#violent little machine shop

[theswordofdamntheseknees]

[777heavengirl]

Bless the Telephone ; ##02

James Potter x f!muggle!reader

word count: 1,511

warnings: i dont think theres any? lmk...

a/n: :) i hope yall like it, at the rate im pumping these out i might do two updates per week but we'll see how that goes..."

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You sighed as you opened the door, the various bags of food, toiletries, clothes, and whatever else you had picked up during the day made your arms feel like they might fall off, cutting into your skin and your circulation. Your fingers had gone numb two stops away from your apartment, you could feel the relief as you dumped half the bags on the kitchen counter. 

You dumped the other half and the backpack that hung heavy across your back in your room. 

“Hey, darling-” your roommate popped her head up from where she lay on the couch, wild curls practically floating around her. “Yer phone’s been ringing nonstop for like an hour-”

You groaned, glancing at the clock briefly while putting your shopping in their rightful places. 

7:30 p.m.

“D’you know who it was?”

“Why would you ever think I’d get up to check?” She popped some chips into her mouth with a laugh

You turned, hands on your hips, a small smirk playing on your lips 

“You mean to tell me you’d rather put up with the ringing than get up?” 

“Yeah- why not? Turn up the telly and boom- can’t even hear a thing mate” She said, smiling from the couch. You couldn’t help but laugh along with her-

The phone rang, not as violent as that morning two days ago, sound muffled by the wall and your closed door. It was loud nonetheless.

Your roommate turned up the volume of the television.

“Talk of the devil!” she screamed through the roaring sound of whatever trashy game show she was watching.

You dragged yourself to your room, closing the door behind you. You could still hear the exaggerated volume of the telly. The phone kept on ringing, the red light angrily flashing at you to go pick it up already-

“Hello?” 

“Where’ve you been?” it was teasing, you wanted to say it was his voice. The mysterious voice on the phone, one Mr James Potter. You weren’t sure. You didn’t know how to feel about it either.

��Who is this?”

“Woah, one day and you’ve already forgotten me- you’re breaking my heart here sweetheart” the voice crackled through the static of the receiver. Oh it was definitely Mr James Potter calling again

“Potter?”

“James- But yes”

“Ah! That one- to what do I owe the pleasure?” You bit your lip slightly, excitement turning in your stomach. You grabbed the base of the phone, moving the machine as close to your bed as the cable would let you, the rest of the stretch between your bed and the telephone could be covered by the curled plastic cord. You sat on the mattress.

“Do you know any other Potters?”

“Just the one- but to be fair, I don't really know you either”

“Mhm… fair enough, I think I only know one other person with your name-”

“Really?” 

“Yeah, nasty woman really- called me daft two days ago,” he said, tone serious as if recounting a deeply wounding moment… you let out a laugh “You wouldn’t believe how rude she was to me”

“Oh was she really? That’s terrible news, maybe it was because you called her— a stranger by the way, at four in the bloody morning”

“You got me, wasn’t on purpose though— you still haven’t answered my question by the way” You could hear that little smirk on his lips again

“What would that be Potter?”

“James- but where were you?”

“What’s it to you? Trying to stalk me or something?” you could feel your heartbeat quicken, 

“I just tried calling earlier-”

“Yeah, my roommate said, the phone rang a ton— were those all you or should I check my messages?”

“I wasn’t sure I was hitting the right number okay? pissed off a few other people too”

“Oh so this is the norm for you-”

“Hey! It isn’t my fault, I just didn’t know how to do the little- you know…” had this guy ever used a phone before? “call the previous number thing- ugh I don’t know what it’s called but whatever I didn’t know how it worked” he huffed

“Potter, are you a ten-year-old boy? Scratch that, my cousin knows how to do that- maybe you are daft”

“If I say yes will you tell me what you were up to?” he said, you laughed again

“I was running some errands, nothing special… why’d you wanna know?” you raised an eyebrow, you curled the cable around your index finger, the rest of the cool plastic wrapping around your hand. 

“Was just wondering…”

A beat.

“I realize now that me calling you back might be strange-”

“You don’t say- only took you about ten minutes of conversation, you didn’t think about that before you called?”

“Not really- my mum says I lack impulse control,”

“I can tell you have zero of that-” 

“she blames Dad but we both know she’s the one I got it from” he chuckled, and you couldn’t help but mirror it. 

“You still haven’t answered my question, Potter-”

“You really not going to call me James?”

“No- I don’t know you-”

“I guess that's fair enough- what was your question?”

“Why’d you call?” he stayed quiet for a couple of seconds, almost as if thinking deeply about your question before his voice broke through the static again.

“Honestly?”

“Obviously-” you retorted, another chuckle left his lips.

“I don’t really know… I don’t really have a reason I just wanted to talk” you mouled over his answer, strange but not bad.

“You don‘t have friends for that already?”

“You’ve never made new friends with complete strangers?”

“Not like this-” you traced a pattern onto your sheets as you spoke, 

“Well, I can be the first! so how old are you?” he sounded giddy “If I say I’m sixty five will you leave me alone?”

“It would be worse- I love old ladies, but they love me immediately so I suspect you aren’t one”

“because I don’t immediately love you?”

“obviously” he mirrored you “I’m twenty-“

“What a coincidence, so am I” you whispered, he heard you nonetheless

You pursed your lips to suppress a smile as James asked questions and explained things about his life that you didn’t ask for. You felt quite silly- talking on the phone with a boy you’d never met, you didn’t know what he looked like, nor if he was really who he said he was.

His tone and his rambles seemed genuine enough, he was a very peculiar boy- talking about how he was mildly scared of the tube but my mate Sirius loved it. 

“Is this Sirius one of the voices I heard last time?”

“Yeah- he asked if you were pretty which looking back might’ve been a little rude”

“Eh- maybe, I’d feel terrible to disappoint him though”

“Why do you say that?”

“I don’t know if he’s expecting some striking supermodel to be answering the phone…” you trailed off slightly, James went quiet “I reckon I’m alright though”

“You’re probably selling yourself short doll,“

“Anyway- what do you do?”

“What do you mean love?”

“Like are you in Uni? or something else?”

“Oh! umm- something else for sure”

“What?”

“What?”

“Potter- like what do you do? you know… with your life”

“I just live? I don’t know- d’you mean like occupationally?”

“Yes occupationally idiot-“

“Okay okay don’t yell at me— you’ll break my little heart babe come on-“ he cleared his throat a couple of times  “I kind of work for my father I guess? What do you do?”

“I go to Uni- I also work at a little coffee shop on weekends… what does your father do?”

“he makes hair potions-“ he said, almost choking on his words. you raised an eyebrow 

“like hair gel and shit?”

“y-yeah that’s what I meant like… conditioners and s-styling… gels… and shit” you laughed out loud, not being able to conceal it this time. a short series of giggles that delighted James ever so slightly. You could hear him get quiet briefly, almost as if he was running out of words “What do you do in this Uni of yours?”

“Administration… not the most thrilling field I fear”

“I’m assuming you’re not the fondest of it then”

“not particularly, but it’ll do… do you like working for your dad?”

“he’s made a ton of money with his products- I’m very proud of him for it… to be honest probably not what I wanted to do with my life but it’s not… difficult, so I can focus on other things, more exciting things so I really can’t complain…” he was about to continue, rambling about the silver linings of it.

you interrupted “What did you want to do?” 

“Pardon?” he asked, 

“With your life James- what did you want to do with your life?” 

You thought he had stayed quiet, maybe thinking, searching for the words until the dial tone rang in your ear— he had hung up. You stared at the phone as you put it back on the base.

Peculiar boy wasn’t he?

tags ; @ilovejamespottersomuch @ravisinghs-wife @hidontmindtheintrovert @stella-thestars @caspiankingofnarnia @lovelyteenagebeard @starkluvrr @hisparentsgallerryy @leilani13gc

permanent tag ; @laufeysvalentine

pls send me an ask if you wanna be added!

[undiagnosedcruelty]

Felix’s Cookies Have a Side Effect

Pairing: roommate!skz x GenderNeutral!reader

Genre: Crackfic

summary: Felix’s cookies were supposed to bring happiness—not turn you into a walking, talking aegyo machine.

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Content Warning: light cursing, crack humor, cursed levels of aegyo, food-based magic gone wrong, secondhand embarrassment, and the emotional trauma of eating unseasoned chicken.

Word Count: 2k

A/N: I WAS PHYSICALLY HURTING WHILE WRITING THE AEGYO PARTS, PLS DONT ATTACK ME FOR THE CRINGE💔💔💔

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EVERYTHING WRITTEN IS PURELY FICTION───NOTHING IS DIRECTLY RELATED TO REAL LIFE EVENTS.

You should have known better. You really should have.

The golden rule of living with eight chaotic men was simple: never consume anything without questioning its origins first. But when Felix presented you with a freshly baked cookie—eyes sparkling with excitement, dimples popping as he all but shoved the plate into your hands—you didn’t even hesitate.

Big mistake.

At first, everything seemed fine. The cookie was warm, gooey, and filled with just the right amount of chocolate chips. The moment it melted on your tongue, you understood why Felix had that smug, cat-who-caught-the-canary expression. The guy knew his baking could end wars.

But then.

It started as a tingle in your chest—subtle, almost pleasant. Then, a strange, fizzy bubbling sensation crawled up your throat, like soda pop had replaced your blood. Before you could even process the weirdness—

"Aegyo mode activated."

"Oppa~~~!" you whined, gripping Han’s hoodie sleeve with both hands, voice unnaturally high-pitched.

The entire room went silent.

Eight pairs of eyes locked onto you. Blinking. Processing.

Han, mid-bite into his own cookie, choked so violently he nearly fell off the couch. Changbin clutched his chest like he had been physically struck, eyes wide with sheer betrayal. Minho? Minho had already turned on his heel and was walking out of the room without a word.

"I—" you started, panic rising in your throat. But once again, the words that escaped your lips were not yours.

"Jisungieeee~~~," you cooed, latching onto his arm like a needy toddler. "I missed you sooooo much today! Did you miss me too~?"

A deep, horrified gasp left your mouth as your hands shot up to cover it.

The damage, however, was already done.

Han collapsed. Not in a dramatic way—no, literally, his knees buckled, and he hit the floor like a sack of potatoes, wheezing so hard he could barely breathe.

"NO—NO WAY," he gasped between bouts of laughter, clutching his stomach. "WHAT IS THIS? WHY IS THIS SO CURSED?"

Seungmin, who had been quietly scrolling through his phone a moment ago, tilted his head and observed you like some kind of foreign lab experiment. "...Are you feeling okay? Did Felix poison you?"

"I DIDN'T!" Felix wailed, his freckles scrunching up in distress. He bounced on his feet, looking wildly between you and Chan. "It was supposed to make them happy! I put extra sugar and—"

"YOU DID WHAT?!" Chan groaned, already dragging a hand down his face, his stress levels visibly skyrocketing. "Felix, what the hell did you put in them?"

Felix pouted, shuffling guiltily. "...Uhhh. Maybe a little enchanted vanilla extract?"

Chan narrowed his eyes, looking like he was seconds away from deleting existence itself. " Where exactly did you get enchanted vanilla extract!?"

Felix let out a nervous chuckle, avoiding eye contact. "Uh… I found this one magic shop online? The sketchy one next to the convenience store?"

Chan’s face blanked. "Felix. Please tell me you didn’t buy cooking ingredients from a store that also sells cursed objects and possibly hexed jewelry."

Felix winced. "... It was on sale?"

The room exploded into chaos.

”I THOUGHT IT WAS A SCAM OKAY AND I WANTED TO TRY IT!” Felix said on his defense, his hands shooting up in panic.

Hyunjin dropped to his knees, laughing so hard he had to clutch the couch for support. Jeongin had his phone out, already recording like a TMZ reporter documenting a celebrity scandal.

Minho, who had initially left, walked back in just to shake his head at you in pure, silent disappointment—before promptly turning around and leaving again.

Meanwhile, you were suffering.

Your body felt possessed. Every movement unnatural, exaggerated—your arms automatically folding into uwu poses like you had been forcibly programmed into a kawaii anime character. Every attempt to speak came out in a ridiculous, saccharine tone, as if you had become a walking, talking aegyo machine.

You clenched your fists, desperate to fight it. "Hyunjin, you—" Hyunjin raised a brow, intrigued.

"...You're sooooooo handsome and talented~~!"

A beat of silence.

"NOOOO!" you shrieked, slamming both hands over your mouth in horror.

Hyunjin’s eyes widened. His lips trembled. He backed away like you had just summoned an ancient evil. "I—I don't like this. Take it back."

Seungmin was crying with laughter, clutching Jeongin’s shoulder for support. "I've never seen something so cursed in my life."

"Felix," Chan exhaled, pressing his fingers into his temples like he was getting a migraine. "How long does this last?"

Felix chuckled nervously. "Ehhhh… maybe a few hours?"

"A FEW HOURS?!" You collapsed onto the couch, face buried in a throw pillow, your tiny, adorably furious hands gripping it for dear life.

Jeongin wiped a tear from his eye, still wheezing. "Wait—wait—so they're basically stuck in perma-aegyo mode?"

You lifted your head to glare at him. Or tried to. Unfortunately, your body decided to puff your cheeks out like an angry hamster instead.

Jisung lost it all over again, doubling over with laughter.

"I’m gonna die," Changbin choked, wiping at his eyes. "This is the best day of my life."

Felix, now feeling at least a little guilty, reached over to pat your head. "At least you're super cute?"

Your soul screamed inside your body.

Chan sighed so deeply it sounded like he was giving up on life. "Alright, Felix, you and I are figuring out how to reverse this."

Felix nodded furiously. "Right!" Meanwhile, the rest of the members? They were thriving.

Seungmin had already started editing the footage Jeongin took, adding dramatic background music. Hyunjin sat in a corner, staring blankly at the ceiling like he had just witnessed a full-blown exorcism.

Jisung? He had opened up a notes app and was typing every cursed phrase you had said for future blackmail.

From the other room, Minho’s voice rang out: "If this isn't fixed by tomorrow, I’m moving out."

Your life was ruined. And all because you trusted Felix’s cookies.

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Chan was a man of solutions—not problems. So, after gathering all the members into the kitchen, he stood at the center with arms crossed, looking like an exhausted single father trying to discipline eight feral children. His jaw was tense, his brows knit together, and his fingers tapped impatiently against his bicep as he exhaled through his nose. "Okay. We need to fix this. Felix, what do we know about enchanted vanilla extract?"

Felix, who had been nervously shifting from foot to foot, rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Uh… it's supposed to enhance positive emotions? Like, amplify happiness. But I think maybe… I added too much?"

"No shit," Minho deadpanned, cradling a mug of black coffee like it was the only thing keeping him from spontaneous combustion. He took a long, slow sip, his eyes half-lidded with pure resignation. "This entire situation is proof that I need new roommates."

Changbin, ever the problem solver, raised a hand. "So, what if we make them eat something really bitter? Would that cancel it out?"

Jisung perked up, eyes lighting with mischief. "Oh! Like how people shock themselves out of hiccups! Maybe we just need to surprise them."

Hyunjin gasped dramatically, placing a delicate hand over his chest like an aristocrat in distress. "We should SCARE them! Like… like drop a fake spider on them or—"

"Absolutely not." Chan shot him down immediately, the dad-mode in full force.

"Wait, wait," Seungmin interrupted, eyes gleaming with something sinister. "I saw this thing online where if you eat raw garlic, it resets your taste buds. What if we force them to eat something super strong?"

Chan turned to Felix with an arched brow. "How do we feel about this?"

Felix winced, looking like a puppy that had just been scolded for chewing a shoe. "I mean… it could work…? But if the magic is emotion-based, we might need something even stronger than just bitter food…"

"Like pain," Minho said casually, not even looking up from his coffee.

Silence. Everyone slowly turned to look at Minho. He blinked. "What?"

"hyung," Jeongin whispered, shaking his head in disbelief. "You scare me."

Before you could protest, Seungmin struck like a viper, shoving a whole spoonful of wasabi into your mouth without warning.

Your soul left your body.

The moment the fiery paste hit your tongue, your entire existence was reduced to a single, unrelenting sensation: PAIN. Tears instantly welled up in your eyes as a molten inferno exploded across your taste buds, searing every last ounce of joy from your being. Your back arched like you had been struck by lightning, fingers twitching violently.

The room went still. Everyone leaned in, watching with bated breath.

And then—

"Omooo, it's so spicy~~~!" you wailed, hands flapping dramatically like a wind-up toy. "My tongue is burniiiiiing~~! Oppa, save me~~~!"

Jisung collapsed.

Hyunjin face-planted onto the floor, muffling his screams of laughter into the hardwood.

Chan just dragged a hand down his face, looking like he aged ten years in ten seconds.

"Felix," he sighed, voice drained of all life, "get back in the kitchen. We need a Plan B."

After the failed wasabi experiment, Chan had officially had enough. He stood at the counter, gripping its edge like it was the only thing tethering him to sanity. His shoulders rose and fell with deep, controlled breaths, the way one might prepare before dealing with absolute nonsense—which, unfortunately, was his life now.

"Okay," Chan started, voice firm, arms crossed. "Clearly, pain isn’t working."

"You don’t say," you grumbled. Or at least, you tried to. Instead, what came out was: "Aiyaaaa, I’m so tiiiiiiired~~~ Someone carry meee~~!"

Jisung had to physically hold himself up against the counter, face buried in his arms to muffle the wheezing sounds escaping him. Hyunjin, still recovering from the previous attack on his sanity, simply turned to face the wall, as if that would somehow shield him from the horror.

Seungmin, still recording, zoomed in on Chan’s soul leaving his body.

"Felix." Chan turned to him, voice dangerously calm. "We need a new plan. Now."

Felix winced. "Okay, okay! So if the enchanted vanilla is boosting emotions, we need to counteract it with something that suppresses them!"

Jeongin raised a brow. "Like what? Depression?"

Felix perked up. "Actually, yes!"

The room went silent. Minho blinked. "You want us to make them depressed?"

"Not like that!" Felix waved his hands. "Just… we need to feed them something that dampens emotions, kind of like a sedative."

Seungmin hummed, tapping his chin. "So… bland food?"

Felix nodded. "Exactly! If we give them something so dull that it cancels out the hyper emotions, maybe it’ll balance things out!"

Jisung perked up. "I have an idea."

Fifteen minutes later, the kitchen was filled with the scent of… absolutely nothing.

Felix, Chan, and Seungmin had prepared a dish so mind-numbingly boring that just looking at it made everyone feel empty inside.

Boiled chicken.

Plain white rice.

Unsalted, unseasoned, completely dry steamed broccoli.

Not a single grain of salt in sight.

Han looked at the plate in pure horror. "This is evil."

Changbin poked at the chicken with his fork. "It’s so… pale. It looks like it’s never known happiness."

Hyunjin leaned down and sniffed it. "I smell nothing. This is worse than death."

Meanwhile, you sat at the table, arms crossed, pouting aggressively. "Hmph! Why do I have to eat this yucky foooood~~? I want something yummy~~!" Jisung physically had to leave the room.

"Eat." Chan shoved a spoon into your hands.

You glared at him. Tried to. Your body betrayed you again, making your eyes go big and watery. "Oppaaaa, feed me~~!"

Chan slammed his hands on the table. "EAT THE DAMN CHICKEN."

With great difficulty, you took a bite. The moment the flavorless abyss of boiled chicken touched your tongue, something shifted. Your fingers twitched. Your uwu posture straightened. The bubbling sensation in your chest fizzled out.

The room held its breath.

You swallowed. Slowly, cautiously, you opened your mouth and said, "That was disgusting."

Silence.

Then—

"IT WORKED!" Felix cheered, throwing his arms in the air.

Hyunjin collapsed onto the floor, hands covering his face. "Oh my god, it’s over."

Jisung was still laughing, but now in relief. "I was gonna have nightmares about that."

Chan exhaled the deepest sigh of his life. "Felix, never again."

Felix chuckled sheepishly. "No more enchanted ingredients. Got it."

Minho clapped a hand on your shoulder. "Let this be a lesson. Never trust Felix’s cookies."

You shuddered. "Never again."

Moral of the story: never accept food without questioning its existence.

[chaptersleftunwritten]

Hi love!!! It’s absolutely been toooooo long since I set a request but I read your prompts & had to send this in!!!

Neighbor Eddie? Maybe he sees the new neighbor moving into the apartment next to his & gets a little obsessed with her? Constantly timing it out to see her in the halls or at the mail room, knows where she works so he “accidentally” stopped in, knows her favorite coffee shop, he’s just always “accidentally” bumping into her , possibly dark sorta stalker-ish story?? Idk Halloween got me in spooky vibes lately & i loved it!! if you’re not comfortable writing this I totally understand but as always I hope you’re doing good!!🫶🏼🫶🏼

(11. New Apartment and 16. A flock of crows) with Eddie Munson. Thank you for your request lovie, I hope this is deliciously spooky!!

Warnings: Stalking, obsession, Dark!Eddie, mentions of homicidal thoughts and torture, mentions of sexual content, 18+ content!

Days were becoming shorter and shorter— darker and gloomier. Through the bleak winter clouds your eyes were drawn to the inky crows circling above your head. Their squawks and wails so violent you could have mistaken them as alarm bells ringing in your ears. They knew something you didn’t.

It was evident that something wasn’t right. An ominous darkness that lay festering beneath the surface of the deceiving ordinary. You had felt it since you moved from your home town— since you had laid your head down to sleep that first night in your new apartment.

It was comparable to a pair of beady eyes staring at you from a shadowy corner. The coat rack that your brain had convinced you was a man looming at the foot of your bed. The feeling made itself known. It demanded to be felt.

At first, you couldn’t have possibly suspected the curly haired metal head who cozily lived across the hall was to blame for your bazar paranoia.

But then you began to see more and more of him…

Eddie was his name. Eddie Munson.

Time continued its endless march onward and you hadn’t noticed the pattern because you had blindly narrowed it down to mere coincidence that you were seeing him so often. And that’s how Eddie wanted it to be. Undetectable. Like micro dosing you with a highly addictive drug. He wanted you to think of him often, but he had to be discreet about how his practices were played out.

It started in the laundry room in the basement of your shared apartment complex. You would be waiting on your load of laundry to finish in the dryer whilst Eddie would be waiting for his things in the washing machine. This was the first of many evenings shared this way. You and Eddie stood silently whilst the clink and clank of fabric shook in the operating machines in front of you. He had clearly left some loose change or maybe a lighter in his pockets.

Until you decided to try and spark the first conversation, “You’re in apartment E, right?”

And that’s all it took for the poison to seep penetratively deep into Eddie’s psyche. He was enchanted by you. Blanketed in a fog of your perfume. Your voice like a siren song lulling him to a watery grave. You had bewitched him. He was hooked.

“I live right across the hall from you in letter F. I moved in last week.” Most people mistook Eddie’s silence as ignorance, but not you. You could see that he wanted to talk to you. You understood him.

“Eddie. It’s nice to finally meet you.” He replied sheepishly and you would be lying if you said that his voice hadn’t caught you off guard. Gruff with a hint of softness— like he hadn’t spoken aloud in a while.

There was an allure to him that you couldn’t quite pinpoint. The way his cheeks heated and his eyes darted everywhere but your face. It’s almost as if he was being seen for the first time. Like he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t have been…

“I heard you play guitar? Sounds pretty cool. I can hear it through the walls sometimes.” You offer him a polite smile to try and coax him out of his shell, but he remains reserved. His arms crossed over his chest and his wild hair falling into his eyes. His eyes that seemed to be the deepest shade of brown you had ever seen. Swallowing light and offering only darkness.

“Didn’t mean to bother you. I’ve been needing to sound proof my walls.” His voice remained lodged in his throat, strangled. He wanted to keep the words unspoken. Thoughts that were meant only for him.

You wave away his worry with a flick of your wrist, “It doesn’t bother me. I do enjoy a good thumping base when I’m doing the dishes. Gives me a reason to dance around and not look clinically insane.”

Your laugh left him stilted— like a deer frozen in headlights. It was a sound he had only dreamt of. Something pulled straight from a fairytale. Your claws sunk into his skin further and his entire body erupted in an itch to run away from you.

“Sorry, I sometimes get ahead of myself, my name’s—“

Before you had any time to even just simply introduce yourself, the brunette was taking off out of the room. Like a criminal fleeing a crime scene. Full of panic and spontaneity.

“Wait— you forgot your… laundry…” And at that point you were meekly talking to empty space. Bumbling like a desperate fool.

If only in that moment you had taken the opportunity to look inside of his washing machine to discover that it was actually empty all along…

Eddie’s uncontrollable fascination with you only worsened with time and he found himself dressed in a dark zipper sweatshirt and a black baseball cap— premeditating his plans before he saw them through. He followed you to and from where you worked at a small bookstore near the edge of town. His breath breathing a thick spread of condensation onto the window pane as he searched for you through the glass. He would stand there for ridiculous amounts of time, sometimes for hours.

However he knew that to avoid suspicion he had to come inside at least a few times. Just to be safe.

He would trace his painted fingertips along the spines of books in the music section of the library and he would pick up one or two of the hardcovers and glance at the front page and the blurb on the back. Just to try and show some sort of faux interest. He would do this all whilst keeping his intense gaze fixated on you.

Your warm smile that always met your eyes. The way your nose scrunched slightly as you concentrated. He appreciated each article of clothing you wore and how the colours contrasted and complimented you beautifully. He longed to hear you laugh and he despised whenever another man would talk to you.

It caused his mind to darken to places it never had before. He would contemplate torture and homicide. He would indulge in fantasies of tying the men up to chairs, beating them into puddles of blood and drool and then making them watch as he fucked your sweet pussy silly. It drove him insane. You drove him insane.

He blamed you for what he was becoming. This animalistic hunter who only had an appetite for you and only you. Nothing could quench his thirst. There was nothing strong enough to drown out the thoughts he had about you.

It’s how he found himself standing behind you in the queue at your favourite cafe. Eddie found the coffee shop to be incredibly basic and he couldn’t quite understand why you loved and preferred it over any other, but if it meant that he got to see you more often then he would come here for the rest of his life.

Eddie hated coffee. He couldn’t stand the stuff. But just because he bought one, didn’t mean he had to drink it. All he had to do was to look like he was. So he nestled himself into a small crook at the hidden away corner of the store and left himself the perfect view of you from afar. He had your order memorised. Alongside the scent of your shampoo.

One day he promised himself that he would work up the courage to let himself into your apartment and see what trinkets of yours he could take but it was something he appreciated that it needed intricate and precise planning. Perfection took time, after all.

“Eddie?” You beamed down at him, your small and white ceramic mug and saucer balancing in the palm of your hand steadily, “What a pleasant surprise! How are you?”

Eddie gulped thickly at the thought of being caught and his trained and alert eyes follow your movements as you take a seat in front of him, welcoming yourself at his small table for one.

“I’m good. How are you?” His answers were always clipped and short. Nothing too interesting to draw you in, but enough mystery to leave you wanting more.

“Same old, same old!” Your shoulders bounce in a quick and dismissive shrug but he already knew what you had been doing prior to this interaction, “Do you come here often? I swear I’ve seen you in here a few times…” You weren’t confident in your allegation which caused Eddie’s heart to settle in his chest. He had you right where he wanted you. Dumb and sweet.

“I was going to ask you the same thing.” He cocks one of his eyebrows at you challengingly and his lips curve upward into a sly smirk. In just a sentence he had disarmed you and you melt into your seat comfortably.

“I’ve become quite the regular here…” You sip at the rim of your cup, leaving traces of your lipstick behind on the pristine glass which Eddie knew he would be taking home with him later, “It’s just so cozy! I love it.” You snuggle down into the collar of your cableknitted sweater, the one Eddie had watched you buy from the second hand store just a few blocks over.

Eddie knew you so well. All of your cute mannerisms and your nervous tells. But you hadn’t the faintest clue about him.

Everything seemed to shift one morning when you had stumbled into Eddie when you were retrieving your mail from your post box. It had become a theme for you both to be grabbing your mail at the same time, and somewhere inside of you, a part of you that existed deep down, began to feel uneasy around Eddie.

You began to take notice of the look in his eyes. He always seemed to be somewhere else. Miles away. You could always feel his presence so close behind you, an eerie existence that you couldn’t ignore. His breath would sometimes tickle the hair on the back of your neck and you could have sworn you had felt him sniff your hair at least once of twice.

You started to try and avoid him at any given opportunity. You thought that because he never spoke to you much anyways then there couldn’t be too much harm in the matter.

The only problem was the double edge to your sword. You thought Eddie wouldn’t notice… but of course he did. And it angered him to a point of no return.

“Jesus Christ!!” Your hand clutches at your heart, your fingers fisting at the fabric of your sweater, “I didn’t even hear you come down the stairs…” Your breathing is erratic at the discovery of Eddie standing behind you. It was his intention to remain quiet— to catch you off guard. He liked to see you scared and riled up… it.. excited him.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.” Although his words sounded sincere, they weren’t. But he knew that you couldn’t tell the difference, “You okay?” He is closer now and he is nearly fleeting at the reflection of himself mirrored in the irises of your gorgeous and blown eyes.

He hears you gulp down a pool of saliva and it causes his smile to widen further, “It’s awfully early to be downstairs, is it not? Where are you off to?” He nearly pins you against the wall of metal post boxes but quickly reverts to opening his own locker. It was empty inside but you didn’t have to know that. He enjoyed toying with you. Puppeteering your feelings like a master of strings.

“I’m going to work.” You were struggling to deflect the annoyance and fear in your voice and Eddie couldn’t help but chuckle to himself lightly. It was a Sunday morning— you weren’t going to work. Actually, you were only down here to try and avoid running into him later on. You couldn’t hide from him anymore. He saw right through your charade.

“You’re going to work at 7 a.m. on a Sunday?” He pried further just so he could see you squirm. And the view was fucking delicious.

“Yes—“ He didn’t allow you to finish.

“In your pyjamas?” He takes his time as his eyes drink in your appearance from head to toe and you are suddenly under the impression that you may be in terrible danger…

“Well… I’m just about to go and get ready so… yes.” You slam your locker closed, twisting the key hurriedly and darting toward the staircase.

“One sec, I’ll walk up with you.” Eddie’s stern voice stills your movements and you shake your head, smiling uncomfortably. The corners of your mouth don’t meet your eyes. Eddie notices this.

“I really should get going—“

“And done.” He closes his locker with such gentleness that it makes your head spin and as he walks over to your rigid frame empty handed you feel your heart shudder in your chest.

“You didn’t have any mail?” Accusation is clear in your voice as you stare at his hands knowingly and Eddie stops dead in his tracks. His once warm smile falls from his lips and his eyes harden to as cold as ice as they meet your own.

“And you don’t have work today.” You watch his head tilt off to one side, like an interested dog listening to its owner for further command and your skin crawls with horrid goosebumps. Your stomach twists into anxious knots and your heart rattles so loudly in your chest that you are afraid he will hear it.

A dreaded silence falls over the empty hall, nothing to be heard but laboured breath. Your voice tremors with anticipation as you bring yourself to ask the question that you already know the answer to.

“How do you know that, Eddie?”

He offers nothing but a vacant stare, almost like he is waiting for you to make the first move. If you run, he will be sure to chase after you. But once he has you in his clutches— he won’t let you go.

“How do you know that.” You ask again, grasping the paper envelopes so tight to the point that they begin to crinkle in your grip. Eddie’s fingers twitch, longing to touch something. To touch you. To hold you still. He couldn’t handle much more of your minuscule frantic movements.

“I think you know how, sweetheart.” Groomed eyebrows perk up on Eddie’s forehead, beckoning you to antagonise him further. His eyes look scarily black now, lifeless like a shark circling its prey. He takes tedious and careful steps toward you but you match each one with a step further up the stairs.

“Well… I… I need to get going. Time is ticking.” You flash him one of your forced smiles again and it’s enough for Eddie to finally reach out and grab you from behind.

His fingers tangle through your hair and he yanks you back down from the staircase. Your envelopes aeroplane across the room and his fingers clasp firmly over your lips before your horrified blood curdling scream can leave your throat.

Eddie moans erotically into your ear as his nose tickles up the nape of your neck. His nostrils whiffing in your scent deeply like a bloodhound on the hunt, “Oh, baby. So soft. So beautiful.” He groans again as his fingers indent into your skin harshly and your thrashes against his restraint fail. Your back is flush against his hard chest and only one of his arms is strong enough to keep you there, “Finally I can have you all to myself…” His voice had shifted downward an octave and you can feel his wolfish smile against your neck before he starts to gnaw and nibble on your skin, “Hope you’re ready for the time of your fucking life…”

-

forgot I had a tag list whoops, my bad! Enjoy xoxo

taglist: @colorful-white-ideas @littlered0000 @ali-r3n @daisy-munson @serenadingtigers @rainybloo28 @munson-enthusiast @godcreatoreli @littlefreckles4 @what-the-jams @tlclick73 @ameliapond1995 @thepurplelovewitch @somethingvicked @costellation-hunter @munsonzgf @emxxblog @ingridvasquez @sadbitchfangirl @im-julessssss @munsonburn3r @unclecrunkle @cierra222 @ziggeddie @yarafae @sidthedollface2 @kellsck @your-nightmaredoll @purplewitchcauldron @manitskatrina @georgeweasleyslostearhq

[fushiguruuzzzz]

ii ⊹ ࣪ ˖ kiss his face (with an uppercut)

Series mlist

Tags — basically the lore chapter, not too interesting stuff will actually happen soon I promise, mentions of blood/violence

Words — 1.1k

That black head of hair seemed to follow you everywhere you went. Down the street to the little coffee shop you’d began to frequent in the past week, the place where you found a familiar, warm sort of comfort in the midst of change, every time you took a walk around campus, in the darkened corner of a room. He always vanished into thin air the moment your eyes landed on him. You were beginning to think he’d died and come back to haunt you, revenge for the sour way you’d departed.

Megumi Fushiguro. That asshole, or, at least the general population of your school considered him so. The problem child. All he ever did was put the uptight, cocky bastards in your school in their places, though he was rather… violent. People didn’t like that, viewing him as some sort of vengeful spectacle for them to perceive, some unpredictable machine to keep an eye on. But not to you, never to you. In fact, you were certain that aside from his sister, you were the only person who even knew what his smile looked like. That suppressed curve of his lips, the way it quirked up when something particularly amusing happened or when you said something so silly he couldn’t help but laugh under his breath.

Countless hours you’d spent gently dabbing the broken skin of his knuckles, the annoyed expression on his face only deepening the more you “coddled” him. But you knew, deep in your heart, that if he truly disliked your attentiveness, then his hand would’ve been ripped away from you the moment your nimble fingers dared to reach for it. And he certainly wouldn’t let you patch up his face, on the rare occasion they managed to land a solid enough hit on him to cause such a need. The way he avoided your eyes, his bottom lip jotting out ever so slightly–whether it was nervousness or boredom, you’d never know. It was Megumi, after all.

On your day of graduation, you’d reached your breaking point. When instead of finding their way to the action you’d grown so used to, the gentle patching of his wounds, your hands seemed much more comfortable forming a fist.

You sighed, shaking your head to snap yourself out of your thoughts. It was the nth time you’d replayed it in your head in the past hour, and you really had material to look over. You had things to do, not think back to a boy you’d known in middle school, for fuck’s sake. It wasn’t your fault, though. Traces of him followed you everywhere, but you were starting to think you were just going insane. Finally spiralling, as predicted. People weren’t joking about it all falling apart once you got here, huh.

It wasn’t the thought of him going to the same university as you that was odd, that was actually pretty reasonable. It was that you’d see him everywhere, only for the image of him to evaporate into nothingness as soon as you turned to him… or what you thought was him. Halloween was approaching, after all; the day of the devil. Maybe a spell had been cast on you.

The next morning, you awoke with a new sort of anxiety coursing through your veins. It was confirmed that he was here on this campus at the same time as you, always lingering within the halls and behind closed doors, like a hushed whisper that you could just almost form into words.

That didn’t mean you weren’t imagining things, still. At least you told yourself that, repeated it like some sort of mantra every time your thoughts inevitably drifted back to him. Just because many people near you happen to have black, spiky hair with an eerie resemblance to his didn’t mean you were seeing him. Doesn’t mean he’s seeing you. He probably wouldn’t even remember you, it’d been four years! And though the thought did send an unpleasant pang through your chest, it was more comforting than the thought that he’d been silently observing you from the moment you arrived on campus, prying eyes seeing past the hard shell around you and into the parts you kept hidden. The parts that only seemed to shine through the soft curl of your lips, one that you hadn’t truly sported since him. Sure, you’d smiled, but not that smile. Not his smile.

You thought about him more often than you’d like to admit. He was just… fascinating, oddly. The type of person that seemed to reach into your mind and take a piece of it for himself, wear it around as if to keep your mind on him at all times. It was his morals, his sense of justice, his defence of the weak and innocent. The way he didn’t do it for them, he just “hated bad people,” as he’d said. But it was also what lied beneath. That concealed sort of softness in his gaze when he thought you weren’t looking, his begrudging agreement to the “silly” things you asked of him, the fact that you’d punched him and instead of going after you and striking you so hard you’d see stars (as you expected he would as you ran, you’d seen this scenario play out many times), he just stood there. Stood there with a stricken look on his face and words in his throat he couldn’t speak. It was the way you knew there was so much more to him, so much soul within that only seemed to seep from his bloody knuckles after beating in the faces of the arrogant.

Though you were so young, though it had been four years since, you still thought about him. He was interesting, he was a black sheep that wore his wool without shame. You wondered how much of him there was to learn about, how much you might’ve learned about if you’d been able to control yourself. But he was the past, you reminded yourself. Panda was right, you thought too much. He’d be completely different now, and the memory of you would be something only barely uncovered upon hearing your name.

Though you were (not so) blissfully unaware, you were so dead wrong. So utterly incorrect it was laughable.

He thought of you every time he saw hair the colour of yours reflecting in the sunlight, every time he saw stupid little trinkets that he considered pointless, but knew you’d love. Every time a red car passed him; you’d always said you wanted your first car to be red. Red like the stains on his crisp uniform shirts that would linger even after you cleaned him up, that captivating crimson like the trickle of blood that dripped down his face after you punched him on that day. He didn’t bother to wipe it off, knowing deep down that it would be the last trace of you he had for himself.

(Nobara’s POV)

lore… aha… this was written quickly so don’t judge me chat also tell me why my teacher assigns a writing assignment EVERY TIME I actually decide to write a fic. Mr smith get off of tumblr no Megumi pov this time :(( oh also should Gojo be a teacher or an actor or something else. Because canonically he’s both a teacher and celebrity so…????

Taglist !¡ —

@1l-ynn @meowymeowbreow @kiss-my-asscheeks @starrysho @good-mourning0 @gumims @beaniesayshi @mrowwww @luvvmae

[oddlydescriptive]

Reset, Chapter One

Series Masterlist

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December 26, 2022. Milton Keynes, UK.

As bad things often do, it starts with wine and sentimentality-at least on your part. You’re not sure Max Verstappen is capable of something so pedestrian as sentiment.

You’ve shared… many things with Max. Loathing, mostly. But also a track, stuffy marketing events, opposite ends of long conference tables at the factory. A handful of tense, clipped conversations that ended in rolled eyes and barely concealed contempt. But loathing- yes, that’s the main thing.

And yet, here you are.

“Well?” His voice is low, rough around the edges. There’s entirely too little space between you, lips parted, eyes dark as sin. “What’s the verdict?”

The verdict?

For a moment, you can’t even remember what you were thinking before he spoke. Something important, probably. Something rational.

Oh. Right. 

How the fuck did this happen?

Wine. Loneliness. A sick desire for some version of Christmas that doesn’t completely fucking suck. Maybe that’s how this- the hot, consuming press of his mouth against yours, the breathless heat still lingering between you- combusted into existence. But that’s not how all of this started.

No. That started months ago, on a pit wall across the Atlantic. 

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Five Months Before, August 20, 2022. Worldwide Technology Raceway.

There’s a reason they call it competitive suicide.

Dale Coyne Racing is where talent goes to die- where decent drivers get ground down into nothing, where you get ground down into nothing. There’s no faith, no investment, no future here. You’re not their driver. Not really. You’re a placeholder, a warm body they can shove into a car when the boss’s son wrecks one too many chassis. A novelty they can parade around when they need to pretend they’re modern and progressive- a woman in their car, see? How inspiring.

Their car is a joke. A Frankenstein’s monster of outdated concepts and desperate engineering, held together with duct tape, stubbornness, and wishful thinking. It handles like a shopping cart with a broken wheel, understeers into corners, and then suddenly- violently- snaps into oversteer when you least expect it. The power delivery is shit. The brakes are worse.

The engineers know it. They all know it.

And still, every time you fight tooth and nail just to drag the thing across the line, they act like you’re the problem. Like it’s you who’s asking too much from the car. Like you should be grateful for the opportunity to pilot this rolling embarrassment.

The worst part? You are grateful. Because there aren’t many other options.

Not many teams are lining up to hire a woman. That’s the real fucking truth, the one nobody likes to say out loud. You could be better than half the grid, but when it comes down to it, you’re not one of the boys. You don’t have an automatic in with the old-guard team bosses, the ex-drivers turned management who only see their past selves in the drivers they choose. So you grit your teeth, push the useless fucking thing as fast as it’ll go, and tell yourself that points are points, even if they’re scraped out of misery one at a time.

You’d rather be anywhere else.

But instead, you’re here- sitting in the tight, suffocating cockpit of your Dale Coyne IndyCar, fighting a machine that doesn’t want to cooperate. The steering feels like shit, the setup feels like shit, and the tires are giving up on you way too soon. You’re fighting with every muscle in your body just to wrangle the damn thing around the track, squeezing every last bit of pace out of a car that has no business being on this grid.

And then- impact.

A split-second warning, a flicker of movement in your mirrors, and then your own goddamn teammate- fucking idiot- clips your rear tire, sending you into a spin. Your stomach lurches as the car snaps around, momentum carrying you straight into the wall. The sickening crunch of carbon fiber shattering around you barely registers before you slam to a stop.

Silence. Then static in your ear.

"You alright?" Your engineer, not sounding particularly concerned. Not like this is surprising. You don’t answer. Not yet. You’re too busy breathing, swallowing down the molten rage rising in your throat.

Then you key the radio. "Yeah." Your voice is clipped, devoid of anything but the raw edge of exhaustion. You climb out of the car, shaking out your hands, flexing stiff fingers against the uselessness of it all. The safety crew checks you over, but you barely hear them. It takes everything in you to walk back to the pits instead of finding your dumbass teammate and tearing him apart with your bare hands.

You should have seen today’s disaster coming. Your teammate- if you can even call him that- has wrecked you before. It’s almost routine at this point. The team never does anything about it. No real reprimands, no apologies, no accountability. Just another shrug, another "racing incident," another round of well, if you had just backed off, maybe that wouldn’t have happened.

Back off.

As if you have the luxury of backing off when your entire fucking career is balanced on a knife’s edge.

And now here you are, standing in the garage, helmet in hand, jaw clenched so tightly it might snap. The garage is silent when you step in. Or maybe you just can’t hear past the blood roaring in your ears. The team- if you can call this pile of underqualified morons a team- is already moving on, treating you like an afterthought.

No one’s looking at you. No one’s talking to you. No one gives a shit. Your wrecked car is being wheeled back, and they’re already moving on, like you didn’t just get speared into the wall by your own goddamn teammate. You snatch your phone from your pile of things on the bench and jam it into the waistband of your fireproofs- retreat to a corner of the garage to seethe.

If you were on fire in the middle of the pit lane, these people wouldn’t piss on you to put it out.

Your seat was always temporary.

Your teeth grind so hard your skull aches. You’re two seconds from lighting someone up just to make them react to something, fucking anything, when your phone buzzes.

You pay it little mind, ready to ignore whatever fresh bullshit is waiting for you. Another racing journalist already circling for a soundbite? A patronizing text from your team about “unfortunate circumstances”? PR telling you to keep your answers positive in post-race interviews?

But when you wipe the sweat from the screen and squint, your frustration flickers into confusion.

Incoming Call — Unknown Number (Europe)

You stare at it. A telemarketer? A wrong number? A scam? The incoming call window closes, and you’re staring at your home screen again. (1) Missed Calls. 

You almost let it go. Almost toss your phone onto the table and keep pacing, keep seething. But something in you, some quiet, persistent part of your brain that still believes in Santa and unicorns, tells you to call back.

You hit the button. The line rings twice.

"LeChriste?" It’s crisp, clipped, professional. Male. Not familiar. But there’s something there- something sharp, something important.

Your grip tightens around your phone. "Yeah? Who’s this?"

"Franz Tost, team principal of Scuderia AlphaTauri." For half a second, you think you’ve imagined it. AlphaTauri. Formula 1. Franz Tost. The words don’t compute, don’t settle. It doesn’t make sense. Because why the fuck would someone from F1- someone from Red Bull’s junior team- be calling you?

"Right," you manage, forcing your voice to stay even. "And you’re looking for me?"

"I wouldn’t be calling otherwise." Fair enough.

You take a step back, pressing your fingers to your temple. Your heartbeat has changed- it’s not just pounding with anger now. It’s something else. Something sharper. "How’d you even get this number?"

"Christian Horner gave it to me."

Your stomach drops. Christian Horner. The team principal of Red Bull Racing. The guy running the best car on the grid, the one responsible for Seb Vettel’s dominance, for king-killer Max Verstappen, the guy at the helm of one of the biggest single seater operations in the world. That Christian Horner. 

You inhale through your nose, trying to keep your pulse steady, gripping your phone like a lifeline. Professional. Stay professional. "What can I do for you, Mr. Tost?"

There’s a slight pause before he speaks, like he’s already bracing himself. "I assume you’ve heard of Yuki Tsunoda?"

You let out a sharp, incredulous laugh before you can stop yourself. It’s too loud, too immediate. You wince at the sound of it, clearing your throat quickly to mask the awkwardness. "Uh, yeah," you say, forcing your voice back to neutral. "I watch Formula 1. Believe it or not."

There’s a long pause. Too long. Franz doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t react at all, really.

Jesus. Tough crowd.

"Good," he says finally, completely unfazed, his tone so dry it could ignite a brush fire. "He’s just undergone an emergency appendectomy. And we have a race in less than a week."

You freeze. Your heart picks up speed, but you force yourself to stay still. Stay neutral. Don’t react yet. "Right." You shift your weight. "And?"

"And I don’t have a lot of faith in our current reserve driver." Your lips part slightly. That’s… blunt. You weren’t expecting that level of honesty.

"So, what, you want me to- " you make a vague motion with your free hand, "-be the backup for the backup?"

"I want to see if you can be the backup," Franz corrects. Something cracks in your ribs. Not pain, not panic, but something more profound. The kind of break that feels like a door swinging open.

"Okay." The word comes out steadier than you expect, though your pulse is doing its best impression of a hummingbird’s wings. You square your shoulders, trying to sound measured and professional, like you totally understand what’s happening here and aren’t still two steps away from a full-blown existential crisis. "So you’re just… bringing me in? Throwing me in the car?"

"No." Franz’s voice is firm, edged with something that makes it very clear that whatever delusions you may have had need to be checked immediately. "You are being given a chance to earn a seat for the weekend. You will be tested. Evaluated. We have a reserve driver already- Liam Lawson. I assume you’ve heard of him?"

Your stomach clenches. Of course, you’ve heard of Liam. Red Bull’s academy prospect, the next in line, the logical heir to a temporary seat exactly like the one you’re being offered a chance to fight for. He’s been groomed for this, has the full weight of the Red Bull machine behind him, the kind of backing you don’t.

"Yeah," you say, and suddenly your mouth is dry.

"Good," Franz continues, tone unwavering. "You’ll both be in FP1. If you perform well enough- if you can out-pace him- we’ll consider putting you in the car for the full weekend. If you don’t, you’ll be on the next flight home, and we’ll pretend none of this ever happened."

The words hit like a bucket of ice water. You’d been holding onto this flickering belief- this idea that maybe, maybe, they had already decided you were good enough. That you were stepping into a race seat outright, even if just for a weekend. That someone, somewhere, had already chosen you.

They haven’t.

This is a gamble.

And you still have to win.

"So, just to be clear," you say slowly, dragging a hand down your face, "if I suck, I don’t go into quali?"

"Correct."

"And if I don’t suck?"

"Then we’ll talk about Saturday and Sunday."

You exhale sharply, jaw tightening. "Right. No pressure, then."

"There is pressure," Franz corrects. "You’ll also need to take media duties, regardless of how you perform. There’s already interest in the fact that a woman might be stepping into an F1 car for the first time in years. If we’re going to capitalize on that, we need you to be professional, presentable, and cooperative with PR."

The word capitalize sticks in your brain like gum on a shoe. "Ah." You blink, trying to process what he’s really saying. "So I’m a diversity hire?"

"No," he says flatly, no hesitation. "You are a marketing opportunity."

A sharp laugh leaves you before you can stop it, humorless and exasperated all at once. You pinch the bridge of your nose. "Fantastic."

"Do you have a problem with that?"

"No, no," you say quickly, shaking your head. "I love being a prop.”

There’s a pause, and you definitely hear him sigh this time. Not annoyed- more like resigned, like he already knows exactly what he’s about to get himself into. "We can’t pay you much," he says, not like it’s an afterthought, but like it’s a formality, a line he already knows won’t matter.

The laugh that escapes you this time is real, sharp and immediate. "I don’t care about money." The words leave you fast, without hesitation, because they’re true.

There’s a small beat of silence, and when he speaks again, his voice is edged with something knowing, something wry.

"Figured," he says, almost to himself. "The ones that probably should care about money never do." You don’t know if that’s a compliment, an observation, or a warning, but it doesn’t matter. You don’t hesitate. Not now. Not when the door is cracked open and all you have to do is walk through it.

"Done."

"Pack your bags," Franz says, and there’s something final in his tone. Like a line has just been drawn in the sand. "We need you in Belgium as soon as possible."

You’re already moving, already grabbing your duffel, stuffing things inside with quick, frantic movements like this opportunity might vanish if you take too long.

"I can be at STL in thirty-five minutes."

Franz doesn’t reply, but the call clicks off.

That’s it.

No fanfare. No congratulations. Just a chance. Just the fight you’re about to throw yourself into. And fuck, you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

They don’t measure and weigh drivers by reaction times for nothing- you’re in motion before your phone has even gone back to the home screen. Every second you waste standing here is one more second someone else could be getting that call. That seat. That chance.

Your hands move on autopilot, shoving gear into your duffel with the frantic, uncoordinated speed of someone packing up their entire life in real-time. Fireproofs, helmet bag, travel essentials- you don’t stop to think, don’t stop to fold, don’t stop to make sense of what’s going where. It doesn’t matter. You need to go. You need to get on a fucking plane.

The zipper jams for half a second, and you nearly rip the damn thing off trying to get it closed.

Then you hear it. "Hey, 66! Reserve!" The voice echoes through the garage, sharp and accusatory. You don’t stop moving. "The fuck do you think you’re doing?"

Kevin.

Pit Boss. Team Manager. Professional asshole.

You should have expected this. Hell, you did expect this. You just thought you might have gotten out before he caught you. That was a mistake. You glance up, keeping your expression level, because no matter what comes out of his mouth next, you are not letting this guy see you rattled. "Packing."

His face is already turning red. It’s almost funny- like he’s been waiting for this exact moment just to finally unleash on you. The same man who never looked at you twice unless he needed something, unless the boss’s son had embarrassed himself one too many times and they needed you to come in and scrape together whatever dignity the team had left.

But now?

Now that you’re leaving?

Suddenly, you’re the most important fucking thing in the world.

"Packing? You think you can just fucking pack? Where the fuck do you think you’re going? We have a race happening, in case you forgot!"

You shoulder your bag, biting down hard on the instinct to snap back. You’re already halfway out the door. You do not need to burn every bridge on your way out. Racing is a small world. Even in a shithole like this, people talk.

"I appreciate the opportunity- "

"Appreciate the- " He lets out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking his head like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. "You’re really doing this? You’re just fucking walking out?"

"Yes."

The word lands between you, clean and final.

And that is what sets him off.

"Unbelievable," Kevin snarls, stepping in closer, voice rising. "Do you have any fucking clue what you’re doing? You think anyone else is going to take you? Give me a fucking break, kid. You’re here because no one else wanted you. You’re nothing without us."

You should ignore him. You should just keep walking. But something about the way he says it- the pure audacity- stops you cold. Because it’s not just an insult. It’s what they’ve always thought.

They never saw you as a driver. Not really.

Dale Coyne Racing has never been a real team, not in the way the others were. Their entire philosophy was built around pay drivers, the rich boys who bought their way in, who treated their race seats like VIP experiences- something their daddy’s money entitled them to. And because of that, the whole team functioned like a luxury service in kissing ass. The staff were there to cater to them, to make them feel like real race car drivers, even if they were absolute fucking shit.

And you?

You were not a customer.

You were the help.

The help that wasn’t even part of the boys’ club. A placeholder. A seat filler. Someone to throw in when their sweet, precious nepo baby couldn’t hack it. And they never let you forget it.

Ever.

But now that you’re leaving?

Now that the only driver who’s managed to score any points, the only driver keeping them from looking like an absolute joke, is walking away? Now it’s an emergency. Now it’s an insult.

Kevin takes a step closer, voice dropping into something venomous. "You know what? Go ahead. Get the fuck out. But when you crash and burn- when whatever bullshit gig you think you’re getting falls through- you better not fucking come back here expecting a seat. Because this? Right here? Was the only shot you were ever going to get."

You stare at him for a second, pulse steady, unreadable. Then you shake your head, more to yourself than to him.

"Then I guess I have no fucking choice but to make it work."

You don’t wait for his reaction. You turn on your heel, bag slung over your shoulder, and walk out of the garage without looking back.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

The fluorescent lights overhead hum with an unsettling buzz, casting an unforgiving glow over the airport bathroom. The mirror in front of you reflects the mess you already know is there- the damp strands of hair curling at your temples, the sheen of sweat still clinging to your skin, the streaks of dirt and grease smudged across your jaw where you wiped at your face with a gloved hand during the race. Your Dale Coyne racesuit, still zipped up to your collarbone, looks even worse in this lighting, the fabric stained with oil, rubber, and whatever remnants of the track had clung to you before you’d walked out of that godforsaken garage for the last time. The fireproofs underneath stick uncomfortably to your skin, trapping the warmth of a race that already feels a lifetime ago.

People have been staring since you walked into STL, their glances lingering just a little too long, their hushed whispers and quick double takes barely concealed. You saw a few curious expressions, some with the kind of recognition that comes from people who know just enough about motorsport to be intrigued. Others just saw something out of place- an exhausted driver in a sweaty, dirt-streaked racesuit wandering through an airport like she had nowhere better to be.

You don’t care.

You grip the sink, fingers pressing into the cold porcelain as you drop your head, squeezing your eyes shut. Your pulse is still high, not from exertion, not even from frustration anymore, but from the sheer weight of what you’ve just done. You tell yourself it was the right decision. That it was necessary. That this is the step you were meant to take. But right now, standing in this too-bright, too-sterile bathroom, still feeling the phantom grip of a steering wheel in your hands, all you can think is what the fuck did I just do?

This has to work.

It has to.

You’d felt the moment your parents got the news. You hadn’t needed to hear their voices to know. It was as if the air itself had thickened with their disappointment, their frustration, their fear for you. Their anger wasn’t loud, wasn’t furious- it never was. Your dad would sigh, rub a hand down his face, mutter something about you needing a goddamn plan for once in your life. Your mother’s voice would be quiet, measured, more pointed than anything your father could say.

"Honey, please tell me you didn’t just burn it all down for a gamble."

But you did. You gambled everything.

Dale Coyne might have been a dead end, a team you despised with every fiber of your being, but it was a seat. It was IndyCar. It was a career that your parents had spent their entire lives trying to give you. The penny-pinching, the loans, the sleepless nights, the sacrifices you could never repay- Indy was the shot it had all been for. And you just walked away from it.

You tighten your grip on the sink, forcing down the lump rising in your throat. This isn’t regret. It can’t be. You made your choice, and now you have to fucking own it.

No one is going to save you if this goes sideways. There is no safety net waiting to catch you. If you fail in Belgium, if you don’t perform, if you don’t impress them enough to keep you for the full weekend, you’ll be on the next flight home with nothing.

No seat. No team. No future.

But that’s not going to happen.

You lift your head, staring yourself down in the mirror, taking in every sharp, raw edge of your reflection. You see the exhaustion, the stubborn set of your jaw, the faint tremble in your fingers from too much adrenaline and too little certainty. But beneath all of that, beneath the chaos, there’s something else. Something that has always been there.

Determination.

This is going to work. You swear it to yourself.

You will learn faster. You will push harder. You will do whatever it takes to make sure that when Friday rolls around and you get in that car, you earn your place. You didn’t walk away from everything just to fail. You didn’t burn it all down just to stand in the ashes.

Your parents are pissed. Loving, always, but pissed.

They’ll forgive you when this works.

You push away from the sink, rolling your shoulders back, exhaling slow through your nose. You should change, should clean up, should at least try to look like someone worthy of an F1 seat. There’s a fresh set of clothes buried somewhere in your duffel- a t-shirt, a pair of jeans, something normal, something that wouldn’t make you stand out like a sore thumb walking through the airport. But the thought of peeling this racesuit off, of stripping away the evidence of where you’ve been before you’ve even arrived at where you’re going, feels… wrong.

The weight of the fabric clings to you, sweat and exhaustion pressing into the seams. The patches of oil, the streaks of dirt, the faint, acrid scent of burnt rubber still woven into the material- it all sticks, like a brand, like a mark of what you’re running from. This suit, this thing you’ve poured yourself into for the past year, isn’t just a uniform. It’s a living symbol of suffering. It’s the proof of every shit race, every pointless debrief, every time you sat in a meeting knowing you weren’t actually being heard, just humored. The soul-crushing effort you gave, the hours you spent studying data, giving feedback, clawing your way to mediocrity because that was all the car would ever allow you to be.

Dale Coyne Racing. The team that would never carry you, only use you. The team that wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire, that never let you forget you were just the help, a temporary piece they plugged in when their real drivers- their customers- floundered too much.

You should take the suit off. Should strip yourself of the dead weight. Be done with it.

But it doesn’t feel right.

Instead, it feels like penance. Like a burden you should carry for a little longer. Maybe it’s some twisted sense of self-punishment, or maybe it’s something deeper- something driving you. If you wear this suit through the airport, if you sit with it for just a few more hours, maybe it’ll push you harder. Maybe it’ll remind you that you can never be here again. That you won’t be.

That you will shed this skin.

That the next time you take off a racesuit, it won’t be this one.

That when you peel off the next set of fireproofs, they won’t carry the weight of failure, of stagnation, of being someone’s last-minute fill-in. They’ll belong to a respectable driver. To someone who fought and won. To someone who proved she deserved to take this one off.

You glance at yourself in the mirror one last time, the reflection of the Dale Coyne logos, the Honda badge, the grime-streaked collar sitting heavy on your skin. You meet your own gaze, holding it steady, knowing- knowing- this is the last time you’ll ever wear this thing.

You swear it.

You’ll take it off when you’ve earned the right to.

Then, without another second of hesitation, you turn on your heel and walk out of the bathroom, still wearing the evidence of the past, still carrying the weight of it. The stares continue as you weave through the terminal, but you don’t even flinch. You know where you’re going.

The next flight to Spa-Francorchamps.

And the start of the rest of your fucking life.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

As hyped, as promised- here is the first chapter of Reset, my MV33 x reader fic that's been in the works for.... 9 months, more or less. A few things to understand:

1- This fic has been written in pieces, over the course of many months, in all sorts of mental states and writing skills. As I edit, I try to edit for consistency of tone and keeping the overarching themes, but I'm just one person. Constructive criticism is always welcomed but cut me some slack.

2- This will devolve into explicit content within a few chapters. For those who are here for that, please bear with me as we build up this sweet, sweet burn. I promise I'll make it worth the wait- we're going on a journey here, not just writing p0rn. For minors or those that don't wish to read that, it may be best not to get attached to a fic that will turn into something you don't want.

3- The reader is afab. I try to remain inclusive and ambiguous where I can, but the nature of the story sometimes is less so. I love all of my readers, and I hope you can find joy in this story regardless. <3 She also has a last name, but I try to keep references to it to a bare minimum.

[persephoneaangel444]

౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹Astrological Observations on the Ascendant signs as forms of literature writings ౨ৎ ˖ ࣪⊹

EARTH ASCENDATS: 𖥔‧₊˚ ⊹ 𖥔‧₊˚ ⊹𖥔‧₊˚ ⊹ 𖥔‧₊˚ ⊹𖥔‧₊˚ ⊹ 𖥔‧₊˚ ⊹𖥔‧₊˚ ⊹ 𖥔‧₊˚

𖥔 Capricorn ascendant 𖥔 ---"There’s a lonesomeness to her clear gaze; her body is present, but her mind is elsewhere, like the coldness of the wind." ---"Dark eyed, dark-haired girl. with smiles of enchanting archness and a step like a fawn" --- "She leaves people better than she found them" --- "We belong to the world that does not last. And all that does not last-- and nothing but what does not last --- is ours." --- "Destroy my desires, eradicate my ideals, show me something better, and I will follow you." --- "She embodies mournful intelligence and beautiful darkness"

𖥔 Capricorn ascendant a short Description ---- Capricorn ascendants always seem to have a haunted or resigned look, like old souls. It’s as if everything that has happened in their lives is bearing down on their shoulders—the endless responsibilities and debts.

𖥔 Taurus ascendant 𖥔

---"I long to have pretty lingerie, dozens of little dresses, books and roses, roses, roses" ---"Girls are not machines that you put kindness coins into until sex falls out." --- "She reminds me of 90's r&b and sun. Kissed sunflowers. She's the woman you can't get off your mind, and the woman you think of in the future." ---"I like art and by are I mean music, poetry, sex, paintings, the human body, literature. All of this art to me." --- "they want to know what she likes, they want to know how she tastes, but never want to dive deep into her soul." 𖥔 Taurus ascendant a short Description ---- Taurus ascendants in terms of appearance and aura are conventionally pretty/attractive. Not all their features may be ideal but overall have harmonious facial features. Long lashes, long nose and long Hair, or Short hair and beautiful almond shaped eyes or just Large eyes. They have this vintage shop's smell and appearance.

𖥔 Virgo ascendant 𖥔 --- "I row my beautiful temporary body through this water-lily world." --- "She is the virgin-harlot. She is vulgar, witty, knowledgeable to a depth that terrifies, cruel when she is most kind, unthinking while she thinks, and when she seeks to build she is as destructive as Coriolis storm." --- "and she can kiss a man or slit his throat." --- "A nameless girl in freshest summer greens, A saint, an angel." --- "Something in her was violently sensual, alive, earthy." 𖥔 Virgo ascendant a short Description ---- Virgo ascendants have this false innocence to them, literally like a fallen angel. They have very feminine features they seem like they are caught like a deer in headlights. Their eyes are beautifully serene and alluring like angels. They probably have doe eyes and bunny like noses.

WATER ASCENDATS:

𖦹‧₊˚ ⊹𖦹₊˚ ⊹𖦹‧₊˚ ⊹ 𖦹‧₊˚ ⊹𖦹‧₊˚ ⊹ 𖦹‧₊˚ ⊹𖦹‧₊˚ ⊹ 𖦹‧₊˚

𖦹 Cancer ascendant 𖦹 --- "Those innocent eyes slit my soul up like a razor" --- "My soul is a vine of moonflowers I am night. You are the moon, blossoming." --- "In her eyes shone the sweetness of melancholy." --- "Black eyes, passionate eyes, ruby lips, dimpled cheeks, the moon whispers." --- "Erotic and religious" 𖦹 Cancer ascendant a short Description ----- Cancer ascendants have this deceptive youthfulness to them, as if they are playing trick with you, full of mischief yet there's a sense of longing to them. Wanting to be taken care off. Large eyes as if they can see your soul, full of depth. Like the crab, they hide in their shell the moment something unexpected happens.

𖦹 Scorpio ascendant 𖦹 --- "She has deep-set and serious eyes, dark eyes, big velvety eyes." --- "Death and madness fascinated me." --- "I could love you violently, if I let myself." --- "your soul calls to mine as if it were my own, yet it only ever echo's back it's emptiness." --- "She looked like a religious icon, like somebody you'd sacrifice yourself for." 𖦹 Scorpio ascendant a short Description ----- Scorpio ascendants have this ambiguity that makes them alluring like a siren. Every part of their features are so familiar so personalized to themselves. Their eyes and Lips and long lushes hair always contrasts each other, along with their skin tone.

[blueseasfanfics]

Friction - Part 1

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: When you're targeted by a violent stalker, Sam Wilson hires Bucky Barnes to guard you in an isolated safe house. This causes tension as you both get on each others nerves in an increasingly dangerous situation. But, you slowly come to realize you're more alike than you thought. Will it be too late when you finally let yourself trust him?

Word Count (for Part 1): 2.3k

Tags: Slowburn, reluctant attraction, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, bodyguard, hired to protect, fluff and angst, nightmares and comfort, eventual smut, reluctant attraction.

T/W: Some non-graphic depictions of violence, guns, eventual smut.

A/N: Hello. This will be just a few parts. I'm envisioning 5. Who knows though. Will be posted on my AO3 as well (linked here). Also, feel free to send short one-shot requests. I may not answer them all but if one inspires me, I'll write. Enjoy!

“If you keep staring at me, I’m going to sprint down the hill into oncoming traffic.”

“There is no oncoming traffic.”

“I’ll keep running until I find some.”

“Good luck.”

“Shut up.” You mutter, taking another swig of your coffee. Bucky Dumbass Barnes leans against the porch railing, watching you. You flip him off and he rolls his eyes, looking instead at the dirt road ahead.

The day is calm and cicadas are buzzing loudly. You draw your knees up to your chest as you watch the wind play with the grass, making it flatten and swirl into ever-changing circles.

It’s so incredibly boring out here, away from the city. There’s no coffee shops, or long walks down busy streets, or movie theatres. The lack of movie theatres hurts the most. All you want to do is sit with people, too many people, anonymously sharing a laugh or a cry in a dark room. Free people don’t appreciate the amount of community that is shared within the walls of a theatre. The insight gleaned from hearing their murmurs to their friends about the attractiveness of the actors or the stupidity of the dialogue. You miss connecting with them and feeling, finally, like one of them. Anonymously. With the ability to leave afterwards, free to go about your business.

But now, all you do is watch the grass as Bucky watches you. Solely because of one stupid person with an obsession.

You chug the rest of your coffee and get up, limping past Bucky and letting the screen door slam behind you. He huffs, but you couldn’t care less.

The safe house has a rudimentary kitchen. Though, fancier than your own due to the coffee machine Sam brought as an apology for forcing you here. As you start another cup of coffee, you tap the counter with a finger. Sam said this would only be for a month. Just until they found out how He was tracking you. Then you could go back to your blissful anonymity in New York.

That is, if they could even find who He is.

That’s the flip side of the coin. You can disappear, until someone wants to find you. Then, it’s all that much easier for them to never appear to you at all, except when they want to. The little voice in the back of your head whispers his name to you, but you close your eyes and silence it. He’s gone. He must be.

The coffee drips from the machine. It’s been overworked the past two weeks, both from you trying to cling on to whatever sense of normalcy you’ve cultivated outside of this house, and from Bucky trying to stay awake.

How long did Bucky say he was going to stay here for? Couldn’t have been more than a month. He’s always been sick of you within the hour in past missions. It’s a miracle he’s still around two weeks in. Once he’s decided he’s done, you can go back. Or when whatever Sam bribed him with is gone. And then, who else does Sam trust enough to know where the safe house is? He barely let you know. You’ll be going back in no time.

Sure, there’s a homicidal maniac after you, leaving traps that have caught you twice already and broken your leg both times, but now that you know his M.O. you can catch him. You’ve handled yourself before, who’s to say you can’t again?

The coffee machine beeps, and you take a sip from the cup. Your bad leg twinges, angry at supporting you for this long, and you grit your teeth. Your own body doesn’t believe in you. That’s a tough pill to swallow.

The screen door slams again as Bucky comes inside.

“There’s no more coffee.” You mutter, and he reaches into the cupboard by the door and pulls out a bag. Opening it, he comes over to the machine to refill, and you move gingerly out of the way. He doesn’t notice, or care, and continues.

“This is the last bag, though. We’ll have to go into town to get more.” He says to the coffee machine.

“I don’t think it’ll answer you.” You say.

“You don’t want me looking at you. I’m happy to grant that request.”

“I don’t want you watching me. That’s very different.”

“You’ll have to get used to me doing that.”

“Not for much longer.”

“Thank god. You’re the most irritating woman I’ve ever met. I don’t know who’s stalking you, but it must be the only person in the world who could put up with your bullshit.”

“At least someone can put up with mine. I don’t think anyone can handle this long with you.”

“I’m okay with not having a psycho leaving bombs on my doorstep.”

“My balcony. He left them on my balcony.”

“Touchey. Or however the fuck you say it.”

“Touché.”

He rolls his eyes, not answering you and instead methodically glancing over the sparse living room. After two weeks you know what he looks at. The boarded up back door, the windows with trip-wires stretched across the sills, the cameras blinking red and pointed at every egress point. If he wasn’t such an ass, you’d be impressed by the level of care he’s putting into his job. You know it’s just about the money, though. Money that’s quickly running out.

“How much did Sam pay for?”

“Coffee? Two months supply. You’ve been drinking it like the damned Energizer bunny, though.”

“No, your money. For your ‘services’, or whatever you call the peeping tom bullshit.”

He closes his eyes and sets his jaw. His neck muscle flexes beneath his collar. You’d think it was attractive if it wasn’t his jaw.

“That was one time. I knocked, and you didn’t answer. I told you to always answer. I didn’t ‘peep’ at anything, anyway.” He finally says after a minute of counting.

“You’re not my keeper.”

“For the next two weeks, I am. And then it some other poor idiots job to watch you.”

That makes you freeze, putting your coffee down.

“What?” You say, and he glances over at you.

“What, you want me to stay now?”

“No! What do you mean someone else will be watching me?”

“Well, if Sam and them don’t find Him, you’ll still need to stay here.” He’s talking slowly, as if talking to a particularly dumb child.

“That wasn’t the agreement. Sam said a month.”

“You’ll have to take that up with Sam. Besides, you want to go back there? Back to your apartment, that He knows about? Hell, He knows the security camera blindspots. And you want to waltz back in like everything is fine?” Now, he’s looking at you. You really hate it when he does that. He seems to always be studying you, picking you apart with his ice-cold eyes. It makes your heart jump into your throat.

You break the eye contact by looking into your coffee.

“I just want to go home.” You finally say into its dregs. You swallow the rest of it, putting it on the counter harder than you meant to. “I’m taking a shower. Try not to come in, weirdo.”

“Easy enough.” He mutters as you walk up the stairs.

- - -

That night, you’re running.

You don’t need to look behind you to know He’s there. You’re barefoot again, running on the rough cement of the lab, scraping your bare skin against the walls as you round the corners of the never-ending basement prison. The burn from your wounds is nothing to the one in your head. It’s making your vision blurry and your eyes red-hot, and you know he’s closing in on you.

Sprinting now, the lights behind you close one by one with an electric thud, like a giants footsteps getting closer to stomping on you by the second.

Thud. You’re blinking back fire. Thud. Your heart is giving out.

Thud. You can feel his breath on the back of your neck, sending chills down your spine as he finally-

Crash. You startle awake, a scream still ripping through your throat. You grab the closest thing to you -another coffee cup- and throw it towards the door that just smashed open. It narrowly misses a barely clothed Bucky as he ducks backward.

“Fuck!” He shouts, “Don’t surprise the guy with a gun! Gun safety 101!”

You notice now that he is holding one, its metal nose glinting off the moonlight coming through the bent blinds. His steel fingers share the same gleam.

“Don’t break into a sleeping woman’s room!” Is the only thing you can manage to yell back, turning away from him to wipe hot tears from your face quickly.

“I think the fact you were screaming loud enough to wake the dead is reason enough to come in here! I told you to not lock this door, by the way, so the whole breaking and entering thing is your fault.” He barks.

“Shut up, Bucky.” You whisper.

“Is someone in here? Why were you screaming?” The floor creaks under him as he steps into the room, looking around the corners.

“No one is in here, just go back to bed.” You’re gripping the mattress now, trying to calm down. He’s not making it any easier as he stops to stand behind you. There’s a soft ting of a bullet hitting the ground as he uncocks the gun, but he doesn’t leave.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Yes I did.”

“There were two questions.”

“I’m glad you know how to count.” You need to breathe. 1, 2, 3- shit. 1, 2- shit! Do you know how to count?

He’s quiet for a moment, and you almost think he’s left until he speaks again.

“Why do you insist on being so difficult?”

“Because I need to be.” You say breathlessly. Running a hand through your hair you stand up shakily, moving around the bed and going to the door. He’s standing in front of the doorway, not moving. In the dim light of the moon, the only part of him not shrouded in shadow is his metal arm. You try to avoid looking at it, knowing somewhere deep down that he hides it from you for a reason, with long sleeves even in the harshest sunlight. But the only other place to look is his chest or his face, which makes your cheeks feel hot even now. You settle on looking down at the bullet on the ground between you both.

“I need some water.” You murmur after a moment of him staring down at you.

“You need to answer me.”

“Please, Bucky.” You plead. Your defences fall for just a moment, but your lungs are starting to collapse. The world is starting to swim, and you’re not sure if its panic, tears, or the pain in your leg screaming at you to sit back down. Whichever one, you really don’t want Bucky to see it.

“Go back in bed. I’ll get it for you.” His voice is calm now. Quieter. Exhausted, the only answer you can manage is a nod, doing as you’re told and laying back down. You stare at the crack in the blinds and try to blink away tears as you listen to him rummaging in the kitchen.

He comes back too soon. He sets the glass on the nightstand behind you, but you don’t hear him leave. Sighing, you turn around, and finally look at him in the face.

His eyebrows are knit together, and as he looks at you, you can feel him studying you again. This time your stomach flutters.

You break eye contact again, sitting up and sipping the water quietly.

“Thank you, Bucky.”

“Sorry for crashing in.”

“Sorry for screaming.”

“Not for the coffee mug?”

“I’ve been wanting to do that.”

You flick your eyes up at him, and you think for a moment you see a smile, but it quickly falls away once he looks in your eyes. You both look at each other for a second, two, three, before its his turn to break contact. He runs his metal hand through his tousled hair, glancing down at his gun, the bed, the window, anywhere but you.

“When I, hmm.” He takes a deep breath. “When I have a bad night, I have to ground myself.”

“Ground yourself? Like a naughty kid?”

“No.” He pinches the skin between his eyes. “My senses. Y’know. Five things I see, three things I hear, one thing I feel. Until I calm down.”

“Oh.”

“Are you still on edge?” He glances down at your free hand gripping the mattress. You loosen it.

“I guess.”

“Do you want me to stay in here?”

“What?”

“Do you want me to stay in here. To...watch over you.” He’s still looking away from you.

“Aren’t you already doing that? Hence the gun?”

He rolls his eyes.

“If you don’t want me to, I’ll just-”

“Yeah. If you can. Stay here, that is.” The permission comes from a part of you that you’ve shoved down. Or thought you shoved down. Now, it’s speaking from the middle of your throat, stealing any breath you have with it.

He finally looks at you again, then slowly nods.

“Okay. I can. Let me grab a blanket.” He walks out of the room, and you’re finally able to breathe again.

Laying back down, you try to ground yourself. You see the armchair across from the foot of your bed, the window, the bent blinds, the broken patch of ceiling above you, the barely touched glass of water on the nightstand. You hear the croon of an owl outside, the orchestra of a grasshopper, the creak of the floorboards as Bucky comes back in. Closing your eyes, you try to focus on sleep.

You feel Bucky’s warm hand brushing against your skin as he pulls your blanket up to cover you, leaving you cold when he moves away.

Your muscles relax as you hear him settle into the armchair. Inexcusably, your brain tells you, he calms you. Happily, your heart slows, letting you fall into a dreamless sleep.

[mapofsouthdakota]

Caffeine, chemistry and Caleb I

(The newbie POV)

Synopsis: The café was supposed to be just another coffee shop. For a law student who enjoys her morning coffee and a shy newbie still learning the ropes, it should have been nothing more than part of the daily routine… But then there’s Caleb.

Details: 1300ish words. Spring cleaning who? Another old one. People seemed to like the law student, here’s a little POV switch—non-MC!reader as the barista newbie. Expect internal struggle, hot barista Caleb, banter, and flirting. Let me know which POV you prefer in the poll! Law student POV here.

Tags: @gavin3469

The newbie | Pilot

You are late.

Not disastrously late, not fireable late, but definitely jogging through the streets with your bag slapping against your side, desperately hoping that Caleb doesn’t notice late.

And the worst part? It’s his fault.

Because waking up this morning had been a battle. Not just against your alarm—which you snoozed four times—but against the absolute war of deciding what to wear.

You never put this much effort into work. Normally, it’s whatever sweater is clean, ripped jeans, and your usual piercings (nose, tongue, ears—your little armor against feeling too soft).

But today?

Today you stood in front of the mirror for fifteen entire minutes debating if a fitted turtleneck would be too much.

In the end, you went for an oversized sweater, tucked slightly into high-waisted slacks that fit just right. Enough to look put-together, but not like you tried. Because effort is embarrassing.

And now?

Now you’re barreling through the café doors, boots squeaking violently against the freshly mopped floor.

Caleb looks up immediately.

One eyebrow lifts. “Rough morning?”

You.exe malfunctions immediately.

“Uh—” You straighten, shoving your hands into your pockets like that will somehow rewind time and erase the last three seconds. “No. Just—y’know. Traffic.”

Caleb tilts his head. “You walk here.”

You want to crawl into the espresso machine and never come out.

“…Right.”

Caleb just smirks, shaking his head like he’s already entertained. “Hurry up, then. You’re with me at the counter today.”

You.exe malfunctions again.

——————————————————————————

The morning rush destroys you.

Not because of the customers—not really. It’s because of Caleb.

Caleb, who moves too smoothly, too easily. Who leans an elbow against the counter like he owns the place, rolling up his sleeves as he waits for the next shot to pull.

At one point, he steps behind you to grab a milk pitcher, one hand lightly grazing the small of your back as he passes.

“‘Scuse me,” he says, casual. Too casual.

You.exe malfunctions for a third time.

And then, as if the universe is personally targeting you, she walks in.

You know her now.

The law student.

The golden girl.

She always looks put together, but today? Today she’s got her hair in a tight ponytail, her lipstick fresh, her whole presence practically radiating confidence.

And she sees you.

Your eyes meet across the counter.

The recognition is instant.

Her expression: Yeah. You get it now, don’t you?

Your expression: Please. Take me out of this hell.

But you both know what’s about to happen.

Because Caleb notices her immediately.

“Hey, golden girl,” he says, already reaching for a cup.

You swear she glows.

“Hey,” she says smoothly, stepping up to the counter. “Tell me something scandalous.”

Caleb lifts a brow, lips twitching. “You mean besides your order history?”

She grins. “Low blow. I’m trying to be unpredictable.”

“Right,” he says, already reaching for a cup. “Green tea. Living dangerously.”

“Mock me all you want,” she says, resting her elbows on the counter. “But I need my brain intact.”

Caleb hums, pen hovering. “Name?”

She blinks. “Seriously?”

He shrugs. “Slipped my mind.”

She narrows her eyes, amused. “We’ve done this dance.”

Caleb just grins, writes something, and spins the cup toward her.

In bold, looping script: golden girl.

She laughs, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he says, already turning to make her drink, “you keep coming back.”

You are standing right here.

Watching this happen in real time.

It is exhausting.

It’s not that she’s bad at flirting—she’s just fearless now. Like she’s gone all-in. Unbothered. Confident. She looks Caleb dead in his devastating face like he’s just some guy, not a full-fledged, government-certified problem

And the worst part? Caleb just rolls with it.

Effortless.

Like he’s used to this. Like it doesn’t even register as flirting to him.

Caleb twirls the cup between his fingers, the soft rasp of his rings brushing against the paper sleeve filling the quiet moment. With a practiced turn, he angles the lid so the sip hole faces her, then slides it across the counter.

“Same time tomorrow, then?”

She just lifts her drink in an easy wave before heading out, looking perfectly content with her life choices.

You exhale quietly through your nose and turn back to the counter, grabbing a stack of clean cups and beginning to restock the tower, one clink at a time.

The repetition helps. It’s mindless, mechanical. Stack, rotate, stack.

You refill the espresso hopper next, pouring beans in slowly, deliberately—anything to stay busy, to not look like you’re still thinking about the name Golden Girl swirling in Sharpie on a takeaway cup.

You’re fine.

This is fine.

Totally normal coworker moment. Totally normal shift.

And then—the universe delivers one final hit.

Caleb appears beside you.

Like he materializes out of thin air.

No warning. No footsteps. Just a sudden, smug presence.

He leans his hip casually against the counter, like you summoned him with your stress.

“So,” he says, tilting his head at you, all violet eyes and soft smirk. “I feel like I didn’t get a real answer last time—how bad did the tongue piercing actually hurt?”

You.exe blue-screens.

Because no, absolutely not, we are NOT doing this again. So instead, you swallow and mumble, “It really wasn’t that bad.”

Caleb hums, eyes narrowing just slightly like he’s really thinking it through. “Huh. You probably have a high pain tolerance, then. I’ve bitten my tongue before—that’s bad enough. Can’t imagine getting a needle through it.”

You nod, barely. Already floating above your body. Already somewhere far away where this isn’t happening.

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, a little too quickly, like your body answered before you could think.

And then—

“Got any other ‘hidden piercings?’” Caleb asks, fingers flicking the air quotes as he leans in just slightly—grinning.

Just like that.

Like it’s nothing.

Like it’s a totally normal thing to ask a coworker before 10 a.m.

Which—it is not.

It is absolutely not.

You could make a list of questions appropriate for early morning workplace conversations, and that would not be on it. What time do you clock out today? Acceptable. How bad was that last rush? Also fine. Hey, do you have anything sharp inserted through parts of your body that I can’t see? NOT FINE.

But Caleb asks it like he’s wondering if you have a dog.

He shifts his weight slightly, one hand braced against the edge of the counter. His eyes are on you. Open, curious, and way too calm.

And then—he winks.

It’s subtle. A flick of movement beneath lashes that are way too long for anyone’s safety.

You see it.

You don’t know what it is, but it’s not safe. Not for your heart. Not for your nerves. Not for your currently melting dignity.

And then—just like that—he’s done.

“Aaanyway,” Caleb says, already peeling away from the counter, heading toward the pastry case with a stretch that makes his shirt pull tight across his back. “I’m getting a muffin.”

Like he didn’t just ask you about hidden body piercings, wink, and obliterate your soul before breakfast.

He glances back over his shoulder, calm as ever. “You want one?”

You stare at him, borderline comatose.

You are hanging onto reality by a thread, and this man is just thinking about muffins.

You need to go home.

Immediately.

Except—you can’t.

Because you still have hours left on your shift.

Hours.

With Caleb.

And as if things weren’t already unbearable, he returns to the counter with a muffin in hand, casually tearing off a piece and popping it into his mouth.

You watch him chew.

Why are you watching him chew??

He wipes the corner of his mouth with the pad of his thumb and then licks it—licks it—without a second thought, and your soul immediately exits your body for the second time today.

He’s just eating.

Just existing.

Just… being hot and chewing at the same time.

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: So y’all have gently encouraged me into doing a little spring cleaning in my drafts—bahaha. Here’s the newbie! Hope you like them. I seriously can’t pick between the newbie and the law student, which is why they’ve just been marinating in my notes forever. I couldn’t bring myself to kill any darlings. Let me know which POV you prefer before I spend the whole bank holiday happily spiraling into both. The weather’s awful anyway, so it’s peak writing time! Okey then, thank you for reading 🫶🏻

[theswordofdamntheseknees]

[lafiametta]

okay i don't know why (maybe it's because i found it extremely hot too) but i feel like the first time ani started to be attracted to igor is when he smashed up the candy shop. something about the fact that he has the capacity to be that violent but as a person isn't. (or at least, isn't with/to her. we don't know what he's like when he's "working", whatever that entails)

Yeah, I totally see what you're saying, and it's interesting because it's after the candy shop scene that she's less openly hostile to him and doesn't seem to mind him being around her as much. I mean, she's upset about the scarf (mostly because she thinks he brought with the intention of using it on her again), but then she gives in and takes it. When they're watching Toros drive the SUV off the tow truck, she turns back and looks at him, like, “Hey, are you seeing this crazy shit, too?” And after Garnik vomits in the car, when Toros is cleaning up at the gas station, she directly addresses him (“Yeah, I'm not getting back in there”), as if she sees them both in the same boat, rather than continuing to dismiss him as dangerous or as a mindless henchman.

Because the candy shop is really the first time she's seen him in action, using his full destructive force. (She might claim in was in the living room, but there he was much more reactive, his assault on her no doubt terrifying, but not actively aggressive.) In this scene, though, he stops Tom in his tracks and easily disarms him (it's almost comically easy), then waits for Toros's instructions, like a leashed attack dog. Once Toros gives him the order, he goes to town, smashing gumballs and the popcorn machine and a glass case, before taking the aluminum bat and giving it a small, precise tap against one of the jars (which also shatters magnificently). As the audience, we weren't really prepared for this kind of direct violence — we haven't seen anything quite like this from Igor before, even though we know he was brought into the situation as a physical enforcer — and it's shocking and a little scary. (Maybe to offset the vibe, Igor's shown in the background of the remainder of the scene casually eating popcorn out of the broken machine.)

But none of this fazes Ani. The moment he finishes his destructive work, she's right behind him, advancing quickly on Tom and Crystal with a pointed finger directed on them, yelling at them to call Ivan. It's almost as if his aggressiveness sparked hers, like after watching him, she feels emboldened to unleash her own propensity for combativeness. I suspect (although it might be a bit of a stretch) that she actually finds his capacity for violence exciting and attractive, that is, when it's not aimed at her. There is also something to be said, as you pointed out, for the fact that while he has this capacity, it's only put into action when he's told to use it by his employer. For the rest of the movie, his body is still utilized, but mostly to aid or provide strength (like when he pulls Ani out of the fight, or carries Ivan down the courthouse steps). We don't really know what he does in terms of physical enforcement when he's otherwise “working” for Toros, and neither does Ani. She can probably imagine, though. And based on her reaction to him in the candy shop, I don't think she would find it entirely off-putting.

[starskq]

SPRAINED ANKLE / P.S

Pairing ◊ barista!reader x barista!seeun

Genre ◊ kinda enemies to lovers ?, fluff

Warnings ◊ kissing

Word count ◊ 3,19k

Summary ◊ You and Seeun worked together at a little coffee shop, but little problem: you hated each other. Until you sprained your ankle during a shift.

You and Seeun worked together in a little coffee shop tucked away in the heart of your college town. From the moment you met, it was clear you were like oil and water. His cocky demeanor clashed violently with your straightforward attitude. Every shift was like a battleground, filled with sarcastic remarks and heated glares. To customers, you were known as a comedic duo. 

One night, as the clock struck ten, signaling the end of another long day, the last customer just left. You and Seeun began your closing routine. The air was thick with usual tension, your mutual disdain evident in every word and gesture. 

‘’Seeun, did you forget to clean the espresso machine again?’’ You asked, your voice raised with annoyance as you cited down the counter. 

He rolled his eyes, his lips curling into a smirk. ‘’Oh, I’m sorry, princess. Did you forget to restock the sugar packets like you were supposed to?’’ 

You shot him a whitening glare. ‘’It’s not my job to clean up after your mess.’’ 

‘’And it’s not mine to remind you of yours,’’ he retorted, leaning casually against the counter you just wiped. 

You huffed and turned away, focusing on your tasks. You reach up to grab a box from a high shelf when suddenly, you felt a sharp pain shoot through your ankle. You let out a yelp and stumbled, dropping the box with a loud thud. 

‘’Great, just great,’’ you muttered, through gritted teeth, catching your ankle. 

Seeun’s smoke faded instantly. He rushed over, concern flashing in his eyes. ‘’What did you do now?’’ He asked, his tone sharp but worried. 

You winced, trying to stand up but failing. ‘’I think I twisted my ankle,’’ you admitted, your voice strained with pain. 

‘’Sit down,’’ he ordered, a bit more gently this time. He helped you to a chair, his touch surprisingly gentle despite his usual harsh demeanor. 

You watched in disbelief as he knelt in front of you, carefully examining your ankle. ‘’What are you doing?’’ You asked, your voice a mix of confusion and curiosity. 

‘’Helping you, obviously,’’ he replied, his tone brusque. ‘’Do you always have to question everything?’’ 

‘’Why are you helping me?’’ You asked, wincing as he prodded your ankle. 

‘’Because I don’t want to be the one explaining to our boss why you’re limping around,’’ je said, but there was an undertone of genuine concern in his voice you caught up on. 

He stood up and fetched a first aid kit from behind the counter. He returned with a tube of cream and a bandage. ‘’This might sting a bit,’’ he warned, applying the cream to your swollen ankle. 

You hissed at the cold sensation but didn’t pull away. ‘’You know you're not half bad at this,’’ you remarked, trying to lighten the mood. 

‘’Don’t get used to it,’’ he replied, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips as he began wrapping your ankle with the bandage. ‘’Just stay still and let me finish.’’ 

You watched him work, a strange mix of emotions swirling inside you. ‘’Why do you have to be so infuriating all the time?’’ You muttered. 

‘’Because someone had to keep you on your toes,’’ he shot back, securing the bandage with a final tug. ‘’And clearly, you need someone to watch out for you. 

You couldn't help but chuckle despite the pain. "You know, for someone who supposedly hates me, you're pretty decent when it counts.’’

Seeun met your eyes, a severe expression on his face. "Just because we don't get along doesn't mean I want to see you hurt," he said quietly. "Now, try to stay off that ankle for a bit.’’

You nodded, touched by his unexpected kindness. "Thanks, Seeun. I appreciate it.’’

"Don't mention it," he replied, standing up. »But if you ever tell anyone about this, I'll deny it.’’

"Deal," you said, taking his hand and pulling yourself up. "But I might remind you every now and then, just to annoy you.’’

"I wouldn't expect anything less," he said with a grin. You tried to get up from the chair but he stopped you in your tracks. ‘’What do you think you’re doing?’’

‘’I need to finish closing up,’’ you said, looking at him in disbelief. 

"Do you want to make it worse?" Seeun shot back, his eyes narrowing. "Just sit. I'll handle the rest.’’

Frustrated but knowing he was right, you reluctantly sank back into the chair. You watched as Seeun efficiently went about the closing tasks, moving with surprising grace for someone you always thought of as infuriatingly arrogant. He wiped down tables, mopped the floors, and even took out the trash—all the while glancing at you to make sure you were staying put.

"You really don't have to do all this,’’ you said, a touch of guilt in your voice. "I can at least help with the counters.’’

"No, you can't," Seeun replied firmly. "The last thing we need is for you to fall again and break something else.’’

You huffed, crossing your arms. "You're so bossy, you know that?’’

"And you're so stubborn," he retorted, though his tone lacked its usual bite.

Finally, they were done. Seeun locked the front door, and they both stepped outside into the cool night air. You glanced at your watch and groaned. "Great. I missed my last bus,’’ you muttered to yourself.

Seeun raised an eyebrow. "How far do you live?’’

"About thirty minutes away," you muttered. ‘’Walking.’’

"With a sprained ankle? Not happening," he said, shaking his head. "Come on, I'll give you a ride.’’

You blinked in surprise. "You don't have to do that.’’

"And you don't have to walk home injured," he shot back, leading you to his car parked a few steps away. "Just get in."

You hesitated but then relented, hobbling to the passenger side and sliding into the seat. Seeun started the engine, and they pulled out of the parking lot.

"You know, you're not as bad as I thought,’’ you said after a few minutes of silence, glancing at him.

"Gee, thanks," Seeun replied sarcastically, though he couldn't hide a small smile. "You're not exactly a walk in the park either.’’

You chuckled. "I guess we both have our moments.’’

The drive continued with your usual banter, though it felt lighter, less hostile. You couldn't help but notice how different Seeun looked behind the wheel. The streetlights cast a soft glow on his face, highlighting his sharp features. He had a relaxed, confident air about him, one hand casually resting on the gearshift, the other on the steering wheel. He looked, for lack of a better word, incredibly hot.

"Stop staring,’’ Seeun said suddenly, breaking your reverie.

You felt your cheeks flush. "I wasn't staring.’’

"Right," he said, smirking. "Just like I wasn't scolding you earlier.’’

"Okay, fine. Maybe I was staring," you admitted. "But only because you look weirdly competent for once.’’

‘’Competent?’’ he echoed, raising an eyebrow. "I'll take that as a compliment, I guess.’’

You both laughed, the tension between you dissolving into something almost comfortable. As you approached your neighborhood, you realized you were actually enjoying his company. It was a strange, unexpected feeling.

"Thanks for the ride," you said as you pulled up in front of your house. "And for helping me with my ankle.’’

"Don't mention it," Seeun replied, his expression softening. "Just try not to hurt yourself again, okay? I don't want to have to play nursemaid every shift.’’

As you opened the front door, you glanced at the staircase leading to your apartment on the third floor. You sighed, realizing how difficult it would be to climb with your sprained ankle. Seeun, still standing by his car, noticed your hesitation.

"You're not seriously thinking about climbing those stairs, are you?" he called out, his tone half-scolding, half-concerned.

You shrugged, trying to play it off. "It's just a few steps. I'll manage.’’

"No way," Seeun said, striding up to you. "I'm not letting you hurt yourself even more.’’

Before you could protest, he bent down and scooped you into his arms.

"Seeun! Put me down!" You exclaimed, your face flushing with a mix of embarrassment and surprise.

"Not a chance," he replied, carrying you effortlessly up the stairs. "You're stubborn, but I'm more stubborn.’’

You grumbled but couldn't help feeling a bit touched by his gesture. "You know, for someone who acts like he hates me, you're pretty decent when you want to be.’’

"Don't get used to it," he said with a smirk, reaching the top of the stairs. "I still think you're a pain in the ass."

When they reached your door, you fumbled with her your, finally managing to unlock it. Seeun gently set you down just inside the apartment. You turned to him, an awkward silence hanging in the air for a moment.

"Um, do you want to come in for a drink or something?’’ You asked, surprising yourself with the invitation. "It's the least I can do after you carried me up here.’’

Seeun looked at you for a moment, then shrugged. "Sure, why not. Just a quick drink, though.’’

You led him into the small living room and gestured for him to sit while you hobbled to the kitchen. "Make yourself at home. What do you want? Water, soda, tea?’’

"Water's fine," he said, looking around the cozy apartment. "Nice place.’’

"Thanks," you replied, pouring two glasses of water and carefully bringing them to the living room, limping a little because of your ankle. You handed him a glass and sat down across from him at the kitchen counter.

"So," Seeun started, taking a sip of his water, "why do you insist on doing everything yourself even when you're hurt?’’

"Why do you insist on being so infuriating?" You shot back, though there was no real anger in your voice.

He chuckled. "I guess it's easier to argue than to admit that we might actually get along if we tried.’’

"Maybe," you admitted, feeling a strange pull between you. You noticed the way his eyes flickered over you, a mix of frustration and something else you wouldn’t dare describe.

As Seeun glanced around your apartment, his eyes fell on a framed poster of Liverpool's Anfield stadium hanging on the wall. Next to it was a shelf lined with memorabilia: scarves, miniature jerseys, and a few of your photos at various matches.

"Wait a minute," Seeun said, his tone shifting from casual to surprised. "You like Liverpool?’’

You looked up from your drink, a spark of enthusiasm lighting up your eyes. "Like? I love Liverpool! I've been a fan since I was a kid.’’

A wide grin spread across Seeun's face. "You're kidding! I'm a huge Liverpool fan too. Did you see the match against Manchester City last month? What a game!’’

Your eyes widened with excitement. "Are you serious? That match was incredible! Salah's goal was absolutely insane!’’

"Right?" Seeun exclaimed, leaning forward in his seat. "I couldn't believe the way he weaved through your defense. It's like he was playing with kids out there.’’

You laughed, the animosity between you momentarily forgotten. "I know! And Alisson's saves were phenomenal. That guy is a wall.’’

You continued chatting animatedly about your favorite team, each game, and player, exchanging stories and experiences. For the first time, you found yourselves on the same wavelength, your shared passion bridging the gap that usually separated you.

"Have you ever been to Anfield?" Seeun asked, his eyes shining with excitement.

"Twice," you replied proudly. "The atmosphere is unreal. There's nothing like singing 'You'll Never Walk Alone' with thousands of your fans.’’

"I'm so jealous," Seeun said, shaking his head. "I've been dying to go. It's on my bucket list for sure.’’

"Maybe you should stop being so arrogant and save up for a trip," you teased, a playful glint in your eye.

Seeun smirked. "And maybe you should stop being so stubborn and let people help you once in a while.’’

You rolled your eyes, but there was no real heat behind it. "I don't need help. Especially not from you.’’

"Right, because hobbling up the stairs on a sprained ankle is a sign of independence," Seeun shot back, though he was smiling.

"At least I don't act like I know everything," you retorted, crossing your arms.

"That's because I do know everything," he said with a wink.

You both laughed, the earlier tension easing into a more comfortable rhythm. It was strange, you thought, how easily you slipped back into your usual banter, yet it felt different now—less hostile, more... familiar.

"You know, it's weird," you said, after a moment of comfortable silence. "I never would have guessed we had something in common.’’

"Yeah, it's almost like there's more to people than meets the eye," Seeun replied a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "Who knew?’’

"Maybe if you weren't so busy being insufferable, you might have figured that out sooner," you teased.

"Or maybe if you weren't so determined to be difficult, we could have had this conversation months ago," he countered.

You shook your head, smiling. "You really can't help yourself, can you?’’

"Nope," Seeun said, grinning. "It's part of my charm.’’

"Charm? Is that what you call it?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Absolutely," he said confidently. "And it seems to be working, doesn't it?’’

Y/n laughed again, shaking her head. ‘’Only in your dreams.’’

As your conversation lulled, he glanced down at your ankle. ‘’So, how’s your ankle holding up?’’ 

You waved a hand dismissively. ‘’It’s okay now. Just a little sore, that’s all. 

Seeun raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. "Yeah, right. Let me see.’’

You started to protest, but Seeun was already kneeling in front of you, gently lifting your leg to inspect the injury. "Seeun, it's really—‘’

"Shut up for a second," he interrupted, his eyes widening as he looked at your ankle. ‘’Y/n, this is not fine.’’

You ankle was swollen and turning a deep shade of blue, the bruising spreading across your skin. It had definitely tripled in size since you first injured it. Seeun's jaw tightened with concern.

"Why didn't you say it was this bad?" he demanded, though his touch was gentle as he carefully removed the makeshift bandage he had applied earlier.

"I didn't want to make a big deal out of it," you admitted, wincing slightly as he applied some fresh cream to the bruised area.

"This is a big deal, y/n," he said, his voice softening. "You need to take better care of yourself.’’

You watched him work, surprised by the care and attention he was giving you. "I didn't think you'd care this much," you said quietly.

He glanced up at you, his expression serious. "Just because we bicker all the time doesn't mean I want to see you hurt. You really need to learn to ask for help when you need it.’’

"I know," you admitted, feeling a bit embarrassed. "I'm just not used to relying on others.’’

"Well, get used to it," he replied, rewrapping your ankle with a clean bandage. "At least when it comes to me.’’

"Is that an offer?" you asked, a small smile playing on your lips.

"It's more of a statement," he said, finishing the bandage and standing up. "And don't argue with me about it.’’

You laughed softly. "Fine, I won't argue. This time.’’

‘’Come on, let's get you more comfortable," he said, offering you a hand so you could stand. 

You took his hand, but as you tried to stand, a sharp pain shot through you ankle, causing you to stumble forward. Seeun quickly caught you, your bodies pressed close together. Your faces were just inches apart, and you could feel his breath on your skin.

"Easy there," he said softly, his eyes locking onto yours. "You okay?’’

You nodded, but the pain was evident on your face. "Yeah, just hurts a bit.’’

As he steadied you, his gaze flickered from your eyes to your lips and back again. The air between you seemed to crackle with tension, and your heart raced.

"You know," you mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper, "you could kiss me if you wanted to.’’

Seeun's eyes widened slightly, his expression unreadable. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice husky.

You swallowed, feeling the heat of the moment. "Yes," you whispered back, your breath catching in uyour throat.

Slowly, as if giving you a chance to back out, Seeun leaned in. His lips brushed against yours softly at first, testing, before pressing more firmly. Your eyes fluttered closed as ou melted into the kiss, your hands gripping his shirt for balance.

His hand cupped your cheek gently, mindful of your injured ankle. The kiss deepened, growing more heated as your pent-up emotions finally found release. You felt a shiver run down your spine as his other hand slipped around your waist, pulling you closer.

You broke apart for a moment, both breathing heavily. He rested his forehead against yours, his voice a low murmur. "I didn't expect this.’’

"Neither did I," you admitted, your fingers still tangled in his shirt. 

Your eyes locked, and he took a deep breath before again breaking the distance against you. You kissed again, this time slower, savoring the moment. As you lost balance again, seeun reluctantly broke the kiss, chuckling slightly. ‘’You should probably sit down,’’ 

You nodded as he helped you to the couch, ensuring you were comfortable before sitting beside you. Your faces were flushed, the lingering heat of your kiss still evident. 

“So,” Seeun said, his usual cocky smirk returning, “does this mean you’re going to stop being so stubborn and listen to me now?’’

You rolled your eyes, a small smile playing on your lips. “In your dreams. Just because we kissed doesn’t mean you get to boss me around.’’

He raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying this. “Oh, come on. You know you like it when I take charge.’’

You scoffed, crossing your arms. “Please, you’re only good for reaching high stuff and being annoying.’’

“Annoying?” he repeated, leaning in closer. “I seem to remember you enjoying our little moment just now.’’

Your cheeks flushed deeper. “It was a moment of weakness.’’

“Is that what we’re calling it?” he teased, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Yes,” you said firmly, though your smile betrayed you. “And don’t get any ideas that this means I’ll be going easy on you at work.’’

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” Seeun replied, grinning. “I like our little arguments. Keeps things interesting.’’

“Interesting isn’t the word I’d use,” you shot back, though there was no real malice in your voice. “Exasperating, maybe.’’

“Admit it,” he said, leaning back with a satisfied look. “You’d miss me if I wasn’t around.”

“Miss you?” You laughed. “More like I’d finally get some peace and quiet.’’

He chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re impossible, y/n.’’

“And you’re insufferable, Seeun,” you replied, but your tone was light, almost affectionate.

You fell into a comfortable silence, your banter a familiar and oddly comforting rhythm.

[bullet-prooflove]

TheGeneral!Series Part Three: Choices

Tagging: @kmc1989 @justameresimp @agentorange9595 @lxaah11 @librarian1002 @imaginecrushes @flrboyd @areamir @b-bradshaw @adaydreamaway08 '@crimeshowjunkie @inkandarsenic @caffeinatedwoman @tortilla-maria1 @lemmons1998 @dr-alan-grantler @dizzybee03 @burningpeachpuppy @penguin876 @deliriousfangirl61 @goosterroose @kishie8 @skyesthebomb @marshmallowflufffox @whateversomethingbruh @4everademigod @notanotherpotter @yousigned-upforthis @silversprings-mp3 @sadboihours10101 @luckyladycreator2 @littlebadarielll @toheavenwmydrms @buckysteveloki-me @emma-dawson

Beau doesn’t sleep. Instead he lies awake next to you and fantasises about the ways in which he can murder General Klein and get away with it. Each one becomes increasingly more violent until the clock hits four am and he forces himself up and out of the sheets.

His body moves on automatic, putting the laundry into the machine, throwing away the trash, washing the dishes. It feels like he’s in a dream, a horrifying, maddening dream.

When you come out the bedroom, you’re clad his hoody, the one that he was wearing last night. He knows it brings you comfort so he doesn't say anything.

Last night was the first time you’d acknowledged what happened to you, the first time you’d talked about it. It had been like a dam breaking. All that rage, that hurt, that devastation it flooded out of you in a rush. You'd cried yourself to sleep, your entire body tucked against his.

Your hair is still damp from the shower, it falls loosely across your features as you slide into the stool across from him at the breakfast island, your chin coming to rest on your arms. He mirrors your posture, his eyes on yours.

“What do you want to do?” He asks you and you bury your face into your arms. “Ok, well you can’t do that forever.”

“I can.” You tell him and he smiles just a little because this behaviour, it’s the first glimpse he’s seen of the real you since arriving in Washington.

“Ok so we stay here and we do this forever.” He says softly. “Just me and you in this kitchen, fuck anybody else.”

You huff out a laugh and it is the sweetest sound.

You tilt you head up to look at him and he busies himself with putting the kettle on and withdrawing two mugs from the cupboard. He makes a note to go shopping later on because there’s barely any food in the cupboards, he guesses you’ve barely been out of the apartment since it happened. That and the anxiety would explain the weight you’ve lost.

“If I do this.” You say, fingers toying with the bracelet on your wrist. “Then everybody will know what he did to me, they’ll never look at me the same way.”

Beau sighs as he pours the water from the kettle into each of the mugs, he’s chosen chamomile tea, something to sooth both your nerves.

“If you don’t do this, you’re facing up to ten years confinement and you’re life falls apart in a different way.” He says frankly as he sets the mug down in front of you. “You can’t get the help you need, you have no job, everything else you’ve worked so hard for…”

He trails off because he worries that he’s being too harsh but the truth is you need to see the reality of this situation. This isn’t going away and the longer you try to ignore it, the worse it gets.

“I will support you whatever you choose to do.” He tells you, slipping back into the stool across from you. You wrap your hands around your mug, your gaze coming fixating on the steam as it emits from the liquid. “If you want to fight this I’m game, if it’s too much, then I’m here too. Just tell me what you want me to do.”

“What I want is for none of this to have ever happened.” You tell him, your thumbs chasing over the floral pattern on the porcelain.

“But it did happen.” He says gently, his hands coming to rest on yours. “And we need to start dealing with that.”

“I know.” You say quietly, your eyes flickering up to meet his. “That’s why I need you to call Harm. I need him to come over and take my statement.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[electronickingdomfox]

"Double, Double" review

Novel from 1989, by Michael Jan Friedman. A sequel for the episode "What Are Little Girls Made Of?", where Kirk has to face once again his evil duplicate (this man is so easy to clone, except when "cloning" involves drawing his face correctly in the covers...).

The start is a bit slow, but it's a quite entertaining adventure story, with far more epic proportions than the original episode. For the most part, the narrative switches between the real Kirk on his solo mission to recover the Enterprise, and the dealings of the android duplicate aboard the ship. Kirk's suffering reaches levels not seen in these novels since "The Price of the Phoenix". Specially during the chapters where he's kidnapped, which are VERY violent. He also gets a "fatherhood" subplot, where a young boy whose life Kirk saved becomes kind of his adopted son. It's a bit similar to the situation between Spock and Zar in "Yesterday's Son" (up to the boy's empathetic abilities), but I feel that this subplot was a bit wasted, without contributing much to the solution at the end. On the other hand, there's a closer examination of the evil Kirk, who despite his supposed superiority as an android, ends up falling to the very human shortcomings of hubris.

As for background information, around this time the stricter policies imposed on Star Trek novels by Richard Arnold (Roddenberry's archivist) started to become more obvious. Often vetoing books for the slightest "errors". In the case of the present novel, the problem was that Chekov appears in a story set shortly after the original episode, while the character wasn't seen until season two. So Arnold asked Friedman to completely rewrite the novel to eliminate Chekov. The author, as any sane person would do... simply changed the stardate. There's also a minor continuity error, when the USS Hood becomes the USS Dunkirk halfway through the story.

Spoilers under the cut:

The story opens with the aftermath of "What Are Little Girls...". A copy of the android Brown returns to Korby's laboratory, finding everyone dead. Using the cloning machine, Brown can recover a copy of Kirk, still stored in the memory. The new Kirk soon proves to be a charismatic and ambitious leader, and takes charge of the mission to fulfill Korby's vision for a perfect world populated by androids. Though, as seen later, Brown starts having misgivings about this Kirk's actual goals.

Meanwhile, in the planet T'nufo, Kirk heroically saves a young man (K'leb) while meteors rain from the sky and pterodactyls fly around them (it's very epic, I know). K'leb's culture requires him to follow and serve his savior for an entire year, or save his life in turn, in order to pay his debt. So Kirk, very begrudgingly, has to adopt K'leb as a son, and allow him to stay in the ship for the time being.

The androids get their plan into motion, by luring and killing the captain of the starship Hood, replacing him with an android copy. Then, the fake captain "rescues" Brown and Kirk (disguised as a scientist) and brings them to Midos V, where Brown sets shop with the cloning machine, and starts replacing captured colonists with androids. Evil Kirk, for his part, is left in the planet Tranquility Seven, where he knows the Enterprise is scheduled for shore leave, and sets a trap for Kirk's arrival. After taking a loan from the local mob boss, the android starts squandering the money and bragging in public, attracting the attention of the boss' thugs.

The Enterprise crew take their shore leave at Tranquility Seven, and everyone's really eager to visit this place (and I'm not sure why exactly, since the place seems rather sordid and dangerous, and there's the mafia and killing plants... Perfect place to get into trouble, if you ask me). Sure enough, Kirk, Scotty and McCoy soon get into trouble in a bar, where the mob guys approach the Captain, mistaking him for the guy that duped them and ran away with their money. A barroom brawl erupts, and the three men are beaten badly. When Kirk awakes, he's a prisoner of the Rythrian (the mob boss) and more beating ensues. It's pretty painful to read. Unable to fulfill his side of the deal (that he doesn't even know about), Kirk is brought to a swamp, where the boss' right-hand man pretends to drown him. Kirk, however, manages to beat his captor at the last minute and escapes.

After much wandering (and being bitten by a killing plant on top of it), Kirk is rescued by the spaceport master. The Enterprise (now commanded by the fake Kirk) has left orbit in the meantime, not suspecting that they're leaving the real Captain behind. So Kirk contacts another Federation ship to pick him up. Unfortunately, the ship that comes to his rescue is the Hood, also controlled by androids. But Kirk manages to discover the truth and retake the ship, with help from the Hood's doctor.

In the Enterprise, evil Kirk is arousing suspicions already. First K'leb, whose race has the ability to sense others' emotions, notices the void inside this Kirk, and shares his worries with McCoy. Beside this, the Kirk android realizes that, despite being a perfect copy of the original, he's still lacking a certain "something" when it comes to command. Frustrated and blinded by pride, the android enters a battle against Romulans that had captured a Federation freighter. And after some misguided strategies, the Enterprise is crippled and left defenseless. But the real Kirk, now commanding the Hood, arrives just in time and shows how things are done, by resolving the conflict in a more peaceful way.

Nonetheless, Kirk still needs to recover his ship and beat the imposter. Apart from this, Spock, Chekov, Sulu and Chapel had been left in Midos V (under the pretext of helping the colonists), and they must be rescued before it's too late and Brown replaces them with androids...

Spirk Meter: 2/10*. Kirk is separated from both Spock and McCoy for most of the story. But in the beginning, Kirk is very insistent on Spock accompanying them for shore leave (why Kirk thinks that Spock would enjoy a place like Tranquility Seven is anyone's guess). The evil Kirk also admits that Spock is the person who knows the Captain best, and his undoing comes in great part for failing to trust his First Officer.

Kirk and McCoy also have their moments. While watching a street show during shore leave, McCoy suddenly remembers a poem, and then looks sideways at Kirk; seeing the smile on his face, McCoy starts feeling better, and asks him to go to a less crowded place. After Kirk is captured by the Rythrian, he agonizes over the fate of his companions after the fight. And he's specially disturbed by the image of an unconscious McCoy being thrown in the air, which often repeats in his mind.

*A 10 in this scale is the most obvious spirk moments in TOS. Think of the back massage, "You make me believe in miracles", or "Amok Time" for example.

[stabbyfoxandrew]

I HELLO IM NOT MISSING THIS WEEK. Can I get some more of my demon boy?

WIP Wednesday (3/5) | Demon Neil AU (Part 24)

For the better part of an hour Andrew has been gritting his teeth and resisting the urge to slam his client in the back of the head with his fist. But he's not sure how much longer he's going to be able to do so. You see, this bastard will not keep still and Neil's snickering every time the idiot flinches is starting to drive Andrew insane. He likes to think himself a professional, but it is getting ridiculous.

"What's wrong with this guy?" Neil asks the sixth time Andrew almost gets himself horse kicked in the stomach. He dodges and takes a breath. "I mean... He was aware this process involved a needle, right?"

"I assumed so since we did the lines last week," Andrew says as he wipes down the leg he's working on. "Apparently not."

"What?" asks the guy on the table, turning to look at Andrew.

"If you kick me again, we're done. You can walk around with this half finished for all I care."

"What? You can't just—"

"I can do whatever I want," Andrew says, jamming a finger at him. "Put your headphones back on and stay still."

"Great bedside manner."

"Fuck you." Andrew whispers. His little outburst pays off though. The guy lies still as a corpse for the next thirty minutes and Andrew quietly applauds himself for not knocking him out. In fact, he thinks he deserves a cookie for his restraint. Neil laughs at that and makes fun of the tattoo in the same breath.

"I drew it, you know." Andrew tells him on an exhale, almost offended. Neil had liked his work earlier. What's wrong with this?

"No, no. I like your art. But why is it on the back of his leg?"

"People do weird shit."

"A bird on the leg's worth two in the bush?" Neil jokes and Andrew turns his head to hide a stupid laugh in his shoulder. "I mean he's not even going to be able to see it without a mirror. So what's the point?"

There are far weirder places to put a tattoo, Andrew thinks. For instance, the woman who got a Hello Kitty on her ass cheek a couple weeks ago— Andrew did not handle that job. That was Allison. Besides, Andrew himself has tattoos he can't really see, so...

"What tattoos?"

"I have one on my back, for instance. And there's one that lives under my sock—"

"Are you talking to yourself, Andy?" asks Seth's voice as he comes back in from his car. Andrew bites the inside of his jaw and Neil bitches about that.

"Shut up, Bryan." Andrew says, flipping him off with his free hand. Seth blows him a kiss and Andrew hopes that he and Reynolds make up before the day's over. They're both less unbearable when they're fucking. As soon as Seth turns around, Andrew sighs. "You're making me look fucking schizophrenic here, Neil."

"Hello, I'm in your head. You don't have to answer me out loud, Andy."

"Do not." Andrew thinks violently. Seth's bullshit aside, he will not tolerate the nickname coming from inside his own skull.

"Okay. Fine. How long does all this take?"

Andrew very nearly opens his mouth to answer, then catches himself. "Depends on the tattoo."

"This one specifically. I'm bored."

"Another hour or so, I think." Andrew thinks back as he surveys the phoenix he's put on the back of Cory's— that's Mr. Kicks-a-Lot's actual name— leg. "If the fucker stays still and I don't choke him to death first."

"Well, either way we'll be done with him soon." 

Luckily for all parties involved, the rest of the phoenix goes off without a hitch. When Andrew is through he sets the machine aside and grabs a fresh tissue to wipe it all down. It's perfect. Neil hums his agreement and Cory finally risks looking at Andrew again, pulling his headphones off.

"Is it done?"

"Is it done." Andrew confirms with a nod of his head. Once Andrew is finished wiping it down, he lets Cory off the table and he wanders off to the mirror the check it out. Renee takes photos of it for the shop's social media accounts and after a few post-tattoo pleasantries— it is usually quite easy to be nice to someone when they aren't trying to kick your ribs in, Andrew finds— Cory leaves the shop all plastic-wrapped and satisfied.

"One down, one to go." Renee says with a smile. Andrew nods. His other appointment is a consultation, but they might go ahead and get started if the client's got the time.

He has nothing else to do today, after all. Except for finding a ride home that is not purgatory for Neil. He supposes he could call Kevin; he's pretty used to hauling Andrew around. He's been begging for the opportunity to buy Andrew a 'decent' car for years, the bastard. He's almost decided on it when Neil starts vibrating.

"Never mind, we'll walk."

"Andrew, I'll behave. I'm not allowed to control the body anyway so it's not like I would embarrass you."

"My body. Mine." Andrew reminds him. "We'll see."

[ledetlore]

Explaining

Okay so this is very fair (all of the people not native to the UK I am so sorry) so let me explain!

So, first thing you need to know is that Brighton is the gayest city in the UK - it's a coastal city with more gay clubs and cafes than sense. I love going to visit, and it's the exact place Kremy would go - so much culture and vibes.

Hertfordshire is where I am from (doxxing myself I know) and we tend to say we're north of London because rightfully, the UK mocks Hertfordshire. But then, the UK mocks everywhere, so we aren't even special there. This is the most boring place on earth but we are in the green belt, meaning we have a lot of farmland and greenery around the towns.

So this is a mix of Received Pronunciation and more Casual Pronunciation - which I will explain now.

RP is also known as 'Queen's English' (fuck the monarchy, I am not talking about the fuckin' king rn) - it's posh. It's the English used in Bridgerton and in Pride and Prejudice - the high class accent, if you will. Very proper. You might code switch to RP in an important meeting or when presenting something; it's seen as high class and intelligent. Don't let me get into the classism please I am slightly tipsy. Hertfordshire people (again, basing this on the shrinking middle class) tend to use RP in almost a more casual way - using slang and dropping occasional letters, but mostly staying on course with the register.

So Kremy speaks like this to appear more intelligent and more personable.

Now, on to Sheffield - home of the Arctic Monkeys, who I suggest having a listen to for the accent. Northern Accents are a point of contention - a lot of southerners tend to both mock and sexualise them in equal measure.

Charity Shops are like thrift shops but all donations go to the charity - it's second hand stuff pretty much.

Unikorn is a punk/goth shop in the UK. Yes I go. No I can't afford anything.

WHSmith is a bookshop, and so is Waterstones, but Waterstones is a bit more high-end, and is liked a lot more too. Mmmm Waterstones cafe.

Some other bits that may help:

Thatcher - worst woman on earth. Grave is a public bathroom because she fucking sucks. I hate her. Like Reagan but in the UK and also a woman. #feminism

Gammy - just means fucked up really. Bad knee and stuff.

Cambridge is harder to get into than Oxford but Oxford has the more famous Alumni.

Societies - like clubs in Uni but like. Worse.

Bedford - where I attend Uni. Oh my perfect little shithole. <3

Tesco Meal Deal - oh brother, it used to be so good, but it just got upped to £3.60 (with a clubcard) and I can FEEL the recession hitting. Sandwich Drink Snack.

Man United and Man City - the two big football teams from Manchester. They HATE each other violently. God never ask a Man City supporter about Man United because you will be EVISCERATED. Or do it for a laugh why not.

Football/Footie - the nation's beloved. Everyone loves it, you can't escape it. If you don't get it, like me, you're an outsider. It's okay - cheer when the crowd does and the chants come pretty naturally, no one will ever know. I swap the team I support and keep it fucking quiet. Best way is to wait for World Cup and just shout 'COME ON ENGERLAAAAAND'. It has worked well for me :3

Pink velvet tracksuit - normally the sign of a spoiled kid, but Gricko buys these things without her asking because she hates shopping.

Pound coins for the sweet machine - its a machine where you can get shitty tubs of shitty sweets for a pound. Very delicious. Not worth a pound.

J2O - just a fruit drink in a glass bottle. Yummie <3

Jeremy Kyle - Like Dr Phil but he doesn't fix them, he makes the issues worse and puts them on TV. Morally awful but it's the thing you get sucked into watching - just trashy trashy TV. Only picks on working class people because he fucking sucks.