#have you seen his vanilla portrait? he’s so round

[spongek-squidge]

I appreciate the folks who draw our local (porbably high) wizard as a tall scrangly man but like

Hear me out

Small n round

Short n chubby

[damiano-mylove]

Paintings and Peach Juice

Pairing: Ethan Torchio x afab!reader (I'm so sorry)

Wc: 1.5k

Cw(s): SMUT, swearing, oral (reader receiving), lowkey praise kink, but pretty vanilla (tell me if it sucks)

Summary: You, the reader, work on a painting during the night, but Ethan wants to bring you back to bed.

Masterlist

Paint stroked across the canvas in perfect placement with your brush. It laid onto the stretched canvas like the softest butter on the warmest toast. Every stroke, every colour, the portrait was only enhanced and made that much more beautiful by your talent. The smell of the oil paints filled the room, vented out by the window across from you; the scent only relaxed you further. Your thoughts roamed to the most peaceful crevasse of your mind while your hands seemed to know just what to do.

By the corner of your eye, you caught your reflection in the mirror in your living room. You had a paint smear on your cheek, and the messiest hairstyle you'd ever seen. But you looked happy. In the bright moonlight from the window, your eyes glistened with thought and concentration. You smiled to your reflection before continuing your painting.

In just a few days, Ethan would finally be allowed to see the painting. He'd promised he hadn't seen it, and you had to trust that he hadn't ruined his birthday present, that you've been working so hard on, for himself. While Ethan was milling about and awake, you'd had to cover the canvas in a cloth, but when he was gone or asleep, you sat right on your cushioned stool, legs crossed, totally ensconced by the artwork at your fingertips.

Just as you began touching up the whites of Ethan's eyes, on the portrait, you heard his soft footsteps against the hardwood floor of your flat. You quickly but carefully covered the painting with your cloth, that once was white but now appeared yellow with a streak of blue paint. Languid and nimble were your movements, just as Ethan rounded the corner into the living room, where you were.

His perfectly sculpted lips pulled into a smile, only revealing to you that he was still partially asleep. You grinned right back at the man without any clothing, save for his boxers. Your gorgeous swain padded toward you, then wrapped his strong arms around your middle. His lips, that were still slick with lip balm, met with the most tender part of your neck.

"Bed's cold without you," Ethan whispered in your ear. You sighed with a small smile, turning your head to capture Ethan's lips with your own very chastely. Within the kiss, Ethan began to smile before he spun your stool around to place his hands on your thighs.

Once the kiss broke, you sighed, "Five more minutes?"

"Amorino." His tone was the perfect bridge between authoritative and begging, only enhanced by him removing his hands. Sweetly, you pulled Ethan toward you with your legs. His warm, rough hand traveled up your leg as he came forward, only to rest on the underside of your thigh, that wrapped around his waist.

Gently, your fingers touched to his jaw. They danced just every so slightly as your hand began to rest, cupping his jaw, with your fingertips touching the roots of his illustrious hair.  Ethan's other hand pulled you infinitely closer, with his fingers gripping your waist as if you were the most expensive glass in the world; not hard enough to break you, but not soft enough to drop you.

In a steady yet slow movement, both of your leaned forward just enough till your lips came together, softer than The Creation of Adam. Your other leg hooked around his waist, to join the first, and Ethan picked you up with ease. He'd never had any trouble picking you up, even in a sleep coated state.

The kiss continued with a warm passion that translated between both of your souls, that you could feel from the pit of your stomach to the tip of your brain. Warmth from Ethan's skin was absorbed by your own skin, only forcing your heart to ache, along with the sweet watermelon taste from his lip balm that he applied every night before bed.

His footsteps were very sure and steady as Ethan brought you to the couch. The room got warmer, despite the cool Autumn air coming in through the window. Your hands wandered Ethan's exposed body in calm and known movements, while Ethan's hands squeezed handfuls of your thigh, leading to your ass. Lightly, your nails drew small patterns and pictures on Ethan's warm back, his muscles rippling beneath your touch.

"Dolcezza mia, I love you, I love you with my entire being," Ethan mumbled against your lips. You smiled like you'd never smiled before. Without a word, your lips wandered to the corner of his mouth, down to his jawline.

Your own lips peppered kisses that were wet and sloppy, but full of love, followed a vein on his neck. Ethan hummed above you, but his breath caught when, between your teeth, was Ethan's earlobe. You chuckled lowly, grazing your teeth gently across it. Ethan captured your lips again, the passion raw yet still demure. You broke the kiss to remove Ethan's t-shirt, that you were wearing.

"I love you even more," you responded.

With the revelation of the words leaving your lips, Ethan's ferocity was renewed. His lips pressed into yours with gracious meaning, leaving your heartbeat to multiply as he grinded himself into your heat that was clothed in just a pair of thin underwear. Ethan's tongue slipped by your lips, then perused your mouth. He tasted of peach juice and mint, which went extremely nicely.

Just as you were enjoying the taste of Ethan's tongue, his mouth left yours, opting to kiss and nip at other parts of your skin. In a hot and wet trail, Ethan's mouth began to trail down your body. His eyes looked to you for consent, to which you adamantly nodded, your breathing already heavy and hot.

In a steady yet serene movement, Ethan broke the hold your legs had on him to pull your underwear off of your form. For a second, before returning, your boyfriend took a moment just to admire you in your natural, beauteous state. His smile returned with his body on yours.

His face was level with your dripping, wet heat, as Ethan looked up at you with dark eyes, clouded with lust and extremely dilated pupils. You bit the corner of your lip just as he licked up your slit, catching your juices on his tongue, then enjoying your taste. You'd both been drinking peach juice earlier.

Then, without warning, the sweetness turned to pure sex. You let out a gasp as his tongue entered your folds, your hands tangling in the roots of Ethan's long hair. Still with his tongue circling inside of you, Ethan moaned at the sensation of you pulling against his hair, which sent vibrations through your core that seemed to reach even your fingertips.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Ethan," you groaned as his thumb found your clit. Ethan circled the sensitive bundle of nerves with the pad of his finger, until his tongue and fingers switched roles.

It became his tongue that circled your clit, and Ethan's long, rough finger that entered your tight hole. You let out a pleasurable moan, which was only encouragement for the man between your thighs.

"You're absolutely fucking amazing." Who the fuck knew if your words were even intelligible? How could they be when the most gorgeous human being on the planet was taking you with his mouth, right on your couch, in the middle of the night?

That familiar pressure in your stomach began to form. It was a nucleus of sensation, your orgasm just ready to burst. Ethan noticed your breathing become more ragged, only to add another finger but keep the same pace. You began to shake, ready for what was to come, as your body began to coat in sweat. Against your clit, Ethan could be felt smiling, just before he delivered the final blow.

His lips completely captured your clit, sucking on it gently.

Orgasm hit you like the train at the end of Anna Karenina. Your legs shook around Ethan's head, your walls pulsing around his fingers, and total bliss overtaking every single one of your senses. Ethan only chuckled, lapping up the juices you produced for him. That only increased your pleasure tenfold.

"You're so gorgeous when you're getting fucked," Ethan commented after kissing your clit. You smiled, looking at him with slightly blurred vision. He laughed before picking you up in a bridal style, letting you rest against him.

Ethan brought you to the bedroom, where he then brought you a clean pair of underwear and a washcloth. You then asked, "What about you?"

"Oh, Amorino, you don't even have to touch me to make me come," Ethan laughed as he cleaned you off. You cast your eyes to his boxers, where an incredibly wet patch was visible. You felt a bit bad, but nothing could bring you off of this high. Ethan cast the washcloth away, to be dealt with when the sun rose, before changing his boxers out for clean ones.

As you both got back into the bed, Ethan pulled you close to his chest, where his lips connected with your forehead. "I really do love you," you whispered.

"And I love you."

Sleep came in a swift wind, making your senses shut down each by each. Last to go was the sound of Ethan's heart, beating in a deep rhythm, and his breathing that tickled your hair ever so slightly.

[imamandaonline]

Part One Of Look At You: Call My Name

(A/N: Rebloggable! I know basically nobody actually wanted this except for my girlfriend but the spam comments pushed me deeper into hole of love. So here! Let me know if you want to be on the tag list for Pt 2. Should I make this a fic? Tag your friends!)

Dex had a weird relationship with school in general. All classes-great. The people in them? Not so great. Like Metaphysics. The concepts for debate were always good, and the lectures fascinating, but the people debating? Absolute human dumpster fires.

That isn’t to say his classmates aren’t good debaters-they were just snobs. Especially when it came to more controversial topics. Like what defines the integrity of a bad match. There were many smirks headed Dex’s direction during the match.

Today though, today he would prove them wrong! It was already ironic he was the second-youngest regent in history, which gave him even more material to rub in their faces. The Foxfire Metaphysics Championship was structured much the same way as the splotching championship.

Starting inside their own levels, prodigies pair up as a prompt is distributed with great fanfare. Telekinesis slowly rolling out the scroll, flashing orbs, the whole shebang. The big difference between the Metaphysics and Splotching Championships was the duration. While the Splotching Championship normally only took up a day, the Metaphysics Championship took up the whole year.

Councillor Noland was coming to oversee the final matches. One for the Elite Levels, and one for the Basic Levels. 

The Elite Match was between Wylie Sonden and Kylene Tarros. The Basic Match was between Dex and . . . you guessed it! The one and only Wonderboy, Metaphysics winner three years straight. Gah. There was the infuriating word again. 

The real reason Dex was up for the match was an issue with the unicorns at Sterling Gables. Stina was called home for the month to help. Dex had been runner-up, which leads you to the reason he was aggressively jotting down points. Practice had to pay off sometime soon.

Holed up in the Archives, Dex was checking out Metaphysics scrolls, and a piece on the history of caches. Attaching his home crystal to the hanger, he watched as the strategically placed window sent a ray of light to his crystal, producing a pink aura.

Dex carefully slid his first scroll into the glow, imagining the stacking inside the cubby residing at his lab. 

“Hi Dex,” an crisply accented voice rang out.

The boy in question jumped, scattering his check-outs. Fitz offered a smooth hand, swiftly leaning down.

Dex scrambled up by himself.

“What are you getting,” Fitz asked pleasantly, trying to make conversation. He rolled on the balls of his feet, boots stretching.

Dex searched desperately for an answer so he wouldn’t seem like a fool.

“Um, Team Valiant stuff.” 

Fitz looked down at a partially open scroll, squinting at the words clearly reading Mind Over Matter - Extended Advanced Edition. 

“Are you sure?”

Dex fidgeted, gathering up what he’d dropped.

“Yup, definitely.” Fitz shrugged, kneeling down to help. He hands Dex the scroll, noting the title-it was Caches, A History. Not that Dex cared what the Vacker thought about his honesty. He didn’t. 

“So,” Fitz draws out, scratching the back of his neck. Dex glanced back at the boy, periwinkle eyes falling on the telepath’s lips. Damn that height difference. Quickly righting himself, the Dizznee toyed with his panic ring.

“Yeah,” Dex responded, pushing his sandy hair away. 

“Do you wanna come to Everglen? For Metaphysics practice?” Fitz didn’t seem like he was sure of his words. “Wylie will be there too,” he stated, finding an escape. An escape from what, was the real question.

“Ok?” Dex's answer sounded more like a question, possibly scared.

“Alright.” Fitz’s shoulders sagged from relief for a few short seconds. His posture straightened as his sexuality would not. “Biana is going to be out with Mom all day to shop for the materials for some designs.” Dex knew this. He had helped the girl calculate proportions. 

Nodding, the Technopath finished light leaping his nexus-bound scrolls.

Fitz held up his home crystal, chiseled to perfection, just like his jaw. A blush crept up Dex’s neck and ears as he berated himself for thinking such stupid things. 

“Oh, you meant now,” Dex whispered. Fitz raised an eyebrow, dangling the crystal like mistletoe. Dex took the outstretched hand this time, surprised to find calluses on rough skin. A tingling feeling, the pins and needles sensation on steroids, spread up Dex’s body.

Or maybe that was just the light leap. 

The lack of glaring gates was disturbing, a defining part of Everglen’s architecture gone. It shouldn’t have been there in the first place since it prevented direct light leaping, but Vackers could get away with anything. Or at least they used to. 

Upon the discovery of the trollish hive hidden on Everglen grounds, the gates were decreed to be removed. It was a direct order from the council. Dex couldn’t help feeling sorry for the family, despite years harboring a grudge against them. The gate provided safety. Now they were out in the open.

It must have been a rude awakening.

Fitz led Dex around the gnomes, waving and greeting each by name. Zarnan, Dakath, Arwen, and Kidal were the first few, as well as the only ones Dex heard before tuning Fitz out.

Dex trailed along, hand still collapsed in Fitz’s. It was . . . odd, how he didn’t mind the touch. 

Marble fountains spouted arcs of water in jeweled shades, scented with vanilla. The huge woven silver doors were wide open, displaying a rounded foyer making Dex feel trapped in a hatbox. Vacker portraits lined a hall branching forward, looking down on Dex imperiously.

Fitz didn’t seem to notice.

As the pair entered the library, which was really a large study, Fitz reluctantly let go of Dex’s hand. Wylie nodded at them, the silence slightly overwhelming. 

Dex plopped down in a plush seat, regretting not stopping at Dawnheath before coming with Fitz. The technopath was normally good with his impulse control, though something about the Vacker boy just . . . threw him off.

“Do you wanna fire back and forth, or have our resident expert give us tips,” Dex asked nonchalantly, drumming his fingers on the ornate armrest.

“He can’t give us suggestions if he hasn’t seen us debate,” Fitz stated smoothly.

Wylie flushed with second-hand embarrassment.

“Yeah, um, right.” Fitz’s head tilted. He was probably wondering how Dex was debating against him in the first place. Dex’s hands tightened with a white-knuckled grip.

Fitz’s hand reached out, slender finger brushing the freckles of Dex’s cheeks. His teal eyes searched Dex’s face silently, roving around. Pulling away, Fitz turned over his palm, showing the Dizznee a fleck of glitter.

Oh.

Well, apparently Dex is terrible at reading people. Great.

It’s an odd feeling, how Dex couldn't wait for this day to be over, yet simultaneously had been deeply invested in how it played out.

[sparklydreamies]

Stray Kids 8 Part Series ~ (3) Seo Changbin: He Laughed

Group: Stray Kids

Member: Seo Changbin

Genre: Light angst +hurt/comfort

Word Count: 4,000+

Summary: Don’t give power to merciless people behind a screen. 

Stray Kids 8 Part Series MASTERLIST

A/N: Hi guys!! Sorry it took me so long to post again, but I’m back, and hopefully I will be able to write more frequently! This story is centered around the changes in Changbin’s appearance and confidence from debut to now. I always feel bad writing members in pain, but this is the story I came up with lol,, I guess the moral of this story is that idols are people who have valid emotions and feelings, and we as fans don’t have the right to dismiss them and treat them like dolls. So on that note, thank you all for reading!!<33

All throughout his childhood, Seo Changbin had always been skinny. There was never much of a reason for his naturally slim stature other than genetics and a fast metabolism. It always seemed as though throughout his youth, he had never experienced the usual figure changes that a lot of his friends had gone through, whether it was the gain of muscle or fat. 

No matter how much food he ate, it never seemed to show on his body. There wasn’t a single part of his body that had excess fat covering the very visible bones. He could never grab a hold of any extra flesh on his body like some of his friends could.

As a teenager, he was always told that it was because he was a “growing boy”, and that he needed a lot of calories in order to grow big and strong. It wasn’t until he was in his early twenties that his stature began to change. He slowly became more muscular, thanks to his countless hours in the gym. Not only that, but he began to notice the faint gain of fat whenever he ate a lot without burning the calories. 

In a way, Changbin had always felt like he was blessed to be naturally slim. It was especially appreciated for someone in his line of work. Even after it became easier for him to gain fat, the company had never considered him “too heavy” for an idol. Muscle mass was a different story, however as time progressed, Changbin was able to build the perfect amount of muscle to satisfy the company as well as his fans. 

In short, Changbin had always liked his body. 

“Time’s up!” Doni called. “Put your markers down.”

Changbin didn’t put his marker down. Giggling like a small child, he avoided the attempts Jisung made at stealing the black marker from his hand, only stopping when the show host called him out on it. 

“Changbin’s naughty, he keeps cheating!” Coni laughed. 

This was what Changbin loved doing. Making a fool out of himself during variety shows, cheating during games with his members, and overall acting like a child whenever he could. 

“We should stop the show right here, Changbin ruined it for everyone.” Doni joked, and Changbin felt Jisung collapse on his back in a fit of laughter, nearly knocking them both off their stools and onto the ground. 

“Okay, let’s start with Felix! Show us your drawing,” Doni called, and Felix flipped the notebook he was holding in his hands around. 

The point of this segment was for the members to draw a portrait of how they perceive another member. 

The entire group as well as Doni, Coni, and a few of the staff members had burst out in laughter at the drawing Felix made of Jeongin. 

“Felix, you forgot eyebrows!” Jeongin whined from his spot. Changbin didn’t even notice the missing eyebrows; he was more focused on the teeth that were twice the size that they should have been. 

The segment continued on like that, and Changbin felt a swell of pride when the whole group laughed at his drawing of Minho, which looked so scrappy that a five year old could do better. Changbin was having fun.

It wasn’t until it was Jisung’s turn to share his drawing that his mood took a shift. 

“And this is my drawing of my lovely Changbinnie-hyung” Jisung giggled from his spot behind his muse. 

Changbin took in the piece of art before him. The hair was scraggly, the eyes were small, and the chin looked more like a “V” than a chin. 

Changbin laughed at the representation of himself. 

“Oh the chin! The chin!” Coni laughed as he made the shape of a “V” with his hands to mock the drawing. Changbin laughed. 

“That is the most accurate drawing so far!” Doni commented as he forcefully took Changbin’s face and traced the edges of his chin with his fingers. “Wow, Han is an artist!” Doni cracked as he high-fived Jisung. Changbin laughed. 

“He captured Changbin’s face so cleverly!” Coni praised, sitting back down on his stool. Changbin faked annoyance at the hosts and at his band mate. And then, he laughed once again. 

His brothers were practically howling at the scene, their voices creating a cacophony of sound ringing in Changbin’s ears. He was happy. He was laughing. So why did it feel as though his stomach was falling through the floor?

For the first time that day, Changbin had to forcefully plaster a smile on his face. He felt the bubbling feeling of embarrassment in his chest for the rest of the filming. 

A little while back, Han Jisung had been given a nickname by his fans. Less than a nickname, it was more of a cute comparison. His cheeks had always been unusually large and soft. Whenever he would eat, he would store food inside of them, making them more accentuated than they were before. It was because of this that fans had begun calling Jisung a squirrel. 

Jisung liked the connection. Contrary to how he presents himself, he had often struggled with accepting and liking his cheeks. He didn’t like the way they made him look younger and more boyish. He wanted to be perceived in a more mature and manly way. 

That was why when fans began to compliment and praise his chubby cheeks, it helped him become more confident in his face. 

Changbin had seen the improvement of Jisung’s spirit. Praise for Jisung’s cheeks from fans had helped him improve his self image a lot, and for that, Changbin’s love for his fans had only grown.

He only wished that he could experience the same reactions to his insecurities. 

Changbin wouldn’t consider himself jealous of Jisung’s full cheeks and round face. It was stupid to compare oneself to another person based off of superficial things like looks, however it didn’t stop Changbin from appreciating the younger boy’s unique features. 

The show aired on it’s planned date with no faults. Changbin watched the program on television, and was fairly proud of the results of the editing process. He had hoped that STAYs would enjoy the hour-long show.

After a few hours, Changbin opened Twitter so that he could get a sense of how his fans appreciated the show. Skimming through fans’ tweets, he noticed a few that stood out to him. 

Most of the comments were about Felix and Jisung’s aegyo, or Hyunjin’s random dance challenge. The deeper he scrolled, the more tweets he found about him. 

Normally, having a lot of tweets aimed at him would be an honour to Changbin. It usually meant that he was charismatic and funny enough to gain fans’ attention. That was why he didn’t understand the embarrassing feeling that came along with the jokes about his face structure. 

That’s all that they were. Jokes. People liked to joke about his chin, so why should he worry? Why did he feel shameful? 

Changbin’s stomach continued to drop with every comment he read about his face. Every time he saw that drawing of him, it was like another pin stabbing his chest. 

That night at dinner, everyone was talking about the show. The members were talking about the comments that they received, the fans reactions, and how they thought it was a really successful show. 

At one point during the meal, Jisung had shoved Changbin in the shoulder and laughed about the drawing that he made and how funny the fans thought it was. Changbin laughed. 

Changbin had always been able to hide his feelings well. Especially as an idol, hiding hardships is mandatory. Changbin was good at laughing. It was a sure fire way to make everybody think that you’re happy, when on the inside, it feels like you’ve swallowed a thousand bees. 

So that night, he laughed. He subjected himself to be the clown, even though it hurt him. Nobody needed to know about how he let his tears fall onto his pillow while they all slept. 

Changbin had thought about how he was working so hard to remain slim and skinny, and how if he were to gain just a little more weight, he could possibly make himself softer and cuter, like his brother Jisung. 

He figured that it was worth a try. Sure he might have to fight the company tooth and nail to gain the weight that he wants, but it was worth it. It was worth it to change how he looked. It was worth it to satisfy his fans. 

For the next few weeks, Changbin had let himself gain weight. He ate more and stopped trying so hard to burn it all off. He still worked out enough to remain healthy, and he was still trying to gain muscle, but whenever he stepped on the scale and saw that he was a pound or two heavier than he had previously been, he felt his heart swell. 

It was an odd thing to want to gain weight. Most idols would kill to be as skinny as Changbin had been, yet here Changbin was, trying to gain weight for the purpose of chubbier cheeks and softer edges. 

Eventually, it began to work. Changbin began to wake up in the morning to see that his face was rounder, fuller, and cuter than it had been before. The whole thing made him elated. 

It had gotten to the point where he was satisfied with his outer appearance. His chin was much less prominent. A less prominent chin meant that there was less for people to make their jokes out of. 

“Hannie, stop!” Chan shrieked just as Jisung smeared a fat glob of vanilla frosting on his cheek. 

All of the members were crowded in their living room, celebrating Bang Chan’s birthday with their fans. The energy level in the room was ecstatic. Some members were getting cake violently rubbed into their skin while others were trying to read comments and make the VLive as normal as possible. 

Changbin was in the middle of answering a question when he felt a tap on his shoulder from behind where he was sitting on the ground in front of the coffee table. Before he thought better of it, his head was turning and he was met with a face full of frosting from Minho. 

“Hey! Minho, get back here!” Changbin screamed, getting up to chase the nuisance around the room. 

Laughter filled the room and lit up Changbin’s heart. He thought that nothing could destroy his mood.

It wasn’t until the next day that Changbin had checked Twitter again. 

He scrolled through a lot of happy birthday wishes for Chan, which made him smile. He read a few of the messages, and saved the ones that he wanted to show to Chan. 

And then, he got to some posts about the live. Most of them were sweet and nice, there were some clips of various parts of the live including the moment that Changbin got his face full of cake. As he scrolled for longer and longer, he got to some comments that were less light-hearted. 

They didn’t like the weight he gained. Of course he noticed the comments from fans who had thought he looked healthier and happier, but no matter how many positive comments he saw, the posts from people calling him fat and saying that he was “letting himself go” were far stronger. The people calling him a pig and a fatass and ugly were too loud. 

Changbin didn’t understand. After everything he did to satisfy the fans, they still made negative comments about him. He once was too skinny, now he is too fat.

He knew that he shouldn’t listen to people who didn’t show their faces, yet to know that people were confidently calling him degrading names stung him deeply. He felt a hopeless feeling bloom inside of him, and it drove him mad. 

Changbin felt the first tear slip down the side of his face as the feeling of his chest collapsing took him over. His phone was thrown across his bedroom, the sound of a screen shattering as it hit the floor being the only identifiable noise in the room. 

He wanted to scream. There was no pleasing them. He hated himself. He hated the way that he looked. He hated himself when he was skinny, and he was beginning to hate himself now that he gained weight. But mostly, he hated the way that he was reacting.

This was the job, wasn’t it? None of this should be surprising to him. He had known about the malicious comments aimed at the other members for various reasons, so why was this so frustrating for him? 

Changbin fisted his hair to ground himself. He tried to count his breaths in his head, but all he heard was the comments ringing around in his ears. 

...He got fat...

...Has he stopped working out?...

Fucking breathe.

...He’s turning into a pig...

...Changbin’s face is so fat...

Letting out his first scream of frustration, Changbin shot up from his bed. If the fans wanted him to be skinnier, then fine. He would get skinnier. 

This was for the good of his career. Nobody liked an ugly idol, and if he is more attractive with a slim stature and a pointy chin, then he would work to achieve it. If he gained the weight, surely he could lose it again. 

The room was small, and it felt like it was getting smaller. 

Wiping the tears from his eyes, he threw open his bedroom door. Changbin grabbed his running shoes from the rack by the entrance, slipped them on, and took off from the dorm that felt like it was suffocating him. 

The night air was refreshing against Changbin’s burning skin as he sprinted down the street. Ten o’clock at night couldn’t be considered too late to go for a run, especially when the moon was shining so beautifully in the otherwise pitch-black sky. 

Changbin didn’t know where he was going, but he didn’t care. His lungs and legs were burning with the unexpected extortion. The sweatpants and t-shirt he was wearing didn’t make for good running clothes, but that didn’t matter to him. 

For a minute, he felt okay. He could even say that he felt good. For a minute, he had forgotten all about the fans and their vendetta against his happiness.

The wind had dried the tears off of his cheeks, and he just became another faceless person in the dark. Changbin didn’t think of himself as an idol, but rather a person who’s tight chest was slowly beginning to take in enough oxygen for his head to stop pounding. 

He didn’t know how long he ran for that night. His mind had cleared completely of thoughts, and he wore himself out. He didn’t even notice the warning signs of exhaustion before he was throwing up in a patch of shrubs. 

Slowly coming back to reality, Changbin realized he needed to get home. He wasn’t too far from the dorms, so once he gathered some strength back, he began walking. 

It was hard to tell how long it took him before he was trudging up the stairs and letting himself through the front door. He tried to be as quiet as possible.

The clock on the stove read 12:24. Changbin knew that if any of the members had realized he was gone, that he would be in a world of trouble. 

He took his running shoes off at the door and made his way to his and Felix’s room, expecting to see the younger boy playing video games or getting ready for bed. What he was not expecting was to see Felix sitting on Changbin’s own bed, frowning at the phone in his hands. 

Felix’s eyes darted up like a meerkat, relief flooding his features when Changbin entered the room.

“Where the fuck have you been!” Felix sighed, jumping up from the bed to pull the older boy into a hug, “I came out of the shower to see you were gone, you weren’t answering your damn phone, I was fucking worried you asshole!” 

Changbin repressed a smile as he pushed Felix away. “I’m fine, don’t worry.” 

Felix scanned Changbin, his eyes narrowing into suspicious slits. “Did you go for a run?” 

“Yeah,” Changbin answered.

“In... your sweats?” Felix fingered at the pockets of Changbin’s sweatpants, and the older boy swatted his fingers away. 

Changbin nodded and flopped down onto his bed. 

“Why didn’t you take your phone with you? I’ve been trying to call you,” Felix ran a hand through his hair, “Fucking hell,” he sighed. 

“I don’t know, Lixie.” As soon as Changbin’s head hit the pillows beneath him, he felt the exhaustion from his midnight run catch up to him. “You should watch your language, by the way.” he mumbled, cracking a small grin. 

“Changbin, seriously,” Felix climbed up beside him, “You’re fucking lucky! I was two seconds away from telling Chan, I swear to god.” 

Changbin looked up and saw the lines of genuine concern stretch across the boy’s face.

Felix had always been a caring person. He was always dependable, and he was really a true friend. It didn’t matter if Changbin was older, because he knew that Felix would always be there to protect him. 

Wordlessly, Changbin grabbed Felix by the arm and pulled him to lay down beside him. A fond smile graced his face. 

“Thank you for worrying,” Changbin whispered, “but I’m fine.”

Felix sighed. There was a beat of silence where Felix closed his eyes, and Changbin had started to think he fell asleep. But then, “Are you okay?” 

Changbin was stunned and confused for a second. “Yeah... why?” 

“You don’t usually go for runs. Especially not late at night.” Felix whispered. 

Changbin snaked an arm around Felix’s torso. “I was just having a bad day.” 

Felix was fidgeting slightly. It looked like he was fighting some sort of internal battle about whether or not he should say what he wanted to say. 

Changbin smiled at the nervousness. “What?” he encouraged. 

Felix’s gaze caught Changbin’s eyes. “Was it the comments? About your weight gain?” he asked in a small voice. 

Silence. There was no sound coming from anywhere in the dorm as Changbin processed the question. The smile that rested on his face immediately slipped away. 

“I... I saw them on Twitter, and they pissed me off, so...” Felix trailed off, lowering his gaze, “I mean you haven’t even gained that much...”

“I gained the weight on purpose,” Changbin said when he zoned back in on Felix.

“Oh...” Felix’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion, “Why? I mean, not that you don’t look good, but like... Why did you want to gain weight?” 

Changbin thought about why he wanted to gain weight. He thought about Jisung’s drawing, the “V” face comments, the constant embarrassment around his appearance, and his own insecurities. 

“It’s stupid.” Changbin dismissed, but of course, Felix kept digging. 

“It’s not stupid. It’s just me, you can tell me.” he eased. 

Changbin sighed. “You know... how people had been making jokes about my face? And my chin?” 

Felix nodded, confusion showing again. 

“I hated those comments.” he whispered. “I just got so insecure about my looks after people began to make those jokes, and I just... wanted to fix them.”

When Changbin looked at Felix, he saw that the confusion was still etched onto his features. “But...” Felix started, “you always laugh at those jokes.” 

Changbin felt like shit for unloading this onto Felix, yet he continued to explain. “I’m good at laughing.” 

The boys sat in silence for another minute. Felix seemed to be mulling over what he had been told, and Changbin watched the look of confusion melt into one of realization, and then sadness. 

“I’m so sorry,” Felix breathed, “I... I didn’t know you felt like that. I would have never made those jokes.”

Changbin felt his heart crack. Felix almost sounded heartbroken, and it killed Changbin inside. 

“But hyung...” Felix said, “you know that you don’t have to fix anything, right? You’re perfect. Don’t let them get to you.” 

Teardrops were threatening to fall from Changbin’s eyes for the second time that night, except instead of being born out of pain, these tears were brought on by the overwhelming feeling of being loved. 

“Okay...” was all Changbin could muster the strength to whisper. He didn’t trust his voice, so instead, he leaned forward and planted a soft kiss on his best friend’s forehead. 

“You know what, hyung?” 

Changbin hummed.

“I have dealt with so much hate because of so many things,” Felix sniffled away his own tears, “first they were upset because I wasn’t fluent in Korean, then they didn’t like my freckles, then it was my voice, and I thought that there was just no winning with them.” Felix closed his eyes. 

Changbin didn’t even think about that. If any member was no stranger to criticism from online fans, it would be Felix. 

The thought was crazy to Changbin. Why would anybody go out of their way to hurt somebody as sweet and perfect as Felix? The thought of somebody actually hating Felix for his mess of pretty freckles still amazed Changbin. 

“But you know what I realized?” Felix continued, snapping Changbin out of his own thoughts, “It’s not my job to please everyone.” 

“What do you mean, Lixie?” Changbin asked. 

Felix opened his eyes again, “Like... I’m doing music for me, right? If people don’t like the way that I look or who I am, then that’s their problem, not mine. Get it?” 

Changbin was amazed. 

“How are you so young and yet more wise than half of the industry?” Changbin saw the light in Felix’s eyes, and it made him smile, too.

“I mean it still hurts sometimes, but... less now.”

Changbin agreed. He couldn’t see how reading vicious comments like that could ever end up getting easier. 

“But now that I know you get comments and stuff that hurt you too, maybe we could... help each other. When it hurts a lot, you know?” 

“Like you mean... I come to you when it hurts, and you come to me?” Changbin asked. It made him feel special to know that Felix trusted him enough to want to go to him for comfort. It made him feel like he wasn’t the only one that got happiness out of their relationship. 

“Yeah, something like that,” he answered. 

Changbin’s smile returned full force. 

Felix was like sunshine, Changbin thought. This issue that seemed so horrible and painful to Changbin, now seems less than half as terrible since Felix was there for him. Since now, Felix was there to comfort him. 

He didn’t care if it made him weak or less of a man, because he didn’t feel like he had to be strong when he was with Felix. Felix had always been comfortable in his emotions, and Changbin admired that about him. 

“If you’re happy with the way that you look right now, you should keep it this way,” Felix encouraged him, “because for the record, I think you look better like this. You look happier.” 

“I am happier,” Changbin whispered. 

Shortly after that, the two boys fell asleep in Changbin’s bed, happy to have the support of their best friend. 

Although it was hard at first, Changbin slowly became more confident in himself and his appearance to not care about how other people wanted him to look. Even when he slipped up, Felix always caught him with a hug, a smile, and a shoulder for him to rest his head. 

For a while, Changbin had to fake his happiness during videos and variety shows. No matter how much he repressed it, the worry of how his fans would react to his appearance was always dangling in the back of his mind like an itch that he couldn’t scratch. 

But it got better. Changbin found himself worrying less and less about what his fans thought, and more about what he thought. Over time, he didn’t have to fake his happiness. The fans had even noticed how Changbin’s growing confidence affected him.

And perhaps best of all, eventually began to laugh again. It wasn’t a fake laugh, or a laugh to cover his shame. It was a real laugh that honestly held his real happiness. And unlike how he laughed before, this laugh was the product of his self confidence and strength. No laugh could ever be brighter or fuller than his. 

[gascon-en-exil]

But What If You Want to Come Out on Vers Bottom?: A “Coming Out on Top” Review (Part 4)

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

All that’s left now are the ten Brofinder dates. Because there’s so many of these and because they’re all fairly short with only a few variations in how they can go down I’m not going to be spending much time on each - just a quick overview of the stories as well as an evaluation of the inevitable sex. The quality does vary a fair bit, although it’s all subjective as to which are better depending on what kind of story you’re looking for as well as, in some cases, your kinks.

Jake

Comes with a fairly obvious death condition, a sequence in which Mark and Jake get to nerd out over The Legend of Zelda, and another in which Jake lectures Mark/the player on the virtues of polyamory. I’ve always been poly-friendly myself, and the lecture does lead into a - thoroughly random - train scenario, but to say it’s not how you’d logically expect this date to go down is a bit of an understatement. Jake never even takes his shirt off, so in place of a body hair toggle he gets one to dye his hair pink for whatever reason. It’s a shame too, because at the start of the date there’s some discussion over Jake’s weight and how he should be confident in his size and his unusually elaborate buffet eating strategies.

Tommy

Like Jake’s date Tommy’s rapidly goes to some unexpected places, but in his case those places entail getting kidnapped and forced to talk through the failures of the criminal justice system at gunpoint. There are more than a few chances to get a quick game over, some funnier than others, but if Mark survives to make it to Tommy’s place he’s greeted by a brief but hot round of sex with the one man in the cast whose dick size is talked up even more than Brad’s. In this case it may actually be warranted; the girth of that thing looks positively inhuman in the CGs, so, rejoice if you’re into that.

Frankie

This guy talks an outlandishly highbrow game that he very clearly can’t deliver on, and having a successful date with him requires Mark to be as aggressively honest as possible as a means of badgering Frankie into admitting to all his unsubtle deception. The man underneath them may just be a more pathetic prospect than Mark himself, but at least the player gets treated to as good a striptease as this game can deliver with its assets followed by sex on the beach...literally, not the cocktail. This date reserves inexplicably dirty names of that nature for gelato of all things.

Luke

The absurdity only continues to build as Mark is invited to “Streamflix and chill” by an Irish frat bro who doesn’t know what that term means because apparently this universe’s Netflix knockoff doesn’t exist in Ireland. It’s up to the player to smoothly guide Mark through a showing of an inspirational story about a narcoleptic rugby player to get to the grand prize of a chance to quietly blow Luke under the blankets when his housemates could walk in at any second (or provide off-the-cuff commentary on Brokeback Mountain, as it happens). There’s also a dream CG at the end featuring yet more sports roleplay sex, as if Brad’s route didn’t offer enough of that. My favorite part though is Luke complaining about American bars not serving alcohol past 2 AM, as I agree with him that it is utterly barbaric.

Cesar

As should be apparent, this is the one with cop sex. Mark gets caught up in a drug sting, and depending on how the player feels about Ian’s suggestion of bringing along ranch dressing (or rather, ranch dressing mix) to the supposed siesta the specific type of cop sex will either be a fairly standard round of Mark bottoming or one of the only finger-fucking sessions in the game. Either way Mark will be resisting arrest as well as sexually harassing a police officer following what was very obviously a setup targeting cruising gay men, but because this is an erotic dating sim and every man in it wants Mark’s ass let’s all withhold our reservations regarding the ethical ramifications of this entire scenario. I have no trouble doing so, although that’s mostly because cop sex does nothing for me. 

Terry

Well, color me surprised - if not terribly aroused - because at long last we have a twink. There seems to be a thinly-veiled pop culture reference here, to something like a younger Justin Bieber or one of those guys from One Direction, but as wild as this date ends up going I find it hangs together rather well even without working as an allusion to any specific celebrity. Mark finds himself billed as the winner of a date with a pop star, and hilarity ensues as he encounters screaming fangirls, a creepy stalker trying to get locks of Terry’s hair, and a karaoke contest in a dive bar where New Orleans gets name-dropped because this city is mentioned in so many songs and where Mark “rocks the hell out of” Schubert’s Ave Maria, somehow. The sex itself is a novelty, with the choice coming down to either Mark giving a rimjob while Terry performs autofellatio or Mark pounding some twink ass. A post-coital hair snipping for the stalker is optional.

Donovan

This man has some hang-ups, and I still can’t decide whether they’re hot or not. At first pass this date is a bite-sized deconstruction of what Dream Daddy could have been had it been interested in actually examining the kinds of relationships it claims to center around - Donovan is a literal father, divorced and new to the dating scene and clearly uncomfortable with many aspects of it up to and including the very sexualized concept of gay daddies. His attempts at flirting and blending in at a gay bar are awkwardly endearing, but as I suggested with Alex I think CooT wants to have it both ways by having Donovan opine about being treated like a daddy...when he looks the way he does and while he’s buying drinks for a guy more than ten years his junior. Even his attempt at more authentically bonding with Mark via an impromptu woodworking tutorial quickly pivots into innuendo and heavier flirting leading up to the inevitable sex scene (although the player should note that in order to get said sex scene you’ll have to know a little about what Donovan is teaching Mark as well as allow him to step away for a heart-to-heart with his teenage son). What follows is shower sex where Mark tops his bull of a date - so if you’re into big hairy bottoms and didn’t get enough from some of Amos’s options this is your story.

Oz and Pete

No Grindr analogue would be complete without a partnered relationship looking for one more, and in truth this date earns some major points for realistically capturing the mix of awkwardness and sensual chaos that comes from jumping in bed with an established couple. This includes crossed wires on who’s using the shared profile, a bit of informal relationship counseling, and the messy but inevitably uneven bonding Mark does with either Oz or Pete. There are two successful paths to this date according to which of them Mark spends more time with at the bar, with each of them building up to a particular type of fetish sex that the two of them haven’t discussed with one another until now. For Oz (on the left) that’s double penetration, while for Pete it’s cuckoldry with some bonus rimming and felching in the scene itself. This is admittedly one of the more physically demanding scenarios Mark can find himself in, especially if he favors Oz, but as I said it’s handled with a surprising amount of realism. Plus there’s a comment before the date that sort of handwaves Mark’s pre-sex stretching that goes along with an utterly ridiculous (mental) image, so I’ll let it slide.

Theo

This one is interesting, to say the least. Mark is paid to pose as Theo’s fiancé at his ten year high school reunion, as part of a ploy to show off how successful Theo has become and rub his former bullies’ noses in it. In addition to the usual wacky humor - and cameos from both Penny and Ian - this is a story with a fair bit of heart to it depending on how Mark deals with the situation. He can either play the perfect partner and earn Theo the recognition he craves...or he can go as absurd and over-the-top as possible but don’t try rickrolling the bullies because that’s a step too far, making a spectacle of himself and teaching Theo a valuable lesson about not caring about the opinions of the people who used to mock him. Provided the date’s a success in one form or another Theo will proffer the above Dom/sub scenario, and Mark can respond either by agreeing to be a sub (either in the comparatively vanilla sense if he was sensible at the reunion or as a pup if he went overboard with it) or by flipping the script and making Theo his sub for the evening. They could have done a lot more with the pup play considering it’s just the sub version with a collar and canine sound effects, but there’s already more logical bang for your buck going on in this date than in around half of the others.

Hugh and Jesse

This is...I can’t even....

Okay, whatever. It’s the last one. It’s not a date, properly speaking, but is accessed if Mark chooses to play with himself on the Brofinder menu. He gets high off some incredibly dubious weed given to him by Ian and proceeds to get intimately acquainted with his goldfish Slurpy in what is CooT’s second-heaviest icthyophilic moment (Google for #1, I already said back in Part 1 I’m not going there). If he calls for an ambulance he’ll be taken under the care of a pair of twin EMTs who make up for what they lack in professionalism with the kind of zany determination you’d expect with a setup like this. At that point it’s the player’s choice of a spit roast or a combo blowjob and rimjob. Adding to the overall disorienting effect of this “date” is the game experimenting with perspective and its visual assets in ways rarely seen elsewhere and that honestly don’t work very well. There’s only so much you can do with such, ahem, stiff portraits.

[outroshooky]

imagine | ksj

⇢ genre: drabble (postbreakup!au) (angst, some fluff)

⇢ pairing: kim seokjin x reader

⇢ word count: 2.5k

⇢ prompt: “why can’t you imagine a world like that?”

⇢ warnings: swearing and heartbreak. have fun, y’all.

⇢ a/n: i’ve been listening to thank u, next as an album a lot for the last few weeks. kudos to ariana grande and imagine for this one, as well as she’s all yours by loote.

Nobody ever said pad thai was the healthiest of dinners, but it certainly hit the spot on cold, rainy evenings when you found yourself bent over textbooks, immersed in criminal psychology like the nerd that you are.

Chinese food has become your go-to more and more these past few weeks, the heat on your tongue from Kung Pao chicken and lo mein warming you up from the inside. All it seems to do outside your apartment windows is storm, the world outside rendered a permanent color swatch of gray. Pewter were the clouds that settled low over campus, bellies distended with wrath. Abalone was the muted light that filtered through your bedroom blinds, dim and barely-there. Slate were the bricks of the achy old home directly facing your own, looming in your window, lashed wet and whipped by the never-ending rainfall.

A depressing existence, certainly.

In fact, the weather is not the only thing that seems to have turned a chilled back on you. In one dramatically splintering fragment, your friends have drifted away from you, too. Yoongi no longer comes around to talk some obscure bit of politics with you; Taehyung suddenly finds excuses to spend his time pouring over copies of art manuscripts dating back to the Renaissance. Your cold brew seems to have lost its vanilla flavor; the sweetness brews stagnant on your tongue. Even the majestic portraits of the university’s founding fathers, poised and proud in their frames, appear to be frowning down on you.

It’s as if the universe is trying to tell you something. Which, judging by all of those things plus the daily horoscopes that light up your phone screen, it probably is.

Sunday, 12:47 PM. Your day at a glance. Sometimes, you’re doing the work without being aware of it.

“You missed date night on Friday.”

“I did? Oh my god babe, I’m so sorry. Can we do it this Sunday instead? Or maybe Wednesday?”

“I have work on Sunday and a mandatory civics exam on Wednesday.”

“Well, how about next week?”

“This is the third one in a row you’ve missed, Seokjin.”

Yesterday, 12:53 PM. Your day at a glance. Think of trusting people as an act of generosity today.

“I thought you said you were studying with Yoongi in the library tonight.”

The door creaks closed. “I was. There’s a group project coming up that we’re nervous for.”

A text notification lights up your phone, the gentle ping! way more cheery than necessary.

myg: where’s your boyfriend? he’s supposed to be here. it’s been two hours and his coffee is getting cold.

And, perhaps, your favorite:

Nine hours ago. Your day at a glance. Don’t be scared to tell each other the truth.

myg: there’s nothing wrong with me, but i think you need to take some time for yourself, so we’re giving you some space. we’re all worried about you.

Perhaps this whole message-from-the-universe thing is more obvious than you thought it was.

You roll your eyes and take another bite of your takeout, leaning over your textbook with renewed, nearly reckless abandon.

The universe would have to wait. You had an examination on court cases tomorrow that you could not afford to fail.

It’s late the next time you look at the clock, so late that night has spilled over into the early morning, and for once, it’s quiet outside.

The streetlights reflect on the tearstained panes of your window, droplets of gold shimmering tranquil. Branches scratch at the glass with persistence, but not insistence. The lamp’s glow burns soft in the darkness of your bedroom, and the pen flows moot in your aching grasp, working endlessly for four hours- no, five. Your eyes grow heavy in the light that seems to be dying evermore, the bulb fading and flickering, threatening total extinction.

Perhaps a brief, merciful rest is in order.

Your head hits the cover of your notebook and you’re asleep without a second thought.

A single chime resounds in the stillness of your apartment, a sound that conditions your weary head to instantly lift from your pillow of study materials. You blink; your eyes are dry and sticky from exhaustion, but your dark laptop screen is awakened with color, so alive and so brightly blue that you squint for a moment, pupils overwhelmed.

Incoming call: campus-wide handsome💕💕💕

Relief.

Relief floods your system like water pouring from a broken dam, leaking and sinking and filling every nook, every cranny. Relief, ease; the feelings spurt color into your darkened world, the details sharpening as if brought into focus by an empyrean lens. Relief, him. This is normal; everything will be fine, he’s calling to talk it out, finally. He’s ready to come clean, to own up to his mistakes and mishaps and god, you will too, because you are far from perfect. Two broken halves, reunited by the glow of pixels on an electronic screen.

You move, almost automatically, to accept the call.

On the other side of the screen, your boyfriend sits, blurry with a poor connection. He is effortlessly handsome barefaced, an oversized hoodie thrown on casually, brown locks mussed in a style only he could pull off. His brow is more pronounced in the shadows of his dorm room, his almond eyes tired but hopeful. He's never looked so domestically kissable; your heart twists at the thought.

When Seokjin speaks, he’s quiet with the reverence of night-time, that sacred morning space when the world pauses to take a breath of its own. Everything is on the table, but nothing is off limits. “Hey, gorgeous.”

“Hi,” you breathe.

He scratches at the back of his neck, fingers disappearing in the strands of hair that lick at his ears. “I know that this isn’t really warranted and is probably going to sound weird, but I needed to hear your voice. It’s late, but- I don’t know, I missed it. I missed you.”

Your heart soars. “I missed you too Jinnie, more than I’d like to admit in all honesty.”

A smile pulls at his lips, wonderfully plush and sweet. “Well, I’m glad you’re here.” 

You gaze into the camera at him. Him, the person with the world in the palm of his hands. Him, the student whom nearly every one of his professors fawned over, the son of one of the most distinguished politicians in the region. Him, who had caught your eye at the nearby coffee shop one late afternoon shift and stolen your heart with a spilled cappuccino all over his brand new slacks. Him, who stares at you with java eyes and a tender heart, so close but so, so far away.

There’s a beat of silence that falls as you stare at him, and he clears his throat. “Baby, I’ve been thinking.”

“About?”

“Us.”

A prickle of worry in your stomach. “What about us?”

“Do you remember that night when you made your mom’s pasta from scratch for the first time?”

Your brows furrow. “What about it?”

“That was the night we slow danced in the kitchen to Sinatra,” he reminisces. “It was just us and the moon, dancing on the tile while Frank crooned. I miss that.”

Your heart leaps at the happy memory, burning clear in your mind.

Seokjin waggles his brows as he places one hand on your waist, the gentle pressure of his hand on your hip comforting. You’re in sweatpants and an old shirt; he’s in a suit, having just come off his internship at a local firm. But he’s looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, your cheeks pink with the heat of the kitchen and your sleeves splattered with tomato sauce. And in that moment you are wholly, completely enrapturing to him, so much that he just had to ask you to dance, to hold you tight to his chest as the vinyl in the hallway plays and you have carved a moment out of chaos for yourselves, you only.

“May I have this dance, little chef?”

“You may, my handsome lawyer.”

“I only passed the bar exam, like, five months ago.”

“Shut up and dance with me, you coward.”

“I’m shutting up now.”

“And I miss that day we spent at the arboretum a few hours away, walking between the roses and talking about anything and everything,” Seokjin continues. “Or the times we’d bring Chinese food over Yoongi and Jimin’s dorm room and play Cards Against Humanity for hours on end.”

Seokjin kneels to cradle a flower delicately between his fingers, studying the pastels etched like ink into the petals. “You know, your lips are as beautiful as those petals,” you blurt. “And as soft, too.” He blushes a deep crimson all the way to his ears, and you laugh aloud.

Cheeks stuffed round and full with dumplings, you nearly choke at the card you draw from the stack. “Gordon Ramsay’s what?” The room is filled with howls of mirth and this, you think to yourself, this must be heaven.

“Even the moments when you’d cry because the stress was too much, or when I had that emergency hospital trip and you found out in the middle of your lecture.”

Chest heaving, lungs stabbing, fear. Stress and exhaustion and anxiety, bearing down their cruel weight on your shoulders, twisting each thought just enough to make it hurt. You’re crying into your hands, a hiccup punctuating each fresh sob, when your apartment door is opening and he’s stumbling in and then his arms are around you. He’s clutching you so tight you feel as though your ribs are cracking, insisting that he must hold you together when you feel yourself shattering into infinitesimal pieces, finds it in himself to pluck each shard from his palm and put it together to find you again. You, the everlasting heartbeat of his microcosm, a little slice of paradise to which no one else holds the key.

Chest heaving again, but it’s pure panic that floods your veins this time, seeps frigid into your blood. In a rush you’re dropping your phone into your bag, practically throwing your laptop and your books into your backpack with one hand, scrabbling for your car keys with the other. A text from Yoongi you’ll never forget: this isn’t an emergency, but jin had a severe allergic reaction to the seafood we got for lunch. he’s on his way to the hospital right now. Never in your life had you driven twenty-five miles an hour over the speed limit before that day, but he was awake and alert when you saw him next, enough to give you a crooked thumbs-up as he smiled behind the nebulizer.

“I don’t know why I’m thinking of all this. I guess I just wanted to call you and tell you that I love you and I miss you, and I’m thinking of you. It’s late, but you’re the only thing on my mind, and really, just- I’m sorry for everything that’s been going on lately.” You can hear the earnest pleading in his voice, the ache in his soul. He means what he says, and a pang of guilt throbs at the surface.

“I really do love you,” he continues. “I love you like every star shines in the midday sky, even when they’re too bright to be seen. I love the way your nose scrunches when you laugh and how your eyebrows furrow when you study at night and how your teeth aren’t quite straight; they’re perfect the way they are. I love your little unorthodox habits, your quirks and flaws and your talents too. I love you, okay? I love you for who you are and I promise we will get through this, I swear it even if it takes every ounce of energy I have.”

His voice breaks when he says okay; he says those three words like he's trying to embed them into your soul, carve them into your psyche, promise you that even though this has been falling apart at the seams, he loves you. Somehow, someway, it will last. The end isn’t near; that's not possible. Not while he loves you like this, and you love him too, love him with every ounce of your soul.

“Seokjin, I-” you begin.

CRASH!

Thunder explodes outside your window and you jolt, hand lashing out, knocking over your cup of pens and pencils that sits expectantly on your desk. It is if the sky is cleaving itself in two, lightning splitting the sky with an explosion of light and thunder howling with a cacophony of darkness. Rain pours down, spilling from the gutters down your sill; you can hear a faint dripping from the bathroom and realize the ceiling is leaking again, just like it has every day for the last two and a half weeks.

You raise a hand to your cheek and trace the square imprints in the skin from your laptop keyboard. There’s a kink in your neck that aches like the devil, your spine aching after the uncomfortable position you contorted yourself into pre-nap and you are so groggy at first that nothing seems out of the ordinary, and you move to message Seokjin that you accidentally took a nap, and you loved him, too.

You press the power button on your laptop. No response.

You frown and try again, running your hand across the body of the machine, cold and unresponsive to the touch.

Cold and unresponsive?

But you were just-

No.

No.

Seokjin was just here. He was just here; you just saw him onscreen, you’d call him in a moment and things would be just how they were.

Just how they were two weeks ago, when he’d told you over a caramel macchiato that this, whatever beautiful thing you had cultivated, was beyond repair. That he couldn’t have more of his energy sapped by this relationship that you had put so much of yourself towards, giving him everything he could possibly want, and yet at the end of it all, you’re the one whose face is spat upon with scorn. He promised you that you would get through this, and yet there is no promise because this is already over, and the second time the thunder crashes in your ears like a symphony of pure sound, you cry aloud. It felt so fucking real to have him there, him, the color on your canvas, the brightness of your everyday life turned up like an old television dial.

The lamp still shines buttery gold, all these hours later. Now it matches the tinge of dawn that peeks through a break in the angry clouds, spreading its vibrant fingers like ivy seeking a trellis.

It is so easy to imagine a world in which your laptop merely died, cutting off your proclamation of love to him. So easy to imagine him in his dorm on campus, body crooked as he sleeps curled in on himself, buried under a pile of blankets when your body can’t provide him the heat. So easy to pretend as though none of this nightmare, this hellish denial had never even happened to begin with.

But you can’t anymore.

You can’t hold onto every experience. Give yourself permission to forget.

Your phone vibrates with a notification.

Fortunate are those who can appreciate the basic goods of life with awe, pleasure, wonder and ecstasy, again and again for the first time.

[alitheamateur]

A Taste of Home

CHAPTER 2

Catch up on Chapter 1

(many hugs, and thank you's to @miidailyinspiration for the help on my face claim for Amelia. You’ve helped put my indecisive mind to rest, love!)

Casual, but not sloppy. Sophisticated, but not stuffy. This was no ordinary to-do, and you weren’t about to make light of the situation at hand.

To add to stresses of attire, your mother had found the whole thing to be so “cute,” and some twisted little cell of her excitement thought it a necessity to call his mother and cackle about the nostalgia of it all.

By some circumstances you were unsure of, your cell number had somehow fallen into his lap, and the day you were supposed to head towards to outskirts of the Boston tree line, he had texted you details.

C: Picking up a bottle of wine for tonight. Preference? You name it.

Y/N: How about a red?

C: Anything for the guest of honor. See you around 8!

Attached to his last reply, was a syrup sweet selfie that made you want to punch someone just to kill off some of the nauseating lovability, of he and the famous pup you’d seen often on his socials.

You didn’t know where to begin with preparation, nor exactly what to prepare for, and the day passed on like the speed of a changing season so your mental torture could lag on. A quick color and blow-out at the salon was never a wrong turn, and a trip to the mall couldn’t hurt matters.

Silencing your phone, and securing the doors of your car with two deeps, your knees wobbled like a feeble fawn towards the front steps. It was extravagant, but not in an “I’m better than you” type of way, and it’s woodsy endearment was the coziness your nerves needed.

Taking the steps one by one, hearing a dogs roaring bark behind the solid oak of his front door, a thought was conceived.

Was this… a booty call? Do people even know what that is anymore? Had you been invited to the quiet forest around his home, to glug too much wine, stroll down memory lane, and wind up on your back?

The more troubling conclusion, being you weren’t sure the idea sounded half bad….

There’d have to be some self-respect. Your shambling life left no room for any more error, and you wouldn’t fall into such handsome traps that easily.

Using the pane of glass that lined the entry as a reflection check, the door was pulled open, letting the interior nose of music and galloping steps of Dodger loose.

You cursed mentally when you stuck your hand inside the lining of your light jacket to feel the mint still wrapped that you had forgotten to chew on the drive over.

The handsome pups’ leash was held onto by an even more handsome man, and both of them seem quite eager to greet you. However, one more interested in sniffing around your shoes and backside.

“Woah, Dodge! Let’s mind our manners, boy.” His owner laughed with squinted eyes.

He met you with an unexpected, one arm embrace. His fingers snuck under the hem of your breezy springtime cardigan, and rested sprawled across the silk camisole covering the small of your back. Your cheeks brushed together at the ensuing of his gentle, platonic kiss to your face, and his beard felt softer than you would’ve imagined.

“Glad you could sneak away to hang out.”

“Thanks for the invitation. This place is stunning.” You barely recognized your own voice as it’s tone stuttered and dropped into some weird, sad excuse for seductive key.

Jealous at how effortlessly he could barely graze your skin and have you wanting to shout his name in an explicit context, you rustled your hair to swing its vanilla scented sweetness toward him, trying your own much more forced hand at seduction.

With smiling eyes, he gestured you through the front door, leading the way into the foyer. The simple brightness of its monochromatic scheme added an appealing cleanliness and homey feel. A grand piano was nestled near the fireplace, and a candle of spicy sweetness flickered on the white mantle as you heard Dodgers leash clang against a metal coat rack.

“Do you still play?” You asked running a finger over the glossy top of the black instrument positioned on a patterned rug.

His skinned turned red behind the protection of his grizzly beard, and he squeezed his palm to the back of his neck. The loose cotton of his shirt teased up his belly, gifting you with the sight of a meaty, perfectly exercised torso. Your eyes dilated with zealous desire at the way a trail of light hair trailed beneath the band of his relaxed blue jeans.

“I do, yeah. Badly, but I do. I don’t get as much practice as I’d like. Get me drunk enough & maybe I’ll play you something.”

Still the same old guy. The tortured musician with a home on the stage, and a healthy liking to beer.

“Speaking of, I’m heading to the kitchen for a drink. Glass of wine?” He walked in reverse down the hall, offering you up a beverage.

“Sounds perfect. It better not be the cheap shit either, Evans. I know how you operate.” You bit your tongue at the bold banter of your sarcasm. But, it wasn’t as if he didn’t know your true colors. He’d known you since school age, and if he was willing to still speak to your after your raging ugly-duckling stages of junior high, surely he could handle a witty tongue.

When he disappeared behind the wall of the kitchen and glasses clinked, and the cabinets slammed, you helped yourself to sight seeing around the empty den. Photos of he and castmates, his nephews and nieces school portraits, and some exquisite artwork decorated the walls, alongside the glorious steel shield you’d seen on the big screen. The life of riches, and fame hadn’t rotted through to who he really was yet it seemed, and you admired the simplicity of his private life.

“I’ll let you touch it for the right price,” he snuck in undetected from the left, long-stem swirling in one hand, and an already half-empty beer bottle in the other.

You eagerly grasped at the wine he had poured for you, desperately pining for something to center your weak knees from his closeness. Grazing across his full fingertips, your hormones began to dance.

“Excuse you?” For a brief moment, unsure of what exactly his cheeky comment suggested, you coughed in shock.

“The shield, Amelia. Don’t make me out to be an asshole here, kid.” Chris rolled his eyes with a faux grin, struggling to hide the slightest bit of insult from your insinuations.

Wait, kid? No, no, no. For one, 29, divorced, and your own insurance plan hardly classified you in the kid category. And the boobs. C’mon, Evans. Didn’t you see the boobs?

“However, I think the term kid need no longer apply…”

Did he hear your thoughts? Could he read minds now? He’s Captain America. Of course he could. Your thoughts heckled you.

Abruptly set on actual fire at the way his eyes painted over you like daggers memorizing your every curve, you choked up a dousing gulp of wine, and it dribbled down your rounded chin. He caught the beads of dark Merlot pooling at the corner of your lips with his thumb, then quite accidentally erotically, sucked the liquid from his finger with a pop of his half-smiling lips.

“Still as elegant as ever, I see.” Chris winked, and pulled an open-mouth sip of his sweating bottle of ale.

Bury your head in a hole full of poisonous scorpions, or plunge from a plane with no parachute? Both scenarios seemed like a fitting death for the embarrassment boiling throughout your pulsing veins.

“I resent that. I didn’t even trip up a single stair on the way in, thank you very much, sir.” Your hair toppled over your shoulder with your sassy, matter-of-fact head bob. The loose strand falling airily into your face.

“You’re so right. Seems little Mil is all grown up and coordinated now.” He reached for the lock of your hair in an instant, like he couldn’t resist its’ touch, and twirled it around his pointer finger only once, or twice before pushing it from your eyes.

The room went silent then, and spun with the drunken tension of unexplained passion. You wondered if this whole façade was some sort of sick way for his ego to get off, or had word gotten around to him about your less than happy fortune, and he pitied you, and old friend, in some way? Sure, you could put an outfit together in less then 5 minutes like nobody’s business, and you weren’t exactly a bore to be around. But you were such a… a simpleton compared to him in every sense. Often stringy, dull blonde hair no matter what “shine shampoo” you paid for. Your legs not even half the length of an average sized woman, and you were barely tall enough to reach the pedals of a car. A tiny, blonde, plain-faced woman with the occasional humorous comeback. Nowhere near the realm of anything he deserved.

He never broke his laser, blue-eyed stare with yours when he stretched blindly the empty his hand of the bottle, placing it to rest on top of the piano behind you. They color looping around his pupils was like your own lustful swimming pool where you wanted to float wearing nothing but a smile. The rounded point of your chest touched his when he leaned past you, and you prayed the thin lace of your unlined bra was just enough to hide the gentle bud of your breast. You were sure the news of the split with your husband was indeed knowledge to him, because he wasn’t the type to ever sink to the level of pursing a taken woman.

But, was this that? Was the closeness of his body, and his ruthless, studying stares his idea of pursuit? Or was your needy, wishful thinking playing tricks on you?

“I see the tan line on your finger, but the ring is missing?” You couldn’t make sense of his words as a question, or a statement.

“I’m sure you’ve heard more than I would have liked for you to, Chris…”

He gently squeezed at your teeny bicep, his head ghosting a nod just before you dropped to shamefully examine your feet.

“I did hear some stuff. But, it came directly from your moms mouth. Well, straight from your moms mouth, then my moms who she told.” He smiled to alleviate your stresses. “But, if you wanna talk, I’ll listen, Amelia.”

You wanted to. Oh, how curiously bad you wanted to. Something in the velvet ease of his voice willed you cry, and confess, and vent your broken hearts every desperate pain, and you had no idea why. He was a familiar face, but one from the past. You’d lived an entire life since the two of you had last seen the other, and yet something around his eyes hypnotized you to confide there like a terrified stow-away, running from the harshness your reality.

Just as your lips parted, and you’d carefully allowed only one tear to totter on the edge of your eyelid, the yelps of an observant dog startled you both. Dodger stood on his hind legs, peeping and panting as he stared out the open curtain of a bay window.

“Shit Dodger. Calm down boy, it’s fine.” Chris dropped his hold on you to settle the curious animal. “Everyone else is here. Late as usual.” He remarked.

“Everyone?”

“Yeah, some of the guys are coming to watch the game tonight. You’ll remember most of them. Their wives, too! When I saw you the other day, I knew I had to invite you out to visit with everybody since you’re back here now. Thought it would be cool for everyone to catch up, ya’ know?” The man casually explained as he strolled towards the entryway.

Stupid you. Always stupid, stupid you. Of course, this wasn’t a date. He didn’t want to date you. Not now, not ever. You fluffed your mess of curls, and paid for yet another outfit you didn’t need simply for nothing. But, the outfit was charged to a credit card in your wallet still under the name of your oh, so generous, soon-to-be ex-husband, who you were sure wouldn’t mind. So, that part wasn’t exactly a problem.

The signs had been all there though, right? The wine he’d asked you about. The sinful way he whispered and teased into your ear? It definitely seemed flirtatious in the most welcomed of manner. Or, maybe you just desperately wanted it to feel that way. Did your ego subconsciously create the boost it needed?

“Mills? Hey, you in there? Amelia?” He pleaded you from your daydreaming state as you swayed on your feet due to the thoughtful coma you were entranced in.

“There’s not a problem is there, sweetheart?”

“No, no. God, no! Not at all! It’s great, yeah. I’m excited to see them.” Your words wavered a little, battling the line of truth and lie.

It wouldn’t be so bad to see some familiar faces, and maybe rekindled some friendships now that you had waywardly returned. But, the scoop neckline of your slinky tank couldn’t hide the wave of blushing, blind disappointment climbing your chest. A result of how you felt about having to share him with others. As if he was yours to share.

People welcomed themselves in, some toting 6-packs, a brown sack marked with the logo of a bakery downtown that you knew created all things scrumptious, so you’d have to get into the good graces of the woman you didn’t recognize carrying it towards the kitchen. The faces had changed, but a handful of them still had those same smiles, or telling eyes from the past, and they appeared strangely excited to see you. Especially Tucker, someone closer to your age who had grown close to Chris through tap classes. The only other person on the planet who was informed on your most secret desires for the handsome Evans in question.

He nearly sprinted towards you, cradling your now squished, reddened cheeks in his hands. Your nose crinkled and eyes rolled with nothing but the truest joy at his fanatical greetings.

“Well, well. If our girl isn’t where all her little wet dreams from 15-years-ago unraveled, hm? Assuming you have been up to his bedroom already?” Tucker pinched your bottom playfully, murmuring into the hollow of your ear.

“Oh, give me some credit, Tuck! What kinda girl do you think I am?!!”

“One who has wanted a slice of that man since we were 13, Amelia. That’s who.”

God, he wasn’t wrong. He was the farthest left from anything resembling wrong, and it made the contents of your stomach swimming with the heavy red wine want to escape. You didn’t trust yourself to keep it together with Chris, and hold on to even the tiniest little remnant of your dignity. Your gut knew all he had to do was say the word, and you’d go skipping into his bed like most eager of beavers. But, God. You wanted him to say the word……

A/N: I hope you guys are enjoying. This one is a bit unnerving for me, and my readers are used to Hardy content. Your feedback is always welcomed with open arms! Again, let me know if you'd like to me added, or removed from the tag-list! xx

TAGS: @miidailyinspiration @eap1935 @mollybegger-blog

[boreum-dal]

la confiture, pt. i

fandom: miraculous ladybug (adrinette, nino/alya)

summary: marinette dupain-cheng is one step closer to her dream of becoming a top chef when she’s hired to cook at the famed restaurant, la confiture. but to get to the top, she’s got to surpass adrien agreste, her rival and the son of la confiture’s owner.

too bad he’s so sweet that he’s nearly impossible to dislike.

and too bad she loves when he invites her over after work to test out new dishes at his apartment.

and too bad his relationship with his father makes her want to hold him and never let him go.

and–just like that, her dreams don’t seem so simple anymore.

cross-posted: ao3

Marinette had nearly forgotten about the fruit tarts. When she’d first seen them on the new menu for the week, she’d wondered, somewhat wildly, if Adrien secretly read her blog; after all, he’d introduced that dish into the dessert menu only two days after she’d posted about her fruit tarts. But even given Ladybug Patisserie’s immense popularity, she couldn’t imagine that Adrien Agreste, sous chef at one of the top restaurants in the country, found the time or the energy to read the weekly exploits of someone who couldn’t bake to save her life. It had to be a coincidence.

Adrien grinned, surveying the room. His eyes paused when they met Marinette’s. His head tilted to the side, and his lips quirked up ever so slightly at the corners, as if he were sharing a private joke with her that no one else in the room would understand. For a brief few seconds, Marinette felt the air leave her lungs, and then she blinked and forced herself to turn her attention back to her linguine.

It had to be a coincidence, she thought again to herself. Still, she was suddenly grateful she’d kept herself anonymous on the blog all these months.

la confiture

part i.

“Everything sucks.”

“It does not. You’re so dramatic sometimes.”

Marinette Dupain-Cheng lifted her head from her arms and aimed a glower at her best friend. “Do you have room to talk?”

Alya Césaire shrugged, shuffling mangled, dull looking eclairs that around on Marinette’s counter in a way that would have been quite aesthetically pleasing if the eclairs themselves weren’t so ugly. “I can admit it, at the very least.”

“Fine! I’m dramatic! But why can’t I be dramatic and good at baking?”

“Practice makes perfect,” Alya sang, lifting her camera up to her eye and squinting through the lens at the perfectly arranged, deformed eclairs.

“You’ve told me that a million times before,” Marinette moaned, dragging her feet to the love seat in her living room and flopping down into it. “How about a different proverb?”

“Fine, then. Some people just can’t have everything. How about that?” The camera clicked several times.

“Well, that’s just rude and discouraging.” Marinette blew a strand of hair out of her face.

Alya finally looked up from her camera and laughed. “Why are you so down on yourself, Mari? This kind of stuff is gold! You get tens of thousands of hits on your blog every time you post something new. Being bad at baking is your lifeblood. You should own it.”

“I don’t want to be bad at baking, though! I could be the best cook in Paris, but I can’t expect to ever make sous chef at La Confiture when I can’t even bake a cookie without burning it.”

Alya raised an eyebrow. “You really think you can beat Gabriel Agreste’s own son out of the position?”

Marinette pursed her lips grumpily. “I could if I had the baking part down. In a couple of years. Maybe.”

Alya shook her head and resumed taking photos. “I don’t get it. I’d much rather run a successful blog with thousands of followers than be a star chef at some boring restaurant.”

“It’s not just a restaurant, Alya!”

“I know, I know. It’s La Confiture.” Alya made a gagging motion.

“Whatever. You were salivating over that silk pie slice I brought you the other night,” Marinette said, walking back over to the counter and picking up an eclair. She took a bite and had to tug a little at the pastry with her teeth to get it to break. The pastry was rubbery and tough in her mouth, but the cream filling was pleasant, at least. She made a mental note to emphasize that on her upcoming blog post.

Alya grinned. “Didn’t you tell me Adrien Agreste made that pie for the staff?”

Marinette threw the half-eaten eclair at Alya’s face.

---

“You look like you need a drink.”

Adrien Agreste gave a weak laugh. “I was hoping you’d notice without my having to ask. Just a beer, please.”

Nino Lahiffe cracked the lid off of a green bottle and slid it over the bar to Adrien, who took it gratefully and sipped. Nino returned to wiping down the counters, which he’d gotten back to a relatively clean state after dinner service had finally ended. “What’s got you down?”

“Just tired,” Adrien mumbled, sliding the beer bottle between his hands on the lacquered surface of the bar. “You know, the usual.”

Nino frowned at Adrien’s slumped-over form. Adrien straightened up a little—although he knew Nino wasn’t the type to judge, the way his friend peered at him through the round glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose made him feel particularly scrutinized.

“Did you fight with your dad again?”

Adrien laughed. “That obvious?” He lowered his voice. “Don’t tell anyone, please.”

“Dude. You know I would never,” Nino said reassuringly. He glanced around before opening his own beer bottle. “Cheers.”

“Seriously, though, how did you know?”

Nino shrugged. “Just a guess. I saw him stalk out of here a few minutes ago with murder in his eyes.”

“Do you think any of the other employees saw?”

“Nah. And if they did, it’s not like their first thought would be that he must have had a fight with you. He’s just like that, so it’s not unexpected.”

Adrien laughed again, this time genuinely. The laugh felt good in his stomach, like a medicine. “Thanks, Nino.”

“Anytime. So what was it about this time?”

Adrien leaned against the back of the barstool with a sigh. “He’s upset about that Vogue interview.”

Nino frowned. “How could he be upset about it? Our reservations got booked into next Christmas after it went to publication.”

Adrien saw the printed interview, the crisp black-and-white portrait of him in his chef’s uniform, arms crossed and an uncertain smile on his face, in his mind’s eye, and wanted to retch. “I didn’t expect them to, but they published that line about me wanting to go back to school one day.”

Nino stared at him for a moment before bursting out incredulously, “That’s it? Where you literally just say, ‘I don’t know, it might be nice to go study astrology or something in another life’ or something like that?”

“Astronomy,” Adrien corrected. “And yeah. He said it doesn’t look good when I don’t say my whole heart is in cooking.”

“You were talking about another life. That was the question! ‘What would you do in another life?’” Nino shook his head and took a swig of his beer. “That man is ridiculous. I could never tell him, because he pays me, but he is ridiculous.”

Adrien smiled weakly. “I know. I get that he wants to pass down the business and that I have certain duties and expectations to fulfill because of that, but… I can’t pretend to understand the extremes to which he’ll go.”

Even though Nino did not respond, Adrien felt his friend’s eyes on him, and he suddenly struck with guilt. “But look, Nino, I mean—I… He’s not wrong. I should’ve been more careful, right? It doesn’t look great if I say that I’d rather do something else. It would’ve looked better if I’d said no matter what reality I’m in, this is what I’d like to be doing, don’t you think?”

Nino looked at him with an expression that Adrien couldn’t and didn’t want to place—a cross between exasperation and pity. “Whatever you say, man.”

---

 Adrien dropped his keys on the kitchen counter and immediately undid the top three buttons of his uniform. As he switched on the light, a black cat brushed up against his ankles, nudging its head insistently at his shin until he reached down to pick the cat up.

“Hi, Plagg,” he said, using one finger to scratch affectionately under the cat’s chin. Plagg’s purrs rumbled through Adrien’s chest as he held the cat against himself. “Did you have a long day, too?”

He let Plagg down and turned immediately to the laptop on his island counter, flipping it open and seating himself on one of the stools. When the screen loaded, he pulled up his browser and clicked on the first link he’d saved to his favorites bar. A header that read “Ladybug Patisserie” loaded, and immediately beneath that, the latest post, simply entitled “fruit tarts.”

Adrien felt a stupid grin spread across his face. He’d been hoping for and looking forward to this all evening. Ladybug’s writing describing her baking adventures always read in a sweet and hilarious kind of way that made Adrien feel like he was listening to a favorite song while driving or lying back on a soft mattress after a tough day. Tonight’s entry was no different.

After last week’s disaster with the eclairs, I decided that maybe I was just a little too ambitious about my (hopefully?) burgeoning baking skills. I purposely chose something much easier, by all accounts that the Internet and various cookbooks could provide me: the fruit tart. As one site so aptly states, “Fruit tarts are impressive-looking desserts that are not difficult to make at all.” Perfect! Exactly what I’m looking for! How did they know?

Whoever wrote that post was wrong, because that person has yet to meet me. The fruit tart has four components: the shortcrust, the vanilla cream, the glaze, and the fruit toppings. Please read below to see how I miraculously manage to screw up each and every element of this impressive-looking dessert that everyone in the world but myself is capable of making!

Adrien caught himself chortling loudly as he scrolled through the introductory paragraphs and onto the photos, which showed, in hysterically excellent lighting, Ladybug’s progress as she slowly assembled the elements of the dessert and the spectacular finish: soggy-looking fruit turning to mush over a lumpy vanilla filling that seemed mildly off in color somehow, all in a shortbread crust that had crumbled significantly when she’d removed it from the mold. She hadn’t even gotten to put the glaze on the fruit, as she’d burned it in the pot (also showcased in another well-lit and well-framed photograph).

Adrien laughed delightedly at the conclusion, in which Ladybug lamented her lack of intuition for baking but vowed to be back next Wednesday with something new, as usual. He scrolled back up through the post, trying to identify exactly where she’d gone wrong. Now that he was looking more for technical issues than humor, he could see some glaring problems already. He chewed on his lower lip, wondering if he should mention it to her in the comments. He’d never tried to interact with this faceless heroine who was easily his favorite person on the internet, even if he’d never seen her or met her or knew anything about her, other than that she was a horrible baker with a great sense of humor. But she’d made his day quite a bit brighter, and he thought the least he could do was offer her some simple tips to make this recipe easier next time around. His fingers hovered hesitantly over his keyboard for half a second, and then he began typing in the comments box below the post.

Hi, there, Ladybug. I’m a huge fan of your blog. Baking can feel like a thankless practice, and I admire your ability to keep a sense of humor about it instead of bashing your head into a wall! If you don’t mind, here are a couple of tips from someone who bakes regularly. First, I’m sure you know this already, but it seems like you’re not whisking quickly or often enough when you stir in the egg mixture. Even with a strainer, it’s hard to get a smooth filling without lumps in there if you let the entire bottom of the mixture solidify into cooked egg, which is what I suspect happened. As for the shortcrust, try using a food processor instead of your hands to make the mixture. It might feel less “authentic,” but it’ll get you better results, and no one (except for us) has to know. :)

Adrien paused, wondering if he should leave a name. He thought better of it on the off chance that someone else at La Confiture frequented the blog as well and would call him a know-it-all. His eyes landed on Plagg, who was now fiddling with a toy shaped like a fish that Adrien had bought him two weeks ago.

Thanks as always for your hilarious and uplifting posts. Looking forward to next week’s.

Adrien typed “Chat Noir” into the name box and hit “submit.”

---

Marinette pulled open the double doors of La Confiture with urgency and ran her way through the restaurant toward the kitchen, unraveling her scarf and shrugging off her jacket as she did so. She could already hear the noise of knives hitting cutting boards, pots and pans clanging over the dull roar of numerous conversations overlapping each other as various chefs de partie shouted orders to the commis chefs and porters.

She tried to tamp down her panic. Gabriel Agreste was absolutely unforgiving of tardiness, even when it was for a true emergency; Marinette couldn’t imagine the dressing down she’d receive for being two minutes late just because her doctor’s appointment had run behind. She kicked herself for not just leaving the appointment when she’d first realized she wouldn’t make work in time.

She ran through the kitchen doors and skidded to a stop, scanning it quickly and then breathing a sigh of relief when she did not see Gabriel’s face. Still, Adrien would be responsible for overseeing all the staff when Gabriel was absent, but—

“Ah, Chef Dupain-Cheng. You’ve decided to come in today, after all,” a voice said from beside her, and Marinette jumped so high that she could have touched the ceiling if she’d reached her hand up.

Adrien Agreste chuckled, arms crossed as he came up to her.

“Chef!” Marinette flushed. Even if he wasn’t his father, Marinette didn’t like getting caught being late, particularly by her rival. It made her look lazy and undedicated—the last thing she needed when she wanted to move up the ranks. And she wanted Adrien to consider her as serious competition. “I apologize for arriving late,” she said quickly. “I was at the doctor’s and my appointment ran over the scheduled time—I should have just canceled it—”

“Nonsense,” Adrien said, waving a hand in the air. “No one’s hurting for you arriving a few minutes late. It’ll be our little secret. Just try not to let it happen again when my father is around. He can be pretty scary, as you know. It’s not fun to get yelled at in front of the entire kitchen staff, trust me.”

Marinette stared at him, slack-jawed.

“Everything okay, by the way?”

“H-huh?” Marinette was still too startled by Adrien’s casual response in the face of her tardiness to really process his next question.

“You were at the doctor’s, you said. I hope everything’s okay.”

“Um—oh, yes,” Marinette blurted out. “Just an annual checkup.”

“Oh, good. Well, I’m glad you’re looking after yourself, Chef Dupain-Cheng. Not enough of us do in this profession, which is pretty counterproductive, if you ask me.” Adrien smiled at her. 

“I—” Marinette couldn’t muster up a proper response. What was the proper response? She’d never been spoken to with such… humanity by a superior in the kitchen, at least during working hours, before. The proper response, she supposed, was to shut up and get to work. “Thank you, Chef.”

She scurried toward the locker room to hang up her coat and scarf, willing herself to forget about the exchange with Adrien in its entirety. Gabriel had told her upon hiring her that there wasn’t any room for distraction in his kitchen; although he never mentioned anything about those distractions coming from his own son, Marinette suspected that still wouldn’t really constitute a valid defense.

---

Prep time passed in a quick, stressful blur, and Marinette still felt like she was hardly ready when it came time for the staff to eat before dinner service. She’d been quite prepared to skip the staff meal altogether so she could prepare more, but Mylene, the entremetier, had been insistent that she join the rest of the group.

“You’ve got to eat something,” Mylene had urged her, tugging at Marinette’s sleeve. “A chef who passes out in the middle of dinner service won’t be any good. Come on.”

Marinette took the seat next to Mylene in the posterior dining room where the staff ate their meals before service. The air in the room was jovial, with everyone discussing their plans for the upcoming holiday break as they passed large family-style bowls of pasta and salad from person to person.

Mylene reached toward the bowl of seafood linguine in front of them and began to pull some onto Marinette’s plate. “Hurry and eat, you must be starving! You didn’t have breakfast this morning, right?”

Marinette obediently stuffed a forkful of pasta into her mouth. She was grateful for Mylene’s maternal nature; growing up, Alya had always been the one to look out for Marinette when she needed it, and she realized how fortunate she was to find another figure like her at work.

“All right, everyone, could I please have your attention?” Adrien called, standing up from his seat at the opposite end of the table. “I’d like to run back over tonight’s menu for a moment.”

Marinette glanced up from her bowl. Adrien’s profile glowed with a faint gold lining produced by the already-setting Parisian sun streaming through the windows behind him. He began reciting the day’s dishes with a sense of poise and polished confidence beyond his years, and all eyes and ears in the room were on him now with an almost-reverent level of attentiveness.

Not for the first time, Marinette noted silently that somehow, even though he was not nearly as terrifying as his father, Adrien managed to command the respect of the staff in a way that Gabriel Agreste himself could not. Although she tended to keep her distance from Adrien, if Marinette had to guess, she supposed this had something to do with his kindness—how his energy filled the room with warmth, while conversely, the air seemed chillier when Gabriel spoke.

“Next are scallops from the Calvados coast, pan-seared, served with farofa and sweet red pepper chutney. The final dish before we move on to the cheese course will be honey-roasted duck with candied sweet potatoes, black garlic, and lemon…”

Marinette found herself daydreaming, for what had to be the thousandth time, about what it would be like for her to be the one standing up there, reciting a menu that she had gotten to create herself. She suspected it would take her eons to get to Adrien’s level of adeptness in designing the menu and the grace with which he led the crew, which was a little disheartening, given that they were around the same age. Then again, as Alya liked to remind her, Adrien had been trained for this his whole life by one of the top chefs in the world, while Marinette had only begun cooking in university and had risen quite quickly up the ranks since then.

“So you’ve already proven a lot can happen in a few short years!” Alya had told her just a few days ago.

“...and dessert will consist of sugared beignets in a bitter chocolate dipping sauce, and miniature winter fruit tarts topped with pear and persimmon and a grapefruit glaze.”

Marinette had nearly forgotten about the fruit tarts. When she’d first seen them on the new menu for the week, she’d wondered, somewhat wildly, if Adrien secretly read her blog; after all, he’d introduced that dish into the dessert menu only two days after she’d posted about her fruit tarts. But even given Ladybug Patisserie’s immense popularity, she couldn’t imagine that Adrien Agreste, sous chef at one of the top restaurants in the country, found the time or the energy to read the weekly exploits of someone who couldn’t bake to save her life. It had to be a coincidence.

“Have a great dinner service, everyone. Just think—one more night, and then you get a nice three-day break for the Christmas holiday!”

The room cheered, and Adrien grinned, surveying the room. His eyes paused when they met Marinette’s. His head tilted to the side, and his lips quirked up ever so slightly at the corners, as if he were sharing a private joke with her that no one else in the room would understand. For a brief few seconds, Marinette felt the air leave her lungs, and then she blinked and forced herself to turn her attention back to her linguine.

It had to be a coincidence, she thought again to herself. Still, she was suddenly grateful she’d kept herself anonymous on the blog all these months.

---

“The last customer of the night just left,” Adrien announced to the kitchen. “I couldn’t be happier with how smoothly things went tonight. Thanks to everyone here, we just had our most successful Christmas Eve dinner service in years.”

The kitchen staff cheered and applauded. Kim, the rotisseur, let out a loud whoop from the back. Adrien grinned. “Let’s finish cleaning up and get out of here so we can enjoy our breaks, shall we?”

Spirits high, the staff worked at double its normal speed to finish breaking down and cleaning the kitchen, and before Adrien knew it, workers were walking out the door in twos and threes, calling out cheerful wishes for happy holidays to each other.

Adrien waved goodbye to Nino, and then he glanced over the empty, immaculate kitchen with satisfaction, marveling at how efficient everyone had been today. It was just his luck that things would go this well when his father was traveling to a conference and not even here to see it, but he wouldn’t complain. Four days without Gabriel breathing down his neck, even if it meant spending the holidays without his only family, was a welcome respite from the tremendous pressure weighing him down lately.

He couldn’t wait to just sleep for the next couple of mornings, to stop at a coffee shop and really sit down to enjoy a café au lait, to visit the market with the intent to truly create and not to just to sell, maybe even to try to whip up something new in the comfort of his own kitchen without the specter of his father criticizing him, to—

To do all of this alone.

Adrien untied his apron and sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he shuffled into the locker room and sat on the bench lining the wall. Grateful as he was for the break from his father, he deflated a bit realizing how lonely the next few days would be. Besides Chloé, who was in New York City for the holiday with her parents, the rest of the La Confiture staff were really the only other people with whom he interacted on a regular basis. Of course, he’d be the last person they wanted to see on their precious few days away from the restaurant. Even Nino probably needed a break from him, close as they were.

The slamming of a locker door startled him out of his thoughts, and he looked up to see Marinette Dupain-Cheng at the far end of the room, shrugging on a dark red pea coat and wrapping a black scarf around her neck.

“Chef Dupain-Cheng,” Adrien said, surprised. He stood up. “I didn’t realize you were still here.”

“Oh!” Marinette jumped and turned around, holding a hand to her chest. Her hat was askew over her hair. She walked over to him. “I didn’t even see you when I walked in here!”

Adrien laughed. “Sorry if I startled you.”

Marinette shook her head. “That’s okay, I should have been paying more attention.” She slipped her hat off of her head and held it in both hands before turning her eyes up at him. She paused, as if pondering her next sentence carefully, but when she spoke again, her question was quite simple. “What about you?”

“Me? What about me?”

Marinette looked around the dim locker room as if the meaning of her question were obvious. “Were you… Were you planning on sticking around longer?”

“Oh—no, I was going to lock up and head out in just a few minutes. Just…” He looked back at the bench. “I just needed a minute to take a breather after today.”

Marinette smiled. “That’s understandable.” She paused again, and then she let out a soft laugh. “There are rumors you sleep in here sometimes. I wondered for a second if I was catching you at bedtime.”

Adrien stared at her, momentarily stunned—it was the first time in the two months Marinette had worked at La Confiture that he’d heard anything unrelated to work, let alone a joke, come out of her mouth when she spoke to him. He burst into delighted laughter. “Is there really? I guess on occasion, it’s not too far from the truth. But I was planning on actually going home tonight, rest assured.”

Marinette’s smile seemed to touch her eyes more now, somehow, and Adrien felt his heart leap to life at the hint of a new friendship. Marinette had seemed so quiet and focused since she’d arrived at La Confiture; he’d accepted within a week of her starting in his kitchen, after a few unsuccessful attempts at casual conversation, that she had bigger things to think about than being friends with him. This was a lovely turn of events.

“Ah—by the way, Chef,” Adrien said, “your work was excellent today. I can’t tell you how many compliments your chutney received, even when the customers didn’t request to see you to tell you personally. You really are a wonderful addition to our kitchen.”

Marinette flushed. “Oh, I—well, thank you,” she murmured, tugging her hat—a black beanie with cat ears and green eyes knitted onto it—back on her head.  Adrien bit back a smile when he saw how much the hat reminded him of Plagg. “And thank you for not blowing up when I was late today.”

Adrien shook his head. “No need to thank me. My father and I…” he paused. “We have very different ways of running the kitchen.”

“I think your way works a little better for me,” Marinette muttered, and then her eyes went wide when she realized what she’d said. “I mean—no offense to Chef Agreste, of course—”

Adrien laughed again. “Your secret is safe with me.”

Marinette let out a sigh. “Thanks.” She looked up at him. “Are you—are you walking out now? Would you like me to wait for you to lock up?”

Adrien’s eyebrows rose. “Really? Yes, I’d love that,” he said, and then he blushed when he realized how desperate that sounded. “I—one second, let me just grab my stuff from my locker.”

He rushed off to grab his bag, elation and embarrassment warring with each other in his heart. When he returned and saw Marinette standing in the same spot where he’d left her, looking completely oblivious to his verbal blunder (and ridiculously adorable in that hat), elation won.

---

That concludes part one of this story! My plan is for it to be relatively short and sweet—no more than five parts, with each part being around ten pages or so. I hope you guys enjoyed! I love cooking, I love cooking shows, and I worked in a restaurant (although not nearly as nice as the one I’m portraying here) for quite some time, so I have really enjoyed working on this fic. That being said, I took a few liberties that probably need a little bit of explaining.

First, I’m not really sure that one needs to be an excellent baker to become a sous chef at a top restaurant. Here, Gabriel Agreste likes his sous chefs extremely well-rounded, and Marinette can hardly make a loaf of bread without ruining it. The mistakes she made are extremely amateur, so please suspend your disbelief—I unfortunately am not experienced enough in baking to know what kinds of mistakes are more common for people who know their way around the kitchen! 

Second, just by way of explanation: Gabriel is the chef de cuisine, or the head chef, of the restaurant. Adrien is the sous chef. Since Adrien is so experienced and good at what he does, Gabriel is in and out and takes on more of a managerial position, but he still commands the kitchen multiple days a week. Marinette has been hired as a saucier, or someone who prepares all the sauces and gravies and sautés the food. 

I tried to do a good bit of research about the environment in a top-tier restaurant like this, but of course, I’m likely to get things wrong with the zero experience I have actually having worked in one. If you catch anything that seems blatantly off (minus Marinette’s baking issues), please let me know!

---

next: ii

[katayamoon-writes]

Diary of A.K

Dear diary,

I know its been so long since I’ve had a chance to write but so much has

happened in the past few months. I was chosen to be the Princess elect of Wysteria. Its been so hectic learning all this history, etiquette, learning how to be a royal, and meeting candidates to be my Prince consort. It’s been so much. I have met a lot of kind people but they’ve been a bit vanilla, except one SID. Oh my god he’s so arrogant and self absorbed. He annoys me to no end. Sometimes he comes across like a kid that has a crush because he annoys me so much but then he just acts like a complete jerk then that thought leaves my head. The best thing about being princess, I was reunited with my tutor, Robert! He hasn’t changed a bit. He still the same as ever, sweet, kind, caring and talented. I didn’t know how much I missed him until I was asked to go meet the court painter for my royal portrait. Seeing him brought back all those feelings I had for him. I enjoyed spending hours with him while he painted. I finally was able to kiss him. Then fucking Sid came in. Like seriously does he not have anything better to do than ruin a perfect moment???

~~FLASH BACK~~

“How have you been, Robert? I feel like its been so long since I’ve seen you.”

He smiles, “I’ve been well Anaya Kai, Traveling that's all.”

“Well I’m glad! I just wished you didn’t have to leave me seven years ago.”

“I know but you didn’t need me for anything else, you were a young woman.”

She looks at him and said to herself “I did actually.”

“What was that princess?”

She stood up from her pose and walked to him. “I did still need you Robert.”

He looked up at her from his easel “What do you mean?”

She didn’t answer but instead placed her lips against his. His eyes widen in shock before pushing her away slightly. “Why did you? Is that what? How long have you felt this way?”

She looked down at the floor. “Robert I’ve always had feelings for you. I want you.” She goes in to kiss him again. He welcomed the kiss. Deepening the kiss. His tongue prodding at her closed lips. She opened her lips slightly letting his tongue intertwine with hers. He placed his hand behind her head puling her closer. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Moaning into his lips she pulled him closer wanting to engulf in the heat building inside her.

“uh hmm” startled by the sudden sound of someone clearing their throat. They untangled themselves. Looking toward the door they saw it was none other than Sid.

“Ugh why are here” She said annoyed.

“Nice to see ya too Princess but I came fer Robert here.” Sid said.

“We’re busy at the moment Sid.”

“Ya I can see that. How bout a proposition?”

She looked from Sid to Robert. Finally she spoke, “What do you mean proposition Sid?”

He walks over to her, running the back of his hand down her cheek. “if ya up for it why not have the both of us. Or ya can have just me?”

Robert turns To her and said “Its your decision Princess. I wont force anything on you.” She moves closer to Robert finally whispering in his ear she said “I’ve always wanted you Robert.” He smiles at Sid. Before he can speak she said “But I would be ok with both of you, as long as you’re my first Robert.” Sid steps back to go lock the door. She started to kiss Robert again hungrier. Running his hands down her arm he expertly unties her ribbons in the back of her dress. Neither of them noticed Sid standing there watching waiting for his chance. Robert removed her dress to reveal her perky breast. Teasingly he rubbed her nipples. She shimmied her dress completely off. Sid continued to watch as she disrobed. His eyes filling with envy. Robert went to her sensitive core. Rubbing and tugging on her bud. He eased his fingers into her wetness. She groaned slightly at the invasion. He maneuvered his fingers slowly until she got used to it. He felt her flesh relax. Moving his fingers a little faster she felt the first spasm. She released her juices all over his fingers. Finally breaking the kiss he placed his fingers in his mouth. Sucking off her sweet juice. She watched him taste her nectar before being overcome with uncontrollable desire. She stripped off his shirt. Revealing a scar. Running her fingers over his chest, he placed his hands on top of hers. Guiding her down to his throbbing member. He moaned when she gently squeezed. Unbuttoning his pants she felt his length fall out immediately. Taking It in her hand she slowly stroked him. Enjoying the moans escaping from his lips. Nearing his peak. He spun her around and bent her over before pushing his long thick cock inside her slowly. She winced slightly adjusting to his girth. He started to pound inside her.

Sid saunters up to her stroking her face “Think ya can handle two cocks princess?” she doesn't answer only moans reaching her hand out she felt how big he was. “Ya you can handle it.” Unzipping his pants he let her take control. She worked her hands up and down his shaft. Finally taking it in her mouth she slurps and gags on his meat. Pushing him further into her throat. She moved her mouth faster. Going in pace with Roberts Assault on her tight pussy. She felt a thrumming in her mouth. He grabbed her head holding her down before a hot liquid spurt out. She continued to suck on his length. He groaned in satisfaction before letting go of her head. Pulling out of her mouth he steps back. “I think that's all I needed. ”He got himself dressed before leaving discreetly.

Robert still was working on her heat. He lifted one of her legs up in the air so he can easily rub her bud. He tugged slightly before feeling another wave of spasms hit her body. She clasped her hand over her mouth to muffle the cries of pleasure. Feeling her walls contract against his shaft he released his load inside of her. Still pounding inside her a bigger wave racks her body. He smiled feeling her core spasms on his shaft. He slowed his thrusting before he finally left her flesh. Steading her body he picks her up taking her back to the bench she was sitting on before. He went back to pick up her dress. Helping her dress. He kissed her cheek. “How do you feel Anaya Kai?” She murmured incoherently. Chuckling he told her “We can always go for another round my love.”

~PRESENT~

Diary I swear my first time was so amazing. Not only did I give it to the man I love. I even to see Sid in a new light. I don’t know if I’ll ever let Sid touch me that way but I do know that when Robert touches my skin, my body hums in anticipation of what's to come. I cant wait to be with him again. He really has captured my heart and my body. As always dairy talk to you soon.

[thethespacecoyote]

a WIP from the bad bad omegaverse au

ft. jack’s creepy pregnancy kink and shitty tendency to flirt with omegas while their mate is under the knife

Jack was thrilled.

His brand new doppleganger-to-be was going under the knife for the first time at this very moment, getting that old, wiener mug chopped up and reshaped into a perfect replica of his own handsome visage. It sent a giddy excitement through him at the mere thought—how many alphas were rich enough to have someone else’s face remolded in their own image? It was several leaps above just getting your portrait painted or bust sculpted. It was a whole living, breathing, flesh and blood ego booster.

But it wasn’t like the surgeon’s could bang out a fully realized Jack double just like that. It was only the first surgery, and even just an initial restructuring of the other alpha’s face would take some time. And yeah, he had had some fun for awhile watching the surgeons draw arrows and dotted lines over the other alpha’s slack face, followed by scalpels and lasers cutting and burning that pale freckled skin, but even that got boring after the first hour. So he’d taken a walk away from the observation deck, hands in his pockets, looking about for a distraction.

He’d even been considering popping back to his penthouse to take a quick catnap, when he chanced to glance into one of the wide open doors, ears perking at the slow sound of pacing footprints. He stopped in front of the door, a small, interested smile spreading across his features as he quickly hopped over the threshold.

Oh, now this was a treat.

There was a young man pacing in the middle of the room, dark little flats slapping against the carpet, one hand braced against his back, the other up at his mouth, where he nibbled nervously at his nails. Jack rested his forearm against the doorframe, looking the unaware omega up and down with a grin. His nose told him all he needed to know about the omega before he turned around, showing off the clear curve of a pregnant stomach underneath that draw Jack’s eyes like a magnet in the same instant the omega noticed him.

“Oh…I….Handsome Jack, sir…” The young man stammered, stopping in his pacing, his hands instinctively going to his stomach in the presence of another alpha. Jack felt a pleased little trill go through him as Rhys’ palms inadvertently tightened the fabric over his belly. Jack’s trained eyes put the omega at about four, maybe bleeding into five months at this point. Just beginning to get properly full and rounded out in all the ways that got Jack’s rocks off. 

Well. What a nice little distraction he’d stumbled across. This could certainly kill the couple of hours left until lil’ Timmy woke up from his surgery. Jack smirked, pushing off from the doorframe as he swaggered over to the omega, shoulders squared and one hand on his hip.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” Jack kept his voice at a dark croon, blatantly eyeing the omega up and down. The subtle shift backwards he earned from the omega was enough to get his heart pounding even faster in excitement at cornering potential prey.

“What’s a sweet little thing like you doing around here?” The space between Jack and the omega quickly slimmed, crowded with the alpha’s body as he tilted his head and inhaled deeply.

That smell. That smell. Jack wanted to wrap himself up in it, he wanted to drink it down until it simmered warm and sweet in his stomach. It was like cinnamon and vanilla steeped in hot milk, with just the slightest hint of blood and lesser alpha musk. His nose wrinkled a little at the the smell of another on the omega, but it was slight enough for him to ignore in favor of ogling the pretty little thing a little more.

He wasn’t as petite as most, and unusually tall, maybe even Jack’s height without the current, elegant curve of his spine. But the traits of his endotype were certainly flourishing in the gentler slope of his jawline, the pretty skin and silky hair that curled in little auburn trails along the nape of his neck.

Was there anything prettier than a pregnant omega? Jack sincerely doubted it.

A small frown crossed over the omega’s features as he took a full step back, trying in vain to put more space between himself and Jack.  

“Well, I’m just…” Jack was barely listening, honestly, more distracted by the way the omega absently rubbed at his belly, the nervous twitch in his fingers becoming evident as Jack leered at the omega’s curved form—the round hips and soft baby bump filling out atop two lanky legs rarely seen in the endotype.

“…hope he’ll be all right, I’m just….I don’t know…uh…sir?” The slightly insistent tone to the omega’s voice snapped him out of his reverie.

“Huh? Sorry, kitten, just kind of spaced out there…” Jack stuck his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels as he took a step forward, again closing the distance between himself and the omega. He could sense the discomfort coming from the omega, but cast it aside as he pressed closer. He saw the reactive twitch of the young man’s hand at the proximity, and he blamed the intense pregnancy scent for the fact that he didn’t notice the omega’s cybernetic hand until now.

Wait a second.

“Oh my god, hold it, don’t tell me,” Jack raised a finger, pointing it at the young man, “you’re waiting for Timmy to come out of surgery!”

Rhys’ eyes widened at him, an annoyed twitch in his brows.

“Yeah…I was just saying…”

Jack snapped his finger rudely in front of the omega as he tried to jog his memory.

“You’re uh….oh, crap, he told me…”

“Rhys.” The omega stated, cybernetic fingers tapping against his stomach. Jack grinned in realization, tapping his forehead.

“Reece, yeah! That’s it.”

[thethespacecoyote]

Okay despite feeling like ass I managed to finish the bad bad AU drabble from last night

once again ft. jack’s creepy pregnancy kink, jack coming onto rhys during tim’s first surgery and just being a handsy ogling creeper so warning for that yanno. dont read if skeevy things like that make you uncomfortable please!

set during tim’s surgery from this fic

Jack was thrilled.

His brand new doppleganger-to-be was going under the knife for the first time at this very moment, getting that old, wiener mug chopped up and reshaped into a perfect replica of his own handsome visage. It sent a giddy excitement through him at the mere thought—how many alphas were rich enough to have someone else’s face remolded in their own image? It was several leaps above just getting your portrait painted or bust sculpted. It was a whole living, breathing, flesh and blood ego booster.

But it wasn’t like the surgeon’s could bang out a fully realized Jack double just like that. It was only the first surgery, and even just an initial restructuring of the other alpha’s face would take some time. And yeah, he had had some fun for awhile watching the surgeons draw arrows and dotted lines over the other alpha’s slack face, followed by scalpels and lasers cutting and burning that tan freckled skin, but even that got boring after the first hour. So he’d taken a walk away from the observation deck, hands in his pockets, looking about for a distraction.

He’d even been considering popping back to his penthouse to take a quick catnap, when he chanced to glance into one of the wide open doors, ears perking at the slow sound of pacing footprints. He stopped in front of the door, a small, interested smile spreading across his features as he quickly hopped over the threshold.

Oh, now this was a treat.

There was a young man pacing in the middle of the room, dark little flats slapping against the carpet, one hand braced against his back, the other up at his mouth, where he nibbled nervously at his nails. Jack rested his forearm against the doorframe, looking the unaware omega up and down with a grin. His nose told him all he needed to know about the omega before he turned around, showing off the clear curve of a pregnant stomach underneath that draw Jack’s eyes like a magnet in the same instant the omega noticed him.

“Oh…I….Handsome Jack, sir…” The young man stammered, stopping in his pacing, his hands instinctively going to his stomach in the presence of another alpha. Jack felt a pleased little trill go through him as Rhys’ palms inadvertently tightened the fabric over his belly. Jack’s trained eyes put the omega at about four, maybe bleeding into five months at this point. Just beginning to get properly full and rounded out in all the ways that got Jack’s rocks off.

Well. What a nice little distraction he’d stumbled across. This could certainly kill the couple of hours left until lil’ Timmy woke up from his surgery. Jack smirked, pushing off from the doorframe as he swaggered over to the omega, shoulders squared and one hand on his hip.

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?” Jack kept his voice at a dark croon, blatantly eyeing the omega up and down. The subtle shift backwards he earned from the omega was enough to get his heart pounding even faster in excitement at cornering potential prey.

“What’s a sweet little thing like you doing around here?” The space between Jack and the omega quickly slimmed, crowded with the alpha’s body as he tilted his head and inhaled deeply.

That smell. That smell. Jack wanted to wrap himself up in it, he wanted to drink it down until it simmered warm and sweet in his stomach. It was like cinnamon and vanilla steeped in hot milk, with just the slightest hint of blood and lesser alpha musk. His nose wrinkled a little at the the smell of another on the omega, but it was slight enough for him to ignore in favor of ogling the pretty little thing a little more.

He wasn’t as petite as most, and unusually tall, maybe even Jack’s height without the current, elegant curve of his spine. But the traits of his endotype were certainly flourishing in the gentler slope of his jawline, the pretty skin and silky hair that curled in little auburn trails along the nape of his neck.

Was there anything prettier than a pregnant omega? Jack sincerely doubted it.

A small frown crossed over the omega’s features as he took a full step back, trying in vain to put more space between himself and Jack.  

“Well, I’m just…” Jack was barely listening, honestly, more distracted by the way the omega absently rubbed at his belly, the nervous twitch in his fingers becoming evident as Jack leered at the omega’s curved form—the round hips and soft baby bump filling out atop two lanky legs rarely seen in the endotype.

“…hope he’ll be all right, I’m just….I don’t know…uh…sir?” The slightly insistent tone to the omega’s voice snapped him out of his reverie.

“Huh? Sorry, kitten, just kind of spaced out there…” Jack stuck his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels as he took a step forward, again closing the distance between himself and the omega. He could sense the discomfort coming from the omega, but cast it aside as he pressed closer. He saw the reactive twitch of the young man’s hand at the proximity, and he blamed the intense pregnancy scent for the fact that he didn’t notice the omega’s cybernetic hand until now.

Wait a second.

Jack remembered asking a couple of questions out of curiosity to his prospective double. Of course, merely admitting that you would be crazy to give up the opportunity to actually be Handsome Jack would have been a satisfactory enough answer, but Timothy had something more. A sad, sad little story about failed birth control, of one too many kids, of an omega kept home from work due to health issues—

“Oh my god, hold it, don’t tell me,” Jack raised a finger, pointing it at the young man, “you’re waiting for Timmy to come out of surgery!”

Rhys’ eyes widened at him, an annoyed twitch in his brows.

“Yeah…I was just saying…”

Jack snapped his finger rudely in front of the omega as he tried to jog his memory.

“You’re uh….oh, crap, he told me…”

“Rhys.” The omega stated, cybernetic fingers tapping against his stomach. Jack grinned in realization, tapping his forehead.

“Reece, yeah…that’s it.” Jack slinked closer, his abdomen brushing ever so slightly against the curve of Rhys’ stomach as they shared a breath for a brief moment before Rhys was again pulling away, nearly backed into the corner of the room between the decorative ficus and the water cooler. Jack laughed inwardly as the omega unwittingly narrowed his own means of escape. He caught the wobbling in Rhys’ skinny legs, the omega trembling slightly in the alpha’s presence.

“Why don’t you sit down? Might be better for an omega of your…carriage to rest.” Jack purred, eyes falling briefly to Rhys’ belly as he rested a hand on the arm of one of the chairs, caging the omega in. God, he was cute. Showing just enough to fill out his form, but leaving more than enough room to grow.

And Jack….Jack really wanted to be around to see that.

He let Rhys slid into the chair he was leaning on, his other hand ever so momentarily cupping the small of the omega’s back. Rhys sat down rather quickly, thighs pressed tightly together and hands caged around his stomach.

“That’s much better. The procedure is gonna take a little while, no sense in tuckering yourself out on your feet.” Jack stayed leering and hunched over the omega, blatant in his occupation of Rhys’ personal space.

“I suppose so…” Rhys murmured, and Jack could taste apprehension on his tongue, and it was oh so sweet.

“Good boy.” Jack purred, giving Rhys a pat on the leg that lingered perhaps a little too long, his fingers trailing back over the omega’s knee.

“Sir…” Rhys started, eyes warily scanning the alpha, “I….shouldn’t you be observing Timothy’s surgery?”

Jack shrugged, fingers tapping against Rhys’ knee.

“I was, but it’s not nearly as fun as I thought it was gonna be…” Rhys furrowed his brows, lips parted in an affronted oval.

“I…well, it’s not really supposed to be fun…it’s like…surgery…” Rhys trailed off, eyes caught between Jack’s predatory grin and the broad fingers that were skating back up his leg, Jack’s other hand now gripping the arm of the chair.

“Mmm, well, anyways, I got bored and wanted to look around for some fun…really glad I ran into you, sugar, you really brightened this old alpha’s day.”

“Sir, um….I’m bonded and married to Tim…he told you that, right?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, sure….so how far along are you, sweetheart?”

“Sir,” Rhys stated firmly, his hand going to stop Jack’s groping fingers, “I, um…I have to go to the bathroom!” He levered himself up a little too quickly, wincing at the sudden pressure on his feet but he pushed through it. Jack let him, straightening up and crossing his arms as he watched the omega go with a perverse grin on his face, indulging in the way Rhys’ hips swayed back and forth as he quickly waddled away. Rhys stopped at the doorway and stole a quick glance back, which Jack greeted with a coy wave that drove the omega out into the hallway in a rapid tap of shoes against steel floor.

“Well well well…” Jack murmured to himself as Rhys’ footsteps faded away into echo. He hadn’t counted on Timothy’s mate being such a hot, well-bred little thing. This information definitely required a change in his current plans.

The image of that pretty, pregnant omega was burned into Jack’s brain, and now that Rhys was gone Jack found himself in want of more.

They had been just planning to “kill” Tim on the operating table and send the insurance money to the kid’s family, but now that this peach of an omega was in the picture, Jack was reluctant to send Rhys and his brood on their way while keeping only Tim on as his double.

Jack snickered. Oh, little Timmy would be so happy to find out that Jack had graciously decided to allow him to keep his family.

Everything would work out, so long as his double-to-be knew how to share.