#my coworker also finds him attractive so at least i got him

[its-a-show-stoppin-number]

[fairyofshampgyu]

Super shy !

genre: smut, baker au, college au, crack

Pairing: shy loser virgin bakery worker ! soobin x college customer ! reader

Warnings: sub soobin, dom reader, clubbing, loss of virginity, riding, hand job, titty groping (can’t be a Soobin smut without him being obsessed with boobies be fr), premature ejaculation,

word count: 2.9k

As soon as you stepped into the newly established campus bakery, walking up to the counter and observing all the pastries, contemplating for a rather long time before you end up deciding on what you’d usually order anyway, Soobin couldn’t help feeling like his world got totally turned upside down. The sight of you rendering him completely speechless and unable to even think.

Time seemingly going by so slow like in the kdramas as your shiny hair majestically blows in the non existent wind inside, smile brightening up the entire bakery. He could practically see the roses blooming around your face like in the mangas. Was this love at first sight?!

Realistically, no.

But were you incredibly attractive to him and a breath of fresh air to the moody, stressed out college students that purchase a single coffee and stay for hours completing assignments with their backs concerningly hunched over? Hell yes.

And unfortunately for Soobin, he does not do well with pretty people. At all. Not realising you had even ordered, too in awe and preoccupied with taking in all your features until he’s snapped back to reality with the clearing of your throat and he can already feel his cheeks burning up horribly fast. Oh god. He really, really hopes it’s not evident right now.

“S-sorry…What did you say?” He begins apologising profusely to you, too embarrassed to even look you in the eyes, staring off more to the side. This was definitely not his best customer service.

With a chuckle, you brush it off and state your order again, “I said could I have the strawberry swirl cheesecake please?” If Soobin could look at himself in third person, he would so be face palming right now. Or better yet, maybe he could just go up and like, punch himself straight up or something for acting like such a loser.

“Ah right... That’s ₩7500. Cash or card?”

You pay with cash and Soobin, very nervously, fumbles around to garner the right amount of change to hand you, though doing it in the most awkward way possible and his palm makes direct contact with yours as he hands the money, making him blush even more and let out a small obvious gasp at the feeling of your soft hand. Oh my god. Why did he do that?! He really hopes you didn’t find that weird.

You only let out another chuckle, thanking him before you’re leaving the bakery in an elegant manner and Soobin is left to sigh and watch your back disappear. Damn it. He’ll probably never see you again. You were so pretty and so cute, too cute even-

“You’re such a virgin.”

His thoughts about you are abruptly dissipated by his coworker and unfortunately best friend, Choi Beomgyu who gives him the stupidest, most annoying grin he would definitely like to slap off his face right now.

“Just shut up.” Soobin grimaces and rolls his eyes at beomgyu, bringing a batch of freshly baked cookies out of the oven behind him and placing them into the display glass one by one.

"You’re pinker than the strawberry macarons we sell. That's saying something." Beomgyu raises an eyebrow at him with sass.

So does that mean you could see how flustered he was getting then? Oh no! Soobin clears his throat and narrows his eyes at beomgyu anyway. “Am not.”

“Are too! Anyway, all I’m saying is that interaction was painful to watch. You’re really giving pathetic, loser, virgin right now. I cant lie.” Beomgyu attempts to stifle in one of his obnoxious laughs.

Soobin is quick to snap back, "You've only ever slept with one person!"

"S-so!! At least im not a virgin!" Beomgyu’s cheeks also become the equivalent to the strawberry macarons as he scrambles to try and defend himself, brows furrowed and cheeks puffed.

“Well, the concept of a virgin is purely societal anyway. It doesn’t actually matter. It doesn’t mean anything really.” Soobin bitterly replies, continuing to work whilst his counterpart does completely nothing like most of the time. It's usually soobin that does work, remind him not to agree to beomyu's silly ideas of getting a job together ever again.

Beomgyu scoffs and snickers at this, "Whatever. You’re just saying all that to make yourself feel better because you’re a loser. LMAO"

"I’ll punch you right now."

"Then we'll both be fired~”

A poor customer still awaits at the counter to be served, standing in bewilderment and tiredness. Waiting for the two bakers to finish bickering and sighing as they don’t seem like they’re going to stop anytime soon.

Soobin doesn’t expect to see you again, in complete honesty, he’s almost forgotten you even exist after you never come again. But he’s in luck and more than pleasantly surprised when he hears the bell to the door go ding!, indicating a customer had walked in. He looks up from the cake he was decorating and in comes you looking cuter than the first time he saw you. He tries not to mess up the cake and he stands up straight almost instantly when he sees you, waiting for you to order and trying to remain calm.

You laugh and point at his cute nose when you come up to the counter. “You have like, icing all on your nose.”

“O-oh. I do?” He points at himself and you nod in reply. He feels himself going redder by the minute. He must look so stupid right now! And he urgently brings his sleeve up and tries to wipe the icing off his nose to not make himself look an even more of a complete fool in front of you .

“Ah wait no. Let me do it!” You lean over the counter as you see him struggling and wipe it off the top of his cute bunny like nose instead for him.

And that was the end of soobin. The end.

-

You become a regular at the bakery and soobin becomes a regular of embarrassing the absolute shit out of himself each time he sees you. He really doesn’t think he can top the previous comedic disaster that occurs when you enter, yet he always proves himself wrong, the awkwardness reaching new heights each time. From dropping trays of pastries, spilling drinks, nearly slipping in front of you, giving you a ₩50000 note when it was only ₩5000 change, the list goes on and on. He’s actually surprised he hasn’t lost his job yet.

And there’s also always a disappointed beomgyu shaking his head afterwards ready to make fun of him when Soobin promises to make a move but freezes every time you’re in sight, too much of a pussy.

“I’m calling an intervention.” Beomgyu declares and sighs after the nth time of soobin making absolutely no moves on you whatsoever, “Soobin, my man, my bro, you desperately need to get banged. It’s painful seeing the way you act. Your little crush is not gonna like you with the way you act. That’s it. We’re going clubbing tonight after this shift. No buts.”

“But-”

“I said no buts!”

“You know I hate clubbing.”

“You’ve never even been with me despite my constant pleads.” Beomgyu shakes his head and makes a dramatic pained face at his way.

“So? I know I’ll hate it.”

“You’re such a hater bro.”

“Yes I am. And I take pride in it. I’m a hater of everything.”

Beomgyu just sighs. He was utterly hopeless.

Unfortunately, there was no way Soobin could get out of this because beomgyu was having absolutely none of his protests and excuses and that’s how he ends up finding himself at the club anyway after his shift, sitting off to the side as he watches beomgyu disappear somewhere into the crowd. Soobin sighs as he downs his jack and coke. This was going to be a long fucking night.

-

In the dimly lit club, soobin’s discomfort was palpable, like a fish out of water and you noticed instantly upon arrival. It’s that cute tall baker boy who always serves you! You excitedly make your way and sit next to him, he looked a little lonely. “Hey! You work at that bakery on campus. I go there!”

Soobin’s eyes nearly fall out of his sockets at the sight of you sitting next to him and he nearly chokes on his drink as he splutters on his straw and nods. Act calm, act calm, act calm, act calm. Act cool and mysterious.

It’s you! You’re speaking to him?!

“So…these things not really your scene, huh?”

“Gee. How did you ever notice?” Soobin attempts to smile and joke with dry humour but it executes a little more awkward and nervous than how he would have liked.

You also try to carry on the conversation since this is the first time you’ve got to ever actually talk to the cute boy before. “I’m very intuitive. I can just sense things like that.”

He laughs at that too, feeling a bit more comfortable around you now. “No but yeah, I’d much rather be at home right now sleeping. Can’t say I’m much of an advocate for getting stupidly drunk with sweaty people you don’t even know with terrible rave music and flashing lights that should have an epilepsy warning”

“I get it.” You chuckle at how passionate he gets talking about how much he hates clubbing, frown on his cute face. “So why are you here then?”

“Friend wanted me to. Said I needed to finally get laid or whatever.” Soobin rolls his eyes and sips on his drink again, motioning his head to the direction of beomgyu on the dance floor, clearly drunk off his ass now.

“Oh, you’re a Virgin?”

Soobin’s ears go red when he realises what he said to you. “O-oh um y-yeah I guess…”

“Are you waiting for like marriage or the right person or something?” You question, genuinely surprised. He was tall and very attractive and it was rare for college boys to not hook up every single night these days.

“God no. Just never happened. I don’t really care for things like that. It’s probably overhyped anyway and doesn’t even feel that good. Like porn is highly unrealistic anyway.”

“You think so?” You chuckle at him and he nods, continuing to cutely sip on his drink with his straw. “Well maybe you should to try it out first and see for yourself.” Your words start to become a little flirty as you grow more confident talking with him and also because of the alcohol making you slightly tipsy now. “Sorry, but do you want to get out of here?”

“Yes please.” Soobin’s eyes widen even more at your suggestion and he’s more than happy to get out of here with you especially.

“Umm your friend is a bit….out of it right now.” You watch beomgyu drunk from afar, whipping his long hair back and forth claiming to everyone around he’ll be able to do it fast enough to lift off his feet and fly like a helicopter.

“He’ll be…he’ll be fine I’m sure”

Soobin has no idea what good stuff he must have done in his past life to get to this moment right now, in your room, making out with you, in your bed. Did he mention making out? With you?! The customer he’s been crushing on for months?! Holy, he might hyperventilate right now. It all feels like a dream. Is this real right now?

You cup his cheek and move into his lap, continuing to move your lips against his and soobin’s ears and face are all flushed, breathing loud of enough for you to hear and he looks all nervous and a little shaky.

You stop kissing him but he chases after your lips still and you stroke his cheek, “Are you okay Soobin?”

He’s only able to nod, lips parted and eyes all glazed over. He’s so out of it just from making out with you it’s crazy. But so cute too.

“C-can you…can we…just want…”

“What do you want, baby?” You chuckle and stroke his cheek as he manages to utter some words. The petname only makes his head go even more haywire.

“W-want you…”

“What do you want me to do?” You giggle and coo at him.

He shyly shows you the boner he’s had this entire time. You can’t believe he got a boner just from some kissing. “Can you-will you touch me…please? Need it…” He pleads at you nervously, so red in the face.

“Are you sure?”

He nods his head exceptionally fast and you begin to unbuckle his jeans as he watches you take his flushed and hard dick out, breathing only becoming heavier. Damn, you didn’t think he’d be that big.

You take him into your hands and his mouth his already agape, gasping when you slowly start to stroke him.

You pump his big cock at a steady pace so as not to overwhelm him too much, though twisting and thumbing at the tip occasionally that has him drooling at the corner of his mouth and beads of precum dribbling out heavily from his cock. It’s endearing how far gone he is just at you stroking his dick slow, shy whimpers and other noises eliciting from his mouth.

You unbutton you shirt with your other hand as you continue to pump him and his eyes go crazed at the sight of your tits, you guiding his own big inexperienced hands to grope at them and he does, slumping his head into your neck and shoulder moaning into it and still groping and squeezing at your tits.

With a sudden yelp you feel Soobin’s cum spurt up and leak into your hands, his eyes rolling back as he whimpers continuously from his premature orgasm.

He doesn’t lift his head from your shoulder yet, too embarrassed to face you but he eventually does, eyes still half lidded, trying to catch his breath and he’s hard again. “W-will you fuck me? Please please please. Wanna feel it, wanna feel you, please?” He practically begs, still panting out.

“Are you really sure, Soobin? With me?”

“Yes please! Only want you.”

You study his face for any hesitancy but it’s clear he’s so set on wanting you to fuck him. So you wrap your hands around both his wrists and bring him to lay down on your pillows instead, you still straddling his lap.

When you’ve undressed your lower half, you bring his dick and slide it over your entrance a few times, he moans out loud, hands coming up shyly to cover his face and then you sink down incredibly slowly on his massive length . Soobin’s jaw drops and breath hitches at the feeling of his dick finally in your warm pussy, a strangled moan ripping out of him. He could seriously cum just from being in you right now, but he tries so hard not to or you’ll be disappointed and he doesn’t want to see you disappointed or embarrass himself even more.

“You good, baby?”

“M’ f-fine. Just-Just need a minute.” Soobin shakes out.

You take his hands away from his face and lean down to softly kiss him instead, trying to calm him down and he effuses into your mouth, kissing back passionately with his eyes closed.

“I’m ready now…” He pulls away after a while and looks you in the eyes.

So you start to slowly move, riding him, going up and down on his virgin dick. Soobin’s mouth hangs open in endless moans and gasps and whimpers, face buried into your pillow to the side and his hair all messy now. Whole body flushed and shaking underneath you.

“Better than you thought, baby?” You grunt out, bouncing on top of his cock.

“So much better. O-oh my god, f-fuck…ah!” So maybe sex wasn’t overhyped after all. Because goddamn, you feel so fucking good. Maybe it was just you. But Soobin truly feels like he’s gliding on fluffy clouds right now. All the times he’s touched himself not even coming close to how he feels right now stuffed in your pussy as you fuck him, watching mesmerised as your tits bounce with each movement. He could die here right now in full contentment. Oh how he was so wrong.

It’s not long at all before Soobin can’t hold it anymore. His hips bucking up and breath hitching as a loud strangled mewl tumbles out of his mouth and you feel hot cum fill you up suddenly that makes you still your movements on him. He lets out a long slurred groan and then goes limp beneath you, eyes closing shut and open as he fades from conscious to not every now and then. Is he really that fucked out?

After a while, he finally somewhat recovers and comes back to you from his high, still panting out and chest rising up and down. He looks up at you with a small shy smile on his lips, arm thrown over his forehead.

“You know I literally only go to the bakery because of how cute and silly you are and how you always make a mess of yourself whenever I walk in” You chuckle and admit, drawing shapes into his chest.

“W-wait you knew I liked you?” Soobin asks, shocked and feeling embarrassed again.

You laugh, “Come on, you made it rather obvious.”

Please actually reblog !!!!!! and leave comments !!!! guys 😭 if you like the fic. It’s really appreciated and so nice tysm !<3🙏💕🌷🌷! It’s incredibly discouraging and irriating when fics have such little reblogs ☹️. At least send an anon in the inbox if you don’t want to rb, don’t just like. Feedback is always appreciated it make writers want to actually write :)

A/n: having serious writers block rn but forced myself to write this in practically one sitting (it was so painful) and has not been proof read at all so if it makes no sense I apologise 😭

[aquarelliwrites]

All Caught Up

SHIP: Max Verstappen x driver!Reader PROMPT: “I got you three gifts for Christmas. Since I wasn’t there for Valentine’s Day or your birthday-” “We weren’t even dating then!” CONTENT WARNINGS: slight alcohol consumption in the last scene, she/her pronouns, no use of y/n

3.1k

You sigh, the door shutting behind you with a soft click. Another one, and it locks. The keys get tossed unceremoniously into the decorative tray right next to the entrance, and your shoes get toed off soon after that. 

What a way to spend Valentine’s Day, huh? A transcontinental flight from Nice to Luton of all places, then waiting around for nearly an hour for your luggage to find itself on the revolving conveyor belt in front of you. Then, as if the universe itself had it out for you, the thin metal frame holding your umbrella together twists out of shape under the onslaught of wind - leaving you fuming in the cold rain for 45 minutes before your Uber arrives. The guy is apologetic, of course, and the traffic isn’t his fault, so you try your best to smile and reassure him it’s alright. Following that, you spend the half-hour drive to Milton Keynes attempting to warm up even slightly in your soaked coat.

Really, that whole monologue was a long way of saying the pre-RB20-launch meeting was cold, rainy and miserable in many ways. There were a couple of positive sides to it, though, you think as you unpack your bag in the hallway - your coworkers, both the ones who’d stay in the factory and who’d join you in the paddock, were all delightful and friendly, congratulating you on the promotion. The car itself looked fantastic - all smooth carbon fiber wrapped around the innards of the car like a silk sheet, covered in sponsor logos, sharp nose already pointing to another successful season for the team. 

And Max. He was… also there.

The dark and lonely flat seems to mock you at the very thought.

Well, no, that’s a rude way of putting it. Your most famous coworker was as kind as anyone else you’d met before and during that day. You’d already met before, when you became a reserve driver for the team the year before. Your first meeting face to face was nothing but pleasant, and you quickly found you both had a similar sense of humor.

You’re half-worried the kettle won't work after several months of abandonment. It turns on on the first try. You breathe a sigh of relief.

The problem arose in the fact that this grayscale day around you was eclipsed by his presence - as if he was the only object in full Technicolor - as soon as you’d noticed him. His smile was downright infectious, for one, and you honestly could have sworn your hand trembled when you clasped his in greeting.

“Hi, it’s great to meet you again.” He lit up the room with that smile, at least in your eyes. “Christian and the team have only sung your praises for the past few days.”

A softer sigh escapes you when you remember it, and your response: “Oh really? That’s good to hear - they haven’t exposed my worst secrets to you yet.”

“Your worst secrets?” He looked confused while you were busy taking off your coat.

“Yeah, you know,” you grinned, “that I’m secretly a terrible driver who has autopilot installed on her car, or that I’m awfully annoying. So they don’t scare you off, you know?”

To you, his laugh sounded like silver bells, and spring awakening in your chest, and a golden spark blooming into fireworks inside you, and every cliche thing you’ve ever read about in books. You had heard it in recorded interviews and distantly at parties you both got invited to, obviously, but the attraction fully hit you now that you were standing face to face.

Oh, attraction. That’s what it was. You hum and sit down on the couch, your teacup still scalding your fingertips. It's quiet everywhere but your thoughts. Actually, no, if you strain very hard, you might hear your downstairs neighbor's TV.

You couldn’t even fathom how headlines nicknamed him the rain of this cursed place, having spent half the meeting subtly glancing his way, and the other half trying to think of ways to look at him that weren’t… how should you put it? Outright creepy?

Hours later, you both stood in the car park under his umbrella - he’d insisted, and you really couldn’t bring yourself to say no. 

“What a Valentine’s Day, huh?” You chuckled, warming your hands in your pockets. He looked towards you - fuck, his eyes were beautiful - and shrugged.

“Never was a fan, really.”

“Me neither. I’ve never had anyone stick around long enough to celebrate properly.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Any plans, then?”

“Not really. They set me up with a flat here back in December, so I’m just heading there for the night. Might get real freaky and order pizza, or something crazy like that.”

“Ooh, don’t go too wild.” He chuckled, and you joined heartily.

The LED headlights of your Uber bathed you both in white light, and you stepped out from under the umbrella. “Thanks for everything, Max. I’m looking forward to this season.”

“Yeah, no problem.” The pitter-patter of raindrops against concrete nearly drowned out his reply as you walked towards the car. He lingered for a moment, gazing at your retreating silhouette through the sheets of rain before unlocking his own car and leaving the car park empty of people once more.

You’re content to stare out of the window now, watching the raindrops race down the glass. The launch is tomorrow, and they'll announce you as the second Red Bull Racing driver. The world will either accept it, or be forced to deal with you for a year.

Truly? Honestly? You're just looking forward to becoming friends with Max.

It is barely 9 in the morning, but the late-July sun is dead-set on giving you a headache today, apparently.

The automated gates at the paddock entrance let you through, and a couple of photographers spot you from a short distance, snapping photos immediately. You grin joyfully, throwing up a peace sign at them before checking your watch.

You have time to make a detour.

The fans at the barrier buzz with excitement when you approach them, and you find yourself in an easy conversation with the front-most ones. It’s nice to hear people are fans of you sometimes, so what?

A girl thanks you profusely for signing her poster, and extends a pink friendship bracelet towards you. “Oh, here’s a birthday gift!”

“Aw, I love it, thank you! Do we match?” You smile, tightening it around your left wrist, right below your watch. The girl simply responds by showing her own wrist - indeed, she has a matching one.

The short detour takes longer than expected, and shortly, one of the  social media girls comes to find you. “You’re all great, thanks for coming to free practice!” You wave goodbye and jog to catch up to your coworker.

Your side of the garage is experiencing an unusual amount of activity, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what’s happening - the people weren’t too subtle with their cameras either.

“She’s here, she’s here!” Someone yells, and you’re ushered into the middle of the crowd to stand in front of Anthea, your race engineer. Who is, shockingly, holding a cake.

“Happy birthday!!” The crowd roars, and you spot a bunch of the drivers hanging around as well - not that it isn’t obvious, what with the colorful fireproofs in a sea of navy polos. Charles and Pierre are standing somewhere in the middle of the crowd, Carlos and Lando in the back (granted, talking animatedly with each other as soon as the congratulating was over), Oscar and Logan to your left, close by. Max, of course, right next to Anthea.

The cake itself is Red Bull blue and checkered black-and-white on the top, a small model of your car right on top, surrounded by 22 lit candles.

In that instant, you feel indescribably loved. And it's a beautiful, sparkling feeling.

Are those tears rolling down your cheeks? Oh no, they are. And you worked so hard on your eyeliner today - you feel Oscar and Logan each put an arm around your shoulders as you wipe the skin under your eyes dry. 

“Happy birthday, dude. You’re finally old enough for preschool.” You yelp when Oscar ruffles your hair lovingly and swat at his hand.

“No, Osc, come on!” You laugh through tears, fixing your hair hurriedly. “Who organized this?”

Anthea grins at you, and Max suddenly looks extremely invested in the concrete floor underneath Logan’s feet. “Max suggested it, I think he was the only one who knew about it? Other than, like, Horner and the people who did your paperwork.”

A soft blush appears on your face, though you feel it burning your cheeks and ears to high heaven. Or at least that’s what it feels like - maybe it doesn’t look so bad to everyone around you. “You guys are the best, seriously. Thank you, Max, and everyone for making it happen.”

“Yeah, yeah, you big sap. Blow out the candles already.” Logan pipes up, and the entire garage chuckles. You roll your eyes in mock annoyance, but lean forward with a silent wish in mind, and blow them out in one breath.

Afterwards, you vaguely remember Oscar trying to shove your face into the cake when the candles and car were taken off - and failing - but the minutes after were so chaotic that it felt like one moment you were standing there, hugging your best friends, and the next you’re sat atop a countertop with Max, both attacking the chocolate cake with vigor. 

“Oh my God, this is so good,” you practically moan, your mouth full. “Is this Belgian chocolate?”

Max is swinging his legs, hitting your right calf rhythmically with his foot. “Yeah, I think so. I’d be disappointed if it wasn’t.”

“Me, too,” you nod, licking off the ganache stuck to your fork. “Hopefully practice won’t be a complete tragedy today.”

“It’ll be good. The data shows it,” he says, completely sure of himself, before hurriedly adding, “I think. I- well, I know. Anthea told me.”

“Good, then. It’ll just be my shit driving that will put me in the wall then.” You nudge his shoulder with yours, but his core strength is greater than you expect and, alas, he doesn’t even move. For a moment, you kind of want to stay stuck to him, leeching off his body heat.

However, it is July, and you are just friends.

He nudges you back - more like shoves, you nearly go flying - and clicks his tongue. “You always say that, but it only happened in Canada. And it wasn’t even your fault.”

You blush, again. Annoyingly. Were you overthinking, or was he keeping track of your results during the season?

“And you’ve already got three podiums. It’s great for a rookie.”

He was definitely keeping track.

You lower your head, smiling. “Thanks, Max. Seriously. For the surprise and the support you’ve given me - it means so, so much.”

“It’s really no problem. I think you’re very talented.”

“I can’t believe you knew when my birthday was,” you pipe up when he takes a breath in between monologues.

It’s evening now, and the late July sun is streaming golden light through the window of Max’ room at the Belgium Grand Prix paddock. You’re standing in the doorway, chewing on your drinking straw absentmindedly while he talks about the data gathered in FP1 and FP2 - as if you weren’t in the debrief together. Or, you know, as if you don't drive the same car. It’s a habit of his that many could find annoying and is nothing but endearing to you.

He looks a bit taken aback, but after a moment simply says “I can’t believe no one’s ever celebrated it with you like this.”

You shrug. “People don’t really stick around enough. Or, most of the time, my friends and family were too far away to make plans,” is your reply. “You know how it is - moving to Monaco as soon as you can and leaving everyone behind.”

“It’s a shame, though.” He’s studying your face now, and you feel some emotion between ‘uncomfortable’ and ‘flustered’ when you notice how he’s checking you out. Or maybe he isn’t?

“It is, but so what?” 

“You deserve to celebrate your birthday properly.” He says it so matter-of-factly, like it’s a no-brainer. Which it may be - you’ve had birthdays, and they were great, but they seem like such a long-lost part of your childhood that it takes you a moment to remember when you last held a party.

“I did. Just- well, just not with other people.” You did. Really. You took yourself out to breakfasts and treated yourself to flowers and books and new shoes, occasionally. It’s just that you did it alone most of the time.

“Would you be opposed to celebrating with other people?” Why does he look like he has something planned?

“...Do you have something planned?”

“No, but we could go hang out. Grab dinner somewhere, and a drink after, maybe?” 

It’s a casual request, and you feel inclined to accept. Maybe you’re a bit brave, or a bit stupid, or just a bit head-over-heels when you laugh softly and nod. “Sure, what is this? A date?”

Now he’s the one who looks flustered. “Uh… sure. If you want it to be one.” 

“Sure.” You’re smiling again, and when he moves on to his next talking point, you’re more than happy to keep chewing on your straw and listening.

Ripping open the wrapping paper to reveal a plain cardboard box, you send the camera guy in front of you a worried glance.

It’s a lovely, warm November morning in Abu Dhabi, and the Secret Santa event is wrapping up. You had gotten Logan - who was practically too easy to shop for - but now it’s your turn to open your present, and you’re nervous.

“Hopefully it won’t explode?” You joke, then run your nail under the piece of tape holding the box closed. When you manage to get it open, your lips curl upwards into a bright smile.

The box is full to the brim without any of the items cluttering together - whoever packed this had to have put immense care into it. You spot a pair of fuzzy socks, candles, bath salts, a bottle of French wine, and many other small self-care items.

“Aww, this is so sweet- Oh, there’s no way.” You pull out the last thing, which is a copy of ‘The Book Thief’ by Markus Zusak. “This is my favorite book,” you tell the camera, having a sense of who this is from, “and I remember I was talking to Max the other day about how sad I was that I lost my copy on a flight a few months ago. We agreed to start a book club over winter break.” 

The media employees chuckle at the thought, and you join them. “More like, I made him. Yeah, this is from him.”

“It is.” The woman holding the microphone confirms.

They leave you sitting on the white couch on the terrace, a small smile still tugging at the corners of your lips while you read what he’d written on the inside cover:

‘Sorry I can’t hang out - my weekend is fully booked. How about Christmas at my place? - Max’

You roll your eyes and giggle. What an idiot.

Your idiot.

“Alright.” He starts when you both settle on the shaggy beige carpet in his living room. You’re both a bit buzzed - both having had screwdrivers for late Christmas breakfast, champagne on the balcony before lunch, red wine with the lunch itself, and now you’re nursing a mimosa while he finishes the champagne. Talk about day drinking.

“Alright. Presents, right? How do you want to, like… Should we alternate?” Your head tilts at the size of the pile of presents you definitely knew you didn’t bring.

“I was thinking we could go one by one, from the top, and just sort them by whose name is on it?” He suggests, legs stretching out in front of him. You smile when he playfully nudges your calf with his foot.

“Sounds good,” you nod, taking one last sip for the time being and leaving your glass on the coffee table.

Max reaches for the first present you got him - it’s wrapped in red and green with an obnoxiously large bow on the top - and is delighted when he sees that you’ve gotten him diecast models of his and your 2024 cars, different only in the numbers and the yellow T-cam on yours. He promises to keep them on his desk with a laugh, and hands you the next present.

Inexplicably, it’s wrapped in pink. With hearts all over it. And another obnoxiously large bow on top.

Wondering if he may secretly be colorblind (or unaware of Christmas traditions), you peer up at him with brows furrowed in confusion. Meanwhile, he’s handing you another two boxes: one white one with party hats all over, and another with a candy cane pattern.

“I got you three big presents. Since I wasn’t there for Valentine’s Day,” he says. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Or your birthday.”

You can feel yourself start tearing up. “Max…”

He grimaces. “I’m so sorry. Should I have gotten more-”

“Max. We weren’t…” You swipe the tear off your left cheek, a little bit of eye pencil coming off with it. The alcohol is making you emotional, you tell yourself. “We weren’t even dating back then.”

“You were alone, though. I mean we did go on that date for your birthday, but it was just dinner. I, just…” He trails off, pulling at the carpet fibers. “You deserved better for this year.”

You set the box down gently, and move over to sit on his lap. He’s a little surprised when you hug him tightly, but he embraces you back quickly, one of his hands immediately reaching up to play with your hair.

“You’re one of the most thoughtful people I know. Thank you.” You whisper, and you can hear an exhale of a laugh when your breath tickles the back of his neck.

“It’s my pleasure, shatje.” He pats your shoulder, and you kiss him with a giggle still on your lips. Crawling off of him, you turn your attention back to the presents he gave you. The pink box holds the silkiest, softest cami nightgown you’ve ever touched; the one with party hats, a signed copy of your favorite author’s newest novel laying on top of a heavy navy blue knitted blanket. Arguably, though, the Christmas one is your favorite - a pair of Lightning McQueen Crocs. Signed by Charles Leclerc.

“You’re ridiculous,” you burst out laughing again while he only smirks and pours his champagne flute full once more. 

“You know it, darling."

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[so-much-for-the-seashells]

Inhibitions? What Are Those?

Jacob Palmer (Crazy, Stupid, Love) x EnglishTeacher!Reader

Disclaimer: I don’t own any of the characters except for the reader insert and Lara!

Author’s Notes: Icon credit goes to @hollandsbabygirl !! She’s so talented!!

I have to admit, this fic is kinda dumb. But also kinda endearing? I dunno, you’ll see for yourself. It starts off as a fully formed idea and then I don’t really know what happened, but I had to get it out so here we are. It’s a fluffy sort of thing, hopefully enjoyable!

Anyway, as per usual, I love seeing your notes- they make my day!

Content/Content Warnings: minors dni! It’s not spicy, but we’ve got a good dose of suggestive themes.

You know, tonight was supposed to be something simple, nothing too crazy. A little celebration for finishing out the school year with Lara, my coworker.

And yet, I find myself sitting alone at the bar at ten-fifteen in the night, my friend having left with a total stranger an hour ago. Good for her, the woman she left with was gorgeous and seemed to be a good flirt, but alas, here I sit, alone.

Well, not completely alone. There’s a guy who’s been looking me up and down, catching my gaze every time I look his way. Lara had been trying to convince me to give him the time of day- well, time of night, I guess- but quite frankly, I’m just not feeling it. I’ve seen this guy here every time I’ve gone here, which is few and far between. My guess is he has more STDs than I’ve had students, which would be saying something.

Before he was sitting a seat away, but now he’s scooted down to the seat next to me.

“Heya, gorgeous. Can I buy you a drink?”

“Listen, jawline,” I say, giving him the once over.

“Jawline?” he makes a face, nose scrunched and lips in a line like he smells something bad. I raise my drink to my lips; take a small, languid, sip; before continuing.

“Whatever. I know your move, coming to the same bar every night to take home a different pretty lady, throwing out your lines and your casual chauvinism. It’s cute, but you can buzz off if you’re trying to work your fuck-boy charm on me,” I set my glass down on the bar with a slight thud to emphasize my point.

“My fuck-boy charm?” he smirks. And to his credit, he really is attractive. Pink lips curled up to a point with boyish, mischievous blue eyes- it’s conventional. More than, even. I’m just not having it. And he didn’t deny that he’s the slut I described him to be.

“I said what I said.”

“Wanna get out of here?” he tries. The audacity.

“No.”

“Worth a shot.”

“Mm.”

“So is all I’m getting one syllable answers now?” he looks amused. Not pissed, nor frustrated. Just amused.

“No.” And I can’t help it, but I smile as I say it. I can’t say I don’t see the charm.

“I got a smile,” he comments, a smirk playing at his lips.

“And at least three ladies awaiting you to escort one or all of them to your surely not humble abode,” I counter.

“Wow, you really don’t like me, huh?” he takes a sip of his very expensive whiskey.

“Maybe not you specifically, just your type.”

“What? Casual chauvinistic fuck boys?”

“Exactly,” that gets a slight huff out of me. Again, I see the appeal. I just don’t want to.

“Tell you what- you play pool?” he points to the pool table with his glass.

“Why?”

“Do you play?” I have a good feeling we could go question for question for three hours.

I turn up my nose. “Sure. Why?“

“I’ve got a proposition for you, if you’re interested,” he says. His voice has a slight hint of New York to it, proposition sounding like prop-ah-sition.

“I’m not interested,” I say, knowing he’s going to explain it anyway.

“Good. I tell you what- you win, I’ll buzz off. I win, and because you’re into this, you consider a kiss,” he proposes.

“Mm. You buzzing off or me just considering? I like these odds,” I down the rest of my drink. “Let’s do it.”

“Sounds good,” again with that smirk before turning to the bartender. “Another for the lady? On my tab.”

“Wow, what a gentleman,” I snark.

“I try,” he says, grabbing my drink from the bartender with a thank you and handing it to me. I down it right then and there.

“Thanks,” I smirk, before walking off to the pool table. Sure, I don’t need the extra kick in the pants right now, but what can I say? It’s fun.

He follows suite, somehow having grabbed yet another of my drink in doing so.

“You gonna down this one too, Dollface?” he asks, handing it to me.

“What did you just call me, jackass?”

“Dollface. Why? You don’t like it?”

I plaster the fakest smile I can manage onto my face and then in my highest voice, say “Noo, I love it.”

He laughs. “Lovely voice you’ve got there.”

“Why thank you. It’s good for attracting hot douchebags.”

“Hot Jacobs,” he corrects, holding out his hand.

“Y/n. Let’s not forget I called you a douchebag.” I drop the voice, shaking his hand briefly.

“Mm. Y/n,” my name sounds like honey coming off of his lips. “You know, Y/n, we could just skip this silly game and head straight to my place.” He’s standing barely six inches away.

“Tempting, but this ‘silly game’ was your idea,” I counter, leaning up.

“A dumb idea, if I do say so myself,” he says, eyes trained on my lips.

“Well thats too bad. I was looking forward to some good old fashioned billiards,” I smirk, holding up a pool rod between us.

“Who am I to deny a lady?” there’s a double entendre in those words that against my will gives me chills.

“You seem like the type to. Color me impressed,” I respond, keeping my composure.

“What color is ‘impressed’?”

“Maybe a blue, or an orange?”

“Those are polar opposites,” he notes.

“Huh,” I say, setting up the balls in the triangular holder, and then removing it.

“Ladies first,” he says, stepping behind me.

“Gee, thanks,” I say, lining up a shot. I can sense him behind me, so I rear back the rod, hoping to hit him in the stomach, and then take my shot, making a ball in the furthest hole away from me. I smirk, hearing his oof from behind me, and turn around.

“Oops,” I snicker.

He sticks out his tongue, holding his stomach.

“Aww, you look like one of my kids,” I mock.

“You have kids?” he looks a little alarmed by the notion.

“I teach fourth grade English,” I explain. “Why?”

“Oh, I was going to say I could be a good daddy if you’d give me the chance,” he rubs the back of his head. I grimace.

“I ought to hit you again.”

“No, no, please don’t, I’m sorry,” he holds up his hands in mock surrender.

“You love your double entendres, huh?”

“A little too much, some might say.”

“I would have to agree with this omniscient some,” I say, taking a long sip of my drink.

“Did I make you uncomfortable with that last one? I’m sorry if I did.” Huh. Genuineness. Didn’t expect that one.

“No, you’re fine. It was kinda funny,” I tell him, a smile playing at my lips.

“Alright, if you say so. But if I do make you uncomfortable feel free to hit me again,” he offers.

“You into that?” I joke.

“Maybe a little,” he laughs, sipping his whiskey.

“Can I try your drink?”

“Sure…” he hands it to me, looking a little confused.

I take it in my hands, and throw the glass back, drinking whatever was left of it, including the ice cube. I suck my teeth because of how strong the liquor is- just what I need for what I’m about to say.

“Uh-,” I hold up a hand to his face, taking my sweet time to crunch down the ice cube.

“How about we ditch pool and head back to your place?”

And it’s sudden. And it’s rash. And it’s probably really, really dumb.

But it also feels right, and for that reason there is no end of confidence in my voice.

Sure, we could stay here and flirt another hour, but no matter how it were to be caused the outcome would be the same, that we would go home together.

And honestly, so be it.

“Yeah,” he says, the surprise in his voice evident but matched by a rasp forged by apparent attraction. His electric blue eyes are blown out, the black of his pupils overtaking his irises. Yet somehow he manages to regain his smirk, retaining his suave aura.

Fine. He’s hot. And all of my prior inhibitions have dissipated into a state of nonexistence.

***

Fifteen minutes later, I’m sitting on his couch, apparently filled with the down of only black swans, waiting for him to join me. I look around, at his movie theater sized screen, his expensive coffee table, the fancy lamps and other furnishings. The furniture itself is relatively sparse, yet spaced with purpose. Also, every piece seems to be worth more than my yearly salary. But there’s nothing that really says anything about this Jacob.

Jacob Palmer, was his full name, as he had told me on the way here. And yet nothing in this room tells me anything about Jacob Palmer.

The enigma himself emerges back into the living room with two orange-ish drinks in hand. “Here you are,” he says, handing me one.

I stand up to take it from him, immediately rising a dip. It starts off tasting orangey and sweet, and then turns bitter and tastes something like glass cleaner. I do everything in my power not to grimace.

“You hate it, don’t you,” he comments. There’s no offense in his voice, if anything just a hint of amusement.

“No, it’s great,” I day, trying to take another sip, unable to stop myself from puckering due to the bitterness. “You made it?”

“Yeah,” he’s fully smiling now.

“Oh, lovely- could I just see your glass?” He hands it to me. I pour my drink into his, and the hand the full glass back to him as if it’s some wonderful gift.

“You’re adorable,” he chuckles, sipping the nasty drink and sitting on the couch. I follow suite, sitting next to him so our knees are touching.

“Tell me something about yourself, Jacob Palmer,” I say after a few moments of silence. His brow furrows, eyes slightly wide as he looks at me.

“About myself?” the surprise in his voice breaks my heart a little. Who is this man?

“Yeah, about yourself.” My voice is gentle, this feels fragile.

He sighs. Not in discontent, but with a tinge of wistfulness. “When I was eight, I had a dog named Brownie. He was a chocolate lab, and for some reason eight-year-old me thought that was a good name for him,” he laughs fondly.

“He sounds adorable,” I prompt.

“He was… he was my favorite little dude. But not my mom’s. One day he “went missing” and I never ended up finding out what happened to him,” Jacob sinks back into the cushion of the couch. I tentatively put a hand on his thigh.

“Oh, Jacob, I’m so sorry,” I mumble.

“No, I’m sorry- that’s about as unsexy as story as I could’ve told.”

“Heh, I’ve heard worse.”

“That makes me feel less bad.”

“Good, it was meant to.”

A few moments go by as I trace little circles on his thigh, close to his knee. He takes a hefty sip of his drink.

“Okay, tell me something about yourself, Y/n L/n,” he says, turning to me, his blue-eyed gaze boring holes into my soul.

“Uhh… my favorite movie is Ghost,” I say, shrugging.

“Well that’s a bit lighter than what I said,” he jokes.

“Light? Did you just call Patrick Swayze light?” I say with melodrama. “He is literally everything to me, rest in peace.” I send a kiss up to the sky to prove my point.

“Oh yeah? How do you feel about Dirty Dancing?”

“The only movie I like more is Ghost,” I answer.

“Well… you know the move? The big move?” he asks, setting his glass down on the coffee table.

“The one where he…” I mime Patrick Swayze’s infamous lift of Jennifer Grey.

“Yeah, that’s the one. I can do that,” he says, looking at me, dead serious.

“You’re shitting me,” I say indignantly. There’s no way this random hot stranger at the bar can do the lift.

He stands up. “Come on!” he says, offering a hand. I take it, and he lifts me up. Shit, I can already tell he’s strong. Maybe he really can do it.

“Stand here, ok?” he directs, hands on my waist as he positions me. His hands are well manicured and pleasantly soft. He then walks off about three yards from me, thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans.

My heart is pounding out of my chest, from nerves and excitement. I couldn’t have stopped myself from running into those soft hands if I had wanted to once he said go. And man, I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s how attractive it is that he can lift me up like this, that I’m about seven feet off the ground, or that he you know, just Swayze-d me, but once he lets me down, holding me so that my legs are no longs straight in the air and instead wrapped around his waist, once we’re eye to eye again I can’t help but kiss him full force and whisper bedroom as he pulls away briefly before chasing my lips again.

And man, that was a long sentence. Absolutely embarrassing-appalling, even- for an English teacher.

But I guess that’s just the Jacob Palmer effect.

***

I’m lying beside him, looking at the ceiling. We’re both stark naked, and out of breath. My hand is interlocked with his, the only acknowledgment of each other.

My legs tingle as I lie there limply, I’m sure that they’re going to remember this night for a few days.

What had pleasantly surprised me about Jacob Palmer was that he was more focused on my pleasure than his, almost like he got off via me getting off.

He was so methodical, so calculated and perfect with the way he did everything. With the way he slowly brought me to the edge three times, every time making me progressively more weak in the knees. He obviously knew what he was doing from experience, but that didn’t bother me in the moment with how good he was. Especially with how he managed to ease my typical tenseness into a babbling mess.

And all of a sudden I’m giggling uncontrollably, finally recognizing how unreal what just happened was.

“What?” he turns toward me, laughing with me.

“I-just-,” I can’t stop laughing. “You’re not real! With the Swayze, and the movie theater screen, and the sex- god, the sex!”

“That good?” he looks a little smug. Honestly, well deserved. Most of the guys I’ve been with can’t even find the clit much less get a girl off three times.

“Yes!” I cry. “But also, who needs three toasters and a movie theater sized popcorn machine?” My voice is hysterical, as if I’m on anesthesia.

“No one! Except me apparently,” he hides his face in his pillow.

“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to catch my breath. “It’s just that you’re such an enigma to me.”

“You aren’t that easy to figure out yourself, Dollface,” he concurs, peaking one eye out at me. His eyelashes are so long. We sit there smiling at each other for a minute, before this new wired me decides to dramatically ask for a drink.

“You want a water? Coke? Tab?” he sits up, moving to get out of the bed. The cover is strewn haphazardly over his waist, exposing his Adonis belt. But instead of admiring his physique, I laugh.

“Tab? Who the hell drinks Tab?”

“No one!” he snorts.

“Then why do you have it?”

“For the same reason I have a screen that used to belong to a movie theater! I’m deeply unhappy and trying to disprove that money can’t buy happiness.”

“And?”

“And whoever the hell said it the first time was right- I’m still unhappy.”

“Shit, Jacob,” I say, sitting up next to him, not caring that I’m completely topless. “I’m sorry.”

This explains these constant one night stands of his. The bar being his second home. He wants to feel loved, to feel happy. It’s like the enigma’s beginning to unravel.

“Tell you what. Wanna take a bath?”

“What?” I can’t stifle the disbelief in my voice, the enigma’s rewound itself into a tight ball.

“The buying thing? I have so, so many bath products and shit. That I don’t use,” he confesses, looking me in the eyes.

“In that case,” I say as seriously as I can manage. “I would love to take a bath.”

His poker face cracks at that, and he stands up, offering me a hand. “My lady?”

“Milord,” I take it, letting him pull me up and sweep me into a kiss so all-consuming that I’m just about ready to forgo all ideas and go right back to the bed.

“Mk,” I hum breathlessly. “Where’s the fridge?”

“Well, the drink fridge is next to the popcorn machine,” he says.

“Drink fridge? As in specifically for drinks.” I take his ashamed blush as confirmation. “Noted,” I say, scurrying off in all my nude glory leaving him to start the bath that we, two adults, plan to take.

***

“Okay, let’s use rose and strawberry and orange,” I dictate, hands grazing over the racks of bath salts. “And the bubbles.”

“Perfect,” he says, taking a long swig of the orange soda I had grabbed for him. I had taken a strawberry- apparently he has literally every flavor.

“How do you have all this pop and never drink it?” I ask, touching the bath water to make sure it’s warm. It is.

“For these, I guess,” he motions to his abs.

I blow a raspberry at him. “Boring.”

He blows a raspberry back at me, before dumping half of a container of bath salt into the water. “Think that’s enough?”

“Meh,” I say, prompting him to pour the rest of the jar. We throw some other things in the bath as if we’re witches in a cartoon movie making a potion, and then finally hop in.

I’m sat with my back against his chest as we laugh about nothing.

“Jacob?” I ask once our laughter’s died down. He’s holding me close, strong forearms wrapped around my stomach.

“Yeah?”

“Why are you so unhappy?”

“I don’t think you want the answer to that, it’s about as unsexy as the dog thing.”

“You’re too sexy to be unsexy, Jacob Palmer.” I think I’m addicted to saying his full name.

He sigh, hugging me impossibly closer. “Uh… my dad. He was a really good man, too good some might say. Just a sweet guy, you know?”

He takes a second, presumably regaining his thoughts. “He died when I was little. I think my mom’s happiness went with him. She was so beautiful, but very vain. I think he kept that side of her away, but once he was gone…”

He sighs again, and I shift so I can look up at him. “I think you’re a lot like your dad,” I say, not really knowing how to comfort him. “Sure, you come off as a… what did I say? Casual chauvinist? A fuckboy? But you’re actually a really good guy.”

“And how would you know that? We’ve known each other for hours.”

“For that reason exactly. I don’t usually get a good vibe on people fast, but you… you’re different.”

“Thanks, Y/n,” he kisses me on the lips softly. “Can you tell me something about yourself? I feel like I’ve shared too much,” he laughs awkwardly.

“Hmm… I don’t love teaching,” I confess. I’ve never actually said that out loud.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I shouldn’t have stuck with it, and it’s so hard to do it just for the three or so kids who actually care, you know? And English? Who fucking cares about English?”

“You do.”

“Yeah, but did you?”

“No,” he confesses sheepishly.

“Exactly. And I’m even getting that from teaching ten year olds. It’s just not… worth it? From the pay and the general outcome, it really isn’t.”

“Then quit!”

“And do what?”

“Become a dancer- I saw how straight your back was on that lift,” he compliments, trying to get a smile out of me. He succeeds.

“That would be the dream. And probably more practical than teaching, financially speaking.”

“Yeah… does the garbage man get paid more than you?” he jokes.

“Yep.” My voice is a deadpan.

“Damn.”

“Yeah,” I lie back against his toned chest.

“You’ll figure something out, I’m sure of it.”

“Whys that?”

“Because,” he starts, voice full of conviction. “You’re incredible.”

“You’re not so bad yourself.” And yes, it’s only been a few hours. It’s dramatic and kinda crazy and stupid. But it feels right?

And so maybe we stay up into the ass crack of dawn, talking about everything and nothing at all. Maybe we find ourselves sleeping the day away, only to rinse and repeat tonight tomorrow night. Maybe we go on a real date, and we see where our paths take us.

But for now, I think we both just need to focus on the happiness in the moment. So that’s what we do, even whilst covered in bubbles taking a bath- as adults.

[a-sleepy-raven]

💙 coworkers to lovers with leon??? ☺️

Thank you for your request, dear anon, and my apologies for the long wait. I hope you enjoy it nevertheless. :)

prompt: 💙 coworkers to lovers

Leon Kennedy x gn!reader – coworkers to lovers (HCs)

Given the line of work Leon is in, he spends a lot of time with his coworkers. He might not be the most social person after everything that’s happened to him but he still makes an effort to actually remember their faces and names because he just spends so much time around them. That being said, he wouldn’t exactly consider them his friends – and he definitely can’t see himself getting closer to any of them.

However, his whole attitude about this changes the moment you join the team. There’s just something about you that draws Leon in, no matter how much he tries to fight it. And he really tries to fight it because you’re in the same team and it’s heavily frowned upon to get involved with each other under these circumstances. So, no matter how much he likes you or how interesting you are, Leon will most likely push you away at first.

He also tries to convince himself that working together with you is more than enough for him because, at least, that means you can spend some time with each other. However, it doesn’t really help with the growing attraction between the two of you, and he considers asking the higher ups to transfer you to a different team, just to get some peace of mind, but then he’d have to explain why he’s asking for the transfer and that would make things even more complicated. So, he just sucks it up and hopes that what he’s feelings for you is just a stupid crush that will go away soon.

It doesn’t go away, though, and Leon finds himself more and more drawn to you as the time goes by. He also starts to be less reserved around you and actually strikes up conversations with you and laughs at your jokes and teasing remarks. He feels oddly at peace around you, like nothing else matters when you’re there – a feeling he’s been craving for quite a while now if he’s being honest with himself. 

The more you grow on him, the more Leon wants to be around you. He finds excuses to stay at the office longer, like a report he needs to finish (though it’s already been handed in), just to spend more time with you. Sometimes, when he notices that you’re once again working without taking a proper break, he brings you tea or coffee to cheer you up a little. It’s also quite obvious to your other coworkers that Leon likes you, based on the little things he does for you and the way his gaze lingers on you when you pass him by.  

Better be prepared for the infamous invitation to dinner sooner or later. As much as Leon is self-confident and stern during missions, he’s an awkward mess when it comes to casual interactions, even more so when it comes to you. Of course, he tries to play it cool but it’s quite obvious how nervous he is about asking you out. (Every time he thinks back to this moment he can’t help but wonder how he got you to say Yes. It’s beyond him why you agreed to go out with him.)

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed it, please consider reblogging, liking and/or leaving feedback. I'd really appreciate the support! &lt;3

[c-m-stuff]

They Know

-Description: You and Spencer are having a secret relationship. When the others find out, they tried to play a game with you.

-Warnings: Fluffiness, mention of smut

-Word count: 1859

-Note: Hey y'all, I'm finally back with a brand new one shot! This time, it's one with a lot of POV switch, but I made it clear who's POV it now is. Also, a huge pile of lines are from one of my favorite series. Friends - 5x14

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_________________________

Y/N POV:

Keeping a secret relationship from your coworkers and friends is hard. Keeping a secret relationship from profilers was just impossible. But Spencer and I gave it a shot anyway. We thought that we were superheroes. Hidding a relationship from people you work everyday with? Not even to mention the person you fell in love with works there too, and no one expected a thing? Yes, we were superheroes. At least that's what we thought. But that one party at David's changed my mind.

It was Spring, and to celebrate Easter, we all got invited to David's for a nice breakfast. Nice, you'd think? It was until Emily went to Spencer, who just took place at the kitchen island.

'Hello, Mr. Bicep. You're working out?'

'Um, no. Are you okay?'

'If you really want to know... No, I can't tell you this.'

'You can tell me anything, Emily.'

'Actually, you are the one person I can't tell this to. And the person I want to the most.'

'What is going on?'

'I just haven't been with a guy in so long... And sometimes you're looking for something... And it's right there in front of you...

Now you have something to think about. I know, I will.' she ended the conversation, walking back to the girls, leaving a stunned Spencer behind.

_________________________

This all happened without me knowing it. But when we went to his apartment, he began telling:

'(Y/N)?' he called me, as I just took place at the couch.

'Yes, love?'

'Something weird happened today at the party. I think... Emily was flirting with me.'

'What?' I asked, confused, while he took place next to me.

'Yeah, it was weird.'

'You probably misunderstood.'

'No, I'm serious. I know, I'm not that good at social clues, but I really think she was flirting with me.' he said it in such a serious tone, that I had no other choice than believing him.

I thought for a moment, until my thought went to one person in particular. The only person who knows about us. It was not that is was on purpose, she caught us kissing once.

'Oh God, you don't think Penelope told her about us do you?'

'Okay, is it so hard to believe that I am just maybe attractive to other girls?' he teased me with a giggle. I joined him in his laughter, placing my hand on his lap.

'You are very attractive, honey. I just don't think you are Emily her type. You are my type.' I smiled in the kiss that followed, while his hands found their home in my hair.

'Good.'

_________________________

The next day:

It was lunch break at the BAU, and the genius and I decided to casually pick Penelope up for the lunch, as well to ask her about Emily.

We knocked on the door before opening it. There she was, the tech queen. She turned her chair around, facing us.

'Hello, my buttercups. To what do I owe this nicely visit?'

'Hello, Penny. We wanted to ask you to go eat lunch with us.'

'Of cour-'

'But, I have a question first.' I cut her off, leaving her confused.

'Did you told Emily about us?'

'I didn't tell them!' Penelope immediately answered.

'Who's "them"?'

'Emily and... Penelope.' she tried to save her ass, but it was too late.

'Penny...'

'And our whole team. I would have told you, but I promised not to tell.' we looked shocked at her, and yet we weren't that surprised, either.

'I'm sorry. But it's over now, right? You can tell them you know they know, and I can go back to knowing nothing!'

'Unless.' I began, thinking, when Penelope immediately began to protest.

'No, no. No "unless". This must end now.' a smirk was plastered on my lips, as I figured out what to do.

'They think they are so slick messing with us! But they don't know that we know that they know. So...' Spencer began getting my plan, now smirking as well, while finishing my line:

'The messers become the messees!'

'Come on, you guys. Think how much fun it would be to tell.' Penelope tried but had no chance.

'Oh no, they think they can mess with us? Let's see how far Emily would go. We're going to play this game all along. Spence, call her and invite her in your apartment for a steamy night.'

'Wha-what?' he asked, confused. I smiled at his adorableness.

'Not for real, of course. We let her come and convince her that you are in love with her. I'm telling you, she will never expect that phone call from you.' he began now laughing lightly himself, taking his phone out of his pocket. He dialed her number and putted it on speaker.

'Hello, you.' we heard through the other side of the line. I whispered something in his ear.

'Emily, I've been thinking about you all day. You know that thing you said before? I was intrigued.'

'R-really?' the abruptness was noticeable. I giggled softly.

'Yeah, why don't you come over? I'll let you feel my bicep and maybe more.'

'I'll have to get back to you on that.' and the line got on hold. We laughed, while Penelope began to track their phones.

'Oh yeah, they're all together. Oh, she texted me! She wants to know if I told you about them knowing.'

'So, they know our plan now, but how far will they go?' I thought out loud, as we heard Emily her voice again.

'I'd love to come by tonight. Say around 7? I'm really looking forward to you and me having sexual intercourse.' and she hung up.

We all looked a bit shocked, not expecting that she would actually come. But, we were also determined not to lose.

_________________________

That evening:

'Make her think you want to have sex with her and it will freak her out!' I told my boyfriend when we were back in his apartment. It was almost 7 p.m., she could be here any moment.

'How far am I gonna have to go with her?'

'She'll give in way before you do.' I assured him, knowing deeply that Emily felt nothing for Spencer.

'How do you know?'

'Because you're on my team. My team always wins.' I said, sarcastically, while going through his soft hair, placing it just right.

'At this?' he laughed, but I could see the nerves that he was feeling.

'You got this.' at that moment, we heard the sound of the doorbell. I gave him a quick kiss and disappeared in the bathroom.

I heard Spencer opening the door and Emily coming in. Spencer began talking:

'So here we are.'

'Nervous?'

'Me? No. You?'

'I want this to happen.' she said, confident.

'So do l.'

'I'm going to put on some music.' I heard Spencer say.

'Maybe I'll dance for you.' while the music was lightly audible, there was a silent pause. The two not knowing what to say. Spencer was the one who started making conversation again.

'You look good.'

'Thanks.'

'You know, when you say things like that, it makes me... Want to rip that sweater vest right off.' Emily continued, as I heard my boyfriend make a genius comeback.

'Why don't we move into the bedroom?'

'Really?' she said, flabbergasted and nervous, definitely not expecting that.

'Do you not want to?'

'First I want to take off all my clothes... And have you rub lotion on me.'

'That-that would be nice. I'll go get the lotion.' a few seconds later and Spencer opened the bathroom door.

'It's way out of hand. She wants me to put lotion on her!' he exclaimed, getting more nervous.

'She's bluffing! You can do this, my love. Hang in there a little longer, she is gonna crack!'

_________________________

Team POV:

In the meanwhile, Emily opened the door to the hallway, meeting Penelope, JJ and Derek.

'He's not backing down. He went to get lotion.'

'It's Reid. You can take him.' Derek told her, all enjoying the sensation of the game they came up with.

'Oh, I know it! Show him your bra. He's afraid of bras. Can't work them.' Derek opened the bottom buttons of her dress, smoothly, her black bra showing off just enough.

'You didn't rip off any buttons.' Emily said, impressed.

'It's not my first time.' the group of agents laughed, as they heard the bathroom door go open again.

'Go back there and seduce him till he cracks!'

_________________________

Spencer's POV:

I came out of the bathroom, seeing Emily closing the front door.

'You're going?'

'Not without you, lover.'

'So, this is my bra.' she walked closer to me, her bra visibly in sight. It made me even more nervous than I already was.

'It's very nice.' I tried to stay in my roll, my voice cracking a bit.

'Well, come here. I'm very happy we're going to have all the sex.'

We were standing now close together. I prayed in my head that she just gave up. She placed her hand on my thigh, not breaking eye contact.

'I'll kiss you now.'

'Not if I kiss you first.'

'I guess there's nothing left for us to do but kiss.' I hesitated, just hoping (Y/N) would run out of the bathroom and stop this.

'Here it comes. Our first kiss.' we both hesitated, but the drang to win was bigger. Our faces came slowly closer to one another and suddenly our lips were sealed in a really awkward, uncomfortable kiss. I couldn't take it any longer, as I ended the kiss and jumped away from her.

'Okay, okay, okay, okay! You win!' I yelled, while both the bathroom door and the front door swung open, revealing my girlfriend and the others who were all eavesdropping.

'I can't have sex with you!'

'And why not?'

'I'm in love with (Y/N)!'

'You're what?' Emily asked, shocked.

'That's right! I love her, I love her!' I repeated, while pointing at (Y/N) who was standing in shock. I walked towards her, a smile appeared.

'I love you, (Y/N).'

'I love you too, Spencer.' our lips captured in a sweet, yet passionate kiss. Everyone got quiet, smiles on all their faces.

'I thought you were doing it. I didn't know you were in love!' Emily confessed, when we ended the kiss.

'Hats off to Emily. Quite a competitor.' I praised her, as she nodded in reply.

We ended this eventful night with a drink and some appetizers. I may lost the game, but I won the love of my life. And, that is everything I ever wanted.

[witheringwidgetwrites]

Hello! I was wondering if you’d do a headcanon with our lovely demon brothers that have a s/o with a heavy yet still cute country accent? I have one myself and I genuinely curious to know their reactions! To add to that, maybe their s/o just calls basically everyone they meet “darlin’”

Absolutely,,, as I also have a southern accent myself! I am basing this off my personal customer service voice because that's how I got most tips lol

Lucifer

First he finds it a tad hard to understand you, especially the euphemisms.

Even if you explain, he's still confused.

Once he gets used to it, he's kind of drawn to it, it's a nice change of pace.

If you call him darlin, expect to see a light blush graze his cheeks.

A little disappointed once he realizes you call everyone that, and he's mortified when you call LORD DIAVOLO that right to his face!

Mammon

Definitely into it. Finds it endearing.

Gets so flustered when you call him darlin!!! until he hears you call someone else it,,,

Will probably poke fun at you, and definitely mimics it when he's alone. Tries to find out how you do it!!

Once you saw him down the hallway and waved, yelling "hey darlin'!" and he turned around, looking around. (Think the tiktok trend 'it's shredder, WHERE')

Leviathan

Has only heard it a few times in his entire life! There's a few animes like, 'Help! My Girlfriend Turned Into A Horse On Her Family Farm' and 'My Cute New American Coworker Just Moved Here And I Can't Understand Them!'

Lowkey attracted to it. Finds himself fantasizing about you and things you could say to him.

Runs away when he hears "Thank you Darlin'!" come from your lips. Genuinely bolts. Turns around, and just books it. I can't explain to you how fast he ran.

Gets quite jealous when he hears you call someone else darlin tho, starts thinking stuff like, 'oh of course it wasn't anything specific' or 'of course they didnt mean it in.... that way'

lol probably reminds him of Applejack from MLP. He's definitely watched it.

Asmodeus

Loves it. Adores it. Will outright ask you to say things. Specifically loves the way you say anything with a OW sound, like tOWn.

Starts to call you darling more as well. "My dearest darling, MC, come take a selfie with me!!"

Tries to dress you up in a lil cowperson getup. Hat, jeans, everything. Maybe jean shorts. Now he's fantasizing about all the cute ways he could dress you up!

Satan

Another boy that's intrigued. It's new to him, and he loves to be curious. Probably looks up southern customs.

He definitely researches courting customs from your area, but is disappointed when he finds out how old the traditions are, so you have absolutely no idea he's been trying to court you for months.

Doesn't mind the nickname, is also jealous though. Sometimes he has trouble understanding you through the thickness of your accent.

Beelzebub

Cocks his head at you when you first speak. Almost taken aback.

Grows on him quickly. He enjoys the nickname, and he's the least jealous of the brothers, besides maybe Asmo. He thinks it's so sweet to hear you call his brothers darlin!

First tries to get you to make human recipes the best you can, he wants to learn about your "culture" as he puts it.

Also tries to court you through customs, but he tries to make food from your home! It takes a while for him to get to this point though, and he's very bashful.

Belphegor

First hears you sass back Lucifer while he's in the attic. He likes the accent. Hates you. Chuckles a little, disappointed when Lucifer turns you away.

Probably mocks you, honestly. Mimicking your accent, poking a little fun at the way you say certain words, like 'water' and 'town'.

When you both grow closer, he hears the nickname for the first time. You can see a slight blush grow on his cheeks before he scoffs and starts to fall asleep.

Doesn't mind when you call Beel darlin, but anyone else? kind of a different story.

Probably also teases you, tickling you from behind before leaning real close and saying, "Want me to stop, darlin'?"

[cho-aaacho]

Hello! Thank you for reading my William fanfics! William is such an interesting character, and his friendship with Wesker is something I love about him. I've got an idea about this, and I hope you like it. Sorry for the wait!

𝑳𝑼𝑽𝑶𝑹𝑨𝑻𝑶𝑹𝑹𝑹𝑹𝑹𝒀!

Tags : Fluff, Romantic Fluff, Crushes, Secret Crush, Admiration, Caretaking, Soft William, LUVORATORRRRRY! Reference.

Summary : It's not easy to unravel his feelings. Grasping the hues of his reds and blues, at least you try to feel them. But... did he feel that too?

"Why don't you tell him yourself? I know William would be so happy if it came from your mouth." 

"What—you can't because—oh, okay. I understand. I'll tell William. After that, make sure to take your medicine, or William will go crazy when he finds out you aren't in the lab for too long."

"You don't want him to know you have a fever? Weird. But... you can't order me around! I'm the one in charge here."

Never thought in your wildest mind you'd call Albert Wesker in the morning.

You know very well what he was thinking. Strict demeanor, cold glare, and disinterested voice, criticizing not only your teamwork but also your choice of outfit.

He is the most hated scientist in the entire facility. The monster. A living Frankenstein. Though his face is extremely attractive to a scientist, he is still an asshole in the laboratory.

You always hope that Spencer transfers him to another facility so you can spend your lab days with William or Alex. He is so different from William Birkin.

In almost everything, they're so different. It feels like the two are like the moon and Venus.

William's supportive presence, soft-spoken voice, and eyes that always gleam when he talks to you give you a warm feeling in your heart. It seems like he is pouring something sweet yet intoxicating into your heart. It's cute, isn't it?

You only need two days to become close to him. To know his red and blue, to learn his cold and warm sides, to touch his divinity and comedy.

Ever since that day when he helped with your project and defended you from Albert, something has blossomed inside your heart. It's a cute feeling—too much warmth—and Alex says it might be love weaving through your heart.

You tried to get closer to him. You did. Like checking his mental health. Always. Reminding him to take his vitamins and driving when he's too tired to walk.

Sometimes you ate lunch with him, chose the same menu as he did. Eating his favorite food. Eating the same candy. Despite how terrible the taste was, you tried to be like him. Everything about him seemed to write endlessly in your mind.

Oh, he's so nice, warm, friendly, brilliant, and young. All of these make you insecure; they make you think that you're not worth it for him. Why is he so nice to you?

Is it necessary to be that nice? To someone like you? What was he thinking about you?

Are you curious about that?

Thinking about that makes you hurt sometimes.

Now you're resting in bed with a fever and an eerie sense in your throat. You feel so useless right now.

This happens after being overworked and forcing yourself to stay with him. Standing behind his back and lending your hand to share your warmth with him, you add another chapter of your love to his heart.

William, on the other hand, hasn't slept in three days. But, strangely, he appears normal and healthy. Meanwhile, your own body is screaming and needs rest; as a result, you have a fever.

You fantasize about him caring for you, coming to your apartment, taking care of you, and supporting you as you supported him.

But when you think about it again, it won't happen so easily. After all, that man was consumed by his science project, and he had no time to cherish his coworker. You.

If only he had thrown his ego away for a day. If only he had noticed your condition right now. If only he had the same feelings as you.

Maybe...

The door buzzer rings, breaking your thoughts back to reality. You turned your head at the door, still feeling dizzy from your fever and lacking the energy to walk and check.

You felt compelled to glance up at the door and yell at the person behind it, or just ignore them and go back to sleep.

But... something was off when a familiar voice yelled at your name and called your name relentlessly.

Could it be?

You walked to the door, hoping it was William and not just a fever-induced illusion.

As the door swings open, there stands William with a huge plastic bag in hand. His body is covered with a lab coat. You assume that he might be sneaking from the lab just to meet you. To see your face.

His blue eyes fixate on you, scanning your face carefully as if he is trying to study you.

A hint of confusion draws across his face as he gazes at your presence, adding unexpected feelings to your heart.

"Hey," he uttered softly, gazing at you softly as he bit his lips. He was trying to find the right words to describe his feelings.

"Albert says you have a fever. He was mad, you know. Why do you keep it secret and only tell Albert about your health?"

"Oh, because I..."

"No, we're partners, aren't we?" He added, locking his blue eyes to yours, though his mind struggled to find the right words. He was trying so hard to understand the situation.

Then he continued. "...and you can't do this to me. I know you are always concerned about me. Why are you not telling me if you need me?"

You held back. That dizziness and heavy feeling in your head hurt you, and William's remarks only made it worse.

Honestly, you thanked Albert because William was led to believe in Albert's cold-hearted nature. However, why is William here? Was he coerced by Albert to meet you?

"Why are you here, William?"

He released a heavy sigh. Frustrating danced in his mind. "Of course, I'll look after you. I'll take care of you till you're well!"

"But, what about your science project?"

"Listen. I can work on another project with my team. I don't care if I lose it because I can make another masterpiece with my team. However, you. All I have is you. I won't be able to have you back if I lose you."

"So please take this medicine in this plastic bag and allow me to be your doctor. Of course, I'll treat you gently."

The reference comes from this song. I've loved this song since I was in high school. 

[aprillikesthings]

Maybe I was always going to end up a lesbian

Thinking about how, in the mid/late 90's, all the lesbians I saw in media were portrayed as either masculine in a way I found unappealing at the time (but was it because I wasn't into that, or was it because I was told they were ugly?), or hyper-feminine in a "femme fatale" kind of way men were into (that was the tease of it, see; that men could look but not touch, and that made it hotter....for men), and I definitely wasn't either of those things

And thinking about how, in the 00's, bisexual women in the media I consumed were nerdy and sort of slutty, like a Manic Pixie Dream Girl who is easy and shameless about it; and that was definitely a thing I could be. I probably would've been both nerdy and slutty anyway to be honest, but it sometimes felt weird to be an obvious stereotype. Like yeah on the one hand people met me and knew What Kind of Person I Was, but also I wasn't a trope, I was a person. Also, nobody was surprised when I mostly fucked men (because aren't bisexual girls really mostly straight anyway?)

And I was really open about and proud of being bisexual, and I wanted people to know

And I wish I'd spent more time in queer spaces. Because I knew I "passed" for straight, and I didn't know how to change that without feeling like a fraud, because I fucked men. And there was that feedback loop of: women don't flirt with me/flirt back -> I mostly date/fuck men -> I don't feel "gay enough" to go to spaces that are mostly queer women -> women don't flirt with me/flirt back

And I did sleep with/date a few women in my 20's, all of whom were also bisexual (or at least, identified that way at the time). And it was a relief to find out I really did like fucking women.

And even now I think: was I attracted to men, or did I just like the attention and feeling wanted--but I really was attracted to men at the time, it's a convenient lie to say I wasn't, to retroactively pretend I was just gay the whole time.

But I remember the men I looked at and immediately wanted to fuck. I remember the incredibly dumb shit I did in order to fuck men because I wanted them. I fucked men who I had zero plans to date. I fucked men I'd met that day. In parks. In a parking garage. In a tent at a crowded event.

But also: I didn't realize to what degree I was attracted to women until I got on tumblr, and saw nudes and sexy pics taken and posted by women of all shapes and sizes, ones who just felt sexy that day and wanted to share, and realized the stereotypically "hot" woman, as defined by many men, is just rarely my "type"

But also: every man I crushed on/fucked/dated had some feature or another that could be considered feminine, and I knew and openly acknowledged that at the time

But also: I hated it when men hit on me, and only fucked/dated men I hit on first

But also: near the end of my 20's I began a series of long-term relationships with men, and was never single for more than a couple of months

But also: nearly every time I moved in with a man I suddenly lost interest in fucking them.

But also: I knew even then that I should've broken up with all those men sooner than I did.

And I remember, around the time I broke up with my last boyfriend, asking myself: have I lost interest in all men or just him?

And I remember, hanging out at a party with a male friend, one I'd crushed on for years, one I'd drunkenly made out with at a party more than once--and realizing I now had zero interest in repeating that, even though nothing about him had changed and I still liked him as a person

And I remember losing interest in reading m/m fanfiction and feeling weirdly adrift after reading/enjoying so much of it

And I remember only beginning to write fanfiction when I got into a fandom that was mostly f/f, and the second thing I ever wrote was explicit, and most of my fic since then has been explicit, and it's all been f/f

And I remember meeting a male coworker who was a type I'd absolutely been attracted to in the past and absolutely would've hit on in my 20's, and not feeling that pull--just the ghost of that feeling, but also it didn't feel like something was missing, just different

And I remember reading, seven years ago now, if you don't want to date/fuck men you can call yourself a lesbian, you can always change labels again if that changes, and it was like a weight had been lifted from me, like someone had given me permission

And I remember comparing it to looking in the mirror and noticing one day that your nose is different. And you didn't realize it was changing, but it did, and now it's different. And you're staring at your own reflection thinking: when did that start happening? How did I not notice? Or was it always like this and I just hadn't looked properly?

And every time I've told this story online, someone has accused me of being a self-hating bisexual or just being biphobic. As if I don't bump into years and years of old posts in my facebook memories reminding people I was bisexual for pride or national coming out day, as if I didn't have the bisexual pride flag on my laptop and pins on my backpack, as if I didn't spend a year of my life confused and discomfited and worried I was betraying other bisexuals by changing my label, as if I'm not still loudly and vocally defensive of bisexual people.

Their real fear is that I might start wanting to fuck men again any minute and contaminate the word "lesbian," that my former desire for men pollutes my desire for women.

Their real fear is that they, too; might change.

Their real fear is that they will be the one looking in the mirror and not recognizing their own face.

[crookedkryptonitebeliever]

Bunny (Part 1)

masterlists, part 2

Tw: self depreciation

Minors and ageless blogs please DNI

My first proper Yandere OC, with actual names and appearances. There will be many parts to this, kinda slow burn yandere , short introductory post for now and i no i did not proofread </3

hope you like it <3 enjoyy

So you're this lonely office worker, looking for love. Maybe perhaps you're just trying to follow the mainstream channel of Studying well, working well, get good at office politics, finding a good spouse, not get into crippling debt, having kids then finally die. In that order. Or you're just, simply lonely.

But it is hard though. So damn hard. It wasn't because you're undesirable. With the help of dating apps, you could easily get a partner. You may not be that 1% of people who are Aphrodites or Adonises, but there is still a demand for you, the average person, on the dating market. If you made the first move, a lot of your coworkers would say yes, a lot of the regular patrons at the bar would say yes and a lot of the random passengers that also rides the subway train would say yes, because they too, are fucking lonely.

Now you would simply settle for a good Ol' average Joe or Joessica. Have an average relationship with average ups and downs, average life and average funeral. But you don't want to, you have a debilitating fear of abandonment, and, you believe that everyone will eventually find you annoying and would finally leave you. Not if you leave them first.

You understand, you get it. You're just like everyone else, wanting assurance that their partner would never leave them. Wanting their partner to prove their undying loyalty. But... you're not even sure how can someone give their 101% to you, what does that even look like? You don't even know how to prove that you'll stay in the relationship. That's fair, everyone is simply trying their best and you should too.

You can't really stay long in a relationship because of that fear of heartbreak, fear of abandonment, fear of giving all of you and having the other party just throw it all away, fear of betrayal, fear of disappointment. Well, you can't really be disappointed when your expectations for others are in the negatives, can you?

But you still try, and that's admirable.

You met him through a mutual friend. Your friend likes playing matchmaker, so they were more than happy to pair you up with the 'perfect' candidate they have in mind.

You're going to try and stay longer than three months this time. Even if you only made it to three months and a day, its still an improvement. It will be scary, it will be easy to fall back to your usual habits of gradually withdrawing and finally breaking off through text, then blocking your ex on everything, fearing their ultimate response. You're going to try.

You didn't get to have a preview , or a sample of this blind date of yours before the date itself. All you know is; It is a he. He is a legal adult, he is mentally sound enough to make decisions for himself and he is attracted to people of your gender or lack thereof. So rest assured, he won't immediately walk away as soon as you present yourself to him.

Thrifty Lunch, Cheap Dinner, coffee meetups or free walks at the park, you expected any of these to be what he planned. But brunch? Bougie, stylish brunch? And at an expensive, reputable restaurant to top it off. That is new. You must admit, this strange, unexpected decision made you tingly with curiosity and excitement inside. How interesting, right off the bat, you can tell your blind date is at least middle to upper middle class.

It did add a bit of stress on you though, you're used to lower effort dates that you're not even sure if you have the appropriate outfit for the occasion. You do have a ballgown and a tuxedo, but you think that is a little too much for brunch. Flipflops and dirty sweatpants seem a tad too embarrassing for brunch. What do people even wear for brunch?

You asked around and got some advice. You work with what you had and you managed to put together a decent, semi-formal attire. You made sure that it's comfortable though, you're sure that you're going to need the flexibility when your grabby hands got a hold on some bottomless mimosas.

So the day came and you entered the establishment. There were no kids and generally, the target demographic for brunch are adult women having quality girlfriend time, flamboyant men enjoying and laughing among their peers, families and a lot of millennials. At least, from what you can see.

It wasn't hard to find your date. He is the only patron there sitting alone. Everyone else had their own companion, be it a singular friend, giggling away, or a gaggle of twenty.

He was sipping his own glass of mimosa when he saw you. Your date gave you the warmest, kindest smile you can imagine. His full, lush, naturally pink lips wrapped around a perfect set of pearly whites. His lovely smile reached his hazel eyes, it was a Duchenne one as there were crow feet at the outer corners. Endearing fat pockets under his eyes made him look extra cheerful, Aegyo sal, was it? It made your heart skip a beat, he was drop dead gorgeous.

Your not-so-blind date had fabulous, pitch black hair with a healthy sheen, you're absolutely jealous of his beautiful, curly blowout that waterfalls to his upper back. Though, you're not sure if he dyed the hair on his scalp that way or he dyed his eyebrows copper red. Charming aquiline nose, attractive high cheekbones, fluttery eyelashes, youth-signifying dimples and skin clear as glass, dewy and glowing in prosperity. He has a distinct beauty mark on his right cheek, above his lip. Just like how a certain 1950's, iconic, blonde bombshell of a sex symbol, has it too.

He gave you a finger-wiggling wave and a wink, quite the flirt, he is.

Your jaw is on the floor, you're ready to bolt out of the restaurant and that block button is looking mighty fun to push. He is in that 1% Adonis demographic, an androgynous deity of love, lust and beauty. How are you going to feel secure in the relationship when he looks like this? You're freaking the fuck out, man! He is way out of your league, how is this a good idea?

You're in the middle of short circuiting when he comes up to you and gave you a polite, yet intimate, welcome hug. You're pressed against his chest, clothed with a cotton turtleneck shirt. He smells of expensive, masculine cologne, the type that you would always spray samples on yourself but not buy because it costs half your paycheck. His fashionable blazer's lapel brushed against your arm as you gently pushed him away. You feel severely underdressed for the occasion.

"You look adorable." He cooed, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. Your mouth is open, but you say nothing. What is there to say? Compliments? You don't know what he haven't heard.

So you stutter, stumble over your words out of nervousness, trying to tell him he looks good, you feel inadequate, you don't want to do this anymore and you're going to shit on your friend, all at the same time, nothing coherent came out, all he and you heard was gibberish.

He chuckled, "Well, Hello to you too." You just shut your mouth up and turned redder than a tomato. You must have sounded silly.

"Come, let's sit." He enveloped his smooth, professionally manicured, bony hand around your relatively smaller one. He held your hand, palm facing downwards, fingers locking around your hand. His grip on you was tight, snuggly so but not uncomfortable yet.

You stared at his fingers as he lead you to the seat, you can't believe his ring fingers are bare. No way, this seems too good to be true.

You soothed your nerves by telling yourself he must have some flaw, a flaw so bad that no one tried to keep him to themselves yet. Yeah, that must be it, he must be toxic in some way, that's why he is still single. Please let that be true, you don't know how you're going to deal with your inner critic if he's actually stunning with a heart of pure, 24k gold.

He pulled your chair out for you and adjusted to your liking once you sat on it, like the gentleman he is. Your date went to his own seat, your fingers are crossed behind your back, hoping that he just has a downright horrible personality so you could feel better about yourself. Then you caught your thought and realized, what a weird wish.

Now that his face returns to a more neutral expression, you get to examine his actual eye shape. It is strikingly upturned, mischievous with an unreadable glint to it. You brush off your intuition that something feels a little strange when you look deep into his eyes, though it felt like he knows something you don't, it's probably nothing.

There is already a glass of mimosa waiting for you already. You just went for it, you need the fucking booze dealing with him.

Your head shot up when he addressed you by your name. He grinned at you, propping his head up with his elbow on the table, leaning his cheek against the back of his fingers.

You asked him how he knew your name.

"I was just guessing, my dear. Looks like I'm correct." He laughed.

You eyed him warily. You don't think anyone could guess your name. Your friend must have said something to him, that's not fair, isn't it?

You asked him what his name is.

"Leveret, it's a pleasure to meet you. And you?" Your eyes momentarily darted at his index and middle fingers, they're twitching, strangely like bunny ears. You don't think he's doing it on purpose.

You told him that he already 'guessed' your name correctly. He widened his eyes a bit before beaming again.

"I have? Silly me, I must have been distracted by you."

You gave him a confused and hesitant apology.

"You're just so cute. So adorable. I could just eat you up." His hands were squishing the air, eyes peering intensely into yours. Leveret must be trying to quell his cute aggression.

You don't know whether to feel shy or patronized by his reaction. But you kept your distance.

He took the hint and calmed down. He took a deep breath and smiled, Leveret asked if you were ready to order. He is going to call the waiter if you are.

You nodded. You're going to need some food and the bottomless mimosas to keep you going.

[ashilrak]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love ♥️

I meant to do this the other day, but oop, here goes nothing:

HAUNT ME, THEN— (co-written with @mrthology)

Or, when Apollo cursed Kassandra before the Trojan War, it didn’t go as planned. Now, millennia later, Apollo and Kassandra are still stuck in an endless cycle of death and rebirth. Percy Jackson doesn’t know why people keep calling him Kassandra, or why he’s plagued by memories; all he knows is that he didn’t want to be a demigod.

There are a lot of reasons I have this as a favorite, but the biggest one is that this was a collaboration that has led to some big changes in my life and I couldn't be more grateful for it. It was also one I was just completely obsessed with while writing and took me through the emotional wringer, so bonus points.

The Murder Monologues (co-written with @theinevitablesense)

Stress came in many forms: work, pesky roommates, opinionated best friends, and attractive coworkers. Similarly, stress relief also came in many forms: knitting, music, cooking; Strangling people in their own homes. To each their own.

Bet you didn't think you'd see Hamilton on here lmao This is another collaboration and one that was genuinely so, so, so much fun to write. It is completely unlike anything else I've written, features a ship that doesn't really exist, and is such an off-the-wall AU. Like yes it's a Hamilton fic, but also. We played fast and loose with how criminal investigations work and talked about it like it was a comedy. We had a playlist that slapped featuring Razzle Dazzle from Chicago. If there's any fic of mine that could have its serial numbers filed off it's this one. Genuinely fun as shit and one I think about a lot.

See The Beast You Made Of Me

Percy Jackson thought he was done with prophecies, but the mist acting up means that it’s a revival or death. The Gods are calling for Rome to conquer and they want Percy to lead. Who better to shape their new Emperor than Apollo, already enlisted into Percy’s service for punishment? — Apollo grins down and leans in close enough that Percy can taste him. “I will make you greater than Augustus, more majestic than Hadrian, as clever as Marcus Aurelius," he says. Then with a flash of teeth, Apollo adds, "and as merciless as me.”

There are a lot of things with this fic I think I'd do differently now, and had I been the type to write in full and edit before posting I'm sure it'd look very different. But, I'm proud of this fic in the sense that it shows a lot of growth for me as a writer at this point. Obviously, I still have a lot of room to improve (and like to think I have since writing it), but it was a bit out of my comfort zone and I had a lot of fun pushing myself with it. Another one that's a bit off the wall, but sometimes that's the vibe.

Too Much To See Waiting In Front Of Me

Or: Paul takes Sally, Estelle, Percy, and Annabeth along on his family’s annual beach vacation

This is a simple one-shot, but it's one I love. I don't normally re-read my own writing, but this one I have. I don't know, it's cute and sweet and domestic and I like it.

Go On Shore (And It's Time For Us To Leave Her)

Or: Poseidon ventures west to see what's kept Ares so busy and finds a woman he can't get out of his head. Luckily for him, her time is for sale. Unluckily, Zeus is wary of any potential offspring and is sticking his nose where it doesn't belong. Sally and Poseidon both know how this ends; they can't help but fall anyway.

This might be another surprising one but, this is one of those ideas I just got really into. It's a historical Posally AU. I don't do much with Posally but boy is it something I love and have thoughts and feelings about. One of my majors in undergrad was history and I wrote a thesis on the economic and social pressures of prostitution in the Early American Republic which is where this idea came from. It was fun to jump back into that and bring in little tidbits while also playing with the idea of the Gods sticking their noses into the revolution and following years.

I've only included summaries to give a better impression of tone/vibes. If any catch your interest, please please please read ships, rating, tags, and warnings closely 🩷

[breadvidence]

yay prompt time! love your writing. So: javert/grantaire hookup (perhaps stoned dammit versions?), dammit characters watch Les Mis 2012 and begin to come to an uncomfortable realization about their lives (have not been able to get this out of my head), and maybe musical javert fantasizing about getting choked out during the confrontation again (or post-seine, him explaining this fantasy to a bemused jvj)? wow this got really long. I hope one of these is exciting!

Pretend this is less than 1k (it is not). Dammit Javert/Grantaire, explicit, set during chapter 16.

⁂

He walks into Hal’s where the lager comes with a free shot of Jägermeister on Wednesdays and lets his feet take him back to the worst idea in the place without the kind of preparatory thought that he’s really truly trying to foster in himself on the principle that not knowing where you start makes it harder to find where you’re supposed to end but all the same with an intent he thinks that stems out of the decision to stand up—didn’t Combeferre go out of his way to extend the helping hand to this guy? Who he expects to find at Club Changes or one of the places that don’t hang Pride flags at all but attract the kind of man who calls you cocksucker, not right here in Oak Lawn in one of those mayfly bars that’ll come and go in a couple years max but in the meanwhile sucks on the queer nightlife energy that radiates off of Cedar Springs. Grantaire tosses himself down into the chair next to Mr. Fucked-Up Ex-cop’s, props an elbow on the table, and asks, “Did you move?”

Without a single motion of those stiff-held shoulders, he pivots his head around and stares, cold and intent. There’s two shot glasses in front of him and a sweated-out beer not even one-quarter down, something piss-thin and probably domestic. He’d been contemplating the scrim of foam on the side of the glass pretty intent for a man who didn’t want to be drinking, and he wasn’t watching the crowd like a guy who wants find a person to fuck, which seems uncharacteristic. 

“There’s no discretion in the pig,” he says, and watches Javert twitch, “who drops his load at the trough where he eats, and you strike me as a very discreet kind of hog. Never on the Dallas side of the metroplex, never with the car parked right out front, near the back exit like your might wanna make a hasty retreat should your coworkers come to check everyone’s at least three pieces in dress code, all told trotters ready to hit the bricks as soon as you rooted up the morel you were after. So: did you get a new job on the opposite side of town and have to swap around to the bars far enough from home to feel safe?” He remembers, having been clever, that he was here to be helpful. “Er. Are—also, uh, are you alright?” When this raises no response, he adds his first name in an inquiring tone, to remind him they’re familiar with each other.

They stare at each other some more, ’til he says, his tone flatter than sweet home Florida, “No. Also, I go by Javert.” 

“Ah, pre-empting the history book’s preference of calling a man by his sur—” Grantaire breaks off, with a great act of willpower, and frowns. “Wait. No to which part?”

“To you.” 

“I might not be trying to get into your pants,” Grantaire protests.

Javert raises an eyebrow.

“—this time. Right off. Unless it would help.”

“I’m not leaving until I finish this beer,” he says, tapping the side of the glass. “I’m sure you’ll have lost interest by then.”

How terrible, to be known! He goes to get his free shot and lager, comes back, dumps one in the other, and does most of the talking for the next hour. It’s a waste of both their times, probably, and it might be wrong of him too—but nobody’s glanced Javert’s way, not the right crowd for him in tonight, so Grantaire’s pretty certain he’s at least not cock-blocking the guy, and each of the comments he throws in whenever Grantaire’s stopped for a drink come across as a prompt to keep talking—he’s not being enjoyed, but he’s being engaged with, and that’s irresistible. He remembers, when Javert has about half an inch of beer left, that he’s supposed to be engaging back, and asks, “Why are you still here?”

He gestures to the beer glass.

Grantaire observes, “Last time we had a palaver, you stood up and walked away—a retreat—a neat military maneuver—and I admit, I didn’t mind seeing your backside, after having—”

“You,” Javert says, “are an adequate distraction.” He tilts a look at him. “And you sure as fuck look like you need one, too.” 

That quiets him, for a moment. “What, you’re being friendly?” 

“Evidently,” he says, chewing over the word, and finally finishes his drink. Grantaire has been through—several. “Go close out your tab. Yours or mine?” 

It throws him. “Is yours a seedy motel?”

He pulls a wry expression. “Is yours? I didn’t get the impression you were quite that pathetic.” 

“Pardon me, should I imagine you will sweep me away in a limousine to the Joule so that we can contemplate a Warhol or two on our way to cock-sucking? Because—”

“I did mean my apartment, you jackass, though I’m inclined to retract the offer. Jesus.” He glances away, unsettled, maybe with himself.

“I, ah, stay in walking distance,” Grantaire says, a little thrown, then rallies enough to lean forward and mock-whisper, “If there were theoretically illicit substances in open view, would you narc me out? Or can you be convinced to cut out the difficulty of stealing it from lock-up later and smoke it where you find it?”

“I would never have—” Then he stops, and shrugs. “You know what, fuck it. I’ve been told it would be good for me. Yeah.” 

Grantaire has no trouble backing out of a deal, and near does, but the intrigue is greater, his fuck its as ample as Javert’s evidently are. Outside the door, he says, “Do you want to stroll holding hands? A mile of pretending at some beautiful romance, one over which Nicholas Sparks would weep were he brave enough to depict a couple of fags as dear sweethearts struggling through the unkind world to come to some saccharine tragic finish.” 

It gets him a flick of a look, surprise. “I can walk a mile, yes.”

He’d been a little worried he would have to ask the question outright, rather than more comfortable implication. He shrugs, bundles his hands into his pockets against the cold—he can’t feel it, through the Jägerbomb he capped his drinking with, but he doesn’t want his fingers clumsier than they already are with booze, when they get where they’re going—and leads the way. Courf came by yesterday to help tidy up the place, pretending he was trying to find a copy of The Faggots & Their Friends Between Revolutions that Grantaire borrowed years ago while he helped get trash bagged and sorted out the laundry-floor situation. It’s still not super clean, he sees, through a stranger’s eyes. Javert wrinkles his nose, a little, with a glance around, maybe like he’s got that middle class Boomer standard for everything looking like a stay-at-home wife keeps it neat. Half of Grantaire’s surprise to be invited to Javert’s place was an idle bet with himself about whether he kept up appearances by maintaining a heterosexual relationship, and he’s only just sober and smart enough not to say that aloud as he locks the door and goes to get the weed and rolling paper and lighter, which he’s not actually foolish enough to have sitting out, waving Javert to the couch—and he doesn’t even know what he’s talking about, idle chatter. His mind keeps wanting to go back to how he’s a lot fucking worse off since the protest, with Enjolras detained moreso than he even was before by the light of progress—does that shine still inside a cell?—and a lot fucking better, too, trying to find that light himself, rather than relying on seeing it in the aureole of pretty blond hair.

He turns, shit in hand, and—pauses, a moment, at the predatory interest leveled at him, and he’s netted so many men before by being generous with his drugs that his first thought is that it’s for the weed, but they didn’t talk about that until after Javert agreed to fuck around with him. His second thought is that his friends are gonna have to bail him out again, that this is some kind of weird honeypot sting, and Javert’s expression is for the satisfaction of catching someone with a felonious amount of marijuana on hand. Except—Javert’s thighs are sprawled out, one of his arms is thrown over the back of the couch, relaxed, his color’s high in a way that’s almost charming, a pale blondie’s inability to hide the blush of arousal, of one kind or another—he’s just a guy anticipating getting his dick sucked, probably. Grantaire never clarified what he’s actually into, but that one is always a fair bet.

Gesturing broadly, unsettled to be the object of desire, Grantaire says, “Have you ever reflected on the satisfaction of getting what you don’t want? I feel we might have our books open to the same page. You might say I’ve heard rumors to the effect.”

“You haven’t even lit up yet,” he replies, tone dry. “Can we keep the philosophical questions for when I care less? Besides, whoever’s on your mind, I’m here for cock, which I assume you can provide—unless there’s a terrible accident you’d like to tell me about.” 

Cosette’s poor papa. “I could tell you about a hundred thousand terrible accidents. I read them all in the news. I turn on the television—Ukraine, Palestine, our own New York City—death, murder, suffering, war, racism, you, sir, I’m sure you have your opinions, I certainly have mine, they diverge, but as to the thing you apparently are most invested in—” He tosses the lighter onto the living room table so that he can reach down and seize his own crotch, waggling his eyebrows. “—that is intact and can stand at the ready more or less on command, which is better than can be said for our social unity and all our international boundaries.”

“I wouldn’t call New York ours,” he says, idly. “You want to own the Yanks? But then, South Florida never does feel properly like the South. —Come here.” He gestures to the seat beside him.

“Spoken like a true Texan. I bet you want to secede. Beating your meat to dreams of Stephen Austin.” He’s not actually sure Javert is, now that he reflects on his comment and from the way he snorts, but he doesn’t have his grandma’s ability to pick out a person’s birth county hearing two words out of their mouth. One hand still full, he’s willing enough to sit down, anyway, and goes with it when Javert hooks a hand around his upper arm and pulls him closer. The kiss surprises him some—you get discreet guys skittish about the least hint of romance, though this ain’t really got a lick of romance in it, for all there’s lick aplenty, filthy, devouring. When he’s let go his breath whooshes back into him, and he gives an appreciative little, “Damn.” Before, “The mouth’s for consumption, and you—”

Javert curls a lip. “Christ, what was that last drink you had? I can taste cough syrup through the Jäger.”

“Then don’t stick your tongue so far down my throat,” he says wryly, then, “No, never mind, I can be self-defeating—it’s my little corner of righteousness, to own my faults—but I’m not gonna discourage that. Let me roll a blunt and we’ll have something better on our breath than Red Bull, anyway.” 

“Better,” Javert mutters, doubtful, and lets him go, thumbing spit off the corner of his mouth before he lounges back again. It’s surprisingly effective, the invitation in his posture.

Grantaire has the faint suspicion that this man has fucked often. He might even fuck well. It is a surprise, and peculiarly discouraging; thinks: one hates to have standards to live up to, in bed as elsewhere, and by one means himself. He focuses on rolling the blunt, for a minute—it takes a little attention, with his vision a little off and his hands wanting to wobble. When he takes the first hit, he waggles his eyebrow at Javert, hammy erotic gesture as he wraps his lips around the paper like it’s the worlds most delicate little cock. It gets him an unimpressed stare, which is unfair—he knows for a fact this man has a sense of humor. He breathes out smoke, tension easing out of his shoulders—he pretends it’s not there, and he’s real good at slouching despite it—before he hands it over. 

Javert breathes in smoke with the grace of a guy who’s had something in his mouth for most of his lifetime, that broad chest stills a moment as he holds it, but he grimaces some when he breathes out, squinting at the blunt before he hands it back over.

Grantaire says, lightly, “That expression! A virgin might so peek at what she’s presented with for the first time in person, having spent some time investigating the territory on video. I know mine’s not as shabby as that; I buy good bud. Do you buy better?”

“I haven’t bought at all,” Javert says. “Been around it plenty. Not in a long while, granted.”

Which—“Oh.” It’s been a while since he felt like a corrupting influence, and it’s not the context he expected in. He has a brief raised-evangelical twinge before he rallies and says, “A cherry could be an achene, in another world! Popped, my good man, I’m honored to do the honors.” And takes a hit.

Javert goes loose and glassy-eyed pretty quick, quieter, which is a better result than the vague concern over a bad trip that struck Grantaire—paranoia seems like a natural feature, given past profession. But it looks like he won’t have to summon help, given he’s not the man to manage someone in distress, though maybe he could take Courfeyrac’s direction on how to handle Javert and fetch the ropes, in that instance. It gets him giggling, imagining that, and he asks, “Do you, ah, you into being tied up?”

“Not by you,” Javert says. “No. Well. Never thought about it, actually. Never tried it. Maybe.” Which is a hell of a speedrun of personal development.

Grantaire makes a moue of disappointment, exaggerated, and puts the blunt in the ash tray—just for a minute; he’s realized he should, as the experienced party with a newbie, probably slow down and keep an eye out. Took him a minute, but look: he’s not gone for abandonment. “You’re a cherry tree in June, my friend, heavy with fruit. How unexpected.” 

“I ain’t. That fruit’s mostly harvested.” Javert pivots towards him—winces, maybe that broken-up back and hips of his, and gets hands on Grantaire instead, pulling him almost into his lap, which is novel sensation for a big man; not as big as this guy, as it happens. The kiss this time goes a little slower, a little easier, a precise nip, a flick of the tongue, parted lips, and it takes Grantaire a moment to understand the invitation there, to take him up on it, which earns him an approving rumbling groan, he feels it in the chest he’s braced his hands on to keep from falling too far forward. Which illuminates some questions of preference. He feels his own thoughtless clumsiness, a moment later, in how Javert draws back a little, guides the kiss without taking control of it, and he’d be embarrassed by that—he does, whatever his friends think, know how a blush feels—except that the other man doesn’t comment on it, just gets them on track, and Grantaire tries—he does know, he’s got experience, he’s just not often messing around with someone who cares enough to be good at this, he doesn’t normally care enough to be good at this. This isn’t where he was looking for care—or maybe it’s simply investment, like a retail employee who shouldn’t give a fuck but gives their all anyhow.

The fingers that pop the button of his jeans, undo his zip, the big hand that slides into his boxers and palms over his dick, the lightly-stroking thumb over the head of his cock—getting the feel of him, not at all polite, but measured—that distracts him, he loses track of what he’s doing other than chasing the sensation, restless uncoordinated hips bucking up because he doesn’t want it light at all. Javert gives up on him, a little, trails his mouth down to his ear, an obscenity committed against his earlobe, teeth scraping down his jugular in a way that only won’t leave marks because his skin’s a little too dark to bruise easy. Pauses long enough to spit into his palm, casual, to make it easier. Grantaire is faintly aware of commentating on all of this, but he’s never had to mind his own mouth for it to run. In one of the moments when he’s got his feet braced and his hips lifted Javert uses his free hand to shove his pants down properly, and Grantaire helps, uncoordinated, ass-out on the couch, feeling his legs bound up and unable to spread as much as he wants to and harder for it. He’s still talking.

Javert uses that hand to reach up and slide two fingers into his mouth, jacks his cock like he’s got serious intent to end this here. Which is Grantaire thinks faintly, a curious choice, maybe a sign he’s bored or wants to get out early, though he’s more fucked-up than Grantaire thinks he should let a person leave and drive. He sucks those fingers with a sloppy enthusiastic attempt to demonstrate he can reciprocate all this attention, catches up at last to the fact that he ought to be reciprocating—there’s so many things he should do in life, and he’s so belated all the time—he reaches out, gets his hand on an appealingly thick thigh, becomes disoriented and ends up at a knee, tilts his head back and laughs at himself, manages to reorient and squeezes over—well. That package is impressive, but it ain’t impressed with him, feels like. “Ah.”

Javert lets up, doesn’t take his hand away but merely cradles rather than strokes. Sighs, then drawls, “I hope you weren’t real committed to me topping tonight,” and gestures towards the joint. “Worse than whiskey, apparently.”

“I have so many dildos,” Grantaire says, amiable. “You still can. Hard is a mindset, my friend. Hard is a latent potential. Do you really think, before they went their separate ways, while Abelard still had the wound between his thighs, he didn’t consummate his love with Héloïse? She wouldn’t have sent all those letters, friend, if he didn’t offer some kind of hardness to her. When God turned Lot’s wife into a pillar of salt, it was a suggestion to us all for what the people of Gomorrah and Sodom got up to, when the flesh got tired, she saw those artificial columns and she could not resist mimicking them. Samuel L. Jackson himself says there’s no shame in a limp snake, and he would know. Yeah. So, you wanna, like, pick one out from my collection and do me?”

He leans his head back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut, and sighs. “Sure.” 

“That’s not enthusiastic consent,” Grantaire replies, scolding.

His brows bunch together, glassy eyes opened then narrowed, agonizingly he removes his hand from Grantaire’s dick, he says, “Wait, wait, wait. You know, I have been to a training session about consent and substance use. Is this okay, or—”

“I have fucked while high so many times. Shh. We agreed beforehand. It’s not a big deal. C’mere. Unless you don’t want to, now, I guess.” He tries to get his boxers and pants back on, but his coordination’s worse than he thought, and he reverses track and kicks them off instead, aware he’s being idly watched. He’ll try to remember to get them into the laundry basket later, so Courfeyrac doesn’t have so much to do, next time he visits. He reaches down and helps haul Javert up to his feet, both of them stumbling a little, and they mutually forget about the cane; he’s strong enough to keep them both on their feet when his left leg wants to give, surprised when Javert gives an appreciative moan and gropes over his arms and chest, where the muscles have tensed, hard enough touch to get through the fat and really feel what strength’s there. Kisses him, this time with as much enthusiasm as skill.

The things you learn about a guy, when you’re fucking him. Remarkable. He gets Javert’s cane for him, feeling uncomfortable touching someone’s mobility aid without having asked first too belated not to do it, and they get to the bedroom with a few stops to grope each other along the way. Javert mutters, at one point, “You don’t have to—”, with a shrug, and Grantaire takes it as a don’t, lets up on his prick. He’s got a standard white boy’s underwhelming ass, but it’s still nice to get hands on, when it makes him growl and grind up on him.

In the bedroom, Javert strips off his shirt, then pauses, tilting a look at Grantaire. “Am I staying long enough to bother undressing?” There’s nothing uncertain or sad or insecure in it—it’s just a straightforward question.

Grantaire makes a show of leaning close, an inspection, says, “You’re staying long enough to sober up, right?”

“Sure,” Javert says, and starts in on his pants. “I don’t actually care which dildo you take up the ass.” 

“Yes, yes, let the house sommelier determine which vintage to choose, wise man—”

“Got pretty strong opinions about wine, actually, though you shouldn’t discount a somm’s advice,” Javert mutters, then shakes his head. “Fucking Christ, no, please, I’m not taking any of your metaphors serious, don’t bother to clarify or expand.”  

Grantaire laughs, at that, weirdly pleased to be put down—none of his friends bother, anymore. He gets the twisty purple number out, and the warming lube, ’cause he does know how to be nice to himself sometimes. “Do you ‘got’ pretty strong opinions on how you want me positioned?”

“Yeah, actually.” He pushes himself up to the headboard, and, damn, Grantaire’s gay enough and honest enough to admit he’s pretty sad that he’s not gonna see what that cock looks like hard; it rests against his thigh, flushed though soft, and there’s a kind of optical illusion going on—it looks average enough, ’til you consider how big the hand is that Javert reaches down with to idly readjust himself. Looking at him nude, Grantaire’s acutely aware of their age difference: twenty years, a little more? He’s got a wolf’s pelt worth of hair on that chest, heavier than he’d expect of someone so fair, gone to mostly gray and silver, and his pecs have begun to sag a little over his belly, the skin of his lean stomach wrinkles over the cut of his hips, his feet are neatly-kept but thickly knobbed, maybe even arthritic. There’s a sadness in that Grantaire can’t quite grasp, that it’s them fucking, and it’s not his side of the equation that’s got him edging up on the cliff fall into maudlin, though average wisdom would say that it’s the old guy getting to bang a young thing who should celebrate. Neither of them, Grantaire thinks, are in bed with the person he wants. If he keeps on that trail he’s not gonna want to have sex at all, though, and if he’s done that plenty before—cut guys off and annoyed them right back into their pants—well, he doesn’t want that, tonight. 

He says, because he’s maybe gotten a little caught in the lingering weed-haze, “I’ll have to write you an apology note. Don’t forget to write down your address for me so I can send it. I didn’t catch a damn thing you just said.” 

Javert laughs, teeth and a heave of breath. “I noticed and stopped halfway through my explanation.” He stretches out his legs, cups his hands in front of himself. “Ass here, you self-described fag. Not the hottest position but I can’t kneel, so you’ll have to settle.” 

“It doesn’t feel like settling,” he assures him. “Y’know, we’re anti-ableism now. We fuck our disabled comrades how they want it, when they want it, in the position they want it.”

“I’m not—” He pulls an odd expression. “Come here.” 

“I intend to!” he says, brightly, and strips off his shirt, palming down the heft of his stomach for the sensation of coarse hair on his hand—he’s not too shy for all forms of self-gratification—to work at his own cock for a moment, making his expression appreciative as he looks Javert over. He’s done a lot of looking with desire, and he thinks he manages an echo of his usual, and it’s not his most sincere—sincerity he’s not always good at, outside certain company—it is with genuine intent, and yeah, it makes Javert’s cock twitch. Most people get off on it, being looked at with want, and if he’s at peace with the fact that it’s not the case for everyone—oh, he needs to not think about that. He gets up on the bed, brackets Javert’s calves with his knees, and before he can kneel up he’s pulled back by a long arm around his chest, face turned back with fingers on his chin, and this time there’s no invitation: the tongue pressed into his mouth makes promises. When he leans back, Grantaire plants himself, turns forward, and surprises himself saying, “This is going to sound stupid as hell, but don’t, um, I don’t like it real rough, actually.”

“Ain’t stupid,” Javert mutters, and gives his ass a little pat, surprising him with the niceness. It sounds a bit strained, but he’ll take it. “Bet I can still make all your words come to pieces, doing it easy. Gonna get you so worked up you can’t remember any of those obscure political figures. Yeah, you’re gonna lose the Bible, with my fingers fucking your ass.” There’s the sound of the lube cap; he takes the time to warm it up in his palm before he reaches around to give his cock an idle tug; a first slick finger teases around his hole. As Javert pushes in, he says, “And don’t touch my feet, please.”

That last bit is was said real quiet, during a distraction, but Grantaire pays mind. He tries to keep minding as his cock is wrung casual easy, as another finger slides into him, they press against his prostate, and for long minutes Javert’s taken that not rough as maddening soft, rocking against him so slow it’s just a tease, Grantaire glances down and there’s precome slick on the head of his own dick. He pushes up on his knees to get off those fingers, shoves Javert’s arm out of the way, and drops down into his lap—and it really is strange, to be the smaller partner—grinds down on him in an attempt to start something different. Gets rejected, totally and utterly, an annoyed grunt, Javert’s hands on his hips pushing him forward—back up onto his knees, a hand between his shoulder blades urging him to drop forward onto his elbows, a suggestion short of a shove—but only just. He feels the difference, there, very stark, between a good fuck and a considerate partner. He goes along with it, moans into the bedsheets, clutches at them, at the touch of the narrow head of the dildo against his hole.

Javert’s less practiced with one of those, he can tell, but he’s attentive—not so high anymore—and he gets an angle and rhythm steady and sure, there’s always an edge of control when a guy’s not using his own cock that does it for Grantaire, and he sees clear in that moment how much that’s because that’s as close as he thinks he’d ever get to the dick he wants, were he in bed with—yeah, he’s not gonna do Javert wrong, thinking about someone else while he’s thrusting down into the circle of his meaty thumb and forefinger and babbling at him about enemies who’ve fucked, did Simon Peter take Judas’ cock?, did Hector and Patroclus ever cross spears?, until with a huff of amusement Javert discards the dildo—Grantaire cries out into the sheets, broken off—shifts a little clumsily onto his knees, gets his hand between them and fucks three fingers in, slow push, his hips rocking forward, his weight on Grantaire’s back, and that does it, it’s all that hot sweated-up skin, it’s panting breath against his shoulder, the connection, the sense of being desired in that moment, this man hot for him, fired up, whatever body part’s not cooperative. Grantaire comes, bucks hard into air because Javert’s free hand is off his cock on his side leaned heavily there for steadiness, shudders and clenches and drops his head down between his shoulders. 

Javert pulls out, falls back onto his haunches. Grantaire glances over his shoulder, too unfocused to register much other than how relaxed Javert is, lounged back against the headboard, with his hand loose on his knee—’til he glances down at it, and gives a twitch. His cock’s chubbed up some between his thighs, fading fast as he swings his legs over the side of the bed, reaches over for his cane, and gets up to limp towards the bathroom to wash up. 

Grantaire shuffles around, drops onto his back, then groans at his own stupid decision—he’s almost sure they didn’t get too much lube on the sheets right until this moment, and now he’s planted his fucked-out ass onto them. Ah, well. He’ll smoke the rest of the blunt after Javert is gone, and then he won’t mind sleeping in the mess. 

Javert comes back as far as the edge of the bed, looks down at him with his eyebrows bunched.

“Leaving dissatisfied,” Grantaire says lazily. “Does it come as a surprise to you?”

“Dissatisfied with myself. You were talking right through your orgasm. Impressive, in a terrible way.”

“No, don’t judge yourself,” Grantaire advises. “Some promises aren’t meant to be kept.”

[illarian-rambling]

*in the most elegant, immaculate handwriting imaginable*

Dear Elsind,

I saw your column, and am in fact rather in need of advice. I’ve tried asking my good friend Amelia, but she just laughs uproariously every time I do, so I’ve given up on getting a straight answer from her.

I recently got a new coworker at my workplace, and he’s… very attractive, to say the least. His name is Merry, and he’s absolutely lovely. We’ve become fast friends, and I’ll admit I’m developing a bit of a crush on him. Luckily, the place I work is very unbothered by workplace relationships, but I have a lot of other problems.

First of all, I believe I may have mentioned I’m married in front of him. While my husbands wouldn’t mind me seeing him as well, I know a lot of pirates (oh, yes, context: I am a pirate) are very disapproving of polyamory and I don’t know how he’d react. I’m also asexual, and I’m not sure how he’d react to that either, since my people (I’m a siren) are generally stereotyped as seductive and expected to behave in a very certain way.

That being said, I keep feeling like he’s flirting with me. By pirate standards, he’s absolutely not. But he’s consistently started dressing more colourfully and elegantly and going out of his way to ask me what I think of his outfit. He’s also given me a few small trinkets he found at the market. Both of these are significant signifiers of flirting in my culture, and even though I know he couldn’t possibly know my cultural signifiers of flirting, I can’t help but feel like it means something.

Any advice you have would be welcome. If he is flirting with me, I’d love to see where it goes - he’s really a wonderful man (and I’ll admit I might have been dressing up for him a bit too). But if he isn’t interested, I’d hate to make him uncomfortable having to work on the same ship as me every day, especially since I outrank him (I’d never pressure him into anything, and Amelia would kill me if I did, but I can’t be sure he knows that). I’m not certain how best to proceed.

Much thanks,

Malcolm Lee

*In passibly legible cursive, hearts dotting all the I's*

Thanks so much for writing in, Malcolm!

This is a delicate situation you've found yourself in, but also, I think, a great opportunity. You're right - even in such a relaxed environment, coworker relationships can be tough. It gets messy when rank factors in, and if you ever break up, then you're just stuck seeing them everyday anyways.

But things are looking up for you! It would be quite the coincidence if Merry out of nowhere started engaging in siren flirting behaviors (I'm assuming your word for siren is different from mine, as the siren flirting I'm familiar with involves quite a few more human sacrifices). However, if I was a strapping pirate trying to show interest in my siren shipmate, I would read up on how sirens flirt and try to get him to take the hint. It's a really caring thing to do and a total green flag, in my opinion. Of course, yes, it could be a coincidence, but that's the boring answer!

As for the polyamory and asexuality, that's a conversation you're going to have to have up front with him. Make sure, if he is interested in seeing you, that he understands the possible risks involved. Also, definitely introduce him to your husbands. I don't know your exact situation, but all the polycules I've seen work best when every member is on friendly terms with the others. Asexuality is also something to talk about right off the bat. Make sure he's aware of your boundaries, especially when he might assume otherwise due to racial stereotypes. I can relate to you there - changelings are frequently assumed to be promiscuous due to a tendency to wear attractive faces as a social shield and a history of sexual exploitation. In my relationships, though I'm not asexual, I do have some strict boundaries when it comes to intimacy, and I find it best to be clear about these from the get-go. It's a good way to establish trust early on and also to use as a litmus test for your partner's respect for you. If your Merry is truly a worthwhile lover, he'll understand.

Ultimately, I think you should go for it! To me, it seems like he's trying to be subtle, but he's definitely interested in you. Maybe ask him out for a late-night picnic on the deck (I don't know anything about ships) and spill your heart there. I wish you luck, whatever you decide to do!

Ever your friend,

Elsind Cavernsight

(From this ask game)

[komotionlessqueenmm]

Hi there

I know you said you don’t do requests and I suppose this isn’t technically a request but I’ve been wondering if you’d ever write something with Ivan Drago and a female reader who’s insecure about her body (this is kind of a self insert ngl). Like, how would he act? Would he constantly assure her that she’s pretty and would he pay special attention to certain parts of her body she doesn’t like during lovemaking? I’d personally love to read something like that but it’s totally up to you if you wanna write it.

Keep up the good work, love your stories btw ❤️

Omg hell yes! (Why didn't I think of this?) I'm insecure af so this is also self insert af on my part. Enjoy!

Headcanon/Preference # 32

Picture & Gif NOT mine.

Year posted - 2023

*So I've got this coworker that I get along with well. And he's a muscly guy that's into plus size women, and we've talked about that sorta stuff a lot. So I'm using his insight about why a guy like that, would be attracted to a bigger girl. He'll never see this but hey shout out to him. Also a real story might just come out of this in time, but for now enjoy these headcanons.

✨Ivan loves his plus size sweetheart~

🌹 When Ivan first met you he was immediately drawn to you like a magnet. He'd never seen a woman like you in Soviet Russia, and you looked like a pure goddess in his eyes.

🌹 When he finally got the chance to touch you for the first time. He was instantly smitten, your so soft and squeezable. He's not used to that, and he's finding that he's obsessed with the contrast.

🌹 Once you're together Ivan will spend hours worshipping you from head to toe. Every single inch of you is paradise to him. But his favorite part? Your soft tummy.

🌹 There's just something beautiful about your soft plump belly. It's his favorite thing to caress and kiss, and often times his favorite place to lay his head. And one day he hopes he'll get to see it swell more with his child.

🌹 On a bad day when you were feeling particularly down about your pudgy body, Ivan took the time to explain to you why he loves your supple body so much.

🌹 Everything in his life until now has been hard and rough, from his work, to his home life, his environment, and so forth. Finding you was like an oasis to him.

🌹 When you try comparing yourself to his ex-wife, he immediately stops you. Making you chuckle by telling you she was like a skeleton, and nowhere near as cozy and lovable as you are.

🌹 During intimacy Ivan shows you what love making really means, his words of praise, his adoring touch that leaves fire in its wake, and his hunger to show you just how much he wants you makes you dizzy.

🌹 If anyone says anything bad about you while Ivan is around, odds are he'll kick there ass, or at the very least he'll berate them. Ultimately making them apologize no matter what tactic he uses.

🌹 If he's not around, and only learns about it when you break down and tell him about it. He's pulling you into his arms and assuring you that they don't know a single thing about what their missing with someone as amazing as you. (Making a mental note to scare the shit out of them next time he sees them.)

🌹 You got stretch marks? Ivan will trace them idly, and commit them all to memory, mapping out the span of them as if it were vital.

🌹 Got cellulite? He'll caress every inch, nuzzle into it, and all around worship it. Explaining that it makes you more you, and that much more beautiful.

🌹 Not a big fan of how pudgy your face is? Ivan is cupping your cheeks. Looking into your eyes with so much love, as he tells you how cute your chubby cheeks are. And to him you are still small, as his hands can easily cup your cheeks.

🌹 Got big boobs? He fucking adores them, he adores you! There big and round and soft, the perfect place to lay his head at night when you cuddle. Plus there fun to play with not gonna lie. (and not just sexually, but that's a plus too.)

🌹 Not a fan of the size or shape of your butt? Are you kidding? Ivan is obsessed with smacking your ass every single chance he gets, doesn't matter who's around or where you are!

🌹 Worried you'll never fit in his shirts? Haha that's funny! Ivan is huge, you'll fit in his shirts just fine. Maybe not swimming in it, but it'll fit comfortably.

🌹 Ivan grows obsessed with making sure you're well fed, and simply watching you eat. It makes him feel like he is providing for you well, and that makes him very happy. (Plus you look adorable when you do a happy little food dance.)

🌹 Once he convinced you to sit on his face, though you had agreed anxiously, you still refused to actually sit down, and instead hovered over him. That wasn't gonna fly, so Ivan pulled you flush against his face, and gave you the best head you've ever experienced in your life.

🌹 Anytime you act as if you'll crush him, maybe saying he'll strain or hurt himself picking you up. He'll prove you wrong again and again, when he just hoists you up as if you weighed nothing. If anything he takes those worries as a challenge, and he'll never fail in proving you wrong.

🌹 The first time you wore a sexy lace piece for him, he was practically drooling. Needless to say the lace was ruined in his nearly feral haste to have you. But he happily bought you more, a lot more.

🌹 Within a year of being with Ivan, and him chipping away at your insecurities. You become the confident goddess you were meant to be! And he's so fucking proud of you, he's always showing you off, and praising you.

🌹 Ivan doesn't want you to change for anyone, not even him. He loves you just the way you are, it's what drew him to you in the first place. And he's beyond honored for not only getting to love you, but to show you just how sexy you truly are.

Buy me a coffee sometime? ☕️

(Click the coffee for my Kofi link, IT'S NOT NECESSARY BTW.)

*Hope this was satisfactory!

[bittybeanie]

Hello! Would it be okay if I request headcanons where security guard dimple and reigen fight over coworker reader's attention? Thanks in advance in case you ever write it

hello hello! I always picture dimple and reigen as like.. an old married couple™ even if they aren't exactly dating and this concept plays right into the bickering aspect in my mind so I absolutely loved this idea- hope you enjoy!

dimple starts off at a slight disadvantage because while you’ve heard other people talk about him you haven’t actually gotten to see/hear him for yourself to get used to how... brash... he can be. so when this random (admittedly very attractive) dude wanders into the office and starts trash talking reigen and his lack of clients and nobody else seems bothered you’re just like… who the fuck are you? it's not until somebody finally addresses him by name that you realize reigen isn't sassing a random ass client

dimple is also kinda banking on the fact that you don't know who he is though because it means he can start with a Fresh Slate and make a Good Impression. not that he's doing that by shouldering reigen out of the way or standing between the two of you every chance he gets, but y'know. it's… endearing? in its own sort of way? you could get used to it, at the very least.

reigen is mentally distracting whereas dimple is physically distracting. dimple will lean on your shoulder or over you or have a hand across your back basically the whole time because he’s got a body and he’s gonna use it, damn it. but if he stays like that for too long, reigen will pull you away by asking you to help with something or grab something from the other room or basically anything that will move you away from dimple without you realizing specifically that’s what’s happening

despite their best efforts, because they’re both just trying to counter each other rather than focusing on you, they end up balancing each other out so that you give them equal amounts of attention. dimple probably realizes this the fastest and changes tactics to be on your desk or otherwise in your space rather than touching you directly. basically the "I'm not touching you" vibe but smugly directed at reigen.

their facial expressions change so fast when they think you can't see them, especially reigen. he's really slathering on the charm with you but the second you turn your head he's glaring dimple to within an inch of his life. dimple usually just sticks out his tongue.

I can't decide if it would be funnier if you knew and were kinda in on the joke goading them on or if you were totally oblivious and all their efforts were basically going to waste. or maybe a happy medium of like- you realize something is going on but you're not gonna question it because you're just enjoying the attention.

eventually reigen realizes he has to up his game by also getting physically closer to you, but that's when it all starts to fall apart. either you finally realize what's going on or it just becomes too much to handle but you get VERY flustered and kinda pull back in panic and run off into another room to pretend to work on something else

you can immediately hear them arguing over whose fault it was and somehow the fact that they're right back to normal calms your nerves over the whole thing. when you finally come back out, reigen apologizes immediately for "not conducting himself properly in the office setting” and ekubo continues to insist that it's reigens fault but it doesn't stop him from also apologizing. they give you some space, but they don’t stop glaring at each other when they think you’re not looking.

they never really stop competing but it slowly shifts from trying to sabotage each other to trying to outdo each other, and that’s definitely a change you can live with when it means you constantly have fresh flowers on your desk and you get to share reigen’s home cooked lunches almost every day.

(dimple can’t possess the poor guy every day, so sometimes instead of a flower you’ll find notes that he writes out in advance, which you keep tucked safely in a drawer of your desk. if he catches you reading them while you don’t realize he’s around he takes every possible chance to gloat to reigen and tease you the next time he brings his host.)

[gettothestabbing]

Friendship is so underrated

I’ve been having such a great time hanging out with my new friends from work. It took me a long time to learn how to be a good friend, and to find people who were willing to be good friends back. The two people I’ve been getting to know are a girl from Kenya and a boy from Brazil. It’s also just nice to hang out with coworkers close to my age, since many people I work with are in their forties or older.

I mentioned in my last read-more post that I have a crush on my coworker, the Brazilian guy I just mentioned. He knows that I am dating someone from EHarmony (as in, we’ve had two dates and scheduled a third). Yesterday, he came to me and said, “I really want to go to this restaurant with you, since it would be awkward to go alone. But I don’t want to get in the middle of your relationship.”

See, he just got divorced, and his ex-wife was at least emotionally cheating with someone from work, if not actually cheating. So he’s very aware of the need for proper boundaries. I immediately told him, “It’s fine! I already told him about you and he is okay with us hanging out.” I started dating EH-guy around the same time that I started hanging out more with Brazil-guy.

I wish I could just transfer my crush on Brazil-guy to EH-guy. Because EH-guy is very nice! And cute. But we just don’t know each other that well yet. 

At the moment, I’m just trying to ignore the crush and never act on it. We keep boundaries up; we rarely touch each other, and if we do it’s in safe/platonic ways. But it’s harder to ignore just how much better suited Brazil-guy and I are to each other than this EH-guy is. We share the same religion, we have similar though not identical political views, we’re avid non-fiction readers, we’re passionate about our shared profession and what in it needs to change, and we’ve both lost our same-gender parent and been recently dumped. We have so much to talk about that it’s hard to find a stopping point, but silence is also comfortable. Even though English is his third language, I find it easy to understand him, and he’s a wonderful listener.

If he weren’t going through so much right now, and didn’t seem to need a friend so much, I would be trying harder to distance myself from him. I know this extra time with him will only prolong my feelings. But I am being very strict with myself about it. No daydreaming, no touching, and any thought that tends to romance I sharply cut off.

I kind of wish he would indicate an absolute disinterest in me. It might make that strictness easier. I feel that I’ve gotten prettier due to body recomp, better habits, etc. But that doesn’t mean he is or ever will be attracted to me. That’s not how attraction works. I can quietly hope for it, but I would also be so concerned if he wanted to date anyone right now. Like they JUST filed the paperwork. He’s struggling with the idea of being single again. At least he still has the cat and his work friends. We will help him move to a new place for a fresh start next month. Sadly, he’s also transferring roles at work, so we won’t be able to chat there. But maybe this will mean we can hang out more outside of work?

The thing is, I love this friendship. I have never had many friends at one time. It took me some time to make friends since moving here a few years ago. And even though he’s almost everything I’ve been looking for in a husband, I refuse to jeopardize this friendship or make him uncomfortable. I’m trying to live in the moment and focus on non-romantic goals. It’s possible that in a few months or a year, my friend will be interested in dating again, and he might consider me as an option. But I can’t bet on it, nor should I treat our friendship as a waiting stage for that not-so-likely future. 

All I can do is keep working to be good and glorify God. It’s important to bring my desires to God, so that He can purify them and remove those that do not accord to His will. That which it is not right for us to receive, God does not grant. “Desire is prayer; and no loss can occur from trusting God with our desires, that they may be moulded and exalted before they take form in words and in deeds.” (S&H p. 1:11)