#lady heather’s box

[csidle]

There was supposed to be a Grissom x Lady Heather kiss!!

“We didn’t know if Billy would go through with it”

And then he DIDN’T

Wonderful stuff. Obsessed with how much Billy and Jorja drove the scenes in spite of the writers, honestly

How HIGH Jorja’s voice is in these seasons is incredible. She’s so little 😭

[whatifyoulivelikethat]

trouble, m | jjk

... aka, jeon jungkook’s dick is so good and your pussy is so heavenly that faith in humanity is restored.

pairing(s): jungkook x reader

warnings: rated M (18+) for language; a hookup turned awkward meeting at a goddamn McDonalds of all places; smut (fem reader, hair pulling, heavy making out, m-receiving oral, doggy, penetrative sex, fingering, m-masturbation); non-idol!BTS – ft best friend!Park Jimin being a wingman little shit classic

--

“Oh, I’m in trouble.”

Panic coursed throughout his veins.

“I can’t be here.”

And maybe a little bit of arousal too.

“Jungkook, this is a public place,” Park Jimin corrected him. “Anybody can be at McDonald’s.”

He almost got up from his seat, except he was boxed in a corner of a crowded fast-food restaurant and Jimin shoved the tray full of food right in front of his face. The other side of the table held various shopping bags full of things that Jimin thought his mother would like for the upcoming new year. Why did Jeon Jungkook have to be here? Well, he was the one guy from Busan who happened to be Jimin’s close friend and Jimin’s mother’s favorite friend of her son’s. Therefore, Jungkook obviously had to select something for Jimin to buy just so Jimin could say, Jungkook thought you would look nice in this cream sweater, thus gaining maximum best son points.

Yeah, Jungkook didn’t really get it either, but he was told that he was getting free food out of it.

Didn’t think it was going to be McDonald’s, though.

Also didn’t think that his fuck from last night was going to serendipitously appear, standing in line looking drop-dead gorgeous as she pushed the fur-lined hood of her coat back. Her lush hair spilled out in soft waves over the shoulders of that the black suede long-line stunner, far too much luxury for the city mall. And then there was her face. What god thought it would be funny to allow someone to look that effortlessly pretty bare-faced? Who put such sexy eyes on such a cute face? One glance and one would think, how cute with those dimples and pillowy lips, and then do a double take when the shape of those foxy eyes sunk in, holy shit, fuck me right now. Or, at least Jungkook had thought that. Still thought it, looking at her again in the daylight. Tight white top, heather gray sweatpants that didn’t match the lavishness of the jacket, and easy black-and-white sneakers, clearly everything thrown together to grab some food quickly while being a goddamn snack herself.

Jimin was carefully positioning Jungkook’s meal in front of him – fries, massive sandwich with both a beef patty and fried chicken patty, tall Coca-Cola and all, chatting away, and all Jungkook could do was gawk like an idiot.

Like he said, he was in trouble.

Tomorrow.

The ghost of her hand slid up his chest, caressing his skin while her voice curled by his ear, soft lips kissing down his neck.

I hope your friends ask about me.

The image entering his mind, the way she smiled above him, her skin alight from his mood lamp with specks of red light playfully dancing over her jaw, her fingertips tracing his muscle making his heart race, her soft thighs against his, smooth and sleek and making him insane.

The devil was in the details.

“Hello? Did you space out again?”

Jungkook jumped, startled that Jimin was glaring at him. “What?”

Those small hands stiffly pointed to the food spread before them. “Eat? Come on, it’s busy and we don’t want to take up too much time.”

“R… Right.”

He had about two seconds to take a bite out of his sandwich before Jimin casually asked in between bites of curly fries, “Oh yeah, you ran off last night with that sexy lady. How did that go?”

Jungkook choked.

-

That’s all I am, sex and shallow feelings, tch, what an idiot, acting like it was ever anything else, I don’t need anyone and I won’t need anyone, go ahead and act all high and mighty in front of your friends during the day, we all know you’ll be begging to crawl in my bed at night.

Mind a billion thoughts a minute.

You tilted your head and found yourself not that hungry. Still, some fries and a drink sounded good, so you picked that. Reached into the fur by your chest and pulled out your cardholder, tapping it to pay as you continued scowling in your head, trying not to let it show in the form of resting-bitch-face.

Ten minutes before this moment had been an annoying confrontation. You considered if you could have handled it better.

Or more savagely.

You should have pulled up all those messages you had left on read.

Sigh, but, no, you hadn’t thought of it. Ultimately, it wasn’t worth your time. It would have been a childish move. Why was that anyway? Why was it that you needed to be the “bigger person” and not be petty when some guy got all up in your face about you not wanting a relationship as his supposed friends crowded around in a circle around you two, clearly silently intimidating you? In public! Fuckin’ bum-rushed you on the street as if the showy dramatics would illicit shame or obedience. Yeah, because you were a woman who would just kill to be in a relationship, right? You scoffed internally. ‘Cause it was just so important to be in a relationship, more than, oh, I don’t know, actively not being in one that was definitely, absolutely gonna make you miserable?

Also, he hadn’t even been that good in bed.

“At least I am sex. You couldn’t even be that for a slut with as low standards as me,” was your frigid reply before walking away.

You couldn’t understand it. What was so great about relationships anyway? People only got into them for easy sex. A lotta work for a shitty time. You could get laid without the emotional baggage of another, thank you.

Although, sex probably wasn’t easy for people who acted like little bitches.

Hah.

You thanked the employee and accepted your food, wandering over to the drinks fountain with your paper cup. A basic day of running errands on your off-day now ruined by this bullshit. Nothing a little McDonald’s couldn’t fix though. Something about the nostalgia of hot, simple, cheap fast food made it more delicious. You probably should have gotten a sandwich or something, but you didn’t want to be too full and not want to do your errands after. Fried potatoes it was.

Hey, people called you sex, not the epitome of health.

You notched your finger on the tab and watched the honey-sweetened black ice tea pour out of the nozzle, which was the exact moment your intrusive thoughts popped up.

You avoid making deep relationships so that no one will notice when you die.

Thanks, brain.

Funnily enough, no one had ever said this to you. You would think someone would have noticed by now but, no, this was a revelation you made yourself once you were old enough to understand yourself better, and it came randomly while showering. Hmph. Goddamn showers. You slipped past a lovey-dovey couple to sit by the window counter, plopping down on one of the stools to munch on your fries for a bit. Alone. Some people wanted a lot of people to surround them. A sense of community and togetherness. Some people wanted a chosen few, valuing the quality over quantity. And some people were like you, loners who accepted who you were and that was NSFS – not safe for society – patiently waiting for the one that really understood you.

Or maybe there wasn’t anyone like you and you were just delusional about that.

Anyway, didn’t really matter. This kind of thing simply ended with thinking in circles. Sure, you could dwell on the whole question of existence, the why, but you had determined the more important was the who, the self within, and that wasn’t driven by the why. The who was driven by instinct.

If your instinct was to eat, fuck, sleep, repeat, then so be it.

Oh, and occasional responsibilities, like getting your tires rotated. Hence why you even outside today in the first place.

Hah, what a bother.

You munched on your crispy, hot fries and didn’t bother anyone. You learned not to expect too much out of people. They talked a lotta talk and didn’t walk much walk. I want this, this, and this, you heard a whole lot and nobody did it. A speech was all well and good, just not nearly as half as interesting as doing. And if you didn’t want to do it, you didn’t waste time beating yourself up over it. If that resulted in you only hooking up and avoiding relationships that you didn’t feel like committing to, then at least you weren’t disingenuous or fake.

Yup.

Looking out the window, you watched the people rush past with their shopping bags, linking arms with each other to avoid slipping on the sidewalk. Snow flurries falling down, down. The glass was clean enough that you could see inside the restaurant too. Tables with families and friends sharing simple, cheap fast food and turning it into a collective memory. Laughter and conversation echoed around your silence.

The looking glass showed you two ways.

You didn’t mind it, but it was evident you weren’t part of it too.

Hmmmm.

Your gaze stopped at a pair of guys. One of them was wearing a big black bucket hat. You noticed him because large brown eyes were actively staring back at you. Ogling, even.

What the–

You turned slightly and sat up straight with alarm as Jeon Jungkook stiffened and shifted, scooting closer to the person next to him, sneaking a not-so-subtle glance at you. You continued to look back in stunned confusion.

At goddamn McDonald’s?

Is no place sacred?

It was only less than twenty-four hours ago, but last night felt like another world.

-

Your fingers framing your face.

You licked your lips. Staring into his eyes, everything dark except for the mood lamp he left on. Cycling lights slowly drifted on the ceiling in a colorful haze. It was easy to remember all the shit people liked to say about you when you were alone, she’s so pretty but I hear she’s only into casual sex, what a shame, but you found solace in knowing that they had one fact wrong, because casual sex was for casuals and that was the wrong adjective to describe what you did.

Definitely the incorrect one to describe what transpired between you and Jeon Jungkook last night.

Your hand slipped from your cheek, and you touched his skin, bringing his face close to yours, keeping the whispers only in the air that you shared with those trembling lips.

“You’ve got cute eyes, but I bet you can be sexy when you want to.”

What was wrong with this? What was wrong with your comfort zone being someone else’s hands on your waist, pulling you closer? What was wrong with accepting the surge of power you felt licking the side of his mouth, adding slippery friction to the harshness of the metal rings pierced there, drinking in his moan as you teased him? It was just so annoying caring about all that noise trying to get to you, telling you to tone it down, telling you to stop, and, for what, don’t you have shame, that’s not how women should act, no. What they really meant was that was not how they would act. The consensus was to strive to be the respectable audience, always strive to fit in and be the quiet ones.

You envied their desire for silence.

Because you had to be loud.

You tangled your fingers in his long black hair and pulled his head back, running your tongue over his neck, tasting that skin and the anticipation vibrating in those muscles underneath. Admired the shivers under your body as you rolled into him, nice and slow and agonizing, whispering dirty things to him, things you wanted and none of it safe for work, finally bringing his head back down to nip at those gasping lips, intending on turning them pink and prickling with want, kissing him softly in contrast to the way you tugged at his hair every time he tried to intensify it.

“P-Please…”

His hands on your bare ass, hiking your dress up, digging his fingernails in, trying to keep his breathing even as desperation bled into it.

“You said to show you what I like,” you murmured. “I like teasing you.”

You pressed your body to his so your perfume would cling to his clothes, his bedsheets, his skin.

-

This was going to sound dramatic, but Jungkook was pretty sure last night she saved his life.

Actually.

That sounded very dramatic.

And kind of pathetic, so Jungkook kept that thought to himself, but nevertheless he kept that secret close to his chest, next to his racing heart that couldn’t seem to slow down, especially when her nails raked down his back while her tongue snaked around his, sucking on it lightly compared to the force behind her hands, the contrast between kiss and touch causing unbearable levels of arousal. He hadn’t expected a casual conversation to turn into this. He liked to think he was maybe charming, perhaps suave in some cases, occasionally daring, but he didn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.

Casual sex could only stay casual if both people got the memo.

And Jungkook knew he didn’t want to get in too deep unless he was sure and the truth was that he wasn’t sure if he was ever going to want someone that much. It was fucking terrifying to be that vulnerable. How could he ever be “sure”? If he failed at his own goals, the only one he was letting down was himself. If his plans didn’t go as planned, well, that sucked but it was okay because it was only himself and he could do something about it. But getting his heart broken by someone else – ugh, what could he do about that? Worse, everything became so complicated when people didn’t say what they meant and didn’t mean what they say. It would be nice to experience the good stuff without the chance of getting his heart broken.

Cut out all that risky business.

It was a bit strange that this situation hadn’t felt like a risk. Of course it was, how was it not risky bringing a woman you barely knew to your apartment with the intent to make out and who knows what else, but, hey, the moment had felt right.

Or maybe it was the gods playing tricks on him.

But, anyway, her tongue wrapping around his balls felt amazing.

She pressed her soft lips to the sensitive skin and sent shivers through his legs as her fingernails dragged down his tense thighs. He hoped they left marks, or at least lingered for a few hours. Looking down, and those sly eyes were gazing back, like they knew exactly the effect they had on him. Sparkling when her name escaped his lips in a pleading whisper, glinting in the low light as her head tipped back and her tongue curled underneath his balls to lick that thin skin behind him, making him gasp and almost fall over, his palm smacking into the wall to hold him up. A jolt of radiating pain shot up his forearm, and then her hot, wet mouth surrounded him and swallowed his cock as deep as it would go.

He wanted to say he had made a sexy moan, but he was ninety-nine percent sure his neighbors were awake, so instead Jungkook whimpered and rested the crown of his head against the wall, feeling his hair stick to his face. Apparently, his embarrassing vocalizations didn’t matter though, because her head started slowly moving back and forth. Her eyes closed, humming steadily in satisfaction. His breath caught in his throat, forgetting all about the pain and instead drowning in the pleasure that rose like scalding steam. Ecstasy shimmered through every blood vessel in his body. Soft lips, swirling tongue, tight throat that closed in around the swollen head and pulsed, pulling him in deeper, and Jungkook could feel it, his cock twitching and getting harder, the insistent softness on the cusp of not enough, and yet so much was happening. Flexing wet muscle under the head every time she backed up, trapped in that warm sleeve, her cheeks sucking inward and drawing him deeper every time her lips pressed into his crotch, her graceful fingers fanning over his thighs and ass, stroking his tingling skin in time with her tongue.

Holy fuck.

Maybe it was dramatic that last night she saved his life by blowing his dick with such incredible skill, but Jungkook was sticking to this drama.

Wasn’t casual sex supposed to be wham, bam, thank you, next. Not, holy shit, my cock is so fucking deep in her throat I can feel her neck muscles flexing, but perhaps he had done some good deeds or this year was going to be extra prosperous in the sex front (it wasn’t a question that came up much among those elderly fortune tellers his mom visited, how odd). It had to be something like that, because how was he supposed to know the friend of a friend was going to be, one, hot, and, two, down to fuck, and, three, actually good at it?

And, four.

Readily manhandle him. But not in a threatening way. In an unafraid-to-say-and-get-what-she-wanted way. The direct, forward assertiveness was sexy as hell, but Jungkook wasn’t going to tell other people that he liked it when a woman took charge. That wasn’t exactly small talk. It didn’t come up naturally. He didn’t even tell the women he had previously slept with. It hadn’t felt like the right atmosphere. And, well, the sex was just okay. He figured he had to be careful in what he said when he wasn’t sure if they were going to be long term.

He had to cover his ass.

Speaking of.

Her fingernails sank into his ass and dragged down harshly as she tilted her head back. His throbbing cock slid down along the back of her throat, sending uncontrollable tremors up his chest and down his legs, pain and pleasure and perfection.

Jungkook slapped a hand over his mouth and let out a muffled half-scream.

She started focusing exclusively on the head, back and forth, running her tongue over it with her plush lips constricting the base, holy shit, and his eyes rolled back in his head, his hand falling, exhale thin and thinning out even more as he was reaching the end. It was too unexpectedly good, fuck, it made the muscles in his back tremble and his blood boil, o-oh, fuck, made his heart race and his calves strain with tension, I’m gonna c-cum, made his scalp tingle and his mind go blank with pleasure and he never thought an orgasm could be this intense unless he was the one getting himself off, but he was wrong, he was so fucking wrong, because he could feel the tightening in his core spiraling a bit too much and he was going to lose his fucking mind.

He gasped and screamed under his breath.

The high hit him like the sudden violent snap of elastic, so sharp that he was winded and able to feel the muscles of upper thighs spasm, shooting a rather impressive amount down her throat, almost regretful he didn’t pull out so that he could see how much it was, but none of that mattered, ensnared in wave after punishing wave of indecent, gratified lust flinching through his shaking, hard muscles as he felt his cum fill her mouth.

She swallowed.

Jungkook almost punched the wall, the oversensitivity almost painful, his hoarse voice on the verge of cracking.

“C… Careful…. P-Please…”

Those eyes flickering up, and she seemed to understand. Gently, pulling back just a little. He almost buckled at the sensation of the sucking lessening, such a good feeling but overwhelming in the afterglow, and then it was cloud-nine bliss, achingly perfect in the way she carefully slid his cock along her tongue, his twitching length gliding in the puddle of saliva and cum, repeatedly, soaring high like the moon, the thick viscosity creating a slick friction that was wicked heaven.

He wanted to say, oh, yeah, I lasted a long time after that.

He did not.

I’m in trouble.

He realized that the second she got on her knees on his bed, raised her ass, and turned her head back to smirk at him. Made direct eye contact as he tried to hide his gulp and put on the condom, keeping his hands low so she didn’t see them quiver. He was staring a bit too much, but she simply reached over and took his right hand, caressing his tattoos, and then he gasped as his fingers touched slippery wetness, looking down, and was he allowed to fall in love with a beautiful pussy at first glance or not allowed? Fuck, she even had a cute asshole. Was that too dirty to think or what?

Jungkook didn’t contemplate it too much as she slid his fingers into her, the soft, firm walls wrapping around him.

“Ready?” she hummed.

“Y- Yeah…”

In hindsight, he could have said much sexier things other than, yeah, but that was the least of his problems. Getting on his knees, sinking in, and he nearly blacked out with how good it felt. A steady controlled pulse surrounding him. Somehow, his cock became even harder, his fingers splaying out over the juicy curve of her ass, deeper, so tight, and it was all her, that cute face smiling back at him with the tip of her tongue tracing her upper lip. Naughty smirk widening, captivating foxy eyes filled with mirth shining in the darkness of his bedroom.

Jungkook didn’t even care.

He was just trying not to bust a nut at this excessive amount of sensuality that he hadn’t been prepared for.

“You look very sexy with your hair over your face like that.”

He hadn’t even noticed the strands of black covering his vision because he had been too busy looking down.

“Your back looks… oh, f-fuck… looks so beautiful…”

She grinned and lowered herself on his sheets to push back against him.

He had stuttered because her pussy had squeezed him in between his words. There wasn’t any time to be eloquent anyway, not with the sudden need surging through him at this improved angle, his grip on her hips tightening and thrusting his hips forward, wincing at how loud that smack was, surely someone outside heard, but there was nothing he could do about it, didn’t want to stop, couldn’t stop, sinking his teeth into his lower lip and trying not to add any additional noise, wanted to slow down but it felt so good when he was so deep, so tight and choking his shaft, the sensitive head of his cock rubbing against her walls and swelling. Even with the condom he felt so much, pressure and power and intensity, placing a palm on her lower back and groaning between clenched teeth, the arc of her ass so obvious and the bounce so visible that he would dream about it, all of it, the slaps of body to body, thrusting hard, rough, his ears tingling with her low, sexy moans, too good, felt too good, and he wanted to last longer but just couldn’t.

Threw his head back and yelled under his rushing exhale, straining to contain his cry in his chest.

Didn’t last much longer with a new condom and in missionary position either. He kept staring at her pretty face and perky tits, feverish desire racing with every slap of hips-to-hips, his hair falling into his eyes, struggling to see her hands clutching his pillows, and then she arched her back to give him a full view of those perfect, tasty-looking, hard nipples. Honestly, he was proud of himself for lasting the ten minutes that he did. Five minutes. Er, at least he hoped he lasted more than five minutes.

He was sweaty and gasping but he asked anyway.

“Sorry, I… Are you upset at me?”

She tilted her head, confused. “For what? That felt amazing.”

His face burned as he mumbled under his breath.

“I… I usually last longer…”

“Oh.” Blink. “Oh!” She grinned at him, and it was so devious that Jungkook realized this must not be the first time she had heard that. “I don’t care about things like that. But, uh…”

Her sex saved his life.

Her next words murdered him on the spot.

“You know, when you came, uh… I’m sure you were trying to be quiet and all that, but you sounded a bit like one of those faraway screams that happen in movies. You know, when someone gets thrown far away mid-battle. A very tiny, aaaaaaa…”

Not the best sex of his life comparing his orgasm noise to the Wilhelm scream.

-

You could admit it.

You shouldn’t have said that.

But also shouldn’t people be told of such things so that they became more self-aware? It took everything in you not to burst out laughing in his presence (although you did laugh a lot when you arrived home). And it wasn’t as if you were going to see him again. For a while, anyway. Definitely not the next day at goddamn McDonald’s.

Right?

Wrong.

You gawked at Jungkook until the other guy with him noticed and started staring at you too. Oh, jeez, it was Park Jimin, another one of the guys who had been there last night at the birthday party. You remembered him and his distinctive, bubbly giggling all night. He had a great voice too, making listening to karaoke actually bearable. He was, however, the kind of guy that wanted to be in the know about everything and everyone.

Aw, shit.

You weren’t ready for another repeat of this morning.

Jimin’s round, discerning eyes recognized you immediately even in your casual clothes and lack of makeup. You snapped your head back to your empty paper packaging. Snatched up your cup, pushing away from the window counter and stepping down, winding over to the drinks machine to top off on tea before sprinting it. Hey, McDonald’s wasn’t that cheap anymore. Inflation was a thing. Better get as much as you could before leaving.

You tossed the oily packaging and your napkin before turning around, immediately nearly colliding with Jeon Jungkook.

“Gah!”

“Oh!”

And he grabbed your waist.

Of course, he did.

Your bare waist, because you were wearing a crop top under your heavy coat.

You kept your drink-holding hand out of the way and gasped into his chin, your other hand landing on his left upper arm and squeezing, suddenly tense all over. It was hard and solid under your grip, twice as tense as you were.

“S-Sorry, Jimin pushed me…”

You vaguely heard Jungkook mumbling but you didn’t have time for this, didn’t have time to be let down again by humanity. Didn’t have time for Jeon Jungkook getting into your face about you fucking and dipping, scolding you about being too blunt, and possibly even directly calling you a bitch. Not that you didn’t deserve it. You just didn’t want to find out that cute-faced, criminally-undercover-sexy, surprisingly-a-very-good-fuck Jeon Jungkook could maybe be a shitty person.

Didn’t want to know.

Better not to know.

“S’okay. Let me get out of your way,” you mumbled back, turning your head away.

“You’re not in my way.”

You heard him say it, didn’t believe it, and yet his hands were still around your waist.

“Actually… Please be in my way.”

You froze.

Snapped your head back and found yourself centimeters from Jeon Jungkook’s face.

Oh, I’m in trouble.

He let go of you, slowly, his touch hovering as if you would make a break for it in the middle of this crowded McDonald’s, as if you would bowl over small children and their Happy Meals to escape, sending plastic toys flying in your wake. But you did no such thing, instead holding your breath, realizing how upset you would be if this was another you’re an insensitive whore moment. The truth was that you didn’t care until you did, or at least until you fully comprehended that you were glad to see Jungkook rather than completely indifferent. Why? He hadn’t said anything special. Just, please make it home safely. You had thought that was weird, please. Brushed it off as him being polite or even maybe trying to entice you with that light touch of submissiveness, anything but the possibility of him actually, honestly, straightforwardly caring about your safety.

You learned to expect people not caring for much except for themselves.

“I… Good afternoon,” you managed to get out, stepping closer as a crowd of kids squashed themselves against the drinks fountain, clambering over each other with their paper cups, yelling about how you snooze, you lose even though there was plenty of soda in a fast-food restaurant.

An adult, presumably a guardian, ran over to tell them to quiet down.

“Y… Yeah…” was Jungkook’s strangled reply, startled at you attempting conversation.

You held your sweet tea and tried to lightly bow, but realized that you could hit him in the chin if you did. You stepped aside to avoid that, and then his hand darted out. Stopping. Suddenly aware of what he was doing, stuck on what to do, looking at you helplessly for instruction. This was some love song or romcom movie shit.

No.

This was a goddamn McDonald’s, not awkward-sexual-tension meeting grounds. You grabbed his hand and pulled him along, spinning to find yourself crammed into the table with a grinning Park Jimin and too many shopping bags.

“Oh, hey. Funny seeing you here.”

Jimin was stifling his giggles.

You immediately let go of Jungkook’s hand, your face frozen and expressionless.

“Ah, Jungkook, can you watch my food?” Was it your imagination or did Park Jimin just bat his eyelashes? “I’m gonna go put the gifts in my car.”

Oh no.

“Stay right there!”

Jungkook looked mortified. “Jimin, wait–”

But he did not wait. Ruffled fluffy black hair, mischievous smile, and a whoosh later, those crinkly paper bags gone like a disappearing act, leaving you and your fuck of last night with a half-eaten sandwich and cold fries.

“I… He… I’m sorry,” Jungkook sputtered, jerking erratically.

You clutched your tea like a liquid social safety net. “Sit down. Children are staring at us.”

Sure enough, a small crowd of curious peepers were climbing the low half-wall and peering at you and Jungkook. They were being plucked off one by one by a pair of exasperated ladies who looked like they desperately needed a nap. As soon as one child was removed, another climbed up to take their place. Inquisitive little bundles in brightly colored jackets, pom-pom beanies, and sipping soda from paper cups. Jungkook whipped his head back, exposing his red ears under his bucket hat for half a second, saw the kids, and sat down beside you, turning his back to them.

Now even bigger peepers were directed at you.

“Uh…”

You cleared your throat. Drank some tea. “Erm.”

“I... I didn’t expect to see you here.”

You almost choked on your chuckle. “Yeah, uh… same.” You ticked your head to the outside, in the general direction Jimin had run off too. “Shopping for new year stuff?”

Jungkook shrugged. “Mostly for Jimin’s family. I usually shop online.” He scrunched his face with a little bit of dismay. “It’s too much on the weekends sometimes.”

“Yeah, I’m the same.”

Your knee touched his.

He looked at you.

Don’t look at me like that. I’m gonna want to kiss you.

“And we’re in the middle of a McDonald’s.”

“What?”

You could see stray strands of black brushing against his cheeks. Could see those starry brown eyes under that big bucket hat, those pink lips parted and that small mole underneath them trembling, something you had noticed last night even in the low light because you had been licking up his neck and watching his open mouth, savoring the way his whine travelled by vibration through your insistent lips from his throat.

“I don’t want to make out with you in front of all these children,” you clarified, letting out a slow, concealed breath. “But if you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to make a bad decision.”

People only get into relationships for shitty sex.

Right?

I want to be around him.

“Um… I think Jimin wanted to get an air fryer and who knows what else… I’m supposed to carry the big stuff,” Jungkook grumbled, sounding like he wanted to abandon his current adventure for a different kind of adventure. Still, he begrudgingly remained a good friend. “But tomorrow…?”

You weren’t sure if he was aware that he was getting closer to you, practically thigh-to-thigh and shoulder-to-shoulder, but then you put your hand on his coat sleeve. He froze up, holding his breath. He smelled good. Fresh and clean, like laundry from the dryer. He was close enough for you to clearly discern his scent.

Close enough for you to remember.

“I need to get my tires rotated,” you finally remembered. “I’ll call you.”

His cheeks flushed pink. “C-Call me?”

“Yeah, give me your number.”

-

She asked for it like it was easy.

Who cares? Jungkook determined, after all, that he was easy. Or at least his hands were hurriedly fumbling with his phone as he blurted out the numbers as calmly as he could, which was probably not that calm, but who cared? Not him and definitely not his dick.

“Thanks. Don’t forget to answer or I’ll feel dumb.”

“Wait, give me your number.”

She paused, glancing at him. Shivers all over when their eyes connected, and he was sure he saw a guarded flicker in those eyes, but then it was let go, her lashes lowering, casting away the unknown reservation that he hoped she could tell him one day. And yet she stayed silent, turning her phone over in her hand.

“I want it,” he breathed.

Her eyes shifted back up. Ghost of a smirk on those lips.

Like she was trying to hold back.

“I’m going to give it to you,” she whispered to him, and he had to lean in, no, wanted to lean in and the scent of her perfume caught him, sweet and smokey, all those memories flashing back, in the dark with fistfuls of his sheets and breathing in, his pillows, his blanket, his clothes, heavenly and arousing. “Just saying I come with a warning label.”

“What kind of warning?” Jungkook found himself asking even though he was desperate to indulge in this risky business.

“I’ll never let your last that long,” she purred with a smug smile. “Don’t give up, okay?”

Jungkook felt his cheeks burn as he typed down the number and kept his retort to himself because Jimin suddenly appeared and the conversation was abruptly over. He jerked his head away quickly as she mouthed a tiny aaaa under her breath, teasing him, and this was a bad decision but he answered the call anyway when it came.

-

What are you doing? You don’t do relationships. People don’t like the way you do things. They’re complicated and full of secrets. They can’t be honest. You’re too honest. It doesn’t work.

Your intrusive thoughts had worked the graveyard shift and were now doing overtime.

They don’t like you.

You weren’t that surprised at these thoughts. You also did the absolute most when fucking and probably not enough outside of fucking. Some would call this karma. You would call it a nuisance. Shut the fuck up, brain. You already knew all this. You knew and you muted all that sound, all that excess noise that warned of tomorrow being ruined, chose to shut it all out until there was nothing but the melody of Jeon Jungkook’s bated breath.

You could listen to your head and let those thoughts fuck everything up.

Or you could place your fingertips on Jungkook’s lower lip and feel his gasp travel through your nerves, feel the way your blood shimmered in your veins and raced faster. Caress that pink curve to stop at his lip rings, tangible, hard and soft juxtaposed. Breathe out, your eye line lifting, up, finding those large dark brown orbs surrounded by wispy black tendrils.

Jungkook wanted you.

That was pretty obvious, especially from his hands trying to slide up your skirt.

He was just waiting for you to start it off.

You could listen to your head or choose to feel and listen to your instincts, dangerous as it was.

I’m in so much trouble, fuck.

You knew it, and yet you leaned in and kissed him anyway. Something about him, the way his eyes instantly closed when you came close, the way he trusted your eyes wouldn’t stay open, the way his lips gave in to your insistence, no, yearned for it, his fingernails sinking into your hips and yanking you close, onto his lap and into his heat, and then it was darkness and tongue and breathing into his mouth, hot and unnerving and addictive.

You hadn’t even noticed you had closed your eyes until you felt your hands sliding into his hair. Barely even perceived how you held your breath when your chest pressed against his, gasping, too many clothes in between and all the anticipation, dancing your nails over his scalp and sucking on his tongue, his melodious moan melding with your heartbeat roaring in your ears.

What is this?

You rolled your hips into his lap and Jungkook groaned, breaking the kiss and tipping his head back, his hardness twitching between your legs, insistently pressing up through his sweatpants as his neck became exposed. And there was nothing you wanted to do but press your lips to that mole on his neck, tasting that tan skin and inhaling his scent, wanting to be covered in it, drenched in it, dancing kisses up his jaw and catching his ear with your teeth, tugging on his hair and rocking your hips back and forth, turning hot friction into hot, damp friction.

“I c-can’t…”

His moan rang in your ears, his fingers pushing up the sides of your panties and driving them into the crevice of your ass, creating a damn thong with too much fabric.

“Can’t t-take it anymore…”

Pulled hard and you gasped, feeling the slinky fabric slip in between your folds, soaked and soaking, strong hips knocking into that dug-in fabric and practically bouncing your pulsing pussy on his rock-hard erection.

You curled your arm around his head and tipped his face to yours, seeing his glassy eyes and open mouth, his shaking breath feathering against your chin, and if Jeon Jungkook was a liar, then he was a damn good one, one of those liars so deep in the lie that it started becoming truth.

He whispered your name in the shared air, between his and your trembling lips.

He’s too desperate to be a liar.

You closed the distance between lips and tangled your tongues in the tango, lifting your hips at the same time, smiling at his whine before silencing it by pulling his hand between your legs, pushing the thin fabric aside, and then the collective sigh. Yours, shivering satisfaction. His, driven desire, fingers exploring and sending shivers through your legs. Wet and slippery and soft. Pressing his face into your neck and then gasping when his soft lips pressed to your throat, light kisses and wanton need, his other hand sliding up your sweater, pushing it up.

I want you.

He slid two fingers into you and moaned into your skin, slow, pressing his touch into your clenching walls, his eyes closed under you. In, out, building pleasure, your hips following, riding his hand, deeper, intense, hard, his tongue licking your collarbone and your lashes fluttered, suddenly overcome by shivers.

“I w-want you…”

He gasped against your throat, almost a whimper, those pleading eyes half-opening. Pulling out slightly and rubbing slow circles that made your hips flinch, his fingertips brushing against your slick clit, and those brown eyes darkened, tipping his head back to watch your face. His fingers on your waist tightening, holding you in place, shifting his fingertips, and you bit back a hiss, locking your knees, staring back into his starstruck eyes that showed you everything he was as he stroked your clit, igniting all your nerves and scorching your skin in passionate flames.

You saw what Jungkook was saying.

He wanted you so bad, not just a little, not just for a couple orgasms, not just for every night but also every day, even every afternoon and every twilight and every dead of night. Every kiss, every touch, every look into the eyes telling you this meant more to him than casual and for some reason it didn’t feel like a burden.

Casual sex could only stay casual if both people got the memo.

Suddenly, you realized neither you nor him were getting the damn memo.

You leaned forward and breathed in his exhale, squeezing his hips with your thighs, harder, yes, so good, fast and harsh and closer, closer, pulsing sensitivity escalating, your fingers tangled into his long black hair, entangled moans slipping out, fuck, yes, I’m close, Jungkook, fuck, and he was good but this was more than skill, more than half-lidded eyes and your hand falling, tracing his jaw, biting back your orgasm until…

Until.

“I could stare at you forever,” you breathed.

Closed your eyes and moaned into his mouth, the high crashing down, leaking all over his fingers and causing his touch to slip, dripping down, everywhere, all over the front of his pants and down your legs, and there was no time to care, dragging Jungkook into kiss after kiss, driven by snaking pleasure coursing through your veins. His wet fingers grasped your thigh, kneading the softness, his whines trapped by kisses, begging for your legs against his naked chest.

How could you refuse him?

You just couldn’t.

-

I’m so fucked.

Truly, madly, deeply fucked.

Past in trouble and actually in danger, danger, you’re seconds away from cumming, clenching his jaw and grinding his teeth so he felt something else, anything, please, clutching fistfuls of his sheets and wondering why the fuck the condom wasn’t reducing any sensation because, holy fuck, his cock was trapped in a hot, slippery, tight sleeve that pulsed around his twitching, hard length every time he descended. He couldn’t think, could barely breathe, could do nothing but follow that carnal instinct to thrust over and over, deep as possible, the angle so good he closed his eyes so they didn’t roll back into his head even though he was hopelessly losing his mind at the sensations of her, so soft, so intense, so good his legs were shaking with tension, the rhythmic smacking obscenely loud, rattling bedframe echoing throughout his bedroom.

“H-Harder,” she gasped breathlessly.

Harder?!

Was she trying to kill him?

She lifted her hips and Jungkook knew he was fucked.

He threw all of his energy into his hips and sunk his teeth into his lower lip, his lip rings hitting his teeth. Metal hitting bone. Screaming in his head and tightening his vocal chords, thankful to see her eyes closing, her head tipping back, low satisfied moan of his name travelling to in his ears and then all that he was keeping together shattered and slammed into him, heat rushing and mind-numbing, euphoric high punching all the air out of his lungs, visceral tension snapping at his hips and now he was pumping the condom full, o-o-oh, fuuuuck, her walls shivering and amplifying the good feeling of sexual intoxication, his vision a blur, only now realizing all the sweat sliding down his back and forehead, his damp hair swinging down over his eyes, and maybe lasting a only a couple minutes but it was a damn good couple of minutes if Jungkook was allowed to say so himself.

He was panting, hardly able to catch his breath.

It wasn’t enough.

Fuck, he was so horny and he was barely recovering from his first orgasm. Didn’t know what came over him. A wave of insanity? Inconsolable craving? Willful sacrifice of his soul to the sex goddess in his bed right now? Dramatic, sure. Casual, no, pushing his palms against the bed, shuddering as he pulled out of that tight warmth, almost regretting it, but then he looked down. At the shiny slickness, his white cum swollen at the end of the condom. He gripped the opening and pulled down, peeling it off with a whine, and Jungkook was pretty sure he was overwhelmingly crazy or overwhelmingly horny or both, because why else would he scoot his knees up and start jacking his spent dick like a madman, whimpering at the sensitivity and the slippery friction and the scene before him – her legs lowering from his shoulders, those curious eyes glinting under him, her soft, bouncy breasts rising and falling rapidly in her heavy breathing, fuck, so sexy, so fucking sexy, faster, tighter, staring at those hard nipples he wanted in his mouth right now, so fucking bad.

He let his eyes flicker up.

Gasping, baring his depravity.

She smirked, her tongue tracing the edge of her upper lip.

“Cum on me, Jungkook.”

Words so simple that they could be said by anyone, but this was different, this was too much intensity, too much irresistible pleasure, too much too sure about this feeling, this moment, this connection, and then her fingertips slid up his hard, tense, trembling thigh, sinking her fingernails in and dragging down, those stings of pain sending him over the edge.

“A-Ah, fuck!”

His eyes rolled back and his hips pitched forward, flinching powerfully and shooting cum over her stomach, up her cleavage, sudden streak of white glistening against her skin, jolts of aching bliss penetrating his quivering muscles. Shared gasp, everything smelling like sex, his bedsheets, his clothes, his skin, mixing with her perfume. Sweet like candy and heavy like lust.

Jungkook wanted to douse himself in it.

Her cum and her perfume.

He pressed the dark, purple-red, swollen head of his twitching cock to her cum-covered stomach and moaned, dragging it across and slipping further and further into blinding oversensitivity, on the edge of too much but he liked it, fuck, he liked it more and more as he saw her sly smirk and foxy eyes sparkle, savoring his reactions. It made him want to give in to this side of him more.

Her hand lifted, fingers curling around his chin, stroking his lower lip with her thumb.

“You’re so sexy, Jungkook. I love the way you look at me.”

Something about the way she said it, making him feel that she really meant it.

No, know that she really meant what she said.

His heart fluttered. Took flight.

No.

Soared.

They really were such simple words, nothing complicated at all, and that was how Jungkook knew.

He was sure.

--

masterpost

[lixies-favorite-cookie]

an ocean in a world full of puddles ◦ Chapter 1

-After being brushed off by Chan once again, you are stuck waiting in the lounge room for him to arrive. What are you going to do when it isn't Chan that arrives, but instead Felix? And it feels like you've known him for years."

words ◦ 5k

genre ◦ series, angst, fluff, the beginning of a wild ride

warnings ◦ chan is painted in sort of a negative light because he is always busy, felix is sort of shy around you at first, but lowkey flirty near the end as he starts to get more comfertable, theres a lot of fucks in this, i keep calling yall im dumb im sorry, fem!reader, felix calls her a lady once,

a/n ◦ The strikeouts are intentional to show how chaotic the reader's mind is and how she feels like her emotions are so invalid she has to just erase them away. I'm sorry if this isn't what you expected. I found myself struggling to describe certain aspects of this and was quite disappointed by the outcome (but please do not let this deter you. If anything, read it and let me know what you think/what I can change. Plus, I know the other parts are going to be way better than this).

also i listened to heather while writing this up until the phone number bit... then i listened to slow down by chase atlantic...do with that information as you will

A VERY VERY SPECAIL THANK YOU TO THESE BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE that helped me through the different struggles and stages in this fic I thank most of my unnecessary errors being fixed because of them @yongbun, @jeonginsleftcheek, @luvtak

masterlist ◦ a loved lived in between the stars and the sea

The human condition: a soul filled with passion, but not a mouth to spill it into.

It was ironic really. 

Your soul was filled with passion, but you had a mouth to spill it into.

That mouth just didn't want your passion- 

Your fervor-

Your ardor-

Romance practically coursed through your veins, your blood cells shaped like the hearts you saw the world through. 

Chan was filled with passion.

Chan was filled with ardor.

Chan was filled with romance.

But Chan didn't want poetry-

Chan spilled too much soul into songs. 

Songs that made him too busy for you.

The two of you saw the same goal, but spoke different languages- 

Your love was often- 

Lost in translation. 

You shout, frustration poking in the pit of your stomach painting the car red you dig the pencil into the words scratching them out so hard you cut holes in the page that sounded so stupid

all of this was so stupid

your feelings-

stupid

your issues-

stupid

the thought that Chan was anything other than perfect-

stupid

Why couldn't you just be content with everything you have? So many girls would pay to be in your place, tripping over each other just to be in his presence, and yet, what, you're unhappy because you spoke different languages? 

What the hell does that even mean?

You were trapped inside an inescapable box, the sharp edges of your unrealistic expectations like shackles that cut into your skin, bleeding with a passion only ever found in fiction. 

Why were you always stuck?

stuck in the stars, stuck in the sea-

stuck in this stupid line of stupid traffic, waiting for a stupid meal that Chan probably will be too busy to eat with you, writing some stupid piece of poetry that was about as poetic as the rotting innards of unidentified roadkill.

stupid

stupid

stupid

“Finally,” you mumble as the car in front of you inches up, allowing you access to the next window. You politely bow, grab the trays from the worker’s hand, and drive off.

Your life quickly turned from the hope of a story to the reality of a routine. The road, the walls, the button your finger grazes as the doors to the elevator slam shut, the number of steps it takes to get to his room, the feel of cold metal underneath your palm as you open the door, the same hunch of his shoulders, the same glow of his laptop, the same empty look in his eyes.

the same

the same

the same

Most of your relationship is spent looking at him like this.

"Hey channie," you say, setting the food down on the empty spot beside his keyboard.

"Hi, love." His voice is nothing more than the ghost of a mumble, blending with the click and shift of his mouse, moving different blurs and blobs of color on the screen. Chan tended to get tunnel vision when he was working, even if that meant you were left stranded in the shadows of his forgotten responsibilities. 

"I um brought you dinner." you clear your throat, pointing lamely at the boxes beside him like he couldn't clearly see they were there. He perks up, finally lifting his eyes to meet yours. 

"Oh baby, thank you." The tension in his shoulders melts. "I'm sorry, you know how busy I am sometimes; right now it feels like I'm drowning in work," he chuckles, absentmindedly shifting in his chair.

you're always busy

You push a smile through the tangled ball of suppressed emotions climbing up your throat.

"I know you're busy, but do you think I could eat dinner with you today...please?" Your stomach twists in painful knots. It was pathetic really, the way you begged for attention like a needy dog more than a doting girlfriend, but you were desperate, scrambling to fan a flickering flame that felt long sputtered out. 

stop

You knew what you were getting into when he asked you out—the stress, the anxiety, the workload, the long hours. Chan was always upfront and honest about the struggles of being an idols girlfriend, never wanting to veil your eyes from the harsh sting of realities rays.

then why does it still feel like your soul is burning?

He flicks his gaze to the screen, guilt gnawing at his core. There was so much to do in the day and just never enough time to do it. "I don't know, I don't really have a lot of time right now..." He mumbles, picking at the seam on his shorts apologetically, "Do you think you could wait about 20 minutes? I'm kind of on a roll here."

When your relationship was first blooming, your spirit would often shatter with those words, but pain only holds power when it isn't welcome, and as long as you are loved by him, you will accept the feeling with open arms. 

"I'm going to go sit in the lounge room then." You try to keep the disappointment out of your tone, but it leaks through the cracks echoing in your chest, radiating in palpable waves. You clench your jaw, picking up your tray of food.

does he not care?

"Okay," The squeak of his chair indifferently swiveling back to its previous place echoes in your ears. Louder than anything you've ever heard. 

he didn't even kiss you

1 hour 45 minutes and 13 seconds

That's how long you have been waiting in the lounge room for Chan to walk in the door.

that is how long you've been wallowing in a sad pathetic heap staring at your uneating supper

1 hour 45 minutes and 15 seconds now

16 seconds

17 seconds

You spin around when you hear the door creak open, anticipation fluttering in your stomach, only to plummet when you see Felix standing in the entrance, too busy shoveling a fork full of noodles in his mouth to notice your presence.

Felix was a familiar face, mostly associated with sweet smiles and bouncing eyes; you have only ever talked to him on a handful of occasions, possessing the basic relationship of hellos in the hallways and smiles when you enter the same room, but besides the couple times where he offered you some of his freshly baked brownies or told you which room Chan was in, you haven't actually had a conversation with the boy.

You groan, dramatically deflating in your seat.

Of course, it wasn't chan

Felix yelps, his heart leaping in his chest, only to wrap around his bones, doing trapeze tricks inside his ribs when he lays eyes on you—why, out of all the days he could have seen you, it was on the one day he was least ready, and the way your whole body slumps like a deflated balloon, it becomes crystal clear you weren't exactly jumping up and down to see him either.

Does Cupid have a vendetta against him or something?

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know anybody was in here," he stutters awkwardly, running his fingers through his hair like he was trying to fix it without a mirror. Disappointment quickly brews into guilt watching the way his eyes shift, hurt drooping his shoulders down. 

"No, I'm sorry, it's not like that; I just thought—" You falter. What the hell did you think? Sorry, but I thought you were my boyfriend who left me here all by myself, and like usual, my stupid, hopeful heart really believed this time was going to be different. "You were someone different." You sink into the couch, a dull ache spiderwebbing through the chasms in your chest.

"Let me guess." His eyes crinkle with sympathy. "Chan."

You glance down at your ribs—some silly part of you really believed your shirt had blossomed with the crimson stain of your sorrows.

"How could you guess?" you mutter sarcastically, picking at the skin of your nails. Why did it seem like everybody else got the memo that if you were to search the thesaurus, your name would be the first word under forgotten?

"Well, really, it was a toss-up between you being with him for the past 5 years and the fact that he has been glued to his computer for the past 5 hours," he grins. "Pick your poison."

Your gaze drifts back to the couch that sits idly in front of you, lonely in the middle of the room, out of place, without the implant of another person's body.

"W-Well," he starts, shifting his bowl in his hands. "Do you... I don't know, want some company...maybe."

He's so awkward, so unsure, like a baby deer wobbling on unfamiliar legs, struggling to stay upright. You tilt your head, your lips pulling up into an adoring grin; you never really noticed it before, but he was sort of shy. You had a terrible tendency to take your time observing people unintentionally, causing discomfort to the victims of your restless brain—assessing in silence.

His ears burn when your eyes gloss over with an opaque glaze. His heart drops only for those silly little butterflies that always appear when you are around to swarm their wings around the lump growing in his throat.

Well, that was a bust.

Why couldn't he just be normal around you?

"O-Or not, that's fine too. I-I get it; you're probably l-like waiting for Chan or whatever. I-I can go get him if you would like." He jerks his thumb behind him, forgetting he was holding something for a second, stumbling to catch it right before it falls. You snicker, biting your lips to contain your laughter. His eyes flutter shut, scrunching his nose in embarrassment.

He was cute

Why haven't you talked to him before?

"No, please sit down," you lazily gesture to the couch in front of you. "It's not like Chan's going to be coming down anytime soon."

He sighs, his whole body melting with relief, practically forming into the couch when he shuffles over, adjusting himself to comfortably sit with his legs wide and his head tilted down. He picks up his fork just before whispering, "I'm sorry that he kept you waiting," and stuffing his face. You smile, the sight all sorts of endearing. The amount of food stuffed into his cheeks puffs them out, forcing his mouth into a pout that's smeared with red sauce. For a moment, you almost forget that you're supposed to be groveling, but why would life want to let you live when instead it could remind you constantly how much it sucks?

"I'm used to it." You learn to live with the absence of air when your hope always causes you to suffocate.

"You shouldn't have to be," he murmurs, his hand politely veiling his mouth while he chews. He's staring at his food like his noodles were an impossible labyrinth he's forced to escape, completely oblivious to the cataclysmic sentence he just uttered. Your jaw drops, stomach fluttering with butterflies, butterflies that you could’ve sworn burned out a long time ago. When most of your time is spent in a constant state of apocalypse, you forget the side effects of a romanticism, felt before your soul was littered with the echos of war.

"Oh?"

"Are you not going to eat?" He questions, forehead creased with concern as he gestures to the food that was currently burning a hole in the table. You stare at him stupidly, mouth ever so slightly agape. Did he not notice that there were swarms of zombified insects burrowing their way into your belly, kaleidoscopes charred wings creating panic in your pounding heart?

(cookie interruptions: I was today years old when I found out that a kaleidoscope was the technical term for a swarm of butterflies)

Why was he making you feel so jittery?

"Oh," you blink, giving an imperceptible shake of the head—a weak attempt to gather your disoriented thoughts.

Honestly, you had forgotten it was there.

"I was waiting to eat with Chan..." You mutter through the tufts of wool still stuffed in your head, wrapping your fingers around the tray, but when you pull open its flappy lid, your lips pull into a sneer glaring at the congealed sauce and cold noodles. You weren't surprised that your food had spoiled over the 2 hours you had been waiting, but it didn't make the frustration that bubbled in your gut any less apparent either. "But clearly, that hope was shortlived," you scoff, chucking the useless tray back on the table. 

Felix clears his throat, adjusting himself in his seat. He often found himself tiptoeing on the edge of insanity, always rewriting the words he wanted to say, terrified you had written a line in the sand the waves had washed away.

You were a star with a heart tied to the sea, where he would have more success breaking the bond of the moon than turning the tides of the ocean that suffocated your soul.

So for now, he will coast the cosmos alone, waiting for the day you will finally look his way.

"You can have some of mine... if you want," he whispers, shyly scooting his cup over to you. "It's salmon-flavored; it's really good."

"Are you sure?" you blink, utterly flummoxed.

"Yeah, of course!" You swore you could trace the stories of the sky in the gaps where his freckles glowed.

"Thank you; I promise I won't eat too much," you joke, pulling out your fork. "I don't mind it, really. I can always make more as long as you're eating I'm okay," he grins, sliding his hand out of the way to allow room for yours, grateful for his generosity; you bite back a smile, digging into the hot noodles; a spicy flavor pulled straight from the sea explodes on your tongue as soon as the food meets your lips.

You swear you just tasted heaven's gates.

"Holy shit, this is delicious," you moan, rolling your eyes back in your head.

"I'm glad you like it," he smirks. "It's my special recipe."

"So you do more than bake, huh?" you waggle your brows lightheartedly, though you were sort of impressed by his broad palette of skills. 

"You know that I bake!?" He was still recovering from the shock that you even knew his name—the way he often dissolves into the wall when you enter the room.

"Of course, I know that you bake; I always have to eat at least half of the plate of brownies Chan brings home." You giggle, picking at the noodles, wanting more but feeling guilty for hogging the whole bowl.

"Oh, I'm full," he stretches, rubbing his stomach like a stuffed cartoon character. 

"Are you lying?" Cynism was a side effect of being a creative romanticist—your artistic brain didn't limit itself to only forming one conclusion, while the stories that ended up on paper were solely portrayed as having happy endings—you knew this philosophy was neither sadistic nor realistic, for even if the fictional characters made up of the fluid of your mind betrayed each other, what would a human, evil in its rawest form, do to you?

well that was melodramatic

"You know you're a very skeptical person," he jests, pulling his lips ever so slightly up.

"I'm a hopeless romantic; there's a difference," you state, stuffing your face when you finish studying him down to the very twitch of his right calf muscle.

"Aren't hopeless romantics supposed to be happy-go-lucky all the time? Seeing the world through rose-colored glasses and stuff?"

"You know we are called hopeless for a reason," you snort, unrealistic standards were more of a curse than a blessing.

Scratch that, having unrealistic standards is just a curse

“Being a hopeless romantic is like being an ocean in a world full of puddles.” Your soul speaks like his fingertips have felt its walls a million times before “devastating.”

He stares at you gobsmacked, blinking like you just hit him over the head with a mallet. Your mind kicks into gear, anxious little butterflies flipping on the switch for damage control.

that must have sounded so self-centered

"I-I didn't mean, like, in a cocky way, I'm better than other people. I just meant it's impossible to pour my passion anywhere because everybody else doesn't have room to take it. If anything, I-Im the bad one in this scenario.” You stutter, sporadically shaking your hands, worried that the misconception is going to create a concrete opinion. He quickly waves you off, seeming anything but bothered. 

“An ocean in a world full of puddles that's pretty deep,” he implores, treating the words like age-old wine to be sipped with both time and deference. “You know you should really consider being a poet 'cause that like moved my soul.” Only Lee Felix can make humor sound so honest. 

Why was he so ...amazed

"I like to think I'm a poet." Your cheeks are painted red as you bashfully tilt your head down. 

but right now not so much

“You can't think you're a poet,” he chuckles. “If you ever wanted to read somebody your stuff, I would be happy to help…Maybe it could fix your uncertainty." Something twinkles in his eyes, something nervous yet desperate, something you couldn't quite pinpoint while your stomach was sprinting in circles—the mere thought of showing somebody else your poetry was the equivalent of slicing your heart in half and presenting it to the world on live television.

basically, something that will never happen never ever

"No, no, no, it's nothing like that. I don't really write poetry per se; I just write my..." You trail off.

What do you write?

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," he reassures, his warm smile cooling the icy anxiety that crystallized around your core.

Why do you do this to yourself??

Stupid Felix and his stupid power to loosen your lips-

stupid. stupid. stupid.

To be a poet is to be vulnerable; no great art is ever created comfortably. 

Fuck it 

“I write my dreams,” you blurt, peeking out through your clenched eyelids to see if Felix caught the spit of a sentence; clearly, he did the way he lifts his brows thoughtfully. 

“Elaborate”

A man of many annoying questions you see 

“Why,” you groan, sinking into your seat almost comically. 

"Because I want to listen to you," he laughs like whiskey and wine, both husky and rich. You choke, your heart imploding into a million tiny, rose-shaped pieces.

"Nobody wants to listen to me ramble on about hopeless fantasies that will never come true," you sputter, still trying to reshape your rose-shaped shatters into something that resembles an organ. 

"I do."

Oh well, there they go again, forming right back into roses-

He made all of this seem like a complex game of chess, every move of hesitance quickly countered by a block of honesty.

From the moment you could write, you found out that paper was not volatile the way people were, how you could erase a word written but, in time, in life, you cannot erase a sentence said—that philosophy stuck with you, forever rendering you apprehensive to vocalize your feelings.

Maybe it was your soft spot for the stars that made you speak, but either way, when your mouth opened, it felt as though all your past doubts had washed away, and for once, you were free.

"I have always held onto my dreams through the tip of a pen, existing in between the lines of my poetry. But I don't write about deep philosophical pearls of wisdom; I write about love, passion, beauty. I write about coffee and cream, roses and vanilla. I write what I think romance tastes like, how the contrast of the most iconic confessions has been written in the rain, a usually gloomy, grey thing completely transformed through the lenses of love…" You sigh, tilting your head against the back of the cushion in bliss.

"I write the way I want to love, for I know it's the only way to quell my heart's aching urge to live anywhere but reality."

He stares at you eerily still, blinking once, twice, three times."

Why wasn't he saying anything?  

Perhaps you were drunk off Felix's promises, or the cracks Chan created in your chest made you bleed with a passion only ever reserved for your poetry. But either way, you felt naked—exposed under his exploring eyes.

"What?" You croak, picking at the sleeve of your shirt.

Why did everybody act like you were crazy?

Was there something wrong with you?

You are floating in the asteroid belt, a thousand tiny rocks hovering around your head.

"Maybe you're just not looking in the right places." There’s a deep intensity in his eyes, a million roaring waves crashing against each other; you run face-first into a meteor, bouncing around the surfaces of a weightless space.

How many brain-altering revelations could Felix bestow before your brain cracks?

"You know, I haven't even told my friends that," you deflect. It was a dangerous game, diving too deep into your thoughts, and right now, with him—with that statement, danger could quickly bleed into destruction.

"So, I'm not your friend?" Clearly, Felix catches on to the sudden swerve of the conversation, how he eases into it with such grace, jestingly poking your knee.

"This is the first time I've ever had a real conversation with you," you scoff, poking him right back. His jaw drops in faux offense.

"You know, I just gave you my food. I think that deserves an upgrade into friendship territory," he states matter-of-factly.

Two can play at that game-

"I don't have your number; usually friends have each other's number." You place your elbows on your knees. He has been playing a metaphorical game of chess with you this whole time, his pawns moving ever so slightly forward. He forced your hand, the comfortability in your eyes making openings on the board you never meant to create. His rook, his bishop, his queen—they kiss the place right below your king.

You had one more trick up your sleeve-

You were a creative romantic whose moves were nothing less than a story, and you were going to be damned if you let your king be captured.

Now, where's the happy ending in that?

(cookie interruptions… I dont know what this is nor why i am so dramatic but hey what can you do ALSO LISTEN TO SLOW DOWN BY CHASE ATLANTIC I BEGTH OF YOU )

He leans forward, pressing his tongue against his cheek. The fabric of his shirt stretches across the hard ridges of his abs—

No, stop it, bad y/n. 

"Do you want it?" He leans his head ever. So. Slightly. Forward  

"Maybe I do."

"Maybe I'll give it to you," soft, smooth voice- 

you narrow your eyes,

"What will Chan think?"

"It doesn't matter what Chan thinks-"

"Tell that to Chan-"

"Maybe I will." His lips-

"You know, if Chan saw us here right now, he would not be very happy." You suck your teeth.

Check-

He scoffs. Moves his bishop. 

You're right back where you started. 

"You're not his pet."

"Yeah, but I am his girlfriend." Block.

"Those two words are not synonymous," he says. Moves his queen.

Too many openings, too many moves, too many pieces on the board.

Too many outcomes.

Do you even still want to play?

Weren't you the one who started the game?

You bite your cheek, his eyes burning like molten amber, glinting in the overhead lights.

Should you have really asked for his number?

What would Chan think if he saw it in your phone?

Who were you kidding? He would actually have enough time to look at your phone.

"You know," he leans back, extending his arms to drape across the couch, pushing his thighs ever so slightly apart. Gone is the man with smiles like sugar; determination wisps across his face like spits of fire, overtaking every feature."If I give you my number, I'm going to have to help you unlearn your engraved cynicism." He's closing in on you, moving all his pawns in one fair swoop. You're surrounded, swarmed.

"You can't ungrave something it's scientifically impossible." You shift your king. One last dying breath-

Before- 

"I can try."

Checkmate

And like every person of honor does when they have nobly lost a battle they created- 

You run away. 

“I have to admit, as much as I loved this conversation, I really should be going,” you say, picking up your tray of forgotten food to chuck in the trash, leaving Felix's bowl on the table. He jumps up, scrambling to pick up his mess while you dart out the door, tossing the tray in the can just outside the room.

“Wait,” he gasps, stumbling to catch up with your speed. Your finger, out of habit, moves to press the button to the elevator doors—that is, before he catches it, his warm hand wraps around your wrist.

“Now, what gentleman would I be making a lady get her own door?” He bellows, voice deep and low, a sound echoing through his chest as the fabric of his shirt kisses your back. He’s so close, so close, so—

How long has it been since you've been touched? 

Heat. You're drenched in it, painted in it, enveloped in it.

His hand grazes your skin as he slides up your wrist, his finger extending to press the button.

Your breath hitches.

Body shutters. 

Every atom erupting in flames. 

The elevator doors slam open-

Your brain clicks back into place-

“Will I be seeing you again?” Your hot, so hot. He’s hot, so hot. Breath—it tickles your ear. Disoriented, so disoriented.

“I still don't have your number,” you manage to utter, slipping into the doors. His face will be the final thing you see as you descend down the shaft, lifelessly walking to your car where you will go home, go to sleep, and start your routine all over again. He smirks, flicking his eyes to your pants.

“Yes, you do.”

I do? 

The doors inch shut, and a small, teeny-tiny part of you wants to wrench them open, pull him in, force him into the stanzas of your story. You are tired—tired of waiting for your life to begin, tired of repeating the same vicious cycle.

But that wasn't you talking- 

That was the hopeless part of your personality,

The unrealistic-

The fiction- 

Life wasn't a game and reality wasn't a book. 

You had a good thing going wth Chris and you were going to be damned to ruin it just because of one fun conversation.

You reach one finger into the back pocket, feeling around for what Felix could have been talking about.

There's no way.

Your skin brushes across a smooth surface—something that definitely wasn’t there before.

There's no fucking way.

You pull it out.

It's pink and folded and definitely written on. You unfold it.

XXX-XXX-XXXX. Just in case you ever need an editor or a friend.

Oh well, fuck the game. He just flipped over the whole damn chessboard.

Read Chapter 2 here

[abbysimsfun]

Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 58 (Adopted by Another Stray!)

On a rainy autumn night, Mayor Whiskers started scratching feverishly at the front door. Heather got up to let him out, but a small, soaked black cat raced through the opening and into the bedroom at the end of the hall.

This black cat was nervous and aloof, and it took several attempts to lure her from under the bed with treats. But she liked Buttercups as much as any pet, and Heather slowly earned her trust.

"She's cute," acknowledged Conrad. "But we've already got two cats and Gord!"

Heather smiled at the untrained stray. "She needs a good home, and she seems comfortable here," she said. "I know our life is always busy and our upstairs hallway looks like a cheap greenhouse right now, but one more cat won't hurt!"

Conrad wasn't going to seriously argue against adding another pet to their household, and Heather took their new black cat to her clinic next door for a check up. One x-ray made clear why she suddenly wanted a warm roof - she was expecting kittens. There was no way Heather would turn her out again in her condition.

"What we name her?" Ash wondered as he watched the cats play together outside.

"What do you think we should name her?"

"Cupcake!" he shouted. "I love cupcakes!"

Heather smiled. "Just Cupcake?"

Ash shook his head, grinning. "No, mommy. Queen Cupcake! Like King Tut!"

With that, Queen Cupcake had her name, and their new pet started to make herself at home. To celebrate, she picked a fight with Mayor Whiskers(!), but it wasn't long before Whiskers and Cupcake were nuzzling, as enamored with each other as Heather and Conrad! Heather was relieved the cat was already pregnant, but she made a note to have her spayed as soon as the kittens were born.

She was far more aggressive than any of her other pets, but Heather hoped this was a side-effect of her maternal instinct, hoping it might fade once she'd safely delivered.

"Training bad habits out of you might not be easy, huh?"

Queen Cupcake's responsive meow sounded distinctively like a 'yeah,' but cat-loving Heather was ready for the challenge.

Before long, Queen Cupcake delivered two small black kittens, the spitting image of their mother, named Duchess and Lady. Their house was overflowing with pets!

Heather's son was almost as friendly with cats as his mother, and loved spending time with Queen Cupcake's tiny new kittens.

"These kitties small like me, mommy." Ash could pick up Duchess and Lady, who fit in the crook of his small arm, to pet their fuzzy black fur. "They soft."

They bought a self-cleaning litter box to try to handle the influx of felines, but all five cats still preferred to use the old one that needed manual cleaning, much to their dismay.

"What if we just got rid of it?" suggested Conrad. "Then they'd have to use the new one, right?"

"I know we should," said Heather. "I have a feeling the Watcher keeps meaning to do that, but you and I are both neat so we just keep cleaning it and she forgets."

"Are we talking about the Watcher Watcher making changes while we sleep, or are you saying the Watcher made you forget to throw out the old one?"

"Maybe both?" She laughed as their conversation bordered on ridiculous. No one got her sense of humour as much as he did. "What if the cats are just attached to the old one?"

Conrad considered this. "The old one does have a certain smell... Should we be worried about a Watcher who's so disorganized?"

Heather shrugged. "She helped the doctors save my son, so I won't begrudge her one smelly litter box."

"Fair point," agreed Conrad with a smile. "I'll go get the scoop."

Active full-time jobs, five cats, a dog, and a toddler kept Heather and Conrad busy, but they still carved out every moment they could together - which usually meant crashing on the couch to watch their favourite shows until they fell asleep.

They worked hard, but their life together was a perfect fit. ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 1 Summary | Gen 1 Start

NOTE: Me, writing about how stressed and busy they are as a slightly meta dig at my own gameplay this gen, proceeding to add 3 cats. Honestly it's for Heather because more cats don't stress her out at all. She also always needs to have 2 cats per the challenge rules and Boomer is getting up there, so I'm game. I might not keep all five forever but Queen Cupcake is here to stay.

WCIF Sofa Pose? Cozy Couple by @toofcc. I really love it, and it's exactly what I was looking for! Thank you for sharing!

[kk095]

Life and Death in the ER: Dr Lindsay

*Good evening everyone, I hope all is well. I greatly appreciate all the positive feedback on my last story Alexa's Arrhythmia! I'd like to try something a little different with the story you're about to read. Although it may not be everyone's cup of tea, I think it's a great opportunity for you guys to get to know some of our go-to characters a little better. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy it!*

Aside from medicine, Dr Lindsay’s passion in life is running. The cute, sporty tomboy doctor we all know and love was a college track star at the D1 college she attended once upon a time ago. Believe it or not, Lindsay had legitimate Olympic aspirations, and at one point in time, she was set to qualify for the United States women’s track team. But fate had other plans, which came in the form of a sudden, severe ACL and LCL tear in her left knee. Reconstructive surgery was performed and she of course recovered, but Lindsay definitely lost her X factor. Even though Lindsay could still run circles around 99% of humanity as a 33 year old with a bum knee, she lost that slight edge all those years ago, which is all it took for her Olympic hopes and dreams to go up in smoke. Sometimes Lindsay thought “what if?” in regards to her potential professional sports career, but at the same time, being an ER physician fulfilled her in a different way.

Lindsay truly embraced her role as a doctor and caretaker in the emergency department, always going the extra mile for her patients and thinking outside the box to try to save them. Time after time, Dr Lindsay found herself in the midst of life and death struggles in the trauma bay, always seeming to have her hands inside the chest of a beautiful woman. But right now, somewhere in an alternate reality, the role was reversed, with Lindsay being the beauty fighting for her life in the all too familiar emergency department.

The room Lindsay found herself in was quite a scene. A cacophony of sound hit anyone the instant they set foot in the room. Alarms and monitors were going off. Orders were being barked. Footsteps pitter-pattered around the room. The high pitched, electrical whirring of defibrillators charging echoed around the room from yet another unsuccessful shock. The tension was palpable.

All across the floor of the room, various items were strewn about. Wrappers from bits of medical equipment were tossed to the ground. Empty, used up blood transfusion and IV bags found themselves discarded. Lindsay’s bloody, tattered clothes also wound up on the light colored tile after a brief encounter with a set of shears. Small droplets of blood made a trail leading from the room’s entrance, all the way over to where the trauma room table was.

On the table, underneath the harsh, bright, fluorescent overhead light was the center of attention for the room’s occupants. Dr Sarah, Nurse Nancy, and Nurse Heather worked as a trio, each lady knowing their role inside out, backwards and forwards, from A to Z. Everyone knew their jobs at an expert level, but it was easier said than done for the emergency department’s triumvirate to maintain composure and impartiality, considering a friend and colleague was the poor soul requiring their lifesaving services this time.

Nurse Nancy, the 20+ year veteran of the ER who’s been there, done that, and seen it all stood at the head of the bed ambu bagging, sending much needed air into Dr Lindsay’s lungs. The stress, chaos, gore, and shock that came with being an ER nurse never fazed Nancy, especially after being exposed to such things for over two decades. But in this scenario, Nancy struggled. This wasn’t a stranger on the table tonight. Nurse Nancy couldn’t wrap her head around the idea of the ER’s go-to, unanimously loved leader being the one on the table this time. Heck, Nancy couldn’t even bring herself to look down at the table, not wanting to see her friend’s face, or the overall shape she was in. There was a knot in Nancy’s stomach, and her heart was racing. She hoped and prayed Dr Lindsay would pull through, but as each minute ticked by, each one faster than the last, Nancy’s hope was soon replaced by dread.

Heather, our emergency team’s dependable, hardworking nurse who regularly showed her moxie, stood off to the side of the table, tasked with keeping an eye on the heart monitors in order to note any changes, as well as pushing meds and setting up any equipment Dr Sarah may need. Heather’s eyes were trained on the heart monitors, which displayed a squiggly, sinuous, unorganized line. That squiggly line Heather watched signified something called ventricular fibrillation- a situation where a patient’s heart is twitching instead of actually beating, typically requiring a defibrillator shock in order to restore normal cardiac activity. Ventricular fibrillation, commonly known as v-fib amongst healthcare professionals, was something Heather has seen more times than she could count during her handful of years as a nurse. However, Heather found herself stunned when eyeing the heart monitor, coming to the stark realization that a familiar face was the one being resuscitated this time.

Dr Sarah, the cute, petite, nerdy redheaded doctor who, for all intents and purposes, was Dr Lindsay’s right hand man and most important ally in the battlegrounds of the trauma bay, stood right up against the table, doing anything and everything to bring her fellow ER doc back. Sarah had her gloved hands inside Lindsay’s chest, which was splayed open earlier in the struggle via a clamshell thoracotomy. The redheaded doctor’s hands were firmly wrapped around Dr Lindsay’s boggy, fibrillating heart, vigorously massaging away. A wet, rhythmic squishing sound was produced from Sarah’s internal compressions. “come on Linds… come on….” Sarah uttered under her breath, trying to fight the overwhelming emotions that attempted to consume her. “You were just talking to us Linds… Come on…” continued Sarah, trying to will Lindsay back amongst the living.

Sarah composed herself for a moment. “Let’s shock her again. Recharge the paddles to 30, Heather.” Ordered Sarah, stepping up to the plate. Heather did what she had to do. She set the crash cart to 30 joules and hit the charge button. The high pitched, electrical whining of the internal paddles charging filled the room as Heather handed Sarah the large, spoon shaped devices. Sarah pulled her hands out of Lindsay’s chest cavity and grabbed ahold of the internal paddles. Dr Sarah lowered the internal paddles into the gaping chasm of an incision site, around Lindsay’s erratically fluttering heart.

While her friends worked urgently to save her, Lindsay laid on the table, stripped completely nude, her toned, athletic body on full display in a room full of familiar faces, the violating nature of that fact going to the wayside due to the dire essence of the situation. Lindsay’s sandy, light brown hair was tied back in a messy bun or ponytail of sorts, being held in place with a black headband. The doctor’s icy, sky blue eyes remained open, her pupils the size of dimes, staring up above with a full blown death stare etched onto her face. She was intubated, with the ET tube being secured by a blue tube holder around the area of her mouth and lips. IV lines stuck out of both her arms. Her torso was littered with EKG electrodes and wires. A chest tube stuck out the left side of Lindsay’s ribs, redirecting blood and trapped air outwards. The rest of her upper torso, and belly to a lesser degree, were soaked with a combination of both blood and betadine. However, Lindsay’s chest was the main sight of shock and awe. Her chest had a large, crude, gash just below the nipple line, extending the entirety of her chest horizontally. Not only was there a massive gash, her sternum was sawed in half, and her chest was splayed open via a clamshell thoracotomy. A metal rib retractor sat dead center in her chest, keeping everything open. A large, metal vascular clamp stuck up and out of the incision site. Sarah could also be seen holding the internal defibrillator paddles in place in anticipation of a shock.

“Paddles charged. Everyone… CLEAR!” Dr Sarah called out, everyone else stepping back from the table. THWACK. The shock was delivered. “mmmph…” Lindsay moaned softly, her torso twitching sharply in response to Sarah’s shock. The trio paused after the shock. The monitors beeped fast and loud, everyone’s eyes looking over to see if there was a change. “Come on… she’s still in v-fib. I’m going again at 30. Everyone…. CLEAR!” shouted Dr Sarah, immediately shocking Lindsay again. Lindsay’s shoulders shrugged forward and her arms shivered, a wet thump being heard. Like before, Dr Lindsay’s heartbeat was unable to be restored. Sarah decided to up the ante, shocking her friend and coworker at 40 joules during the next go around. “MMMM!” Lindsay moaned louder, as if she could feel the stronger intensity of the shock. Again, v-fib persisted. “I’m going again at 40! Everyone…CLEAR!” Barked Sarah, determined to keep going. The next shock caused Lindsay’s toes to scrunch up hard at the far end of the table, showing off the bright white nail polish on her toes, along with the wavy, thin, but prominent wrinkles that permeated the soles of the big, size 11 feet she was always so self conscious of.

Sarah wasn’t giving up, and neither was v-fib, so the fight was on. “Going again at 40! Everyone… CLEAR!!!” Sarah passionately yelled out, shocking Lindsay once more. Lindsay’s torso shot up and plopped back down hard all within the span of a second. The monitors kept alarming, but by that point, the trio tuned out the noise of the monitors, considering they were well aware there was a major problem. In the seconds after that shock, Lindsay’s heart fluttered and danced weakly for a moment, before coming to a sudden, complete stop. The heart monitors flatlined, and Lindsay’s heart sat completely motionless inside her cracked open chest. Lindsay’s beautiful blue eyes stayed wide open, staring up above, almost as if she was watching her friends determine their next move.

The flatline on the monitors was an absolute gut punch for everyone. Sarah stood there holding the internal paddles, deep in rumination about her next move. At the head of the bed, Nurse Nancy shined a pen light into Lindsay’s eyes. Lindsay’s pupils were the size of dimes, completely blown, not reacting to the pen light in the slightest. “oh… poor baby…” Nancy uttered, placing the pen light back in her breast pocket. “Pupils fixed and dilated.” Nancy continued, informing everyone, shaking her head. Heather looked over at the heart monitor. “Asystole on the monitors, down 37 minutes.” Added Heather. There was a collective pause after Heather’s words. Nancy didn’t say anything, but she went ahead and detached the ambu bag from the ET tube, a small amount of air quietly hissing out. The two nurses looked over at Sarah, knowing they’ve done all they could for their friend, but needed Sarah to make the final call.

Dr Sarah stood there shell shocked. Sure, Sarah has lost patients before- any ER doctor has. But this was different. This was a coworker. A colleague. A leader. Someone she looked up to. But most importantly, this was a friend. Sarah felt morally and emotionally obligated to continue resuscitation efforts. How could she just give up on Lindsay? At the same time, Dr Sarah viewed the situation clinically and logically. She knew that all possible options were exhausted. An asystolic patient with a downtime of 37 minutes and blown pupils was too far gone for additional interventions. With all this in mind, Sarah snapped back to reality, eyeing each member of the trauma team. Dr Sarah didn’t say a word to any of them. Finally, her eyes looked over at the clock that sat on the back left wall of the room. Sarah gently placed the internal paddles back down on the crash cart, then peeled her blood soaked, latex gloves off, her heart racing, eventually making the dreaded announcement. “Time of death, 8:08pm…” Sarah’s voice wobbling, on the verge of tears.

Nobody said a word, but everyone knew exactly what to do next. Nurse Nancy switched off the flatlined monitors, silencing the once noisy, hectic room. Heather disconnected the EKG electrodes and removed the IVs from each of Dr Lindsay’s arms. A blue surgical drape was hastily tossed on top of the open thoracotomy site, obscuring Lindsay’s inert, motionless heart from view. A toe tag was then filled out and placed on the big toe of Lindsay’s left foot. The tag dangled against the fine, thin, but prominent wrinkles that permeated the soles of Lindsay’s feet. Lastly, a cover was placed over Lindsay, concealing the hauntingly beautiful gaze forever etched onto her face. Unfortunately for Lindsay, a cruel twist of fate- and perhaps irony resulted in her dying in the very place she spent so much of her time. In this alternate reality, Dr Lindsay was now the hottie who laid toe tagged and under a sheet in the emergency department.

[thatdumbmexicanbimbo]

everyone was sword fighting in her mouth.

Perv!Mean!Bully!Eddie Munson x Bimbo!thick!latina reader

A/N:*INHALES LOUDLY* I cannot stand the lack of people, writing for latina's, SO I'm just gonna write myself *grins evil like*, but with a twist, HEATHERS AU!!, Eddie is ram Sweeney bc he's my fav, and reader is like Veronica Sawyer in the situation :P, Chrissy is heather McNamara, Nancy is heather duke, heather Halloway is heather Chandler!

WARNINGS: SMUT!!, NONCON,drugging ,impiled oral sex(F only), virgin reader!, PIV

you wonder how your life would be if you stayed in New Jersey, you sighed as you unloaded your boxes to your new house.. well trailer, you and your papa have been slightly struggling, your pink suitcase was heavy so your papa came to help, it wasn't a shabby trailer it was quite expensive, 3 bedrooms and 1 bathroom was okay for you and your dad.

Now it was your first day , you've been to racists schools your whole life, casually getting rude remarks on your weight and race, but ever since you moved away from Hawkins temporarily, you can't shake the thrill of coming back!, you struggled, to slide your white skirt on, you made sure your thong wasn't peaking out so your dad wouldn't see, you put on a lacy white bra obviously!! a push up, a pink tube top,and cute black backpack a bow on the zipper!

When you arrived you got loads of flattering and a few un-flattered looks, you just looked at your schedule, you go to your locker number

seeing a woman already there, but the sudden turn around revealed a long-haired man, "Whats with the staring,baby doll?" he chirped,

"my apologies, I'm confused on how to open my locker? I forgot how, I use to be at this school I just moved but came back for personal family issues", he looks you and up down scanning your hot thick body up n down,

"you ain't new then?". you nod meekly, "ah okay, well let me tell ya sweetheart I don't recall seeing you 'round these halls" he says while pulling a cigarette out, you look away embarrassed,

"I was slightly overweight, glasses and baggy clothes..i-i was called chunky y/n.." you say stuttering,

he looks at you "oh now I know you, you looked HIDEOUS, those glasses were not for you" he says chuckling, his smile fading seeing your face form a frown,

"is a pretty face and body all that matters to you?"you say annoyed,

"well, what else is there to offer?", you scoff and storm away, fucking guy judging your body fucking looking at you like a pervert.

you skip your 3rd period class, your lip liner was fading, fashion emergency!, you reapply your lip-gloss as 3 girls walk in, one of them goes into a stall and forces themselves to throw up, another girl trails behind another, LOUD RETCHING NOISES, "god Nancy hurry up!" the main girl shouts checking her pores

a teacher walks in to use the restroom, "what are you lady's doing out of class??", you were quick to write fake passes after you recognized your first period teacher's handwriting and signature, you quickly hand the 3 girls one and say

"um Ms Burn-ham gave us each a bathroom note" you show the teacher, "oh very well you ladies stay out of trouble" she said as she exited the bathroom

"sick forgery, thanks for helping" the main one says, "the name's Heather Holloway, i'm pretty popular, among the school",

the second one chirps up, "ugh didn't even bother to introduce us Heather, i'm Nancy wheeler, and this is Chrissy Cunningham", Chrissy waves shyly,

"I see you being a popular girl stick with me and you'll be on top of the other low-life losers" heather says wrapping an arm around your shoulder.

a month has gone by heather wasn't fully wrong you were popular with her guidance, But so much people noticed you finally, even that sick pervert hasn't stopped trying, you were laying lazily on your bed, and get a call from Chrissy, "y/n I need help i'm at the cemetery"

before you could respond Chrissy hangs up you made your way to the cemetery, you see Chrissy in her car

, "uh why is uh Eddie munson passed out?" you questioned

"well nancy, steve,eddie, and I were ya know hanging out and they dung into the booze, then Nancy and Steve were together and Eddie tried hooking up with me..and he wouldn't stop trying to grope me..." she says blankly

"so after all this happened why'd you call me??" you say tugging at your annoying socks

"oh well that was the deal, if I called you Eddie promised to leave me alone"

"SO you avoided date rape by volunteering ME for date rape?"

"gosh you make it sound so ugly"

eddie groans drunkly, "HEYYYY Y/NNN, I WAITED HOURS FOR YOU!!"

he passed out, Nancy comes from Steve's car, him attached to her while she buttons her skirt, "Chrissy, open the door" she says sharply

"UGHH don't leave me like this baby!!" Steve whines. he lays on the grounded passing along-side Eddie

Eddie rises, when Chrissy and Nancy drive away, "so you're my reward huh" he says says while smirking

"as if , you have a left hand use it" you reply with disgust you hear a noise off in the distance looking away.

he whimpers, but replies, "there's some alchol left?" he was quick to slip in a roofie

"welp this Friday was shit i'll take it" you chug it down

"I don't feel so awesome" you pass out but Eddie catches you

"oh trust me sweetheart you will soon.."

your eyes flutter open, still in a ditzy unable to move trance, you feel an odd stomach twisting feeling between your thighs, a long- haired man between your thick thighs, you cry as he shoves fingers into you, you gush out more slick and cum

"fucking naughty girl, getting her tiny unused cunt violated, n getting wet off it, pathetic" he says degrading you

you whimper, and try moving or screaming unable to from the roofies effects, he tugs his boxers down, aligning his cock to your virgin cunt, you sniffle as he shoves his cock in, he thrusts uncaring if you're enjoying it

"so fucking tight, mmm yea just for me, fucking bitch you rejected me??, I don't fucking think so, you are enjoying this you're clenching go ahead slut, cum for me, cum on my cock"

you sqeaul and cream on his cock. after this everything fades to black

you awaken in your bedroom, you walk into your bathroom, hickeys everywhere, bruises, you sniffle knowing it wasn't a dream..

you arrive at school seeing Nancy cleaning out heather Holloway's locker, you heard she was kidnapped by billy who also died or dissappeared,

"jeez what are you rummaging for??" you say

"a little respect, I'm cleaning out a loved ones locker" Nancy scowls at you

"I don't think heather would want you going through her stuff-"

"lets not focus on me right now, more about your new reputation, Eddie n Steve have been telling the whole school about a scandalous little three way last night after Chrissy and I left" she said smirking

"there was no three way, I don't even recall doing anything with either of them-" you get off by the boys giggling

"THEY"RE WAS A BIG SWORD FIGHT IN HER MOUTH DUDE!!"

"MY BIG SALAMI BENT HER LIKE ORIGAMI!!" they both cheered

you ran into the bathroom crying terribly.. it was just a rumor but what could you do..

possible part 2?

[3liza]

i really like it when heterosexuals form a team composed of two people that just agree that the wife is very hot and beautiful and make it their mission to share that vision with the world. its very sexy and very innocent. heather doesnt really fuck with makeup, theres no airbrushing or photo tuning, she uses henna or box dye and doesnt own heat tools. they probably have three kids or some dogs. they're right and they should say it. these are strictly amateur photos but theyre successful art because they communicate what the photographer sees, you can look at these photos and see a normal, real lady like you would see at the grocery store, and superimposed on her image is her idealized self as perceived by her husband. like looking at a stereoscope.

edit: you can buy Heather's work or download the free magazine here

[chic-a-gigot]

The Delineator, no. 4, Vol. XLVIII. Autumn Number. October 1896. Published by the Butterick Publishing Co. London & New York. Colored Plate 18. Figures D39 and D40. Promenade Toilettes. Internet Archive, uploaded by Albert R. Mann Library

Figure D 39. — LADIES’ STREET TOILETTE.

Figure D 39. — This consists of a Ladies’ jacket or blazer, a vest and skirt. The jacket pattern, which is No. 8669 and costs 1s. 3d. or 30 cents, is in thirteen sizes for ladies from twenty-eight to forty-six inches, bust measure, and may be seen again on page 437 of this publication. The vest pattern, which is No. 6398 and costs 1Od. or 20 cents, is in thirteen sizes for ladies from twenty-eight to forty-six inches, bust measure, and is shown again on its accompanying label. The skirt pattern, which is No. 8643 and costs 1s. 3d. or 30 cents, is in nine sizes for ladies from twenty to thirty-six inches, waist measure, and may be seen again on page 445 of this number of The Delineator.

Fawn faced cloth is here pictured in the jacket and cream-white cloth in the vest, both garments being finished with machine-stitching. The skirt is made of wine-colored zibeline. The jacket or blazer is here worn open and made with rounding lower front corners, but it may be closed at the bust and have square lower front corners, if preferred. Side-back and under-arm gores and a curving center seam render the jacket close-fitting at the sides and back and extra widths underfolded in box-plaits below the waist produce the popular outstanding ripples. A broad sailor collar that is curved to form three points at the back extends below the bust and shapes a point on the front of each sleeve. The newest effect is seen in the one-seam leg-o’mutton sleeves, which flare in puff style at the top and fit closely below. Pocket-laps having rounding lower front corners give a natty finish to the loose fronts; they are completed with machine-stitching to accord with the edges of the jacket and collar.

The low-cut vest is close fitting and is fastened at the center with buttons and button-holes; with it is worn a striped percale chemisette having a white linen Piccadilly collar and a black satin band-bow.

The six-piece skirt is made with a straight back-breadth and has straight edges that meet bias edges in the seams; it falls in flute folds at the sides and back and flares stylishly at the front.

Pleasing effects may be attained in the toilette by the association of harmonious colors and materials. The most successful jackets, in point of fit and style, are made up in this manner of broadcloth in either light biscuit shades or in the deep, rich Autumn tints of dahlia, green, mulberry, chestnut and wood-brown and various shades of blue and gray. Machine-stitching is the usual finish, although the trim self-strappings are not at all in disfavor, being, in fact, preferred by many fashionables. An inlay of black silk was added to the collar of a jacket made from green mixed cheviot to accompany a black vest and a green canvas skirt. For the skirt, the new camel’s-hair, serge, heather mixtures with their artistic commingling of subdued colors and broadcloth are suggested.

The brown felt hat is stylishly trimmed with ribbon, lace, feathers and flowers.

Figure D 40.— LADIES’ COSTUME.

Figure D 40. — This illustrates a Ladies’ costume. The pattern, which is No. 8658 and costs 1s. 8d. or 40 cents, is in thirteen sizes for ladies from twenty-eight to forty-six inches, bust measure, and may be seen in four views on page 414 of this number of The Delineator.

Canvas wool suiting and velvet are associated in the costume in this instance, and a ribbon stock and pipings of silk and small buttons add refined and elegant decorative touches. The basque, which is closely fitted by double bust darts and the usual seams, is in rounding outline in front, where it terminates at the waist, while at the back and sides it extends in a short skirt that is shaped to stand out in stylish, rippling folds. Gracefully tapering revers extend down the front at each side of the closing and impart a dressy effect to the waist, being slashed to form two tabs over each sleeve ; the tabs are trimmed with small buttons and the revers are prettily piped with silk. The one-seam sleeves flare in leg-o’mutton puffs at the top and fit the arm closely below; they are completed with pointed, flaring cuffs that are piped with silk. A ribbon stock covers the standing collar and is stylishly bowed at the back.

The seven-gored skirt is gathered at the back and possesses the grace and elegance characteristic of the newest styles. At the sides and back it ripples fashionably and at the front it flares broadly.

The new rough-surfaced goods—canvas wools or boucles—will make up stylishly in this manner, and the novel zibeline wools belonging to the camel’s-hair family are also commended, as well as faced cloth, with velvet for the small accessories and pipings of silk and small buttons for decoration. A ribbon stock is quite essential to a dressy effect and there are so many methods of arranging and trimming this fashionable bit of lingerie that no suggestion of sameness is ever given by its use.

The hat is trimmed with bright rose ribbon having a velvet edge, and a fancy buckle in front is chic and pretty.

[leikeliscomet]

A lot's been said about romance in Doctor Who but what gets me is even if we were to entertain the idea of romance being the height of love and human experience, the demographics of who actually gets to explore this are very interesting. Minus Thasmin and Jack lipsing Nine, most Doctor's are men with women as love interests. Rose, Clara, River Song, Madame de Pompadour, Queen Elizabeth I, Lady Christina, Joan Redfern... if love is so enriching and powerful and lovely and human... why couldn't the Doctor's male incarnations be enriched by men or people that aren't women? Where were the Doomsday episodes of him crying for the man he loves but could never see again? We get throwaway lines and jokes about the Doctor liking men in male incarnations but actual TenRose or DoctorRiver moments, swelling music as he kisses the man of his dreams? They're lacking. Which is peak for "the gay blue box show". Same can be said for the women of Who. We sat through Tennant lipsing women across the galaxy but one hypothetical Thasmin kiss has articles and essays and video essays... All this hotion and commotion about the *idea* of sapphic love. Obviously the show would wanna avoid sexualisation (as it should) but the immediate hush hush around representing romance (and sex too tbh) from a woman's POV and pearl clutching of a kiss between two women shows the scales aren't even.

And it extends to race too. How many Black couples and couples of colour actually got their universe defying love on screen? How many times is Black love, Black people in love and love of POC actually celebrated? Martha's parents split so Clive could date a young blonde. TenMartha couldn't thrive platonically or romantically because she "wasn't Rose" enough for Ten. Umbreen and Prem were doomed from the start. Graham lost Grace. Ryan lost Bella. Ryasmin never went anywhere and never can because Thasmin got picked instead. We got Bill and Heather at the expense of Bill losing her human body forever and the dark skin girl she dated never being mentioned ever again (Remember Penny? The show doesn't!). We all know what happened to RoseMickey and ClaraDanny so they're automatically ruled out. So who've we got left? Bell and Vinder (not too shabby)? That West Indian couple from Planet of the Dead? Its not looking good bruv.

Look I get why people see the magic and wonder of romance but it doesn't feel so magical if we only see it reserved for certain demographics. The false equating of romance making us human is one thing (as if single/unpartnered people are "less human") but when we only see that "humanity" through white non-aspec cishet couples... what is the show saying about people who's romance is different? For people who don't have romance at all? What are YOU saying about those people?

Romance in Doctor Who isn't the problem but amatonormativity definitely is.

[derangedanomaly]

Songs that I listen to while drawing the boys

(super random post- but I just thought I'd share this with ya lol. All of these songs fit them btw)

CHAOS:

Lana Del Rey: Diet Mountain Dew, Trash Magic, I want it all

Asteria: EYES ON ME, WHAT YOU WANT

Melanie Martinez: The Contortionist

6arelyhuman: Faster N Harder

DPR IAN: Don't Go Insane

Laurie Anderson: O Superman (ISTFG THIS FITS HIM SO MUCH)

Slowdive: When The Sun Hits

Lady Gaga: Heavy Metal Lover

Grimes: Genesis

Billie Eilish: What Was I Made For? (THIS ALSO FITS HIM SO MUCH)

Rihanna: Breaking Dishes, Disturbia

T-Pain: Take your shirt off

Chart: HEAVEN SAYS

Adele: Skyfall

Madonna: 4 Minutes

Bambee: Bumblebee

Elvis Presley: Can't help falling in love with you

NIGHTMARE:

Isabel LaRosa: Older

Mitski: Me and My Husband, Your best American Girl

Black Gryph0n: INSANE

Axie: I'M SANE, TERRIBLE THINGS

Insane Clown Posse: Halls Of Illusions

Beetlejuice musical: That Beautiful Sound

Namika: je ne parle pas français

Lana Del Rey: Once Upon A Dream

Dev: Monster

Slipknot: People = Shit

Lydia the Bard: Cover of TOXIC (Sadder and darker)

Heathers, the musical: Meant To Be Yours

Ayesha Erotica: Shitzu, Where you at, Hands Up!

Adele: Million Years Ago

Lady Gaga: Bad Romance

Theory of a Deadman: Bitch came back

ACE:

MCCAFFERTY: BeachBoy

Cigarettes After Sex: Cry, Sunsetz, Crush, Sweet, Apocalypse, K

Mitski: Lonesome Love, First Love / Late Spring

Mindless Self Indulgence: Lights Out

JT Music: Anytime You Smile

Miike Snow: Genghis Khan

Charlie XCX: Speed Drive

Tom Cardy: Red Flags

Connie Francis: Stupid Cupid

Arctic Monkeys: I wanna be yours

Jamie Foxx: Fly Love

Måneskin: GOSSIP

Melanie Martinez: Evil

Beyoncé: Beautiful Liar

Wheatus: Teenage Dirtbag

Queen: Bohemian Rhapsody

J. Cole: She knows

TV Girl: Lovers Rock

BLADE:

Lustra: Scotty Doesn't Know

Rammstein: Sonne

Tally Hall: Two Wuv

Mother Mother: Problems

6arelyhuman: Hands Up!, GMFU

Elvis Presley: Jailhouse Rock

Kreayshawn: Go Hard (La.La.La)

Toy-Box: E.T.

Boygenius: Not Strong Enough

4 Door Theater: Porcelain Face

Britney Manson: FASHION

Psychosticks: I can only count to four

Ryan Gosling: I'm just Ken (he's a fan 😔✋)

Tom Cardy: H.Y.C.Y.BH, Best Friends

Owl City: Good time

Dazey and the Scouts: Wet

TED:

Melanie Martinez: EVIL, Cake

Cavetown: Boys Will Be Bugs, Devil Town

Faouzia: Born Without a Heart

Maddie Zahm: Fat Funny Friend

Soddiken: Hansel

Mitsuki: Abbey

The Dresden Dolls: My Alcoholic Friends

Radiohead: Creep

Sarah Cothran: As The World Caves In

Skillet: Monster

TOOPOOR: Crazy Girls

Lady Gaga: Government Hooker (I just can't help but imagine the man's voice as Ted's- 😭)

6arelyhuman: XOXO

Insane Clown Posse: Halls of Illusion

Why did I actually spend my time doing this? 💀

[citrinegay]

The result of what happens when you cast people for your show that is sometimes a musical but you don’t ask if any of them know how to sing <3

Edit: I have been informed that Veronica sings ladies who lunch at Toni and Fangs wedding party NOT a Barchie engagement party. Sorry for this oversight.

[4saken4gotten]

Head Canons For Dante From Devil May Cry

I think about Dante way too much so I thought I would share my thoughts on some head canons of my own. Especially since the fandom for me gets so fucking dryyyyyyy Like please, I need more content or I'm going to spontaneously combust and not even in a hot and sexy way. (Or it still will be I just wont feel like it, but looking like hell on wheels is the goal!) yes that was a Heathers reference don't come at me Am I cringe? Yes. Am I free? Yes. These are my SFW head canons for him! If I get to it I can make my NSFW head canons as well but we'll see about that. Gender Neutral Reader Pairing. For my bitches, bros and fellow nonbinary hoes. (My certification in making head canons is as follows: I have played DMC 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. I've read all the novels, and read 3 different fan translations of the novels we don't have official English translations for. I've watched the animated series at least 12 times and I've listened to all of the audio drama CD's. I have canon reasons for all my head canons but some of them are just little silly things because I brain rot. Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk.) I apologize in advanced for any typos and grammar mistakes and or just not making sense. I am dyslexic and autistic so I have a weird way of explaining things and will misspell basic words sometimes but I promise to do my best.

He's a big dork and his favorite thing to do is make his S/O laugh. Filling their soul with light is his favorite thing to do. teehee So he says the stupidest jokes to make them double over in laughter.

This is a bit of a double edged sword however since he uses humor and sarcasm as a major crutch / coping mechanism. He can be serious when the situation calls for it, but most of the time he doesn't want situations and mishaps to weigh on himself or those around him too heavily.

He's HELLA broke. So he'd take full advantage of free things to do like spending the night under the stars in a park after hours. Something that feels like "We aren't supposed to be out here!" but isn't really harmful / breaking the law.

I think he has some sort of collection of some sort. I think he collects seashells because they remind him of more serene times in his childhood. Probably hand sized conches or perhaps sand dollars (because its the only 'dollars' Lady cant swindle out of him ;u;)

Will die on the hill of pizza being a "balanced meal" insisting that it has all the important food groups therefore pizza is healthier than media wants people to think.

Despite his habits of leaving his pizza boxes about and letting Patty clean up after him- his own personal hygiene is actually really important to him. He always makes sure to take a shower after he gets back from every mission.

He honestly cant stand the scent of demon blood on him, it makes him a little anxious because it takes him back to the night of the fire / attack every time. (babyyyy boyyyyyyyyyyyy)

His love language is physical touch (giving) and acts of service (receiving). When he gets more comfortable with you, he's got some part of him touching you at all times: a thigh pressed against yours, a gentle hand around your shoulders or the small of your back, insistent on you laying on his shoulder or in his lap if you're tired. He'll be super appreciative of you organizing things when his mind gets too jumbled or he's just brooding.

I'm sick of people calling him lazy. I don't think he doesn't clean up because he doesn't want to- I think he's just overwhelmed most of the time / overstimulated to do anything if he's not in battle.

I strongly feel like he has some sort of ADHD, Depression and CPTSD due to his trauma. (Losing / killing his brother several times, his mother being killed, his father up and disappearing one day, losing his found family repeatedly: Grue, Nell, Jessica... etc)

He'd probably be super understanding of a neurodivergent s/o and be more than happy to "parallel play" in the shop. He reads his magazines on the couch with you while you read a book. Or he'll try to get some semblance of work done at his desk on the occasion while you watch your favorite tv show.

[andiatas]

Royal(ish) Reads: Jul-Sep 2024

Note: Some of the following links are affiliate links, which means I earn a commission on every purchase. This does not affect the price you pay. Also note that all titles mentioned are written by historians, researchers, or scholars. Only in rare cases are featured titles not written by someone with training in historical research.

For more book recommendations like in this post, you can follow my blog & Instagram

The Tragic Life of Lady Jane Grey by Beverley Adams (published Aug. 30, 2024) // All His Spies: The Secret World of Robert Cecil by Stephen Alford (published Jul. 4, 2024) // Dancing With Diana: A Memoir by Anne Allan (published Sep. 10, 2024)

Son of Prophecy: The Rise of Henry Tudor by Nathen Amin (published Jul. 15, 2024) // Planning the Murder of Anne Boleyn by Caroline Angus (published Aug. 30, 2024) // The Last Days of Richard III and the fate of his DNA by John Ashdown-Hill (new paperback version published Sep. 26, 2024)

The Fall of Egypt and the Rise of Rome: A History of the Ptolemies by Guy de la Bedoyere (published Sep. 10, 2024) // Richard Beauchamp: Medieval England's Greatest Knight by David Brindley (new paperback version published Aug. 29, 2024) // A Voyage Around the Queen by Craig Brown (published Aug. 29, 2024)

Henry III: Reform, Rebellion, Civil War, Settlement, 1258-1272 by David Carpenter (new paperback version published Sep. 24, 2024) // Stuart Spouses: A Compendium of Consorts from James I of Scotland to Queen Anne of Great Britain by Heather R. Darsie (published Sep. 30, 2024) // Prince Eugene of Savoy: A Genius for War Against Louis XIV and the Ottoman Empire by James Falkner (published Aug. 30, 2024)

Normal Women: From the Number One Bestselling Author Comes 900 Years of Women Making History by Philippa Gregory (new paperback version published Sep. 26, 2024) // The Romanovs: Imperial Russia and Ruling the Empire, 1613-1917 by Professor Lindsey Hughes, Professor Erika Monahan (2nd edition published Sep. 19, 2024) // Lady Pamela: My Mother's Extraordinary Years as Daughter to the Viceroy of India, Lady-in-Waiting to the Queen, and Wife of David Hicks by India Hicks (published Sep. 3, 2024)

Hannibal and Scipio: Parallel Lives by Simon Hornblower (published Sep. 26, 2024) // Oliver Cromwell: Commander in Chief by Ronald Hutton (published Aug. 27, 2024) // Catherine, the Princess of Wales: The Biography by Robert Jobson (published Aug. 1, 2024)

Henry V: The Astonishing Rise of England's Greatest Warrior King by Dan Jones (published Sep. 12, 2024) // Courtiers: Intrigue, Ambition, and the Power Players Behind the House of Windsor by Valentine Low (new paperback version published Sep. 17, 2024) // Kings & Queens: The Real Lives of the English Monarchs by Ann MacMillan, Peter Snow (new paperback version published Sep. 12, 2024)

The Romanovs Under House Arrest: The Russian Revolution and A Royal Family’s Imprisonment in their Palace by Mickey Mayhew (published Aug. 30, 2024) // Queen Victoria's Favourite Granddaughter: Princess Victoria of Hesse and by Rhine, the Most Consequential Royal You Never Knew by Ilana D. Miller (published Aug. 19, 2024) // Cooking and the Crown: Royal recipes from Queen Victoria to King Charles III by Tom Parker Bowles (published Sep. 26, 2024)

Pure Wit: The Revolutionary Life of Margaret Cavendish by Francesca Peacock (new paperback version published Sep. 12, 2024) // Henry VIII and the Plantagenet Poles: The Rise and Fall of a Dynasty by Adam Pennington (Sep. 30, 2024) // Everyday Life in Tudor London: Life in the City of Thomas Cromwell, William Shakespeare & Anne Boleyn by Stephen Porter (new paperback version published Aug. 15, 2024)

Kingmaker: Pamela Churchill Harriman's Astonishing Life of Seduction, Intrigue and Power by Sonia Purnell (published Sep. 19, 2024) // The Secret Diary of Queen Camilla by Hilary Rose (published Sep. 26, 2024) // Adventures in Time: Heroes: The Box Set by Dominic Sandbrook (published Aug. 29, 2024)

Adventures in Time: Heroines: The Box Set by Dominic Sandbrook (published Aug. 29, 2024) // Justinian: Emperor, Soldier, Saint by Professor Peter Sarris (new paperback version published Sep. 12, 2024) // Women in the Valley of the Kings: The Untold Story of Women Egyptologists in the Gilded Age by Kathleen Sheppard (published Aug. 19, 2024)

Marriage, Tudor Style: Love, Hate & Scandal by Sylvia Barbara Soberton (published Jul. 29, 2024) // A History of the Roman Empire in 21 Women by Emma Southon (new paperback version published Jul. 4, 2024) // A Rome of One's Own: The Forgotten Women of the Roman Empire by Emma Southon (new paperback version published Sep. 17, 2024)

Cleopatra: The Woman Behind the Stories by Alexandra Stewart and Hannah Peck (published Aug. 15, 2024) // The Wisest Fool: The Lavish Life of James VI and I by Steven Veerapen (new paperback version published Sep. 5, 2024) // The King's Loot: The Greatest Royal Jewellery Heist in History by Richard Wallace (published Aug. 8, 2024)

The Beaumonts: Kings of Jerusalem by Kathryn Warner (published Sep. 30, 2024) // Emperor of the Seas: Kublai Khan and the Making of China by Jack Weatherford (published Sep. 26, 2024) // Ravenous: A Life of Barbara Villiers, Charles II's Most Infamous Mistress by Andrea Zuvich (published Jul. 30, 2024)

[ogrepoppenangleaksofficial]

Does family/wider cast member have a drug of choice? Can be answered as seriously or not.

Personal crackfic headcanoning:

Regardless of actual substance enjoyment or lack thereof, Markus and Kitten are living embodiments od "anyone in this thread smoke weed?"

Big-D: y'all already established how thoroughly psychedelics fit him.

Door: alcohol, with a heavy/borderline exclusive preference for American whiskeys or beers. (Zinfandel wine just for fun).

Boy: coffee, depending on access granted to him by his dad/uncles/Grand-D. Always either Just What He Needs or The Last Thing He Needs, depending on the story beat.

Kevin: already established, Office Worker Coffee by "day," Vamp Party Drugs by "night."

Mystery Lady: I'm projecting the same vibes on her as I am on Door, but trading "'Murican Spirits" for either Hobbyist Espresso or Tea.

Malcolm, the Family's Pet Cop: Vitae has already been established and explained.

Shitbeard: Cigars, if his packmates would let him.

Ape: the extent that he tryhards Sabbat Dogma makes me think flavor-of-the-month Hard Uppers. Either as the reason behind, or the result of, his tryharding.

Pyotr: Cigarettes. Like if the cast of Heathers smoked, whatever smoking habit best conveys those vibes.

The Old Lady D Sat Vigil With: provided she was physically capable of doing so, just.... coffee. She flavors it for herself like other grandmothers bake. Sometimes straight-out-the-box beans and liquid creamer (International Delight I think conveys the vibes), and sometimes milk from her husband's friend at the farmer's market spiced/sweetened with a mix of kroger's baking spices and either sweet-n-low/honey/brown sugar, depending on how hot she plans to drink that day's (or meal's cup. The beans are either (insert coffee brand a pensioner would stereotypically have been buying since pre-Reagan/Thatcher), or whatever novelty/specialty beans her family might have given her on christmas/her birthday.

Kräkus: (this seems like a Karl question)

Horse: Absinthe.

CORRECT

except for the krakus part, thats a speakerd question

[sleepymccoy]

An intimacy, a surprise

Chapter one: Rather a good pair

McCoy spun the lady, Heather, around comfortably. They were dancing well under a speed that would challenge him. She knew the steps, and when she stumbled she stayed with him enough that he could keep them moving until she found her feet. He rather suspected she was stumbling more than natural, given how much she laughed when he picked her up slightly. 

It all reminded him of Joanna. 

The song came to an end, Heather laughed breathlessly as he placed her back down on her feet. She was likely thirty years older than him, but her joy for life was stronger than anyone he regularly knew. She was as thin as they come, he hoped she lived for another century. He thanked her, kissed her hand, and left for the bar. 

With a thin glass of bubbly in hand he surveyed the room. Couples moved across the floor at varying degrees of skill. Still, colourful and pretty. 

As he scanned his focus caught on Spock. Spock, at the same damn conference as him. He could see why, novel biology was up both their alleys really. But it still annoyed him. 

But Spock looked nice now, expressionless (per usual) but fixated on the spinning pairs revolving across the room. His eyes flitted from one to another, interest held entirely. 

McCoy picked up a second glass and launched off from the comfort of the bar. 

“Want to dance?” he asked as he stood next to Spock. 

He didn't flinch, probably heard him approach with those finely tuned, pointy ears. 

“I am attempting to learn the basics,” Spock said softly. He didn't take his eyes off the floor.

McCoy placed his spare glass down by the crumbed prawn canapes. Prawn. On Mars. Heavens above who would eat seafood so far from natural water?

McCoy followed Spock's gaze and found a rather showy pair. The man's silly long tux flew behind him as they spun. 

“Well, you won't manage that watching them,” McCoy muttered.

“Oh?”

“Them? He's trained in tango, but she's trying for classic.” He took as sip and decided Spock's silence was curious, not bored. “He keeps raising his arms in the hold and it's throwing her off. They're good at dips, but she keeps losing her balance on the straight stretches because they're dancing different dances.”

Spock sniffed in sharply. “Are they all dancing differently?” 

McCoy hummed, swallowing his mouthful. “Everyone's making it up. Those two -” he pointed across the room at who he meant “- might've done a class, but likely not. These two near us are good at a slow waltz, but as soon as it speeds up they get messy.”

Spock turned and faced him. McCoy followed suit, giving him his attention. Face to face like this they stood slightly closer than usual. 

“What are the basic steps?” Spock asked. 

McCoy put his half glass of bubbly down and held his arms out, one hand hovering over Spock's waist while the other waited for his hand. “Let’s box step. I'll lead.”

Spock moved slowly, then hesitantly placed his hand in McCoy's waiting one. Their fingers dragged against each other, with Spock's hand just resting on his, not holding. 

McCoy took Spock's other hand and lifted it to his shoulder. “Put your hand here,” he said. Spock’s hand sat lightly on his shoulder, touching the edge of his collar. “And -” he sighed and pulled Spock by their joined hands, “a bit closer, please, Mr. Spock - let me take a hold you.” 

Spock stepped in as directed, and McCoy placed his hand on Spock's waist. Spock tensed on contact, so much muscle in him. 

“That's right,” McCoy breathed. He moved his hand to Spock's lower back, holding him solidly, and took his hand properly. “Do you feel stable?”

Spock frowned at him. “Of course.”

McCoy rolled his eyes. Never mind all that politeness, then. “Right,” he snapped. “Box step, follow me.”

You can keep reading under the readmore or click this link to ao3

McCoy telegraphed his movements obviously until Spock got the swing of it, muttering vague encouragement and advice as he did. 

Once they were moving smoothly he spoke. “Okay, look at me now.” 

Spock looked up, glancing down every moment they took a step to ensure he followed.

“The steps aren't changing, Spock. Here-” he pulled Spock close, tugging him in by the waist. Their bodies pressed together firmly and, to McCoy pleasure and relief, Spock didn't withdraw. 

He stepped the path of their dance slowly, exaggerating again. Spock followed with a breath of delay, keeping their thighs close. “You can feel what my legs are doing, yes?” McCoy whispered. “I'm pressed against you, so you don't need to see me move, you can feel it.”

They continued, Spock clinging to him like a coat of paint. Steadily they picked up speed, grace. A few times McCoy felt Spock move with a strength that was not helpful in someone meant to be following. McCoy would let it slide for now, but if they got up to spinning he was going to have to pull rank. 

“What do you think?”

“There is more than just this.”

“Yes, but this is what we always return to,” McCoy said easily. “So you want it to be second nature. Is the amount of touch okay?”

Spock smirked. “Vulcan dance is far more intimate.”

“I recall you describing it before,” McCoy muttered. “Wouldn't've been my first guess. Knowing you, I've been left assuming all Vulcans are stuck up prudes.”

“Doctor, I must be allowed my eccentricities,” Spock said lowly, “but I am still Vulcan.”

“Don't I know it.”

Spock hadn't missed a beat as they spoke, he was quite the natural. Not that McCoy would tell him. “Want to try for a dip?” he suggested instead.

Spock raised his eyebrow. “You are in the lead.”

“Doesn't mean I'm in charge.” 

They continued stepping together in perfect pattern.

“Yes, then,” Spock said. 

McCoy talked him through it first. Spock's attention on him was absolute. “On the back step, the first we took, I'll turn you to the side. My hand will stay on your waist, but I'm letting go here.” As he spoke he released Spock's hand and placed his on Spock's trap. 

“Your free hand goes to my shoulder, or wherever suits you. And then you dip. To the side. Do it shallow first so you know what coming out of it's like.”

Spock nodded. They reset their hands and continued to dance. McCoy muttered a warning, then turned them to the side. He pushed Spock back slightly, then kept his hands steady to show it was safe. Spock swayed back, his eyes unreadable on McCoy, then slowly returned to standing.

McCoy tried to keep the momentum of their dance, but there was something astounding in Spock's slow movement that broke the pattern. Still, they had to step. “And back into- there you are,” McCoy muttered. He cleared his throat. “Alright?”

“Indeed,” Spock said easily. “A simple process.”

McCoy kept the usual pattern for a few turns, letting Spock feel it as home. 

It wasn't home, though, was it. This was McCoy's home, and Spock was doing well at it. McCoy grinned. 

Perhaps it was time for him to step outside his comfort zone. Meet Spock halfway. Besides, all that talk of Vulcan dancing - he still couldn't imagine how Spock would embody it.

“You can be as Vulcan as you like about it, my dear,” McCoy said. “I can handle your culture.”

Spock simply raised his eyebrows. 

“Going again,” McCoy warned, then stepped into position and swung Spock back. 

Spock went far. His outer leg raised, dragging up along the outside of McCoy's thigh. McCoy had to bend into his lunge to keep balance as Spock leant back. 

Spock stopped at the low of the dip, letting McCoy hold him. He trailed his hand down from McCoy's shoulder, dragging slowly down his arm. 

McCoy realised he hadn't breathed and pulled Spock back to him. Spock righted himself at speed, almost destabalising McCoy as their chests slammed together. 

One of Spock's legs pressed between his, forcing his thighs slightly apart. His other hand remained high and now slowly lowered to the ground. And Spock had, somehow, returned to him with a hand in McCoy's hair which echoed the slow downward drag of his leg, toying gently at his neck. 

McCoy stepped forward with the leg between Spock's thighs, pressing into his crotch. 

Spock's eyes flashed wish fiery curiosity. He straightened the mirrored leg out in line with McCoy's leg and took the step. McCoy kept him close, like orbits that couldn't split further apart now that they'd come near.

With a moment's hesitation, they took the next step, moving smoothly again. McCoy dragged his hand up Spock's back, feeling his muscles engage as they stepped familiarly. As he did, Spock's hand left his neck and traveled gently down his arm.  

Spock gasped in a breath. McCoy turned his face in towards the sound and felt McCoy's skin on his lips. The air was hot here. 

McCoy’s hand reached Spock's upper back, so he pulled around to his chest and pushed him into another dip. 

Spock resisted for a moment, then went with the movement. His hand gripped McCoy's wrist as he lowered over McCoy's leg. They kept eye contact as Spock bent, and McCoy found himself leaning forward to stay close. 

Spock came out of it slowly, and McCoy did some slightly clever footwork without really considering if Spock would keep up. He stepped over Spock, half spinning him to standing. Spock didn't keep up, but he let himself be pulled and placed standing. 

They were close, as they tended to be in this dance, McCoy with a hand on Spock's back and another in his hair. Spock began to take McCoy's hand, crawling up from his wrist and pulling it from Spock's hair. McCoy clutched Spock's hand and pressed his other hand’s fingers into Spock's back muscle. He stepped forward, and Spock followed naturally backwards. They returned to the dance. 

“You didn't warn me that time,” Spock breathed. His lips brushed McCoy's cheek when he spoke. 

McCoy felt Spock's leg press against his thigh on one of the steps, leaving him slightly breathless. He was half hard, Spock was bound to know. He'd likely take it as a cultural compliment, knowing him. Contrary bastard.

“But you knew it was coming,” McCoy said. “We make rather a good pair.” 

“We always have done, Doctor.”

McCoy laughed and felt it vibrate back to him through Spock's chest. How wonderful. 

“I think we're terrible,” McCoy said.

Spock shook his head and straightened his posture, moving his mouth further from McCoy's. “You are disagreeing out of habit,” he said, his voice back to its usual unaffected way. It wasn't until he spoke now that McCoy realised how low and purring Spock's voice had become.

But he swallowed his interest and shrugged instead. “And you're just naturally condescending,” he said as blandly as he could. It didn’t sound particularly bland, he could hear the shiver in his throat coming through in his voice. Ah well, a man’s gotta try.

Spock smirked. He resisted McCoy's next step forward, bringing them to still. McCoy frowned sharply, then realised the music had been replaced with applause. 

He let go of Spock's hand and stepped back. Someone was speaking into a squeaky microphone; the dancing had stopped. McCoy was breathless. 

“Well done,” McCoy said quickly. He turned to the table and picked up his glass, downing the half of bubbly that remained. “We can revisit tomorrow night, maybe add spins?”

“Very good, Sir.” 

McCoy faced Spock and took him all in. He was flushed, ears green. Gaze steady, but eyes bright. As McCoy looked he stood straighter.

“Night cap?” McCoy offered, his voice hushed as the speech onstage became a serious of slides presented with little commentary. 

Spock glanced out at the room, then nodded. 

McCoy picked up his remaining full glass of bubbly and led Spock out. “We'll have to sneak it back, I didn't bring a drink with me.”

Spock took the glass from McCoy smoothly and shrugged his long sleeve to cover it. 

At McCoy's look he said, “No one questions a Vulcan.”

Well, sure. They nodded at the door attendant and made it to the lobby unchallenged. 

“Cute, Spock.”

Spock made a noise of displeasure. 

McCoy jabbed the elevator button and leaned against a column, watching the thoroughly innocent Vulcan. 

Spock bit his lower lip, but kept his gaze steady on McCoy. 

McCoy tilted his head to the side. He was going to kiss this man if something didn't change soon. That was a fucking shock. He breathed out and leaned his head against the column. 

Spock broke the eye contact, swallowing hard and glancing up to the elevators current level, then over to a plant. 

The lift bell sounded. McCoy laughed emptily, shook his head in disbelief, and slid into the elevator. Nothing had changed. Spock followed. 

As the door closed McCoy went to him. His hand found Spock jaw first, his thumb at the corner of his mouth. 

Spock went still, facing him, and McCoy continued the movement. He was a hairsbreadth from Spock when the fucker spoke.

“Doctor, they have cameras in the lifts here,” Spock gasped. 

McCoy pulled back. What? He frowned. “They do?” he asked. He stepped back, glancing up for a sign of a camera. “What kind of surveillance state bullshit needs cameras in the lifts?” he muttered. 

Spock's shoulders dropped. McCoy’s attention returned to him. “Wait, why don't you want to be seen with me on camera?”

Spock let out a sharp sigh. “I don't want to be seen doing anything on camera.”

McCoys head moved smoothly as he considered that, ending in a slow negative shake. “There are cameras on the Enterprise,” he disagreed.

Spock hesitated. His hand, the one not still subtly hiding McCoy's glass of bubbly, gripped the handrail. “I have never attempted to dance with you on board.”

McCoy nodded. He kept nodding as he thought. 

Not on the Enterprise. That suited him quite well, really. Keep work at work. 

He hadn't begun to dissect Spock's behaviour tonight, but this made sense in a way some deep seated romance didn't. He was surprised there was anything on Spock's part, but he wasn't shocked. 

He wasn't going to even start on himself, though.

“Have I offended you, Doctor? 

McCoy grinned sourly. “Whether private or public, Spock, dear, if you're thinking about kissing me you call me Leonard.”

Spock was quiet. The bell chimed and the doors slid open. 

McCoy kept watching Spock. He needed something to go off, something to react to or he'd just get angry. But Spock simply left the elevator. 

McCoy followed. “No, why the hell won't you kiss me on camera, hm?” he asked. 

Spock turned his face towards McCoy once to indicate where his attention was. Their rooms, absurdly and coincidentally across from each other, were at the end of the long corridor. 

“You object to my preference for privacy?” Spock asked, continuing to walk away quickly. 

“Who's watching that'll care? On the ship, sure, but no one gives a fig about us here!”

Spock didn't respond. McCoy considered shouting at him, but decided he would probably not live that down. 

They reached their shared end of the corridor. Spock opened his own door deftly and face McCoy. 

“Are you coming in?” he asked. 

“With an invitation like that, I'd prefer a lobotomy!” McCoy snapped. He turned and wrestled his own door open before Spock responded, slamming it behind him. 

His body tingled with electric heat and anger. He groaned and raised his hands to his face. “Fuck.” 

He was still fucking hard. 

A couple of words occurred to him, and with them was an excuse to return. He threw his door open and strode across the hallway. Spock had left his door slightly ajar, McCoy was going to absolutely fuck him into the ground for that. 

He let himself in and closed the door. 

Spock stood at the window, lone wine glass on the table next to him. He turned silently and faced McCoy, his face again blank. 

“I don't mind a one night stand,” McCoy snapped, “keeping it as quiet as you like, what I mind is the suggestion that you should be embarrassed to be found.”

“I do not feel embarrassment.”

McCoy waved his arms, immediately furious. “Liar!” He pointed at Spock. “More importantly, you feel desire.”

Spock shrugged. “That is physical.”

McCoy crossed the floor to him, aware that his tone was nearly a rant. “So’s embarrassment. And fear, and fucking joy when you get down to it.”

He drew up next to Spock, standing right by him. Spock turned slowly and met his gaze squarely. 

“You let your emotions rule you more than the average human does,” Spock said. Bitchily. Like a little bitch. 

McCoy swallowed, there was some emotion caught up in his throat. “Someone's got to make up for you,” he said. His voice was softer than he intended.  

“I am not embarrassed,” Spock complained. “Why should I share such a moment with any other?”

McCoy frowned and swallowed again. He sighed heartily and glared at the corner of the room for a beat. Such a moment. Fuck.

“That was a bit romantic, Spock,” McCoy pointed out.

“No it wasn't.” 

McCoy laughed, surprising himself with it. “You're disagreeing out of habit,” he snapped.

Spock raised his eyebrow. “And are you not condescending?”

McCoy grinned, irritation and lust both rising in him. “You piss me off,” he said forcefully. 

“Like I say, a slave to your emotions.” 

“Private enough for you in here?”

Spock’s eyes glanced at the door, then the window. “Yes.”

And so McCoy risked the universe, and kissed him.

Click here to read the rest on ao3, there's another 18 chapters <3

[lilcathsmith]

Greg in every episode of CSI (55/328) • Lady Heather's Box •