#in lieu of actual fic

[faejilly]

*barges through the door* PARKER POV OF ELLIOT FINDING OUT THAT HARDISON GOT HIM OMEGA PREGNANT

This made me snort-laugh in delight, and then I pictured it, and then I swapped it around in my head that Hardison was pregnant, and both versions were AMAZING? Pregnant!Eliot, all grumpy and nesting, and then pregnant!Hardison who is only grumpy when someone makes him drink something besides orange soda and THEN! BECAUSE HE'S SO TALL, HE COULD BE SO SO PREGNANT BEFORE HE STARTED SHOWING, and then I wished I could art instead of fic.

But then I attempted to fic again, (only I had lost track of the prompt and kept going with pregnant!Hardison) and I feel as if Parker would actually have figured it out before Hardison even and then think because she figured it out (and she's bad at figuring out relationship/people cues so often) she's think that Hardison and Eliot would both HAVE to have already known and she's just waiting for them to tell her and she gets why they wouldn't immediately, like, obviously, she's not good with kids, she doesn't know how to interact with anyone normally and it'd be so easy to fuck up a child, they need so much, and she'd hate if they ended up with a childhood like hers...

(And then I stopped laughing because I'd made myself sad, join me in the Parker feels y'all.)

And then she's made herself worried and wonders if that's really why they haven't told her, they don't know how to tell her that they're worried about her and their kids, but they'd be their kids, she'd love their kids so much!

Only then, maybe they wouldn't be hers, too? Maybe the problem is Hardison and Eliot think they'd just be 'their' kids and she'd only be... Aunt Parker or something.

(And she's been DELIGHTED at being an Aunt to some of Nana's fosters, but this is different, and she's not sure why, or how to explain it, and Eliot and Hardison still haven't said anything and like. What if she's got everything about their relationships wrong and it's not that they don't know how to tell her, it's that it never even OCCURRED to them to tell her anything because it's not about her at all?!?!?!?!?)

and Hardison and Eliot are all trying to figure out how to ask what's wrong with Parker to the point that Hardison STILL hasn't actually realized he's pregnant and he's getting all flustered and they're having the weirdest almost-argument because he's worried about her but trying so hard not to push but he's clearly just getting more and more upset and she keeps trying to get him to calm down and rest it can't be good for him and Hardison's all what the fuck are you talking about?

And that's when Eliot finally gets it.

*Insert his italicized oh here*

(And then they're all a little emotional and melodramatic and kind of yelling but in a good way until they all figure out what's going on and they're all on the same page and they're a little scary in the baby stores as they go shopping to decide how to set up the nursery, and they end up having even more kids on purpose via a couple different combinations of parents and foundlings and they're all very happy and ridiculous, the end.)

But I never did manage to write it, so I guess this is all you're going to get. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[vericey]

"They’re fashionable, Furina had told him weeks before, surrounded by a cloud of blue silk in the tailor’s fitting-room. At Neuvillette’s shoulder, a seamstress had hovered, breathing uncomfortably close to the place where his gills should be as she measured the circumference of his neck. Besides, with your height, a little bit of a heel will have everyone bowing down before you even have to speak. Humans respond better to orders from tall people.

Neuvillette had looked at Fontaine’s Archon, barely over five feet even in her own high heels, and sighed. She had claimed her presence was necessary for the tailoring of his official robes, and her advice sorely needed for the garments underneath, but he suspects she had primarily been motivated by the complimentary cake and sparkling wine that the shop’s owner had foisted on her the minute she stepped through the door. She had licked a dab of cream from her thumb and glared at him until he acquiesced, and allowed himself to be poured into the odd boots brought forth by a shop assistant."

[mittenlady]

i have made a series for all my klavquill fics… if u even care…

[blkkizzat]

@ 𝙭𝙓𝘿𝙞𝙜𝙞𝙂𝙤𝙙69𝙓𝙭 𝙞𝙣𝙫𝙞𝙩𝙚𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙩𝙤 𝙥𝙡𝙖𝙮...

AND GOD KNOWS I'M TRYIN', BUT THERE'S JUST NO USE IN DENYING... ❤︎︎︎︎ THE OTAKU IS MINE ❤︎︎

⏯︎︎ OTAKU!GOJO X BIMBO!READER SERIES

bunny, how on earth did you end up dating this huge otaku nerd? urgh, you actually like him and match his freak too? and he buys you what?! omg! what will your friends think?!

⏯︎︎ 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘

𖦏 genre: college au

𖦏 ratings: 18+MDNI. unprotected, ecchi gojo, dubcon, cnc, bdsm, puppy play, public sex, creampies, spanking, sugar daddy/baby dynamics, edging, squirting, threesums, femdom, the ridiculous ass pervy pet names gojo gives you & reader is called 'bunny' in lieu of 'y/n'. each story will have warnings on its story page.

𖦏 pre register: comment to be tagged. i may not respond to everyone but rest assured if you comment you will be tagged!

𖦏 gamer's guide: all fics are listed in chronological order, but likely won't be written in chronological order. summaries subject to change slightly. they also will be written over time so please don't rush me for the next installment but feel free to ask me questions i love talking about this lil freak❤︎︎

⏯︎︎ 𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘:

𝐥𝐯𝐥 𝟏: ❝ DIGIMON—BUT MAKING U CUM IS MY REAL HOBBY! ❞

𖦏 your best friend gojo is a hopeless otaku virgin with zero rizz that's still obsessed with digimon—despite being a grown ass man. you're a slut who despite her best whoring efforts—can't cum. you'll take his v-card and he'll fix your broken pussy, deal? ⏯︎︎ plays: 13.3k

𝐥𝐯𝐥 𝟐: ❝ STICKS N' STONES MAY BREAK MY BONES BUT CHAINS N' WHIPS EXCITE ME! ❞

𖦏 so now that you have a filthy rich boyfie who is completely obsessed with you and has moved you into his house, you're winning, right? or you will be at least— if can survive a trip to the sex dungeon. don't worry it's professionally sanitized after each use! ...what? that's not what you're worried about? oh... ⏯︎︎ plays: lvl in-progress

𝐥𝐯𝐥 𝟑: ❝ AND ALL OF THAT WAS OKAY, CAUSE IT WAS IN A 3-WAY!❞

𖦏 the three of you: you, gojo and geto are like peas in a pod, especially since its summer! and if two of you start f*cking in that pod well its only natural that the third want to join in, right? besides, you both already want to f*ck him. just make sure your current boyfie doesn't get too jealous from how hard you are moaning on your other besties' joystick. your only his ecchi angel, remember? ⏯︎︎ plays: lvl in-progress

𝐥𝐯𝐥 𝟒: ❝ IN THE BEDROOM I BE SCREAMIN', BUT OUTSIDE I KEEP IT QUIET—OR TRY TO AT LEAST!❞

𖦏 you can only keep your relationship underwraps from the rest of your friend group for so long. but you need to ease them into the idea first! although, when there's a yacht party for nanami's bday how is your uber clingy otaku boyfie supposed to keep his hands off of you when you're looking like the most perfect pervy princess in that itty bitty swimsuit? ⏯︎︎ plays: lvl in-progress

𝐥𝐯𝐥 𝟓: ❝ YEAH, HE MY MAN, HE WAS NEVER YO TYPE! ❞

𖦏 school is back! thankfully you somehow manage to instill some kind of decency into your otaku boyfie over the summer so he can come across as normal enough to make his own friends. but did you do too good of a job? wait, he actually has a lil rizz now? you mean you aren't the only girl attracted to him anymore... hol'up! ⏯︎︎ plays: lvl in-progress

𝐥𝐯𝐥 𝟔: ❝ MOVE IT UP, DOWN, LEFT, RIGHT, OH—SWITCH IT UP LIKE NINTENDO! ❞

𖦏 hey, when did you become freaker than your otaku boyfie? so he caught you touching yourself to his femdom p0rn when he came back early from a business trip? yikes! now he wants to try it out with you? don't worry you will do a great job training your new play puppy boyfie! ⏯︎︎ plays: lvl in-progress

⏯︎︎ 𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐒:

𖦏 soundtrack: [ x ] 𖦏 moodboards: [ lvl 1 ] 𖦏 amazing art by amazing readers: [ x ] 𖦏 faq/thirsts: [ x ]

©𝐛𝐥𝐤𝐤𝐢𝐳𝐳𝐚𝐭 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟒. 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐨𝐫 𝐠𝐟𝐱, 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞.︎︎

[gingerbreadmonsters]

im falling apart. words cannot express how much i how much he how much you i i i

Eat your heart out, my bloody Valentine

guys… I miss Vega…

An ode of sorts to @gingerbreadmonsters ‘s incredible 18+ masterpiece, Resist and Elongate 🤍

slut ass girlypop high ponytail ftw

[hyunsvngs]

wc: 2.5k

warnings: 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. this is a piss fic, unrealistic shower sex, PISS like seriously, oral (m & f rec), inexperienced reader, switchy jisung (he's whiny), dirty talk, unprotected sex & creampie, brief hair pulling, brief choking

a/n: and when i said my return to stayblr would be a piss fic i meant it! AND THANK U TO 🐇 anon for commissioning this u are a babe <3

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Jisung’s patient. He was ever so patient with you all along, actually, hands roaming your sides hesitantly over your t-shirt when you first made out. You had to physically move his palms onto your skin for him to take some initiative - “I’m not a virgin, Jisung,” you’d squeal, legs thrashing in protest.

You've finally gotten to the point where Jisung will touch you. He tries to initiate sex more often than not now, and you’re a happy recipient. There’s never once been a situation around him where you haven’t wanted to fuck him - he’s a beautiful person, to say the least, with his big round eyes and even bigger cock. He’s delicious.

In fact, you’re sure you’ve gotten to the peak of your sexual relationship with him until you hear the bathroom door open. It’s a normal day, save for the fact that you were about two seconds from pissing in the shower after skipping that step. It’ll save time, you can just do it in the shower - until you hear the rustling of clothes, a sweet tune being hummed, and then the shower curtain is being pulled back to reveal your honey-skinned boyfriend.

He crowds behind you in the shower, and you’re left with wide eyes. Skipping your pre-shower pee on the toilet is one thing, but you’re getting a little desperate now and you’d thought you could just let it go in the shower. Now, your boyfriend is naked, pressed against you with his nose brushing up against your neck. His hands trace your sides absentmindedly, dipping down to stroke over your tummy. His hair is already damp from the water, and it curls inwards to frame his face, tickling your skin. 

“Jisung…”

He hums, pressing a kiss into your neck. “Do you want me to get out, baby?”

You shake your head. You don’t. You don’t think you’d ever not want him around you, especially not naked. “It’s not that.”

“Let me help you relax, my baby. Can I?”

You’re getting desperate to pee now. In lieu of words you nod, shaky, and he reaches for your shower gel. Instead of squirting it on your loofah, he dribbles it straight into his hands, and the feeling of his wet, soapy palms on your back is more than relaxing. His hands run down your skin, over your shoulders, just barely tracing your breasts, and then he presses down on your tummy just that little bit firmer. 

Oh God. You feel a drop run down your thigh, and it definitely was not the water. 

“Jisungie,” You say, and Jisung pauses. He hums in response, and you sigh. “I just- I needed to pee, so I was just gonna-“

His hands pause. “Here?” Jisung says. His voice is shaky too now, and you realize his fingertips are starting to dig into your sides. “Oh. Oh, right.”

It’s a little awkward. The shower still beats down on you both, and Jisung’s hold just gets tighter and tighter until - oh. He’s hard. It presses against your ass, thick and throbbing, and you feel him shuffle a little to try and avoid you feeling it.

“You’re… hard?”

“You’re naked in front of me talking about- about peeing,” He whispers, and when you turn to him his cheeks are red. He scrunches his eyes shut, looks to be willing his erection away, but it stays unflagging. You move fully to face him, hands moving to his shoulders. “I- Baby. Would you let me see? Do it- do it on me. Or just-”

“Jisung,” You gasp, eyes wide. He’s into that? That’s new. It’s new even for your time of sexual exploration, and it has you shifting from one foot to another in decision. Can you? Will you? You realise that yeah, you will.

“I’m sorry,” He blushes. He’s still hard, but embarrassed - you know that just makes him even hornier. You’re going to do it. 

“I’ll do it. For you.”

He immediately drops to his knees.

“Will you? Oh, will you, jagi?” You’re not sure you could say an outright no. You’re nervous, sure, with how new this all is, but the water from the shower is beating down on Jisung’s honey skin so rapidly that well - you want to see him get even wetter. You let out a shaky breath, thighs trembling, and then you’re nodding. “Oh, baby. I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you-“

“Jisungie,” You say, voice timid. He nods in response, runs his hands up your inner thighs, palms dewy with the water. His round eyes earnestly look up at you, bottom lip quivering. He looks innocent, and it’s almost as if he didn’t drop to his knees immediately upon hearing that you needed to pee. “Help me, honey. Help me relax.”

He has to. He dives in, mouth wrapping around your clit, and you let him nudge your thighs apart with his fingertips. It’s a little precarious, balancing in the shower, but the suction around the pudge of your clit has you gripping onto the shower curtain with trembling hands. Jisung’s nothing if not a good eater, and he always finishes his meal - his tongue dips down to your slit with a deep groan at your taste. 

“Y’ready for me now?” He murmurs into you, the vibrations making you whine. He pulls back and reaches up with a firm hand, pressing on the base of your tummy, just where your bladder rests. His eyes flicker up to you, intense and dark, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen this look on his face before. He looks downright debauched, waiting for your piss and still trying to take control of the situation like he always does. “Be a good girl for Sungie, yeah? Piss all over me. Get me dirty with it.”

“Fu-uck,” You whimper, lips falling apart. You’re heaving wet breaths, body still subconsciously fighting against the urge to let go, but a firmer press on your bladder has the trickle starting without your permission. 

“Oh, baby, yeah,” Jisung keens, his other hand moving to rub circles against your clit. When he pulls your mound backwards with his thumb, the stream erupting from your pussy only gets stronger, hitting Jisung’s chest and soaking his skin with it. It trickles down his skin, eventually hitting the smattering of his pubic hair and the base of his cock, and Jisung whines with it. “Oh my god, baby, you’re so sexy. More! More, give me more, pleasepleaseplease, be a good girl for me.”

“I am being good, Jisungie,” You moan, the relief of your bladder emptying all too satisfying. It just keeps coming, and when the stream finally trickles out, Jisung surges forward to wrap his lips around your clit. A sharp suck has you gasping out a whine, gripping onto the mess of his hair, but he can only flick his tongue over you once, twice before he’s sliding up onto his feet.

He crowds into your space once again. He turns you around, your back facing him, and the whole situation is so precarious that you’re terrified that one of you is going to break a limb. Your pussy is so wet at this point though that you know you’re going to let him take you here, just like this, raw and messy.

“Bend over,” He ushers, forcing you into the corner of the shower. The shelves containing all of your toiletries rattle with the harshness of his movement, and you squeal, gripping onto the sides.

“Jisungie, baby, I’ll fall-”

“You won’t. I-I’ve got you, jagi, I promise,” Jisung insists, and he crowds behind you once again. With a swift movement, his cockhead presses against your hole, still slick from the mess you’ve made all over him, and he uses one hand to brush it through your folds teasingly. “Do you want it? F-fuck, baby, tell me.”

Your head is spinning. Of course you want it. He always fills you up so good, and he’s so caring, so thorough with his touches. “I want it. I want it, I want it, I want it, please-”

He sinks inside of you with his own sharp keen. He’s so thick that the stretch has you reaching out to clutch onto the built-in shelves tighter, your lips parting in a deep sigh. “That’s it. G-god, that’s it, Jisung.”

“Yeah? You like it?” He moans, and you see his hand emerge over your head. He grips onto the shelf for leverage, and then his hips start to smack into your ass, eager and messy. You groan out for him regardless, with his length filling you up just right. “That’s it, yeah? You l-like it like that, baby?”

“Yes, yeah, Jisungie, I like it like that,” You nod eagerly, eyes fluttering shut. You hear his feet hit the floor in an effort to reposition himself, and when he manages to get better footing, the next thrust is so sharp it has you crying out. “Ah! There, therethere, please, please!”

He groans in pleasure at the change of angle, his cock hitting you deeper, and his hand moves upwards to tug at your hair. The movement bends your back to rest your head on his shoulder, and the water from the shower is completely forgotten - it could be ice cold now for all that you know. He’s gripping at your waist, hips, and your tits, pulling you back onto his thrusts and shaking every bottle on the shelf, and all you can do is whine and moan through every thrust. 

“It’s so- it’s so good,” Jisung huffs, head lolling against yours, and you have to turn and look at him. His hair is positively soaked by now, dripping down his face, and his lips stay parted, moans and whines tumbling out from deep inside his chest. “T-thank you, baby. For pissin’ on me, and- and this, fuck, your pussy is so fucking good, so tight, so wet.”

His voice is strained, garbled as if he’s trying to force the words out, and you gasp out at a particularly rough thrust. His thrusts are getting more uneven, less precise, and his teeth start to nibble at your shoulder. 

All of a sudden, you feel a familiar wetness flood inside of you. Jisung’s orgasm is sudden and intense, his hips stilling as he empties deep inside your pussy, his muscles trembling and his breath ragged.

“F-fuck,” He moans, pushing at your ass to slide you away from him. “Baby, on your knees. Get on your knees, please, you gotta keep it hard.”

He has at least part of his mind still intact, you assume, because he flicks the switch on the shower and leaves you both standing there drenched. Still, you don’t let it deter you, dropping to your knees to suckle at his soaking wet length. He’s covered in a mixture of his cum and your wetness, and you moan when the flavour hits your tongue, bobbing your head on half of his shaft.

“Yeah, like that, just-” He cuts himself off with a grunt, pushing your head down further on him. It makes your eyes water, but you persevere, suckling on his length. He’s getting into a headspace that he doesn’t get into often - he’s being rougher with you, more eager to take, take, take, and you can only let him. “Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck, hnng, baby, baby, suck on it. Please, please, pleasepleaseplease!”

It did work, at least. His erection stays unflagging even after him cumming inside of you, and he lets you play around for a little - you swirl your tongue around his cockhead, suckling on it a little, but it’s your tongue dipping into his piss slit that has him yanking at your hair.

Jisung pulls you upwards, tongue immediately pressing between the seam of your lips while his hand wraps in your hair, and then he’s ushering you out of the shower. “Over the sink,” He says, breathless, his eyes round and wide. “Please, baby. Let me fuck you over the sink.”

“O-Okay,” You respond, voice hoarse, but it’s a quick movement for you to hop out and bend over for him. Jisung’s back inside of you in his own swift movement, cock stretching you out once more, and the hand that swats at your ass makes you gasp. “Jisung-”

“I have to make this pussy cum,” Jisung rambles, and you nod eagerly, hands propping you up on the sink. You see your reflection in the mirror, Jisung���s hair soaking wet and water dripping down his chest, and the sight makes you clench down hard. He gasps, sharp and loud. “Ah! Ah, baby, careful, lemme- lemme make you cum, please. Been- been so good for me, pissin’ so nice and then sucking me- let me make you cum, let me-”

“Harder,” You insist, fingers wrapping around the edge. Your gaze is focused on the mirror, on the way your bodies move together while Jisung fucks into you. He listens to you, hips slapping against your ass harder while also fucking into you deeper, which is just as hard to handle. His cockhead kisses the bottom of your cervix with every thrust, making your eyes roll back into your head with a sharp keen. “Yeah! Yeah, yesyesyes, baby, Jisungie, more, just a little- a little more, I’ll cum, I’ll cum-”

“Yeah?” He groans, dragging you upwards with a firm hand around your throat. His lips press a kiss into your hairline, quick and swift, and you see his face appear right next to yours into the mirror. It’s then you notice how fucked out you look - your lips are swollen, hair wet and messy, drool slicking the bottom of your chin. “Cum for me, baby. G-good girls cum nice and easy, just like this, right? C’mon, jagi, cum nice and pretty for me.”

You can’t help it. It only takes a few more thrusts, well-calculated and deep enough inside you to have you shaking, and you’re coming apart around him. You feel his cock get wetter with your release and it’s as if he can’t help himself either - he presses his hips against you, firm and deep, and he’s filling you with his cum for the second time. It’s less than it was the first time, but it still fills you with warmth and makes you whine, hips trying to buck backwards for more, more, more.

“So pretty, jagi,” Jisung whispers, pecking your cheek with a way too innocent kiss. You groan in response, body feeling completely worn out, and he slides his softening length out of you with a whine.

“We’re going to have to shower again,” You murmur, half-collapsed on the sink. Jisung only coos, wrapping his arms around your middle and nuzzling into your back.

“Let’s take a bath this time, jagi,” He suggests, pressing a wet, open-mouthed kiss into your skin. “That way we can lay down this time when we fuck. Duh.”

“Jisung!” You shriek, swatting at him. He giggles in response, scurrying off to flick at the taps of the bath. You huff, slowly peeling your body off of the ceramic. “Don’t be so crude.”

“Baby, you just pissed on me. I think that’s, like, the definition of crude. You're crude.”

[thebluester2020]

ok but reading your latest sdv headcanons has given me an idea. You wrote Sam being horns for farmer in a sundress and it's has unlocked in me the feminine urge to be railed in a sundress. I'd love to see your take on it with the sdv bachelors.

SDV Bachelors x Fucking Farmer In A Sundress Summary: Bachelors to you looking too pretty in a sundress. [Includes; Elliot, Sebastion and Lance (From SDV Expanded)] Warning(s): No established relationships (I'm in a mood for FWB relationships + unrequited love what can I say?), Elliot low-key sluts out the reader, Elliot and the reader are kinda tipsy in his part but the sex is consensual dw, Sebastion is kinda a needy hopeless romantic and jerks off to the thought of the farmer, Alex and the farmer have sex outdoors like true outdoorsy people do 💪. Side notes: I only included three bachelors because- lol I gotta put all my focus on this other SDV fic. It's a bit longer so I need more time on that.

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI

°❀���.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ

Elliot

The man nearly keels over when he sees you in a sundress. It was when you first introduced yourself to him actually! After that though? He was hooked on you like a drug.

Not necessarily in a perv way but more so in an "I definitely have a crush on them" type of way.

But he more or less keeps it in his pants until he spots you again but this time? It was at the Stardrop Saloon and both you and him were tipsy after sharing a beer.

Tensions were flying and after you placed a hand on his thigh? Y'all were fucking in one of the more secluded rooms in the saloon because y'all didn't have a chance in hell of making it home.

♡ - "Oh Yoba...Fuck—" A choked up uncharacteristically needy whine escaped the lips of the writer as he fucked you on the wooden floors of the Stardrop Saloon.

Despite the tipsy haze his vision had however, no amount of beer could dampen your beauty and the fact that you were the most captivating person in this entire tavern. From the first day he met you to now, those were his thoughts but tonight? Oh, they increased tenfold when you waltzed through the doors, unaware of how you stole his very breath with your outfit.

A simple brown sundress that was mid-thigh length and only had thin spaghetti straps to keep your outfit up upon your shoulders. The deep v-neck of your dress barely leaving your dress to the imagination as small beads of sweet dripped down your skin and between the valley of your chest. Combined with the scent of your perfume, how you looked at him when you sat beside him and the light application of your make-up.

All of it served to make him absolutely dizzy.

To the point where the quickly growing tension between the two of you, fueled by your brief touches and your conversations growing more and more naughty.

There was no way that the two of you could wait to get home to either of your houses.

No, it needed to be handled now.

"Y-You must've wanted this to happen, my dear...didn't you?" He moaned in your ear as his chest was pressed against your back. His thrusts sloppy and rough as he hugged you so tightly you had a mind to think he was trying to bury himself into your skin. "Yoba your sooooooo pretty." He continued to pant into your ear like a dog in heat.

You responded with a breathy moan, your head turning briefly to slot your lips against Elliot's. Quickly, Elliot lightly bit at your lower lip, prompting a gasp from you that allowed his tongue to slip in. His tongue tasting every area inside your mouth before you two parted with a single string of spit still connecting the two of you.

When Elliot's eyes refocused on yours, however, his moans began to increase in volume as his thrusts started to pick up pace in lieu of his impending orgasm. He swore he was falling deeper and deeper into the pit of his crush that he had on you, to the point where he dared to say that he was falling in love with you.

"Y/N...Oh fuck..." Elliot continued to moan your name as he grew closer to his orgasm, his moans getting higher and higher as he struggled to hold onto his sense of self and not spill out the fact he had a bigger crush on you than this moment could portray.

But, you beat him to it. "Elliot...I-I love you, s-so m-much." You said.

Another choked-up grunt spilled from Eliot's lips at the confession before you felt your insides being flooded with a searing heat, his own orgasm pushing you over the edge as you shuddered at the force of your climax. Your vision temporarily went black before you slowly returned back to Earth. Your skin was sticky with sweat whilst your slick drenched the back of your thighs and Elliot's cock.

"So..." Elliot spoke, breaking the post-climax silence. "You love me, hm?"

Sebastion

I'm going to spoil myself a little and imagine he saw you in a sundress once and practically never again.

However, that didn't mean he didn't stop thinking about it.

After seeing you, he developed a crush on you that he was too shy to really do anything about (completely ignoring the way you visited his room constantly to deliver frozen tears to him).

So to satiate his lust for you?

Masturbate ofc, with you being front and center in his mind.

♡ - He's tried so hard to avoid doing this.

But, he feels like a little self-credit is due here. It wasn't like he wanted to be in this position right now! Where he was left alone in the middle of the day due to his family apparently wanting to go to a town event that didn't interest him in the slightest. And although he was currently lying in bed, trying to doze off, his mind wouldn't leave a particular thought of you.

It was around the time when you came to visit his mother for some supplies he believes. The smell of perfume that smelled like lavender and cherries brought him out of his room he admits, Sebastion never smelled anything like it and it was as intoxicating as wine...and like a dog expecting a treat, he followed it out of his room and up the short case of stairs before he peeked around the corner and saw you.

A simple black sundress with a skull plastered on the front where the top of your breasts threatened to spill out.

Suddenly, his mouth was dry and his cock was hard.

Now he was here, in his bed, and hornier than he'd ever been before, and you were the cause. But Sebastion couldn't bring himself to feel too bad afterward when he began to palm himself over his pants, sucking in a sharp breath in-between his teeth as the image of your started to appear in his mind like someone had cast a spell on him.

It was as if you were really there. The smell of your perfume from that day, the sundress, your soft skin and kind smile...everything. And when the vision of you started to trail kisses down his neck and down his front...lifting up the front of his hoodie and everything until you finally reached the place he wanted you to touch most when you wrapped your pretty pink-tinted lips around his leaky cock.

He could've sworn you were really there.

Looking up at him through your long lashes as if he were the most important person in the world, the only one in the world deserving of your time and attention. No matter how unrealistic it may have been, a shut-in like himself? Dating the prettiest person in the valley?

A laugh almost slipped from behind his hand as he covered his lips, his free hand desperately tugging at his dick to the vision of you. Soft pants escaped his lips as he honed in on the image of your head bobbing up and down on his cock, lewd sucking and slurping leaving your lips.

He was so close...sososososo close...until you stopped.

You moved to sit up, winking his way before you lifted up your dress a little and moved to straddle him, pulling your panties to the side before you slipped down onto him.

He nearly came in his pants at the thought of how your wet walls would feel around him. How soft and warm they would be as they hugged his dick so tightly that he feared the air inside his lungs would all but be choked out, his moans increasing in volume and growing increasingly needier and needier as he imagined your soft touches. Your nails raking down his sides and leaving delectable goosebumps in their wake as you moved your hips up and down.

"Y/N...Oh fuck...! Y-Y/N..." Sebastion moaned as you began to quicken your pace, the sound of his name from your lips getting him off more than he was prepared to admit to himself before...there was suddenly a knock at his door. The way the vision in his head slipped away so fast, it nearly made him want to cuss out the person who dared to knock as well as cry at the same time.

Until he heard a familiar "Sebastion? Are you awake? I have a gift for you!" Immediately, his cock twitched at your voice, his brain's imaginations started to conjure back up again as the slightest feeling of...hope, perhaps started to dot his mind.

It seemed he had a bigger crush on you than he thought.

And he prayed that one day, his imagination would come true that you liked him just as much.

Alex

He's bold when he sees you in a sundress. He first sees you in one when he's visiting your farm (Evelyn wanted him to deliver some home-baked cookies to the farmer, how sweet of her)

So check this out, you're doing your farming work and you drop something.

You thinking that no one's around, you get on your hands and knees to fully pick the item up and this steals Alex's breath to the max because he gets a perfect view of your underwear.

A lacy blue thong that, in his mind, couldn't even be considered underwear!

Right then and there, he wants to fuck you.

Luckily, you've been wanting to fuck him as well!

♡ - An unabashed moan left your lips as your hands slightly slipped on the dirt beneath you, the sounds of grunting and slapping from behind you nearly drowning out the sounds of the cicadas from the summer heat.

You'd been attracted to Alex for a while, a simple and sweet-hearted crush that stemmed from the fact that he more or less made his attraction clear to you.

From the way he'd call out your name and invite you to hang out with him, to how he'd initiate close contact with you whenever the both of you were around each other to even now! Even as he pistoned into your needy pussy, your slick dripping down onto the dirt below as he pressed his hand down into the dip in your back to force you into an arch, your heart still got a fuzzy feeling out of your crush for him!

Though...you suspected that, at this moment, calling your attraction a mere "crush" wasn't exactly correct.

"F-Fuck—" Your breath caught in your throat when Alex leaned some of his weight down onto your back, his fingers moving to circle and pinch at your clit.

"Ssshhiiittt." He moaned hotly into your ear, a cocky chuckle following suit choked up aht-aht-ahts left your lips as he sped up his thrusts, a boiling coil beginning to form in the pit of his stomach. "You must've really wanted this to happen, huh farmer? Do you even hear yourself?" Alex said, your cheeks burning even more as Alex suddenly slowed his thrusts to grind his hips into you, the sound of your sticky slick sticking to the front of Alex's thighs making you both want to burst into flames out of sheer embarrassment as well as dig a hole to hide away in.

Of course, however, your newfound lover wasn't going to allow that to happen. Not after he'd been waiting for an opportunity like this to happen since the moment the two of you had met! The sound of your moans slipping from your pretty lips, wet and glistening from your heavy make-out session minutes earlier, the way your breasts bounced underneath you, flushed as pink as your face whilst your hard nipples were practically begging to be played with!

The sheer orgasmic rush that Alex felt...figuring out that the pretty farmer was a whore just waiting to be broken in by the right man. His cock twitched inside of your cunt at the mere thought, his thrusts resuming their original speed as more thoughts of you flashed through his mind.

Maybe a different position, on the bed perhaps? Your fingers dipping into your pussy as you moaned out his name and begged for him to take you against the wall?

Or even him fucking you on a table? In his room?

"A-Alex...~!" You cried out as your pussy began to twitch, a familiar burn beginning to tighten within the pit of your stomach.

"Dirty farmer, don't you dare cum without me." Alex hissed into your ear, a moan escaping his lips afterward. "Y-You need to have some energy to go a few more rounds...I-I'm breaking this pussy in."

At the thought and the act of Alex dragging your further on his cock, his cock pressed up against a spot deep inside of you that made stars appear in your vision. Your body convulsed from the sheer force of your orgasm as your thighs twitched whilst the energy drained from your arms. You would've plopped onto the ground had Alex not held up for your torso, his heavy panting and the warm full feeling inside of you a sign of his orgasm.

"You came a little earlier than me..." He clicked his tongue in false annoyance.

"Guess we have to go again, huh? Let's hope no one comes along farmer girl~"

[reidmotif]

Always Bet on Black

Summary: Reader realizes she has an advantage at the Bureau's Casino Night, when Spencer can't seem to take his eyes off her and her dress.

Prompt: The BAU throws a casino night charity fundraiser. Spencer is a menace. Someone has to find a way to distract him.

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Category: Smut

Content Warning: drinking, gambling (i have never gambled in my life nor have i played poker or blackjack. this will be super apparent in this fic. many apologies), nipple play, oral sex (f!receiving) hickies, Reader POV, unprotected penetrative sex

Word Count: 3.7k

Masterlist

“And that’s another win to the gentleman on my right!”  The dealer announces for what feels like the millionth time that night. There's a shit-eating grin on Spencer Reid’s face as he leans over the blackjack table, wrapping his arms around the hearty stack of chips in an almost in an exaggerated manner, pulling it back towards him much to everyone’s dismay. 

My dismay, especially, because while- yes, this is for charity, and what Spencer’s doing could be characterized as noble in some roundabout way, it was getting a bit repetitive. Spencer was so focused, a thousand times more than anyone else at that table, his brain working a million miles a minute to provide him with the best course of action when it came to gambling.  

And so far? It worked perfectly. While everyone else was taking their chances and betting away, praying that the odds would line up in their favor, Spencer Reid did fucking math, and suddenly the odds were his bitch.  I was beginning to understand why every casino in Las Vegas had him banned now. If he was giving the BAU Casino Night a run for their money like this, I can’t imagine the Bellagio being too pleased with having him either. 

I sighed at the thought, and it seemed Spencer picked up on it, the corners of his lips turning upwards, trying to feign a chagrin expression as he stacked his chips on top of the other. 

“Something wrong, (Y/N)?” He says, looking at me. “Are you not enjoying yourself?” 

Spencer Reid is usually nice, humble, and sweet. In all honesty, I should not be feeling this hostile and sore at the fact that he’d managed to beat me almost every single time we’d played blackjack. My embarrassment was only heightened when I thought of how I’d (stupidly) bragged beforehand that I’d never lost a game in college. 

How quickly my streak was destroyed. 

My pride was bruised, and the man in front of me knew it. 

“I’m enjoying myself just fine.” I say, trying not to grit my teeth as I say the words. 

“You look a bit hot.” He says, referring to my face that had gotten slightly red after the most recent loss I’d taken. “Would you like me to get you a drink?” He asks, his gaze turning less cocky, and more sweet and polite. 

I melt a bit. “Okay. No need to be a sore loser.” I think to myself. “This is a sweet man, and he’s offering you a drink. Yes, he’s destroying you right now and knows it, but it’s not like he’s acting like a complete dick about it.”

I nod at his words, sending a small smile his way. 

“A drink would be great actually.” I finally respond, and he gets up, pushing his chair in. 

“I’ll be right back.” He says, turning away from me, and sauntering towards the bar.

 I take a second to admire him as he walks away, the suit and tie ensemble he picked out for the night complimenting him so well. I’d never say it out loud, considering we were coworkers, but something about seeing him so dapper, so much more.. mature brought out a warm feeling in my stomach, one that made me shift in my seat as I tried to rid myself of thoughts of grabbing him by his tie, placing a hand on his perfectly sculpted jawline, pulling him against me and- no! 

He. Is. Your. Colleague. Snap out of it! 

In lieu of my wandering thoughts, I’d realized I had actually heated up quite a few degrees and in an attempt to combat the sudden body heat, I shrugged off the shawl I’d been donning for most of the night. I felt the cool air hit my exposed shoulders and chest, and relaxed a bit, starting to feel my temperature lower. Right as I did so,  Spencer returned to his seat, holding two drinks. 

I turn towards him, still seated. He’s sitting in his seat, facing towards me as well, and I instinctively reach over to grab the drink in his hand, expecting him to meet me halfway and transfer the cup to me.  But instead of the expected interaction, he seems a bit dazed, an intense expression on his face as he bored his eyes into me, studying me almost. It’s an expression that causes me to raise my eyebrows at him. 

“Spencer?” I say. “Hello?” I wave my hand a bit, trying to break him from his trance. “The drinks?” I add, and that’s what seems to break him out of his preoccupied stupor. He blinks a bit before shaking his head.

“Sorry. Sorry. I spaced out there for a moment.” He says, hastily handing me my glass and turning away completely from me, taking a sip out of his. I can notice a small tremor in his hand as he sets down the liquid on the table, and I’m a bit concerned. He was just fine a moment ago. Did someone say something whilst he was at the bar? Did he choose to ponder some life-changing information as he took his seat at the table? Was he losing it for no reason at all? 

Regardless of what it was, I didn’t have the time to contemplate it further or question him about it because the dealer was beginning to shuffle the deck of cards again. 

As the next game started, there was something fundamentally different about Spencer. He looked  almost panicked, even going as far as to loosen his tie as he played. I thought I’d maybe imagined the changes, until finally, I got a real indicator that something was off. For the first time that whole night- he lost. 

My mouth was agape as the dealer announced the house win, and as I looked between him and the table, he didn’t seem all that fazed, simply shrugging as he attempted to get up. Before he could slip away, I grabbed his arm and brought him a bit closer to me, so that I could speak to him over the sounds of the bustling party around us.

“Spencer- wait. Is something wrong?” I ask, the genuine concern in my tone apparent to anyone who might’ve walked by. 

“Yeah, no. Um. Why wouldn’t it be?” He says, his eyes everywhere except me. It was almost comical. The ceiling tiles couldn’t be that interesting. 

I grip his arm a little harder, urging him to look at me, to talk to me. “You lost! That hasn’t happened all night! Was someone- did something happen? Are you feeling okay?” I ask, my eyes trying to meet his. 

He gulps, finally looking at me. “Statistically, card counting can’t actually work every time so I was bound to lose at some point right?” He says, a little shakily, and despite his words making logical sense, the notion that something was wrong didn’t leave me. 

“You promise?” I say, looking at him as intensely as I possibly could to ensure he wouldn’t try to evade giving me an honest answer. 

He gives his signature, flat smile, nodding. “I’ll be fine. Look. I’m gonna go play some other games. Maybe rack up my luck somewhere else.” 

I lick my lips and finally let go of his arm, nodding. “Have fun.” I say, and he gives me a little wave. 

“You too.” 

For the next hour or so, I found myself dabbling at the other assortment of games offered by the Bureau that night, until yet again, my path crossed with Spencer, who seemed to be on a pretty hefty winning streak- if the stack of chips he’d accumulated wasn’t a clear sign of that already. 

I stood by the table, slightly out of his view,  a little amazed by the way his eyes followed the deck and everyone’s movements so precisely. The level of focus required to do what he was was absolutely no joke, and I couldn’t help but admire in silent awe at the exactness of the whole process. It only made him that much more attractive in that moment, if that was even possible. 

“Royal flush.” He announces, fanning his cards as everyone at the table groans. It’s only then when his gaze meets mine, watching him, and I can observe the signs of a tell-tale blush creeping up his neck. Odd.

“(Y/N)! Hello.” He says, quickly. “Still liking the party?” 

“I am, thank you.” I say, my eyebrows slightly furrowing at how oddly he’s behaving. “Mind if I join the next round?” I ask, already starting to take my seat. 

“Yeah, yeah. Of course.” He says, clearing his throat and turning his entire body away from me. Spencer and I usually got along just fine. There was nothing ever particularly sour about our relationship, and I’d like to think that in the time I’d spent at the Bureau, our shared experiences had brought us closer. However, the way he was acting as of right now, like we were strangers or mere acquaintances threw me off beyond belief. 

It was official, something was off.

I leaned over a little closer, trying to get him to look at me.

“Spencer, I know I’ve already asked but is anything-“ I start, and I can see him glance over, and then almost rapidly turn his gaze away.

“No! Nothing’s wrong. Let’s play.” He rushes out, his words teetering on almost being high pitched. 

It didn’t evade me however, in that short microsecond he took to look at me, his gaze dropped partially down. I internally followed his line of sight to realize that my breasts were practically spilling from my dress. I knew that it was a bit showy, but didn’t think much of it when I’d chosen to wear it for this occasion. The event was black-tie, and so I’d fished out a number I’d haphazardly bought during an online shopping spree. It was black and sparkly, but the main caveat of the dress was the gorgeous bodice in the front, managing to give a good show of cleavage whilst pushing up my breasts and making them all that more appealing to anyone who noticed.  I began to connect the events of the night, realizing that someone clearly had noticed.

Spencer’s losing streak had coincidentally begun once I’d lost the shawl that was once covering my chest. 

An idea slowly entered my head. An experiment, if you will. As we started another game, I barely paid attention as my fingers slid over to what looked like a glass of water on Spencer’s side. 

“Spence?” I murmur, tapping his shoulder.

“Mm?” He asks, not even taking a moment to look away from his cards. 

“Mind if I take a sip from your water?” I ask, keeping my voice saccharine and innocent.

I can see the look he shoots me, his eyes slightly narrowed in surprise but he quickly looks away. “Yeah, um. Sure. Go ahead.” He responds dismissively, as if talking to me for even a second longer would result in him breaking out in hives. 

 Totally out of character. For all the closeness in the world, Spencer Reid would never have shared a glass of water. 

As I began to sip the water, I did something that could be categorized as deeply stupid, but in the name of my experiment, it was absolutely necessary. I slightly tipped the glass, allowing the cool water to run down my neck and drip onto the swell of my breasts. I made a show of getting up, touching my chest to try and rid myself of the moisture that was now coating my breasts. 

“I’m so sorry, Spencer. I’ll get you another glass of water.” I say,letting my breasts bounce a bit as I stand up,  and when he looks at me, it’s more apparent than ever that his eyes aren’t gracing mine anytime soon. Not when I was like this. 

I grinned in secret as I turned around,  quickly bringing over a replacement glass to him, leaning over so that if he were to simply turn his head even slightly to his left, he’d get a direct look at what he simply couldn’t seem to take his eyes or mind off tonight. 

“Uh. Thanks.” He stammers again, shakily drinking the water as he miserably failed at not looking. Bingo. 

When the next round of our game commenced, he lost horrifically, as expected. His mind was in an entirely different dimension, and I couldn’t help but feel a bit of pride, knowing it was me who’d rendered him dumb. So unfocused. So unlike himself. It wasn’t until I felt a tap on my shoulder, noticing Spencer’s hand carrying out the action. 

“Walk with me.” He says, simply. His tone was so sharp and commanding, I found myself listening with no hesitation, following as we moved to a more secluded bit of the party. 

“What are you doing?” He asks in an accusatory tone, his voice a hushed whisper. 

“What do you mean?” I respond, a faux naivete in my words, which he only scoffed at. He leaned in closer, his brows furrowed. I could notice a small vein popping out from his forehead, and the sight only increased the ache I’d begun to feel in my panties since he’d directed me here. 

“You know what I mean.” He says, dangerously. “You’re flaunting yourself.” He adds, his jaw tight. “You know what it’s doing to me. You’re enjoying it.” I could tell he wanted to say so much more, the grit in his tone leading me to believe there were some much cruder words he wished to utter to me.

 Regardless, the authority in his tone only spurred me to try and resist. It was so hot watching him like this. Maybe a bit fucked up to say that, but it didn’t matter in that moment. I only wanted to test the limits. To see the new man I could bring out in Spencer Reid tonight. 

“So what if I am?” I say, biting my lip. “It’s a party, Spencer. We’re all having fun, aren’t we?” 

“No.” He responds, darkly. “I’m not having fun.” 

A proposal came to mind. One I knew that would pan out deliciously, since I’d now gotten a look into his extensive lust tonight, and just how desperate he seemed. I leaned forward to whisper to him, my lips teasing the outer shell of his ear. 

“Win another game, and I’ll show you just how much fun you could be having.”

He immediately pulls back. His eyes narrow, and I can see the weight of my words course through his mind, evaluating the odds of my statement before clicking his tongue. 

“See you in 30 minutes.” is his response, as he walks away, beckoning me to follow him to yet another Blackjack table. I grin, sitting beside him. 

My presence doesn’t seem to phase Spencer whatsoever this time around, his laser-point focus uninterrupted even as I stared shamelessly at him. It wasn't until the game seemed to be reaching its turning point, in which Spencer had to decide whether drawing or staying would bring forth a better outcome for him. I watched as he mulled over the decision for a few seconds before his eyes locked onto mine, gaze intense. 

“Draw.” He voices, not even paying mind as the dealer announced his win. 

Spencer gets up without a word, and I can see him head towards a hallway that houses a few restrooms in the building. 

“Sir- your winnings!” The dealer calls out, but I smile apologetically, starting to follow Spencer to a more secluded area of the party.

“Sorry. He’s probably a bit preoccupied. I’ll let him know!” I respond, already turning around and making my way to the same hallway Spencer had gone down, finding the bathroom and opening it. I knew Spencer would be there, but what I didn’t expect was to be pulled into his arms, greeted by Spencer’s lips insistently pressing against mine, his free hand clutching the back of my head, as his other hand went to click the lock into place. I responded with a momentary bout of shock, but quickly found myself melting into his touch, wrapping my arms around his neck. 

“You like watching me lose, is that it?” He whispers harshly, in between kisses. I can feel the anger, the lust and passion, all rolling into one as his lips meet mine, over and over again, creating the sweetest of sensations that wracked my whole body. 

“Mm. Not just you losing. You losing because you’re distracted. Because of me.” I say, my tone a bit dazed and breathy from the intensity he was putting me through. 

“Can you blame me?” He murmurs, his lips now trailing down my neck, paying close mind to a particular spot on the side that left my knees weak. “You wear this dress and expect me to not take my eyes off of you?” 

His hot breath grazes over my skin and I can feel myself shiver. I’m completely overwhelmed by him. The feel of his hands caressing the small of my back and waist, his smell of his cologne wafting around me. I can only breathe unsteadily, and hold onto him, a needy whimper slipping past my lips. 

“Shh. You’re okay. I got you.” He murmurs. His tone was sweet, soothing, but his actions were anything but, as his fingers slipped around to find the zipper on my dress. 

In an instant, his mouth was finally all over my breasts, his mouth leaving a few marks on the expanse of my chest before his tongue began to sweep over my nipples, swirling around the raised bud, leaving me grappling to his shoulders, as more moans poured out from within me. 

“You like that?” He breathes against my skin, and I nod, frantically. I’d never expected to go this weak, but he was so much more skilled with his mouth than I’d ever expected.

“Please. Keep going.” I moan, and I can feel his hands on my thighs, urging me into his arms. I comply, and can feel myself be lifted to the bathroom counter, his hands squeezing the fat of my hips before dropping to his knees. His fingers looped around my underwear, and I attempted to move in a way that would aid him in their removal. As soon as they were off, he stuffed them into his pocket, and moved to lift my dress up, his face disappearing into my now spread legs. 

And suddenly he was everywhere, tongue swiping over my clit in rapid motions, flicking against me in a way that had me immediately squeezing my thighs around his face, to which Spencer responded by pushing them apart, leaving me shaking. 

“Oh god, Spencer. Oh-” I moan, over and over again, my hand gripping onto the strands of his hair. My eyes squeeze shut as I feel my orgasm rapidly approaching, my legs trembling more than ever. 

“Spencer- I’m gonna-” I groan out, my grip tightening, and I look down, watching him devour me with so much precision and focus, the same I’d seen during his playing all night. I watched as his eyes met mine, his lips sucking around my clit and in a fit of moans, I found myself releasing all over his tongue, my body shuddering as he worked me through my orgasm, moaning against my core. 

He rose from his knees and planted a long, deep kiss on my lips, and I moaned as I tasted myself on him. My hands started to go for his belt, desperate to feel this man inside me. As soon as his cock was freed from the confines of his briefs, I guided him towards my entrance, gasping as I felt him push into me, immediately filling me up. I breathed in sharply from the pleasure of the sensation, my eyes screwing shut before opening them to see his eyes staring back at me. He gave me a moment to adjust, watching my face for any sign of discomfort, but there was none, only the carnal desperation I felt for this man. I nodded to let him know I was ready,  and suddenly, like a man possessed, he began to jut his hips towards mine, causing me to whimper and dig my nails into his back. 

He moaned as he slammed into me, over and over again, while his mouth kissed at my neck, at my jaw, my lips, murmuring my praises over and over again. 

“I’ve wanted this for so long.” He groans, my hips firmly gripped by his large hands, keeping me from slipping off the counter. “And that dress. Fuck. God, I want you.” 

I nod, too overwhelmed with pleasure to even speak, rather opting to moan his name and nod furiously. 

He kept one hand on my hip, while the other trailed down to where we were joined, and began to rub fast, hard circles over my already sensitive bud, the action causing me to gasp out and open my eyes, letting him know that my second release of the night was inevitable. 

“You wanna cum, pretty girl?” He mumbles, keeping his voice low and his fingers diligent on my clit. 

���Please,” I sob out, my voice breaking with just how much I needed this right now. How much I needed him. 

“Come for me.” He murmurs, and as if under a spell, I do, coming undone rapidly in his grasp, my head falling against his shoulder as he continues the movement of his hips until I feel him still, and then spill into me, his breath heavy and chest heaving. 

I pull back, my forehead meeting his as he stares at me in a bit of a trance, our breaths mingling as we both came down from what had just happened. 

“I think.. you should probably cover up.. after that.” He murmurs, grinning a bit at the wide array of marks he’d just left on my neck and chest, undeniably exposing us. 

“Right you are.” I giggle back, leaning in for another kiss.  This time sweeter, softer.

I was definitely wearing this dress again for him.

  hello!! oh my god!! it has been so long since i've posted a fic. finals are over! i am free! i promise we will be back to a more normal schedule now (can i do weekly fics? who knows. i'll try). as usual, thank you for any and all reblogs, likes and comments. it's been a long time since i've even thought about writing, so i hope this is up to everyone's standards. this was written for @imagining-in-the-margins office party challenge. so, you know. look at the other fics there too! sorry for clearly not knowing anything about card games. also also, just a fun fact. i envisioned readers dress being meredith grey's prom dress from s2ep27.. hehe. okay, i've already talked enough. thank you thank you thank you for reading and supporting!!!

[thebomb-thebird-andtheburntbitch]

Hi hi hii! I hope all is well with you :3 I really enjoy your Boothill fics, they bring me so much joy! If it's possible, could I request something?

I've had this idea in my mind about mechanic!reader overworking themselves, not eating, sleeping, or hydrating as they should be as they can forget to tend to their own needs at times...(sadly you can't solely sustain yourself on candy and sugar)

Then Boothill comes to visit them and finds mechanic!reader in an exhausted state, basically forcing them to eat actual food and rest up.

a/n: 1.8k w.count - cw!!: mentions of being awake a long time and not eating!!

boothill just finished up two different jobs he was on, one solo and another pitching in to help a pal that was conveniently in the area. after such hard and capable work, he figures he's owed a quick pass by your shop. that, and something in the back of his head was nagging at him to swing by- and it wasn't because of his neuro-chip.

stepping through the shop's entrance, the door pushes open and the bell above the door chimes. before he can open his jaw and call out to you, searching you out in the premise, he instead starts yelling in shocked noises.

from above, a small mass of something emerges from the shadows of the ceiling. the exposed pipes that line the walls are the perfect place for something small, like critters or rodents, to trek and hide on.

the cowboy half expected a racoon or something to land on his head. what he didn't expect was the feeling of metal bashing into his face instead of a mass of fur and talons.

"son of a-!" he almost fully curses. taking two steps back in lieu of the 'attack', he raises his hand and grabs the metal clinging onto his face and hair. "get offa' me!" he hisses.

the sound of familiar beeps has him using his grip a bit more carefully. working on cooling down his insides that had been fired up into a friendzy, boothill successfully pulls ore off of his face to look at him properly.

"the hell do you think you're doin', eh lil fella?" the little assistant robot that usually stuck to you like glue flails in the air as boothill holds him between his finger and thumb by the sides of his rectangular head.

the expression the robot has on its face was accompanied by it's flinging arms and legs: [＞﹏＜]!!

"ey, ey, ey, lil dude, chill out."

boothill marches to the desk that acts less like a reception desk and more like a display counter. setting ore down, its flailing stops but the squeezed expression stays put. the cyborg bend at the waist, laying one of his arms over the counter to get- more or less- eyelevel with the little helper with the other going to his hip.

"okay, what's the problem. where's your fixer?" boothill asks. its a joke between the two of you that you act more like ore's guardian than owner. so, in regard to your identity, to ore you became his 'fixer'. ore points one of its metal coated arms behind him and one of its legs stomps. "in that back?" ore nods. "alright, let's go check on 'em shall we?"

ore, instead of taking a ride on boothill's shoulder or being carried in his palm, hops from the counter and rushes around through the doorways that you always keep propped open during shop hours. boothill struts his way through the shop, leisurely following the fella.

as he makes his way through the shop, boothill finally notes the lack of noise he's so used to hearing. no knocking on metal, or drilling of tools. no hint of work, not even your murmuring echoed through the building. it was just quiet.

well now he's just starting to worry.

adding a half-step to his stride, boothill follows the beeping provided from ore and finds himself coming through the cracked doors of your far back work room.

ore is already up on your desk thanks to your installation of small metal-sheeted pullies you made for it. its standing by your head that rests on your arms, folded over your desktop. both of its arms push against your skull, fretting in digital sounds.

walking in, boothill makes his way to your back, placing a gentle touch to the space between your shoulders. his free hand pushes against your desktop, leaning over to try and see if your face was peeking out of your arm pillow situation at all. you were out like a light, but you should be sleeping in bed.

"ey, sugar," boothill softly calls. his hand rubs against your back, rustling your shirt to try gently coaxing you awake. it gets him no where. "hey," he tries again. with a bit of a harsher shake of your shoulder, you bolt upwards. with a gasp from both you and boothill, ore stumbles backward onto its metal backend from the force in which you eject him from your skull. you whip your head back and forth, blinking wearily and rapidly before you finally register boothill's arrival.

"the hell, when did you get here?" your voice is groggy and rushed, and if the ranger hadn't just jostled you awake from your desk, he'd find it pretty cute.

"does it matter? why the hell you sleepin' at your desk? you have a bed."

"what? oh, no, it's fine." you rub your palms into your eyes, blinking back the black splotches it causes when you pull them away. "i just dozed off in the middle of something."

"uh huh." boothill is unconvienced. "you wouldn't be neglectin' your needs just for some work, now would yah?"

"what? no. no, i'm fine. perfectly healthy."

"i didn't ask if you were healthy." you don't offer him anything more and he sighs. shifting his weight, he puts on hand on his hip. "ore," he beckons the robot and it answers with a beep. "when's the last time your fixer here took care of themself?" there's a spinning dial on his digital screened face before a number pops up.

[21 hours ago !!]

boothill's jaw drops in disbelief.

your jaw drops in betrayal.

you jump from your stool, palms against your worktable while ore's 'face' lights up with exclamation points [!!!!!] before scampering away from your ire.

"are you serious right now?" boothill bites as you look over your shoulder at him. his arms are crossed, and a frown settles on his lips. it's rare you're on the receiving end of a scolding since it's usually you telling him off for being reckless or the like when he comes in for repairs. you kind of hate it to be honest.

"it's fineee," you draw out, huffing as you run your hand over your face. you have a headache, and standing up so quickly didn't help.

boothill clicks his tongue. clearly you were in no mood to listen. it dawns on him that ore's little attack from the entrance was probably him trying to persuade potential clientele away so you could rest. but seeing boothill come through the doors, the robot instead took his arrival as his saving grace.

boothill is a hardened galaxy ranger. but he also happens to be a big softie too.

"have it your way," the cowboy shrugs before pushing you away from your workstation by your shoulder. getting just enough distance between you and your job, he bends at his knees, hooks one of his arms around your side and hoists you up. you find yourself face first against his back with his tattered, red scarf brushing your cheek.

you feel and hear the contraptions and hinges in his body hiss and work to accomodate your weight over his shoulder.

"boothill!" you push your palms against the dip of his back, pushing your body up as much as you can as he starts carting you off.

"ore, be a lil' helper and grab your fixer something to put in their stomach. one of them small shakes or somethin' will do." ore, with its marching orders, obeys and dashes off once again. you almost regret that you programmed ore to obey boothill too.

in truth, boothill would prefer food in your stomach, but ore is about 2 fists tall. a prepackaged supplement from your fridge will have to suffice.

you don't fight him as much as he expected as he marches to your room where he rolls you off his shoulder and onto your mattress. landing with a soft thud, you dont have time to recover before he's throwing a pillow from the floor at your face.

"umph! hey, quit it!" you hiss, pushing the pillow aside. the ranger takes a seat at the foot of your bed as you shuffle to sit up and bring your legs in so he doesn't crush them. his knees are perched apart and his arms crossed. he watches the door, saying nothing, waiting for ore to come in. "are you really upset about this?"

"do i seem happy?" he shoots back.

"you dont need to get lippy with me," you bite as he rolls his eyes.

"i apparently do. not taking care of yourself properly? you can't be doing that, sugar." his scolding tone softens the more he talks. seeing how high strung he is about this, you feel almost guilty. you start picking at the fabric of your shirt.

ore soon brings you in something to consume that's better than nothing at all and helps sooth the post-sleep irritation in your throat. you didn't realize how scratchy it felt until you were forced to.

you're not sure when it happens, but at some point boothill has you laying down properly in your bed with a new change of clothes. and not too much later, you're sleeping before you could even try to fight back.

ore takes the empty container that was once full of your meal substitute and trots off to discard of it. boothill sits at the edge of your bed, where he's been planted the whole time. the cowboy observes you from a lean, his elbows resting on his metal knees.

you're breathing easy, which is good, but he still grimaces at the tiredness gathered under your closed, relaxed eyes. with your face washed of muck and soot, he can see your fatigue clearer.

boothill groans quietly, lowering his head as one of his hands comes to brush the hair off the side of his face and ruffle the strands together, definitely knotting it up. when he brings his hand back down, he winces when some strands pull from his scalp- his whole head is sensitive, so he should've known better.

when it seems like you're down for the count and won't wake up the moment he leaves you alone, boothill stands from your bed. the blanket is rumpled from where he's been sitting, and the impression of his presence is visible to his one good eye. oddly, it's comforting.

lifting his hat, he swings it down off his head and sets it gently on your bed side table that's littered with all sorts of odd and ends. along with a barely working alarm clock that has one of the digital numbers flickering in and out. you'll have to rewire that soon. he leaves it with you as he dismisses himself to let you rest.

beyond your bedroom, ore beeps and bops with noises as boothill sits at the reception desk. his legs crossed at the ankles and propped up on the desk with his arms crossed as he... talks? with ore.

any customer that walks in is met with a mean glare and a harsh 'get out' before he's shooing them out the door.

his nine-mililmeter is only on the desk next to him for some.... extra incentive.

a/n pt.2: i tried incorporating a few of ore's expressions with emoticons. is that lame? too cheesy? who knows. i love that little robot tho. [anyways sorry this rq took so long anon hnnnnng]

[yoongihan]

Girl Code - HHJ - OneShot

pairing: art professor hyunjin x admin femreader

genre: office au, university au, coworkers to lovers, angst, fluff,

romantic trope: enemies to lovers (I DID MY BEST OKAY?)

word count: ~4k

rating: T (for at least one objectifying comment)

warnings: hyunjin in glasses, with paint streaks on his clothes and person; mc is kinda rude to him; someone is actually a horrible person in this; characters drink but everyone is of age; hyunjin is older (about 28), mc is 24; probably some cursing because it's me and cursing is my native language;

a/n: story #5 in the skz as romantic tropes collab with @jl-micasea-fics. this is a little bit of her fault too as when the magic school photos dropped she mentioned hyunjin as an art professor. i chose this trope (e2l) to challenge myself as it's not my regular jam annnnnnd i don't know if i really did it all that well. i did try. please be kind to this chronic f2l writer. i apologize for any typos or mistakes. i am my own editor.

-----

Pretty Privilege.

It’s not a thing you personally have experienced, to your knowledge. Maybe you have. Maybe once amongst your friend group, you were considered the stand out and someone gave you a pass because they liked the way your eyes are shaped, or how you smile with teeth, or whatever.

You’ll allow that.

But generally, you hate that it even exists. Pretty privilege. Isn’t it enough to get to be pretty in this world? Without the world groveling at your feet and simultaneously pushing any obstacle out of the way for you? 

So when Professor Hwang is hired as the new art professor at the university where you admin, you take an immediate dislike. After, at first, the overwhelming surge of attraction because he truly is the prettiest human you’ve ever seen outside of screen. 

Even when your work friends discuss romance, and when Juhye from the Performative Arts department (she has basically the same job as you, just different department) mentions that she thinks he might be interested in her, you join in that yes, he’s very attractive and seems nice, and of course he’d be a great partner for her.

Even if you kind of hate him. 

And since you admin in the same department as he teaches (Fine Arts, obv), it’s your job (according to your friends and the unspoken rules that you really wish were spoken and written down) that you hype her up when he’s in the vicinity. You have to.

Girl Code: requiring you to promote her, and not be too friendly with him because one does not want to violate Girl Code.

Once in undergrad was enough and you would do anything not to experience that ostracization ever again. 

Unspoken rules that make life more difficult that it already is. You feel very much like you hyping Juhye is as subtle as a truck, and in doing so you are as awkward as well, whatever is very very awkward.

“You locked yourself out again?” You do your best not to hiss at him, but in over one semester of him being on the faculty, the man has locked himself out of his Canvas account at least a dozen times.

Hyunjin, Professor Hwang, as he is to his students, gives you the most sheepish smile, and deep down you acknowledge that it’s cute as hell. This man who could be art himself, looking self-conscious that he can’t be trusted with the basics of technology. 

“I know. I don’t know how I do this.” He shrugs, straightening his wire-rimmed glasses. “Isn’t my laptop supposed to save that info for me, so I never have to try and remember?”

“It is.” You think to offer that he can bring his laptop and you can look to see if Google, or whatever browser he uses (probably like Firefox or something equally horrendous), is saving his passwords, but you don’t. Because it’s not in your job description and: “Juhye’s pretty good at that kind of stuff. I��m sure she could make sure it’s doing that. Saving your passwords, login info.”

He hums in lieu of a response, moving from in front of your desk to behind you to see what you’re doing. He doesn’t ask, which makes you bristle, but you’re not doing anything confidential and he’s not really breaking your personal bubble, so you can’t say anything. 

“I’ve never asked,” he begins as though talking to you while you’re working isn’t annoying. “But I assume, this isn’t what you went to school for. Did you study tech…stuff?”

You’re mildly amused that he doesn’t use the official term ‘computer science’. But just mildly. You can still dislike someone and still find them amusing on occasion. 

“No.”

There’s silence, minus the sounds of your typing and mouse-clicking. 

“What did you study?”

You don’t like lying. It’s not a thing you prefer to do in life. You do, everyone does, but you try avoid it as much as possible. So even though you know this might interest Hyunjin and you know you should not interest him, ever, you tell the truth.

“Photography. I mean, I studied business, too, but mostly photography and mixed media art.”

There’s silence yet again.

“Which is why I’m here. In this department.” The silence has become unbearable. 

“Photography?”

He’s going to ask to see something.

“You good at it?”

You turn to look at him. He seems genuinely curious, not like he’s about to pass judgment. But, he’s hard to read. That perfect face can look very RBF according to Juhye (which she thinks just makes him all the more mysterious and sexy) and even blank which gives you less on which to assess him for. 

His hair pulled back in a ponytail and black textured turtleneck make him seem even more aloof, like the rich pretty boy in an anime. 

“My grades and graduating GPA said I was.” You put very little stock into quantifying art and creativity into numbered grades, but you did graduate well enough to please your parents. 

He rolls his eyes. “Oh okay then.” 

God, he’s annoying. 

“Anyway.” You turn back to your computer. “Everything is reset. Your email has the links to come up with a new password. Try to write it down somewhere, or you know, memorize it.”

“No space,” he replies. “No space for memorizing meaningless words and numbers and symbols.”

“Really? What’s your brain full of then? Creative genius?” You don’t even hide your sarcasm.

He laughs. “I hope so. Mostly just images of all the greats I studied. And then my students and what they do. It’s a photo album that never ends and changes order. Often.”

He’s slipping by you toward the door that leads out of the Fine Arts offices. You stare at him, his words lingering. 

“Thanks again,” he says, halfway through the door. He smiles at you, a small one, a polite ‘this is how we socially interact’ type smile.

It’s still so stupid beautiful. You hate it.

–

At the next day’s lunch, you dutifully let Juhye know about how you encouraged Hyunjin to bring his laptop and technology woes to her and she brightens and preens, and you almost feel like maybe you don’t hate him. 

It’s a small consolation. 

One of the benefits (there are just a few) of working at the school that you attended, in the department you majored in, is use of the facilities. Not whenever you want as the current students and professors get first claim on any studio, extra supplies, or the dark room. 

In two years of working post-undergrad, you’ve learned when the down times, the lesser claimed times were. Certainly not before midterms or finals. Nor right when the semester begins because all the overachievers feel like studio or dark room time will somehow make all the difference. 

But right now, in the in between times, you can book some dark room sessions which encourages you that someday you might ‘make’ it as a professional photographer, that you aren’t losing your skills. 

You’d taken a day to drive up to the nearest mountains to one; soothe your soul with nature (and pollen sadly) and two: take a new set of photos. As with everyone else in the 21st century, you use and manipulate digital photographs as well, but you also do film because it’s its own thing. 

As you turn on the red light bulbs in the darkroom, negatives now fully developed, you smile because film and the process of getting from undeveloped roll of film to tangible photo makes you happy. It’s a comforting process that you can almost do in your sleep. With how late it was when you went to bed last night is a good thing because two cups of coffee is not doing its usual thing. 

There’s a knock on the door of the dark room and your smile immediately drops. 

Damn students (it’s a fruitless grievance because it is their right as they are paying a ridiculous amount for this education, but ugh, it’s annoying to be on the bottom rung of the hierarchy).

“Occupied.”

“I left something in there that I need.”

It’s like every muscle of your body tenses, and every nerve sets alight. 

“Professor Hwang?” Like you need to confirm. 

There’s a pause, like he’s registering your voice before he says your name. 

“Yes, I’ve got the safe lights on, but if you make sure everything is off out there, I can open the door.” Sooner he comes in, the sooner he can leave. 

There’s a low chuckle. “I know the drill.”

You bristle at the patronizing tone.

“Everything is off.”

You open the door and mentally curse him. Even with the lights which you’d considered an unflattering shade of red, he still looks like art. 

Art like a rendition of a fallen angel or romantic vampire with the shadows on his face and red tinge his neck-length brown hair takes on. His glasses are horn-rimmed today, his white shirt pink in the light and sleeves rolled up, black slacks. There are at least three paint smudges on his forearms.

He nods and gives you a polite smile. It’s the most reserved he’s ever been with you, at least since first meeting. You would never describe him as outgoing by any means, but certainly friendly, amiable. He doesn’t hold any of the underlying snobbery of other art professors who have lived so long in the ivory towers of academia and the art world, that any one not well-versed is unworthy of such allowances as kindness or care. 

For all his faults, Hyunjin is not the worst. 

You step back, aware that you are essentially, just staring at him like a moron. He slips in, glances at the negatives out that you’ve just developed.

“Pleased?” he asks as he moves toward the shelves of chemicals and random items (things left and abandoned by years of students and professors - your favorite is a tiny figurine of the black cat from Kiki’s Delivery Service. No one has taken it back, as though left here on purpose by someone in the past six years. He’s the official mascot of this particular dark room and therefore your favorite). 

“Pleased?” you repeat.

“With your work?” He grabs some acrylic paint tubes off the shelf. “What you just developed?”

Now you feel stupid. Obviously that’s what he’s asking about. Not if you’re pleased to see him. That would be stupid. You aren’t. Surely even he can see that.

“Um, not sure.” You return to the film and its small images. You set one image over the projected enlarger so it’s visible to the both of you. It’s not much, a solitary tree, slightly off center in the frame. “Haven’t had a chance to see if it was a total waste of roll or not.”

Even though you don’t look to see him move, you feel him stand slightly behind you to also take in the image. 

You hold your breath for a number of reasons. 

One; because you don’t need to breathe in his cologne which is actually really lovely (so you hate it).

Two; because his nearness is off-putting as he’s not really breaking any social rules by being too close and darkrooms aren’t exactly spacious, but dammit he’s close. 

Three; because you actually want to know what he thinks.

That last one pisses you off the most. You and he don’t dabble in the same medium (he’s painting and drawing; you always stuck with photography, sometimes mixed media) so who is to say his thoughts are at all valuable.

Not that he isn’t skilled. Every professor in the Visual Arts department is, even the ones you dislike the most.

Like him. 

“It’s lonely.”

You flinch at his words, his voice seeming loud in the quiet of the room. 

“Being asymmetrically composed, the tree feels even more out of place and lost.”

You force yourself to continue staring at the project and not turn to see his expression. Because you might show your thoughts and those don’t need to be discoverable by Professor Hwang Hyunjin.

“I like it. Even if it’s a bit out of focus.”

You lean into the projection to see that he is correct. There is a slight blur to the edges, fuck it all. 

You straighten back up. “Intentional.” Not that you moving in and checking it wasn’t a damn giveaway that you are lying like a lying liar, but maybe he’s stupid.

“Ah.”

Maybe a little. Or he lies too. 

“Are you entering any contests or doing a showing?”

Does he truly want to have a normal conversation right now? In the dark room? Alone? When you are working on your own stuff?

You take a few steps away, turning off the projector. 

“I don’t have anything specific in mind. Just keeping a hand in, you know?”

He nods, the shadows lengthening then shortening on his face. “Not that this subject matter is relevant, but you know our theatre department is looking for a photographer? Dr. Kim mentioned it just yesterday.”

“They are?”

“You can do action and work with that type of lighting?”

You work hard not to sneer. “Yes. The photography program here is pretty thorough.”

He shrugs. “I would hope so, though I must admit I know little of Dr. Cha’s work with students. And only the bare essentials of the craft.” He’s smiling, looking far less like a work of untouchable art and more like someone who regularly laughs; at himself and at the absurdity of the world. 

The dried paint on his cheek is wrinkled and breaking with that smile. 

You mentally shake yourself. 

When you don’t say anything, making the silence veer on awkward, he clears his throat. 

“You should apply. I think you’d do well.” He laughs now. It’s silly. “Not that I have much understanding the ins and outs of course, my recommendation is probably worth little.”

“You’d say something?”

“To Kim? Sure.” 

“With one photo?”

He now looks amused. “I’ve seen your instagram, too. Dr. Cha often shares his former and current students’ work and I follow her.” He starts to the door. “I’ll say something.” He holds up the paint tubes. “Thanks for letting me in.”

He opens the door before looking back. “Have a good night.” And disappears through it. 

The room feels strange now. The red hue seems not as striking, and the air carries that hint of piquancy of his cologne.

You do a physical shake of yourself now before returning to make some prints. 

–

When you see Juhye out for drinks with the rest of your compatriots Friday night, you ask her. 

“Why didn’t you tell me about the theatre photographer position?” She works in the Performative Arts department, even updates the website. Of all people, she would be one of the first to know. 

She’s had about two more cocktails than you which means her eyes take several moments to focus on you. You lean against the bar next to her, waiting. 

“Why would I?”

You bite your tongue to retort. “Because I’m a photographer.” 

She wrinkles her nose, saying your name in the most patronizing tone you’ve heard since high school. “They want professionals.”

You jerk back as though she swung a dagger at you. 

But you try again. Because friends. And Girl Code. “I applied though. Would you say something to Dr. Kim please?”

She takes a deep breath that you can hear despite the loud house music pumping in this bar. “Honey,” The sickly sweetness of the condescension makes you want to gag. “We’re friends and all, but I am not risking my name just because you think you can do something like this. Real friends tell each other the truth.”

As she finishes this quasi-sermon, the bartender produces another drink for her, and a receipt to sign. She does, scrawling also her snapchat username. He takes the slip, makes eye contact with her and smirks before moving to another patron. 

“What was that?” you ask, still processing her apparent disregard for your dreams and talent. “I thought you were ‘in love’ with Professor Hwang?” You are petty enough to do finger quotation marks. 

She rolls her eyes and shrugs, already looking past you for the rest of your group. “I am. But wanting a luxury car doesn’t mean that one can’t ride in a station wagon.”

If you’d had more liquor, maybe you could have thrown up on her as you currently feel ill, both disgusted and horrified. 

To equate humans to cars reeks of objectification and lack of seeing someone as a whole person. 

And you might hate Hwang Hyunjin, but you know he’s more than just a beautiful (on the surface) man. 

Juhye slips by you to find the others as you realize how incredibly shit of a friend she is. Of a person. In fact, you turn to stare at her back in astonishment because you thought you were good at reading people, at sifting through the kinds of people you want to surround yourself with. Juhye has never been someone you were incredibly close to, but you thought she was decent, even if her taste in men was lacking.

“I didn’t know you came here.”

As though your life is a full-on drama, you turn back to see that in her place is Hyunjin. He’s got a martini glass in hand, the liquid a vibrant green. 

“Rarely,” you answer tonelessly, your brain still trying to understand the revelations of the last five minutes. You nod to his drink. “What’s that?”

He grins, alcohol having warmed his smile. “Appletini.”

A surprised laugh exits your mouth before you realize it. You assumed he’d probably drink something like fancy single malt scotch or absinthe (the green). Here he is, this impressive and young art professor, one who has had an extolled art showing in the last year (you might have researched him some when you realized how much you hated him), drinking the equivalent of Apple Jacks in a martini glass. 

His smile is a little cute.

He isn’t wearing glasses right now, which is a shame, but his t-shirt and jeans give him less of that art prof vibe, and more of the cute guy you meet at a bar. 

“Good?” you ask, finding yourself bewildered and amused.

He nods emphatically, offering it to you as though you’re friends who share.

You shake your head, even though you sort of want to. 

“Thank you. I should go.” It might be the lighting, but he looks way too cozy with his hair tucked behind his ears, the wind from outside making it tousled. 

You look around to see Juhye and several of your friends over at a booth. They are watching with piercing eyes. 

Juhye whispers to another.

You feel it. The momentary terror of doing something wrong, the violation of the code in talking to your friend’s crush.

“Before you do.” He sets down his drink, inching a bit closer to you. “I talked to Dr. Kim. About the job? I can’t say for sure, but I think he was definitely looking forward to talking with you about it. I showed him your series with the cyclists by the Han River, from your insta. One of my favorites of yours.” 

You feel your eyes itch all of a sudden, a sudden tightness in your throat. You force back the tears that threaten. 

“I…thank you.”

His smile gets even bigger, his eyes nearly squeezed shut in his joy. 

You need to go. Like now. 

“Of course. What are friends for? Or at least, coworkers.” He giggles. 

Friends. The spike of anxiety lessens. Because you know what real friendship is. And it’s not in whispers and unspoken rules and carelessness. 

It’s thoughtfulness, it’s giving without asking for anything back. 

“If you get the job, I expect you to buy me a drink.” His playful words make you tense all the more, because you see it. You see how kind he is.

He sees you.

“I’m kidding,” he says almost as quickly. “I just–”

“I know.” You meet his eyes and smile though you imagine it’s more teary than warm right now. “I’ll definitely buy you another appletini if I get it.”

There’s no RBF right now. Only sparkling eyes, turned up lips, and kindness. 

And you need to go.

“Sure. Um, bye.” You race out of there like being chased by a supervillain. 

–

It’s the end of the school year, and even though you still work during the summer (a lowly admin’s job is never done), you feel the excitement.

Because you’re changing departments. After photographing and doing promotional shots of the university’s spring musical, Dr. Kim wants you on staff full-time, to capture all of the Performative Arts department; the classes, the productions, even the silly open mics that the students and professors do every month. The website, the newsletter, the alumni magazine; all have a credit of yours by the time May ends. 

You feel like maybe you haven’t been treading aimlessly post-university as much as you thought. 

“So,” Hyunjin says, before taking a sip of his luminescent green cocktail. He leans on his elbows across from you. “We aren’t in the same department any more.” There’s a pout at the end, a small, silly thing that makes you roll your eyes, but deep down, you think it’s (he) is adorable. 

“I know. You’ll have to bug someone new when you forget your password. Again.”

His pout doesn’t leave. “They might be nicer to me.”

In the months that followed that night at the bar, you decided to apologize to him. It was in his office, when he was sorting through papers and you were nearly on your way home for the day. You had succeeded in avoiding Juhye and him for three days when you got the email from Dr. Kim for a quick interview. 

So you stopped by to thank him, then apologize for being rude.

“You hated me? Huh. I thought you were just kind of grumpy. It’s cute.”

To say you were simultaneously both flattered and outraged (he’d not even been offended, once?) would be understatement. 

He likes to tease you about it now.

“But to go back to my original thought,” he continues, reaching out to steal a fry from your plate. “No longer in the same department. We’ll have to try and see each other instead of just happening to run into each other.” He raises one eyebrow at you.

“Yeah. Ugh, are you a clingy friend?”

“Not really.” He pauses, taking another drink before setting it back down. “I am…a little bit of a clingy boyfriend.” 

You’re holding your breath again. 

You can acknowledge that you and Hyunjin aren’t just coworkers, he’s not your enemy (if he ever was) anymore. You’re definitely more friends with him than anyone else from work (you’ve pulled away from Juhye and her little group and honestly, you don’t miss them). 

Being friends, being friendly and open with Hyunjin has its own drawbacks because now you have to contend with how lovely a person he is; how talented, funny, goofy, and compassionate. Which makes it difficult. When you hated him, he was easy to keep at a distance.

Now that you like him, you might really like him.

“Uh, we aren’t dating.”

“What do you call this?” he asks, nonplussed that he’s brought up your entire relationship as a topic of conversation, as though you’re discussing the weather, or the latest student’s project. He points at your mostly empty plates, his martini glass, your half-full gin and tonic. Then he points at you and then himself.

“I’m paying though.” Spring in academia is a sprint to the finish and though he’d been joking about you owing him a drink if you got the job, you are currently owning up to it now that the semester is over. 

“So? Is it only a date if I pay?” He tsks at you. “I thought you were a feminist.”

Your glare doesn’t have the same bite as it used to. It’s too fond. 

“This is a date?”

He leans across the table, adjusting his glasses as though it’ll help him see you better. Even with familiarity, you still feel a bit overwhelmed by him. 

“I want it to be.”

There is no policy about coworkers dating at your university, just that professionality reigns at the school. There is no reason why you and Hyunjin cannot date. Even though you often feel like professors are on another level compared to the administration. 

He’s not even that much older than you. 

Perhaps it’s remnants of being so worried that you might break ‘Girl Code’ if you’re at all nice to him because of Juhye’s ‘claim’ that you are hesitant. Maybe you need to acknowledge that he is so much more than what you or Juhye reduced him to in the beginning.

Maybe you realize that you have been ‘dating’ him awhile without even comprehending it.

Maybe you also lean across the table, letting your lips brush against his stunning ones (if you painted like him, those lips would probably show up in a piece) and hear his soft exhale as though he relaxes. Because he realizes it too.

You like each other. A lot. 

His soft kiss in return gives you actual heart flutters.

“I guess I don’t mind a clingy boyfriend. Especially one who is still marked with paint on a date.” You point to the streak of white at his jaw. 

He takes your hand in his, gaze dropping to look at his drink, but his smile can’t be hidden.

“Good.”

---

(c) yoongihan 2024. 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.

[lovingperfectionsblog]

I'm Not A Spy?

Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: There’s no way THE Max Verstappen got you flowers, absolutely no way. 

Warnings: Swearing, other than that, just silliness and fluff. 

Word Count: 1616

Authors note: This was literally a dream I had and I was encouraged to write it as a fic by my absolute dream of a friend @0-atmilk-latte so thank you sugar <3 I hope it’s okay. I really want to get back into writing my silly little stories so, let's try to do this. 

______

Enemy territory. 

This is where Max stood currently. Dead center in front of the Mercedes motorhome door, where everyone could see him. 

And every single person to walk through those doors sent him glares that would make sure he knew he was on enemy territory. 

He knew it was risky. Redbull merchandise adoring him. Sticking out like a sore thumb. It was a risk he was willing to take. 

“Horner send you?” Toto stepped through the doors after watching Max stand there for the past hour, “Although, I can't imagine who Horner would be giving those to?” eyes flicking between Max’s face and the bouquet of flowers he was currently white knuckling. 

“No sir, these are for your assistant.” Max tried to sound confident but even he could admit Toto was a terrifying man and this entire situation was feeling far too similar to the idea of trying to get your fathers permission to ask you on a date. 

“From?” Toto knew he was making Max squirm, but the only thing that would bring him more joy was if it were Horner himself standing in front of him instead of Max. 

“From me sir.” Max tried to stop his hands from shaking, the rustling of the leaves and flowers becoming oddly unbearable as he tried to stand his ground in front of your boss. 

“Why?” As much fun as Toto was having, he was also curious. He knew Max had been eyeing you up these past few weeks, paying more attention to you, attempting to talk to you every opportunity he could. He had even caught Max attempting to make small talk with Lewis and George, which he was now assuming was a bid at getting closer to you. At the very least attempt to make everyone around you like him in the meantime. 

“Because I was hoping to ask her to dinner sir.” Toto couldn't hide his surprise at Max’s honesty. Expecting at the very least some work around to that answer after some back and forth. 

God Max irritated him. He had no choice but to add this to the increasingly growing list of things he respected Max for and it infuriated Toto to no end. 

It didn’t mean he couldn't stress Max out in the meantime. 

“Well,” he let out a chuckle, “good luck then son.” 

“Boss, what’s the redbull scum doing on our turf?” George shouted towards Toto as he made his way towards the motorhome. 

Toto didn’t even give Max an opportunity to answer before he was shouting back, “Apparently he’s here to ask my assistant out to dinner.”

“Oh, makes sense why he’s been so nice to me and Lewis these last few weeks.” George made his way up to the entrance, joining his boss and rival, “Is this why you wanted to hang out in Monaco the other day?” 

Toto and George could only laugh at the uncontrollable blush that had made its way across Max’s face at being called out. 

And the situation was only made worse by, “Morning Boss, George,” you eyed the odd one out, cocking an eyebrow up in question, “and Max?” 

“Well then, go ahead,” was all that came from your boss in lieu of a greeting from any of them. 

And suddenly Max felt shy. All that previous bravado had clearly been used up with Toto, leaving none for the actual important interaction. 

He had to do something and soon, because you were standing there staring at him, waiting, for, well, something. 

Next second there was a bouquet thrust in your direction, gripped to near smithereens between Max’s hands. Your eyes darted between the flower and the three men in front of you, one completely avoiding eye contact, the other two doing a poor job to hide their smiles as they watched the interaction between you two. 

“What’s this for?” you refused to take the bundle from Max, unsure of what was happening. 

“You.” It was all Max could get out. 

“From?

“Me?” 

“Why?” 

“Jesus.” 

Toto barked out a laugh at the near identical conversation he and Max had just had. 

The flowers rustled in front of you as you assumed Max shook them for you to take. 

He would never admit that it was his nerves. 

You hesitantly took the flowers, eyeline switching between max and the, admittedly beautiful, bunch of flowers you were now holding. 

There was a long silence as you just stared at the flowers, eyebrows furrowing. Neither Max, Toto nor George fully understood what was going on in your mind. The silence extended so long that even Toto began to feel nervous, so he could only imagine what Max was feeling as he just stared you down just as intensely as you were staring at those flowers.  

Just as Toto reached out to nudge Max in an attempt to get him to say something to you, you began violently shaking the flowers. Petals and leaves began flying everywhere. Whole flowers landed on the floor at your feet. At least one had hit Max in the face. Toto stepped back in fear. Max shielded himself from the onslaught. By the time you were done, all that was left in your hand was one measly flower consisting of maybe four petals and a few leaves. The rest lay at your feet after your massacre. 

All three boys stared on in horror as you stood there breathless. Eyes fixed on Max like he was your prey. 

Everyone could hear the gulp from Max’s throat as he took a single step backwards. 

“You think just because I’m some girl and you’re the Max Verstappen in your fast little redbull you can treat me like some pawn in your weird little game?” you spat the words at him. 

Max desperately looked over to Toto and George for some help, but even they looked too scared to intercede on his behalf. 

“This isn’t some game, I just,” 

“You just what? Thought you could spy on my team?” you didn't even let him finish before throwing out a secondary accusation at him. 

“Spy?” George hadn’t meant to have that come out as loud as it did, but suddenly all attention was on him as he hid slightly behind Toto. 

“Obviously George. He probably put a listening device in the flowers to spy on us.” All three looked at you like you were insane, “Why else would he be giving me flowers?” 

“To ask you on a date.” The silence that followed Toto’s comment was deafening. 

“No.” It was all you could get out. 

“No to the date or no to him giving you flowers for that reason?” Totot was desperately trying to be the voice of reason here. 

“To him giving me flowers?” You’d yet to look at Max since the original accusations. 

“Why would Max be spying on us? Redbull is the fastest team on the grid?” George was emphatically nodding along with what Toto was saying, trying to get you to see that this was completely innocent. 

“I’m not a spy?” Max had finally spoken up, far too alarmed at the accusations beforehand to offer much more than this, beyond thankful to Toto for helping him explain. 

“Then what’s with the flowers?” You were sharp and blunt and Max couldn’t help but fall just that little bit more for you as he watched you defend your team. 

“To ask you on a date.” Max hesitantly pointed at Toto, showing that the original reason that was offered was correct. 

“You want to take me on a date?” Max could only nod, “and these flowers were to ask me on a date?” Another nod, smile growing as he watched your cheeks flush, “in front of my boss?” you side eyed your boss, hoping he’d take the hint to get out of there. 

“In my defense, I didn’t expect him to come talk to me, not stick around” Max’s eyes refused to leave you, a little nervous to at this point. 

“I’m not going anywhere, is it a yes or not?” Totot refused to budge, his massive presence looming over both you and Max as George peaked over his shoulder to continue watching the interaction. 

“Yes,” you watched as Max’s smile grew even wider than before, him already grabbing his phone out of his pocket so you could put your number in it for him, “as long as you promise you aren’t a spy!” you emphasized by shoving his phone, now containing your number, into his chest as a warning. 

“Not a spy. I promise,” Max stuck his pinky out, waiting for you to reciprocate, giving you the most legal of all promises, the pinky promise, “so it’s a date.” 

You nodded as you wrapped your pinky around his own, “A date.” 

After a moment Toto coughed, catching your attention and forcing you to let go of Max and straighten out your attire, “We should go, yes, we have, there’s work, yes, job, okay, bye” and with that, you had disappeared through the Mercedes motorhome doors, soon followed by Toto who clapped a hand against Max’s shoulders, muttering a “well done boy” as he followed you in to begin the day, leaving Max to stare after you as George sidled up next to him. 

The two stood in silence, Max staring at you as Toto clearly teased you about the interaction, and George stared at Max, gearing up to do some teasing of his own. 

“Never thought The Max Verstappen would be into women who scared him” 

“Shit, she’s so scary.” Max nodded along with his own statement before making George choke on his coffee with the next one, “I think I’m going to marry her.” 

[literaila]

"i don''t wanna get you sick"

from either reader or peter (sorry if you've already written a fic like this)

where’d you get your medical degree

tasm!peter x fem!reader

warnings: the ask says it all.

a/n: in lieu of sick season. and because of many illnesses (such as writers block, and insanity) which are preventing me from writing anything serious

*

“no,” you whine, pushing him away. “don’t touch me.”

peter is looking down at you with an incredulous look on his face. his hair is loose and his eyes are close, and he’s unbelievably pretty. like you have to blink a few times, just to make him appear normal—and a little less blurry.

you think he’s smiling too, but you can’t really see it. you might be dreaming.

“is there any particular reason why not, bub?”

his hands near you again, cold fingertips on your jaw, around your head. you groan and move your face away from them—even though it feels wonderful.

“i don’t know where those hands have been.”

peter snorts. “trust me,” he says, tilting your head back to him, “you do.”

your stomach turns, and suddenly his hands are a saving grace, so you grab both, holding them to your cheeks.

“change your mind?”

“cold,” you sigh, leaning as close as you can get to him.

“you’re burning, love, and not the elvis kind.”

you shake your head, eyes closed. “not funny,” you mutter.

“can you look at me real quick?”

you moan and close your eyes even tighter. “i’m tired, peter. come back when we’re open.”

“just let me see those pretty eyes and then you can sleep. i’ll even get you some comfier clothes. and some water.”

you move your legs around, feeling the stiff polymer pants you wore today, assuming that you wouldn’t be halfway to death by 3pm.

“how bout some ice cream?” you ask, opening one eye.

it is not lost on you that peter is trying to flirt with you. or that he’s frowning.

“your pupils are big,” he says, concisely. “did you get drugged?”

you giggle, moving away from him, his fingertips suddenly ticklish. “yes, from my computer,” you grin at him, closing your eyes again. “at my office job.”

“okay, stoner, what medicine did you take?”

you frown. “none.”

peter is frowning back. you can feel it. but you’re not going to open your eyes, just in case he’s suddenly brushed his hair or something. put on mascara. who knows what lengths peter would go to surprise you.

“wait,” you hold a finger up. “whatever’s in my bag, i think. i took it at work.”

peter sighs, patting your leg before he moves about the room, looking for a purse you must have lost.

you actually can’t really remember how you got home in the first place.

“if your fever gets any worse, we’re going to the doctor.” peter says this from across the room, and you’re pretty sure he’s not even talking to you. “here. this is just acetaminophen. how long ago?”

your face is pushed into the pillow beside you. it smells like peter, so you keep it there.

“loopy, can you just answer this one question?”

“the pillow is speaking to me.”

peter puts a hand on your back. “i am so sure you’re on drugs,” he says, almost adoringly. “the pillow is telling you that you need to clean up. trust me, we’re close. let’s get you into pajamas and then i’ll find you some stuff.”

you don’t move. maybe you didn’t hear him.

“bub,” he says, a bit louder, sterner. “c’mon, it’ll only take a sec.”

“not moving.” your voice is muffled. “ever.”

“how am i supposed to kiss you, then?”

you turn and peek out at him, lip curling at the mention. and then you cough. “you cant kiss me. i’m sick.”

“it’s disappointing that you think that would deter me.”

“if you’re sick how are you supposed to take care of me?”

“i’ll always take care of my baby,” he swears, leaning into you. if you were of right mind you might realize he wants a kiss. you might realize what you want.

but you only nod approvingly, and then smush your face back into his pillow.

peter groans. his hand moves to the back of your head, and he massages your scalp for a moment. “i know those clothes aren’t comfortable,” he pulls at your tight blouse, the one you wear when you want to feel good about yourself and you don’t mind neglecting to breathe. “even though it looks good on you. you’re sweating through it.”

your muffled voice returns: “do i smell?”

it’s a miracle that peter can understand anything you’re saying. “just like you,” he sniffs, “and maybe a bit like coffee? did you spill something on yourself?”

you don’t move. just hum into the pillow, hacking up a lung into it.

peter shakes his head. “i’m gonna need to wash that. up, baby. a shower would help your sinuses, but we’ll change if you’re tired.”

“baby,” you giggle to yourself.

“yes, baby, because you have de-aged significantly in the past hour. do i have to carry you to the closet?” his voice is teasing, but you’re not really sure that you can hear anything.

you finally turn, sitting up so you can look at peter. “am i being difficult?” you ask him, worriedly. your skin has shifted colors, and your voice is more like rock on rock. but you still frown at peter. “i’m sorry. you don’t have to do anything. i can change.”

but as you say it you double over in a coughing fit, and while you can feel peters hand on your back, you’re almost worried he’s already left.

“don’t be ridiculous,” he whispers when you’re silent again, swallowing. “i like taking care of you. though, i’m not loving that cough. do you need some water?”

you look at him, checking his eyes for something that you’d never be able to recognize in this state. and finally you nod, silent.

peter kisses your forehead and leaves for the kitchen.

you sit there, trying to keep your back perfectly straight. even through the overwhelming urge to lay back down in the bed and suffocate in the blankets.

you really just want to smell that pillow some more.

your head is pounding, and you try to remember if you even took that medicine in the first place. how long you’ve been sitting there. if peter even took your temperature in the first place.

but peter is back before you figure it out. “here,” he hands you a glass of water, watching you with narrowed eyes. “drink all of it.”

“i’m not thirsty.”

he glares at you and you smile, sipping on the water.

he smiles back, sitting down next to you and feeling all over your face with his hands. “what’s the status report?”

“still sick, but my mental capacity is coming back.”

“oh good,” peter says, leaning back but not letting go of you. “i was worried when you didn’t laugh at my elvis joke.”

you snort and lean right back into him, your head against his chest. he smells a lot better than cheap cotton.

“sorry ‘bout your pillow,” you cough out, leaning away from him suddenly so you don’t spit in his face.

“it’s fine. i enjoy a little snot with my sleep.”

“gross, peter.”

he grins down at you, kissing the top of your head again, because he is beyond adorable. then he sombers, still staring, carefully evaluating you. “do you want some more medicine? i think we’ve got some cold stuff in the cupboard.”

“the sleepy kind?”

“probably. take some of that. do you want to shower?”

“not really,” you say, letting him hold your head up. “i’m a little dizzy.”

peter frowns at you. “i’d make sure you don’t fall,” he offers.

“that’s okay,” and then you, once again, hack up some mucus in front of his face and sigh pathetically into your own hands.

“how about some tea? for your throat?” his hand moves yours away, brushing the hair out of your face.

“peter, it’s okay.”

you kiss his hand and push it away.

“the teas okay?” he frowns. “as in yes?”

“i’m okay,” you repeat, shaking your head at him. “you don’t have to do anything else. i’m fine.”

“you’re sick,” he corrects.

“i’m a big girl. i just need a nap. i’m probably not even sick.”

you emphasizes this point by choking down a cough, making your eyes water.

peter raises a brow.

you smile, tightly. “i’m just gonna go change now—“ you stand up, and then fall back down. your head spins as you feel peters hands wrap around your waist, his lips pressed against the side of your temple.

“just let me help,” he whispers, into you. “i’m not busy.”

“you had a long day.”

“i just want to cuddle with you anyway. i can take a few extra steps—like making you tea and getting you medicine.”

you shake your head. “i can do it.”

“i miss high you,” peter sighs. “c’mon, bub, stop being stubborn.”

you frown. “you’re the stubborn one. go swing and save someone else,” you tell him. “i just need a nap.”

“then i’m napping with you.”

you tilt your head back, groaning, and regretting it immediately when there’s a sharp stab in the front of your eyes.

peter kisses your now exposed neck, moving his hand so it keeps your head still. “you probably need to go to the doctor.”

“don’t be dramatic.”

peter scoffs. “you’ve got a fever of 103 degrees. i’m not dramatic.”

“i think i missed the era where you got your medical degree.”

peter scowls at you, pushing your sweaty hair out of your eyes and making sure you can see his conviction to never ever let this go. “it’s called webmd. it’s a wonderful place.”

“peter,” you whine, trying to push him away.

“baby,” he whines back, but smiles as he picks you up, like a literal baby, making sure not to jostle your head. “pajamas. what do you want to wear? and what’s the verdict on the tea?”

you sigh and lean your head into his neck. you don’t appreciate this, but it’s hurting to keep your eyes open. you cough into him, muffling yourself from the world. “can i wear your shirt?” you say, softly.

peter smiles like he’s won the lottery. you can feel it against your head. “yup,” he pops, “but it’ll cost you.”

“what?” you ask, sniffling.

“a kiss.”

he pecks your cheek, then your nose, and carries you away.

*

[mokulule]

The Number You have Called Cannot Be Reached - part 8

Part 1 | Masterlist

Ship: Dead on Main (Danny/Jason) Warnings: angst/depression and canon typical violence So I promised this like months ago, and then got overwhelmed by having to manage the taglist resulting in me not updating this fic despite actually having written the next part. So that said this is the last time I'm tagging people, please subscribe to the masterlist - I'm gonna link it both here at the top and at the bottom. Anyways enjoy the next part:

Jason could handle this. He had handled this for years. The Pits were a known enemy. It shouldn’t effect him to this degree. But he could handle this. He could go about his day without putting heads in duffel bags, that had got to count as a win. The fact that he was avoiding his family, was just a precaution. Jason had everything under control.

Not like when he’d fled the Cave after assaulting Bruce in his stupid sweater.

That had not been his proudest moment. But the thing that really got to him was how he didn’t remember doing it. He didn’t even remember going to the Cave. When he tried to think it was all a green haze. The last moment of real clarity was opening Ghost’s bag and seeing nothing but dry protein bars. Knowing in his gut this was all he ate and that he stood with his food, and no way to give it back to him.

When he had fled the Cave, he’d gone home shaking like a leaf, and sunk to the floor trying to get his head back on straight. He didn’t know how long he sat there with his back against the door, just trying to breathe and search his memory. Eventually, though he didn’t know after how long, he found his phone and looked up the news. It had been a great relief to find that Red Hood had not been sighted, so he likely hadn’t been out on a murder spree he couldn’t remember.

But now it was days later. There had been no more green hazes. Things were under control.

Maybe he hit a bit harder, and a bit longer, when he went out. But it was the normal amount? Wasn’t it? Definitely not much more than normal, if it was more. That he was sure of… like 80% sure of. Jason rubbed the front of his helmet in lieu of his brow - It didn’t really help. What had Bruce even said that set him off? He barely remembered, something that felt demeaning, but the words escaped him no matter how many times he turned them over in his head. Normally he wouldn’t question himself that like, of course Bruce would have said something demeaning, he always did. He didn’t trust Jason, never would again. There would always be suspicion and doubt. But now…

Jason’s hand clenched into fists. Now having been without the Pits’ influence, having seen Bruce trying to reach out to him, as awkward and resigned as it had been, he wasn’t so sure.

He wasn’t sure he could trust himself.

Maybe this was all Bruce’s plan? Another of his famous gambits - this one to fold Jason back under his control, with the pretense of love and family. Because surely he had been right all along and Jason needed to be watched, couldn’t be trusted on his own.

Jason ripped the helmet off his head, only barely stopped himself from throwing it. He gasped and breathed in deep, like a man drowning. He was the one in control, he reminded himself firmly. Not the pits. Not Bruce.

There was sound in his comms and he hastily pulled the helmet back on. Ghost had been sighted. He had to go. If he could just talk with Ghost, figure out what this was.

Ghost ran away. Immediately, as if he could sense Jason.

It was okay, Jason could handle this.

Oo o oO

Barbara tapped the space bar absently without actually pressing it. Keeping half an eye on her leftmost monitor which showed the program she used for the surveillance in Gotham, no persons of interest were pinging tonight so far, no alarms had tripped for about an hour. She had time to ponder the conundrum that was their reoccurring thief.

If the thief was building something the other night was proof the loss of the spectral calibrator, hadn’t put a stop to the progress. The thief never ran in the same direction so they still didn’t even have that to go by to narrow down where he stayed, when he wasn’t giving them the run around.

The odd reaction to Jason hadn’t made a reappearance. In fact the moment Jason joined them the thief disappeared immediately: density shifting into the ground. Jason was not happy about it to say the least.After the backpack full of barely edible off-brand protein bars had been delivered to the cave by Jason, Barbara would agree with Jason that whatever situation the thief was in, it was worrying if this was all that he ate. She still held by her assessment that the photographic evidence was of too low quality early in their run-ins because of the strange electromagnetic interference he gave off to actually judge if he’d lost weight - but he did look very gaunt now.

She leaned back in her chair. A cup of coffee was warm between her hands, she breathed in the familiar scent as she considered the known facts.

Name assumed to be Danny Fenton, potentially legally Daniel Fenton, though they’d been unable to find a match to his physical appearance and rough age in their databases. He hadn’t actually spoken to any of them, it was a very real possibility he was a foreigner, but they’d checked and he wasn’t wanted by any foreign intelligence services.

The phone was baffling.

It was a brick, and it looked like something from the early 00s, from around the time when handheld phones really started to be something everyone had.

Tim had asked for Barbara’s help after he hadn’t been able to recover the erased text messages for some days. Tim had filled her in on his discovery that while all the numbers coded into the phone led to a “the number you have called cannot be reached” message when called from the phone - some of the numbers were actually active when looked up; the Jazz one led to a pizza place and the Dad number led to an elderly woman with Chinese heritage who had no relation to anyone named Danny or Fenton. The rest of the numbers weren’t currently in use.

It was odd however that despite those two numbers being in use, they still got the cannot be reached message. Tim had suggested the program which made the phone able to piggyback on the mobile network without a sim was faulty, but it had been easy enough for Barbara to disprove by calling a local number which connected with no problem. Tim was brilliant but sometimes he got too caught up in his complicated theories that he forgot the simple things.

Her recovery program for the text messages had just finished running (this was her third attempt). She took a sip of coffee, leaned forward and promptly nearly spat it out when she saw the result. It went down the wrong pipe when she tried to recover and she coughed and sputtered. Carefully she put her cup on her desk before she spilled it.

Finally her airways were clear and she rubbed the bridge of her nose. Somehow this was Dick’s fault.

She had recovered the messages. They were there - time stamps and all. The last message received was over a decade ago in 2009 and wasn’t that ominous? But that was a side note to be pondered later, because the contents of the messages, oh this was malicious.

Somehow, before deletion every single message had been changed to “Ghost”.

Not just a single ghost, no, entire messages teasing at their original length, but just changed into ghost ghost ghost ghost ghost. A whole litany of ghosts.

And it was definitely Dick’s fault.

Next

So that was it, hopefully I will be able to get back in the swing of things now. Commentary and tags are a great motivator and I read them all. As stated this is last time I tag people, so in the future you can subscribe to the masterlist or on Ao3 where the edited and hopefully better version eventually goes up.

Tag list of doom part 1:

@thewondersoflebanon | @gin2212 | @busterkeel | @apointlessbox | @spoopyspoony | @charlietheepic7 | @proper-idiocy | @serasvictoria02 | @zgirlly | @emeraldcorpral | @mushroom-jack | @v-inari | @8-29pm | @quirky-gardener | @vehan-tikkun-olam-and-stuff | @mars-the-witch | @elthepickle | @thegatorsgoose | @impulsiveasshole |

@tired-yet-awaken | @luagi-the-bestest | @britcision | @autumnwulf | @little-pondhead | @asphyxia778 | @sarina-elais | @may-rbi | @onlyhereforthechaos | @somuchyikes | @yjfk | @rosiea184 | @screamingtofillthevoid | @ailithnight | @writer-extraodinaire | @samgirl98 | @hanahaki-disease | @riverdancingwerewolves |

[altcvnningham]

needy

adler x f!bell

summary: adler gets up for a morning cigarette. or tries to. read on ao3

tags/cw: established adlerbell, f!bell, she/her pronouns, bell is russian, fluff, light angst, no plot, drabble, smoking mention, kind of domestic i guess, bo6 adler so he's a little soft, pre-bo6 but post-panama, cw references galore, dog imagery as is synonymous w adlerbell atp, author has adhd and goes on prosaic rambles in lieu of an actual plot. this fic could have been an email?? sorry wc: 3.1k

a/n: bwuhhh this was just an excuse to write self indulgent soft morning adlerbell at the rook while i work on my actual pre-bo6 adlerbell rook fic when i have the energy . no plot, lots of rambling, once again kind of just a thinkpiece on their relationship now adler's an old fossil. idk she was doing nothing being left in my notes app ajdkhjkasjk

He reckons she’s needier these days, more than she ever used to be back in Berlin.

Sometimes he wonders if it’s just his age that makes him feel that way; that perhaps she hasn’t changed at all, and instead it’s the dust settling on his bones, rusted shrapnel over the years snagged in the joints and sinews, that makes him feel sluggish in comparison. It’s the first time in his life since Livingstone brought up the CIA’s desire for more sprightly recruits that he wonders- is he struggling to keep up?

Their reunion after all these years was a messy one: a scrap in an indistinct bar, bloodied knuckles split and bruises welted dark blue, the white of his eye burst red, the curve of her jaw swollen for a good week. Fresh after Panama. As soon as she caught wind of what happened she’d picked up his trail barely a week after he arrived in Bulgaria. Had she come to kill him? He doesn’t know. It isn’t as if she’d confess to it even if she had, and maybe he had it coming anyway. It stopped mattering at all the second the fight had descended into the alleyway, wrestled onto their backs against the cobblestone, where hands had found throats and then jaw, waist, hip, and everything else. Punches had calmed to caresses, curses to kisses, and somehow he’d found himself patching her up back at the Rook, his stray dog come home to him, like old times.

She’d eased herself back into his life easily enough then. Simple and unspoken. Or, rather, wedged her foot back in the door well enough that he couldn’t shut her out again, even if he’d wanted to (as if he hadn’t always kept it ajar all these years just to let her in, never closed, never closed). Never a word for what they are, what they have, the routine they’ve slipped almost effortlessly back into again- that hasn’t changed since the old days- and yet he doesn’t find that it robs it of meaning whatsoever.

If anything, it makes it something rare, special, his diamond in the rough, glinting sea glass washed a perfectly chiselled bead upon the shore. Just as she’d crashed along with the tide as time brought her back to him, he picked her up, tucked her gently back into that place she belonged, in between the rib and vertebrae, nestled inside him all to steady the beat of his restless heart. Her alone enough to settle the frantic, ceaseless palpitations he’s suffered nightly, since… Solovetsky? He thinks? The dull gnawing in the back of his mind all those years in between, that wasn’t sure if he was more frightened for her inevitable return or her disappearing forever, slipping through his fingers back to sea again.

He supposes it doesn’t matter anymore. That was then, and now seemed to fare much nicer.

Now, she rolls sweet and placid onto her back against the mattress, limp as a daisy in rain, soft body bowing to his careful manhandling; he’s itching for a smoke, aching for his vice the second he awoke, hours too early for his alarm. He lifts her off him delicately, almost methodical as he starts with her arm, the heavy loll of her head, her shoulder. Like defusing a bomb, he’d joked once, a comparison she’d only proven right by her explosive reaction to it.

It’s an odd feeling, though, the calm where there had once been nothing but war between them, the quiet, the warmth upon his chest now fading where she’d laid her head after he came back last night- back home, back to her- and it’s in moments like these, just mere glimpses of normalcy, that makes him wonder what could have been his life, theirs, had things not happened the way they did. MK Ultra, Berlin, Solovetsky. Perseus. Then again, he supposes, if she hadn’t been shot in Trabzon that night, if she hadn’t been there at all, then he wouldn’t have known she’d even existed. This mundane moment lost to time like everything else.

She murmurs in her sleep, spurred to wakefulness when the mattress lifts and groans at his absence, her eyes squinting through the sliver of morning light bleeding through the gap in the curtains; even when she’s completely out of it, she doesn’t miss a thing. He’s never exactly been the paragon of stealth when he excels at everything else, but even if every factor in the world had worked in his favour- if the beaten mattress wasn’t so rusted, if the ancient floorboards didn’t squeal underfoot when he stood up, if there wasn’t a constant draft on his side of the room that hit her as soon as he moved- nothing would have stopped her from registering his absence, clawing to fight off sleep just so she had an excuse to grouse at him. Ever his stubborn girl.

“Mm… where y’going…?”

Adler smiles to himself, flat but genuine, stifled by the lethargy that hangs over his head heavy as an anvil. Her accent so thick in the early hours it hardly sounds like English at all. He’s half tempted to reply in Russian, just to see if her cottonmouth tongue latches quicker to that instead.

But he doesn’t, just lingers in the doorway leading out to the hall, feeling only a little guilty for letting in the cold. It rather satisfies him instead to see her shiver and pull the blankets further over herself, keeping her right where he wants her. Right where he needs her, so he knows she’ll still be there when he comes back.

“Smoke,” is all he says, rattling the crumpled pack for her to hear.

She’s half coherent when she grumbles, English sandwiched between Russian endearments. Cussing him out.

“Y’can smoke in here… m’don’t mind. Come back to bed.”

Something tugs at his heart, almost foreign, vague. Something he only feels when she digs her claws in him just like that, even if only to graze. It’s the same certainty as when he wraps his finger around a trigger, pulls a pin, wrenches his hand around the hilt of a knife- unspoken, inevitable. The drop of a guillotine, inexorably quick. A certainty that verges on frightening, a promise, which he’s never been good at keeping, but knows she means wholeheartedly, down to her marrow. Possessiveness, he thinks- (is it irony, now, how often he finds her fist wrapped around the leash he doesn’t even notice he’s wearing?)- people not in their line of work, those with nice houses and desk jobs and white picket fences, he’s heard, call that feeling belonging. To be beckoned like that. Home.

It’s her demand that he stays. Hardly a question. And Bell doesn’t beg.

He’s sure that in her spitefulness, if he’d had a trigger phrase just like hers, she’d spit it at him ‘til he turned heel and crawled back on over to her, slid under the sheets like an apology scrawled onto a note and tucked under the door. It’s a near enough thing- the way her bleary eyes fix on him vengefully through matted lashes, searing her betrayal into him. Every morning he gets up before her, it seems to say: you left me. A petulant notion, only half serious, but one cold enough that it almost works. Frigid. Familiar. Arctic air.

It works a little at least- getting soft in your old age- because he lugs himself back over to the bed and just stands by it, refusing to give her the satisfaction of quiet victory if he climbs back inside. She stretches a languid arm flat across the mattress, rolling catlike onto her stomach, splaying her fingers in the hopes that she might somehow pull him back in to her. She manages a knuckle grazing his knee, before she gives up, pulled under by sleep once more. Head slumped against the pillow, she muffles her disdain.

But Adler is nothing if not at least a little amenable. If he’s sweet on anyone, it’s his Bell. His baby. Hard to let a thing like that go, when she was quite literally made for him. Made by him, in his image. Scraped marrow from rib like Adam, caulking the hole Arash shot through her chest and bestowed life upon her once more. He’s happy to have a piece of himself broken off and left inside her, a tithe tossed to the slab of her altar. The fracture of his soul a discarded lamb in sacrifice, sustaining the sick hunger that starves her.

It keeps them inseparable, he thinks. He’d read something somewhere, pretentious shlock about strings of fate and those bound to it- romantic crap shmucks use to justify ugly marriages and affairs, the suffering of co-dependency given some transcendent meaning, a purpose greater than the mundane. The notion that two people, by whatever higher power, are bound to one another no matter what they do to separate themselves of it, tethered from their first breath and suffering an endless togetherness until their last. He’d rolled his eyes the first time he’d heard of it- there wasn’t a world where he’d be enough of a sap to actually buy into that shit. Maybe his ex-wife might’ve been fond of it, maybe it was something she wrote into one of the letters he kept under his bunk back in ‘Nam. He doesn’t know.

But Bell made him understand it. He’d dug a grave in her when he denied her her own on that airstrip in Turkey, and he buried himself in it, over and over again. His memories, his life, his voice ringing like God’s. His favourite things, treasured, secret. His fears and doubts and worries, every little thing that made up the culmination of his being. It was never just Vietnam he put there. It was everything. She’s half himself, a faded mirror image. It only makes sense that they’d find each other again, eventually. She’d walk the earth, stalking like a bloodhound trailing his dried scent until she found him. She’d roam the endless nights, a ghost shivering their old haunts until he meanders his way back to her again, pulled along by a gnawing ache inside himself- a missing piece he’d seek the rest of his life to fill. She could track him blind. And he would feel her coming, like blood in the water. He did. He did.

It’s that tether that makes it impossible not to relent to her, when he kneels down next to the bed, knee joint cracking under his weight, the mottled floorboard doing nothing to steady him. It’s her, when she has enough leverage now to close the distance between her fingers and the collar of his shirt, curled inside the bleached cotton, fist wrenched tight. The seam digs into the back of his neck but he doesn’t let her pull him to her; he waits, making her work for it. The satisfaction that tends to follow when she does is usually worth her ingratiation.

She drags herself across the mattress, using his body as an anchor. Heavy and boneless, she lays right at the edge of the bed where he kneels, her nose nudging at his jaw as she turns, belly up like prey. Too easy a kill, he knows that. She’s gloating. The fact he’d come back at all means she’s got him right where she wants.

“C’mere,” she murmurs gently, saccharine, cloying. He’s surprised it doesn’t make her gag- the pretend domesticity of it all. Dragging her dried lips, smiling, against the underside of his jaw, her fingers sliding idle up the back of his neck, arm slung around his shoulder like she’s expecting to be carried out.

He humours her with a smirk, his blues nearly grey in the dim dark of the room as she mouths at him, vying for his attention. It’s as much a demand as her words had been, sharp as her tone as she nips at his jaw. Adler sighs, as though turning his face to gaze down at her were something laborious, and not the blessing he counts on every finger, every day, seemingly numbered since Panama. He tuts, and it says, what am I going to do with you?

But if his condescension was an attempt to dissuade her advances, it doesn’t work, because she sees right through his playful façade, and the wry smile that unfurls sleepy on her lips betrays her excitement, the sifting of her legs under the sheets audible as she squeezes them together. Needy. She knows he notices.

“Not gonna work, Bell,” he hums dryly. Yet he steals this moment of her surrender, his eyes flitting to every feature of her face. He doesn’t need to commit her to memory, she’s dug in there like a tick. But God, if he doesn’t like to look at her. He brings a rough hand down against her temple, smoothing the baby hairs back, eliciting a satisfied sigh from her as her eyes slip shut. Her head falls back against the pillow, anticipating a kiss he doesn’t give her.

“C’mon. Back to sleep. I’ll be ten minutes.”

“Five.”

“Bell.”

“Five minutes.”

Adler sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and scrunching his eyes shut.

“C’mon,” she croons, “five minutes… n’then…”

He thinks she’s fallen back asleep, the way her sentence carries off like that into silence. But when he opens his eyes she’s blinking prettily up at him, looking far too satisfied. Just as he opens his mouth to ask why, he feels the warm press of her hand against his knee, sliding up his thigh, fingertips tugged impishly at the sweatpants he’d haphazardly thrown on. He’s lightning quick to catch her, fingers circling her wrist; where the darting action might scare a weaker person it makes Bell’s eyes light up like stars, enamoured with his roughness. Excited. The way only she could be, eager pup biting at his ankles for a reaction.

“Behave,” he scolds, giving her knuckle a cursory smack before releasing her. That must finally be enough to spoil her fun, because she huffs, growling low in her throat, and rolls back over, burrowing herself deeper into the blanket than she’d begun.

It’s always a game to her, one she doesn’t much like losing. He can’t blame her for it. It’s always been that way. Back in Berlin, he’d taught her to play poker the proper way, the American way- whatever that meant- her downfall eternally being the fact she couldn’t bluff for shit around him. And it was just him- she’d caught on quick to the play, and had triumphed a couple times against Sims and Lazar; Park had refused to indulge the game, and Woods wiped the floor with the lot of them, even Adler. But with him, Bell just couldn’t lie. He was carved from marble, impassable- what he’d been trained to do. And she was a piece chipped off his softest part, malleable- of course he’d catch every minute twitch and wince, the flitting of wet lashes, the purse of an uncertain lip. She always told him the truth even with her eyes, her heart bore on her sleeve. It almost always felt like cheating. After all, it was what she was made for, wasn’t it?

And this felt much the same way. Not as strict as the luck of dealt hands and stifled poker faces but she’s never said or done anything to him she doesn’t mean. After he missed the shot in Solovetsky, all cards were strewn on the table. There was no mystery anymore. No joy taken in a good old fashioned backstab when the real damage was done, much too late to rectify. Maybe that’s why she makes it her personal goal to poke and prod and tease him now, chasing her fun in her own way, a decade late. Suppose it’s why she hates when he doesn’t just drop the cool attitude and give in.

He rises from the floor, that same knee joint clicking again. Where she might have mumbled a curt jibe about it, she’s silent, sulking into the pillow.

But just as he goes to leave, Adler stops at the door, a foot out into the hallway, the rest of him still stuck here, stuck on her. He sees a similar image in the back of his mind, of her laid upon the gurney in Die Landebahn, halfway into the back room with a syringe in hand when for one single moment of sobriety it dawned on him, what he’d been doing to her. Nothing like guilt, but it came close. Tinged with the regret of something so shameful as affection, Cupid’s arrow dipped in kerosene, shot straight through his heart; to come out the other side, to let him survive, to let him have this, here, her, now. And it’s a torture to have lived it, to know he doesn’t deserve a lick of it. The soft rise and fall of her breath beneath the blanket. Her hair splayed upon his pillow. She buries her nose deep in the old goose feather to try and keep him where he’s left her. Hold him close even when he’s gone.

The decade’s done much to him. He’d put on a couple pounds, had to start plucking the errant greys flecking his hairline, begun to wake most mornings with a tell-tale crick in his neck. He’s learned to relax that hard line in his brow, drawn too deep to reverse the evidence of age; let himself laugh a little easier, surprised people with his newfound ability to actually smile. He’s lost a lot, gained half as much. He’d been through hell and back, worse maybe than what he did to her- his karma, he supposes. And he supposes the decade’s made him soft, sentimentality creeping in to nestle somewhere he can’t reach, hidden inside himself with all the other things he doesn’t talk about. And he supposes of everything he’s lost, he has Bell again, and all things considered- it’s a fair trade.

He sucks in a breath, a sigh made audible for her to hear. Even as she feigns sleep, he knows she catches it, a flinch of her shoulder- where the shot he missed had landed in lieu of her head. In Solovetsky.

Then, Adler sighs, followed by a promise that feels to her like a confession.

“Five minutes.”

And when the door clicks shut, Bell steals herself a little victory smile.

[spaceman-earthgirl]

Supercorptober 2024 Day 27: Coffee

ao3 fic link. ao3 series link.

CatCo is dark when Lena arrives. Unsurprising, considering it’s so early. But Lena knows Kara will be here, working on an article she’s been busy with for the last week. 

Kara had cancelled dinner plans with her last night to work on the article, and between their busy schedules, she’s hardly had time to see her girlfriend recently, so she’s decided to surprise Kara with breakfast instead.

As Lena gets closer to Kara’s desk though, she can’t see her at all. Kara’s desk is one of the only ones with the light on overhead so she knows Kara is around, but-

It’s when Lena rounds the partition, she sees Kara slumped against her desk, fast asleep.

Lena smiles as she approaches, Kara’s face squished against some papers on her desk.

Lena places the coffee and pastries on Kara’s desk before walking around it and crouching down beside Kara.

This close, Lena can hear the light snores coming from Kara. Lena almost doesn’t want to wake her, she’s clearly tired if she fell asleep at her desk, and who knows how long she’s been asleep for. But people will start arriving for work soon and it can’t be comfortable sleeping like this so Lena places her hand on Kara’s shoulder, shaking her slightly.

“Kara, darling, wake up.”

The noise and motion causes Kara to stir, but only a little.

“Kara,” Lena tries again, soothing her hand over Kara’s back. “It’s morning, you need to wake up.”

This time it works, Kara blinking open sleepy eyes, unfocused and confused as she lifts her head.

A piece of paper that Kara had been lying on stays stuck to her cheek as she sits up, and Lena’s smiling again as she reaches out and tugs the paper loose.

“Lena?” Kara asks, slowly getting her bearings. “What are you doing here?”

“I brought you breakfast, I thought you might be hungry.”

Kara’s clearly still half asleep as she blinks, looking around, and spotting the food and coffee on her desk. “You brought me breakfast?”

“I did,” Lena smiles. “Did you finish your article?”

“I uhh...” Kara frowns. A few clicks on her computer and she has her answer. “Yeah, I finished it a couple of hours ago and then must have fallen asleep.” Kara looks at the food again. “You brought me breakfast?” Kara asks again and Lena laughs.

“You might need this,” Lena says, handing Kara one of the coffees. Not that the caffeine will actually do anything for her, but maybe the food and drink will help wake her up.

“Thank you,” Kara smiles. “And good morning,” she says, finally looking more awake.

“Good morning,” Lena says as she watches Kara stifle a yawn. “You’ve finished your article, why don’t you go home and get some sleep?”

Kara shakes her head. “I can’t, I’ve still got so much work to do.”

Lena thinks for a moment. “Ok, if you’re going to stay at work, I’ll bring you lunch too and then come over after work and I’ll make you dinner?”

In lieu of answering, Kara stands and wraps her arms around Lena.

Lena can do nothing but sink into the hug, sink into the warmth and comfort of the embrace.

“What’s this for?” Lena asks into Kara’s shoulder. “Not that I’m complaining,” Lena adds. She’d happily stay here forever.

“I’ve missed you the past week,” Kara pulls away and Lena misses it immediately until Kara leans forward and presses a quick kiss to Lena’s cheek. “And I love you.”

No matter how many times Lena has heard those words in the last six months, they still make her feel giddy. 

Lena smiles. “I love you too.”

Lena pulls Kara back into a hug, just enjoying the moment. She knows that soon, people will start arriving at CatCo and she’ll have to go to work too but right now she’s just going to enjoy this time with Kara.

[hwanchaesong]

━⁠☞🍽️First Course: It's always this, it's always that. The never ending demands you have failed to meet. How much more can you take of this bitter situation? 🥢

🎧: Olivia Rodrigo - Enough For You

wc: 1.4k

genre & warnings: angst angst angst (no happy ending here with hj), reader learns how love must work in a relationship, lovers to exes, marriage, other idols appearance, cursing, insecurity, just pure angst :D

a/n: this is a part of The Sour Restaurant series. if y'all want, you can read the other album inspired fics of other groups here.

You watch Seonghwa and Mina sway to the romantic music for their first dance as a newly wed couple, and your heart flutters with joy seeing them so happy.

No, jealousy was never an option for this one because you've seen their journey together. How their relationship blossomed and now, they are entering a new phase of their lives together. It was truly magnificent.

"Hey. Mind if I join you?" a voice brought you out of your reminiscing, turning your head to look at the source and you were dumbfounded to the core.

The man that you have been avoiding for the rest of the day is standing in front of you in his full glory, an awkward yet hopeful smile on his face as he awaits your answer.

"Yeah, Hongjoong. Go Ahead." you replied, returning the smile before sipping the now warm champagne in the goblet that you have been ignoring for the past few minutes in lieu of admiring the pair in the middle of the reception area.

A moment of silence, and he dared to break it.

"It's been a while since I last saw you. How's life?" he inquired, making small talk and you fight off the urge to leave him there alone, but no can do, you're not gonna be childish in the presence of your ex-boyfriend.

"It was good," then you paused, blinking and correcting yourself, "no actually, I have been living the best life."

He was taken aback at your slightly ironic tone, not used to the way you're speaking, like you're a completely different person after your separation, and only a month has passed since.

"Well, as for me.."

He trails and you roll your eyes, you did not ask how he's doing and certainly not interested. But you maintain your poise, not wanting him to see that he's having a negative effect on you.

"I've been miserable... without you, at least."

You whipped your head to look at him incredulously, an aghast scoff coming out of you unconsciously at his audacity to tell you that.

Wasn't he the one who decided to end your relationship? He was the one who destroyed a 5-year long bond, so what the fuck is he on about?

"Are you serious?" he looked offended when you asked him that, like he was pulling a stunt or something but who could blame you?

"Why would I even joke about that?" he mutters back, frowning when your confused expression turns into an appalled one.

He really isn't serious, right?

After all the shit that you have to go through because he's always wanting, needing, and looking for more in you.

You've never really seen the importance of going outside all glammed up, your friends and family have always complimented your bare face. A natural beauty, as they liked to call you. Then you saw the girls that he dated back when he was younger, and it made you insecure.

So you learned how to do hair and make-up. Buying expensive ass hair curlers, eyeshadows, foundations, lipstick, brushes and all that shit just for him to say to not notice what you have been doing.

You observed him to no end, taking notes of his likes and dislikes. His favorite dishes and drinks, colors and style of clothing, heck, you even memorized the song that he's been humming to for days.

The books beside his bed and on his shelves weren't left untouched by you. Every page was read dutifully so you could relate to him whenever he tells you a story about a recent book that he had bought.

But it seems that your efforts were all in vain, as there is always something that is lacking in you.

"The colors of your outfit are not matching."

"Oh, I'm actually trying a new kind of coffee today."

"No, wrong author, I can't believe you'll make a mistake about this."

It may be the emotional attachment or the undying commitment that you hold dear for him are the reasons why you continued to change yourself for him. In your eyes, he is absolutely perfect, and you're determined to fit in his aesthetic.

You were determined to make him accept you.

But as they all say, the more you burn, the more you turn yourself into ashes that will inevitably crumble.

And the snapping point was nigh when you're tired and he couldn't even bat an eye on your well-being.

"Is that what you're wearing tonight?" Hongjoong eyes your appearance, black dress and clean hair and make-up, and if you ask anyone, they'll say that it's simple yet elegant.

Truth to be told, you don't have the energy to go all out for the event that you're attending. Still, you did your best to look presentable, and you did a great job, you think.

It was a hellish week for you. Finals are coming up and you're dying from all the studying, you're also struggling in your part-time job because of the lack of sleep. The worst one was the nagging of your parents, constantly asking you about your plans for the future.

Everything was taking a toll on you and the last thing that you wanna hear came from the very same person that should have been a source of comfort.

Hongjoong sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, "Just.. stay put in one place. I can't have you embarrassing me further than this."

There you go, you lost it.

"Embarrass you?" a deriding tone rode along with your words, "What the fuck does that mean?"

"Y/N, do you see yourself? I told you to do your best, and this isn't what I envisioned." he mumbles, expression souring when you exuded such an attitude in his words.

"Ah." it was flat, the way you said it, as you were suddenly hit with the realization that even when you restart and destroy yourself, it will never be fucking enough for him.

Gosh, he could've at least acted better. Feigned care and faked affection, but he can't even give you that.

And you're so fucking done with his bullshit.

"I will not come with you anymore. Go alone." you muttered, turning in your heels and heading to the bedroom.

"What? Y/N, stop being a child."

"No, Hongjoong. I need you to stop being a know-it-all, go fuck yourself."

That was the first time you stood up for yourself, and damn did it feel good. Like you're finally free from his restraints, and it's addicting.

He rolls his eyes at you, muttering a 'Suit yourself.' and exiting the house, not even an ounce of concern at your sudden outburst, and that was all you needed to make a cathartic decision.

That was the day you left without a trace, and you can finally breathe without him cursing you into the darkness of being inadequate.

He blew your phone up, messaging and calling you, and you were disappointed when it ceased just after a day. It says a lot about him though, on how much of an asshole he is.

Especially after a mere three days and he's already posting a new bimbo in his social media accounts.

At the present time, you're tempted to spill the alcohol in his face and probably ruin his expensive suit.

How could you even believe him that he's serious, that he's not kidding when he made you feel like a clown.

You chuckle, staring straight ahead, "Did your new girl dump you or something?"

"No. I just realized that it's different, you know? If it's not with you then it doesn't feel right." he admits, looking down at his shoes because frankly, he is ashamed of gazing into your eyes.

You couldn't help but ridicule him, standing up from your seat and straightening your dress, shooting him a dangerous glare, "I told you this before, and I'd repeat it a thousand times."

You smile wickedly, flipping him off, "Go fuck yourself."

You walk away, not paying attention to his desperate calls, the polite facade is gone in the wind and the only thing that you could think of is that you're not gonna allow him to break your heart and soul anymore.

You have only started to regain your true self, not the image that he wanted you to have, and you'll be damned if you'll let him get inside your head again.

Kim Hongjoong was a lesson, one that you'll never forget and never forgive. Maybe you loved him too much, but at least you now know that if someone truly loves you, that person will accept you for who and what you are.

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