#pieces from the rant folder

[wordsandrobots]

[The following is not an essay. It is the author's attempt to grapple with the despair at losing something important to him, presented in hopes someone in a similar situation may know such things are worth grappling with.]

Apropos of Doctor Who's triumphant return to having writing and direction I can actually care about again, I've been reflecting on how much casual 'Moffat-hate' irritates me.

Obviously, I need to unpack that a bit.

I'm talking about the reflexive antagonism towards Steven Moffat's era as show-runner, writing tics, writing in general, moment of centrality to British TV and so on that I am no doubt going to run into if I go anywhere near Doctor Who reviews and analysis again. A sneer about perceived sneering here, another repetition of a narrative-construction gripe there. The regurgitation of old arguments because there is a strong contingent of people who loathe that era and Moffat in general, who have every right to that opinion, and who can quite reasonably bring it up when talking about Russel T Davies' new, second era of running the show, however that shakes out.

The me-problem here is, I loved a lot of 'the Moffat era' of Doctor Who when it was being broadcast. For whatever reason, it hit lots of nice buttons in my head and I had a grand old time watching it unfold. The 11th and 12th Doctors provided some really excellent examples of the show doing its best at what it does best. Indeed, 'Listen' may be my favourite example of a story delving into what Doctor Who is all about, ever.

But there is a degree to which my enjoyment is now perpetually enmeshed in defensiveness. Because the fandom was/is wild tangle of very strong opinions, much of them to the contrary, and that isn't likely to change any time soon.

[And for me personally, my best friend hates that era, which threw into sharp relief a lot of hang-ups I have around needing to justify the things I like. Having an emotional breakdown kind of sharp relief. That's not the sort of thing you just shrug off, even after all this time.]

To be clear, I am not here to defend Steven Moffat. I do not give a rat's arse about Sherlock – it was enjoyable at the time but I can't say it registered beyond 'a thing it was fun to watch once' – and I actively despise Twice Upon A Time, the last 12th Doctor story, for pretty much the exact reasons I think most people rag on Moffat's other work. It is a story ostensibly in conversation with a piece of source material that instead only concerns itself with the refracted, pop-cultural version of said thing, for the sake of being constructed like a joke.

Which in general is an approach far better suited to Doctor Who – a series progressively layering 'canon' atop stories that could not be recalled as anything other than half-remembered versions of themselves for a very long time – than it would ever be for something like Sherlock Holmes. Even if I didn't like Twice Upon A Time, I can at least forgive it as a wider pattern and oh for goodness sake, I've started defending the man anyway, haven't I?

You see the problem. I can't make a critique with any teeth because I am braced for the whole to be dismissed even as I home in on the specific part I wish to unpack. Must I defend a writer in toto because I vibed with one piece of their corpus? I don't think I would for anyone else and yet here we are. This is probably why I count myself lucky to have never been deeply invested in Doctor Who fandom in the communal sense, online or off. This and the people who fawn over the racist giant rat story.

[Talons of Weng-Chiang is a Yellow Peril tale, straight up, nothing else. It also jobs Leela, rendering her forever 'the savage' despite the entire point of her introduction being a rejection of the superstitions imposed on her people and thereafter proving herself extremely capable in new and strange situations. It was also written in Britain in the 70s so this is almost self-explanatory. Just fucking own the fact you enjoy the production values and excellent cast while accepting it's indefensible to claim this is the best the classic series produced, you chronic dipsticks.]

See, I can do it with other examples of what I dislike, bare my teeth and go for the throat. But few people argue we should write off Robert Holmes' extensive contribution to the series because he did a massive racism on account of being a British writer in the 70s. Maybe they should. I don't know.

What I do know is, I understand why the 11th and 12th Doctor eras work for me. I am a white cis man who thought he was straight when they started airing and who is exactly the kind of Doctor Who fan who'd want to solve the regeneration limit with a Five Doctors reference. I never felt like Moffat's grand arcs were talking down to me because, I suspect, I was the kind of person most easily able to imagine I was in on the joke by the end. Then again, the writer who's done some of the most extensive analysis and defence of this era is a trans American woman, whose work did more for my appreciation of Doctor Who history than anyone else. So – yeah.

When I said 'irritate', I meant exactly that. This whole topic is a burr, making it difficult to revisit things I once enjoyed. Maybe this would be the case anyway. I have grown a lot since then. So did Steven Moffat, over the course of writing more Doctor Who than any other person ever. He gave us gender-flipping regeneration, tried colour-blind casting and when it failed to make a difference, specifically cast for a black lesbian. And he revisited Donna's ending with an eye on querying the moral failure of it long before RTD2 wrapped around to the same point. Why should I look kinder on his predecessor, who presided over the abusive shit-show that was the production of the 2005 revival season and yet gets to come back to save the programme again?

Oh, yes. The writing. But Russel T Davies annoys me just as much in some places as Moffat does other people. So it goes. Although I suppose Moffat did hire Toby Whithouse to write the central part of Bill's arc and it was a chauvinistic wet fart because it was Toby Whithouse. He also worked for ages with Mark Gattis, whose writing I could shred on similar grounds. And around and around we go, sniping and arguing which of the middle-aged British guys tried their best, or wrote the worst.

[I am still mourning what Chris Chibnall's era of Doctor Who turned out to be. I was so hyped for getting Jodi Whittaker as the Doctor and then we hit Kerblam! and the oldest, most foundational piece of my inner cultural map no longer felt like something I wanted to be a part of. So yeah, he's the worst, for allowing that story to go out, 'the system isn't the problem, it's the people' and all. That's my 'hot-take', years too late. The man wasted dozens of excellent, interesting, diverse writers and actors on what is ultimately, in my opinion, the most mediocre crap since the Saward Era and his big contribution to the series going forward is to fanwank in an explanation for the Morbius!Doctors that essentially makes the Doctor the specialest special whoever specialed.]

At least Moffat previously made some attempt to spork the god!Doctor approach, before deciding they should textually be the reason evil doesn't triumph in the universe. Sadly, that endpoint seems inevitable. We're long past the days of the Doctor being a university drop-out, bumbling around the universe, interfering from the edges. Pick your saccharine alternative, I guess.

What was I talking about before I dived into my own bitterness and angry fan-ranting? How much people deriding one sitcom writer for his faults and prominence within a particular era of big British TV that sparked vast swathes of internet discourse continues to be an aspect of Doctor Who meta? How that makes me feel? Hah. Who cares?

There's no widely applicable point here, just an emotional sore making me wonder if I'm ready to 'get back into' Doctor Who. Because yes, actively being revolted by the Chibnall Era is the real reason I fell out with the show. And yes, maybe I've just grown beyond the point where Doctor Who satisfies, full-stop (let's leave the political rant about The Zygon Inversion for another time; I'll only be repeating other people). But sitting here, being honestly, genuinely delighted by The Star Beast and Wild Blue Yonder in ways I'd frankly forgotten I could be by Doctor Who . . . there's a still part of me that doesn't want to risk going back and running into those same old arguments. I've seen them before. They're boring. They annoy me. I don't have the energy to deal with it. And I haven't yet worked out how to thicken my skin against them.

Someday, maybe, I will sort the love for Doctor Who I had since I was six and watching Peter Cushing romp around in glorious Technicolor from a factional fandom pissing match I didn't even play a part in. I never was someone who picked fights online over this or tried to make grand sweeping arguments about why X, Y or Z was better. I want to be mellow about differing tastes and just like what I like. I certainly don't want to be the kind of person who rags endlessly on things I didn't enjoy, which is why the emotional outburst above is about as far as I'm prepared to go in talking publicly about the 13th Doctor's run.

[I want to go back. I want to love Doctor Who again, flaws and all. I probably will regardless of this. I am not making a plea concerning fandom's nature. I am neither asking for grace nor extending it. The answer is undoubtedly to carry on along the sidelines, a skulking hermit-crab of a Whovian. Yet the burr remains, the grief sticks and the solid ground of a long-held interest remains cracked. Perhaps that is growth. Self-examination does not entitle one to set discoveries aside, job done, card stamped, and return to pleasures-as-were. Yet I can't deny the raw emotional urgh that comes of hearing the same punches struck over and over, about a portion of the show that at least tried.]

Ultimately, however, I like picking apart the things I enjoy and I enjoy watching others do likewise. And I don't get to do that here without cautiously curating my experience to avoid the ten billionth iteration of ten-year-old internet arguments.

I'll keep doing it, obviously.

But it is irritating.

[This post brought to you by listening to El Sandifer's podcast about The Star Beast. Eruditorum Press is a great site for fascinating media analysis and her TARDIS Eruditorum series is well worth a read if you're interested in the show's development.]

[heartshapedcreaturefromcriptoon]

...O...OP should make a version of this with the wheelchair accessibility symbol and tag me and then it would be perfect for me to print out and put on my wall, *or buy, which was my initial first reaction to seeing this, but...

If I must be a weird gremlin then I will be the weird gremlin who puts the smile back on his face ...

(Which adds extra funny, considering my updated OC for hazbin/hellaverse in general is like an all green and pink Bride of Frankenstein Creature even though she hasn't been properly unveiled to you guys yet haha shh I'm a roll! 🤫💚🫶💖♿😈🌹✨

Anyway, she'll be commin' out the Cauldron when she comes, it's a whole process and I'm trying to be such a tight lipped, good girl about it, even though I'm sure no one will mind that I can't resist being a little tease! 🤭😉💖🌹✨)

EDIT: I think in all the hilarity I think I marvelously misunderstood just who was being called a "Weird Gremlin" here but it works either way I suppose...

*yes that was my second attempt at writing over the text because editing with tiny ass text for memes is hard okay? Lol ...🫶❤️🫂

*plus there's so many negative posts and attitudes out there about just not doing anything "weird" with Al ever that I initially thought it was the over way around that this was like a positivity post/shout out to the "Weird Gremlins" doing just that, lol ... 🤣 ❤️🙏

Monsters are not safe anymore

Repost if he is not safe in your account askjdhajksdha

[aria0fgold]

I just realized something... my mhyk hyperfixation... might be strong enough to rival my inuyasha hyperfixation... orz and I'm not sure how to feel about that.

[greenwitchfromthewoods]

a beautiful little lie. [chapter 1] l Harry Castillo

Summary:  you are the personal assistant of Harry Castillo, a wealthy entrepreneur who asks you to go with him to his friend's wedding. there you meet your ex-boyfriend and things get out of hand

Warnings: fluff, a little bit of angst, friends to lovers (maybe?), one pregnant woman, some alcohol, two broken hearts, one lie

A/N: I'm not sure if I should have posted this. But I couldn't help myself because this story has been in my head for two days and if I don't get it out I'm going to go crazy. Let me know what you think and if I should continue. Thanks to the people who put up with my doubtful ranting. please be gentle with me.

your feedback is very important to me and I want to thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. I secretly hope you like this story.🖤 sorry for all the mistakes

[my masterlist][Harry Castillo masterlist] [a beautiful little lie- series masterlist]

"I told you that you should put up a signpost or sprinkle crumbs on the floor."

There was a sigh on the other end of the phone, and you smiled to yourself. You drove Harry Castillo to the brink of madness. “You’ve been to my apartment so many times, so why haven’t you learned the layout yet? You know where my office is.”

"I don't know." you replied, pouting your lip. "Maybe because it's a real maze?"

"Where are you?"

“I’m standing in front of some weird sculpture.” You looked at this piece of art, which was probably worth a few thousand dollars, for five minutes, Harry probably thought you were wandering around his penthouse.

Another sigh. He was already close to breaking down, but he tried to sound calm. His low, warm voice resonated in your receiver again. "How weird is this sculpture?"

"Weird enough."

You could barely contain your laughter when you heard a muffled "Jesus Christ." You adjusted the folders you were holding in your arms, looking around the spacious hallway. The conclusion appeared in your head that Harry would soon start looking for you himself, so you spoke up.

"I see the kitchen on the right."

"Great. So go left." He rubbed his eyes with his hand and leaned back in the chair. He could hear your footsteps in the receiver. "You should pass three rooms on the left, then turn right and..."

"Oh!"

A strange shiver ran down his spine. "What's that 'oh' supposed to mean?"

You cleared your throat. "Harry, this room is weird. I didn't expect that from you..."

"W-What? What are you talking about..."

"These whips, the leather... Jesus. And this?" There was silence for a moment. Harry thought it would take forever. "How is that supposed to fit in there? It won't fit. Or maybe..."

“What the hell?!” he shot up in his chair. “Where are you?” but out of the corner of his eye he noticed the door to his office open.

His assistant stood there, clutching a folder of documents to her chest and the most disarming smile on her face. He rolled his eyes, unsure whether he should fire her or kill her.

"Gotcha!" You chuckled and entered the office with a determined step "I brought what you asked for."

Harry Castillo, CEO of a large multi-million dollar company, watched as his assistant placed a folder of documents and Chinese takeout in front of him. It was supposed to be another Friday night, where you try to plan the coming week instead of trying your luck at bars or watching TV on the couch.

You had worked for him for almost a year, and your relationship had quickly changed from formal to friendly. Although you still called him Mr. Castillo at work, you were both more casual outside of that setting.

The job was very fulfilling, but your personal life was a complete mess. Apart from a few friends at work, there wasn't much going on there. But the pay was decent, and your boss was a really nice guy, so...

"Mark said he'd send the report tonight. That email you were waiting for also arrived." you said, sitting down on the comfortable chair in front of his desk and quickly scrolling through your phone "Mrs. Smith asked to contact you after the weekend. She has a few questions about the contract."

It wasn't until you tore your gaze away from the screen that you noticed Harry watching you intently from behind the desk, his dark eyes fixed on you. The white T-shirt hugged his broad, strong shoulders nicely, and a smile played on his lips.

"Is something wrong?" you asked uncertainly.

"I need you." Harry replied. Now a strange shiver ran down your spine and you gripped your phone tighter.

"What do you mean?"

He tilted his head without taking his gaze off you. "I need a woman."

He watched with delight as your eyes widened and your mouth parted in silent surprise. It took a lot of effort not to burst out laughing at the sight.

"A w-women?" you finally repeated in a choked voice "In what sense? To what? No! Don't tell me!"

You squeezed your eyes shut, raising your hands as if you wanted to stop him, although Harry was still sitting at his desk and still just staring at you.

Finally he decided to take pity on you. “A good friend of mine is getting married on Saturday. I want you to go with me.”

You opened one eye, then the other, and burst out laughing. “No, no, no!” you shook your head. “Good joke. I go with you to client meetings, not to your friends’ weddings. You have many friends, beautiful women, why don’t you invite any of them?”

Harry leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. He was a handsome man, and you were sure there were plenty of women who would love to go to a party like this with him.

"Maybe I've already asked them and you're the only one left, darling?"

“Ouch, that hurt.” you mumbled, squinting. “I’ll have to say no too. I don’t have…”

"I'll buy you a dress tomorrow, no problem. The wedding is in the afternoon, so we'll make it." He smiled at you as if the decision had already been made and you had no other choice.

“Harry…” You sighed. “That’s not the point. You know, I… I don’t think I’m cut out for this.” He frowned, so you tried to explain. “These people, your friends, aren’t my world. They’re always so beautiful and dazzling, and I…”

“What do you mean?” he asked. “Do you think I'm some kind of higher class or something? A better species of human?”

"Can I be honest? On the Titanic you would definitely have first class. I would have been below deck."

“Jesus!” he laughed and shook his head. “I assure you, honey, you will be the most interesting person at this wedding. I know what I mean. Besides, you will be with me. If this ship sinks, you can take the door, I won’t argue with you about it.”

You shook your head, smiling slightly and not believing that you had given in to him.

The place looked like it was cut out of a wedding magazine. Your eyes moved from the crystal chandelier, to the tables covered with snow-white tablecloths, to the vases with beautiful bouquets of flowers. Soft music flowed from the corner of the room where a band made up of several professional musicians stood.

You almost jumped when someone placed a hand on your back. "Harry, don't do that." You said, feeling your heart speed up.

"I'm sorry, are you okay?" he asked, smiling friendly. He looked stunning in a well-tailored suit and styled hair. When you nodded, he led you to your table.

He could see that you were stressed. Although you looked stunning in your dress, which beautifully emphasized your curves, and many eyes were looking after you, you kept smiling nervously and were rather silent. It wasn't like you so Harry did everything to cheer you up, and he was great at it. 

He didn't leave you alone with people you didn't know for long, his arm always served as your support and he made you laugh whenever he had the chance. That evening would have passed pleasantly if not for the fact that when you were coming back from the bathroom you heard a familiar voice that froze you. Someone said your name and when you turned around you saw him.

"Daniel! What a surprise! What are you doing here?" you smiled even though you had the impression that someone had just squeezed your insides with a vice.

A tall and slim brunette approached you smiling, the suit he was wearing looked really impressive. "It's my friend's wedding. And what are you doing here? Are you a friend?"

"I'm accompanying someone." you replied.

Daniel nodded in appreciation. "I came with my wife. Do you remember Beth?"

Oh, you remembered Beth. Very well to be honest. It was for her that he left you three years ago. You followed your gaze to the place he indicated and saw a beautiful blonde with a nicely rounded belly. Something sharp must have pierced your heart, but you bravely smiled.

"Still looking for a job?" Daniel leaned slightly towards you. "A friend of mine is looking for a secretary. He runs a construction company, I can give you his number."

"Thank you, but I'm not looking for a job right now. I'm happy with what I have."

Daniel shrugged. "You've never needed much, have you?"

The words got stuck in your throat. For a few moments you didn't know what to answer, and at the same time you were afraid that whatever left your lips would be immediately turned against you. Daniel was a master at this.

Suddenly, someone said your name again and in the back of the room you noticed Harry, who was walking away from a group of elegant-looking men and heading towards you.

"It's Harry Castillo." Daniel mumbled, straightening up. "I didn't know he was here."

"Yeah, it's his good friend's wedding. We came together and..."

"You're with Harry Castillo?"

It was too easy. You knew perfectly well that you shouldn't do it, but your lips moved before your brain had time to react properly. "Yes, we're here together."

It wasn't a lie. Not completely.

"I was worried about you." Harry said, walking over to you and smiling politely at Daniel. He quickly extended his hand in greeting.

"Daniel Stevens." He introduced himself. "I'm a lawyer."

"Nice to meet you." Harry looked at you expectantly.

"Daniel and I, we've known each other for a while. And this is his wife, Beth."

A pretty blonde walked up to you and Daniel put his arm around her, straightening up proudly. A woman like her was definitely the crowning achievement of his career. You weren't cut out for this. 

Even though you kept a smile on your lips, the whole conversation felt like a speeding bus was heading towards you. Harry was as polite as ever and didn't even bat an eyelid when Daniel mentioned "She said that you are together. It must be something new, because nothing has spread around town yet."

"We want to keep it private. You understand, Daniel." Harry replied smoothly and without hesitation, placing his hand on the small of your back and looking at you fondly. "A woman like that is a treasure, I want to enjoy her before we show ourselves to the world."

Daniel nodded as if he understood what Harry meant, and Beth let out a fond sigh. After a few moments, you said goodbye and Harry led you towards the door.

“Do you want to tell me more?” he asked quietly, more amused than angry.

You shook your head. "Just throw me under the car." you muttered "Damn! I knew I shouldn't have come here."

Harry immediately sensed that something was wrong. You seemed more tense and withdrawn during the whole conversation. "Who was that?" he asked.

You took a deep breath. "My ex-boyfriend. And Beth... That's the woman he left me for. And as you can see, she's pregnant now. Wonderful, right?" you tried to laugh, but it came out so fake that you quickly fell silent.

"So that's why you told him that you and I... That we're together?"

You stopped. You looked so pathetic that his heart almost broke.

"I didn't lie to him. Not really." you finally said. "I told him that we were here together. Daniel took it differently."

“So maybe I should explain it to him?” Harry made a move as if to go back to the party and find Daniel, but you quickly grabbed his arm.

"No, please!" you groaned. "Don't make me feel even worse. This whole situation is already embarrassing enough. Daniel will forget about it by tomorrow."

"If you say so." Harry sighed and put his arm around you. "Come on, I'll take you home. It's been a long day."

You were quiet as you climbed into the backseat of his car, your gaze barely leaving the window as the driver drove you through the dark city. Harry didn't say a word either, respecting your silence. But this wasn't how he expected the evening to end.

It wasn’t until you were standing in front of your apartment that he heard your quiet voice. “Thank you, Harry. And I’m sorry I dragged you into this.”

He smiled, and at the same time, a small smile appeared on your lips. He reached for your hand and squeezed it lightly. “You always have me by your side. And you can always count on me.”

"I know. Thank you."

He watched you for a moment longer, then you said goodbye to him and the driver and got out, leaving him alone.

Harry Castillo had almost everything a man his age could ever want. A thriving company that was making millions, a penthouse in the heart of New York City, and an expensive car. But the expensive suits he wore and the clothes made of the best materials couldn't hide what he really lacked. Closeness.

Although he was surrounded by many people, when the door to his 12 million apartment closed behind him, he felt really lonely. Harry was slowly approaching fifty and was starting to wonder if it wasn't a bit too late for him. Maybe he had missed a moment in his life?

Yes, he had met many beautiful women, had gone on dates, but it was never long-term, and that was exactly what he was looking for. He wanted someone who could be just his, who would love him and ask how his day was. Someone he could watch stupid movies with on the couch, go on vacation, or just be bored. Was he asking for too much?

"Do we really have to do this today? Everyone has gone home." The door to his office slammed shut, and then he heard a dull thud as you plopped down on the couch. Harry smiled to himself and turned away from the huge window that overlooked the city at night.

"We'll get this over with in a minute and then I'll drop you home. Is that okay with you?" he asked, unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt and rolling up the sleeves.

You rolled your eyes and sighed. "I'm not sure. I could have snuck out with the others."

"My personal assistant tells me things like that?" he frowned, but at the same time smiled and sat down next to you. "It's just some folders to look through. It'll take us an hour at most. Would you like a drink?"

You shook your head and lifted the mug of tea you had brought with you. You grabbed the first folder and flipped through it. "You have a sponsors' party this week. I've cleared the evening and morning for you."

"Thank you."

For a moment, you were both focused on your work. You were putting the next reviewed documents on the empty chair, and the room was filled with your quiet typing on the laptop keyboard. Harry took a sip of whiskey and glanced in your direction.

You were so focused that you completely ignored him. A small wrinkle appeared between your eyebrows as your eyes ran over the next lines of text.

“Would you like to go to this party with me?” he asked, breaking the silence, and when you looked at him, he added, “We’ve been having quite a bit of fun together lately.”

“Do you really think so?” you were surprised, remembering Daniel and the situation that had taken place at the wedding. “Can’t you bring one of your friends with you? You were dating Jean recently, right? What about her?”

Harry shook his head and smacked his lips. “It’s over. I don’t know if it’s even started, though.” He shrugged, and you felt sorry for him. Harry was a really great guy, even though he was your boss. Handsome, tall, well-mannered, he always made the people around him feel seen.

“Can I be honest?” you asked, putting your work aside for a moment, and Harry’s brown eyes landed on you expectantly. “I feel like you’ve jumped headfirst into a pool without even knowing how much water there is. I mean, when you meet someone and you just go for it. Expensive restaurants, gifts, flowers, weekends together… You fulfill all their dreams and whims, and yet you don’t want anything in return. I wonder where you are in all of this.”

Harry analyzed your words for a moment, until he finally spoke. "So you think I should..."

"You should really get to know someone first. And then they should get to know you too. Because you have a lot to offer, and I don't mean money or anything like that. But the real you..."

Silence fell after your words. You stared at Harry's profile, his prominent nose, the fine lines around his eyes, you noticed a few grey hairs at his temple. He was really handsome and you were surprised that you had to explain such things to him.

Finally, he moved his gaze to your face again. "How is it possible that you are still single?"

You smiled sadly. "I am a lot to handle."

"Not true. Who told you that?"

But you didn’t answer that question. Harry could tell you were sad, though you tried to hide it by looking back at your computer screen. “I think we should get back to work.” You finally said. “We don’t have much left.”

For a moment his attentive gaze rested on you, analyzing your words.

☆☆☆☆

Thank you for your time.

[dollishmehrayan]

# TAKE EVERYTHING AS IT WAS WRITTEN FOR YOU ── .✦ ( batboys x writer!reader who writes ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ )

dollish note ౨ৎ: hey so I’m back from the dead apparently, anywaysss omgg I missed you guys Hii and I will posting more content from now on and taking this seriously and these past days I was super stressed out over moving but hey my lovess anyways I decided to base this writer s/o over like anyone, like whether you write fan fic like me or write actual books, it matters to this hcs !! Tags: (batboys x writer!s/o)

© dollishmehrayan — ( all rights reserved to me. These works cannot be reposted, translated, or modified. Thank you for understanding dollies! )

# DICK GRAYSON ── .✦

He loves that you're a writer ( listen he just LOVESSS creative women like hello !? God forbid a guy likes creative people 🫠) he's your #1 fan and biggest hype man.

Tries to read your work over your shoulder while you're typing, even if you hate it “Babe, I need to know what happens next!” Like constantly over your shoulder seeing what you’re drafting and etc.

Occasionally offers cheesy plot ideas like “what if the love interest also knows parkour?” (His ideas suck)

Will 100% brag to everyone: “Yeah, my partner’s a genius novelist. Ever heard of them? You will.” OOOOO

Falls asleep listening to you ramble about story arcs and character development. It's his favorite sound.

Writes you little encouraging notes like, “You got this, Hemingway 💪” and sticks them on your laptop / tablet or wtv you have bbg.

# JASON TODD ── .✦

Loves your dark, gritty writing especially if there's violence, angst, or moral grayness involved since a lot of people don’t write angst that casually.

Offers surprisingly insightful edits or plot ideas: “This villain's motivation is weak. Give them a tragic backstory and don’t make them redeemable.”

Low-key wants you to base a character on him but will pretend he doesn’t care.

Has a soft spot for reading your fluff pieces though and will be quietly emotional about them.

Will threaten anyone who leaves bad reviews on your work. "Just say the word. Username 'Booktoklover93'? I got 'em."

He buys you fancy notebooks and pens and acts like it's no big deal, but he's proud of himself.

# TIM DRAKE ── .✦

Absolute king of writing dates you'll both sit in a café typing furiously and sipping terrible coffee.

Helps you fact-check obscure things at 3am without complaint (okay, maybe some complaint).

If you write mystery or thrillers, he treats it like solving a real case. “Wait… that clue in chapter 5…”

He totally has a secret folder on his computer labeled “[Your Name]’s Writing – Favorite Stuff” with all your pieces saved.

You’ve accidentally inspired him to write fanfic once and he WILL take that secret to the grave.

Sends you prompts or memes like “this is so your OC.” (Sorry I just keep cringing at oc 🥲)

# DAMIAN WAYNE ── .✦

At first, he might not get why you write fictional stories… but then he reads them.

He's completely blown away and demands to know what happens next immediately.

Occasionally critiques your logic but ends up emotionally invested in your characters.

“Why did you kill him off?” Because it served the story—” “You’re a monster.”

Will sit next to you while you write, drawing or sketching your characters in his own style.

Has probably told Alfred he thinks you’re a genius at least once when he thought no one was listening.

# BONUS WHICH MR WAYNE! ── .✦

Loves that you're creative and has the patience of a saint when listening to you rant about plot holes.

He doesn’t read everything you write, but when he does, he’ll quote it back to you at random times like a proud husband.

“Chapter 7 really showed growth. I was impressed.”

Offers to fund your writing career or self-publishing venture without blinking. “You’ll need an editor and marketing team.” SIGN ME UP !!

He also gently reminds you to eat and sleep when you’re on a deadline: “You’ve been writing for 16 hours. Come to bed and go to sleep.”

[acciojaeyun]

– cut scene, cut the chase | psh.

PAIRING. idol!sunghoon x staff, fem!reader SUMMARY. you work behind-the-scenes for one of the biggest kpop companies in the industry, belift, and you have a secret: you run one anonymous X account to vent every frustration and grudge about the company's visual ice prince, park sunghoon. he finds this account and instead of reporting you... he starts flirting? CONTENTS. enemies to lovers (e2l), SUNGHOON IS DANGEROUSLY FLIRTY. slowburn, praise kink, hair pulling, dom!sunghoon, dirty talk, light marking, reader is teased into begging, mentions of big dick sunghoon hehe, oral (f receiving) p in v, unprotected sex (pls dont; reader is on the pill, BUT STILL). a bit of angst if you squint, there's a bit of power imbalance, semi-public sex. body worship. she fell first, he fell harder. MDNI. WORD COUNT. 10.9k (i genuinely thought it was 20k) AUTHOR'S NOTE. hi, i’m back! and with lots of fic ideas i hope you enjoyyyy. hnggg. i really have no other stuff to say. HAHAHA. hope you like it <3<3

MY LIBRARY. REQUESTS ARE OPEN! TO BE ADDED TO MY TAGLIST, YOU CAN SEND ME A MESSAGE.

It starts, as most mistakes do, with a tweet.

You're more of a background poster than anything. An anonymous handle with a blurry profile pic which you've taken while you were out in the Han river, barely 300 followers, and two things everyone can piece together if they pay attention:

One, you work at BELIFT.

Two, you work closely with ENHYPEN.

Too close, maybe. Close enough that you retweet clips of Jungwon being the cutest cat-like leader you've ever met. Close enough that you've ranted about Heeseung's additional ad-libs and last minute line changes, praised Ni-ki's professionalism at 3 AM, and the most damning of them all, tweeted far too often about how Park Sunghoon is the human embodiment of a soft-launch breakup.

Your followers think you're just funny. That you're just playing a bit. That maybe you're a delusional fan with a production job fantasy.

There had been a lot of replies to your tweets every now and then, asking if you really work in BELIFT and for ENHYPEN, or if Heeseung really does have a girlfriend. Some have the audacity to even question whether you really work in BELIFT or you're just another person acting like you do in order to have X engagement.

You even remember the time you've landed into one of Sunghoon's protection teams, saying that you were setting him up, and you laughed to yourself while you're checking the outfits lined up for Sunghoon in the music shows.

Like every anonymous poster, you don't reply. You never do. But still, the page grows.

ENGENEs aren't sure what to make of you. Your tweets toe the line between sarcastic slander and genuine devotion. It's not exactly hate, it's more like aggravated admiration. Like the kind of loathing that only forms when someone sees too much of a person. Sees past the polish, past the performance.

Especially when it comes to Park Sunghoon.

The ice prince of BELIFT, the company's visual jewel – oh, and your most consistent headache.

You don't actually hate him, but you sure as hell tweet like you do.

You were just off the set when your next mistake happens.

A Manila folder is tucked under your arm, barely holding on with pitch revisions and last-minute cue cards, some of which crumpled from being tossed back and forth between departments. A black mask hides half of your face, and your bucket hat hides the rest.

Safe to say, you look like a ghost in the mirrored lobby glass.

It's 2:07 AM, and you're on your third iced americano of the day and second mental breakdown of the week, and it's Monday.

The music video shoot ran longer than expected, again.

Jungwon's scenes needed reshoots. Heeseung's hair was frayed and pink at the roots even if he had his roots retouched eighteen hours ago. The harness used in Sunoo's wire-flying scene was too tacky.

And Sunghoon?

Well, Sunghoon, of course, had notes.

"It feels stiff, the camera blocking doesn't match the beat. I look bored, too."

You were bored, you think. And he looks not even short of perfect – albeit bored, perfect, still. But no one ever tells him that.

Because Park Sunghoon, for all his breathtaking angles and God-tier lighting, is never, ever satisfied. And worse, he somehow knows exactly when to glance at your direction when you're rolling your eyes behind the monitor.

It's always the same. You glare, he smirks, you look away.

Later, you tweet. And tweet.

[nuguhasdoubts] park sunghoon blinked at the script today like it owed him money. he's so unserious for someone that pretty.

10 likes. One reply. You scroll.

[nuguhasdoubts] heeseung gives you a small nod and you feel seen. sunghoon stares into your soul and suddenly you're 12 and being picked last in PE again.

35 likes. Four replies. One quote tweet: "this is the most specific kind of hate ever," it read, and you snort.

[nuguhasdoubts] 2:15 AM no way he asked for natural lighting only during a night shoot. the director blinked five times. i blinked six. [nuguhasdoubts] 2:16 AM i hate that they still found a way... [nuguhasdoubts] 2:21 AM "can we do that again?" no, park sunghoon, we cannot. i've been standing for ten hours my spine ha sfolded like origami. [nuguhasdoubts] 2:24 AM he said thanks to everyone. do i forgive him? [nuguhasdoubts] 2:31 AM he walked past me and smelled like money and that another 13. and he is a tamburins endorser. still, i almost forgave him. almost.

You slam the X app shut at exactly 2:35 AM, just when you finish scrolling through your timeline and finish the read. Your phone's screen gives in to black, and for a moment, the smallest, briefest moment, it feels like silence.

But then your phone buzzes again.

And again, and again.

A cascade of notifications light up the cracked top corner, your battery bleeding at 8%, like it's crumbling under the weight of your life. You paid no mind, it could be one of those For You notifications built in to X's system depending on your tweets and interactions.

So, you stuff your phone deep into your jacket pocket and don't look back.

The night smells like asphalt and boiled coffee. The streets are empty now, save for a few flickering lampposts and a stray cat peering out from behind a row of parked scooters. You walk with your hand-me-down PRADA bag from your manager slung over one shoulder and the Manila folder hugged to your chest like it's an extra organ you're afraid to leave behind.

You've just wrapped a eighteen-hour shoot.

Eighteen hours of whispers through earpieces, running cables, resetting blocking, coordinating the makeup crew when Jay's contour got smudged, as well as rushing down to the pantry to get Jake his iced americano because his sugar was crashing.

Eighteen hours of explaining that no, natural lighting at night doesn't work that way, Park Sunghoon.

You almost laughed when he asked it. But he'd been so serious, too serious, and so of course, they made it work anyway.

You don't even remember when the grudge started.

Maybe it wasn't even a grudge. Maybe it was just a slow, quiet erosion of patience. One missed cue at a time. One more perfect shot that had to be redone because Sunghoon found the camera blocking off from the center just a tad. One more request that, had it come from anyone else, would've been given not much attention, but from him? It became gospel.

The elevator is quiet when you step in, except for the gentle ping of each floor and your own reflection staring back from mirrored walls. You look exhausted, hair damp from humidity, lanyard still looped around your neck – a stark contrast from the tall, sleek, glass gleaming in the dark of a building that looks like it should be filmed, not lived in.

It's part of the HYBE executive housing arrangement, a perk they throw in for long-term staff or those tied to core artist departments like production, creative, and management.

You'd wanted to cry the day you moved in. Not because you were happy, but because you really weren't.

The 27th floor smells like jasmine from a diffuser that someone in HR probably chose to help boost employee morale. You unlock your door with a fingerprint and step into a condo that's too clean, too white, too empty.

The living room is minimalist, with floor-to-ceiling windows and an unobstructed view of the Seoul skyline. All cold lights and late-night neon blinking somewhere in the distance. There's a record player you bought on impulse last year. It sits untouched on the console. You never really had time to use it.

You drop your bag onto the couch. It's beige. You should feel proud. This is what people your age fight for. A stable job. A sleek place in the city. A title under one of the most powerful entertainment companies in the world.

But most nights, you stand here and feel like you've wandered into someone else's life.

You studied music and dance because you were in love with movement. You loved the language it conveys, the hush before a curtain rises. You loved creating. Not cueing. Not directing for one hair strand to be curled on Jake's forehead to recreate Zayn Malik's hairstyle. Not adjusting the lighting angles so it could highlight Jay's jawline. Not keeping a lot of vitamin products just in case Sunoo forgets his.

You became a production assistant because it was your foot in the door – but now the door feels like a wall.

And somehow, in the middle of all that, he exists.

Sunghoon.

The boy with swan limbs and dagger eyes. The boy who lives your dreams without knowing he's holding them.

Sometimes, you bother to hate him. Not really, though. But there are times that it's enough to make it through another twenty-hour shoot where he asks in the middle of one scene to have his Tiktok redone because it doesn't feel like it's the one.

Everyone bend over backwards, because he smiled at the end of it.

You hate that he's the personification of everything you've ever wanted, just born with it in his palm. You hate that he's also charming and polite. And once in a while, he bothers to say thank you, and when he does, it sounds so sincere.

So, you conclude that you hate that you can't actually hate him.

You roll over and finally plug in your dying phone. You have new notifications from X. You exhale through your nose, jaw tense.

Tomorrow, you'll deal with it.

But tonight, you lie in an apartment for your loneliness, thinking about the boy who doesn't know he lives in your head rent-free, and the dream that somehow slipped from your gasp and landed in his.

You wake up to the sound of your phone buzzing against your nightstand like a trapped insect.

You ignore it.

You drag yourself out of bed. Shower. Coffee. Outfit. You pull your production lanyard over your head and loop it twice so it doesn't swing. Your tiredness presses into your muscles like wet sand, but you move through it. You always do.

You don't look at your phone.

Not when you button your black trousers. Not when you tie your hair back. Not when you slip your HYBE identification card into your back pocket, not when you slide your keys and hand cream into your bag like it's any other day.

You go down to the lobby and sit awkwardly on the sofa near the vending machine as employees pile up in the lobby with their own things to look after.

There were a lot of discussions and complaints. You hear someone saying that there'll be a remix for SEVENTEEN's title track from a Western label. Another employee is too busy contacting production for Hobi's scheduled Tiktoks with other idols of HYBE.

The shuttle pulls up just in time for call just before you could know about every idol group's business.

By the time you reach the elevators of BELIFT, your phone buzzes again. Fifth time this morning.

You've ignored every single notification since the moment you stepped into the lobby. You had to. If you let even a single one in, you might've screamed. Out loud. In front of security.

You're already late, not scandalously late, but late enough to get the side-eye from the senior stylist who believes the world runs five minutes earlier than your clock does.

The lift opens. You barrel into it.

Third floor, fitting.

Dress rehearsals, new concept. New accessories. Another hell.

You mutter apologies as you push through the crowd of stylists and interns hauling rolling racks. Your arms ache from last night. You barely slept.

You turn the corner toward Studio B, prepping the lines in your head for the morning checklist, when someone stops you.

"Hey," says Jiyeon, one of the production coordinators, "Sunghoon has asked for you."

You blink. Once, twice. "What?"

"Sunghoon said he wants you to check something about his outfit. Costume issue or something. He's in the dressing room."

Your stomach dips.

"Why didn't he tell stylists directly?"

Jiyeon shrugs, "He said, and I quote, 'Can you get the girl with the blank face and the shiny clipboard? She'll know what I mean.'"

Your face twists, "Did he actually say I'm blank-faced?"

"Verbatim."

You blink, "And you still came to get me?"

"He also said please."

"Okay?"

"It's the first time he's done that," Jiyeon reasoned.

"Right."

You adjust your headset, sigh, and head toward the solo dressing room.

When you push open the door, he's already there, sitting on the edge of the couch in sweatpants and the teaser outfit. One arm draped lazily over the backrest, the other, fiddling with a button.

You stare at him from the doorframe like he's sprouted a second head.

He blinks up at you. Tilts his head, and then had the audacity to smile.

Park Sunghoon does not smile at you. Not unless he wants something. Not unless he's being paid. Not unless he's being insufferable.

"There she is," he says, stretching slightly, arm flexing against the couch as he drops the half-undone button, "Miss Blank Face with the clipboard. I was starting to worry you hate me that much not to go."

You blink, "You called me for a costume issue."

"Did I?"

You glared, "I have three stylists on stand-by. If this is about layering or fabric, I suggest–"

"Nah," he interrupts, rising to his feet in one fluid, confident motion, "This is more of a you thing."

The hell does that mean?

Your eyes flick over his outfit. Teaser fit: A white shirt, goggles hanging on his neck, beige cargo pants that are unbuttoned, his face lacking the needed peach makeup you specifically requested the makeup department. Still, it's nothing that needs your attention.

Still, you walk over, pulling the clipboard from your side and adjusting your headset.

"Okay, walk me through what's wrong."

He hums and walks toward you, slowly.

You notice now that his hair's still slightly damp, curled at the ends like he's fresh out of the wash and has rushed to set. But Sunghoon never rushes. He meant for the undone, wet look. He still looks fucking hot.

You hate him.

His cologne is faint but there, something woodsy and clean, and with a citrus edge that makes your already-dulled nerves ring with alertness.

Sunghoon stops in front of you. Too close.

He bends slightly at the waist, dramatic, exaggerated, inspecting.

"What's wrong," he echoes, as if thinking over your words, "Well, I've been thinking."

"That's never good."

He grins, "Funny. So, I've been thinking. Maybe I've been unfair to you."

You blink for the nth time today, "Huh?"

"You do a lot around here. You coordinate, direct, remind everyone when Ni-ki is wearing pink when he doesn't like pink. You work hard." He pauses, tilts his head, eyes dancing, "Even with a blank face."

You resist the urge to launch your clipboard at him.

He continues, utterly unbothered, "I think I misjudged you. Or maybe, we start off the wrong foot.. or, well, maybe I'm just starting to see you in a new light."

You squint, "Is this a bit?"

"Depends. You into roleplay?"

You stare.

He smiles wider.

The smirk now spreads over his face like butter on warm toast – easy, practiced, dangerously self-aware. As if he knows exactly what he's doing.

You've seen Sunghoon flirt before. He does it when the cameras are off. He knows how to bat his lashes just enough for things to go his way, how to draw people in like gravity with the perfect mix of boredom and beauty.

Usually, you've seen him give it to anyone else he deems worthy enough to give him what he wants. But this? This is directed at you.

Which is impossible. You're just a production assistant.

You narrow your eyes, "Do you need something, Sunghoon?"

He taps his lip, "Just wondering why someone might say I smelled like money and Le Labo and... what was it? Oh," he leans in, "Regret."

You freeze. But your face doesn't move. You've trained for this. You've worked backstage during entire album rollouts with less than four hours of sleep. You've sat through re-edits of comeback trailers frame by frame. You do not crack under pressure.

You kept your expression neutral.

"Sounds like a weird comment."

"Exactly," he says breezily, circling you like a shark, hands crossed while toying with his lips, "There was this thread. So dramatic. Really makes me wonder what I did to deserve that kind of hate. Or maybe..." He glances back at you, "Admiration. Hard to tell, isn't it?"

Your pulse thuds in your ears, "Must be some fan account."

"Oh, definitely a fan." He stops. Smirks.

You grit your teeth.

He knows.

But he won't say it out loud. Not yet. Not while he can watch you squirm.

You tuck your clipboard back under your arm and square your shoulders, "If you're done wasting my time, I have three racks to coordinate and a backup battery dying in the hallway."

He leans closer again, just a breath from your ear, "You know," he mutters, voice all sugar and daggers, "I never minded the hate. It's the interest that's flattering."

You step back, "Get dressed."

"I am dressed."

You point at the goggles hanging on his neck, "Fully. And you have makeup in ten."

He grins, but he lets you go, for now.

You don't rush as you leave, you don't want to give him the satisfaction. But the second you close the door, your back hits the hallway wall and your fingers tremble.

The convenience store near HYBE is quiet at night, save for the humming of refrigerators and the distant buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead. The world outside still feels far too loud, too fast – but here, it feels suspended. Dim. Air-conditioned.

You sit at one of the corner tables, hunched over your bibimyeon like it holds the answers to your crisis. Your microwaved sotteok lies abandoned in its bowl, skewers askew like bones after a fight. You haven't touched it.

You're still scrolling.

Your thumb keeps twitching over the heart button, just to see what tweet comes next. It's like watching your own downfall unfold one quote tweet at a time. Funny, devastating, strangely intimate. People keep dissecting the phrasing, the tone, the way your thread reads less like a joke and more like a diary entry.

You're a meme now.

You take a long sip of your watered down iced latte.

The convenience store is nearly empty. Just a tired cashier scrolling on his own phone behind the counter, and a guy in a hoodie a few aisles down browsing the ramyeon shelf. You don't pay attention. You can't. Not when your screen lights up again.

[shnprod]: do you think she's like actually into him? [prodheegy]: is this user setting sh up again? lol [sunoology]: so is this a real life au? [jakewonbitz]: she's acting like she's really a hybe employee lmao

You want to crawl out of your skin.

You bury your face in your hands and groan quietly, elbows braced on the table. You consider deleting the account. Hell, maybe you should delete your entire identity.

You don't even notice the hoodie guy approaching until you hear the clink of a canned drink being set beside your food.

"That bad, huh?"

You nearly drop your phone.

Your head jerks up. A guy in a black cap, mask, and a loose hoodie sits across from you like it's the most casual thing in the world. His eyes are familiar, moles too familiar, but they're crinkled in amusement. Mischievous.

"You always look this haunted after scrolling your timeline?” he asks, stirring the cooked buldak in the cup.

You blink, "Do I know you?"

He tilts his head, mask hiding his mouth, but you see the smile in his eyes.

"No," he says, "but I feel like I know you."

Your stomach drops.

You snap your laptop shut – no, not your laptop, your phone – your phone, you idiot – and immediately swipe out the X app. Too late. He's already seen the screen. Maybe even the notifications section you're scrolling through.

You scramble, wiping your hands on your pants like that'll fix the sweat suddenly slick on your palms.

He gestures lazily toward your tray, "Mind if I join? Looks like your sotteok's crying for company."

You scowl, "There are seven empty tables."

"I like this one," he says, and finally pulls his mask down just enough to sip his canned coffee.

Park Sunghoon.

Of course.

You inhale sharply, "What are you doing here?"

"Late last minute run for Outside. I'm also craving tteok and buldak," he sips again, "you?"

You look at him flatly, "Avoiding a mental breakdown."

He hums, "Same."

You narrow your eyes.

He props his chin on his palm and lets his gaze settle on you like he's waiting. For what, you didn't know. But it unnerves you.

"Rough day at work?" He asks.

"Could say the same about yours."

"Oh? Did I cause you a problem?" He grins.

You curse under your breath, but you school your expression anyway, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Right," he says, biting back a smile, "but if you did happen to be the anonymous X user who's been tweeting about my glow and expensive cologne, I'd say your taste is... complicated."

You nearly choke on your own breath.

"I didn't say glow," you hiss, "I said smelled like money and Another 13, which is –"

"An oddly specific compliment, don't you think?" He cuts in, eyes sparkling.

You gape at him.

"You're delusional."

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, "Sure, but if you were her – and I'm not saying that you are – you're kind of funny. Intense. Unhinged, if you will."

"Thanks?"

"I like it," he says, easily.

You want the ground to open up and swallow you whole.

But you wipe your mouth with a napkin, inhale slowly, and grab your phone like it might shield you from the embarrassment.

"You're not funny," you say, standing up.

He stands, too, "You're blushing."

"I'm going to kill you."

"And tweet about it later?" He adds, raising a brow.

You march toward the exit. But still, behind you, you hear the soft tap of his sneakers as he calls out, low, sweet, and dangerously smug: "Don't forget to add the part where I said please."

You shove the door open.

"Park Sunghoon, you're up,"

The sound engineer barely glances your way as he gestures toward the mic stand. You stand to the side with a clipboard in hand, the checkboxes already half-filled for Jungwon and Heeseung. You're just assisting, nothing more. Yet, you've told yourself that three times now.

But then he strides in, all calm confidence and sweat-slicked neck, and your grip on the clipboard tightens.

"Hey," he grins.

"Hey," you replied, stiff.

You pretend to scan the equipment checklist, heart already quickening. His mic pack is in place, corn snaking down under the hem of his shirt. Too much movement and it'll slip. And of course, just as the engineer starts toggling the frequency, the mic shorts.

"Hold still."

"I'm always still," Sunghoon murmurs.

You crouch slightly, trying to get a grip on the cord slotted against the curve of his back, just beneath the tucked hem of his shirt. The mic pack is wedged awkwardly under his belt, and to fix it, you'll have to – you sigh, instead.

You reach around, fingers grazing his waistband.

Sunghoon tenses under your touch.

"You nervous?" He asks, voice a low murmur in the mic, only audible to you.

"Shut up,"

"Your hands are shaking," He remarks.

"I said shut up."

"So you do like touching me."

You jab the mic pack into his lower back, hard.

He flinches slightly, but you know there is a grin plastered on his face.

"You're cute when you're mean."

You move to step back, but suddenly, his hand gently, lightly, brushes your wrist. The touch is barely there, but it startles you all the same.

Your eyes snap to his. He's watching you. And he's looking at you. You pull your hand back like you've been burned, "There," you say stiffly, "fixed."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"Because I think I need a little more adjusting." His voice dips, suggestive.

And you nearly drop the clipboard.

The engineer calls out from behind the glass: "Perfect, signal's steady now."

You take a full step back. Sunghoon lets you go this time.

As he takes position for his mic test, you catch your reflection in the mirror beside the recording booth. Your cheeks are flushed. His are not.

But he turns, meets your eyes once more, and then.. he winks.

You almost broke the glass.

It's been two weeks since the convenience store incident.

So, it means, it's been two weeks since Sunghoon took an interest in making your life a living hell. By being mean to you? No. Worse. By flirting with you on each set and only you could hear it.

It's two weeks of faking indifference as he winked at you during rehearsals, smirked when he passed you during call time, and offered annoyingly specific compliments like: "New hand cream?" or "Didn't peg you for a lemon girl."

Two weeks of dodging any mention of that thread on your timeline.

You thought maybe – just maybe – the storm was passing. That the account would die down again. That people would forget. You'd even muted your own username, turned off DM requests. Held off from posting anything remotely unhinged, despite the itch in your fingers every time Sunghoon so much as breathed in your direction.

You thought it was over.

Until now.

Busying yourself with a sweet, rare pocket of silence as you stood outside the styling lounge while fanning yourself with the lighting cue sheets, you pull out your phone.

And there it is. A notification.

A quote tweet from an account you don't recognise.

But first, the tweet that started it.

[yuniecore]: @.nuguhasdoubts if ure really from belift, what do u think is sunghoon's type? end all the gf stans rn

Well, you shouldn't entertain that.

But your finger hovers. There's already traction on it – likes, bookmarks, a couple dozen QRTs. And then, you stumbled upon a quote tweet from a zero-follower account with the handle "icedamericano07", a white dog icon, and no header.

[icedamericano07]: bite. brains. knows how to handle wires. doesn't take my shit. @.nughuhasdoubts, what do you think?

You freeze.

No. No way.

You read it again.

The phrasing. The cadence. The cockiness.

Knows how to handle wires? Your fucking clipboard almost slips out of your hands.

You open the profile: no name, no description, no tweets other than this one. But you know, you know, you know it's him.

[nuguhasdoubts] on Direct Message: you're actually sick in the head. [icedamericano07] on Direct Message: sick? no. curious? absolutely. you didn't answer the question. am i wrong? do you know how to handle wires? 😏

You stare at the screen like it just slapped you.

[nuguhasdoubts] on Direct Message: this is workplace harassment. i could report you. [icedamericano07] on Direct Message: and say what? that i guessed your burner account from how you described my cologne too accurately? please. you're one exhale away from writing a sonnet about my jawline.

You slam your phone face-down on the nearest surface and inhale so deeply you almost see stars. But... you can't help but admit that there's a strange thrill. Like the person you've been screaming about in anonymity knows and instead of retreating, he's daring you to keep going.

[icedamericano07] on Direct Message: just admit it. you like me. [nuguhasdoubts] on Direct Message: i tolerate your existence. barely. keep dreaming.

A pause. And then,

[icedamericano07] on Direct Message: then let me give you better material to tweet about.

Your mouth goes dry.

You slide your phone back into your back pocket like it's cursed. Then storm into the studio like your shoes are on fire. But as you pass by the mirrors lining the wall, you catch your reflection: flushed, breathless, and worse, smiling.

It happens after a brutal Friday run-through.

You're coming down from twelve straight hours of lighting cues, sound checks, and last-minute styling disasters for ENHYPEN's Walk the Line tour. The studio's thinned out. Most of the staff are gone, only a few stragglers left packing up cables and costume pieces.

You've unhooked your headset, pulled your hair down, and wiped your face with the only half-clean tissue in your bag. You're exhausted. You've barely eaten. You ache everywhere – especially your back and the sharp crook of your shoulder where the production clipboard had dug into you all day.

You slump onto the edge of the stage, legs dangling, sipping from a lukewarm water bottle. That's when he finds you.

"Thought I'd find you here," Sunghoon says, voice low and lazy as he crouches beside the platform edge.

You don't even look at him, "Congratulations."

"What's my prize?" He murmurs, inching closer until his knee brushes your thigh.

You scoff, "A slap, probably."

His laugh is warm. Daring. Annoyingly smooth.

"I'll take my chances."

You finally glance at him.

He's still in his post-rehearsal sweatpants and hoodie, hair damp from the shower, exposed skin glistening just a bit from the leftover heat of the day. He looks like he should be in a magazine ad for bad decisions and good lighting.

You shift your leg, and he doesn't.

He raises an eyebrow, "You always look this uptight?"

You bristle, "Excuse me?"

"Your shoulders," he says, reaching over and ghosting his fingers just over your back. You flinch.

"You're wound up like a tripwire."

"I've been on my feet for twelve hours."

"You're always like this," he hums.

"Maybe because someone's always provoking me."

He grins, "You're tense."

"No shit."

"Let me help."

Your head snaps toward him. He doesn't flinch, doesn't smile. His gaze is steady. Confident. Dangerous.

"Let me loosen you up," he says, low.

Your heart slams against your ribs, "You're out of your mind."

"Am I?" he murmurs, leaning in.

His palm presses to your back, hot and wide and deliberate. Not high enough to be inappropriate. Not low enough to be excusable. Just maddeningly right.

"This is a game to you."

Another shrug, "Isn't it fun?"

You blink, and yet, your breath catches. You should leave, you should get up, push him away, throw your empty water bottle at his head.

His hand slips slightly lower, "You have a choice," he says, "Say no, and I'll leave. Beg just right, and I'll help you."

Your pride should take the way out, but your body.. your body aches. You've been holding tension for weeks. In your muscles, in your bones, in every sarcastic tweet and every hissed comeback and every moment he's stood too close just to make you feel it.

You don't say anything.

And maybe that's enough.

Because Sunghoon exhales, moves behind you, and with maddening slowness, slides his hands over your shoulders. He massages, presses, kneads. Firm, skilled like he's done this before, like he's good at this.

He leans in, "Relax," he murmurs, hot breath against your neck.

"Don't get used to this," you snap.

"I wouldn't dare."

You felt his fingers work down your spine.

And that's how it happens. One moment you're letting Park Sunghoon rub the knots out of your spine in the dim stage after-hours. And now, he guides you slowly onto your back against the stage floor, cushioned by the jacket he shrugs off for you. The silence is tense, electrified, only broken by your breathing and the faint creak of the floor beneath you.

When he kneels between your legs, you suck in a breath.

He looks up, "Still with me?"

You nod.

"Words."

"Yes,"

"Good."

He peels your trousers down slowly. Painfully slowly.

Not rushing, not fumbling – like he knows what he's doing and he knows you'll let him. Like he's done this in his head a dozen times already.

You shudder when the fabric hits your ankles, your back pressed against the cool steel railing at the side of the stage, spotlights dimmed, the rest of the venue swallowed by shadow. You're hidden here, but it makes it worse. Every sound, every breath, every filthy noise is amplified in the quiet.

It's 11:47 PM, and you're letting Park Sunghoon, the man who's made your job ten times harder, the man who's cocky and smug and always, always gets under your skin, kneel for you.

You hear the soft shuffle of his hoody as he makes himself comfortable. Your underwear is still on, it's the last thing protecting your sanity. But he drags his knuckles over your thighs so softly, it makes you ache. He hooks a finger in the waistband and pauses.

"Still good?"

"...Yes," you whisper, "I'm fine."

You're really not.

You're dizzy. You're humiliated by how much you want this. How your body is trembling with anticipation even when your brain is screaming: don't you dare make this mean something.

This is Sunghoon. And this is better than admitting what's been rotting in your chest.

Because if he touches you like this, it's fine, right? It's fine because he doesn't mean it. Because he's just playing a game. Because it's him, the man you can't stand.

So, it can't hurt you.

He kisses the inside of your ankle. Featherlight. Then a little higher, again, and again. His lips trail up your leg like he's marking a path. He alternates, your left thigh, then the right – until his mouth presses to the crease where your thigh meets your hip.

You jolt.

And all the while, you keep your eyes fixed straight ahead. Because you can't look down. You don't want to see the way he watches you. You don't want to see if there's pity, or curiosity, or anything that might crack you open.

It's easier in the dark.

It's easier when you don't see him.

Because he's everything you're not. An iced, golden boy. Loved. Gorgeous, gifted, perfect. He has what you lost: center stage, applause, the confidence of someone allowed to dream.

You hate him.

You hate that you don't, really.

And your panties are soaked. He sees it. You know he sees it because he lets out a low, almost reverent sound, like he's praying under his breath as his thumb drags over the damp fabric.

"This wet for me?" He asks, genuinely curious, like he's still not convinced it's real.

Oh, you badly wanted to scream.

Then, tongue flat, he licks you over your panties. A bold, slow stripe. And had the courage to hum.

"Cute," he says, and your breath catches, "you taste desperate."

You slap a hand over your mouth. He smirks. You feel the smugness even without looking down. And then, he peels the fabric to the side. A beat of silence.

You can hear the way you're wet, the quiet obscene sound of his breath brushing your soaked folds. He exhales like it's smoke: slow and deliberate.

His thumb spreads you open.

Then, his mouth is on you.

His tongue flattens against your clit in one slow drag, then circles it with calculated precision. Fast once, then slow, then again, like he's testing what makes you twitch. Your grip on the railing tightens, and you accidentally let out a soft moan.

Hand sliding behind your thighs, anchoring you in place as he eats like he's trying to memorise how to unravel you. And god, he's good. Too fucking good.

He alternates between flicks and sucks, rolling his tongue, then locking his lips around your clit to suck gently, then harder. It's like he's experimenting, showing off.

Your hips buck, and he groans into you – on purpose – sending vibrations through your core. It's disgusting how fast your body responds.

"You like that? he asks, voice hoarse between licks, "Didn't think someone with such a smart mouth could be this quiet."

You almost choke on air.

Then his hand comes up, just one, sliding down the front of your thigh, fingertips dragging over your skin like he owns it. He presses two fingers into you slowly. Testing, stretching. Just enough to curl inside you as his tongue keeps working.

Your knees buckle, "Sunghoon–"

He freezes.

Then he drags his mouth up and looks at you, eyes dark, "Say it again."

You shake your head, humiliated, and in return, he presses his fingers deeper, making you gasp, "Sunghoon!"

His lips are back on you in a heartbeat. And then you're unraveling, thighs clenching around his head, mouth falling open in a silent cry as your orgasm crashes into you. The tension shatters. You come with a full-body tremble, your hips jerking helplessly into his mouth as he keeps licking, greedy and relentless, like he doesn't want to stop.

And, really, he doesn't.

He licks you through it and after it. Slow, gentle strokes to your oversensitive clit that makes your thighs twitch and your fingers claw at the railing for mercy.

Finally, he pulls back.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His lips are glistening, his cheeks are flushed.

You're panting, drunk, dazed, wrecked.

And he has the audacity to smirk.

"Thanks for the prize," he says, cockily and devastatingly handsomely.

You stare at him, wide-eyed.

He shrugs like it's no big deal, "You looked like you needed a release."

You don't speak, you can't.

Sunghoon stands, wipes the corners of his mouth again like he just finished eating lunch, and steps away. Hands in his hoodie, whistling. And then: "See you tomorrow," he says, already walking off.

And you're left there, shaking, heart in your throat, wondering what the hell just happened; and why your body still aches like he barely scratched the surface.

It's been three days.

Three whole days since Park Sunghoon dropped to his knees in the shadow of a stage that had once only echoed with your voice calling lighting cues and ruined you.

Three days since he looked up at you through his lashes with that insufferable glint in his eye, tongue dragging over your soaked underwear like you were dessert after a sold-out show. Three days since he made you come with nothing but his mouth and his smug persistence.

Three days.

And now?

Now he's normal.

No, worse than normal – he's professional.

He walks through the halls of the tour venue like he owns them, and he kind of does. The Walk the Line tour is halfway through its Asian leg, and Sunghoon is still very much the ice prince on stage. The sweet-faced visual in every behind-the-scenes clip, the golden boy who laughs in rehearsals and delivers lines with lethal charm on live broadcast.

He nods at staff like you don't exist. Like he didn't taste you and leave you shaking. Like you weren't a real thing. Just another part of his routine.

"Morning," he says when he passes you in the hallway on the second floor.

No wink. No smirk. Not even a pause.

Your breath stutters, "Hey,"

But he's already gone. No backwards glance. No tension in his shoulders. Just air between you. A silence so loud it swallows the past whole.

You even try to rationalise it.

It was just one night. Not even a whole night. It was fifteen minutes, to be exact. That's how fast he has made you come in his mouth.

He's an idol. You're a staff. You have a clipboard and a headset and no business letting anyone, least of all him, crawl between your legs when your ID is still swinging around your neck.

You try to tell yourself it didn't matter. That it was a tension release, a temporary unraveling, a misstep that the both of you would walk away from untouched.

But you are touched.

Everywhere.

Your body still aches with phantom heat. Your lips still press together when you pass the dressing room where it happened. Your stomach still twists when you catch his scent on the stairs – that stupid expensive fragrance that always clings to the collars of his hoodies.

And worse? He knows.

Because sometimes, he spares his time to look at you. Just for a second. A flicker of a glance. Like a hook, just enough to tug at the thread holding you together.

In rehearsals, when he's practicing formations. You're crouched in the tech booth, reviewing cue sheets, and then his gaze skims right over his monitor and lands on you. You freeze, he doesn't even blink.

When you hand off a chain correction for the stylists during makeup, he takes it, touches your fingers too long, and thanks you like he always does, sweetly, almost innocently.

But it's a game. And you're losing.

He doesn't even flirt anymore, not like before.

No sly whispers about your lips, no jokes about how cute you look when your clipboard shakes. He doesn't bait you during mic checks or complain about his in-ears just so you'll come closer.

He asks other people now. Always polite. Always charming.

Two months later, you're seated in the staff corner during the pre-recording run of Walk the Line in Jakarta. Coffee half-finished. Cue sheets wrinkled. A setlist spread across your lap like armor.

The world around you blurs, stylists touching up roots, dancers rushing in and out, interns double-checking security barricades.

Then, he slides into the seat across from you.

No warning.

"Hey," he says, casual, "You've been quiet."

Your breath catches. You don't meet his eyes. You fiddle with the edge of your script. "Not sulking, are you?" he adds, voice low enough for only you to hear.

You inhale sharply, you refuse to bite. But your knuckles tighten over your pen.

"I've been working."

"Didn't know work required you to ignore me."

"That implies I acknowledged you to begin with."

He lets out a soft, faux-offended gasp, "Ouch."

When he stands, crumpling his coffee cup in one hand, he adds over his shoulder: "You taste better when you're annoyed."

Your jaw goes slack, and you even barely process his retreating figure.

What does he even want at this point?

That question bugs you each day, that's why when you spot him alone on the balcony behind the rehearsal room, leaning against the railing with his hoodie up, phone in one hand, you took your chances.

You were going to ask: What was that night? Why are you still playing?

But then, he looks up and smirks. Like he knew you were coming, like you're already predictable.

"Need something?" he asks, cocking a brow up as calm as can be.

You flinch and walk away.

And that night, that night you try to draft a tweet. Something vague, sharp, cathartic. Something like your old self before all this mess. But everything comes out wrong.

Too raw, too revealing. Too much like someone who cared.

You delete it all. You stare at your screen until it fades to black.

It's pathetic, the way you look for him.

You should be reviewing lighting logs or updating the asset board for the upcoming comeback for DESIRE:UNLEASH. You should be sleeping, crying, screaming into your pillow. Anything but this.

But here you are, behind the rehearsal studio, under the sliver of moonlight that pools on the balcony concrete like spilled milk. Looking for a boy who only ever leaves you aching.

And there he is.

Like the last time, he's leaning back against the railing, hoodie on, phone in hand. Like he isn't the reason your world's been spinning sideways for weeks.

He doesn't even look surprised when he hears your steps. Of course, he knew you'd come.

You hate that he's beautiful even like this. You hate that you still want him anyway.

"Of course, you're out here."

He looks up, just his eyes, no real shift in his posture. And then – God, that smile. That goddamn smile.

"Could say the same about you."

You walk over slowly, carefully, as if daring yourself to get close might make the moment more bearable.

Well, it doesn't.

He tucks his phone away, gives you a once-over, casual and amused, "You gonna scold me? You look like you're about to yell."

Really, damn you, Park Sunghoon.

"I might," you declare, teeth clenched.

He laughs, "Should I be scared?"

You pause in front of him, cross your arms, and for a second – you don't say anything. You just look at him.

At the boy who ate you out like a secret. At the man who walked away like it never happened. At the person who sees all of you, but keeps his eyes closed.

You inhale sharply, "What do you want, Sunghoon?"

"Right now?" he drawls, pretending to think, "Maybe a drink, a nap? A massage would be great –"

"I'm serious, Sunghoon."

"So am I," he says, breezily.

"I don't get you," you begin, and your voice is steady, for now, "You flirt, you vanish, you tease, and then –"

Your breath hitches.

"Then you touch me like I'm more than that, and pretend that it didn't happen."

He doesn't say anything.

You glance sideways, searching for his face under the low hood, but he doesn’t look back. Just presses his lips together like he’s stifling a laugh.

You feel your chest tighten. “You think this is funny?”

“No,” he says, softly. “Just familiar.”

Your heart stutters.

“I want to hate you,” you confess. The words leave your mouth before you can stop them, before you can dress them up in sarcasm or hide them behind a bitter joke, “I want to hate you so bad. Because you ruin everything. You ruin me.”

His brows knit, finally, but he still doesn’t interrupt.

“I hate the way you look at me like you already know what I’m thinking. I hate that I don’t even know what I’m thinking anymore. I hate that you're everywhere – the damn rehearsal room, the elevator, the breakroom, the f –”

You stop.

“But mostly,” your voice lowers, cracks, “I hate that you touched me like you meant it. And then walked away like you didn’t.”

You both stand there for a long, loaded second. The wind lifts your hair. Somewhere inside, a faint bassline from another studio vibrates through the floor.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you whisper. “I didn’t ask for you.”

Sunghoon turns to you, finally, slow and unreadable. He takes you in: eyes drifting from the trembling fists at your sides to the way your jaw clenches like you’re holding yourself together with glue and prayer.

And then he smirks.

“That’s not what your tweets said.”

Your chest caves.

“Fuck you,” you breathe, and it hurts. God, it hurts, how fast the ache rushes in.

“You’re really going to turn this into a joke now?” you ask, barely holding the cracks together. “You think quoting my tweets makes you clever? You think it makes this easier?”

“I think you’re the one who made it complicated,” he says.

Your eyes sting.

“And you’re the one who kept playing the game.”

Sunghoon shrugs, “You were playing too.”

“I stopped!” you yell, too loud, too suddenly. You catch yourself, voice dropping again. “I stopped when I realized none of it meant anything to you.”

He looks away.

“You want to know the worst part?” you ask, shaking now, your fists clenched so tightly your nails dig into your palms.

He doesn’t answer.

So you keep going. Because now, you can’t stop.

“I can’t even trust myself anymore. I walk into a room and you’re there and suddenly I’m stupid again. I let you do that to me and I didn’t even ask why – because I thought maybe, just maybe, it meant something. Maybe I wasn’t imagining it. Maybe you looked at me and actually saw me.”

Silence. Long. Agonizing.

Finally, he says, softly, flatly, with nothing behind it:

“I don’t do real.”

You flinch like he slapped you. And for the first time in weeks, you have nothing left to say.

No jokes. No comebacks. Just the steady collapse of something inside you, like the floor gave out.

You nod.

“Right,” you whisper, “Of course you don’t.”

He looks at you like he wants to say more. His throat works around the words. But whatever they are, he swallows them.

So, you nod again. And walk away.

And this time, he lets you. And that’s the worst part.

Because you wanted him to follow.

The days blur after that.

You don't cry. Not like you thought you would. Not in the way you expected: no gasping sobs into your pillow, no dramatic tears behind the studio monitors. No, instead, it settles in quieter. Colder. Like frost.

You keep your head down. Do your job. Show up early, leave late. Laugh when you need to. Answer questions. Avoid him.

Always, always avoid him.

You stop using the staff pantry, too many memories. Too many shared glances across the coffee machine. You choose the service elevator now. Keep a spare headset in your pocket in case someone says his name in the group channel.

Even when he's nearby, you pretend he isn’t.

And to your own disbelief, he does the same. At least, on the surface.

You catch him once – just once – watching you across the stage while Jungwon rehearses his solo. He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t look away either. It unsettles you.

The teasing is gone. The grins. The little traps. Nothing. Just a vacuum where he used to exist. You try to tell yourself this is better. You try.

But it’s 1:13 a.m. now.

And your apartment feels too quiet.

You’ve had your phone on Do Not Disturb for three hours. You haven’t checked the nuguhasdoubts account. You’ve ignored three separate texts from your production groupchat, one passive-aggressive reminder from the schedule board, and two attempts from Sunoo to FaceTime you “just because.”

There was so much more than he let on, you think. That’s the way Sunoo has always been, always ahead of everyone in ways that you couldn’t understand how he does it. Maybe, he’s empathetic – or, maybe, he’s just too nosy. But you think he’s empathetic, it’s Sunoo.

You’re curled on the couch in sweats, face bare, hair tied up, a bowl of congealed kimchi stew on your coffee table.

You try watching something: a rerun, a music show, a mukbang, but everything reminds you of him. Of them. Of the life you orbit but can never truly belong in.

Your apartment, a perk of working under HYBE, is too pristine for how worn you feel. White walls, modern fixtures, perfect view of the Han River; and none of it feels like yours. You’re just a tenant here. A ghost with a staff badge and too many secrets.

Your hand twitches toward your phone. Then away. Then toward it again.

You turn it over.

One new text.

[unknown number] 1:15 AM. i'm outside. just five minutes. if you hate me after this, i'll leave for good.

Your pulse slams through your chest.

You sit up. Walk to the door.

Your knees feel wrong. Like someone’s replaced your bones with glass.

You press the button for the camera feed. The screen flickers.

And there he is.

Sunghoon. Standing under your building’s awning. Hoodie pulled up, rain soaking the hem. His sneakers are wet. His shoulders are hunched like he's bracing for impact.

Your fingers hover over the buzzer. For a second, you tell yourself: don’t do it. He doesn’t deserve this. Then your heart says: but I still want to hear what he’ll say.

And you buzz him in.

The intercom clicks off. Your hand falls to your side. Your chest feels like it might cave in.

You leave the door open for him.

Just a crack.

The door swings open with a soft creak, rain still whispering against the windows behind you. He steps inside like he’s trespassing. Like this space might reject him.

His hoodie is soaked through, dripping water onto the hardwood. His shoes are ruined. But it’s not the mess that unsettles you — it’s the look in his eyes. He’s not smug. Not cocky. Not teasing. He looks like he’s searching for something, and terrified he won’t find it here.

You don’t say anything at first. Just toss a towel to him. Not kindly.

“Dry off before you ruin the floor.”

He catches the towel one-handed. Rubs the back of his neck, slowly, like he's trying to buy time.

You cross your arms, back rigid, “Why are you here, Sunghoon?”

“I…” His voice is cracked from the cold, “Because I didn’t know where else to go.”

Your jaw tightens, “That’s not an answer.”

He drops the towel onto your kitchen chair. Looks at you. Really looks at you.

“I didn’t think you’d open the door.”

“I almost didn’t.”

“I wouldn’t have blamed you.”

You fold your arms tighter, “You’re not here to make peace, are you? You’re not the type.”

“No,” he says quietly. “I’m here because I haven’t been able to sleep. Or eat. Or exist right since you walked away.”

You kept quiet.

“I can’t think straight, I can’t even rehearse properly, my mind keeps looping back to the balcony, and the look on your face like I’d just torn you open and smiled about it.”

“You did,” you whisper, voice small, sharp, “You looked me in the eye and said you don’t do real. Like I hadn’t already given you everything real about me.”

“I know,” he chokes, “And I wanted to say I didn’t mean it. But I knew I’d sound like a liar.”

“Then why come now?” you demand, shaking, “After all this? After weeks of avoiding me? After you made me feel insane for wanting you?”

Silence. Just the sound of rain ticking against your glass balcony door.

Then, with a breath:

“Because I realized I’m not scared of you breaking me,” he says, “I’m scared that you already did.. and I let you go anyway.”

Your mouth parts, but no sound comes out.

“I thought keeping it casual would protect us. That I could make you laugh, keep you distant, pretend I didn’t care,” he continues, voice rising now, “But then you stopped talking to me. You stopped smiling. You looked through me like I was no one. And I swear to god, it felt like dying.”

You take a step back, “Why now, Sunghoon? Why only when I walked away did you start realizing any of this?”

He shakes his head, “Because I was a coward.”

You flinch.

“You were brave enough to ask what this was. I just kept pretending it was easier to laugh than to admit I gave a fuck.”

Your hands are trembling, “So, now what? You show up drenched and desperate and say you care? And I’m supposed to forget how you left me behind?”

“No,” he says, “You’re supposed to tell me to leave.”

You blink.

“But you haven’t.”

His voice drops. “Which means… maybe there’s still something left.”

You hate him for being right.

He steps forward. Rain still clings to his lashes. His voice turns raw, stripped of every mask he’s worn until now.

“I don’t want anyone else reading your tweets,” he whispers. “I don’t want anyone else getting to look at you the way I have. I don’t want anyone else making you laugh the way I should’ve.”

Tears sting your eyes. You hate that, too.

He exhales, voice low, vulnerable, trembling at the edge of everything he’s ever avoided saying.

“The show’s over, Y/N. And I still want you all the same.”

A beat.

Your throat tightens, but you don’t falter.

You look him straight in the eye and whisper, “I’ve stayed for the ending credits.”

The silence in your apartment feels louder than anything else tonight. Not the hum of the air conditioning, not the rustle of city lights outside the window, not even your heartbeat, which has betrayed you too many times when it comes to him, “Then let me make it worth your while.”

And finally, fucking finally, he kisses you. Like he really did mean it. Maybe, he does. Sunghoon holds the sides of your face and kisses you deeply, trying so hard to memorise how you taste because he had done everything to deprive himself off of it. Each kiss translated into: fuck, I’ve always wanted to kiss you since the very first tweet.

You gasped against his lips, letting out a small noise of shock at how intense he is just from kissing you. He walks further, pushing you to the couch before he hovers over you and cup your cheeks as he looks into your eyes, kissing the tip of your nose before he kisses you again, softly, this time. Sunghoon slots himself in between your legs, holding your hand as he kisses the inside of your palm before diving to your jaw, leaving little kisses to his wake as he leans down and to suck on your jaw, leaving marks of ownership as if he’s afraid anyone had the guts to claim you.

“So beautiful,” he murmured against your skin before toying with the straps of your night gown, flicking it against your skin so faint you almost missed the snap of the fabric against your skin, “I’m really sorry,” he whispers as he pulls your tank top to pool above your breasts, breathing at how he finally had the chance to have you like this: under him, beautiful, vulnerable – and it all boils down to him on how he should win you, again. In the charm that only a Park Sunghoon has.

His mouth envelops around the bud of your nipple, moaning hard at how he tastes the expanse of your skin. He shifts his weight down, focuses on sucking your nipple as his eyes flicker over to you, making sure you’re with him as he finally proves himself to you as he alternates between each nipple.

Sunghoon travels to the valley of your breasts, tracing the tip of his nose all throughout the flushed skin. He kisses down a trail softly to your stomach, kissing over the expanse of it, each stretch mark, each mole that you didn’t even know existed there. He travels down and became face to face with your pulsating core. He breaths out, a familiar sight right before him, but this time, he’s not hiding anymore.

“Shit,” you breathe out as you feel his breath fanning over your core. He pokes his tongue on the wet patch that has formed on your underwear, groaning as if he’s tasting you again for the first time. He chuckles when he meets your heated gaze, “Relax,” he says, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You better,” and he chuckles at your breathy threat.

He hums before licking a stripe over your clothed core, giving you what you want but not exactly the way you want it. It was a while of teasing you, mixing his saliva with the wetness that is evident over the cotton of your panties. And after a while, Sunghoon pulls it down before immediately diving into your clit.

You squeal and immediately tighten your thighs around his face, holding on his hair tightly as he alternated on flicking his tongue against your clit and sucking it hard that whenever he lets it go, a pop is evident between your close bodies. He ate you out like he wanted to prove something, that him in love and eating you out was better than the last time he did so, but evidently in lust. And he doesn’t slide a finger inside you. He focuses his tongue and mouth in all the places you needed him.

“Bedroom,” you try to say as you tap his shoulder, “please,” you added.

Sunghoon stopped and grinned at you before scooping you with his arms and carry you bridal style. Both of your heartbeats as loud as it could be, thumping against the vulnerable expanse of your chest. He lays you down softly on your bed with a thump, and it’s almost as if Sunghoon is met with a sudden rush of urgency, he strips himself off his clothes before leaning down again to kiss you.

He grinds his crotch against yours, hissing as his shaft feel the wetness from your core smearing all over him. He presses his forehead on yours as he stayed that way for a deadly, long time. Just his shaft slipping in between your hungry folds, edging the both of you the way you both have played this game for so long. You whimper whenever you feel his tip grazing your hole just a tad, but lose it whenever you feel the drag of it against your clit.

“Please,” you beg again, “I need you, Hoon.”

“Goddamn,” Sunghoon mutters, as if bracing himself. He perches up, arms on either side of your head before lining his tip against your already throbbing entrance. He pokes the tip of his dick against it, letting out a broken moan as he feels how wet you are. And he eases himself in – too slippery, he thinks – and you’re comfortable just right. You hug his dick snugly but fit him inside easily, it was as if it was a perfect fit.

“Such a perfect pussy for me,” he groans, “I fit you so well, Y/N,”

He drags each thrust slowly, making you want to feel each vein, each drag, how your walls pulsate around his big dick that even with little movement, bullies your cervix in such a delicious way. Each thrust has his lips hanging over yours, and a small part of you wishes he kisses you while he does, but with each hard thrusts, he is jutted forward, and his lips only graze yours.

“Park Sunghoon,” you called out, “kiss me.”

And his eyes meet yours, before breaking out into a grin and obliges you. This kiss was slow, taking its time. Teeth clashing here and there, tongues desperate to feel each muscle, breaths exchanged in heavy and deep heaves, each meant a confession heavier than the last one. God, amidst all miscommunication and the game you willingly played with him, Sunghoon was a fit candidate to what you know is love.

“I love you,” Sunghoon stutters as his thrust increased, beating you to a love confession that you had unwillingly placed upon the category of competition on who gets to say it first.

Well, you’re glad he said it first.

You smiled before reaching out to wrap your arms around him before cupping the side of his face, and he leans in, kissing the inside of your palm again with his free hand wrapping around the circumference of your wrist, “You idiot,” you laugh, and he does, too, “I love you, too.”

And then you’re coming, climax crashing into you before you realise that you are coming undone around him. This makes him groan around you, chasing his orgasm, and then: “Shit, can I come inside?”

You laugh at him seeking approval, but you nod, anyway. And he comes inside you, pulling you up in a hug, as if he needed your body against him to ground himself in the intensity, and Sunghoon shudders at each emotion flowing out of him. His lips busying itself kissing whatever skin near to his mouth, but his eyes are screwed shut as he lets out breathy exhales, trying so hard not to cry but he does.

Tears staining your back and his sniffles fill the room and you pull him away to cup his cheeks, “Sunghoon,” you call him softly.

“I’m sorry, I love you, I fucking do,” he says softly, looking into your eyes, “I’m yours, if you’ll have me.”

A smile breaks out from your lips, “You’re goddamn cheesy.”

“Only for you,” he chuckles.

And you smile at him as if you placed all the past behind.

Sure, you first thought how crazy it is that everything started with just one harmless thread about him being the man everyone desired to be. You first thought how this is a mistake, how everything was a mistake. That your world didn’t belong in his, because his perfection didn’t deserve an ounce of taint from your life, but you’ve come to realise that Sunghoon is as human as you are.

He was a perfectionist, true, but he was a coward all the same. Masking his imperfection in his continuous strive to become perfect, and this is one of the times that he let himself be imperfect to have the one thing he has deprived himself of: love.

As the night when on, legs tangled with each other as he slept beside you, his mask of indifference and cockiness finally shed off to make you see the boy who only wanted to be perfect to feel the love he thinks he deserve. You brush his hair off his forehead, and place a kiss on his forehead, letting the warmth dissipate.

Cut scene, cut the chase. The curtains are drawn down, the show is over.

But your story had only begun. With him.

END. ©️ acciojaeyun, 2025.

[vandme12]

hear me out

ronin walking in on his darling listening to recordings of his voice. how would he react?

Devil on Repeat

The apartment is too quiet without him. It always is.

You try to fill the silence—music, TV, podcasts—but nothing sticks. Nothing hums in your bones the way he does. So, really, it’s not creepy. It’s just… coping.

Your finger hovers over the folder labeled ‘goreboy.wavs’, half-embarrassed even though you’re alone. A little treasure trove, collected piece by piece—snippets of his voice from late-night calls, glitched-out recordings he’s dropped in the chat, and that one unhinged rant about moral relativism he left on your voicemail at 3 AM.

And maybe you play them more often than you should. Maybe his voice has become something like nicotine, curling around your lungs in a way that’s addictive, dangerous, and a little too good. But hey—you miss him. And he is a comfort. Even if the comfort in question would happily dissect a man just to watch his heart stutter out.

The recording crackles to life.

"Aww, did I make you blush? Don’t worry, darlin’—I’d blush too if I were thinking about me."

You bury your face in your hands. God, he’s unbearable.

And yet… you press play on the next one.

"Y’know, for someone so sweet, you’ve got the most deliciously wicked little thoughts. I should be concerned. I’m not. I’m proud."

A breath shudders out of you, tension bleeding from your shoulders as his voice thrums warm and low in your ears. You could close your eyes and almost pretend he’s here—stretching out on your couch like he owns the place, knife twirling between clever fingers. But he’s not, and the ghost of him isn’t enough, so you play another.

"Miss me?"

The recording is barely a whisper, rough-edged and intimate. It’s unfair, really, the way he sounds like sin spun into sound. And, okay, maybe you replay that one a little more often. Just to hear it. Just because—

"Y’know," a familiar voice drawls behind you, smooth and wicked, "If you wanted to hear my voice that bad, darlin’, all you had to do was ask."

Oh, fuck.

Your heart slams against your ribs as you whirl around, and there he is—leaning in the doorway like a devil straight out of your dreams, all sharp teeth and sharper eyes. His horns catch the light as he tilts his head, and that smile—that smile—could peel the skin from your bones.

You scramble to pause the recording, too late, and the sound of his own voice still hangs thick in the air. His grin stretches wider. "Really? That one?"

"I—" Your throat is dry. "It’s not—"

"It’s not creepy," he finishes for you, voice dripping mock-sweet. "Nah, sweetheart. Just adorable. You missed me that much, huh?"

The worst part is, he’s not even mad. If anything, he looks delighted—like you’ve gifted him some precious little secret to tuck under his tongue and savor.

You try—try—to salvage your dignity. "I was just—"

"Just missin’ me," he purrs, pushing off the doorframe. His boots are soundless against the floor as he crosses the room, lazy and predatory, until he’s crowding into your space. "Aw, darlin’… if I knew you were gettin’ this lonely, I’d’ve come home sooner."

His hand slides under your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. Too close. Too warm. You can feel the heat of him bleeding through your skin, burning you from the inside out.

"You’re enjoying this way too much," you mutter, but it comes out breathless.

He chuckles, dark and indulgent. "Of course I am. My sweet little thing, sittin’ here all alone, playin’ my voice on repeat? That’s the best ego boost I’ve had all week." His thumb brushes the curve of your jaw, deceptively gentle. "Gonna confess how many times you’ve listened, or should I guess?"

You refuse to dignify that with a response.

He laughs—bright and reckless, like you’ve said something funny—and you hate how much you love the sound of it. How much you missed it.

"You’re lucky I think it’s cute," he says, and then—because he’s a menace—he reaches past you to press play.

"Miss me?" his voice whispers again, syrup-sweet.

"Y’know," he murmurs, real and right here, "It’s better live."

Your face is burning. "I hate you."

"No, you don’t," he croons, eyes glinting. "You’re obsessed with me."

You should push him away. You should deny it. But your resolve crumbles when he tips your chin higher and leans in close enough for his breath to ghost across your lips.

"So," he murmurs, wicked and warm, "How bad did you miss me, darlin’?"

"Not that bad," you lie, and the smile that breaks across his face is devastating.

"Liar."

The next kiss isn’t soft. It’s a claim—teeth and heat and all the time you’ve been apart poured into the press of his mouth against yours. His hand fists in your hair, tilting your head back, and you let him take—steal—whatever he wants. Because this is the truth between you, raw and undeniable: you missed him. And he missed you too.

He pulls back just enough to breathe you in, thumb tracing the curve of your bottom lip. "Keepin’ my voice like that," he muses, half-laughing. "God, you’re precious. ‘M gonna start leavin’ you messages on purpose—hell, maybe a whole bedtime story. Would you like that, sweetheart?"

Your stomach flips. "You wouldn’t."

"Oh, I would," he promises, delighted at the thought. "Every night. Just for you. Somethin’ to keep you warm while I’m gone."

He’s still teasing, still playing—but there’s an edge of something real beneath it, something raw and hungry and yours.

And maybe it’s stupid, but you want to keep it. Want to press your fingers to the pulse of him and feel it beat against your skin.

"You’re ridiculous," you say softly.

His smile gentles—just a fraction. "Yeah. But I’m your ridiculous. Don’t forget it."

He kisses you again, softer this time, but no less possessive. And when he finally pulls back, you’re left dizzy, breathless, and aching in a way that no recording could ever match.

"So," he drawls, like he hasn’t just wrecked you, "Gonna play me another one?"

"Get out."

He laughs, bright and reckless, and doesn’t move an inch.

[aperrywilliams]

I'm Sorry I Couldn't be Here for You Sooner (Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader)

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Author Masterlist

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Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader.

Summary: You have one of the worst days in a long time at work. When Spencer returns from an assignment to the BAU and sees your current state, he must do something.

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: Frustration/Hurt/Comfort. Just a self-indulgent rant. A lot of cuss words. Spencer is the best boyfriend in the world.

A/N: I just need Spencer to hold me now.

-----

The clock ticks and ticks, but the time seems to stand still. Even if you don't know how long you have been looking at that piece of wood, plastic, and metal, it feels like an eternity.

In the distance, a voice keeps throwing out words and sentences to which you should pay attention. However, even if you tried, looking at the clock on the wall is still more interesting than hearing Hotch talking about new protocols for field agents.

Still lost in your head, you don't notice the meeting is over and people are starting to leave the room. Only when someone squeezes your forearm. It's JJ.

"Are you okay?" she asks, eyebrows furrowed. You look at her and blink a few times.

"Uh- yeah," you mumble. 

Are you okay? No, you're not. But why bother others with that?

On second thought, this may be a chance to spill what's on your mind. JJ is usually a forthcoming and wise person. 

"Well, actually-" you begin, but before saying anything else, JJ cuts you off.

"That's nice. Because I want to ask you if you can babysit Henry tomorrow night. Will invited me to a romantic dinner, and our babysitter is sick. Hope it doesn't make much trouble to you?" the blonde probes.

Okay, you didn't expect that.

Not in the mood to turn the subject back to you, you say yes, and after thanking you, JJ quickly leaves the conference room. Alone with your thoughts for a few seconds, you wonder if the tightness in your chest isn't an exaggeration. You decide to forget about it and go back to your desk.

Opening a folder with the information on the last case, you are ready to write your report. But not too so far on it, Emily approaches you.

"Hey, how are you?"

You have doubts about how to answer the question. A few minutes ago, when JJ asked, you lied to her, and she didn't even notice. Maybe it's good to be honest.

"Actually, not so good," you sigh. And Emily raises an eyebrow. 

"Yeah? What happened?"

"I just don't know, I don't feel good," you try to explain. But you're not sure how to do it either.

"I'm sure it's something you can manage," Emily muses. "Look, whatever it is, have a drink when you get home today, relax a little, and I bet you'll be as good as new tomorrow!"

You open and close your mouth several times, trying to get a word out, but nothing comes to mind. 

A drink and relax? Is that simple?

You let out a hum, and that's enough for a response to Emily.

After wishing you good luck, she heads down the hallway, presumably to Garcia's office.

It's clear that Emily didn't grasp your actual emotional state, but you don't blame her either.

The last case was hard for everyone, so there is no reason to take it personally.

Focusing on your report again, you expect the sour mood surrounding you to fade eventually.

To finish your paperwork, you need to make copies of the reports. So you get up and head to the copy machine. After carefully placing the papers in the tray, you press the start button. When you think it will start copying, the machine stops mid-scan. You frown, and after a few seconds of nothing, you press the 'start' button again. Nothing. You do it again. And again. It's not working, and you feel your blood running hot.

By pressing the button again and again, anger comes.

"What the fuck is wrong with you stupid fucking machine!"

It's not enough to swat with force the button panel; now you're kicking the machine out of pent-up frustration.

"Whoa, whoa, stop right there, pretty girl."

Morgan steps between you and the machine, putting distance with his palms. And that's when you realize your outburst. Panting and still with the heat of rage on your cheeks, you are not yet satisfied.

"What the fuck, Morgan. Now you're defending a fucking copy machine?!" You hiss. Derek narrows his eyes to assess your current state. He's seen you mad, but it usually goes away easily. You are not a dense person.

"Okay, what's wrong, pretty girl? Since when do you unleash your frustration with pretty boy on inanimate things?"

Pretty boy. Spencer. Your boyfriend. Today, your boyfriend is conducting a cognitive interview with a convict in a DC jail—Hotch's orders. You wish he were here.

Morgan knows you usually laugh at his jokes, and even when you are in a bad temper, they help to light the mood.

Not this time, though.

"Don't talk about Spencer or me like that!" You snarl. "He doesn't have to do with any of this!"

Morgan doesn't like you are talking to him. Folding his arms over his chest, he let out an unamused scoff.

"Come on, don't you think you're overreacting here? Was this whole outburst only for a joke? What, are you four years old?"

You want to keep yelling, but a lump forms in your throat that is making it difficult for you to speak or even breathe. Morgan doesn't even wait for you to say something.

"You know what?" Morgan continues. "If you cannot stand the pressure of this job right now, maybe you should go home."

With that said and shaking his head in disappointment, Dereks leaves you there.

Stumped. Frustrated. Broken.

All the anger from moments before turns into an almost uncontrollable urge to cry. What have you done to these people? They are supposed to be your friends, your family. They are supposed to understand you and support you when you need them. And now that it's the time, they've only ignored you, minimized your problems, and even questioned your worth. Maybe Derek is right, and you should go home.

Defeated, you're strolling to your desk when Hotch peaks out of his office and gestures you to come.

Great, just what you needed now.

When you walk into your boss's office, he is already sitting in his chair, sternly looking at you.

"I won't ask you what's wrong with you today because it's your private life. However, I must remind you we are all professionals on this team. If you need time off, you have the right to get it, but I will not tolerate disrespect, like when you are distracted as I give fundamental instructions. If you don't pay attention, it could affect your work in the field and even put the lives of innocent people at risk."

If you didn't feel trampled before, now you feel like a ton of dirt was dumped on you.

You know Hotch can be sharp with words, but his ultimate goal is always to look after the team. But why does it feel like you're not part of that team right now?

"Do I make myself clear?"

With no more energy left in your body, you just let out a 'yes, sir.' Without waiting for another response, he sends you back to your desk.

It's already noon when you resume your work. Your mind spins at a mile an hour, and although it's hard, you force yourself to concentrate enough to get your job done, so at least the salary they pay you is worth it. 

Like a mollusk in its shell, you close yourself in that bubble and stop paying attention to your surroundings. It's your safe place—only you. 

In the distance, you feel your coworkers come and go. Never do you look up. Time goes by, and your throat feels dry from not speaking for hours.

Before everyone starts planning lunch, you are already picking up your lunch bag.

Social interaction is out of the table, so you are secluded in the building roof where an improvisated garden has benches. You sit alone, and the breeze helps to steady your breathing. As you open your Tupperware, you tentatively plunge the fork into the almost-cold pasta.

Even so, you're better here than in the bullpen minutes ago.

-----

Spencer walks through the doors of the BAU. It's 2 in the afternoon, so hopefully, the team is still having lunch in the conference room. Slightly worried that he wouldn't be able to reach you when he wanted to let you know he was on his way, he assumed that you had a lot of work and that your phone was mute.

Arriving at the conference room, Spencer scans the place and immediately catches something odd. You are not there. JJ, Prentiss, Morgan, Rossi, and Hotch are, though.

With an eyebrow furrowed, he asks, "Where is she?"

His teammates perk their heads up.

"Hello to you, pretty boy," Morgan teases.

"How was the interview?" JJ asks.

"Did you eat? You still can sit with us," Prentiss offers.

"Did you get the interview done?" Hotch asks with a raised eyebrow.

Spencer gets an uneasy feeling about what's going on. He knows you weren't feeling so okay this morning, and even if he tried to convince you to take a sick day, you didn't let him.

"Neither of you responded my question," Spencer points, voice harsher than when he asked first.

"(Y/N)? I thought she went home," Morgan muses.

"Why would she do that?" Spencer questions, alarmed. "Something bad happened?"

"She said she was okay when I asked earlier," JJ explains. "Maybe she has an errand to do."

"She was way distracted when we were at the meeting in the morning. She didn't listen a thing of what I said," Hotch adds.

"And you sent her home?" Spencer directs his question to Hotch.

"No, I didn't. She didn't ask it either when I called her to my office."

"You called her to your office? Did you reprimand her?" Spencer asks in disbelief.

"Of course, I did it, Reid. She did something disrespectful to the team," Hotch defends.

"And considering her rage moment directed to the copy machine, maybe it's better if she went home," Morgan supplies.

"Why are you being so dramatic, Reid?" Emily questions, very confused about why Spencer is so upset.

Spencer huffs, frustration running in his veins.

"Are you fucking kidding me right now? Did you ever realize she wasn't doing okay and nobody took her seriously? Yeah, sure, she said she was okay, but did you really check on her? Did you really ask her what was wrong? Did someone listen to her?"

The people in the room go silent after Spencer scolds them. 

Did they help in any way?

"You are unbelievable, and you call yourself profilers," Spencer huffs, turning to exit the room in search of you.

"What are you doing, Reid?" Hotch asks. No turning around to face his boss, and halfway out, Spencer replies.

"The thing you should have done in the first place. And I don't care if it doesn't fall protocol, I can give you my resignation letter tomorrow."

-----

When Spencer reaches the building roof and sees you sitting on one of the benches, he lets out a sigh of relief. He suspected you might be there, considering your things were still on your desk.

You can't see it since your back is turned. Your eyes look at the horizon without focusing on anything in particular.

The breeze is nice despite the November weather in Virginia.

Not wanting to scare you, Spencer slowly approaches you as he clears his throat. You turn around and see him standing a couple of meters away from you, but close enough to see your eyes red from crying.

You know he noticed it, and you avert his gaze.

You don't like the idea of ​​looking vulnerable right now. The morning was already catastrophic enough to explain your current state of mind to Spencer.

Spencer is a man of many words. He is known for his diatribes on any topic at hand. So you expect some kind of rant or even some statistical data about what could be happening to you.

But contradicting his very nature, he just silently approaches, takes your hand to get you up from the bench, and pulls you into a tight, comforting embrace.

And for the first time all day, you feel like you can actually breathe, and your chest isn't tight anymore. Words are not necessary; just being held like that is enough for now.

Spencer kisses the top of your head lovingly.

"I'm sorry I couldn't be here for you sooner. I'm sorry you had such a horrible morning," your boyfriend laments.

You shake your head, still buried in his chest.

Tears fight to come out from the corners of your eyes, and you no longer want to hold them back.

"Let it out, baby. Just let them out."

And that's what you do. For the first time all day, you allow yourself to cry without holding back. Spencer has you the entire time, rubbing your back soothingly.

"I don't know why I feel so bad, Spencer. I don't understand," you muffle your words into his embrace.

"It's okay, love. You don't have to explain to me, or anyone for that matter. There are days when we are not okay, and it's completely valid. Never think you don't have the right to."

Hearing Spencer say that relieves some of the pressure on your head, but you can't help but think about your teammates' words throughout the morning.

Separating yourself from Spencer to look at him, your eyes still denote your inner struggle.

"What if they are right? What if they are right when they say I shouldn't make so much fuzz and rather think about doing my job well?"

Spencer cups your cheeks so you can look at him.

"They are not. Okay? By any means, you are the most professional person I have ever met in my life. Not only that, you are also the most compassionate, selfless, and willing to help to the fullest extent of your capacity. Does JJ need help babysitting Henry? You don't think twice. Does García need assistance organizing a girls' night? You are the first one to be there. Does Hotch need to finish a stack of reports in one night? You offer to help him. Does Derek need a backup to kick his way into a place and catch the unsub? You're the first to watch his back."

You are indeed like that, and you do all that. But you've never seen it as something extraordinary. For you, being part of a team and a family means all that and more.

"And that doesn't even scratch the surface of what you have been to me.

My love, you have been the person who has entitled me to open my heart and love without reservation. You have taught me to trust and that asking for help when you feel bad is okay. You are the light of my life, and I swear I'll do everything in my power so you can see the wonderful person you are and that you deserve all the love and support in the world."

Without a doubt, Spencer has something with his words and eloquence. How can you not believe him? The veil of doubt indeed emerges from time to time, but having someone who is by your side showing you what is really important makes the doubts not cloud your path.

A shy smile appears on your face, your eyes filled with gratitude.

"There she is," Spencer whispers, stroking your cheek with love and never breaking eye contact.

"Maybe I should have listened to you this morning and called in sick," you sigh. Spencer kisses the top of your nose.

"I know you weren't going to do it anyway." 

You giggle because he's right. Spencer knows you too well.

"Lunchtime is almost over. We should come back to work," you remind him. Spencer pulls a face, and you raise an eyebrow at him. "What was that?" You inquire.

Spencer laughs nervously. "It's just I may or may not have made a scene in the conference room earlier, and I may or may not have offered my letter of resignation to Hotch if he didn't allow me to come find you."

"You did what? Spencer, oh my God!" you start laughing. "Does that mean there's a chance we'll both get fired today?"

Spencer thinks about that for a second.

"Honestly? I don't think Hotch would risk losing his two best agents," he decides, winking at you.

"Hope you're right, Dr. Reid. Hope you're right," you voice, grabbing his hand in yours and making the way back to the sixth floor.

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Spencer Reid's Taglist: @dreatine @nomajdetective @jayyeahthatsme @rosalinasam2 @averyhotchner @lovelyxtom @princessmiaelicia @pastelbabygirl19 @reidsbookclub @alexxavicry @gspenc @spencerreidisbae123 @calmspencer @pauline5525mgg @anamiad00msday @milivanili99 @laylasbunbunny @leahblackk @miaxx03 @missabsey @taintedstranger @khxna @hiireadstuff @pleasantwitchgarden @dysphoricsanity @levi-of-starz @themoonchildwhofell @silver138 @lovelybaka @shinytinywhispers 

[libbyfandom]

Let’s take a look inside Modern!Mizu’s Camera Roll! Featuring Reader and BES Characters (Companion Piece)

Screenshot of an undercut with long hair.

Screenshot of a wolf cut.

Picture of her tv screen showing her new high score at a video game. (To rub it in Taigen’s face that she beat his)

Her hand cupping the back of a pretty neck covered in hickeys.

Akemi death-gripping a trash can with her face buried into it as she hurls. The rollercoaster Mizu forced her on is in the background.

Selfie of her and her adoptive father at a baseball game. (She couldn’t get him to smile. He only hummed, which made her laugh)

Video of you asleep on her, your head on her shoulder and your hand curled up on her chest. Her fingers are gently brushing the side of your face for a minute, before your eyebrows pinch in sleep. You make a soft, stressed noise unconsciously. Her lips press to your temple for a long moment. “Shh shh shh.” Your expression relaxes again, and she goes back to gently stroking your cheek.

The full moon.

A video of Ringo coming up silently behind you and Akemi while you're standing in line at a coffee shop. You two turn around and nearly jumps out of your skin when you sees him. (He's always so silent)

Screenshot of a quote “How do we forgive ourselves for all the things we did not become? -Doc Lubel”.

Her torn up jeans and bloodied outer thigh as she sits in the grass along the road, her crashed motorcycle in the background.

A video of her holding your wrists down in bed, oh so slowly pressing kisses all over your chest where she yanked your top up to your collarbone. Every once in a while she bites into your skin without warning, gripping your wrists tighter when your body arches and tries to twitch away with broken whines. She waits each time for you to stop moving, staring intensely up at you with your skin between her teeth, before she licks at the bite to soothe it away and restarts the cycle.

Video of her sitting on her bed practicing knife flipping.

Her hand holding a book titled "Waiting by the Front Door: Children of Parents with Addiction".

A close up of the price tag of the book "Waiting by the Front Door: Children of Parents with Addiction".

Saved selfie Ringo sent of the two of them on a hike.

Screenshot of a dinner reservation confirmation for two at a new restaurant downtown.

Video of Akemi in the middle of some rant in Mizu and Ringo’s living room. The darkness outside the window suggests it’s very late into the night. She gestures wildly at something off camera. “-and Taigen pees in the fucking shower-!” Taigen’s voice comes from somewhere off camera, loud and offended. “I aim for the drain!” You sit in the background behind Akemi, looking disturbed and distressed.

Screenshot of piercings. (For the wish list people are asking for)

A gif of a character going “Some god damn peace and quiet”. (For the wish list people are asking for)

The ocean.

Saved video Ringo sent of you two at the beach bonfire. You’re cuddled up into each other while sitting against a log, your legs overlapping hers. You’re both staring into the fire, absentmindedly playing with each others fingers where you’re holding hands on your lap. She’s never looked more relaxed.

You and Akemi in the backseat asleep on the drive back from the beach.

Saved photo you sent her of her and her adoptive father playing chess. Her brows are furrowed as she thinks over her next move, sitting properly with her hands in her lap. This is instead of how she usually plays with one leg propped up on her chair and elbow leaning on her knee when she plays with Akemi.

The one nice photo of just her and Taigen, posing in a big mirror at a dark, more upscale restaurant wearing suits.

Screenshot of receipt for two concert tickets on your birthday.

Ringo laying head down on a pile of finals notes in defeat at the library.

Screenshot of a text you sent of a grocery list.

A video in her “Hidden” folder that is 37 minutes long and requires a password that only she and you know.

Screenshot of the word “Bitch” in Barbie pink font.

You curled up on the couch fast asleep, wearing Mizu’s oversized college sweatshirt.

Saved photo Ringo sent of Mizu standing in the bathtub making a peace sign with one gloved hand as the other holds Akemi’s newly dyed and wet burgundy hair while Akemi is seen leaning over the tub so Mizu can rinse out the excess dye.

A picture of her hand holding an engagement ring nestled inside a green velvet box. She wanted Akemi’s opinion. So she’ll stop having an anxiety attack over what she picked.

[jirsungs]

ep 13: my wonderwall, at least i hope so

word count: 1.5k words

It's already been two months and three weeks since you and Jisung started hanging out. That's also how long the overthinking thoughts of whether you really want to pursue this relationship or not have been torturing you as they're kept in a locked folder in the back of your mind. 

You knew you and Jisung had to have the talk at some point, but every time you tried, the timing was always a bit… off.

The first time you tried was two weeks ago, at another Rockway gig. It was getting on your nerves that a bunch of screaming girls came to that particular performance of theirs, especially when some of them were eyeing Jisung and losing their minds every time he looked over in their direction to play his typical drummer role of pleasing the audience correctly. Even though he caught their attention the whole night, you caught his, which is how you succeeded in pulling him aside after Rockway finished their performance.

“Jisung, can I talk to you for a moment?”

It wasn't the right time or place, sure, but you had to get this off your chest because your heart felt like it was on a ticking time bomb.

Jisung joins you in the corner after he frees himself away from the girls around him once Chenle gets his signal that he’s desperate for a way out. “What’s up? Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah, I'm fine. I just need to talk to you. I know this isn't a good time right now but I seriously need to say this.”

He only raises his brow, “Okay.” He's anxious, but he doesn't have time to dwell on how he's feeling when he's worried about you. The way you’re visibly stressing out has him putting the pieces together on why you called him over, but as Chenle and Jeno said, he was going to wait for your lead.

“I like—” 

You. I like you. That's what you were supposed to say, and so much more. Until some dumb overly excited girls came over and interrupted your private conversation. 

The squeals of “Jisung, you did soooo well tonight!”, “You were so hot up there!” and “Can I get your number?” sounded blurry in your head with how irritated you were getting.

Yeah… You ended up leaving Jisung and the party in general despite the sad protests from your friends on how “you needed to cheer yourself up.” But, you brushed them off by telling them that it was impossible to do that right now. 

So, you ended your night in your apartment alone with the accompaniment of a big bucket of cookie dough ice cream, multiple episodes of How I Met Your Mother, and no friends or Jisung by your side. 

You tried again the week after, but just like last time, it did not turn out so well.

You should've known that it wouldn't work because it was during a hangout with both of your friend groups, specifically hosted at Jisung and Jeno's apartment.

Jaemin, Haechan, Chenle, and Yeonjun were busy being loud as they screamed over one another during a game of Mario Kart 8 in the living room while Jeno helped Ning finish a two-thousand-piece puzzle downstairs. And, Mark and Renjun were nowhere to be found due to them both having different plans set for that day.

Which left you and Jisung in his room. Alone. He originally brought you up here to show off his new collectibles, so you weren't sure how you ended up watching a movie with him on his bed.

It seemed like the perfect time to tell him, it really did. But just as you were about to open your mouth, your phone rang, leaving you on the phone with Renjun for three whole hours while he ranted about someone who pissed him off at his group study session. And by the time your conversation with Renjun ended and you hung up, Jisung was already occupied by a game of Super Smash Bros with your friends in the living room. 

You're still mad at Renjun for ruining the moment.

And now, you're here, a few days after, in Jeno and Jisung’s apartment once again, but this time, sitting on their living room couch with him right next to you. 

Neither of you spoke during the movie you were currently watching, probably because you both wanted to ignore the awkward tension that's been spiraling around the two of you for the past few weeks. But to you, now seemed like the perfect time to break that. It was dark out and you were both left alone as Jeno had to leave to run errands. 

“Ji, can you pause the movie?”

Without asking, Jisung mutters “Sure.” before grabbing the remote control and pausing the movie.

With his attention on you, you sit up and fix your posture on the couch, which he mirrors. You thought fixing your appearance would help balance yourself from the overcoming emotions you knew you were going to have at this very moment. 

“Okay, well—”

But then, you get interrupted again. Not by Jeno walking in, or a random phone call from one of your friends, but by him.

“Wait! Before you tell me your thing, there’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you.”

Despite the small annoyance that was creeping on you, you dismissed it and instead, anticipated what he was going to say. Most times, you didn’t mind how oblivious Jisung was, but right now, you really wish he could read the room and let you say what’s on your mind. You hope he’s going to say the same thing you were going to say, but he didn’t need to interrupt you for it…

Your silence cues him to continue, “You remember Oasis? You know, the band I told you about?” You nod. “Okay, um, there’s this one song by them, it’s actually one of my favorites. It’s called Wonderwall, it’s kinda like a love song but uh—I’m not saying we’re in love ‘cause obviously we’re not—”

“We’re not?”

Shit. That’s not what Jisung meant.

He panics, “No! I mean–yes? Fuck, I dunno, Y/N.” 

“Oh. Okay.”

The thing is, you know that he didn’t mean anything bad out of it, then how come you felt your heart break into two hearing how unsure he felt about you? Should you even confess right now? No, this doesn’t feel right.

The room is full of complete and uncomfortable silence with no other words said, and it annoys the hell out of you. You can tell it bothers Jisung just as much because you watch him mentally stress out in front of you, his face in his hands as he lets out an exasperated sigh. Both of your minds were pushing you to fix the problem, but you can’t. You don’t know how to. This is new for you both, and that’s the problem. 

Just as Jisung grasps a new idea in his head, he sees you physically pull farther away from him before you grab your bag from the side and stand up from your place on the couch. 

You swallow the lump in your throat, your voice coming out quavered, “I–um, I gotta go.”

Scared to see his reaction or hear his voice, you thought what was best. You escape. You rush out of his apartment, giving him no time to react at all. The last sounds Jisung heard were the slam of the door and the words Chase after her, don’t her go from the little voice in his head.

Jisung knew you were hiding yourself away from him again. He noticed it the first night you hung out and some moments after that, but he felt that it was insensitive to bring it up out of nowhere. Right now was one of those moments. 

When you’re outside of the apartment, you’re met with Jeno who’s looking at you, puzzled and worried. Even though it felt like your world was crashing down on you, the way he almost resembled a Samoyed dog and how you could imagine the cogs in his brain turning lightened your mood a little bit. But just like Jisung, you gave him no time to say anything. 

“Y/N!” You hear Jeno call after you after you quickly walk away. 

Just like he expected you to, you ignore him and he watches you rush down the stairs. Many scenarios were circling in his head right now, but he didn’t want to assume the worst before he asked Jisung himself.

Jeno inserts his assigned key into the key slot before turning it, the door unlocking right after. He walks in and sees no Jisung in the living room or kitchen. 

There’s no way that kid escaped. He thinks.

He’s about to let it pass him by until he notices Jisung’s door slightly cracked open. He walks over and gently pushes it to reveal the younger one sprawled on his bed. Though he knows it’s not the best moment, he snickers at the sight. Oh, Jisung's in love. 

Then, he hears a pouty “You know, I can hear you, Jeno.” come from Jisung before he watches him switch positions on his bed. His disheveled hair and the I fucked up expression he’s wearing tell Jeno all he needs to know. 

Already knowing he’s going to be here for a while, the said man opens the door more to give himself space to get comfortable. He rests his body against the doorframe, folds his arms then sighs, “Alright, what’d you do, kid?”

“I messed up.”

previous ☆ masterlist ☆ next

note: i had my considered "sad songs" on repeat the whole time i was writing this and i think i memorized every single song by the time i was done with it ☠️ also, new twt pfps 😱 (they made me feel better) but i am wishing our dms couple all the happiness in the world ☹️

🎫: @idkwhatursayinh @sunghoonsgfreal @multifandomania @nanaxwi @odxrilove @sourrpatched @hancafe @chaellaa @dojaejunging @jising-jisang-jisung @heheheeral @haechansbbg @renjunsversion @seunghancore @woshixinqgiu @jiiieun @pinknjm @mrshwang-park @neozon3nha @joyzluvr @aerivrs @nosungluv @haechology

[starzgaze]

ARCHIVED: annoyance [unfinished]

pairing: sjw/archivist!reader

unreliable synopsis: [y.name] tries to discreetly follow jinwoo but they fail so badly that jinwoo played them lmao

a/n: [y.name] whole job is from an oc so if you need a bit of context on how they work you can check my oc ophion because this is a self indulgent piece huhuhu.. also shit english and its unfinished so yeah erm

[y.name] stared down the intricately detailed paper in front of them. It honestly looked like something straight out of some fairytale but [y.name] knew better. It was a personal announcement stating where there's a bit of information that's incorrect or not processed correctly in their archives.

They sighed in irritation.

The archivist crumpled the piece of paper and then threw it aggressively to some wall, letting out an annoyed groan.

"AGH! This rarely happened before even in past timelines?? It only happened when he—" [y.name] ranted before shoving their face into their hands and let out an irritated groan again. They genuinely started to hate this job that was forcibly imposed on them.

And that job was being an archivist to archive everything that happened in this world for the purpose that their now dead boss, the absolute being, could look through the records [y.name] made if they got bored of the monarchs and rulers fighting and went off somewhere else. [y.name]'s job was supposed to made easier because information from the future and past would be forcibly injected into their head like some sort of epiphany because the movements of everything that the absolute being made was predictable. Which means they don't have to manually archive it.

That is until Sung Jin-woo came in.

That... man... almost drove [y.name] into insanity. Right after the dungeon incident, [y.name] ordinarily archived whatever happened to Sung Jin-woo in the dungeon and assumed he would have an average 'Second Awakening' and nothing more.

But when [y.name] archived it they were immediately greeted with an announcement that the information they archived was incorrect. [y.name] rose a brow at this.

They were rarely wrong so how can this be? The last time they archived something wrong was the time where Antares did something so out of character or Ashborn constantly doing decisions that even the existing predictions couldn't match his choices. [y.name] was definitely confused at this but they didn't pay that much mind to it.

They simply adjusted it and tweaked around until it approved the information [y.name] archived then after this [y.name] thought they'll never encounter this ever again for a while.

Until it repeated.

and repeated

repeated

repeated......

....aaanndd repeated......

...

"oh my god I think I'm gonna bald from stress" [y.name] whined as they gripped the folder in their hands and narrowed their eyes at the profile in the folder. The archivist gritted their teeth at the sight of the hunter.

S-rank hunter, Sung Jin-woo.

"Just how the hell did you become this strong?!!?"

The folder flew into the air as [y.name] threw it as they covered their face exasperatedly. The only thing that was haunting [y.name]'s days was Sung Jin-woo, the very reason of why they stay up at night and grovel at the thought of.

Ever since his sudden rise in the rankings in Korea, [y.name]'s work as an archivist doubled. They had to manually archive every little decision Jin-woo made in his life that'll affect the world or even the universe with how powerful he's getting. It was difficult for sure, especially when they're trying to not seem like a creep discreetly following the hunter around trying to jot down whatever Jin-woo is doing because now this magical force that helped them archive doesn't work on him.

"Eugghhh. How many days left before this guy is gonna figure out I've been following him for the past few months" [y.name] sighed as they turned their head over to where the folder fell. Their eyes hardened at thr sight of the folder, annoyance bubbling inside of them. Sung Jinwoo is seriously making their job harder than it should be.

Jin-woo can't miss how a figure would tail him whenever he was in public and most definitely whenever he's in a high ranking dungeon for some reason.

He would occasionally catch them at his peripheral vision but when he actually turn his head and try to see who it was they would magically disappear. Jin-woo could easily of course appear in their shadow but this figure hasn't posed a threat to him or to anyone he loved.

"My leige, they're tailing your trail again. Do you wish for me to dispose them?" Beru reported as he materialized behind Jin-woo. He raised his hand and waved it dismissively. "No need. Let them be"

In truth, Jin-woo recognized the figure. He was sure that the elusive stalker he has doesn't recognize them anymore but Jin-woo does.

[y.name], one of the few who didn't laughed behind Jin-woo's back but instead encouraged him and served as someone of inspiration for Jin-woo.

To be fair, Jin-woo used to have a small crush on [y.name] before but he forgotten about it when he was going through his grueling training of the system. This mostly became the reason why his feelings for [y.name] dwindled but it quickly resurfaced when they started trailing him around.

[winteryreads]

Hi, airi!!! I hope this day is treating you well! I've read one of your recent rambles and the event you mentioned in your tags really caught my attention! So I clicked your profile to read it, and now I have this urge to participate! The event excites me hehe (⁠*⁠´⁠ω⁠｀⁠*⁠) (I've also noticed that we're already mutuals!) Anyway, may I request Phainon with library au? Where they read the same book that no one else reads— like Phainon visits the library and reads the book in the morning while the reader goes and reads the same book in the afternoon. The reader leaves a bookmark since they often forget which page they stop, and Phainon, surprised to see someone else reading the book, leaves a folded note of his message where the reader placed their bookmark! (This took me a while because I hesitated LMAO, I'm not used to sending a request— I'm too shy for this but I gathered up the courage anw! (⁠ ⁠；⁠∀⁠；⁠))

bookish fiend- phainon x reader (library au!)

warnings: none! 

word count: 489 (i just have a knack for writing things shorter than i imagine them!) XD

author’s note: Seraphie, thank you so much for participating, so glad this event interested and excited you! Phainon strikes me as a fantasy reader in order to escape (all of the stuff he went through. could make a whole rant about it haha!), if that makes sense! this is short, sweet, and to the point; hopefully you don’t mind! hope you enjoy! <3

book n’ dash event 

tagging: @sillyseraphie + @m1ckeyb3rry (it’s phainon, you love this guy!)

the local library was the best; it was quiet, peaceful, serene— it just had all the best qualities. you could work efficiently there and it was like working and being productive was worth something. but anytime you weren’t preoccupied with studying or working on a new project for your college classes, you were reading a book called sea and the lily- a tale about a girl who finds a magical lily flower and goes all across the world in order to find out more about this magical flower. it’s a bit of a younger read, but it was one of your favorite books growing up; it was just so nostalgic. after a particularly grueling study session, you went up to the librarian and asked for the book- she always kept it at her desk when she knew you were coming to the library. she handed the book to you and you sat in your usual spot and just went to town reading. after about an hour and a half of reading, you decide to call it quits for the day- you’ll finish the book next time you come back. you place a bookmark in the book and walk up to the librarian’s desk. she smiles upon seeing you and mutters a quick “thank you” before you turn around and grab your things and leave the library.

Phainon walks in the library, 8:30pm on the dot, every Thursday. he walks to the librarian’s desk and asks for a copy of sea and the lily and the librarian hands him the copy you had been reading, whoops. oh well, he would just flip to where he left off and—

wait. there’s a bookmark in here! this isn’t the normal copy Miss Kayama gives to me, Phainon thinks.

“I wonder who’s reading this…”

and then he moves to a desk and slips out a piece of paper from a folder, rips it so the piece is smaller, and starts writing. but as his pencil reaches closer to the paper, his mind goes blank. shit, what do i even say? he thought. and then before he realized it, his pencil found the paper and began writing: 

dear stranger, 

if you’re reading this, then that means we’re reading the same book at the same time. if possible, would you like to meet here next friday afternoon? it’s the first day after finals and would like to meet you and discuss the book in more detail! 

-your new book buddy, P.

and when you showed up to the library that fateful friday afternoon, something in your gut told you this was the right thing to do. plus the guy you were seeing in front of you was really cute, what a nice bonus! 

“I’m Phainon, nice to meet you! let’s talk about sea and the lily, shall we?” 

a cute guy who liked your favorite childhood fantasy really seemed like a dream come true. 

©2025 strawbairicake. do not repost, copy, translate, modify, or use for AI.

[simpforsix]

i just got home from a band concert and i need to rant about things i love about music for a sec because it's so beautiful.

the feeling of a crescendo is unmatched. it's like climbing up a roller coaster track, feeling your bones vibrate and being overcome with the thrill of what's coming. hearing each instrument enter like a reunion, until the entire band is playing at a fortissimo and flying full force through the measures. putting everything you have into each note until you're gasping for air.

the conductor's gestures to the band, ones meant only for them. private smiles when you make it through a tough section. pointed eyebrow raises to get you to listen to the melody. mouthing instructions that we know because we've heard them a hundred times before. looking up from your music and making eye contact with them. the way the flicks of the baton get more gleeful when you play their favourite section. the conductor and the band becoming one unit, communicating without words seamlessly as they shape the sound you wield.

your instrument vibrating under your fingers with each note. it feels alive, your body breathing soul into it as you become one. each vibration feels like life itself.

sound echoing off the walls, the resonance becoming dissonant with the next chord as the music pushes forwards. notes suspended in the air like a second band, our music rippling over the universe itself. the air is alive and it's singing.

the moment before you put your instrument down after the piece. one second where you hold your breath and wait for applause, the momentary silence shocking you back into reality. no more notes. breathing a sigh of relief as the audience claps, becoming a person again rather than a vessel. blood rushing to your cheeks at the euphoria of completing the piece. any mistakes bleed away, because it's over.

putting the sheet music back into the folder for the last time and feeling a pang of bittersweet grief at the thought that you'll never play it again.

the way the band becomes a unit at the concert. gone are the whispers and jokes during rehearsal, leaving souls silently connected across the rows as we raise our instruments together and enter the gauntlet. the bass rumbling, the sopranos soaring. harmonies that the audience won't remark on but which provide support for every passage of the melody. you aren't individuals, you're a family, each instrument another piece of the puzzle that forms the whole.

the world fading away, just for a couple minutes, as the music plays. no worries, no fears, no thoughts except for the music before you. your body isn't yours, but rather a vessel for the performance. fingers dance and lungs ache. you become the music. it fills your veins, your mind, your very soul, and you welcome it. it quenches a thirst you never knew you had, and you fly.

[smhalltheurlsaretaken]

Hey there—this is completely spontaneous on my part, but I just saw your post from a few hours ago about how good the SW fandom used to be, and, dunno, I just wanted to say that I appreciate you. Your SW analyses were always so interesting to me, especially when you got into a debate with someone, because of how you backed your arguments up with evidence. I wish I could write rhetoric like you do. Anyways, you're especially cool to me because you're French and I've got French citizenship from my mom (though I grew up in the States), and despite not being Jewish, you've been really, really kind to us. So thanks for everything—the lengthy, passionate, convincing SW posts that got me through the pandemic, the interesting religious takes (I vaguely remember you going off on someone who said that religion was irrelevant in the modern world, arguing about the impossible-to-understate role it has had in the history of humanity, including in the present day—which, to a history and IR fan who'd gotten used to the sight of anti-religious takes because it was rebellious and trendy and cute, was like a breath of fresh air), and even now, your words since October 7th. I don't know if I ever reblogged or even liked a post of yours, I'm more likely to take a screenshot and put it in a folder on my desktop, but I just wanted to let you know of the impact that you've had in my life. 💛

Awww, it's so cool to find out about people who liked my stuff even if they never said! Idk how to explain why it makes me so happy but it's like it adds more to the whole experience as I look back, it's one more piece of the full picture that I'll never have. Like finding a new detail in a familiar setting and going 'oh! that was there all along? :D'

What was it about my SW stuff that you liked? the constant ranting and raving about the Jedi or the fawning over Obi-Wan? xD (And yes, yes I *did* get into a row with antitheists because I vented about being frustrated with Richard Dawkins' worldview lol. I don't think it really went anywhere.)

I'm glad reading my posts was ever comforting to you. I constantly want to be saying more since October 7th, but I really think using the internet as a battleground would be spectacularly unwise in my case. I've always tried to only argue my opinions from a position of complete confidence and thorough knowledge of all the facts, and that's a lot easier to do with a nerdy fictional universe that's contained to easily accessible media vs complex current global events. I can be stubborn and arrogant and I always want to be right, so in order to not get sucked into propagating self-righteous misinformation and turning into exactly the type of ignorant know-it-all who'd preach to others about geopolitics they learned yesterday on twitter, I preferred to step back.

That said, there is one thing I can and always will say with utter confidence and full knowledge that it's right: the worldwide spike in antisemitism and the horrifying abuse all Jews have been subjected to for over a year both irl and online is appalling and must be called out. The Jewish people are very close to my heart because of my family history, my upbringing and my personal faith in God and my saviour. So from one ~vaguely Jewish~ Frenchie to a vaguely French Jewish person, שׁלום and salut! 💙

Also, telling me you've taken screenshots???? of my posts???? to SAVE THEM???? ON YOUR COMPUTER????? is genuinely one of the highest compliments you could ever give me wow thank youuuuu. I hope you can still have fun going back to them from time to time 😄

[sclki-op]

Hello!! How are you doing? I hope your day is well when you read this message.

I'm reaching out to say, THANK YOU!! For being my main (and only) source of Smozo 🫶

Originally, I wanted to share some HCS abt smozo with you cuz I saw your post about it, but then I couldn't think up anything for them 😭 it's quite a pain when I love this rare pair, but I just can't think of anything that they would do!

So, I've come to ask, if you would share some HCS abt them?

Truly, I'm in a deep hole that I dug myself in... Being a smozo fan is wonderful yet painful 😖 though, that's to be expected of most rare pairs, but for Smozo it's like a dry desert with one lake nearby. (Your lovely works of them)

I've never thought of them before, so I just grew curious and had a look through your ao3 acc (I'm a huge stalker/j) and ended up reading every fic and comic you've made and went through all your art works there... This is actually my first time interacting with you excluding a comment I've made on one of your fics a year ago I think? You've made a new perspective of them for me and now I'm a huge Smozo fan 🫶

I was actually surprised when you said you weren't a writer, (no offense, I promise 😞) your fics are really well structured and I love rereading them!

I usually don't interact much, so this is like a rant about how much I appreciate your work. I hope you know that I'll always be a fan of your gorgeous art work and lovely fics! 💗

Hii! I’m doing good, thanks 💛

Aah I’m glad that you like my art and fics! Thank you so much for following me on this little journey :D

Guess I'll just add a bunch of random facts because it's hard to think of something I haven't already shared under other asks or in my art/fics haha

– Smoker and Zoro like to spar for the fun of it. Since Zoro gains a big advantage after he learns how to use haki, they fight the traditional way to make it even – fists and weapons and nothing else

– The worst of angst is kept on Smoker’s behalf. Zoro gets himself almost killed too often… (staring intently at sabaody. and then at wano. just imagine Smoker already having a piece of Zoro's vivre card by then. what's with that scene with grim reaper? a possible clinical death?? I'm going insane as I'm writing snippets for that. poor man...(I haven't gotten to those chapters yet but I was eager for spoilers from that specific scene))

– I like to think that Smoker tends to be very attentive to the other’s mood and body language, never missing an opportunity to take care of things. The thoughtfulness. And I do think that under all that gruffness hides a man of a soft heart that becomes eager to give affection the moment he learns that it belongs in the thing the two of them have

– While Smoker's pretty reserved and held back and needs time to fully unwind to start initiating things, Zoro's much more open and straightforward in his attention towards him. Never wastes time beating around the bush

– Robin was the first person to find out about their thing and will be the only one until so much later. I actually intended to draw another page for my 'first kiss' comic with Zoro realising he was being watched but I never got to finish that

Sanji almost pieces the puzzle together shortly after the events of Punk Hazard and confronts Zoro about it. Who explains everything himself

___

Oh I can absolutely understand because that's how it felt during the first year of my searching and waiting for any smozo content at all... Back then I barely posted online (and it was a BIG no for me to share ship art) so I only scribbled something small down occasionally and stored it in a folder. I wrongly assumed that no one would be interested in seeing these two haha. Now I have a reason to share my view of them, draw and write all the little scenarios I came up with and also get to discuss all of it with others :D

Thank you so much for your high praise, it means a lot to know that someone enjoys things I make!!

[lu-lus-dicks]

rant about shipping asexuals

I can't with the discussion around shipping asexual characters anymore. You know what? As an asexual (or someone on the spectrum, haven't figured that part out yet) I give you permission to draw/write/create all shipping things you want to. Next time someone tells you "you can't do that, it's disrespectful to the asexuals" tell them lu-lus-duckies is ace and gave me permission to draw all the asexuals as sexy people doing hot gay sex.

Actually, tell them lu-lus-duckies told me to make this art, because I want you to. As an asexual who's not repulsed by sexual topics, give me all of your art! I want to scroll through my feed everyday and find the most beautiful, jaw-dropping, toe-curling pieces of art you can make.

I honestly don't see a problem as long as in canon, they remain asexual and don't go the whole "they found the right person" route because fan content will always be fan content and that shouldn't discourage people from making art. I love art. I love every kind of art. You don't even want to see my rule34 folder, the shit I have on there would make the kinkiest of you do a double take.

It's honestly more annoying seeing mischaracterization of asexuals than the actual shipping. My man alastor wouldn't be all head over heels, he'd be an ass, enemies to enemies with benifits, a "I'm going to be in a relationship with you because it benifits me and maybe you too".

Just please be mindful to who you send those to. I am perfectly fine with all of this, but someone might not be. As long as you aren't actively sending them things they are uncomfortable with, there is no problem. If your art that ships asexual characters shows up on their feed that's not your fault. The people who find that disturbing or uncomfortable can easily ignore/block that content and that'll be the best solution for everyone. Sure it's not perfect, but forcing people to stop making something they're passionate about isn't something I'd like to see at all.

I respect other aces wishes to not see aces depicted in ship art and i also expect that other asexuals respect my wish to want as much fan content of this asexual character, including ship art, as possible. At the end of the day, it won't happen in canon and people just like seeing their favourite ace character interract with another, so they make their own shit and that's badass.

And of course, it's all okay as long as it's fictional. Please don't go around telling ace people in real life they should go have sex with someone because they'd be cute together or something stupid like that.

Edit: this goes for the aromantic bit too. (I'm also definitely demiromantic, that I've figured out. so I'm not sure how much I have a say in this considering i do feel some form of romantic attraction, but i think the same can be said with aromantics.)