#kind of suggestive but at the same time not

[lunaritex]

𓏲࣪ ִֶָ ︎ִֶָ UNDER THE GLOVES 𖤐. — lee heeseung.

(๑>◡<๑) ৎ୭ lee heeseung + fem! reader co-workers to lovers office romance reader is part of the finance department brief appearances of the other members 𐙚 warning fighting, blood, violence, tooth-rotting fluff, confession, one kiss scene, someone save riki . . !? & 3930 — navigation

note. i like office romance and why not write something for the CFO aka lee heeseung haha... @riekiss

You let out a long and exhausted sigh, rubbing your temples as you looked away from the blinding screen of your computer. Hours had passed and you were still trying to figure out the solution for the problem you had encountered since eight in the morning. One glance at the time on the bottom right of the screen tells you it was close to five, which means you had wasted nearly the entire day wrecking your brain over a problem. You were tempted to slam your head against the desk, hoping the pain could make your brain cells come back to life. 

I need a break. 

Rubbing your eyes, you stood up and left your desk, heading to the pantry area to make a cup of much-needed coffee for yourself. You halted in your tracks when you realize someone was there before you. It was none other than the Chief Financial Officer of your company; Lee Heeseung. You remembered meeting him for the first time, back when you were still a newbie half a year ago. You remembered how you were practically trembling when your name was called and how you were instructed to see him in his office. 

Heeseung was not an intimidating person. You have seen how he interacts with his friends; Jay and Sunghoon. Both men were from different departments but they always had their lunch together and sometimes went drinking with other people who you do not recognize. However, a part of you finds him hard to talk to and if preferred, you would rather avoid him at all costs. You were not sure why you were acting this way. Perhaps it was due to your shyness or perhaps, it could be something more. 

“Oh, hi (Name), did you come here to catch a breather too?” Heeseung’s voice snapped you out of your trance. You blinked and saw your fellow co-worker leaning against the counter with a cup of freshly-brewed coffee held in his left hand. 

“Uh,” you opened and closed your mouth before regaining your composure, “yeah, I’ve been staring at the same sheet since morning and I’m nowhere done,” you sighed, entering the pantry to make a cup of coffee. 

The man gave you a sympathetic look as he took a sip from the paper cup. “That sounds rough, but I don’t mind helping you out. That is, if you don’t mind, of course.” 

You blinked, “A-Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to waste your time-” 

He dismissively waved off your response with his hand, “Nah, don’t worry about it. Besides, I don’t think helping a colleague out can be considered as wasting someone’s time. The sooner we get this done and over with, the sooner we can go home.” 

You knew he had a fair point with that and you ended up agreeing. The both of you returned to your desk and you watched as Heeseung sat on your chair, pulling himself forward to get a clearer look at the screen. You, on the other hand, stood behind him on his left, leaning against the wall that separates you from the other people seated around you. Since you were hidden from his view, this grants you the rare opportunity to stare at him.

It was with no doubt that Heeseung is attractive and you had seen how many women tried to woo him, be it during or after working hours. He is a gentleman who knows how to treat women right and not to mention, he is kind-hearted, friendly and the list goes on. Your eyes slowly trailed down his cheek outline and that was when you noticed it. 

A faint, tiny cut etched across his cheek, barely noticeable unless you looked closely. It was not the first time you had spotted something like this. A couple of weeks ago, it had been a bruise on his forearm, the yellowing edges suggesting it was healing. Before that, a small cut on his knuckles he brushed off as "nothing important." Each time, Heeseung had given you a vague response, quickly changing the subject or flashing his easygoing smile to disarm your curiosity. But this time, the suspicion gnawed at you a little harder.

Your gaze lingered on the faded mark, your mind racing with possibilities. Where did he keep getting these injuries? And why did he always seem so intent on hiding the truth behind them? As he straightened up and glanced at you with that ever-casual grin, you quickly looked away, pretending to focus on the computer screen. But the question had already planted itself firmly in your mind: What was Lee Heeseung hiding?

“...and that’s it. You just need to save it and you’re done for the day.” 

Heeseung’s voice snapped you back to reality. Blinking, you realized he had finished explaining and was looking at you expectantly. You felt embarrassed at how you were not listening to a single word he had said and you awkwardly cleared your throat. He sighed and light-heartedly rolled his eyes. 

“You weren’t listening, were you?” He questioned. 

“Uh, well,” you opened and closed your mouth, resembling a fish. The other chuckled and you regained your composure, feeling your ears heating up, “Sorry, I was lost in my own thoughts.” 

“It’s fine, I’m sure you must be tired. You can leave early if you want,” he proposed and you were about to protest but you were silenced when he raised his hand, stopping you as if he knew what you wanted to say. 

“And before you say anything, I insist. I’m your superior and the last thing I want is to find out one of my colleagues is forced to work overtime on a Friday. You should go home and rest,” his eyes softened, concern seeping into his voice. 

You ended up obeying him and you left the office, heading to the carpark where your car was parked. Once you got in and closed the door behind you, you let out an exhausted sigh as you leaned back into the seat, closing your eyes for a brief moment before reopening them. You started the engine, hearing the vehicle purring to life before driving home.

~ 

The second time you bumped into Heeseung was when you were trying to fix the printer. All you wanted was to print a few documents that you needed to compile together for the meeting today but just to your luck, the papers were stuck halfway. You sighed, kicking the printer in hopes of getting it to work despite knowing your attempt was futile. 

“(Name), why are you kicking the printer?” 

Jumping, you swirled around to see your superior looking at you, amused. You sheepishly scratched the back of your neck. “The papers I printed are stuck and I think the printer’s spoiled,” you replied, moving to the side when he drew closer. 

Heeseung hums, eyes focused on the machine. “Is that so? Let me take a look to see if I can help you with that.” 

“But-” You zipped your lips when he shot you a look and you allowed him to do as he pleased. 

He crouched near the printer, rolling his sleeves up as he fiddled with its inner mechanics, trying to resolve the problem. The soft glow of the overhead lights casts a gentle shadow across his face. As he shifts slightly, something catches your eye—a faint purplish mark peeking out along his jawline, just below his cheekbone.

Your brows furrow, the sight stirring a mix of curiosity and concern. It was not the first time you have noticed marks like this, and the coincidence feels too uncanny to ignore. This time however, you were determined to get answers. You cross your arms and step closer, tilting your head as you speak. 

“Heeseung,” you say, your tone carrying a hint of softness but also unmistakable firmness, “what happened to your jaw?”

Heeseung pauses, his fingers freezing mid-adjustment as if caught off guard. Slowly, he straightens up, brushing his hands off on his pants. His gaze flickers to you for a brief moment before darting away, his usual confidence replaced with a quiet hesitance.

“Oh, this?” He reaches up to touch the mark casually, almost as if just noticing it himself. A small, sheepish chuckle escaped his lips. “It’s nothing, really. I probably bumped into something—clumsy as always.”

But the way he avoids meeting your eyes, the slight delay in his response, feels off. You narrow your gaze, stepping a bit closer, determined not to let the matter drop so easily. 

“You bumped into something? Again?” you press, folding your arms tighter. “Heeseung, you’ve had a lot of these ‘accidents’ lately. What’s really going on?”

For a moment, he opens his mouth to respond, but then he hesitates, letting out a soft sigh. He scratches the back of his neck, his usual easy going demeanor faltering. “Look, it’s nothing serious, okay?” he finally says, his voice quieter now, almost defensive. “Just... drop it, alright?”

You frowned, getting annoyed with how he kept dodging your questioning but he had already left without saying another word. You remained where you were, watching his retreating figure until he was out of your sight. Sighing, you approached the printer and you noticed the documents you needed had been fully ejected from the printer. You grumbled a string of curses under your breath as you snatched them away, storming back to your seat and slammed it down on your desk. 

Bam! 

The sudden sound startled the people around you. Some gave you annoyed looks while some were curious, wondering what had happened to ruin your mood. Riki, who sat on your left, leaned back so his head was popping out. 

“You good?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. 

You looked at him and sighed, “No, I’m this close to losing my mind.” 

Your friend only flashed you a sympathetic look before returning to his task at hand. You took a sip of your now cold coffee, rearranged the documents and got back to work. 

Fine, if that’s how you want to play then two people can play that game. I’ll make sure I find out what you’re hiding, if that’s the last thing I do, Lee Heeseung. 

~

The rest of the week passed in a blink of an eye and it was finally Friday, much to your relief. It is a weekly routine for you to eat and drink with your small group of friends; Sunoo, Jungwon and Riki. The four of you graduated from the same college and to say you were surprised to see familiar faces in your company would be an understatement. You had finished packing, waiting for Riki who was ready to send his final email for the day before logging off. 

“So, where are we going tonight?” You asked, leaning back in your chair as you idly swayed side to side, legs outstretched before you. 

“Oh right, I forgot to tell you but there’s been a change of plans,” Riki answered, shutting down his laptop as he closes it before shoving it into his work bag. You stared at him, bemused and he continued, “Jungwon has invited us somewhere and we’re going there now.” 

You owlishly blinked your eyes. “Like right now?” 

“Yes right now,” Riki nodded, rising to his full height and dragged you out of your office. One moment you found yourself seated in his car and the very next moment, you found yourself standing before a pair of closed metal doors. 

The air was thick with the scent of sweat and adrenaline as you and Riki stepped cautiously into the dimly lit building. The door creaked shut behind you, its sound swallowed by the cacophony of voices and the rhythmic thud of gloves hitting flesh. Inside, the room was a stark contrast to the desolate streets outside.

It was alive—crowded with people of all kinds, from spectators yelling over the noise to fighters warming up in corners. Dim fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting an eerie glow over the chaotic scene. At the heart of it all was the boxing ring, its ropes frayed and canvas stained with years of battles fought and won.

As you tried to take it all in, your gaze wandered to the center of the ring. A match was already underway, the sound of rapid punches echoing through the room. It was not until the fighter ducked to avoid a hit, his sweat-dampened hair catching the light, that your breath caught in your throat.

It couldn’t be.

But it was.

Lee Heeseung—your superior, the same person who always seemed composed and meticulous at work—was in the middle of an intensive match. His usual buttoned-up demeanor was gone, replaced by a raw, almost primal intensity. His movements were sharp and calculated, each strike delivered with precision. Yet, even as he landed a clean hit on his opponent, his jawline bore faint bruises you now understood all too well.

“What the hell is he doing here?” you murmured, more to yourself than to Riki. 

You could not tear your eyes away from him, observing his movement as he delivers a final blow to his opponent, effectively knocking him out. The crowd went wild, cheering and yelling at the top of their lungs when Heeseung was announced as the winner. You saw how his eyes scanned the crowd and your heart stopped when they landed on you. He was stunned, not expecting to see you here and you looked away. 

The noise and heat of the boxing gym became too much, clawing at your chest like a vice. You turned abruptly, heart pounding, and pushed your way through the crowd. The voices around you blurred into a muffled roar as you stumbled out into the open, the cool night air hitting you like a slap to the face.

You kept walking, your steps uneven and aimless. The distant hum of streetlights and the faint echo of your own breathing filled the void left by the gym’s chaos. You didn’t know where you were going; you just needed to get away—to put as much distance as possible between yourself and the suffocating scene you’d just witnessed. But then, a sudden tug at your wrist stopped you in your tracks. Your body jerked backward slightly, and instinctively, you turned, your heart leaping to your throat.

It was Heeseung.

He stood there, chest rising and falling as he caught his breath, his face partially shadowed by the dim streetlights. Sweat clung to his skin, and his knuckles were faintly red—either from the match or the cold, you were not sure. His expression was unreadable, his dark eyes searching yours with an intensity that made you freeze.

“Why are you running?” he asked, his voice low and steady, but there was a crack in it—something vulnerable, almost desperate.

You opened your mouth to speak, but no words came out. The raw image of him in that ring—fighting with a kind of ferocity you didn’t think he was capable of—flashed in your mind, and a knot of emotion tightened in your chest.

“I—” You looked away, shaking your head as you tried to find the words. “I couldn’t... I just needed to get out of there. I didn’t know you—” You stopped, your voice trembling. “Why didn’t you tell me, Heeseung?”

His grip on your wrist loosened slightly, though he did not let go. “Because it’s not something I wanted you to know,” he admitted, his tone quiet but firm. “This... this part of me—it’s messy. Complicated.”

“Complicated?” you repeated, your voice rising in disbelief. “You’re risking your health, your safety, and for what? To keep it a secret?”

Heeseung’s jaw tightened, the flicker of defensiveness crossing his face. “It’s not about keeping it a secret,” he said sharply, then paused, exhaling slowly. “It’s... it’s how I deal with things. It’s something I need.”

You stared at him, the weight of his words sinking in. The Heeseung you thought you knew—the calm, collected superior—felt like a stranger in that moment. And yet, there was something raw, something achingly human in his vulnerability that you couldn’t ignore.

“But why didn’t you let me in?” you asked softly, your voice breaking. “You didn’t have to go through this alone.”

His gaze softened, and for a moment, he looked as though he might say something—something real. But instead, he let out a soft, bitter laugh and looked away. “Because I didn’t want you to see this side of me,” he murmured, almost to himself. Then his eyes met yours again, and there was something in them—guilt, maybe regret. “I didn’t want you to think less of me.”

Your frustration bubbled over, and you yanked your wrist free from his grasp, stepping back to put some space between you. The cold air stung your cheeks, but it was nothing compared to the sting of his words. 

“Think less of you?” you repeated, incredulous. “Are you serious right now, Heeseung? You’re out here throwing punches like your life depends on it, shutting people out, and you think that’s what would make me think less of you?” 

Heeseung flinched slightly at your tone, but you did not care. The words poured out before you could stop them, each one fueled by the flood of emotions you had been holding back. 

“You’re supposed to be this confident, composed guy who always has it together, but you’re human! You’re allowed to have flaws, to struggle, to need help! God, do you think I care if you’re messy or complicated?” 

“(Name)-” 

“I care about you, okay? I care about you so much that seeing you in that ring—seeing you like that—hurt more than I can even explain! And the fact that you didn’t trust me enough to let me in, to tell me what you were going through, makes me feel like I’m nothing more than just some... some coworker to you!”

You froze the moment the words left your mouth, realizing too late what you’d just said. The confession hung in the air, raw and unfiltered, as the world seemed to go silent around you. Heeseung’s eyes widened slightly, the shock evident on his face. His lips parted as if to say something, but no words came. For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of the streetlights and the distant buzz of the gym behind you.

“I—” you started, suddenly panicking, the weight of your vulnerability crashing down on you. “I didn’t mean—”

“Wait,” Heeseung cut you off, his voice soft but urgent as he stepped closer. His expression had shifted, the vulnerability you’d seen before now mixed with something else—something you couldn’t quite place.

“You... care about me?” he asked, his tone careful, as if testing the words.

Your heart raced, and you felt the heat creeping up your neck. You wanted to deny it, to brush it off, but the look in his eyes stopped you. It was a look that made you feel exposed but also strangely safe, like he was seeing all of you—the good, the bad, and everything in between—and wasn’t pulling away.

“Yes,” you admitted quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I do.”

Heeseung lets out a shaky breath, running a hand through his damp hair as a small smile tugged at his lips. “I don’t know how to say this right,” he began, his voice softer now, filled with hesitation. “But you’re... so much more to me than I think you realize. I’ve been scared—scared of what you’d think if you saw this side of me. Scared you’d look at me differently.”

Your chest tightened, but this time, it was not with frustration or hurt. It was something warmer, something that melted away the tension from before.

“I don’t care about that, Heeseung,” you said softly, your voice steady now. “I care about you. All of you. Messy, complicated, whatever. None of that changes how I feel.”

Heeseung blinked, his expression a mix of awe and relief, as if hearing those words for the first time lifted some invisible weight off his shoulders. His lips quirked into a small, genuine smile, one that reached his tired eyes.

“Why are you always so... amazing?” he muttered, almost to himself, as his hand hesitated in the space between you. Slowly, he raised it, brushing a strand of hair away from your face, his touch so gentle it made your heart flutter.

You let out a small laugh, feeling the tension dissolve into something light and tender. “Amazing? Says the guy who just beat someone to a pulp in a boxing ring.”

Heeseung chuckled, the sound soft and warm. “Yeah, well, that guy didn’t make me feel like my heart was going to explode every time I looked at him.”

Your cheeks burned at his words, and you playfully shoved his shoulder. “You’re such a dork, Lee Heeseung.”

“And you’re stuck with me now,” he teased, his grin widening, though his voice carried a hint of sincerity. The banter melted into silence as the both of you stood under the streetlights, the night air no longer feeling so cold. Then, as if drawn by some invisible force, Heeseung took another step closer, closing the gap between you.

“Can I...” He hesitated, his gaze flickering to your lips before meeting your eyes again. “Can I kiss you?”

Your heart skipped a beat, but you didn’t hesitate. “You better.”

A soft laugh escaped him before he leaned in, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that was equal parts gentle and fervent, like he’d been holding back for far too long. The world around you disappeared entirely, leaving only the warmth of his touch and the rapid beat of your heart. When you finally pulled away, Heeseung rested his forehead against yours, his smile so soft and tender it made your knees weak.

“I’m really glad you care about me,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin.

You grinned, your fingers lightly tracing the edge of his jawline. “I always will.”

~ 

The first person to find out about your relationship was Riki. The poor guy had gone to the pantry after coming to work at nine in the morning, only to drop his tumbler when he saw you and Heeseung making out in a public space. The horrified screech he let out made the both of you pulled away from one another, startled by his sudden appearance. You tried to pat down your hair but it was futile as Riki had unfortunately witnessed the whole scene. 

“Wait, Riki-” You called out. 

“Oh, Jungwon owns me lunch now,” he cackles like a maniac, bending down to pick up his tumbler. He was about to walk away when he turned to you. “Oh and congrats on your relationship but for God’s Sake, please do that nasty shit somewhere else.”

“RIKI!” You yelled, face turning as red as a tomato as he ran away while laughing. You sighed, turning to your superior who is also now your boyfriend, only to find him poorly hiding his laughter. 

“I didn’t know this is funny to you,” you deadpanned. 

“Sorry,” Heeseung coughs, running a hand through his unkempt hair. “Well, now that the cat’s out of the bag, how about we grab dinner tonight?” “Are you asking me out on a date?” You cocked your head to the side, grinning. 

“And what if it is?” He copies your action, resting one hand on your waist. 

“Then I accept but you’re paying, of course,” you replied, leaning in to press a kiss on the corner of his lips. 

“Anything for you.”

[essektheylyss]

My thing about Veth potentially venturing into polyamory is that I do think everyone involved would be perfectly fine with it and happy to help her experiment, and I think that no matter how they do it, it would not fix her. This isn't to say that she wouldn't get any benefit out of trying! It's just to say that it's not a solution to her actual problem, because I genuinely don't think the problem is that she's lacking any one thing that would make her life complete.

Fundamentally, I think Veth struggles with the idea that there will come a point at which she has to settle. Not in a bad way, just in the sense that she is one person with one life and she will have to live within those bounds. Because the thing is, I don't really think her issue ends at struggling to "have it all"; to an extent she does! She is a good parent, even if her kid is a little rebellious; her marriage is supportive (and has fun sex); she gets to go off to save the world with Yeza's blessing on occasion, when the world needs saving. She doesn't have all of these things all the time, but... that's not really a flaw, that's just a fact of life.

But she started out her adult life settling to an extent—even if she loved Yeza and loved being Luc's mom, she did the safe thing that was expected of her. The goblin attack and everything that transpired after shoved her out of that life, but in retrospect, to an extent it likely feels that that pushed her to find something more that she wouldn't have had otherwise. Being pushed to her limit under the worst conditions made her better, stronger, braver, and at the end of it she found that she could have both her original life and much of her new life—so why wouldn't she then wonder if further experiences of that ilk could do the same?

Crucially, she has not actually run up against a hard limit yet, and as such she hasn't had reason to believe that there is a point at which she has to stop and recognize that there isn't more for her to find. When she was drinking more heavily during missions, even when it caused the death of herself or others, there were no long-term consequences. And the thing is, I'm not saying that she should face that kind of major consequence, but she seems as though she is scared to accept that maybe she could be happy if she stopped before she does.

I'm also not suggesting that she should stop experimenting or trying new things—the Luxon knows I am not one to talk in that realm—but I do think she is searching for novelty not because that would make her happy, but because she doesn't believe that she has the capacity to know what would make her happy. She was unaware that polyamory was even an option, so think of what else she might not be aware of! She doesn't have perfect knowledge of the world, after all, so how can she trust that she's found what she really wants? So yeah, she could fuck someone else, and it might even be an enjoyable experience that she didn't know was missing! But that only prolongs the question of what else she might be missing.

I think that deep down, she's terrified that if she doesn't keep pushing until that external hard limit, she will end up with regrets later, and simultaneously she is resentful that her friends all seem to have reached a point where they are largely content with what they have, because she wants them to have everything. She wants herself to have everything. And she has not yet allowed herself to come to terms with the fact that only she can determine when the everything of what she already has is enough, and anything else is the cherry on top.

[ktownshizzle]

Friends & Fools | One-Shot

Pairing: Min Yoongi x female Reader

Summary: You and Yoongi have always been just friends—inseparable since childhood, roommates in the city, partners in navigating life’s chaos. At your high school reunion, the questions start: Are you two finally together? Uh, no. But as the night goes on, and Yoongi looks at you like that, hmm—has everyone else seen something you’ve been too scared to admit?

Genre: Fluff, Suggestive, non-idol!au, reunion!au, best friends & roommates to lovers, grumpy x grumpy, when reader is more yoongi than yoongi himself

Warnings: cursing, smoking cigarettes, kissing, allusion to sex

Word count: 2.8k

Posting date: November 26, 2024

Notes: This is a one-shot to celebrate my 500 followers milestone for the blog! Just a cute little something as a thank you making this writer happy. The story was inspired by two asks: 1) lovely anon who wanted to talk about Yoongi at Jimmy Fallon; 2) kookiewithluv who sent me the softest, smiliest, fluffiest d-day Yoongi photos that I just couldn’t help myself.

Enjoy, my lovelies~ 💕

Masterlist

MIN YOONGI 101 is a course you could’ve taught in school. It’s a subject matter you’ve mastered somewhere between the sandbox (when he was the kid hoarding plastic shovels in the playground) and the shoebox (the over-priced apartment that you both decided to rent together after uni).

It’s ‘cause you’ve always been good at watching him. You’ve picked up all his visual cues, his weird quirks, his tells.

Tonight is no different. From across the room, in the too-bright glare of your high school gym’s rented stage lights, you catch the tell-tale pinch of his brow, the mindless nodding that means he’s enduring yet another overly enthusiastic former classmate. Someone’s laughing too loud in his face, and he responds the same way he always does—with a small, polite smile and a glance at his drink like it’s his lifeline.

You’d know that look anywhere.

Yoongi catches your eye then, like he can feel your energy slicing through the crowd, and his lips twitch. The faintest ghost of a smirk, the kind he reserves just for you. He raises his glass, and you do the same from across the room. A silent message of we're too fucking sober to be in this joint.  He holds your gaze and you watch as he inadvertently inserts the straw up one nostril, giggling because that wouldn’t be the first time. He shakes his head and puts it back in his mouth for a sip.

It’s comforting, really. That tether between you and Yoongi.

Even if the two of you are apparently the only ones here who don’t see what everyone else does.

You are standing by the endlessly classy boxed wine on the buffet table, watching your old classmates get progressively tipsier under dim lighting. Yoongi stands next to you, unabashedly drinking whiskey straight from his flask. He looks real sharp in a tailored blazer, with a casual t-shirt underneath, mumbling earlier that day how he cannot be arsed to fiddle with a necktie, even though it’s always you who has been fixing it for job interviews, funerals, formal occasions etc. for him for the past years. Secretly you think he knew that wearing that t-shirt actually just made him look effortlessly cool.

Someone from across the room waves, and you recognize it to be Hyorin, your former lab partner who was also a cheerleader or something, making her way toward you. “Oh my God, you two!” she exclaims, beaming. “You finally got together, huh?”

Yoongi chokes on his drink, and you nearly drop your solo.

“Nooo,” Yoongi drawls, dragging the word out with a mix of disbelief and amusement.

Hyorin frowns, tilting her head. “Wait. You’re not a couple?”

You both shake your heads so emphatically it looked rehearsed. 

“Nope,” you say, popping the P.

“Not even fucking?”

The audacity of this chick, though?

“Not even close,” Yoongi answers, but his voice sounded oddly tight. 

Hyorin gives you both a skeptical once-over before laughing. “Okay, sure. Whatever you guys say.” She leaves, shaking her head like you’ve just told her the earth is flat, didn’t you know that?

They’re really starting to piss you off, ngl.

“Okay, but seriously,” Jihyo, who was in the band with you and one of the few people you’ve kept some form of contact with (hence can tolerate), hisses. “You’re really still not together?”

It was your turn to choke on your drink. “Hajimaaa! Why does everyone keep asking me that? Y’all wanna shoot your shot with Yoongi, go! I don’t give a fuck.”

Jihyo gives you a look like you’re the most oblivious person on earth. “This is exactly why I think you’re into him. Not everyone wants to date him, girl. We’re just curious about you two.”

“I—fuck you, actually. Give me one good reason why you think we’re a… thing.”

“Because you and Yoongi have been attached at the hip since we were all kids? Because you practically morphed into the same person? Because he’s literally looked at you the same way since he had that awful mushroom cut in fourth grade?”

“It wasn’t a mushroom cut. It was…” You cringe. “Yeah, it was a mushroom cut.”

You both giggle, then she asks, swirling the remains of her wine. “But seriously. Everyone thought you finally figured it out. You two moved in together a couple of months ago, no?”

“Yeah, because rent’s insane, I hate people, and he hates people, so we’re perfect roommates.”

Jihyo raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Mmhmm. Roommates. Sure.”

You roll your eyes, but the words stick with you as the night drags on, looping in your head as more classmates approach with the same comments. It’s exhausting. You’re about to grab your coat and drag Yoongi out of here when you feel a familiar figure at your side.

“You okay?” Yoongi asks, voice low, his shoulder brushing yours. 

“I’m fine,” you sigh. “Just… everyone keeps asking why we’re not dating.”

Yoongi scoffs, his tongue clicking against his teeth. “What’d you tell ‘em?”

“The truth.”

He smirks again, but it’s sharper this time, laced with something you can’t quite name. “And what’s that?”

“That you’re a chronically unavailable workaholic and are too emotionally constipated to be anyone’s boyfriend.”

He huffs a laugh, shoulders bobbing. “Ouch,” he says, but his eyes are soft, the way they get when he looks at you sometimes, warm and wistful.

You look away first, clearing your throat, suddenly remembering what Jihyo said about how he looks at you. “Well, you’re not exactly ideal boyfriend material.”

Yoongi shrugs, mouth forming a straight line. “Fair.”

Anyway, you know you’re no dream girl, either. He is just way too soft for you to say it to your face.

Between the two of you, your combined dating history looks like a collection of UN flags, except they’re all red. 

Him with his too-whiny, needy bitches, who have far too high expectations of him and he is just not the guy to validate their feelings 24 fucking 7. He has things to do (produce) and places to be (his studio).

And you, with your love bombers and commitment-phobes that have got you questioning if there’s something wrong with you because they always lose interest down the line. (Yoongi says they're all assholes btw, and you are inclined to believe him, despite lingering self-doubt.)

You always joked that no one else understood either of you the way you understood each other.

But aren’t jokes half-meant?

By the time the reunion starts winding down, you’re tipsy enough that the edges of the night feel soft and fuzzy. You’re outside, leaning against the brick wall of the building with Yoongi, his jacket draped over your shoulders because he’s simply gentlemanly like that. Raised well by his eomma who you equally adore.

“You didn’t have to stay this long,” he says, lighting a cigarette.

You watch the glow of it as he inhales, the faint tremble of his fingers in the cold. “Neither did you.”

He shrugs, exhaling a thin ribbon of smoke. “I wasn’t gonna let you suffer alone.”

Something warm pools in your chest. “Thanks. And, same.”

The quiet stretches between you, the kind of comfortable silence only Yoongi can manage. It’s strange how natural it feels, just existing with him like this. Like it’s enough.

You gesture to the stick, then he slowly brings it to your lips.

You exhale the smoke as you tilt your head back to look at the stars—or what few stars there are on this cloudy night—and ask the question that’s been sitting heavy on your tongue all night.

“Why do you think everyone assumes we’re together?”

Yoongi doesn’t answer right away, but you can feel the heaviness of his gaze on you like it’s settling on your shoulders.

“I dunno,” he says eventually, voice quiet. “Maybe because we act like we are.”

Hol’ up. “What do you mean?”

He takes another drag of his cigarette, exhaling slow. “I mean… we know each other better than anyone else. We live together. Spend all our time together. Maybe they think it just makes sense.”

Your heart stutters. “Does it?”

Yoongi stills, blinks like he’s trying to suss out where you’re going with this. “What’s up with you?”

“I don’t know,” you admit, your voice teeny-tiny. “Just… do you ever think maybe we’ve been—”

“Idiots?” he cuts in, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

You laugh, but it’s shaky. “Yeah. That.”

Yoongi looks at you then, really looks at you, and you feel like the ground might give out beneath you. There’s something in his expression, something raw and vulnerable and scared. Like he’s standing on the edge of something, just waiting for you to push him over.

“Sometimes,” he says finally, his voice rough.

It’s not an admission, not exactly, but it’s enough to make your pulse race.

“Yoongi,” you start, but the words catch in your throat.

He snuffs the cigarette against the wall and tosses it towards the can. Then, he steps closer, close enough that you can see the faint moles on his face, the curve of his lashes as he blinks down at you.

“You wanna go home?” he asks, his voice softer now, almost hesitant.

You know what he’s really asking.

You say yes.

The walk to the subway station is quiet. Tense.

The back of his hand brushes yours as you walk along the sidewalk, and neither of you moves away.

The subway ride back to your apartment is also quiet. Tense.

Yoongi doesn’t say much, but his knee brushes yours every time the train sways, and neither of you moves away. 

By the time you’re back in your apartment, your brain is mushy and your head feels like it’s about to explode as you keep rewinding and replaying the events of the night, every classmate that alluded to your relationship, his lingering glance, sharing the cigarette, every half-formed word between you... Fuck.

Yoongi kicks off his shoes by the door, pushing it under the rack. You stand there awkwardly, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on you.

“Tea?” he asks, already moving toward the kitchen.

“No.” Your voice comes out too abrupt, too sharp, and he freezes.

He turns slowly, eyes searching yours. “You ok?”

“No.” You take a deep breath, your heart pounding. “I think we’ve been avoiding this for a long time.”

Yoongi blinks, but you know he is just pretending not to understand what you meant. “Avoiding what?”

“This,” you say, gesturing between you. “Us.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then— “Mm.”

Mm. That’s all he says, like you haven’t just dropped a bomb in the middle of your tiny living room.

“Yoongi,” you say, stepping closer. “Do you—”

“Yeah,” he interrupts, nodding as he bites down on his lower lip. “I do.”

The air shifts between you, and suddenly you’re not sure who moves first, but then his warm hands are on your face and your fingers are tangled in his shirt and his mouth is on yours, and—

Oh.

Damn.

His lips are softer than you imagined—not that you spent countless late nights pining, but if you had, this would surpass every hypothetical. He kisses like he does everything else: deliberate, unhurried, sure. His hands slide down from your face to rest on your waist.

The sigh that slips from your lips is involuntary, but it’s enough for him to push further. His tongue brushes against your bottom lip, coaxing you open, and when he deepens the kiss, tasting you, it uncoils the knot that’s been tight in your belly all night. Yoongi tastes faintly like whiskey, like cigarettes, and something else so distinctly him and you’re endlessly intoxicated.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, nails grazing the nape of his neck, and the low, guttural noise he makes in response sends a shockwave through you. Heat settles in your core, spreading with an intensity that takes you by surprise. Because omg–this is not some hot stranger you met at a bar. This is your goddamn best friend, whose hand is now dangerously encroaching on the swell of your ass.

You hadn’t expected this—not the kiss, not the pleasure, not the way he makes you feel like you’re in some version of paradise.

You’re melting with every curl of his tongue, every shift in the way his lips move against yours. It’s the kind of intimacy that makes the rest of the world fall away, until the only thing you’re aware of is the feel of him—his warmth, his certainty, the way he kisses like he already knows this is how it should’ve been in the first place–a sureness you hadn’t expected. 

It’s not just passion—it’s belonging, the sense that every piece of you slots perfectly into place with him. Like the years of laughter, arguments, and everything in between have all been leading here. His hands now circling your waist feel steady, like they’ve always known where to hold you even though this is the very first time. 

And in that moment, kissing Yoongi feels like coming home—warm, certain, complete. A place you hadn’t known you were searching for, because you’ve always been with him, and now you can’t imagine ever leaving.

When you finally pull away, his lips are swollen, and his eyes are a bit moist, blinking blankly like he can’t fathom what just happened. His arms loosen their hold on you, just a bit, and suddenly, you can see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

And for a second, your stomach churns, worried that the wheels in his head are turning and it’s telling him that this was not it.

Finally he speaks. “Was that weird?” 

You huff out a breath, a cross between a chuckle and a sigh of relief, because God. Yoongi could be pressed against you, breathless and flushed, and he’d still overthink. You really belong together.

“Not weird,” you say softly, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “Weirdly perfect, maybe.”

He exhales sharply, relief flooding his features. “Fuck, okay. Good. Because if it sucked for you, I’d have to move out. And in this economy???”

You swat his chest, laughing again, but then his arms tighten around you again, holding you close, and the teasing fades into something softer. It’s not lost on you that this is the longest you’ve ever touched each other. Two socially awkward fools who are secretly touch-starved now finally getting what they’ve been craving for but have been too shy to admit it.

“Seriously, though,” he says, a lopsided grin decorating his lips. “What happens next?”

You tilt your head, pretending to think. “Hmm. You could still make tea if you want?”

He groans, his head dropping to your shoulder. “You’re the worst.”

"Or…" you say, sliding your hands across his chest, your fingers lingering just enough to feel his breath hitch beneath your touch. You push his blazer off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor with a soft thud. "We could… you know."

Yoongi lifts his head, and the look in his eyes makes your heart trip over itself. There’s heat there, sure, but beneath it lies something deeper, something that feels vulnerable. "Are we really doing this?"

And you know what he means. Because again, you know Min Yoongi inside out. And he’s known you. But now you’re ready to bare everything that’s left to discover.

"I’ve never been more sure of anything," you say, your voice steady in a way that surprises even you.

His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek, his last bit of hesitation melting away as he nods.

You step back, your movements slow, deliberate. Turning away from him, you reach for the straps of your dress and slide them down your shoulders, feeling the fabric loosen as you take a few steps toward his room. You glance back over your shoulder, a smirk tugging at your lips. "Are you coming?"

He grins, gummy and warm, and it’s so achingly Yoongi that your chest tightens. "I would hope so…"

You roll your eyes stifling a laugh, because he’s stupid, because he’s him. And because you’ve never loved (wait... what?) anyone more in your entire life. "C’mere then," you tease, the words soft, daring, as your dress slips to the floor and pools around your ankles.

He breathes out, a sound that’s almost a laugh, almost disbelief. "Okay," he says, his voice low, quiet, like he’s agreeing to something more than just this moment.

And maybe he is. Maybe this is the easiest thing in the world, the most inevitable thing that’s ever happened to either of you.

And now, finally, you’re both ready to admit it.

:)

A/N: EEEEKKKK Please tell me what you thought about the story! I'd appreciate feedback if you loved it, hated it, and if it made you feel a certain way.

Thank you for reading this you lovely, beautiful human xo 

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[p0orbaby]

Why Do I Give You the Worst of Me (1)

summary: love and bad decisions collide as you struggle to balance a tour and a relationship that’s spiraling out of control

warnings: 18+ adult themes throughout

a/n: another series i’m hoping i don’t regret committing myself to… not sure how many parts it’ll be, i don’t plan anything

word count: 3.1k

-

You wake up face-first on a sofa that smells like cigarettes, spilled beer, and faintly, vomit. Not yours, you think. The synthetic fabric is scratchy against your cheek, and when you open your eyes, it takes a moment to realise it’s morning—sunlight cutting through the cracked blinds, striping the floor with dusty light. The sofa is mustard yellow, ugly in a deliberate, trying-too-hard-to-be-retro way. It doesn’t belong to you. Nothing in this flat belongs to you.

There’s a girl in the kitchen, humming softly to herself as she pours cereal into a bowl. You don’t know her name, but you know she wears Chanel No. 5 because it’s all you could smell last night when she leaned too close, whispering something you didn’t quite catch. Her hair’s a mess now—like spun gold caught in a tangle of barbed wire—but her makeup is still pristine. She’s the kind who sets her eyeliner with setting spray before going out, even if it’s just to the pub. You admire the commitment, if not the execution.

Your head throbs—a deep, insistent ache behind your eyes that reminds you of last night in bits and pieces: the gig (decent, though the sound guy fucked up your monitor levels), the afterparty (loud, sweaty, a haze of bodies and smoke), the lines of coke on a chipped coffee table, the bartender who kept giving you free shots because he recognised you from that NME interview last month. At some point, someone tried to fight you, though you’re not sure why. You vaguely remember smashing a bottle of tequila against a wall and laughing as glass shards rained down like confetti.

You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling, which is peeling in a way that suggests years of neglect, a building held together more by stubbornness than actual structural integrity. There’s a stain in the corner that looks suspiciously like mould, but you don’t care enough to investigate. The flat isn’t yours, after all. You were invited here by someone whose name escapes you now—a bassist from another band, or maybe it was their girlfriend? They’re gone this morning, anyway, leaving behind only the detritus of a night well-lived: empty bottles, crushed cigarette packets, a single black stiletto abandoned near the door like a fairy-tale gone wrong.

You light a cigarette, despite the pounding in your head and the fact that you’re pretty sure it’s technically illegal to smoke indoors here. The girl in the kitchen glances at you but doesn’t say anything. You’re not sure if she’s annoyed or indifferent; you don’t care. The smoke curls lazily toward the ceiling, and for a moment, you let yourself enjoy the quiet. Mornings like this are rare—where everything is still and soft, where the chaos of your life is temporarily held at bay by the thin walls of someone else’s flat.

Your bass is propped up against the armchair, scratched and battered in a way that tells a story if you care to look closely enough. It’s a Fender Precision, black with a white pickguard, the same model Sid Vicious used to play—not that you’d ever admit that’s why you bought it. The neck has a gouge near the third fret from when you threw it at a sound tech who deserved it (and missed). The strap is leather, worn smooth where it rests on your shoulder, and the bridge still has flecks of blood from the time you played so hard your fingers split open mid-song. You keep meaning to clean it, but you never do.

You check your phone, which is cracked and sticky with something you don’t want to identify. No new messages, except for a text from your drummer that reads: “u alive?” You don’t bother replying.

-

You’ve been in the band for five years now, though it feels longer. It started as a joke—a group of friends fucking around in someone’s garage, trying to see who could play the loudest, the fastest, the most obnoxious. Somewhere along the way, it became serious. There was a DIY EP, recorded in one manic weekend on borrowed gear, and a string of gigs in dingy pubs where the audiences were more interested in drinking than listening. Then came the break—a slot supporting a bigger band, one of those industry darlings who’d already started to hate themselves for selling out. The kind of band that wears matching outfits ironically, even though everyone knows it’s not ironic at all.

Now, you play sold-out shows to crowds who scream your lyrics back at you, though most of them probably couldn’t name your second album. Your face has been on the cover of Kerrang! twice, though you didn’t bother reading the articles. You hate interviews, but you do them anyway because your manager insists. You’re better at the photoshoots—smirking at the camera in a way that suggests you don’t care (you do).

The band is your life, though you wouldn’t call it that. Calling it your life makes it sound like you have some sort of plan, and you don’t. You’re just here, playing gigs and writing songs and doing whatever it takes to keep the wheels from falling off.

Your bandmates are a mixed bag of personalities, each one a walking caricature in their own way. There’s Matt, the drummer, who swears he’s been abducted by aliens and won’t shut up about it. Alex, the lead guitarist, is constantly high and insists on bringing his cat on tour, which you find deeply annoying. And then there’s Holly, the singer, who somehow manages to be both the most chaotic and the most responsible member of the group. She’s the one who organises rehearsals, books the studio time, and keeps you all from self-destructing entirely. You love her for it, even if you’d never say it out loud.

The girl in the kitchen finishes her cereal, rinses the bowl, and leaves without saying goodbye. You watch her go, not because you care but because there’s nothing else to do. When the door slams shut, the flat feels even smaller, like the walls are pressing in on you. You stub out your cigarette, grab your bass, and leave too.

-

Outside, London is already alive, though you wouldn’t call it awake. The streets are sticky from last night—spilled pints and kebab wrappers crushed into the pavement, cigarette butts floating in puddles of something that smells suspiciously like piss. The air has that distinct urban flavour: exhaust fumes mingling with fryer grease and the faint tang of wet concrete. You pull your leather jacket tighter around you, not because it’s cold (it is), but because it completes the look.

The jacket is vintage—or at least you tell people it is. In reality, you bought it at a high-street shop three years ago, and it’s held up surprisingly well, considering the abuse it’s endured. The lining is torn, the cuffs are frayed, and there’s a mysterious stain on the back you can’t quite place. But it’s yours, and it feels like armour. The boots, on the other hand, are real vintage: a pair of Dr Martens from the ‘90s you found in a thrift shop in Brighton. They’re scuffed to hell, and the left one squeaks when you walk, but you refuse to replace them because they’re authentic.

You head toward the Tube station, your bass slung over one shoulder like a soldier carrying a rifle. People stare, but only briefly. In London, no one has the energy to care for long. The morning commuters are a mix of suits and students, their faces blank, their eyes glazed over as they clutch takeaway coffees in one hand and their phones in the other. You feel out of place but also weirdly superior, like you’ve cracked some code they haven’t even realised exists yet.

You hop on the Northern line, ignoring the signs that politely request passengers to “refrain from eating or drinking.” You’re not eating or drinking, but you do pull out a cigarette, which is arguably worse. It’s a roll-up, so you convince yourself it doesn’t count. An old woman glares at you, clutching her handbag like she thinks you’re about to mug her. You offer her a crooked smile, which she does not return, and you put the cigarette back in your pocket because she reminds you of your nan.

The train screeches into motion, and you pull out your phone. The lock screen is a photo of your bass, which says a lot about you. There are a few notifications—mostly spam emails and an unread message from Holly: Rehearsal at 2. Don’t be late, dickhead.

You glance at the time. 11:47 a.m. Plenty of time.

-

The rehearsal space is in Camden, a dingy basement that smells of mildew and unwashed socks. The walls are lined with egg cartons painted black in a half-hearted attempt at soundproofing, and the floor is sticky for reasons you’d rather not think about. The room has seen better days—probably in the ‘80s, when it was still a nightclub and not a haven for struggling musicians. There’s a single fluorescent bulb overhead that flickers ominously, and a space heater in the corner that’s never worked.

Holly is already there when you arrive, tuning her guitar with the precision of someone who takes this far more seriously than you do. She’s wearing a denim jacket covered in patches for bands you’ve never heard of, her hair tied back in a messy ponytail. She looks up as you walk in, her expression equal parts exasperation and relief.

“Christ, you smell like an ashtray,” she says, wrinkling her nose.

“It’s called branding,” you reply, dropping your bass onto the floor with a thud.

Matt and Alex show up ten minutes later, looking even worse than you do. Matt has the kind of face that always looks slightly hungover, even when he’s not, and Alex is wearing the same shirt he wore yesterday, now with an impressive new stain across the front.

The rehearsal starts late, as it always does, and quickly descends into chaos. Matt insists on playing a drum solo during every song, despite the fact that no one asked for it. Alex keeps stopping mid-riff to check his phone, claiming he’s “waiting for an important call,” though everyone knows it’s just his dealer. Holly shouts at both of them until her voice cracks, then turns her frustration on you for being “completely fucking useless.” You take it in stride, plucking random notes on your bass and pretending to care.

-

At some point, Holly storms out, leaving the three of you to your own devices. Matt immediately pulls out a joint, which Alex lights with a lighter shaped like a naked woman. You lean back against the wall, your bass resting against your thigh, and watch as they argue over which fast-food place to hit up after rehearsal.

“McDonald’s is closer,” Alex says, taking a drag.

“But KFC’s got the gravy,” Matt counters, waving his arms for emphasis.

“It’s not even real gravy,” Alex snaps.

“None of it’s real,” you interject, flicking ash onto the floor. “We’re all just cogs in the capitalist machine.”

They stare at you for a moment, then go back to arguing.

-

By the time rehearsal ends, it’s dark outside. You pack up your gear, ignoring Holly’s death glare as she reminds you for the millionth time that you need to take this more seriously. You nod, mumble something about “artistic integrity,” and leave before she can yell at you again.

Back on the street, the air is crisp, the kind of cold that bites at your skin and makes you wish you’d brought a scarf. You light another cigarette, even though you’ve already smoked half a pack today, and head toward the pub.

The pub is your sanctuary, a place where time slows down and the only thing that matters is the next round. It’s a dive, the kind of place where the carpet sticks to your shoes and the jukebox is permanently stuck on a rotation of The Clash and The Smiths. You know the bartender by name, though you’re not sure if he knows yours.

You order a pint and settle into a corner booth, your bass case propped up beside you. The first sip is like a warm hug, washing away the stress of the day. You’re halfway through your second pint when you see her.

-

You don’t notice her at first. Not properly. She’s part of the blur—the dim bar lights catching on glasses, the low hum of half-drunken conversation, the vague sense that you’ve been here before even if you haven’t. She’s leaning against the counter, waiting for her drink, and it’s not until the bartender—a man whose name might be Pete but who you’re pretty sure is just “Oi, mate” to everyone who comes in—hands her a gin and tonic that you actually see her.

And it’s a gin and tonic. Not a lager, not a rum and coke, not something ironic like a snakebite or one of those craft beers with names like Hops and Robbers. It’s a G&T, clean and crisp, with a slice of lime balanced on the rim like it’s posing for a stock photo. The glass is crystal clear, and so are her nails—short, practical, painted the sort of soft pink that suggests she doesn’t chew them during stressful moments (unlike you). She takes the drink with both hands, like she’s steadying herself, and there’s something about that—the deliberateness of it—that hooks you.

You tell yourself you’re just looking because she’s there. Because it’s either her or the guy at the next table who’s been droning on about Bitcoin for twenty minutes straight. But it’s more than that. There’s a stillness to her, an odd kind of clarity that doesn’t fit in a place like this, like she’s wandered in from a parallel universe.

She turns slightly, and you catch her profile: sharp nose, strong jawline, cheekbones that could cut glass but probably wouldn’t because she seems far too polite. Her hair is blonde—not platinum, not peroxide, but the kind of natural gold that makes you think of expensive shampoo and childhood summers. It’s tied back loosely, wisps framing her face in a way that seems accidental but probably isn’t.

She’s not wearing makeup. Or maybe she is, but it’s the invisible kind—the kind that takes forty-five minutes to apply but looks like you’ve just rolled out of bed looking flawless. Her jumper is navy, oversized enough to suggest she might have nicked it from someone else’s wardrobe, paired with jeans that sit perfectly at her hips without being skinny. On her feet are white trainers—clean, like freshly ironed bedsheets—Adidas, the classic three stripes in black, laces tied neatly, no fraying ends.

You’re staring. You know you are. But she hasn’t noticed, so it doesn’t count.

The bartender mutters something to her, and she laughs. Not the loud, performative laugh you hear from most people in bars, but something softer, like it’s meant for her and her alone. The sound is so out of place in this dingy pub that it feels almost sacrilegious, like someone’s brought a cathedral choir to sing in a nightclub.

You tell yourself to look away. You don’t.

Instead, you light a cigarette, even though the pub is strictly non-smoking. You do it for the aesthetic, the same way you do most things. There’s a half-empty pint in front of you—lager, flat and warm, probably with someone else’s fingerprints on the glass—but you take a sip anyway, because what else are you going to do?

She turns then, her gaze sweeping the room, and you’re caught like a deer in headlights. For a second, you think she’s looking at you, but she’s not. She’s looking past you, at the dartboard on the wall behind your head. Her expression is curious, like she’s trying to figure out why anyone would bother playing darts in a place like this.

Then her eyes meet yours, and the world tilts.

It’s not love at first sight, not really. Love at first sight is for Disney films and Hallmark cards and people who shop at Waitrose without looking at the prices. This is something else. Recognition, maybe. Like you’ve seen her before in a dream or a half-remembered story someone told you once. Like you’ve spent your whole life waiting for this moment without knowing it.

She holds your gaze for a second longer than is polite. Then she looks away, back at her gin and tonic, and you realise you’ve been holding your breath.

-

You don’t approach her right away. That would be too obvious, too predictable. Instead, you wait, watching her out of the corner of your eye while pretending to scroll through your phone. It’s a shitty phone, cracked and outdated, but you’ve never bothered upgrading because you secretly enjoy the low expectations it sets. No one looks at you and expects success when your phone screen is held together with Sellotape.

She moves to a table in the corner, near the radiator, and sits down alone. No book, no laptop, no visible excuse to be here other than the gin and tonic in her hand. She sips it slowly, methodically, like she’s savouring it. Like she’s savouring this.

You wonder what her story is.

Is she waiting for someone? A friend, a boyfriend, a clandestine meeting with a lover? Or is she just one of those people who can sit alone in public without feeling like a target? You’ve never understood that kind of confidence—the kind that lets you exist without an audience, without a role to play.

You take another sip of your pint, then decide, fuck it.

You stand, grab your bass (because leaving it behind would feel like abandoning a child), and make your way across the room. Your boots squeak against the sticky floor, and you curse them under your breath. She looks up as you approach, her expression unreadable.

“Mind if I join you?” you ask, gesturing vaguely at the empty chair across from her.

She hesitates, just for a moment, then nods.

“Sure.”

Her voice is soft, but not shy. Measured. Like she’s weighing every word before she says it.

You sit, placing your bass case carefully against the table leg. For a moment, neither of you speaks. You’re not sure what to say, and she seems content to let the silence stretch. It’s not uncomfortable, exactly, but it’s not easy, either.

Finally, she breaks it.

“You’re in a band,” she says, nodding toward the bass. It’s not a question.

You smile. “Yeah. What gave it away?”

She raises an eyebrow, and you realise it’s a stupid question.

“What’s the band called?”

You tell her, and she nods, like she’s vaguely heard of it but couldn’t name a single song.

“I’m Alessia,” she says, holding out her hand. Her grip is firm, her skin warm.

“Nice to meet you,” you reply, and for the first time in a long time, you actually mean it.

[antimonyandthyme]

2k, paul/carlos

(written after the c2 / paul vid, and this post came out with the brilliant @formulahs suggesting an auction LMAO)

He goes without the expectation of buying anything. He looks forward to a good time, even with all the cameras around. The shoes his stylist wants him to go in are fanciful, shiny monstrosities, and he nearly insists for the sneakers to stay on. Then he remembers that he’s technically there for Ferrari, and dutifully swaps them out.

Technically. Paul can go for other reasons too. Charles is lovely, if a little vacant around him. Carlos is. Carlos is, he’s—

It’s early days and Paul isn’t one for poetry, and yet here he is. He hopes to god he isn’t being obvious. Not to the staff when he spots Carlos and lights up like a schoolboy with a crush. Not to Charles, when he holds on to Carlos for a handshake that’s a little longer than necessary. Definitely not obvious to whoever watches these videos, when he mouths all of the answers to Carlos.

Can’t deny having a favourite. He can turn his nose up all he wants at the reputation that follows any young actor these days, but he can’t deny his appreciation for nice things. There are no trophies in his world—yet, just good food, good drink, good people. Beautiful people. For the third time since they rolled cameras, Paul is caught staring. Carlos always looks slightly lost, staring back, like he’s trying to figure Paul out, before he ducks his head and curls up. Large hands clasped in his lap. Maybe a little shy. Maybe a little pleased.

“He’s a little expensive,” Charles says, “but you should be able to afford him.”

Paul attempts to tamper his face into something palatable. Ungracious of Charles to lay out his desires so plainly. And then in the same breath insinuate that his ability to pay might not stack up. Somewhere past Paul’s eyeline, Carlos is returning his mic to the staff with a relieved smile. Unpacking his spine into something looser, now that the cameras are off. He tips his head at Paul, eyes inquisitive, as if guessing that they were discussing him.

Paul has to look away, guilty.

“I didn’t plan on buying,” he says. It’s the truth. Mostly. In his defense, it wasn’t like Ferrari were being subtle about shoving them in a room together, especially after they made this tradition known. It’s like asking someone not to think of elephants. On command, a safari blooms open in Paul’s mind.

Charles shrugs. “We’ll have another event later. Someone else probably will.”

The flippant way Charles speaks about it grates against Paul’s skin. He can’t tell if Charles is trying to rile him up. The thought of Carlos having to hang off a faceless person’s arm makes distaste churn so violently in his belly that it manifests into an ache.

“Carlos wouldn’t mind, if it’s you.”

“How would you know,” Paul grits out. The mental fidget spinner he has for Charles keeps going around in circles, flickering from Empty to Dickhead to Helpful, maybe?

“Ah, he’s used to it no? People looking at him like that.” Charles’s voice dips low, like he’s sharing a secret. Paul’s an actor for fuck’s sake. He knows when someone’s selling him something, a mediocre contract, a shitty line. Still, he can’t help leaning in closer, puts his ear right next to Charles’s mouth.

Further away, Carlos’s mouth twists down, his gaze shutters. Just a minute, baby, Paul wants to tell him. Just—give me a minute.

“He looks back, when it’s you,” Charles says, and Paul’s done convincing himself otherwise.

--

They tell him, in one of the most bewildering conversations Paul’s ever had, that Carlos will be delivered in the evening, at whatever time suits Paul best. Delivered, like he’s some kind of package. What the fuck, sings one part of his brain. What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what have you just done. The other part, the part that’s mostly primitive and hedonistic, somehow takes charge and sends him off on multiple errands. He gets his hair trimmed, just a little at the sides. He buys some wine. He changes into the sneakers. He considers getting another tattoo, before he snaps himself out of it.

Poetry and tattoos. Paul’s lost his mind.

The time in between gives him room to vacillate between wanting to feed the open maw within him and growing shamefully aware about the shape of his yearning. He hadn’t realized he had enough space within his ribcage to stuff another man entire. There are so many other ways he could have gone about this. But he doesn’t have Carlos’s number. He can’t text. Even if he could, Paul wouldn’t know what to say.

Tick tock, tick tock. Paul rearranges furniture, door dashes some flowers, after spending half an hour reading up on flower language, interspersed with vapid scrolling of his socials. Tick tock.

By the time Carlos arrives, he’s in a bit of a wreck. People who move in Carlos’s world would certainly be familiar with Ferrari’s clauses, and would know how to act. The muted greeting Carlos gives doesn’t help either. He’s dressed up but down, in a plain, almost translucent shirt that leaves little to imagination. He toes off his shoes with an unconscious gracefulness, and comes to stand in front of Paul. He’s waxed, which Paul knows, just from being so close to him this afternoon, had to have happened in that space where Paul was questioning all his life choices. He looks wonderful, except for the fact that he looks so visibly uncomfortable.

“Do you,” Paul starts. Swallowing around the dry lump in his throat. “Do you want something to drink?”

Carlos fidgets. “If you’d like,” he says.

That’s, ow.

They’d assured him, again and again, that Carlos always had the final say, but his teeth are buried in his lower lip, hard enough to blanch, and his toes dig into the carpet like a lifeline. It’s not like Paul’s hung out with Carlos more than a handful of times, but it’s hard to ever picture him in such distress. Carlos is—larger, than what he’d ever seen on screen. You have to witness him in person, to understand.

Faced with this shrunken version of Carlos, Paul can’t bring himself to continue.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks. “I really am. I assumed you’d want—I’m sorry.”

Carlos flinches, jerks his head up. “Wait.”

“It’s alright,” Paul says. “You don’t have to, if you don’t want to. You could just leave. I won’t tell anyone.”

“Wait,” Carlos says, more urgently. “I don’t want to—” His voice grows small. “Do you want me to leave?”

“Of course not,” Paul nearly yelps. “But you’re. You’re…”

Carlos’s cheeks are very pink. His toes tap an erratic beat on the floor. His hands are clasped in front of him, almost in supplication.

“You’re nervous!”

“Yes!” Carlos blurts out, before looking very mortified. “I’m. Ah, fuck. Paul, I’m never. Never like this.”

Tension bleeds out of him. Something so relieved escapes out of Paul’s mouth in an embarrassing giggle. “Carlos. You should have just said.”

“I don’t know why…” Carlos trails off, scrubbing at the back of his neck vigorously. “With you, I’m like this. I don’t know. I want.” His toes tap some more. “I want to.”

“Want to?” Paul says, coming closer, watching Carlos sway in eagerly.

“Make it worth it,” Carlos mutters. “What you paid.”

Paul groans. He wants to shake Carlos. Then decides, hey, he actually can shake Carlos. Gentle hands around his shoulders, shaking him like a beloved ragdoll. “Oh my god. You can’t be serious.”

“It’s a lot of money,” Carlos protests, but the corners of his mouth are turned up now.

“Shut up, you’re ridiculous. Do you think I would have even paid that if, if I. Oh my god, Carlos. You have to know, right?”

“Know what,” Carlos says, enjoying being a little shit now that they’re joking.

“Can’t take my eyes off you, when you’re in the room,” Paul says. “I thought I was being obvious.”

“You were,” Carlos says brightly. “I thought I was obvious right back.”

“Okay, so. So why are you—?”

Carlos’s face twists. “This season has been. Ah.” He shakes his head reluctantly. “You don’t have to listen to this.”

“Go on,” Paul says. “Come on, tell me. Twelve hours of your time, remember?”

“Been hard to live up to expectations, this year,” Carlos says. “I didn’t want that with you.”

“You are so.” Stupid. Hot. Stupidly hot. “I’m going to shake you some more,” Paul says. “I cannot believe you.”

“That’s fine,” Carlos says. He goes along with the shaking, in a way that shows exactly how much of his body he’s putting into Paul’s hands. A neck as thick as that and he’s somehow limp under Paul’s touch. That’s, well. That’s a lot. “Then maybe, maybe. You could kiss me?”

Yes, yes. Yesssssssss, sings both parts of Paul’s brain. Yes.

Carlos is still now, expectant. A long, lean line of muscle, rooted to the ground, that Paul can trace hungrily with his eyes. He could pull at Carlos with all his strength and Carlos would not move, if he did not want to. But when Paul nudges a finger under his jaw, Carlos goes, looks up, right at him. Leans in.

--

He’s a greedy little thing, isn’t he. Swallows Paul with ease, every which way. He makes insane noises, deep, and guttural when Paul fucks him hard, high, and breathless when Paul thumbs at his nipples. Carlos clutches at Paul like it’d physically hurt to let go. Everything he’s meant to do, he does and is wonderful at it. And somehow, he’d managed to assume he wouldn’t live up.

“Unbelievable,” Paul says to the ceiling, some time after he’d come so viciously it felt like he’d been wrung out like a dish towel. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Are you still mad at me,” Carlos says, amused.

“Yes.”

“Ay, don’t be,” Carlos says, softly. “I really was nervous.”

Paul turns on his side, hand supporting his head as he gazes at Carlos. Crazy intimate. Terrible, the way he’s setting himself up for the worst time. He can’t bring himself to care.

“You’re allowed to stay the night?”

“Twelve hours,” Carlos says. “You can ask me to do anything.”

“Anything?”

“Anything,” Carlos confirms. “Sleep at the foot of the bed, if you want.”

Why would he even say such a—Paul is going to shake him again. If he can unpretzel himself from all that easy comfort following an earth-shattering orgasm. He nudges at Carlos’s hip instead. It’s the closest body part he can find.

“I kick in my sleep,” Paul says seriously, delighting in the way that makes Carlos giggle. He pats the scant space next to him. “I’d rather you be right here.”

“I’ll be right here,” Carlos says, then clears his throat. He probably was just parroting Paul, didn’t mean for it to sound so much like a promise.

But Paul… is also a greedy little thing, isn’t he? So greedy he paid for it, and so greedy he wants more now that he’s had a taste.

“And after?” Paul says. Will you be…?

“After,” Carlos says, “after Las Vegas is Qatar. Then Abu Dhabi.”

“Fine,” Paul says. As let downs go, this is pretty devastating, but he’ll live. It’s not like he had expected—never mind.

Carlos shifts. His jaw unlocks, then clicks back. “You get discounts, after, did you know that? Very good discounts.”

“Oh,” Paul says, a little wobbly. “Do I?”

“Yes. And after Abu Dhabi, it’s. It’s free.”

“Ah.” His chest is squeezing tighter than a fist. The space in his ribcage! Expanding and contracting to accommodate whatever Carlos sees fit. He lets himself imagine pressing up close to Carlos in a quiet apartment, pulling out every sound in Carlos's vocabulary with time, unlimited, on his hands. Buying flowers he knows for sure Carlos likes.

“I guess I need to stick around."

“Guess so,” Carlos says, smiles. “Make it worth your while.”

[dissapointu]

Hiiii !!! I have to say, I have been loving your work and been extatic to find a creator/writer who writes as often/fast as you do! Lord knows, the last time I requested something it took a year for someone to reply to it haha. (Do take care of yourself, make sure you don't burnout from writing too much, and take breaks if need be.)

I wantet to request something from you, if you don't mind? If you do you can kindly ignore this, but how about the arcane characters with a Bassist, gn!S/O? What would they think about it? (Totally not asking after getting back into Bass after not practicing for three months lolol.)

Would love to hear back from you! Have a nice day! Toodles!

Thank you for the kind words I’m thrilled you enjoy my writing, and I’ll definitely take your advice on self-care—

Jinx

Jinx is immediately obsessed. She’ll insist on helping you “modify” your bass for a “cooler” sound (whether you agree is another story). She’ll sit cross-legged and watch you play, sometimes randomly yelling, “Play it louder!” She’s your chaotic cheerleader and probably doodles all over your bass case.

Vi

Vi loves the vibe your bass brings to the atmosphere. She’ll lean against a wall, arms crossed, with a smirk as she listens to you play. She might even jokingly suggest you form a band together, though her “singing voice” is a source of humor for both of you.

Sevika

Sevika loves the bass’s deep, resonating sound. It’s calming after a long day. She’d likely listen in silence, nursing a drink, but she’s secretly in awe of your skill. She’ll tease you about “being her personal jukebox” but quietly brags about you to others.

Silco

Silco sees your musical talent as a calming presence amidst his chaos. He’ll close his eyes and let the bass’s vibrations wash over him while nursing a glass of whiskey. It’s a rare moment of peace for him, and he appreciates the grounding effect you bring.

Vander

Vander admires how passionate you are about your bass. He’ll sit at the bar while you play, a proud smile on his face. If you ever play something upbeat, he’ll tap along or encourage the patrons to join in. Your music adds warmth to his world.

Ekko

Ekko is super impressed. He’ll gush about how “cool” you are and ask you to jam with him using makeshift instruments in the Firelights’ hideout. He calls you “Firebug” and says your bass gives off the same energy as you—electric and unforgettable.

Jayce

Jayce thinks it’s awesome and will likely get overenthusiastic, asking a million questions about your bass’s construction. He might even offer to build you a customized one, complete with Hextech modifications (you may need to reign him in before he goes overboard).

Viktor

Viktor admires your precision and rhythm. He’ll comment on the parallels between music and engineering, noting how both require intricate balance. He enjoys listening to you play while he works and occasionally hums along without realizing.

Caitlyn

Caitlyn is enamored with the elegance of your playing. She’d ask you to teach her a simple bassline, though her skills might be… questionable. She enjoys seeing you in your element and always applauds enthusiastically after a session.

Mel Medarda

Mel is drawn to the confidence your music exudes. She finds your passion inspiring and will commission artists to paint you mid-performance. She sees your bass as an extension of your personality—both powerful and mesmerizing.

Ambessa Medarda

Ambessa respects dedication, and your commitment to your craft impresses her. She enjoys watching you play, often from a relaxed position, commenting on how your music has a grounding yet commanding presence—much like you.

Maddie Nolen

Maddie admires the creativity your bass playing brings to life. She’ll eagerly ask about your inspirations and how you craft melodies. She enjoys the way your music creates an atmosphere, adding depth to any moment.

Lest

Lest’s feline senses are highly attuned to sound, and she finds the bass incredibly soothing. She’ll lay her head in your lap while you play and purr softly. She might even suggest you try incorporating some unique, whimsical elements into your music.

[headspace-hotel]

Dieting/weight loss is what drags so many people down this path. That's what i'm realizing now.

And it's an especially effective way to become ensnared because it is fully plugged into the mainstream medical system. It's people's actual doctors telling them they need to lose weight, that eating the right things will do it, and that losing weight will solve their other medical conditions. When they lose weight, their doctors see it as a certainly good thing, no matter what they did to lose weight.

I try to vaguely understand health things, as someone with a body, but with diet-related stuff I just can't. The amount of scientific studies about diet and nutrition is so staggeringly vast and yet it seems like the amount of things that we "Know" about diet and nutrition could barely fill a pamphlet.

Every claim you could possibly make has a study supporting it, but there are so many thousands of studies that the non-expert reader has no idea whether this holds any significance. Should I base my life around this one study where 47 rats were fed olive oil, or this other study where 102 rats were fed Cool Whip?

On top of that, many of the most reliably cited and strongly supported statements appear to have no actual objective, measurable definitions for the things they're about.

"Processed foods?" "Processed" describes nothing and means nothing, apart from the foods having undergone processes. That just doesn't seem specific enough for any kind of scientific study or analysis.

Don't even get me started on "vegetable." What is it about the vegetables that is causing this effect? The dietary fiber? The water? The phytochemicals? The micronutrients? Are black-eyed peas a vegetable? Are potatoes? What about sweet potatoes? What about fruits? Is a root vegetable the same as a leaf vegetable?

Diet and nutrition information is just...a whole other level of thing. It's a fire hose of crud that just completely blasts away my ability to think about it with the sheer force and volume of studies and papers being put out from god knows where.

So many terms that presumably have a scientific meaning have been so thoroughly appropriated in pseudoscientific and marketing contexts. It feels like there are so many concepts that have just brute-forced their way into being "common knowledge" through sheer saturation. Do probiotics do anything? Does eating antioxidants lead to those antioxidants being in your body somewhere helpful? I don't know and I don't even know how to find out because a study will say "This thing is shown by some research to have X benefit" and I will have no idea if that means "This thing has clear, measurable, significant, consistent benefits" or "There are some studies in rats that suggest it increases a biomarker that MAYBE influences health" or "This chemical found in the thing has X effects...at 1,000 times the dose that is in any food."

It feels like the line between "alternative medicine scams" and legit medical info is crumbling apart and it scares the hell out of me.

I was on youtube looking up some stuff for my friend, to see what unreliable stuff they might have to watch out for, and there are a lot of scams being pushed by people who are using academic-sounding terminology and appear to the uneducated outsider (me) to actually have an understanding of the science. A lot of these people either are medical doctors or are posing as medical doctors using a sketchy bullshit degree from some obscure illegitimate institution.

What's more, there's a lot of content creators enabling this by building their channels around vague, essentially benign claims that are too unspecific to be labeled misinformation, like "Avoiding these foods could help with this condition!"

Like yeah, in the broadest sense, maybe eating less "refined sugars" could make you feel better, but once you watch this video, the algorithm immediately starts pushing other videos with similar titles making similar claims, except those claims are "Refined sugars cause disabilities and cancer," and that will bring you to "Sugar is a drug more addictive than cocaine and you can detox by eating only raw beef and butter."

I got recommended a Jordan Peterson video within 3 clicks of simply putting the name of a chronic illness into youtube search.

[coralchoral]

honestly thinking about the sonadow twitter takeover and how the plummeting to earth thing very much affected Sonic a lot more than it affected Shadow. like in a previous takeover Shadow even made it a positive memory about Sonic trying to save him.

Meanwhile in Prime, Sonic has a moment of saving Shadow from falling into the void that's very reminiscent of that other fall (in the same way Prime has a lot of motivations and references that only make sense from a fandom insider perspective).

Sonic also gets repeatedly tilted, loud and anxious, (which I'm pinning more on RCS's/whatever writer's sense of humor, as is all the voice acting gags) and is coping badly any time Shadow comes out ahead. I think Sonic's insistence on his ability to grow chest fur is as big a Cope as floaties=fashion statement.

But really, Sonic's repeat date suggestions and Shadow's own descriptions of Sonic's behavior (dragging out their races, etc "just to annoy me") reads, whether romantically or platonically, that Sonic just really wants to spend time with Shadow.

He feels he needs to justify it, though, insisting that he and Shadow have something other than occasionally getting in each other's way ("two sides of the same coin") (friendly competition being "why you keep me around-" seemed like odd wording to me).

Needing to make it meaningful, because that's what Shadow wants out of a relationship- Shadow /says/ he dislikes Sonic for being frivolous and inauthentic, that (for instance) his hugs don't mean anything, and that he doesn't want "(Sonic's) kind of hug."

Sonic really wants to spend time with Shadow because he's also intimately aware that that time is limited. Either Shadow's patience (and/or social battery) is limited and he's liable to make a batman exit if he doesn't want to be somewhere (not that we've ever seen Shadow do this in canon, he seems to awkwardly/quietly hang around as if he doesn't realize he can just hit the bricks (or he likes being there and has no idea how to express it re: smiling at Big the Cat) ), Or Sonic and Shadow will get caught up in their own lives again and not see each other until Fate Deigns to Allow Them to Cross Paths Once More.

And Sonic misses him.

(This ties in with my Sonic Frontiers is the Saddest Game Ever posting from a while back, too. Sonic is lonely AF and Needs Other People to Talk To or he'll start talking to the walls and robots, and Shadow will almost always either talk back or groan in exasperation, which is as good a reaction as any.)

All this, plus Sonic's opinion flip-flops (shopping with Amy vs shopping with Shadow, opinion on Orbot) could be either (Sonadow Optimist) Sonic is Down Bad and not even conscious of his mirroring Shadow/trying to appeal to Shadow, or (Sonadow/overall Pessimist) Sonic trying to appeal to the Most Popular Character Right Now and getting increasingly desperate as he is rebuffed.

A few of these Twitter Takeovers have had moments of Sonic in particular getting thrown off and not really able to recover. (which makes me question what the writing is like, if there's any at all and these VA's aren't just riffing on an outline. Considering they don't talk over each other constantly, there must be something like a script, but it also does occasionally feel like a bad roleplay (and I've been a bad roleplayer).) It leads to a Something Is Wrong feeling in the "We're doing this for fun" question-answering joke show. Sonic needs therapy. (We all need therapy.)

Meanwhile, Shadow really is pulling out all the grunts, groans, and whines with Sonic that, if scripted, would be egregious as hell to read or write. He doesn't make these noises in the games (or shows, really?) mostly because there's a sort of efficiency necessary to production that cuts out that interpersonal realism and partly because it's annoying? Shadow, you're the annoying one?

Unrelated, everybody latched on to Sonic's "Go off, King" but nobody even noticed Shadow's "Deal With It."(sunglasses drop) How soon we forget the sacred texts and/or the deep magic, I guess? (It's an old meme, but it checks out!)

[idkyetxoxo]

Daeron Targaryen - Halves of the Same Soul

Summary - Twin siblings share an unshakable bond that blurs the line between love and obsession. Courtly intrigue, forbidden desires, and dangerous secrets simmer beneath the surface—where loyalty and power collide, and no one is safe from the flames.

Pairing - Daeron Targaryen x Targaryen reader

Warnings - None

Word count - 2946

Masterlist for Daeron • House of the Dragon General Masterlist

Wherever Daeron went, I followed. As his twin sister, we were inseparable, two halves of the same whole. 

He wasn't just my brother; he was my other half in every sense. 

So when our mother decided he should go to Oldtown with our uncle, I couldn't bear the thought of being left behind. 

I begged and pleaded until she relented, agreeing that I could accompany him.

Like many of our Targaryen ancestors, the idea of marrying within our family was not foreign to us. Daeron and I had made it abundantly clear that we were ready to wed, eager to spend our lives together in the way of our kin. 

It felt natural, inevitable, as though our bond was written in the stars long before we were born.

Still, whispers spread throughout the realm of a possible match between me and Aemond, our older brother. Such talk was common in the courts, but my heart belonged to Daeron. 

One brother held my affection, and it wasn't Aemond.

"Princess, may I have this dance?" Lord Tyrell's voice cut through my conversation with Daeron and Gwayne. I glanced at the extended hand, sighing inwardly as my gaze flickered to the two men beside me. 

Gwayne smiled faintly, while Daeron's eyes remained fixed on me, unreadable.

"Of course, my lord," I replied with a polite smile, though exhaustion weighed on me. The night had been long, filled with dances and endless courtesies. 

Tonight was our name day, and yet, I was more worn out than celebratory.

As Lord Tyrell led me to the dance floor, he offered a charming smile. 

"Princess, you look absolutely exquisite this evening," he said smoothly, dipping me effortlessly in time with the music.

I returned his compliment with a gracious smile. "That is kind of you, my lord."

He twirled me around gracefully before continuing, "You are ten and six now if I am not mistaken?" His tone seemed casual, but I could sense there was more behind the question.

"I am, my lord," I answered, though I already felt a knot forming in my stomach. I wondered where this conversation was headed.

He smiled, a little too smugly for my liking. "Ah, the perfect age for a young lady to be wed. Some would say you're even a year or two past that ideal age," he said with a chuckle. 

I forced a smile, though his words stung, the humour entirely lost on me.

"An... interesting observation, my lord," I replied, trying to maintain a composed tone.

He was undeterred. "I only mean to say, Princess, that it may be time to consider your future. A union could be quite beneficial."

As he spoke, his grip on my waist tightened ever so slightly, enough to make me uneasy. His suggestion was no longer a polite inquiry—it felt more like an imposition.

"I am quite content as I am," I said, attempting to subtly pull away. But his hands only grew firmer, drawing me closer. 

A soft, involuntary whine escaped my lips as his fingers dug into my side.

"You are hurting me," I whispered, my voice barely audible above the music. He scoffed, rolling his eyes in dismissal, then leaned in closer to me, his breath hot against my ear.

"Remember this, Princess—you may wear a crown, but I am the son of the Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South. It would be wise for you not to forget your place."

I kept my voice steady, ignoring his thinly veiled threat. "I would like you to let go of me," I said calmly, though I could feel my heart racing.

"I am offering you my hand in marriage," he continued, his tone impatient now. "And it is a favourable offer, one you would be wise to consider."

"It is a kind offer, my lord—" I began, but he cut me off, pulling me even closer, far too close for propriety. His face hovered inches from mine as he leaned in again, his voice a low whisper.

"Do not decline me, Princess. Together, we could achieve great things," he murmured, and before I could protest, he pressed a lingering kiss to the curve of my neck. I squirmed in discomfort, trying to free myself from his grasp.

"This is not proper," I insisted, attempting to pull back, but his hold remained unyielding.

"And yet here we are," he said, his voice full of arrogance as he tightened his grip.

As Lord Tyrell's fingers tightened around my waist, his smug expression only deepened. 

I attempted to pull away again, but it was as if he was determined to exert his control over me, his grip growing more possessive with each passing moment.

"I am offering you something far better than waiting around for your family to choose for you," he said, his voice dripping with arrogance. 

"Perhaps you think one of your brothers will come to your rescue? Daeron, perhaps?" He chuckled darkly, his breath hot against my ear. 

"Oh, I know the whispers, Princess. It's no secret you and your twin are unnaturally close."

I stiffened, my heart pounding as his words twisted the bond between Daeron and me into something vile, something inappropriate. 

"Do not speak of things you do not understand, my lord," I said coldly, trying to maintain my composure.

But Lord Tyrell only laughed, the sound low and mocking. 

"Oh, but I do understand, Princess. Very well, in fact. The Targaryens have always had... peculiar traditions, haven't they? A little too fond of keeping things in the family, if you ask me. But I suppose it's convenient when you have two brothers to choose from."

His words stung, like barbs digging into my skin. I felt a flush of anger rise in me, but I kept my face impassive, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing how deeply his jabs had cut.

"You speak as if I have no will of my own, my lord," I replied, my voice steady despite the fury bubbling within me. "I make my own choices."

"Do you?" he sneered, pulling me even closer, his body pressing uncomfortably against mine. 

"Because from where I stand, it seems as though you're simply waiting for your family to marry you off like a broodmare. Aemond, Daeron—it's all the same, isn't it? Marry one brother, marry the other. Does it really matter which? Maybe your mother will flip a coin for you."

His laugh was cruel and biting, the insinuation laced with contempt. I felt a surge of nausea at his words. 

I had heard whispers before, rumours that clung to the shadow of our family's name like a curse, but to hear them spoken so brazenly to my face made my blood boil.

"That is enough," I said, my voice colder than ice. "I will not tolerate such disrespect, especially not from a lord of your standing."

But he only smirked, clearly enjoying the power he thought he wielded over me. 

"Come now, Princess. You should consider yourself lucky. If your brothers won't wed you, I could make a far better match. Imagine it—the daughter of dragons married to the future Lord of Highgarden. We could unite the Reach and your precious Targaryen bloodline in ways your family could never imagine."

He leaned in close again, his lips brushing against my ear as he whispered, "You may think you can keep hiding behind Daeron, but sooner or later, your brothers won't be able to protect you. Not from men like me."

The threat in his voice was unmistakable now, and my heart raced with both anger and fear. 

His fingers dug into my waist, his other hand creeping up to the small of my back, pulling me in so tightly I could barely breathe. 

I wanted to scream, to shove him away, but in the middle of the crowded hall, surrounded by lords and ladies, I was trapped. 

"I said let go of me," I hissed, no longer caring to mask the fury in my voice.

He smirked, clearly enjoying the effect he had on me. "You act as though you have a choice in the matter, Princess. But we both know you'll be married off to the highest bidder, whether it's your brother or not. And when that day comes, you'll wish you had taken a man like me instead."

His arrogance was suffocating, the air between us thick with tension. 

I glanced over his shoulder, desperate to meet Daeron's gaze, and found his eyes locked onto us, his expression darkening with each passing second. 

He had been watching the entire time, his posture rigid as Gwayne continued speaking, oblivious to the storm brewing beside him.

Tyrell's mocking voice broke through my thoughts again. "Or perhaps it's Aemond you're holding out for?" he sneered, the taunt sharp. 

"I hear he's a real delight. Cold, brooding, but maybe that's your type. A marriage made for the histories, wouldn't you agree? I wonder, does he even look at you the way Daeron does?"

I couldn't contain my disgust any longer. 

"You are vile," I spat, finally managing to pull back enough to create some distance between us. "You speak of things that are far beyond your comprehension."

Lord Tyrell's smirk didn't falter. If anything, it widened, as though my outrage only spurred him on. 

"Oh, I comprehend perfectly, Princess. You Targaryens think you're above everyone else, that your blood makes you untouchable. But at the end of the day, you're just like any other woman—destined to be wed, controlled, and used for power. And believe me, I know how to use what's mine."

Lord Tyrell's smirk had turned predatory, his arrogance swelling with each moment I resisted him. 

I could feel my pulse quicken, but before I could respond, I saw Daeron out of the corner of my eye, rising from his seat, his face dark with fury. 

His normally calm and composed expression had twisted into something dangerous, his jaw set in a way that promised no leniency.

There was no question—he would tear the world apart for me, just as I would for him. 

We had never needed words to understand that. I felt the strength of our bond in that moment, a force as powerful as any dragon's fire.

"Is there a problem here, Lord Tyrell?" Daeron's voice was deceptively calm, but the iciness beneath it was unmistakable.

He was at my side in an instant, standing between me and Tyrell, his presence immediately shifting the dynamic. 

The crowd continued to swirl around us, oblivious to the tension mounting between the two men.

Tyrell straightened, his grip loosening slightly as Daeron's arrival forced him to back off—though not entirely. 

He maintained a cocky smile as if Daeron's presence was nothing more than a slight inconvenience.

"Prince Daeron," Tyrell said with mock deference, inclining his head but failing to mask the condescension in his tone. "Just having a dance with your lovely sister. A bit protective, are we?" 

He chuckled softly, though there was nothing friendly about the sound. "One might start to think you don't trust anyone else near her."

Daeron's eyes were dark, his stare unflinching. "My trust is earned, not given freely to men who have forgotten their manners." 

His voice was low, the threat subtle but unmistakable. "I suggest you step back before you say something you'll regret."

Tyrell scoffed, clearly unbothered by the warning. 

"Manners? I was only reminding the Princess of the realities of her position. Surely you understand, Prince Daeron, that marriage for someone like her—someone like you—is more about duty than sentiment. She will be wed to whomever best serves the realm. Or perhaps you believe your family's peculiar... preferences should continue unchecked?" 

His eyes gleamed with cruel amusement, clearly relishing the opportunity to provoke.

Daeron's lips curled into a dangerous smile, one that sent a shiver through me, though I knew it was not meant for me. 

"You are treading on dangerous ground, Tyrell," he said, stepping closer, his voice a low growl. "I would choose my next words carefully if I were you."

But Lord Tyrell was too arrogant to take heed. He glanced between Daeron and me, his smirk widening. 

"Oh, I've heard the rumours. Everyone has. King Viserys's precious twins, inseparable since birth. The realm has noticed how you look at her, Daeron." He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice but ensuring his words cut deep. 

"Tell me, do you plan to wed her yourself? Has she already been defiled? Or is Aemond your real competition?" His grin was sharp, mocking. 

"Two brothers fighting over their sweet sister. It's quite the tale for the ages, isn't it?"

I felt Daeron stiffen beside me, the tension between them thickening like a brewing storm. His hand clenched at his side, his knuckles turning white. 

For a moment, I feared he would strike Tyrell right there in front of everyone.

"You think you're clever, Tyrell," Daeron said, his voice dangerously low, his anger barely restrained. "But your ignorance will be your downfall. You overestimate your place in this world."

Tyrell's smile faltered for a moment, sensing the shift in Daeron's tone, but his arrogance wouldn't let him back down. 

"I overestimate nothing, Prince. It's you and your family who believe yourselves untouchable as if the world should bend to your will simply because of the blood in your veins. But one day, even your dragons won't be enough to protect you."

Daeron's eyes burned with fury now, his posture rigid with barely contained rage. 

He stepped forward, closing the distance between them until they were nearly chest to chest, his voice a deadly whisper. "You dare speak to a Targaryen in such a manner? You think your title and your father's lands will protect you from the consequences of your insolence?"

Tyrell, to his credit, didn't back down, though I could see the slightest flicker of uncertainty cross his face. 

"I'm merely stating the obvious. We both know that she'll be wed to whomever your family chooses. If not Aemond, then perhaps me. The Reach would make a powerful ally, after all."

Daeron's smile faded completely, replaced by a look so cold it sent a chill through the air. "You will never lay a hand on her again. You speak as if you have a choice in this, but let me make something clear." 

He leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper, though every word dripped with venom. 

"If you ever touch my sister again, or dare to insult her in my presence, I will see you hanged. And when your neck snaps beneath the rope, I'll have your body dragged through the streets and fed to the dogs, for that is all you'll be worth."

Tyrell's face paled slightly, though he quickly masked it with a tight smile, trying to maintain his composure. 

"A bold threat," he said, though his voice lacked its previous bravado. "But I doubt the court would allow such... savagery."

"You doubt too much, Lord Tyrell," Daeron said coldly, his eyes narrowing. "My family is not known for idle threats. You would do well to remember that." 

His hand lingered on the hilt of his sword, a subtle reminder of how easily this conversation could take a deadlier turn.

Tyrell glanced at Daeron's hand, clearly weighing his next move. 

Finally, he gave a forced laugh, stepping back slightly to regain his space. "No need for dramatics, Prince Daeron. I was merely making conversation. A misunderstanding, nothing more."

Daeron didn't move, his gaze still fixed on Tyrell as if daring him to say more. 

"Then let me make myself perfectly clear—there will be no misunderstanding next time. You will not speak of my sister again, nor will you ever touch her. Do so, and I will end you. And no amount of titles or alliances will save you."

Tyrell swallowed, his confidence visibly shaken now. He straightened his tunic, his smile brittle. 

"Of course. I wouldn't dream of offending." He turned to me with a stiff nod, his arrogance noticeably diminished. "Princess."

Without waiting for further acknowledgement, he took his leave, his steps quicker than before, as if eager to escape the tension that still hung in the air.

As soon as he was gone, I let out a breath I didn't realize I had been holding, my heart still racing from the confrontation. 

Daeron remained tense beside me, his gaze lingering on Tyrell's retreating form as if waiting for him to turn back and make another foolish remark.

"Daeron," I whispered, touching his arm gently to pull him from his thoughts.

He turned to me, his expression softening slightly as he met my gaze. "Are you all right?" His voice was low, filled with concern.

I nodded, though my body still trembled slightly from the encounter. "Thank you," I said softly. "I didn't know what to do. He..."

Daeron's jaw tightened again, but he forced himself to stay calm for my sake. "He's a fool, and he'll regret this. I swear it." 

He glanced toward the hall where Tyrell had disappeared, his expression dark once more. "If he ever touches you again, I will make good on my promise. The dogs will feast on his remains."

I believed him.

"You know," he said quietly, his tone softening further, "the realm may think they can decide our futures for us. But as long as we have each other, nothing else matters."

I smiled up at him, the warmth of his presence chasing away the cold that had gripped me earlier. "No one else," I whispered. "Just us."

And as he wrapped his arm protectively around me, I knew with certainty that, there was no force in the world strong enough to sever the bond between us. 

We were more than siblings—more than Targaryens bound by blood. 

We were halves of the same soul, unbreakable, and as long as we had each other, no one could tear us apart.

A/n - I know I have severely lacked in writing for Daeron recently but I've been so busy, hopefully this makes up for it <3

Daeron tag list - @alyssa-dayne

[itacats]

Butcher Shop Connection

FT: Simon x gn!reader

Warnings: DV, abuse, please let me know if anything else should be here!🙏

SUM: A budding connection begins to blossom between Simon and you, their shy smiles and shared moments brimming with unspoken possibilities. When a dead car battery leaves you stranded, Simon steps in, his quiet confidence and kindness turning an inconvenience into something unexpectedly meaningful.

But as you drive home, the warmth of your encounter fades, replaced by the chilling weight of the life waiting for you—a stark reminder that some connections, no matter how promising, come with complications far beyond their control.

A/N: I had so much fun writing Simon in this chapter, awkwardly stepping out of his shy bubble while trying to play it cool. (Spoiler: he’s not as smooth as he thinks, but that’s why we love him, right?) And let’s be real, who hasn’t had a moment where a dead car battery somehow turns into the universe tossing you a lifeline?

So, buckle up (pun intended) as this story continues to simmer. Things are heating up, and trust me, there’s so much more to come. Thanks for sticking with me—let’s keep going, shall we?

Part 1

Part 2 - Between the Counter and the Hood

Simon continues to beam at you during your visits to the shop, but you can also see the shyness in his demeanor, as if your presence ignites something deeper inside him than mere affection for a customer. You grin back, your bubbly energy contrasting warmly with his more reserved nature. There’s a gentle push and pull whenever you’re together, where each visit builds a connection that neither of you dares to name.

Simon leans forward slightly, his forearms braced against the counter, and his eyes glimmer with an unfamiliar boldness. "Maybe I could take a lunch break around the same time you stop by next time?" he says, his voice lowering into a playful whisper. It’s almost conspiratorial, as though he’s inviting you into a world that exists just for the two of you.

The suggestion catches you off guard—not because you didn’t hope for something like this, but because hearing it out loud transforms a quiet fantasy into a thrilling possibility. Your cheeks flush with a warmth that spreads to your chest, and a swarm of butterflies takes flight inside you.

"I’d love that!" you blurt out, your voice a little higher than intended. You bite your lip, trying to suppress the giggle threatening to escape, but it’s impossible to hide the grin spreading across your face.

Simon’s smile deepens at your reaction, his confidence flickering just enough to remind you of his endearing shyness. He leans back, pretending to fiddle with a stack of receipts, but you can see the slight blush dusting his cheeks. It’s in these moments—when his quiet, reserved demeanor gives way to something more vulnerable—that you feel the magnetic pull toward him most strongly.

As you leave the shop, your mind is already spinning with possibilities. What would lunch with Simon look like? You imagine sitting across from him at a small café, his laugh rumbling softly as the conversation drifts from light banter to deeper topics. You imagine the way his eyes might linger on yours, unhurried and full of warmth. The thought fills you with an unfamiliar kind of hope, one that feels fragile but exhilarating.

But life always has other plans.

You stand in the parking lot, your hands trembling slightly as you twist the key in the ignition again. Nothing. The engine remains silent, as stubborn as the wave of frustration that rises in your chest. You groan, leaning back against the seat and staring at the darkening sky.

What would Tom say? The thought snakes its way into your mind, uninvited and unwelcome. You shiver, not from the evening chill but from the heaviness that accompanies his name. The idea of calling him for help sends a cold dread through your veins.

Before you can spiral further, a voice cuts through the haze.

"Need a hand?"

You turn, startled, to find Simon standing a few feet away, his expression equal parts concern and determination. The sight of him here, outside the familiar confines of the butcher shop, is disarming. His apron is gone, replaced by a simple button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, the tattoos on his forearms more visible now.

"Simon?" you say, your voice a mix of surprise and relief.

He offers a small, lopsided smile, stepping closer. "I saw you sitting here. Thought I’d check if everything’s okay."

The tension in your shoulders eases as you nod. "It’s my car battery. I think it’s dead."

Simon rolls up his sleeves a bit further, revealing more of those scars and tattoos that feel like glimpses into a story you’re desperate to know. "Let’s take a look," he says, his tone steady and reassuring.

Together, you pop the hood and inspect the battery, Simon walking you through the troubleshooting steps with an easy confidence that puts you at ease. The task is mundane, but somehow, it feels like more. It’s in the way he hands you the flashlight without being asked, the way his voice stays calm even when you fumble with a tool, the way he chuckles when your hair falls into your eyes, and he casually brushes it back.

Despite the frustration of the situation, laughter fills the space between you. It feels natural, unforced, like you’re discovering a rhythm that belongs only to the two of you. The world seems to shrink to just this moment: the two of you bathed in the soft glow of a streetlamp, your breath visible in the cool evening air.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the engine sputters to life. The sound is triumphant, and you both let out matching cheers. Simon leans back, wiping his hands on his jeans, and grins at you.

"Victory," he says, his voice tinged with pride and humor.

"Thanks to you," you reply, your gratitude laced with something deeper—admiration, maybe even longing.

As you climb into your now-functioning car, Simon rests his hands on the edge of the open window. For a moment, it feels like there’s something more he wants to say, something unspoken hanging in the air between you. But instead, he simply smiles and steps back.

"Drive safe," he says softly.

You nod, your heart unexpectedly heavy as you watch him walk away, his silhouette fading into the shadows of the parking lot. The warmth of his presence lingers even as you drive off, but as you approach home, it’s replaced by the familiar weight of dread.

Here's the current post schedule with some upcoming stories to look forward to!

[ray-moo]

But at the same time, not all aspects of every false religions can be from the enemy because the enemy is not a creator. All things that were made were made by God.

In this sense, a religion like Mormonism might be correct in valuing kindness and decency, a religion like Islam might be correct in valuing charity, Judaism is correct in identifying the Torah as scripture.

Given that then, how can we say with certainty that there is no real spiritual benefit to yoga and that chakras do not exist? Certainly, these things cannot lead to divinity, certainly my inner self needs Christ as much as my outer self. But the Devil cannot give me chakras or an inner self, he can only trick me into thinking I have them or trick me into misuing them out of God's design.

If I don't have Chakras, then aligning them won't do me any harm. But if there is a spiritual dimension to my being, shouldn't I mind it's health as well?

To be clear, I don't believe in Chakras and I don't practise Yoga. But I have used traditional chinese medicine and I think the effacity of it would suggest that some aspects of chinese medicine regarding the existence of qi and the balance of yin and yang are correct.

Of course, there is no power that is not of God or created by God. But that doesn't mean that the only realities outside the physical are either of God or of Demons. Being said, the existence of naturalistic and powerful spiritual forces in itself should be reason for caution in dealing with them rather than carelessness.

Let me be perfectly clear, I do believe that all false religions are from the enemy and if you believe that you can access the inner divinity by meditation and yoga and align your chakras to unlock your perfect inner self/nirvana etc. then you are opening yourself up to the satanic deception of self deification and perhaps whatever the hell may be lurking out in that "beyond".

But believing you are going to get possessed from doing downward dog pose is like comic book level superstition. That's not how this works. That's not how any of this works

[thoughtfulfiction]

Stolen Glances

Author’s note: reposting my old work on this side blog! Let me know if you’d like to read a specific one. Thank you for reading!

Warning: alcohol and drinking mentioned

Five days. That wasn’t even a full week. It should be relatively simple. You and your friends were going to spend a few days at the Fern Ridge Reservoir in a luxury home that Justin had rented out for the group. Everyone had their own rooms, the house was massive and you’d get to relax off the grid and recharge your batteries. There was relatively nothing to complain about.

“So…are you going to tell Justin you’re into him yet or just keep torturing yourself?” Your friend Bree asks, snapping you out of your daydream, carrying her bags to the car. The two of you had flown into Oregon from LA and were driving to the lake with Charlie and Tate, two of Justin’s friends that had really become like family to you in the last few years.

“She’s more likely to admit her feelings when she’s dead.” Tate scoffs while grabbing your backpack and shoving it in the trunk. “I want to have faith in you kid but, I just don’t know if you’ve got it in you right now.”

Charlie walks out of his house and hands you your water bottle, “you can tell him when you’re ready. Don’t listen to them, they're just impatient. Like five year olds who keep asking their mom to buy them McDonald’s on the way home.”

You simply nodded, staring daggers at your friends after Charlie came in and defended you. He hopped in the driver’s seat while Bree and Tate sat in the back. Looking out the window, you let your mind roam, both excited and nervous for what this little trip had in store.

It really wasn’t your fault, falling for him was like waking up on the couch with the tv on and not even remembering that you fell asleep. One day he was a good friend, a friend who you met years ago when he was a rookie living in a frat house in Costa Mesa. Then, somewhere along the way you fell for his unwavering kindness and his sense of humor. Or maybe it was the way the corner of his mouth tilts up sometimes in a side grin. Or his ability to always look like he just rolled out of bed but somehow still looked extremely put together. Everything about Justin, especially the little things, made you want him more. You just couldn’t bring yourself to tell him that. Admitting your feelings would just complicate things. And what if he didn’t even feel the same way? The thought of listening to him let you down easy while trying to spare you the embarrassment really just made you want to crawl into a hole on the side of the road and never come out.

So yes, long story short, these so-called “feelings?” You had no choice but to take them to the grave.

“Can we just have a nice relaxing weekend and enjoy ourselves? We can leave the drama and whatever else for when we get back to California, please.”

They simply nodded and you caught Tate and Bree sharing a look but you didn’t want to even think about what that could mean for you, instead deciding to focus on the scenery for another 20 minutes before the house came into view. Charlie started honking as soon as he pulled into the driveway and Gabe came running out, pulling you in for a hug.

“Hey neighbor.” He mutters out, giving you a squeeze.

“We haven’t lived next to each other in four years, Gabe.”

“Best year of my life honestly. I don’t think I’ve had more junk food…ever.”

Bree comes up behind the two of you and gets a hug of her own. “That’s because you and Nabers here kept suggesting pizza and ice cream nights. When y/n told me some NFL guys moved in next door I thought we’d be seeing more vegetables and less Oreos but it really was the best time.”

The guys unloaded all the bags from the car while you and Bree caught up with Gabe’s girlfriend Jordan. She informed you that Justin had gone out to get groceries with one of her good friends that she brought with her.

“Katie just thinks Justin is the sweetest thing ever so I figured why not introduce them. I’m tired of watching her drool over his old Instagram pictures. Hoping to play Cupid this weekend.” She jokes and you force out a small laugh, feeling your stomach turn at what this girl could possibly look like.

An hour later Bree rushes into your room and closes the door behind her after everyone has finally met and introduced themselves. “I know you said no drama but—”

“Nope, I don’t wanna hear it,” you interrupt her while you unpack your bag. “We are in a freaking mansion, on the water. Let’s focus on that!”

“Or…” she sits on the bed, completely interrupting your flow. “We could just acknowledge the fact that she took the room right next to Justin’s after knowing him for approximately two seconds. And she looks like the second coming of Candice Swanepoel. I mean, it’s kind of unfair,” she huffs.

You shake your head with a laugh. “She’s gorgeous, it’s pretty unreal. And definitely unfair. But we are going to focus on other things like having fun, enjoying the weather and spending quality time with our friends. Maybe have a couple strawberry margaritas with sugar on the rim. And we will be nice to Katie, even if she does look like an OG Victoria secret model before SavagexFenty kicked them to the curb. We will be welcoming and nice.”

She looks up at the ceiling like she can’t hear you and then back at you to face your pointed look, warning her to be on her best behavior. “Fine. I will be nice to Candice Jr.”

“Thank you.” You roll your eyes and pat her on the back.

Justin suggested riding jet skis which sounded amazing until Katie said she’d just finished touching up her makeup. Bree was about to make a snide comment but you elbowed her in the side before she could get the words out. Gabe and Jordan were taking a nap and Charlie was on the phone with one of the parents of the high school team he was coaching so you, Bree, Tate and Justin headed out after changing into your swimsuits.

Everyone found a life jacket that fit them just right and you hopped onto the back of Justin’s jet ski.

“Please promise me you won’t drive this thing like a grandma. I’m here for a good time, not a long time.” You joke, grabbing onto his waist. His laugh vibrates against you and you bite back a smile. He takes off and the two of you bounce against the water leaving you holding on for dear life. After a few minutes, you get used to it and it honestly feels freeing, just you and him out on the open water, taking a tour of the homes that are a little ways away until he stops at a man made cave, far away from any prying eyes.

“What are you doing?” You ask, feeling your heartbeat in your ears. Even in the shade, the reflection of the water hitting his eyes made you feel insane. And you couldn’t stop looking at him if you tried, not that you were trying very hard in the first place.

“Have you ever driven a jet ski before?” You shake your head no and he motions for you to switch spots with him. He leans over you to show you where the on switch is and how to work the speed and the brake, curving his hands over yours on the handles.

The smile that is threatening to take over your face is too much, so you settle for a joke. “You, Justin Herbert, giving up…control? This is a moment in history.”

“Just drive,” his cheeks heat up, turning a light shade of pink, “and try to get us back to the house in one piece, please.” You may or may not have driven as fast as you could with a few extra turns just to feel his body against yours for a little bit longer.

Although the afternoon was a victory, the evening brought you right back to reality. Katie had practically been glued to his side ever since you came back to the house. She sat next to him at dinner and practically jumped into the loveseat after he sat down for movie night. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes and walked into the kitchen to grab some kettle corn, taking your time in the kitchen before eventually making your way back to your seat. Luckily it was a movie you’d seen a dozen times so you weren’t missing anything. If anything, the movie in front of you was nothing compared to the horror film to your right, so Charlie cracked a joke to get you out of your head. Justin was so focused on watching his friend make you laugh that he didn’t even realize that Katie had fallen asleep on his shoulder, holding onto his arm like it was her personal body pillow. You caught a glimpse of the domestic scene that looked straight out of a romcom and it almost made you want to call it a night right then and there. But you sat through it and watched some random girl cozy up to the man you’d had serious feelings for…for the last year.

The next morning, you woke up later than usual. Truth was, you hadn’t gotten much sleep since you were thinking about Justin and Katie all night and you needed something else to focus on. You walked into the bathroom you were sharing with Bree to brush your teeth and get ready for the day.

When you swung the door open you froze, staring for a brief moment before covering your eyes. “Um—I’m so sorry I had no idea you were in here! Why, why are you in here? Doesn’t the master bedroom have a bathroom attached?”

Justin quickly covered up, grabbing his towel and wrapping it around his waist. “Bree liked the mirror in my bathroom so I let her use it. I thought the door was locked, how did you get in?”

“The lock is broken, Bree didn’t tell you that?”

He lets out a nervous laugh, “she may have neglected to mention that.” You were going to kill her.

“I’m gonna—I’m gonna go. So sorry again for the—you know what? I’m just gonna leave and we can act like this didn’t happen.” You close the door before he can utter a word and you head back to your room, silently praying that no one finds out about this.

He couldn’t take it anymore. You were avoiding him like the plague the entire day. Since the morning you’d hardly looked at him, even when he pulled you aside to assure you that your little encounter this morning, although awkward, was totally fine. He even sat through watching you and Charlie go tubing together and share a pizza at lunch, but his final straw was when he saw you taking a nap together in Charlie’s bed with the tv playing. The two of you had always been close but the quarterback couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that something more was going on and he didn’t like it. This trip was supposed to be about him getting to spend some quality time with you before training camp and Charlie knew that. Nothing was going according to plan and Justin knew he had to do something about it.

He rushed to get ready for dinner and let out a sigh of relief when he found you in the kitchen. “I know it’s none of my business but, is there something going on with you and Charlie?”

You took a big breath, not exactly ready to have this conversation and yet here you were. “No,” you state blankly, “there’s nothing going on between Charlie and I.”

“Then what’s going on? You’ve barely said two words to me all day so there has to be a problem.” Justin knew he had no right to be jealous, especially of one of his best friends but something was just nagging at him to keep asking questions. It was like word vomit and he couldn’t stop.

“Why are we even talking about this right now? It’s really not a big deal Justin, seriously, just let it go please.”

He clearly wasn’t having your attempts to dodge him. “No! I'm not going to let it go until you tell me. I mean, if this is about this morning I thought we handled that.” You don’t miss the subtle clench in his jaw. His patience is quickly running out and you really don’t get why this has him so worked up. Possibly because you’re so focused on your own rollercoaster of emotions.

“It’s not about this morning!” You blurt out. He was backing you into a corner, literally.

His pleading eyes were begging you to talk to him. “Then what is it about?”

“You! It’s about you. How I feel about you is a problem. It is THE problem, okay?” You shake your head, mentally shutting down at the look on his face. There it was, that horrible look you wished you’d never see…pity. Honestly? It looked worse in real life than it ever had in your nightmares and the sigh he gave you afterwards was just the icing on the humiliation cake.

“Y/n, I—”

“Are you guys ready to head out for dinner?” Gabe pops his head in, catching an immediate whiff of the uncomfortable air in the room. “Uh sorry. Was I interrupting something?”

“No.” You fold your arms across your chest, creating a physical and emotional barrier between the two of you.

“Yes,” Justin says at the same time, furrowing his eyebrows and giving you a sideways glance, his gaze softening at your watery eyes.

“You didn’t interrupt anything,” you huff out with a sniff, after a quick swipe under your eye you step around the man who was whispering for you to wait. You ignored him and kept moving your way out of the house, sliding into the car without turning back. Charlie took one look at you and asked if everything was okay but you really weren’t sure how to answer. How you were really feeling would surely bring you to tears and you really didn’t feel like crying in a car full of people.

That evening, your phone lit up as you sat motionless in your bed, contemplating going home the next morning. Of course it was a text from Justin.

I know you’re awake, I can’t sleep either. Can we please talk?

You texted him back a simple “fine” and there were two tiny knocks on your door less than a minute later. He was probably standing outside your room door when he texted.

“We didn’t get to finish our conversation earlier.” His voice is even deeper due to the exhaustion. You didn’t even think that was possible.

“I said everything I needed to,” you say with a casual shrug.

“Well good because I need you to listen,” Justin closes the door behind him and takes in a breath. “You’re one of my best friends…”

“Oh god please. You don’t have to let me down gently. I’m a big girl I can—”

“I’m not done. And I’m not—I’m not letting you down gently. I’m not letting you down at all. You have been one of the most consistently good things in my life and somewhere along the way you became a lot more than consistency. You’ve become somewhat of a necessity, an essential part of my life that I don’t think I can or want to live without.” He sighs, running a hand over his face with a sigh and you just stand there, limbs shaking in anticipation, waiting for him to get to his main point.

Justin closes his eyes, visibly collecting himself and his thoughts. “What I’m trying to say is that you aren’t the only one with feelings here. And that your feelings? They aren’t a problem.”

“You—you mean that you share the…you like me too?” You laugh a little, in complete disbelief.

He steps toward you, nodding with a smile of his own. “I really like you.”

“Wait…but what about Cand—Katie? She’s gorgeous, fun and is super into you. Plus she looks borderline perfect in the morning from what I gathered. I’m pretty sure I drool in my sleep sometimes and I have eye boogers.”

That really sends him over the edge and he covers his mouth to stifle a laugh. “It’s a good thing I love eye boogers, they’re my favorite.”

You smack his chest at the playful joke and his energy pulls you in, pressing your bodies together like magnets. And right there you feel like a kid again, standing next to your crush with your heart racing. He leans down and his lips brush against yours and he asks if this is okay, causing you to nod because obviously you want this with him, and more. Your lips fit together seamlessly and he tilts your head up by lightly cupping your face, running his thumb across the length of your jaw while deepening the kiss. Your entire body is covered in goosebumps even though the kiss is so soft and gentle. He pulls away slightly, pecking your lips after he takes a second as to not rush into things too quickly, waiting too long to ruin the moment. Pure bliss coats all of his senses as he begins peppering your face with more feathery kisses, silently willing himself to always remember the softness of your skin and how amazing it feels to finally be this close.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do that,” the grin he’s sporting is taking over his entire being and before you can respond he’s kissing you again. You happily oblige, smiling against his lips with a satisfied hum.

The next morning you were pretty sure you were still smiling. You woke up feeling super comfortable, turning around to catch a glimpse of him, thinking about pinching yourself to make sure this was real. He looks so peaceful, his clothed chest moving up and down rhythmically, a slight pout on his face. You can’t help but run your fingers through his hair, smiling to yourself once again when he begins to stir in his sleep. With his eyes still closed, he pulls you into his arms, lazily kissing you like he’s been doing this for years.

“Good morning,” he whispers, his eyes finally open, looking alert and bright.

“Good morning, I cannot believe you practically tackled me first thing in the morning. I probably have morning breath.”

“You don’t and even if you did, I wouldn’t care. And you don’t have eye boogers or drool on your face, you look really good first thing in the morning. The most incredible sight to wake up to.” You want to kiss him again but you decide it’s best to hold off, leaning over to check the time on his phone. “It’s 5am, you should probably head back to your room before everyone wakes up and this turns into a CIA interrogation.”

He chuckles, kissing your forehead before he gets up to stretch out his limbs. “We have all the time in the world to figure this out when we get back to LA, keeping this between us is probably our best bet for now. I do not want to hear all of Tate’s questions. And Gabe would be even worse, he’s been telling me to do this for years.”

You tilt your head towards him and whisper yell, “you’ve thought about this for years and didn’t say anything?”

“Yeah, you’re not the only one who was helplessly pining over someone and refused to say anything about their feelings out of fear of rejection. I was scared too. And now I’m not. Now, I’m going to head back to my bed and count down the minutes until I get to kiss you again.”

You shake your head, laying back down ready for your second round of sleep. “You’re a dork.”

“I am. And that is your favorite thing about me. Get some sleep, I’ll see you in a few hours.”

Waking up again around 8:30, you realize that skipping out on dinner last night has come back to haunt you. Gingerly walking down the stairs as to not wake anyone up, you tip toe into the kitchen quietly, only to find Katie already up and pouring a glass of orange juice.

“Good morning,” she sings, looking bright and cheery. Maybe in another life she was Giselle from Enchanted because she could definitely be some sort of Disney princess. “I’m so glad you’re awake because I need some advice. Do you think Justin would want pancakes or waffles? I wanna surprise him with this breakfast tray and I just want everything to look right you know? So what do you think?”

I think his tongue was practically down my throat last night and he’d probably want to have me for breakfast but I can’t say any of that. “Um let’s see. Definitely pancakes and skip out on the orange juice cause he’ll probably want some coffee.” As painful as it is to help her, you know this small sacrifice will pay off. You’ve basically already got the guy, there’s no use in rubbing it in the poor girl’s face when you won’t be seeing her anymore two days from now.

Katie nods excitedly, prepping her pancake batter and thanking you several times. You settle for a bagel with cream cheese and head back upstairs to get ready for the day. The afternoon isn’t very eventful, you realize that the guys had already left for a fishing expedition earlier in the morning so Katie’s breakfast was cold by the time Justin got back. He looked at you hesitantly, waiting for you to nod your head before he thanked her and tossed the food in the microwave. Jordan suggested the group go out to a bar/club that night since you and Bree had been mentioning these famous strawberry margaritas since the day you arrived.

The music was loud as soon as you walked in. Gabe ordered the first round of drinks and you snuck out of the booth to reapply some mascara while the other girls browsed the marg menu. A knock on the door startles you into dropping your makeup in the sink.

“Occupied!” You yell out.

“It’s me.” Smiling to yourself at the familiar voice, you lock the door behind you when Justin walks in.

“Hi.”

Your face is in his hands with the mascara long forgotten as he softly says “c’mere,” leaning down to capture your lips with your back still against the door. He tastes like the shot of Don Julio you all just took and a little bit of mint. Your hand is in his hair again, pulling it ever so slightly so you are still as close to him as humanly possible without standing on your toes. Justin knows you both have to be back soon before anyone notices but the thought of your body not being practically glued to his makes him really want to go home. The kiss today is sloppier than last night, there’s more urgency, more fire. Neither of you thought it could get better but your hands are all over each other, your arms struggling to wrap itself around his bicep and at some point he had a handful of your ass. Not that you were complaining.

The kiss leaves you breathless, letting out a soft laugh as you pat him on the chest. “We should stop. I don’t want to but, we have to unfortunately.”

His lips curl into a small frown, almost a pout and you are seconds away from kissing him again. “I know. You should go first and I’ll be right out. Definitely need to splash some cold water on my face or something, I need a minute.”

Nodding your head in understanding, you step out to give him some space, but not before he grabs your hand and kisses the inside of your wrist.

An hour later you’re two margs and two shots in. Katie has been hanging all over Justin as soon as he got back from the bathroom and it’s taking everything in you to prevent yourself from yelling at her to get her hands off of him. And bless his heart he really is trying to keep his distance, catching your eye with an apologetic look every time she finds her way next to him again but it’s really getting exhausting.

“We should go dance!” Bree exclaims, snapping you out of your jealous rage. You nod immediately, desperate to look at anything other than what is happening at your table.

🎶H-O-T-T-O-G-O

Snap and clap and touch your toes

Raise your hands, now body roll

Dance it out, you're hot to go

H-O-T-T-O-G-O

Snap and clap and touch your toes

Raise your hands, now body roll

H-O-T-T-O-G-O🎶

You found yourself singing your heart out with not only Bree but some guys that also knew every word to the song. Getting lost in the moment and also not being remotely close to being sober you danced, letting him grab your hand and spin you around as Chappell Roan continued to play.

“I’m Matt,” the stranger tells you when the song is finished.

You hold your hand out, “y/n. You’re not a bad duet partner Matt.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” he laughs, still holding onto you.

An awkward silences washes over the moment when you begin to sober up a bit and pull your hand back. “I need to grab some water, excuse me.”

“Hello! Earth to y/n! That guy was cute and totally into you. What the hell is your problem?” Bree lectures you as you sit at the bar.

He’s cute but he’s not Justin, you think to yourself. “I just needed a drink that was a lot of dancing and it’s hot out there.”

Your excuse is pointless because you feel a presence behind you. “Can I get three waters please?”

Bree looks at Matt, thanking him and grabbing her water bottle to give you some privacy. He settles in the bar stool next to you and slides the water in your direction. “Are you from here? Because I’d remember a face like that walking around.”

The sentiment would usually make you feel good but now you just wished a certain someone was giving you flirty compliments. “I’m only here for a few more days unfortunately. Then it’s back to real life.”

“Well maybe I could convince you to come back? Make this some sort of regular thing? Us seeing each other?”

Back at the table, Justin was staring daggers at the bar area. As soon as Bree sat down without you, Tate asked where you were.

“Attagirl.” The football player heard his friend say and he moved around in his seat to get release the building tension in his shoulders. Katie was next to him saying something but all he could focus on was how close this guy was sitting next to you. Did the chairs really need to be that close?

“Bro, Justin.“ Charlie snaps in his face.

“What?” His tone was a bit more aggressive and irate than he intended but he couldn’t help it.

“If you hold that bottle any tighter you’re gonna shatter the glass man.”

He hadn’t even noticed he was treating the Nectarine Premiere bottle like it was a stress ball. The man slid it away from him on the table, turning his gaze back to the bar. You were laughing at something the guy was saying and the way the guy was looking at you was eating him alive.

Katie placed her hand on his thigh and kept going with her story that she’d been telling. Justin couldn’t take it anymore.

He plucked her hand off of him and got up when he saw you and the guy heading outside. “Excuse me.” The group watched him take several long strides until he was out the door.

Matt looks up with his mouth open as soon as Justin comes into view. “Dude, you’re Justin Herbert! I’m a huge fan man I bought your jersey last year. Wear it every Sunday.”

“It’s uh—it’s nice to meet you…”

“Oh it’s Matt.”

“Matt,” he says slowly trying to get rid of the bitterness in his voice but it doesn’t go unnoticed by you. Matt is too busy being a fanboy to see that anything is wrong. They take a selfie and Justin sends him on his way, the fan now too excited to have remembered he was trying to get your number.

Justin blows out a breath, staring at you until he hears you laugh. “This isn’t funny,” he groans.

“On the contrary, it’s hilarious. I’ve had to deal with it for the last three days. You didn’t even last an hour before running over here and putting a stop to it.”

“I didn’t run,” he counters, “I walked—very quickly. Not my fault I have long legs.”

You take a sip of your water. “Sure. Now how are you going to get yourself out of this? We said we weren’t going to tell them until we talked about what this is.”

“We did say that but I know what this is. I want to be with you. I want to kiss you, hold your hand, dance with you. I want…I want us to be together. That was the whole point of this trip.”

Furrowing your eyebrows, you urge him to explain. “I told Charlie I was ready. Planned this entire getaway to have one last trip before camp but I also didn’t want to leave again without telling you how I feel. What better place to tell someone you love them than at the lake?”

“You love me?”

He grabs your hand, feeling a sudden need for you to anchor him to the ground. “I love everything about you. I’m just sorry it took me this long to tell you the truth.”

“Better late than never. I love you too, a lot.”

He smiles again, a weight lifted off of him that he’d been carrying for quite some time. Justin is so happy that he doesn’t think he’s capable of words right now.

“Come here,” you tell him and he immediately closes any distance between you.

You give him a slow kiss, knowing you have all the time in the world to get to be with him.

Until a knock on the window startles you apart.

“I FREAKING KNEW IT!” Bree yells.

“Finally.” Charlie says shaking his head.

Justin rests his forehead against yours, too far gone to even care about PDA. He’d deal with the consequences later. “Do we have to go back in there and answer all their questions?”

“I think I’m gonna need one more kiss before we go,” you whisper.

Your brand new boyfriend nods in excitement, leaning in immediately. “Yes ma’am.”

[shrimpybbq]

sarah finally meeting high school gf!au reader and maybe reader is super excited but also nervous bc she wants this to go well for rafe and sarah so badly

¡I hope I’ve interpreted this right!

I’ve kind of touched on this before, but Sarah and high school gf have always had a good relationship. For a long time, Sarah was all high school gf had when Rafe was out, unavailable and unwilling to partake in the raising of his son. They spent hours cooped up in Tannyhill together, dealing with a screaming baby and learning how to take care of baby together. Sarah had always liked Rafe’s girlfriend, thinking she was far too sweet for him and surprisingly kind and gentle - not at all the type she thought Rafe would go for. When she heard her brother and high school gf were going to be parents at 18, she was so disappointed, but she knew she couldn’t just leave her alone. High school gf had always been kind to Sarah, spending time with her when Rafe was out and Topper suddenly decided to cancel his and Sarah’s date. The pair would watch movies together and gossip, and then one day their gossip changed from boys to babies.

So when Rafe did what he did to Sarah (not that high school gf was aware) and she pulled away from him and their family, the older girl was heartbroken. Sarah was her family, and now she was gone. They would often see each other around the island and have small conversations, maybe a quick greeting from Charlie, but nothing like they used to. She knows Sarah isn’t ready to speak to Rafe again, and she honestly doesn’t blame her.

When Sarah showed up at their door in season 4, she’s secretly ecstatic. She knows how much this means to both of the Cameron siblings and when she grabs Emmy from Rafe’s lap, she can’t help the tremor in her hands as she picks her daughter up. She’s so nervous. High school gf places Emmy on her playmat in the lounge room and presses herself against the open balcony doors, desperate to hear the conversation. It’s not what she wants to hear, to be truthful, but it’s progress. At least they’re in the same room as each other - that’s more than can be said for the past 18 months.

Before Sarah goes, she gives high school gf a hug, squeezing her tightly. They’ve both missed each other so much and being separated was hard on both of them. Not to mention how much they miss Wheezie. Wheezie loved her nephew more than anyone, they used to say. Sarah has her found family with the pogues, but before them, she had her sister-in-law. She asks Sarah to come around again sometime soon, but when she hesitates, she suggests brunch at a cafe instead. To her relief, Sarah smiles and nods at her and the pair make tentative plans.

The born Cameron and the wedded Cameron have both been through a lot, but they have always found a lot of peace and security in each other and for them to begin to rebuild that is so important and valuable to them.

Sarah and High School Gf are each others number one supporters!!!! My girls!

[hnslchw]

not what we wanted - LN4 x Reader

Summary: You haven’t felt this kind of ache in years. As memories of your relationship with Lando resurface, the lines between love and loss blur, leaving you grasping at the emotions you thought you’d buried. With every lyric you write, you’re pulled deeper into the bittersweet realization of what was—and what will never be.

Based on "the apartment we won't share by NIKI"

Themes/Warnings: angst (ofc), commitment issues??, no comfort, singer!reader, daddy and mommy issues (lando prolly doesn't have daddy issues but let's pretend pls) (Please let me know if I missed anything)

Word count: 1.1k

Author's note: Hello!! im so proud of this one i really hope everyone likes it. Please let me know what you think! Also if you want to suggest new drivers, characters, or new genres Ill try to make one for them, even though i only write once every two months HAHAH please feel free to ask <3 Anyways hope you enjoy!

The candle flickered on the desk as you stared at the half-filled notebook in front of you. The melody played faintly in the background, guiding the flow of your pen. Words scratched their way onto the paper, raw and unfiltered, each line peeling back the layers of a love that once felt indestructible. A love that belonged to you and Lando.

Two years ago, you had walked away from the man who, for a time, had been your entire world. The memories came rushing in as you tried to put them into lyrics, their weight settling in your chest.

The apartment we won't share.

I wonder what sad wife lives there.

Have the windows deciphered her stares?

Do the bricks in the walls know to hide the affairs?

You remembered the day you went apartment viewing with Lando. It was a sunlit afternoon, and the air buzzed with excitement as the two of you dreamed about building a life together.

“This one’s perfect,” Lando had said, his voice echoing in the spacious open floor plan.

You weren’t alone at the viewing. A couple—a woman with tired eyes and her distracted husband—wandered the space, too. The wife’s stares lingered on the window, and the unspoken tension between them was palpable.

When you and Lando got home that evening, he joked, “I swear, if we ever get like that, just put me out of my misery.”

You laughed, nudging his side. “Deal. Though you’re too busy to turn into a grumpy husband anyway.”

The irony cut deeper now. You hadn’t seen it then, but that couple was a reflection of what you and Lando were becoming—two people holding on to a love they couldn’t maintain.

The dog we won’t have is now one I would not choose.

A flash of warmth filled your chest as you thought about the day you met Charles’ dachshund, Leo.

“Now this is a dog,” Lando had said, crouching down to let Leo excitedly sniff his hand. “When we get one, it’s gotta be just like him—small, but full of personality.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You mean stubborn and impossible to train?”

“Exactly,” Lando replied, grinning as Leo flopped onto his back for belly rubs.

The idea of a dog—a small, tangible piece of the future you were trying to build—felt so easy back then. But now, even the thought of it was bittersweet.

The daughter we won’t raise still waits for you.

You wiped at your eyes, forcing yourself to stay present. The memory of late-night talks with Lando replayed like a broken record.

“I want a little girl someday,” he’d confessed once, his voice soft with vulnerability. “She’d be a daddy’s girl. Spoiled rotten.”

You had smiled, nodding along. You wanted to want the same thing, but deep down, you weren’t sure if you ever saw yourself as a mother. You had never told him that, though. Maybe you should have.

The girl I won’t be is the one that’s yours.

I hope you shortly find what you long for.

The breakup came rushing back, a scene you had replayed a thousand times in your head. It was late at night, and the exhaustion of trying to keep the relationship alive had worn you both thin.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you had said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Lando’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t argue. “I know.”

You wanted to be angry, to yell at him for not fighting harder. But deep down, you both knew the truth—you had drifted too far apart. You cupped his cheek, a sad smile on your lips. “I hope you find what you’re looking for, Lando.”

The filthy joke that won’t

Burrow in the corner of your

Smirking lips, I mourn it to this day.

A laugh escaped your lips as you thought about the gala. You could still see the way Lando leaned in, whispering a dirty joke in your ear that was so wildly inappropriate for the setting.

Your cheeks had burned, but you couldn’t bring yourself to scold him. Not when he looked at you with that stupid grin, his dimples on full display. You had never loved anyone more in that moment.

The story we won’t tell

Is my greatest fantasy.

The passion I won’t feel again

Isn’t lost on me.

You paused, letting the pen hover over the page. The weight of regret settled heavily on your shoulders. You had loved him deeply, even as the relationship unraveled. And now, the thought of never feeling that kind of love again terrified you.

The son you never wanted

Is the wound your father left.

And the mother I won’t be is

Probably for the best.

Your mind drifted back to one of your many late-night talks. Lando had opened up about his childhood, his compilcated relationship with his father. “I don’t think I’d know how to be a dad to a son,” he had admitted.

You hadn’t realized it then, but that fear had mirrored your own doubts about being a mother. Maybe that was why you had hesitated to dream too big about a family with him.

Your demons I won’t meet

Now someone else’s word to keep.

I’m sure she’s beautiful and sweet.

The song was nearly done when your phone buzzed on the desk. You picked it up, and the screen illuminated with a headline: Lando Norris and Fiancée Announce Engagement.

Your breath hitched, but you couldn’t look away. The woman in the photo was stunning, her smile radiant as she stood beside him. He looked happy—happier than you had seen him in years.

You closed the notebook, staring at the final line you had written:

Not what I wanted, but what we need.

The song was finished, but the story wasn’t just about you and Lando anymore. It was about letting go, about making peace with the love you had lost. You set the notebook aside, exhaling deeply.

Some endings weren’t tragic. They were just necessary.

[ceaselesswatchersspecialboy]

spent a good hour reading up on your Not What He Seems AU, it’s such a perfect mix of angst and whimsy! Ford waking up to find 30 years have passed in the blink of an eye is is the kind of body horror terrifying i eat up, as an avid enjoyer of time travel and its inherent tragedy.

i got a few questions, if you’ll indulge me:

- what kinds of tattoos you think Bill has gotten over the years? i think i saw some arm bands in one of your pieces, but i’d love to hear if you have any specific ideas for placements or images. if he’s doing it for the safe pain experience, i’d think there are some pretty big/detailed pieces involved? and do you think the pain helps ground him somewhat, to find and fit better in the boundaries of the body?

- in the show, Stan feels a lot of guilt for stealing his brother’s identity and he kinda thinks of himself as a fraud, an actor. do you think Bill ever feels guilty for the same? or would he just miss Ford a lot, without the Stan-specific aspect of pretending to be “the better one”?

also any fun tidbits you’ve been rotating in your head lately! it’s impressive how specifically it seems like you’ve thought out how Bill’s presence would affect the canon show events, while trying to keep them as unchanged as possible. also StanFraud is the funniest, most perfect thing I’ve ever heard!

Thank you!! I’ve always enjoyed writing horror based on human response, so Ford’s perspective is probably one of the most fascinating to me in this AU, although, all of it is fascinating and enjoyable to explore, really!

— I haven’t worked them all out yet, but I know for a fact he has a tattoo of the Cipher Wheel on his back, the arm bands as you mentioned, a hyper-realistic tattoo of his ribs where his ribs would be (if that makes sense), and eyes on the back of his hands. Honestly, I’d be open to suggestions for him! I imagine him having some more grotesque, detailed tattoos that reflect the nightmare realm as well. And yes, the pain definitely helps ground him. It also gives him a sense of control as well, in a situation where he has none.

— If he does feel guilty, it’s a complicated kind of guilt. I don’t even think he’d fully process that he’s feeling guilty. It’s this sort of gnawing feeling he can’t get rid of, and it starts the longer he gets to know Dipper and Mabel — he never really felt it before that. He absolutely misses Ford though. He can’t define that feeling either. I’ve said before that he looks at Dipper strangely, and that’s because Dipper reminds him of Ford in certain moments, eager for discovery!

He and Stan never really talk about it, but the have both acknowledged missing Ford before.

Bill’s response was vague though, not an ‘I miss him too’, but an ‘I think I do too.’ He isn’t sure what to make of that.

Bill Cipher doesn’t feel remorse, or miss people, he does everything with intention and he’s never made mistakes. Or, that’s what he’s meant to be. Maybe he has gone soft.

And Tidbits! I have a few! Not as many as usual, only because Arcane’s been taking up a bit of my brain space lately, but I hope these shall suffice anyhow:

(And quickly, thank you again, I think way too hard on all the small details and how Bill’s presence would have a knock on effect. It makes me happy to see it get noticed!)

— In the early days of Bill being trapped, Stan obviously doesn’t open the Mystery Shack, and ends up having to take a few odd jobs around town instead. He’s earned a bit of a reputation for being a decent handyman because of that, and even now, old timers of the town will still come to Stan if they need something fixing, especially cars. He complains about getting too old for it, but he never says no. Money is money! It’s also interesting to think about how the little things would impact his relationship with the townsfolk and how they view him. He’s always been Stanley to them. He’s never had to pretend otherwise.

— I’ve toyed around with making the Blind Eye a bigger threat than they are in canon, being as the kids would have no reason to look into Old Man McGucket. I’ve also toyed around with McGucket ending up slightly different to canon, his mind still broken, but his motivation different, with him being aware early on that the man he sees isn’t Ford, and is in fact the beast he fears and tried to erase from his mind. A more antagonistic Fiddleford who’s been trying to get rid of Bill for years now would actually be really fun? If I can make it work, and make the Blind Eye work in this way, I’ll lean into it! For now though, it’s just an idea I’m throwing around.

— Vague ‘episode’ idea that exists within my brain is Bill accidentally starting a mini cult again after telling some sort of lie that catches on, and it ends up being a Mabel-Bill bonding plot-line as she tries to convince him to just be honest before this whole cult thing gets taken too far. I also love the idea of Bill making a comment about this being like 1952 all over again. He makes comments like that all the time. Surely he’s just joking!

— Another vague ‘episode’ idea I have is Bill taking Dipper and Mabel to the supernatural underground market of Gravity Falls under Stan’s nose, trying to prove he’s the cooler Uncle, and that he can handle the two kids by himself. This goes about as well as you’d expect. Stan isn’t too happy to find out Bill got Dipper and Mabel in trouble, as he tried to get them to do more and more risky things.

— Bill will sometimes start speaking in Euclydian without realising, especially when it comes to cursing, and no one knows how he’s making those sounds with his mouth. Stan’s actually started picking up some of the meanings in context and can roughly gauge what Bill might be saying.

[sometimesthingsgowrongokayy]

oh golly how do you make these things

jayvik tickle hcs because i can

(sparkle sparkle)

separate and then together, a few swears, one tiny suggestive bit on jayce’s

JAYCE

lee!

ohhh boy. jayce my bbaby. okay. so as a decently muscular man, hes gotta be at least a little ticklish.

i think his worst spots are probably the spots you can just latch onto and squeeze- thighs, ribs, knees, even shoulders.

my boy cannot take a massage. he has tried so hard but every single time he’s just a hiccuping snorty mess

speaking of hiccuping snorty mess. i think he has a lot of different laughs. when you get him really going it’s his usual deep belly laughter, loud and proud and so bright you’re gonna need sunglasses

but also i think if you have him for long enough his laugh changes pitch a lot. like it’ll go from low to super high, and he’s all like “hahahAHAHAHHHSGH OHGOD OH GOD OH GOHOHOD” and oough. bbg

if it’s less intense, he’s not really one to giggle, but he definitely hiccups. he scrunches his face all up and jerks around and flinches and snorts and covers his mouth with the back of his hand and.. ghrhrgh.. im going insane guys

i think he’s the kind of guy who doesn’t squirm too much but arches his back a lot. he doesn’t squirm back and forth, but he’s always folding like a lawn chair, forwards and backwards

with his hiccupy/snorty laughter, he’ll go silent for a few seconds, and his shoulders just bounce as his whole body shakes, face absolutely BURNING red

oh yeah and he’s a blusher. bigtime. he gets a little flustered at the fact he can get plucked apart so easily by something as silly as tickling. he doesn’t think its childish, per se, but certainly not something a grown man should be This weak to.

..and yeah, he likes it. he’s embarrassed about it, but won’t necessarily deny it. he kind of has a thing for going all dumb and happy and brainless. just made into a smiley little puddle of jayce

oh and his smile. i know these hcs are already so freaking long but his smilee he is always grinning. even just a poke and he’s already got a big dumb smile. he is literally the sun when being tickled, it’s absurd

i didnt even get into soft tickles yet what

okay so we all know his abs are sensitive. i think he might just die at some gentle fluttery fingers. same with his sides and back

hear me out. behind the knees. oh and biceps. and the underside of his arms in general. and his forearms. none of them are too bad, but he’ll still squirm a little if you just slowly trace your fingers over them

post-season-2(SPOILERS KINDA??) his wrist his mad sensitive from the crystal embedded in there.

all of his scars are sensitive too. i don’t think he has too many, but the ones he does have are Big and also very ticklish <3

all in all i think he’s very sensitive. he’s the type to be flinching and squirming at things that aren’t even supposed to be ticklish, like god this man cannot take a tummy rub. if someone’s hands are on him in a sensual manner he can’t hold back tiny little giggle-huffs.

whenever anyone’s hands are on his bare skin in any soft manner, he’s. he can’t. he is too ticklish to survive on this earth

okay im gonna stop myself there or im gonna be ranting for seven more paragraphs

ler!

this little shit oh my god

okay no i take that back. i feel like he would be a smug cocky little shit, but not always.

im sorry, i have to say it, engineer hands

i have less ler hcs than i do lee hcs for him but i do think he would be absurdly switchy. he’s the type of guy to just poke people at random whenever he’s bored or to prove a point

has a habit of digging. he’ll find a nice meaty spot and just squeeze it lighting fast for about a second and then give you a teensy little break before doing the exact same thing again

he can be a little merciless though. he doesn’t realize just how good he is at tickling, he just thinks everyone who he tickles is mad sensitive

its hilarious though. he’ll be like “How did I never know you were this ticklish?!” and the lee will be like I DIDN’T KNOW EITHER HOW ARE YOU DOING THIS-

his hands are going all over the place, too. if he has a really handsy/squirmy lee, he’ll just keep switching spots every time they go to defend something. arms glue to their sides? okay, he’ll switch to their knees. legs pull up? okay, neck now. shoulders scrunch? ooh, armpits are fun!

he is such a menace and doesn’t even realize it

he’s crazy playful. mostly back in academy days, but if you can get close enough to him as the man of progress, and he has some free time, he’s so freaking playful its wonderful

he thinks its fun, and he likes seeing people’s stress just melt away. he will get a little worried if you tell him to stop, though, and pulls back a little if you do. he doesn’t wanna hurt you or make you uncomfortable.

definitely pokes people a lot but doesn’t actually engage in full attacks all that often. usually he has to be pretty close friends with someone to do that.

he’s very gentle with viktor when he tickles him, sometimes a little too gentle. it’s agony

VIKTOR

lee!

okay im gonna say it now before the thought leaves my brain. ticklish ears

he’s a lot more keen to light tickles as rougher stuff just kinda hurts a lot of the time or gets him really overwhelmed

tbh if you wanna get him bad, tools are probably best bet. rough tickles with hands are a little too much, but get a feather or a pen or a brush and Hoo boy you’ve killed Viktor.

i don’t actually think he’s all that ticklish. like he is but he isn’t? he’s sensitive but not hypersensitive, i guess.

except for his bad spots. i think its more of a thing where he’s not too ticklish in most places but his bad spots get him writhing.

of course i’m obliged to say neck, ears, jaw, back.. the works. i think his stomach has the potential to be sensitive but he’s a little too skin and bones for it to really impact him.

he has a lot of vaguely unusual spots. his wrists and palms are sensitive, i think his scalp is even a little sensitive. he doesn’t like people playing with his hair for that reason

if not for his brace i’d say his back and spine especially would be real bad. without his brace, just tracing a line all the way up his spine has him jerking forward so hard sometimes he falls over. and absolutely spits out any drink he may be drinking. i mean it feels like stars bursting all the way up his back, okay?? so tingly

he’s the type to hold his stomach when laughing really hard, just in general

he’s also a big snorter, but he uhm.. he has a very maniacal laugh. it’s literally just like- a whole villain laugh. absolutely terrifying.

i think he’s a lot less sensitive than jayce in theory, but in practice he’s a lot less used to it and very squirmy

so squirmy. very slippery. i wouldn’t quite say nimble, because of his leg, but- at the very least very good at escaping.

definitely the type to go straight for his ler’s sides to get them off him. he panics and just squeezes. usually it works but sometimes it doesn’t

i think he has the potential to be a giggler. idk though. he wouldn’t have bubbly giggles as much as he would have really breathy, huffy giggles. silent giggles are another big thing

i think he’s very neutral on the whole concept. he has to be in the right mood and it has to be with someone he trusts with his life.

feather-ticklish bastard. trust me on this

ler!

idk about you guys but viktor talking like he’s documenting an experiment while tickling someone? oughhrgrh.

im usually not one for teases but aaugrgghgrgr.

his hands are absurdly nimble, so while he can commonly be overpowered by his lee, he’s still a slippery bastard and somehow manages to slip into all of someone’s worst spots

i’m kinda stealing this hc from someone else, but i think he is very good at predicting/guessing someone’s weak spots. “HOHOW DID YOU KNOW I-“ “oh, i just guessed. not very hard, you know.” gggggraagg

i really can’t explain just how evil he is. those nimble hands of his are all over someone in seconds, spidering and digging into every single spot and switching at lighting speeds.

very good at tickling people, i think. him and jayce are on a pretty even playing field for that

i have such a distinct idea of what ler!viktor would be but for some reason i just cant explain it with words.

TOGETHER

oh these two. these two. i’m.

they are so switchy it’s scary. tickle fights with these two are not tickle fights, they are strategic tickle wars.

viktor tickles jayce out of stress a lot. jayce is definitely the type to get overwhelmed with stress and not tell anyone, literal king of masking, but ofc viktor sees through it in seconds and wrecks him until he admits what’s wrong. and then viktor wrecks him some more so he can forget about it for a little while

they’re always teasing eachother. on energetic days they’re both so playful with eachother, and they’ll be poking eachother around the lab all day until one of them cracks and launches an attack

they wreck eachother just to prove a point sometimes.

jayce has a habit of getting viktor when he’s being too cocky or sassy. viktor has a habit of getting jayce just because he feels like it.

jayce tickles viktor when he’s bored, he’ll pick up a quill and flutter it against the back of viktor’s neck while he’s ranting about something.

they get revenge a lot, but then they get revenge on the revenge, so it’s kind of.. a cycle

they know eachother’s boundaries like the back of their hands, since they’ve known eachother so long they’re very good at knowing exactly when to stop and exactly what to do

they also pick up on eachother’s lee moods.. and ler moods sometimes. let’s just say jayce knows when to run when viktor gets a certain look in his eyes

aftercare with them is sickeningly soft. brushing hair out of faces, gently caressing skin, massaging eachother to get rid of some of the lingering tingles, all of it. they hold hands and press up next to eachother and ghhgh. even if its in a scenario where they aren’t dating, they still do all of this, and if someone questions it they just shrug. just two bros bein dudes, nothing to see here

i feel like these together hcs are so bad im sorry. it’s so early rn and im suffering Hunger. ill probably make more of these in the future if anyone is interested

feel free to shoot me an ask or two about them as well!!