#only for like a sentence but he gets mentioned

[chaepink]

Sub bully gojo like he was planning on fucking and bullying reader when the opposite went way? Like reader had enough of his bullshit and makes him cry and overstimulates him?

Loser | sub!gojo satoru

wc: 2.9k+ words | masterlist

dom!gn!reader, mean!reader -> soft!reader, bully!gojo kinda but he’s more annoying then actually bullying, crying, footjob except he’s clothed, cumming in pants, college au, edging, comparing gojo to a puppy, degradation, praise, exhibitionism, overstimulation, knocking Gojo down a peg, teasing, cursing, mention of reader being shorter than gojo but not important, ooc gojo(?)

note : the writing may be weird… its been a while 😬

"Well well well, look who it is!" You grimace at the all too familiar voice and try to quickly turn the corner but a hand grabs your hand and turns you around, causing you to stumble back slightly but you catch yourself in time.

Furrowing your eyebrows and frowning in annoyance, you eye the person who stopped you: Gojo fucking Satoru. He’s the guy who’s been making your college life a living hell ever since he found out you two went to the same high school. Even though there were several other students here who also went to the same high school, he decided to annoy you for some reason.

The other students in the hallway quickly shuffle to their next classes or to lunch, too afraid to say something that’ll result in Gojo picking on them instead. Of course, they're scared, Gojo is known as a bully who somehow has good relationships with the teachers, an advantage he uses daily. The hallway is deserted now with only you two standing in. You hear the bell ring loudly throughout and your eyes dart to the clock on the wall. Damn it, you’re late to class now.

“Hey! Look at me, bitch.” You scowl deeply as your attention turns back to Gojo. You wonder if he’s aware of his childish personality or not. You assume he doesn’t by the way he continues to act like a toddler.

“What the hell do you want?” You reply, annoyance clear as day on your face. A grin spreads across his face when he sees your attention back on him. God, he loves the way you look at him like that. He quickly shoves the thought to the back of his head.

“In a bad mood today, huh?” He teases, that annoying grin still prominent on his face and you clench your fist into a ball, wanting to punch that grin off his stupid face though you know you can’t. He would just go running to the teachers and higher-ups and get you in trouble somehow.

You let out a small scoff and continue to glare at him before he talks again.

“What? You really think I’m gonna annoy you today?” He smirks and slowly walks closer to you but you grimace. He leans his head down slightly and you frown deeper. You’re already annoying me with your presence, you want to say.

“You should smile more, it’ll make you more pleasant to look at for once, [name]-” He could barely finish his sentence before your anger got the best of you. How dare he act like nothing’s happened?

“What is your fucking problem, you bastard?” You sneer at him as you shove his chest hard, causing him to widen his eyes at your sudden action and stumble backwards before tripping over his feet and falling to the ground on his bottom, his feet on the floor with his knees bent towards the ceiling and his hands behind him to stabilize himself. His legs are spread out slightly and he winces at the sudden impact.

If your mind wasn’t so flooded with anger right now, you would think that Gojo looks rather hot on the ground staring up at you with a flushed face and widened eyes.

Shit, he didn’t mean for you to get this pissed off. He was planning to ask you to come over to his house later or something. Usually you just ignore him and walk off quietly, he didn’t expect this at all. Why are you getting mad? Haven’t you gotten the hint that he bullies you cause he likes you?

You step a foot down awfully near his crotch and he flinches, staring at it with a red face but you don’t notice. You see his Adam's apple bob in his throat as he swallows harshly. He looks back up at you but quickly looks away when he sees you staring at him so intensely and you’re surprised just how easily he shut up from a simple shove to the ground. Maybe he’s more simple than you thought.

You see his chest rise up and down quickly. The silence is thick and heavy in the air with the sound of his breathing and your own heart beating rapidly in your chest the only noises you hear. The way he refuses to look at you, how red he is, and the way his legs slightly tremble gives you the wrong idea.

Does… seeing you towering over him and staring down at him turn him on somehow? No way, you think.

But when your eyes trail down from his still flushed face down his body and to the place between his spread legs, your idea is confirmed.

“Who said you could get fucking hard right now?” Gojo flinches and his eyes widen, quickly looking down at the rather large bulge in his pants. He tries to cover it with his hands but you quickly kick them away, resulting in his legs spreading even further apart.

Good thing that you’re at one of the more secluded and quiet areas of the school and that not many students nor teachers have classes here.

It’s odd. It’s really odd. How although he could easily get up and run away or even shove you back and say some mean things to you again, he’s not. He’s not doing any of that, just sitting on the ground in front of you like he enjoys it. And a part of you is starting to enjoy the situation as well.

You suddenly remember how although there’s no one in the hallway, there are still some students and teachers in the classrooms near you guys. It seems you two haven’t been loud enough to attract their attention but you know that at any moment, someone could step out into the hallway and spot you two. Though the thought just spurs you on even more.

He hesitates before glancing up at you and swallows again before glancing back at your shoe and it gives you an idea. Without thinking, you lift your foot and press it down on his crotch. The action immediately makes Gojo let out a deep groan and cover his mouth with his hand, his eyes squeezing shut in pleasure. The sight makes something in your stomach stir although you are still annoyed by his past actions.

Slowly, he opens his eyes back and stares at you, his eyes more soft than before. He puts his hand down and opens his mouth to talk but you notice how he hesitates.

“C-Could we ngh do this in a classroom-“

You quickly cut him off with a scoff. “Really? Do you really think I’m gonna take pity on you after you annoyed me everyday of my college life? It’s not my fault you got hard from just a shove.” You sneer in disgust, making Gojo shiver. “Maybe I should return the favor somehow.” Gojo’s breath hitches in his throat when he sees the anger in your eyes and the way you’re glaring down at him like he’s some sort of useless piece of trash. He feels something throb in his pants.

You suddenly smirk and Gojo has to hold back a whine from the way you look so scary but so hot at the same time.

“I wonder what everyone would think if they were to see you right now, pitifully on the floor like a fucking puppy,” you spit out.

Gojo squeezes his eyes shut, not wanting to imagine the sheer shock on everyone’s faces if they were to stumble across him like this in the hallway. But oh God, the way you compare him to a puppy has his stomach fluttering and something else throbbing again.

He opens his eyes again and lets out the most pitiful whine you’ve ever heard and oh does it sound heavenly coming from someone you despise.

“Please?” You contemplate it. As much as you would rather stay in the hallway and ruin him here, you know that if you two were to be caught, you would face suspension and it would ruin your reputation even more. With a sigh and frown, you glance around and spot a dark classroom. Bingo.

You point to it and Gojo’s eyes dart to the empty room, his breathing still fast. He quickly understands it and slowly gets up from the floor.

“Go inside.” It wasn’t a statement, it was an order. He nods and he walks in, glancing behind him to make sure you’re following him inside. As you go into the room, you close the door and lock it, turning back to see Gojo already on the floor on his knees and it makes your heart quicken.

Walking up to him, you before him and immediately return your foot back on his crotch and press down. Gojo lets out a breathy curse from his lips and gasps, his hands obediently at his sides, clenching into fists tightly.

He’s embarrassed at himself for being so easy for you, already at your knees after his plan backfired on him but he’s not complaining. Not when your foot presses down harder which forces a moan out from him and makes his mind foggy. He’s close already. He tells you that and he blushes when you laugh.

“Already? How pathetic,” you tease. “And I thought I would at least get to see you naked first.” The idea of him being fully naked and you fully clothed makes him whimper and he’s quick to open his mouth to beg to get naked for you but you cut him off.

“But I don't think you deserve it after everything you’ve done. You’ll cum from my foot and without taking a piece of clothing off, understood?” He nods before he understands what you said and widens his eyes when he processes it.

“But-” “But?” You raise an eyebrow, daring him to disagree which shuts him right up. You smile and grind your shoe back down on his bulge. “Good, now go on. I know you’re just aching to get some friction, yeah?”

He nods again and doesn’t hesitate for a moment before bucking his hips up against your foot, letting out a soft cry as the pleasure shoots through his body. You keep your foot still and let him do all the work and he lets out a loud moan when a particular thrust has his precum leaking out and dampening his pants.

You feel him twitch underneath your foot and smirk in amusement. “Quiet now, it's still school time, remember?” The reminder has him whimpering, wanting to let out loud noises for you but understanding the environment. You can tell he’s close from the way he’s practically begging with those puppy eyes of his.

“P-Please?” “Please what, Gojo?” He lets out another soft cry, the pleasure being too much. His mind is so foggy from the fact that you two are in an empty classroom and can get caught at any moment and how he can’t let out loud noises like he wants and the feeling of his dick being so hard, it hurts.

And now you’re teasing him. How mean, he wants to say to you. But the chances that you get mad again and leave him here in the classroom by himself with a hard dick is too high. So he begs.

“Please let me cum? Please? I-I’ve been good-” You laugh again. He hasn’t been good at all to you but he has been good at not touching you and keeping quiet. So maybe you’ll take pity on him. Maybe.

“Hm should I?” You pretend to think and Gojo moans, his pace quickening against your foot and he nods frantically. “I don’t think I should.” The second you take your foot off him, Gojo swears he’s close to crying right then and there. His hands subconsciously dart out from his sides to reach for your ankle but your sharp glare stops him.

So instead, he whimpers as tears prickle the corner of his eyes, his dick aching for release. You smirk at the sight.

“Beg for it, Gojo. Unless you want me to leave.” He obeys yet again, almost too eagerly this time that it almost makes you laugh. Geez, knocking Gojo down his high horse is way more fun than you thought it would be.

“[Name] please? Please please please i'll be such a good boy for you i promise!” It’s cute, seeing his glossy eyes and parted lips as he pants like a puppy for you. You swear you see a glimpse of a tail behind him wagging eagerly.

“Do whatever you want to me! Just let me cum, please!” With a smile, you place your foot back on his bulge and press down hard.

He throws his head back with a whimper and he swears he sees stars as his eyes roll to the back of his head.

“Ah!- T-Thank you ngh” He goes back to his previous quick pace again and it’s not long till he’s close again. He squeezes his eyes shut, not trusting himself to not have them roll back and he hesitantly places his hands around your ankle to keep it there, refusing for you to pull away again. You click your tongue in disapproval but don’t say anything about it which he is grateful about.

“I’m gonna cum im gonna cum-” He babbles out as he continues to rut against your foot like a dog in heat. “Such a good boy for me, telling me that you’re close and not cuming without permission.,” you praise and you swear his hips stutters at that. A sucker for praise, it seems.

His eyes shoot open and it's clear what he’s begging for. “Go on, cum.”

And he does almost immediately. One of his hands shoots up to cover his mouth as he muffles his choked moans and whimpers and your eyes look down to see the spot where his crotch is quickly dampening as he cums.

But you don’t stop, you actually speed up. Gojo feels your foot continuing to grind down on his now damp crotch and he can barely hold on, his hand dropping from his mouth back to hastily hold onto your leg. His eyes widen and curses sputter out of his mouth in stutters.

“S-Shit wait! I’m ngh not ready-” You grab a handful of his hair and yank on it hard, forcing him to look directly at you and let out a rather loud whine. He stares at you with tears ready to fall down his face and oh does he look good like this. He’s on his knees, his hips bucking up to your foot as if he didn’t just say he’s not ready, face flushed such a pretty pink as he stares up at you like you own him. The tight grip you have on his hair has his scalp prickling in pain in such a good way that he almost begs for you to yank harder but another moan escapes him before he can.

“Come on, you were begging so nicely earlier,” you say mockingly, a feign pout on your face as you stare down at the once confident man. “Don’t you want to cum again? I think you got some more in you, yeah?”

He immediately nods and lets out a cry when you step down even harder on his clothed dick and pull on his hair harder. Shit, he’s already close again, the overstimulation getting to him and making it feel all so much better. He can barely even talk or speak full sentences anymore, only letting out mainly whines and whimpers and a few babbles here and there.

Each tug of your hand, grind of your shoe, and praise or degradation you graciously give to him has him soon crying out of pure pleasure. Tears streak down his face slowly as he gets closer to cumming again. You’re almost jealous of how pretty he still is while crying.

“Cum.” That’s all he needs to hear before his hips stutter again and he lets out a quiet sob, cumming for the second time and staining his pants even more.

His pace slows down before stopping, his breath slowing down. He slowly leans forward to lean his cheek against your leg and your breath hitches at the sight. You can feel his hot breath against your leg as he stares up at you with hooded eyes and flushed cheeks. He’s mumbling under his breath and you swear you hear “thank you’s” coming out quietly.

You can’t help but lean down slightly and run your hand through his hair, hearing a soft hum coming from him as he sighs when your hand moves down to caress his damp cheek, nuzzling against it.

The sudden sound of the school bell ringing snaps you two out of the trance. Right, you two are still at school in an empty classroom. You hear the other students rush out of the nearby classes to leave and return home and you’re glad that you two aren’t in view of the door window.

You hear a sigh coming from Gojo and you look back at him and see him smile up at you.

“I… enjoyed that,” he murmurs shyly and you can't help but smile. “You did so good for me.” He whines and blushes and you swear you feel another twitch from his crotch.

Let's just say that you two continued to meet at that spot many times after that.

ty for reading to the end! ❤ - chaepink

╰┈➤ masterlist | rules

[ellecdc]

pause to breathe

combination of two anon prompts: yapper reader who seeks out any of the boys and starts talking and then wonders if they find her terribly annoying and she thinks they must hate her combined with part two for Regulus x yapper!reader with the mooncalves

Regulus Black x fem!reader who updates him on the mooncalves [681 words]

p1 | p2

CW: yapper reader, longwinded speech and spiralling thoughts, run-on sentences, reader feels embarrassed

Pandora and Barty were currently busy procuring ingredients to brew truth potions for tonight’s veritaserum-or-dare, which meant that Regulus, Evan, and Dorcas were enjoying a rare quiet moment in the library. 

“All I’m saying is that out of all the poltergeists I’ve summoned, Peeves really is the least of our worries.” Evan mentioned boredly, earning him a snort of laughter from Dorcas.

“Remember Mammon?” She asked in a hushed tone.

“How could we forget?” Regulus responded. “He had first years strung up by their feet from the ceiling trying to get the galleons to fall out of their pockets.” 

“I’m so glad Barty knows how to obliviate; that would have been a nightmare.”

“We would have been expelled.” Dorcas pressed with a laugh, Evan simply nodded at her.

“Like I said, a nightmare.”

Regulus was saved from having to reply when he heard his name being called, albeit softly - this was the library, afterall.

“Regulus! Regulus, Regulus, Regulus.” You chanted your whole way over before sitting down heavily on the bench beside Regulus, breathless and nearly blowing the parchment right off the table from the speed at which you approached.

“It worked! The beast treats from Brood & Peck worked!”

It took Regulus’ brain a few moments to work out what it was that you were talking about when he remembered his trip to Brood & Peck last week. He wondered then if he should ask you how it went, but you carried on before he could.

“I’m sure that maybe, perhaps, the apples were a help, seeing as they’ve grown somewhat accustomed to my presence. But they came right up to me last night! I even got to scritch the space between one’s eyes! Have you ever pet a mooncalf, Regulus? They’re way softer than they look. It’s almost like a cat except the fur is a touch longer and silkier. Have you ever pet a bunny? Sort of like a bunny, but with thinner and longer hair…like a long-and-thin haired bunny. Oh! And! Last night among the mooncalves was one tiny kitten! Real little, too. I wonder if he got separated from his mama when I was feeding them tuna a few nights ago? None of the other cats were there again last night, just the little bubs. But it seems as though the mooncalves have adopted him! Oh, it was so cute! One was even grooming him! But I was so busy being excited about finally petting them and getting them to approach me that I forgot to take pictures. Maybe I can get pictures tonight? Hopefully the kitten is still there. Well, I guess it would actually be better if the kitten was with its mum, yeah? Maybe just one more night, just so I can get a picture, then hopefully he finds his mum again.” 

You paused, likely to breathe, and seemed only then to register the fact that Regulus hadn’t been sitting at this table alone.

“Oh.” You murmured quietly, moving your horrified gaze from Evan and Dorcas towards Regulus beside you, another “oh” escaping you when you seemed to realise how long you just spent shouting about mooncalves to Regulus Black in front of his friends. 

“Oh my gods.” You nearly whispered. “I’m so sorry. Merlin, this is so embarrassing; I am so embarrassing. I’m so sorry!” 

Nearly as quick as you came did you stand and leave, fleeing from the library without even sparing a backwards glance at your potions partner. 

“I’d be worried she doesn’t get enough air to her head. Merlin.” Evan commented as he finally turned back towards the table from where he’d been watching you leave. “Do you think her brain works that quickly when she reads? She must finish books so fast.” 

Regulus simply smiled to himself as he packed up his notes and books. 

“I’ll catch up with you later, alright?”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, Black.” Dorcas drawled teasingly as Regulus shouldered his book bag and exited the library, venturing off in the direction you had just moments before in hopes of finding out more about last night’s mooncalves and their little kitten friend.

[yutarot]

ride or die. l.jn smau

018 — for her, i am.

(a/n: u might wanna grab some popcorn for this one.)

JENO POV

“i know who leaked my secret.”

he had said it so quickly that he forgot the words had even come from his mouth.

jaemin stares at him, eyes wide in a mix of shock and weirdly, sadness.

but then jeno realises why. he had let jaemin be bullied, staying silent as all of his friends attacked him. he had done nothing.

jaemin didn’t care that jeno knew who it was, he didn’t care who had ruined jeno’s life, because jeno had ruined his. he thought that jeno thought it was him, he had assumed that’s why jeno did nothing, out of hatred, out of anger. but now, now it made no sense. jeno was meant to be his bestfriend.

jeno became angry at the thought. not at jaemin, but at himself. and he hadn’t even explained to him the whole story yet, he hadn’t even told him who it was.

jaemin spoke first after their silence.

“you better start explaining.” jaemin says, and rightfully so. jeno feels as if he should had done the explaining a while ago, he wanted to. but it all happened too quick. he never got the chance.

he doesn’t know why, but he feels like jaemin and him aren’t going to be the same after this. not after what he’s about to tell him.

jaemin grows inpatient, angry even.

“come on, jeno, im not gonna sit here and wait for the fucking grass to grow!!”

jeno says nothing still, and this only makes jaemin’s anger worsen. but he just doesn’t know what to say, how to word the sentence that will ruin their friendship.

“WHO WAS IT JENO?” jaemins grabbing his shirt at this point, and there’s nothing he can do but close his eyes and take it. “WHO WAS IT YOU HAD TO PROTECT SO MUCH TO THE POINT WHERE YOU HAD TO LET ME GET PUSHED AROUND, HUH? WHO SPILLED YOUR FUCKING SECRET, WHO DID YOU FEEL WAS SO SPECIAL TO YOU THAT YOU COULDNT SAY ANYTHING TO ANYONE?!! WHO WAS IT, JENO?! WHO W-“

jeno’s heart races. his fists clench. his arms tense.

he snaps.

“IT WAS ME!”

jaemin stills.

he lets go of jeno’s shirt.

his eyes never divert from his, his last breath never leaving. they both stand in the apartment lobby, the cold air of outside, breezing through the window, half cracked open, the distant buzz of the vending machine whirring in the corner and the deep hue of the midnight sky absorbing the light from around them.

they’re silent, they’re still.

neither of them dare to speak.

until jeno notices jaemins face.

it’s not anger, it’s not sadness. it’s pity.

“it was me.” jeno’s voice is lower now. “i leaked my own identity.” he looks at the floor, in both solemnity and shame.

“why?” jaemin asks. “why would you do that to yourself?”

“i didn’t know it would spread so fast. i posted it on an anonymous account before my race. i wasn’t expecting it to be spread so quick, let alone on national news. i thought it would be slow, i was going to tell you, i was going to tell everyone. i had decided i didn’t want to be samo anymore. but the speed of it all… i wasn’t ready yet, i hadn’t prepared yet, i hadn’t told her.”

jaemin stills at the mention of you.

“so that’s why.”

jeno nods.

“you’re an idiot.” jaemin says, throwing jeno’s words back at him.

but jeno isn’t laughing.

“for her, i am.”

that’s where he realises the gravity of it all. that both of their deception had all come down to the route of one thing, of one person.

you.

jeno continues. “do you know what she told me when we first got into that fake relationship?”

jaemin shakes his head.

“she told me that she didn’t understand why i liked living as samo more than jeno. and usually, i did. i loved living as samo, it was the only time that i was able to really be myself. but when she came along, i realised something. i realised that i didn’t want to be samo anymore, i wanted to be the person that she knew. technically, she knew samo, yes. but it was me, as jeno, that she truly knew. and when she told me that i should just live as jeno, avoid all the public attention and just go outside without a mask, i realised that she was right, that that’s who i wanted to be. i wanted to be me, because of her. so when she told chenle who i was, i should have been mad, i should have been pissed. but, truly? i was relieved. she had done the first step of my journey herself, i could break off the deal. i could explain that i didn’t care about it anymore. i could explain that i wanted to date her for real. but i didn’t do any of that. i was still angry, i was angry at the reason why she had told chenle. he ruined it all. i couldn’t explain it to her, what i really wanted. because she liked him. and it only confirmed my suspicions when i found that stupid fuckers hoodi-“

jeno realised he had be talking for too long when jaemin began to smile.

“oh man i’ve been waiting for you to say that for the longest time, that you want to be yourself.” he pulls him into a brief hug as he speaks, as if he hadn’t even heard the second half of jeno’s rant.

after a second, jaemin pulls away before stating the obvious truth of what’s staring them both in the face, “if only it wasn’t because of her.”

reality dawns on him, pushing on him like an incoming storm. “im sorry jaemin, but ive made up my mind.”

jaemin nods, expecting jeno to say more. but he doesn’t, he just walks to the elevator, clicking the floor to their dorm. jeno hopes that jaemin forgets all about you, that he puts his feelings for you aside. but he knows jaemin too well, he knows no matter how much he tries, jaemin will never forget you.

“you getting in?” jeno says, a smile plastered on his face.

jaemin grins back before running to the elevator to join him.

jeno was going back home.

well, he will be once he fixes things with you.

jaemin lets out a sigh, seeming deep in thought. “you sacrificed everything for her.”

jeno looks at him, an understanding of what he means by this.

“jaemin-“

“i’ll take the fall for it.” he says, a smile on his face that doesn’t reach his eyes. “you don’t have to tell them it was you yet, if you’re not ready.”

jeno panics, “i can’t let you do that. not anymore.”

“please let me.” he fidgets, watching the numbers on the elevator screen climb up, and up, and up. “it’s the most i can do.”

jeno doesn’t know what to say, just like before. so he does the easiest thing. even though he knows he shouldn’t, he does what he knows he’s going to regret.

the elevator dings to a halt.

he lets him.

a sacrifice for a sacrifice.

previous : mlist : next

notes; it’s been so hard tryna keep this secret guys u have NO idea

taglist — open! @jenohyun @jirsungs @do-you-remember-summer-127 @ddolbyong @stqrgr7 @thatsatricky1 @sunghoonsgfreal @nattan127 @ssweetreveries @flamingi @chenlesfavorite @peterm4rker @snoopyjimin @akunoeyebrows @junviadinho @slayhaechan @f6llsun @multifandomania @cookiehaos @catecita @mrsjohnnysuh @luv4jeno @hyuckies18 @dreamiestay @tangerinelovelees @jjaegyeom @https-yeonjun @nanaxwi @yukisroom97 @nosungluv @mrkleelvr @neocrashed @jaedgemental @apolloxxivmin @kyubing @catdonut657 @dudekiss3r @juyeonshour @hamjwis @antifrggile @mmjhh1998 @thegracerammy @jenocity23 @honeynanamin @bluedbliss @lampcults @yyangj3lly

[secretmaniacc]

RIDE OR DIE

Parings: The salesman x Fem!oc

Summary: Two fierce recruiters, locked in a heated rivalry over who can secure the most players, strike an unusual deal: whoever wins the next recruit gets to drag the other out to dinner. But when tempers flare and egos clash, their “game” turns into a battle of wits, slaps, and simmering tension. What starts as a simple challenge spirals into something far more unpredictable—because in their world, nothing ever goes as planned.

Warnings: slow burn, language, violence, dom!salesman x baddie oc, teasing, work rivals, kissing, fingering sex, mentions of blood, slapping, maybe something else that I don’t remember.

Wc: 5.4k

A/n: this is my first post and idk how do you use tumblr and I can’t even add warnings cuz idk what should I warn about but I hope y’all can enjoy wtv the hell I wrote, English isn’t my first language so no attacking. Not proofread. This is so bad ik.

The dimly lit café hummed with quiet chatter, the occasional clatter of cups breaking the tension in the air. She adjusted her sunglasses, a sly smirk tugging at the corner of her lips as she leaned forward, her fingers tapping softly against the edge of the table. The man seated across from her was sweating through his cheap dress shirt, his eyes darting nervously to the plain white envelope she'd slid toward him just moments ago.

"Inside that envelope," she began, her voice calm but charged with intent, "is the answer to all your problems. Every overdue bill, every phone call you're dodging, every sleepless night. All gone."

He hesitated, staring at the envelope like it might bite him. "I don't know... I mean, this doesn't sound—"

"—legal?" she finished for him, leaning back casually. She tilted her head, the smirk widening. "You'd be right. It's not. But when has that ever stopped you before?"

His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. Bingo, she thought, watching him flounder. That reaction told her everything she needed to know.

"Think about it," she pressed, her voice dropping an octave, almost a whisper. "A few games. A few hours. And then you walk away with enough money to start fresh. No more debt. No more hiding."

He reached for the envelope, his hand trembling. But just as his fingertips brushed the edge of it—

A familiar voice cut through the air. "Amateur move, don't you think?"

Her eyes narrowed behind her sunglasses. She didn't need to turn around to know who it was. Only one person could manage to sound both smug and bored in the same sentence.

"Go away," she said flatly, her tone ice-cold.

But of course, he didn't.

"I mean, honestly," the salesman continued, sliding into the booth beside the man like he owned the place. "Laying it all out like that? Where's the finesse? The mystery? The intrigue?"

She finally turned her head, pushing her sunglasses down just enough to meet his eyes. "Do you ever get tired of hearing yourself talk?"

"Not when I'm right," he replied, flashing her that infuriatingly cocky smile.

She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, and gave him a sweet, fake smile in return. "Right about what? Annoying the hell out of me? Congratulations, you've mastered the art."

The man between them shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting from her to the salesman and back again. "Uh, I should probably—"

"You're not going anywhere," she said sharply, cutting him off. She reached for the envelope and slid it back toward the man with deliberate slowness, her gaze never leaving the salesman. "You want to talk about finesse? Fine. Let's talk about your pitch. What is it this time? Another mysterious slap game in the subway? Real creative."

He laughed, the sound low and easy, and leaned back in the booth. "What can I say? It works."

"Until it doesn't," she shot back.

"Why don't we let him decide?" he countered, gesturing to the man, who looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

She turned her attention back to her target, her expression softening. "You want to trust him? Go ahead. But let me ask you this: When he disappears into thin air after taking his cut, who's going to be there to clean up the mess? Not him."

The salesman's grin faltered, just for a second, but it was enough to make her smirk.

"Fine," he said, standing abruptly and brushing imaginary lint off his suit jacket. "He's all yours. Let's see if your little sob story gets him to bite."

"Gladly," she replied, leaning back with a victorious gleam in her eyes.

But as he turned to leave, he leaned in close, just enough for his breath to brush against her ear. "Next time, sweetheart, try not to play so dirty. It's almost cute how hard you're trying to beat me."

She didn't flinch, didn't react, even as her grip tightened on the edge of the table. He chuckled softly and walked away, leaving her with the trembling man and the lingering scent of his cologne.

"You should take the deal," she said finally, sliding the envelope across the table one last time. "Before someone else comes along and makes it worse for you."

This time, he took it without hesitation.

As she left the café, she spotted the salesman leaning casually against a lamppost outside, twirling a coin between his fingers.

"You owe me," she called out, not breaking stride.

"For what?"

"For not strangling you in there."

His laugh followed her down the street, a sound that stuck in her head longer than she cared to admit.

Next day

She pushed the door to the briefing room open with a little more force than necessary, her heels clicking sharply against the tiled floor. He was already there, of course, leaning back in one of the chairs, his feet propped up on the table like he owned the place. The sight made her want to turn around and walk right back out.

The office reeked of stale coffee and carried the faint metallic tang of the envelopes they used to seal people's fates. Spotting their shared desk, she sauntered over and dropped into her chair, leaning back with a casual air. Her red-tipped nails drummed a steady rhythm against the table, a small but deliberate sound to break the silence.

"So," she started, her voice smooth but sharp enough to cut, "how many desperate souls did you con into signing today?"

"You're late," he drawled, not even bothering to glance up from the notepad he was scribbling on, "I've already got a head start."

She ignored him, tossing her clipboard onto the table with a loud thwack. "Four recruits," she announced, while sitting in the chair across from him.

That got his attention. He arched an eyebrow, finally glancing up. "Four? That's cute."

Her lips twitched, but she kept her expression neutral. "Better than your three."

The smug grin he'd been wearing all evening faltered for a split second, and the sight was immensely satisfying. He quickly recovered, sitting up straighter and folding his arms over his chest. "Who says I only got three?"

"I saw you at the station earlier," she shot back. "Your guy ran off before you could even give him the envelope."

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong," he said, leaning forward with a conspiratorial glint in his eye. "He came back. Took the bait. Easy money."

She narrowed her eyes, trying to gauge whether he was bluffing. With him, it was impossible to tell. He could sell a lie as easily as breathing, and she hated how good he was at it.

"Let's see the proof, then," she said, gesturing to his notepad.

He hesitated, just long enough for her to pounce.

"Liar," she said smugly, leaning back in her chair.

"Fine," he admitted, tossing the notepad onto the table. "Three. But mine were quality recruits. You're probably scraping the bottom of the barrel as usual."

She bristled at that, her fingers curling into fists under the table. "Quality? The last guy you brought in was a drunk who passed out halfway through the first game."

"And he still made it further than your little college dropout," he countered.

"That dropout lasted three games," she snapped. "And he made us more money than any of your recruits ever have."

"Us?" He laughed, the sound low and mocking. "Sweetheart, there is no 'us.' This is a solo game, remember? And right now, you're losing."

The word sweetheart grated against her nerves, but she forced herself to stay calm. She wasn't about to let him see how much he was getting under her skin.

"Keep telling yourself that," she said coolly, pulling out a pen and jotting down the day's numbers on her clipboard. "Meanwhile, I'll be over here actually doing my job."

He watched her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, without warning, he reached across the table and snatched the clipboard out of her hands.

"Hey!" she protested, but he held it just out of her reach, flipping through the pages with a smug grin.

"Let's see... Ah, there it is," he said, tapping the page with the end of her pen. "Four names. Not bad. But you forgot to include the part where they all looked ready to bolt the second you left."

She lunged for the clipboard, but he pulled it back again, chuckling under his breath. "Careful now," he teased. "Wouldn't want to make a scene, would we?"

She glared at him, her jaw tightening. "Give it back."

"Say please."

"Go to hell."

He laughed again, but this time, he relented, sliding the clipboard across the table. She snatched it up, smoothing the crumpled pages with deliberate care.

"You're insufferable, you know that?" she muttered, not bothering to look at him.

"And yet, you keep coming back," he replied, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied smirk.

She bit back the retort that was on the tip of her tongue, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her lose her composure. Instead, she focused on her clipboard, pretending he didn't exist.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words. Finally, he broke it.

"You know, you're lucky you have me as competition."

She raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And why's that?"

"Because I keep you on your toes," he said, leaning back in his chair and lacing his fingers behind his head. "Admit it. If it weren't for me, this job would be boring as hell."

"Boring?" she repeated, her tone icy. "You think ruining people's lives is boring?"

"Don't get all self-righteous on me," he said, his voice low and teasing. "We both know you enjoy the thrill just as much as I do."

She opened her mouth to argue, but the words caught in her throat. He wasn't wrong, and they both knew it.

"Speaking of thrill," he continued, his eyes gleaming with mischief, "how about a little wager?"

She narrowed her eyes. "What kind of wager?"

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Next recruit wins."

"Wins what?" she asked warily.

He shrugged, a playful grin spreading across his face. "Bragging rights. And dinner."

She snorted. "You think I'd let you take me to dinner?"

"Who said I'd be taking you?" he shot back, his grin widening. "You'd be taking me."

The audacity of it made her laugh, a sharp, bitter sound that echoed through the sterile room.

"Fine," she said, standing up and smoothing her pencil skirt. "But don't cry when you lose."

"Don't worry about me, sweetheart," he said, rising to his feet and adjusting his tie. "Worry about yourself."

With that, she grabbed her clipboard and swept out of the room, her heels clicking sharply against the tiled floor.

Later That Night

The neon lights of the city cast a harsh glow on the bustling streets, illuminating the restless hum of nightlife. Cars honked in the distance, their headlights cutting through the mist rising from sewer grates. She stood near the entrance of a seedy-looking diner, a faint flicker of its neon sign sputtering above her. The air smelled of fried food and rain-soaked pavement, but she didn't notice. Her sharp eyes scanned the crowd like a predator hunting for its next meal.

She didn't need long to spot potential. It was always the same—the defeated ones, with slumped shoulders and darting eyes. They carried their desperation in their posture, wearing it like a beacon.

Her instincts honed in on a middle-aged man in a rumpled suit leaning against a lamppost. He clutched a briefcase to his chest like it was his last lifeline, his lips moving silently, perhaps rehearsing excuses or trying to summon courage to return home empty-handed.

Perfect.

Before she could move, a faint ripple of awareness prickled at the back of her neck. She didn't need to turn around to know who it was.

"Stalking me now?" she asked, her tone sharp but low enough to remain unnoticed.

"Just observing," came his smooth reply, closer than she expected. "Wouldn't want you accusing me of cheating."

Her lips twitched, almost betraying a smile, but she held it back. "You can't cheat at something you're already losing."

"Keep telling yourself that," he said, and she could feel the smirk in his voice without even glancing back.

She pushed his presence to the back of her mind, focusing instead on her target. With a subtle breath, she strode forward, heels clicking against the pavement, the sound cutting through the ambient noise of the street. She approached the man with the kind of confidence that disarmed even the wariest prey.

"Rough night?" she asked, her voice soft and sympathetic, like the purr of a cat just before it strikes.

The man flinched slightly, his tired eyes meeting hers with a flicker of suspicion. "Something like that," he muttered, his voice hoarse and uncertain.

She tilted her head, her expression warm but unreadable. "Well," she said, slipping an envelope from her jacket pocket and holding it out to him, "what if I told you there's a way to turn your luck around?"

The man hesitated, his eyes flicking between her face and the envelope as if weighing the risks. Behind her, she felt his presence again, closer this time. The faintest shuffle of shoes on asphalt told her he was watching, and she resisted the urge to smirk. This one was as good as hers.

Just as the man reached out to take the envelope, a hand shot over her shoulder and plucked it from her grasp.

"Now, now," he said, stepping into view with that maddeningly smug grin, twirling the envelope between his fingers like a magician showing off a trick. "Let's not rush things."

Her jaw tightened, the air around her practically crackling with tension. "What the hell are you doing?" she hissed, her voice low and sharp.

"Just helping out," he replied, unfazed by her glare. With a deliberate slowness, he handed the envelope back to her, throwing in a playful wink that made her blood boil.

The man, caught in the crossfire, glanced between them, his confusion turning into hesitation. "Uh... Is this some kind of scam?"

"Not at all," he said quickly, his tone dripping with practiced reassurance. His smile widened, radiating a charm that seemed almost genuine. "We're just offering a little game. High stakes, high rewards. Interested?"

The man hesitated, his grip on the briefcase tightening. "What kind of game?"

"It's simple," he said, crouching and slamming the folded paper onto the pavement with a sharp snap. "You use your own tile and try to flip mine. If you win, you keep the envelope and some extra cash." He pulled a wad of bills from his pocket, fanning them out enticingly.

"And if I lose?"

He smirked, the gesture sharp and taunting. "Then I get to slap you. Fair trade, don't you think?"

The man recoiled, his skepticism deepening. "What kind of twisted game is this?"

"Just a little fun," the salesman said, his tone light but unyielding. "Besides, no one plays if they think they're going to lose. Are you scared you'll lose?"

She suppressed a groan. He always did this—pushing just hard enough to make them take the bait.

"Or, you take the envelope and walk away, no games required." She suggested.

Her rival's chuckle was low, almost teasing. "Where's the fun in that? And where's the money he so desperately needs, Let him decide."

The man glanced at the envelope, then at the money, and finally at the salesman's smirk. "Fine. I'll play."

Her rival's grin widened. "Excellent.", gesturing toward a nearby alleyway. "Let's make this quick."

She followed them into the dimly lit alley, her annoyance simmering just beneath the surface. He always turned everything into a game, always needed to prove he was one step ahead

He handed the man a folded paper tile, stepping back and gesturing for him to begin. The man crouched, his hand trembling slightly as he slapped his tile against the one on the ground. It barely budged.

"Not bad," the salesman said, picking up the tile. "But let me show you how it's done."

He crouched, his movements fluid and confident. With a sharp snap, his tile slammed down, flipping the man's effortlessly.

Without missing a beat, he straightened and grinned. "Looks like I win this round." He raised his hand, his smirk deepening.

The man flinched, bracing himself, but the salesman stopped short, hovering just close enough to make him sweat. Before delivering a slap that echoed through the alleyway like a gunshot. The man staggered back, holding his cheek with a mix of shock and indignation.

"Oh my—" she whispered, flinching

The salesman, unfazed and borderline proud, grinned down at the man. "another round?."

The man blinked, rubbing his face. "don't you think this was abit painful?"

"Wasn't this our deal?"

"Alright, I'll go again," the man exclaimed, determination etched on his face. He grabbed the colored tile with trembling fingers and slammed it down with force.

The tile on the ground barely budged.

Slap.

Slap.

Slap.

Minutes passed, and the man refused to give up, his voice hoarse as he repeatedly asked for another round. His face, now blotched with red and purpling bruises, told the story of his futile persistence.

Growing impatient with the drawn-out game and the waste of her time, she decided to intervene. Not only had her rival stolen her recruit, but he was also dragging this nonsense far longer than necessary.

"I'll go easy on you this time," she heard him say, his voice laced with mock compassion.

"Or," she interjected sharply, pulling a thick stack of cash from her pocket, "you let me take over and raise the stakes."

Her rival's brows lifted, amusement lighting up his face. "Feeling brave, are we?"

"I just like winning," she retorted, her tone clipped as she handed the cash and envelope to the bruised man. "I don't think you have a reason to continue this."

The man hesitated for only a moment before greed overtook him. He snatched the envelope and money from her outstretched hand, shoving them hastily into his pocket. "Thanks," he muttered, practically sprinting into the crowd and out of sight.

She turned, her eyes narrowing as they locked onto her rival. "Happy now? You scared him off."

He smirked, stepping closer, his movements deliberate and calculated. "Scared him? I think I made his night."

"Your ego is insufferable," she said, arms crossing over her chest.

"Is it?" he countered, his hand brushing a stray strand of hair from her face with a maddeningly light touch. "Or is it just that you don't like losing?"

Her pulse quickened at the proximity, but she refused to show any sign of weakness. "I didn't lose. He took my deal."

His smirk deepened, his expression dripping with arrogance. "If that helps you sleep at night."

Before she could reply, he leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, velvety murmur. "The game's not over yet. Want to take his place?"

Her breath caught as his fingers grazed hers, sliding the blue tile into her palm before he pulled away. The motion was deliberate, calculated to unnerve her, but she refused to let him win that easily.

She exhaled sharply, tilting her chin upward as she crouched down. Focusing on the game, she slapped her tile against the ground with all the force she could muster.

The crack echoed through the narrow alley, but the result was disappointing—the tile barely shifted.

"Tough break," he quipped, crouching beside her, his voice a teasing whisper. "Maybe you should let me teach you a thing or two."

Her eyes snapped to his, sharp and unwavering. For a moment, the tension between them was palpable, an electric crackle in the chilly air.

"I don't need your lessons," she bit out, rising to her feet and brushing past him, her jaw tight.

"Alright then," he said with infuriating ease. He crouched effortlessly, his movements smooth as silk. With a single, sharp slap, his tile flipped hers with almost mocking precision.

Standing, he turned toward her, a mock pout curving his lips. "I guess I'll have to slap that pretty face of yours now. May I?" he asked, his voice dripping with a false politeness that made her blood boil.

Her jaw tightened, and she nodded stiffly. Before she could brace herself, his hand connected sharply with her cheek. The slap rang out in the alleyway like a firecracker, her head snapping to the side with the force.

Pain bloomed hot and fast, her body recoiling slightly as she stumbled a step back. She could already feel the beginnings of a bruise forming, the sting radiating from her skin.

Her chest rose and fell as she steadied herself. "Again," she demanded, her voice steely.

This time, she took her turn, and with a fierce slap of her tile, she flipped his. A slow, triumphant grin spread across her face.

"Your turn," she said smoothly, stepping closer.

His smug grin never wavered, even as he leaned in for his next move. The sharp crack of his tile meeting her tile.

he missed.

His tile flipped awkwardly, tumbling off-course and skidding out of bounds. A flash of annoyance crossed his face, but before he could recover, her palm came down with brutal precision. The slap echoed louder this time.

He staggered slightly, his face turning away as her hand left a bright, stinging imprint on his cheekbone. The smirk she wore grew darker, more dangerous. "Losing your touch?" she taunted, her voice mocking.

His jaw tensed, but he said nothing, merely resetting the tiles and motioning for the game to continue.

The game continued, the back-and-forth intensified, each slap a resounding echo through the narrow alleyway. The tension between them crackled like static electricity, thickening with every calculated strike. Her cheek throbbed, the sting from his earlier slap blooming into a vivid bruise, while his jawline reddened with the marks of her retaliation.

Then she missed.

Her tile spun wildly off-course, landing far from where it needed to be. The mistake was glaring, and he seized the moment without hesitation. His hand came down with brutal force, striking her cheek hard enough that the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth.

The impact sent her staggering, and this time, a trickle of blood began to run from her nose. She stood frozen for a moment, her fingers brushing against her upper lip. Crimson streaks stained her pale skin, a sharp contrast that only seemed to embolden her defiance.

She tilted her head back slightly, wiping the blood with the back of her hand, smearing it rather than cleaning it. When she looked back at him, her smirk was intact, as sharp as ever.

"What's the matter?" she teased, her voice biting despite the blood. "that's all what you've got?"

For the first time, his confidence faltered. His hand, raised for the next strike, but then froze mid-air. Her face painted with blood hit harder than any slap, and the hesitation in his expression was palpable.

Before she could press further, he stepped forward abruptly, closing the distance between them in one smooth, deliberate motion. His hand dropped from the air to grip her arm firmly, and he pushed her back against the cold brick wall.

The impact stole the air from her lungs, the rough texture of the wall biting into her back. Yet her smirk didn't waver. If anything, it grew sharper, her chin tilting upward as if daring him to try harder. His arms came up, caging her in, palms pressed against the wall on either side of her head. Her breath hitched at his closeness, but she refused to let him see her flinch.

His eyes flicked to her nose, catching the blood still trickling down. Slowly, with deliberate precision, he raised his hand.

She braced herself for another strike, but instead, his thumb brushed against her face. The unexpected gentleness of the motion sent a shiver down her spine, though she masked it well. His thumb wiped away the blood, his touch lingering a second longer than necessary.

He pulled his hand back, glancing at the crimson streak now staining his thumb. Without breaking eye contact, he reached down and wiped it clean on her shirt, the motion casual but calculated.

"Better?" he asked, his tone mocking, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

Her smirk dissolved into a sharp scowl, her voice snapping as she opened her mouth. "You—"

He cut her off without a word, his lips crashing against hers in a fiery, passionate kiss. The world around them faded as his hand ditched the wall completely, roaming over her body, pulling her impossibly closer.

For a moment, she pulled back, eyes wide with shock, breathless and taken aback as if the kiss had surged through her like electricity, igniting every nerve ending. What had just happened? How had everything shifted in the blink of an eye? But before she could fully process the intensity of her feelings, his grip tightened on her hips, anchoring her in place, and the heat radiating from him was undeniable, wrapping around her like a warm blanket.

Her heart raced, a wild flutter in her chest that felt like it could lift her off the ground. There was something magnetic in the way he looked at her, a primal pull she could no longer resist. The air was thick with tension, charged with unspoken promises, and just when she thought she might pull away entirely, the fire in his gaze ignited something deep within her.

With a soft sigh of surrender, she leaned back into him, allowing herself to melt against his body. He cupped her face, his thumb brushing along her cheek, as if memorizing the delicate curve of her features. And then his lips crashed into hers again, hungry and demanding, hungry as though he had been waiting for this moment forever. This time, he tilted his head to deepen the kiss, his tongue slipping past her lips to dance with hers in a slow, teasing rhythm that sent shivers down her spine.

She gasped at the sheer sensation, heat pooling in her core as every ounce of tension from earlier evaporated in an instant. The taste of him was intoxicating—warm, slightly sweet, and utterly captivating. Her hands found their way to the nape of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, urging him for more.

He pulled her closer still, his hands roaming over the small of her back, mapping every curve as if he were trying to memorize her with his touch, urging her to lift her legs around his waist. Instinctively, she obliged, feeling the strength of his body as he lifted her effortlessly. she wrapped her legs around his waist, instinctively urging him to lift her higher, to take her deeper into his embrace, their bodies fitting together perfectly—two pieces of a puzzle that had finally found their match.

The world around them vanished, a blurred backdrop to this moment where only they existed. He breaks the kiss, his lips trailing kisses down her jaw, throughout until he meets her neck, pausing to nibble at the sensitive skin just below her ear, igniting fire in her veins with each flick of his tongue and gentle bite. She could feel the tension in his body, the way he held her tightly as if he feared she might slip away. His hands gripped her hips, pulling her impossibly closer, their bodies pressed together in a way that felt electric.

When his lips began to trail again over her delicate skin, she hissed, "You can't leave more marks; they'll know."

He paused, pulling back just enough to meet her gaze, a teasing light in his eyes. "How would they know it's me?" he murmured against her skin.

"The cameras," she whispered, referring to the implanted devices on both their jackets that monitored their work. But just as the words left her lips, she felt his mouth curl into a smirk against her neck.

"Then we might as well give them a show and leave as many marks as I want." He falls back into her skin, his lips teasing the flesh between his teeth as he moves to mark her as his own. His lips pause at one of the pulse points on her neck, noticing how her heartbeat quickens and flutters. Was this typical?

He wasn't sure, but he finds himself praying it's a good thing. A chuckle escapes him as her hands grow desperate, pulling at the back of his head, stifling a groan. "Easy, girl."

"Remember when you said you'd never kiss me? That I wasn't worth it?" she teases, a playful smile flickering on her lips.

"Fuck, did I really say that? I don't recall," he replies, feigning shock.

"Just saying that because you can't make me come," she laughs softly against him, and he can't help the way a small smile curves his lips. His fingers slip underneath her skirt, pushing past the hem of her panties. He finds her wetness already coating his fingers. "Can't make you come yet you're so wet for me, hm?"

She bites her lip, allowing her hips to sway against his fingers as pleasure envelops her thoughts. Though he's unsure of what exactly to do, he has overheard other men discussing this, and he hopes it delivers as much pleasure as they say when he dips a finger inside her. She's loose around him, wet, eagerly sucking him in. He quickly adds another finger, finding his rhythm almost immediately and growing bold. He dares to let his thumb tease the edges of her clit.

He notices the way her nails dig into his shoulders, biting her tongue so hard that crimson might seep forth at any moment.

The salesman had kissed many women, been on the brink of sex, yet none had reacted the way she did. They were quick to show their responses, every emotion not hidden behind a curtain of embarrassment; yet now, despite the situation, she found herself shy about making noise. He allows another finger to push inside her, the pink velvet of her insides gripping him. He hears her gasp when his fingers threaten to curl, and he allows himself another smile. His thumb finds her clit again, and that's when her grip becomes lethal, biting her lip no longer serving as a guard for her moans.

"Please," she mumbles, whimpering.

"Please what, sweetheart?"

"I... I need you," she moans, surprising herself with her confessions to a man so dangerously psychotic, one who has killed and toyed with lives—this was something she swore she would never do. Yet here she was, becoming intimate with him, and his touch felt so gentle it was as if his past didn't exist. She can see the vein pulsing in his neck as he finally pulls his fingers out, his eyes fixed on hers as he moves his hand to his mouth, savoring her taste.

Her pupils dilate at the sight, skin warming before she realizes she's replacing his fingers with her tongue, pressing her mouth against his again. His hand falls to her waist.

Now every kiss deepens, an intoxicating blend of urgency and desire. She feels each heartbeat echoing between them. Every brush of their lips sends sparks racing through her veins, igniting every part of her being. It's primal and raw, yet intimately tender, as if they were revealing hidden parts of themselves that only the other could see.

Their lips finally part after what feels like an eternity, both gasping for breath. Foreheads resting against each other, they feel the warmth radiating from their skin, their hearts racing in unison. His eyes flutter open to find her looking up at him, a soft, teasing smile spreading across her face.

"You can put me down now," she breathes, her eyes dancing with mischief.

He reluctantly lowers her to the ground, still holding her gaze, trying to steady himself.

But as soon as her feet touch the ground, she kneels right at his crotch. "That's for not giving me a warning," she laughs, her sound teasing and light.

He winces, a mixture of surprise and discomfort crossing his features as he stumbles back. "Fuck."

She turns with a gleaming smile, beginning to walk away, glancing over her shoulder. "And now... I win. Dinner is on you," she calls back, her laughter lingering in the air.

"We are not done yet!" he calls out one last time, holding himself in pain.

part 2

[mermaidgirl30]

✨Saving What Was Lost Part 7: Your Hand In Mine✨

Pre-Outbreak! Joel Miller x fem! reader

Series Masterlist

A/N: Get ready to meet soft, angsty Joel in this chapter. I would like to give him a big hug 🥺

Chapter Summary: Your first day of therapy is a little scary, but Joel helps you through it.

Rating: 18+ only MDNI

Word Count: 4.7k

Chapter Tags: Soft! Joel, so much angst, yearning, reader goes to therapy, dual POV, age gap (reader late 20’s, Joel late 40’s), mentions of violence and kidnapping, grief

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

“You nervous?” Joel asks from the driver’s seat, hands locked around the leather steering wheel.

   You nod while your hands fidget with your leggings. “Mmm, a little.” But a little’s a lie. You’re downright terrified. You’ve never been to therapy, never talked about yourself before like that. Well, Joel was the closest. You’ve talked to him, and you’re oddly comfortable with that now. But other than that? You haven’t done this.

   He must see the lie on your worried face and the terror ringing through your wide eyes. Giving you a gentle smile, he turns his focus back to the road ahead that’s shrouded in mist from the December rain. “Don’t be. Tess is great. You’re going to be great, sweetheart. I know it’s scary, but just know you’re taking that first step into the unknown. That first step of healing, and you’re going to do so well. I jus’ know it.”

   He’s always so supportive, so gentle, so easy with you. It makes your heart clench, makes it beat a little more just for him. 

   You take a good look at him. Watch as he cards a hand back through his tousled curls, watch as his green flannel clings to his flexed biceps, watch as that easy smile melts across his plush mouth. He’s just so nice to watch, so easy to keep your eyes trained on. 

   Darting your tongue across your bottom lip, you tilt your head toward him and give him an easy smile. “You’re always so sure about me.”

   “Yeah, guess I am.” He turns his head toward you and gives you a heart-stopping smile. “I guess I see all the potential in those pretty eyes of yours.”

   Your mouth parts, cheeks redden as you repeat that sentence over in your mind. He thinks you have pretty eyes. He’s always so sure of you. 

   Turning back toward the fogged-up passenger window, you lean against the door and smile. A smile that’s bigger than you’ve ever smiled before. You’re completely smitten by the handsome Texas man with big brown eyes. And he’s just continuing to show you how much life is worth living. Telling you how far he thinks you’ll go. But you don’t want to go far in distance. No. You just want to stay right here beside him. You think you’d follow him anywhere.

   When he stops at a red light, you brave another stare at him and smile like your whole heart is right there in his eyes. “Thanks for seeing the potential in me.”

   One side of his mouth curls up into a crooked smile, and his cinnamon-brown eyes sparkle against the windshield. “You’re so welcome, sweetheart.”

   When you catch your breath from melting, you ask, “Sarah said you see Tess, too?”

   He nods as the truck’s engine revs to life again. “She’s right. See her every couple of weeks or so. She’s patient and understanding and she really helps, I think. Helps when the nights get a little too dark for me.”

   The way he says the last sentence, his low voice sounds a little weary like maybe he fights the nights as much as you do. And you don’t miss the flinch in his right eye or the way his hand tightens on the steering wheel. He must get them too. The nightmares that haunt your dreams every few nights. You wish you could just scoop them up, replace them with dreams of ocean tides or snowy mountains filled with deep green trees. You wish you could take away his pain, whatever’s hurting him so deeply. He hides it well—the pain. But sometimes it creeps up on him, and it spills in different shades across his shadows that slip in his brown eyes. That’s something you don’t miss.

   Steady rain pelts against the windows, making the few trees in the distance look like monsters with tangled vines draping low to the ground. You flick your gaze back to Joel in the driver’s seat and another slow smile brushes against your lips. “Thanks again for driving me.”

   “It ain’t no trouble, sweetheart. I’ll drive you till you don’t need me to.”

   Another skipped heartbeat, another butterfly flitting through your stomach. The man is so sweet. 

   Biting your lower lip, you brave a question, mildly testing the waters. “What if I always need you to?” It comes out quiet, but not so quiet that he doesn’t hear you.

   He slows to a halt at a stop sign and turns to face you, eyes sparkling with promises. “Then I’ll be there every single time you need me.”

   “Promise?” 

   Another smile. “Cross my heart.” He folds a hand over his chest, promising once again. 

   You giggle under your breath, your eyes never leaving his. “Well, looks like I can trust you then.”

   “You can always trust me, sweetheart.” And he means it. You can always trust him, and you know that. God, you know that. 

   When the tires start spinning again on the damp pavement and the low sounds of an old Western song plays through the speakers, he clears his throat and speaks. “It’s gonna be a late night for me.”

   You flip your eyes back to him and give him a worried stare. “Do you have to go somewhere?” You already know what that means. He’s got an important job to do. One where he might be gone all night, maybe till morning. 

   He nods subtly. “Got an important run I gotta do with Tommy. So I might not be home till mornin’…” His voice cuts off. He knows you hate it when he’s away so long.

   “Gone the whole night?” Your voice is a meek whisper because you’re afraid what his answer will be. 

   He’s silent a beat. “Afraid so, but hopefully that ain’t the case. But still, even if I am back earlier, it’ll be well after two o’clock in the mornin’.”

   Your stomach churns just thinking about it. When he’s not across the hall when you’re sleeping, when he’s not just mere feet apart from you, it’s like something’s missing. There’s a void in the pit of your stomach, and you can’t seem to unravel that feeling till he’s in your space again. “I hate when you’re gone all night…” Your words falter, they break like your voice shakes.

   “I know, sweetheart. I know.” His right hand drops to the center console, just inches from yours. He seems conflicted, seems like he wants to reach out and graze his calloused skin against yours, but he doesn’t. But he’s trying. He’s still hesitant to touch you because you’re still so unsure of touch. He doesn’t want to scare you, and you know that. He’s just being careful. And maybe you’re still scared of physical touch, but his touch? That warm, gentle, soft graze he sometimes gives you. Well, it feels like sunlight skimming over you. 

   Carefully, you move your fingers in his direction. Just enough where you can feel the heat of his skin. You don’t touch him, not quite. But this is enough. This is your middle ground. “I umm… I worry about you at night when you’re not home. I’m always scared that… that...” You can’t even speak it out loud. You’re scared he won’t come back one night. And you can’t bear the thought of that. 

   His brown eyes soften. “I’ll be alright, sweetheart. I’ll come back. I can promise you that.” You give him a small smile and nod, keeping your fingers right by his just so you can feel the heat cover your own skin. 

   Physical contact is still something you’re struggling with, but you think Joel understands that. And he does. Always so careful around you. Never one to put you in an uncomfortable situation because he does understand your situation. He knows exactly what you’ve been through, and he wouldn’t dare make the wrong move because he doesn’t want to scare you. And you appreciate that. You appreciate him. So this is enough. Right now in this truck—hands centimeters apart, heat gliding over your fingers, a whispered promise that he’s going to take care of you. 

   Yes. This is enough.

   After a few more minutes, Joel’s pulling into a little parking lot, right in front of a tiny building with a lit-up white sign that says "Essence of Healing.” Your heart starts beating faster, your breath tightening in your chest as your eyes scan the brightly-lit sign. “Well, here we are. You ready?” He turns off the ignition and pulls the key out, his brown eyes flitting over to you. 

   You swallow once and nod, an array of emotions spinning in your head. “Yeah, I think so,” you breathe out as calmly as you can.

   He gives you an encouraging smile and pushes the door open. “C’mon, then.” You open the passenger door slowly and close it with a bang, your knees shaky, legs wobbly with every step you take toward the door. 

   This is it. You’re actually going to talk to a therapist for the first time in your life. What if you’re not ready, what if you choke, what if you burst out into tears and can’t sputter words from your choked-up throat? These are all valid questions, ones you never really considered, but you’re here. You have to do this. You have to do it for yourself. You owe that much to yourself. You are worth it.

   When Joel goes up to the front desk with you, the one covered in green succulents and a calming, trickling desk fountain running the corner, you collect all the paperwork you need to fill out and in exchange give her your photo ID. Joel was kind enough to go with you to get a new one since your old one was lost somewhere in Washington. As for health insurance, Joel was paying out of pocket for you to be seen. But he promised he was working to get you on your own health insurance plan. You still don’t know why he’s being so nice to you, but without him, you’d probably be dead by now…

   After a few minutes of fighting with the paperwork and scribbling out wrong information, you’re about to break out in tears. They’re swelling in the backs of your eyes, making your lips quiver and the words blur on the page.

   “Hey. You’re alright,” Joel coos, taking the pen from your shaky hand. “Let me help.” And you do let him. He fills out the questions you couldn’t answer yourself—his home address, your phone number you still haven’t memorized, emergency contact information, insurance details, even going as far as helping you fill out medical questions you’re having trouble with. 

   As you look up at him all focused and intent on getting your paperwork done, a little spark sizzles in your chest. You study him—eyes glued to the page, jaw flexed as his rapt attention is on each question, tousled curls a little disheveled as he cards his fingers attentively while he thumbs through the pages. You’re a little mesmerized, a little surprised he didn’t just leave you to shovel through the numerous papers. Instead, he chose to stay right by your side, saving you from breaking down from the weight of so many unknowns. 

   You’re scared, a little overwhelmed, a little more nervous than you’d like to be. But with Joel, it seems like you can get through anything. 

   When the paperwork is all completed and he’s back at your side, waiting patiently for them to call you back, you feel a little better—like you can do anything if he’s there next to you. Call him your knight in shining armor, but he truly is. He keeps saving you, and you hope he’ll never stop. 

   The nervous jitters start up again when you glance up at the clock. Five till noon, right when your appointment is supposed to be. Your knee is bouncing up and down in tandem with your flexed fingers against your leggings. Fear trickles down your spine, slides into the deepest parts of your veins. And suddenly, you’re downright terrified. 

   You’re about to get up, run out the door, but Joel senses your worry. He slides the back of his hand against yours, brushing your skin gently, a way to say ‘Hey, I’m right here.’ And when you look up and see those big brown eyes gazing softly down at you, you instantly quiet down inside. Your knee stops bouncing, and you’re left with this overwhelming peace that seems to radiate through every part of your body. Like a quiet forest that soothes your soul, that’s what Joel does to you. He makes everything else around you so still, so quiet. 

   When you’re about to say something to break the trance you’re in, you faintly hear your name being called from the open office door.

   You sit up straight and look toward the door, up at the woman that just called your name. “That’s me,” you call out with a shaky voice. 

   “Ahh. There you are.” She strides up to you and holds her hand out. You slowly take it. She has long light brown hair, strong cheekbones, welcoming hazel eyes, and a smile that instantly soothes you. “I’m Tess, by the way. It’s so good to meet you. This one’s told me a lot about you.” She flicks her eyes to Joel.

   When you take her hand, it’s warm. “It’s nice to meet you, Tess. And of course he has.”

   Joel shakes his head and lets a low chuckle leave his lips. “Guilty as charged.”

   “You got lucky with this one. He’s one of the good ones,” Tess nods as your hands disconnect.

   “He is…” you repeat back, getting lost just for a second in his syrupy brown eyes. He seems to get lost in yours too.

   “You ready?” Tess asks.

   “Oh, uhh. Yeah.” You take a second to push yourself up off the cushioned leather chair, let your legs stop wobbling beneath you. 

   When you’re just about to follow her back, Joel’s low voice serenades your ears. “I’ll be right here waitin’. You’re gonna do great, sweetheart.”

   “Thanks, Joel.” You give him a lasting smile, until Tess beckons you back to her office. 

   “Come on. This way.”

   With one last glance his way, you watch the front office door shut and what awaits you is a long hallway with mint-green wallpaper. Pictures of oceans, fields of wildflowers, and open spaces fill the painted walls. A small white table sits in the middle of the hall with multi-colored flowers hanging over the table that are tucked inside a cream-colored pot. 

   When you make it to the fourth door on the left, Tess nods inside and lets you go first. “Welcome to my office. Hope it’s cozy enough for you.”

   Gasping, you take in her array of rocks and seashells on her back wall. Dozens of colorful shapes and sizes fill the expanse of it. But what really catches your attention is all the little sand dollars spread out by her computer monitor. Her walls are almost the color of sunlight, and she’s got a massive portrait of a west coast beach framed with love behind her desk chair. A white leather couch sits right across from her mahogany desk, and the scent of soothing lavender fills the air. 

   “It’s perfect,” you whisper, amazed by all the decorative details of her office. It’s so inviting and welcoming. It instantly calms you down. 

   “Glad you like it,” she smiles. “Well, have a seat. Get comfortable.” You comply as she gets situated in her chair and pulls up your paperwork. Sifting through it for a minute, she looks up at you with a bright smile lit across her face. “So. This is your first session, is that correct?”

   “Yeah. I… I’ve never done this before,” you answer honestly, a little scared of what she might say, but she only gives you another encouraging smile.

   “Well, you came to the right place then. We’re just going to take this slow, take it one session at a time. Healing is a journey. There’s no one single path to it. We’ll do what works for you, what you’re comfortable with. That sound okay to you?”

   “Mhm,” you nod with your hands clasped tightly in your lap. You’re so fucking nervous, but this is normal, right? Everyone is scared of something they’ve never done before. But this? It seems like all your secrets will surely be unmasked, and that terrifies you. Sharing your past—what happened to you—isn’t going to be easy. Not one bit. 

   “I can see you’re scared, but you don’t have to be. This is a safe space. You can talk to me about anything. It’s all confidential. Nothing you say goes out that door.” 

   Your eyes flit to the closed oak door, and you nod in acknowledgment. “Right… Okay.”

   She scoots back and crosses one leg over her knee, leaving the open papers splayed on her desk. All attention is on you now. “How about we start from the beginning. Before… before you were taken. Maybe start with your childhood?”

   “Oh… I… Well, that’s a lot to tell,” you gulp out nervously. Your childhood trauma is a whole other monster you still haven’t tackled. 

   She smiles. “We’ve got an entire hour today. And if you come back, we’ll have many more sessions to unravel your past.”

   You bite your bottom lip and nod, your nerves getting the best of you, but you push through. “Okay…” You take a deep breath and dive in head first. “Here goes nothing.”

   Four o’clock flashes like an alarm on the oven clock, telling him he’s been gone for hours, but really, it feels like it’s been days. He reaches for the open whiskey bottle and pours the amber liquid over the square ice cubes in the glass. Every drop looks like the trickles of fresh blood that’s stained his flannel permanently. He should’ve fucking known tonight was not the night to wear nice flannels. 

   He scuffs his leather boots against the hardwood floor, dragging his tired legs from the kitchen to the living room, till he’s collapsed in a heap on the leather couch—one hand curled around the cold glass, the other raking down his face excruciatingly slow. 

   He failed. He was too late. Just minutes from being on time. Maybe he could’ve saved her. Saved that innocent little girl from her executioners. But he couldn’t…

   As he closes his eyes, he sees the flash of red covering the dark walls, serenading the lace of her pink dress. Eleven-years-old, just shy of turning twelve, a daughter that’ll never be able to return home to a worried mother and father. 

   He curses under his breath, feels the tears pour like droplets of water down his cheek. She didn’t deserve to die, didn’t deserve to be scared and all alone. He was supposed to save her, was supposed to get her out. That was his mission, and he fucking failed. 

   Three minutes. He was just three fucking minutes shy of saving her life, but he was too late. He misjudged the distance, didn’t realize the captors were early to their destination. He got there right after they smothered her—silencing her terrified screams forever. He can still hear them like shrill sirens blasting through the base of that rundown building. This isn’t the first time he’s been too late, but God. This one hurts like hell because it reminds him of someone he lost along the way. Someone he loved just as much as Sarah.

   And so, he did what he did best. He took them out—all the men that had hurt her. Thankfully, he took backup, including Tommy. He smothered their screams, pushed daggers into their throats, shot them dead in a frenzy of rage while his teeth were clenched and eyes were fogged with held-in tears. When he looked at that poor, lost girl—it nearly took him to his knees. Those eyes. Those same lifeless hazel eyes that still haunt his dreams to this day. They were the same shade as hers… The little girl that forever changed his life. The one that he wishes was still here…

   Ellie… That little girl tonight looked just like his lost daughter—the one he saved all those years ago. But he never fully saved her. Not after… not when he let her go…

   A wave of emotions floods through his chest as he takes another stiff drink of alcohol, letting the whiskey burn through him while visions of hazel eyes and crimson fill his foggy mind. 

   He was too late. He fucked up. He misjudged the minute hand from the second hand. Time slipped away from him. And before he knew it, everything he planned for was lost to the eerie night. Instead, it ended in bloodshed and turmoil. He hates it. Hates when things have to get extremely violet, but what choice did he have? He had to take them out because they stole an innocent life—a life he was supposed to keep safe. 

   He’s so lost in the crimson-stained memories in his mind that he almost misses that small, meek voice of yours. “Joel?” 

   When he opens his eyes, a part of his soul shatters. There you are, a plush blanket wrapped around your shoulders, heartbreaking eyes shining over to him from the staircase. You take in his half-drank glass of whiskey and the dried tears that stain his cheeks. But also, you see the faint crimson that tarnishes his flannel shirt. 

   Blood. There was so much blood… like a liquid pool of death.

   He adjusts his back against the leather cushion and sits up a little straighter, just so he looks less worn down and broken than he already is. You see right through him though. You always do. “Sweetheart, it’s late. Why don’t you…” 

   “Are you… okay?” Your voice whispers across the room, silences the crackling embers in the fireplace. Your voice… it sounds broken too.

   “I, uhh. Jus’ please, go back to sleep.” He tries to push you away, tries to get you to return to your room so he can sulk in peace. He doesn’t want you to see him like this. Doesn’t want you to see just how physically and mentally defeated he actually is. He’s not as strong as you think he is. He’s fragile, grainy sand that gets blown away by the wind. He’s not rock-solid; he’s quicksand.

   You slide into the seat next to him, close enough where your knee could brush against his. “I’m not leaving you.” There’s finality in your tone, still soft but firm on your decision. And there’s those eyes. Those fucking beautiful eyes that could silence all the built-up pain he has piled on his heart.

   You’re so fucking beautiful.

   “Are you hurt?” You ghost your hand across the leather, reaching out just enough where he feels the heat of your skin. It soothes him over just a tad, but nothing can quite wipe away the excruciating weight of agony he’s carrying now.

   “No. I’m jus’… I’m so tired.” He pinches his eyes closed and takes a deep breath, his hand clutching the cool glass of whiskey like it’s his lifeline. “This job weighs on me like solid concrete. Some nights are so fuckin’ hard. Some nights jus’…” He pauses, takes a deep breath in and blows another out. He can’t finish. He’s too tired, too strained from the past few hours, months, years.

   He’s so fucking tired; he just needs some rest, some peace, some symbolism that he knows he’ll get to the finish line. But he’s been so struck down ever since he met that certain hazel-eyed little girl. Ellie. His little girl…

   “What happened tonight?” Your voice comes off as a whisper. Maybe you’re just as scared to hear what he has to say. 

   He taps the edge of his thumb against the solid glass and takes a deep breath. “We uhh… I lost her. Her name… her name was Abigail. Just a little eleven-year-old, and I was supposed to save her, to get her back to her parents. But I… I was too late. I was too fuckin’ late.” There it is. The pen drops, another tear splashes down his stained flannel, and he’s lost to grief again. 

   You pause a beat, but you gasp loud enough for him to hear the horror in your voice. He’s a failure. You must think he’s such a failure. “Joel… I’m so… God. I’m so sorry.” There’s only sorrow in your lilty voice, no anger or resentment that he failed yet another soul. You’re just as sad as him, he thinks.

   “I failed her… I failed everyone…” He shakes his head, sets his mind a little straighter just so he can grit the words out. “Sometimes I feel like none of this is worth it, like I don’t make a difference. Because when this happens, it makes me feel like I’m already six feet underground.”

   “Oh, Joel. No.” He feels it—the couch creak beneath him, the weight of your body sliding over, your hand inching closer to his. “You save so many lives. You make every bit of difference. You change lives.” There’s so much assurance in your voice; you’re trying to soothe him over.

   He snaps his eyes shut and shakes his head, anything to stop the burning sensation in his watery eyes. Maybe if he doesn’t blink then he won’t feel the pain of this gut-wrenching moment. “But I… I couldn’t save her… I couldn’t save…” 

   Ellie…

   With his eyes still shut tight, he feels warmth wrap around his hand, feels the soft caress of your skin. And when he opens his eyes wide, he sees the most beautiful shades of softness gleaming from your pretty eyes. 

   “You saved me. And that… that means everything to me. You saved me. You saved your daughter. You saved so many lives. You are a hero, and don’t you dare think otherwise. Not for one second.” There’s tears licking your lash line, the most sincere look over your pretty face. A desperate plea to get through to him. And in that moment, he believes you for a second. Believes that he is a hero, even when he doesn’t believe it himself.

   His bottom lip trembles as tears gather in his watery eyes. Something hits him deep in the gut. Longing, the fear of losing you, and an all-consuming wave of tender emotions. He sees you. He really sees you. Such a beautiful soul. Such a lovely, amazing woman. To think he almost didn’t go to that auction, almost wasn’t able to save you. What would he do if he never found you? It stings to even think about. Because you… Well, you’re everything all at once. And he’s so fucking soft for you.

   Carefully, softly, he laces his fingers through yours, holds on for dear life, praying you never let go.  

   Don’t let go. Never let go. 

   Your hand is a perfect fit for his. Every line, edge, dip carved specially for his hand to fit in. The weave of your fingers against his, the light brush of your skin, the heat that spirals into complete warmness when your skin slips against his—you were fucking made for him, just as he was for you, he thinks. Because when your bright eyes and soft smile are in his presence, he sees pure sunlight, sees the pure angelic essence you’re bathed in. 

   He was made to find you. This much he knows. And whether you choose to stay or go—he’ll have this moment to hold on to. Because he got you once. Your hand in his. This right here is everything he’s ever needed. It may just be your hand brushing against his, your fingers intertwined together, but it feels like home. You feel like home. 

   So, he lets the soft rain pelt outside against the living room windows, lets the dying fire crackle and pop in the fireplace, and savors the feel of your honey-like soft skin sliding against his. And he stays there for several minutes, maybe an hour, and there’s only silence shrouding the room. But your touch? It screams volumes, makes him feel human again. 

   For a breath of a moment, you’re his. 

   Texas rain was a rare phenomenon. Misty showers only a once in a while type thing. But you? You made it pour, made the flood waters wash clear through Austin. He didn’t see it coming, didn’t expect anything like you. But it sure as hell knocked him clear off his feet when you bathed him in your electric thunderstorms. 

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[wchswift]

ଓ The apple pie life

Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader Summary: you and Dean are tasked with going undercover as a married couple in a suburban neighborhood to investigate a string of mysterious disappearances linked to a local HOA. Content: fluff, one kiss, angst (kinda), idiots oblivious to their own feelings, hunting/working a case, mentions of murders, demons, spells, not proofread, English isn’t my first language :) Word count: 4k a/n: I've been keeping this in my drafts for a while now and while life happens and I work on my dofp!logan one shot, I decided to post this :) I hope you enjoy it

mdni 𖤐 18+

“Yeah, no. This ain’t happening.” Dean Winchester stood at the edge of a freshly mowed lawn, surveying the neighborhood like it was a Hellmouth in disguise. Which, for all they knew, it very well could be. Rows of cookie-cutter houses lined the street, each painted in calming shades of beige, sage, or blue. Even the mailboxes were identical. Dean glared at one as if it had personally offended him.

Sam sighed, arms crossed, watching his brother’s tantrum. “Dean, it’s a neighborhood. Not a death sentence.”

“You’re asking me to pretend to be Mr. Suburbia. Me. You know I don’t do...” Dean gestured vaguely at a garden gnome. “This.”

Standing between the two of them, you held a faux wedding photo that Sam had printed for the cover story. “We’re married. You’re a mechanic. I work from home. We moved here for the good schools. Sound familiar?” you said with a smirk, holding the picture up.

Dean snatched the frame and scowled at the image. “I look like a hostage,” he muttered.

“You always look like that,” you shot back. “Now come on, let’s get unpacked. Our ‘friendly neighborhood welcome committee’ is stopping by in an hour.”

Dean groaned, but there was no backing out. Sam had been adamant: five people had disappeared from this very block in the past six months. The only connection? All were new to the neighborhood, and all had been avid participants in the HOA’s activities.

“Fine,” Dean grumbled, hoisting a box from the Impala. “But I’m not calling you ‘honey.”

Dean’s idea of "unpacking" consisted of dumping boxes onto the floor and shoving furniture into place like he was playing Tetris with his life. You trailed behind him, trying to make the house look halfway livable. It wasn't easy; the entire setup resembled a sitcom scenario, complete with ruffled curtains and throw pillows that Sam insisted would help you blend in.

Dean picked up one of the pillows, squinting at the stitched slogan: Home Sweet Home. “This thing screams demon bait,” he muttered, tossing it onto the couch.

“Maybe if you acted like a halfway decent husband, it wouldn’t,” you quipped, earning a low chuckle from Sam.

“Yeah, hilarious,” Dean shot back, hauling a box of what appeared to be mismatched kitchen supplies onto the counter. “This is my nightmare, by the way. Thought you should know.”

“It’s not exactly a dream for me either, sweetie,” you replied, stressing the endearment with a sugary grin. Dean’s eye roll could’ve powered the whole neighborhood.

The doorbell chimed just as you finished arranging a vase of fake flowers in the living room. Dean peered through the peephole like he expected to see a mob of demons. Instead, a group of impeccably dressed neighbors smiled back at him.

“Kill me now,” Dean muttered, opening the door.

A blonde woman with a Stepford-wife grin and a clipboard stepped forward. “Hi there! Welcome to the neighborhood! I’m Lana, the HOA president. And these are Sheila and Rick, your next-door neighbors!”

Dean gave his best approximation of a smile, though it looked more like a grimace. “Uh, hey. I’m Dean. This is my—uh—wife.”

You plastered on your most winning smile and shook hands all around. “So nice to meet you all!”

Lana’s eyes swept over the living room, clearly appraising your decor. “You’ve done such a lovely job already! Oh, and Dean, we’ll have our weekly HOA meeting at the clubhouse tomorrow night. We expect all new residents to attend. You’ll come, won’t you?”

Dean opened his mouth, likely to come up with an excuse, but you elbowed him. “We’d love to,” you said quickly.

“Wonderful!” Lana chirped. “I’ll leave you with the neighborhood handbook. Everything you need to know is right here.” She handed over a spiral-bound monstrosity of rules and regulations before bustling off with her entourage.

Dean stared at the handbook like it might explode. “Fifty bucks says they’re part of a cult.”

That night, Sam joined you both in the kitchen, where you poured over the HOA handbook. Sam had come by under the guise of helping you move in but was really playing the role of a nosy family friend who conveniently lived a few towns over.

“Okay,” Sam said, flipping through pages. “This is weird. Every house here has to have a specific type of lawn ornament? And look at this—rules about curfew, holiday decorations, even what kind of car you can park in your driveway.”

“Classic control freaks,” Dean muttered, popping open a beer.

“Or something worse,” Sam countered, pointing to a line about mandatory attendance at neighborhood socials. “People start disappearing, and the HOA gets more power over the remaining residents. It seems like they're under some spell… perhaps they made a pact? Maybe with a demon.”

Dean groaned. “Great. So it’s not just bad casseroles we have to survive.”

“We need to hit that meeting tomorrow,” you said. “Whatever’s going on, that’s where we’ll find the first clue.”

The next evening, you and Dean made your way to the HOA meeting at the neighborhood clubhouse, blending in among the perfectly groomed crowd. Everyone was dressed like they were auditioning for a suburban magazine spread: crisp polos, floral blouses, and smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes.

Dean leaned closer to you, muttering, “Tell me this doesn’t feel like a Stepford reboot.”

You elbowed him lightly, smiling for the neighbors. “Try to look like you’re not plotting their demise, honey.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, adjusting his flannel like it was armor. “Let’s just hope these people don’t sacrifice newcomers to their God of Lawn Care.”

Inside the clubhouse, Lana, the HOA president, stood at the front of the room, clipboard in hand. She welcomed everyone with her signature cheerfulness, but you couldn’t miss the way her eyes scanned the crowd, lingering on the newcomers—you and Dean.

“Now, let’s get started!” she chirped. “First order of business: Mr. Peterson’s garden gnomes. We’ve had complaints they’re too whimsical.”

Dean raised an eyebrow at you, mouthing, too whimsical? You struggled not to laugh.

The meeting droned on, a mix of petty complaints and rigid enforcement of bizarre rules, until Lana’s tone shifted.

“And finally,” she said, her voice dropping an octave, “a reminder that all residents are expected to attend next week’s neighborhood barbecue. Remember, harmony is our greatest strength. We’re all part of something... bigger here.”

Her words sent a ripple of unease through the room. Most of the neighbors nodded dutifully, but a few glanced nervously at each other. You caught Dean’s gaze, and his expression was sharp, all traces of humor gone.

Later that night, back at the house, you pored over what you’d observed with Sam and Dean.

“It’s not just the rules,” you said, pacing the living room. “It’s the way they act. Like they’re afraid of stepping out of line.”

“And what’s with Lana’s ‘bigger picture’ speech?” Dean added, tossing the HOA handbook onto the coffee table. “She’s definitely hiding something.”

Sam tapped at his laptop. “I did some digging. Lana moved into this neighborhood ten years ago, right before the HOA’s rules got so strict. Before that? No disappearances, no creepy cult vibes.”

Dean frowned. “So she’s the ringleader?”

“More like the summoner,” Sam replied, turning the screen to show an old news clipping. It detailed Lana’s involvement in occult studies years ago. “If she’s behind this, it’s not merely a pact. It’s using the HOA to enforce perfection, as it literally sustains the spell that keeps it anchored here.”

“So, the HOA handbook’s not just a pain in the ass,” you said, glancing at Dean. “It’s the demon’s playbook.”

The next morning, Dean decided to “blend in” by taking his role as a suburban husband to absurd levels.

You came downstairs to find him in an apron, flipping pancakes with an exaggerated flourish. “Morning, sweetheart!” he called, his grin annoyingly smug.

“What are you doing?” you asked, still half-asleep.

“Being the perfect husband,” he said, loading a plate with a stack of slightly burnt pancakes. “You should try it sometime, darling.”

The sarcasm in his tone made you roll your eyes, but you couldn’t suppress a small laugh. “If this is your idea of perfection, the demon’s going to smite us before lunch.”

Dean’s antics didn’t stop at pancakes. Later that day, he decided to tackle the front yard—shirtless, of course, because “that’s what husbands do, right?”

You stood on the porch, arms crossed, watching as he wrestled with the garden hose like it owed him money. His flannel was tossed onto a nearby fence, leaving his t-shirt in a crumpled heap in the corner. The summer sun glinted off his shoulders, and despite the ridiculousness of it all, you couldn’t help but stare.

“You know,” you called out, fighting a smirk, “the neighbors are going to think you’re some kind of exhibitionist.”

Dean glanced up, his grin wolfish. “Or they’ll think you’re married to the best damn landscaper on the block.”

“You missed a spot.” You pointed at a section of the lawn.

He mock-groaned, holding a hand to his chest like you’d mortally wounded him. “Man slaves away, and this is the thanks he gets? No wonder I’m burned out on marriage.”

“Burned out implies you ever tried,” you shot back, leaning against the doorframe.

Dean’s expression shifted, just for a moment—a flash of something vulnerable, quickly buried under his usual bravado. “Yeah, well... guess I never found the right reason to try.”

The air between you grew heavier, the teasing edge dulled by an undercurrent you didn’t quite know how to address. He broke eye contact first, turning back to the yard. “Don’t just stand there, princess. Grab a rake or something.”

The barbecue was the kind of event you’d have laughed at if you weren’t actively part of it. Neatly arranged folding tables with checkered cloths stretched across the neighborhood park, and neighbors mingled with drinks in hand, every one of them smiling just a little too wide.

Dean leaned against the grill, flipping burgers with the same intensity he used while sharpening knives. “This is a trap. You know that, right?” he muttered, glancing around.

“Obviously,” you replied, sipping a too-sweet lemonade. “But we’re undercover, remember? Try to act like you’re enjoying yourself.”

Dean’s grin was laced with sarcasm. “Oh yeah, I’m having a blast. Love talking about lawn fertilizer and HOA-approved fence heights.”

Just then, Lana appeared beside the two of you, her ever-present clipboard tucked under her arm. “Dean, those burgers smell amazing! And you—” She turned to you with that polished grin. “You’re just glowing, aren’t you? Married life suits you two so well.”

Dean, never one to miss an opportunity, slung an arm around your shoulders. “Well, Lana, we’re just one big, happy couple.” He punctuated the sentence with a quick kiss to your temple, the smug look on his face daring you to react.

You forced a tight smile. “Couldn’t be happier.”

Lana beamed, but her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Wonderful to hear. It’s so important to maintain harmony in the neighborhood.” She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping. “After all, everything falls apart if even one house doesn’t meet expectations.”

Dean’s arm stiffened against your shoulder, his instincts flaring. “Is that right?”

Lana nodded, her expression unreadable. “Absolutely. Well, I won’t keep you. Enjoy the barbecue!”

Once Lana was out of earshot, you and Dean regrouped with Sam near the dessert table.

“She’s hiding something,” you said, cutting straight to the point.

“Definitely,” Dean agreed, setting his plate down. “And what’s with the whole ‘harmony’ thing? She sounded like a cult leader.”

Sam nodded, keeping his voice low. “She is. It is indeed a deal, an exchange. The more the neighborhood conforms to the rules, the stronger it gets. People who can’t meet the standards? They’re the ones who disappear.”

You frowned. “So the HOA rules aren’t just annoying—they’re literally fuel for this thing.”

Dean’s jaw tightened. “Well, good news. We’ve got the perfect distraction right here.” He gestured at himself and you with a smirk.

“Perfect distraction?” you repeated.

“Think about it,” he said. “We’re new, we’re not exactly HOA material, and if anyone’s gonna tick off a demon about their precious rules, it’s us.”

Sam sighed. “Just be careful. If the demon gets wind of what you’re doing, it won’t wait for you to break a rule—it’ll come for you directly.”

The first crack in the HOA’s perfectly polished façade came two days after Dean decided to rebel in his own loud, stubborn way. The offending incident? A single garden gnome—brightly painted and flipping the bird—set proudly on your front lawn.

You crossed your arms, staring at the gnome as Dean lounged against the doorframe. “Really?”

Dean grinned, proud as a kid showing off a bad report card. “What? It’s art.”

“It’s bait,” you corrected, shaking your head.

“Exactly.” He smirked, arms crossed. “Lana won’t know what hit her.”

Sure enough, Lana arrived within the hour, clipboard in hand and fury barely masked beneath her painted smile. “Dean, we need to discuss your lawn decorations,” she said through gritted teeth.

Dean stepped outside, wearing the smuggest expression you’d ever seen. “What’s the problem, Lana? Don’t you like art?”

She blinked, momentarily stunned by his audacity, before recovering. “This neighborhood thrives on harmony. Your—choice of ornament—disrupts that balance.”

Dean leaned casually against the porch railing. “Huh. Didn’t see anything in the handbook about freedom of expression being against the rules.”

You watched from the window, biting back a laugh as Lana sputtered, her usual control slipping. She left with a curt, “This isn’t over.”

After Lana stormed off, you expected Dean to be all bravado and quips, but instead, he started fixing the fence. It was such a rare sight that you almost did a double take.

“What are you doing?” you asked, leaning against the porch post.

“Making sure the place doesn’t fall apart,” Dean replied, hammering a nail into place. “If we’re staying here long enough to take down a demon, might as well make it look good.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know you were so handy, Mr. Winchester.”

He smirked, not looking up. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m full of surprises.”

That night, you found Dean in the kitchen, you noticed Dean seemed... different. Focused. Almost like he belonged here. He stirred a pot of chili with a level of precision that rivaled his aim with a gun.

“You’re surprisingly good at this,” you remarked, leaning against the counter.

Dean shrugged. “I used to cook for Sammy when we were kids. Guess some habits stick.”

The soft admission caught you off guard. For all his bravado, moments like these reminded you of the man underneath—the one who took care of everyone else, even when he didn’t have to.

“This is weird,” you muttered, setting the table.

Dean looked over at you. “What is?”

“You. Doing all this domestic stuff. It’s like you’re... enjoying it.”

Dean shrugged, placing the bowls of chili on the table. “I don’t hate it. Beats getting shot at every day.”

“Guess you’re not half-bad at this husband thing after all,” you teased.

Dean smirked, his usual cockiness back in place. “Don’t let it go to your head, sweetheart.”

Later, the two of you sat on the couch, flipping through channels. Sam had gone back to his motel, leaving you and Dean with a rare bit of downtime.

The sound of the TV faded into the background as Dean spoke up. “You ever think about it? A normal life, I mean.”

You looked over at him, surprised. “Sometimes. Why?”

He leaned back, one hand draped along the back of the couch, his expression unusually serious. “I don’t know. It’s just... this case, all this fake domestic stuff... It’s kinda nice. Not worrying about what’s lurking around the corner every second.”

“You’ve never thought about it before?” you asked gently.

Dean gave a short laugh, his gaze distant. “Nah. Figured it wasn’t in the cards. Even when I was a kid, normal wasn’t exactly in the Winchester playbook.”

His words hung in the air, heavier than you’d expected.

“Maybe it’s not about the cards you’re dealt,” you said softly. “Maybe it’s about finding your own kind of normal.”

He turned to look at you, his green eyes searching yours. For a moment, the air between you felt charged, but he broke the gaze first, his usual smirk returning. “Well, my kind of normal definitely involves better TV shows than this crap.”

You laughed, nudging his shoulder. “Fair enough.”

The tender moment passed quickly as the two of you turned back to the case.

The next morning, Sam returned with a crucial discovery. “Lana made a deal with a demon ten years ago. She wanted the perfect neighborhood, and the demon delivered. But the cost? Anyone who doesn’t fit her version of perfection gets sacrificed to keep the deal going.”

Dean clenched his jaw. “So she’s trading lives for lawn perfection? Well, that’s messed up.”

Sam nodded. “It thrives off the conformity she enforces. The more people play by the rules, the stronger the demon gets. The ones who disappear? They’re used as sacrifices to maintain the spell.”

Dean stood abruptly. “Great. So we take down the demon, and her whole Stepford act goes up in flames.” He looked at you. “But first, we gotta piss her off enough to make a move.”

After talkng with Sam, you and Dean turned the dial on your undercover roles.

You started your day loudly arguing in the driveway about “trivial” things—how Dean never folded the laundry right, how you “always” bought the wrong coffee creamer.

Dean played it up like a pro, throwing his hands in the air dramatically. “Fine! Next time, you go grocery shopping!”

“Oh, because you’re so busy, huh?” you shot back, struggling not to laugh.

So you two just keeped violating the rules. Determined to push Lana past her breaking point, Dean added strung mismatched Christmas lights across the front porch, even though it was July.

“Dean,” you said, standing in the driveway with crossed arms, “I’m pretty sure even the demon is rolling its eyes at this point.”

Dean grinned as he plugged in the lights, which flickered in a garish rainbow. “Oh, come on, admit it. This is the most fun we’ve had on a case in months.”

You couldn’t argue with that. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re married to me,” he shot back, winking. “You know,” Dean said, leaning in close as you adjusted the strand of blinking lights, “we make a pretty good team when we’re breaking all the rules.”

You smirked. “Better than your pancake-making team, that’s for sure.”

He laughed, the sound rich and unguarded. “Touché.”

Lanas’s car pulled up just as Dean propped his flamingo lawn ornament next to the mailbox. Her expression was a masterclass in repressed rage as she stepped out, clipboard in hand.

“Dean!” she barked, her voice sharp enough to make the neighbors glance over from their gardening.

He sauntered up to her, feigning innocence. “Morning, Lana. Lovely day, isn’t it?”

Her smile was brittle, her grip on the clipboard tightening. “We need to talk.”

Dean’s escalating antics had done the trick. By the time night fell, Lana’s perfectly polished demeanor had cracked. She called an emergency HOA meeting, under the pretense of “addressing a disturbance in harmony.”

“You ready for this?” Dean asked as the three of you crouched outside the clubhouse, peeking through a window.

“I’ve been ready since the gnome,” you replied, flashing him a quick grin.

Sam whispered, “Looks like she’s prepping for a ritual. We need to stop her before she completes it.”

Dean nodded. “Sam, you cut off the ritual. We’ll handle Lana.”

“We?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

Dean smirked. “What, you don’t trust me?”

“Not as far as I can throw you,” you shot back, but the teasing tone didn’t quite mask the warmth in your words.

The two of you burst through the clubhouse door just as Lana lit the final candle on an ornate altar covered in sigils. The neighbors, all eerily quiet, stood in a semicircle around her, their expressions blank and glassy-eyed.

“Lana!” Dean called out, his voice cutting through the room. “You forgot to put this on the HOA agenda.”

She turned, her face twisting into something feral. “You don’t understand,” she hissed. “This neighborhood is perfect because of me. Because of what I’ve done!”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, well, your definition of perfect kinda sucks.”

Lana snarled, grabbing a knife from the altar and lunging at him. You moved instinctively, stepping in to block her path. Together, you and Dean fought her off, moving in perfect sync.

She was fast, unnaturally so, but you matched her step for step, Dean covering your back with practiced ease. At one point, she swung the knife in a wide arc, and Dean caught her wrist, twisting it just enough for you to knock the blade free.

“You good?” he asked, glancing at you.

You nodded, catching your breath. “I’m fine. You?”

“Peachy,” he replied, his grin full of adrenaline-fueled bravado.

Behind you, Sam chanted Latin, his voice steady as he worked to dismantle the ritual. The sigils on the altar began to glow, flickering as the power binding the neighborhood started to unravel.

Realizing she was losing, Lana screamed, “You’ll ruin everything! Without this deal, this place will fall apart!”

Dean shrugged, stepping closer. “Good. Then maybe it’ll feel a little more human.” With a final swing, he knocked her unconscious, the force of it sending her crumpling to the floor.

Sam finished the ritual just as the sigils burned out entirely, plunging the room into silence. The neighbors blinked, their blank expressions fading as they seemed to wake from a dream.

“It’s over,” Dean said, his voice low.

Outside the clubhouse, you leaned against the Impala, catching your breath. The air felt lighter now, the oppressive weight of the neighborhood’s perfection finally lifted.

Dean stood a few feet away, looking at you with an unreadable expression. For once, he seemed at a loss for words.

“You okay?” you asked softly, stepping closer.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. “Just... thinking.”

“Dangerous habit,” you teased, but the smile you gave him was gentle.

Dean’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, everything else faded away. Before you could think, he closed the distance between you, his lips crashing into yours.

The kiss was intense, filled with all the emotions he’d been holding back—relief, affection, gratitude and something deeper, something unspoken. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Took me long enough, huh?”

You laughed softly, your hand resting against his chest. “Yeah. But worth the wait.”

᭝ ᨳଓ𓂃⋆.

The next morning, as the three of you packed up to leave, Dean was back to his usual self—mostly.

Dean hesitated, glancing at the house. “Gotta admit,” he said, his voice softer than usual, “this whole domestic thing... wasn’t the worst.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really? I thought you hated it.” Dean smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, well, turns out I don’t suck at it. Could even get used to it, maybe.”

“You know,” he said, leaning against the Impala as you loaded the last bag into the trunk, “this whole married thing has its perks.”

“Oh yeah?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He smirked. “Yeah. Hot meals, shared insurance benefits, someone to remind me when I forget my wallet.”

You rolled your eyes, shoving him lightly. “God, you’re insufferable.”

He shook his head, but there was a warmth in his gaze as he looked at you. “Maybe in another life.”

You didn’t answer, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away. Dean opened the driver’s side door, his usual cocky grin back in place. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s hit the road.” You climbed in, Dean kissing you on the head before closing the door.

As the Impala roared to life and the too-perfect neighborhood disappeared in the rearview mirror, you couldn’t help but think about Dean’s earlier words. Maybe this undercover mission had been more than just a case.

Maybe, in some small way, it had given both of you a glimpse of what could be.

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

[hoiststowline]

laughter lines

ratchet x reader tw:// very minor mentions of injury

Ratchet would rather choke than admit such a sentimental observation aloud, but it would be a flat lie to say he did not care in reference to you or your wellbeing. In a current instance, he feigned annoyance, graveling about completing such a menial task, but it's secretly a breath of fresh air to escape the stuffiness of the base.

He watches with tired optics as you stand on the sidewalk, conversing with fellow employees as they yap happily, yourself shifting your weight from foot to foot as if to display mild impatience. Your body language speaks it all, struggling to keep up with the conversation but unable to pull yourself away successfully, wanting to linger to some degree, but knowing there was a eager bot somewhere wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible.

But he doesn't wish for you to rush on his behalf, from late-night conversations of loneliness and enervation, he understands that you are in short supply of those whom you can confidently label close. Though you've mentioned heavily that most of your co-workers are nothing but aggravating, it is tender to see how you throw your head back in laughter, locks of hair tugged gracefully by winters icy chills.

These coworkers he does not recognize, their faces only illuminated and visible by a few scattered streetlights. They don't put up a front that they are doing this for a careless reason, more so to have a chat with you after work hours, away from others. Ratchet has come to familiarize himself with some of your peers, the ones he sees when he arrives to pick you up, but these he has not seen before, at least at your side when you leave.

They appear to be around your age, talking wildly with their hands as you nod eagerly in agreement, fingers slipping into your jacket's sleeves to combat the frigid air. It's a comforting sight, getting to see you act naturally as if no eyes were on you but those at your front.

"This was fun, y/n!" One of them laughs, their car keys dangling from their fingers. "Have a good night!" He observes you watch them walk across the parking lot, waving them goodbye. When they disappear into their respective vehicles, then do you turn to survey the empty lot, catching his dimly lit headlights not far off.

The walk over to the hidden ambulance was hurried, swiftly hiking your bag back onto your shoulder as it had slipped down your arm again. Feeling immense guilt, you fight the bitter gusts headed your direction and step off the curb, looking both ways before crossing the intersection.

"Hey," His passenger door pops open upon your arrival down the sidewalk, your small hands easily finding the handle that rests just beside the hinge, using it to haul yourself up and into his cabin. "I'm sorry I kept you waiting. I wasn't expecting to talk for so long,"

"Don't worry about it." He drawls, but there is no usual irritation in his words. "I haven't been here long."

His unusual but familiar patience is relaxing, enough that it causes the culpability to dissipate languidly from your shoulders. Before long, you're settling into the passenger seat of the ambulance, the door closing over once your bag was placed on the ground between your sneakers.

"It was nice." You decide, running fingers through your hair to tame it, thrown askew by the incoming storm.

"Good," Ratchet replies easily, engine turning over once he ensures your seatbelt is adjusted properly, clicking over your waist effortlessly. "That's what I like to hear."

Humming in agreement, your head tilts back against the headrest, exhausted. Scrounging up some courage, you mumble a gentle: "But I did miss you, Ratch."

Though he's used to your overflowing schmaltz by now, it still rings him with surprise at how soft your voice goes when you've simply hit your limit. "Long shift?"

"Something like that." There's an overwhelming curiosity that begs you to wonder if he understands the true emotion behind your sentences, but you're too anxious to inquire him of it just yet. "Those girls had their first day last week. They're sweet, they make the shift go by just a little bit faster."

"And no injuries this time?" He asks before gently throwing the gear shift in drive, beginning to head towards the road. "No burns, cuts, or gaping wounds I need to know about?"

He's referencing the last time he picked you up, yourself walking down the stairs with a gauze shoddily tapped to your finger as you nipped yourself on something you don't care to remember, a totally common accident. Ratchet was entirely displeased, scoffing at your medical analysis before wrapping it up properly, a permanent frown etched onto his face-plate.

"Nah. Injury-free night." You somberly laugh, watching the landscape slip by. "What are your plans for the evening, Ratchet?"

"I have plenty of work to do." There's a pause like he wants to say something more, but doesn't, leaving you to pick up the exchange.

You bite your bottom lip, making a distracted noise of acknowledgment. "Right. That makes sense."

"By your inquiry, it sounds like you had something in mind." He continues, toying with the idea to entertain your likely insane request. Your next set of words surprises him, not quite expecting them to be so disheartened after he saw you so elated-peaceful even-moments before.

"No," You start, head rolling lazily towards the center console as if to address him properly. "I just...I don't wanna be alone with my thoughts right now." Sighing, you try to push your emotions aside, the next words you mumble are more so for yourself than for Ratchet. "Is that annoying? Am I being annoying?"

Ratchet finds himself never in short supply of absolutely certifiable sentences that stumble forth from your mouth, yourself finding never-ending ways to leave the mech completely stunned, unsure of how even to dignify such a query. Most often, it's a jest not even worth the moment it takes to refute. However, in this instance, he dissects something within your words, and his knee-jerk reaction of deflection likely would do more harm than good this time.

"Where the hell did that come from?" He rumbles, observing how fingers wringing together timidly in your lap like you were afraid to say anything further. "That's random, even for you, y/n."

Given his profession, if there was one thing he was best at, apart from his medical expertise was spotting a lie. He's a damn near expert when it comes to other mechs, but your roundabout ways and unspoken gestures were a bit more difficult to assess, but not impossible. Ratchet thinks he's gotten it nailed down, now watching as you try to backpedal, body tense and unable to maintain a cohesive gaze.

"Ah, forget it. It's not important-" You start, leaning your head to the right as your eyes move downwards, hinting that you were not being honest with him. "Sorry. Yeah, I don't know where that came from either."

This is a side of you he has yet to see, partial to always nagging him for multitudes of ridiculous reasons, but it appears this is an answer you don't quite have the stomach to hear, but have been wondering for some dedicated time. You're being reticent, obviously just having subconsciously gathered the courage to approach him about such a subject but sensing something overlaying in his response, even if it was unintentional.

"Hold it," While silently processing your words, you had already attempted to change the subject, hopefully unnoticed. "We aren't glossing over that. Rewind."

At your withdrawal from the conversation, stiff shoulders jump to your ears, easily finding his abrupt tone. "Ratchet-"

"I'm not arguing with you." Even in his alt-mode, you could feel his stare, a scowl likely on his lips. Knowing he is dead serious, you sigh, seatbelt tugging against your now deflated stance. Ratchet frowns, adamancy high and unrelenting. "Tell me what you meant by that."

The urge to say 'By what?' is almost undeniable, but it's clear that he was extremely unwavering since it was the two of you alone. "It was pretty straightforward."

"Yes, but the context isn't." He counters, tone losing its snide aspect for a brief sliver of time. "I could understand if I said something to lead you to believe that, but it isn't true."

"Are you sure?" Ratchet sputters at your weak tone, wanting to quell the tears he knows are on their way. “I mean, I know I’ve got to annoy you. A lot.”

“Did those slagheads say something to you?” He grouses, now irritated with himself for not intervening, finding a route for you to escape the conversation. “You looked so happy."

A swarm of something settles in your stomach, feeling the urge to cry nag behind your eyes. "What? No. They didn't- I was happy, I mean, I think I was happy-" 

"There are many who can only hope to have a personality as gratifying as yours," He was being genuine, being kind, and some awful part of you thinks it's out of pity, but then again, when has Ratchet ever said anything that wasn't the truth? He's blunt, doesn't have a filter most of the time, and doesn't hesitate to point out when you're giving yourself the short end of the stick. 

You weren't digging for compliments, though hearing such a sentiment from Ratchet did tug on your heartstrings just a bit. The evening's events were typical, annoying, and infuriating, but a small slow patch of time left you with your thoughts and a broad study. Your co-workers got along, they were friendly amongst themselves and laughed at each other's jokes-but somehow you never seemed to fit within that puzzle just right. 

Your interactions were forced and strictly work-based. Though these new staff were kind, part of you only seemed to think they interacted with you because they had to, given you were the unlucky one selected to train them. But that meant something, the fact they went out of their way to walk outside with you, thanking you for the time and effort.

"To answer your original question," The medic says, and you find no indignation in his tone, eyes darting straight to the rearview mirror. "No, it's not annoying to not want to be alone. Also, no, you are not annoying," 

"Thanks." You rasp, reaching forward to pat his dashboard affectionately. "I needed to hear that. Is it okay if I hang out with you? Just for a little bit?"

If it was anyone else, Ratchet has the piles of work on his desk committed to memory, knowing any interactions would only lead to intruding hindrances. But he's come to learn from several instances of your pleading to 'hang out', it means just sitting in his presence, just simply enjoying the company without uttering a word most of the time. It's the only reason he'd ever say yes to such an outlandish request, only when it comes from you.

"You already know the answer to that," He dismisses you easily, but there's something contrasting within his words.

Wordlessly delighted to hear your true laugh, your lips erupt into a small smile, comforted by his habits. "You're the best."

He doesn't answer, but there's something about the way his engine sputters just vaguely is all the reply you need, gaze moving back out the window once more.

[heejamas]

nicest guy: 14. between two wolves

word count: ~2k words + 9 screenshots

warnings: profanity, sexual jokes, weed consumption, alcohol consumption, jake and hoon hate each other

“You seem kinda off,” Giselle said, glancing at you from the driver’s seat as you sat there, trying not to spiral. She was driving you to Heeseung’s place, and Sunoo was chilling in the backseat, earbuds in, acting like he wasn’t silently judging the entire situation.

Sunoo was your best friend, which meant he already knew exactly what was going on inside your head. You were on your way to some low-key hangout at this football player’s apartment—who, by the way, was tight with the quarterback that every girl on campus wanted to hook up with: Jake. Oh, and let’s not forget the small detail that Jake had a massive crush on you. Also? The last time you saw him, you ended up sleeping in the same bed as him because he was so wasted he practically passed out mid-sentence. Oh, and did I mention the cops showed up that night? Yeah, that too.

And now, here you were, dragging yourself to this thing. The second time in your entire college existence that you decided to stop being a hermit and actually hang out with people. So, were you feeling weird? Uh, yeah. You were full-on panicking.

“I’m not off. I’m super on,” you said, trying (and failing) to convince your friends.

“Come on, Y/N,” Sunoo finally cut in, pulling out one earbud. “Let’s not pretend you’re not freaking out because you’re seeing Jake.”

“It’s not because of that, and you know it,” you shot back, turning to glare at him. “I just wanted Jungwon to come with us. I’d feel way more comfortable. He knows most of the people at this… party or whatever.”

“It’s not a party, babe,” Giselle said, shooting you a quick grin. “And relax. Jungwon’s coming later with Sunghoon.”

You gulped. And there it was—the real reason for your anxiety. Sunghoon. Your brother’s best friend. Sunghoon, who you’d somehow developed a crush on in the last week. And yeah, he was going to be there too. But the kicker? You were only going to this get-together because Jake invited you. Jake, who had some weird beef with Sunghoon for reasons no one wanted to explain to you.

Sunoo knew, though. That’s why he reached over from the backseat and tapped your shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Slut era, remember?”

“Maybe I liked my vamp era better,” you muttered. Sunoo and Giselle burst out laughing while she parked her car outside Heeseung's condo. You all made your way down the dim hallway, stopping in front of Heeseung’s apartment door. You took a deep breath as Sunoo reached out to ring the doorbell.

It barely took a second before Jake swung the door open, his puppy-dog eyes lighting up like he’d been waiting there all night. If he were an actual dog, his tail would be wagging so hard it’d knock something over.

“You came!” Jake said, his gaze locking onto you like you were the only person in the room. For a moment, it was just you and him, his smile stretching from ear to ear. Then, almost like he remembered there were other people present, he broke the spell, nodding at Sunoo and Giselle with a quick, “Hey, guys,” to make it look like he wasn’t completely obvious.

“Come on in,” Jake added, stepping aside to let you and your friends walk in.

The apartment was exactly what you’d expect from a college football player who was also a certified nerd. The walls were painted a dark gray, making the space feel a little moody, but the posters—classic Pokémon artwork, a few Marvel movie posters, and one suspiciously artsy shot of Pikachu—gave it some personality. Heeseung's personality, you guess.

There were about ten people at Heeseung’s place. You didn’t know most of their names—just vague faces you recognized from the football team. The only person you actually knew, besides Jake and Heeseung, was Niki, your brother’s goofy friend.

Jake introduced you to everyone like he was showing off his shiny new girlfriend, and the way they all glanced at each other only made it more obvious. The only problem was that you barely knew the guy.

Still, you found yourself enjoying their banter. Heeseung was going off about how his phone keyboard was stuck in Greek, which turned out to be a prank by Niki. It totally checked out—your brother and Niki were equally chaotic. Beomgyu was loud but hilariously so, cracking jokes that had you laughing way too hard. Soobin, on the other hand, was chill and introverted, kind of like you. They weren’t at all like the stereotypical football team jerks you’d imagined. They were actually… nice.

And then there was Jake. He was glued to you all night, constantly checking in to make sure you were comfortable. You had to admit, he was fun to be around. What really got to you, though, was how much effort he put into including your friends. That meant everything to you—your friends were your world, and anyone who cared about them instantly earned points.

As more people trickled into the hangout, Jake made it his mission to introduce you to every single one of them. It was kind of sweet how hard he was trying.

“What about we play Uno?” Beomgyu shouted, already hyped.

Everyone agreed, though Heeseung immediately groaned. “You’re so annoying when we play Uno. Please don’t cheat this time!”

“Bro, relax,” Beomgyu shot back, grinning. “If you lose, just blame it on your Greek cards.”

The whole room burst out laughing as Heeseung flipped him off, and they all started gathering around the table to play.

“You wanna join?” Jake asked, turning to you. He was being the perfect gentleman, always checking if you were okay. At first, you’d thought he was kind of a loser, but now… well, the banter between you two was growing on you.

“Actually, I think I’m good,” you replied, smiling. Uno with five people? Fun. Uno with fourteen? A chaotic nightmare.

You were both sitting at Heeseung’s couch, he was not too close to you, but close enough for him to speak in a low tone. Jake leaned in slightly, his voice low but still casual. “We could go outside if you want. The balcony’s got a great view. Plus… we could smoke a joint. You down?”

“Why not?” you said with a small shrug, playing it cool.

Truth was, you weren’t a huge weed person—your brother was, so you’d picked up the basics by association. But the idea of being alone with Jake, on a random balcony, in the middle of this chaotic hangout? That wasn’t something you’d ever pictured in your social life bingo. And honestly? You were kind of into it.

You and Jake stepped out into the hallway, leaning against the balcony railing, taking in the view. You’d had two, maybe three beers. Jake? Probably a few more. He casually pulled a pre-rolled out of his pocket, lit it with practiced ease, and passed it to you without a word. You took a slow drag, letting the smoke linger before glancing at him. He was standing right beside you, watching you intently, like you were the most interesting thing he’d seen all night.

“What?” you asked, holding in the smoke as you raised an eyebrow at him.

“Didn’t think you smoked,” he admitted, his voice soft and a little shy. He was clearly trying to be flirtatious, but the way he kept stealing glances made it obvious he was just happy to be this close to you.

“I don’t. My brother does, so I join him sometimes.” You replied casually after exhaling. “Were you thinking about me, though?” You shot him a sly grin, the kind that had Jake blinking like you’d just flipped his world upside down.

“What do you mean?” he asked, his voice a little more serious than usual, his eyes wide with surprise.

“You said you didn’t think I smoked,” you teased, turning fully towards him and passing the joint back. “So… were you thinking about me?”

You blew out the smoke slowly, letting it drift between the two of you. You were a convicted introvert, but you weren’t shy—not even a little. And that seemed to catch Jake completely off guard.

“I was just…” He paused, clearly struggling to string together a sentence. “Maybe I did think about… you.”

He stopped mid-thought, though, his gaze shifting behind you.

A tall figure was walking down the hallway toward Heeseung’s apartment. Sunghoon. And of course, Jungwon was with him.

Jake’s expression faltered for a split second, frustration flickering in his eyes. Why now? He’d just been getting somewhere with you, and now he had to show up.

As Sunghoon got closer, his eyes briefly flicked between you and Jake. His expression didn’t give much away, but the energy? Oh, it was crystal clear.

Jake needed to get out of your orbit—and fast.

“Yoi!” Jungwon greeted, walking up to you and Jake with his usual energy. “You guys smoking? I’m in!” He slid in right next to you, already reaching for the joint. You shot him a look, silently asking if he really had to interrupt right now. But then your eyes shifted, catching sight of someone else. Sunghoon.

And damn, he looked good.

It was the first time you’d seen him since that party, the one where you decided to let yourself fall into the pit of an unreciprocated crush on your brother’s best friend. He stood there, glancing between you and Jake, his expression unreadable but focused.

You tried to play it cool, but your thoughts were a mess. Sunghoon didn’t seem to care about you the way you’d hoped—so why did he look like someone had just told him he lost ten grand?

You couldn’t help but second-guess everything. Since you realized that probably Sunghoon didn’t give a shit about you, you thought that maybe it was for the better giving Jake a chance. But then, Sunghoon’s eyes lingered on you a moment too long, and suddenly, giving Jake a chance felt a lot harder to commit to.

“Hey,” Sunghoon greeted, his voice quiet but steady. His gaze met yours briefly before shifting to Jake.

“Hey,” you replied, trying not to let your voice betray you. Jake, on the other hand, only nodded.

You weren’t surprised. You’d already figured out they didn’t get along, and now you were smack in the middle of their passive-aggressive standoff. Jungwon, sensing the tension immediately, decided to act.

“You know what? We’re heading inside. I’ll be back later,” Jungwon said, spinning on his heels and steering Sunghoon toward the door with a hand on his shoulder.

Sunghoon hesitated, though. His gaze lingered on you and Jake for a moment longer, clearly debating whether to stay. His jaw tightened slightly. “I think I’ll take a puff,” he said, his voice low but firm. It was a far cry from the Sunghoon you’d seen at that party, where he’d been loose and carefree. Sober Sunghoon had a serious edge to him, and it was kind of intimidating.

Jake’s reaction was instant. His posture stiffened, and his jaw tightened ever so slightly, though he quickly tried to cover it up. He couldn’t let you see him lose his cool—not now. Not with Sunghoon standing there like he owned the place.

Jake’s mind raced, his frustration bubbling beneath the surface. Sunghoon always had this way of showing up and ruining everything. It was like Wonyoung situation all over again. In Jake’s head, Sunghoon wasn’t just a rival—he was a thief.

But Jake knew better than to let you see his irritation. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t blow this, so he plastered on his best fake smile and shifted his tone.

“Sure, man,” Jake said, holding out the joint with forced politeness. “Go ahead.”

You didn’t miss the tension in his voice, but you appreciated the effort. Jake, for all his flaws, was trying. Even if his “nice guy” act was so obviously fake it was almost funny.

Even Sunghoon looked taken aback. Jake—his nemesis—being friendly? That could only mean one thing: he was putting on a show. And for you, obviously. Sunghoon wasn’t about to let Jake one-up him. If Jake wanted to act nice, Sunghoon would be the nicest guy you’d ever met.

“So, is it too crowded inside?” Sunghoon asked casually, taking a hit off the joint and turning to admire the view behind you. At this point, you were literally standing between them, caught in what felt like a testosterone-fueled showdown. You couldn’t help but wonder how your life had gotten to this point—two guys you might be into, silently battling it out in front of you.

“Not really,” you replied, trying to keep the mood light. “There’s about, what, 14 or 15 people inside?” You glanced at Jake, hoping for some confirmation.

“Yeah,” Jake muttered, keeping it short. He was laser-focused on not letting Sunghoon win this unspoken competition. Jake knew exactly what Sunghoon was doing, and it only fueled his determination. He knew that this was a game, and he couldn’t fumble. Which was ironic, because Sunghoon and Jake played for the same football team. But with you? It was a battlefield.

The silence that followed felt heavy. You and Sunghoon didn’t mind quiet moments, but Jake? Jake was like a restless golden retriever—he needed to fill the void. Otherwise, he’d explode. So, naturally, he reached for the joint the second Sunghoon was done with it, deciding to finish it himself.

“We should save some for your brother,” Jake said suddenly, his tone overly casual. “He was excited about this. I’ll invite him out later to smoke one with me.” With that, Jake gently guided you back toward Heeseung’s apartment, his hand lingering on your shoulder just long enough to make a point.

Sunghoon watched the interaction, and it hit him in the gut. The sight of Jake touching you? That wasn’t in his “I don’t care” playbook.

Which was funny, because Sunghoon couldn’t like you. It was an unspoken rule—Jungwon would absolutely lose it if his best friend had feelings for his sister. That’s why Sunghoon told himself he didn’t. He didn’t like you; he just hated that Jake was around you. Yeah, that was it.

Or at least, that’s what Sunghoon kept telling himself to feel better.

The next moments at Heeseung’s apartment played out like this: everywhere you went, Jake and Sunghoon were right there, trailing behind you like overly attentive shadows. Both of them were being way too nice for your liking, and honestly it was starting to get on your nerves. You felt like a lamb stuck between two wolves, both of them silently battling for your attention.

Annoying? Absolutely. But you’d be lying if you said there wasn’t a tiny part of you that was kind of enjoying it. Guilty pleasure much?

Still, it was getting to be too much. You needed an escape plan, and there was only one person you could turn to: your ever-reliable confidant, Sunoo.

When Jake and Sunghoon got momentarily distracted—probably by glaring at each other—you seized the opportunity to bolt. Ducking into the bathroom, you locked the door, leaned against it for good measure, and pulled out your phone and fired off a text to your best friend.

prev | masterlist | next

author's note: literally me when i wrote "nicest guy":

taglist: @jayparked @jungwonsstrawberriesnchocolate @kixri @soobnuuy @dreamiestay @somuchdard @nyyoryyu @atinyrosedoor @enhaverse713586 @miszes @wildtigerlili @hoonkishoe @wilonevys @m1dn1ghtv1olet @who-tf-soddhi @ilovewonyo @nickiminajleftasscheek @ikeulove @payformycoffeeandleave @jvngw0nlvr @qtke @nikirangs @rairaiblog @tinyteezer @catecita @aespaqq @cyberstephzz @jakesimfromstatefarm @maniluvzyou @stormy1408 @missychief1404 @heevrs @shuichi-sama

[themuseofaphrodite]

i know the end ✧ AKA12

summary: you might be a famous blogger with thousands of adoring fans, but the vicious crowd of dissenters never truly go away. after a particularly rude and inflammatory comment is posted under your page, you decide to end it all. until your boyfriend, formula one driver kimi antonelli, finds out.

trigger warnings: angst, swearing, mentions of self-harm & suicidal thoughts, description of low self-esteem & body image, statements of body-shaming & fat-shaming, descriptions of misogyny, suggestive & mature content

note: phrases and sentences in the italian language are utilized throughout; keep a translator accessible

word count: 1.5k

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Outside your apartment in the heart of Monaco, the sky was inky black, the full moon like a ghostly white face. It was half past midnight, and Kimi still hadn’t arrived home after his daily simulation practice for Formula One. You shoved back your annoyance, knowing that the neglect was for a reason. He was working hard, earning his seat in Mercedes, weaving a legacy that would last long after his career ended. So what if it meant there were a few late nights? It would all be worth it in the end.

You had important work too, and he had never asked you to sacrifice it for him. There had been many schedule conflicts, photoshoots in Milan when Kimi had a Grand Prix in Spa, or when you had an important interview the same day as Kimi’s first Monaco race. Kimi had never complained, never acted upset, making it all the more worse for you that you felt so aggrieved.

You stood up from the couch, turning the television off from the news channel that had been droning and deciding to doomscroll on Instagram instead. Your profile popped up, notifications overflowing with hearts and comments from your fans telling you how much they loved you.

Amidst all these replies, though, something snagged your eye.

“She’s only famous because she sucks Kimi Antonelli’s dick.”

Underneath it, the same person had added, “Fat whore. I hope she chokes on his dick and dies. It would put us all out of our misery.”

Already, there were dozens of defensive retorts from your fans, shaming them for their crude and horrible statements.

Tears welled in your eyes, panic choking you like a vise.

You zoomed into the last photo you had posted, analyzing your waist and the shape of your body. You were wearing Kimi’s blue Mercedes jersey, his number 12 insignia glowing on your shoulders. They were right; you were fat and ugly.

Maybe that’s why Kimi was coming home so late. He didn’t want to see you more than he had to.

You threw your phone across the room, shuddering and clenching your stomach as nausea roiled through you. You fought not to vomit, tears rolling down your face and dripping down on the floor beside you.

Fuck.

You steadied yourself, wiping the wetness off of your cheeks and shakily getting up from where you were huddled. A few wobbly steps towards the kitchen and you were getting a glass of cold, refreshing water.

That was all. Nothing else.

The utensil drawer had carelessly been kept open, probably by Kimi. He was not a neat person, always getting distracted halfway through tasks. You stepped closer to it, your eyes laser-focused on the jagged shape of the carving knife.

It was perfect for what you needed, and your fingers twitched to pick it up and feel its cool glossiness glide over your skin. You wanted to end it all, right here and right now. Everything you had strived for was fruitless, there was no point in prolonging it any more.

Kimi would be distraught, but he was strong, he would move on. There were hundreds of other women that would be clamoring to assume your spot as his girlfriend. He would have no problem finding a new partner to pleasure himself with.

That’s all you were to him, a warm body to tuck himself into, a vessel for sex. That person on Instagram knew, it was so glaringly obvious that it was only a matter of time before everyone else realized. You were a fraud, and the best way to save Kimi was to cease this now.

The knife felt like a respite in the crook of your fingers. It was heaven against the rapidly fluttering pulse, and even more so once you dragged it —

“Princesa!”

You let out a loud gasp, the knife clattering to the wooden floor with an obnoxious metallic sound. A few pinpricks of crimson blood beaded on your skin, obscuring the pale purple veins of your forearm. That voice was so familiar.

Kimi.

He was home, and he had witnessed your attempt. New tears flowed down your face as he rushed towards you, enveloping your body in his arms, murmuring words of comfort and clearing away your distress. “I’m so sorry, mia bellisima amore.” Kimi pressed a kiss to your forehead, finally unraveling himself from you and hurrying to blot the blood with a paper towel. “I’m going to get a bandage for you, and then we’re going to talk about this, OK?”

You nodded, unable to make words move past your lips. Kimi watched you for a moment longer and then quickly entered the bathroom to grab bandages for you. When he came back, an audible breath of relief left his mouth when he saw that you were still intact.

“Give me your arm, princesa.” You obeyed, trance-like, and Kimi gingerly wrapped up your wrist, his eyes trained on you the whole time. Once you were finished, he carefully tugged you to the couch, his focus straying for one second when he noticed your phone laying halfway across the room. “What happened, amore?”

You swallowed roughly. “It’s stupid.”

“No, it’s not,” Kimi assured you. “I want to know, even if you think it is ridiculous. You are the love of my life.”

You smiled up at him, although it was fake. Both of you knew that it was just a front you put up, to disguise the fact that your inner self was breaking. “Someone…commented on my social media,” you began. “Saying that my fame is only because I —” Breaking off, a shiver coursed through you, and Kimi tightened his hold on you. “I suck your dick.”

Kimi’s eyes widened, and he barked out a laugh. “We don’t do that. They’re wrong.”

“But they aren’t.” You pursed your lips, shaking your head sadly. “My fame is mostly attributed to you. Ever since it was leaked that you and I were dating, my popularity soared. People only pay attention to me because of my connection to you.”

“That’s a lie,” Kimi shot back, his teeth gritted.

“No, it’s not,” you responded. “And you know it. Why else would they stick around if it wasn’t for the tidbits of you I give out? Everyone loves you, Kimi. They only tolerate me because of you.”

Kimi jerked his head back, his jaw clenching in frustration and anger. “Y/N, stop it. They love you for you, your bubbly personality and kindness. Do you really honestly think that they care about you only because of me? That’s a fucking lie, Y/N. You’re so much better than I could ever be, and you cannot try to convince yourself otherwise.”

You angled your gaze up to him. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“No, I’m saying it because it’s the truth. Some testa di cazzo on the Internet doesn’t know shit about you and me. They are just trying to get a reaction out of you, they are purposely hurting you when there is no truth to any of their claims.” Kimi’s fingers caressed your cheek. “Your company is what keeps me going. Your support means the world to me, more than a thousand trophies or Grand Prix wins. You are the love of my life, and if I have to tattoo it on my forehead for you to understand, then I will. Understood?”

You watched him with bated breath the duration of the speech, and when he was finished, you said, “If you say so, Kimi.”

“You are perfect. Your body is fucking ethereal. God created you perfectly, and I am blessed that I get to worship you every night in bed. I could only wish to look half as beautiful as you do.” Kimi kissed you on the forehead. “That coglione doesn’t know what they are talking about.”

You bit your bottom lip, still not saying anything.

“I’m going to find that comment and report its user, as well as issue a whole post reprimanding them and people like them.” Kimi took his phone out of his pocket, unlocking it and scrolling through your profile until he found the comment. He sucked in a breath. “That is fucked up, amore. I’m so sorry.”

You saw him report the comment and type up a long paragraph on his story, and then publish it. Turning to you, Kimi said, “Now, I’m going to prove to you just how much I love your body. OK?”

You granted him permission, and with one fluid motion, Kimi tugged your blouse off, unclasping your bra and kissing the swell of your breasts as he undid your skirt. “Fucking perfect,” he growled, his fingers finding your bundle of nerves so quickly you thought he might be magnetically attuned to it. Your eyes closed, a moan breaking through your lips. “I love you so much, princesa.”

Two hours later, spent tangled up in one another, you knew that truer words had never been spoken.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

[jujumin-translates]

[A3!] Tsuzuru Minagi | [R] Casually Showing Skin Mode | L3tt3r Fr0m A Gy4ru

Tsuzuru: (And I’m finally done with classes for the day. Okay, guess I’ll head home—.)

Tsuzuru: (Hm? That’s quite the crowd. Wonder what’s going on…)

Taichi: Ah, Tsuzuru-kuuun!

Juza: Good work.

Tsuzuru: Oh, so you guys are here too. Is there some kinda event going on or something?

Taichi: I dunno, we just got here. It sure is busy. Wonder what’s up.

Juza: Huh, there’s a whole lotta stuff here. They’ve got random things, books, ‘n even household appliances lined up.

Tsuzuru: Ahh, I get it… It’s probably a reuse market.

Taichi: Reuse market?

Tsuzuru: It’s a kinda on-campus event where students who are about to graduate give away things they don’t need anymore to younger students.

Juza: Now that ya mention it, you got a book of short stories at the last one, didn’t ya, Tsuzuru-san?

Tsuzuru: Yeah, I was curious about this one that one of the upperclassmen told me about, but it happened to be out of print.

Taichi: Damn, lucky! Where’s that book now?

Tsuzuru: After I finished reading it, I started passing it around the company to anyone who wanted to read it.

Tsuzuru: That reminds me, I wonder who’s got it now…

Taichi: Who are the ones who wanted to read it?

Tsuzuru: Umm, Miyoshi-san, and Takato-san have already read it… And I think Furuichi-san and Tsukioka-san said they were interested too.

Juza: I’m interested in readin’ it too.

Tsuzuru: Gotcha. I’ll bring it over to you whenever I get it back then, Juza.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Tsuzuru: I’m back.

Tsuzuru: (...Huh, did I leave a book out on my desk…?)

Tsuzuru: (Ah, that was the book we were just talking about. What perfect timing to get it back. I’ll go and bring it over to Juza right aw—.)

*Paper falls out of the book*

Tsuzuru: …Hm? Did something just fall out of it?

Tsuzuru: A note?

Thx 4 l3nding m3 thiz, Tzr-kun. I w4z rlly impr3zz3d w h0w clvr th3 f0r3shad0wing w4z. Th3 nam3z of th3 flwrz n th3 flwr l4ngu4g3 m3nti0n3d n th3 prlg s3nt such 4 shvr d0wn my spin3 tht I rlzd tht th3 clprt mightv3 4ctlly b33n TwT nstd 0f xD. If I w3r3 t0 pl4y tht r0l3, M sur3 thtz wht I wld d0…

Tsuzuru: The hell…? Is this a cipher or a prank or something?

Tsuzuru: —Ah.

Tsuzuru: Is this… that gyaru-speak thing?

· ❀ —– ٠ ❀ ٠ —– ❀ ·

Tsuzuru: Jeez, he better still be here…

Omi: Welcome back.

Izumi: Hey, Tsuzuru-kun, would you rather have curry udon or soy milk curry hotpot for dinner tonight?

Tsuzuru: Aren’t both of them still curry? Well, it was pretty cold today,  so hotpot would be…

Tsuzuru: Wait, that’s not what I’m here for! Is Miyoshi-san here?

Omi: Kazunari’s in the kitchen.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·

Kazunari: Lookin’ for me~?

Tsuzuru: The hell is this? I literally can’t read any of it…

Kazunari: Oh, gyaru-speak! What’s this about?

Tsuzuru: What do you mean ‘what’s this about’...? You didn’t write this?

Tsuzuru: It was stuck in the book I just got back, and you’re the only one who would write something like this, Miyoshi-san…

Kazunari: Ermm~, well, it wasn’t me.

Tsuzuru: What? But if it’s not you, then the people who I lent the book to after you were Takato-san, Furuichi-san, Tsukioka-san—.

Tsuzuru: No, it had to have been you, Miyoshi-san.

Izumi: Maybe if you read the note you’ll be able to figure out who wrote it?

Tsuzuru: Right. Umm—.

Tsuzuru: …

Tsuzuru: Yeah, not happening. I’ve got no clue what it says no matter how hard I try to read it…

Izumi: Let me see. …Umm, I can’t read it either.

Omi: Those don’t even look like sentences to me.

Tsuzuru: Damnit. What are we gonna do…?

Kazunari: I’ve gotcha, fam. I’ve got this gyaru-speak translator website.

Kazunari: Just gotta take a pic, scan the text, and… copy-paste and translate ♪

Tsuzuru: That’s incredible… So, what does it say?

Kazunari: “Thank you for lending me this, Tsuzuru-kun. I was really impressed with how clever the foreshadowing was. The names of the flowers and the flower language mentioned in the prologue—.”

Kazunari: “Sent such a shiver down my spine that I realized that the culprit might’ve actually been crying instead of laughing.”

Kazunari: “If I were to play that role, I’m sure that’s probably what I would do…”

Kazunari: Wait, could this be…

Tsumugi: I’m back~.

Tsuzuru: Perfect timing. Um, Tsukioka-san. About this note…

Tsumugi: Ah! Thank you for the book, it was really interesting.

Tsuzuru: No, not that…! Did you write this, Tsukioka-san?

Tsumugi: Yeah. Ah, did I forget to write my name on it?

Tsuzuru: Forget about that! Why is it in gyaru-speak!?

Tsumugi: Kazu-kun told me that gyaru stuff and gyaru-speak are really popular nowadays, so I tried using it.

Kazunari: Ohh~, yeah, so, I might’ve told TsumuTsumu about that translation website the other day…

Tsuzuru: So it WAS because of you!

Tsumugi: Ahaha, maybe I should’ve written it normally. Sorry, my bad.

Izumi: I never would’ve thought it was you, Tsumugi. That was quite a surprise.

Omi: Yeah. Good thing we figured it all out.

Kazunari: But like, wasn’t it kinda fun? It was like a little cipher game.

Tsumugi: Yeah, and it was really easy to do. Why don’t we recommend it to the others?

Kazunari: Banger idea, bestie! I bet RonRon and Taicchan would eat this up, don’tcha think?

Tsumugi: I bet Azuma-san and Homare-san would enjoy it too.

Tsuzuru: Wait! Quit trying to come up with weird trends!

[shokosbunny]

CRAVE - chapter seven

nav 𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ‧₊˚

masterlist 𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ‧₊˚ • previous 𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ‧₊˚

chapter warnings: use of profanity, mild argument, brief mentions of grooming/toxicity

the subsequent solitary walk of shame back to your apartment provides the perfect environment for you to think about what exactly you were going to say to naoya.

you’ve faced the facts. you don't love him anymore. the man you fell in love with is gone. in fact, there's a high chance that he never even existed, and naoya put up a good facade long enough for you to get attached, until he was sure you loved him too much to leave.

you look back on your entire relationship with the man. you had met him at megumi’s 15th birthday party. he said all the right things, telling you how you were much smarter, more mature than other girls your age. he gave all the right signals, and by the time you started officially dating on your 18th birthday, you were madly in love.

no one approved. not your friends, not your parents. hell, even megumi’s parents, toji and mina fushiguro, who had known you since middle school, told - no - begged you not to waste your youth on a man like naoya, and that if you didn't see it now, you'd learn when it was too late.

it's like a veil has been lifted off your eyes. you realise that it wasn't naoya’s age that made him mature. in all other aspects, he was like a pubescent boy, petulant, selfish and disrespectful.

but yuta… god. you don't think he has a single selfish bone in his body.

you know what you have to do.

“we’re not breaking up,” naoya says with certainty, looking at you as if you're stupid, high, concussed or all three.

“naoya,” you say placatingly, as if negotiating with a toddler. “we aren't compatible anymore. the signs have been there-”

“goddamnit, y/n, i said we are not breaking up!” naoya snaps. he always yells when he doesn't get his way. but again, so do you.

“don't raise your fucking voice at me!” you retort, before he can even finish his sentence.

“i don't want you anymore, i know damn well why you're so secretive and distant, and you know this isn't going anywhere, so why are you trying so hard to grasp onto this…concept of a relationship?!”

“because- this- you don't know what you're saying, baby,” is his response. he’s choosing to go the consolatory route in a last ditch effort to delay the inevitable.

“this is just a rough patch. we can get through this, we’ve done it before, yeah?”

you shake your head, determined not to let your resolve crumble. “no, naoya. come on. we’ve only been together a year, and we argue on and off like we're on the cusp of a divorce. you cheated on me. i...may have cheated on you. this-”

“wait,” he interrupts. “you what?”

damn your honesty.

“yeah,” you breathe out. the relationship is basically over, so you see no point in hiding it.

“when? it was your birthday, right? that's why you got so-” he begins, and you tune him out on his rant as he paces the length of your bedroom.

for all his flaws, naoya is impeccably sharp. he can practically sense your focus shifting before it even fully happens, and snaps his fingers in front of your face.

“hey,” he says. “don't do that, you know it pisses me off.”

“sorry,” you respond, more as a formality than anything else. “but, yeah. it's best if we don't continue this. you're better off with a girl…well, your age.”

naoya scoffs. “you don't say. last time i mess with a fickle brat.”

“last time i mess with a pedophile,” comes your grumbled retort.

the ordeal is more peaceful than you anticipated, and in mere minutes, he’s gone, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

next 𝜗𝜚 ⊹ ‧₊˚

tags: @toniseweje @tsukuhoe @itsafairytalekay @ayla-1605 @moncher-ire @rikaroses @starrysho @blu3-l0v3r @number0netrash @zayuriluvs @susiekern @mikamii25 @vorfreudevortex @q2uq2u @ermbehindyou @mayyhaps @nomoreilovesyou @good-mourning0 @revolvinggeto @4crewz

[asherthehimbo]

Homesick

pairing: traveling photographer! Hongjoong x local! reader

wordcount: 718

warnings: uhm, one or two suggestive sentences but like thats it, mentions of alcohol and going out drinking, ( gender of reader not specified but like involves cutesy texts so take that as you will)

notes: guys i love Mico sm and this song BEEEN stuck in my head so here you go. I AM busy working on Guardians and Bloody sunrise but this was a short little drabble I had since I've been suprisingly busy so its easier for me to write this format than full length chapters rn

Hongjoong is a traveling photographer, his habit of drifting from place to place quite literally in the job description, yet to him there's no place like home. He can never be away from home for more than a week, gets this bubbling anxiety in his stomach that twists in all the wrong ways. He likes home, he likes his own studio where he can secretly work on music without another person's judging ears, he likes his home built darkroom, refusing to develop the photos of his work, when needed physically, anywhere but there.

He's made quite the name for himself, ‘the photographer who gets bored of places easily’, while it may not be the truth, he lets people believe it because it's less embarrassing than the fact that in all honesty he just gets homesick. The title has people scrambling to employ him, thinking he's some sort of elitist artist if he deems himself better than a place after a few days, which isn't what happens, but watching his bosses for the contracts scramble to try and have him stay, to show why they're place is the best has its benefits.

Yet his favorite benefit of all has to be you, a local hired by the same company that hired him to help guide him through the town. He's spent four days with you already, his flight back home leaves tomorrow and while usually around this time he'd be missing home desperately, the thought of returning, of leaving this town, leaving you, hasn't crossed his mind once since he came here, since he met you, until you brought it up, “Wanne go out to celebrate your last night here?” your words were like a punch to the gut, a reminder that this wasn't home, that to you he was just a tourist, a man with a job, to you, he was your job.

He agreed, of course he did, anything that would have him spend more time with you. In all your drunk babelings, all your compliments and teasing flirting, never once did you ask him to stay. It was all his alcohol filled mind could think about, how the words might fall from your lips which he so desperately wanted to kiss. He wanted you to ask him to stay, to beg him to stay. He must've run though a thousand different scenarios on how you would, if it would be spur of the moment, right before he had to leave for the airport, if there would be actions or words leading up to it, if you'd ask pleadingly, or if you'd ask breathlessly between kisses- the last one was his favorite. Yet you didn't. The night dragged on, he crashed at your place, woke up the next morning to you smiling down at him who was sprawled out on your couch.

You drove him to the airport, you saw him off, not once did your smile leave your lips, not once did you show an inkling of want, of yearning, of needing him to stay the way he needed you too. He arrived home with your name still on his tongue, no- not home. Hongjoong stood in front of his house, but it did nothing to cure the homesickness, not when it only started the moment he had entered the plane gates, when you had disappeared from his sight.

“Hii Joong ₍ᐢ.ˬ.⑅ᐢ₎ lmk when you get home safe! I hope I made your time here enjoyable, if your ever back in town id be happy to show you around some more, get some rest much love (づ๑•ᴗ•๑)づ♡”

your text message was like a shock to his system, on one hand he had your number, you'd willingly reached out to him ever after you were done, you'd checked up on him, it made his heart race. On the other hand, it was formal, it was an invitation to use you as a guide again, not a friend, nor something more, the message was a formality, one probably sent to all your clients, that made his stomach drop.

It didn't matter, he’d make sure he was back in your hometown, he'd make sure to see you again, he'd make sure to make you his. He didn't get this good at his job by giving up.

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copyright | 2025 | @asherthehimbo

[silentsneezes]

Could you write a fic with an allergic Ja/yce having an itchy, desperate sneezing fit and has no idea what he’s allergic to and Vi/ktor is confused since Ja/yce never has fits

anon, i love the way your mind works, thank you so much for this prompt !!

i made v/iktor have the kink (as more of a self indulgence than anything else), but i’d be more than happy to write another version if this isn’t what you had in mind! there are a few mentions of mess/spray, but no graphic descriptions!

without further ado, here’s 1k of allergic, desperate j/ayce (no spoilers for s2)

The lab is usually filled with the melodious sounds of mechanical tinkering or pencil against paper, save for the days when power tools and accidental explosions are involved. Except today, Viktor’s focus is broken by something entirely different.

Jayce has been sniffling persistently for almost an hour, not frequently enough to warrant using his handkerchief apparently, but enough as to where Viktor finds himself thoroughly distracted. Of course, his attraction to sneezing doesn’t help in the matter, but he’s certain anyone would be distracted by Jayce’s constant sniffles.

Viktor has been keeping a close eye on him, initially hypothesizing that Jayce is sick. After all, he has no allergies— that he knows of— and he doesn’t generally have an irritable or sensitive nose, not unless he’s ill.

Before long, Viktor finds himself spending more time watching Jayce than he is observing the hex core in front of him. His eyes flicker to Jayce as he hears an especially wet sniffle, his chest fluttering as Jayce takes a finger to his nose, rubbing it harshly.

Jayce continues berating the appendage as his nostrils flare, pressing two fingers to the base of his nose and rubbing them side to side. Apparently, the movement only encourages the itch, resulting in a sudden, spraying “hhHDTSHCHh!”

“Bless you,” Viktor hums, walking over to sit beside Jayce’s desk. He’s had enough of just watching his partner; he craves more.

He props his crutch against the table, placing a hand on Jayce’s knee, “Something bothering you?”

“I might need- hh- to step- heh… hh- eh’hhH- step out forhhh- for a- hhHRSHCHhew- a se-hh-second” Jayce stutters through hitching breaths, the tickle evidently getting much worse.

“And why is that, love?” Viktor purrs, knowing he’ll elicit another desperately hitchy response from his partner.

“I d-hh- don’t- hhHNDSXHCHh! know what’s- hh- what- hhhH- nghh… what’s- hh- hhHNGSXHCHh! makihhHng me itch-“ Jayce tries to speak through his hitching breaths and sneezes, sounding arousingly pathetic. His nose is twitching, his nostrils glistening with a sheen of mess.

Viktor continues to listen to Jayce, trying to hold back a smirk. He finds it almost irresistible how pitiful Jayce sounds, his stomach swirling with hot affection.

"Is that so...?" He prompts, trying to get Jayce to finish his sentence as he slowly runs his hand from Jayce’s knee to his inner thigh, clearly enjoying the sudden allergic onslaught.

“It’s- hh- it’s r-hh-really-hheh’HNGSXCHh’uh- hhhih’ih’GKSZCHHhh!”

Viktor’s smirk grows, "I can't understand you like that, love. Try again.”

Jayce practically whines in response. Despite the whine, he leans closer to Viktor, always craving his physical affection.

“hhHHRSDHCHh!” Jayce’s shoulders shudder with the force of the sneeze, barely managing a ragged gasp before a second, “hhHNGSZXHCHh!”

Viktor swallows, his hand tightening its hold on Jayce’s thigh. He’s never seen Jayce react like this, nor did he expect Jayce to have any allergies.

“What’s gotten into you, Милая,” he hums, using his other hand to tilt Jayce’s chin up. He tuts quietly, brushing his thumb over Jayce’s upper lip, “you’re making a mess.”

Jayce blushes crimson, sniffling against the moisture clinging to his nostrils. His eyes are dewy and irritated, clearly in the throws of an allergic reaction.

“I’ve- hh- I’ve never… snf- God- snf- never reacted like- hh… heh- thhhis before,” Jayce says sheepishly, “I don’t even know what- hh- what’s- hhH- fuck- hhHH-.”

Viktor watches with rapt attention as Jayce’s chest swells with each hitching breath. He keeps a firm hold on Jayce’s chin, not allowing him to pull away even as his hitches.

“hhHNGSXHCHh! hhHRHSCHhhew- hhhH- hhhughh- hhHKTSHXHh’uh!”

Viktor swallows as Jayce sprays the triple against his hand, once again wiping the mess from his upper lip, “Bless you,” he purrs, replaying the sounds of Jayce’s sneezes in his mind.

Jayce is rarely one to have fits, save for when he’s especially sick or indulges in Viktor’s kink and induces. Even then, fits like this are hard to come by, let alone naturally.

Jayce sniffles wetly against his streaming nose, letting out a small, itchy cough, “why- hhH- hh… heh- snNFF- hhhhHGDXHCHhhew!”

Viktor’s eyes flick from Jayce’s pink, flaring nostrils to his teary red-rimmed eyes, “you’re definitely having an allergic reaction.”

“But I don’t h-hh-have allerghh-hhH’RRSZXChh! snf- allergies,” Jayce practically whines, his shoulders slumped in defeat as his nose continues twitching.

“Evidently, you do,” Viktor states, letting his hand shift up to cup Jayce’s forehead, just as a precaution, “No fever.”

Jayce fumbles to grab his handkerchief again, his breath hitching into a quick, desperate series of gasps. Viktor’s grip tightens on Jayce’s thigh again, practically purring at the sight of his partner’s desperation.

“Don’t hold back,” he prompts as the hitching continues, watching as Jayce’s reddened nostrils flare desperately. His hitches are intermixed with whines as he builds up to another spraying, “hhH’ESXCHhhh’ugh!”

“Bless y-,” Viktor starts, only to be interrupted with an urgent double, the second sneeze practically tumbling out on top of the first, “hhHGSZHCHh-hHHDSXHHhew!”

Viktor lets his hand travel further up Jayce’s thigh, palming the bulge in his pants as he murmurs, “Bless you.”

Jayce moans at the touch, his hips bucking against Viktor’s hand without second thought. Viktor tuts quietly, “So needy,” as his other hand moves to hold Jayce’s chin again, “what do you say we call it a night?”

Jayce nods, eager to go home and receive Viktor’s attention, “Y-hh-Yeah. I won’t be- hhH- heh- product-hhHNGXCHhh! snf- productive- hhHDSXHCHh’uh! snf- here anywhhhH- hhHh- anyways.”

And with that, the couple takes their leave, Viktor leading Jayce back to his room in the academy. He murmurs quiet blessings the entire way, feeling his stomach churn with hot arousal as Jayce desperately tries to stifle in the halls; pathetic, wet “hhHGGSZXt’SHCHhuh!”s slipping through the fingers failing to pinchhis nose shut.

The End (for now, though I’m tempted to continue this…)

sorry for any spelling or grammatical errors, i wanted to get this posted so i didn’t do a thorough read through

as always, any comments or tags left are very much appreciated !! they inspire me to keep writing

[dollwhite]

K.O K.O K.O

𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐛𝐲 𝐃𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞

This is just a small story,I don’t know if I’m going to make it big. But if I don’t pls feel free to use my idea just give me credit!!

TW mentions if highness(aka weed)

No mentions of y/n

This isn’t really in my writing style, I wanted to try something different. If people like this I will write with this style more!!

Ps I need friends.

𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇

High,you were high as a light house right now. You found some old weed underneath your bed.Can weed get old? How old were you again? As more questions flooded your mind. You didn’t hear your name being called.

𝐊.𝐎

Where did the music go?.. just a few minutes ago, some random song was blasting .But now it’s like you could hear a pen drop.

𝐊.𝐎

Wait, this isn’t your bed? This isn’t your bedroom, you had black cat pictures on the door leading towards your bathroom. This isn’t your apartment…?

𝐊.𝐎

Who was that.. who was that calling you name?.. her voice sounds familiar. who is she. Do you know her. Isn’t her name R-Ram.?… why is she yelling your name..

“Ram..? What-were am I?..”

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬.

It’s like something’s in your mouth blocking the flow.like the words aren’t meant to be there.

what’s wrong with you.

“K.o we have to go right now! The police are here come on.”..

As you sat up taking a full look around who ever room you were in. It looks nice, nothing out of the ordinary.

𝐀𝐃𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐒

“Are you sure this is the right address?” A figure with a blue bird embezzled on their chest spoke softly under their breath, but just loud enough for the other people on coms to hear. Also Taking notice of the youngest robin standing on top of a nearby building, waiting for the signal that Batman was supposed to be giving.

Police man were also on the scene, so all the suspects can be taking in to custody right away.

“Robin,Night-wing come in.” A deep voice came over the coms. The dark night himself was here to investigate this “party” in reality it was a human trafficking operation. The party was to lure young women primarily.

“I’m in, there’s approximately only three people left in this houses it looks like the others have left.” Robin’s voice filled the coms, informing his mentors about the situation.

As Robin makes a b line for the living room, Batman in the backyard looking for any kinda clues of were the traffickers went. And Nightwing in the bedrooms.

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐋𝐀𝐃𝐘

“Guys I found something…or someone” Nightwings words ring over coms. “Im on my way!” Batman yelled, Gotham dark night himself rushing into the house through the backdoor. Passing the youngest boy wonder, on the way.

“What-!” Batman stopped midway through his sentence. He know that this ‘party’ was just a cover up for human trafficking. But what he didn’t expect was to find a young woman high out of her mind. Maybe this was their new victim, and well they were in a hurry to get out of this house. They forgot to take her.

“Grab her, and take her back to the cave.” He said, “Don’t let the cops see you.”

“Alright pretty lady, up we go!” Night wing explained grabbing her in a bridal style.

“ promise not to drop me?..” you asked fear laced in your voice. “ Only a dummy would drop a pretty lady like you.” Nightwing said opening up a nearby window,shifting your weight on his more dominant arm.

he grabbed a all black grappling hook, “Hold on real tight for me?”

“Wait-what?!” You gasped, your hold on him tightening.

𝐁𝐀𝐓 𝐂𝐀𝐕𝐄

“Red I need you to do a saliva test”

“Nightwing, I’m not going to test you for stds go to a clinic” Red Robin said not taking his eyes off of the bat computer.”When have I ever asked you to- never mind that, the tests not for me it’s for her.”

“Who?” Red Robin asked turning around to look at Nightwing. Only to see a woman just staring back at him, in Nightwings arms. “uh, who’s she?” He asked, he prayed Niightwing didn’t just take a rondo lady off the street. ”this is pretty lady, pretty lady meet Red Robin.” “hi, uh I’m k.O” you said in a casual tone, as you climbed down from Nightwings arms. “Hey k.O, why is she her??” Red Robin said,”Br-Batman said your weren’t allowed to bring your flings in the cave”

”…she’s a woman we found at the party, we think they drugged her with something.”

That’s the end of K.O K.O K.O!!!! low-key think I cooked with this 😫 I tried my best to write for Tim, I think he gives off a moody teen vibes 😭 if y’all hit any suggestions for writing for Tim don’t be say drop them in my doll house!! It’s 4:18 am I got school in the morning wish me luck 😔 i

[bitletsanddrabbles]

Island of the Procrastinating Brain

I swear, my brain is actively trying to drive me insane.

Back in 2022 it came up with a plot for @alex51324 's "Island of the Gays" where the Duke of Crowborough comes to the Island because, well, by this point the man's less of a human being than he is a walking bundle of neurosis. I got through a couple of scenes before my brain got tired and stalled out, but I still have a good frame work. Every once in awhile, I come back and poke at it and get out a few more sentences. Maybe even a paragraph or two.

Yeah, have I mentioned I'm not a fast writer?

And Phillip does NOT want to deal with his issues and Thomas does NOT want to deal with Phillip, which, okay, FAIR, but that's kinda the point of the whole thing. But in the meantime my brain still wants to write Phillip on the Island, so what's it done?

Come up with a sequel, naturally!

And it really, really wants to write this sequel despite the fact I can't do it properly until I've written the first piece, which neither my brain or my characters seems interested in, because they are all PUNKS, but my brain will NOT stop thinking about this hypothetical sequel which, at this point, will never be written.

So I'm just going to write out the summary for the thing here, in case anyone's curious and wants a laugh, because I can and maybe it'll galvanize the lump of grey cells in my skull to be productive. Maybe. Not holding my breath.

Things you need to know before going into this:

Random.org has decided that Thomas is married to Peter Fitzroy for this one, which is kinda important for Thomas's characterization.

Phillip only kinda counts as human at this point, but he's actively trying to fix that. The results are mixed.

It was inspired by a couple of polls I ran when I was trying to figure out where I was taking the first piece (hey! I have the last scene written!) and the suggestions that Phillip might like working in some sort of architectural field (believe that was from @o-rchidae) and that he wind up married with an older working class bloke who would not take his shit.

Right then. Let's go.

-

Okay, so, this takes place a couple of years after the Walking Disaster of Crowborough arrived. At one point he was tapped to help with building or repairs or some such and he realized he liked it, so he's taken to studying books on building and architecture and has joined up with the local work crew. The problem is, he's basically teaching himself out of books and then applying it to real life, so he keeps getting ideas about "Say, why don't we do this thing THIS way?" and while it'll seem like a reasonable idea, there is, in fact, a very good reason NOT to do it that way, but because a) he's a Duke and b) a bunch of people hate him, on general principle if nothing else, everyone just goes "Oh, okay, sure" and the do it that way and…it fails. And the people who hate him laugh and it's obvious that EVERYONE knew it was a bad idea and he gets frustrated, but he wont' say it, because a) Duke and b) boys don't cry.

And this goes on for awhile.

After a bit, though, a new guy shows up who has lots of experience building things. It was kinda his job before he got here. He is educated in the ways of Building Things and knows what's up. He's also at least ten years Phillip's senior and has limited patience for upper class twits, so when he joins the crew and is informed there's this know-it-all-Duke who's always demanding they do things his way (by which we mean 'making suggestions that everyone just goes along with'), even though it's stupid and wastes time and resources, this guy goes "Pff, not on MY watch!"

And sure enough, the next time Phillip makes one of his suggestions, instead of "Yeah, sure, okay" he gets "We're not doing that." Why? "'Cause it's a stupid idea that won't work." WHY? "Because (insert full explanation of why the thing wouldn't work)." And Phillip stops asking and the rest of the crew cheers and laughs at how the old guy sure showed him and they anticipate an end to the questions.

THIS TOTALLY BACKFIRES.

Instead Phillip, who had actually been kinda slowing down on the suggestions over time, is making ALL of the suggestions, ALL of the times, and arguing every last aspect of the suggestion with Old Timer before giving up. The crew can't put up a fence without an argument. Old Timer starts calling Phillip 'Phil'. Rather than tell him to stop, Phillip just starts calling Old Timer by a similar nickname, which Old Timer ignores, because not giving in to his own trick, oh no. There's talk of starting a police department in case they murder each other.

After this has gone on for awhile there is a Big Dramatic Plot Twist and the Old Timer goes out into the woods for something and…doesn't come back in a timely manner. He stays gone long enough for people to get worried and mount a search. To everyone's shock, Phillip wants to come. He's quite insistent on the point. They finally agree to put him in Thomas's party because he and Thomas "get along now" (read: Thomas has spent enough time with Peter talking him down that he can tolerate Phillip's presence under the right circumstances as long as he doesn't say anything). The parties go out and before long, Thomas and Phillip's party has the good luck to find Old Timer. He's accidentally been injured badly enough he can't walk and crawling through the woods is not easy going. The manner of this accident wasn't a super obvious bad idea, but that could maybe have been avoided with a bit more thought, perhaps, with luck. Most of the party just nods and goes "Yeah, sounds about right, could have happened to anyone."

…Phillip flips straight out and starts screaming at Old Timer for being an idiot who could have got himself killed. And then storms off a ways into the woods, back toward the village, leaving everyone else wondering a) the best way to get the injured man back home and b) what the heck just happened with the prissy little Duke. Thomas gets deputized to go find out what Phillip's problem is. There is protesting involved, but he finally gives in because he'd like to be home by dinner, thank you very much.

Phillip has, by this point, stopped to have a smoke, which both gives Thomas an opportunity to catch up and, thankfully, a scent to find him by. Thomas asks him why on earth he's so upset that Old Timer is hurt since the two of them hate each other and everyone figured Phillip would LOVE it if the other man died…

And that's when he finds out that everyone's had that relationship all backwards. Phillip doesn't hate the Old Timer, oh no! He loves being called 'Phil'. He absolutely adores the fact that when he asks "Why don't we do this?", rather than just go "Yeah, okay" and waste time and resources doing something HE KNOWS WON'T WORK, the Old Timer says 'no' and, over the course of the argument, actually EXPLAINS why not, which means Phillip ACTUALLY LEARNS THINGS. The more he argues, the better he becomes at building things and he doesn't have to try and decipher what some book is telling him or guess what the book might be leaving out and he LOVES IT and if the Old Timer had died, how would he learn things then? When Thomas points out that he'd learn just as much - maybe more - if he just asked the Old Timer to teach him things rather than argue, Phillip low key panics because what if he figures out Phillip WANTS to learn and stops talking to him or refuses because he doesn't like him at all?

By this point Thomas is a) trying to remember if he was ever THIS paranoid, and praying he wasn't and b) wondering what on earth to do with a Duke who is clearly in love with a crusty old working class codger, but hasn't figured it out yet.

He decides to tell Rouse and make it HIS mess to deal with.

Phillip and the Old Timer eventually get married and get a cottage of their own and Phillip about dies happy at the idea of a home that he actually owns instead of something that he's the custodian of for the next generation who will be the custodians for the generation after that and so on.

[coquelicoq]

good morning can i show you guys the christmas card my little sister wrote me in french (she does not know any french)

joyeux Noël, j'espère que vous comprenez ce que je dis compte tenu de la fiabilité de Google Translate. Jespère qu'à l'avenir nous voir plus de deux fois par an. Je ne sais pas vraiment quoi dire d'autre, alors joyeux Noël et j'espère que papa t'a offert. Profitez également des autres choses que je mets sur la carte au lieu de vous ècrire un essai complet.

and then she wrote me a little crossword and a "connect the language to its way of saying 'merry christmas'" game 😭