#i forgot to post this yesterday and left this post open

[oldeubagel]

yuri to celebrate the new kalos game

[kittzuxp]

wait acrylic colors are awesome actually i might try painting something again once i buy new ones

[hangesdarling]

but i’m a cheerleader! — h. zoë

PAIRING. Hange Zoë x fem!reader SUMMARY. Your parents sent you to a conversion camp because of your homosexual tendencies. Will you graduate from the camp as a fully-fledged heterosexual or find love while you're there? CONTENT. but I’m a cheerleader au, reader is based on Meghan, nerd!Hange, fluff, homophobia, friends to lovers, making out, barely proofread :’) WORD COUNT. 4.4k A/N. HAPPY PRIDE MONTH GAY HANGE LOVERS! This fic is my pride month gift to you all <3 also I can make my own dividers now! I'll be posting them soon too!

You’ve been fiddling with your pom-poms the whole ride, a string of pinks and oranges wrapping around your finger as you tried to empty your mind. Sending you off to a conversion boot camp, it’s preposterous! You pouted, looking over the window, and instead of counting backwards like you always do when something is testing your temper, you made a mental list of why you’re not a homosexual. You get good grades, you’re a Christian, you have a boyfriend, you’re a cheerleader! Every quality of a straight girl you could think of. Surely, they'll let you go home after you’ve proven your point, right?

When the car halted, your parents delivered you to the doorstep of an otherwise neat house if it weren't for the forced pink paint on specific areas. A Mary J. Brown, as she called herself, greeted you at the door, with a plastered smile at your parents as though promising she can return you straight. You wanted to scoff, roll your eyes, maybe. But your mom taught you to be nice to aging ladies. 

“Ma’am, I’m sorry for the inconvenience here but I don’t think my parents’ speculation was right from the beginning,” you tried to reason, not even a minute in her office. You smiled, made your point, that's what you’re great at. “I’m not a homosexual.”

“Now, it’s normal to be in a stage of denial. You won’t even suspect that your actions are unnatural!” she smiled again as if in casual conversation. 

Unnatural? 

She brought out a drab gown, matching with an ugly footwear and explained that it was part of the first stage. You wanted to politely refuse and call all of this a kinder synonym for lunacy but you’re not very sure of the lady's breaking point. 

She passed you to a girl named Hilary for a tour around the camp, the bright pink haunting you at every corner. Even the pink uniforms reminded you of napkins, detergents, and cupcakes but not in a nice way

The bright glittery pink assaulted your eyes as Hillary opened the door.

“This is where we sleep but there is no inappropriate behavior allowed,” Hilary said as a caution. 

You blinked, “Inappropriate? Like swearing?”

Then a different voice spoke, “No, inappropriate as in fucking or setting the room on fire, that sort.”

The person said over the book they were reading.You could only make out a mess of brown hair tied into a ponytail, and deep brown glasses until they set the book down.

You only realized that you’ve been staring when the person waved a hand and smiled. Your cheeks heated in embarrassment and you forgot to wave back when Hilary ushered you outside. The tip of your ears heated even more when you realized that your underwear was peeking out of the dress you’re wearing.

“Well, nevermind, Hange. They're a bit weird,” Hilary said, standing next to the list of what seemed to be your fellow campers with the label “HOMOSEXUAL” above. 

“Surely, harmless, right?” you laughed, just a small questioning ha-ha. 

“Not sure about that yet,” Hilary responded vaguely. “We all passed the first step just yesterday.”

She pointed to a checklist of five rows. It seemed like a long grocery list with names on it but you remembered what Ms. Brown said earlier. You can become straight in five easy ways! That's way less steps than making pancakes. 

Your name still left the first box unchecked and you have a terrible intuition that this day would not pass without the check mark upon it.

-

As always, your intuition did not fail you but this time you’re not happy about it. No sooner, it was time to meet your fellow campers, sitting around you in nursery blue and pink uniforms, They did not look too interested in the process themselves.

“Hi, I’m Y/N. How do you do?” you smiled. This was like a first day in class, right? You just need to introduce yourself and go.

Right?

Ms. Mary Brown instructed them to introduce themselves. You’re somehow glad you don’t have to endure this pastel hell alone.

They introduced themselves one by one, their names flying out of your head anyway, try as you might to listen. Each introduction was punctuated by “I’m a homosexual” which you’re not surprised at by now since you’ve been hearing the word repeatedly today.

Hange did not have their book this time, but they were twirling a pen in one hand. They can't sit still very well. When it was their turn, they stopped twirling the pen, and smiled, “We met earlier.”

“Hange,” Ms. Brown wore a smile of warning.

They only chuckled and stood up. “Now, now, I’m just confirming. I’m Hange. I’d say I like stars, insects, and chemistry but mostly girls. That's what got me here. Certified homosexual here. Nice to meet you, Y/N.”

And like the time you first met, you’ve been staring again. Staring at the way their eyes shine in lovely shades of brown, or the way their hair frames their face, or how much genderless elegance they present even if they're obviously a nerd. You reckon they could dress up a certain way and they'll pass as a boyfriend in front of your parents. 

Then, you caught yourself. 

Wait.

Those are homosexual thoughts, right?

You chuckled nervously, the name of the guy who introduced himself after missed your ear entirely. You’re losing focus here.

When it’s your time to overcome the first step and admit your homosexuality, you repeat the practiced list of reasons you’ve been listing in your head since the car ride there.

You were then met with follow up questions, ones that grew more prickly in the skin, especially at the mention of intimacy with the opposite sex. You’re horrified at the thought of any phallic flesh at an arm’s length from you and it shows. Eventually, you’ve grown tired of the denial stage, any retort you can think of hitting you back with the reality that you are, indeed, a homosexual.

“Fine!” you screamed in frustration. “I’m a homosexual!”

The frustration dissipated into relief as they all clapped their hands. But the realization did not feel like a ton of bricks, or icy water trickling down your spine. It felt…different.

It felt like entering a whimsical amusement park of unknown rides and you picked a particularly risky rollercoaster. It was both fun and dreadful and you didn’t quite know how to put the two together. 

As they left one by one, you were handed the bright pink uniform. You rubbed on the fabric and sighed, you’re a homosexual. Something you’re denying hours ago.

“Hey, Y/N,” a voice called, that one your ear familiarized with the most.

“Hey, Hange,” you returned their greeting.

“See you later,” they beamed, and in a quieter voice, “Nobody really follows the lights-out rule, we can play board games all night.”

And then they winked and you almost blacked out.

“Sounds fun,” you couldn’t suppress a giggle anymore. “I look forward to it.”

-

After you took a long shower and changed into the bright pink uniforms, Hange was true to their word that nobody follows the light-outs rule. Even Hilary was reading a ridiculously heterosexual pocket book as if it’s a textbook. Sinead was smoking by the window, briefly glancing at you before putting headphones on.

Hange was setting up a Snakes and Ladders board game at the foot of the bed.

“Y/N!” Hange tapped the carpeted floor across from them, ushering you to sit and start a game with them. You did so, remarking that you liked Snakes and Ladders. 

“We’re gonna start off easy. I have a feeling you’re gonna beat me on this one,” Hange joked, rolling the dice which landed in two. For a while, it felt like you’re old friends at a slumber party. Joking around, exchanging stories in each of your turn while poor Hilary was chastising both of you to keep it down. 

“Are there no other books allowed here except those?” You asked, pointing to a tall pile of romance books near Hilary’s bed, a man and woman always displayed intimately on the cover. 

“Well, Ms. Brown allowed real textbooks. I have biochemistry and astrophysics over there,” they pointed at their bedside table. “Told her I need to read some material for the upcoming college.”

“And you need this large pile of board games too?” you joked, tapping the pile of board game boxes beside them with some names you can't even recognize or pronounce.

“Of course I do. I reckoned I’ll be bored out of my mind here so I brought these along. There's nothing to learn here.” Their voice had an edge of bitterness in it and you wondered how much they've grown to hate this place.

“Except being straight that is,” you responded, rolling the dice again and groaning when it landed on a snake.

Hange scoffed, laughed bitterly and said, “That's not something to be learned.”

“You don’t think so, huh?”

“Yes. These people are insane.”

“I agree with you,” you whispered and caught yourself too late.

“You do, huh?” they teased. “Christian, cheerleader girl with a boyfriend?”

“Oh, please,” I rolled my eyes. “You might add homosexual to that too.”

“Welcome to the club, then.”

For the rest of the night, you played board games, willingly learning the ones you don’t know about. It tickled your brain in an amusing way, and you couldn’t think of any fun ways those games can be played without Hange. 

-

No sooner, the long list of activities in Step 2 began: rediscovering your gender identity.

Ms. Brown made it clear with a list of feminine activities, and the more you read the tasks listed there, the more you realized you didn’t like much of it. It can't mean that you’re doomed to homosexuality, of course. Some things can be learned.

“This is tedious,” Hange groaned, staring at the ceiling, anything to avert their eyes off the floor to be cleaned. “I hate cleaning.”

“Unfortunately, it’s essential,” you frowned, taking a soapy scrub. “We better finish it fast.”

Hange wasn’t too happy about it, that's the darkest you’ve seen their mood turn since meeting yesterday. They kept drawing on the floor with soap which didn't help. 

“Hey, Hans, look here,” you ushered them close and whispered. “I know you really love challenging stuff and this is no fun for you. But how about this…”

You traced a soapy finger over their area, even going over them until you reached the wall. Then you went by their side again and grinned, “Have it done in 10 minutes.”

They scanned curiously around the area and whispered. “But that’s…”

“Impossible?” you teased, adjusting a 10-minute alarm on Hange's watch.

Then they smiled, the competitive sparkle in their eyes alive at once as though the whole floor was a board game.

“Improbable. But I can manage,” they declared and got to work as quickly as they could manage. 

You went on with the gamification strategy for the rest of the step 2, although some other activities needed more patience like sewing and manicure. Without much of their stubborness, you recognized Hange had steady hands and managed most of the task efficiently. On their stubborn days, they would sneak out of the camp and climb the highest tree near the pond so they could read in peace. Ms. Brown will always send you off to fetch them, and it only takes a minute of persuasion before you give up and sit on the tree with them anyway.

It was the first time you’ve seen birds up close, or for small insects to crawl willingly at someone's hand.

“It loves you,” you whispered in awe as a miniscule green fly flew at the back of their thumb.

“It’s a torpedo bug. Siphanta acuta,” Hange had to bite their lip to contain the excitement. “It’s harmless. Look closely.”

You did so, watching the unmoving bug with leaf-like wings. It looked at ease in Hange's hand.

Suddenly, Hange gasped softly, looking at you, or looking past you, you’re not very sure.

“Something landed on you too!” they gushed in a hushed whisper.

“Another torpedo bug?” you asked curiously and realized they were looking at your shoulder.

“No,” they pushed their glasses up and squinted, “Hubner’s wasp moth!”

“Is it harmless?” 

“It is,” Hange spoke softly, inching closer. 

You sat still, lest you will scare the harmless moth off your shoulder.

“It’s my favorite moth, you know. I used to see them in my grandma's garden.” Hange's smile was too pure and soft that your heart jumped around your ribcage. It didn’t help that they were sitting too close. “Lemme get it for you.”

The torpedo bug flew out of their hand as if on cue and their steady right hand inched closer on your shoulder. You didn’t dare to turn your head as your hair might brush the moth away so you stared at Hange's focused face, their slightly creased brow, the tiny light brown freckles on their cheeks that you didn’t notice before, and their rosy lips. The beating of your heart rang in your ears, if you moved an inch closer your lips could touch their cheek. 

“There, I got it,” Hange breathed out a chuckle as the moth settled on their index finger. “Beautiful, isn't it?”

And truly it was such a beautiful thing to behold. The symmetrically patterned wings, the deep brown and dandelion of its body, and its harmless nature made it all the more interesting. Its warm radiance resembled Hange in a way you could not explain. Maybe it was the way they sit by the window in the morning, reading and waiting for you to wake up so they can convince you to sneak out. Or when you both bring your pancakes outside during breakfast so your eyes can take a break from the bright colors inside and stare at the peaceful garden to watch the butterflies flutter about the tulips. 

For a moment, you couldn’t breathe, your heart was in a terrible lovestruck frenzy that you almost forgot Hange and the moth. Does love always feel like a heart attack?

Hange carefully placed the moth on a wide, lime-colored leaf dipping from its branches and turned to you. 

“Ready to go?” they asked and you nodded. Then froze for a moment when you realized how high up you’re both at.

-

“Woah, woah, easy…” Hange held you by the waist when you almost slipped down while scooting over the branch. “Don’t go falling on me now. Ms Brown will kill me!”

You shared a laugh as you responded, “Your fault for always running off to high places.”

“We’ll sneak somewhere else next time.” It sounded like a promise. You wanted to ask more but the perils of coming down that tree allowed you nothing but listening to Hange's insructions.

“Put your foot down there.” or “Grab that branch.” You were embarrassed to admit that you’re in survival mode. 

Hange climbed down much faster, even with a thick book tucked in their arm. You both ran back inside just in time for lunch. The remaining activities went on until you forgot that you might be in love with your new best friend.

-

It helped that your relationship was dressed in an innocuous name: best friends. The kind of best friend you'll write to after graduation, one where you can meet up every few months to have drinks with, the one you'll ask to be your bridesmaid on your wedding day. That kind of girl friendship, right?

You only realized how complicated it was to give the name a definition when you enjoyed holding their hand when the others weren't looking, or when you indulge on their late night rambles until you fell asleep on their bed, or that time you almost blacked out when they kissed a thank-you on your cheek. It dawned on you that you might be doomed, walking straight to the point of no-return. But you can't imagine holding anyone's hand and liking it if it wasn’t Hange's. 

One morning, Ms. Brown initiated another activity that might help: finding what might be the root of your homosexuality.

The others confided one by one but when your turn came, their expecting eyes became unbearable so you said, “I’ve been thinking but I can't think of anything. Maybe there's nothing?”

“There certainly must be a traumatic or influential event that led you to the wrong path, isn't there?” Ms. Brown responded.

“Or maybe it’s just the way it is,” Hange butted in, your knees pressed flush as you sat beside each other.

Ms. Brown sighed and said, “That can't possibly be, Hange. Now while we wait for Y/N’s answer, why don’t you go ahead first?”

Hange had a bored expression upon their face and said, “Can’t think of any either. I’ve been like this since forever.”

“How about influences at home, or at school?”

Hange laughed then, “Ms. Brown, I think you just want me to say that the all-girl boarding school I attended made me gay.”

“That's an entirely plausible reason.” 

“Except that I dropped after two months.”

You were slightly surprised. Everyone is.

“And why is that?” Ms. Brown asked.

“Can’t bear the homophobic lunatics,” Hange said, looking directly at Ms. Brown. “So I transferred to a science high school.”

You smiled, and couldn’t help yourself. You said, “That's cool. How was science high school?”

“Better. And there is more equipment. You can use the astronomy club's telescope whenever you want!”

Your next question was cut short when Ms. Brown interfered, “Now, we are here to identify your roots, not celebrate it. You better identify it well, especially you, Y/N, and write a reflection about it.”

Ms. Brown then dismissed the meeting.

As you walked away, Hange giggled and said, “It’s so easy to piss her off.”

You both shared a low five and laughed as you headed back inside.

“Besides, finding a root? That's ridiculous! For all I know, this conversion camp made me gay,” you chortled.

Hange gave you a curious smile, “Good job, hon, you defeated the purpose of this whole camp.”

“I’m very proud of myself, thank you,” you gave a comical bow.

“So… what part of this camp made you gay, huh?” Hange faced you then continued, “Is it an act of defiance, a certain influence, someone…?”

With each question they seemed to appear closer, and it sent your heart into another gymnastics. You can tell that Hange will keep pestering you about it until you give in.

“Nope, never gonna tell you,” you grinned. “And you'll never catch me.”

You took off into a sprint, the cheerleading training finally had benefits as you outrun Hange along the whole camp. You were winning until Hange strategize and used a shortcut, tackling you to the grass until you both rolled down the shallow dip in the garden.

You laughed until your stomach hurt, laughed even harder when grass and dirt stuck to your pink uniforms and for a while everything felt right. It felt like falling down into your childhood storybooks but in this case, it wasn’t just friendship that you felt.

Hange peeked over the mound of grass and said, “Ms. Brown doesn't come here often.”

They turned to you and smirked, “What do you think we should do?”

“Something she won’t like,” you grinned, your eyes settling to Hange's lips and it did not take them a minute to understand.

“How about this…” Hange whispered softly, eyes trained on your lips before kissing you. And it felt like sparks, like the first burst of citrus in your lips. But they hesitated, struck by a thought that such a kiss wasn’t meant to last. You pulled them by the color, whining silently, begging for  the kiss to last until you’re satiated. That's all the permission they needed to continue, to kiss you like it was the last time, until you were gasping for breath, until your lips remembered the shape of their own.

You can't wipe the smile off your face after. Even Ms. Brown was fooled that you were starting to enjoy her noon lectures. 

You kissed Hange in the bathroom again, and again when you knew nobody was looking. 

-

That night, you stayed up late to write the reflection Ms. Brown assigned earlier. You wrote a whole childhood best friend shtick just to make Ms. Brown shut up. It comes as a struggle when you’re too preoccupied replaying the kiss on your head. Although half of what you wrote was fabricated, some truths stuck out and you’re afraid it will grow undeniable for the days to come.

Looks like you’re not coming home heterosexual after all. 

On the bed next to you, Hange did not seem to be completing the assignment. The pencil movement only indicated sketches and if you squinted closely, quick labels. It must be requiring them a lot of thought since their brows scrunched more than ever and they were drawing phantom signals in the air. 

You watched them for a while and fell asleep in your notebook, unaware of Hange's good night kiss on your forehead just before lights out.

-

Ms. Brown woke everyone up early for another lecture outside. Something about the negative consequences of homosexuality, sodomy and evil, and more things you don’t care about. You read your reflections out loud in the class but you weren't listening for the most part. 

When the lecture ended, Ms. Brown reminded you of focusing on lectures, and gave both of you and Hange a long stare as you walked away. 

It was Hange's idea for the both of you to take on gardening tasks. It was that or inside that hellish camp, they explained. You were convinced they just like staring at leaf bugs or digging out earthworms. You did not mind very much since you enjoy admiring the flowers, and stealing glances at Hange. 

Today, Rock, Ms. Brown’s son, is in the garden, picking out weeds and removing pests. You wished he'd leave soon so you can carry out gardening tasks without anyone watching.

Hange saw him plucking a frog out of the flower bed and called out to him, “Hey, tough guy, unhand the amphibian, will you?”

“The what?” Rock asked as if he didn’t understand.

“The frog,” Hange repeated simply, laying out their hands. “Hand it here.”

He did so and said, “Keep the critters away, Mom doesn't like them around the plants.”

“Alright,” Hange walked away with the small frog ushering you to head to the pond with them. You had to wait it out until Rock is done weeding after all. Hange cooed happily at the frog as if playing peek-a-boo with a baby. You’re surprised the frog hadn't jumped out of their hand already.

You both sat behind a huge tree near the pond, your toes can touch the water if you stretched your legs.

“God bless the frogs, they're not homophobic,” Hange chuckled, setting the tiny frog down near the pond. It stayed for a while before hopping into the water, and to a lily pad nearby. 

You were leaning at Hange's shoulder as your eyes followed the frog. You don’t know what to say, the grass felt soft beneath you, the sun was a soft honey yellow in the sky, and words did not feel so necessary at the moment.

So you pressed a light kiss on Hange's cheek to which they responded with a lopsided grin.

“Is that the best you can do, cheerleader?” they asked, very much aware how challenging you can end up.

“Of course not.” You surprised them by straddling their lap, sitting there comfortably as if it was made for you to sit on. It was one of the rare occasions where you see Hange blush, especially when their own teasing returns to them.

“Alright, you win,” they admitted and you shrugged as if it was the most natural thing.

“I wish I could sit on you like this with better clothes,” you frowned, plucking at the pink uniform skirt you never liked.

“Or none at all,” Hange offered.

“Pervert.”

You kissed again, deeper than yesterday, with more yearning unleashed and breaking free into a fit of passion. Hange's hand teased the edge of your skirt and you guided the further. The need to feel them everywhere, in every inch of your skin, came stronger. You wished and wished that you could be anywhere else, somewhere quiet, like your bedroom when you’re home alone. Those times where your parents take three day business trips, but instead of just blasting music in the house or ordering a large pizza while you watch chick flicks, you have Hange. How fun and light and beautiful things could have been! It felt like true love, like a movie screen bursting into a classic love song at a first kiss. 

When you tire out, you perch your head on Hange's shoulder. The rustling of the leaves, and the chirp of the birds sustained both of your silence.

Then Hange spoke, “We can go somewhere you know…”

“Where?”

“I’m an expert runaway, we can go anywhere.”

Hange felt you smile on their shoulder. “Good luck saying that to Ms. Brown.”

“I may have a way.”

You looked Hange in the eyes and saw that mischievous glint once again. They are serious about running away.

“Try my left pocket,” they instructed. “My hands are kinda full here.”

You rolled your eyes and chuckled as you reached for their left pocket, “They won’t be if you weren't holding my ass.”

You felt a thick bunch of paper in their pocket and pulled it out. Once unfolded, the paper showed a rough draft of the camp’s ground plan, including directions of nearby infrastructure around.

You were about to ask what the map is for when they gave you another instruction, “Now, my right pocket.”

You reached for it and felt a small matchbox. Looking closely, it has a white illustration of a rooster on a rainbow background with the word “COCKSUCKER” arched above. You shook the box and the half-full contents rattled.

“You can't be serious, Hange…”

“Humor me.”

For a while, you were stunned, your mind spiraling into a vast plane of possibilities, of the things to come and the things to be left behind. Your thoughts clamored against your skull until Hange gave a feather-light kiss on your knuckles. Then everything fell into a hush.

“What do you say, my Juliet?”

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated, sweethearts <3

[llxferim]

“My name’s not God, Sweetheart”

a/n: YALL 145 NOTES ON MY LAST FIC IS CRAZYY THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH, THIS GIVES ME SO MUCH MOTIVATION AGHH. also i meant to post this yesterday but i forgot…

REQUESTS ARE OPEN! (pls request smth😔)

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader

Summary: You came back from yet another mission from Fury, who has been pushing you a little over the edge lately, barely giving you any time to catch a breath and heal up, this time you got seriously injured. your girlfriend— who’s on a mission overboard was supposed come back in a few days, but she decided to come home early as a surprise.

Warnings: smut, 18+ MDNI, no yn used, nat is a bit of a tease, established relationship, thigh riding, eventual smut, smut with little plot. teasing, receiving oral (reader). fem!reader, flirting, injured reader, fluff, little angst, cuts;bruises mentioned, not proofread

Word count: 1.6 k

You sat on the cold concrete, your back against the remains of a shattered structure. Normally, you took pride in completing your missions without collateral damage, but the exhaustion was too much for today, leaving you indifferent to the wreckage around you.

Every part of you ached, and standing felt like an impossible task. Fury had been relentless with the assignments lately, barely allowing you a moment to catch your breath and heal. When you tried to bring it up with him, he simply shrugged you off. “If you can’t handle it, maybe you don’t belong here.”

His words struck deep. You had given everything to prove yourself to him, and now that dedication felt like a burden rather than a badge of honor.

His words struck deep. You had given everything to prove yourself to him, and now that dedication felt like a burden rather than a badge of honor.

You usually took on the missions with your girlfriend, Natasha. But this time, she was overseas, deep undercover, and due to return in a few days. All you wanted was to clean up and heal your bruises before she came back, so she wouldn’t have to worry about you.

Her absence left a hollow ache in your chest, and you longed for the comfort of her presence as you finally stood up with a grunt. Walking back home didn’t sound good but you didn’t really have another choice, so you suck it up and push through the pain.

After a long walk, you finally reach home and lean against the elevator frame, waiting for the doors to open. When they do, you stumble inside and press the button for the 8th floor, sinking to the ground and closing your eyes for a moment.

Just as the elevator stopped, you heard a familiar voice. “Love? What are you doing down there? Are you okay?” You opened your eyes to find Wanda crouched in front of you, concern etched across her face.

“Nat? What are you doing here? I thought you were coming back in a few days,” you asked, surprised.

“Surprise,” she replied, though her worried expression lingered.

“Let’s get you up. Come on,” she said, sliding your arm around her shoulder for support. You winced at the movement but leaned into her, grateful for her presence.

“what happened?” she asks as she opens the front door, and closes it with a flick of her hand as soon as you both walk in.

“Nothing, I just came back from a mission” you grunt out as she helps you sit down on your bed.

Natasha's eyes scan over your battered form, her brow furrowing with concern. "Just a mission? You look like you've been through a war." Her hands gently cup your face, her thumbs stroking your cheeks. "Tell me what happened."

You sigh, the weight of your exhaustion pressing down on you. "Fury's been... relentless lately. I've barely had time to breathe between assignments."

Natasha's expression darkens. "He's pushing you too hard. This isn't right."

As she helps you remove your gear, you wince at every movement. Natasha notices and her concern deepens. "You're hurt. Let me help."

“I’m fine, I just need to lay down.” you refuse, not wanting her to see the rest of your body.

“c’mon, darling, you know I can’t leave you like this” she cups your face, “let me help. I’ll bandage the wounds at least.” she tugged your shirt upwards, you didn’t have the energy left to argue so you just raise your arms as she gently takes off your shirt.

“This is what you call ‘nothing’?” Her voice is soft but tinged with anger.

“You’re taking the week off. I’ll have a word with Fury myself,” she says, her jaw set. She grabs a first aid kit and kneels in front of you, her movements steady and careful as she begins cleaning your wounds, her expression hurting you more than any other wound. Seeing her worried— for you, just didn’t feel right.

“Nat, I’m fine. I just need a day’s rest,” you try to reassure her, but the worry etched on her face doesn’t ease. She pauses, then rests her head on your lap, her arms wrapped around your waist. “I hate seeing you hurt,” she whispers, her voice barely audible.

Despite the pain, you gently place a hand on her head, brushing your fingers through her soft, scarlet hair. “I’ll be okay, really,” you murmur, lifting her face to meet your gaze before pressing a light kiss to her lips. The effort sends a wave of pain through you, and you wince.

“Don’t move,” she says quickly, regaining her composure as she resumes bandaging you with even greater care. When she’s done, she helps you into bed, then disappears into the kitchen, returning with a pill and a glass of water.

“Here, this should help.” She hands you a painkiller, her expression softened.

"Thank you, love," you say, swallowing the pill with a grateful smile. She leans in, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. She lays down next to you, her movements still careful, afraid of causing you pain. "I don't feel like sleeping," you murmur, turning to face her as she plants soft kisses on your hand.

"Would you like me to cook something for you?" she offers, her green eyes brimming with concern and love—all for you. You can't help but wonder how someone as perfect as she is could have chosen you. She notices you drifting off to your thoughts and gives you a quick peck to bring you back, But instead of letting her pull away, you slip a hand to the back of her neck and deepen the kiss, savoring the warmth and connection you’ve missed so much.

"In the mood, are we?" she teases, her voice low and amused, a playful spark lighting up her face.

"Maybe," you reply with a smirk. "I mean, my girlfriend has been gone for a month." You try to play it off, ignoring the dull ache that’s settled into your muscles.

She chuckles, tracing a finger down your cheek before resting her hand gently on your shoulder. “I'm sure we can make up for lost time," she says, laughter dancing in her tone, "but not today.”

"Why not?" You blink, half confused, half pouting, as she quirks an eyebrow.

"Do I need to remind you that just half an hour ago, you could barely walk from the pain?" she says, her eyebrow raised in playful challenge. in response you get on top of her, holding back a grunt from the pain. you look her in the eyes, as you cup her face in your hands, “you’re making it really hard to refuse you right now” she whispers, “that’s the plan” you whisper back in her ear, before kissing her, again.

She kisses you back but notices the little flinch of pain. “lay back down” she says through the kiss, and you obey. “The pain gets even a little worse, you tell me. okay?” she pulls away, to look at you. You hum in response, grabbing her face and pulling her back down for the kiss, feeling impatient. you feel her knee in between your legs, causing you to groan into the kiss.

“up” was all she needed to say before you sat up, the pleasure of the moment covering any pain you felt. she leaned on the bed frame, placing you on top of her thigh as she pulled you back into the kiss. the heat between your legs was increasing yearning for more, causing you to grind on her thigh.

she takes off your shirt, softly so as to not hurt you, landing wet kisses across your body, on your bruises, cuts, and scars.

you speed up, riding her thigh while resting your head on her shoulder out of exhaustion. Nat traces your nipples with her fingers, bringing her mouth down. brushing soft kisses, before roughly sucking them off, causing you to make sounds that are sinful to listen to.

You desperately start speeding up, “Nat” You moan breathlessly, voice coiled at your throat and your hands on her hair. She looks up at you, suddenly stopping and softly turning you and laying you down on the bed, as she travelled down your stomach. your legs parted— for her, as she took off your pants along with your panties.

“You’re so beautiful” she pants, before landing wet kisses on your pussy, tauntingly. making you flinch. “Please” You raise your hips in an attempt to get what you’re yearning for but she quickly guides them back down. “Patience, Darling.”.

She spreads your lips, licking the wetness, making you flinch, before slowly entering her tongue in your cunt. you whimper out in pleasure, but she barely gives you any time before speeding up, causing you to clutch whatever you can. you bring your hands down on her hair, tugging her deeper and deeper, as you cry out in satisfaction.

“God…it feels good” you whine out in pleasure before your insides clench around her tongue, finally giving you the sweet release. she rises, licking her lips “My name’s not god, Sweetheart.”

As Natasha wraps her arms around your waist, pulling you close, her warm breath tickles your ear as she asks, “What are you thinking about?”

You smile, recalling a cozy evening from not long ago. “Just thinking of those cookies you made last month,” you murmur, turning your head to meet her gaze with a playful glint in your eye.

She raises an eyebrow, a mischievous smirk tugging at her lips. “Oh? You liked them that much?”

“Maybe…” you tease, nudging her gently. Her smirk widens, and she lets out a soft chuckle. “Well, if it’s cookies you want…”

With a gentle kiss, she pulls away, her hand brushing down your arm before she stands up. “Consider it done,” she says, her voice laced with determination. As she pads toward the kitchen, A smile tugs at your lips as you watch her disappear into the kitchen. Just moments ago, she’d had you gasping and whispering her name in ways that felt sinful—and now here she is, slipping out of bed to bake cookies.

[cryoculus]

the art of war (and other distractions) ⟢

as a mandatory part of your post-grad program, you're required to log 200 hours as a teaching aide—which would’ve been fine, if you had any say in who you were working with. instead, you're assigned under professor jing yuan: esteemed war historian, charming bane of the faculty lounge, and the one man who makes grading ancient battle essays feel like a tactical skirmish of your own.

★ featuring; jing yuan x f!reader

★ word count; 11.1k words

★ notes; hiiii part two is finally here! quick note that there's a brief timeskip between this and part one, so you might want to read that first although imo it's not necessary. just puts more depth and context into jing yuan and the reader's relationship :3c i was supposed to have this up yesterday but #i forgot lol

MASTERLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

II. A (SLIGHTLY) FUTILE RESISTANCE

You’ve been living in Yaoqing for over three years, and the city still surprises you.

It’s quieter than the Luofu, more grounded—there are no sky bridges between buildings here, no gilded corridors echoing with history. What Yaoqing has instead are sun-drenched lecture halls with cracked windows, noodle stalls that open at sunrise, and students who never take office hours for granted. 

You like it. You’ve even grown fond of the bus ride from the apartment you share with Jiaoqiu downtown. It’s a little far from campus, but the rent is reasonable, and it’s walking distance from the hospital he works at. Your best friend is rarely home, always working rotations or crashing face-first into textbooks. But the place feels lived in and more importantly, shared.

That morning, like most mornings lately, you’d left before Jiaoqiu even stirred. Your coat still smells faintly of the congee stall you passed by on your way to the university gate.

Now, eight hours and three departmental fires later, you’re standing in the symposium planning room. You stare at a whiteboard, or what’s left of it. Beneath the mess of color-coded arrows, neon post-its, and someone’s increasingly unhinged handwriting, there might be a white surface. You haven’t seen it in three days.

But then again, this is the chaos that typically accompanies inter-campus symposiums at Xianzhou University. They don’t happen very often for a reason. 

“Yingyue,” you say slowly, “why does the keynote slot just say ‘??? + pray’?”

Across the room, Yingyue doesn’t look up from her laptop. “Because we’re still waiting for confirmation from the Luofu guests. And also,” she adds, tapping something out furiously, “because prayer is the only action item I can complete on time.”

You squint. “I gave you three backup names.”

“Two are out of town. One said he’ll only accept if we introduce him as a ‘transcendent thought architect.’”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Absolutely not.”

“Agreed,” Lihua chimes in from the corner, crouched over her laptop and what looks like a seating chart for a diplomatic summit. “You let one person change their job title, next thing you know Zichen will demand we call him an intellectual athlete.”

“I would never,” Zichen says, stepping through the door like he’s been summoned. He’s holding two cups of coffee—he hands one to you before continuing, “Though I do think ‘scholarly gladiator’ has a nice ring to it.”

You take the coffee. “You’re late.”

“You’re welcome,” he replies. “The line was twelve people deep and someone ahead of me ordered six oat milk lattes with the emotional weight of a thesis defense.”

The door slams open. You all flinch.

Feixiao storms in with a folder under one arm, a thermos the size of a fire extinguisher, and the kind of expression that makes grown men reconsider their careers. You instinctively straighten up, like all people do in the presence of the Dean of your department. 

“If the Facilities Manager tells me one more time that our lighting request is ‘aspirational,’” she announces, “I will replace every fixture in Lecture Hall Two with interrogation lamps from my uncle’s militia days.”

Silence.

Yingyue lowers her glasses. “Is… is that a real option?”

“No,” you say automatically. Then, because it’s Feixiao, you add, “…Probably.”

Feixiao tosses the folder on the nearest table and points at you. “Update?”

You resist the urge to salute. “We’re still locking in the final keynote, but everything else is on track. Zichen’s confirming the catering, Lihua finalized the panel schedule, and Yingyue—”

“Is praying,” Zichen offers helpfully.

Feixiao exhales. “Good. Because I just got the finalized guest list from the Luofu. And you,” she pauses before pointing another finger, “are going to love this one.”

She slides a printed page across the table toward you. One glance—and your stomach drops.

Professor Jing Yuan Department of History Luofu Campus

Guest speaker. Confirmed.

And just like that, the air shifts. You hear Zichen humming “Taps” under his breath. Lihua raises an eyebrow. Yingyue silently writes oh no on the whiteboard, underlining it twice.

Feixiao’s eyes narrow. “That bad, huh?”

You press your lips together and manage a steady, “It’s fine.”

She nods once. “Good. Because he’s giving a talk in the same time block as your keynote.” Then your superior smiles, just a little too sharply. “Think of it as healthy competition.”

“Healthy competition,” Zichen deadpans. “Sure. Like a knife fight with footnotes.”

You barely hear him. You’re still staring at the name on the page. The printed letters don’t blink, but they may as well. Professor Jing Yuan. You know the cadence of that name too well. Know the quiet weight he always carried into a room. The way he used to lean against the edge of your desk like he had all the time in the world—

“Right,” Feixiao says, breaking the silence with a snap of her folder. “Glad that’s settled.”

You blink. “What?”

“Oh, I mean I settled it,” she says, casually flipping to the next page. “He requested the keynote slot opposite yours. Said it would be a nice mirror—your work on literature and emotion, his on emotion in wartime. Complementary perspectives. Lovely, right?”

You open your mouth, close it again.

Yingyue is now pretending to type something on her laptop with the kind of focus that means she’s listening very hard.

Zichen stirs his coffee and doesn’t look at you. “So. Old mentor of yours?”

“Something like that,” you mutters, shifting your weight. “We worked together. Years ago.”

“And now,” Lihua says, “you’re crossing academic swords on your home turf. Classic.”

You shoot him a look, but Feixiao cuts in before you can respond.

“He mentioned you,” she says. Calm. Too calm. “Back when we were coordinating speakers. He asked how you were adjusting to Yaoqing, and maybe mentioned it’d be good to see you again.”

You glance at her. She’s not smiling, but there’s a glint in her eye like she’s waiting to see whether you’ll retreat or dig in. Classic Feixiao—direct, but never cruel.

“I’m sure he meant that professionally,” you say evenly.

“Mhm,” she replies.

The silence stretches. Everyone is trying their best to look productive.

But Zichen ruins the illusion by coughing into his cup. “So, any chance he’s hot?”

You nearly drop your coffee. “Zichen.”

“What? I like to be prepared for these things. If I’m watching an academic rivalry unfold in real time, I need to know if I’m rooting for drama or emotional devastation.”

“Academic ri—? I used to TA for him in grad school, not try to score higher than the guy in every exam. You think I’m that old?” 

Lihua giggles to herself. “Oh, he’s an older gentleman, then? I totally understand.” 

Sometimes, you think handpicking these idiots for the symposium task-force committee is a grave mistake. But you don’t have the energy to argue anymore.

Just when you thought you can get away with your non-rebuttal, Feixiao decides it’s time to give her own input.

“He’s six-foot-something, speaks like a poem, and has the kind of hair that makes old generals weep.” She smirks. “So yes, Zichen. He’s hot.”

Yingyue nods solemnly. “It’s true. I looked him up. It’s upsetting.”

“Great,” Zichen says. “So we’re definitely in emotional devastation territory.”

You groan and shove the folder back toward Feixiao. “Can we get back to the actual symposium planning?”

“You’re the one who got flustered,” Lihua points out.

You were not flustered. Probably. Maybe. You take a long sip of coffee and start listing panelist names under your breath like a warding spell.

Somewhere deep down, you already know the rest of this week won’t be easy. You’ve worked hard to build something new here—quiet mornings with students, long evenings working beside the hum of city traffic, lectures given with your own voice instead of someone else’s echoing behind it.

You’re not the same person who left the Luofu. And he’s not the same professor you walked away from.

But still.

You feel the shift in the air already. The pull of something unspoken, just ahead. You square your shoulders and reach for your notebook.

Let him come.

You get home just past ten.

The hallway light flickers twice before it steadies—just enough to remind you to finally submit that maintenance request. You kick off your shoes and lock the door behind you, shrugging off your coat with a sigh that seems to come from somewhere deeper than your lungs.

Your apartment is dim, save for the warm glow spilling from the kitchen. You catch the faint sound of a rice cooker ticking, something soft playing from Jiaoqiu’s old tablet speaker.

He’s leaning against the counter, dressed in hospital scrubs, one socked foot tapping gently against the cabinet. His hair is a mess and there’s a pen tucked behind one ear like he forgot it was there—which, knowing him, he absolutely did.

Jiaoqiu looks up when he hears you. “You’re late.”

“You’re one to talk,” you say, dropping your bag onto the chair by the door. “I thought you had a night shift.”

“Shift ended early,” he says, holding up a bowl. “I made enough rice for two. The stew’s reheating.”

You pause. “Did you actually make the stew or did you just add ginger to something frozen and call it a day?”

He doesn’t answer. Which means you’re right.

You smile a little despite yourself, dropping into the seat across from him. “Thanks, Jiao.”

He slides the bowl across the table, then leans on his elbows, watching you like he’s measuring your posture the way he does vitals.

“So,” Jiaoqiu starts. “You want to talk about it, or should I guess?”

You freeze for half a second. “Talk about what?”

He raises both eyebrows and flashes you a look that would've made a lesser person shy away from his gaze. Jiaoqiu is much too perceptive for his own good. 

You stir your rice. “It’s nothing.”

He waits.

“…Feixiao confirmed the Luofu guest list today.”

“Ah. For that symposium you mentioned.” He nods slowly. “And?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

Jiaoqiu exhales and leans back, resting his head against the cabinet behind him. “He’s one of the guests in question, isn’t he?”

You glance at him, startled. “How did you—?”

“I’d have bet money,” he says simply. “You’ve had the same expression since you graduated whenever his name comes up. Like you’re thinking too much and trying not to show it.”

You focus on your bowl. “It’s fine. It was years ago.”

“You left the Luofu literally a month after you last spoke to the guy,” he says, not unkindly. “And you didn’t tell me until after you got the Yaoqing offer. That was years ago.”

“I didn’t leave because of him.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

Silence stretches between you. The rice cooker clicks off.

He turns down the speaker volume and says, a little more gently, “You okay?”

You nod. Then hesitate. “I think I will be.”

Jiaoqiu watches you for another moment, then reaches for the ginger-stew and starts dishing out a second portion. “If he says anything dumb, or makes you cry again, I’m filing a patient complaint.”

“He doesn’t even live here, Jiao.”

“Details.”

You laugh—quiet, but real.

And for a moment, the weight in your chest eases.

Despite the looming symposium that’s got your attention pulled in ten directions at once, you’re unfortunately still a professor at Yaoqing.

Throughout the week, you had to manage your time between meeting student volunteers, making sure all the necessary permits are in order, as well as showing up to your own lectures with at least a thirty-minute power nap squeezed somewhere in your schedule. 

But come Thursday, things have started to mellow down and you can at least afford to grade assignments in your office without having to think about the Luofu delegation’s lodging. Yingyue told you she had it covered—something you were somewhat skeptical about, but were too exhausted to insist otherwise.

Just as you’re filing away this batch of papers, you hear a soft knock on your door. You glance at the clock—technically after hours, but you’re not the kind of professor who locks her door the moment class ends.

“Come in,” you call.

The door creaks open, and a student steps halfway inside.

You recognize her immediately—Yinyan, from one of the general lit seminars. Smart. Soft-spoken. Always takes notes like she’s transcribing scripture.

“Sorry to bother you,” she says, already fiddling with the corner of a printed essay. “It’s not for your class—I just... I didn’t know who else to ask.”

You motion her in, already reaching for a pen. “If you’re asking whether I’ll take a look, I will. But you might regret it.”

That earns a nervous laugh. “You’re just easier to talk to than—well. The others.”

You raise a brow but don’t push. Instead, you take the essay when she offers it, skimming the title.

‘The Evolution of Strategic Positioning During the Warring Alliance Era.’

Something tightens behind your ribs, but you flip to the first page without thinking.

The dates are off. One of the campaign names is misattributed. There’s a common myth included as fact about the Fall of Feilin Pass. You catch all of it, circling details and jotting a few quick notes in the margin before you realize what you’re doing.

It’s muscle memory. From another life.

From long nights in a military history seminar where the man at the front of the room spoke about tactical retreats like they were poetry. Where you learned to fact-check casualty records like you were tracing footsteps in the snow.

You blink, pen paused above the page.

You don’t touch this stuff. Not anymore.

“I—I didn’t expect it to be perfect,” Yinyan says, misreading your silence.

You look up, startled out of the haze. “No, it’s not that. You’re asking really good questions here. I just...” You set the essay down gently. “I don’t want to make learning harder than it already is. You’ve got strong instincts. This? This can be fixed. But I can’t go over everything right away. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

Yinyan’s shoulders relax, and you think yours do too. She nods, looking genuinely relieved.

“I’ll make sure to revise once you’re done,” she says. “Thank you, Professor.”

You smile as she leaves, but your fingers linger on the edge of the paper a second longer.

It’s been over three years since you last held a red pen over a passage about the Warring Alliance. But even now, part of you still knows the terrain.

You sit still long after Yinyan leaves, the door clicking shut behind her like a question mark you haven’t figured out how to answer.

The essay rests on your desk, marked in your neat red scrawl. You meant what you said—her instincts are good. But the familiarity of the content wraps around your thoughts like an old scarf, warm and unwelcome.

The Fall of Feilin Pass.

You remember the first time you heard that name spoken aloud.

Jing Yuan’s voice had filled the lecture hall—measured, deliberate, always just a little amused. He’d paced the front of the room with his hands behind his back, white hair catching the light like a lion in a sunbeam. You’d been his TA for almost a month by then, already accustomed to the way he made military maneuvers sound like the rise and fall of poetry.

He called it a masterstroke of misdirection, that battle. Pulled up diagrams, quoted journal fragments from commanding officers, invited students to challenge his interpretation like they were strategists themselves.

Not wanting to dwell, you get up and cross to the window like you can outpace the memory.

Outside, the Yaoqing campus is quiet. Students crossing the quad below, jackets pulled tight against the early autumn breeze. There’s a flicker of movement near the gardens—someone tending to the bonsai by the administration building.

You press your palm to the window’s cold glass.

You’ve worked so hard to leave all of that behind. And yet the facts still live in your hands. The timelines, the tactics, the battles—they never really left.

Just like he never really did.

That night, an unwelcome stranger infiltrates your dreams for the first time in months.

The city hum fades. The streetlight outside your window flickers once, and then you’re no longer in Yaoqing.

You’re somewhere else.

The light is too gold. The air smells of tea and spring dust. The walls are lined with old maps, books worn soft at the edges, a potted dracaena bending toward a narrow beam of sunlight. The desk is familiar. So is the man leaning against it, arms folded, eyes like liquid amber tracking your every move.

“You’re early,” Jing Yuan says, like he always did when you arrived exactly on time.

You open your mouth to answer, but your voice doesn’t come. You look down at your hands. They’re full of papers, disheveled in a way that reminds you of old habits. The syllabus, a half-graded quiz—fragments of a life you left behind, scattered at your fingertips.

When you look up again, the room is dimmer.

“You haven’t changed,” he says, his voice softer now, like it’s almost a confession.

You almost laugh. Almost. "I’ve changed a lot."

He doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, his eyes linger on you with that same unflinching focus, the kind that has always seen you too clearly. His gaze is unreadable, but his silence speaks louder than words.

“But not where it counts."

Your throat tightens, a visceral reaction, like there’s something he’s seen in you that you don’t want to face. You don’t want to ask what he means. You don’t want to know.

The documents in your hands flutter, and suddenly you’re outside—same campus, different time. The greenhouse near the old west gate. You recognize the planter box you tended to for a while, filled to the brim with daffodils that seem to mock you.

You don’t turn around when you hear footsteps. But he speaks anyway.

“Would it have been easier,” Jing Yuan asks, “if I hadn’t acted like I cared so much?”

The question burns in your chest, but you push it down, far down. Instead, you clench your fists, fingers digging into the soil as if you can anchor yourself to this moment, to anything other than the weight of his words. You can almost feel the sharpness of the past, the ache that never really went away.

You say, without turning, “It wouldn’t have mattered.”

The next moment, you’re in the lecture hall. His lecture hall.

It’s empty, save for the two of you. The rows of seats are abandoned, the air still, save for the faint echo of past voices.

He’s standing at the podium, his posture poised, authoritative, like he belongs there. Like this is still his domain. And you? You’re sitting halfway up the stairs, knees drawn to your chest, tucked into the corner of your old spot, as if you’re still his assistant. Still waiting for something from him.

He opens his mouth to speak—

—and then the scene fades, all of it washing to white like chalk under rain.

You wake to the sound of Jiaoqiu boiling water in the kitchen. The apartment smells faintly of ginger and morning mist. There’s sunlight on your curtains and a text from Feixiao already on your phone.

 

Feixiao: Your keynote segment for Day 2 has been moved an hour earlier. 

Me: Is it worth asking if that person’s segment has also been moved?

Feixiao: That’s a pretty cold way to address your old mentor.

Me: You’re just reading into it too much.

Feixiao: But, yes. Jing Yuan’s segment was moved as well.

Feixiao: At least the two of you can serve back-to-back cunt right after lunch.

Me: …who on earth taught you how to use those words?

Feixiao: Zichen.

 

You lie still for a moment. One breath. Then another. Though Feixiao’s attempt at imitating newer speech steals a chuckle from you, the dream you had still clings like mildew in the back of your head. Because part of it is true—you just didn’t want to admit it to yourself.

You changed.

But not where it counts.

You arrive ten minutes early and still feel late.

The banners are already up—elegant cream and crimson, catching the wind just enough to look important. A student volunteer is fiddling with a welcome stand, and Zichen is already leaning against the pillar near the humanities building like he got there by accident and decided to stay out of curiosity.

“You look like,” he says, tilting his head, “you’re about to face a firing squad.”

“Worse. I’m facing a university welcome committee,” you reply. 

He offers you a thermos. It smells like jasmine and guilt. “Feixiao told me to give you this.”

You take it with a sigh. “She thinks I’m going to choke, doesn’t she?”

“She thinks you’re going to be too composed and it’ll freak everyone out.” He shrugs. “Honestly, she might be right.”

Before you can reply, the last of the expected shuttles pulls up to the curb.

You see the rest of the Luofu delegation stepping out in stages: a couple of assistant professors, a senior archivist you vaguely recognize from an old conference, and—

Him.

He moves like he always did. Each step measured and easy, like gravity’s just a mere suggestion.

Jing Yuan steps out of the van last, adjusting the collar of his coat with that absent-minded elegance that fools people into forgetting how calculated he really is. His hair’s longer than you remember, gathered low at his nape, a few strands brushing his cheek like they belong there. His expression, as always, is unreadable.

And those eyes—golden, sharp, too steady for comfort—sweep across the campus like he’s surveying old battlegrounds. Taking stock. Mapping exits. You half expect him to start assigning formations.

Three years.

It’s been three years since you last saw him.

Then his gaze lands on you.

And for the briefest second, something flickers. Familiarity? Surprise? That strange, quiet relief that feels too much like longing?

You don’t know. Because just as quickly, it’s gone—smoothed away like it was never there, replaced by a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

He nods.

You nod back.

It’s all very professional. Very academic.

Zichen says nothing, but you can feel him staring like he’s watching fault lines splinter beneath centuries of pressure. Something in the stillness holds, but only barely.

Jing Yuan turns away first, speaking low to the assistant at his side. You can’t hear the words, but you know the cadence like an old song. That steady rhythm that always made his lectures feel like lullabies and warnings in equal measure.

The welcome committee descends on the group like a well-rehearsed ambush. Hands are shaken. Names exchanged. You feel someone clap your shoulder—it’s Feixiao, brisk and bright-eyed as always.

“Battlefield’s open,” she says under her breath. “You ready, soldier?”

You square your shoulders. “Always.”

Feixiao smirks and marches ahead, calling out greetings to the delegation with the booming energy of a woman who’s organized half a dozen international symposiums and never once let an itinerary slip by more than five minutes.

You fall into step beside her, thermos still warm in your hand, pulse ticking under your collar. Zichen stays behind, lingering near the edge like a cat who knows better than to step too close to a dogfight.

The introductions begin.

Names pass like ceremonial offerings—titles, departments, affiliations. You bow when it's appropriate, shake hands when offered, and smile just enough to seem gracious but not overly eager. It’s choreography you’ve mastered by now.

And still, you feel him.

Jing Yuan is silent at first, content to let the others go ahead of him. But when Feixiao gestures toward you with her customary flourish—“This is the stellar professor who’s been overseeing logistics from our side. She’s younger than she looks and deadlier than she sounds”—he steps forward.

You brace.

“Hello,” he says, voice as smooth as ever. “It’s an honor.”

There it is again. That pause. That moment where the rest of the world seems to blur just slightly out of focus, where the air seems to thin.

You extend your hand. “Professor Jing Yuan.”

His hand is warm. The handshake firm, but not too firm. His eyes hold yours, just long enough to make it feel like a conversation. Just long enough to remember.

Then the moment passes before he turns to speak to one of the archivists, asking about something on the schedule. Feixiao nudges you as she moves ahead, eyes gleaming with something suspiciously close to amusement.

You don’t look back at him again. 

Instead, you fall into line with the rest of the Yaoqing faculty, escorting the Luofu delegation across the stone path that leads to the main conference hall. The banners flap gently in the breeze, just loud enough to remind you that this is happening. That it’s real.

As the group moves ahead, you find yourself walking beside Yingyue and Lihua. The former gives you a look.

“Well,” Yingyue murmurs, “if that was just ‘professional,’ I’m very curious to see what unprofessional looks like.”

“Yingyue,” you hiss.

“I’m just saying,” she singsongs under her breath. “The air around you two felt… loaded.”

Lihua nods solemnly. “Like a scene in a film right before someone gets emotionally wrecked.”

You say nothing. You sip from your thermos. The jasmine tea is scalding, but you don’t flinch.

“Should we be worried?” Yingyue asks, feigning innocence.

You keep your voice neutral. “There’s nothing to worry about. He’s a visiting scholar. That’s all.”

Zichen catches up from behind with a smirk that suggests he saw everything.

“Right,” he says. “And I suppose I’m just here for the coffee and not the front-row seat to whatever this is.”

You walk faster.

But you don’t deny it.

The panel room is packed.

Faculty from both campuses line the rows, notebooks open, styluses ready. The translator charm hums faintly over the room, a soft shimmer in the air for any non-native speakers.

You’re seated at the center table beside Lihua and one of the Luofu delegates. There's a placard in front of you with your name and mastery in literature and cultural theory embedded with a glossy print.

You catch Feixiao’s thumbs-up from the sidelines and roll your eyes just enough to make her grin.

“Let’s begin,” says the moderator. “Our first discussion will be on narrative authority and the reinterpretation of classical texts in post-crisis literature.”

He calls your name, saying the floor is yours, and you stand. The mic hums to life.

You start by thanking everyone who graced the room, and by extension, the symposium with their presence. How honored Yaoqing is to host such a convergence of sharp minds and generous spirits, and how rare it is to see so many brilliant scholars under one roof without a single turf war breaking out over footnotes.

A ripple of laughter follows when you glance toward the back and add, “And if all goes well, I might finally convince Zhuming's Department of Humanities to participate next year—willingly, I mean.”

Then, you ease the audience into your piece for today's panel. Softly, yet also deliberately. 

“Don’t you think,” you say, letting the pause linger just long enough, “there’s something quietly liberating about rereading a nation’s pain through fiction?”

You catch yourself smiling when a few heads pop up to look at you. “Post-crisis literature doesn’t just record trauma. It reclaims it. It reframes grief into metaphor, and in doing so, it softens the blow. That’s not erasure—it’s survival. And survival, I’d argue, is the most honest form of storytelling we have.”

Your voice is steady. You speak like you belong here—because you do.

Gone is the girl who used to linger in the back of lecture halls, afraid her questions might sound too unsure. You know the shape of your own ideas now. You carry them without apology.

And when you speak, the room listens.

Until—

“Do you believe,” Jing Yuan begins from his seat near the back, “that fiction built on softened truths still holds moral weight?”

The room turns as one. And there it is—Jing Yuan’s unmistakable drawl, the one you used to hear more than you care to admit. It’s not challenging, exactly, but there’s something wry in his tone, a touch of that old teasing sharpness that used to curl around the edges of every conversation you had. A raised eyebrow, not a reprimand, but an invitation to push back.

You meet his gaze evenly. “I do. Fiction doesn’t owe us pain to be powerful.”

His eyes don’t leave yours, but there’s a subtle shift in his posture, a slight lean forward as if testing the ground. “But doesn’t the omission of pain risk distortion?”

The question hangs between you like a weight. You can feel the tension in the room, the way everyone has drawn closer, waiting for the next exchange.

A part of you almost wants to laugh, the absurdity of the situation rising in your chest. You’d thought this moment would come. You’d told yourself you were prepared. But facing him again—this way, in this context—feels like you’re falling right back into the rhythm of a dance you didn’t even realize you knew the steps to.

“It’s not omission,” you counter, before you can stop yourself. “It’s transformation. Rewriting the aftermath isn’t the same as denying the disaster.”

The room holds its breath. There’s a beat of silence, and then a quiet murmur ripples through the crowd. Someone behind you murmurs an appreciative “Mm,” as though savoring the taste of a well-crafted argument.

Jing Yuan leans back, fingers steepled. “And if a nation prefers the transformed version to the truth?”

You smile, and it’s not sweet. “Then the burden falls on the reader to know what they’re looking at.”

Another pause, this one heavier, stretched thin by the weight of your words. The tension in the air is thick enough to cut with a knife. You could almost hear the collective breath being held in the room.

Then, from somewhere behind you, Zichen mutters, “...Hot.”

The moderator coughs, startled. “Err—thank you, Professors. Let’s open the floor for questions?”

There are questions. Thoughtful ones. Smart ones. You field them with practiced ease, each answer flowing naturally from the previous one. You’re in your element now, calm and controlled.

But part of your mind stays on him. On that deliberate little push. Those questions with too much timing to be innocent.

Jing Yuan remains quiet for the rest of the discussion, and you can’t quite tell if he’s satisfied or just waiting for another opportunity to test you. But every time your gaze flickers toward him, you feel that familiar spark, that old pull that neither of you has ever fully escaped.

After the panel, as the crowd disperses into murmurs and clinks of tea cups, you feel a soft tap on your shoulder.

It’s him, standing beside you now. Closer than the panel format allowed. You try not to dwell too much on how warm his hand is in the vastly air-conditioned space, but the sensation lingers in your chest, distracting you.

“You’re scarier than you used to be,” Jing Yuan says, his tone soft, a hint of something almost nostalgic in his words. His smile is small but real, like a shared secret between you both. “I didn’t expect that.”

Instead, you arch a brow. “And you’re exactly the same.”

“Am I?” His smile is quiet. “That’s disappointing.”

You don��t answer, feeling the weight of those words more than you should. Instead, you take a sip from your water, a small, nervous gesture to buy yourself time, before turning to walk toward the exit—where your team is waiting. Zichen’s face is aglow with the joy of watching chaos unfold, and Lihua gives you an approving nod.

But as you pass by them, you can still feel Jing Yuan's gaze on your back, trailing after you like the start of a new chapter you didn’t agree to write.

There’s a shaded bench under a plum tree that your team has unofficially claimed.

Zichen's sprawled across one end like he owns the place, Lihua’s nibbling on a red bean bun she definitely smuggled in, and Yingyue’s already pulling up the playback recording from the symposium like it’s a drama she can rewatch at leisure.

You sit with your back against the cool stone ledge and let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

“So,” Zichen says casually, “on a scale of one to scandalous, how inappropriate is it to ask if academic foreplay is a thing?”

Lihua nearly chokes on her bun.

“Zichen,” you groan, covering your face. “I’m begging you.”

“What? It was electric. That entire back-and-forth was like watching two swordsmen flirt via carefully cited historical examples.”

“I was defending a thesis,” you protest. “Not flirting.”

Yingyue taps her screen. “Okay, but the eye contact? The tone shift? The part where he said ‘that’s disappointing’ and you visibly inhaled like you were about to bite back something unholy—”

“You guys were eavesdropping?” You scowl. “And no! I was going to tell him he hasn’t changed since he assigned three chapters of military ethics over a long weekend.”

Zichen gasps. “Three chapters? Oh, no. You were in love.”

That gets them both going. Lihua’s laugh is high-pitched and unfiltered, and Yingyue is practically vibrating. “Wait, wait—so is that a yes? Was there, like, a thing?”

You hesitate.

Not long. Just enough to betray yourself.

“He was a professor. I was his TA. That was it.” You keep your tone light, looking down at your hands. “...But maybe I respected him more than I wanted to. Maybe I admired him a little too much. It wasn’t anything serious.”

There’s a pause, heavy with understanding.

Then Lihua asks gently, “Did he know?”

You smile. Not sad, exactly. “He didn’t act like it. And I didn’t want him to.”

There’s a quiet empathy in the air now. They all know that it’s not as simple as that, that it’s not something that can be neatly wrapped up in a few words.

Zichen, always the one to break the tension, swings an arm over the back of the bench, his gesture surprisingly soft. “You ever think he figured it out anyway?” 

You look across the courtyard, past the rustling trees, where the symposium banners are fluttering gently in the breeze, and the familiar silhouette of Jing Yuan can be seen through the glass window of the atrium. He’s talking to someone, calm and composed, exactly as he always is.

It’s hard to ignore the way your heart catches in your chest for a split second, or how your breath hitches just a little when you see him.

You shrug. “It doesn’t matter now.”

But it does.

A little.

And they all know it.

Day Two sessions are always where the real academic showdowns begin.

The scholars who flew in just to be seen have already made their exits, leaving only the ones who care too much—the ones who take themselves and their work just a little too seriously. You arrive before most of the others, coffee in one hand and your tablet in the other, already reviewing the panel order for the day. 

This morning was calm—enough time for polite discussions over coffee, for setting the tone. But now, with the afternoon panels, the real program begins to take shape. You can feel it in the air, in the way the faculty members file into their seats, the way the hush of conversation spreads across the room like a slow tide. There’s an edge to the anticipation. Today’s centerpiece? The keynote speeches.

One from the Luofu. One from Yaoqing.

You.

And him.

You move toward the large hall, where the cream-and-crimson banners hang tall behind a dignified podium. Rows of lacquer-backed seats stretch out beneath cool, carefully placed lighting. The hall feels both expansive and intimate, the kind of space where every word carries weight, where every gesture is scrutinized.

As you settle into your seat near the front, you can’t help but notice the faint hum of excitement that permeates the air. Most of the audience knows what’s coming. There’s a buzz of whispered names, of scholars shifting in their seats, adjusting their glasses, preparing for the intellectual clash they’ve been waiting for all day.

Then, the doors open, and Jing Yuan takes the stage.

His entrance is the same as always—unhurried, graceful, and deliberate. It’s as if he’s stepping into a rhythm only he can hear. The murmurs in the room settle almost immediately, like the air itself is being drawn into his orbit. Someone behind you whispers his name in reverence, the tone respectful but edged with a quiet awe.

You don’t turn.

His voice fills the room with the same calm authority it always has. “Thank you to the organizers, to the faculty members, to my colleagues, and to everyone who has come today.” He nods to Feixiao in the front row, offering a smile that’s both respectful and distant. Then, he begins, his words measured and steady, like a soldier reciting a well-practiced speech.

His topic: Strategic Retreats in Military History: Calculated Loss, Preserved Legacy.

You want to laugh.

Of course it’s that.

He speaks of war, of victory and loss, of the delicate dance between pride and pragmatism. But what stands out to you, as it always does, is his discussion of restraint. The power of stepping back. The clarity of knowing when to withdraw, not out of fear, but out of a clear-eyed understanding of what matters most.

It’s a subject he’s always been passionate about, and as he talks, you can hear the deep layers of memory in his voice, the weight of years spent navigating both war and peace.

You try not to dwell on the subtle way he emphasizes “timing,” “discipline,” and knowing when to act, when to hold back. You feel it, though. It’s there, tucked into the cadence of his words. Meant for you, even if it’s not obvious to anyone else.

Your hands are folded neatly in your lap. You’re aware of Zichen sitting beside you, his posture a little too eager. He leans in, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

“He’s quoting your old seminar discussion notes,” he whispers.

You don’t answer. You don’t need to look at Zichen to know that he’s right.

Of course, Jing Yuan would bring up those discussions. The ones you had, years ago, when the subject of strategic retreats was just a theoretical exercise for you both, a way of dissecting history without fully acknowledging how personal it might feel.

It was one of those days when he got close to converting you into becoming a history major. Luckily, you didn't.

He finishes his speech with a bow, not too deep, nor too distant, the same kind of gesture that’s both professional and intimate in its simplicity. The applause that greets his exit is raucous, as expected of a seasoned scholar. But you don't let it deter you. 

Because it’s your turn.

You rise from your seat with practiced grace, your body moving automatically, every step taken with a spine straight and sure. You can feel the gaze of the room settling on you. Every eye is fixed, waiting for your words.

The podium is yours now—not as a reply, not as a counterstrike to what he’s just said.

This is your space. Your voice. A place for you to carve your own place in the conversation.

Then, without missing a beat, you guide them into the heart of your keynote.

The Intersection of Literature and Human Emotion: Love and Loss as Universal Themes.

Your thesis.

The one that earned you the best dissertation award back in grad school. The one you bled into for months, and stayed with you even years after. Every line of it felt like a scar you chose to wear. You don’t need your notes for this. You know it the way you know your own name—intimately, instinctively.

Because it’s not just an argument you once defended. It’s a piece of you.

A truth you lived.

You speak of the silence between words, the unsaid things that carry just as much weight as the spoken ones. You discuss the way ancient texts often depict longing, exile, and loss—not as clear-cut emotions, but as complex tapestries woven through silence and space. You talk about the characters who would rather suffer in silence than confess their feelings. You talk about how those unspoken emotions still speak louder than any words ever could.

When you speak of unspoken affection in the epics—of missed chances and deliberate distance—you don’t look at him. Not once. But you feel it. The air tightens. The weight of his presence is undeniable. You know exactly what he’s hearing.

There’s a subtle power in the silence you speak of, and you feel it intensify when you near the end of your speech.

It’s not a grand flourish you’re after. No dramatic exclamation. Just one quiet line from a favorite text, a line you’ve always held close to your heart:

“Some wars are won not by holding the line, but by stepping away from it.”

The silence stretches after you finish.

It feels more like the world is catching its breath than anything else. The weight of what you just said settles, deeper than you anticipated, heavier than you thought it would feel. You stand there for a moment, just letting the words linger in the air, letting them settle.

Then the applause begins.

At first, it’s hesitant. Measured. But soon, it builds—slowly, steadily—until it becomes something real. Something you feel in your chest. 

You bow—not to Jing Yuan, not to anyone in particular, but to the room, to the audience, to the words you just shared. To the fact that you’ve made it here, and you’re standing on this stage; that your voice, after everything, is still your own.

You step down from the podium, each movement graceful but touched by a quiet fatigue—the kind that settles in only after you've laid your heart bare beneath a roomful of lights and eyes.

The stage lights stretch your shadow long across the floor, following you as you make your way down the aisle. You don’t look at him—not at first. But you feel the depth of his gaze. Steady, unmistakable, like a thread pulling gently at something deep in your chest.

Against your better judgment, you glance his way.

Just once. Just long enough.

What you find isn’t surprise. Not pride or regret either. It’s something gentler. Something unguarded. A look that holds recognition, yes—but more than that, reverence. Like he’s seeing you not as you were, but as you are now. And somehow, that means everything.

Maybe, just maybe, he is seeing you for the first time.

And perhaps that’s the moment you’ve both been waiting for all along.

When night falls, so does the final curtain on the symposium.

The function hall glows in soft amber light, casting delicate shadows on ivory linens and polished glassware. It’s elegant by design—curated to impress, to invite conversation between brilliant minds across disciplines. But beneath the laughter and clinking glasses, something else simmers: rivalry dressed as camaraderie, nostalgia edged in ambition. A quiet current running just under the surface.

You find yourself by the refreshment table, fingers curled loosely around an untouched glass. The keynote glow has worn off, and what’s left is a strange sense of dislocation. You were just on that stage, commanding the room. And yet, now, surrounded by colleagues and strangers, you feel slightly out of place. Like you’ve slipped back into an old version of yourself, ill-fitting and over-aware.

You’re still replaying that moment—after your speech, when everything in the air felt thick with something unspoken—when someone steps into your orbit.

Zichen, drink in hand, angles in with that lazy, knowing grin. He doesn’t need to say anything—you already know that look. But of course, he says something anyway.

“So,” he says, his voice loud enough to cut through the quiet room, “was I right? Was it like watching a pair of sparring poets trying to outwit each other with footnotes?”

You don’t roll your eyes, but you definitely feel your chest tighten. “I think I’m going to need a second drink to survive this conversation, Zichen.”

“Can’t blame you.” He leans closer, still grinning. “If I were you, I’d need several. Honestly, though, I started wondering—were you two that in sync, or is there something else going on?”

You sigh, half-laughing, half-groaning. “You’re infuriating.”

Before he can needle you further, Lihua materializes, her presence like a breeze. She’s trailed by Yingyue, who offers you a small smile as she cradles her glass.

“Alright,” Lihua cuts in, no-nonsense and warm, “let’s not corner her before she’s even had dessert. We’ve pulled off something incredible, and that deserves more than your conspiracy theories.”

Yingyue’s laugh is softer, but no less amused. “Honestly, we’ve earned this. Two full days of chaos, zero disasters. Let’s just bask in that.”

You smile, genuinely this time. The four of you raise your glasses—an unspoken toast. To the symposium. To the effort. To being seen and recognized, even if only by each other.

But Zichen isn’t one to let the moment pass without his usual jab.

“So,” he drawls, swirling his drink, “now that we’ve toasted… is it safe to ask the real question? You said it wasn't anything serious, but why does it feel like you two were reading off the same script?”

Your stomach twists. The weight of his words lands, heavier than it should.

Your thoughts ricochet back—to that look from Jing Yuan, the stillness between you, the way his gaze lingered like he hadn’t meant to.

“I’m getting some air,” you say quickly, voice light but clipped, and step away before anyone can follow.

You step into the evening, where the air is crisp with the kind of quiet that only comes after too much noise. The campus is still now, wrapped in the soft hum of cicadas and far-off footfalls, the faint lights casting long shadows over stone and grass. Out here, the symposium feels a thousand miles away.

You lean against the railing, hands curled loosely around the cool edge of the stone. The stillness should be a relief, but your chest is too full—of adrenaline, of memories you’d meant to leave behind. You exhale slowly, letting the silence wrap around you.

And then, footsteps.

You don’t turn. You don’t need to.

“Shouldn’t you be inside?” Jing Yuan’s voice drifts through the quiet, low and unhurried, like it always is. But there’s something else there—hesitation, maybe. Or restraint. It ripples across your skin like a breeze you weren’t expecting.

You don’t answer. Just breathe in the night and hope that if you stay silent long enough, he’ll take the hint and go. That you won’t have to open the door to this—whatever this is.

But the footsteps don’t fade.

There’s a rustle, and then he’s there, beside you, not quite touching, but near enough that you can feel the heat of him. The railing holds both of you now, like a boundary you’re pretending not to lean across.

Neither of you speaks. The silence stretches, but it's not awkward. Just... thick with things unsaid.

When Jing Yuan finally does speak again, it’s softer. Not the voice of a professor or a speaker. Just a man beside you.

“Your friend’s right, you know,” he says, a touch of amusement coloring his words, though it’s tempered by something deeper. “You and I... we’ve always been in sync. Even if only for a short while.”

You let out a breath that’s almost a laugh, but not quite. Yet another person has eavesdropped into your conversations.

“I think Zichen’s just trying to make something out of nothing.”

“No,” he says, and there’s a subtle warmth to his tone that catches you off guard. “It wasn’t nothing.”

You glance at him, finally, but don’t quite meet his eyes. The tension you’ve been carrying since his keynote, since the moment your speeches mirrored each other, is there. In the air between you. And it feels like a weight you can’t lift.

Jing Yuan doesn’t press. He simply waits.

And somehow, that’s worse.

The air hangs thick with unspoken words. You can feel the weight of the moment pressing down on you, as if the entire day has led to this. It’s not just the speeches, or the research, or the people inside—the real conversation has always been between you two. You just haven't been able to face it until now.

You finally look at him. It’s hard to miss the way his expression flickers when he sees you meet his gaze—golden eyes heavy with anticipation. 

You exhale slowly, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside.

“You know, Zichen also said,” you begin, “that it was like we were reading from the same script today.”

He arches an eyebrow, but doesn’t interrupt.

“You and I… we’ve always had this thing, haven’t we?” you continue, your gaze not leaving his. “This back-and-forth. This... tension. You could say that some of your habits rubbed off on me while I was your assistant. That I carried them further down my career. But it's always been more than that, isn't it?

"And I’m tired of pretending it doesn’t exist.”

His jaw tightens. The calm façade he always wears is slipping, but you push on.

"Three years," you say, voice barely above a whisper. "Three years of silence and distance and professionalism, and still—this. Us. Whatever it is, it’s never gone away. And maybe that’s what’s so hard about this."

The quiet between you pulses with meaning, full and sharp.

Jing Yuan finally steps closer—not quite touching, but close enough that the night feels smaller now. His voice, when it comes, is rougher than before, stripped of its usual polish.

“I never meant to make you carry it alone,” he says. “I just... didn’t know how to be close without crossing a line.”

Your breath catches. “And now?”

His eyes search yours. “Now I'm certain we both crossed that line a long time ago. We just pretended we hadn’t.”

The words hit you like a tide—relief and fear, ache and recognition.

You don’t know how to answer that. Your throat tightens, and for a moment, you feel the sting of old memories—those days spent working together in his office, when things were easier, but so much more complicated beneath the surface.

Instead of speaking, you just take a slow breath, willing yourself to steady your shaking hands.

“I’ve always been good at distance,” you say, your voice steady despite the tremor inside. “I made a whole life out of it. But standing here with you… I don’t think I want to be good at it anymore.”

And this time, when his eyes meet yours, you feel it. No more games. No more pretending. Just the quiet recognition that something has shifted between you two.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks.

Then, Jing Yuan leans in just slightly, his breath warm against your skin. A large hand cradles the side of your face, and you instinctively lean into his touch. 

You can feel his lips almost brushing against yours, the tension so thick it’s almost unbearable. He smells like cedarwood and rain and everything you shouldn't even want. 

But just as it feels like he’s about to close the distance completely...

“Ahem!”

You both startle, just slightly. And then she appears—Feixiao, with that all-too-familiar grin, already stepping between you and the moment like it’s nothing at all.

“I’m not interrupting, am I?” she says, tone breezy as she links her arm through yours and casually steers you away from Jing Yuan. She gives him a polite nod, her eyes sharp with mischief before turning back to you.

“Dinner’s starting soon,” she adds, a playful lilt in her voice, followed by the faintest nudge. “And you’re not about to keep me waiting, are you?”

You blink, still caught somewhere between heat and hesitation. “Feixiao, I—”

You glance over your shoulder. Jing Yuan hasn’t moved far, but the look in his eyes says enough: the moment is slipping, and he’s letting it.

Feixiao keeps her arm linked with yours as she walks you a few paces away, lowering her voice just enough to keep it private—but not too serious. She never does serious unless she has to.

“Look,” she says, “you’ve always been the type to stay sharp, keep your eyes on the goal. Not a bad thing. But if you’re thinking about sorting things out with him... don’t rush it.”

You shoot her a look, still reeling. “What are you talking about?”

She hums, thoughtful. “Just saying—he’s not going anywhere. You don’t need to run headfirst into something before you’ve figured out what it means to you.”

You pause, the words landing somewhere heavy. Shame creeps up, uninvited and quiet.

“Yeah…”

Feixiao softens then, rubbing your shoulder in easy circles, a rare gentleness beneath all the bravado. “I don’t know what’s between you and Jing Yuan,” she says, “but whatever it is? It’s been cooking a while. So don’t serve it half-baked.”

Her words pull at something deeper—something buried. A memory: something Professor Fu Xuan said, years ago, over noodles and pork dumplings.

He’s not built for half-measures.

Neither are you.

Before you can speak, Feixiao’s already shifted gears. She pats your arm, a bright smile smoothing everything over.

“Anyway! You’re still coming to dinner, right? Or would you rather stay out here and stew in all that dramatic tension?”

You hesitate, heart not quite caught up with the rest of you. But she’s already tugging you gently toward the building, her cheer disguising something more careful beneath it.

You glance back, just once.

Jing Yuan is already gone.

The key clicks in the lock.

You step inside, letting the door fall shut behind you with a soft thud. The lights are low. Your heels echo dully against the floor, and your bag slips from your shoulder with a sigh that feels like it came from your chest.

Then you hear it: bright, canned laughter drifting from the living room.

Jiaoqiu is half-swallowed by a blanket on the sofa, legs tucked under him, a bowl of popcorn in his lap. His eyes are fixed on the TV and you don't have to glance to know he's watching his favorite sitcom.

He jumps a little when he sees you, fumbling for the remote. “Hey,” he says, voice too casual, as if you haven’t just walked in with the weight of a night trailing behind you. He pauses the episode mid-joke. The room goes still.

“You’re back.”

You nod faintly. But for a moment, you don’t move. You just stand there, the quiet thick between you. Your thoughts are a thousand miles away, still chasing the afterimage of something you almost said. Something he almost did.

Jiaoqiu watches you carefully. “Bad night?”

You shake your head. “Not bad,” you say, low. “Just… a lot.”

He doesn’t ask. Just shifts over and lifts the blanket in silent invitation. “Come sit.”

You cross the room and sink down beside him, shoulder brushing his. The couch cushions exhale. He presses play again without a word, as if the hum of dialogue and background laughter can buffer the ache you brought home.

The screen flickers.

A punchline. More laughter. Someone throws a pillow on-screen. Someone dodges it.

Then, softly, without looking at you, Jiaoqiu says, “You don’t have to talk about it. But if you want to…”

You let out a shaky breath, then press your face into your hands. “Jing Yuan.”

He nods impercetibly, like that name holds all the answers to life's curiosities. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.”

“Did he say anything stupid? Make you cry?” he asks, reaching for the popcorn.

You manage a breath of laughter—thin, but real. “No. Worse. He didn’t.”

That gets a knowing hum out of him. Jiaoqiu holds out the bowl like it’s an offering. “Popcorn therapy. It’s not peer-reviewed, but I’ve had great results.”

You take a handful, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Thanks.”

Finally, he turns to look at you fully, expression careful. “You okay?”

You pause, leaning your head against his shoulder. “I think so. Or I will be.”

Jiaoqiu doesn’t say anything else. The sitcom carries on, voices flickering in and out, but neither of you is really watching.

And that’s okay. Some nights aren’t for talking.

Some nights are just for not being alone.

The final day of the symposium begins with brisk air and brisker goodbyes. Yaoqing runs like clockwork, and the send-off is no different—efficient, unceremonious, almost surgical in its precision.

Delegates file out one by one, boarding shuttles with handshakes and nods. You’re stationed nearby, clipboard in hand, checking names against lists, pretending you don’t feel the knot in your stomach.

You know he’ll be here.

You expect him to be cordial. Maybe even distant. You expect him to act like last night never happened.

But Jing Yuan isn’t predictable in the ways that matter.

When his turn comes, he’s not alone—his aides beside him, belongings packed. The lines of his coat are as neat as ever, but there’s something softer about his expression when his amber eyes find yours.

Jing Yuan steps forward, says something low to one of the attendants, then turns to you.

Before you can speak, he holds out a small pouch made of familiar linen. Twine wrapped neatly around it. You don’t take it right away, but your fingers brush his when you do.

I've seen this before...

He doesn’t explain. Doesn’t try to. Just watches you, gaze steady.

Then, just as he’s about to leave, Jing Yuan offers you one last look—a long one.

And says, quietly, “Be well.”

The words hit harder than you expect.

Because that’s what he said to you the day you graduated, three years ago. Beneath that shade tree in the Luofu courtyard. Your last conversation, before the silence settled between you like dust.

You don’t reply. Can’t trust your voice to hold.

He nods once and walks away.

You stand there long after the shuttle door hisses shut behind him, the pouch clutched in your hand and that old goodbye echoing through your ribs like a bell you’d forgotten how to hear.

Later in the day, you hole yourself up in your office—avoiding your colleagues (even Feixiao) to the best of your ability. You’d told yourself you’d get started on writing the midterm; outlined three prompts, even booted up the document

But the pouch sits in your drawer like a challenge, and your curiosity, traitorous thing that it is, wins out.

You untie the twine.

Inside, you find once-vibrant blossoms that have faded to a muted violet, their edges curled inward like they’ve been holding their breath for too long. You know these flowers. 

Scutellaria lateriflora. Skullcap.

You inhale, and there it is again—that same earthy, herbal scent. He gave you this once before. Years ago, when you were still his teaching aide, and he’d just started that absurd little project at the Luofu campus greenhouse. He's still tending to it, from the looks of it. 

Your hands are steadier than you expect as you unfold the linen further. Tucked beneath the sprigs is something else.

A calling card.

It’s plain. Cream cardstock, gold embossed lettering. You find it almost funny.

Jing Yuan used to scoff at these, said they were for pretentious academics and bored aristocrats. “Too performative,” he’d once told you, half-asleep in his office, tea cooling by his elbow.

You flip it over.

There, scrawled in that infuriatingly elegant handwriting of his:

I'd love to speak with you—about this, and whatever else you've been stockpiling behind that diplomatic smile. On your terms, of course. If you prefer the art of futile resistance, by all means. But if not... I'm just a correspondence away. — JY

You stare at the words for a long moment, unsure how he even squeezed all those words in such a tight space. Only then do you let the card fall flat on your desk.

The dried skullcap rests beside it, patient. Familiar.

And you—

You sit back in your chair, heart too full of memory to be still, and let the thought bloom quietly in your chest:

He remembered.

Subject: Follow-up on the Symposium From: Me To: Jing Yuan

Dear Professor Jing Yuan,

I hope this message finds you well. I wanted to extend my thanks again for your presence at the Yaoqing symposium. Your insight during the panel sessions was both illuminating and deeply appreciated by the faculty and students alike.

If you ever wish to collaborate on a joint lecture or discussion in the future, please don’t hesitate to reach out.

Warm regards.

 

(You stare at the draft for a long time. Then delete “Professor.” You don't send it. Not yet.)

 

Subject: About the Gift From: Me To: Jing Yuan

Hi,

I wasn’t sure whether to write at all. But the pouch you left... I remember it. Of course I do.

I haven’t decided what I want to say, or how much. Only that I don’t want to pretend it meant nothing.

 

(…You get this far and stop. You never hit send.)

 

Subject: Your Dramatic Correspondence From: Me To: Jing Yuan

Jing Yuan,

Only you would make dried herbs feel like a grand confession. Should I be flattered, or concerned that you're now resorting to calling cards?

...I haven’t thrown it out, if that’s what you’re wondering.

 

(You read it back, scoff at yourself, but save it as a draft anyway.)

 

Subject: Fine. Let’s talk. From: Me To: Jing Yuan

You said you’d wait until it was on my terms.

Well... I’m writing, aren’t I?

Just tell me you meant what you said. That it wasn’t just leftover sentiment from too many missed chances.

If you do, then maybe we can talk. Really talk.

 

(You go over it twice, heart pounding. Then close the laptop before you can think too hard.)

It’s been a month.

The pouch still sits in the top drawer of your desk, tucked beneath a stack of grading rubrics and office supply receipts. You haven’t moved it since the day you opened it. Some part of you thinks if you don’t look at it too often, the weight of it will lessen. (It hasn’t.)

You never sent the emails. Not the formal one, not the funny one, not the almost-brave one. They’re still sitting in your drafts folder like ghosts.

And you—well. You haven’t changed as much as you wanted to believe.

You still choose silence when things get too complicated. Still fear the what-ifs more than the what-is. Still worry about what others might say, what the faculty might think, what it would look like to the world if you stepped just slightly out of line.

Maybe you're still that same graduate student—ambitious, yet scared. The one who looked at Jing Yuan like he was both everything she wanted and everything she couldn’t let herself want.

The one who left before it could become real.

A knock on your office door brings you back. You straighten, push the drawer closed, and return your attention to your laptop.

You half-expect a student with late homework, but when you glance up, it’s Feixiao, leaning in with a grin and a folder tucked under one arm.

“I come bearing gifts,” she says, stepping inside without waiting for permission. “Or at least, a very polite summons.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Another invitation?”

She waggles the folder. “Guest lecturer. Luofu campus. Smaller-scale than the last one, but good turnout.”

You sigh. “Feixiao…”

“I know, I know.” She plants herself in the chair across from you before you can object. “You were going to say no. Again. But hear me out.”

Your silence is permission enough.

“It wasn’t Jing Yuan,” she says plainly. “Not the invitation, not the event, not the committee. It came from their Literature Department directly—someone named Ying, I think?”

Professor Ying.

The instructor that you were supposed to TA for, before all the administrative mishandlings. You want to laugh. The universe really does have a sense of humor sometimes.

“...He doesn’t know?”

Feixiao shakes her head. “Not a clue. And if you go, you’re under no obligation to see him. I’d bet he’d rather vanish into the stonework than bother you uninvited.”

You study her face. “You sound sure.”

“I am. Military kids don’t grow up without learning who respects a line in the sand.” She pauses, then adds, “Besides, my uncle served with his father. That family’s got a reputation—long memory, even longer patience.”

You let that settle for a moment.

Jing Yuan wouldn’t push. He never has.

Still, your mind flickers. You remember Yanqing, all sharp edges and earnest questions. Jing Yuan mentioned that he was close to that boy's family through their ties in the military as well. You wonder how old he is now. Then you recall the literature department where you once spent late evenings with your peers, poring over old poetry and marking drafts by hand.

Lastly, you think of Jing Yuan himself.

And how—despite everything—you miss the way he listened when you spoke, how he salutes the dracaena in his office like it's a real person, and the fact that he never once called you foolish for drawing back.

The silence stretches.

Feixiao quirks an eyebrow. “So? You going to keep saying no to opportunities just because they come from the same direction?”

You look down at the folder, then up at her. “Tell them I’ll do it.”

She smiles. Not triumphant, but satisfied. It feels like she knew you’d say yes eventually.

Your superior rises, flicking a casual salute. “Knew you were smarter than you looked. Not that it would've mattered—I already filed your leave request with HR this morning.”

You gape. “You what?”

Feixiao just grins. “Contingency planning. If you’d said no, I would’ve told you after the paperwork cleared.”

You want to be annoyed. You really do. But instead, you laugh—quiet, incredulous, warm.

She’s halfway out the door when she glances back. “Don’t overthink it, okay? Just go. See what happens.”

The door clicks shut behind her.

You look down at the folder again, fingertips brushing the corner.

Maybe it’s time to stop holding your breath.

MASTERLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

© cryoculus | kaientai ✧ all rights reserved. do not repost or translate my work on other platforms.

[toomanystoriessolittletime]

Date Night

Summary: When Tim didn't pick you up for a date night he planned, you knew that you would find him back at his office. Intending to make him beg for your forgiveness you take yourself in your slutty outfit to the station to find out what Tim will do to make up for forgetting about you.

Pairing: Tim Rockford x fem. reader

Wordcount: 2.4k

Rating: E

Warnings: established relationship, smut (oral f receiving; unprotected sex), a whole lot of making out, semi public sex, food, surprise at the end

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Full Masterlist // Pedro Pascal Masterlist

You knew he would have a good reason, he always has. 

The passion he has for his job is one of the reason you love him so much. 

That did not mean that it didn’t hurt when 7 pm turned to 8 and to 9 pm without a single text or call. 

You had been looking forward to today. 

Pretending to work from home while you took an everything shower and shaved every inch of your body. You scrubbed and moisturised your skin with the lotion you knew Tim loved the smell of. 

You put the slutty black mesh body on, needing almost ten minutes to have all the straps in place, rolling the silky stockings up your equally silky thighs, connecting them to the suspenders of the flimsy body you were wearing. 

You looked fucking hot, thighs pressing together at the thought of what Tim would do to you once he finally got you home and naked. 

You reached for the deep green velvet dress you loved, running your fingers over the soft fabric that reached just above your knees before you searched for some heels. 

You didn’t wear them often, but you loved the way your ass looked when you wore them, so you would suffer the couple steps to and from the car.

Tim had made reservations for dinner at the restaurant you had your first date at.

This date night was actually his idea and you, silly little you thought that maybe, maybe he’d pop the big question tonight. 

You had been dating for four years, living together for three. 

Marriage was not something you really discussed, but you both wanted to get married eventually. And with the effort he had put into tonight you got enough signals to actually gotten your nails done yesterday after work. 

But now, at 9:05 pm without Tim having picked you up or having reacted to any message or call you placed on his work and mobile phone you were mad. 

Because you knew, as one of his colleagues who actually picked up his phone told you, that he was in the station. In his office. 

You weren’t someone who made a big deal of when he stayed too long at work. You knew he was a workaholic, though it had gotten a lot better since you moved in. 

But tonight you had the fuck me heels on, and fuck you wanted to spend the night with your hunk of a boyfriend. 

So, after another twenty more minutes of waiting and brooding over feelings like a stupid neglected girlfriend, you got up and grabbed your keys. 

You made sure the red lipstick you had put on was still perfect on your lips before you went to your car to pay a visit to Tim. 

There were only a few cars left in the parking lot as you parked your car next to Tim’s. You made sure your boobs looked good before you exited the car and made your way towards the police station. 

You knew the people who worked here, having spend countless barbecues and birthdays with them, so when you opened the door to walked in you made sure to say Hello to everyone. 

„Damn, you look hot,“ one of Tim’s female colleagues whistled and you grinned. 

„I know,“ you said with a wink, „He in?“ You gestured in the direction of Tim’s office. She nodded. 

„Yeah. He’s been in there since lunch. Got some new evidence in,“ she explained. 

„That might explain why he forgot he was taking me out to dinner tonight,“ you said and she made a face. 

„Idiot,“ she rolled her eyes and you shrugged with pursed lips. 

„Any of the other detectives still in?“

„Nah. They went home. Got the end of the floor all to yourselves,“ she winked and you gave her a bashful smile before you made your way towards his office. 

You could see the light on behind one single door at the end of the floor and you opened it without knocking, finding Tim sitting behind his desk, dress shirt halfway unbuttoned, tied loosened, still wearing his shoulder holsters. 

Various emotions flickered over his face as he looked up to find you standing in his door. 

Surprise, clearly.

Hunger, as his eyes wandered over your form.

Love, always. 

And then there it was, his eyes widening as regret set in. 

He looked away from you for a second, his eyes finding the clock on the wall. 

„Oh fuck,“ he shook his head, looking at you, getting up from behind his desk. 

„I totally forgot the time, I’m so fucking sorry,“ he said, walking towards you but you just crossed your arms in front of your chest which pushed your tits up and you didn’t miss the way his eyes flickered towards your cleavage before he came to stand in front of you, hands on your elbows. 

„We got new evidence in and I forgot the time and I’m a shitty fucking boyfriend,“ he said, his big brown eyes big as he looked at you, hands now on your upper arms. 

„You look beautiful baby,“ his fingers slipped over the soft fabric of your dress. 

„I know,“ you said, now pouting and his lips twitched into a small smile as he stepped forward. 

„Let me make it up to you,“ he said with pleading eyes, before he pulled you against his body, your hand coming to rest on his chest as you looked up at him. 

„And how do you plan on doing that Detective?“ You asked and he hummed, his head tilting to the side as if in deep thought while both of his hands slowly slid down your back before grabbing a handful of your ass.

„I can think of a few ways,“ he hummed before he kissed you. You sighed against his lips, your arms wrapping around him, one of your hands running through his soft hair as he deepened the kiss. He walked you back, caging you against his door and you heard the soft click of him locking his door and you smiled against his lips. 

His hands slowly slipped the soft fabric of your dress up, his fingers leaving goosebumps as they moved over your skin, all while his tongue played with yours. 

He groaned when he felt the lace of your stocking. 

„Fuck baby. Can I see you?“ He mumbled, one of his fingers hooking through the straps of the garter belt you were wearing and you hummed thoughtfully. 

„I don’t know Detective, you think you already earned that?“ You looked at him, challenging him. 

Instead of answering you he slowly sank down on his knees, while now both of his hands held up the fabric of your dress. He groaned a low fuck me when he saw what you were wearing, his face leaning in, nuzzling against your lace covered panties as he inhaled deeply. 

„She already wet for me?“ He asked, his breath warm against your skin. Not giving you a chance to answer his tongue slipped over your flimsy panties and you gasped as he hummed. 

One of his hands grabbed one of your legs, hooking it over one of his shoulders and you let your back fall against the door, one of your hand reaching down, fingers gliding through his hair. 

„I’m sorry,“ he whispered before he pushed your panties to the side. 

„I’m sorry I forgot about our date,“ he kissed you just above your clit. 

„Again,“ he murmured before his fingers parted your folds and he moaned when he saw just how wet you already were.  

„You’re so wet for me baby,“ he licked through your folds and you sighed, head falling against the door with a soft thump.

„I’m sorry I’m such a shitty boyfriend,“ he murmured as his tongue played with you, the way his facial hair scratched over your sensitive skin as he ate you out leaving you shuddering. 

One of his arms was wrapped around your thigh, holding you in place as his other hand held you open for him. 

„I’m close,“ you moaned, fingers gripping his hair and he groaned, his tongue fucking you as deeply as he was able to, humming as he tasted you. 

„Already?“ He teased and you pulled his hair, making him moan. 

He chuckled to himself before his tongue focused all its attention on your clit. Flicking it at first before he sucked it between his lips, knowing exactly what to do to make you cum. 

And within seconds you did, flooding his mouth with your slick as you moaned his name quietly. He continued to lick into you until you pushed him away and he slowly let your leg down before he sat back on his heels, looking very smug as he looked up at you. 

„Am I forgiven yet?“ He asked and you rolled your eyes, playfully slapping his hands away as you walked over to his desk. Your eyes softened when you saw the photo the two of you took on your last vacation on his desk as you leaned with both palms down over his desk, wiggling your ass. 

„I think I need some more grovelling,“ you smirked over your shoulder and Tim got back up on his feet. He pressed into you from behind and you could feel how hard he was. His hands were on your hip as he leaned down, finding your lips in a soft kiss. 

„Can’t do that kind of grovelling on my knees though,“ he grinned and you chuckled. 

„Just fuck me, Tim,“ you pushed against him and he huffed a laugh. You turned your head back forward as you heard his belt buckle, followed from a zipper. 

He pushed your dress up, before he reached for your panties, slowly slipping them down your legs until you could step out of them. You didn’t know he put them into the pocket of the shirt he was wearing, intending to keep them. 

You jumped in surprise when he licked through your folds again, humming in satisfaction. 

„Could taste you all day,“ he said, before he slapped your ass, making you jump again.

„You should do that some time,“ you teased and felt his hands squeeze your hips. 

„Oh I will,“ he said, feeling the tip of his cock slowly enter you. 

„Gonna spend all day with you in bed, fucking you in every way possible,“ he groaned, sinking into you fully. 

„Promises, promises,“ you teased looking over your shoulder just when his hand came down on your ass in a sharp slap. 

„Brat,“ he shook his head in amusement. 

„I thought you were grovelling?“ You asked and he bottomed out before snapping his hips back against your ass, his cock filling you completely, air rushing out of your lungs in a low moan as he began to fuck you. 

One of his hands was massaging one of your ass cheeks as he kept a steady pace. 

„Always so warm and wet for me,“ he hummed, hips snapping against yours. Your lips were parted as you panted, low moans escaping you as you tried to keep quiet. 

„Wanna cum in this little pussy,“ he moaned and you began to meet his thrusts. 

„You gonna let me?“ He hummed and you pushed yourself up, feeling his arm wrap around your middle as he pulled you against his chest, fucking up into you as he held you. 

„Only if you gonna clean me up once we’re home,“ you whispered and he groaned as his lips found yours in a sloppy kiss. His hand slipped down your body, under your dress, finding your clit, playing with it. 

„Cum for me,“ he mumbled against your lips, his cock filling you in the perfect angle and it wasn’t long before you came, squeezing his cock while he fucked your through your orgasm, his lips still on yours before he followed you shortly after, painting your walls with his cum. 

You stayed like that for a moment, him holding you against his chest as you kissed. 

„I am really really fucking sorry I forgot about dinner,“ he whispered against your lips and your eyes softened. 

„It’s okay. I know how important your work is for you,“ you murmured, before you kissed him again. 

He slowly pulled out of you, grabbing some tissues from his desk to clean you up before he tucked his cock back into his pants. You jumped on his desk and he smiled as he came to stand between your legs, one of his hands tilting your face up towards him. 

„You will always be more important baby. It’s why I planned his fucking dinner,“ he sighed, clearly still disappointed in himself. 

You wrapped both of your arms around his back and he stepped closer as you rested your head against his. 

„You can still take me out to dinner. The Taco Truck down our street is still open,“ you smiled and felt his shoulder relax. 

And that’s how you ended up completely overdressed at almost 11pm a the Taco Truck down your street. Soft music was paying on the radio as you ate. 

„You know there was a reason I wanted to take you out tonight,“ he said and you hummed, happily biting into your Taco. You were sitting on a bench, leaning against Tim’s chest as he watched you eat. 

„Yeah?“ You asked, feeling him nod.

He waited until you were finished eating before you felt him move behind you. Sitting yourself up you reached for a napkin to clean your fingers when you saw him set something down on the table next to you. 

A small turquoise box. 

You frowned for a moment before you looked at him with wide eyes. 

„I wanted this night to be perfect, and I can’t believe I let my job get in the way of that again,“ he shook his head before he got up only to get down on one knee in front of you, taking your hand while his other reached for the small box, flipping it open to reveal a beautiful diamond ring. 

„But maybe asking you to marry me in front of a Taco Truck instead of a fancy dinner should have been my plan along.“

[aphroditeinthesea]

“ but (brother) i love him ”

jason grace x daughter of poseidon ⚡️

a/n i saw someone wrote a fic with a super similar premise, i swear im not copying them, i just had bad timing of posting this

⚠️ swearing & references to sex and pregnancy

⋆｡˚ 𓇼 ⋆｡˚ 𓆝 ⋆｡˚

When Percy’s younger sister had joined the Seven on the Argo II, he hadn't expected to line up any boundaries. After all, why would any of the guys go after his baby sister. Even if she was only a year younger than him. However, that was until a day that had started like all the rest. Everyone had had breakfast that morning, gone over some plans, but when y/n subconsciously put her hair into a ponytail,

Percy looked up, “what’s that?”

Y/N froze as she locked eyes with her brother, “what’s what?”

He glanced around at everyone else. He raised an eyebrow, “on your neck?”

She nervously laughed, briefly looking towards the bewildered Jason, “oh, that?” she smiled, “I fell out of bed and hit my neck on my nightstand.”

“Really?” Percy crossed his arms, “when? That must’ve really hurt to have left two bruises.”

She nodded, puffing air out of her mouth, “yeah, it was yesterday. Let me tell you, it was a doozy.”

“I’m surprised you didn't mention before if it hurt that much.”

“Well, I, uh, forgot about it.”

“You forgot about it?” he nodded, “did you not, I don't know, look in a mirror?”

“Yeah, I was having a bad hair day, so-”

“Oh my gods,” Annabeth interjected, “you guys are actually painful to listen to.”

Piper agreed, “y/n, who was it?”

She stuttered, looking at everyone. Excuses cluttered her mind, not one seeming good enough to tell her brother. She took a deep breath before speaking again, “myself?”

“What the fuck?”

“It was me.”

Everyone’s eyes turned to Jason. Y/N eyes were torn between the two boys, she started wondering if Jason was actually going to be murdered right there and then.

“You made out with my sister?”

The blond locked eyes with the daughter of Poseidon, “no- technically, yes, but not just that, I- uhm.”

“Percy,” she added.

“What do you mean, not just that?”

Jason shook his head, “I don't mean, you know, I just mean that it wasn't like a one time thing-”

“What?”

“Percy-”

“Not like that, oh my gods,” the son of Jupiter panicked.

“What do you mean by that, weather boy?”

“I-”

“I’m having his baby!” Y/N finally said. Everyone stared at her in shock. Both Jason and Percy had gone completely silent while the former tried to speak, but was at a loss for words.

“You- what- but-”

She slowly nodded before bursting into laughter, “no, I’m totally not, but you should see your faces.”

Percy held his forehead, “Y/N.”

Jason let out a breath, “that wasn't funny.”

“Come on, Jase,” she smiled, “it was kinda funny.”

“Y/N, that was not at all funny,” her brother responded, trying to stifle a laugh, “as much as I hate to agree with the perv,” he sent a glare towards Jason.

Her smile dropped, “I was just trying to get you to listen to me,” she defended, “have you even considered how I feel about this?”

“I’m just looking out for you,” he responded, “as your older brother, I know what’s best.”

“Oh my gods,” she exclaimed in disbelief, “you're ridiculous, I’m leaving.” She shook her head before running off to her room. She frowned as she thought about how her brother could be ignorant to her feelings. She crawled into her bed, wrapping herself in the covers. She tried to hold in tears as her anger grew. She wanted to scream and yell at her brother about how much the son of Jupiter meant to her.

The door creaked open, followed by a soft, “hey.” She didn't look up as she pretended to be asleep, “I know you're awake.”

She grumbled, “go away, Perce.”

“I overreacted about you and Jason,” he admitted, “I’m sorry.”

She sat up, “you don't get it.”

“I don't,” he nodded, “but, it’s not like dad’s around a lot, I’m the one who should be protecting you.”

“You can protect me,” she added, “but not from the boy I love.”

Percy raised his eyebrows, “you love him?”

She sighed, “I really do.”

He looked away for a second, not speaking, “you should be with him, y/n.”

“You mean that?”

He nodded, “of course, but if he hurts you, I’ll make his shroud myself.”

She laughed, “okay, but I trust him not to.”

“Good,” he smiled, “I’ll leave you alone now.”

Seconds after he left, a blond boy walked in, “y/n?”

She looked up at her boyfriend, grinning, “hi, baby.”

His cheeks turned pink at the nickname, “what did Percy say?” He asked as he sat down on her bed.

“He's okay with us, as long as you don't hurt me,” she giggled.

He softly chuckled, “I won't,” he slowly moved a piece of hair behind her ear, “I love you.”

“That's what I told him.”

The door opened again, “time’s up.”

They both looked up, “what?” she spoke.

“I’m okay with you two dating,” he turned his attention to Jason, “but you still screwed my sister.”

“Percy!”

[ironstrange1991]

Can't Live Without You

Pairing: Doctor!Strange x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: Stephen is feeling lonely and doesn't know how to deal with his own feelings and needs.

Word Count: 3,1k

Warnings: SMUT: Male masturbation.

A/N: This is not my best work, but I am glad I'm finally able to post something. Hope you guys enjoy it and have a nice reading ;)

Stephen couldn't remember the last time he was completely alone in the Sanctum Sanctorum. Ever since the other Stephens arrived, he had gotten used to having them roaming within those walls, but both of them were out on different missions.

Defender went with Wong to Hong Kong's Sanctum and they would stay there for a few days and Supreme were in another planet with the Avengers. Wong not being in there  was the only reason he wasn't tormenting Stephen with the most boring tasks he could think of, but to be honest, Stephen was already missing his friend.

Christ, he really wasn't doing well to have gotten to the point where he missed Wong's nagging. In fact he was feeling alone. Lonely. That was the word he was trying to find to express the feeling he had been feeling in his chest all day. What a weird thing to feel.

He was missing you. You had gone on a work trip earlier in the week, but although you had promised to return in three days, it was Friday and he hadn’t had no sign of you other than the text admitting that you wouldn't be able to return before Monday.

He got angry when he read it. Not at you, but with the fact that somehow he was getting a taste of his own medicine: alone on a Friday night while you worked.

Of course he could come to you. Anywhere in the world, he could come to you, but he couldn't do it without you telling him you wanted so and every night you talked on the phone you didn't mention it. It wasn't like you suddenly forgot that your boyfriend could open a portal in your room to fuck you. No, Stephen was almost certain that you were using those days to distance yourself a little bit from him. Like a Stephen detox. After all, you had three of him and he admitted that they were not at all easy on you.

Stephen sighed, walking down the halls to the kitchen and took a good look in the fridge trying to find something to eat. There was leftover Chinese food he bought on Wednesday, two pieces of pizza he bought yesterday and some Tupperware with leftover food that he promised you he would get rid of and clean up, but he hadn't.

Shit, he was a terrible housekeeper.  It was pathetic, but it was true. Before you, he used to live of take-outs and the things that Wong cooked. Now he could barely imagine living the rest of the weekend like that. Obviously, he could try cooking. There were some half-finished things in the fridge, easy stuff, but he didn't want to risk setting the kitchen on fire, so he took the box of Chinese food and put it in the microwave to heat it up. While he waited, he took a piece of cold pizza and started eating while opening a bottle of beer.

He was starving and tired. He needed a good shower and a good night of sleep, but he hadn't been able to sleep well since you left. It wasn't a coincidence, you were the only person who could make him sleep when he was having one of his insomnia crisis. The methods you used were... how to say? Delicious.

He smiled to himself just at the thought of your nights together, then the microwave beeped  and he sat down to eat, but even that made him feel depressed. Stephen, who for many years lived alone and always thought it was great, now began to understand that he hated being left alone. He couldn't even conceive the idea of ​​living alone again.

He ate in complete silence and when he finished, he checked all the Sanctum seals and went up to his room. He crossed the room, getting rid of the boots he had worn all day and which were already making his feet hurt and took off the top of his robes,  took a pair of sweatpants from the closet drawer and headed to the bathroom.

The water was hot enough to burn his skin, but that was exactly how Stephen liked it. The fog fogging up the shower glass and enveloping the entire bathroom. Stephen let the hot water fall directly on his back and little by little he felt his tense muscles relaxing. He soaped himself quickly and washed his hair taking as long as he could and when he finished he wrapped a towel around his waist and dedicated himself to shaving. He was used to shave once every two days, goatee maintenance was a priority for him because he knew you loved it, it made him want to always make it perfect for you. In fact, as time went by, Stephen realized that everything he did was for you.

Finally, he threw himself on the bed feeling the tiredness of the day hitting him. He wanted to sleep, but he wasn't sleepy. That was one of the worst feelings in the world: being tired, but not being able to fall asleep. Usually you helped him in these situations, you made him sleep in your special way. God, he wanted you. He needed you.

He rolled over on the bed to reach the nightstand and threatened to take his sling ring, but stopped, scolding himself. Give her space, Stephen Strange. He thought, trying to convince himself, but the mere idea of ​​opening a portal in your hotel room made his body react instantly and Stephen sighed, realizing that maybe there was only one way to get through that hellish night without you: to handle the issue himself... thinking of you.

He let out a heavy sigh and shook his head allowing himself to run his hand down his abdomen imagining it was your hands reaching for his growing bulge. Stephen moaned softly with the contact of his hand on his cock even through the fabric of his pants. He was without a lay for five days. It was absurd to him, he couldn't imagine lasting another day without you and yet there he was being forced to resort to masturbation because you weren't there. It was unfair and cruel and he wanted to scream to the world that he didn't deserve to go through that, but deep down he knew he was being melodramatic.

When his hand went under his pants and his trembling hand made contact with his hard, sensitive member he closed his eyes immediately and your face was what he saw. You smiling sweetly at him. Stephen had an extra factor that made masturbation always intense: his photographic memory.  He could basically remember in great detail every moment you ever spent together, every touch, every kiss, every moan that came out of your mouth. It was all there in his head ready to be used like a movie whenever he needed it. And that night he needed it.

His cock pulsed in his hands the moment he closed his fingers around it. The tremor in his hand, previously a problem, was now an even greater stimulation that made jerking off more pleasurable.  Stephen had been working on it for some time. Hours and hours of physiotherapy to try to regain a minimum of strength in his hands that would allow him to pleasure himself without having to resort to magic. Of course, he would never admit that was the real motivation behind his decision to seek help after so many years. It wasn't significant enough to solve the problem, but it strengthened his nerves enough for him to gain the necessary autonomy.

Obviously he still preferred your hands. Oh god, your hands were magical. Much more magical than his. They were small and delicated and way they were soft and yet had a firm and insistent grip was enough to make him see stars.

"Fuck sweetheart..." Stephen moaned softly, moving his hands slowly up and down inside his pants. He didn't want it to end quickly. He was just working himself up, just letting his mind wander as he felt the sensation building inside him. His balls were full and sensitive. So much cum contained there. So much to give you, but you weren't there.

But if you were, he knew exactly how you would treat him. How you would get down on your knees and prop your body to show up your tits for him, how you would look him right in the eyes with that naughty face biting your bottom lip and then pull the hem of his pants to free his cock and how you would smile pleased seeing how hard he was for you.

You were so dirty, you loved sex as much as he did and he never needed to ask for a handjob or blowjob because you loved to give. You were perfect for him and he was irrevocably yours.

He moaned again finally releasing his cock and then conjured a bottle of lube in his left hand and poured some of the sticky liquid onto his cock and began to stroke himself slowly, but putting a little more firmness into the touch. In response his cock pulsed in his hand and his hips jumped up.

Oh you would love to see him doing it. You would praise him for it and would say how much you loved him and how much you adored seeing him pleasuring himself. You would call him Steph. Such a silly way of calling him, yet so sweet coming from your lips in your sweet voice. Stephen knew very well he loved everything you did.

He lolled his head back onto the pillow and bit his lip to hold back a loud groan.

Following the memories that played in his mind, he thought about how you always moaned while jerking him. How having his dick in your hands made you horny and how it always made him feel.

He thought about the way your lips curled into a shy smile every time he started talking dirty to you. How the grip of your hand got tighter, how you loved it. You were a dirty little thing. His dirty little thing.

Stephen let a louder moan echo through the room. You loved that too. The sounds he made when you held him in the palm of your hand. He closed his eyes and stroked his cock harder and faster. The tip was leaking precum and he was so ready to be inside you, but all he could do at that moment was think about it. And that's what he did.

He thought about how wet you always were when he touched you after you give him a handjob. How his fingers easily slid in and out of you and how you always squirmed around his fingers, begging for more. He thought about how you always begged for him. How you couldn't bear to wait, how you shamelessly opened your legs to welcome him in.

"Always so good to me." He murmured "My sweet girl is always so good to me."

Stephen started using his other hand to massage his balls too. It was how he liked you to do it. He liked to be stimulated as much as possible, he liked when you licked and sucked on his balls. He liked it dirty and messy and you knew exactly how to do it.

He knew you like no one else and he liked to think that even the other Stephens didn't know how to satisfy you like he did, but at the same time he liked to see them trying.

"Oh shit." Stephen was startled by that train of intrusive thoughts and increased the strength of his strokes as the room was invaded by the wet sound of his hands working on himself.  He thought about how he loved watching you get fucked by the other Stephens. It was no surprise, but the images that invaded his mind were of really intense moments and they almost threw him over the edge immediately, such was the strength they had as stimulation.

Stephen let out a breathy laugh as he shook his head in disbelief, but he did not try to change the thoughts in his mind, instead, he dwelled in those memories. How you always looked beautiful bouncing on top of Defender while you kept Supreme's cock in your mouth, and that bastard always fucked your mouth roughly and you loved it and Stephen loved the sound it made, the tears that ran down your eyes as they abused you.

Stephen thought about how he loved watching you get creampied. How delicious it was to see them emptying themselves inside you, to see you being violated by their release knowing that you would have to take one more.

His hands now punished his cock with a touch of violence and his mouth was half open, eyes squeezed shut as the images played in his mind.  He thought about the delicious feeling of fucking your pussy full of cum, how the wet squelching noise turned him on even more and how you always seemed gloriously spent after rounds and rounds with the three Stephens. It was pornographic, it was filthy and beautiful.

"F-Fuck yes." He moaned spurting his release all over his stomach and making a mess on himself. Still, he didn't stop, he kept bringing himself dangerously close to overstimulation as his mind focused on the expressions you made as your entire body writhed in ecstasy with your orgasm. How your cheeks would turn red when they were done and how sweetly you would smile at them. Almost innocent.

"Such a dirty girl." He muttered to himself, slowing down his hand until it came to a complete stop, but he didn't have time to recover as he was surprised by the sound of his cell phone ringing.

"Shit." He grumbled, wiping his hands quickly on the sheet and making even more of a mess when he turned to pick up the device on the nightstand and felt his release running down the sides of his ribs.

It was your name on the display. In fact, the word Sweetheart.

"Hey, sweetheart." He answered, still trying to regulate his breathing, but of course you noticed.

"Hey. I was wondering if maybe you’d want to..." But you stopped for a moment and then asked, "Were you running?"

Stephen instinctively cleared his throat. "What? No. I was..." But he couldn't think of anything to say and there was a silence on the line and then a little giggle.

"What were you doing, Stephen?" You asked.

He sighed feeling his cheeks get hot from the fact that he had been caught. There was no point in lying.

"I... I missed you, Y/n."

There was an affectionate hum from your side of the line.

"Well, I called to ask if you'd like to come and meet me now. I'm missing you too, Steph."

He chuckled nervously. "I thought you would never ask. I thought you were enjoying having some time away from us."

You giggled, "Don't be silly. I was just really tired. But it's okay if you don't want to come now that you've solved your problem on your own. Maybe you would prefer to go to sleep…"

But he was already getting up.

"Now who's being silly?" He ran to the bathroom and quickly cleaned himself up and went back to the bedroom to get his sling ring. "Remind me again what hotel are you in?"

"At the Plaza." You responded promptly. "I told you yesterday and I thought..."

But you stopped talking when the portal opened in your room and he walked through it, heading towards you and taking you in his arms in an intense kiss.

"I missed you. So badly." He confessed on your lips, letting his forehead rest on yours. You smiled, looking surprised by his confession and cupped his cheek. "It's only been five days, Stephen. You've already spent three weeks on a mission."

He shook his head, "It's horrible. Staying at home. Without you.

He confessed to which you smirked.

"Now you know how I feel."

"I'm very sorry." He said pulling you back into his lips.

...

Stephen was staring up at the ornate ceiling of your hotel room with a smile plastered on his face. Making love to you had that effect on him. His arm was extended so you were cuddled close to him, your head resting on his chest, moving slowly as he breathed. The two of you were silent, still enjoying the afterglow of your release and his heart was finally at peace. Outside you could hear the sporadic sound of cars passing on the street and conversations in the hallway.

"The sound insulation in this place is horrible. How have you been able to sleep here?" He asked breaking the silence and you hummed, apparently still unable to form a sentence.

"Your boss could have paid for a better hotel." He continued and you shrugged.

"I liked it here. The room service is great and the food too."

Stephen smiled to himself. You were always so satisfied with everything. You never complained about anything. Totally the opposite of him.

"Besides, I'm always so tired when I get here that I fall asleep as soon as I put my head on the pillow."

He nodded, stroking your cheek and was silent for a moment, just a minute, but long enough for you to tilt your head to look at him.

"What is it?"

"I think I made a discovery this week and it was kind of scary." He said already knowing he would regret what he was about to say.

You smiled convinced as if you already knew what he was going to say. "Did you find out you can't live without me?"

He chuckled "I already knew that. I just realized the obvious and it wasn't pleasant."

You frowned trying to understand what else it could be then.

"I don't think I can live alone anymore. Before, when I worked at the hospital, I liked the silence of my apartment, but this week the empty Sanctum filled me with horror to the point that I missed Defender and Supreme."

You smiled glancing at him "That's something I never imagined you would say."

"I never imagined I would feel this way, sweetheart. The truth is, I like them. I can talk to them in a way that I don't talk to anyone else."

"It might have something to do with the fact that they are you” You reminded him.

"You are right."

You brought your hand up to his chin scratching his goatee. "How are things at home? No problem, I imagine. No demonic entity has tried to take over our washing machine?"

Stephen giggled "No. All boringly normal."

"What a shame!" You said, feigning disappointment.

Stephen smiled to himself and lifted your chin enough for him to kiss your lips.

"I love you, sweetheart. With each passing day I love you more. You changed my life for the better and changed me in the process. I'm definitely a better man because of you."

You sighed softly, your throat bobbing. "Oh I love when you say these things to me, Steph."

He smiled, pinching your cheek provocatively. "I may not be Defender, but I know how to be romantic sometimes."

“Of course you do.” You smile "And I love you too. With all my heart."

Reblog please! Leave a comment if you liked it. Interact! I will love to read all of your comments and opinions. It inspires me to keep writing!

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[chaotic-birds]

be with you || j.pt

Jason wakes up in the middle of the night and you're not there, causing him to panic.

🌙 Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader (gn) 🌙 Genres/AUs: Fluff, (emotional) hurt/comfort, established relationship 🌙 Warning(s): mention of kidnapping 🌙 Word Count: 1.1k 🌙 Author's Note: I have so many Jason Todd fic ideas 😵‍💫 For now, I decided to just write this. I normally don't post such short fics, but I want to get used to doing so. Sometimes I just wanna write without thinking of intensive plots 😪 That being said, please enjoy this little fluff piece! Sometimes, we just need some fluff in our lives. Also, this is my first Jason fic after a few years so… 😬 (im a lil nervous)

masterlist

When Jason turns to his other side to pull you against him, his eyes fly open.

Your side of the bed is empty.

And cold.

Which means it’s been a while since you left.

You left.

Did you leave, or did someone take you?

Jason’s distressed eyes scan the bedroom. There’s no sign of a struggle. Plus, he would at least hope he’d wake up to the commotion if something like that happened. But if you didn’t get kidnapped, where did you go?

Worry fills his chest, and his heart pumps faster at the influx of questions in his head. All the doubts about whether he’s making you happy cloud his mind. Had he said something yesterday that had upset you? Are you not happy with him anymore? Did someone better come into your life?

Jason groans and rakes his hands through his hair, tugging roughly at the ends to feel something other than uneasiness. His hands fall to his sides when he sees your belongings at your vanity. That’s a good sign, right? Maybe you didn’t leave him after all.

Jason slides off the bed and heads out of the bedroom.

“Babe?” he calls.

There’s no answer.

He wanders to the bathroom. Empty.

He goes to the living room. Empty.

Finally, he goes to your home office.

You’re sitting in your chair with your headset on, fingers clacking against the keyboard.

The heavyweight he had put on his shoulders instantly lifted. He releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He takes three large steps before he encloses his arms around you from behind.

You yelp, jumping and hitting your head against his jaw.

He grunts at having bitten the inside of his cheek in the process.

Although your arms are glued to your sides, you tilt your head and lift a hand as high as it can go to remove your headset.

“Jay?” you question. “Did I wake you? I was trying to be quiet.”

He shakes his head and nuzzles his face against your neck more.

You lax in his arms, rubbing along his forearms and resting your head on his shoulder.

“Why are you awake then?” you wonder after a while.

“You weren’t in bed,” he mumbles.

“Sorry,” you murmur. “I forgot I had to finish something for work.”

“But it’s half past three. Can’t it wait?”

“Sadly, no,” you sigh.

Carefully, you try to pull apart his arms to free yourself. Jason refuses to let you do so.

“Baby,” you laugh softly when he holds you tighter. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be done in a bit.”

“No,” he grumbles.

Knowing he won’t give up, at least not easily, you nod. “Alright then. Should I bring in another chair for you?”

Jason shakes his head and finally lets go. He slides your chair back slightly and sinks to the floor in front of you. Your legs part when he makes a home between them, wrapping his arms around your hips and resting his head on top of your thigh.

“Comfy?” you ask with a small smile, slightly amused.

He simply hums and closes his eyes.

Your gaze lingers on him before you focus on your work once more. You hurry more now, wanting to get back to bed with Jason.

A few minutes have passed when Jason speaks again.

“I-I thought you left me,” he whispers.

Your hands pause in their movement.

“Oh, Jayce,” you begin gently and place a hand against his cheek.

His eyes flutter open at your touch. His blue eyes are filled with worry and fear.

“I would never leave you.”

His eyes move between yours, trying to find a reason not to believe you. There’s that rotten side of him that tells him he doesn’t deserve to have company. That it’s inevitable for him to be alone.

“Unless you want me to,” you add.

He shakes his head aggressively. “Don’t say that.”

You smile softly at him. “Then it’s a done deal. You’re mine until the end of time.”

Jason cracks a small smile at your words, lifting his head.

“I like the sound of that,” he says.

Your grin grows. “I do too.”

Jason leans up, and you meet him halfway for a tender kiss.

“I’ve still got more to do. You want to go to bed now?” you ask once you pull away.

“Nope, I’m staying,” he replies, resting his head back on your leg. His tone sounds lighter now, making your heart warm. Although you love all sides of Jason, this may be your favorite one.

Happy. Soft. Vulnerable.

After forty more minutes, you finally finish.

Jason has fallen asleep and has filled the room with his light snores. Some of his hair lies on his face, some of it slightly ruffled from sleeping in the bed earlier.

Cute.

You bring a hand to his hair, carding your fingers through his soft locks. You scratch at his scalp gently to wake him. His eyes open, droopy and groggily.

“I’m done, let’s go to bed now,” you say.

He nods and slowly stands up from the floor. He sways a little on tired legs.

“Come on, sleepy head,” you tease lightly and grab his hand. He lets you guide him back to the bedroom. You sit him down on the edge, then gesture in the direction of the bathroom.

“I need to pee; you gonna come with me or will you stay here?” you question.

Jason frowns but nods. “If you take longer than five minutes, I’m coming in.”

You laugh and kiss the crown of his head. “If you say so.”

You know he’s being honest, so you rush. Luckily, you made it in time for him not to come get you.

Jason hasn’t moved since you left. He’s staring at the doorway, feet thumping rhythmically against the floor.

“You’re so needy tonight,” you observe and climb into bed. Jason scoots back until he’s beside you.

“I just miss you,” he sighs, pulling you against him like he originally wanted to do.

You lean back against his chest to feel him more.

“I’ve missed you too, Jay,” you reply.

There's been a rise in crime lately, which has resulted in Jason being out in the field more than usual. However, it feels as if there’s a break, and you and Jason are making the most of it. You’re sure he will be summoned again soon.

Jason snuggles your body more—if possible—and kisses the back of your head.

“We’re so sleeping in today,” he mumbles, a slight groan accompanying his words.

You giggle. “I can’t protest that.”

“Hm, good,” he says. “Goodnight, baby.”

Smiling, you echo, “Goodnight, Jay.”

©️chaotic-birds // DO NOT REPOST OR MODIFY Please consider reblogging if you liked this work to show your support. Feedback/commentary is always welcomed.

[aealzx]

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Update Post

Prologue | AO3

Previous Next

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The excursion in the Batcave hadn't set Danny’s recovery back as much as he'd thought it would, which he was grateful for. He’d missed dinner that day, having slept through it after they had given him additional medication to keep his fever under control. But the next morning he'd still been able to join a few people for breakfast, even if it was a little later than most. It was also a little quieter than usual, with the heavy topic from the previous afternoon weighing on people’s minds.

“...Are you sure you’re still feeling better?” Jazz asked, noting how Danny was absently nibbling on the toast he had with a light cream cheese forgotten on the side.

“Hm?” Danny voiced, twitching his head to look at her before fully registering what she’d asked. “Yeah, I’m okay,” he assured, giving her a brief smile. She didn’t seem convinced though, so he gave her a little more. “I’m just lost in thought, Jazz. Yesterday was… a lot.”

“You mean the part about Raven saying you were probably murdered?” Jason asked, strangely having stayed at the manor that night and stuck around that morning. Cass had ended up starting a hushed conversation that he had adopted these kids as his responsibility since they had shown up closest to his usual patrol grounds, but he wouldn’t comment on it.

“Yeah… Yeah that’s probably the big thing,” Danny agreed with a grimace. Man this guy was blunt. But, also maybe the best one to be commenting about something like this. There were a lot less people around too, maybe it was safe for him to satiate his earlier curiosity. “...I guess out of everyone here you’d … probably understand the most?” Wait, Danielle had said Jason had died before, but she hadn’t said it was murder. “U’unless it was something else that…” Okay this was a lot more awkward than he thought it would be.

“...No, you’re right. I was… murdered,” Jason confirmed, toying with his own cereal for a moment. “But it wasn’t anything crazy magical like you. Just a crowbar and bomb. That and we all know the guy that did it. Piece of shit.”

“Oh…,” Danny responded quietly, thankful that Jazz was decidedly staying quiet and allowing them to converse. “I don’t… Hm… I’m not sure which one I’d prefer honestly,” he admitted with a weak chuckle. “I mean, electrocution is no fun, hurts like a bitch, but… But at least it wasn’t drawn out.”

“...That’s a fair point,” Jason agreed, “I imagine it’s not the part that’s got you so distracted though.”

“...... No… It’s not,” Danny confirmed, lowering his toast as his brows pressed together in smothered guilt. “I…” It was hard to say it aloud, but of anyone he felt like Jason wouldn’t judge him for his thoughts. “S’she said that someone who was there would’ve had to have had the desire to s’sacrifice me or whatever. A’and at the moment I was more angry that she would imply that Clockwork had lied to me, that I - that something had happened that took away my ability to choose. But also… I don’t like what it implies about…”

Jason was quiet as he listened patiently for Danny to voice his thoughts, the words confirming ideas he’d had as well as keying him in on what was bothering Danny. But when he fell quiet before being able to finish voicing his concern Jason filled in what he could guess the worry was. “About who was there with you…?” he half asked, half stated.

Danny flinched when that fact was put in the open, but now that it was it made it easier to add details. “...Sam and Tucker were the only ones there with me.”

“Oh!” Jazz suddenly burst, raising her hands in realization and reaching over to grab Danny, “Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry, we forgot to tell you!”

“What? What!?” Danny sputtered, startled by his sister’s outburst.

“Sam asked Raven about that last night before they left. She was worried that her and Tucker being there could have been seen as them trying to murder you, but Raven said they couldn’t have just been present, they would have had to know about the sacrifice being a payment for the ritual kind of thing and clearly had the intention to kill you,” Jazz rambled quickly. “Sorry! I didn’t think that was what had you so distracted. We were going to tell you last night when you woke up, but you slept through the night.”

Danny had to stare at Jazz in silence while that whirlwind of facts got smashed into his brain. So they had already cleared up that Sam and Tucker hadn’t accidentally murdered him, but forgot to tell him? Well, it was only a few hours later, so maybe he shouldn’t be upset. At least it clarified for certain that his friends hadn’t secretly wanted to kill him. But then it brought him back to the major question that had yet to be answered. “Then who did?!”

That one Jazz didn’t have an answer to, and reluctantly let Danny go to helplessly raise her hands in a shrug. “I don’t know? Maybe no one did? I mean- Mom and Dad couldn’t possibly have accidentally done magic, right?” she attempted with a weak laugh, betraying her own discomfort with the idea that their parents had accidentally done something more dangerous than they’d ever thought.

“No, I think they did,” Danny countered easily, a little miffed.

Jason raised a brow after that, curious what else Danny had realized. “Care to elaborate?” he asked, half because he wanted the answer and half to give Jazz a chance to process what Danny had said.

Danny did not actually want to elaborate, he didn’t want to pull up memories of that afternoon again. But he did realize it was important, and therefore forced himself to answer. “The portal… After drawing that diagram out yesterday, and remembering some things, I realized Raven… might have some merit to what she’s saying,” he admitted, pouting a bit reluctantly since he’d been so ready to discredit her before. “The portal didn’t turn on when I went inside it. It was when I put my-... put my hand on the wall. There was a switch that I knocked, and I realized… it was located at one of the concentration points I drew on the diagram. So I probably completed the circuit by accident, and made it so the stupid ritual thing was complete,” he explained, absently raising his left hand as he recalled the memory.

“...Oh….,” Jason grunted, having not expected that. So this kid’s parents probably really had accidentally mixed science with magic, and Danny had ended up half killed because of it. But despite that, Jason was curious. “Okay… so maybe someone did want to kill you, maybe they actually didn’t. It really sounds like happenstance from what I’ve heard. Does it matter if someone wanted to kill you?” He already knew the answer, but he was curious if Danny would surprise him and actually admit it didn’t matter.

“Of course it matters!” Danny sputtered, bringing a fist to the table. “I want to punch them in the face for ruining my life for the past two years! Do you know how hard it is to get into NASA? I just wanted to be an astronaut and go to space - the literal coolest thing ever to exist - but now my grades are shit and I’m barely passing highschool because of all these ghosts and people think I’m stupid because of it!”

Jason couldn’t help it. After staring at Danny with slightly wide eyes in shock at the outburst, Jason couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him. Though part of it was because Tim had just walked into the dining room and nearly dropped his plate of breakfast and cup of juice after also being startled at Danny’s outburst. Danny was about to get cross with Jason for laughing, but only spared him the lecture when he also noticed Tim there.

“Oh- Sorry- I didn’t mean to startle you,” Danny apologized quickly.

Tim just sighed, grateful only a little of the juice had spilled onto the floor. “It’s fine, just give me your napkin,” he directed, setting his breakfast on the table and reaching out for the requested object. Once he had it, wiping up the spilled juice was a quick task, and he was sinking into the chair next to Danny with another sigh. “You’re not stupid, by the way. If you really need the academic records for the job you want, just test out. I’m sure you’ll be fine, and get flying colors. I can get you a study packet if you want,” he commented casually, taking a large bite out of a sausage.

Not only was the comment unexpected, but it also sounded like a flat out lie from someone who had no idea what it was like to struggle at school. “...Yeah, sure. I’ll get right on that,” Danny scoffed sarcastically, going back to nibble on his toast.

“Danny…,” Jazz hushed gently, sympathetic and immediately ready to comfort him.

“I’m serious,” Tim enforced before she could say more. “Well, I dunno how you are with english or something like that, but you’ve got great math and science aptitude.”

Danny just stared at Tim incredulously, not buying it.

So Tim threw a hand in the air and rolled his eyes. “You just recreated a complex concept schematic from memory within a 90 to 95% accuracy range on the measurements and functions, while high on morphine and fever,” he pointed out. “Also, if you’re any good at being a vigilante like everyone has been implying, you’ve got to have great problem solving skills. And that’s hard to teach.”

Danny was now openly staring in surprise, because he hadn’t realized he’d done anything that Tim said. At least, not when phrased in that manner. It wasn’t like he could discredit Tim’s words either, they had all been there as he’d drawn the schematic. “I…” He should probably say something, but he couldn’t think of a single response other than to stare blankly in surprise at the table in front of him.

It caused Tim to sigh again, slumping into his hand and rubbing his brow. “Honestly, if there’s anything you’re dumb in it’s self awareness. I’d switch out a dozen of the interns in engineering for you in a heartbeat.”

Okay, so maybe Tim wasn’t actually pulling his leg, or trying to prank him. If Danny’s cheeks weren’t already red from illness they would definitely be from embarrassment as he shyly sank down in his chair.

Jason laughing that hard wasn’t helping either.

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Okay I'm gonna fully admit this chapter was unplanned and full of stuff I actually didn't think I'd get to include 'cause I just could not figure out how to naturally include them in conversation in the previous chapter or any future scenes I could think of at the moment. But then I started working on this next chapter and within the first paragraph was like '......oh..... oh it all fits rather nicely right here actually. |DDD'

So that was fun XD

And then this took awhile to actually post because I hyper fixated and wrote about 11,000 words for this fic of just scattered, disconnected scenes for future chapters all the way to about the end @ v @ I'm excited.

In other topics, I had a request/question if Conner Kent would show up, and I wouldn't mind giving him a cameo, but I am very confused about what his personality is like. 8'DD Can someone info dump on me about him and his relationship with other characters? There's one that had a black t shirt with the superman symbol and he's like this angsty angry guy that I honestly don't find all that interesting and would be hard to write. But then there's this flashy leather jacket flirty boy with a different flavor of angst and fun that I find a little more interesting. But I'm curious what the DPxDC fandom seems to favor more. Are Conner and Clark dad and son relationship? Does Conner get along with Jon? He's friends with Bart, Tim and Cassie yeah? Feel free to link me to google docs, or recommend movies or comics to me |D This boy is a little harder for me to figure out than the other characters.

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[leafnyx]

You don’t have to write a part 3 for the Nam-gyu x male reader fic, BUT if you decide to you got a prime reader right here!😛🙏🏻

Death Games and Attachments #3 (Nam-gyu x male reader)

Word count: 3.9k

Warnings: American reader ‼️, possibly ooc, talk of death, smoking, fairly rushed ending, happy/hopeful ending, open ending (?)

Setting: Post-season 2

A/n: Multiple people asked for a part three so here it is! This will be the last part of this fic, thank you guys so much for reading all of this and enjoying my writing :)

You wake up to the sound of music playing over the speakers and a weight in your arms. You blink your eyes open, immediately realize you aren’t at home. The first thing you see is Nam-gyu’s face, still asleep. The two of you are snuggling, face to face, and it seems like you have been for a while because your arm that is beneath him hurts like hell.

You wiggle your arm from underneath him as gently as possible, not wanting to wake him up, before realizing he’s gonna have to wake up anyways. You continue pulling your arm out but you make no move to be gentle now.

Nam-gyu wakes up with you moving him around. Ulike yesterday he makes no move to complain, just sitting up and rubbing his eyes with his palm.

“You ready for the game?” He asks you in a yawn.

“We’re gonna need to vote first” You reply, sitting up aswell.

“Shit, I forgot about that… some pussies are probably gonna fuck up the vote”

You hum in response, looking around at the 100 people left in the game walking around the room. It’s way less crowded than it was when you first came here.

You begin thinking about your vote. Part of you wants to vote X, you want to go home, but the other part of you wants to vote O just so you don’t feel like you betrayed your group.

You hope someone else changes their vote to X so you don’t have to decide.

The doors open in the front and the guards walk out. Nam-gyu hops off the bed and scrambles to get the shoes on, you do the same, before the both of you run off in the direction of Thanos. You’re able to spot his easily because of his bright purple hair and the two of you find him in no-time.

To your surprise, Nam-gyu doesn’t immediately ask Thanos for a pill, he just stands in the crowd waiting for his number to get called.

“Vote O, okay?” Thanos says in English.

You nod and so does Nam-gyu even though you don’t think he fully knows what Thanos is saying. The numbers are called up starting at 1, so you’re gonna have to vote before the other two.

You’ve decided to vote for O and just hope that someone from the O side has changed their mind and votes X. You don’t want to be seen as a traitor like Se-mi and Min-su.

Soon a voice calls “118” and you step forward. You pause infront of the button and raise your hand towards it. Your hand hovers over the X button but you ultimately press O, sticking to your guts.

You walk over to the blue side and look back at Thanos and Nam-gyu who are smiling at you and holding their thumbs up. You’re pretty sure you did the right thing.

“124” Nam-gyu walks up and presses O without a second thought, he proceeds to walk over to you and sling an arm over your shoulder. You don’t say anything about it, not minding the touch.

Min-su is called up after and as he walks to the podium you can see Nam-gyu’s face beside you turn to a scowl. Min-su presses X.

“Pussy..” Nam-gyu mutters. “I knew we shouldn’t have let him on the team.”

“Yeah” You reply, just brushing him off and not really agreeing with his sentiment. Min-su isn’t that bad, he’s just scared and honestly you get it. He’s lucky to have a friend like Se-mi.

After a few minutes Thanos’ number is called and he half-runs half-skips up to the front and slams his hand down on the circle button. The votes are tied.

After a few more people vote it’s almost done and no one has changed their vote yet until one of the last few people. A woman with an O patch walks forward, you saw her with the crazy shaman lady earlier. Her hand hovers over the O button before she suddenly presses X. Cheers erupt on the side of the X’s and your mouth drops. You look over to the shaman and she looks pissed but she’s trying to hide it.

“Fuck” You hear from beside you.

You look over at Nam-gyu, whose hand is still around your shoulder, and he looks somewhat nervous.

You need 2 X’s to change their votes to continue the game and 1 to tie, though no one wants another 50/50. But you doubt that it’s going to happen, the X’s all seem scared, especially after the last game. There’s no way an X is gonna change their vote.

There’s numbers go up until it’s 456’s turn to vote, but by then it doesn’t matter, the votes are 50-49 The X’s won. 456 pushes the X button and the screen changes to 51-49. He smiles as he turns around. The X’s cheer but your side is silent.

“Mother fuckers..” Nam-gyu says beside you.

“I’m gonna kill Min-su next time I see him” You hear Thanos say from the other side of Nam-gyu.

The room starts to fill up with gas as the guards step back through the doors. An O tries to make a run for it but they don’t make it on time, slamming onto the shut door. Nam-gyu’s hand clutches onto your jacket and your hand beside him grabs onto his.

Your vision goes blurry and you start to feel tired. You hear people beside you colapsing onto the floor and you’re dragged down as Nam-gyu falls unconscious. You hit the ground and pass out.

-

You wake up and open your eyes but you can’t see anything. You blink, you know your eyes are open, but it’s all dark. You try to speak but there’s something covering your mouth, all that comes out is mumbles. You realize your arms and legs are tied up as well and you’re very cold. You wiggle around but you can’t do much, you’re in a confined place. You hear someone trying to speak beside you but they can’t either.

Is this how they’re getting you out of the game? They could at least be a bit gentler and not have you are bound up.

A rush of wind comes in and you shudder before you’re suddenly pushes forward onto concrete.

You let out a muffled yell. You hear someone fall down beside along with some less heavy things being tossed out, then the sound of a car driving off.

You wiggle around the ground, now having more space but your movement is still limited. Suddenly, your hand touches something else, it feels fleshy. You touch around the person, you think you’re touching their arms. Your hand moves down and you feel a rope. You do your best to undo the rope, it takes a few tries but eventually you manage to get it off.

You hear the person move around, probably going to sit upright. After a few seconds of the sounds of cloth you hear.

“[name]?” It’s Nam-gyu. Immediately you feel relieved that you weren’t left here with some random person. You try to tell him to untie the ropes on your wrist but one again it’s all muffled. You wiggle your arms for emphasis and he gets the message.

He undoes the ropes as quick as possible, which really isn’t all that fast. Once your hands are free you take off the blindfold and the thing around your mouth. You let out a sigh, looking over to see Nam-gyu untying the wipe from his angled. He’s just in his underwear and you see that you are aswell. You see plastic bags beside the two of you and move to undo the wipe around your ankles so you can get changed.

One you have the rope off, and you throw it to the side, you grab the bag and untie it. Inside is your clothes, your phone which you had on you when you entered the game, and a lump of money. Your mouth goes dry, even though the money didn’t seem like all that much when it was up on the screen, seeing it like this. It’s a shit ton. Atleast more than wat you’re used to here.

You snap out of it and grab your shirt and pants, quickly moving to put them on, followed by socks and your shoes. Once you’re done you look over at Nam-gyu who’s also changed and looking around. The two of you are in an alley and the sun is setting in the sky above you. You don’t recognize your surroundings but it seems like Nam-gyu does.

“We’re outside club pentagon” He points at a small light up sign by the metal door on the wall. “I work here, my apartment is close”

You ask where exactly the two of you are and he answers. You realize where you’re currently living is no where close to here.

“You can stay over at mine for the night” Nan-gyu says. “It’s crappy but it’s good enough for the night. They you can take a cap back home in the morning, I’m sure with the money we got you’ll have enough to buy one.”

You smile. “Alright, lead the way” You grab your phone out of the bag and click it on before realizing it’s dead. You put it into your pocket and tie up the bag with your money in it before following Nam-gyu out of the alley.

The walk to his apartment is quiet, Nam-gyu doesn’t make any move to touch you or even get too near you. It’s like the two of you don’t know each other, like you didn’t go through a life or death situation together.

But ultimately you get it. Especially since you were just left to go. You assume he’s still trying to make sense of everything that happened, and you are too. You just hope that you’re able to go back to how it was between the two of you before. Yesterday.

It really doesn’t feel like it was just yesterday, it feels like you’ve known Nam-gyu for forever. It’s probably because of the situation you two went through together.

You walk up to a small, fairly dirty appartment building. Nam-gyu steps through the door and you follow. You’re greeted by a set of stairs which the two of you walk up until you reach the 5th floor. You walk through a small, cramped hallway. Nam-gyu stops in front of door 503 and takes a key out of his pocked, putting it into the handle and pushing the door open.

He steps through the door and you follow suit. Inside is a small living room with a kitchenette. There’s two doors, one you assume leading to a bedroom and one a bathroom. The room is fairly messy but it’s not too bad, it’s an organized type of messiness. For the most part, but there are a few piles of whatnot in the corners of the room.

Nam-gyu walks over to the kitchen and opens the cabinets, going through it.

“All I have is ramen, so I hope you’re fine with that cause if not you’re not eating”

You laugh. “I’ll absolutely eat it, I’m starving, we haven’t had a proper meal in days.”

“Yeah, fuck I’m hungry as hell”

He grabs two packs of cheap ramen and puts them on the counter.

“Oh, do you have a changer? My phones dead” You ask, remembering your phone in your pocket.

“Yeah I should have one in my bedroom, you can go find it.”

You nod and walk over to a door, you open it and it’s the bedroom. First try.

You walk in. It’s fairly cramped with a small bed in the corners of the room. There’s a dresser up against the wall beside the door and piles of clothes everywhere. You spot a socket on the wall with a clone charger cord coming out of it. You walk up and hope it’s the goth cord for your phone.

You get your phone and push the cord up against it and.. it goes it. You let out a sigh of relief, placing your phone on the ground, and you stand up from where you were crouched down. You look around the room again briefly and your eyes land on a pair of round glasses on a nightstand beside Nam-gyu’s bed.

You walk back out of the room. “You wear glasses?” You ask Nam-gyu.

“Yeah, I’ve had to for a while, I’m basically blind.”

“Why weren’t you wearing them in the game?”

“It’s embarrassing, man. I don’t wear them out of my house.”

“Whattt, it’s not embarrassing. You need them to see. Anyways, you’d probably look good with them on.” You walk up beside him and lean onto the counter.

He’s put a pot on the stove with water in it which is currently heating up.

“Yeah, sure” He says, brushing you off.

You smile at him. “You’re house is a mess by the way”

“Shut up, I don’t usually have guests around. Either way, atleast I know where everything is, it’s a clean sort of messy.”

“Mhm, sure” You glance over to the piles of junk on the floor.

“Fuck off, if you’re gonna complain then get out” He says, obviously joking.

“Nah”

He drops one of the packs of ramen into the pot and breaks it up with a chopstick. He then drops the second one in, breaking that one up aswell. He puts the chopsticks off to the side, letting the ramen cook.

“What do you think happened to Thanos?” You ask, not expecting an actual answer. You don’t care all that much for Thanos but you spent the past few days with him as well so you’ve come to see him as a friend, even if he doesn’t see you as such and even if he’s annoying as hell.

“He probably got kicked out naked like us. Image he got kicked out with Min-su” Nam-gyu snickers.

“I hope not, Min-su’ll end up dead” You laugh.

“Serves him right.” Nam-gyu says. He picks up two packets of spices that came with the rakes and pours the contents in, mixing it around. “But I’ll probably see him again at the club… well if I manage to get my job back.”

“Yeah.” You realize that you’ve also been gone for a few days, maybe even a week, without telling your employers where you’ve been. The thought worries you but you but you don’t deal with it right now, you haven’t eaten anything all day and the ramen is starting to smell good. You peek over Nam-guy’s shoulder to check on the food.

“You almost done?” You ask.

“Give me a second, damn.” He swats you off, but as you go to stand beside him again his hand rests on your arm. It seems like he’s still as clingy outside the game. You don’t mind it, it’s somewhat endearing, which you think is a weird term to refer to Nam-gyu, a drugged up asshole, with.

He soon removes his hand, though, to grab the pot off of the stove. He places it on the counter and turns the stove off. Nam-gyu grabs two bowls out of a cabinet and hands them to you.

“Put them on the table” You nod and put them onto a small two-seater table in the corner of the room. You place one bowl infront of each seat and Nam-gyu walks up with the pot and places it in the middle. He walks back to the kitchen and grabs two pairs of chopsticks before pausing.

“You know how to use chopsticks, right?” He says, teasingly.

“Of course I know how to use chopsticks, I’ve lived here long enough.”

He walks back over and throws a pair of chopsticks infront of you before grabbing is own and getting some of the ramen out of the pot and dropping it into the bowl, quickly eating what he got. You do the same, grabbing a small portion and eating it within the span of seconds.

“God, ramen has never tasted so good” You say, with food in your mouth.

“Fuck yeah” Nam-gyu say, grabbing more ramen out of the pot. His hair falls forward onto his face but he quickly pushes it back.

The two of you finish up the two packets of ramen in less than 10 minutes.

The conversation doesn’t start back up immediately, both of you sitting in silence, but you speak up with something that’s been on your mind.

“If you got the chance to, would you want to go back into the games?”

Nam-gyu stays quiet for a few seconds before responding. “Probably not. It was easy to keep going when I was already in it, and with the help of the pills, but now that I’m out of it I don’t think I’d have the courage to go back.”

You nod, his answer more thoughtful than you expected but not fully unexpected. You understand the sentiment, and you expected that part of the reason he was so confident with continuing was Thanos’ mystery pills.

“What about you?” He asks.

“Same. If I’m being honest I wanted to go home for a bit but I stayed because of you and Thanos. I felt more confident with you guys, like there was an actual chance for me to get far in it.”

“Huh” Is all Nam-gyu says to respond. The conversation stops there, Nam-gyu picks up the pot and you get the bowls and chopsticks. The both of you drop everything in the sink, Nam-gyu making a passing comment about dealing with it later before excusing himself to the bathroom.

You sit back down at the table and think. You wonder if your life is going to be any different now. You have more money, sure, but it’s not enough to cover everything. It’ll give you a good push forward either way.

But will the game itself affect you? You’re out of it but it was a fairly traumatizing situation. You feel fine now, but that’s probably because you haven’t fully processed what happened yet.

Truthfully you don’t know if you’ll be able to go back to your daily 9 to 5. It’s only been a few days since you were there but it feels like everything’s changed. You guess that’s your answer. It might feel different but it won’t be all that different physically. Well as long as you get your job back.

You snap out of your thoughts as Nam-gyu walks back towards you.

“Fuck I want those drugs Thanos had right now” He immediately says. “Do you want a smoke?”

“Nah”

“Alright” He walks off to his room and you decide to follow him. He grabs a cigarette from a drawer along with a lighter and opens the window before lighting his smoke. Outside it’s basically dark, you can’t believe it’s already nighttime since you feel like you just woke up. You suppose you were probably knocked out most of the day.

“So, are you always so touchy?” You ask, curious if he was clinging to you because he likes you or if it’s just something he does.

“Not usually, only with people I like” He replies, taking a drag. “I did it with Thanos, though, cause it was useful sticking to him. He helped me through the games and let me have some of his drugs. I thought he was stupid at first but he isn’t all that bad.” Nam-gyu rambles on.

He explained why he did it with Thanos but now with you. So that would mean he just likes you, right? You decide not to bring it up yet.

“Yeah, honestly Thanos was kinda funny. I found him annoying first though”

Nam-gyu laughs. “Same, the first time I met him in the club I hated him, he looked so cocky and self centered. But then I realized it’s probably to make up for him being insecure.”

“Hm, yeah a lot of people do that. The drugs definitely helped make him louder and more confident though.”

“Even without them he tried flirting with that girl in the first game, it was so embarrassing I walked away, pretended I didn’t know him the whole game.”

You laugh at that, you’re pretty sure you saw the first bit of it but walked away as to not experience him embarrassing himself.

After a bit Nam-gyu snuffs out the cigarette on the windowsill and throws the but outside.

“Fuck nature.” You say, jokingly, moving to go get your phone from the charger.

Nam-gyu huffs and closes the window. You pick up your phone, it’s not fully charged but it’s good enough so you unplug it. Once it turns back on you see new texts. You turn your phone off and put it into your pocket, looking over at Nam-gyu.

“Are you tired at all?” You ask him.

“Nope”

“Me neither, feels like I just got up”

“Well there’s not much to do around here”

“… if I lay down I’ll go to sleep eventually.” You say, shrugging your shoulders.

“You can sleep in my bed” Nam-gyu quickly says. “I’m sure there’s enough space for both of us” Now there’s definitely no excuse for the two of you to sleep in the same bed but you find there’s no need for one as you agree to do it.

“You can sleep in some of my clothes… I’m sure I have something clean around here.” He moves to look through his dresser before he pulls out a pair of shorts and a white T-shirt which he tosses over to you.

You go into his bathroom to change and when you come out he’s in a pair of sweats and a black shirt.

He sits down on the bed looking more awkward than he was previously. You realize it’s different out here than it was in the game in many ways. You sit beside him and lay down against the wall.

He says down infront of you and like last night you wrap an arm around him and he snuggles up into it.

Even though it was awkward at first you feel more at peace like this. And like you said previously, you begin to get tired and soon drift off to sleep feeling calmer than you have the past three nights.

The next morning goes by faster than you realize. You get up before Nam-gyu but don’t wake him, deciding to watch videos on your phone while he’s still asleep.

He wakes up an hour later and you finally get out of bed. The two of you talk over another packet of ramen, since it’s about all that Nam-gyu has in his apartment currently. After breakfast you walk out of the apartment and flag a taxi down, paying the guy in cash and telling him where to take you.

You exchange phone numbers with Nam-gyu and then you’re off, back to your home.

Part of you worries that it’s going to be hard to readjust to going back to work but you know that after a bit it’ll be as if nothing happened, hopefully.

You let out a sigh and stare out of the window. Atleast you have Nam-gyu’s number now, maybe you’ll get lunch with him someday, or visit club pentagon. Who knows.

[spitefulsatanfics]

《 ❝You break my heart, Kid.❞ 》ஓ๑♡๑

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Y/N (She/Her) — Supernatural

Tone: Grief, hurt/comfort, deep emotional intimacy, soft domestic moments, quiet healing, canon-level angst, found family, mutual vulnerability, protective!Dean, post-loss trauma, unspoken love as a tether to hope.

Rating: 18+ | TW: Grief and loss, vivid depictions of mourning, alcohol, emotional trauma, strong language, canonical character death 🛑 MINORS DO NOT INTERACT 🛑

Based On: Supernatural — Season 7, post-Episode 10 “Death’s Door” ⚠️ This show is rated 17+ and deals with dark and mature themes.

Synopsis: Bobby Singer left behind more than a legacy—he left behind a daughter. And grief doesn’t wait for monsters to disappear. While the Winchesters reel from the loss of their only father figure, Dean finds himself in unfamiliar territory: comforting the one person who loved Bobby as fiercely as he did. Through bottle caps, battered notebooks, and memories soaked in blood and whiskey, Dean and Y/N learn how to carry love’s weight, even when it threatens to bury them both.

By; 𝙻𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝙳𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚕 ♥ — date written and published: June 6th, 2025™ (Request fill — thank you so much for the beautiful prompt.)

════════════════════════════════

Scene One: The House Without Him

The house is wrong.

It smells like coffee that’s gone cold in the pot. Like old leather and dust. Like everything she ever loved and everything that just left.

Y/N doesn’t drop her keys. Doesn’t speak. Just stares at the chipped threshold where Bobby once made her wipe her boots no matter how bad the hunt was. Now her boots are streaked with dried blood and Missouri mud, and no one tells her to clean them.

Dean is waiting just inside, backlit by amber hallway light, flannel hanging off his frame like it's suddenly too big for him. He opens his mouth, but the words rot before they reach his lips.

“Where is he?” she asks. It’s not a real question. Just a refusal to believe what she already knows.

Dean’s throat works as he swallows. His eyes are red, not from drink but from something heavier. Something primal. His voice, when it breaks the quiet, is ash and gravel.

“He’s gone.”

She makes a sound—half a breath, half a sob. Her legs buckle under grief’s first strike. But Dean’s there before she hits the floor, strong arms circling her like he’d built them just to hold her up. Her fists beat uselessly against his chest once, twice—then curl into the fabric of his coat like claws. She weeps in choking gasps, the kind that rip holes in the air, the kind that never end.

Dean lets her. Doesn’t tell her to be strong. Doesn’t tell her it’ll be okay.

Because it won’t. Not tonight.

Not ever in the way they both want.

═══════════════

Scene Two: Bottle Necks and Bones

Two nights later and they haven’t left the motel.

Y/N sits cross-legged on the second bed, still in yesterday’s shirt, staring at the wall like it’s holding secrets. The TV murmurs nonsense. A bottle of Jack sits between them like a fourth presence in the room, half-drunk, cap long gone.

“I keep thinkin’ he’s gonna call,” she says suddenly, voice like old sandpaper. “Tell me I forgot to lock the damn garage again. Or that I left the devil’s trap under the porch undone.”

Dean nods slowly. “I know.”

“He yelled at me the last time I saw him,” she whispers. “We argued about the damn plumbing. Can you believe that? The plumbing.”

“You think he didn’t know you loved him?”

Her jaw tightens. “What if I didn’t say it enough?”

Dean looks at her for a long moment, something unreadable moving behind his tired eyes.

“You did,” he says finally. “You said it in the way you took care of him. In the way you knew which books he liked dog-eared and which ones you never touched. You said it every time you cursed like him or made his chili recipe with too much cayenne just to mess with Sam.”

She almost smiles. Almost.

“You didn’t need to say it. He knew.”

═══════════════

Scene Three: Ghosts in the Study

It takes nearly two weeks for her to walk back into Bobby’s house.

Dean doesn’t push. He drives, his knuckles white on the wheel as she stares at the horizon, one hand in his.

The moment the front door groans open, the air shifts. Cold, stale, but still full of him. She steps through and it smells like memories—like gun oil and half-finished research. Like home.

Dean watches her closely. Not hovering. Just nearby.

In Bobby’s study, the desk is untouched. The leather chair still sits askew, a notebook abandoned mid-translation. A book on Norse rites is cracked open, his cracked glasses beside it.

Y/N steps closer, fingers tracing the well-worn edge of the desk.

Then she spots it.

A photo half-tucked under a stack of notes. She pulls it out—she and Bobby, summer of ‘06. Her face dirty with engine grease, Bobby giving the camera the finger. She remembers Dean behind the lens laughing so hard he nearly dropped it.

She presses the photo to her chest.

Dean’s voice behind her is a murmur. “He kept that on his desk for years.”

Y/N turns, unshed tears glossing her gaze. “He never told me.”

“He didn’t need to.”

═══════════════

Scene Four: The Journals

Later that night, she finds the box.

Old, wooden, claw-scratched and stained. Tucked under the bed like a coffin for memories.

Inside—journals. Dozens. Some dating back to the '80s. Yellowed pages, ink smudged with whiskey and time.

Dean crouches beside her, holding a lamp. “Didn’t know he kept this many.”

She lifts one labelled: Wendigo, Montana '93. A scribbled margin note reads: “Dumbass kids didn’t salt their campsite. Nearly got toasted.”

She laughs. Actually laughs.

Dean smiles. It’s a broken smile, crooked at the edges, but real.

They sit cross-legged on the floor, knees brushing. One by one, they flip pages. Case notes blend with grocery lists. A doodle of a squirrel named “Jim Beaver” is scrawled in a page margin next to a decapitation sketch.

Y/N wipes her eyes. “He was such a mess.”

Dean leans against her shoulder. “He was our mess.”

She turns to another journal. Inside the front cover is a note written in Bobby’s unmistakable scrawl:

To Y/N—You ain’t half bad, kid. Keep this mess runnin’ if I’m not around. And if Dean’s still being a pain in the ass, smack him one for me. Love you. You idjit.

She covers her mouth.

Dean’s hand slides into hers.

They sit there on the floor surrounded by ghosts and ink, and for once, the grief doesn't feel quite so sharp.

═══════════════

Scene Five: Not Alone

Outside, the sun is beginning to rise—light bleeding through the blinds like a quiet promise.

They haven’t slept.

Dean stands behind her in the study, arms wrapped around her waist, chin resting atop her head. She leans back into him, heavy but safe.

“You think he’s still around?” she asks, voice barely a breath.

Dean’s reply is steady. “Yeah. I think he’s in all of this. In you. In me. In every kid we save.”

Her eyes slip shut. “You promise you’ll stay?”

He presses a kiss to the curve of her neck, slow and reverent.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

And in the hollow wreckage of everything they lost, that one truth glows like an ember:

They’re not alone.

Not anymore.

═══════════════✓═══════════════

🕯️ 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖊𝖓𝖉 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖗𝖔𝖆𝖉 𝖎𝖘𝖓’𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖊𝖓𝖉 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖞—𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖎𝖋 𝖘𝖔𝖒𝖊𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖞𝖘 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖞𝖔𝖚. 🕯️

[littleemissperfecttt]

Your new workout routine!?

Summary: You are a very beautiful girl who was forced to marry not one, not two but FIVE men in order to preserve your clans bloodline. How will the marriage workout? Will the five men get along? Will you have a happy life with them?

Warnings: SMUT, Sukuna's true form, ANGST, p in v, two cocks, stomach tongue, oral (f receiving), cumming

A/n: Heyy my their queen readers! I know its been a while since I posted thank you so much for having patience! I started my internship and it took me this long to get used to the schedule I promise from now on I will post every SATURDAYs!!

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Chapter 11

Satoru waited till you woke up and assure himself you were fine before asking you questions on what happened. He was serious.. very serious.. it was the first time you had seen him this serious since the day you met him. It was usually Namami who played the serious role while the others who are older to him played the not so serious role.

You looked away still in his arms as you started explaining what had happened the previous day

"Toji surprised me at work yesterday" you started "we made love in my office... after that Toji started acting strange he-he didn't look at me after that... he didn't take care of me- he didn't even look over to see if I was alright and if I was getting dressed... he was distant and when I asked him any question he didn't respond properly after getting dressed he left"

Satoru opened his mouth to say something but you raised your hand stopping him as you continued

"After he left, his brother? cousin? I-I don't know came into my office... I thought he was a patient of mine and asked him if he needed anything... He introduced himself 'Zenin Naoya' that was his name...he openly checked me out and told me his 'brothers' taste was good and that he wasn't disappointed at all seeing me" you continued

"That bastard..." Satoru muttered under his breath his eyes darkening with rage with each word you spoke though he didn't interrupt you

"He looked at my belly and told me I wasn't 'looking pregnant'" you said as you air-quoted to emphasize on his words "I told him I wasn't pregnant yet and h-he showed me these documents" you tried not to cry again "Toji had signed them.. it was an agreement of selling our first born to the Zenin clan" you wiped your tears "for 500 million yen"

"WHAT!?" Satoru was livid "That freaking bastard! I am going to kill him! No  I am going to murder the whole Zenin clan itself!"

F/n pov-

I held Satoru's hand "No.. you can't do that" I said shaking my head

"Why the fuck not?" He asked his voice filled with rage

"Because you will start a war Satoru" I said and looked down "I don't want you to get into trouble because of me"

"I am the strongest sorcerer out there my love... Nobody would dare do anything to me"

"But still I don't want blood in your hands because me... I thought we-I could have a conversation with Toji when he comes back... later you guys can talk" I looked at him as he took a deep breath to calm down

"I will talk to the others.." He said "I know you don't want to see them just yet and I will tell them everything including the fact that you are not comfortable seeing them yet"

"I have to go to work" I said as he approached me to give me a forehead kiss

"You don't have to...I can talk to Shoko and arrange someth-"

I cut him off "nope, this is the second day of my job and I will go"

He chuckled "you are a little too stubborn my love" he kissed my forehead once again "I guess I will leave you to it then" he stood up from the bed showing off his toned body

For a second I forgot everything, I had to control myself from drooling as I looked away "You can see all you want my love my body, my soul, everything belongs to you after all" he kissed me softly as I blushed in embarrassment from getting caught while staring at him

I pulled away from the kiss and cleared my throat still blushing "well umm... I will go get ready then!" I hurried off of the bed to the bathroom to get shower and get dressed

(Timeskip brought to you by the husbands excluding Toji who are planning a murder heist)

Author's pov-

Shoko was nice enough to not ask you any questions when you went to work. She was polite and made sure you knew there was someone who you can rely to. You didn't tell her what had happened as you didn't want to relive the situation again. The day was pretty pleasant other than that you had a few patient (mostly jujutsu high students) with minor injuries. You did your paper work and read some of your clans journal which had all the lessons needed for you so you can become a better doctor and also be a Jujutsu sorcerer

You came back from work exhausted and sweaty so you showered. You realized that the house was empty, your husbands were either out on a mission or are locked up in their room so you can have the space you wanted. Since you read your lessons from the journal you had learnt a few things from it. You had already tried the medical parts of the lesson back at work but now you were excited to learn about the self defense part of the lesson

You wore your workout clothes- sports bra and some comfy pants- and started walking to the Gym to try a few tricks you learnt in theory. As you entered the gym you could feel this was the place where Sukuna and Toji always hung out in. Their cologne's smell was still there faint as they haven't been here in 48 hours but still their. Your throat clogged when you realized Toji was here before he came to your office. Your heart burned with ache for your husband to approach you and tell you all that was all a lie. You would have opened your arms and welcomed him back into your life.

You shook your head to focus on the present and the lesson you wanted to learn for yourself. You went in front of the punching bag and closed your hands raising your fist, you didn't know if your fighting posture was correct but you did it anyway what's there to lose right? You channeled quarter of your cursed and another quarter of your medical cursed techniques power to your fist. You took a deep breath and punched the bag, you gasped as the punching bag flew away as the shredded textile started dripping out of the hole you made on bag. You looked at your fist impressed with yourself and your skill.

"You are going to get hurt if you do that again" a voice came from behind you "your stance is wrong doll" you turned around to see Sukuna

When you saw him all you wanted to do was run to him and cry your heart out. He was the closest to Toji when compared to the others. They were always in here- the gym- working out, fighting one another to get better. Right now you didn't cry maybe because you already cried for a whole

"umm thanks for the advice...?" you said unsure on what to do or what to answer . He sighed scratching the back of his neck "I can teach you" He suggested. 'wow this is awkward' you thought to yourself before you nodded your head

Sukuna never in a million years thought he would be in an awkward conversation that with HIS wife of all the people. He didn't want things to be awkward especially after some douche broke your heart. Well that douche was... not his friend... but the closest thing he could get one. He was shocked to hear what had happened from Gojo and how it had affected you. He could see it in your eyes that you were holding yourself from crying when you saw him and he did not like that at all. It felt like someone was twisting a knife in his heart.

You turned your back on him as he placed his hands on your waist guiding you to the correct fighting stance. He hung up a new punching bag "so first of all you have to hold your wrists like this with fingers like this" he said showing you how to hold your hand so you won't break it. "Then you gotta punch like this" he demonstrated his punch on the punching bag as you nodded understanding

"O-okay" you did exactly as he taught you and this time you had the same result but your fist did not pain like the last time "oh gosh that worked!!" you said excitedly as you hugged him tightly

Sukuna took a deep breathe inhaling your scent as he returned your hug just as tightly "look we need to talk" he said after thinking a lot. You pulled back and looked at him "okay..."

He sat on the bench nearby as he pulled you onto his lap "look I got to know what happened and I know you want space but I can't let my queen rot in her own sorrow without help. I am potrayed as a monster a ruthless one where I care for no one. I have lived for more than a hundred years because of how strong I am and...."

He took a deep breath as he looked into your eyes "I have felt lonely, people avoid me like a plague especially after seeing my true form other than Uraume nobody ever talked to me, other than the white haired bastard and his friend who usually came to annoy the hell out of me" he chuckled, the sound so beautiful to your ears, The Ryomen Sukuna just laughed "don't look so surprised brat I was once a human too, still am- a part of me will always be human.... for you" he said

He tucked a hair strand behind your ear "I am a heartless bastard to everyone but you, you have brought out a part of me that has been gone for a long time and I want you to know that, though I never say it out loud I am feeling a calm in my heart and it seems like I have found myself a home even if that includes those annoying brats, I will always return home to you"

After hearing that your eyes were filled with tears as you hugged him by the neck, you couldn't understand what you were feeling it was joy and sadness mixed. You felt your heart ache for him the number of time people had called him a monster while he fought for them, got injured for them. "Ryomen, can you show me your true form?" you asked wanting to see your husband in his true form so you can get to know him better

Sukuna looked at you as he nodded hesitantly "you should remember I will never ever hurt you in a million years" he kissed your forehead as he slid you down next to him before he stood up "close your eyes darling" he said as you obediently closed your eyes

You could hear clothes tear "open your eyes" he said in a gruff tone there was an edge to his voice that you quiet did not figure out

As you opened your eyes you saw HIM as who he was Ryomen Sukuna the great beast who could destroy more than five special grade curses in five to ten minutes, your husband the man you have given a part of your heart to. He was marvelous so big, so strong you could see the veins on all four of his arms, the tattoo cover his other two arms too, his four eyes trained on your figure, you could see his other mouth too. You didn't know why instead of getting scared you were turned on by looking at him

He turned his face away from you probably embarrassed by your gaze at least that's what you thought "Ryo.. look at me" you said as you wrapped your arms around his neck while a blush fainted your cheeks

He was so surprised that his eyes widened as he looked at you. You didn't not hesitate when he turned to look at you, you pulled him into a kiss "you are so hot Ryo" you murmered on his lips "I-i need you Ryo please" you started leaving kisses on his neck as two of his arms encircled your waist before he slammed you to a wall

"You can't say that" he said huskily as he pulled you into another kiss this time it was more urgent as he started ripping your clothes apart and ripped his pants and boxers too. Gosh this was the sight you could see all day

"Look at you dripping all over just by looking at me" he said as he parted your thighs with two of his hands while the other two locked your hands above your head, the tongue on his belly licked your breasts making you moan, his tongue stayed on your nipples making you cry out 

"I am going to ravish you today" He chuckled as he flipped you onto your belly

"Y-you have two cocks too?" you asked shocked "oh yes darling did you not know?" he laughed as he spanked your ass leaving his hand mark there making you moan louder as your pussy clenched in response

"You are going to take them both like a good girl aren't you?" he asked his belly tongue licking your ass as he kissed your nape. You nodded your head eagerly waiting for your husband to ravish you like he promised

"This is going to hurt okay?" he said softly but his voice was filled with desire "it will be like taking your virginity but I will make sure you will feel pleasure after going all the way in" he promised as one of his hand grabbed your face and turned it sideways so he could kiss you

Sukuna slowly entered both his cocks into you as you trembled under "almost done darling" he said nipping your lips to calm you down "there all the way in" he said as you whimpered "tell me when i can move" one of his hands fisted your now free hair as you took a minute to settle him inside of you

"You can move" you moaned he started slowly, one of his hands tugging your hair while the other gripping your hips, while the other two reached your breasts to grope them

You mewled in delight as you started feeling pleasure from his actions. Him giving you all the attention you needed in all the right places

"You feel that?" he pressed his hand on your stomach "I have filled you in till here darling" you certainly could feel him in so deep inside of you that your brain was short circuiting from the pleasure, you were at his mercy today and all you could respond was scream his name "Ryo~~" you cried out making him laugh

"You like that dirty girl?" he asked as his hips buckled making you cry out in pleasure "I asked you something F/n" he said

"Y-yes" you replied back as you drooled all over the floor because of the pleasure

He hissed feeling you clench around his cocks "you about to come dirty girl?" he asked as you nodded your head screaming his name

He slapped your ass again as his other hand tugged your hair "not yet, hold it in" his hips buckled in a faster pace as his third hand reached down to play with you clit

"Ryo I-i can't hold it in anymore" you cried out as you closed your eyes tightly

"You are getting tighter by the minute darling" he grunted "you are clenching around me like a vice" his pace started getting faster the gym was filled with the noises of your cries, his occasional grunt and skin slapping

"Cum for me my dirty girl" he said as your vision darkened as you squirted all over his cock. He also came deep inside you making sure to fill your womb

He chuckled as you fell asleep right after squirting with him still inside of you, he released your hair as pulled out of you hearing a whine leave your lips as he fully pulled out of you "Need more dirty girl?" he laughed as he caressed your face as two of his arms picked you up

You nuzzled into his chest seeking his warmth as his eyes softened "you know if I really did need a heir I would have fucked you like this on our first night" he whispered in your ear "But I need more from you, so much more darling" he teleported to his room

He set you down on his bed as he tucked himself next to you making sure you were still nuzzled into his chest "I love you Y/n Sukuna" he whispered into your ear kissing your forehead before he closed his eyes. He felt peace after a long time as he slept soundlessly as this was the first time in his hundred years of living that he got no nightmares throughout the night.

[dorkyteenagedirtbag-ks]

Synopsis: Tanaka avoid his mate to prepare a surprise for him

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:

"Excuse me guys, do you know where Tanaka is?" a young man asked Karasuno team.

They all recognized him-he was Tanaka's mate and one of their most devoted supporters, attending every match without fail.

Kageyama shrugged, glancing at the others, who looked just as clueless.

Disappointed that he didn’t get an answer, (Y/N) left with a pout on his face.

As soon as he was gone, Tanaka emerged from his hiding spot.

"You owe us a meal for that," Kageyama said, smirking at him.

Tanaka bowed deeply to the group.

"Thanks so much for covering for me! I really want this to be a surprise. If I see him, I just know I’ll spill everything..."

The team couldn’t argue. Tanaka had tried to surprise (Y/N) before-but every time, he ended up spoiling it. (Y/N) always found it amusing, but Tanaka took it hard every time things went wrong.

After another hour of practice, they wrapped up for the day.

The next few days were tough for Tanaka-avoiding (Y/N) was no easy feat, especially since he could recognize Tanaka’s scent almost instantly. But finally, the day arrived.

It was (Y/N)’s birthday.

He was miserable. He hadn’t seen his alpha in days, barely got any replies to his texts, and though he swore he caught Tanaka’s scent a few times, he never managed to find him.

And worst of all… Tanaka hadn’t even wished him a happy birthday.

The day dragged on painfully slowly. No message. No sign of him. (Y/N)’s mood darkened, and the aura around him was so intense, no one dared to speak to him.

By the time the long, exhausting day finally ended, he returned home with a deep frown.

He opened the door slowly-and was immediately met by an explosion of confetti and familiar voices.

"Happy birthday!!" everyone cheered.

In the middle of the room stood Tanaka, holding a bouquet of flowers. The sight nearly brought (Y/N) to tears.

Overcome with emotion, he threw himself into Tanaka’s arms, finally able to see him again. They kissed, making up for lost time, while the rest of the team looked away, making exaggerated gagging sounds.

Eventually, Tanaka made (Y/N) sit down in front of the cake and handed him his presents. (Y/N) couldn’t stop smiling-he was overwhelmed with joy.

Once everyone had gone home, Tanaka stayed with (Y/N) to help clean up.

"Sooo… did you like it?" he asked shyly.

(Y/N) turned to him with a glowing smile.

"Yes! Thank you so much-it was so cool! Is that why you didn’t talk to me all week?"

As he finished wiping down the table, Tanaka nodded slowly.

"Yeah… I’m really sorry. It was so so hard not seeing my pretty omega. But you know how I am with surprises..." he added with an awkward laugh.

(Y/N) chuckled too, wrapping his arms around Tanaka and resting his head against his scent gland.

"Mmh… Thank you. But don’t ever ignore me like that again. I thought you wanted to break up with me and just didn’t have the courage."

Tanaka rested his head against his.

"I would never."

That night, they went to sleep together-happy and wrapped in each other’s warmth.

- 𝐊𝐒

It was supposed to be post yesterday but I forgot 😭

Anyways I hope you like it :)

[gmasttin]

Really Good, Actually | Kylian Mbappé

| Summary: A Madrid-based creative unexpectedly finds herself leading the rebranding of Kylian Mbappé. Between cold coffees, impossible deadlines, and tense creative sessions, something more than just a campaign begins to take shape. An ironic, intimate, and emotionally sharp story about the chaos of feeling alive just when you thought you were only surviving.

| Chapter 2 is already out!!

| 3.6k words

| A/n: I read the book “Really Good, Actually” by Monica Heisey and after binging a bunch of romcoms, I decided to finally start and post one. A lighthearted story, with some romcom vibes, that I’d actually been thinking about writing for quite a while. I hope you enjoy it, and sorry for any mistakes, it's the first one I've ever written and as it's obvious, English is not my first language. Enjoy <3.

Chapter 1

Back when life was simpler, and all you had to worry about were Tupperware containers, briefs, and whether you’d make it to the 7 p.m. Pilates class.

Some mornings, you wake up with this strange sense of clarity, like everything’s aligned. The coffee’s just right, the subway arrives on time, no one crushes your toes with a pair of impossible stilettos in their rushed way to their fancy offices.

This is not one of those mornings. You’re not sure if it’s because of the weird dream (the one where you’re marrying Louis, your ex, except he’s the one wearing that wedding dress you kept eyeing, and of course, his mother steals your spot at the altar), or because you ended up arguing with your own mother again, over text, at 12:47 a.m.

But something’s off.

You feel it in the way your toothbrush slips out of your hand, at least three times. Or how your coat gets caught on the door handle right when you’re running late. Also in the fact that, for some reason, you’re wearing two completely different shoes and don’t notice until you’re already in the elevator.

You don’t go back to change them. After all, no one looks at your feet in a marketing agency. Unless you work in fashion. And you don’t work in fashion.

You work in “emotionally driven brand storytelling strategy.” Which is just a fancy way of saying you come up with excuses for people to buy things they don’t need.

At 9:08, you get to the office. You know this because the biometric check-in clock reminds you, like a threat. You throw on your jacket with the defeated air of someone who already knows there’s no hot coffee left for her.

There are two people in the office's kitchen: Lucía, who always looks like she’s either about to cry or fall in love, and Guillermo, who speaks with an exaggeratedly British accent that no one really understands.

“Morning,” he says without looking up from his phone.

“How are you?” you reply, not because you care, but because silence feels even more aggressive.

“Busy. So busy. We have that pitch with the Swiss skincare brand at eleven. And then there’s the meeting.”

Ah. The meeting.

Your boss had announced it yesterday on Teams with the gravity of someone introducing the new Messiah:

“Tomorrow, we have an important meeting. Very important. Like, potential long-term strategic client important. I need your best brains, team. Bring attitude.”

You head back to your desk, a white table that’s far too small, which you share with three other people and a dying plant everyone pretends not to be turning their backs on.

On your screen, thirty-seven tabs are open. Nine are unfinished briefs, three are online clothing stores, and one is a search for: “how to tell if you’re having an emotional breakdown or just sleep-deprived.”

You take a deep breath. Open your calendar. The event is there:

10:30 – Confidential meeting.Subject: Project Star.Attendees: Management, PR, you.

You. Lowercase. Like a typo someone forgot to fix.

You try to focus. Take a sip of your coffee (cold). Open the Excel file with your corporate smile, the one you once practiced in the kitchen mirror. But it doesn’t last.

Because at 10:28, you get a direct message from HR:

Marta (HR): | Head up to Room 5. They’re all here. Including him 👀

Including him.

Who is him? And why that emoji?

Room 5 is the good room. The one with the Scandinavian sofas and the fancy capsule coffee machine. It’s almost always empty, as if reserved for things that matter. Or for people who earn more in a year than you will in your entire career.

When you walk in, the first thing you see is your boss, wearing that smug “I closed this deal even though I didn’t do anything” smile. Then three people you don’t recognize. Suits. Serious. A woman holding a folder full of documents, and two men who look like they haven’t laughed since 2017.

And then you see him.

He’s sitting in the corner of the sofa, staring at his phone like it’s blowing up. White shirt, sleeves rolled up, expensive watch. The kind of person who doesn’t need an introduction because you’ve already seen his face twenty times—on bus stop billboards, Nike campaigns, and a live-through nightmare involving penalty kicks and your grandmother’s best friend, who is Argentine.

Kylian. The footballer. That one.

Your first thought was: He’s even better looking in real life. Your second was: Don’t look impressed.

Your boss catches your eye and motions for you to sit down.

“This is Y/N, our trusted creative director,” your boss says in that tone he uses when he’s trying to sound cool and young, despite he is entering his middle 50’s. 

You smile as best you can. Your heart’s pounding like it’s doing cardio on your behalf.

Kylian looks up. And for a fraction of a second, he looks at you.

Not in a “who are you?” kind of way, but more like “right, so you’re the one who’s supposed to fix this.”

You sit down on the opposite end of the sofa. Far enough not to seem intimidating. Close enough to pretend you’re not trying to seem anything at all.

Your boss clears his throat. That thing he always does right before saying something that sounds like a headline but means absolutely nothing.

“Well, as I was saying, this is a special project. A unique opportunity to… rewrite the narrative.”

“Rewrite the narrative” is his new favorite phrase. He’s been using it ever since someone said it at a networking event and he jotted it down on his iPhone, right next to gems like “pivot from authenticity” and “emotional capital.”

“Kylian is entering a new chapter,” he adds, as if talking about a divorce or a spiritual awakening. “His team wants to work on his personal brand from a more honest place. More connected. Something… human.”

Kylian says nothing. Still staring at his phone. Like none of this matters. Like he’d honestly rather be out training in the rain or under 600-watt studio lights.

One of the women across the table finally speaks. She looks like she handles PR. Her voice sounds like one of those self-help podcasts that tell you everything happens for a reason while selling you a course on productivity.

“We want people to meet the real Kylian. Not just the athlete. The boy who grew up in the suburbs, who loves art, who’s investing in cultural initiatives for young people.”

The boy who loves art. Right. Like every bored millionaire who collects neon sculptures and Warhol prints they don’t even understand.

“We’re thinking of a series of documentary-style content—something intimate but visually strong. Also, a small social media campaign where he speaks directly to the audience. No filter.”

Your boss nods, enthusiastically, as he adds.

“And that’s why we have Y/N. Our top creative. Brilliant. With a unique sensitivity. She knows how to connect with difficult audiences. She’s worked with NGOs, tech start-ups, an inclusive pottery workshop…”

Your name, your career, your work, it all sounds like it’s being read out loud at your professional funeral. You smile. Because that’s what’s expected.

You turn toward Kylian. He looks at you. Finally. As if he’s only just now mentally arrived in the room.

“You write the scripts?” he asks. His voice is deeper than you expected. Like someone who doesn’t rush his sentences.

“I write the ideas,” you reply. “The scripts too. But if everything goes well, no one will remember the words. Just how it made them feel.”

You’re not sure why you said that. Maybe because it sounds like something a brilliant creative would say. Maybe because you’re just a little tired of being treated like a walking PowerPoint.

He nods. Says nothing else.

Your boss clears his throat again. There are more details, of course: deadlines, photo shoots, potential trips, a budget no one dares to say out loud. Words like “engagement,” “authenticity,” and “rebranding” hover in the air like LinkedIn mosquitoes.

And you, meanwhile, are sitting there wondering how this even happened. How you went from creating ad campaigns for titanium frying pans to looking into the eyes of someone who’s probably going to be the next football legend.

At the end of the meeting, he stands and everyone follows.

You stay behind a little longer, unsure if you should head back to your desk or pretend you need to go over your notes.

He turns at the door. Gives you a quick glance. Like he’s not sure whether to say goodbye.

“So, I guess I’ll see you soon,” he says.

And without thinking too much, you reply: “Looks like it.”

Later, in the office kitchen and dining area, Lucía looks at you like you just had dinner with Brad Pitt, her eternal crush.

“So? What was he like? Was he nice? Did he talk to you?”

“He asked me one question.”

“And? How was it? Can you tell he’s French?”

“Not really. You can tell he didn’t want to be here.”

She laughs. “So basically, just like you. Soulmates.”

You pour yourself more coffee. Even though it’s already noon and you know you shouldn’t. But you need something to remind you you’re still awake. That this wasn’t just a celebrity reality show fever dream.

Your boss messages you on Teams:

“Great impression. He liked you. Work your magic.”

Work your magic. As if it were that easy. As if magic weren’t, almost always, just logistics and anxiety.

You spend the afternoon going through the briefing. They’ve sent you a 17-page document titled: “A New Era: Humanizing the Legend.”

The title alone makes you want to jump out the window.

The phrases are full of vague objectives: — Position an emotional identity. — Connect with non-sports audiences. — Turn notoriety into relatability.

There are black-and-white photos of him. One with a vintage bike. Another reading a book with no title. A third holding a little girl (his niece, according to the caption). You wonder which parts of all this are real. And which ones you’ll have to invent.

You start jotting down notes. On a post-it, you write:

What if instead of pretending he’s “the guy next door,” we show him as someone who also had to fight for what he truly wanted? Distance as truth. Fame as fracture.

You like that sentence. Fame as fracture.

You stick it to the edge of your monitor. Right next to another post-it that says: – Call the dentist. – Stop stalking Louis. – Buy tampons.

The next morning unfolds like the mornings of the past six months: fast, half-hearted, with a light drizzle of anxiety—which today, for obvious reasons, feels slightly more intense.

You’ve been summoned to a more intimate meeting. Proposed by his PR manager. Just you, the PR manager, and him.

It’s in a coworking space in Chamberí that looks like a Pinterest café with people-pleasing issues.

When you arrive, they’re already seated. He’s wearing a cap. And sunglasses. Indoors. As if he didn’t want anyone to recognize him.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hi,” he replies. Dry. Tired. Then silence.

The PR manager talks for eleven straight minutes. You know it because you count it mentally. He nods occasionally, as if he’s listening. But you watch him and know he’s not really there. So you go for it.

“Sorry. Can I ask something?”

They both turn to you. The PR manager, with a thin smile, the kind that expects you to compliment her long monologue where she’s said everything and absolutely nothing. The kind of monologue that’s made you consider requesting medical leave and handing this project off to someone else, if all future meetings are going to be like this.

“Do you actually want to do this?” you continue.

He blinks. “This?”

“Yeah. The campaign. The rebrand. Are you actually interested in it, or are you here because someone told you to be?”

The PR manager shoots you a look that could be categorized as brand sabotage.

Kylian, however, laughs. A short laugh. But a real one.

“Does it matter?”

“A lot. If you’re not into it, it’s going to show. And if it shows, everyone’s going to see it. And if they see it, they’ll call you fake. And, then we’ll have to redo the whole campaign, but this time using the drama as the hook.”

He looks at you. “All right. I’ll try.”

“Try what?”

“To care.”

You nod and make a mental note: Functional sarcasm. Potential sense of humor. Possibly shy (or just reserved, does he not like me? If so, bad start). Possibly just fed up.

They send you clips of him “for inspiration.” Interviews. Matches. Viral moments.

There’s one in particular. A phone-recorded video on a plane. He’s on his phone. Someone off-camera asks if he’s nervous about the final. He answers:

“No. I’m tired.”

Tired. Not in a physical sense. Existentially tired.

That’s the crack. That’s where you can slip in.

The next day, he shows up at the office. Unannounced. Wearing a watch that probably costs more than a year’s rent on your flat, and the look of someone who Googled “how to dress normal” this morning and gave up halfway.

It’s four in the afternoon. You’re working the late shift today, you swapped with Mireia so you could work in a quieter environment, with fewer people to distract you while you try to figure out how the hell you’re supposed to frame this project.

“I’m here to work with you,” he says, walking toward your desk. The desk you’ve been saying for over a month now that you’ll tidy up, because honestly, it’s starting to get embarrassing. And now the embarrassment is fully devouring you from the inside out.

“Did you bring ideas? Proposals? Do you want to change something in the project?” you ask, because you’re not entirely sure why he’s here.

He doesn’t trust me, does he?

To be fair, your boss didn’t exactly sell you very well. And you wouldn’t trust someone either if they looked like they hadn’t been laid properly in five months and seventeen days (which, if asked, wouldn’t be too far from the truth), to run the documentary that’s supposed to reinvent your public image.

“No.”

You raise an eyebrow. Definitely doesn’t trust me. You think. Or maybe his PR manager sent him to spy on you, because she also doesn’t trust how you do your job, especially after you, let’s be honest, gently shredded hers the other day.

He grabs a spare chair and sits next to you, stealing Pablo’s seat, who’s now watching the interaction from the water machine like it’s a live episode of something he didn’t know he needed.

“These ‘meetings’ usually happen with PR,” you tell him. “You don’t have to be here. They can send you the details.”

“I don’t care,” he shrugs. “It’s a project about my life, right? I should know what’s being said. And what’s not.”

Then, with just the right amount of cheek: “Got any coffee? Pour me one.”

You stare at him. Did he just tell me to make him coffee? Like I’m his assistant?

And you stare a little longer. He holds your gaze, half-smirking, half-testing. That kind of expression that doesn’t fully commit to being rude or polite. As if he hasn’t decided which version of himself is most useful in a Madrid office on a Tuesday afternoon.

You inhale. Slowly.

“We don’t have personal assistants here.”

You get up. Walk toward the coffee machine without looking back. Spine straight. Jaw set. Your version of saying don’t mess with me without saying it.

“Then make us both one,” he adds from your chair, like that somehow makes it better.

The laugh escapes before you can stop it. Dry. More of a stylish snort than a laugh, really.

“Sugar? Or do you want me to draw your logo in the foam?”

“No sugar. I'm in season, gotta watch the sweets.” He says it softer this time. Almost like an apology.

When you come back with the two mugs, he’s already leaned into your monitor. Arms crossed. Eyes fixed on the project timeline you’d left open.

“All this... you do it alone?” he asks, not looking at you.

“Did you think I had a team?”

Now he turns. Looks at you fully. Something’s shifted in his face, like irony was the password to get into his world.

“No. It’s just... a lot.”

You shrug.

“It is. But hey, at least no one makes me chase a ball for a living.”

He laughs. An unexpected one. Brief. Almost sweet. And that’s when it hits you: He’s not just looking at you. He’s watching you. Like he’s trying to figure something out about you that’s not in your resumé.

The next forty minutes, you work in silence. Or at least, what passes for “working” when two people are hyper-aware of each other and there's a quiet tension in the air that neither of you knows how to name yet.

Every now and then, he asks something. About the script tone. The order of the clips. Whether his accent is “too French” for a voiceover.

“Do you think I should speak Spanish in the videos?” he asks.

You consider it.

“If you want people to see you’re making an effort, yes. If you want to sound perfect, no.”

“I want to sound real.”

“Then leave it as it is. With mistakes. With pauses. With ‘ehh’ and ‘I don’t know.’”

He nods. And something opens there. Just a crack. A window slit. But it’s real.

He’s smarter than he looks. You realize that somewhere between the conversation on narratives, social media, and how to show vulnerability without sounding like a performance. He has opinions. He asks. He listens.

And you... You’re confused. Because you don’t know if this is still work. Or if you’re slowly being pulled into the gravity of it all. Of him. Of this moment.

At some point, he laughs at something you say and looks at you like you’re brilliant. Not beautiful. Brilliant. And for some reason, that disarms you more than any physical compliment.

The next day, at 10:36 a.m., the unofficial break time for Lucía, as if the universe had conspired for this conversation to happen, Lucía shows up at your desk with a cookie in hand.

“Was it real? He was here? Pablo told me.”

You raise your gaze to meet Lucía’s eyes, like she’s reached the juiciest part of a novel she can’t stop reading. You simply nod and turn your attention back to the monitor of your computer.

“So, how was it?”

You glance at your empty coffee cup resting next to the mountain of discarded post-its, all with ideas that still don’t quite fit this project. Ideas that seem to wander like echoes, failing to capture the essence.

“Strange.”

“Strange good or strange bad?” Lucía insists, now sitting on the edge of your desk, making it feel like an interrogation. 

You sigh, gathering your thoughts.

“Strange ‘I want him back.’” You admit, letting yourself be pulled into that mix of confusion and realization you’ve been keeping to yourself.

You told her about that strange back-and-forth, that feeling you couldn’t quite describe, but Lucía, after hearing it, defined it as “professional flirting in disguise.”

“We’re not flirting.”

“Of course you are. It’s just that instead of telling him you love his smile, you told him his current storytelling is weak and redundant.”

“Because it is.”

“And he looked at you like he wanted you to write his biography and emotional resume.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Girl, I’m telling you, as a friend and as someone who’s seen all the seasons of The Bold Type, that guy cares more about your feedback than winning the Ballon d'Or.”

Exaggerations aside, something was there. A subtle thread of mutual curiosity, something that was growing without you realizing. And now, here you were: immersed in a project that would last several weeks, working alongside him. Defining the tone of his communication, developing digital pieces, planning interviews… All while trying to maintain your composure and stay focused on your workday.

You’ve come to the conclusion that it all boils down to the fact that you were bored.

You could say it was the algorithm. You could blame a well-executed digital strategy. You could use any excuse, really, and not be lying. But deep down, you know it was that. Boredom. The deadliest of mental states.

And there you were, last night, a Wednesday, with your emergency bun and a lopsided dinner in front of you, watching a video of Kylian Mbappé talking about motivation in a square format with black-and-white subtitles. He wore a white shirt, the collar a little stretched, and several buttons undone. And you wore what was left of your self-esteem and a glass of supermarket red wine.

The worst part is, the video wasn’t bad. The worst part is, it actually seemed sincere. It was in English, with a strong accent and a hesitant intonation, like he was afraid of offending the language. He said things like, "you can’t be your best version if you don’t know who you are," and you nodded. YOU NODDED. After that, you turned off your phone as if it had slapped you and went to bed without washing your face. Because boredom doesn’t just make you vulnerable; it also makes you lazy.

You told Lucía the story as if it were some ridiculous anecdote. Something to laugh about during her unofficial coffee break. But Lucía, who is not just your coworker but your version with steroids, looked at you as if you’d said something important.

“Girl, what if this is a sign?”

“A sign of what?” You asked, raising an eyebrow.

“That you need a change. Or a quickie. Or both.”

[lunarlilacmoon]

i’ve seen a few people doing requests now so i thought i would too🫣

maybe larissa and reader comfort fic, where reader has mommy issues (her mothers a teacher and she’s too)

rest is up to you

thanks in advance 🩷

First off thank you so much to the few that have already requested I am loving being able to do this! I hope to post on a regular basis but for right now I’m getting the hang of the flow! I’m very excited to bring people ideas to life so please don’t be shy and do not hesitate to request! I have another super exciting Wanda ask that I’m working on and will hopefully post later today!! With that being said enjoy more Rissa!

Her Perfect Girl

Larissa Weems X Fem!reader

Warnings: some smut, mommy issues (literally), fingering, sub space, more soft and focused on reader! Again if I forgot any I apologize sincerely.

Summery: Having a mother you constantly want to impress and make happy is exhausting. What’s even more exhausting than that? Working with said mother as well! When Larissa witness a troubling exchange with you and your mother she takes extra steps to relieve your stress and show you just how impressed she is with all your hard work!

Apologies if there are any spelling errors it is 7 am and I still haven’t gone to sleep from yesterday lol!

A knock at the door pulled my from my trance grading papers. I rubbed my eyes looking towards the door expecting a student to walk in but to my pleasure it was Larissa.

“Hi!” I perked up instantly shooting her a smile!

She made her way around my desk planting a kiss on my head.

“How’s your day going my love?” Her eyes cast down to my desk flittering over the tests.

“Just finishing up grading tests from yesterday! What happened? I thought you had a meeting with the mayor this afternoon?” I reached for her hand running my fingers along hers just enjoying the feel of her.

“I did but unfortunately he ate something bad for breakfast and has called it an early day so we rescheduled for next Wednesday instead.” She huffed out clearly annoyed.

“Rissa” I couldn’t help the giggle that slipped out, “he can’t help if he gets sick.” I teased.

“Men are such babies about being sick!”

“Hey now! I’m a baby when I’m sick!” I pouted up at her.

“Mm yes but you’re adorable and they are not, there is quite a difference!” She gazed lovingly at me.

Before I could continue our sweet moment the door swung open and I dropped Larissa’s hand in shock. It’s not that the school didn’t know about us, I just tried to keep it professional until school hours were over to avoid any issues that could arise. The thought of a student seeing PDA from us made my anxiety sky rocket but when I realized who the form was I soon was wishing it was a student.

“Mom?” My voice wasn’t hiding my surprise.

“You weren’t at the lounge for lunch so I wasn’t able to talk to you about some of the material I’ve noticed you teaching the kids. Now I know there are a few different things you have to incorporate to allow room for the new curriculum but do you really think wasting an entire semester for werewolves is proactive for the children? When I taught this class a simple week and a half course was plenty enough to get through everything important!” She zeroed in on me completely missing Larissa or greeting apparently.

“I- well hello to you too. Yes mom I do think a semester is reasonable to cover werewolves as I have a handful in my class and I do believe it is just as important for them and their peers to know everything a werewolf goes through. There are important things your old curriculum left out that I deem valuable for my students to know.”

“Darling I know you are excited because this is your second year teaching but you are going to burn yourself out with this unnecessary stuff!”

I was growing irritated with this dance. It’s one we perform often. No matter how close I am to the finish line of being good enough it just seems to stretch a little further with each step.

“The heating cycles is not something that is “unnecessary” for them to know! I understand that may have been something you found uncomfortable to talk about but unfortunately it’s something many of these young wolves will deal with and not giving them proper education before it’s too late can and will be detrimental to their social and mental health. Just because they come from families of wolves doesn’t mean everything like that is talked about.” I argued back refusing to back down on my point.

“You are so stubborn sometimes you that all I’m trying to say is you are trying to hard to get praise from whomever and you are going to crash and burn, then what? You did so good last year following my steps, keep doing that it will keep you on track!”

“Miss Moore I do believe you have a class starting in two minutes perhaps you should be on your way?” Larissa’s voice came from behind me spooking me slightly as I had forgotten she was there for a moment.

“Yes of course Headmistress, I just simply wanted to swing by and keep my daughter on track for a perfect year!” She smiled tightly at Larissa and I was ready for the ground to swallow me up. Though she said nothing unprofessional her tone wasn’t hiding her distance for Larissa stepping into “family business”.

“As grateful as I am to you for your support to staff perhaps you should work on your own class, because if I do recall correctly you didn’t score very well on your last evaluation. So let’s work on keeping you on track for a perfect year!” Larissa flashed her signature pearly smile and I swear the room was so silent I could hear both of their breaths.

Even if she wanted to say anything more Larissa was still her boss at the end of the day, and while she can be a bitch she isn’t stupid so my mother turned without a word and left the room. As soon as she was gone I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding and I felt Larissa’s hand on my shoulder.

“I am so sorry she get really nit picky when things aren’t “perfect” in her eyes and she forgets herself with others. She’ll apologize after her class when she realizes how she acted!”

“Are you okay?” Larissa’s eye peered softly down at me.

“Me?” I responded shocked. “I’m fine! This is like a monthly thing! She has a little break down every couple weeks and has to make sure our image is perfect.” I laughed patting her hand.

“Oh my baby I’m so sorry.” She hummed stroking my hair.

Jesus fucking christ I was weak for this woman. A few words and she had me like putty.

“Oh no please don’t apologize Rissa really it’s okay! That wasn’t even a bad episode!” I realized my mistake once the words left my mouth.

“Pardon?” Her face grew firmer.

“Nothing…” My voice softened and I turned back to the papers. “I um, I should finish these up, I’ll be done in about an hour or so if you want to pop into town for a bite to eat?” I offered picking up my pen.

As nervous and embarrassed she saw even a small ugly part of my mother I couldn’t help how her getting protective of me like that made me feel. Like she could and would destroy the world for me. It slipped me straight into sub space but I had work to finish.

Before I could even hover the pen over the test her hand was pressed over mine pushing the pen back down.

“Mm no I don’t think so darling. Her words may not have been nasty but she hurt your feelings again, I can’t let you continue the day with hurt feelings. What kind of girlfriend would I be.

I felt her lip on my neck and I gasped intertwining my fingers with hers.

“Rissa we can’t, not here!” I gasped and she nipped at my skin.

“A quick reminder of how perfect you are is allowed anywhere, anytime.”

I had no time to think or speak before she had me spun around as she sank to her knees in front of me.

“Rissa please really it’s okay I-.” My words were ignored and I was cut off by her pulling my dress up over my thighs as they were spread about.

All words were caught in my throat as she played with my panties moving them side to side before pulling them away and licking a strip from my entrance to my clit.

“Holy shit!” I gasped out slamming my hand over my mouth as she devoured me.

I held my mouth shut as tight as I could trying to keep all the sounds in hoping no one would pass through the halls right now. Her tongue alternated between circling my clit and fucking me. Occasionally she would suck on my slit and my whole body would shake.

“You are such a good girl baby! So perfect for me!” She praised between my lips as my head lolled back.

“Look at me princess. Look at me while you cum like my perfect girl.”

She latched onto my clit and slid two fingers into my pumping to reach the spot she knew so well and within seconds I was cumming undone all over her face while she watched me the whole time through. My body spasmed as I came down and she pulled away slowly.

“See look at how perfect you are! You did so well and listened so perfectly just like you always do! Cause you’re mommy’s perfect girl!” She cooed kissing my lips. “Now let’s get you as clean here as we can and then I’ll help you finish grading after we take a bath together how does that sound?”

“Perfect!” I smiled smashing my lips on hers again.