#i swear it makes sense to me it makes so much sense

[aleksatia]

Possession, Obsession, Devotion: A Study in Five Men

Nope, I haven’t vanished. Super grateful for all your messages and the sweet support — seriously, thank you. Just swamped with work right now, so writing’s slowed down a bit. Still working on your requests, I promise! And I’m knee-deep in a pretty massive, emotionally wrecking angst based on a Songfic prompt. While that one’s cooking, I thought I’d drop another batch of my random writer notes — all bundled up in one chaotic little post.

CW/TW: Headcanons, Possessive Behavior, Obsessive Love, Jealousy, Power Imbalance, Toxic Romance, Red Flags Treated as Romance, Intimacy with Control Undertones, Emotional Manipulation (Mild), Dubious Coping Mechanisms, Intense Emotional Dependency, Suggestive Themes, Mild Sexual Content, Unhealthy Attachment Framed as Devotion Genre: Romance-Infused, Erotically-Charged Drabbles with a Generous Side of Fluff Words Count: 8.6K

5 Petty Jealousies That Reveal Just How Much Caleb’s Obsessed With You

1. You call another man “handsome” — even as a joke. You were teasing. Flirting, in that harmless, breezy way of yours. Caleb laughed. Then immediately kissed you like he needed to reassert territorial dominance with tongue and body weight. Funny how your jokes always end with your back against the wall and his hand on your throat. Lovingly.

2. You go to someone else for help instead of him. You needed tech support. A charger. Help moving the couch. And instead of calling your six-foot-two, military-trained, emotionally unstable boyfriend — you asked Xavier. Caleb didn’t say anything. Just stood in the doorway, watching, calculating how long it would take to move the entire solar system to make sure you never do that again.

3. You don’t sit on his lap when there’s clearly space.You chose the chair. Next to him. Not on him. He’s not mad. No, no. He's just questioning the entire fabric of your connection and whether you’ve lost all sense of instinct. And when you finally realize and climb into his lap? He sighs like a man being restored to life.

4. You post a photo where you're not touching him.Nice shot. Great lighting. Cute outfit. But why is he two feet away and not glued to your side like a shadow with military clearance? His arm belongs around your waist. His hand belongs on your thigh. And your caption? Should’ve been his name, followed by a possessive noun.

5. You forget to wear his dog tags. He left them for you. Carefully. On your nightstand. The same tags he’s worn through hell. And you? Walked out the door wearing a cute sweater and nothing that says “belonging to Colonel Caleb.” He’ll never say a word. He’ll just strip you slow the second you get home and fasten them back around your neck himself. With teeth.

5 Lies Caleb Tells Himself About You

1. “I don’t care that she uses my toothbrush.”You could take a fresh one. You don’t. You reach for his, same as always — like that handle belongs to you more than to him. He mutters something about germs. Then watches you rinse with that smug little smile. And later, when you're asleep, he moves it back to your side of the sink. Right where you like it.

2. “She can wear whatever she wants.”And you do. His shirt. His flight jacket. That tiny black top you swear is “practical.” He acts unbothered. Says nothing. But the second someone else looks too long? He stands behind you. One hand on your waist. That casual kind of possessive that feels like a warning wrapped in warmth.

3. “I don’t need her to text me when she gets home.”You’re a grown woman. A Hunter. You’ve neutralized things with more teeth than common sense. You say “Don’t wait up.” He says “Sure.” Then checks his phone every ten minutes like it's a heartbeat monitor and he's waiting to hear yours again.

4. “It’s fine if she flirts. I know it’s harmless.”You’re charming. It’s part of who you are. You wink. Smile. Lean in a little too close. Caleb plays it cool. Says, “She’s always like that.” Then grabs your waist in front of everyone and whispers: “Try that again, and I’ll fuck you so hard next time you won’t remember anyone else’s name.”

5. “She doesn’t need to say she loves me every day.”You say it once. In passing. A low little “love you” as you walk away, like it’s nothing. But he hears it like an oath. And that night? He holds your hand a little tighter. Pulls your body a little closer. Not because he needs to hear it again. But because if he doesn’t touch you, he might forget how to breathe.

5 Things That Make Him Go Completely Feral (In Lust, Not Rage)

1. Your hair falls in his face. Leaning over him. Stretching across the couch. Just close enough that it brushes his cheek like it has rights. You don’t even notice. But he does. Every time. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. Just breathes in and lets the world narrow to that one soft, smug part of you.

2. You chew on your thumb when you’re thinking. Not seductively. Not even consciously. Just a tiny bite to the edge of your nail while you’re mid-rant about your latest recon or trying to remember the name of a street vendor. It’s nothing. Stupid. Barely a gesture. And yet — he stares. Tracks it like a countdown. Fists flexing slow. Jaw tight. Because that mouth should never look that innocent.

3. You interrupt him when he’s cooking. He’s focused. Knife in hand. Half-distracted by heat and oil. And then you slide in behind him. Touch his lower back. Squeeze something you shouldn’t. Say “Smells good, chef,” with a grin that makes his whole spine forget how to hold. He curses. Tries to shoo you off. You lick something off his finger. And now dinner’s going to burn.

4. You try on his Fleet cap like it’s a joke. You lift it off the rack. Set it crooked on your head. Salute with two fingers and that smile that once made him fall off a training tower. “Colonel,” you say. And he’s gone. He should laugh. He doesn’t. He walks over, takes it off you slow, and kisses your temple like he’s reassigning you to a very different kind of mission.

5. You say “I’m yours”. Not in bed. Not in public. Just… casually. In passing. In that low voice you only use when something’s real. “I’m yours.”He looks at you like you just disarmed a bomb with your bare hands. And then he ruins you for saying it so lightly.

5 Power Couple Moments That Made Everyone Else Jealous (And a Little Scared)

1. You’re the only one allowed to fly with him in his military jet.Clearance denied. Protocol says no. Regulations triple-confirm it. And yet — you’re in the co-pilot seat, boots up, fingers tracing buttons you’re not supposed to touch. He doesn’t stop you. Someone once asked why you get to ride with him when no one else does. He looked up from the cockpit and said, “She’s my gravity.” End of discussion.

2. You only need to place your hand on his to calm him down.No words. No pleading. No strategic de-escalation. Just your fingers, settling lightly over his, when something in him starts to coil too tight. And just like that — his spine eases. The heat in his eyes lowers by a degree. People have seen him end arguments with three words. They’ve never seen him go silent for anyone but you.

3. You’re the only person he’ll interrupt a briefing for.He’s mid-sentence. Room full of officers. Tactical projections glowing on the wall. His phone buzzes. He glances down, sees your name — and pauses. “Give me five,” he says. And walks out without waiting for permission. Someone once asked who it was.  He said, “The only priority higher than this fleet.”  No one asked again.

4. You walk in on his arm at the Farspace Fleet annual gala.He’s in dress whites. You’re in black. And the room — full of admirals, envoys, diplomats — parts like mist when you enter. He doesn’t introduce you. He doesn’t need to. You’re not just his date. You’re the one who makes him dangerous in silence. And everyone knows it.

5. You don’t need words to communicate.One glance. A tilt of your head. A tiny shift in posture across the room. He’s already moving. Already reading you like mission data. To others, it looks like magic. Intuition. Maybe telepathy. But for you two?  It’s just muscle memory — built from years of almosts, nevers, and finallys.

5 Times Caleb Was a Walking Red Flag But You Loved Him Anyway

1. He pulled the full personnel file on a man you once smiled at.You were being polite. Friendly. The guy asked something harmless, you laughed. By morning, Caleb had his record open on a secure datapad, scrolling like he wasn’t reading a life — just calculating the risk factor. You asked what he was doing. He said, “I like knowing who wants what’s mine.” And then kissed you like he hoped you never asked him to stop.

2. He showed up at your door at 02:03 AM. Soaking wet. Furious. Silent.You missed one message. One. He waited. Thirty minutes. An hour. And then something in him snapped. No threats. No drama. Just the sound of his knock like a warning shot. You opened the door. He didn’t speak. Just stared. And then pulled you in with a grip like survival wasn’t optional anymore.

3. He scared the hell out of a junior pilot for asking your name.The kid was fresh. Eager. Smiled a little too long. Said, “Hey, what should I call you?” You started to answer. Then turned — and saw Caleb across the room. Expression calm. Stance neutral. Eyes loaded. The pilot apologized before you even said a word.

4. He slammed his hand on the table when you joked about breaking up.Just a joke. A throwaway line. Something stupid like “Guess I’ll go find someone less intense.” And his hand hit the surface before the words fully left your mouth. Not loud. Not violent. Just final. He didn’t yell. Didn’t argue. Just looked at you like you’d put a knife in his ribs and smiled about it. You never made that joke again.

5. He called you “dangerous” — and meant it like a vow.It was late. You were arguing. You said something sharp. He caught your wrist and said it low, almost reverent: “You’re dangerous.” But not like an accusation. Like awe. Like worship. Like he’d already decided to stay, even if you wrecked him completely. Even if he’d have to protect the world from you. Or protect you from himself.

5 Petty Jealousies That Reveal Just How Much Zayne’s Obsessed With You

1. Someone else bandaged your scratch. Just a graze. A stupid piece of shrapnel across your forearm. A colleague wrapped it up. No big deal. You came home smiling. Told him it barely hurt. He nodded. Quiet. Then excused himself to the kitchen. Five minutes later, he returned with antiseptic, clean gauze, and the words: “Take it off. I’m doing it properly.”  You didn’t argue. Neither did he. 2. Someone at work lent you their umbrella. A man. It was raining. You forgot yours. He offered. You accepted.  Zayne didn’t say a thing when you mentioned it over dinner. Just hummed. Neutral. The next morning, you found a new umbrella in your bag. Carbon fiber. Windproof. Labeled discreetly with your initials. You didn’t ask how he knew the exact weight your bag could carry without straining your shoulder. 3. You asked the waiter to recommend a wine. It was harmless. Polite. You were curious. But Zayne was sitting right there. He didn’t blink. Just looked at the waiter, then at you. Then took the list back. “Actually,” he said, calm as glass, “she prefers reds with less acidity. I’ll order.” You nodded. The waiter nodded. And somewhere between the clink of glasses, you realized that wasn't about wine at all. 4. You didn’t invite him to your morning training. He’d had a night shift. Surgery ran late. You wanted him to rest. So you left quietly. He woke up to an empty bed, your gym bag missing, and a silence that felt like a closed door. You came back to find his routine disrupted, his pulse still too fast — and a protein shake mixed just how you like it, chilled and waiting on the table. He never mentioned it. But now, if you decide to “let him rest” again… your training starts later. And doesn’t involve clothes. 5. You called another man “smart.” It was a game show. Trivia night. Some stranger on-screen made a clever move. You smiled. “Wow. That was actually really smart.” Zayne didn’t look up from his tablet. Didn’t even shift. But ten minutes later, you found yourself in a very precise debate about probability, strategy, and why that move wasn’t that brilliant after all. You didn’t argue. You just leaned closer. He didn’t smirk, but you felt it anyway.

5 Lies Zayne Tells Himself About You

1. "I’m just your cardiologist during exams." It’s clinical. Professional. Necessary. He listens to your heartbeat, takes your vitals, asks you to breathe deeper — deeper. You unbutton your shirt. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look. Doesn’t feel anything. Except for the part where he adjusts his gloves a little too tightly. And maybe takes one extra second to remove the stethoscope from your skin. 2. "Lunch tastes the same without you." He orders the same thing. Same café. Same tea. But the pastry tastes off. The space feels louder. The table — emptier. He tells himself it’s fine. Then brings the leftovers back to his office. Doesn’t touch them. Just leaves the box where your hand might find it later. 3. "I don’t need to pick you up." It’s logical. You’re a professional. Your job runs over sometimes. So does his. But your message was short. The streetlights are on. The buses are unreliable.  He checks traffic cams. Weather. Public transit delays. Then sits very still, staring at his phone, wondering how to offer you a ride without making it sound like panic. 4. "I’m not checking. I’m sleeping." You once left while he was asleep. You thought it was kinder. Quieter. Now he says he “needed water” or “had a dream.” But every night, at 3 AM, his hand reaches. Just to feel your back. Your wrist. The smallest proof that you haven’t disappeared again. 5. "Short skirts are inefficient." He says they’re impractical. Not suited for cold weather. Definitely not for terrain with hostile wanderer activity. You raise a brow. He adds, “You’re not seventeen. Dress like it.” But the second no one’s watching, his hand is already sliding up your thigh under the table. And when you raise a brow at him, he just says, flat: “Checking for circulation.” You’re not fooled. He’s already failed the mission.

5 Things That Make Zayne Go Completely Feral (In Lust, Not Rage)

1. You straighten his tie. You’re not thinking about it. Just reaching out, adjusting the knot, smoothing the line down his chest like it’s second nature. He stays still. Breath held. Eyes on your face. You step back. He doesn’t. Because now all he can think about is using that same tie to bind your wrists to the chair in his office — and how many minutes he can steal between appointments without compromising your breathing. 2. You dip your finger into the frosting of his pastry. You don’t ask. Just lean in, collect a bit of cream with your fingertip — and taste it. Oblivious. Innocent. Distracted by something else. He watches. Silently. And now the fork in his hand feels criminally unnecessary, because his mouth is dry, his mind’s gone blank, and he’s halfway to pulling you into his lap just to return the favor — with interest. 3. You take off your bra without removing your shirt. It’s casual. Automatic. You’re talking about your day, laughing, and then — One arm out. Then the other. The strap slides through the sleeve and vanishes into your laundry bag like it never existed. His brain glitches. His hands twitch. And he will absolutely spend the rest of the evening pretending to listen while picturing every technical step of reversing that maneuver with his teeth. 4. You imitate him. Badly. You’re wearing his lab coat. His glasses. Sitting at his desk, brows drawn, lips pressed tight. Your impression is awful. He should be annoyed. But instead — he watches. Sharp. Quiet. And when you finally laugh and start to take it off, he gets up. Takes the coat from your shoulders himself. And tells you, too evenly, “You forgot the gloves.” 5. You trace lazy shapes on his wrist while talking about something unrelated. You’re saying something about your neighbor’s cat. Something trivial. But your fingers are moving in a slow, absent pattern across his skin. And Zayne — who has operated on live hearts under pressure, who has held lives in one hand and death in the other — is currently struggling not to grab your wrist and drag you onto the desk. Because apparently, nothing in this galaxy has the precision impact of your fingertip.

5 Power Couple Moments That Made Everyone Else Jealous (And a Little Scared)

1. You have a keycard to his office.Not a guest pass. Not a shared access code. A permanent, personalized, high-level card to a room most staff can’t even knock on without permission. You walked in one day mid-shift, casual, spinning the card between your fingers like it was a hairpin. Three nurses saw. One dropped her tablet. Rumors started before you even closed the door. Zayne didn’t correct them.

2. When he received a prestigious award, the first person he thanked was you.Best cardiothoracic surgeon of the year. Cameras flashing. Applause rising. Everyone expected a speech about innovation and responsibility. Instead, he said: “I’d like to thank the one person who keeps me alive enough to do this work. My partner. My favorite interruption.”Then he looked straight at you. The auditorium melted.

3. You’re both dressed like weapons. And everyone notices.He wears tailored coats, precision-cut collars, charcoal palettes like a tactical signature.You? Heels like blades. A suit that redefines “combat-ready.” And when you walk together — sharp, silent, side by side — people stop talking. Someone once tried to photograph you. The headline read: Unknown dignitaries arrive. Security does not comment.

4. You don’t argue. You duet.Someone crossed a line. Loud, drunk, smug. Zayne responded first — clean, cold, just one sentence long. The man blinked. Started to retort. You finished it for him. Elegant, sharp, no profanity required. He left. Fast. And you turned back to Zayne like nothing happened — while everyone else tried to recover from what could only be described as a linguistic orgasm.

5. He opens doors, buttons coats, and moves chairs like it’s instinct.Not performative. Not flashy. Just… precise. He adjusts your sleeve without thinking. Helps you into the car like it’s always been his hand. You barely register it. But the woman across the street? The one who saw it all from behind her coffee cup? She’s still texting her group chat about “the man in the long coat and the woman who ruined my standards.”

5 Times Zayne Was a Walking Red Flag But You Loved Him Anyway

1. He gets live data from your heart monitor.Your Hunter’s Watch sends updates to the cloud. Zayne rerouted the feed to his private tablet. “Just in case,” he said. Now he knows when your pulse spikes. When you’re injured. When you don’t sleep. You never gave him access. You never had to. The first time he called mid-mission to say “slow your breathing” — you realized he wasn’t tracking. He was watching over.

2. He absolutely hates when you drive. Always.You're capable. Fast. Efficient. And yet — every time you take the wheel, something in him shuts down. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t protest. Just goes silent. And stares at the road like it personally offended him. He says, “It’s fine.” But he holds the dashboard too tightly for that to be true.

3. He freezes every time you say “I can handle it.”You mean well. You’re strong. You are capable. But when you brush him off with a casual “I’ve got this,” he doesn’t nod. Doesn’t smile. He just stops. Eyes unreadable. Hands still. And when you come back later — even fine — there’s already a backup plan on your datapad. Three versions. In color.

4. He never replies to emotional messages right away.You send: “I miss you. A lot.” His read receipt appears. Then… nothing. For two hours. And just when you start to spiral — he sends a photo. Of your favorite pastry. Waiting on his table. With one word: “Soon.” You hate how well it works. 

5. He spoke to the man flirting with you like he was reviewing his autopsy.It was harmless. A drink. A joke. A compliment. You laughed. Zayne didn’t. He stepped in, shook the man’s hand, and said: "Tell me, has anyone ever checked your prefrontal lobe for impulse control irregularities?"The man left. Quickly. You rolled your eyes. Zayne didn’t apologize. He just took your hand. And changed the subject. Completely calm. Fully satisfied.

5 Petty Jealousies That Reveal Just How Much Rafayel’s Obsessed With You

1. Someone comments “🔥” under your photo — and you like it.He sees it. Of course he does. He sees everything. You think it’s harmless. He thinks it’s appalling that someone dared mark your beauty with an emoji better suited to grilled meat. He says nothing. But that night, you get a charcoal sketch of yourself in your favorite pose, signed with a tiny flame in the corner. When you ask about it, he hums. “Oh, just honoring your admirers’ creative input.”

2. You linger too long in front of another artist’s painting.Not just glance. Linger. Eyes soft. Head tilted. That thoughtful little breath you take when something moves you. He stands beside you, perfectly still. Smiling. Then leans in and whispers, “Cutie, if you start weeping, I may need to challenge the gallery owner to a duel.” You're not sure if he’s joking. You’re also not sure you want him to be.

3. You talk about a beautiful place you visited… without him.You’re glowing. Describing the light, the air, the view. He listens, nods, even asks questions. Then: “And did the sun taste the same without me there?” You pause. He smiles, all charm and cheekbones. “I’m just wondering how it dared rise, knowing we weren’t together.”

4. You send him a photo — and there’s someone else’s hand in the frame.You didn’t notice it. He did. He stares at the image like it’s a crime scene. Zooms in. Later, he replies: “Beautiful composition. Fascinating use of background tension. Would love to discuss the symbolism of that wrist — whose is it?” You laugh. He doesn’t.

5. You say some actor is “exactly your type.”He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just goes very still, then casually asks, “Before or after makeup?” Later, you find your datapad background changed. It’s him. In perfect lighting. Shirt unbuttoned just so. The caption reads: “Still unsure who your type is? Look into my eyes. You’ll remember.”

5 Lies Rafayel Tells Himself About You

1. “I didn’t paint you. It’s just resemblance.”He insists it’s a study of emotion. A symbol. A face from memory. But the tilt of the head, the mouth, the birthmark near the collarbone — they’re all yours. You ask, teasing: “Is that me?” He blinks. Smiles slowly. “Cutie,” he says, “I wouldn’t paint you without permission.” And then changes the subject. Very deliberately.

2. “I don't reread your old messages.”He’s far too elegant for that. Far too composed. Except on quiet nights. On long flights. In museums where the silence scratches at his skin. Then he opens the archive. Just for the rhythm of your words. The accidental poetry. The way you once wrote “come home soon” like it meant more than time and place. He says it’s for “emotional reference.” He lies beautifully.

3. “I don't watch your mouth when you talk.”He’s an artist. A visual thinker. Of course he looks at faces. But not like that. Not at yours. Not like he’s memorizing the shape of every syllable just to feel them later against his throat. Not like he’s fantasizing mid-conversation about shutting you up with his tongue and tasting the sentence off your lips. No. Never. He’s listening.

4. “I haven’t memorized your scent through every season.”He claims not to notice. But he knows the spring version of you — soft rain, citrus skin, the aftershock of lilac. He knows the winter version — leather gloves, cinnamon breath, quiet wool. He doesn’t name them. Doesn’t chase the memory. But when you walk past — his eyes close. Briefly. Automatically. Like he’s gathering air before going under.

5. “I don't imagine your name with mine.”He’s not that romantic. Puh-lease. Marriage is a construct, surnames are politics, and love is beyond paperwork. He says all that with a flourish. And yet — there’s a notebook. Tucked under his mattress. Full of signatures. Yours. His. Just to see how it would look. Just in case.

5 Things That Make Rafayel Go Completely Feral (In Lust, Not Rage)

1. When you eat something juicy. Fruit. Fingers. With zero awareness.You bite into it slowly, distracted. Something sweet. Ripe. Juice glides over your lower lip, and your tongue follows without thinking. He watches, motionless. Not breathing. Not blinking. You glance at him. He tilts his head. Smiles. Says lightly: "That peach is about to become my personal enemy." You laugh. He doesn’t. He’s too busy wondering how it’s possible to be jealous of the fruit.

2. When you kiss his hand instead of his mouth. He leans in, expecting lips. Contact. Heat. And instead — you take his hand. Press a kiss into his palm. Soft. Deliberate. His breath catches. His throat tightens. Because that wasn’t affection. That was submission. And now he’s wondering just how far you’d let him take it. 3. When you tease him with your voice. Not the words. The tone. The whisper. You say his name like silk sliding over glass. You ask “You think so?” like it means “prove it.” You laugh — not loudly, but just enough to make his chest hurt. He could diagram it, break it into sound waves, prove the seduction in math. But instead, he just steps closer. And says, low: "Say that again. Slower." 4. When you sit on the floor, barefoot, flipping through his sketches — looking like you belong there. You’re humming something. Knees tucked up. No shoes. No guard. You tilt your head, study a piece, murmur: “I like this one.” He doesn’t even remember drawing it. He just remembers the way your hair spills over your shoulder and how the studio feels suddenly too small for how much he wants you. He doesn’t touch you. Not yet. He just watches like a starving thing. Memorizing the moment in case he dies of it later. 5. When you say “more.” In any context. “More sugar.” “More time.” “More.” That’s all it takes. One syllable. One open door. You never mean it the way he hears it — but he takes it as a promise. Like permission. Like a match tossed onto something already too dry to survive. And the next time he touches you? He makes damn sure you say it again.

5 Power Couple Moments That Made Everyone Else Jealous (And a Little Scared)

1. He painted a self-portrait — with you reflected in his pupils. Not your full form. Not a shared composition. Just his face. Direct gaze. And in both eyes: you. Looking at him. Always. When the painting debuted in the gallery’s main hall, critics called it “a study in obsession.” He called it accurate. 2. In an interview, he said you’re the only one who gets his sketches. The host asked who his work goes to first — gallery, agent, press. He smiled lazily and answered, “Her.” The room stilled. “The raw ones. The incomplete. The brutal drafts no one else deserves to see.” He didn’t say your name. He didn’t have to. The moment he said it, you were already trending. 3. He delayed his own exhibition opening because you weren’t there yet. The venue was full. Lights ready. Guests murmuring. But he stood at the entrance, fingers laced behind his back, perfectly calm. “She’s on the way,” he said. “She had a prior engagement.” No one questioned him. Later, when you finally arrived — graceful, composed, in a deep sapphire gown that matched the evening — only he noticed the tiny scratch on your knuckle. The faintest shadow of something darker, just beneath the perfume. You smiled. He took your hand. And the doors opened like they’d been waiting for you all along. 4. Someone flirted with him. He looked at you. Then said: “I’m already spoken for. Permanently.” It was charming. Playful. Someone touched his wrist, laughed softly, leaned a little too close. He didn’t pull away. Didn’t react. Just turned his head toward you. Found your eyes. Then said it — quietly, cleanly, like a closing signature on a finished masterpiece. 5. At a charity auction, he sold a painting titled: “Painted Between Her Breathing and Mine.” The crowd didn’t know what to do with that. Some laughed nervously. Some applauded. The bidding started high and ended astronomical. But as the winning guest walked past you, holding the canvas with reverent hands — he still glanced back. At you. As if to say: That canvas holds the image. But I keep the original.

5 Times Rafayel Was a Walking Red Flag But You Loved Him Anyway

1. He can disappear for three days and return with, “I just needed to stop being jealous.” No warning. No calls. Just silence, like he fell off the planet. You panic. Rage. Rehearse five speeches. And then he walks in — composed, scented like night air and oil paint. “Sorry,” he says softly. “I was being irrational. Had to… recalibrate.” You want to scream. Instead, you breathe him in like he’s home. 2. He destroyed the career of a critic who called your photo “poorly lit.” It wasn’t even a real insult. Just a throwaway line in a blog. But Raf read it. Once. And within a week, that critic was blacklisted from three galleries, publicly corrected by five curators, and accidentally misquoted in a viral controversy. You found out much later. He just looked at you and said, “No one calls shadow a flaw when it falls across you.” 3. He faked an illness so you wouldn’t leave for a mission. Nothing dramatic. Just a cough. A warm forehead. You hesitated. Postponed. Stayed. The next morning, he was radiant. Healthy. Annoyingly smug. You narrowed your eyes. He only shrugged, kissed your wrist, and whispered, “I needed one more night. Forgive the performance.” You did. Of course you did. The guilt felt almost like foreplay. 4. He left your clothes wet in the wash so you’d wear his shirt instead. Accident, he claimed. Timing. Cycles. But somehow, your entire outfit was still in the machine — cold, damp, and useless — while his favorite linen shirt lay folded neatly on the bed. You put it on. He watched you button it. And smiled like he'd won a silent war no one else even knew was happening. 5. He reads your messages without asking. Calmly. You know it. He knows you know. He doesn’t deny it. Just traces your jaw one evening and says, “You don’t hide anything from me. That’s why it doesn’t count as intrusion.” And the worst part? He’s right. You stopped hiding a long time ago.

5 Petty Jealousies That Reveal Just How Much Xavier’s Obsessed With You

1. You nap on the wrong side of the bed.You nap on the wrong side of the bed. Not wrong, exactly. Just… not his. You’re curled up in the late-afternoon light, peaceful, quiet, unaware. He doesn’t wake you. Doesn’t move you. But when you stir, there’s a weight in the silence. His side of the bed is untouched. Pillow perfectly aligned. No warmth. No scent. And your blanket — tucked just a little tighter — like a quiet reminder that even when you’re here, something’s missing. Something he’s not sure how to ask for without sounding ridiculous. Like: your perfume. On his pillow. Where it should be.

2. You tell him about a dream. Someone else was in it.You describe it absently. A mission. A flash of danger. And a man — not him — at your side. He listens. Nods. Doesn’t blink. But that night, when he kisses you, his hand stays on the back of your neck longer than usual. And his mouth says I want you, but his grip says: you don’t forget me, even in sleep.

3. You keep something old, worn, unnamed.A keychain. A patch. A folded slip of paper. Nothing dramatic. But it’s always near. He asks, once: “What is that?” You smile. “Just something from a long time ago.” He nods. Never brings it up again. But two days later, he leaves something else beside it. Not to replace. Just to match the weight.

4. You let the barista choose your drink instead of him.You smiled. Said “sure, why not.” Took the new coffee without hesitation. He was beside you. Holding your usual. You didn’t notice. But when you left the café, his own drink sat untouched. And he walked a little faster. A little quieter. As if recalibrating the fact that maybe someone else knows your taste. Even if it’s just in coffee.

5. You close your laptop too fast when he walks in.“Just a movie,” you say. Too quickly. He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t tilt his head. Just nods and sets his gloves on the table like he didn’t notice the flicker in your tone. Later, while checking your tabs, he sees the paused frame — teeth on skin, hands holding wrists, someone begging. Silently. His breath doesn’t change. His expression stays neutral. But when he finds you, hours later, he doesn’t speak. Just pins your arms above your head and kisses you until you can’t remember what the scene looked like — only what it felt like when it became real.

5 Lies Xavier Tells Himself About You

1. “I’m not jealous of whoever taught you how to fight like that.”He knows it doesn’t matter. It’s skill. It’s history. Efficiency passed from one warrior to another. He tells himself it’s irrelevant. But when he watches you move — precise, lethal, beautiful — something coils in his chest. Not because of the technique. But because someone else saw you become this version of yourself. And he didn’t.

2. “It’s logical to sleep apart sometimes.” You need rest. Space. Post-mission decompression. He understands. It’s healthy. Statistically sound. But the first night you say “I’ll sleep in my own apartment,” the bed feels wrong. His internal balance off by degrees he can’t quantify. He tells himself it’s fine. Then stares at the ceiling for hours, heart syncing to a rhythm that isn’t there.

3. “It doesn’t bother me when you keep things to yourself.” You’re independent. He respects that. Boundaries are natural. But you say “I’m fine” with a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes, and he catalogs ten micro-expressions that say otherwise. Still, he nods. Doesn’t push. Then replays your words in his head for the next three days, trying to solve you like a puzzle that refuses to open.

4. "I could walk away, if it ever came to that." He tells himself he’s rational. Detached. If you chose something else — someone else — he would adapt. But deep down, he knows: he’s already memorized your weight in his arms, the way your name fits inside his silence. If it ever came to leaving… he wouldn’t walk. He’d stay exactly where you left him. Quiet. Waiting. Ruined.

5. "You wouldn’t lie to protect me. Would you?" You say “it was nothing,” “I’m just tired,” “I handled it.” And he accepts it. On the surface. But his mind starts building alternate versions. Safer ones. Worse ones. Ones where you bled and said nothing. He tells himself you’d never hide real danger. But he still checks your vitals in the logs. Every time.

5 Things That Make Xavier Go Completely Feral (In Lust, Not Rage)

1. You walk in wearing a bright yellow duck kigurumi.  Absurd. Fuzzy. Zipped up wrong. You yawn, mumble something about tea, and pad across the room like comfort incarnate. He looks up. Blinks once. And forgets what he was doing. The beak hood. The bare ankles. The way you scratch your neck, half-asleep. None of it should be seductive. But now he can’t look away. His gaze tracks you like threat assessment — only it's not danger he’s calculating. It’s proximity. Access. How long he can pretend he's unaffected… before you end up against the wall. Still wearing the duck. For now.

2. You adjust the chest plate of his armor.  No rush. Just fingertips over matte metal, sliding a buckle, pressing a clasp. Your hands linger longer than they need to. You don’t even realize you’re doing it. But he does. He’s counting your seconds, your pressure, the exact placement of your thumb. If anyone asks why his next shot missed the center by half an inch, it’s because you touched him like a secret no one else was allowed to see. 3. You peel off your combat gloves with your teeth.  It’s efficient. Quick. Practical. But the way your mouth closes around the strap and your fingers flex once, twice, before they’re bare — He’s staring before he knows he is. Processing nothing but the curve of your jaw and the memory of that same mouth around his length. The second glove doesn’t stand a chance. Neither does he, honestly. 4. You wear a thin black choker.  No explanation. No warning. It’s not part of your gear. Has no field utility. But it’s there, snug against your throat like a promise no one else knows about. He sees it once and looks away. Sees it again and swallows too hard. The third time, he doesn’t look at all — he just shifts in his seat like everything in his world needs immediate recalibration. 5. You say “later” when he leans in.  Just a little. Enough to feel the pull. And you smile, soft, apologetic, not teasing — just... not now. He nods, like he understands. He always does. But from that second forward, every calculation, every breath, every cell in his body becomes attuned to the moment you say now. And when you finally do — he doesn’t wait. He doesn’t ask. He just takes, like patience was never part of the equation to begin with.

5 Power Couple Moments That Made Everyone Else Jealous (And a Little Scared)

1. You moved in perfect sync — without saying a single word. In the training hall, you didn’t say a word — but moved like a mirrored code. You shifted, he adjusted. You reached, he passed. No signals, no commands. Just two bodies in absolute sync. Someone watching whispered, “Do they rehearse this?” Someone else muttered, “No. That’s just them.” And suddenly, no one wanted to spar with either of you. 2. Someone called him “too quiet.” You didn’t let it slide. It was a throwaway comment —“He’s so silent, it’s weird.” You didn’t even look up from your drink. “Then you’ve never heard him breathe next to you.” The room went still. Xavier didn’t react. But you felt it — how he went still too, the way his attention locked fully on you. As if your words changed the temperature. 3. He braided your hair for three weeks while your wrist healed. At your desk. Between reports. No comments. No hesitation. Just practiced hands and quiet efficiency, like it belonged in the schedule. And maybe it wasn’t romantic. Or loud. But after that, no one ever looked at you the same way — because somehow, without trying, the two of you had redefined what closeness looked like. 4. You didn’t ask for his jacket. You didn’t have to. A shift in the wind. Goosebumps on your arms. No complaint, no drama. He just stepped behind you, slid his cardigan onto your shoulders like it belonged there, and said nothing. The couple walking by paused. Stared. You didn’t. You were already reaching for his hand. 5. There’s a photo of you on his desk.  Just you, caught mid-laugh, in natural light. Among tactical reports and encrypted drives. He never explains it. Never acknowledges it. But everyone who enters that room sees it. And no one ever asks if he's serious about you. They already know.

5 Times Xavier Was a Walking Red Flag But You Loved Him Anyway

1. He monitors your meals like it’s a clinical trial. “You didn’t eat enough protein today.” “That pastry had no nutritional value.” “Are you hydrating?” He says it softly. Calmly. Like a doctor. Like someone who cares. And yet — you’ve seen him survive three days on black coffee and whatever snack bar was closest to his hand. You mention this once. He pauses. Then says, “That’s different. I’m used to operating under stress. You’re not.” End of discussion.

2. He didn’t argue. He made the argument disappear. You disagreed about something small. Nothing dramatic. Just opposing views. He didn’t push back. Just nodded, quiet. Said, “If that’s what you think.” Later, you realized the entire issue — schedule, person, condition — was gone. Resolved. Removed. Replaced. No apology. No discussion. Just silence... and a solution that left you with nothing to win.

3. He never asked where you’d been.Not once. Not even after you were late. Not even when your message came hours too late. He didn’t accuse. Didn’t guess. He already knew. Tracked your path, logged your signal drift, checked your pulse history. All without a word. And still held the door open when you arrived.

4. He always calls via video when you’re in another city.He never misses a day. Never just texts. Always video. He says he likes seeing your face. That it “grounds him.” And maybe that’s true. Maybe. But every time the screen lights up, you notice how carefully his eyes scan the room behind you. How his voice sounds different if there’s movement. How he never quite hangs up until you say, “I’m alone. It’s quiet here.” Only then does he relax. A little. Maybe.

5. You told him, “Sometimes, you scare me.” He said, “Good.”It slipped out. Low. Uncertain. Not a joke, not an accusation — just the truth. He didn’t deny it. Didn’t soften. Just met your eyes and said, calm as ever, “Good. Then you’ll stay alert.” And for a moment, you weren’t sure if he was warning you… or protecting you from something only he could see coming.

5 Petty Jealousies That Reveal Just How Much Sylus’s Obsessed With You

1. You didn’t tag him. He made sure the world knew anyway.You posted a photo. Cute. Stylish. Perfect lighting. But no mention of him. No tag. No trace. He reposted it within minutes. Same photo. New caption: “Correction: mine.” It got five times the reach. And suddenly, everyone knew better.

2. Someone else made you laugh. Sylus didn’t.The waiter was charming. A little too witty. You laughed — loud, unfiltered. Sylus just raised a brow, pulled out his wallet, and handed the man $2000. “For your last night in customer service,” he said. He smiled. You choked on your wine. The waiter never came back.

3. You called some man a friend. Sylus ran a background check.“He’s just a friend,” you said. Lightly. Barely thinking. Sylus smiled. Tilted his head. “I’m just a man with access to his tax history.”And that was the end of that conversation.

4. You said another man had a nice voice. Sylus gave you no air.It was innocent. Harmless. “His voice is kind of nice.”  Sylus said nothing. Just waited. That night, he read you poetry in three languages, one line at a time — mouth against your neck, breasts, stomach, thighs — until you begged him to stop. Not because you wanted him to. Because you physically couldn’t take more.

5. You forgot to wear his ring. He didn’t forget anything.It wasn’t intentional. You were rushing. Distracted. But he noticed. Of course he did. He said nothing all day. Then, that night — when you were breathless, undone, on your knees — he took your hand, kissed your finger, and slid the ring back into place. Slowly. Deliberately. Like sealing a deal you forgot you signed.

5 Lies Sylus Tells Himself About You

1. “I didn’t pick your outfit to match mine. Must’ve been the stylist.”It was just coincidence. That your lipstick matched his cufflinks. That your dress followed the same line as his collarbones. That when you walked in together, people paused — like royalty had arrived. He didn’t say a word. Just looked at you once. And didn’t look away for the rest of the night.

2. “I’m not furious that I wasn’t your first.”He says it doesn’t matter. Shrugs. “I’m not a teenager.” And yet, the thought of someone else touching you before him? It coils in his chest like smoke that won’t clear. He tells himself you chose him now — and that’s what counts. But the next time you moan his name, he fucks you hard enough to make sure no one else’s ever mattered.

3. “I don’t answer your messages instantly. I’m just always holding the phone.”He just… saw it. Right away. Just happened to be holding his phone. Just happened to pause mid-meeting, mid-deal, mid-war — to write: “Be safe.” You tease him for how fast he replies. He teases back. And never mentions the part where your name makes him drop everything.

4. “I’m not obsessed with the way you say my name when you’re annoyed.”You do it without thinking. That exact tone. That breath. That syllable dipped in heat. He rolls his eyes. Says, “What now, kitten?” But every time it happens — he shifts closer. Hears it again later in his head. And stores it next to the version you whisper when you want him most.

5. “I wouldn’t beg. If it came to that. …But only for you. And only once.”He’s not that man. He doesn’t plead. Doesn’t bend. But when he thinks of you leaving — really leaving — something dark and fragile coils behind his ribs. He tells himself he’d let you go. That he wouldn’t chase. But even in the lie… he’s already halfway down the hallway.

5 Things That Make Sylus Go Completely Feral (In Lust, Not Rage)

1. You ask him to zip your dress. Then don’t wear anything underneath. It’s casual. Innocent. “Help me?” You turn your back, lift your hair, and wait. He moves slow — almost reverent. But when his fingers meet bare skin where silk should be… he doesn’t finish the zip. He turns you around, steps in close, and says, “You came dressed for trouble. Good. So did I.” 2. You say “don’t be gentle” with a smile that promises you’ll say it again, louder. He always controls the pace. The heat. The rhythm. But when you lean in, lips brushing his ear, and whisper those words — something in him fractures. He doesn’t ask if you’re sure. He doesn’t give you time to change your mind. He just obeys. And makes sure you feel the echo for days. 3. You use his tie to pull him into a kiss. He likes power. Centered, composed. Collar straight, voice cool. But when you grab that perfect silk tie, wrap it around your fingers, and yank — he stumbles into you like a man starved. You kiss him once. He kisses you back like vengeance. 4. You say “yes, sir” in a tone that means the opposite. You drawl it. Sweet. Defiant. Like you know exactly what it does to him. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t smile. Just leans in, voice low against your throat, and says, “Keep using that tone, kitten. Let’s see how long you last when I take it seriously.” You don’t last long. Not that night. 5. You put on his ring and ask, “So what does this buy me?” It’s a joke. Almost. You twirl it on your finger, playful, reckless. He watches. Then smiles slow, wicked. “That?” he says, stepping closer. “That buys you a night where I don’t stop until you forget your own name.” And just like that, you do.

5 Power Couple Moments That Made Everyone Else Jealous (And a Little Scared)

1. The earring incident at the casino. You dropped it. Somewhere between the blackjack table and the bar. Nothing dramatic — until your face shifted. That quiet flicker of loss. Sylus didn’t sigh. Didn’t scold. Just raised a brow. And a dozen seasoned criminals began crawling across the velvet floor. They found it in twenty minutes. You wore it for the rest of the night. He wore the look of a man who’d moved the world back into place. 2. The arrivals are always his favorite part. You come back from missions — tired, sore, alive. And there it is: his sportscar. Engine humming. He’s waiting with a bouquet of roses so rare you don’t recognize half the species. The entire terminal watches. You don’t. You’re too busy smiling. He says, “Welcome home.” And just like that, the war disappears from your shoulders. 3. The seat at the head of the table. It was a high-stakes meeting. Old money. Dangerous names. Sylus led you in by the hand — then pulled out his chair. You blinked. He said nothing. And while you sat at the head, calm and poised, he stood behind you like a king who knows exactly where real power sits. No one even dared raise a brow. 4. The auction. Your hand. His silence. He gave you the paddle. Not instructions. You bid on instinct — numbers rising, tension thick. The item? A rare protocore with blackout-level clearance. Sylus didn’t flinch. Not once. And when the gavel dropped — he leaned in, lips brushing your ear, and said, “You can spend my money however you want, kitten. Just make sure they see you doing it.” 5. The moment the room lost him to you. It was mid-negotiation. Tense. Crucial. Every word counted. But across the table, your fingers tapped. Your eyes glazed. You were bored. Sylus watched. Then stood. “Deal’s done,” he said. “You’ll take our terms.” And somehow, they did. Because the only person in the room whose attention he wanted — was already drifting.

5 Times Sylus Was a Walking Red Flag But You Loved Him Anyway

1. He knows what’s in your delivery before you do. No one told him. But every time you order something — clothes, tech, vitamins — it’s re-screened. Not stopped. Not blocked. Just… “verified.” You only noticed when your favorite moisturizer showed up improved. New formula. Better scent. Hand-selected. Of course. 2. He said he’d put you on IV if you skip another meal. You were busy. Distracted. He asked what you’d eaten. You said, “Does coffee count?” He laughed. Once. And muttered something about installing a medical station in your apartment. He was “joking.” Until you saw the discreet courier bring an IV stand the next day. Just in case. 3. He took you to dinner at a place you hadn’t been since Academy. You didn’t realize where you were — until you saw your ex across the room. The one who cheated. Sylus just smiled. You were in a dress that made people stop breathing. He ordered champagne. Lobster. Left a four-digit tip. And made sure your ex saw everything. Including the way you kissed Sylus on the way out. 4. He froze your accounts. Just to prove a point. You said you didn’t need his money. You insisted on “independence.” So he waited until your card declined at the pharmacy. Then texted: “You have my black card. Use it. Or stay home.” You gave in. He sent flowers. 5. He apologized like a storm front. You fought. It was ugly. The next day, a gift arrived at HQ. Then another. Then six more. By day four, your car was full. You marched to his door, furious. He opened it, leaned against the frame, and said, “Took you long enough. Come yell at me. I’ll pour the wine.”

[sqgeism]

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵 𐙚 kiss me beneath the milky twilight ! | amphoreus men x gender neutral reader

💌 — ; your first kiss with amphoreus men :)

love mail — short ? ish ? i'm rly like 5050 on it idk whats short anymkre ( ﾟ□ﾟ) hiiii guys ! :D im rly curious which hsr character reminds u of me (totally stolen from airi) LOL this was kind of fun i love intimacy its cute (；^ω^)

anaxa is a bit of a romantic at heart, even if the cold glares and scary aura act as if otherwise. he doesn't know why people want to explain it, he loves you. why would he be cruel if his heart only beats for you? common sense, he thinks.

and you can feel just how fast his heart is beating as you lay on top of him, under the stars and anaxa's back on the grass, stargazing in the silence of the night. words aren't exchanged because you two have come to realize that not every silence needs to be filled, just appreciated. it isn't every day that the world is quiet enough to hear anaxa's soft breaths, some sort of proof he's real. that he's still alive to enjoy this moment. and he can't be more thankful to the gods he doesn't believe in for the kindness he's always cursed them for never having.

"dove?" he calls to you, bringing his hand to your cheek and bringing you up closer to his face. "yes, anaxagoras?" cursed heart, fluttering at the little giggle that comes with you saying his name. you say it so.. fondly, no one could ever compare.

the night has been perfect, your existence has consumed his every thought, and it's made him think about only one thing; "i need to kiss them."

enough time has passed, right? it's been a couple of months, he feels confident, but also hoping that the ground under him would swallow him whole.

all he needs is an indication you also want this, that you've been yearning for his lips the way he's dreamed about yours every night. (pleasedon'tthinkhe'sweird)

while stuck in his train of thought, he's realizing now that he's just been staring at you. smiling all sweetly— which makes this worst—cause you look so pure while his thoughts are far from innocent.

"would.. it be too crude to.. tell you that i want you? that.." you need to stop looking at him like that, with those eyes that capture his attention every time. "that i want you.. to kiss me. kiss me till i grow sick from the taste of you."

and you do, pressing your lips against his as he can only smirk. his request was a trick hypothetical, he'll never want to stop. he's obsessed, you have to deal with him now.

mydei was celebrating your fourth month together, yes he's the type of guy to celebrate monthly anniversaries... sue him for being in love... but yes. four months isn't a lot of time but phainon's been asking about first kisses, which has YET to happen but there's really no rush. he doesn't wanna force anything you're not yet ready for, putting into consideration it's something so big. the first kiss has to be special, which is why he's in the process of making you an entire full course meal of your favorite dishes. all while you sit and look gorgeous by the counter, watching him like he's doing the most attractive thing a man can do. all while in a soft pink apron and his hair tied up since he thinks it gets into the food sometimes which is his worst fear.

what was he thinking again? right... right! not burning his hand. completely lost his train of thought after you complimented how nice he looked at this very moment. he could swear you had a certain look in your eyes, hungry for something entirely unrelated to food. may the aeon's forsake his heart for having it stutter like this. but also don't make it stop, he loves it, a bit too much.

when dinner is served, mydei is sure to tend to your every need. want more salt? he's up to get the shaker. water? refilled the pitcher to the very top as well as your glass. "mydei, i'll just get some tissue from the kitche—" he's already up, and you wanna beat him to it, but he's already stopping your path with the biggest smile. "sweetheart, why are you standing?" he chuckles, and you fake a little pout. "i wanna get it on my own. don't wanna have you do everything."

"if i'm not doing everything for you, i'm not doing things right." he counters while his hands travel to your waist, humming a little murmur of your name. "so perfect. just sit, i'll get them for you."

matching his advances, your arms quietly move to his shoulders, leaning into him as you usually do. "come on, let me do at least one thing for you."

this is starting to sound like it's not just about tissues. "please, just.. one thing."

are you supposed to be leaning into each others lips when you're asking for tissues? probably not. but mydei doesn't want to let this moment slip, he sees your slight hesitation, which if it was up to him he would've totally just kissed that doubt out of you. but he needs to hear the verbal confirmation. a reassurance that he's doing this right. "there are possibilities wherein this moment passes me without ever knowing what your lips feel against mine. please, please indulge in me for just a moment."

it lasted far longer than a moment. <3

phainon is a bit too much for a flirt to not get to the closest thing to a first kiss. cheek kisses is his favorite form of affection at the moment.. gets him all weak in the knees. he loves seeing you lean in for one and he just asks for another one till he's satisfied. greedy, yes. does he care? not really.

in a flowerfield of just the two of you and the prettiest floral scenery, it's a shot straight out of a movie. you're sat next to phainon, putting little flowers in his hair as he gets to admire you, a perfectly fair trade. you get to love the flowers, he gets to love you. all he ever needs to be honest.

"how did i ever get so lucky?" he sighs dramatically, pulling you closer by the waist as you snicker at his theatrics. "your soul is as beautiful as this field. i'm telling you, angel. if you stay any longer then the aeon's might try to take you away from me." his words have never failed to make you feel valued, and it's but a fraction of how he truly feels about you. he knows he will never be able to put everything into mere words, you deserve so much more than just that.

"phai, please. any sweeter and bees will start to use you for honey." and there it is, one of the many things phainon adores about you. just.. effortlessly matching him. his humor, aesthetics, lifestyle, passion.. all those things, you've perfectly matched his own. "i can take a few stings."

because it felt right, he kisses your cheek a couple of times, making you giggle and jokingly try to push him away, even if your strength is basically at zero and almost pulling him closer.

when he's finished, the blue haired hero points at his lips and smirks. "wanna return the favor, baby? right here is perfect."

it isn't the first time he's made this joke, and it probably won't be the last, but for once you feel.. ready. like it's right.

so when you close the gap between your lips and his, phainon absolutely malfunctions for a second. before locking in and kissing you with gentle fervor, one hand barely on your cheek because he wants to reassure you that you're free to pull away.

and when you don't, he's on cloud 9 the whole time. takes you into his arms and you both fall into the flowers, not breaking the kiss for a moment as laughter and lips crashing against one another fill the air.

© sqgeism or wtv (^_^;)

[pagesfromthevoid]

Future Fest | b. f. | 2

Bob Floyd x teacher!reader

She briefly considers that if he asked her, she’d go anywhere he wanted. 

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: Tooth rotting fluff

Author's Note: My hand slipped

Part 1 | Talk to Me! | AO3

Bob is sitting to the side with Phoenix, anxiously shaking his leg. He’s been checking his phone every five minutes it feels like, waiting for a text from her. They’ve been at the Hard Deck for an hour or so. He’s pretty sure the school let out at four, but he wasn’t positive. Maybe she’d forgotten; he’s kicking himself for not getting her number instead. 

“I can’t believe we go to a school thing and Baby on Board here manages to snag a teacher,” Hangman complains, hitting the cue ball across the table. He stands up straight, motioning to him. “C’mon. Look at him. No offense, I mean.”

“You really gotta stop saying ‘no offense’ when you say shitty things, Bagman,” Phoenix comments, rolling her eyes.

“She’s got a point,” Bob finally offers, looking up from his phone. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, keeping them in place. But he knows he has a shit eating grin on his face. “You’re the one that went out to lunch –I just happened to have stayed back. Right time, right place.”

“Don’t get cocky on us, Bobby,” Hangman warns, pointing the pool stick at him. “She hasn’t even texted you yet, has she?”

Bob deflates some, nodding sheepishly. Then, as if the universe wanted him to have a win, his phone buzzes.

Hey! It’s your new favorite teacher :) 

He grins at the text, unable to help himself. Hangman groans in the background, but Bob isn’t paying any attention to him now as he focuses on what to say. Then he decides to be honest –it only made sense.

Glad you texted me. I was starting to kick myself for not getting your number lol.

There’s a beat, and he stares at the screen and the little bubble that pops up as she’s typing. 

I’m pretty sure if I didn’t text you, my kids would have found out and murdered me. They’re so nosey lol

“You gonna play, Bob, or you gonna sit there and make eyes at your phone?” Fanboy teases, coming around to throw his arm around his shoulders. “Let’s see what your new friend is saying –,”

But Bob moves out of reach, holding his phone away from his friend as he stands up. “Knock it off –I’ll shoot later. I’ll be back in a sec.”

They all holler after him as he moves his way through the crowd and out the back doors. He considers, for a moment, if he should just call her. Would that be weird? He doesn’t really like texting; there could only be so much behind the words and it’s easy to misunderstand. And truthfully, he wants to hear her voice again.

He caves, and she picks up the first ring.

“I think you must have been able to read my mind,” she says from the other end of the call, and he can just see the pretty smile on her face. “I was just thinking I wanted to hear your voice.”

He blushes, running a hand over his jaw as he grins to himself. Then he sits on one of the chairs outside the bar, kicking his feet out. “I’m glad I’m not the only one, then,” he admits with a small chuckle. “How was the rest of your day?”

“Chaotic,” she admits with a laugh of her own. And Bob swears he’s never heard anything so sweet. “Once you left, the kids lost their damn minds on me. They’re so nosey –I couldn’t get them to focus at all.”

“I got the impression they’re a bit nosey,” he agrees, leaning back in the chair. “Are they always following you around, or was today a special sort of day?”

She sighs in a wistful sort of way, and he imagines her sitting in her living room. Maybe she’s relaxed after a long day, maybe she’s winding down. “Today was a special sort of day, but I do usually have a group that eats lunch with me every day. They were especially mad that I kicked them out.”

“I’ll have to make it up to them,” he offers without a second thought, sitting up again as Rooster comes outside. The pilot gives him a questioning thumbs up and Bob returns it with a smile. “I can bring lunch for them sometime, if you’d like.”

“Lieutenant Floyd, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to earn brownie points by being so nice to my students.”

He chuckles again, shaking his head. “Is it working?”

“It is,” she admits, and he covers his mouth because he knows he’s smiling like a damn fool. Even if she’s not here to see it, he can’t help it. “Let’s have that date before we start bribing my students to like you though.”

“I can make that happen,” he concedes, leaning forward now to rest his arms on the tops of his knees. “How’s Friday sound? I can pick you at six –there’s a nice little place on the water. The sunset’s always real pretty there.”

“That sounds like a great idea,” she agrees. “I’ll text you my address. What should I wear?”

“Anything you want.”

She hums at this, and he wonders what she’s thinking. But the thought is banished when she speaks again. “Well, I’ll see you on Friday, Lieutenant Floyd. I have to finish grading these essays before then, or our date will consist of you helping me grade.”

“I can do that too,” he offers without missing a beat. 

“I…really believe you would do that,” she admits with a soft laugh. “Text me, though. Seriously. I can’t chat on the phone, but I…I would like to keep talking to you.”

“Yes ma’am,” he says confidently. “I’ll see you on Friday.”

He hangs up the phone and stares at the screen with what’s probably the dopiest grin possible. Bob stays there for a little while longer, texting back and forth with her until Fanboy comes out and forces him back inside.

I want to say duty calls, but all that really means is that they need me to drive them home –have a goodnight. I’ll see you soon

There’s not a beat missed when she replies back,

I can’t wait, Lt. Floyd. Goodnight.

There’s a little blue heart at the end of the text, and Bob swears that it makes his heart lurch in his chest. He’s already a smitten fool for a girl he just met; the team is going to give him so much shit.

*****

She’s not pacing exactly, but she’s definitely not standing still as she waits for Bob. 

She doesn’t know why she’s so nervous; they’ve been texting back and forth all week and she called him at least twice after the initial chat. But she is, and so she’s finding things to do so she doesn’t sit and stew in her nerves. Touching up her lipstick, switching out the jewelry she’s wearing, changing her shoes…until there’s a soft knock on the front door and she takes a quick breath in.

“I got this,” she reassures herself, slipping her sandals back on, then opening the door. 

Bob is standing there with a bouquet of flowers. He’s not in his uniform today; just a light blue flannel shirt that’s rolled up to his elbows and a pair of jeans. But she can’t help but think he’s just as handsome as the first time she saw him. 

She’s distracted, and he clears his throat, but there’s a sheepish smile on his face as he speaks. “I wasn’t sure what flowers you liked, so I got probably one of everything.”

“These are beautiful,” she finally manages to say, taking them in her hands. “You can come in –I’ll put these in a vase then we can go.”

He follows her to the kitchen, where she fumbles around for a moment until she finds a vase big enough. She can feel his eyes on her for a moment but when she turns around, he’s looking at the photos on the wall just outside the kitchen. She comes up behind him, pointing at one of her as a little girl, with bright pink hair, and a younger boy with a green mohawk.

“That’s my little brother and I when we went back to Seattle for the first time since moving here,” she explains with a fond smile. “We weren’t supposed to be going anywhere, so my mom let us dye our hair and cut it up for the summer. My grandma got sick though and we had to go up there to help…My mom got the nastiest looks in the airport.” 

“You miss it up there?” He asks, looking down at her.

“Sometimes, but it’s too cold for me now.”

He nods in agreement as she motions for him to follow again, grabbing her purse. “I was stationed briefly up in Bremerton, at Naval Base Kitsap. It rains…a lot.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” she laughs, shutting the door behind them. “Cold and wet. If it wasn’t so pretty, I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to live here.”

He opens the passenger door of his truck without hesitation, holding out his hand to help her in. She blushes at the motion, smiling to herself as she settles into the seat. 

The drive isn’t long, and when they arrive, they’re seated out on the deck, right on the beach. The sun is just setting, and she thinks it’s the most magical thing she’s seen in years. Then, he pulls out her chair for her there as well. She wants to thank his mother for raising a proper gentleman, because she can’t remember the last time anyone pulled out her chair for her or helped her get into the car. 

“Where are you from, Lieutenant?” She asks after the waiter takes their drink order.

“Montana,” he offers with a grin. “And you can just call me Bob.”

“Bob from Montana,” she repeats, nodding as if she suddenly understood a lot about him. “That does explain the accent –that midwestern chivalry too. Were you a cowboy before you were an officer, Bobby?”

He leans back in his seat a bit, watching her with that same grin he gave her at lunch the other day. “I did work on my family farm –can’t say I was a cowboy, though.”

“Shame, I bet you’d look cute in a cowboy hat.”

He blushes at that, and she laughs as she lifts her wine glass to her lips. “What made you wanna join the Navy? Isn’t Montana landlocked?”

He nods in confirmation, looking over at the water for a moment. “My dad, and his dad, and his dad before him –they were all military. It wasn’t even a second thought to join. But I wanted to work with planes, so the Navy had my best chance at that.”

“How often do you deploy?” She asks, and it’s a question she doesn’t really want an answer to, but she knows she needs to get it out of the way now before she’s hooked. Though, it might be too late.

“I just recently got back from deployment,” he explains, leaning his elbows on the table to look at her. His tone has shifted some, a bit more serious than before. “I’ll be here for a while, I think –they’re having our squad train a few teams of pilots on a new weapons system.”

“So that bodes well for a second date,” she offers, trying to ease any tension or concern he might have.

His smile says it all as he nods. “I think it does, yeah.”

The rest of the evening goes just as smoothly, conversation flowing easily between the two of them. They talk and eat, sharing a variety of things about themselves. She tells him about her favorite books, both personally and the ones she likes to teach. He tells her about his favorite movies and what he did before he moved to California. They don’t have a lot of things in common, but she tells him she’s interested in the things he talks about and is open to trying new things –but he has to be the one introducing them to her. He shares the sentiment, a grin on his face.

By the time the check comes, neither of them want the night to end.

“C’mon,” he suggests, taking her hand in his.

She follows without question, distracted by how large his hand is compared to hers. How calloused it is, which she knows is because of his work. There’s a brief moment where she considers how they would feel on other parts of her body, and the thought makes her flush as he pulls her down the boardwalk to the beach.

They slip off their shoes, leaving them up on the boardwalk in hopes they’re there when they get back. Feeling a little more bold, she pulls herself close to his side as they walk, other hand moving to hold onto his arm. Bob looks down at her, and even in the dark, she can see the blush creeping up his cheeks. 

“I’m having a great time tonight, Bob,” she sighs when they stop, sitting down in the sand. She rests her head on his shoulder, still holding his hand, and looks out over the water. “Thank you for this.”

He squeezes her hand gently, and she can feel him looking down at her. “Thank you for saying yes. I’m not…usually one to ask a pretty girl out the moment I meet her. But I’m glad I did.”

She looks up at him, and they lock eyes for a second. A fondness is in his eyes —more than just a passing date or two, but actual care —and she smiles. There’s a charge between them; a tension that they both know all too well. It’s just up to them now to decide who's going to give into it first. 

“I’d like to kiss you,” he admits, and she can’t help but let out a laugh. Because of course he’d ask; he’s too sweet not to. 

“I’d like it if you did too,” she promises. 

And that’s all it takes for Bob to lean in and close the gap between them. He’s soft, but a bit urgent, like he’s afraid if he stops, he’ll never get to kiss her again. But when she reaches up and touches his cheek, deepening the kiss, he slows down just enough to let her enjoy the feeling of his mouth on hers. 

He tastes sweet —and a little salty, though that could be the ocean sticking to their skin. His hands find her waist, and he’s pushing her back into the sand. Her tongue traces along his bottom lip, a silent question of more. And he accepts, half on top of her, as she tangles her tongue with his.

She thinks she’s definitely hooked now. There’s no way she’s not; his weight against her, his hands on her hips. He tastes like honeysuckle and vanilla, and she briefly considers that if he asked her, she’d go anywhere he asked. 

When they finally pull apart —half because they need to breath and half because neither of them want to push this any further in the sand —he rests his forehead against hers. That boyish grin is plastered on his face, and her lips are swollen from kissing. They’re staring at each other like they think they both hold the stars in their eyes. 

“Can we skip to the part where you ask me to be your girlfriend?” She asks, voice soft as they sit up slowly. 

“After one date?” He points out, but not because he doesn’t want to. But because he’s surprised she does. “I…yeah. Absolutely.” She stares at him expectantly, grinning at him until he catches on. Then he nods quickly, fixing his glasses like it’s a nervous habit. “Sorry, yeah —I’d…I’d kill for you to be my girl, if you’d want that?”

“I do like the sound of being called your girl,” she admits, leaning over to kiss his cheek gently. “I definitely want that, Bobby.”

He nods again, unable to help the smile that’s spreading across his face. Then he’s kissing her again, like his life depends on it. But she’s laughing into the kiss, wrapping her arms around his neck. 

“My girl,” he whispers against her lips when he pulls away. 

“Your girl.” 

[saintsanddevils]

Void & Omen

Bob Reynolds/Void x Fem!Reader

Summary: When you meet Bob, that deadly power inside of you stirs, recognizing something just as equally dark and powerful in him. After all, like calls to like.

Warnings/Tags: Thunderbolts movie spoilers, no use of Y/N, blood & gore, dark thoughts, soulmates, canon typical violence & swearing (series will contain eventual smut)

Author’s Note: Reader’s powers are inspired by “The Bonds That Tie” book series by J Bree.

Word Count: 5K

Also posted on AO3

Masterlist • Part Two

————

A Few Weeks Ago…

There is something wrong with me. There always has been. Something that sleeps beneath my skin, waiting, watching. It slithers and coils around me, settling in my ribs as I breathe. It raises its head when it senses the rising tension around me, ready to strike. But I can’t let it.

If I do, we’re all dead.

That’s why I’m here, strapped to a hospital bed in the middle of Malaysia, as far from home as I can get. The bindings around my wrists and ankles are tight enough to hurt, but it helps to keep the cloying fear at bay. The pain grounds me, reminding me why I’m here. Why I chose to be here.

The doctors and scientists run around me with clipboards and beeping monitors. They observe and report. They whisper and nod. I’m just something living and breathing before them, something expendable.

Maybe I always was.

You’re a murderer. You deserve worse.

I flinch, my wrists twisting against the bindings. These thoughts… They’ve been growing steadily darker and louder ever since…

I swallow. Breathing in and out, slowly, remembering what my shitty therapist from childhood used to instruct me to do when panic surged through me like a tidal wave I was drowning in.

I can’t let that happen, not here. I don’t want to hurt anyone. Not when they’re going to help me.

A familiar doctor catches my attention as she approaches my bed. Her smile and cadence reassuring. “It seems the results on your charts align with what we’re looking for. Everything is good to go. Are you ready to proceed?”

Nerves rumble in my gut through my veins, but I shove it far from my expression as I try to give her as much of a confident smile as I can. “Yes.”

She must see something in my face that has her smile wavering. She casts a quick look at the other doctors before stepping forward, leaning down to my eye level. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. It’s completely voluntary. You can opt out whenever you want, but after this, you won’t be able to say no. It’s no longer a trial period. This is the real thing. Something you can’t escape.”

Escape.

The word echoes in my mind like a familiar tune I’ve grown accustomed to all my life. Something I’ve heard, like a lullaby that reverberates through my skin and settles in my bones. I’ve been running for so long, escaping is all I know how to do.

But for once, I don’t want to escape.

I give her a firm nod, determination settling my nerves. “I’m sure. Trust me.”

She stares a moment longer before nodding, squeezing my hand before turning to the other doctors and speaking with them.

While they surround me, poking and prodding my skin with various needles, hooking me to machines, I’m reminded of lab rats. How they’re used for experiments to see if drugs would be harmful or helpful for the human body. I feel like a lab rat with the attention and cold distance they put between me and their research.

The poster I saw on the street last week for this trial was ominous and off-putting, but it didn’t stop hope from budding like a small seed growing in my sternum. It bloomed the moment I stepped into the building, volunteering for this medical research study on the human body.

After speaking with many different doctors, it seemed they could… help me. Fix me. Make me whole again.

For years, I’ve felt this hole in my chest where blood, muscle, and tissue should be. Instead, it’s something rotten and coiling, full of regret, devastation, and grief. It’s planted there ever since my sister died touching my skin after pulling my hair and calling me names. It grew and grew, poisoning me when fear controlled those around me. It was palpable, tasting bitter on the tongue. My parents feared me the most. Maybe that’s why their deaths sent me fleeing in the night, afraid and lost. Hoping to escape what I’ve become.

The doctors say whatever is inside of me can be cured. That this curse will no longer plague me.

As the anesthesia hits and my consciousness fades, that hope rings through me with a song so unfamiliar and poetic, I fall into the dark with open arms.

————

The In-Between…

The dark welcomes me, enveloping me as if we were old friends. I drift and dream.

And with dreams, come nightmares.

“What have you done?!” The words echo from a woman who looks so familiar, I can’t quite grasp exactly who she is.

A small body lies broken and lifeless before me, their eyes vacant and hollow, dripping black as if their tears are made of ink. Their skin glassy, as if they were a broken doll.

The woman continues to scream at me and when I stare back, she pales, stepping away from me. “What are you…”

I try to comfort her, stop her, help her, but she shoves away from me.

“This is your fault! You’re a monster!”

The dream morphs and fades, but the echo of the word “monster” rings through the dark. It’s only when the dream leaves that I realize the woman is my dead mother.

A new dream surfaces, this one just as suffocating. I’m trapped in a glass box. Sharp, needle-thin knives poking into my skin with every movement I make. Blood coats every inch of me, dripping from my skin. My eyes sting and my breaths come sharp and ragged. Voices echo outside of the box. I can barely make out the shapes of doctors and scientists and strange familiar faces all staring down at me.

“She deserves this.” One says, loud enough that it makes me flinch.

“Witch,” another spits.

“Murderer.”

“Monster.”

The term is so familiar, it doesn’t hurt as it should, but the knives ensure it does. They move, slowly, deliberately, sinking further into my skin. I scream and scream, but each word, every curse they hurl at me, it makes the blades cut deeper.

“She’d be better off dead.”

Tears fall fast down my cheeks, but it doesn’t stop the blinding pain from the sharp knives shredding me apart. Blood flowing down my limbs and pooling at my feet. Outside the box, they laugh and mock.

Please, I plead into the void. Please end this.

Please.

Something shifts. The hairs on my arms raise and there’s a strange sense of awareness. Like there’s something… other here.

Like I’m not alone.

“STOP.”

The dream-induced voices still at the command. When I look up from the puddle of blood at my feet, they’re gone. Shadows and dust in their wake.

When the pain disappears, so does the glass box and the blinding white room. Instead, raging wind caresses the stinging of my limbs. And when I glance down, the blood is gone. My arms and legs don’t sting or hurt. It’s all… gone.

In this new dream, I’m standing atop a cliff overlooking a restless sea.

This… This feels far more real than any dream before. Even before the blinding pain, this feels more solid. As if I’m actually here. The cold wind, sharp and unrelenting against my exposed skin. The clouds hanging heavily above with the smell of fresh rain in the air. It feels very real.

Too real.

“There you are.” A voice, deep and ominous, catches on the breeze.

I turn to find the dark silhouette of a man standing a few feet away. I can’t see any of his features, but it doesn’t matter. Something deep in my being tells me I know him. It pulls at my center, between my ribs, and I follow this feeling until I’m standing before him, staring up into a face dark and encased entirely in shadow. But his eyes… like living embers, they pierce into me. As if he, too, knows me. Feels as I do.

“I’ve been looking for you.”

I feel myself smile at the stranger’s words. As if his presence brings comfort where I was lost in chaos only moments before.

“You feel so…” I trail off, lost in the piercing ember of his gaze.

“Familiar?” If he could smile, I hear it in his voice.

I nod.

He steps closer, his hand raising to smooth back a strand of hair from my face. The touch is startlingly cold. But what’s frightening is how real it feels. Skin on skin. Fingertip to cheekbone.

This isn’t a dream. Or, at least, not a normal dream.

As if reading my thoughts or the emotions flitting across my features, he cups my cheek boldly. The touch feels so natural, I lean into it. His skin settling whatever rages deep within my chest.

“We are bound, you and I,” his words are whispered, soft and claiming. “Two souls meant to be intertwined for eternity. You were never meant to be alone. You will never be alone. Not while I exist.”

I close my eyes. Tears burning up my throat, threatening to fall. All I’ve ever been is alone. Entirely alone. I’m so sick of it.

“This isn’t real,” I whisper back.

His other hand is there, firm against my other cheek. He holds me, caresses me, like something precious. Like something whole. Like something worthy of affection.

“It’s not real, you’re right,” he says. “But soon enough, it will be.”

I furrow my brows. “What do you mean?”

His fingers reach to smooth the skin.

“I will find you, outside of this dream, this… in-between. And when I do,” he steps closer, forehead touching mine. “I will never let you go.”

The promise settles in my bones with a certainty I hope to hold on to.

“You’ll find me?” The hope is clear and whisper thin in my voice.

He nods against me, lips close to mine. “In every life, in every universe. Always.”

————

Present Day…

I wake in a panic. Lungs bursting as my eyes open to find I’m locked inside something that resembles a casket with a glass lid. It’s too dark to see clearly as my fingers flatten against the plexiglass, stifling anxiety clawing at my skin. Beads of sweat coat me like oil as I push and push at the glass.

Get out get out get out��

With one last shove, the lid is thrown open and crisp air hits me. I breathe deep as I crawl out of the strange crate, falling to the hard floor. Nausea rips through me and I’m hurling everything in my gut onto the floor.

There’s noise and voices around me, farther away, but I don’t care. My entire body is slumped and aching on the concrete floor. When I finally gain my senses and feel more present, I scan my surroundings. Various crates and boxes pile high around the strange casket I was lying in. The outline of my body is still there and monitors beep and sound as I try to stand. My legs are shaky, breaths coming rapidly, but I’m here. I’m… alive.

Why is that such a shock?

I stare down at the casket, trying to recall how I got there. The last thing I remember…

I remember lying on a table, talking to scientists and doctors about my condition. About the trial they would put me through. I remember strange dreams… but as I reach for them, they fade from my grasp. Typical.

“I-I-I’m Bob,” a voice sounds from farther in the room, but it’s so familiar, I still. “I told you, I’m, uh… Yeah, Bob.”

“Jesus Christ, stop saying Bob.” Another voice huffs in annoyance.

On shaking legs and bare feet, I creep around a stack of crates to find a group of strange-looking people. Three of them are dress heavily in gear and armor, guns pointed at a man in hospital garb, similar to my own. His dark wavy hair hangs in his face, framing pale features as he holds his hands up in surrender. His hands shake and his voice trembles as he stands there, watching as the three others bicker.

Something is frighteningly familiar about this man. Maybe that’s why I step forward without thought. When my feet move a gun shell on the floor, it alerts the others to my presence.

Guns whip around and are pointing at me within seconds.

“What the hell?” A tall man with a shield and mask shakes his head. “How many of these guys are in here?”

The short blonde woman near him points her gun at my head. “Who are you?”

I furrow my brows, raising my hands in surrender like the other guy. “Who are you? I just woke up in this place and I barely understand what’s going on.”

She slightly lowers her gun, most likely sensing I’m not truly a threat. Before she can answer, the other woman, this one with dark hair, strides forward. “I’m not sure what’s happening here, but you’re all exhausting, and my job is done.”

She tries to move away towards the large doors, but the blonde raises her gun at her. “Well, see my job is to keep an eye on you. So no, you’re not going to go anywhere, anymore.”

While they bicker and threaten, I lower my hands and glance over at the other guy— Bob, if I heard him correctly earlier. He’s staring at me with furrowed brows and pinched lips. When our eyes meet, something inside of me, that thing that coils beneath my skin, stirs.

How do I know him?

“Okay,” the blonde’s voice catches my attention as she points her gun away, raising her hands. “It’s clear we have all worked for Valentina in some sort of shadow ops capacity.”

Who the hell is Valentina?

I look back at Bob and he’s still staring at me, lost and confused. When I catch his eye, he looks swiftly away, fingers twitching as he shifts from foot to foot. Something in me wants to step forward and smooth the confusion from his face, reassuring him. That scares me more than the guns and weapons still being pointed in this room.

“Yeah, so?” The masked guy speaks up with obvious annoyance.

“So, all of this stuff is O.X.E.’s secrets. But, so are we.”

I look around at the crates. Secrets… O.X.E. was the name of the company I trialed with. I didn’t think much of it at the time, just hopeful that someone could help me. Maybe even save me.

I catch sight of another open casket not far from the doors, but this one isn’t mine. My eyes flit to Bob again, to the matching patient clothes I also wear. He looks just as disoriented and cautious as I do. Did he do the trial as well? What did he want? To become something more?

He’s no longer looking at me, but I can sense he’s still very much aware of me. Every breath I take. Just as I am of him. Instead, he watches the armed group come to a steady realization.

The dark haired woman nods her head. “Which makes us liabilities that no one would miss.”

“Well, speak for yourself.” The masked man, who’s really starting to annoy me, scoffs.

“Don’t you see? We are the evidence and this is the shredder,” the blonde emphasizes. “She wants us gone.”

They continue to argue, but it seems they won’t kill each other anymore. At least, for now.

As they talk and bicker, something inside of me shifts. The air begins to smell of sulfur, the temperature slowly rising. It’s subtle enough that normal human senses can’t tell the difference, but it’s enough to make me still, assessing. I glance around, noticing the large vats in the ceiling above us. They’re big enough to take up the entire roof.

Just as I realize what we’re standing in, it dawns on me. That thing inside of me, the thing I’ve felt beneath my skin, in my ribs, in my head— it’s still there.

They… I swallow, panic creeping up my spine at an alarming rate. They didn’t cure me.

The blood drains from my face as I step back, bumping into a crate. The group stills at the sound, whirling to me with various alert expressions.

“What’s going on with her?” The dark haired woman questions.

And suddenly, that thing in my chest, in my head, in my skin, it talks to me.

Her name is Ava Starr.

I almost fall backwards at the sound. I stare wide eyed at the woman. At Ava.

“Okay, you’re really starting to freak me out.”

My head swivels to the masked man and the voice is back. John Walker, former Captain America.

My chest begins to vibrate with heaving breaths. The room feels entirely too small and an incessant pounding continues in my ears. I grip at my chest, wondering if I rip at my skin and muscle, tearing at the bone, I can finally take whatever is inside of me, out.

“Breathe.”

The word echoes in my head, but it’s not my own. Not the same voice that was speaking before. No, this one is deeper, masculine.

My eyes catch on Bob again. Only this time, he’s staring at me with a level, sure gaze. Something steady and sure. Something grounding.

That thing inside me stills. It breathes at the command. It releases the tension in my muscles, the shaking in my limbs. It steadies me.

Whatever beast or monster hidden beneath my skin is tamed by that voice. And it’s curious and awake, vibrating in my chest like a living thing.

I ignore the feeling, hoping it goes away as I tear my gaze from him. Hoping this strange feeling of wanting to be closer to him will dissipate.

The blonde with the heavy accent raises a brow at me. “You alright?”

Yelena Belova, former Red Room assassin.

“We need to get out of here,” I whisper, but it’s loud enough for everyone in the room to hear.

The masked guy, John, shakes his head. “Yeah, no shit.”

“No,” I shake my head. “Can’t you feel it? The temperature is rising. It’s getting hotter in here.”

The group looks around before seeing the open vats above us.

“I think we’re in an incinerator,” Ava confirms.

“They’re going to burn us,” Yelena nods. “Destroy the evidence.”

“How would you know?” John calls out, clearly annoyed.

She gives him a bland look. “Why else would she send us here to kill each other? We’re obviously everything Valentina doesn’t want tied to her. We’re expendable.”

Dread pools in my stomach at the notion. Burning alive is not how I envisioned how I would die.

“Well,” Ava sighs. “I’m not sticking around to burn.”

In seconds, Ava is gone. Disappearing entirely as if she were a ghost.

Suddenly, blaring alarms ring through the room. I curl into myself, holding my hands over my ears. The sound rattles whatever is in me and the veins in my arms catch my attention. They shift from their normal blue to a deep navy to black before shifting back to normal again. It’s constant as the alarm rings and pulses against my skin.

I stare in horror. What the hell?

When the alarm finally stops, I glance up to find Bob is closer to me. His dark eyes are on me, on my arms, and I notice a strange gleam in his eyes that flashes before sputtering out like a dying fire.

“Are you okay?” He asks.

I stare a moment longer, wondering if I imagined the flaring ring of light in his eyes. I slowly nod. “I’m fine.”

He stays assessing me, as if… as if he’s ensuring I really am alright. As if he truly cares.

Ava is now shaking and holding her own ears in front of the still-sealed door. She pants before turning to the rest of us.

“Thanks for that,” John huffs. “Looks like none of us are leaving.”

Just as he says that, the lights flicker and new light casts the room in dark crimson. The air begins to fill with the smell of sulfur and ash. A clock begins to tick in the room. Red numbers next to one of the doors starts to count down. And it’s going incredibly fast.

John sighs. “Okay, fine, it’s an incinerator.”

“Oh boy,” Bob huffs, staring up at the ceiling. “That is no way to go.”

“How would you like to die today, Bob?”

Yelena shakes her head. “We’ll need to find a way out. Look around, we have to find some sort of panel or something to open the doors.”

Bob holds a hand out to me, gesturing to help me up from my crouched position.

“Thanks,” I murmur as I reach to take his hand.

The second our skin touches, my eyes dilate and the hair on my arms raise, goosebumps spreading up my limbs. A spark of vibrating energy pulses between us. Something living and tangible. It stirs whatever lies dormant inside of me.

Like calls to like, it whispers.

Bob searches my eyes, his are just as dilated and wide. His lips part, an exhale escaping him as he stares.

“Why do I feel like I know you?” He whispers.

I hesitate, but the confession slips from me like water through fingers. “You feel it too?”

He nods, his hand tightening around mine. “It’s strange. I don’t think we’ve ever met, but,” his eyes scan my face and it feels as if he were softly touching every part he’s looking at. “I feel like I’ve known you for a very long time.”

My breath catches.

And then, he smiles, nervous and small, a huff of laughter escaping him.

“What?”

He shakes his head. “It’s funny, every part of me tells me I know you, but I don’t even know your name.”

A small smile spreads on my lips. I whisper my name and the sound must resonate something in him cause he whispers it back, tentative and gentle. Almost reverent.

“And you’re Bob,” I smile wider. I nod to the clothes he’s wearing. “Looks like we both were looking for something more in our lives and didn’t expect this to happen instead.”

His smile freezes, eyes hardening before he swallows. “What makes you think that?”

I hesitate again, but this time, I willingly let him see that vulnerability. “I was looking for something more, too.”

He stares at me, questions flitting across his gaze.

“I found something!”

We both turn, our hands drifting apart and the live-wire energy dissipating as we find Yelena and Ava trying to open a panel on the side of one of the doors. When we make our way over, John punches the wires with his shield and Ava disappears again, shifting through the metal door.

The seconds begin to count down and the heat rises in the room. Fire and smoke start to sputter from the vats above. Unconsciously, I back into something solid behind me. Bob. His shoulder bumps into mine and his sturdy presence at my back is reassuring, calming the rising panic of being trapped in a room waiting to burn us all alive.

The clock flares in our peripheral, counting down, down, down, and the door still hasn’t opened.

“She’s coming back, right?” John’s question is full of broken hope.

My hands start to tremble, fear coursing through my veins. I can’t die here. I don’t want to die.

The thought must’ve been said aloud because Bob’s hand is sliding into mine, squeezing.

“You’re not going to die.” That voice, his voice, says in my mind. “I won’t let you.”

That pulsing energy between our skin continues at the touch. It’s comforting in this moment, even as the ticking of the countdown echoes through the room.

00:05

Bob steps closer, his torso encasing my back as the fire begins to burn brighter in the vats above.

00:04

I feel him tense, readying himself. His hand tightening in mine.

00:03

When I turn my face to look up at him, his eyes are already on me.

At least I won’t be alone.

00:02

The door screeches open, startling all of us. Ava stands before the control panel, gesturing for us to run.

Bob grips my hand tighter in his as we bolt. He pulls me with him while we run through the doorway, following after the others. I grip him tighter, ensuring we never let go.

When the incinerator fully ignites, torching everything in its wake, the pressure and velocity of the raging fire throws us all off our feet, flying forward. Rocks and stone crash above as my body slams into a wall harshly, bones and neck cracking against stone before I slump to the ground. Consciousness fades in and out, my head and body pounding with sharp bolts of pain. Just as the dark claims me, the last thing I feel is Bob’s calloused hand still cradling my own.

————

The In-Between…

I wake to the sound of screaming. The room is blinding white, fluorescent lights flickering above. It smells of antiseptic and something metallic. When the light dissipates, I see someone lying on a table, their small body convulsing. Their hair whips around as their restrained limbs and skin pulse with creeping black veins.

Realization dawns on me as I step closer.

It’s… it’s me. But I’m… much younger.

I remember this. I was nine when my power came into being. When it consumed me like a poison and sprang out of me like a disease.

Tears flow down her small cheeks as she struggles, a piece of cloth tied in her mouth to try and keep her screams quiet. I try to run forward, to help her, free her, but I’m frozen in place, my feet stuck to the floor. Something is keeping me from her.

In the corner of the room, a shadow bleeds from the white walls. It’s darkness dripping like ink as it spreads along the floor and tile. It stretches, like a hand, across the floor until it reaches younger me. She stills for a moment, before her eyes roll back into her head, veins bulging. I stare in horror as those veins begin to darken before black pulses along her skin to the beat of her heart.

I try to step away, to leave, but my legs won’t let me. I’m stuck in place, forced to watch.

From the shadows, something bleeds into the room, rising from it as if it were a doorway. They’re covered in the darkness, but it’s thick like ink or oil, dripping from their hair and skin. When the figure moves, I’m struck with the familiarity of their movement.

When their eyes meet mine, I shrink back. Their eyes are glowing chips of onyx, a black void as they stare back at me. But it’s not their eyes or features dripping in the black liquid, it’s the familiarity of their face and body. I’d know them anywhere.

Because it’s me.

I stare at myself with abject horror as they cock their head to the side, assessing me as if I were prey.

When my younger self convulses again on the table, it catches the creature’s attention— my attention. That thing that is-me-but-isn’t-me slithers forward, hovering over younger us. And that’s when I see it. The fading light emanating from the little girl’s chest. It’s faint, but brilliant. I see my other self hone in on that light.

“Stop!” I shout.

The other me stills, it’s slimy gaze meeting mine. “You cannot stop what is inevitable.”

I shake my head. “This isn’t real.”

It smiles and it’s something I’ve never seen on my own face. Something feral and hungry. “What makes you think it’s not?”

Younger me’s skin is ashen now, her dark veins bulging.

“What are you doing to her?” I try to step forward, but I’m held back, again.

The other me shrugs. “What you were born to become.”

The smell of rot and decay fill the air as the creature’s fingers trail a path up her small arm. Wherever it touches, the skin dies, withering. Nausea rises in my gut as younger me tries to twist away from her, but it’s no use. The light in her chest sputters. And when her eyes meet mine from across the room, I watch as a tear falls to the floor, her mouth gasping through uneven breaths.

“Stop!” I scream. “Stop you’re hurting her!”

The other me, the creature, tsks. “Always trying to be the hero.” It looks at me again and this time, it’s something final and knowing, like an omen. “You’ll never be the hero. You’re the one they all fear. What they’ll always fear. All you can do is embrace it.”

Her hand punches through the little girl’s chest and blood sprays the table and wall. Her scream reverberates off the walls as the monstrous version of me tears the light from her chest.

When its hand rises from the bone and muscle, blood drips down the pale skin, mixing with the strange dark liquid already coating its limbs. And in the creature’s hand, something shines bright and brilliant, like a diamond. It glitters and the light it casts feels almost sacred.

And the little girl is still. Eerily still.

“No,” I choke out, hands shaking. “No, this is wrong. This isn’t how any of this happened.”

Those pitless eyes stare into the brilliant light with awe and raw hunger. “It does not matter. It’s what you are made for. Just like him.”

I still. “Who?”

It turns their head to me, those depthless eyes void of any emotion. “Like calls to like.”

Something emerges from the darkness behind the other me. It’s form tall and imposing, a silhouette of a man. His eyes glow with a strange ember, the only light in his body made of shadow.

This time, when I step back, my feet are freed from whatever force that kept me prisoner. I’m able to back away slowly as the shadowed man tilts his head to the side, watching me.

“There you are.”

That voice…

The walls start to fracture and shake, groans echoing as the room begins to stir. The lights flicker above and everything starts to vibrate beneath my feet. The brilliant light still cradled in the hands of the dark version of me begins to sputter until it’s dim and fading. The other me takes one last look at me, scrambling against the wall, before opening her mouth and swallowing the light whole.

I tear my gaze away, only to immediately find Bob standing there, eyes wide and terrified as he stares back. I open my mouth to question him, but the room continues to crack and shake violently. The floor heaves and gives and a fissure opens beneath me, hurtling me into a swirling dark void below.

The last thing I hear is Bob screaming my name before the darkness swallows me whole.

Part Two (coming soon)

[anothertimdrakestan]

Iconic Romantic Quotes - Batboys & YJ Headcanons

TW for brief allusions to SH and general depression

p.s. the third one will tug your heart strings

~

Jason Todd - "It's a shame that he can't see you the way I do"

- This man lets jealousy boil him alive

- Watching you make excuses for a man who doesn't deserve you truly makes him sick to the stomach

- There's a permanent scab on the inside of his cheek from him chewing on it instead of knocking your current "boyfriend"s lights out

- Jace doesn't think the chump even deserves the title. He doesn't protect you, dote on your, worship you, or let alone appreciate you

- How sad that the first time that awful man laid hands on you he was suddenly put in a body bag and overnighted to the other side of the country? How strange...

- Giving you space and a (giant hunky) shoulder to cry on Jason bided his time

- He never considered himself soft in any way, before he found himself aching to push your fallen hair behind your ears. he never condemned his rough nature until he realized his calloused hands couldn't be careful enough to wipe the tears from your eyes

- When you were at your lowest, horrified to think that you only deserve the awful hand you'd been dealt, Jason had to speak up. His eyes glassy at the thought of your self hatred and his fist furled at the fact that he left that chump breathing, he said-

- "You might mean nothing to yourself right now, but god you mean everything to me"

Wally West - "It’s like she’s the sun, and I have to orbit around her."

- What a broken cliche to say that finding your soulmates slows your life down

- When Wally sped his way into your heart, you gave him a center, a home base to return to, a spot to always feel pulled towards

- He gets addicted to you quite easily, constantly rushing to your location, just yearning to be around you even if he's only allowed to be silently basking in your warmth

- He swears once you smile at him he runs 8x faster, like the butterflies in his stomach are beating their wings while he runs

- This man could travel the entire world in a day, but he always finds you by the end, though he often has some bizarre gift in hand

- He often gets made fun of, he fell for you so deeply and so young that while his friends want him to spend whole nights out partying or trying to drink until it hits his quick metabolism, he's always adamant that he wants to be home with you, that even when he's out late, his sixth sense tells him when to flash home to give you a kiss goodnight

- You always tell him you're fine, that you never want to be controlling or take him away from his friends, but he always just says his place is with you. that he has plans with friends too, but there's always a piece of him excited to run home to you

- "What can I say babe? It's like gravitational the way you pull me in. Why would I ever want to be away from your warmth?"

Dick Grayson - "And I will kiss every single scar on your body and soul, to remind you that love doesn't have to hurt."

- Dick couldn't fathom that you didn't see yourself the way he did

- As he worshipped the ground you walked on, you spent the stroll checking yourself in reflective windows and trying not to say the wrong thing

- When Dick noticed you flinching at harsh words he felt like he was having a heart attack, the squeezing of his chest almost suffocating him as he tried to process what it meant

- He leaned in to loving you, so much so that he cared for and treasured you enough for the both of you

- Always the insecure you chided him, saying you didn't need the attention and that you were just fine

- What a blessing that a man loved you enough to see through your self deprecating jokes and promises that you were okay

- He never scolded or lectured, just always had two arms open and an unending list of compliments. tiny gifts were always waiting for you, and finally, there was someone in your corner no matter what

- Progress always sneaks up on you, and a few years down the line you were almost as bubbly and fun-loving as your boy wonder. when you asked him why he spent so much time bringing you out of your shell, he just said

- "I saw you the first day I met you. Not the fake version you put on, not the sad soul who felt undeserving. I just have always seen you, my love"

Jaime Reyes - "Tell me every terrible thing you ever did. And let me love you anyway."

- Heroes don't really talk about the mistakes they made on the path to doing good

- Jaime had watched you crumble time and time again at the thought of accidentally or even purposefully hurting people

- He knew better than anyone what it meant to be out of control, and equipped with powers that make dangerous weapons when your emotions are out of whack

- He always made room for you, in stressful situations his eyes fell naturally on yours, asking silently if you needed a hand to hold. No longer would you be left out of conversations or (god forbid) ignored. Jaime's gaze was always on you, whether you meant to be his focus or not

- You both got in the habit of cooling the other off, locking eyes and reminding each other 'it's just you and me my love' until the dark skies faded

- There is no better reaffirmation that you are safe than his hand resting on the small of your back, no better way to bond than the hundreds of late nights you both spent laughing and crying

- Looking back, it was hard to fathom how he'd put up with your darkness, and difficult to put into words what his support meant to you

- Softly wiping a rogue tear that had fallen and letting his hand fall to your chin, he tilted it up meeting your thankful and sorrowful eyes with a smile,

- "Cloudy or not I will be here for you, mi cielo. Whatever happens you will always have me"

Tim Drake - "I notice everything about you. Not in a creepy way—in a way I can’t turn off."

- Was is the graph he'd made of the number of freckles you had or the fact that there was always a little extra money in your wallet whenever you went grocery shopping that clued you in?

- He really did try to be nonchalant, but all the books he'd read about the subject suggested you only found a soulmate once, why would he not give you everything?

- He just liked patterns, like how you like to try something new at your local coffee shop every fourth visit or how moving his lips from your your temple to your neck made you shiver just a tiny bit

- And those little 'thinking of you' gifts were too easy, because there was always a little part of his mind with you at the forefront

- It's the type of relationship where after watching the two of you interact like a well oiled machine (you got the coffee mugs while he comes around to open the car door, you hand him a mug to take a sip while you fumble for you keys until he reminds you which pocket you put them in) ... that type of homely synergy, that makes your friends tell you they want to sleep on a highway

- Not actually, but they are deeply jealous at almost all times.

- You both could get a little too wrapped up in the relationship, your fifth anniversary almost got you arrested trying to remove a brick from the wall where you had your first kiss. Tim was three blocks away getting the penny you'd given him for good luck after you'd met him polished and engraved. It's not his fault he had to threaten the gemstone professional to get them to clean the penny, not everyone was as sentimental as the two of you

- "I had this made, as a sign of our luck. I've looked at a lot of numbers and they all suggest this kind of love can happen just once in a lifetime. How lucky I am that that my once gets to be with you"

Conner Kent - "Nothing scares me. Except losing you."

- When you saw the look on his face, you wondered for a moment if he had been shot too

- When in the blink of an eye he had scooped you into his arms you realized 'nope, just me!' wincing at the realization of the pain

- The Super Boy suddenly had faltered, forgetting about the battle and the stakes, because he'd suffered his greatest weakness - the fear of losing you

- You waved a hand in front of his face, his wet eyes focusing on you- 'hey dingbat it's just my shoulder so lock in' and the color returned to his face

- The next greeting in the hospital you weren't letting him live down his raw display of emotions

- He realized the only way forward was through, he kneeled at the side of your bed, explaining how he'd fell for you over the last months, and that the realization he might never tell you had torn through him

- Now you both were a blushing mess

- Over the next few months you'd become strong allies with none other than Tim Drake, who would use you feigning damsel in distress to get your blubbering lover to sail head first into a number of hilarious pranks

- As you gave your glitter-covered hunk a peck on the cheek you chided him about learning his lesson and trusting your ability to take care of yourself

- "Darlin' I trust you completely [at this point he'd pulled you into his glittery chest and peppered shiny kisses across your face] but I'll never risk losing you, joke or not I will be soaring toward you for the rest of our lives"

Damian Wayne - "You’re the bane of my existence and the object of all my desires."

- It started as good fun. trip up the kid batman who hadn't quite filled out his dad's suit. it had taken clark and barry 15 months to convince bruce to let the kids take care of the world for a week

- And so you'd been sent to Gotham to assist the baby dark knight, who'd been rolling his emerald eyes everytime they met yours

- Suddenly, it had been 6 months. Dames (a newly established pet name) decided not to return to the league, and bruce finally got a well deserved pause from playing the big bat. somehow in all this mess, you'd stuck around

- In a moment of weakness post-battle you'd told him if he ever wanted you gone, he'd only need to pack your handful of things from the mansion up, you'd take the sign and get out of gotham

- Though he teased about grabbing boxes for you weekly, they never appeared.

- Somewhere around 8 months you both were busting a local crime syndicate when your grapple gun broke. in a rush, you pressed yourself against Damian before you could explain the situation

- You forgot about explaining the moment you realized there was a pink tint under the cowl, and that his heart was beating out of his chest

- You arrived home and he hadn't spoken a word, after replacing the gun and stitching yourself up a bit, you found him in your room with boxes

- To say you crashed out was an understatement, manically shouting it wasn't your fault the gun didn't work, pointing accusatory fingers at him saying he couldn't keep it in his pants and that it was so sick of him to toy with your emotions like that after he knew you had a crush on him when you first started

- Damian froze. Closed the distance, and gave you a begging look to explain. But your feathers were always ruffled, assuming only the worst saying you'd pack yourself if he was hell bent on pretending he didn't know just to play game with your head

- "With your head? Do you not know how agonizing these months have been for me? Burning for you and stifling my flame to be professional? Had I known you'd - you'd cared for me to I would've- well I would've-" Damian was a man of action, not of words. His lips crashing into yours were all he could do to convey his honest emotions.

~

~

This was a long one! I do hope you enjoyed. I read all comments & reblog notes btw so let me which was your fav (i'm partial to damian's i think?)

also let me know if it's worth hunting more quotes on pinterest. i do have some ideas for bart, steph, duke, and even bruce cooking

<3

[plunderbunny]

This was a problem that I had with algebra and geometry in particular, it wasn't that I couldn't do it (I was in a accelerated math program in junior high and high school and did well enough that I was never pulled out of it or anything, I got perfectly fine grades in all my math courses in that time), but I didn't INTERNALIZE any of it until I got into calculus. I don't know if it was a kind of mental block of my own, or something pedagogical about how the math was taught, but it was an just rote memorization of rules and recognition of patterns and structures without any real understanding for a long time.

Then I got into my first pre-calc course and all of a sudden, all of the algebra I'd been learning started to make sense, I understood what it was we had actually been doing and why instead of just memorizing methods and learning to identify the patterns of where they were applicable to get points on a test. And the thing is, I'm not even sure if it's because of the calculus class I was talking and how it was taught, or because I finally was able to take a physics class then and started seeing the application of all the mathematical techniques I'd been learning to physics problems that I had an intuitive understanding of.

Which speaks to a larger problem with how I learn in general that I've identified, a problem that other people I know don't necessarily seem to have, where I have a terrible time learning and applying what I've learned through rote memorization, but the MOMENT there's some sort of context for what I'm doing relative to something I already understand, whether intuitively or through prior education, it starts to click for me.

So algebra was difficult until I took physics, I think, because I didn't understand on a fundamental level what the solving of algebraic equations was really doing, until I got some real-world examples in physics of "here's a situation that I intuitively understand the behavior of, but what the algebra allows us to do is fully model the behavior of this system in a perfectly precise, accurate, and rigorous way". When it was just a question of "input x yields output y" or didn't really mean much to me and I didn't understand what it conceptually meant other than "how to get a correct answer".

Same thing happened to me in more advanced courses as well... Differential equations was completely inscrutable until I began using it in thermodynamics and heat transfer, I didn't understand what the hell was going on with Fourier analysis and the Fourier transform until I took a signals class that dealt with the concept in a generalized way of analyzing the response of dynamic systems to a complex set of interacting inputs, rather than how it was presented in my basic electrical engineering course which was just as "you do this math trick and see what functions all combine to make this function".

I still don't REALLY get matrix algebra, I think in large part because I swear to god I somehow... Never actually got taught it, directly, in any math course? The only times I've ever encountered it was when professors started tossing it out in, say, the ill-advised Quantum Mechanics course that I took and HUGELY struggled with because for whatever reason my college didn't have the Waves course or any Matrix Algebra course, so I was trying to basically self-teach the basic wave functions and matrix algebra that I found out from other students that they'd learned in those previous courses, while simultaneously learning how to apply those ideas (which were understandably taken as already understood, by the professor) to the huge mental difficulties I have of understanding the principles of quantum mechanics.

The post on that reading comprehension study is good (and reminded me of some of my complaints about GPT a couple years ago, although the LLMs have gotten much better since then).

But the thing that really stood out to me is that I feel much this same way about math instruction:

i have seen this repeatedly, too - actually i was particularly taken with how similar this is to the behavior of struggling readers at much younger ages - and would summarize the hypothesis i have forged over time as: struggling readers do not expect what they read to make sense. my hypothesis for why this is the case is that their reading deficits were not attended to or remediated adequately early enough, and so, in their formative years - the early to mid elementary grades - they spent a lot of time "reading" things that did not make sense to them - in fact they spent much more time doing this than they ever did reading things that did make sense to them - and so they did not internalize a meaningful subjective sense of what it feels like to actually read things.

One of the big problems I have primarily in Calculus 1 (which is the lowest-level course I've taught) is that students just don't expect math to make sense. There's a bunch of rules to follow, which you have to memorize, and then you look at an expression and use some rule that seems like you could use it.

But that's not how competent mathematicians (and I use that word in the broadest possible sense) interact with mathematics. Mathematical formulas mean things. They have syntax, and semantics, and you can break apart a computation and talk about what individual terms mean and are doing, and what manipulation you're doing and what that corresponds to.

(Sometimes, of course, that's easier than others. Calc 2, in particular, involves a lot of "tricks" where it's hard to explain the logic in the middle of using them. But that's why I'm focusing on Calc 1 here, which is mostly not like that but does have a lot of application-y problems where this semantic understanding is important.)

But if you've never worked through a math problem and felt like everything was meaningful, you don't expect meaning in what you're doing, and you don't expect your own work to make sense. And then, well, it won't, and you'll struggle and get lost in the middle of every problem.

[yoongihan]

Services Rendered - BC - 2/3

pairing: escort chan x femreader

genre: smut, with little plot, a lot of talking, fluffy, but there be angst in this part

word count: ~ 13.5k

warnings: sex work, smut: pentrative safe sex, hand jobs (both rec.), oral (both receiving) ; a lot of kissing, older reader, chan goes by chris, reader shorter than chris, many more 'babys' and 'yeonins' because it's chris, the most ethical escort service ever; alcohol imbibed, but no one's drunk, more discussion of insecurities on reader's part, cursing. if i've missed something, let me know.

rating: 18+/M

summary: seeking a solution to your lack of experience, you assume the process will be business-like. you're entirely wrong.

a/n: I AM SO SORRY THIS HAS TAKEN SO LONG. i swear i thought it'd take a couple weeks and i started it right after posting the first part. i don't think the final part will take as long (she says while packing her apartment to move states literally next week). thank you so much for the kind reception of the first part. there's some book discussion in this part, those books belong to their authors. i hope you enjoy it. big thank you to @moni-logues for reading this over and making sure it actually makes sense.

part one

Part Two

You wake up at some point, way too early. The sleepy realization that you aren’t in your own bedroom gives a moment of panic, but it subsides. You also realize that you aren’t currently the little spoon, or any spoon at all. There’s another irrational moment of panic, this one about him, that he’s left, that he’s gone. 

You roll as gingerly as one can toward the other side of the bed, which reveals a head of messy hair and a peek of bare shoulders. Had he ditched his pajama shirt sometime in the middle of the night? Does it matter?

Your heart rate slows though. He’s still there. 

You turn back toward the nightstand and the bright digital numbers that tell you that you are up well before any person needs to be. You get out of bed, standing to walk to the bathroom. As you do, you realize that you are sore. It’s a stupid thought, honestly. Of course you’re sore, but still, it’s surprising, and unnerving. You’re sore because you’ve had sex. 

You had sex.

You shut the door to the bathroom before you turn on the light and once you do, you nearly audibly groan at what the mirror shows. Bedraggled. The last vestiges of your makeup are smeared (even though there wasn’t that much to begin with), eyes a bit bloodshot, hair a disaster. 

You wash your face thoroughly and pat it dry. You also decide to brush your teeth. You’re not convinced a stunning specimen like Chris would even have morning breath, but you definitely do, and maybe even if you sleep a few more hours, this will mitigate the worst of it. 

When you return to bed, he hasn’t moved at all. You slide in, staring at the back of his head, wondering about the course of today. 

Will it be a sex-fest? You doubt it because you hardly think you have the stamina, even if he’s studied tantric or whatever. 

Will it be awkward? Possibly. You’ve had only a handful of waking hours with him. What will happen when there are long, non-seducing hours? Conversation had been fine last night, but this is so much time. 

Will it be claustrophobic? The hotel room is yours until twenty-four hours plus from now. That doesn’t mean you can’t leave the hotel, but does an escort want to be seen in public with his less than perfect-looking client? Does he want to be seen with you, as though you’re a couple?

You shake your head, closing your eyes despite wanting to reach out and trace your fingers along those bare shoulders. You don’t know how much time passes; you don’t think that you really fall back asleep, but you do doze some. A pleasant dreamy fog of rest, mixed up with memories of the previous evening: a pull of emotions and impressions. 

When you come back to this plane of existence, you can feel lips on your shoulder. 

“Chris?”

“You expecting someone else?” His voice is deep from sleep and glazed with amusement. You rub your eyes, by the nightstand clock you can see that a couple hours have passed since your first wake up. There’s a lazy bite on your shoulder, you shiver before tentatively rolling over to see him. 

The wild hair, the barely-open eyes, the flushed skin. 

God, he’s so beautiful. 

“Hi,” you say for lack of anything creative. “Good morning.” His head tilts to the side and sniffs once. 

“You brushed your teeth,” he accuses as he covers his mouth with his hand. “That’s hardly fair.” He starts to pull back the covers, as though to leave the bed. 

“It’s not a big deal–”

“Nope,” he interrupts, laughing as he slides to his feet and heads to the bathroom. “We have to be the same here. Equality, right?” He winks at you before entering, the door shutting behind him. 

You sigh, embarrassed now for NOT having morning breath, before forcing yourself to sit up, back resting on the headboard. You touch your hair to make sure it’s not too crazy. 

When the door opens, not more than a minute or two later, you’re already back to feeling horribly anxious at what the day will bring. He walks to your side, looking down at you. 

“Equal now?” you ask softly. 

He sets his knee on the bed, gracefully climbing on without even touching you, enclosing you with his presence. You stare up at him, swallowing as your throat feels dry. He doesn’t say anything, his eyes sparkling. He leans in, his hands pressed into the mattress at your sides. His lips find yours, a minty burst. It’s biting, the mint, but his mouth and tongue are soft and warm. It’s like sinking into a hot bath. 

“Morning,” he murmurs, lips barely a millimeter from yours. He goes back in, drawing it out, making you sit up higher, your hands encircling him by the neck to keep him close. When he breaks for air, he lets his nose bump yours before sitting back on his heels. “Sleep okay?”

You’re muddled from his kiss, brain slow to engage. “Mmmhmm.” You move again to kiss him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. You can tell he’s grinning when your lips meet his, but you slip your tongue in his mouth, curling with his. He groans, reaching to pull you on top of him instead. His hands slide along your legs to your hips, gripping tightly as you continue to taste him. It’s relaxed this morning, the tangling of your bodies. He seems not inclined to speed up, rubbing his hand up and down your back, almost in rhythm to the kiss. It’s so engrossing, being wrapped up in him, that you don’t even question when your hips start to rock against his. 

Well, the stuff you’ve heard and read about morning wood certainly is true. He groans when you thrust just right; you echo his groan, barely audible since detaching from his mouth seems wrong. 

He breathes your name against your mouth. “Hold on.”

The words eventually make themselves recognizable in your mind and you break away. “You don’t…want to…I thought guys were always up for it in the morning?”

“Oh, I am. We are,” he says quickly, as though he realizes that you’re beginning to feel ashamed by your assumptions and zeal. “But you might be sore? A little? And it’s by no means required.” He cups your face in his hands before you look and dart away. “Talk to me.”

“A little sore.”

“Thought so.” He kisses you softly, nose brushing yours before letting his head fall back on the headboard. “Breakfast?”

It’s difficult to switch from desire for him to considering desire for food. “I mean, we can do room service.”

His fingers trace along your ears before dropping to his lap. “Let’s go out. Do you like diner food?”

“I wouldn’t trust someone who doesn’t.”

He laughs, reaching out and squeezing your thigh. “That does seem like a good litmus test.” He stares at you for a second. “Want me to shower first?”

You nod slowly as you roll off his legs, sitting back against the headboard next to him. “You want to go out?”

He looks over at you, still comfortable on the bed in the twisted sheets. “Supposed to be a nice day. I figure, good breakfast, maybe we go to the park…” He trails off at your expression. “Do you not want to?”

“No, that…that sounds nice,” you mumble, eyes falling to your hands, folding back the sheet like that will make order out of chaos. 

He leans over, mouth at your ear. “Did you think it would be sex 24/7?” His whisper and breath on the sensitive skin makes you tremble. 

“I both thought too much and not enough about this weekend.”

“Meaning?”

“I worried, but tried not to imagine what scenarios might happen. I didn’t think you’d…” When you look over at him, he gives you a questioning look. “Never mind.”

“Nope, you promised to tell me. What you’re thinking.”

“That’s still in effect? I think you mastered getting my brain mushy and senseless.”

He chuckles, hand grasping your chin to turn you to him for a kiss. He lingers, enough to make you want all over again. 

“Tell me?”

You want to look anywhere but at him, but his hold on you is firm. “I wasn’t sure going out like a date was something we could do.”

He stares at you for more seconds than you wish he would. “Sometimes I’m hired as a date for events.”

You suppose if you’d given yourself a moment to think about anything you know about sex work (specifically from films and books), you would have remembered that. Hopefully no one would blame you for focusing solely on the ‘sex’ part of the occupation. 

“Right.”

He kisses you again. “You’re worried about something.”

“Do you want to be seen with me? In public?” Might as well just ask. He already knows you’re insecure about things.

“Why wouldn’t I?” he counters, fingers skimming your jaw and cheek. 

“I’m older than you.”

“I know.”

With as insightful as he’s been already, you hoped you wouldn’t have to spell it out for him, but apparently he’s making you do that anyway.

“You don’t mind being seen with me? Even though I’m…”

He kisses you for a millionth time. “A couple things. I chose to take this job. With you. That includes being seen with you. Also…” He shakes his head. “I feel like I should make you say another positive thing about yourself.” He lets his hand glide down your neck, a caress. 

“Chris…” You think for a moment before continuing, “I don’t think I’m disgusting or repulsive. I really don’t. I just know how the world sees me. And my good qualities…” He grins when you smile. “Don’t seem as admired by society as the qualities I lack. It’s not low self-esteem, but a realistic understanding of the world?”

“That seems a little like justification for not thinking you’re beautiful. And you are.”

You can’t help your immediate grimace at the compliment. 

“See?”

“Sorry, sorry. It’s…I don’t trust compliments about how I look.”

“From anybody or from men?”

Insightful as fuck.

You sigh. “Why ask when you seem to already know?”

His thumb traces along your collarbone as he answers: “I like to make sure my assumptions aren’t completely off.” He takes a moment, his touch lackadaisical. “So, breakfast…out?”

“Yes. If you’re sure.”

He rolls his eyes before cupping the back of your neck to kiss you. “Yes. I’m sure.” And he gets up to walk back into the bathroom. He doesn’t close the door and you open your mouth to question, but he pops his head out. “Feel free to come in if you need to. I’m not shy.” He winks and disappears. 

Yeah, you’re not doing that. Sex is one thing (a thing you’re still processing), but domestic daily acts together? That’s a level of intimacy you can’t fathom. 

You are combing through your luggage for something to wear when he comes out of the bathroom…in only a towel.

“All yours,” he says, going to his own bag to find clothes. 

You stare, which is silly, because you’ve already seen him two seconds ago with only pajama pants on. It’s the same thing, right?

It’s not. The towel leaves less to the imagination, and the scattered drops of water catching the light on his torso heighten your awareness. 

He glances over at you when you don’t respond, or even move. He smirks. 

You scoff, embarrassed. “You know you’re hot,” you retort when you grab your clothes and move toward the bathroom. He catches you by the arm, pulling you close. 

“Thank you,” he says softly, nose to nose with you. His fingers caress your forearm as he lets go and you mutter a ‘you’re welcome’ as you dash into the bathroom, shutting the door behind. 

–

“Is that enough meat?” you ask, not in a judgemental tone, but more in astonishment. He grins cheekily across from you in the booth. 

“I told you. I’d share if you got the pancakes.”

“I know, but…” You gesture to his plate with toast, eggs, and enough bacon and sausage for the carnivore in anyone. “It’s…impressive. Thank you. I really do hate choosing between sweet and savoury for breakfast.” You set pancakes on the spare plate. 

“Well,” he begins, setting some of his protein on your plate. “I did use up a lot of energy last night.”

You don’t have to look at him to hear the amusement and know he’s smirking again at you. 

He says your name plaintively when you don’t look up or comment. 

“I think you just like embarrassing me.”

“I think you’re cute like this.” He points at you with a fork. “You’re cute always, but especially right now.”

The meal is mostly devoured in quiet as you are hungry (you expended energy, too, after all), but you find out that Chris loves working out, playing sports with his friends, going to concerts, and cooking.

“I’m not good,” he assures you about cooking. “I’m not awful, but I’m not going to impress anyone.”

“But cooking is a skill. There are people who pretty much order out for every meal. Minus like cereal and sandwiches.”

“I still do that…sometimes.”

You laugh at his sheepish expression. “I do too. Some days after work, I’m too tired to even think about making something. It’s enough to decide what I even want to eat.”

He nods. “Understandable.” He puts another piece of bacon on your plate even though you’ve definitely eaten your quota of food for the morning. “Do you like what you do?”

“Work-wise? I guess. It’s enough for now. I can do the job, some days I feel like I do it well. But I wouldn’t say it fulfills me. Helps me pay the bills.”

“Is that okay?”

You startle when you stretch out your legs and hit his. “Sorry.”

“S’okay,” he replies simply before hooking his foot around yours at the ankle. His eyebrows lift at your expression, like he’s daring you to make a scene. “Is it okay to not be fulfilled by your job?”

“I…” His foot is rubbing your calf and it shouldn’t be stimulating, but my god, it is stimulating. “Well, are you?”

“Fulfilled?” He cocks his head to the side, thinking. “Sometimes. Sometimes I feel like I’ve done well.”

“This job?” you ask, swallowing before grabbing your mug of coffee. Chris, with another very unique trait, doesn’t drink coffee and is having orange juice. “Your…current work?”

“Yeah,” he says, eyes warm. “This job.”

“I mean…not the acting, not like specifically…a…client…but your work overall…”

He leans closer, despite the table in the way. “I know what you mean.” He waves down the server and hands her a credit card before you can even get your wallet out of your purse. 

“You…”

“My treat.” 

“Tax-deductible?”

He laughs. “Sure. Something like that.” 

You finish your coffee by the time he’s signed the check. He slips his hand in yours (he’d done the same on the walk from the hotel to the diner) and leads you back outside. 

“Anything you wanna do?” he asks. “There’s a park a few blocks away. Some shops if you’re so inclined.” 

“Is this okay?” you ask. “Us just…hanging out?”

He watches you while you both wait at a crosswalk. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know. I…I feel like I might be wasting your time.”

He squeezes your hand. “I don’t feel like that. You said that you don’t take time off from work a lot.”

“I did?”

“In your interview. I figure this can be about some relaxation as well as…other activities.” 

“I don’t want you to be bored.”

“I don’t want you to be bored either.” He gestures toward the sign that announces that you’ve arrived at the city park. “But…there’s fresh air, trees, and a used bookstore all within a couple blocks.”

“A used bookstore?”

He grins at the delight in your voice. “Fresh air first.”

It’s a nice park. People are out on a clement Saturday, walking their dogs, playing frisbee, and having picnics. Chris leads a meandering pace, stopping to pet dogs whenever the opportunity arises. You also indulge scratching behind the ears for several, getting licked and jumped on. You don’t want to think about the dusty paw prints left on your pants, just Chris’s big smile and laugh when he falls from a squat position because the golden retriever is a little too excited. 

He’s still chuckling when you offer your hand to him (the excitable dog and his owners have already moved on). He takes it and you brace your feet to pull him up. He brushes himself off, and before you can overthink it, you do the same, wiping the stray dirt from his t-shirt. He grabs your hand after a moment, lifting it up and kissing it softly.

“Thanks.”

You want to ask if he’s the top employee at his company. How could he not be, with warm eyes looking at you like you matter. How can any client go back to their real life after time spent with him? 

It’s a dream. A dream that you made happen, but still a dream.

“You’re a dog person,” you reply to his gratitude, trying to move his focus off of you. 

“I am.” He doesn't let go of your hand, but draws you toward a bench. You sit next to him, clasped hands on his thigh as he looks out at the people milling about, dogs chasing sticks. “My folks have a dog, but my life is so busy that I can’t have one now. Maybe someday.”

“That sounds nice.” You stare at his profile for a few seconds. “Dog, house, white picket fence?”

He laughs. “Yeah, maybe. I don’t know about the fence. What’s your ‘someday’? Your job sounds pretty involved.” He glances at you. 

“It’s silly.”

“Is it?”

“I mean, what I want.”

“Lies.”

You take a deep breath and turn your focus on the trees. “I want a quiet life. Sure, I’d still work, but it’s mostly at home. I have a small garden where I grow things that end up on my table. The idea that what I put effort into actually is something that benefits me tangibly. Instead of just a paycheck.”

“Don’t insult the paycheck.”

“Everything I work with is conceptual, you know? I can’t touch it, see it. It’s documents and meetings, and something posted on the internet. There’s nothing to hold.” 

“Makes sense. I like traveling, but it’d be nice to have more than a tiny apartment to come home to.” He squeezes your hand. “Want some ice cream?”

You look around, confused.

“It’s behind those trees,” he says, pointing. “Stay here, I’ll go get it. What’s your favorite flavor?”

“Surprise me.”

His eyebrows rise. “That’s a lot of pressure to put on me,” he says, before leaning close. “You trust me?”

“You seem to have me pretty figured out already.”

His brow furrows. “I doubt that.” He’s so close with his unsure expression, it’s cute. You cover the remaining distance and kiss him softly. He returns it, light and breezy. “See…I didn’t know you’d do that.”

You grin at him. “That’s because you can’t see what I see.”

The blush growing on his cheeks makes him all the more endearing. “Smooth talker,” he mumbles before kissing you again and getting up. You watch him go before looking back out at the activity. 

You can’t remember the last time you sat somewhere and people watched, without taking out your phone either to scroll or work. It’s calming. Chris, his very presence reminding you why he’s here, sets your nerves alight. In all the good and anxious ways. You worry so much about what you say or do, that in this moment, it’s nice to just be. 

“I got two that I like, so whichever one you prefer, I’m good with the reject.”

You startle at his voice, intently watching the final outcome of a boy, about ten years old, in a tug-of-war with his beagle. 

“What did you get?”

“Chocolate peanut butter, and mango sorbet.” He carefully sits next to you, a cone of melting goodness in each hand. 

“They both sound good, but I'm leaning toward mango.”

“Interesting decision,” he says, handing over the bright yellow-orange swirl. 

You take a lick of it, closing your eyes to enjoy the burst of flavor before responding to his words. “Is it? Is there some psychological diagnosis about me choosing fruit over chocolate?”

“Possibly,” he replies, leaning against the back of the bench, staring out at the clearing, still inhabited by people, dogs, and activity. “Are you denying what you really want due to some social concern that you can’t have the thing you desire?” He raises an eyebrow when you laugh. “Are you assuming I would rather have chocolate and you are appeasing me over having the thing you want the most?”

“Maybe mango sounds better than chocolate right now.”

He scrunches his nose. “Unlikely.”

You laugh again at his mocking disbelief before enjoying several more bites of the sorbet. “Did you study psychology or sociology in school?”

“Neither. There was a gen ed intro class I had to take. It was cool.” He offers his cone to you. “You have to try it, to know if you made the right choice.”

The familiarity of sharing ice cream with someone you met yesterday is not lost on you; how strange this entire experience is. So you lean over to taste and it is really good. You offer your cone. 

“Equality, right?”

He chuckles and tries the mango. 

“I don’t regret my choice,” you say when he goes quiet, either pondering psychology classes or chocolate over mango. 

“Hmmm,” is all he gives you. “I can’t complain. This is really good.” 

You smile at his apparent glee for ice cream, and how the sun shines on his face, highlighting his skin, casting shadows of his eyelashes on his cheeks. 

The smear of chocolate by his lips. 

“You…you have…,” you begin, gesturing to the mark. 

He doesn’t look embarrassed, but leans toward you. “Can you get it?” 

You wipe it with your thumb, offering the remnants to him without much thought. Then you see his eyes spark when his lips touch your skin. There’s a light scraping of his teeth and the ice cream feels less like an enjoyable dessert and more like a precursor to something else. 

When he draws back, your eyes are glued to his mouth, your thumb still proffered in supplication as you’re frozen.

“It’s melting,” he says softly, nodding toward your ice cream cone. You blink and focus  on the sorbet, eyes straying back toward him after a little bit. “So…do you want to go to the bookstore after this?”

Your thoughts are definitely not on books, or shopping, or anything public. You don’t answer, unable to figure out how to say what you want. 

He says your name, drawing your gaze from what’s left of your sorbet to him. Does he know? Can he tell?

“I don’t want to go to the bookstore.”

His eyebrows raise. “No? Um, there’s…” He pulls out his phone, you assume, to look up what’s around. “There’s a farmer’s market several blocks away. And–”

“Chris…

He glances over. “Yeah?”

You take a deep breath, channeling whatever confidence you have in everything but sex. “I’d like to go back to the hotel.” The confidence lasts just the duration of the sentence, and you look away immediately.

“Yeah? Why?”

Your head turns so fast, because you can’t believe he might be oblivious, not after last night, but he’s grinning widely at you, those beautiful brown eyes heated. 

“You like making me spell things out, don’t you?”

“I do. I like how flustered you are about the very reason you hired me.” He stands up, waiting for you to do the same. “We can finish on the way.” 

He chats the whole way back about when he was growing up in Sydney, but you can’t really focus on his actual words. Just the rolling sound of his voice, the accent in full effect. You’re thinking too much, as per usual. Worried, as usual, about how you’ll perform. It doesn’t seem to matter that everything last night went way better than you could have hoped or imagined. Your brain doesn’t allow you to relax, to take in the evidence that you can ask for this, that he might want to even if it is why you hired him. 

When you two are waiting for the hotel elevator, ice cream wrappers discarded in a street bin, he bumps shoulders with you. 

“Where’d you go?” 

“Into the twisted, thorny mire that is my brain.” 

He laughs and kisses you without warning. It’s almost perfunctory, natural and domestic. “Your brain sounds like the part of the Sleeping Beauty cartoon, where the prince has to hack his way through the huge vines into the castle.”

“That. With no castle or end in sight. And probably a bit grimier.” 

The elevator doors open and you both enter as he is still chuckling at your description. “Grimier?”

“Yes. The cartoon seems too clean, you know? That much plant life would be dirty with soil and insects, and that mossy loamy smell.” You lean back against the elevator wall as the doors close. “Maybe swampy too.”

He’s still grinning when he turns toward you, lips finding yours in half a laugh. The relative privacy allows you the freedom to slide your hands around his middle, pulling him close. He’s cosily warm; the ice cream has left you a little cold and his natural temperature banishes that chill. He deepens the kiss, his tongue tantalizing. Your head falls back against the wall as the elevator dings to announce its arrival to your floor. He pulls away, hand slipping into yours to drag you toward the long hallway. 

It feels both interminably long in distance as you stumble after him, but also short because…sex…again. With him.

How does most of the world’s population consider sex to be a normal (albeit enjoyable) thing?

Once you’re both inside the hotel room, he looks at you with that raised eyebrow. 

“What?” you ask, wishing your missing boldness would not be missing. 

“I’m half-wanting you to just pounce, I guess.”

His smile softens the sharpness of your nerves. 

“Just half?”

He moves close, not touching you, waiting. “More than half…what’s got you looking so wide-eyed?”

“Nervous.”

“Why?” At this, his hand comes to your cheek, careful. 

“I guess I thought, you know, having sex once would make me less awkward about it.”

His eyes soften. “Once would make you a sex goddess?”

You make a face at the absurdity. “I didn’t say my thoughts made logical sense.”

His hand molds to your cheek and jaw. “It’s okay to still be nervous. And it’s okay to be awkward.”

You know you’re pouting, but you can’t help it. “I just…I want to…enjoy and for you to enjoy.” Your face heats at that last part. 

He dips his head so you can’t look anywhere but at him. “I do. I will. And I’ll tell you if I’m not and we’ll try something else.” His thumb pulls lightly at your bottom lip. “Trust me?” 

“I do…” If you think too deeply about it, it’ll worry you how much you trust and admire this man, after less than twenty-four hours of knowing him. “Really, I do. It’s more me, than you.”

He lets his lips brush yours delicately, as if inviting you to make the decision to add pressure and intensity. It’s so lovely, like the touch of a rose petal. You cover his hand on your cheek with yours and lean in, prolonging the kiss. His arm curls around you, pulling you flush against him. Using his hold on your face, he angles your head, shifting from a quiet kiss to hot and wet and shiver-inducing. 

“Wanna try something new?” he whispers, lips still touching yours with the question. 

“Um…”

He draws back, still holding you because he rightly knows you might try and run away. 

“Like…?” 

He bumps noses with you, teasing. “I have a feeling you already know what you want to try.”

Your eyes narrow. “Why do you make me say everything?”

“Cause you need to. So it’s clear,” he replies, unbothered by your frustration. “It gives you the power. This is your weekend, baby.” He dives back in, the kiss as stubborn as he is. You melt against him, wishing you could be absorbed by his heat and scent. “What do you want?” It’s as though he addles your brain on purpose, just to ask questions like that. 

“Orgasm,” you breathe.

“Sure. How?” His head drops to suck a mark on your neck, making your fingers dig into his arms. “You can say it.”

“Your mouth.”

He lifts his head. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Never mind that you know you’re flushed from saying it. “Do…you…mind it?”

The smirk is devastating. “If someone…in your future, tells you they don’t want to…dump that person. Immediately.” He maneuvers you to the bed, chuckling at your inability to walk normally. He sits you down, so your feet are planted on the floor. 

“You’re overestimating my dating life,” you finally say. 

He cocks his head to the side, regarding you before dropping to his knees. You swallow, hard. 

“I think, if you truly wanted to date, you could. Successfully.”

“Have you met people, Chris?”

He laughs, resting then sliding his hands along your thighs. “I have and I stand by what I said.” He presses one kiss on your knee before starting to undo the button and zipper of your shorts. “Why wouldn’t someone want to date you?”

You’re so focused on where his hands are, how he’s slipping off your shoes and socks. He massages your calves idly, like he’s barely thinking about it before tugging off your shorts. 

He says your name when you don’t reply. 

“I’m not answering that,” you breathe out as his hands map your legs.  “It’s like you asking for me to say something nice about myself yesterday.” 

“Lay back, baby,” he says, rising up on his knees to kiss you softly. “We’re back to the color system, okay? Red if it’s too much, or not good. Or if you don’t feel safe. Yellow to slow down, or change. Green if you’re out of your mind with pleasure.” His smirk makes your eyes narrow in mock-annoyance. “I really want it to be green.”

He kisses your bare knee before trailing his lips up along your inner thigh. 

“Yeonin?”

You make some sound in response. 

“You gotta relax.” You feel him cover your hand which is clenched tightly in a fist (you didn’t even notice) and carefully undo the curling of each finger. “You’re supposed to enjoy it.” He has that amused thread in his voice. 

“I do. I am.”

His fingers slot with yours. “Deep breath.”

You do as he instructs, and your muscles relax with the exhale.

“Good girl.”

Oh.

“Hmmm, I figured,” he says softly, lips back on the inside of your thigh. There’s a nip and a soothing touch of tongue. As he gets closer, you try not to squirm, but it’s impossible. He lets go of your hand to hold your hip down. “Easy.” Then you feel his mouth on the gusset of your underwear.

The noise you let out is humiliating, but you cannot be appalled at yourself because holy shit. He chuckles, and you can feel the vibrations in your core. He hooks a finger on the fabric, his finger brushing your swollen and sensitive and wanting cunt. You whine as he pulls the clothing down your legs and off. His hands slide back up your thighs, thumbs barely brushing you there.

“Chris,” the whine is more pronounced. “Please.”

“So polite,” he says, his breath fanning out on your clitoris. It feels like an eternity, his fingers digging into your skin, breath heating then cooling, before you feel his mouth. You’d levitate if his hand wasn’t so firm on your hip, keeping you on the bed. A slow lick, excruciatingly slow. He hums, sending vibrations again, this time more intense before his lips enclose over your clit and he sucks. 

You are forming words, you think, but you might be nonsense as well. There’s ‘Chris’ and ‘More’. 

“As you wish,” he answers one of those ‘more please’s with that low voice, full of provocation and fondness. His fingers, first one then a second, slip in, curling up and proving how much attention he pays as he finds the exact spot. You shudder and his fingers retreat; this time you whimper.

“Not so fast, baby. It needs to build for a bit.” His explanation in no way makes you not wordlessly complain the next two times he does the same thing. He checks in with you, asking for your color, and saying the word ‘green’ is its own kind of torture as breathing is challenging. Your hand is in his hair, twisting, tightening. He’s laughing, but when you raise your head to actually see him, his eyes are black, pupils blown out, and you’re sure the image of him looking at you while giving you oral will be seared in your brain for fifty years. 

Then he doesn’t back off or relent and you are sent beyond this mortal plane, the experience not old hat to you, the pleasure prolonged as he continues until you come back to yourself, breathing heavy and fingers releasing their grip on his tousled hair. He lifts his head, hand patting your thigh and wiping his mouth with the back of his other hand. When you stare at him, unable to speak, he climbs onto the bed to lay next to you. 

“Verdict?” he asks softly. You pull him to you, kissing him messily, trying to rid him of his shirt at the same time. He obliges, tossing his shirt to the floor before cupping your face in his hands to kiss you deeply, apparently not in a hurry like you seem to be. 

“Good,” you finally speak, breath somewhat back to normal. “So good, god, Chris…” You don’t know what to say, how to phrase how much this means to you: to be given pleasure so freely, that he cares enough to get you off with no expectation of reciprocity. 

But you want to reciprocate. You start to undo his jeans, and you don’t notice that he’s only smoothing your hair, pressing soft kisses on your cheek, forehead. 

“You always want to rush,” he murmurs as you shove down both jeans and his underwear. It’s not a protest, his dick definitely isn’t saying no, but you look up at him even as you take him in hand. 

You want to say that time is limited. That it’s less than 24 hours till he leaves, a part of that has to be dedicated to some sleep as you can’t function properly to get yourself home if you don’t. You have to rush because you don’t have any guarantee that you’ll get to experience this again.

And not with him.

So you say nothing, denying a realization of feelings that are better looked at tomorrow, when you’re on your own. 

“Can you get a condom?” he asks, his voice strained as you explore his length, intrigued by how hot it is, how delicate the skin, and how stiff. “Please?”

You meet his eyes with your own smirk. “Now who’s being polite?”

His lips twist. “I’m always polite.” And he gives your nose a peck. You ignore the flutter of your heart at such a small gesture, letting go of him to grab a foil packet from the box. You roll it on him, squeezing carefully. 

“That okay? Green?”

He huffs a laugh, face flushed and glowing with light perspiration. “Green.” He wraps his hand around yours and starts to press the head to your entrance. 

“Like this?” you ask, not sure why side by side, facing each other is shocking to you. Sex always seems like one person is above, the other below. There’s something even more intimate about this.

“Yes?” He smiles. “Okay?”

You nod as he slips in, your earlier orgasm allowing the breach much easier than last night. You clench instinctively and he slides a hand down your side to your leg, lifting it so it’s slung over his. The angle changes and you gasp.

“Better?” He tips your chin up to capture your lips again as he draws back to thrust. You grip his shoulders, lost in the feeling of his cock moving against your walls, the rhythm of his tongue with yours. You don’t think (not much anyway), drowning in the sensations of heat, sweat, sharp inhales and exhales. He whispers compliments, words you don’t really comprehend, but with his accent, the timbre, you think it’s poetry. 

His fingers bring you to completion before he lets go and comes himself.

Chris props himself up on one elbow once you both get your breath back. He’s giving you that sleepy grin, self-satisfied (you can’t be mad at him…he should feel satisfied) and content. He moves a piece of your hair out of your eyes. 

“Still green?”

You snort then laugh. “Yeah, if I had strength I’d give you a high-five.”

He holds up his hand and with effort you smack it, making him giggle. “That’s a first for me.”

“Never been high-fived?”

“Not after sex.”

“Pity.”

He falls to the mattress next to you, eyes never leaving you. You stare back, breathing mostly normal now. 

“It was good for you, too?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You aren’t sure?” He scoots closer, nuzzling your shoulder, leaving a kiss. 

“I mean, it sounded like it was good. But…I guess I want verbal confirmation.” 

He moves even closer so your faces are inches apart. “Yes. It was great even.” He kisses you without heat, only sweetness. He rolls to his back, looking up at the ceiling. “It’s early.” He glances at the nightstand clock then at you. “Any thoughts on how we can while away the hours until dinner?”

There’s nothing to hint mischief in his voice, but you still think he might be angling for more of something. You want to, but you’re also a little shaken by what’s just occurred. That he wanted to, did, and did so with skill. 

“You did say there was a bookshop?”

If he’s disappointed, you can’t see it in his face. “To add to that stack over there?” The books you brought have not moved a millimeter since yesterday.

“One can never have too many books.”

“Nerd,” he teases, clasping you by the jaw to turn you toward him for another kiss. “We’ll get dressed and go then. Maybe you can recommend something for me.” He dwells on the kiss, lips tasting yours. He pulls back as your eyelashes flutter open. “Hmm…though…” 

You go still entirely when you feel his hand rest high on your thigh. “Chris…”

“You can have three,” he says easily. “Should tide you over until after dinner, yeah?” When his fingers find where you are sensitive, you shudder. 

“I don’t think…” Surely you can’t again. He’s gentle, attuned to your workings so well that it takes a light touch, circling and pressing. 

“Sure you can. Just a little one.” 

With a kiss, he muffles your sharp exhale when your stomach drops yet again and the spread of pleasure tingles through your body. 

“A goddamn menace,” you huff out as he squeezes your thigh. 

“Yeah, you’re really upset about it, I can tell.” He slides out of bed and into the bathroom without another word while you’re prone for several minutes before hauling yourself up to gather your discarded clothes. 

–

“Oh, it’s lovely,” you say reverently when he slows you down in front of the bookstore. You were so intent on avoiding the two teenagers on skateboards that you missed it. 

He opens the door and you enter into tall, overstuffed bookshelves. It’s not a big space, but every inch of it is used. There’s a small counter and till to your right, and the clerk nods in greeting. You nod back, reaching for Chris’s hand and tugging him toward the fiction section. “You said to recommend something.”

“Yeah, I have a job that I have to fly to, so I’ll need something to pass the time.” If he notices your falter at the mention of another ‘job’, he doesn’t say anything. You don’t ask, though the morbid side of you wants to, if it's this kind of job: creating intimacy with a client, a stranger. You tell yourself it could be a legitimate acting job, but it punches you in the chest anyway. 

“What do you normally read?” you ask with a steady voice. You stop in front of the Bs, pulling out a copy of Wuthering Heights. “Want a great presentation of badly-parented children that grow up and treat each other horribly?”

He chuckles. “That’s such a sales pitch.”

“It’s a pretty copy, though,” you say, sliding it back on the shelf. 

“I read more nonfiction.” He sees your expression. “I know, it’s boring, but a lot of it has been acting methodologies. To expand my skills.”

“Would you prefer nonfiction?” You run your finger along the spines, stopping on familiar surnames. “I have a few I could recommend.”

“No, no way. Give me something that’ll suck me in.” He comes up behind you, resting his chin on top of your head, arms around your waist. 

“Okay…more recent, or stuff like this,” You gesture to the books in front of you. “Classics?” You lean back into his embrace, savoring. There’s a long list of moments from this weekend you want to carve into the stone of your memory. This is one. 

“Uhhhh, maybe more recent. I’m not that smart.”

You sniff, covering his arms with your hands, holding him close. “That’s ridiculous. And besides, there are multiple kinds of intelligence.”

“There are?” You feel his words in your hair as much as you hear them. 

“There’s a theory that there are nine, and less than half are what would be considered academic.” You pause. “Sorry, I get a little ranty about stuff like that. You know how there are people who are so good at reading others, registering their emotions and how to empathize?”

“My mate, Felix.” He’s so sure. “He’s very affectionate, very aware of how to care for his friends and those around him.”

“Yes, exactly. That’s its own intelligence. You can be an astrophysicist, but cannot walk into a meeting with any awareness of the people around you. Two types of intelligence.” 

“So all that to say?” His words are shaded with repressed humor. 

“I’m going to find one classic and one more modern book for you.” 

You feel him kiss the top of your head. “So generous.” And he lets go. “Am I allowed to find something for you?”

You turn to him. “You want to?”

“If you trust me.”

“Absolutely.” 

Your confident response visibly surprises him; he blinks then that devastating smile, complete with dimples, appears. He drops his head to kiss you before disappearing down another aisle of books. 

You wander along the classics first, considering what you know of him, what story might immerse him. It’s easier to focus on that than on the job he’ll work after you. 

You have no idea how much time passes when Chris finds you in a corner, legs crossed and seated against the shelves. There’s a stack of five books next to your knee as you leaf through one. He squats down in front of you and waits until you notice him. 

He chuckles when you jolt at his presence. “I thought you were only recommending two?”

“This is my short list,” you reply indignantly at his amusement. “You might go and play sports with your friends, but I read when I have free time.”

He plops down across, offering you one book. You reach out to take it as he speaks.

“I’ve not read it, but I know the author wrote a book I liked as a kid. And I read the first page? I don’t know…I thought it sounded a bit like what you were talking about at the park. A simple life.”

A Circle of Quiet by Madeleine L’Engle; a memoir of her time at her family’s farmhouse. 

“Oh this sounds lovely.” You clutch it to your chest. “Thank you. I didn’t even know she had nonfiction.” 

“Glad you like it…” He looks at the books. “Do you need help narrowing down?”

“No. I think I’ve got it.” You pull two and hand them over. 

“Okay, I’ve heard of Frankenstein…why that one?”

“It’s a good book that happens to be a classic. It’s not terribly long in case you are intimidated by the older language. And it’s very different than any movie that has Frankenstein in the name.” You tap the other. “The Talented Mr. Ripley–”

“Also has a movie or two.”

“Yes, but I thought, with you being an actor and that’s basically what Tom is doing, you might enjoy it. It’s a series, so if you do like it, there’s more. Though it’s really dark, so I don’t know if you are into that.” You start to second-guess yourself. “Nor is it that recent…It’s from the fifties. Give it back.” You reach for it, but he holds it out of your range. 

“No. These are the ones you picked and I’m intrigued.” He shrugs. “I also like that neither is like, Game of Thrones-sized.”

“You read those?”

“God, no. I thought about it when I watched the show. Then saw the number of books in the series and the page numbers and decided: not for me.”

“If you like fantasy, I can–” You start to scrabble off the floor.

“Yeonin…I’m happy with these. Thank you.”  He doesn’t say anything for a second, smile still bright. “Want to browse more? Or should we go get a drink before dinner?”

“You don’t drink.”

“I don’t, but there are some really good mocktails out there.” He stands up, holding out his hand for you. You take it, letting him pull you up with ease. 

You bend down to gather the books that you pulled in your pursuit of finding some for him, and start to put them back. He doesn’t say anything, but shadows the retracing of your steps, humming something you don’t recognize, but is comforting. When you're done, he plucks the L’Engle book out of your hand and heads toward the till.

“Chris…” You hurry to follow. “Don’t you…Christopher.”

He turns at that, surprised. “Oh, good thing you don’t know my full name if this is all it takes.”

“If you’re going to buy my book,” you say as the clerk takes the stack he holds. “I should buy yours.”

“No.”

You actually harumph. “Then I’m paying for dinner.”

He opens his mouth, says nothing, then closes it. “We’ll see about that.” He thanks the clerk, who seems amused by the both of you. He hands you the brown paper bag. “You can–No, I can’t even let you do that. I’ll carry them.”

You huff, “You’re ridiculous.”

He grins at you, holding the door open. “I’m okay with that.”

You wait for him to step alongside you. “I’m certainly fine with drinks, but do we need to change for dinner?” You were in what you’d put on this morning: shorts, a soft and fluttery blouse. He was in jeans and t-shirt (it sounds simple, but the way the t-shirt fits him is illegal). 

“I meant to ask. Did you want to go fancy?” He stops you both at a red ‘don’t walk’ light.

You think about it, noticing how your arm is almost touching his, thinking maybe you should take his hand again, stay in that moment for a bit. But you feel his gaze on you as the light changes and you both make your way across the street, so you don’t, trying to remember his question. 

“I don’t feel like you could fit a suit in that one bag of yours.”

“You really are fixated on me in a suit.”

“You put that image in my head,” you reply, enjoying his grin. “It’s really your fault.”

“Sure it is. I do not have a suit, though I could probably do a bit better than this, if you wanted to?” He looked down at himself before switching the bag of books to his other hand and taking yours. He does it so easily without a concern or second-guessing. You wish you could have his confidence.

“I didn’t pack my ball gown.” 

“Pity.”

“I’m okay with wherever, really. We’ve already established neither of us can do spicy, so I trust whatever you decide on.” You laugh. “I think I just like not having to make a decision.”

“You can make the decisions later,” he says so casually as he leads you to a bar, more tavern, but a bar. You almost stumble at his words, the implications of later sending a wave of heat through you. It reminds you of the decision he’d coaxed out of you an hour or more ago. 

You’re so flushed, it’s like you already had spicy food. 

He squeezes your hand and pulls you into a stool at the long curved wooden bar. The bartender hands you both a menu which includes food, but you flip to the cocktails while Chris looks at the ‘zero-proof’ section. You smile over the top of the menu at him.

“What are you smiling for?” he asks, not even looking up. His observational skills are off the charts. 

“No reason.” How can you tell him that every detail about him makes you smile? You wouldn’t have minded if he did drink, but the fact he chooses not to strikes you as admirable, and cute. 

You are so far gone on him, it’s concerning. 

The bartender comes back to take your order: for you a rosemary gin fizz and for Chris, something with papaya. 

“Thank you for the book, again.”

“I hope you like it.”

Can you ask for some sort of contact from him? So you can tell him what you think once you finish it? Can you ask for a phone number so you can hear what he thinks of his books?

But you signed a contract about confidentiality. You could request him again if you wanted to have another weekend, night, hour, but this truly had been a venture and dent in your financial security.

You’d be so tempted to use every cent to see him as much as you could.

“I’m sure I will.” You can’t look away from him, happy to soak in the brightness that he radiates. 

“Stop.” He laughs at you.

“You’re handsome, Chris. I can’t help it.” It’s nice to be on this end of the teasing, to see the red in his skin, the duck of his head and glancing away of his eyes. 

“Please stop.”

“Fine,” you sigh in mock-exasperation.

He looks back and grins before resting his hand on your thigh. Your drinks are delivered and there’s a swapping to try the other before settling and discussing favorite books read in school. During the entire conversation, he doesn’t stop touching you in some form. None of it is inappropriate (you almost wish it was, a little), staying in the realm of casual and affectionate. 

But you are so stirred by it. You’ve spent years seeing how your friends and their partners interact in public, and casual touch is a thing you envy so much. The reassurance of someone’s presence by you, always. 

Chris is saying something about Fahrenheit 451, and your eyes are welling up with your everlong internal monologue. 

He says your name, interrupting himself. 

You shake your head. “Sorry. Thoughts.”

“Gonna share them?” 

You sort of want to. Because nothing you’ve revealed to him has backfired; he has not shamed or chastised you for being open and vulnerable. 

But these thoughts put a burden on him, a possibly very unwanted burden. They shove your feelings and wants and needs on a man who is only next to you to fulfill a contract. There is no longevity in this transaction. 

You’re lucky he turned out to be as wonderful as he is.

You shake your head again in answer to his question. “Not this time.” 

He looks skeptical, but lets it pass, before asking if you want another cocktail. It was exceptionally good, but you don’t want a buzz from any substance. He’s enough. You’re also a lightweight with spirits and you don’t want to hinder any part of tonight. 

He nods and asks for the check. You protest again, and he smiles winsomely as he hands the bartender his credit card.

“Can I buy dinner then?”

He sighs dramatically. “You make it very hard to properly court you.”

You laugh at the old-fashioned word. “Is that what you’re doing? I feel like I’m already very wooed.”

He shrugs, signing the receipt before standing up, hand out to you even though sliding off a barstool does not require assistance. 

Like you’d deny yourself the chance to hold his hand. 

“So,” you begin, curling an arm around his as you move into the nearly-gone sunshine outside. “What’s for dinner, since we’ve dispensed with the fancy?”

He leads you across the street, his other hand resting on your arm that’s tucked into his. Perhaps ‘courting’ is the correct word. 

You wish it was an autumnal day, with chilling wind so you could have an excuse to burrow into his warmth even more. 

“Hotpot?” he says, stopping in front of a restaurant with that in its title. “I never go to these with friends because they get it so spicy, but I figure, you and me…”

“The non-spicy ones.”

He laughs and opens the door for you. “I like that. The non-spicy ones.” 

You’re directed to a table, and you’re chuckling as Chris explains to your server that, basically, you want the blandest option they have. He, your server, looks unimpressed by the both of you. But the food is delightful, and filling, and not too spicy, though it does come very close to your threshold of tolerance. 

You both drink a lot of water. 

Dessert is bingsu three doors down from the hotpot restaurant, with strawberry and chocolate. He playfully smears some chocolate sauce on your lips, giving you no time to lick it off before doing so himself as though he’s reminding you how easily he can turn you on.You don’t need reminders, but you enjoy them. 

Which leads you back to the hotel, and your room, and the bed. 

He sits on the end of the bed, leaning back on his hands with a glint in his eyes. “So…you said something about lingerie last night.”

“After that dinner?”

He smirks. “You think that’s gonna matter?”

“Of course I think that’s gonna matter,” you argue, hands immediately going for your stomach which is…quite full. 

He rolls his eyes and gets up, helping himself to your suitcase. 

“Chris!”

“You can’t tell me you have lingerie and not let me see you in it. You aren’t that cruel.”

You had felt very optimistic when you’d bought it, but that positivity is fleeting and currently absent. 

He pulls it out, finger-hooked in one of the shoulder straps. “Wow.” He looks at you. “Please?”

You try to argue again, but it’s hard to deny him anything, not with heat in his eyes, and a pout on his lips. 

Taking the garment from him, you squat down to grab the second piece, the bottoms, and he doesn’t move away. 

“You don’t have to put those on.”

Bashfully, you look up at him. “No?”

He shrugs. “Just saying.” He winks and walks over to the window to look out. “Up to you.”

“He says after begging for me to put it on.”

“Begging?” He turns to see you heading to the bathroom to change, but you waver at his tone. “You haven’t seen me beg…do you want to?”

“I…” You’re completely at a loss. “Do I?”

His smile verges on the arrogance of a smirk. “Maybe.”

You hurry into the bathroom and assess yourself as well as the lingerie. It’s difficult to see yourself as attractive to someone you find attractive, but surely with the evidence of the past day, you can accept that Chris does, on some level. And all things that are attractive can be enhanced with something pretty: makeup, a perfectly wrapped present, a book with sprayed edges. 

You repeat these mantras in your head as you undress and pull on the lace and satin. It’s a fairly simple piece, not in the realm of scandalous according to your friends who helped you pick it out. But as you remind them, and yourself, your deep end is not others’ deep end. You adjust the top, so it fits and holds in what it needs to hold in. 

You assess again, full view in the mirror. You tidy up your leftover makeup, and accept your hair (you can’t work miracles) as is. 

Deep breath. You look fine.

You open the door, and peek out. He’s still by the window, the city lit up below him. He makes such a lovely silhouette that you forget what you’re supposed to be doing (what are you supposed to be doing? A grand reveal? Should you say ‘tada’?) and walk out fully into the room. 

He turns.

“So…yeah.” Not much better than ‘tada’. 

He doesn’t say anything, but comes over. The silence of the hotel room is deafening. You fidget because he doesn’t move quickly at all. You also look everywhere but at him. So when his hands take yours (and cease your fidgeting), you’re staring at his socked feet before allowing yourself to look up. 

You regret taking no photos of him because his face is art. 

“It’s okay?” you ask as he still hasn’t spoken. His eyes travel, feet to the top of your head, down each arm to your fingertips and back up to your neck, then face. 

“‘Okay’ is not the word I’d use,” he says, voice in that lower octave that makes you shiver. 

“Above average?”

The corner of his lips lift in amusement. “A bit more than that.” He takes a step closer, his hands releasing yours and settling at your waist instead. He leans in, mouth at your ear. “You look extraordinary.” 

You blink at him as he draws back, the word reverberating in your mind. You choose to believe him, actor or not. You choose to accept his admiration and desire. 

And enjoy it. 

“Thank you,” you reply. His answering smile is proud (of you, you think, for not dismissing the compliment) before he kisses you, his fingers tightening against the satin. You lean into him, convinced that kissing him for decades wouldn’t be any sort of difficulty, would never get old even as you and he got old.

Oh. That thought does not need to be chased. 

“You’re welcome,” he murmurs, mouth parted from yours. “Did you want to try anything new tonight?”

Do you? You’ve liked everything, and you know there’s a whole gamut of positions to be explored. Probably most beyond your imagination. 

But.

“I want–” You swallow as your throat is a bit dry. 

“Tell me.”

“I want everything we’ve done. Again.”

He half-laughs. “All of it?”

“Yes, please.”

He’s kissing you, laughing against your lips as he maneuvers you to the bed. He pulls you onto his lap, his hands sliding underneath the hem of your top, finding your skin. There’s a slight roughness to his fingers, grazing that makes you quiver. With hands in his hair, you kiss him as deeply as you can, tasting, tongues playing. He groans when you roll your hips, subconscious as your body works to quiet your mind. You do it again, feeling how hard he’s become in minutes, the friction almost too harsh for the thin and delicate fabric you wear. 

You want and crave, and break away to start on the button and zipper of his jeans.

“Baby,” he whispers, lips pressed to your shoulder and collarbone. “You first…”

“Can I…? Can you show me how to…suck you off?”

It’s his turn to blink, to take a moment to comprehend your question. “You wanna…fuck, yeah, of course. But in a minute, okay? I need to taste you first.” With hands spread on your back, he moves so you're lying down beneath him. His hands slip to your underwear like he’s going to take them off, but he pauses.

“What is it?”

He’s staring at you, specifically that underwear. “I’m always so grateful for lingerie. It’s the best thing.”

You try to hit his arm as he starts to giggle. He dodges you and drops down to press an open mouth kiss right to your clothed core. Your hips buck and he pushes them down. 

“You know I’m gonna drag this out, yeonin.”

It’s such a tease, to get his mouth, but have something in the way. To feel the heat and the wet, but not fully. 

“Christopher…” There’s nothing but whine and need in your voice. 

He hums, sending pleasant vibrations against your sensitive skin. 

“Please…take it off.” He may still be holding you down with his hand on your hip, but you can squirm, desperate to be closer, to have more. 

“I thought you wanted me to beg.”

“Chris…” It’s plaintive and without shame. 

He acquiesces and the sodden underwear is removed. But there’s not an immediate return.

“Fuck, you really are dragging it out.” You lift your head to see him watching you with all the arrogance someone as gifted with his mouth could be. 

“Maybe I like hearing you curse.” He leans back down, but kisses right below your navel, one hand finding purchase on your thigh. “Maybe we need a lesson in delayed gratification.”

You cover your face with your hand. “You seemed so nice till now. What if I write a complaint letter to the company?”

He moves up so he’s face to face with you, his expression stern. “That a threat?”

“Maybe.”

He drops his head to kiss under your jaw, near your ear. He bides his time, sucking the skin in just the right spot. You moan wantonly, unable to keep your hands twisted in the sheets, seeking his shoulders and arms to cling to. 

He’s still dressed.

You pull at his shirt when he finally withdraws from your jaw, undoubtedly leaving a mark (you know you’ll look at it in the coming days, remembering). He indulges you, removing his t-shirt so your greedy hands can caress the bared skin. But he doesn’t stay put, returning to where he’s left you so wanting.

You feel his breath at your entrance.

Your next ‘please’ is broken and without sound. 

When you feel his tongue glide up to your clit, you are gasping nonsense into the quiet of the room. He sucks and licks lazily, taking breaks whenever you feel the imminent high. You curse several more times, words catching when he adds his fingers to coax the build even more, curling inside you as his mouth reengages. 

And finally, finally, you break, pleasure throbbing and pulsating. 

He doesn’t stop when you come down from it.

“What–what are you–”

“You can give me another.”

And you can, to your surprise. It’s almost like an aftershock of the first one, remnants of bliss sweeping through. 

Only then does he lie next to you, wiping your essence from his mouth. Minutes go by as you come down. 

“So, do you still want to–” He doesn’t finish his question because you’ve rolled over, one leg over his hips so you’re straddling him. You go back to that button and zipper of his jeans, ignoring his hands trying to do it himself. You tug down his jeans, pulling them off before climbing back on top of him, palming his cock.

“Fuck..wow, okay.” He props himself onto his elbows as you discard his boxer-briefs as well. You wrap your hand around him, thumb at his tip, a little shaky. “You can use–” You cut him off again, this time when you bend down to lick. “Holy..fuck…yeah.” You look up at him, sucking the head before sliding down to take in more of him. You think what he says next is another curse, but you don’t recognize it. “You said to teach you…”

You slide off. “Wait, it’s good? It’s…well, it’s not much different than having a popsicle.”

He falls back, laughing bewilderedly. “I guess that’s not wrong…but–” 

It’s really quite fun to stop him talking with your mouth. 

He gives you sparse instructions (‘hands where your mouth can’t reach’, ‘suck harder’), but when his dick hits the back of your throat, he pulls you off.

“But…”

“No,” he states, reaching for a condom. “I won’t last much longer if you keep that up. Damn, you were good.” He slides the condom on in record time, then places a pillow under your lower back. He pauses when you cup his face in your hands, needing his mouth. He sighs at your kiss, his tongue entwining with yours, his hands gripping your thighs, moving them so they’re wrapped around his hips. Still kissing, he pushes in; it’s still a stretch, but it doesn’t jolt you. It feels:

“Decadent.” 

He retreats slightly. “What?”

“You feel decadent,” you say, uncaring that you’re breathy and needy. You trace along his shoulders and chest. “Hedonistic.”

He doesn't say anything, sheathed entirely in you, letting your body adjust to him. You’re smiling, eyes half-open; your ability to filter eradicated. 

“I always think of decadent…for like, sweets.”

You rub noses with him, delighted. “A very very excellent dessert, Christopher. Can’t stop from having another bite.” You punctuate this with a nip on his neck, causing him to shudder. He pulls out of you to thrust back in. You’re wrapped around him, hooking your ankles together at the small of his back. “So. Fucking. Good.” Staccato, nearly in time with his thrusts. You clench when he lifts your leg to his shoulder, the angle changing. “Oh god.”

“Almost there, baby?” he pants out, the drag of his cock along your walls making you to tense even more.

You nod frantically, seeking any skin to kiss, bite, taste, your hands scrambling for purchase on his back, nails digging. His works your clit, fingers practiced and you feel the drop in your stomach chased by the spread of elation through your limbs; you feel drunk and you force your eyes to stay open, watching as he thrusts faster. You smooth his hair as he stutters, spilling into the condom; his weight heavy on top of you. 

You draw your index finger up and down the middle of his back, relaxed and sated. 

Eventually, he lifts his head, setting his chin on his hands that rest above your breasts. You wonder if you both wear identical sleepy smiles and tired eyes. 

“Hi,” you whisper into the quiet of the evening. 

“Hi yourself.” He raises his head just enough to meet your lips before returning. “Am I too heavy?”

“No. Feels good.” You let your other hand drift down to the curve of his ass. He jumps at your grip. “Very good.”

He chuckles. “Not so timid now. Confident woman.” He takes a deep breath, words a little slower. “Wanna shower with me?”

You’re hesitant, but the looming deadline of this escapade is making you bolder, so you say yes. To have Chris wash your hair, his big hands massaging your scalp…shoulders and back with a loofah…

Still decadent. 

“So…since you seem like the expert.” You soap up his hair, returning the massage. He rests against you, his back to your front and you use the shower wall to hold you both up. 

“Hmm?”

“Shower sex? As sexy as it sounds in books or is it an accident waiting to happen?”

You wish you could record his gleeful laughter, uninhibited. 

“Um. You have to be really careful. Would recommend bathtub mats.” He turns to you, your hands still in his hair. “Is that a suggestion?”

You can’t help it, you glance down to see he’s already half-hard.

“Wow. You were half-asleep ten minutes ago.”

He leans close to you, kissing you softly. “You can’t beat the clean up when you fuck in a shower though.”

Now you’re laughing, then gasping because he’s slipped his fingers into you, mouth on yours. You don’t protest, you just hold onto his shoulders as your muscles tighten and tighten–

He swallows your moan, holding you up as you tremble. When you can stand on your own, he moves you both under the spray of water. He tilts his head to you, rinsing it, and you shakily run your hands through his hair to rid it of the shampoo. He flips it out of his eyes before reaching to turn off the water, but he freezes when you encircle his dick with your fingers.

“You don’t have to–”

“Easy clean up, right?” It’s empowering to feel how he stiffens at your touch, how stroking, gently squeezing works him into short breaths and his head thrown back. You keep playing with him as you eliminate the distance between you, mouth to his neck, sucking and licking.

“Fuck…I’m…”

It’s messy, but the shower washes it away. He slumps against the wall, energy depleted. He opens one eye to look at you. 

“Very confident.” 

The shower is turned off, and you both wrap up in towels. You rub his hair dry, smiling at its wildness. He tugs your towel off in retaliation, and makes a plea for you to sleep naked with him. 

“Or the lingerie?”

“I can’t imagine that’s comfortable to sleep in,” you retort, still naked, but pulling on your pajamas quickly. He’s pouting on the bed, your towel in his hand. You plop next to him, toying with his towel, wrapped around his waist. “But feel free to sleep naked.”

He makes a not-really-chagrined face at you before finding his own pajamas. Teeth are brushed, your hair is somewhat dried, and you both are in bed with the lights off. The dark and quiet take over. You look at the clock on the nightstand, time continuing to move toward his departure. It hits you again, in this moment, how much you like this man.

Chris drapes his arm over your middle, curling closer. “Good?”

“Yes, good…good night, then.” You work hard to not let any tell-tale emotion into your voice, and though you have been more open with him in these two days than anyone outside of your closest friends, you are adept at hiding how you feel. It’s a way of surviving and that’s what you need right now.

He nuzzles you. “No kiss?” The playful teasing lilt to his voice has you hesitating, but you turn your head and kiss him, languid. “You’re really good at that.”

“Kissing?”

“Mmmm,” he affirms. “I like kissing you.”

You swallow, shoving down the incessant ache of feelings. “I like kissing you too.” You can barely see in the lack of light, but you know he smiles at you. You can sense it, attuned to him. 

When his breathing seems to slow, you turn away carefully. You don’t move his arm from your stomach, but you don’t cover it either, lace your fingers with his. Half your brain is saying, ‘do it! Take this moment, this affection and enjoy it. You’ll never have it again!’. The other half, the stronger half that is built from the past, experiences and disappointments, doesn’t yell. Doesn’t need to. The voice is unrelenting and mocking; ‘don’t enjoy too much, because when he leaves tomorrow, you’re gonna hurt. You absolute idiot, you’ve gone and fallen for him. Keep as much distance as you can, because maybe then you won’t be devastated tomorrow in an empty hotel room, in your empty home.’

You hate that voice, the one that tells you the truth. You didn’t think there was danger of actually becoming attached to a man you hired for sex. Yes, sex produced oxytocin which gave anyone cuddly feelings, but this is no longer about the sex. You’re more devastated by the warm smile that wasn’t trying to seduce, the laugh, the hand-holding while walking in the park, the furrowed brow when you talked about books he hadn’t read. The compliments that had nothing to do with your looks, the compliments that did. 

You feel your eyes burn with impending tears, but you force them back and down. There will be time for that tomorrow. When you’re back home, in reality. 

–

It’s hazy, the sounds you hear. Rustling, movement. Something being zipped opened or closed. Then there’s a soft kiss on your forehead. 

“I’m gonna go grab some coffee, okay?” whispers, soft and low. You mumble something before hearing the door. You blink open your eyes to see that it's very early, before seven.

Seven.

When he arrived.

You bolt up in bed (it’s not quite that as you’re still seventy-five percent asleep), nearly falling as you scramble to the bathroom. He isn’t exactly paid by the hour, but you bought two days, forty-eight hours.

That forty-eight is over in fifteen minutes. 

You wash your face, brush your teeth as quickly as you can, then stumble back out into the bedroom, wondering about changing. Do you want Chris to see you in just your pjs as his last image of you? You are really overthinking this. It’s not cold, but you slip on a soft sweatshirt for coziness. You open up your purse for chapstick, a regular morning routine, and as you do you see the small stack of business cards. Your business cards. 

You rarely use them. You aren’t much good at promoting yourself and your skills, even worse your workplace. But the employee handbook insists on having them, so there they are in your purse, metaphorically collecting dust.

You look at Chris’ bag, unzipped, open. 

Surnames are not shared from the company, for confidentiality purposes obviously. You do not know his. He does not know yours. You imagine that during an engagement, assignation, whatever one calls this, the escort or the client could share their last name, their actual place of work, their town or city, anything that grounded them in actual reality. 

But Chris never offered his. You aren’t about to cross that line and ask. 

He might not want to know. He might not feel anything close to what you’re feeling. It’s his job. He might be incredibly good at connecting with his client every time, and you’re only another client. 

But you’re bad at letting go. 

So you drop one business card into the open bag. It could never be found, crumpled after several re-packings for his many trips…his many jobs. 

But you’re no good at letting go.

You hear the sound of the key card scanning and the door opens with Chris, dressed in a black henley and dark jeans, his hair as fluffy as air-drying makes it. He smiles to find you sitting on the bed, hands clasped in your lap. He offers you one of the two to-go cups.

“Morning,” he says as you take it, dropping his head to kiss you softly. 

“Good morning.”

He tilts his head toward the large window and seating area. “Come.” Your hand finds his as you walk over to sit on the couch, looking out at the waking city. 

“What did you get?” you ask, gesturing to his cup. “Since you don’t like coffee.”

“Tea…I need something this morning,” he replies, shooting you a wink. The reference to last night’s activities and their endurance normally would embarrass you, heat your skin and cause you to drop your gaze from him, but you stare at his profile as he looks out the window, your mind full of saying goodbye. He takes the lid off his cup and blows on it. He glances at his watch. 

You wonder if he’s as hyper-aware of the dwindling minutes as you are. 

“Do you have a break before your next job? Or is it all work, no play?”

He half-grins, looking over at you. “Do you really want to know?”

He’s got you there. 

“Do you get enough time off?”

“I do. If I don’t, my friends make sure I do.”

“They sound lovely.”

“They can be.” He sets down his tea, leans toward you. “You good this morning?”

“Of course.” 

“I thought of waking you when I woke up, but I figured you needed your sleep?” He rests his hand on your knee, much like the first night, but so different from the first night. “I’m sorry we can’t–” He tilts his head to the side in apology, his silence filling in the rest of the sentence. 

“Having coffee…or tea with you in the morning for a few minutes is really nice.” You don’t know if you can explain to him how much of the non-sex parts of this weekend were as meaningful and special as the rest. Is that appropriate when so much of his job is sex?

His hand molds to your knee. “Yeah, it is.” You can feel his gaze as you sip your coffee, doctored like you like, which means he paid attention yesterday at the diner. 

Of course he did.

“Chris…” you begin, unsure of what to say. “Thank you.”

He waits until you meet his eyes before nodding. “You’re welcome.” He takes your cup from you, setting it on the table and cups your cheek in his hand. “You’re very welcome.” 

You try not to lean into his kiss too much. You try to memorize how he feels, tastes, smells; to tuck it away in your memory bank like an old photo album that you can look through from time to time. You savor for as long as it lasts. 

“So…is there a place that I go to, like Yelp, and leave a good review?” you murmur when he draws back.

You get his laughter, the bright sound of it, the image of shaking shoulders and eye-crinkles. Something else to add to that album.  

“I think the company does contact you with a survey.” His eyes sparkle when he looks at you, before he reaches for his tea. 

“It’ll be glowing.”

He shakes his head, amused and maybe a little embarrassed. That rosy hue highlights his cheeks and twists your heart in ways you don’t want to think about. He is the most devastating man. 

It’s quiet for a few, you sipping your coffee, him his tea. Then you hear him check his watch when something beeps. 

Seven am.

“You have to go,” you say before he can. He glances up from his watch, looking at you. You smile, probably tinged with sadness, but it’s a real smile at least. “Be safe.”

He doesn’t move as you do, to stand up. To walk him to the door and bid him goodbye. You walk to the bed, unmade and haphazard. You zip up his bag as you hear his footsteps follow. He’s very close when you hold out his bag. 

He takes it, but lets it drop to the floor before pulling you into his arms. He’d be a good hugger too, of course. You hug back, hands splayed against the breadth of his back, the ribbed henley scratching your fingers lightly. 

“You be good to yourself, okay?” he whispers in your ear. He draws back only a little. “Say a nice thing about yourself every once and awhile.”

You look up at him as he traces his finger along your eyebrows and nose, seeming to take you in. 

“You too.” 

He smiles at you, kissing your nose then your lips. You let go and he grabs his bag. He pauses at the door, looking back at you, then nods before opening the door and disappearing through it. 

You let yourself fall back on the bed the moment the door shuts. You don’t think you’ll be able to move for a while.

--

© yoongihan 2025. please do not steal, translate, repost, or whatever. stray kids belong to themselves and all idols used in this piece are just the inspiration for characters and do not in any way reflect the actual humans. 

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Wayward 5

Warnings: non/dubcon, arranged marriage, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Duke!Steve Rogers (Medieval AU)

A Knights, Kings, and Knaves Story

Summary: you accompany the court to a foreign kingdom for a tournament of four kings and find yourself entwined with a staunch duke.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

"What chance," Duke Rogers' timbre chafes in his throat.

You feel a similar tightness as you stare up at him. You're stunned. To think you could be married to a duke but one such as his. And that other epiphany. You will be going very far away from home.

His lashes flick, "you look disappointed."

"No, my lord," you assure him sharply. "No, it is only--"

He pauses and tilts his ear towards the doorway. His eyes narrow.

"Hush," he grabs your wrist and draws you with him. "Here."

He leads you to an alcove and urges you within. Confusion knits between your brows and you step into the shadows. He follows as he lets you go. He stands across from you in the tight space, back to the wall, though you are nearly touching as it were.

Then you hear it. Footsteps. Your eyes search past the wall's edge and you see your father. He stomps and huffs around, muttering darkly. "Where is she... I swear..."

Your mouth falls open and Rogers quickly smothers it with his hand. He stands closer and breathes another shush into your hair. You wait as your father paces and clucks, finally retreating back into the feast hall.

Even after his footsteps fade, the duke clings to you. You squirm at his closeness and his hold on your tightens. You feel a tension in him, almost rippling through him. You think you feel him inhale your scent though it might simply be the flutter of his breath.

Rogers lets you go, his knuckles brushing along your bodice errantly. You lean back against the cool wall. He chuckles.

"Rather outlandish. A duke hiding from the likes of him." He snorts.

"Perhaps but you saved me," you say. "He is rather skilled at ruining a fine time."

"Ah, and you are having a fine time?" Rogers challenges. You look at him through the dim and shrug.

"Better than anticipated," you reply.

"Let's hope I can keep that up," he cranes to see around the alcove wall. "I think we are clear."

"He'll find us sooner than later." You drone as you step out with him into the open air.

"If we go back, certainly," he girds. "I didn't have time to fully explore the grounds. Would it be trouble for you to show me around?"

You consider him. You shouldn't accept. It isn't proper. Even if you are betrothed. That thought makes your nose wrinkle.

"Oh, my lady, do I inspire such a face?"

"No, no, I only..." You've never been alone with a man so long that wasn't your father. "I don't much know my own way around."

"We will figure it out together. Shall we?"

He bends his arm and offers it to you. His muscle bulges as he does. You cautiously hook your elbow through his.

"I should warn you, I've a terrible sense of direction," you say.

"Getting lost is much preferable," He glances to the archway.

You let him take you away. Your father will be mad but you'll deal with it later. You know no matter what you do, he'll find reason to be unhappy.

Despite his proclamation, the duke winds his way through the hallways and out into the courtyard. You're not certain you could find it yourself without help from Sefu.

A sigh escapes you as the night greets you with a breeze. It swirls in your skirts and sweeps around your bodies. You look up at the moon.

"So beautiful..." you utter without thinking.

"The stars?"

"The moon," you say and let your eyes fall. "The flowers. Everything. At home..." You shake your head. "Well, that's all rather dull, isn't it?"

"Hm," he hums.

He's quiet as he strides on, easily leading you. He directs you to the gardens and slowly walks along the vines and petals. You lean in to smell a bloom instinctively.

"You stifle yourself rather often," he comments.

You stand straight, "sir?"

"You begin but do not finish. Your thoughts dry up like mist before they can be said," he remarks flatly.

"Oh, my lord, I do not mean to ramble--"

"I did not say 'ramble'," he intones.

"Then I do not mean to speak without meaning. I only..." you carefully untangle from him and move away. "Perhaps, your wife won't be so wise."

He follows but you keep ahead of him. You're mortified. Your mother always chides you for speaking out of turn but sometimes you don't even realise you are.

"Do not flee me," he bids.

You stop and face him. He nearly crashes into you; instead, he steadies himself with his hands on your shoulders. The moonlight limns him as it washes over you.

"Your words are not wasted. You were correct. My wife will be beautiful and kind. She is," he assures. "She will make tolerating her father much easier."

"Sir," you squeak bashfully.

"I hope to make some things simpler for her as well. If I can."

"You are... kind."

"It is as a husband should do," he squeezes your shoulders. "The fates confound me. How it should be you."

"I hope it isn't terribly displeasing."

"You are too low in spirits. These things can be... complicated so let's not worry yet for that," he turns you and steps up next to you. His hand goes to your lower back and he ushers you along. "Let us enjoy the flowers and the moonlight."

[wcnderlnds]

greenlight [ part three ] ★ choi seung-hyun (t.o.p)

・❥・ summary: seunghyun finally comes home and makes good on all those promises you made on your last phone call ・❥・word count: 2.3k ・❥・warnings: 18+, mdni. hand stuff, oral (f receiving), swearing. virgin!reader ・❥・ authors note: this took me so long to write so hopefully it paid off 😭

PART ONE | PART TWO

Today was the day. Seunghyun would be home in just a few hours and your excitement was palpable. There weren’t enough words in the dictionary to explain how much you missed him. This was what you’d signed up for when you’d first begun dating, knowing that there would be periods of time when he’d be away for work but it didn’t make it any easier. The more serious your relationship got, the more it was harder to be away from each other. The days had gone slower, felt longer without him by your side.

That one phone call from last week had constantly played in your mind since it happened. It had been like nothing you’d ever experienced before. The way he’d spoken to you through the phone, the way he’d made you feel with just his voice? There was no other man who could have that effect on you. It had only made the longing worse.

The hours dragged on, the clock ticking too slowly. Each time you looked at your phone for the time it felt like it was getting slower and slower. The anticipation at seeing your boyfriend for the first time after a month made you giddy. Nervous but giddy. You were waiting on the couch, some stupid show on in the background that you weren’t really paying attention to.

Then, you heard it. The click of the front door opening.

In an instant you were up on your feet practically bounding to the door to greet him. There he was. His pink hair messy, black rimmed glasses adorning his face, his favourite NASA hoodie hanging off his body. He looked so damn good. Seunghyun’s tired eyes instantly locked onto yours, his lips turning up into a bright smile showing off his dimples.

“God, I fucking missed you,” he took one long stride up to you, his hand cupping your cheek to tilt your head up to look at him. “I’m taking you with me next time, I don’t care.”

“You better,” you laughed softly, your hands fisting into into the fabric of his hoodie to pull him closer to you. Seunghyun didn’t need telling twice, he pressed his body against yours, leaning down and capturing your lips in a breathtaking kiss.

His lips moved against yours slowly, savouring the feeling of feeling your lips on his after four weeks apart. It felt like heaven; it made him feel whole again. He pulled back very briefly, his lips still lingering against yours. His forehead gently rested against yours, a shaky breath leaving his lips.

“It’s good to be home.”

“It’s good to have you home. It was lonely here without you.”

“Let me make it up to you.”

His breath ghosted over your face, the taste of the coffee he’d had on the flight back hitting your senses. It was so him. Your eyes met his, a hint of desire and longing shining back in them. That was all that he needed. His lips pressed against yours firmly. This kiss was different, full of hunger. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, his hands making their way down your body to land on your ass. He squeezed the supple flesh, causing your lips to part and he took that opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth. His tongue danced with yours, the kiss growing more and more heated by the second.

Slowly but surely, he backed you up until your back hit the cool surface of the wall. One of his hands found its way under your shirt, resting on your side just below your breast. His thumb slowly stroked your skin igniting a spark in you, goosebumps forming against his touch. Whether it was that you’d missed him or you were feeling more comfortable in these situations now, your own hand moved to ever so gently brush against the bulge in his sweatpants.

Seunghyun’s hips bucked into your hand, wanting, needing to feel your touch. It was hesitantly that you began to palm his hardening length, your fingers brushing against him, tracing the outline of his cock. Seunghyun groaned into the kiss, the pads of his fingers digging into your skin like he was anchoring himself to you.

“Remember those promises we made?” You breathed against his lips.

“Like I’d forget,” he let out a shaky exhale, a strained chuckle following. “I’m supposed to be making it up to you.”

“Shush and let me do this. Just… tell me what you like, okay?”

Seunghyun was about to argue, adamant to make this about you but the fierce determination in your eyes made him pause. He could tell you needed to do this. That you wanted to. It was new terroritory for you, you needed to do this for yourself. So, he relaxed, letting your hands explore his body.

You slipped your hands past the waistband of his sweatpants, Seunghyun watched you with eager eyes as your hand toyed with the edge of his boxers. He was already hard just at the mere thought of you touching him for the first time, there was no hope for him when you finally did.

“Take your time, princess. Go at your pace,” he assured you. His voice was strained, eyes hooded as he watched your every move. He had been thinking of this moment ever since that phone call. It had got him through the lonely nights, occupied his thoughts when he wrapped his own hand around himself and took his pleasure into his own hands.

It was a couple of minutes later when your hands finally dipped inside the final barrier, your soft fingers grazing along his cock. It made him hiss, the urge to grab your hand and show you how it’s done strong but he knew this needed to be on your terms. The last thing he wanted to do was scare you away, not when you were finally feeling ready enough to explore intimacy with him. You rubbed your palm against him, getting a feel for him. He was big, that much you knew. There had been many times when you’d been making out when you’d felt him pressing insistently against you but now really feeling it, you could tell he was packing.

You pulled your hand from him for a moment, tugging his sweatpants and boxers down in one fell swoop, his cock sprang free hard against his stomach. He watched your face, the slight gasp that came from you as you finally saw his most intimate parts sending a thrill straight through him. His lips pressed against yours, a chaste kiss letting you know that he was right there and ready for whatever you were willing to do.

“Go on, baby, wrap your hand around me just like this,” he guided your hand to his length, showing you how to wrap your hand around him just right. “Get a feel for it and when you’re ready just explore. Move your hand up and down.”

Seunghyun could sense your nerves from a mile away. He wanted to soothe your nerves so he brought his hand up to cup your cheek. “You don’t have to do this.”

“No, I want to,” you said, your voice laced with fierce determination. Your hand began to explore, your thumb running over the head of his cock. He let out a strangled groan against your lips, his forehead resting against yours. Judging by his reaction, that must have been good so you continued, feeling the precum that was leaking from his tip. Hesitantly, you began to move your hand down his cock then back up again, your grip light as you set a slow rhythm. Seunghyun’s breath was heavy, the feeling of your hand finally wrapped around him enough to make him bust on the spot but he wanted to savour the feeling, he wanted this to be a moment he remembered. “Is that good?”

“Y-yeah. Grip me a little tighter and don’t be scared to move a little faster.”

At his encouragement, you tightened your grip around his length, your fist forming a perfect circle around him. He let out a shaky exhale when you finally sped up your movements, pumping his cock perfectly. He couldn’t help but thrust into your closed fist, the feeling of your hand around him was way better than he could’ve ever imagined.

“Fuck, baby, that feels good. Don’t stop,” he all but panted, his lips crushing to yours, all teeth and tongue. His hand fisted in the back of your hair, holding you against him as he kissed you like a man possessed. Your hand kept pumping him, his hips thrusting into your hand erratically. “I’m gonna cum. Holy shit.”

Seunghyun groaned loudly, his head hiding in the crook of your neck while his hips jerked forward, his release coating your hand. You stroked him through his orgasm, pulling away only when you were sure he was done. You could feel his heavy breath on your neck, the way he was panting sent a chill through you. The fact you’d made him feel like that filled you with a sense of pride and confidence. There had been no need to be nervous especially with the way your boyfriend was now lazily pressing sloppy kisses along your neck, all the way up to your earlobe. He lightly tugged on it with his teeth before whispering his next words huskily in your ear. “My turn.”

You didn’t have time to react before he’d picked you up, heading towards the bedroom. He kicked the door open, tossing you down on the bed and climbing on top of you. His lips found your neck once again, muttering praises for the pleasure you’d just given him. “That was so good, baby. So fucking good. You deserve a reward for being so good to me.”

He pulled back from your neck, hands trailing down your body to the waistband of your shorts. He looked up at you, almost as if he was asking for approval. When you nodded, he hooked his fingers in them and your panties, tugging them down and off your legs. He groaned at the sight of you laid bare before him, his cock twitching yet again. His fingers danced along your inner thigh until they reached the apex, his index finger trailing along your folds causing you to gasp at the feeling. You’d touched yourself plenty of times but you’d never had another person's hands on you like that. There hadn’t been anyone you trusted enough until Seunghyun came along.

His thumb pressed against your clit, rubbing tight circles against the sensitive bud. His eyes found yours as he tried to gauge your reaction. “That feel good?”

All you could do was nod, too overwhelmed by the feeling of him playing with your clit. Once he was certain you were wet enough, he pushed a finger inside you. Your body arched off the bed, Seunghyun groaning as he sank it inside you. “Fuck, baby. You’re so goddamn tight.”

He withdrew his finger then pushed back in, setting a steady pace, all the while his thumb still working your clit. His eyes never left you, watching in awe as you whimpered and moaned, your body reacting to his touch better than he’d ever dreamed off. Soon enough, he pushed a second finger in to join, speeding up his movements.

“Oh my God, Seunghyun,” you moaned, grabbing on to the back of his hoodie, pulling him to your lips. He kissed you fiercely, his fingers still working you. By now, your hips were chasing his hand. You were so wet, it drove him crazy.

“I want to taste you so bad, princess. I want to bury my face in this pretty pussy and finally taste you. Can I?” He tucked some of your hair behind your ear, his heart beating in anticipation as he waited for your answer.

“Yes,” you gasped as his fingers curled inside you, hitting that special spot that made your toes curl. “Please.”

Seunghyun didn’t need telling twice. His head was between your thighs before you knew it. His fingers were still plunging in and out of your hole but now, his tongue was darting out to lick a long, slow stripe up your pussy. It tore a loud moan from your throat, the feeling better than anything you’d ever felt. He smirked against you, lapping up your juices as he kept his tongue moving up and down your folds. Then, without warning, his tongue darted out to flick your clit. That had your body arching, hands flying to his hair to tangle in his pink locks. He sucked, your hips chasing his lips with every movement. It was ridiculous how hard he was again just from eating you out. That was the effect you had on him, though.

“Come for me,” he demanded, his voice thick and rough. “I know you’re close, I can feel you tightening around my fingers. Let go, baby. I want to taste all of you.”

One more flick of his tongue and you were coming undone. Your hips bucking wildly, body arching up off the bed as his name fell from your lips like a prayer. Seunghyun groaned, the sound vibrating against you. The taste of you on his tongue was so exquisite — he knew he’d never get tired of it. He worked you through your orgasm with slow pumps of his fingers and kitten licks before finally pulling away. He took in your appearance — your flushed cheeks, kiss swollen lips and the way your chest rose and fell with heavy breaths.

You were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

He crawled back up your body, peppering your face in kisses. “You okay?”

“I’m great,” you laughed breathlessly. You hid your flushed cheeks into his chest, Seunghyun wrapping his arm around your shoulder and pulling you close.

“I love you,” he said softly.

“I love you too,” you peered up at him, nothing but love and admiration shining in your eyes. “Welcome home.”

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[russilton]

Lewis and George both taking today’s media as an opportunity to criticise the FIA’s behaviour as of late

Full article below and here at motorsport.com

Lewis Hamilton has piled into the FIA president’s decision to row back on his swearing ban - saying the whole “ridiculous” situation is “a mess”.

Meanwhile, George Russell said Mohammed Ben Sulayem’s plans to climb down on its previous stance on punishing drivers seemed "all a bit suspect".

It comes after Formula 1’s governing body, the FIA, revised penalties for drivers for swearing amid a backlash.

Under the original plans, F1 drivers could be fined €40,000 (£33,700) for a first offence, and double that - plus a ban for a second offence. However, that has now been reduced to €5,000 (£4,200) while the threat of a ban has been removed.

Hamilton was asked about the decision to backtrack ahead of the Imola Grand Prix and said: “It is ridiculous. I don't really know. Nothing I say is going to make any difference to it. It seems a bit of a mess there at the moment.

“There are lots of changes that are needed, for sure. But it doesn't really affect me. I don't see what's happened since then.”

Meanwhile, Russell, a director of the Grand Prix Drivers' Association, said: "We're talking about a situation where things have been reverted because it was a little bit ludicrous in the first place.

"Of course we're happy to see that it [has been changed], but it should never have been there in the first place, if that makes sense.

"So it feels a bit wrong to be thanking [the FIA] for the changes when we shouldn't have been in that place to begin with.

"We've still had no correspondence with anyone from the senior level at the FIA. So yeah, it's all a bit suspect."

Russell was asked why he thought the drivers had not been spoken to directly by Ben Sulayem.

He added: "That's a good question. It seems more challenging than it should be really, but we've all put our views forward.

"I wouldn't say it's gotten to a point of no return, but you at least want to see willingness from the other party.

"I think we feel we've put our views forward, and we want to have conversations and dialogue, and there's only so much you can ask."

[amirsnothere]

Friendly Neighborhood Cardinal

Bucky Barnes X Reader

(Found Home series (part 1))

A/N - Just like everyone else, I watched Thunderbolts and I'm back on my Marvel loving shit. It's been a few years, but I'm excited to be back in it! I definitely had to take time to revisit all the Bucky content in preparation for this series though! Right now, the series is intended to be timeless, but I personally sorta picture it being before/around FATWS timeframe.

The first part is set in Bucky's POV, but all the rest of the parts will be Reader POV

Series Warnings: slow-burn, swearing, shouting, slight violence, pregnant reader (with another man's baby), Bucky's trauma, reader has trauma, mentions of verbal & physical abuse (let me know if there's more!)

Summary: Bucky has loud neighbors. One day he decides to pay them a visit.

Word Count: 695 (following parts will be longer)

Bucky minded his own business. After everything, he had earned his peace. Or what semblance of peace he could get.

The nightmares hadn't stopped, everyone who may have once loved him was dead. But he had a consistent place to call "home" at night, and he even had a regular visitor at the bird house he had attached to the dining room window. The bird house was a gift from Sam, a man Bucky thought he might consider as a friend, he said to remember him by. Three solid wood walls, the fourth replaced by the window itself, allowed Bucky to see anytime he had a visitor.

Bucky had named his little bird friend "Sam Junior" in his memoriam. When Sam heard, he protested, but he was laughing the whole time he begged Bucky to change it. After a bit of bribery, Sam was able to convince him to just to call the bird SJ, so that no one would know that his entire legacy lay in a cardinal.

The occasional visit from SJ to his window often felt like the best of sense of "home" Bucky had had in a very long time. Unfortunately, SJ didn't stick around for long when the yelling was happening.

Bucky didn't want to get involved in other people's problems. Hadn't his own parents had the occasional fight? Well, when he moved in, maybe it was just occasional, but since then, the fighting became more frequent, and much harder to ignore.

Bucky saw the women who lived next door almost every day. She usually left for work around the time he went on his morning run. They'd often walk down the stairs together, sometimes commenting on the landlord's ridiculous new policies, or making small talk about the weather. Bucky noticed she seemed to always run cold - whether it was raining, snowing, or 90° out, she always wore a sweater. He couldn't help but be impressed by her collection.

When she came home from work, he was often making his own way back from errands or meetings or whatever else he did to occupy his time. They'd walk back up the creaky stairs together and he'd listen as she mentioned the latest gossip from her job or what she planned to make for dinner. Sometimes they ran into each other outside of this predictable routine - maybe he would offer to help carry her groceries - she would always politely decline.

He almost never saw her partner. Bucky heard his loud, usually angry, voice frequently enough, that he knew the man still lived there. The ring on her finger suggested she was at least engaged, if not married, but he wished she would just dump the guy already. He sounded like a bully at best.

But Bucky really was trying to mind his own business, and if it was anyone's place to bring up their concerns, her ex-assassin neighbor certainly wouldn't be at the top of the list. Sometimes after a bad night, he would really consider saying something more forward to her, but the look in her eyes and the sharp corners of her smile warned him not to. So he stuck to talking about the weather.

Bucky could hear the yelling from outside of the building when he got home later one evening. Usually, he would just hear the man shouting at the woman. Occasionally she would let out an exhausted cry of protest, but it normally just sounded like a the typical argument she had likely grown used to losing.

As Bucky climbed the stairs to his floor, a deep feeling settled in him. Something about tonight did not feel normal. Reaching his floor, he paused, clenching the handrail until it started to warp under his grip.

Bucky was used to the man sounding angry. Somehow the word "furious" seemed more fitting now. She usually sounded frustrated. Now, he couldn't help but hear fear.

Bucky took a deep breath, a deep strech in his chest as he tried to steady his exhale. He flexed his fingers as he let go of the handrail. So much for minding his own business.

He walked up to the neighbors’ door and knocked.

Pt 2

[rederiss]

I didn’t respond to ur comment yet but YES exactly like every time I see Jeremy get mentioned in that ship (or any ship) he is ALWAYS being used as someone’s therapy and never as his own character 🌝 pls rant with me lol

I SWEAR people who ship kerejean don’t think about Jeremy. Do not get me wrong, I understand where the whole “therapist of the relationship” thing is coming from since he does have the tendency to put others infront of himself, but that is not where Jeremy’s characterization stops and it shouldn’t stop there.

The only reason he worked as a pseudo therapist in TSC is because he chose to put himself in that position so that Jean can integrate into the Trojans and even then, Jeremy was not the only one to provide this for him. Cat, Laila, and Cody helped him in a safe way (specifically in TGR. TSC is weird because Cat and Laila were unnecessarily pushy, but that changed in TGR) where he was able to heal. Rhemann also helped immensely. So, Jeremy was not truly a “therapist character” with that in mind. So putting him on that pedestal where he is only this type of character is actually harmful to the rest of his characterization. Putting him in a specific box will only make him one dimensional when he really is not that way.

Jeremy has so much more potential than being the “likeable Sunshine therapist chararacter.” He actually has depth that goes beyond that box everyone desperately wants to put him in. When it comes to the Kerejean ship (or any ship with Jeremy in it), we also have to recognize EVERYTHING he offers on the table, not one aspect. That goes for the rest of the characters in the ship.

I always ask myself: What do each character gain in this ship? And if I can’t answer that for all of the characters, then the ship just doesn’t make sense… Genuinely can’t answer that for Jeremy. If anything, i think it will detract. Go ahead and ship who you want, but I will die on this hill.

[azialways]

Heyhey! Could you please write something with Ronin x a S/O that's an overthinker and constantly needs reassurance that he's not going to leave them?

don’t think too much!

Ronin x Overthinker!Reader

cws: anxiety, panic attacks, brief talk of addiction, paranoia,

You were always an anxious person, you knew that. You never got meds or anything, so you were constantly overthinking everything. Everyone always says getting into relationships help with anxiety, but not for you. You were constantly worried Ronin didn’t love you, or was falling out of love with you. Even though he made it very clear he wasn’t, you still felt like it. You had bad past relationships, so you had trouble believing people, no matter how much they reassured you. You always asked if he loved you, and he always said yes, but you felt like he was just saying that to get you off his back. He never reassured you or followed it up, so it felt like he wasn’t genuine, even if he was.

“Ro, would you still love me-”

“If you were a worm? Yes, love, I answered this. I’d even make you a little terrarium.” He spoke firmly, while playing on his gameboy.

“Okay but seriously, do you actually love me?”

“Darling, i’ve told you this, I love you to fucking death.” He looked up, seeing you fiddling anxiously with your nails and the surrounding skin.

“Do I not show it enough?”

“No! No you do, it’s just-Ugh i’m such an anxious mess it’s bad.” You groaned, throwing yourself onto the bed. He just sat next to you, putting his gameboy down. You just laid on him, sighing.

“Talk to me. What’s up, darlin.” He held your hand, rubbing patterns on the back of your palm.

“I’m sorry…” you sighed, curling up against him, still keeping your hand in his,

“For what, baby?” He asked softly.

“For all my bullshit…I swear I trust you…it’s just-”

“No, hey. None of that, okay?” He shushed you, looking at you in the eyes for a moment. In that moment, it felt like he was staring into your soul, trying to figure you out and read all of your burdens.

“But I feel bad…I’m always asking if you love me and it gets annoying…” You admitted, sighing.

“Baby, if it’s going to make you feel better, I'll answer every time. I don’t care what the reason is, I just want my darling to know I love them.” He rubbed circles in your hair, muttering the words for you to hear.

“Ro, it’s fine you don’t-”

“Shhh. I want to, okay? This relationship ain’t just me, it’s you too.”

“Yeah…I guess. Do I at least get to tell you where the anxiety stems?”

“Ya don’t owe it to me, but if you wanna.”

“It’s just-ugh I have had horrible luck with relationships…cheaters, abusers, you name it. They were always after the same thing,and that’s not ever what I wanted…so I started to struggle to trust people because of it.”

He nodded, and he was listening. He was genuinely listening and hearing what you said, and it made sense, but it also pissed him off that people would go and treat you like shit when there’s so much to love. There was so much to love about your character that he simply couldn’t fathom somebody hating you. You’re sweet and gentle, you’re a strong passionate lover, and you had extreme charm that nobody else could top. He would kill anyone who dared to even touch you or say anything harsh to you, and hearing this made him want to kill all of your exes, and then offer them to you as a sign of love. Ronin was a true romantic, but he also believed in justice. He wanted all of your shitty lovers to rot in hell where they belong. Alas, he couldn’t, he didn’t know how you’d take it, and the last thing he wanted was for you to get upset at him. He loved you too much to do that. It hurt him, and to hurt him now to see you cry. Hearing your silent sobs struck a chord in him, he was confused, he didn’t know how to handle it.

“I’d kill them for you…they’re bad people, i kill bad people.” He soothed, well tried.

“N-no…that’s okay.” You choked a sob, you didn’t even know why you were crying. Maybe it was the emotional conversation, or maybe you just needed to let it out. You’d been bottling everything up recently, and you just needed a release.

“Shhhh, it’s okay.” He rubbed circles on your back, but then he heard your breathing erratically change. You felt it coming before I could name it—tightness curling in your chest like a coiled spring, breath catching halfway to your lungs. The world around you blurred at the edges, sounds stretching thin and sharp, like glass ready to shatter. Your hands trembled, useless and cold, as though they no longer belonged to you. Each heartbeat thudded louder than the last, a frantic rhythm that you couldn’t slow down. You tried to ground yourself, to be in his arms, to count, to breathe—but the air was too thick, or maybe you were too small. You curled inward, knees to chest, like you could fold yourself into nothing. You weren’t in control anymore. Your body was a runaway train, and you were just a passenger, gripping the edge and praying for the brakes to kick in. You tried to bury your head in his scent, to hold onto him as his voice rang out, sounding miles away. You tried to let it pass, but the feelings were too intense. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t hear his voice trying to help you through it. Everything sounded far away, except for the ringing in your ears, which never ended.

This is why you hated your anxiety. It was a never-ending cycle of panic attacks and mistrust. but he chose to stay with you. He chose to help you out and that’s what you loved about him. He never gave up on you. You could badger him with your bullshit and he would still say “I love you” at the end of the day. Ronin Beaufort was a true example of a good boyfriend, even if he had his red flags. Being in the serial killer department might’ve been the red flag, but he made up for it in the boyfriend department, and that’s all you asked for.

“Hey baby, are you back with me?”

You nodded, still curled up.

“Wanna watch some Heathers? It’ll help calm you down.”

You then sat up with him, talking to him while he put on the movie he knew this was both your comfort movie, but also his. He knew it would help both of you, so he put it on, set up some popcorn, and had a little date night with you in the comfort of your own bedroom. He truly was a great boyfriend. One you could see yourself with for a long time, and that idea appealed to you in many ways.

[alealuvshayden]

Scott Barringer - FLUFF ANGST

Scott Barringer x reader

𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙮 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙛𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣

@ysrjune your idea.

Newbie. That‘s what everyone called him. Well not really. Everyone called him handsome.. and funny. The dude had striking blue eyes that anyone could fall for. Although.. he was moody. No one knew why.

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

His first day here Juliette and Shelby immediately fought over him. Shelby made her way and sat next to him, making small talk.

Then it all happened. His manwhore, quarterback ego was back. Scott changed from Juliette to Shelby. Juliette was heart broken. But who was the real heartbroken one here? You. You were.

All of this comotion happening right in front of you and you acted as though it didnt affect you.

The guy was handsome, but he was too much of a manwhore for your liking. Everywhere you turned you saw Juliette and Shelby at each others throats because of him. Like bro goddamn he cant be ALL THAT.

The cliffhangers had made their way to the forest for a campfire. Including you. Scott and Shelby were by a tree trunk doing whatever.. they kissed. Afte that Shelby laid her head on his shoulder. It was a daily occurence so it was nothing new.

You and Auggie ate crisped marshmallows together on a stick, staring at Scott. Auggie noticed and spoke up.

„Y‘know.. he‘s only using her.. wants to be with someone else. He told me.“

„Oh shut up Aug… they obviously love each other, dude.“

„Not so sure about that.. just keeping you up to date.“

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

You kept thinking about Auggie‘s words. If they had been true or just a lie to keep you hoping for Scott. Whatever it was, it kept you thinking about it. At night everyone built tents and you all had a campfire. Scott sat by you, unusual.

„Soooo, y/n… what‘s up???“

„The stars.“ you brush him off.

Scott‘s heart dropped and sighed deeply. „Tell me what‘s wrong.. did i do something?“

„Something? Something!?“

Scott kept his eyes on you, insisting you to continue..

„Dude.. y-you give me mixed signals! I dont know who you want anymore! Choose!“ you got up and sat down next to Ezra.

Scott glared at you and him and thought long and hard about your words. Later on you all went into your tents. You shared a tent with daisy, Scott with Auggie.

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

„Auggie, bro, I dont know what got into her! I like her! She just doesnt get it!!“ Scott whined about you and continued ranting the whole time.

„Well, dude, what do you think? You change between Juliette, Shelby and her everyday.“

„So?? What should i do then!“

„Show her you love her, bro.“

How could he possibly show you how much he liked you? How?

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

It had started raining a bit but not harsh anough to break your tents. Scott‘s mind wouldnt stop thinking about you. It had gotten to the point he got emotional and started crying. He couldnt let Auggie see that. So, eventually he made his way over to your tent. Silent footsteps, careful not to step on a branch and make noise.

He pulled on you tent, you and Daisy jumped up.

He reassured.

„I-Its just me..“ he sniffled and entered the tent, hiding his face. You sensed something wrong..

„Daisy would you go and share a tent with Aug tonight? Please????“ you whisperly beg. Daisy groaned but agreed and left.

☆⋆｡𖦹°‧★

„Scotty are you crying..?“

Scott finally looks up at you with tearful eyes and breaks. „I-Im sorry. I love you, I promise.“

Lighting, a storm, it made you both uneasy. You being plainly scared and Scott having the trauma of his skanky stepmother.

„y/n I-I promise I love you. I‘ll do anything you ask me to. I‘ll stop talking with every girl i swear!“ he cried out.

Your heart ached. You couldnt let him feel that way and fall into his embrace. Both of you snuggled up under the sleeping bag and kept each other warm in each‘s emrace.

Both you and Scott fell asleep hand in hand, your head on his chest and him kissing your head and forehead.

Scott‘s player era was gone.

He was now your lover boy.

i have a twin!sam/scott SMUT in my drafts but idk if i should post…

NEVERMIND hope yall like this one i had to think deeply to get an idea for this sorry bae.

taglist: @mvst4far @divineani @dollfilmz @madsluvsdilfs @hearts4sammonroe @seraphrelic

lemme know if you wanna be added or removed🤑

[inkstainedpages]

I'd choose professor Crewel to be my sugar daddy any day. Have you seen that man? He's tall, good looking, has a sense of fashion, probably wealthy, and I can tell he smells nice. Also, hello the nicknames?? He's the type of professor teenage girls would get crushes on and post on tiktok about with lana del rey in the background. I too would fall in love with my professor if he looked like that and called me a good girl/pup

Imagine if Yuu gets so broke that they resort to trying for a sugar daddy. Crowley is no longer a reliable resource and they'd rather realize that now the easy way. They're trying to lowkey search for someone, anyone who could fund them and grims deluxe tuna. Unaware that the man who could solve their little problems is right there, teaching their potionology class. At first, they would brush off the remarks ADeuce would make about how professor Crewel had been giving them more attention than usual. Until it just gets too much to deny and it's just obvious that there's something going on.

Maybe Yuu still denies it, or maybe they openly express their attraction to their professor to their friends and be entertained by their concerned reactions as they may or may not have been sent to mentally spiral at the newfound information.

Though Ace and Deuce don't need to know about how Yuu had started to go on little rendezvous after class to meet with said professor. Don't ask. One thing led to another and they're sick and tired of listening to grim whine about tuna.

I swear, that man would dress you in the finest clothing and treat you so gently, that is, if you behave.

[markkiatocafe]

Hello!! Can you please write a drabble about a Love at First Sight situation meeting Johnny at a party?

enchanted

𖠚 warnings: mentions of intoxication and alcohol (yn and johnny aren’t drunk, but basically everyone around them is), if that makes you uncomfortable, pls skip this story!!!!! <3 this is also more inspired by the red string theory than love at first sight, but i hope it’s still okay!!!! also, mentions bday cake!!!!

𖠚 synop: meeting johnny at a party is like fate pulling you together. or, maybe it was the way-too-big crowd of people that pushed you outside and then together. either way, you could swear it’s love at first sight.

𖠚 pairing: gn!reader x nonidol!johnny

𖠚 w.c: 495

𖠚 a/n: hii anon!!! i’m so sorry this took me a while to get out >< still, i hope you enjoy!!!!! i’ll never pass up an opportunity to write johnny tbh 💞

there was a crowd of ppl around you, the smell of alcohol and birthday cake coated around your nostrils so tight it was nauseating. before you were here, it seemed like a great idea to come to your best friend ningning’s birthday party, i mean, who would want to miss their best friends birthday party? although, by now, you were easily regretting that.

you couldn’t even hear your own thoughts over the sounds of other people’s laughter, conversations overlapping and chatter tugging at your ear’s so much it hurt. you were looking around, mainly for the door outside to catch a breath from this chaos, when you saw him. a tall man, maybe 6’1, and you felt a little tug in your heart. it was small, almost unnoticeable if you weren’t paying attention, but it was there.

after a little bit of pushing, you made it out of the crowd, stepping outside ningning’s door and letting out a sigh of relief. it was nighttime, the street was dark and quiet, only the sound of the wind and the trees ruffling could be heard in the distance. you leaned back against the wall of her house, crossing your arms. although, you immediately startled from that position when the door opened, and your eyes fell on the same man you saw just a few minutes ago.

“overwhelmed?” he asked, his voice smooth as he leaned closed the door behind him and leaned against the wall next to you.

your jumpiness from a few seconds ago definitely died down, but you could still feel your heart beating pretty prominently in your chest. “yeah… i’m not really a big party kinda person.” you mumbled in reply, leaning back against the wall again, just close enough to him where you were in his bubble. crossing the lines, a bit.

he hummed, nodding and looking over you before looking up at the sky. the stars must be very interesting today. “well, you look nice.” he replied, changing the subject onto you so immediately it almost gave you mental whiplash.

“oh… thanks,” you replied, your cheeks feeling a little hot. you glanced over at him, eyes raking over his clothes. you could get a better image of him from here, and, wow… he was fine. “you look nice too.” you added quietly, your voice smaller.

“who’d you come here with? i don’t think i’ve heard ningning talk about you before,” you asked.

johnny let out a soft chuckle. “ah, i’m a friend of a friend. if i’m being honest, don’t know ningning that well, i’m just here for the cake.” he joked.

you couldn’t help but laugh, too.

there was something about him, just about his aura, that carried a strange warmth. a sense of comfort, safety. you had met creepy men before for sure, and he didn’t give that vibe at all. no matter what it was about him, you had a feeling something good was gonna come out of this.