a live during his break, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the recent situation was also a motivator.

With JM’s comment, I’m not sure if it was intentional or not tbh, but the timing was definitely pretty funny lol so it does make you wonder. I also just appreciate his letters, they’re always so sincere and you can tell he really puts a lot of thought and care into them (I’ll never forget the first letter he wrote to us post-training, handwritten and the little creases 🥺)

But you know what I also think is super cool about Jikook? The way they also just ignore all the noise and stay unbothered.

in CH2 alone there’s Jikook going to Japan together in the middle of the situation with JJKs tagging the military, JM posting JK’s hot100 #1 while PJMs were attacking JK during Seven era, JK doing that whole Jimin live while JJKs were attacking JM during FACE era, now JK sharing several military stories that include JM right after that whole mess. I think it’s amazing that they’ve never let antis make them change the way they behave together or stop them from hanging out, making content, enlisting together, mentioning each other, or toning down their dynamic (teasing, roughhousing, or just being weird as hell lol).

I think that’s what makes tkkrs (and some other antis) so mad sometimes because they’re constantly trying to control/demand things with vmnkook - canceling orders and threatening to boycott, tried to get GCF Tokyo taken down, trending hashtags to cancel AYS, trending hashtags for all sorts of things tbh, emailing BH to stop the gay etc. They're constantly trying to demand things from the company, which is why it’s always been so ironic to me that they call Jikook the “company pushed ship” when they’re literally the ones trying to use money and other means to manipulate BH into giving them the ship content they want 😭 (as well as force them to “hide” jkk lol) so talk about projection. But yeah, none of that has ever stopped Jikook from doing their thing.

Also your ask makes me think back on JK’s JM live. I’ve always sort of thought that JK may have intentionally hyped SMFpt2 the way he did because of the ridiculous hate it was receiving. Especially because he really emphasized how much he loved the specific part antis were trying to drag. iirc he said that it was his taste or his style or something like that. I just really loved that moment, it was super vindicating lol. I remember even non-jkkr ARMYs commenting about it too, talking about it being a slap to the haters, or karma or whatever (I definitely also just think he really liked SMFpt2 tho!).

Anyways yeah, I’ve always just assumed that it’s probably a collective group decision to not address solos/shippers. Some people think it would be so simple but it really wouldn’t. If JK said something it would just be a domino effect of extreme responses (re: his NewJean’s comment). It would also drag the other members into it, expecting them to make similar statements or risk being attacked. I think that’s why it’s easier for him to address situations that only involve himself. Maybe they'll try to address it as a team one day, but imo it definitely won’t be happening while half of them are in the military with limited phone access, having to watch what they say and do more than ever.

[minnie-cai]

i saw your art x physical therapist and tashi x makeup artist post and i know you’ll understand what im about to say: being a trainer/ makeup artist/ something along those lines and hooking up w two of your clients. is it a little unethical?? maybe, but you’re a grown up, and you can do what you want! and you really like both of them and they bring very different things to the table. but at the donaldson x duncan home, both art and tashi are having affairs and trying to keep it a secret from the other person and failing pretty hard. little do they know, they’re hooking up w the same person: you. and maybe, just maybe, they’re falling for you a bit. thoughts? feelings?

holy fucking shit i was smiling and nodding while reading this. yeah. yeah, you GET IT💜 i’m so writing something full-length about this about this but until then, have some thoughts.

not proofread, just shitposting. also, not a hairdresser. i can’t even braid hair. if you are one and throughout my thoughts on this scenario i fuck up, please correct me.

I think with Tashi it would be pretty quick with the physical aspect and emotional connection would come into play later.

She starts connecting to you when she realizes you’ve done something small for her that she doesn’t pay you for. Don’t get her wrong, she knows Art loves her and he’d bend over backwards for her approval and validation but he is too caught up in how miserable their routine is to keep noticing details about her. Art is her husband who had been pining over her for years but you know her coffee order and it’s on your table by your next appointment, casually waiting for her to take it, not making a big deal out of it. She tilts her head a bit and furrows her eyebrows, thinking of whether or not she’d asked her assistant for coffee but soon enough you emerge from your break with a small smile, untangling the cable of your flat iron.

“Morning, Mrs Duncan!” You beam and she gives you a small nod, clearly caught up in sizing the plastic cup because she feels like she’s gone insane. “I hope it’s not wrong.” You chime in on her thoughts, as if reading her mind. “You ordered this?” She asks pointing to the drink and raises her eyebrows when you nod, an almost repressed but impressed expression on her face. “Well, thanks.” She mumbles taking a sip and her spot on the chair, sitting in the same place she did every time.

She wouldn’t admit it but she feels a bit bad when people take her stand-offish attitude personally. She doesn’t like it when they change their personality to be quieter or less sociable around her just because she wasn’t very talkative or was particularly professional, she felt like they had no backbone, that they were fragile to be affected by whether she approves of their behaviour or not. She enjoys the fact that you don’t. You’re still sweet as sugar and by that point you’ve just figured her out. In contrast to Art, she likes to spend her appointments quiet as you pamper her and hum. It gives her time to think peacefully, even with your humming.

On the other hand, Art sees you as a break from life.

When he comes in and he sits in that chair in front of you and starts talking about something random like the music you have on, his brain is empty. It’s like for the first time in so long he doesn’t have to think about anything else. The next time he’s doing his warm up before training, he’s listening to the songs you recommended to him instead of the brown noise his trainer has said he should listen to in order to focus and it feels good to add a little something of you in his day, it feels like color in his sad, beige gym and boring green juice.