#*w: crying lightning

[forhyune]

you are actually EVERYTHING TO ME SAHAR :( every day i feel so thankful for this fic but the biggest reason for that is because it brought you so much closer to me. every compliment you give me should be directed towards yourself just the same because you have no idea how much you and your words not only inspire but shape me, not only as a writer but as a human being. i love you so much more. brb gonna reread ur essay again

𝐜𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠・h.h.

— you're uninviting, there's no doubt about that, your resolve like unpolished diamond and tongue like broken glass. but hyunjin finds you're not half as impossible as everyone assumes you are.

words・11.1k

pairing・idol!hyunjin x female stylist!reader (inspired by this)

genres・fluff, angst, eventual smut so MDNI, some hurt/comfort, some humor, mc is a bad bitch and hyunjin is a #simp, enemies? to lovers, sexual tension, workplace relationship, mutual pining, slow burn, nonlinear narrative, alternating perspectives

warnings・cunnilingus, overstimulation, creampie (practice safe sex!!), mild dacryphilia. again, MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS THAT INTERACT WITH THIS POST WILL BE BLOCKED.

warnings (cont'd.)・reader vividly remembers an anxiety attack. alcohol is consumed. lots of compartmentalization and imperfect communication. latter half is just kind of sad in general tbh but what do u expect from a fic based off alex turner lyrics

playlist・farewell, neverland by txt・like crazy by jimin・black friday by tom odell・collide by justine skye・crying lightning by arctic monkeys

a/n・call me victor frankenstein bc i've given birth to a MONSTER (except i actually love and care for mine ofc). this was easily the greatest challenge of my fanfiction-writing career and it feels like my magnum opus; i hope it's worth the wait! also a huge shoutout to sahar for being my voice of reason and my biggest supporter :’) i don’t deserve u i love u

Present day. Cannes, France. 5:54 P.M.

You’ve long made peace with the fact that Hwang Hyunjin is incapable of shutting up for more than five minutes.

As it is, the man has a mouth that runs like a cross-country marathon; then throw in his uncanny aptitude for annoying you, and what do you get? A nonstop slew of terrible jokes and teasing quips, tailored according to his thorough mental manual of what gets under your skin hardest and fastest.

This is the reality you live in, presumably because you were evil in your past life, and you’ve steeled yourself to see it through.

But twenty minutes have passed since you and Hyunjin ducked into the back of a cab and gave the driver the show’s address—and, as stunning as the red rooftops and lazuline coastline of Cannes are, you find you’re more interested in Hyunjin’s peculiar silence.

You move your gaze to his face. He’s looking outside, his chin resting upon the palm of his hand, the afternoon sunlight dusting over his chiseled features like polish on pottery; his complexion an exuberant gold against the cream-colored linen that makes up his clothing.

Maybe it’s because you opted for a simpler makeup look today, leaving the most telling contours of his face warm and bare, or maybe it’s because you’ve spent the last year committing his every mannerism and expression to memory. Nevertheless, you see through his pursed lips and tight brow right away.

“Nervous?” 

Hyunjin’s head swivels towards you with a small snap, like he’s forgotten you’re here. His lips fall open, their glossy peach color glinting with the small shift.

“No,” he replies reflexively, but then his facade flickers. “Fuck, maybe a little. It’s just hard to believe, you know?”

You do know. It was a huge honor for both of you when Hyunjin was named the newest global ambassador of Versace. For you to be attending the brand’s pop-up show in one of the most beautiful cities in Europe, among some of the world’s most prolific creatives, is truly incomprehensible. Even you’ve been feeling antsy since you landed; you can only imagine Hyunjin’s anxiety.

You have never been good at consolation. You think your mouth is too coarse, your propensity for honesty too strong. But you’ve always known just what to say when it comes to him.

“Just remember who you are.”

Hyunjin takes a few seconds to process your words, but his understanding washes over his whole body; straightens his back; hardens his gaze. You don’t see this change in posture, though. You’re too busy looking anywhere else, all of a sudden feeling quite embarrassed.

Nor do you see the private smile that disperses across Hyunjin’s lips; his eyes softening so, so marginally when they peer at your profile; his hand twitching where it rests on his knee, as if contemplating reaching for you with a mind of its own.

Thirty seconds. That is the amount of time you have left to bask in this otherworldly tranquility. And then he speaks.

“I want you to meet my parents.”

Your arm reacts before your mind can. Without having to turn your head an inch, you smack him squarely in the bicep, sending him crumpling against his door with a bark of a laugh; “please,” he adds, and you’re biting back a smile as you hit him again, with less conviction this time.

The cab driver nearly misses an exit, too busy wondering about the peculiar pair in his backseat and the nature of your relationship. He can’t tell if you hate each other or if you’re married.

One year ago. Seoul, South Korea. 8:42 A.M.

“I still can’t believe you’re abandoning me.”

“For my newborn daughter.”

“Yeah, okay. I still can’t believe you’re abandoning me for your newborn daughter. What does that brat have that I don’t?”

“My genes, to begin with.”

“That’s unfair. She’s using—”

An important-looking pair of women step out of the nearest elevators, the clacking of their heels ricocheting sharply off the lobby walls. Hyunjin straightens his back so quickly he thinks he pulls a muscle. He and Seojun incline their heads in perfect sync, their “good morning”s prim and professional.

“She’s using cheats,” Hyunjin hisses the second the women are out of earshot again, and this wrests a laugh from the older man at last.

Around one month prior, Seojun confided in Hyunjin that he and his partner were expecting their first child soon, and that he would be putting his career on indefinite hiatus to welcome her into the world.

Hyunjin had never felt so conflicted in his life. On one hand, he’d grown closer to his stylist over the last two years than he’d thought possible, and he knew it was stupid to be anything but delighted for him and his expanding family. On the other hand, it was precisely because they’d become so close that he wanted to grab the man by the ankles and shake the decision clean out of his body. He couldn’t imagine a dressing room or tour bus without him.

Today is a Saturday, but it’s also Seojun’s last day with the company. Hyunjin dragged himself to the JYP building at half past eight with much less reluctance than he let on. He wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

“Fourth floor,” Seojun instructs after the pair enter the elevator, and Hyunjin presses a knuckle to the according number. “Thanks.”

The doors slide shut; the floor numbers tick upwards.

“What was her name again?” Hyunjin asks.

“Y/N,” Seojun returns. “Y/L/N.”

“Is she here already?”

“No, she’ll be here at nine.”

There’s a small pause. 

“Hyung.”

“Hm?”

“I feel like I’m being married off to another family for political reasons.”

“God, I can’t wait to be free of your theatrics.”

At this, the two men make eye contact; exchange smiles. The elevator announces their arrival to the fourth floor, and they step through the doors.

“You’ll be in good hands,” Seojun reassures. “She’s the best of the best. I hear she’s basically running the industry these days. I’m surprised she agreed to take you on.”

“I’m surprised an old fry like you knows someone like her,” Hyunjin replies, and the look Seojun gives him is so withering that he thinks he pulls a muscle again with his apologetic bow.

“You’re not wrong, though,” Seojun concedes. “We happened to work on the same project back when she was still a small name, and we’ve kept in touch ever since. She’s a great kid. Ambitious, hardworking, strong as hell—”

They arrive outside their destination, and Hyunjin holds open the door to the conference room. Only to find that Seojun has stopped in his footsteps, temporarily stunned by a new realization.

She reminds me of him.

“He’s forgotten how to walk,” the him in question whispers like he’s narrating a nature documentary, and the moment is over. “Is this what fatherhood does to a man?”

Seojun kicks Hyunjin into the room by the seat of his pants.

The minutes pass slowly. Seojun moves his eyes between the door and his phone every few seconds, visibly antsy about the imminent meeting. In the meantime, Hyunjin makes the groundbreaking discovery that these office chairs are absurdly and almost suspiciously comfortable. All it takes is a chin upon his palm and a few seconds of shut-eye, and he’s suddenly slumped over the table, snoring softly into the crook of his elbow.

At 8:57, Seojun’s phone lights up with a new notification. At 8:58, he notices that Hyunjin is asleep, and closes his hand around the crumpled receipt in his pocket. At 8:59, he scrunches said receipt into a ball and launches it in Hyunjin’s direction. It hits him squarely on the head, and the boy is nearly knocked to the floor like a bowling pin.

“For that,” Hyunjin sputters, “I’m the godfather.”

“Absolutely the hell not.”

Then, it is 9:00.

When the door of the conference room opens, Hyunjin is still trying to gather his wits, wondering if the bastard is leaving the makeup industry to secretly pursue a career in professional basketball. He just barely notices the unfamiliar figure who steps into his line of vision.

“There she is,” Seojun greets warmly, rising to his feet right away. “God, how long has it been? Two, three years now?”

You’re not doing anything remarkable when Hyunjin sees you for the first time, simply walking across the room and bowing graciously in Seojun’s direction, but he is immediately under the vague impression that you’re cutting through space as you move, scorching the particles of air that dare obstruct your path. 

With his head cocked slightly to the left, like a fascinated puppy, Hyunjin watches the stunning smile that forms on your lips when you take Seojun’s hand; your finger as it tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear with the elegance of rippling silk. His mind feels impossibly slow, like you’ve tapped open his skull and robbed him of his ability to think.

Then, you toss Hyunjin a look over your shoulder, and he’s reminded of lightning forking towards the earth. Terrifying, volatile, beautiful.

“Something like that,” you say, turning back to Seojun, and time starts to move again. “It’s great to see you again, Mr. Lee. Congratulations on the baby.”

“Please, Seojun is fine,” he answers hastily. “And thank you. Thank you for all of this, actually. I can’t tell you how excited we are to have you.” 

“You’re too kind—I’m excited too.”

Upon uttering the word “we,” Seojun delivers Hyunjin a fleeting side-eye; he takes the hint and pushes himself to his feet, feeling uncharacteristically clumsy as he moves towards you.

The second time he meets your gaze, it feels wrong, almost, for him to hold it for as long as he does. Like he’s approaching your throne with his chin held high and eyes fixed forward instead of his head sweeping the ground.

Except he swears he senses a strange warmth within the rings of your irises, and he spends every second of eye contact following, chasing it, almost craning his neck with how badly he wants to get a closer look. Until he’s as close to you as is socially acceptable for a first meeting and comes to a halt.

He ends up losing its trail, but he won’t forget that it’s there. 

“My client, I’m guessing?” You say, extending your hand. “Y/N. It’s a pleasure.”

Your fingers are freezing cold where they meet his, and Hyunjin already knows that melting the permafrost that coats your flesh and guards your soul will be the tallest task of his life.

But he finds his next words accompanied by an involuntary smirk; he’s nothing, if not tenacious.

“Hyunjin,” he returns. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

Nine months ago. Paris, France. 6:16 P.M.

Hyunjin isn’t sure why—maybe you forget that he can still steal glances at your reflection over your shoulder or through the gaps of your fingers—but he’s learned over the last four weeks that you’re different, gentler, when you’re doing his makeup.

Your cold hands request instead of demand that he angle his head a certain way or suck in his cheeks. Your syllables are rounder somehow, your voice never traveling above a murmur. Even your eyes mellow out when you move in really close, your pupils dilating as you detail the final touches to the fresco you’ve painted upon him.

Your expression doesn’t give you away (it never does), but his hunch is that there’s a sprinkle of doting somewhere among the intense focus. That would explain why he feels like a flower in the moments when your fingertips and gaze move so carefully over his skin, like you’re touching his petals, trying not to tear them.

Too bad you never let him daydream for long.

“Close.”

“Huh?”

“Your eyes. Close them.”

His lashes have hardly brushed his lower lids when you begin to empty what feels like an entire bottle of setting spray on him. At the moist surprise, Hyunjin’s features scrunch up around his nose and he lets out a distraught hack like an old man.

A few seconds later, the barrage stops, and he cracks open a wary eye to scope out his surroundings. You wait until he does this to give his face one last spurt.

“Witch,” Hyunjin mutters, clawing back up the vanity chair.

“Thank you,” you reply, completely earnestly.

And whatever Hyunjin was going to say next suspends instantly on his tongue when you bring the pad of your thumb to the very edge of his lower lip and drag it across the soft flesh. He wonders if you know how hard he tries not to look at your mouth whenever you tend to his. He wonders if there’s anything you don’t know.

“You smudged your lipstick already.” There’s a small streak of coral pink on your hand when it falls back to your side. “See? That’s why we need the setting spray.”

“Uh huh.” And Hyunjin spots a ghost of a smile flit across your face, gone nearly as soon as it appears. The only evidence of it ever existing is the quickened heartbeat it leaves behind within him.

“You’re done, by the way,” you say, stepping aside. “Take a look.”

He slips out of his seat and moves closer to the vanity, peering at his reflection as curiously as if he’s never seen it before. But that’s how he’s felt since he started working with you.

Seojun was right: you are the best that the makeup industry has to offer. Hyunjin has come to understand this for multiple reasons. Your phone screen is incessantly illuminated by new notifications and incoming calls. The other stylists heed your advice like it’s the law. Brushes and pencils move like water when it’s you maneuvering them. And then some.

He would call what you have “talent,” but he knows it’s more than that. You show him a new version of himself every time you turn a mirror in his direction, like there are facets of him that are visible to you and you only. As much as he delights in the notion that you have such intimate knowledge of him, it should be impossible, considering you’ve only known him for two months. So no, it’s not just talent that you possess. It’s some combination of talent, hawkish perception, and raw artistry that is utterly inhuman—and sexy as fuck.

Speaking of sexy. Hyunjin’s look is relatively rudimentary tonight, the makeup light, the outfit a simple black tank top beneath a jacket and pants made of bright red velvet. But it’s the details that tie the whole thing together: the wide, loose sleeves causing the jacket to slip continually off his shoulders; the inner layer tight in all the right places. His face doesn’t look half bad either, with the sultry carmine powder that fringes his eyes and the intentionally mussed state of his hair. He pushes a hand through the dark locks, regarding himself with thorough appreciation.

You appear in his periphery as you start cleaning up your work station. “You can just take the jacket off when your sweat glands start malfunctioning, by the way. I thought you’d appreciate that detail.”

At this, his smize cracks into a laugh, the sound loud and uninhibited and uniquely yours to hear. “You suck.”

He looks away from his reflection just in time to glimpse another of your phantom smiles, and he thinks it’s so painfully on brand that the two times it’s appeared tonight have both been from you making yourself laugh. You might be the most insufferable person he’s ever met. He might be obsessed with you anyways.

“Well?” You implore. “What do you think?”

“No notes.” 

It’s the answer you’re expecting. You survey him from head to toe one last time, decide that you, too, are satisfied, and slip your makeup into your bag; hike its strap over your shoulder.

“I’ll see you after the show, then.”

You have an important conference call to attend before tonight’s concert, hence why Hyunjin had to come in early for hair and makeup. This is also the reason why the two of you have been the only people in the dressing room for the better part of an hour. 

It’s rare that he ever gets you alone, and he doesn’t want it to end. Not just yet.

“I lied, actually,” he calls. “I do have notes.”

You already have one foot out the door when you hear this, and you turn around so slowly and in such disbelief that he has to fight to constrain his laugh—the concept of imperfection is truly unthinkable to you. Insufferable, like he said.

“Do tell,” you say, dropping your bag back onto the floor.

“You have any jewelry for me?”

You chew on this for a moment. You did have a selection of necklaces prepared for tonight, but they were heavy and numerous, not exactly the best-suited for the group’s dynamic sets. You still like them, granted, and you know Hyunjin would as well.

You articulate all of this to him, and he asks if he can take a look at them anyways. “Come here, then,” you say, the words so tantalizing when they fall from your lips that nearly trips over himself trying to obey.

You take out a flat rectangular box from your bag and set it down in front of the lightbulb-studded mirrors. Hyunjin observes quietly as you show him its contents: three thick, gold chains with varying lengths and boasting different pendants, plus a beaded bracelet and an assembly of rings of the same material. His devious plan aside, he does love the selection.

“You’re sure you won’t be uncomfortable?”

He nods, and you pick up the longest of the three chains; turn to him expectedly. He takes this as his cue to move closer to you, except he overshoots a little, and he feels the tips of his shoes accidentally bump into the ends of yours; discerns the warmth emanating from your body against his own. He expects a withering glare, a kick in the shin, maybe, but you don’t seem bothered by the proximity at all, unblinking as you bring your hands around the either side of his neck and fasten the first necklace with a soft tap. Your fingers then brush over his collarbones to adjust the pendant, and he thinks your hands would have to be numb not to perceive the frantic heartbeat threatening to burst straight out of his skin.

Entire minutes pass before Hyunjin musters the courage to actually look at you. By then, you’re already working on the third and final necklace. It’s not a surprise that your face is mere inches away from his; he’s been watching your reflections out of the corner of his eye; he knows you’re closer to each other than you’ve ever been. But there are parts of you that the mirror doesn’t show—the soft curve of your lashes, the concentrated narrow of your eyes, the shapely protrusion of your pursed lips—and these surprise him so thoroughly that he slips and slides out of his right mind.

You are the type of beautiful that’s been around longer than humans have, the same as that of the true blue color of forget-me-nots. And Hyunjin feels enveloped, intoxicated by you from this minuscule distance. The idea forms numbly in his head that maybe, just maybe, he was put on this earth to admire you.

In this inebriated state, he makes a venturesome decision.

When you finish centering the last pendant upon the his chest, you are about to take a step back and review the updated look, but you’re debilitated by the feeling of fingers grazing over your hip—lightly, so lightly that you mistake them for a gust of wind at first, but the contact is enough to push the small of your back against the edge of the counter. Then, both of Hyunjin’s hands reach behind you, pressing flat against the marble surface, and, just like that, he has you right where he wants you, ensnared between cold stone and hot flesh.

And so begins an equilibrium so fragile that it’ll shatter if one of you so much as blinks the wrong way, your rattled breath fluttering against his lips, his eyes dark and hooded and out of focus as they survey the fine lines of your expression. It still doesn’t give you away (it never does), but he finds that in this moment he just doesn’t care.

“Let me take you out,” he murmurs. “One date.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” You reply under your breath.

“You know what I’m talking about, beautiful.”

Upon uttering that last word, he angles his head almost imperceptibly, the movement challenging, daring you to say something about it. But you don’t. You merely hiss out a whetted “you’re fucking crazy,” and that’s his opening to drag this on a little longer; push your limits a little more.

“About you? Damn straight.”

At this, finally, fucking finally, there is a semblance of something in your face that isn’t just your usual mildly-irritated nonchalance. Instead, he detects surprise in the whites of your eyes as you widen them; as you part your lips with a response that only comes much later.

And he’s surprised by your surprise. Surely, with your skills of observation, you would’ve noticed long ago how his world shrinks down to only you and your gorgeous voice and your confident glare and your shitty sense of humor whenever he’s been granted the privilege of your presence.

This might be the first time he’s admitted it out loud, but he hasn’t tried—hasn’t been able—to hide how he feels about you, not now, not ever. It’s been that way since the moment the sole of your shoe met the carpet of that conference room on the fourth floor of the JYP building.

 “Hwang—” You begin.

“Hyung!”

At the sound of a third, new voice, your arms tense like you’re about to shove Hyunjin off of you, but he only leans in further, so that his lips almost graze your jaw and your hands have nowhere to go except the taut surface of his chest. The surprise is gone; now you’re just pissed. He can feel the heat of your furious eyes and the tremor in your hands as you form fists around the fabric of his top. But he takes his sweet time in scooping up the bracelet and rings, and only afterwards does he pull away from you and straighten to his full height.

“Hey, Innie!” Hyunjin chirps, and Jeongin materializes in the doorway, looking thoroughly perturbed by the older boy’s sunny tone. “What’s up?” 

In the meantime, you turn around to snap the lid of your jewelry box shut, and it takes a singular glance in the mirror for a truly horrible realization to settle upon your shoulders. You don’t think anybody would be able to tell even if you announced it outright, but you know yourself and the little nuances of your face all too well.

You’re flustered.

You feel like a horror movie heroine breaking the fourth wall. 

“Nothing, weirdo. I was just announcing my arrival,” Jeongin says. Thank fuck you did, Hyunjin thinks to himself, completely unaware of the epiphany you’re having behind him. “Chan-hyung mentioned you were here already? Why?”

“She’s in high demand.” Hyunjin points out the she in question by jutting his chin in your direction. “The usual.”

“Ah.”

Jeongin inclines his head towards you in polite greeting. You return his hello, but your expression starts to feel tight when his eyes dart between the strange smile on Hyunjin’s face and your awkward stance (still glued to the edge of the counter) as he drops his duffel by the couch. The boy isn’t stupid, unlike his older counterpart.

“I saw a vending machine on my way here,” Jeongin says, turning to leave the room again. “You want anything, hyung? Noona?”

“I’m okay, thank you,” you say.

“I’ll have whatever you have,” Hyunjin says.

Jeongin flashes a thumbs-up and dips out of the room, perhaps a little more hastily than he intends to come across. And then there are two. Again.

You wait until you can’t hear his footsteps anymore, and then you turn to glower at Hyunjin so intensely that he thinks you’re about to place a curse on his whole bloodline.

Then, your phone starts vibrating, and he knows he’ll live to see another day.

“You still owe me an answer,” Hyunjin calls as you turn around and leave the room.

“Don’t hold your breath,” you reply.

One day, I’ll break her, is the predominant thought that resides in Hyunjin’s head as he slips on the remaining jewelry; watches your figure disappear around a corner. One day, I’ll break his face, is the predominant thought that resides in yours as you stalk away. That’s the two of you, in a nutshell.

Six months ago. Osaka, Japan. 3:03 P.M.

When you walk into the dressing room, you find Haeun hunched over an overflowing photo album with her hands forming fists in her hair, muttering to nobody in particular, “I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing.”

There’s an amused look in your eye as you set your bag down by Hyunjin’s empty vanity chair. She hasn’t noticed your presence yet; approximately three hallways down, the members are rehearsing for tonight’s performance on the main stage of the Kyocera Dome, and the music is so loud that you think you actually saw the walls vibrating while you were in the hallway moments ago.

You rise to your tiptoes and encroach upon her, waiting until she’s within reach to tickle the back of her neck. She nearly flies out of her seat with a shriek that can be heard over the heavy bass.

“Never gets old.” You hand her the photo album that went soaring also, and Haeun snatches it back with an affronted flourish.

“I can’t remember the last time you said hi to me normally, unnie.”

“Me neither, now that you mention it.”

Haeun and Han are your favorite stylist-idol duo in the world because they’re so eerily similar—and it’s adorable. They both illuminate every room they walk into; they both have grins too big for their faces, laughs too loud for their lungs. You always regret leaving your sunglasses at home when you catch sight of the effulgent pair.

But today you cannot detect the usual radiance in Haeun’s voice, nor so much as a hint of her easy grin. Then again, that’s another quality that she and her client share; they’re both well acquainted with the burdens that come with unwavering passion.

Every stylist has their own modus operandi. Haeun’s is a scrapbook of images that she cuts out and saves from catalogs, advertisements, newspapers, et cetera. You’ve seen it many times before, but never in such a state: messy handwriting stuffing the margins to their very brims, numbers and symbols like clusters of rainclouds over a sea of different outfits, arrows and circles and squares highlighting pant cuffs and cascade collars and dangling earrings. Telltale signs that Haeun hasn’t a clue as to what Han will be wearing tonight.

You gnaw on your lower lip, deliberating your next move. You end up placing a firm hand against the album’s cover and pushing it closed.

“Come with me,” you say. “We’re gonna try a new approach.”

Haeun opens her mouth to protest, but unfortunately you have an extensive track record of being right.

“What do you have in mind?” She sighs instead.

“You’ll see.”

With that, you stand up, tuck a small towel under your arm, and angle your head in the direction of the music.

The two of you make your way through the labyrinth of hallways that comprise the venue’s backstage. Eventually, the color of the floor changes from speckled white to solid black, and you step onto the part of the stage that is concealed from the audience by drawn curtains and heavy equipment. You say a quick hello to the group’s manager as you dip past him, and eventually reach the edge of the curtains, where you and Haeun have a good view of the eight members as they run through their setlist for tonight’s concert.

Haeun settles into the spot beside you, still confused as she follows your gaze. 

“Let me ask you this,” you say, just audible over the din. “Can you style a performer if you don’t know how he performs?”

And understanding seeps over her features like poured tea.

“I want you to watch him,” you continue. “Tell me how he performs.”

Han’s part begins, as if on cue. His voice rings out through the empty stadium as he ducks to the front of the formation, a microphone held loosely to his lips, his face taut with focus. Haeun stares at him for some time, silently trying to fathom her observations, but she sees you shaking your head in the corner of her eye.

“Don’t think, Haeun. Just speak.”

She blows out a deep breath before obliging. “It’s hard to picture Han doing anything but laughing or making other people laugh, he’s so goofy and lighthearted most of the time. But he’s like a different person on stage. He’s so intense, it’s almost intimidating. Not intimidating in a douchey way, though—you just get the impression that he’s very confident in himself and his music.

You don’t say another word, but don’t need to. She’s hit her stride.

“His voice and enunciation are so clear. It’s crazy how he sounds exactly like the studio recording. Plus, his delivery feels genuine; he’s not just reciting lyrics, but speaking straight from his heart.

“And this is gonna sound bad, but I didn’t know Han could dance. Like, yeah, I knew that he could dance, but not like this. His movements are so sharp that I feel like my attention is being—”

Right there.

She cuts herself off, reaching the same conclusion.

“It’s his turn to talk, and he wants you to cling to his every word," Haeun articulates slowly. "He’s demanding your attention. He needs you to listen. That’s how he performs.”

A satisfied smile bolts across your face like lightning. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

Haeun pictures her scrapbook again, and there are now only a few articles of clothing and accessories that fit the framework you’ve helped her forge. She’s almost dizzy with disbelief, tearing her eyes from Han to look at you instead.

“You’re brilliant, you know that?”

“I do, but I appreciate the reminder.”

She can’t help but giggle. It’s a you answer if she’s ever heard one. “Do you do that with all of your clients?”

Haeun asks the question arbitrarily, without thinking. But you respond in a way that she doesn’t think she’s ever witnessed before, and she’s momentarily baffled by the sight: you hesitate.

As the song’s final chorus approaches, Hyunjin is the one folding himself into the center of the eight-person throng. You can only see his back from this angle, but even then it’s palpable how expertly and effortlessly he molds his body to the modulations of the music; how much fervor and feeling he expresses with every jerk of his spine and flex of his hands.

Within a few short seconds, innumerable descriptors and sensations skim the surface of your mind—but one word knocks the rest clean out of the water, the way it always does when you watch Hwang Hyunjin perform.

Artistry.

“No,” you reply. “Not all of them.”

And where better to find inspiration than inspiration himself?

Haeun furrows a brow, understandably puzzled by this response, but you don’t elaborate. Partially because you feel like being coy, but mostly because you know that any explanation you offer will sound like a confession.

The song ends, leaving your ears ringing with the abrupt absence of sound. The members hold their poses with heaving shoulders, staring out into the empty stands until the stage manager’s voice comes through the monitors.

“And that’s a wrap! We’re all set for tonight. Good work, everyone.”

There is a ripple of movement around the stage as the boys relax. Jeongin jogs over to Minho, hoping to review a particularly challenging dance break; the manager asks Chan if he has a second to discuss travel logistics; Seungmin plops onto the edge of the stage and downs the rest of his water; Hyunjin beelines toward you the second he sees you, because of course he does.

You get a good look at him as he skips closer. Stray blonde locks plastered against his damp skin, tank top dyed several shades darker by the perspiration rolling down his neck, the muscles of his arms actually rippling as he swings them around stupidly, a shit-eating smile plastered across his stunning face.

You’re annoyed before he says a word.

“I didn’t know they were letting fans backstage now,” he hums happily. “Want an autograph, gorgeous?”

“Put a sock in it.” You whisk the towel you’ve been holding in his direction. “Wet freak.”

But he catches and tosses it over his shoulder straightaway, and your heart sinks to your fucking ankle. You’ve seen this movie before. You know how it ends.

“No.” You take a shaky step back. “No, nope, don’t even think about—”

The next thing you know, Hyunjin is lunging towards you and winding his arms around your waist, nearly sweeping you clean off your feet as he pulls you into his sweaty embrace. To your complete dismay, your face presses flat against the clammy plane of his chest. “Call me a wet freak again, go on,” he manages to say through his laughter. 

In response, one of your hands wriggles free of its slippery prison and snatches the cuff of Hyunjin’s ear with impressive accuracy. He yelps and loosens his hold on you, but doesn’t relent completely, not even when he catches sight of the murderous expression on your face and cackles so forcefully his whole head is thrown back.

You tighten your grip. “Wet,” you seethe, “freak.”

“Ow—okay, don’t make it hot, what’s wrong with you?”

“Wha—what’s wrong with YOU?!”

As the two of you dissolve into your fatuous arguing, Haeun is no longer sure that she’s still standing here. She’s not even sure if she’s in her right mind anymore. She thinks she might be hallucinating the way everything about Hyunjin softens next to you, or the way your biting tone only seems to nibble when it’s him on the receiving end.

“Psst. We’ve been placing bets on them. You want in?”

Han suddenly materializes next to Haeun, and she would have been jumpscared into a different dimension if she wasn’t so fixated upon the bizarre occurrence before her.

But what if she’s not hallucinating?

No, not all of them, you’d said, like you were disclosing a forbidden secret.

“Yes,” she says, and Han beams. “Absolutely.”

Three months ago. Seoul, South Korea. 2:26 A.M.

On a tranquil Saturday night, you’re sitting at your desk, your knees tucked to your chest, the newest episode of your drama playing quietly on your laptop, a half-empty glass of rosé and open sketchbook laid before you. This is your happy place—a safe haven that the trials and tribulations of the real world can’t reach. But you think you’ve really gone and lost your mind when you find yourself thinking about your job.

Well, not your job, exactly. More like the man who makes your job feel fucking Sisyphean.

You know your way around fabric and foundation better than anyone, but you have never struggled with anything as much as you have trying to navigate Hyunjin. You show up to work every day ready to just put some makeup on the man; instead, you wind up stumbling around the potholes of his dimples and the hills of the veins that run over his forearms and hands like a hopeless drunkard. Scouring the creases of his smile and the oscillations of his voice like they’re topographical maps. Mentally replaying your interactions with him time and time again like you’re monitoring security footage, trying to detect illicit activity in every casual touch he leaves on your shoulder or waist; every babe or gorgeous he throws your way, seemingly without a second thought.

You’ve been trying to understand him and his intentions for seven months now, and your efforts have yielded no fruit whatsoever, save for a few theories that you feel insane for even humoring.

You down the rest of the blush-colored liquid, and as you set down your empty glass you notice your fingers itch with a familiar urge. The pen that you’ve been twirling over your knuckles stills, then swivels; its tip hovers over the last free corner of the sheet of cartridge paper below you. And then it presses upon the surface and starts to move, as naturally as if on its own.

When you were little, you came across a children’s book that you no longer remember the name of, about a little girl with a magical pen that brought her every drawing to life. You decided then that you would one day be that girl.

At some point, the subjects of your incessant sketching became almost exclusively runway models and makeup advertisements. You cemented that you wanted to work in fashion as early as your high school graduation, and by then you already possessed the conviction and charisma of the industry’s most experienced members. Your portfolio was stellar; your personality prophesied of wild success. So your career took off, propelled by the neverending positions and projects that various companies continually laid before your feet.

You stand and pad to your kitchen to refill your glass, only to bring the entire bottle of wine back to your room instead. With one hand, you flick the cap off and lift the whole thing to your lips; with the other, you seize your pen again, not wanting to lose momentum.

For the year or so after you joined the industry, you basked in your idyllic prosperity. Even the doodles you scrawled on random napkins during banal business lunches would appear on some of the world’s most renowned faces the next week. You had indubitably become the little girl from your story; made a career out of giving your imagination tangible form. And what a fruitful career it was going to be.

If only you knew how it would strengthen you in ways you never wanted.

The first time someone called you cold, it took you a while to realize that they were talking about you. The phrase was said so casually and lightheartedly that it sounded at first like a piece of unimportant small talk. But the whisper of cold bitch was then followed by a bout of stifled laughter and what was undoubtedly your name. Your heart stopped along with your footsteps, and you looked towards the source: two interns whose names you had yet to learn, while yours was already in their mouths.

You felt nothing until you were three stops away from your apartment, and then the bottom of the subway gave out beneath you and suddenly you were feeling everything. Only confusion, hurt, and rage at first, but then the other emotions that you’d been smothering tirelessly for who-knows-how-long tore free of their cerebral shackles too, and together they formed an amalgamation of anxiety that closed up your throat within seconds. 

As your pen studs details into a shapely jawline, you remember how you’d shoved your way off the subway and made a mad dash into the night air. You remember how you collapsed against a utility pole in an unfamiliar neighborhood, how your knuckles paled around the ashen wood, how your tears tumbled over your lips and salted your tongue. You remember wanting to go home so badly that you thought your ribcage would cave in on itself with the weight of it. You remember begging for air, for you.

By the time the oxygen had returned to your lungs, the streets were empty save for you, crouched on the curb, your face buried in your arms, spent, shattered, and alone. You were only nineteen at the time.

You are now twenty-two, and the word “cold” has become a regular guest in the lodgings of your heart. You never invite it over, but you’re no longer surprised to find it at your door. It’s a thief, swiping pieces of you when it thinks you’re not looking—a fragment above the fireplace, a scrap from the cracks between the couch—and you know whenever you’re being robbed, know that you lose parts of yourself upon its every visit. But better that than acknowledging what you lose.

You allow it to walk away with full pockets every time.

Hyunjin does not.

“Three words to describe yourself. Go,” he said a few days ago, the two of you heading back to the tour bus after a filming session. 

You were so used to these irrational inquiries of his that you didn’t bother trying to dodge this one. “You first.”

“Smart, sexy, suave,” he said immediately, but burst into a sheepish laugh at the sight of your weary glare. “Fine, fine, let me think. Ambitious, for one. Introspective, definitely—maybe overly so. And artistic. I’d like to think so, at least. Satisfied?”

The most creative person you knew doubting his own ingenuity was absurd to you, but you nodded begrudgingly. It was a good answer, for the most part.

“Now you.”

Honestly, the thief had surfaced the moment you heard the question, but you weren’t sure if you wanted to inform Hyunjin of its existence. Not because you didn’t trust him—you did, more than you had anyone in years—but because you didn’t know what you’d do with yourself if he agreed. You weren’t sure your heart would be able to take it.

When you met the boy’s gaze, though, the carob brown of his eyes was so curious and so comforting that you suspected that was never a possibility.

“Cold,” you mumbled. “I’ve been called cold before.”

There was a pregnant pause. You found yourself holding your breath. And then—

“That’s a joke, right?”

Hyunjin began to count off his fingers.

“Mean. So mean. Impossibly, infuriatingly confident. Talented, stubborn, strong. Funny, sometimes, I guess, though I’d rather you hit me with a metal pipe than admit that ever again.”

At this, you caved; a laugh erupted from your lips, leaving a genuine smile in its wake.

“Determined. Eloquent. Bossy. Some kind of evil, twisted genius. Contemplative, caring, compassionate. Fearless,” he went on. “You get my point. You’re a lot of things, Y/N, but cold isn’t one—”

He was about to say something mind-numbingly stupid. You could sense it in the air.

“—and not just because you’re hot.”

You smacked his bicep, the smile on your face now an uninhibited, helpless grin. And as he vanished into a fit of high-pitched laughter, you thought you sensed him crack open your door and slip your missing artifacts back to their rightful places.

Hyunjin began to climb into the bus, and you caught the cuff of his sleeve, your feet still planted on the pavement.

“Thank you,” you said.

The tremors of his fond chuckle traveled to your very core.

“Idiot,” he sighed softly.

Idiot, you write, and the drawings are complete. 

When you stand up, the bottle is mostly gone—and so are you. You splash some water on your face in lieu of your skincare routine and prod the inside of your mouth a few times using a dry toothbrush, and then you dive beneath your duvet and are dead asleep in minutes. Your slumber is interrupted only by dreams of a world where your theories about Hyunjin aren’t just theories.

If you’d had even one mouthful less of rosé, you might’ve remembered that you picked up your phone and opened your most recent conversation somewhere between steps two and three.

[3:10 A.M.] To: Hwang Hyunjin (Stray Kids, JYP) Audio Message.wav

Hi. I’m drunk and I’m going to regret this tomorrow. But that’s tomorrow’s business. There’s something I need to tell you tonight.

After I moved to Seoul, I used to get these bouts of homesickness. Not in a standard ‘I wanna go home’ kind of way, but in a way that felt like a hole had opened up in the ground below me. I was always ready for it to swallow me alive. I would’ve been happy for it to.

But I haven’t felt that way since I met you. I realized this not too long ago, and it threw me for a fucking loop. I’ve never felt seen the way you see me. I’ve never been known the way you know me. Every time I look at you or hear your voice, it feels so much like returning home that I don’t have to dream of it anymore.

You called me fearless the other day, but you’re wrong. I’m terrified. I’m terrified that history is going to repeat itself, that another home will slip through the cracks between my fingers and there will be nothing I can do to stop it. And that’s why I’m so hesitant towards you, towards whatever this is, because I don’t want to go through that ever again.

So the thing I need to tell you is that I care about you. I care so much that I’m scared speaking it into existence will make it real and vulnerable to all the worst parts of the world. But it’s not speaking it into existence if I’m drunk, right? Maybe I have no idea what I’m talking about. Maybe you’ll never even hear this. So it doesn’t count. That’s how that works, surely.

Sorry if this was totally nonsensical. And sorry that I’m so bad at feelings. You must think I’m impossible, and I don’t blame you.

Good night, Hyunjin. Thank you, again.

One month ago. Los Angeles, United States. 12:37 A.M.

When Hyunjin steps out of the hotel’s tall glass double doors, he’s wearing a teatree facemask, and his bags are draped over the crooks of his elbows like he’s an upper-echelon socialite on his way back from a lavish shopping spree. And then he sees you standing next to the curb, and the situation dawns on him in bits and pieces.

You’re the only one here. The vans that were supposed to take you to the airport are nowhere to be seen. Boarding begins in four minutes.

A soft flinch crimps his features. Oops.

“Tomorrow night,” you’re saying into your receiver, but your attention is on him only, your penetrative gaze putting the dead in deadpan. “The absolute earliest. You’re sure?”

When you finish listening to the manager’s response, you heave a sigh that sags your shoulders and end the call with a jab that should’ve splintered your screen protector.

Then, you start walking towards him.

“Hi,” Hyunjin says, his eyes pleading for mercy. “You are so talented and beautiful. I don’t tell you that often enough, do I?”

He expects you to grab him by the cuff of his ear again, to throw him a retort that’s twice as mean as it is witty, something along those lines. But you merely push your suitcase in his direction, and it is then when he notices that your face is hard enough to chip enamel; that your eyes are eerily, entirely empty. The tendril of warmth that’s always dancing among the subtleties of your expressions, that he’s always pursuing to the very borders of his dreamscapes, is nowhere to be seen.

A shiver travels down Hyunjin’s spine as he curls his fingers around the plastic handle.

Something’s not right.

“We’re gonna have to stay here another day,” you say. “Can you check us in? I have some calls to make.”

“Us?” Hyunjin repeats.

“Junghan could only reserve one room,” you reply, your phone already glued back to your ear. “The hotel is fully booked for the next few months.”

With that, you’re already preoccupied with the next thing, turning to the side to reschedule a meeting. But Hyunjin can only stare blankly at your profile, trying and failing to grasp that he’s going to spend a night with the subject of his every daydream. Though you might be leaning more towards the nightmare end of the spectrum at the moment, considering the way your head snaps back in his direction like a woman possessed.

Go, you mouth, and he obliges.

A few minutes later, Hyunjin is in the elevator by himself. He speculates it’s an ingenious, intentional choice that the lights are turned off, so that whoever’s inside can watch the psychedelic lights of Los Angeles sprawl further and wider the higher they go. But he can’t think of anything except for the subzero nothingness where your irises should’ve been.

Hyunjin’s initial guess was that he crossed a line with this missed plane, but the more he thinks about it the clearer it becomes that this isn’t an isolated issue. It’s the culmination of something bigger. Something continuous.

You have become as familiar to him as the lines of his eyes or the ridges of his knuckles. He’s learned where to look for your feelings when he can’t find them in your face; studied your words and the undertones of your voice like they’re verses of scripture. Yet, it was around two months ago when Hyunjin looked at your side profile and couldn’t recognize you. He’d blinked, startled, and then you’d asked why he was looking at you so strangely, and everything returned to normal. He wrote it off as a side effect of sleep deprivation and paid it no more mind that day.

Except it happened again a few days later; again, not too long after, and Hyunjin began to suspect that he was losing his mind. You didn’t seem all that different—a bit more taciturn than usual, maybe, but you’d been busier than usual, too, your workspace always full of empty coffee cups by the end of the day, the pages of your planner more colorful and crammed than ever. The minor variances never struck him as a reason for worry.

“Stupid,” Hyunjin whispers bitterly.

He replays your interaction one more time. You, shoving your suitcase against his palm, telling him to go check in. Him, fastening his hand around the handle, sensing the bottomless void within you, feeling like he’d been dismissed from before your throne.

As he steps off the elevator and walks towards your designated room, he doesn’t understand how or why—but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s failed you.

Nearly an hour passes. The room only has one bed, so Hyunjin turns off the lights, folds himself onto the armchair by the floor-to-ceiling window, drapes a complimentary robe over his shoulders, and tries to sleep. He doesn’t know why he even tries. He’s exhausted, but he knows damn well there’s no hope of him getting any rest until he has you in his proximity again.

He doesn’t look at the door when he finally hears it open, but the knot of tension in his chest comes undone as soon as your silhouette appears in the hallway. He takes out his first real breath since leaving you at the hotel’s entrance.

You hear the sound it makes. You fall still.

“Hyunjin?”

His heart physically aches at how tired you sound. “Yeah?”

“Oh, you’re awake,” you answer. “Move to the bed. You’re not sleeping on that thing.”

He remains where he is, his chin resting on the side of his fist, his eyes glued to the flickering panorama of neon lights below him. You crouch to unzip something, and there’s a heavy thud of metal meeting cloth, presumably your laptop being tossed onto the bed’s mattress.

“Hello? Did you—”

“Is everything okay?”

A short pause follows his interruption.

“I still have a few emails to write, but everything’s been rescheduled, so as long as you don’t miss tomorrow’s flight, too, we should be—”

The robe slides off his lap as he pushes himself to his feet. “That’s not what I mean.”

The only source of light in the room is the lone light above the entrance, but it’s enough for him to see your face and the surprise etched upon it. You open your mouth, utter one syllable, and stop yourself immediately after, stunned into silence by the sobriety in Hyunjin’s expression.

“Enlighten me, then,” you say finally.

“You really don’t know?”

“What is there to know? That you missed a flight and pissed me the fuck off? Trust me, I’m aware.”

“No, that’s not—”

“So what are you talking about, then? Why are you talking in riddles? Fuck, what is it that you want from me?”

There’s real frustration in your voice, and it’s the first time you’ve shown him any emotion in pure, unadulterated form. With this, Hyunjin understands that he was right; this conversation is heading towards a culmination of some kind, and so are you, with the devastating force of a natural phenomenon.

He wonders if you’re prepared to destroy yourself, too.

“I know how you are around me,” you whisper. “You’re always acting like you’re trying to unearth something, and I figure this ‘something’ must be wonderful, because you look at me like I’m made of stars; you speak to me like you’re serenading a lover. But I am constantly, ceaselessly haunted by the possibility that this ‘something’ doesn’t exist, that you’re looking for the wrong thing in the wrong person. 

“I know it’s selfish to ask for anything more than what you’ve already given me—you’re so kind, Hyunjin, and you’ve been nothing but since the day we met. But grant me one more wish, even if it is the last time you ever do.

“Tell me what you see in me,” you plead. “Otherwise, I will spend the rest of my life mourning the months of yours that you wasted on me.”

With that, it occurs to Hyunjin, falls upon and cracks open his mind like a piece of firewood, that you have never been aware of—never asked for—the throne you sit upon.

For an indeterminate amount of time, the two of you stay there, standing in silence on opposite sides of your dark hotel room. You haven’t felt anything like this in a long time, your chest heaving with your heavy breaths, your vision muddied by both the lack of light and the desperation searing through your windpipe. 

When Hyunjin finally begins to speak, his words wrest the oxygen from your lungs.

“After you moved to Seoul, you used to get these bouts of homesickness.”

Your mind careens; your heart reels. 

“They came in a way that felt like a hole had opened up in the ground below you.” He takes a tentative step towards you. “You thought it was going to swallow you alive. You would’ve been happy for it to.”

You never got to listen to your voice note. You were blacked out when you recorded it and horrified when you discovered it in your chat logs the next morning; the wretched thing was unsent so quickly that you couldn’t check for a read receipt.

But there’s not a doubt in your mind that these are your words falling from Hyunjin’s lips.

“You haven’t felt that way since you met me, though.” He is only a few feet away from you now, and getting closer still. “You’ve never felt seen the way I see you. You’ve never been known the way I know you.”

God, you said that? Did you propose to him too?

“You’re terrified that another home will slip through the cracks between your fingers and there will be nothing you can do to stop it.” Hyunjin flattens his left hand upon the drywall next to your ear; pushes you back ever-so-gently against the hard surface. “I must think you’re impossible.”

And he brings his face so, so close to yours; looks at you with so much adoration, so much tenderness, that you feel the final bulwark around your heart fracture—

“I don’t,” Hyunjin breathes, cradling your cheek, “because you’re not. And I want to prove it to you, even if it takes me the rest of my life. That’s what I see in you.”

—and crumble.

You form fists in the lining of his hoodie. Hyunjin’s hand tightens where it lays over the curve of your jaw.

When you crash your lips upon his, he tastes the metallic sheen of electricity and the salt of tearwater both; he witnesses crying lightning, for the first time in human history.

Present day. Cannes, France. 9:15 P.M.

Hyunjin never thinks when he fucks you. 

One part of it is that he physically can’t; his cognitive facilities shut down when he has you quivering beneath him, like his desire to pleasure you is too overwhelming for his mind to bear. The other part is that he doesn’t want to. He’s afraid that the voices of cynicism and trepidation that plague his mind every waking moment will taint the actualization of his wildest dreams.

Lucky for him, you manage to erase his mind on a daily basis with only one accidental touch or an apparition of a smile, so he doesn’t stand a chance whenever you let him between your legs.

“Trust me?” He whispers, imprinting the words upon the inside of your thigh.

“More than anyone,” you breathe, and just this has him tenting against his satin slacks.

Hyunjin used to see you scolding managers or moving racks twice your weight and think that was you in your element—tonight, he learned otherwise. You were so confident that even just the way you puffed your chest out prompted heads to turn and low voices to ask for your name; so charming that even by the end of your self-introduction you had every guest you spoke to eating out the palm of your hand. 

Eating out your pussy, though, is Hyunjin’s privilege alone.

He wraps his fingers around the hem of your dress and pushes it upwards, creating a halo of red fabric around your midriff; slides your panties off your legs and tosses them over his shoulder. All obstacles out of the way, Hyunjin winds his arms around your thighs and pins your hips to the mattress, slotting himself between your knees as they fall apart. Your ankles fold over the top of his head, and you’re about to ask if he’s okay like this, but then you feel the hot muscle of his tongue trace over your dripping folds—and every word of every language you’ve ever known is dispelled from your brain and your mouth in the form of a stuttered, euphoric moan.

He teases you first, drags his mouth over you so that he’s lapped up all of your slick, and just when you feel your patience thinning he pulls you apart with reverent hands and begins to suckle on your clit, as attentive to your every solicitation as always. You arch your back so high off the bed that your ankles knock Hyunjin’s head down a few inches, but the new angle is even better; grants him access to more of you.

He reinforces his grip around you, presses his torso right up against the side of the mattress, and gorges: sluices your labia until you’re spilling from his chin onto the sheets; flicks against your bundle of nerves until it’s pulsating and swollen on his mouth; fucks his tongue against your favorite spot until you’re curling your toes, seeing the whole solar system. 

“Coming,” you blabber after some time. Tell me something I don’t know, he thinks to himself. “Coming, Hyune. I’m—fuck—”

Hyunjin is aware of the way you clench so hard around nothing that your pelvis hurts. He is aware of the way you’re so dilapidated from pleasure that you’re genuinely struggling to breathe. He doesn’t care. He wants to get the cadences of your climax tattooed into the gray matter of his brain, and there can’t be rests in the sheet music, can there?

He presses a hand flat on your stomach in preparation for your body’s protest, then returns his face to its place between your thighs; starts to leave kitten licks around the edges of your puffy folds before you can finish riding out your high. You press your tongue against the back of your front teeth, emitting a pained hiss as you draw a sharp breath, tears stinging at your eyes.

“Son of a bitch—”

“Trust me?” He asks again, his voice vibrating against your sore cunt, and your complaints quiet into whimpers as you bring a hand over your quivering mouth, and nod. 

At least Hyunjin bridles his thirst the second time he eats your pussy open, his lips smacking openly and slowly over your every inch except the one that would be truly unbearable for you right now. He’s so rough and so fucking careful at once like he can’t decide between obliterating and worshipping your cunt.

He’ll end up doing both.

Within a few minutes, your legs have gone slack on either side of Hyunjin once again, and another coil has begun to tighten behind your bellybutton, equal parts pain and pleasure—but he knows your pussy just as well as he does your person by now, and it’s not long before the former is compounding with the latter.

Round two has a faster ascent and a steeper drop. He finds your spot again with the precision and ease of a trained marksman and fixates upon it like a man starved. It has your cries devolving to incoherent profanities and, to his unfettered delight, your foot actually shaking, your heel tapping against the back of his neck every time it comes down.

As if referencing a metronome, Hyunjin matches the rhythm of his tongue to your accelerando. Only when your leg is nearly convulsing does he wrap his lips back around your clit; slide two fingers into the place he leaves empty and pumps them into you until you are liquifying, igniting around him, your mewls lamenting the second orgasm he plucks from your core.

After your body has stilled, Hyunjin lifts his head, his face drenched in perspiration and saliva and you. His eyes travel over the slopes of your arms and the hills of your breasts, over the tears streaming from your eyes and staining the pillow you lie on. It is this last bit that has him shrugging off his shirt and undoing his dress pants with one hand, palming his throbbing cock with the other.

He clambers over you, and the kiss that follows is filthy, your mouth falling apart when he rolls your nipples between his fingers, strands of spit suspending between your tongues before dripping down onto your collarbone. You can sense what he wants in his craving lips, his pleading tongue—and you know he won’t ask for it. He’s tested you enough tonight; he’d rather your comfort than his pleasure.

But you guide his leaking head to your entrance, returning his stupefied look with a watery smile.

“Love me?” You ask this time, for the first time.

There is not even a nanosecond of hesitation when he answers, “with everything in me.”

He comes inside you the moment he bottoms out, your name leaving his lips in breathless, desperate repetition like a broken prayer as he topples off the same cliff he’d dropped you from moments ago. You curl a hand in his hair as he stutters against you, bring your lips flush against his ear, and whisper that you love him too—and the sight of you beneath him blurs he also starts to tear up.

This is the reality Hyunjin lives in, presumably because he was a saint in his past life, and it would be his utmost pleasure to see it through.

Two years later. Milan, Italy. 11:28 A.M.

For the last half hour, a ray of sunlight has repeatedly struck the diamond that sits between the second and third knuckle of your ring finger, and the Vogue journalist on the other side of your desk thinks he is slowly losing his vision. But when he asks his final question, your hand comes to a much-appreciated stop, the fountain pen you’ve been twirling around clattering to your tabletop.

“Where do you find your inspiration?” 

As the journalist blinks the phosphenes from his eyes, he finally manages to get a good look at the face of Versace’s newest designer, and he detects something ineffable and warm in your expression.

“My inspiration, hm?” You fall silent for a short time, thinking. “If you asked me this at the start of my career, I’d have said ‘people.’ Their postures, their expressions, their wardrobes. I knew I was a goner when I watched a fashion show for the first time and noticed how the models’ attire helped them harness their innate power and grace—I wanted to orchestrate that kind of symbiosis, too. In that aspect, nothing has changed, actually. I still find wonder in human beings, and not just the ones on the runway. I think it would be difficult not to, don’t you?

“Some time ago, a good friend of mine was having trouble with an outfit for her client. She asked me a similar question, and only then did I realize that it was no longer just people that inspired me most, but a singular person. I had always been skeptical of the idea of a ‘muse’ until I met him. But I could only spend so long denying how he ventured closer to my soul than anything ever had, how he knew me and saw me like nobody ever could. He understood my art. He was my art, so—”

Your eyes dart over your ring, and the journalist would’ve flinched out of habit if he wasn’t so mesmerized by your eloquence.

“—where better to find inspiration than inspiration himself?”

A few seconds elapse, and then you clear your throat and straighten your back, returning to your office from your trip down memory lane. 

“That’s the long answer, anyways. The short answer would be my fiancé.”

The journalist laughs, and he doubts you’ll give him this next piece of information—but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try.

“And who would that be?”

He’s right. You don’t answer the question. But you do flash him an enigmatic smile, and for some reason it reminds him of lightning.

🔖 (send an ask to be added)・@astraystayyh・@like-a-diamondinthesky・@fire-08・@starsandrqindrops・@txtxlz・@laylasbunbunny・@strayghibli・@nuronhe

© 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐱 (est. 090323) · 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤? please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending me an ask to let me know; or, read my other works here. thanks so much for the support ♡

[just-null]

the way you drew kokichi .. i think im ascending to the heavens .. i see the light .. chest collapsing .. heartbeat flatlining ..

oho, a Kokichi enjoyer!! tysm!! it was my first time drawing him at the time so im glad i didnt fail him. i dont want to fail any of the kyoto group. i love them all!! even w my clear favoritism

he's nice too, a bit more expressive than Noritoshi so i can finally draw something that isnt :| or >:( even if it isnt by much- i like him too

I like how he's both a dick but also kinda sweet. He's a different flavor of tsun... i can use this. my knowledge on him is limited but FROM WHAT I SAW IN THE WIKI OH MY GOD???????? OH MY GOD!!!!!!!!!!!! KOKICHI!!!!!!!!!!!!! WHAT THE FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[that1foxthingg]

beefydie but dragon,,,

one day the thought of making a bfdi x wof au popped into my head and now it wont leave. so here are some designs i made for it

[chronicowboy]

if there's one thing you do today make it listening to like a lover by loren kramar whilst thinking about buddie

[magnusmodig]

||. was browsing through tags of a comic thor post and found this beauty in someone's tags:

i love the acknowledgement of odin as a godking above father & how that’s hurt thor not just loki

obviously, I won't name the person's reblog on this blog but it's something I've always felt is largely true about the mcu odinfam situation, particularly where the father and the boys are involved.

Odin's parenting style (being strict, and the all-father above just a father), hurt Thor just as much as Loki. They were both hurt by their parents and especially in vying for their father's approval. (aka: his affections, because really any child desperate for their parent's attention, approval, pride is really just craving unconditional love.) People seem hard pressed to believe that this sort of pain was exclusive to Loki... which I fundamentally don't understand. (Need I remind everyone that Odin didn't just say "you're unworthy to call yourself a king and a hero bc you're being selfish in your ambitions"... which is true. He also got a good, walloping "you are unworthy of the loved ones you have betrayed" TO HIS FACE before being stripped of his powers and banished to some backwater planet for an indefinite amount of time...)

The reality of the situation is Loki always had Frigga to lean on, confide in, and be in his corner. Even if it was off-screen, truth is that he told Frigga what he learned about being a Frost Giant the first chance he got. He confided in her his worry for Odin's health ("i never get used to seeing him like this"). She actively expresses support and validation in front of him in a way that Loki at least positively acknowledges even if he doesn't always receive the words, and while I don't believe Thor wouldn't have gained the same solace from his mother, I am of the opinion - based on (this deleted scene from "THOR") in particular - that she would give support in the same way she would with Loki ... and it never landed with Thor. Because Thor is not Loki. And Frigga doesn't always know how to speak to Thor so Thor can hear her.

So, really at the end of the day, whether it was true or not, Thor only had himself to emotionally rely on. Coupled then with being primarily under the express tutelage of an extraordinarily strict father who was priming Thor to uphold his own legacy, (apparently not be anything like Hela despite the two kids being polar opposites) and 'never seek out war but must always be ready for it' and then you get a sentiment that ultimately can be summarized in Thor's words at the end of Dark World when he comments his reason for surrendering his birthright of his own volition: "I would rather be a good man than a great king." (which, sidebar, but I am entirely convinced is Thor commenting on his father's way of ruling, his father's way of parenting, his father's way of being. And quite frankly, no, I don't think the real Odin would ever let Thor give up his birthright to go live on Earth when Odin is old, dying, and the whole of Asgard is primed and ready to follow Thor as their new All-Father.)

alt., in the words of comic!thor his (extremely mixed) opinion of Odin:

"A hard god, my father, but one who would move heaven and earth for his children. And did , quite literally, on many occasions. From Odin, I learned command. I learned the ways of the worlds and the godly arts of war."

[thepandalion]

so I finally have. 2 pages planned. for court of the weather. which has been now renamed (for english specifically) as the council of the weathers. because thats what their intro page calls them

anyways. I need more weathers. like the only actual scenario I wrote is the me-based one about a little humanoid who grows strawberries and wants "gentle rains" to help them grow. however I don't share her pronouns and shes also a witch (for art reasons. she's gonna have a straw witch hat with a strawberry pin in it)

I've been thinking of a beekeeper who wants the loud winds to stop and then they learn hes actually weirdly lucky and the winds are a hurricane that his house and beehives are just in the center of where things are usually just very scary and somehow the thing hasn't. moved. so the house and bees are fine but "this loud wind is scaring my bees!" or whatever

also thinking of an archeologist who keeps dropping things and cant find them in the sandstorm bc has to keep their eyes closed

the stories are all gonna be lighthearted though. like by definition. also gonna have reoccurring characters. like strawberry witchling who is gonna start dating summer drizzle after their first meeting in that passage I wrote. like theres gonna be stories of her bringing in strawberry muffins made with the muffins shes growing, or her sitting in drizzles lap in the background of a random page all cutesy. or her making up random issues just to come to see her girlfriend

[cheftsunoda]

can I request logan sargeant x tattoo artist x oscar piastri..

(the tattoo artist is really into doing like fantasy / tv show / movie related tattoos)

tattooed and trouble — ls2 + op81

smau + blurbs

logan sargeant x !tattoo artist reader x oscar piastri

you’ve inked celebrities, rappers, and billionaires—but nothing could’ve prepared you for the day logan sargeant stumbled into your miami studio, half-drunk, grinning like a fool, and demanding a lightning mcqueen tattoo. apparently, he lost a bet. apparently, he is the real life lightning mcqueen, according to his friends. and apparently, that dumb little tattoo is what started it all. now, months later, you’ve got logan wrapped around your finger, a viral post that keeps resurfacing every other week—and just when things start feeling normal, his old friend oscar piastri shows up fresh off a grand prix win, quiet and annoyingly cute, and leaves your world flipped all over again. you should’ve known better than to trust men with fast cars. especially when they’re both a little in love with you. and each other.

fc : maggie lindemann

(a/n) : omg i loved this idea so much that i literally stopped everything to start writing it and working on it. I MISS MY LOGAN FALDUWJSND FUCK.

—

inked_by_yn

liked by logansargeant & 225,075 others.

inked_by_yn : bits and pieces of my last few days…ft the tattoo I gave the “real life lightning mcqueen”

—

view 35,072 other comments.

yourbff : slinky is underage. no wine for him

liked by inked_by_yn

↳ inked_by_yn : that didn’t stop you when you were underage 🥴

liked by yourbff

↳ yourbff : shhhhhh

↳ yourbff : im just trying to be a good influence on my godson 🤧

liked by inked_by_yn

yoursister : baddddieeeee😻😻

liked by inked_by_yn

↳ yoursister : also is he cute????

liked by inked_by_yn

↳ inked_by_yn : i would say yes but i know he is lurking and i don’t want to inflate his ego

liked by yoursister and logansargeant

username00 : omg do you have anytime for walk-ins today???

liked by inked_by_yn

↳ inked_by_yn : had a last minute cancellation so if you can make it in, im ready for ya💋

liked by username00

username10 : omg that is def logan and he is in the likes!!!!

logansargeant : tell them all how you said i was your favorite client 😁

liked by inked_by_yn

↳ inked_by_yn : lies. my fave clients don’t cry 😏

liked by logansargeant

↳ logansargeant : i didn’t cry. it was a single tear 🤧

liked by inked_by_yn

↳ inked_by_yn : whatever you say, mr mcqueen.

liked by logansargeant

↳ username15 : OMGOMG

—

The bell above the door jingled violently — more of a slam than a polite entry — and before you could even glance up from your sketchbook, someone shouted.

“WE’RE HERE FOR THE STUPIDEST TATTOO EVER DONE IN MIAMI!”

You blinked. Three guys stood in the doorway like they were filming a bad reality show— one of them already laughing, one looking mildly horrified, and the third — the loud one — grinning like a golden retriever. That one was Logan Sargeant.

You recognized him immediately. He was hard to miss — tall, tan, Florida-born chaos with a hint of washed-up F1 fame and a whole lot of boyish charm. The kind that made women roll their eyes… and then double back just to look again.

He sauntered in like he owned the place.

Wearing sunglasses inside. Naturally.

“Hi,” he said, leaning dramatically on the front counter. “I’m here to ruin my life.”

You didn’t look up from your tablet. “It’s Miami. You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

His friends burst out laughing. One of them — a lanky blond who looked too sober to be here — muttered, “I told him this was a bad idea.”

“You also told me I could pull off frosted tips in 2021, so your judgment is forever in question,” Logan replied, peeling off his sunglasses and grinning at you. “Anyway. I lost a bet. And now I need Lightning McQueen. Like, the Lightning McQueen. On my arm. Forever.”

You stared at him.

“Do you mean… the Pixar car?”

“Ka-chow, baby.”

He said it with his whole chest. With conviction.

And when you didn’t laugh, he just looked even more impressed. “Wow. Cold-blooded. That’s hot.”

You set your pencil down and finally looked at him fully — tan skin, perfect teeth, too much confidence for a man requesting a cartoon car on his bicep.

“How drunk were you when you made this bet?” you asked, tilting your head.

“I was sober,” he said, smiling proudly. “Which makes this even more tragic.”

“Right. And you want this… where?”

“Dealer’s choice,” he said smoothly, rolling up the sleeve of his t-shirt. “I trust you. Mostly because you’re hot, but also because your Yelp reviews are fire.”

“You read my Yelp reviews?”

He leaned in like it was a secret. “Only after I stalked your Instagram for 20 minutes and forgot what I was doing.”

His friends groaned in unison. “Bro, please. Let her live.”

You ignored them and stood up, walking around the counter toward your setup. “Come on then, McQueen. Let’s give you something to regret.”

“Oh, I already regret not meeting you sooner,” Logan said, following close behind. “You think I’m your hottest client so far orrrr…?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re certainly the loudest.”

“I’ll take it,” he said cheerfully, sitting down in the chair and flexing unnecessarily. “Wanna make it say ‘speed. I am speed’? Or is that too cliché?”

You snapped your gloves on. “You’re lucky I’m not tattooing slow. Across your forehead.”

He smirked. “Kinky.”

You didn’t dignify that with a response. But your smirk said enough.

As you prepped his arm, Logan glanced up at you through thick lashes and said, quieter this time.

“Be honest. Do most guys fall in love with you while you’re tattooing them?”

You gave him a look. “Only the ones who say Ka-chow unironically.”

Logan smiled wider.

“Then I’m already halfway there.”

—

The buzz of the machine stopped, and Logan’s head popped up immediately.

“That’s it?” he asked, dramatically craning his neck to see his arm. “I survived?”

“You barely flinched,” you said, peeling off your gloves. “I’m shocked. I pegged you as a screamer.”

“Oh, I am,” Logan said instantly. “But I kept it together for you.”

You rolled your eyes, fighting a smile as you wiped down the fresh tattoo. “Alright, Lightning. Wanna see?”

“Do I ever,” he said, sitting up straighter.

You turned his arm toward the mirror. The little red car sat perfectly on his bicep — bright, clean lines, smug grin and all. It was stupid. And hilarious. And honestly? A little iconic.

“Holy shit,” he breathed. “That’s… incredible. Like, actually incredible.”

“I know,” you said, amused. “That’s kind of my job.”

Logan looked at it like he’d just been handed a masterpiece. “I’m not kidding — I think this might be the best decision I’ve ever made. Aside from choosing to be born in Florida. And now this.”

“You didn’t choose to be born in Florida.”

“Exactly. Which makes this number one.”

You laughed, cleaning your station as he gently ran his fingers near the edges of the bandage. “So, what now?” he asked. “You kick me out and never speak to me again?”

“Pretty much,” you deadpanned.

“Damn. Cold again. That’s fine. I like it,” he said, then added quickly, “But, hypothetically — hypothetically — if someone wanted to, I don’t know, repay you for the best Lightning McQueen rendering on the planet…”

He slid his phone onto your station.

“…would that someone be allowed to take you out for drinks?”

You raised a brow. “Is this your version of a tip?”

“No, this is me shamelessly flirting and praying you don’t already have a boyfriend who drives something lame like a Corolla.”

You snorted. “You do know this is Miami, right? The bar for car flexing is in hell.”

“Perfect,” he grinned. “Then I still have a shot.”

You picked up his phone without looking at him and typed in your name and number. Saved it. Handed it back.

He blinked, surprised. “Wait—actually?”

“Don’t make it weird,” you said. “You earned it.”

Logan lit up like a kid on Christmas. “Okay. Okay, cool. Chill. Totally normal response to getting a hot girl’s number after getting a Disney tattoo.”

You arched a brow. “That’s the bar?”

“Listen,” he said, pocketing his phone and standing, “I may have lost a bet, but I feel like I just won something way better.”

You handed him the care sheet. “You better follow the instructions. If that tattoo gets infected, I’m deleting your number.”

He took it solemnly. “I’d never hurt Lightning. Or disappoint you.”

You walked him to the door, and just before he stepped outside into the sun, he turned back one more time, already pulling his sleeve up to admire the tattoo again.

“Hey,” he called.

You raised an eyebrow.

“Ka-chow.”

Then he winked. And left. You stared after him for a long second, then shook your head and laughed under your breath. Fucking Florida boys.

—

Two days after his tattoo appointment, Logan texted you at 11:47 a.m.

so how much time needs to pass before I ask you to grab a drink without sounding obsessed

probably like 48 hours

sick so i’m early. wanna grab a drink tonight?

depends. are you planning on wearing sunglasses indoors again?

no promises

but i will attempt to impress you

oh honey

you’re gonna have to try really hard

i love a challenge

—

He picked a laid-back rooftop bar in Wynwood, the kind with overpriced cocktails, neon signs, and a DJ spinning remixes of Bad Bunny and Frank Ocean. He got there early — rare for him — hair done, sleeves rolled up, pacing slightly because okay, maybe he was trying to impress you. He leaned against a palm tree out front, texting his friend about “not being nervous, just hydrated,” when he heard the low, unmistakable purr of an engine.

Then he saw it. A matte grey 2025 Mercedes AMG GT63. Pulling up like it owned the street. Smooth, deadly. Sexy as hell.

“Holy—” he straightened. “No fucking way.”

You stepped out like you were in a music video — high-waisted jeans, cropped top, sunglasses, the glow of sunset bouncing off your skin and paint stained rings. He literally blinked.

“You good?” you asked, smirking as you shut the door with a click.

“I—I was gonna open the door for you,” he stammered. “But then you just… drove that here.”

You walked up to him slowly, amused. “What were you driving?”

He pointed vaguely. “A Jeep. It squeaks a little when I turn left.”

You laughed. “Charming.”

“I know. It builds character,” he said, trying to shake off the shock and falling into step beside you. “But like, I was gonna try to flex tonight and then you pulled up like a Bond villain.”

“I thought you liked danger.”

“I do. But now I feel like I should be the one buying you a drink and asking what it is you do for a living.”

You smirked. “Torture grown men for fun and money.”

“Oh my god,” he muttered. “Marry me.”

The date ended up being easy — laughter over terrible cocktails, Logan telling stories about F1 chaos and you countering with tattoo shop disasters.

Every time you made a sarcastic comment, he grinned like an idiot. Every time he got flustered, you raised an eyebrow like you were collecting his weaknesses one by one. Halfway through the night, he said.

“You’re kinda scary.”

And you replied, “Only to men who can’t handle me.”

He let out a laugh, held his hand up. “Okay, fair. But for the record—I’m doing great.”

By the end of the night, he walked you back to your car, hands in his pockets, chewing on his bottom lip like he was thinking about something.

“You don’t kiss on the first date, do you?” he asked, hopeful and a little sheepish.

You leaned against the driver’s side door. “No.”

“Right. Cool. Me neither. Not unless it’s like… a really good one. Or I’m asked nicely.”

You tilted your head. “Are you saying this was a really good one?”

“I mean,” he shrugged, grinning, “it wasn’t a Lightning McQueen tattoo level experience, but it was pretty damn close.”

You laughed — soft, unexpected — then leaned in just enough to kiss him lightly on the cheek.

Logan blinked, stunned.

“Holy shit.”

“Easy, Sargeant,” you said, sliding into your car. “Don’t crash on the way home thinking about it.”

He stood there like he’d just blacked out, watching as the AMG peeled out smoothly into the Miami night. Then he whispered to himself.

“…I’m so screwed.”

—

Logan had officially declared your third date The One That Counts. He had sent you a text earlier in the day.

i feel like the third date is when you either get ghosted.

or get kissed. or arrested. depending on how spicy it gets.

You left him on read for an hour just to mess with him. Then replied—

better bring bail money, lightning

So when he picked you up that night — yes, in the same squeaky Jeep, which he’d lovingly wiped down for the occasion — he was buzzing with chaotic hope and trying to play it cool. He took you to a late night taco truck near South Beach, the kind of spot that didn’t show up on Google Maps and probably violated several health codes. But the food was divine and the mood was perfect — casual, warm, wrapped in laughter and the ocean breeze.

Logan, in a gray tee and that same stupid grin, leaned against the counter beside you as you licked hot sauce off your thumb.

“Okay,” he said. “If I asked nicely, would you tattoo a taco on me?”

You didn’t even look up. “Do you want a taco on your body forever?”

“Only if it reminds me of this exact moment.”

You looked at him then — a little surprised, a little soft.

“You’re serious?”

“Half of me is always serious,” he said. “The other half is just desperate to impress you.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling.

After tacos, he drove you down to the water, parking the Jeep so it faced the ocean, radio low, both of you curled up in the front seats with a bag of cinnamon churros between you.

“So,” he said, turning toward you. “Am I ghosted now, or…?”

You tilted your head. “Are you always this impatient?”

“I’ve been very patient. I didn’t even try to kiss you last time.”

“You tried,” you said, smirking.

“I didn’t try that hard,” he defended. “I mean, I wanted to. But you had that look. The ‘touch me and die’ one.”

You chuckled. “That’s my default setting.”

He looked at you then — really looked. Less teasing, more open.

“I know I joke a lot,” he said, “but I’m not playing around with you. I really like you. I like hanging out, I like the way you talk, I like that you make fun of me but still show up. I don’t know, it just… feels good.”

You stared at him for a second, letting his words settle. Letting them mean something.

Then, quietly. “So kiss me.”

He blinked. “Wait—really?”

“Don’t make it weird.”

But he was already leaning in — not rushed, not cocky, just soft and a little in awe, like he couldn’t believe he’d actually been given permission. And when his lips finally met yours — warm, sweet, slow — the world kind of fell quiet around you. No jokes. No chaos. Just Logan. Just you. Just right. When he pulled back, he was grinning like an idiot.

“That… was worth the wait.”

You raised a brow. “You sure?”

“Oh, I’d wait forever for that,” he said, then paused, eyes flicking to your lips again. “But like… I really hope I don’t have to.”

You laughed, leaning into him again, churros forgotten, ocean breeze wrapping around you both. Yeah. This was definitely The One That Counts.

—

inked_by_yn

liked by logansargeant, oscarpiastri and 457,005 others.

inked_by_yn : somehow got talked into doing another lighting tattoo…this time for some grand prix winner 🙄

—

view 88,119 other comments.

oscarpiastri : this was a terrible decision but somehow you made it feel right

liked by inked_by_yn and logansargeant

↳ inked_by_yn : just think of it as a celebratory tattoo...done by the best tattoo artist in the world ;)

liked by oscarpiastri and logansargeant

↳ username15 : OSCAR? PIASTRI? TATTOO? LOGAN SARGEANT?

lando : i leave him alone for 5 minutes and he is getting tattoos like he is in a frat

liked by oscarpiastri, logansargeant and inked_by_yn

↳ oscarpiastri : you're just jealous. i have a fun tattoo done by yn and you do not.

liked by inked_by_yn and lando

↳ lando : lowkey yeah

liked by inked_by_yn and oscarpiastri

logansargeant : this whole post brought out my feral instincts tbh

liked by inked_by_yn

↳ inked_by_yn : down boy

liked by logansargeant and oscarpiastri

↳ username7 : LOGANNNN

username000 : who is this girl and why r oscar, lando and logan in her comment section

↳ username17 : she is a miami based tattoo artist and she is RUMORED to be dating logan currently. but i think after that comment we can confirm.

yourbff : god you are so fucking hot. gimme a piece a dat.

liked by inked_by_yn

↳ logansargeant : MINEEEEEEE.

liked by inked_by_yn and yourbff

↳ inked_by_yn : you can share logieeee

liked by logansargeant and oscarpiastri

—

The door to your studio slammed open with the same chaos as last time.

“YOUR FAVORITE CLIENT HAS RETURNED,” Logan announced, stepping inside, arms wide, smile feral, sunglasses absolutely unnecessary. “AND I BROUGHT A NEW VICTIM.”

You didn’t even look up from your station.

“I have pepper spray now,” you said calmly.

“Oh please, you love me,” Logan grinned, already walking in like he paid rent. “Anyway. I’m not the one getting tattooed today.”

That made you pause. Finally, you glanced up. Trailing behind him—somewhat reluctant, clearly annoyed, and very unfortunately attractive—was Oscar Piastri.

Fresh off his Miami Grand Prix win, still slightly sun-flushed, shirt rolled at the sleeves, and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else except inside this exact room. You could tell from the way his brows were knit and his hands were stuffed into his pockets.

“I’m being hazed,” he muttered.

You raised an eyebrow. “You won a race. How is this your punishment?”

Logan clapped a dramatic hand on Oscar’s shoulder. “Because he promised if he ever won my home race–he’d get a tattoo. And then he went and won the whole damn Grand Prix, so guess what, bro?”

He turned back to you with a devious grin. “He’s yours now.”

Oscar’s eyes flicked to you then—cool, cautious, amused.

“I didn’t realize I was being handed over like property.”

You smiled sweetly. “Don’t worry. I take very good care of my things.”

Logan choked in the background. You stood and walked toward them, slowly pulling off your gloves, your eyes narrowing on Oscar.

“Alright, Piastri. Let’s see the canvas.”

He blinked. “The what?”

“Your skin, genius,” Logan said, already pulling up a chair like he lived here.

Oscar exhaled and started rolling up his sleeve, exposing a clean, tan forearm that definitely did not belong to a man who got spontaneous tattoos. He sat down, clearly unsure of his life choices.

“What exactly am I getting?” he asked you.

You looked at Logan. Logan looked smug.

“Another Lightning Tattoo,” he said. 

You raised a brow at Oscar. “You sure about this?”

Oscar looked at you. Paused. And then—very calmly—nodded. “I think so.”

“Okay,” you said, already grabbing your tablet to sketch. “But I get to design it.”

Oscar’s mouth quirked. “What happened to dealer’s choice?”

You smiled, head tilted. “That is dealer’s choice.”

—

Logan sat across the room in a throne-like chair he clearly claimed as “his,” watching you prep Oscar’s arm with way too much interest. Oscar, to his credit, didn’t flinch. But his eyes kept flicking to you—your hands, your rings, your tattoos, your hair falling into your face as you leaned over his skin.

“Does it hurt?” he asked quietly, almost like he wanted only you to hear.

“Not yet,” you murmured. “But I could make it.”

He glanced up at you, startled.

Your eyes met. The tension cracked—just a flicker—but it was there.

From across the room, Logan groaned. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Don’t start flirting. This was my bit.”

“I’m not flirting,” Oscar said quickly. “She’s literally stabbing me with a needle.”

“Respectfully,” Logan said, pointing, “you’ve never let someone stab you and looked that into it.”

You ignored them both and focused on the linework. But Oscar kept watching you—quiet, analytical, curious.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said eventually.

“Meaning?”

He paused. “Logan described you as scary hot with a mean right hook.”

You smirked. “That’s shockingly accurate.”

Oscar bit back a smile. “I didn’t think you’d actually be this good.”

You looked at him, not skipping a beat. “At tattooing?”

“...At everything.”

That shut Logan right up. Twenty minutes later, the tattoo was done. 

Oscar stared at it, then at you, then said, “I might actually like it.”

You smiled, unwrapping your gloves. “Dangerous thing to admit around here.”

Logan walked over, glancing between the two of you with squinted eyes. “Yeah. No. I hate this.”

You handed Oscar the care sheet, brushing your fingers across his as you did.

“Welcome to the club,” you said.

Oscar didn’t say anything. Just smiled—slow, unreadable—and nodded.

Then, as they left the shop, Logan called over his shoulder, “You’re playing with fire, Piastri!”

Oscar didn’t even turn around. Just said, under his breath.

“Maybe I want to get burned by her."

—

It had been a few days since the tattoo. Logan had texted you a couple memes, sent a picture of his dog in a Lightning McQueen costume, and ended it with.

you’re thinking about me, aren’t you

i’m thinking about your tragic life choices, yes

But there hadn’t been another date. No label. No talk. Just…vibes. Dangerous ones. So when the bell above your studio door chimed again, you didn’t even look up.

“Forgot something?” you called, assuming it was Logan, back to reclaim his throne and ego. But it wasn’t Logan. It was Oscar. Alone.

Fresh t-shirt, jeans low on his hips, and a very un-Oscar Piastri expression — calm, but calculated. Quiet fire under still water. You blinked.

“Well,” you said, setting your machine down. “Look who didn’t get peer pressured this time.”

He shrugged, shutting the door behind him. “I was… in the neighborhood.”

You tilted your head. “So you wandered into my shop?”

“I had a question,” he said, walking slowly toward your station. “About my tattoo.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think I messed up?”

“No,” he said. “I think it’s perfect.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Oscar looked at you for a long moment.

“What are you and Logan?”

Your eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

You laughed under your breath. “You jealous?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

You turned, leaned against the edge of the station, arms crossed. “Logan and I are... friends. Sort of.”

Oscar looked at you again. Then stepped a little closer.

“Is that what you are?”

You paused. “What are you doing, Oscar?”

He tilted his head slightly, soft but deliberate. “Just trying to figure out if I’m wasting my time.”

“You came here to flirt?”

“I came here,” he said, “because I haven’t stopped thinking about the way you looked at me when you were holding that needle to my arm.”

You sucked in a breath.

He kept going. “You’re good at your job. You know that. But there’s a difference between being good at tattoos and making someone feel like they’re the only person in the room.”

Your voice was quieter now. “And what do you think I did to you?”

Oscar looked down. Then up. “You ruined me.”

That shut you up.

“I’ve been calm about it. Logical. But the truth is? I don’t know if I want to share.”

You swallowed.

“I only kissed him, twice.” you said.

Oscar raised a brow. “Hm.”

You stepped toward him. “Are you trying to stake a claim on something that’s not even yours?”

“I’m trying to find out if it can be.”

And then—without asking, without hesitation—he reached for your hand, his fingers brushing your inked wrist, his other hand lifting to your jaw. He didn’t kiss you. But he got close enough that you felt the option. Close enough that your breath caught. Close enough that you knew if you leaned in just an inch, everything would change. And maybe it already had.

“You shouldn’t have come here alone,” you whispered.

Oscar smiled, soft and sure.

“I don’t think I’m leaving that way either.”

You weren’t sure if it was a promise or a challenge.

But you were leaning into it. Into him.

You grabbed your bag, locking the tablet drawer with one hand and slinging your hoodie over your shoulder.

“So where are we going?” Oscar asked quietly.

You didn’t answer. You just gave him that look—the one that said follow and find out.

He was just reaching for the door when it opened. Hard. Loud.

And in walked Logan.

Sunkissed, tousled, cocky, with a water bottle in hand and a backwards cap on like he hadn’t just walked into a scene from his own personal worst case scenario.

He paused.

Took in Oscar’s proximity to you.

The way your fingers were still grazing the strap of his shirt.

“Oh.”

Oscar straightened just a little. “Hey, man.”

Logan blinked. “Don’t ‘hey man’ me like you didn’t just try to walk out of here with the girl I’ve been talking about for the last three weeks.”

You stepped in quickly. “Logan, it’s not like that.”

“Oh yeah?” he said, tone light but voice tight. “Looks a lot like that from here.”

Oscar didn’t move. “Nothing’s happened.”

“Nothing yet,” Logan snapped.

You raised a hand. “Okay. Stop. Can we not turn this into a competition over who gets to claim me like a fucking trophy?”

The silence was sharp. Then Logan let out a breath.

“You’re right,” he said, softer this time. “You’re not a trophy. But you’ve got us both acting like it.”

Oscar stayed still. Watching you. Watching him.

Logan stepped forward. “Look—I’ve been playing it cool. Flirting, joking, not pushing. But I haven’t stopped thinking about you.”

You huffed a soft laugh, heart thudding.

“And now I come in and see him looking at you and touching you,” he added, gesturing at Oscar. “It’s messing with my head.”

Oscar didn’t flinch. “Because she’s kind of impossible not to look at that way.”

Logan turned to him. “So what now, man? You just waltz in and take your shot?”

Oscar looked between you and Logan—something flashing behind his eyes.

“No,” he said slowly. “I think we’re all circling the same problem.”

You blinked. “Which is?”

He looked at you when he said it.

“I want you. Logan wants you. And I think maybe… you kind of want both.”

Your breath caught. And Logan—who’d clearly expected to storm in and maybe storm out—suddenly didn’t look angry anymore. Just confused. Intrigued. Turned on in a deeply inconvenient way. The tension in the room shifted. You bit your lip.

“I didn’t plan for this,” you admitted.

“No one ever does,” Oscar murmured.

Logan laughed once, dry. “Are we seriously about to have this conversation?”

Oscar met his eyes. “I don’t think it’s just a conversation anymore.”

You could feel it building—electric and heavy and dangerous. Logan stepped forward again, gaze flicking between your mouth and Oscar’s.

“I hate how into this I am,” he said under his breath.

Oscar raised a brow. “Then leave.”

He didn’t. You swallowed, heart pounding. “This is insane.”

“And yet,” Logan murmured, voice dipping low, “you haven’t told either of us to stop.”

The air went still. You could say no. You could say it right now and walk away from both of them. But instead— You stepped forward, just enough that your body brushed between theirs. And quietly said.

“Then shut the door.”

Oscar moved first. Logan didn’t blink. And when that door clicked shut behind them—the tension exploded.

—

The first thing you felt was heat. Not the overwhelming kind—more like the warm weight of a blanket that wasn’t yours and the slow drag of sunlight creeping in through half-closed blinds. Your eyes blinked open, bleary and adjusting, and it took a full five seconds to remember you weren’t alone. You were very much not alone.

There was an arm around your waist. A leg tangled with yours. Two slow, steady heartbeats—one behind you, one in front.

You turned your head just slightly and saw Oscar, already awake, staring at you like he wasn’t sure if he was still dreaming. His hair was a mess. His mouth was a little swollen. He looked... at peace.

Behind you, Logan was still dead asleep, one arm slung over your hips like he’d always slept like that. His breath warm against your shoulder, his presence grounding in a way that made your chest ache.

You were tucked between them like you belonged there.

And that was the most dangerous part.

It didn't feel wrong.

Oscar reached up slowly, brushing a piece of hair off your cheek. His fingers barely grazed your skin, feather-light. Like he didn’t want to break whatever this was.

“Morning,” he whispered.

Your throat was dry, voice hoarse. “Hi.”

He smiled softly. “Still real?”

You gave a tiny nod. He looked down. Then back up. “Okay.”

You didn’t say anything, because what was there to say? It was 7:42 in the morning. You were in someone’s bed—maybe Logan’s—wearing nothing but a t-shirt you couldn’t identify and the memory of the night before stitched into every inch of your skin.

Behind you, Logan stirred.

“Ugh,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. “Why do I feel like I got hit by a truck.”

Oscar huffed a soft laugh.

You felt Logan’s arm tighten slightly, his face nuzzling against your back. “Okay but—if this is a weird dream, don’t wake me up.”

You turned onto your back between them, pressing your palms into your eyes. “What do we even say right now?”

Oscar propped himself up on one elbow. “Nothing.”

“You don’t think we should, I don’t know, talk about it?”

Logan yawned, then said, “Let’s talk after coffee and a group therapy session.”

You laughed despite yourself. Oscar leaned over and kissed your shoulder. Gentle. Barely there.

Logan reached across and lightly flicked his forehead. “Don’t be a sap.”

Oscar didn’t stop smiling. “Too late.”

You sighed, sinking back into the pillows, feeling two different kinds of warmth pressed against you. There were still questions. Complications. Labels that didn’t exist. A hundred reasons this should be messy and reckless and maybe even a little stupid. But in this moment—soft sheets, soft skin, soft hearts— It just felt right. And that was enough. For now.

—

It had been a few weeks. A blur of half slept nights and stolen kisses, of Logan showing up at your place with a smoothie and no warning, of Oscar FaceTiming you after midnight from hotel beds in places that didn’t matter. There were no labels. No promises.

But the three of you kept orbiting each other like gravity had its own rules. And every time one of them touched you, looked at you, held your hand like it was second nature—it felt less casual and more like a truth no one was brave enough to say out loud. Until today.

You were cleaning up the studio late in the evening, humming softly with a brush between your fingers and the music low, when the door opened. You didn’t expect anyone. You didn’t even look up.

“Closed,” you called.

“I flew here,” a voice said.

You froze. Turned slowly. Oscar stood in the doorway. Dressed down, travel-worn, backpack slung over one shoulder and his eyes fixed on you like he’d been carrying the weight of you for miles.

You blinked. “What—Oscar, what are you—”

“I had to come,” he said quickly, stepping inside, door shutting behind him. “I couldn’t do another race week pretending I wasn’t thinking about you. About this.”

You set the brush down slowly. “You could’ve called.”

“I was scared if I called, you’d talk me out of it.”

You swallowed.

Then a voice came from the back—warm, easy.

“Hey, babe, where’d you put my—”

Logan stopped in the doorway, half-in, half-out, holding his hoodie, and froze when he saw Oscar.

Oscar blinked. “You’re here.”

Logan raised a brow. “So are you.”

You stood there, between them, like a live wire.

Oscar looked at Logan, then at you.

And then he said it.

“I’m in love with her.”

Your breath caught.

Logan didn’t move.

Oscar’s voice was lower now. “I’ve been trying to ignore it. Pretend it’s a fling, or fun, or whatever. But I’m not built for this kind of pretending. Not with her. Not with you.”

You stared at him. “With you?”

Oscar’s eyes didn’t leave Logan. “You think I don’t see the way you look at her? How you soften around her. How you get quiet when she says your name.”

Logan ran a hand through his hair.

Oscar stepped closer. “But it’s not just her. You’re in this, too. And I’m tired of pretending that doesn’t matter.”

Logan looked at you. At Oscar. Then back again.

Then—softer—he said, “I’ve never been good at saying this shit.”

“Try,” you whispered.

He let out a shaky breath.

“I like you. Both of you. It’s been messing with my head, trying to be cool, casual, whatever. But the truth is—when I’m with you, I feel like I finally shut up. Like everything just makes sense.”

You felt your heart cracking wide open. Oscar looked at you now.

“I didn’t fly across the world just to tell you I miss you. I came because I don’t want to do this separately anymore.”

Logan nodded. “Yeah. What he said. But, like, with slightly more panic.”

You laughed, tears in your eyes, but you weren’t alone. Oscar stepped forward first, his hand brushing yours. Then Logan. One arm around your waist, the other grazing Oscar’s shoulder in something tentative but real. You breathed in. It smelled like home. And then you whispered it.

“I love you. Both of you.”Oscar closed his eyes. Logan leaned his forehead to yours. And for the first time, it wasn’t a triangle. It was a circle. A closed loop. One where all three of you belonged. Together.

—

It started like most of Oscar’s big moves- understated, deadpan, and laced with dry sarcasm. You were in bed—legs tangled between sheets, the early morning Miami light bleeding through the blinds. Logan was on his stomach, half-asleep and snoring softly into the pillow. Oscar was in the ensuite, brushing his teeth and leaning against the doorframe, wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants and a grin that meant trouble.

“You know,” he said, spitting out toothpaste, “you two could just move to Monaco.”

You didn’t look up from your phone. “Right. Because international relocation is so casual.”

Oscar shrugged, wiping his mouth. “You act like I didn’t fly ten hours to confess my feelings in a tattoo studio. This is actually the less dramatic option.”

Logan groaned into the pillow. “Tell Oscar to shut up and come back to bed.”

“I’m just saying,” Oscar continued, walking back over and dropping onto the mattress beside you, his arm brushing yours. “We keep playing this long-distance game and pretending it’s sustainable. Monaco’s nice. Quiet. Sunny. And I have a killer espresso machine.”

You side-eyed him. “That’s your pitch? Love, stability, and espresso?”

Oscar smirked. “Did I mention the terrace overlooks the harbor?”

“I hate how good this pitch is,” Logan mumbled, voice muffled.

Oscar rolled over so he was facing both of you now, chin propped on his hand. “I’m not saying we have to do it now. Just... think about it. No more red-eye flights. No more FaceTime falling asleep. No more ‘wish you were here’ texts when I’m on the other side of the world.”

He looked at you, then at Logan.

“I want to come home and have that mean you two.”

The words sat in the air for a minute—heavier than the morning light, softer than the duvet wrapped around your legs. You weren’t sure who moved first. It might’ve been Logan, flopping dramatically onto Oscar’s chest with a groan. It might’ve been you, leaning in to kiss Oscar’s shoulder, your fingers lacing into his slowly like it was second nature. All you knew was that no one said no.

A Month Later

The Monaco apartment was light and clean and full of promise. Boxes still unopened, kitchen only half-stocked, Oscar was messing with the espresso machine while you sorted through sketchbooks and Logan struggled with couch assembly on the living room floor.

“This says step three,” Logan muttered. “But I feel like step three is a lie.”

Oscar called from the kitchen, “You skipped step one, didn’t you?”

“Don’t act like you know me,” Logan snapped back. “You left me with Swedish furniture instructions.”

You were curled on the floor nearby, flipping through swatches and laughing under your breath.

Logan looked at you suddenly, eyes soft. “Can’t believe we actually did it.”

Oscar glanced over his shoulder, espresso cup in hand. “I can.”

Logan raised a brow. “You’re that confident?”

Oscar walked over, kissed you on the cheek, then bent down and kissed Logan just behind the ear.

“I’ve always known how this story ends,” he said. “Right here.”

And just like that, with espresso foam on your nose, IKEA screws between Logan’s fingers, and Monaco sunlight pouring through the windows— You realized this wasn’t just domestic bliss. This was forever, and it had finally begun.

—

Your new Monaco studio wasn’t finished yet, but it was yours, and it already felt like home—even with Oscar and Logan very much making a mess of it.

“Okay, don’t hate me,” Logan called from the front. “But I may have ordered a neon sign.”

You looked up from unpacking your ink drawers. “What does it say?”

Oscar chimed in from the corner, grinning: “Some quote from the Cars movie.’”

You nearly dropped the machine in your hand. “Logan.”

“What?” he said, dramatically offended. “This entire empire exists because I got a Lightning McQueen tattoo.”

Oscar raised a hand, still crouched beside the new display cabinet. “I got one too.”

Logan pointed at him. “See? It’s a movement now.”

You groaned, dragging a hand over your face. “I should’ve tattooed something worse.”

Oscar stood up and walked over, smirking. “You love us.”

You tried to hide your smile, but failed miserably. The place was chaos. Boxes everywhere. Art leaned against the walls. Logan had somehow already found the studio speaker and was queuing a playlist. Oscar was fixing the lights above your workbench like it was his full-time job. Neither of them were helpful. Both of them were everything.

“You know what would really christen this place?” Logan said, hopping onto your work table like it wasn’t sacred.

“Don’t say it,” you warned.

Oscar grinned. “A tattoo.”

You crossed your arms. “I’m the artist.”

Logan wiggled his brows. “Artists can be canvases too.”

Oscar stepped closer. “We’re just saying… both of us have the Lightning. You started this chaos. You might as well join the club.”

You blinked. “You want me to tattoo myself?”

Logan slid off the table and took both your hands. “It would be iconic. Matching tattoos with your two boyfriends. The Monaco McQueen Trinity.”

Oscar deadpanned, “I want that on a t-shirt.”

“I’m going to regret this,” you muttered.

But you were already pulling out the stencil printer.

And there you sat cross-legged on your new studio chair, arm propped up, mirror angled so you could see the inside of your forearm where the stencil was placed. The number 95 — Lightning’s number — but done in your style. Sharp lines, delicate lightning bolts, tiny stars orbiting it.

Logan was literally bouncing. Oscar had his camera out, ready to document everything.

“Don’t pass out,” Logan warned.

“I tattooed you with zero whining.”

“Yeah, but you weren’t emotionally involved back then,” he said, overly dramatic. “Now it’s personal. Now you have to live with the consequences of loving us.”

Oscar added helpfully, “And of being chronically online. Because the moment you post this, it’s over for you.”

You smirked and turned on the machine. The needle buzzed to life. And then—quietly, carefully—you started. The studio fell mostly silent, save for the hum of the machine and the faint background music Logan had insisted on.  Oscar leaned against the table, watching you work. His voice was soft.

“You really do look the most yourself when you’re tattooing.”

You glanced at him. “Covered in ink and sweat?”

“No,” he said, smiling. “Focused. Fierce. At home.”

You paused long enough to let that land in your chest.

Logan leaned in, watching the tattoo take shape. “She’s officially Lightning.”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t make me do a second one on you out of spite.”

“I dare you.”

Oscar snorted. “No more dares. That’s how we got here in the first place.”

Thirty Minutes Later

The tattoo was done. Clean, bold, tiny lightning bolts flaring out from the number 95 in delicate, shimmering ink. A perfect mirror of Oscar’s and Logan’s—your own take, your own skin, your own mark.

Oscar leaned down, brushing a kiss against your temple. “Now we match.”

Logan held up his arm beside yours. “Tattoo soulmates.”

You smiled, flushed and warm, letting them pull you in between them. The shop was still unfinished. The sign wasn’t even up. But in that moment, standing in your new Monaco studio with ink on your skin and love in your bones—It felt perfect. Home wasn’t the shop. It wasn’t the view. It was them. And now, it was official- You were Lightning-certified.

—

logansargeant

liked by oscarpiastri, inked_by_yn, lando and 5,700,005 others.

logansargeant : so happy that i lost a bet and ended up with a sick tattoo and these two.

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[todoriin]

NSFW, oral (afab!reader receiving), college/university au, friend and i were talkin about how phainon was good at maths so i started thinking about how i wanted him to write equations with his tongue

"w-when you asked for my help- titans- with your assignment, i didn't think it w-would be like this," you grumbled, tone airy and words whispy.

"like what?" he asks, barely taking his head away from between your legs.

"like this!" your thigh tenses in his grasp when he suckles on your clit, sharp, sucking sounds making you even more embarrassed as you feel your core getting wetter and wetter, his saliva mixed with your essence.

your fingers pull at his hair and he moans into you, the vibrations like lightning to the end of your nerves.

"i'm solving the problems though? working out and everything."

"what are you- mmh!" your caught off guard when he licks a hot, broad stripe up your slit, tongue slipping back in afterwards. his name passes by your lips like a mantra as he begins drawing curves and miscellaneous shapes in your walls.

wait- did he just write the number '5'?

the muscle then licks a vertical line, followed by a horizontal one, and he's writing the subtraction symbol, seriously? what are you? some working out sheet?

he draws an equal sign, followed by a sloppy sequence of numbers you cannot differentiate, and he ends it with a kiss to your abused clit, causing your empty walls to clench, pathetically begging for more stimulation.

"good little helper," phainon whispers huskily, voice thick with lust. "i should use you like this more often, i'm being real productive."

you hit his back with your heel impatiently, trying to lure him in to where you need him most. he chuckles, pinching your inner thigh in retaliation.

"patience. i want to enjoy you."

"you're taking your sweet time."

he pulls your hips closer to his face, eyeing your expression with a smug grin. "the sweetest."

phainon lowers his mouth and begins his oral assault once more, this adjusted position allowing him to go even deeper, and you can not conjure any more snide remarks when he brings his thumb to your clit. meanwhile, his tongue is still answering more questions, and your slipping rationality deduces he just wrote a square root symbol.

"come on," he whispers against your opening. "i'm almost done with this question set, come for me, sweet thing."

he keeps pleading with your pussy, and the pleasure begins to hike, climbing and climbing and climbing until it finally crests, and you're crying as you gush all over him. phainon happily drinks every drop of your release, moaning happily as he licks you clean, like he was the one who just came instead of you.

as his saliva is slathered all over your inner thighs, you jolt when you feel his tongue lick at your abused cunt again.

"phai- please, i-i'm sensitive!"

he hushes you. "i still have five pages to go through, you said you were happy to help me, right?"

© todoriin 2025, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site, do not feed to AI

[brittle-doughie]

This Year and You! (Various Fics)

Just a look back at certain stories throughout the months! Can you imagine it’s been another with you and Cookies!

———————————————————————

January - Final Days

“What are you looking at, Y/N Cookie?”

“Hm, oh hey, Pure Vanilla. It’s just..a photo. I took….of me and my friends…”

“Oh? Can I perhaps take a look?”

“N-No, I’m..not ready to share this with others yet. It’s..a sensitive story for me…”

“O-oh, it’s okay! Please, take all the time you need. I’ll be there whenever you’re ready…”

“Yeah…”

You looked at the photo. You and your…former close friends. Smiling, enjoying yourselves.

“Thank you…”

You missed those times together. You had missed your friends. Them. Not what they had become…

———————————————————————

February - Storm Warning

“Where’s Y/N Cookie? Did they skip out on fishing with us today?”

“Yeah, I’d reckon they won’t be fishin’ with us for a while! Something about the ocean havin’ scaring them.”

“They’re afraid of the ocean? I’ve seen them fish in dangerous waters before. You telling me a little storm is scaring them?”

“I tried telling ‘em that. It felt..off when they looked at me in the eyes and whispered somethin’ to me.”

“What was it?”

“That this was no ordinary storm…”

Lightning crashes and thunder booms as the two fishermen cookies jump. They’d normally tried to sweep it under the rug as the storm just picking up.

If not for the sound of crying far off in the distant sea…

———————————————————————

March - Ingrained

You couldn’t move…

Seeing through the vines that shielded you from the outside world, not sure if passing by cookies observing and marveling at you…or the plant that Herb Cookie had become feeding off your life powder…

Vines were pierced into your dough, so you couldn’t even pull them off if you wanted to. You barely had the strength….

Herb Cookie…he said…you wouldn’t die. A part of you actually wished you could…

Or at least wish he was here right now, anything to break the monotony of vines settling and moving around you…

His empty, smiling husk right next to you didn’t exactly look like the type to have conversation with…

———————————————————————

April - The Dessert Report

You had carefully placed the ancient desserts into your office fridge before closing it, locking it by typing in a numbered keypad that was hooked to the fridge on the wall.

“The shift is over, manager. Where is our just dues..?”

You quickly turned around to see Redcap Mushroom and Demoncake Kitsune Cookie hidden in the shadows of your moonlit office.

“Right, right. I know, just let me head to the break room and get them-“

“We saw you place desserts in that fridge just now. We’ll take that…”

“What? I’m sorry, you two. These particular desserts aren’t for anyone to consume.”

Demoncake Kitsune floated fast towards you, leaning down her tall figure to stare directly at you with her glowing red eyes and black slit pupils.

“….”

“Come on, Demoncake. You’re well aware of what I told you both about desserts made from the Ancient Heroes.”

“Then we’ll need double of today’s worth in…pay. We don’t like being held out on, manager~”

“Plenty of Cookies came in today with gifts, that works for me.”

You escorted the two out of your office towards the front of the store.

You take a second to glance back at the locked fridge…

Once you’ve tasted something so s..w..e..e..t, nothing else would ever satisfy…

———————————————————————

May - The Lone Giant

Earthbread officials have declared the Lone Giant a passive hazard that’s meant to stay out of the way of. Attempts to approach the Giant has been met with hostile resistance from a group wearing white masks.

Towns in the path of the Giant are strongly advised to remain indoors until it has passed. Do not attempt to provide aid to Cookies that are outside during these curfews, they are beyond saving.

Do not try to apprehend or go to the Giant as it is considered extremely dangerous, whether the Giant itself or by the hostile group of Cookies spotted close by it.

Many Cookies continue to go missing in the Giant’s path to this day.

———————————————————————

June - Yin and Yang

“I’m sorry, but Y/N Cookie is not in at the moment. Please feel free to leave any message or gift with me.”

“…I see. But do please tell them that I wish to..spend the afternoon with them? Is that right?”

“Right, I’ll go ahead and pencil that in for you, your Majesty-“

“KEEP THE DOOR OPEN! KEEP THE DOOR OPEN!”

Dumpling Cookie and Dark Cacao Cookie turned to see you frantically running towards the castle door, your face completely covered in pink and purple kiss marks! Your culprits in high pursuit behind you, Affogato and Peach Blossom Cookie.

“Oh, why did you have to pull away so soon~ I wasn’t done with our little get-together~”

“Is everything alright, Y/N Cookie~? I had just prepare a special peach bao I prepared just for you.”

“I needed room to breathe!”

You dart in through the gap in the castle door and Dumpling Cookie quickly closes it, turning back to Dark Cacao Cookie.

“Should I tell them of your message?”

———————————————————————

July - Volition’s End

Dark Cacao Cookie climbed up the steps, having to stop to catch his breath when he noticed the statue of Mystic Flour Cookie…along with another Cookie beside her, one he didn’t recognize.

“That Cookie…who..?”

“That would be Captain Y/N Cookie, a guard of Mystic Flour Cookie, my Lord.”

Cloud Haetae was oddly more..quiet when bringing up this Cookie, something Dark Cacao Cookie noticed.

“Their sole duty was to protect Mystic Flour Cookie at any cost, even the cost of their own live itself. And that’s exactly what they did, defending her from Cookies that burned with hatred.”

“I..had never seen Mystic Flour Cookie act the way she did ever since that day. Kind of like you, my Lord. She cherished Y/N Cookie more than anything, holding onto their crumbled body as she returned to her cocoon. Because all she needed was them..”

“Have you ever experienced the feeling of emptiness for so long, my Lord?”

———————————————————————

August - Feathered Envy

“Tell me, truly! Who’s the most beautiful of us two? It’s very clear that it’s me, right?”

“Well…”

“Please, allow my precious to answer for themselves. Their answer must come from the bottom of their heart..”

“What? Are you afraid that my darling little Cookie may prefer the more beautiful one between us, Sugar Swan Cookie?”

“Let them answer for themself.”

“It’s clear who they’ll pick anyway. You might as well fly off already. The season is waiting for you-“

“The season can wait. Let them answer truthfully.”

———————————————————————

September - Tale of the Forced Hand

“Will you be alright, Y/N Cookie?”

You gave Pure Vanilla Cookie a reassuring nod, but you kept clutching your head.

“Yeah…yeah, I’ll be okay. I-I don’t know what happened back there. I just saw you all in danger and something in me just..wanted to do something to help.”

“That power you displayed, it was something Shadow Milk Cookie didn’t expect, yet relished in.”

“That smile of his, he knew something..but what was it…”

“Regardless, it’s possible he’s alerted the other Beasts about you. If what he had done was anything, he may not be willing to let you go a second time.”

“Something’s going on here, Pure Vanilla Cookie. It’s like I…remembered Shadow Milk Cookie, but..I didn’t know him at the same time either…”

“Y/N Cookie, could it be that..”

“No. There’s no way. I’ve lived an ordinary life since the beginning! I remember traveling and staying at the Cookie Kingdom when it used to be rubble.”

“Shadow Milk Cookie’s word cannot help trusted…”

“..yet his words always carry a speck of truth. No, I..couldn’t be this Compassion, right?”

———————————————————————

October - Five Nights with Dragons

“Is everything alright with the Great Dragon recently?

“I don’t know, they’ve been acting different since the sacrifice a while ago…”

“Did they..actually get the sacrifice..?”

“They did, I was there to check out the aftermath, the whole place was a mess. Yet, not a crumb was in sight on the floor.”

“Then what happened to the sacrifice?”

“No one knows. The cameras only caught the Great Dragons dragging them out of the home.”

“Then why…why is the Great Dragon angrier then they’ve ever been before?”

———————————————————————

November - Cookie to the Rescue

“So, you really endangered yourself to rescue Golden Osmanthus Cookie is what I’m hearing.”

“Pretty much. I wasn’t going to just leave her, Dumpling Cookie. I didn’t care if I crumbled off an arm to do so!”

“That’s quite the strong feeling towards a Cookie you’ve only met for a little while..”

“So what? Are you going to be like Crowned about this?”

“I was only asking, ‘kay? Remember that this kingdom needs you, Y/N Cookie. You can’t always throw yourself into danger and come out of it all right.”

“I know…”

“But seeing you go out of your way to help others, it’s one of the many things I like you about, Y/N.”

“O-Oh! Thank you, Dumpling Cookie.”

“So..what’s your relationship with Golden Osmanthus?”

“So nosy!”

———————————————————————

December - Destructive Influence

You hurried into a quiet part of the arena locker rooms, quickly pulling the small bit of incense you had stashed away. Taking a deep breath of its fragrance, you felt his influence slip away bit by bit as your mind calms down.

“And just what are you doing?”

“Keeping you from going out of control. What was that back there?! I-I thought you were just going to rough them up a little, not completely tear those three apart!”

“Hahaha! Why would I hold back against pathetic worms who crumble at the first sign of strength such as mine! I helped you and your bunch of friends, you OWE me.”

“I owe you nothing. You could’ve crumbled them! They may be..not the best sort of Cookies, but-“

“But WHAT?! Will you allow these weak, so weak Cookies to push you around?! Or will you allow me to show you the type of power you can have? Where no Cookie in your way will be able to stop you!”

“I…”

“Or will you end up as dust on like any other Cookie before you…?”

You looked at your right hand, it was trembling as it clenched into a fist. You felt a burning sensation coursing through your very dough, as if he was manifesting his power through it.

“Your enemy will not show mercy. Are you not going to give them the same or are you going to them every ounce of power that COURSES THROUGH YOUR DOUGH?!”

“ENOUGH!”’

You punched the wall in front of you, making the room tremble as you make a large dent in the wall. The burning faded as did Burning Spice’s influence..

Thank Swan for Golden Osmanthus Cookie’s incense. You only hope it can remain effective for as long as you needed it…

———————————————————————

It’s been a great year with you all! Here’s to another!

[forhyune]

𝐢 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠・h.h.

— in which hyunjin needs an expert opinion about his newest piercing.

words・1.4k pairing・idol!hyunjin x gn!makeup artist!reader genres・fluff, humor, established relationship

a/n・ this takes place in the places, places! / crying lightning universe but can be read on its own. tagging @astraystayyh bc it's been so long since she's seen her children and also because i tag her in everything. i missed these two SORELY

The parlor door jingles. Hyunjin emerges onto the chilled pavement with his phone pressed to his ear, and you pick up on the fourth ring.

“What is it? I’m busy.” The way your voice shrinks substantiates this claim, like you’ve darted to the other end of the room promptly after accepting his call. “And you’re on speaker.”

Hyunjin ducks into his car and sits back against the nylon with a grateful sigh. He finds himself constantly ill-prepared for Seoul’s Januarys. “Busy with who? Remind me.”

“You wanna say hi?” You ask the person in your company. Who is it? He hears them ask, to which you answer: Hyunjin. You say it softly, in the sense that you’re far away and speaking under your breath, but softly, in the sense that your tongue caresses every syllable of his name with that tacit fondness he’ll never tire of.

He notices the ditzy smile on his face only when he glances into his rear-view. He’s long given up on wiping it off.

A familiar voice drifts into your receiver. “Mr. Hwang!”

Ah, that’s right—you’re working on Aespa’s new music video for the next two weeks. Today must be the first day of filming.

“Hey, Ningning. How are you?”

“In a predicament, honestly. I have the biggest crush on my stylist, but so does this other guy…”

“Wow, sounds rough. Best of luck!”

“Oh, I won’t need luck. I said predicament, not competition.” 

His jaw hits his wheel. “Okay, we’re boxing. Let’s go. Earrings off.”

“Say less.”

You’ve withstood enough. “Alright, nobody is boxing anyone—do not touch your earrings, Ning, what’s wrong with you? God, Hyunjin!”

Now you say his name sternly, hopelessly, like he’s just knocked ten years off your lifespan. He almost likes this version more. He fell in love with you listening to it, after all.

“Did you call for any reason aside from threatening my clients?”

Oh, right. He did.

Hyunjin glances into the rear-view again, intentionally this time. He moves aside a lock of maroon hair to review the silver studs glinting off his right eyebrow.

He smirks.

“Am I allowed on set?”

Half an hour later, Hyunjin reaches the filming site and runs into a few staff members who are so surprised to see him they nearly forget to question what he’s doing there.

But they do their job, and he humors them, utters your name and the word “boyfriend” back to back. Then he watches their eyebrows disappear into their hairlines and basically prances into the dressing rooms.

He loves that everyone knows you. He loves that everyone knows that he loves you.

You were out of bed before he opened his eyes this morning, and he blooms at his first sight of you today, alone in the lounge, curled up on the couch and browsing through your phone. Eyeshadow stains your fingers and a pen sits behind the cuff of your ear. Your figure is framed in a (his) white cardigan with a red heart stitched over its left lapel. So professional, so pretty, that he doesn’t know what to do with himself, so he uses his words instead.

“I did a thing,” he says, plopping onto the cushion next to you.

You look at him, shut off your phone. “I figured.”

“Promise me you won’t get mad.”

“No.”

It was worth a shot. “Can you blink, at least? You’re scaring me.”

In turn, you stretch open your eyes and hold them there. “A blink would be more than you deserve right now.”

Insufferable. He unleashes a bashful laugh and singular clap and looks back at you just in time to see a matching smile on your cordate lips. And to see you blink.

“Seriously, though, no more suspense,” you plead. “What on earth did you do? Should I be worried?” 

You tuck your hand around his bicep and tug lightly at his arm, and his insides pirouette at the gesture.

“No, no,” he answers, letting you pull him close, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I was being dramatic. It’s nothing, really.”

You catch him as he’s trying to leave. A light finger hooks beneath his chin, an anchor to keep his face a mere few inches away from yours.

You look him in the right eye, then in the left, your expression stoic, scrutinizing. He doesn’t remember where he looks, in the meantime. He’s slipping and sliding out of his right mind, drinking in your long lashes and curved cheeks, wondering what heroic deed he performed in his last life to be able to study beauty in such proximity in this one.

“It’s not nothing, is it?” You query, tracing the tip of your pointer finger over Hyunjin’s cupid’s bow.

“No,” he exhales. “It’s not nothing.”

“Did you get it on your face?”

Of course you already know.

He nods, and the finger moves to his lower lip, gently indenting the glossy plush. 

“Hot or cold?” 

“Cold.”

The finger runs over the bridge of his nose, then the perimeter of its prominence, like the drag of a feather. 

“Warmer.”

You lift a brow, give the side of his face a small nudge, and say, turn. The word comes out in a very stylist-esque manner, and you and Hyunjin realize this at the same time, judging by the synchrony of your quiet chuckles.

“Force of habit,” you murmur, and move his hair out of the way and lean in to examine his ear. Nothing new there. He turns his face the other way before you have to ask. Nothing new there, either.

When he looks at you again, your gaze has locked onto his eyebrows. You cock your head slightly to one side as it dawns on you what he’s done.

“Warmer,” he offers anyways, his smile small, his pulse rapid.

With a flourish of movement, you push his purple locks all the way off his forehead. Hyunjin holds his breath. Your expression goes blank. 

But it’s not blank, not really. One just has to know where to look. (He does.)

Your eyes darken fast as if caught in a solar eclipse, your pupils doubling in size, your irises quivering slightly. Your mouth opens, then closes, then purses into a thin line as if suppressing something explosive. Your cheeks blush at their very outskirts, along the edges of your face and the slants of your cheekbones, like how the first rays of sunlight always skim the mountaintops first.

He hardly notices the finger you bring to brush over the studs, so carefully he doesn’t feel the contact.

He’s too busy basking in his victory.

Neither of you say anything for a long while. You lean back, then right, then left, your hand pinned to his hairline, your gaze superglued to his brow. He simply sits still, feeling like one of your French girls, simpering, simping.

“You really did it,” you finally say.

“I did,” he chirps. “Any notes?”

At the next part of your lips, your waiting smile overtakes them at long last. You duck your head to conceal it like he hasn’t already melted at its mere image. You deliver your answer to your knees.

“No?” He repeats incredulously, teasingly. “That’s a shame. I really could’ve used an expert opinion.”

You roll your eyes hard enough for them to tug at your sockets. His boyish grin wipes away your feigned irritation like warm cotton.

“Fine,” you grouse. “Look at me.”

He does. You look back.

Your resolve wobbles.

“It compliments your face…shape.”

The ‘p’ sound pops, and you lose your shit.

The sun fully risen now, you bury your burning face into your hands, your shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Meanwhile, the raucous cackle that leaves Hyunjin’s lips causes the intern hurrying past the lounge outside to jump so high he actually lets go of his coffee cups before snatching them back out of the air with a relieved groan. He doesn’t get paid enough. 

You think you’re getting paid too much. 

“You’re beautiful, Hyun,” you whisper. “I don’t tell you that enough."

His heart beats so rapidly he thinks it might take off into a sprint; his laugh dwindles into a ditzy smile, one he’s long given up on wiping off.

“You know nothing about that word,” he replies, softly.

You bring your lips to his. His fingers wrap around the crook of your elbow. Yours begin curled in the silken hair at the back of his head. The pen behind your ear falls into the cracks of the couch.

“I’m still mad at you,” you sigh against his mouth, your own statement debunked by the inevitable drift of your touch back to the metal lodged in his face, and he doesn’t need to call you out. You do it yourself.

“Ugh, I’ll be mad at you later.”

🔖 (send an ask to be added)・@astraystayyh・@like-a-diamondinthesky・@fire-08・@starsandrqindrops・@txtxlz・@laylasbunbunny・@strayghibli・@nuronhe・@seungminsapuppy・@vivisoni・@skzms・@moon0fthenight・@sweetpickledjins・@svintsandghosts・@nhyunn ・@ur-boyfiend・@liknws・@hotgorloikawa・@randomwimp・ @automaticpersonabatpaper・@aceofvernons・@linos-kitten・@newhope8

© 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐱 (est. 090323) · liked this work? please consider reblogging, commenting, or sending me an ask to let me know; or, read my other writing here. thanks so much for the support ♡

[pathologicalreid]

could we get Spencer Reid with a hypersexual reader that uses sex as a bad coping mechanism? 💕💕

don't look in the mirror | S.R.

seeking comfort in those you hold close, except there's a right way and a wrong way to do it

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst (i think?) w/ mature themes (18+ mdni) content warnings: seeking comfort in sex, avoidance, mental health issues, spencer has those info dumps on lock, shame, self deprecation, reader hates her job (me too), blood as a metaphor, crying word count: 1.85k a/n: this is such an important topic and i'm so thankful for you asking me to write this!!!! i know this is a premise i've seen before, so i tried to make mine different. (im actually really proud of how this one turned out)

“Baby,” Spencer whispered in your ear, turning his head to the side as you left small, slow kisses on the exposed skin of his neck.

You hummed but refused to detach your lips from his soft skin, tugging gently at his shirt so that you could make your way down to his collarbone. He smelled like sunshine and the jet, an admittedly odd combo that did nothing to stop your movements down the column of his throat. His neck vibrated with sound, but none of his words registered, it all went in one ear and out the other.

His hand gently settled on the small of your back and you took a deep breath before you began pulling at the knot of his tie, “Y/N,” he muttered in a warning.

Your head snapped up at his tone, disappointed that you didn’t find the same want in his eyes that you knew was blazing in your own irises. Synapses in your brain were firing at lightning speed, and your heart was beating so quickly that it was like it was trying to keep up. “I missed you,” you whispered to him, allowing your eyes to flitter across his face.

Spencer settled his hands on your hips, firmly grabbing them in exactly the way you wanted, but instead of pulling you closer to him, he stilled their rotation.

Your heart stuttered.

“What happened?” He asked you tentatively, using the pads of his thumbs to rub soothing circles on your hips, trying to keep you from moving while giving you comfort. Despite the way you were sitting in his lap, Spencer still felt worlds away from you – if he was on Earth, you were in a different galaxy. 

Hesitantly, your lips parted, and you took a deep breath before shutting your mouth again, deciding you had nothing to say. While he’d been away, nothing significant had happened, everything in your life had trudged on exactly the way it always did. You went to work at the same job you’ve had since you got out of college with a boss who most certainly had it out for you, and you came home to an empty apartment with your phone volume all the way up, waiting for your boyfriend to call you. You really were pathetic, but you didn’t voice those concerns, instead, you answered, “Nothing happened,” the half-truth easily slid from your mouth. “Can’t I just have missed my boyfriend and want to spend quality time with him?”

Spencer hummed thoughtfully, tilting his head back as his hair moved with him, “Stop, Y/N,” he said.

Without even realizing it, your hands had drifted down to his chest, and your hands were absentmindedly fiddling with the buttons of his shirt, “I didn’t…” you started to say, but your words faltered when you noticed the way he was looking at you. You looked over your shoulder, making sure that the rest of the world was still there as you tried to climb off of Spencer’s lap. “Let me go,” you insisted, hating how small your voice sounded as you pushed against him to no avail.

“I can’t let you go, not right now,” he told you, steadying his resolve as he watched you. You were staring at your hands like they were covered in blood, red-covered palms as you watched, horrified at the idea of them developing a mind of their own. It wasn’t as if your hands had suddenly become sentient entities, your heart and your brain were working against each other, fighting a silent, internal war. “Pick a spot for your hands, and just leave them there,” he whispered to you.

Your hands tremored as you settled them on either one of Spencer’s shoulders, “You don’t find me attractive anymore,” you mumbled, struggling to find the strength to enunciate your thoughts.

Spencer sighed, “Why don’t we take a minute, okay?” Delicately, he moved one hand from its station on your hip and moved it to cup your cheek, holding your face as if it were made of fine china. “What happened while I was gone, honey?”

His hand was wet on your face, or rather, your face was wet from tears that had started to trickle from your tear ducts. You furrowed your brows in frustration, “Why do you assume that something happened? Nothing happened while you were gone, why can’t you just let that be the answer?”

“Because it’s not the answer,” he insisted, dropping his hand back to your hip, continuing to stop you from getting up and moving away from him.

You scoffed, “Is it not the answer, or is it just not the answer you’re looking for, Spencer?”

“It’s not the answer, and I’m looking for the answer. You can tell me anything,” he urged, resuming his soothing movements over your hip.

As you watched his expression morph into a slight panic, you realized he was beginning to think something happened to you. With what he did for work, it was always in the back of his mind, you being in danger of being hurt by other people but what he rarely considered was the idea of you being a danger to yourself. “Nothing happened, okay? Absolutely nothing happened to me while you were gone and everything in the world stayed exactly the fucking same. I went to work every day and I came home and sat around while I waited for you to call, I waited for you to come home and now you won’t even touch me.”

Your tears kept coming, leaving saline stains on his gray shirt as your head spun and his movements stopped. “Work was bad?” He asked softly, using his fingertips to wipe beneath your eyes. He knew about your issues at work, he had been encouraging you to leave the job for months, but you were convinced that a promotion was coming. “You shouldn't have to be miserable every time you go to work.”

“Not everyone gets to be hand-picked for a top job at twenty-one. Some people have to work shitty jobs to make ends meet,” you snapped at him, nostrils flaring angrily.

He didn’t answer right away, you became hyperaware of the pounding of your heart as you waited for his response. As you waited for him to kick you out. “I told you that I’d support you if you wanted to go back to school. I meant it, Y/N,” he told you, brown eyes flooded with concern. “You can leave your job and pursue your dream, that’s all I’ve ever wanted for you, baby.” Spencer leaned back against the couch cushions, “I can’t help you until you help yourself, love.”

Slouching your shoulders, you felt your eyes starting to line with tears again, “It feels so unfair to have you shoulder more responsibility so that I can go back to school.”

“No,” he said, “What’s not fair is you lying to me and then trying to avoid it with sex. I asked you how your week had been, and you either didn’t care to answer me or you have such bad tunnel vision that you didn’t even hear me.” He gently chided, giving you time to drown in the blatant concern in his eyes, “and what’s worse is you never told me it was this bad.”

You averted your eyes, focusing your gaze on the chessboard behind him as you thought about your next move. In one fell swoop, he could checkmate you, completely catch you off guard, and tell you everything that you didn’t want to hear. Alternatively, you could sacrifice yourself for his benefit, “I hate my job. My boss is making it impossible for me to make any positive stride, and that’s on top of him being a misogynistic douche.” You flexed your hands where they remained on Spencer’s shoulders and sighed, “And yes, I miss you when you’re gone. Yes, I lied to you about it, but what would you do about it? Leave your big important job because your girlfriend is lonely?”

He craned his head to the side, silently encouraging you to make eye contact with him, “I’d hope that you’d feel comfortable enough to tell me how you’re feeling so that we could work something out – we can talk through this. It’s a two-way street though, you have to talk to me. I can make an effort to call and text more if you promise me, you’ll make an effort to communicate with me.”

Slowly, you started to nod, “I… I can do that, but you hate texting,” you reminded him, raising your eyebrows curiously.

“I’ll get over it,” he reassured you, studying your features, “You’re worth it,” he added.

Finally, you pulled your arms back, hugging them around yourself protectively, “I’m sorry,” you murmured, “I don’t know why I am… the way that I am.”

Spencer took a deep breath before giving you a look that told you he had an inkling, “You’re unhappy, with me or the world, it doesn’t matter, but you think the solution to your displeasure comes in the form of an orgasm and that’s just not the answer, honey.”

You hiccupped and wrapped your arms tighter around yourself like you could make yourself smaller, “I still don’t know why though.”

“You’re seeking the rush, not necessarily the act of sex itself, you want the dopamine and oxytocin rush that comes with an orgasm. Your brain convinces yourself that it’s what you need because when you get unhappy like this, all you can focus on is how to feel better and fast,” he spoke to you gently – he knew this wasn’t what you wanted to hear, but it was what you needed to hear. “It’s brief, and it’s just for that moment, and your brain might even recall how your parasympathetic nervous system shuts down after you come, and your body gets tired. You get a rush of serotonin, and you relax enough to convince yourself that it'll be okay, but you need to find something more permanent. I’ll help you.”

Your arms fell limply at your sides, “Do you think I’m broken?”

The small smile he gave you was enough of an answer, “No, in fact, I know you’re not broken.” Tenderly, he reached out and unwound your arms from around your torso, “And since I know you won’t stop thinking about it, I do still find you attractive.” Spencer studied your face, “Where do you want to start?”

“Do you want to help me draft a letter of resignation?” You offered, giving Spencer a shy smile.

He hummed in response, “Yeah, in a bit.” Your boyfriend reached his hands out to you, now being the one who pulled you close, “Come here, darling.”

You leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder and sighing as he wrapped his arms around your torso, “I missed you,” you mumbled, entirely deflating your lungs as you let yourself relax.

Spencer reached up, ruffling your hair with one hand and keeping another on the small of your back as he sighed with you, “I missed you too.”

[niwaart]

Secret of Shadows

(John Constantine’s son x Batfam)

-part1... -part2...

It was a stormy night in Gotham, the rain pounding furiously on the sidewalks, and the wind howling like hungry wolves. In a slum, Red Robin was chasing one of the Penguin's drug dealers, who was trying to escape across the rooftops. Tim was closing in, planning to bring him down with one blow...

But suddenly, a small green and red shadow leaped in front of him with a sword drawn.

Robin stood in Tim's way with a smug grin. "This criminal is mine. Find another."

"Get out of my way, Robin! This is no time for play!" Tim growled, trying to swerve around him, but Damian leaped back to block his path.

"I told you, that's my goal!"

"You're a spoiled brawler!"

"And you're a boring replacement!"

The argument escalated into a fistfight on the rooftop, while the drug dealer took advantage and fled. But he didn't just flee... he pulled out a remote detonator.

"A bomb..." Tim whispered in astonishment after seeing what the criminal was carrying.

Before the building exploded, a massive black shadow swooped down from the sky like lightning. Batman. He grabbed the dealer with one hand and destroyed the detonator with the other at the last moment.

But the rage in Batman's eyes was more terrifying than any bomb as he looked at Red Robin and Robin.

After Batman made sure the civilians were safe, he turned to Tim and Damian, his eyes burning with rage beneath his mask.

"What is this nonsense?!" Batman roared, his voice like thunder.

Damian stood silent, but Tim tried to explain. "I was about to catch the criminal, but Damian—"

"Enough!" Batman cut him off. "Tim, you're the elder. You should have acted responsibly, not gotten involved in a childish squabble!"

Tim felt like he'd been stabbed. "But he started—"

"It doesn't matter who started it!" Batman said harshly. "I expected better from you. I'm disappointed."

Those words were like a knife to Tim's heart.

Tim returned to the apartment he shared with Y/N, his face as dark as the night that followed. Tim completely ignored the stream of jokes Y/N cracked upon seeing him:

"Wow! Your face looks like my father when i burned his cigarette! Want me to read you a bedtime story?"

Tim didn't reply. He walked into the bathroom and slammed the door shut.

Y/N stood in front the bathroom door waiting, and after five minutes of silence, decided to knock. "I'm going in, so you'd better at least put your pants on."

Before Tim could reply, Y/N opened the door. He found him hunched over the sink, water running down his head as if he were trying to drown himself.

Y/N looked at him for a moment, then said quietly, "There are quicker ways to commit suicide than drowning in a sink."

Tim lifted his head, his eyes red, but he didn't cry... yet.

"I'm sure you'll get my father's wrinkles if you keep pouting like that." Y/N said sarcastically, stepping closer to Tim.

And Tim? He finally exploded.

"Shut up!" he yelled, pushing Y/N away. "Everything is going wrong! I became Robin after Jason died just to help Bruce, and no one thanks me! All the blame is on me, not Damian's! I'm doing everything I can, but no one notices!"

Tim didn't realize he'd started crying until he felt Y/N's arms wrap tightly around him.

"It's okay... Scream all you want," Y/N said, knowing what he was doing. He wanted Tim to explode, to let out all the pent-up emotions inside him. He held him tight, letting him scream, cry, everything.

He didn't care that his shirt was soaking wet from Tim's tears.

After Tim calmed down, Y/N took him for a sandwich in the middle of the night, then put him back in bed. He stayed by his side, holding him until he fell asleep.

But Y/N didn't sleep. He want to revenge.

He concocted a small spell. "Now, they'll see what Tim feels."

First, Bruce had disturbing dreams of Thomas and Martha being shot again and again, while his sons (Dick, Jason, Damian, even Tim) were killed one by one

in front of him.

Then, Damian watched Alfred fall dead while he was powerless to save him, handcuffed.

And Jason relived that night in the warehouse with the Joker, the laughter suddenly fading into a deathly silence.

Finally, Dick watched his parents fall again and again, but this time, he was the one pushing them.

Each of them woke up early in the morning, drenched in a cold sweat, their hearts pounding with terror.

And vice versa for Y/N.

The sun gently peeked through the window curtains, illuminating the room with a warm, golden light. The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the air as Y/N sat on the kitchen chair, watching Tim struggle to open his sleepy eyes after a restless night.

Y/N smiled broadly, "Good morning, Mr. Drake! Did you know your face looks like mashed potatoes when you wake up?"

Tim yawned, trying to ignore him. "Shut up..."

Y/N laughed and pushed a cup of coffee towards him. "Don't worry, I added enough sugar to kill a horse, just like you like it."

Tim took the cup and took a sip, then grimaced. "This... is so sweet my teeth hurt."

Y/N pretended to be shocked. "And this is appreciation after everything I've done for you?!" He put his hand over his head dramatically. "But I can't imagine if I hadn't met you, my dear friend... I'd be living in a trash can among naughty cats!"

Tim raises an eyebrow. “A trash can? Really?”

Y/N nods solemnly. “Yeah! Or maybe in my father’ crappy old apartment that hasn’t seen the light of day in a thousand years! Which, by the way, is worse than a trash can. At least the cats like me!” He pretends to wipe away the tears that haven’t fallen. “I would have been a hideous zombie, like a battered doll from a cheap horror movie!”

Tim can’t hold back his laughter. “You’re a freak.”

Y/N grabs Tim’s hand exaggeratedly. “But thanks to you, I’m here now! Drinking poison coffee, living with my potato-like ex-Robin!” He winks. “So… thank you.”

Tim’s cheeks turn slightly pink as he finishes his coffee. “You… aren’t worth the effort.”

Y/N grabs a pillow and throws it at him. “Of course not! But you love me anyway!”

Tim grabs the pillow and throws it back, finally smiling. "Maybe."

After a moment of silence, Y/N speaks in a gentler voice, "Seriously, Tim... I'm glad you're here. Not just because you saved me from the trash can." He laughs, "But because... you made me feel like I wasn't alone."

Tim looks at him, then looks away, smiling, "You're an idiot."

Y/N grabs a piece of toast and pops it full into his mouth, then speaks as he grins, "And that's why you love me!"

Tim ignores him, but his laughter gives him away: "Disgusting."

Y/N smiles and then hugs Tim tightly. "Let's watch TV."

That afternoon, while Tim is watching the TV Y/N suggested, which is so bad, he doesn't know how Y/N can laugh at this movie, but Tim can't help but laugh with Y/N, and then the doorbell rings. Y/N didn't move from his seat. After all, this was Tim's house, and hardly anyone knew about Y/N living with Tim except for his family. So Tim got up to look at the screen to see behind the door. He found his entire family standing in front of it... and... why was Jason holding a gun and looking angry?

Tim immediately opened the door and saw their pale faces, their eyes filled with nightmares.

It didn't take more than two seconds for Tim to conclude that Y/N had done something... after all, it wasn't the first time Y/N had done something stupid for Tim.

"What...did you do?" Tim looked at the naughty Y/N who was pretending to watch TV.

But Bruce couldn't stand the pretense. He stormed into the room and pulled Y/N up by the shirt.

"You! What did you do to us tonight?!"

"What? What are you talking about?" Y/N said with fake innocence.

"Enough with the lies!" Bruce growled. A voice was heard from behind Bruce, Jason, who was about to blow Y/N's head off. "We've all had nightmares... and I'm pretty sure it was you!"

"Maybe it's your conscience?" Y/N sneered as he looked at Jason's gun. Dick was barely holding Jason back from shooting, and needless to say, Damian was ready to stab him if his father wasn't right there in front of him.

At that moment, Bruce decided he needed outside reinforcements. So he literally dragged Y/N from Tim's house to his limo, took him to the Batcave, and immediately called John Constantine. It took him more than three attempts to answer, which made Y/N laugh.

"Bloody Hell, Batman. This is early even for hell." Constantine replied, his hair disheveled like someone who had just woken up.

"Your son is here in Gotham," Batman said, his impatience harsh.

"Huh? Which one?"

At that moment, Bruce appeared to Y/N, still holding him by the collar. "Hello, dear old father, my favorite person."

Constantine stared at Y/N for a few seconds before looking up in shock. "What?! What are you doing there, you little bastard?!"

"I want him back where he came from. Tell me how to get rid of him." Batman ordered angrily.

John looked at his son in disbelief. "If I knew, I'd get rid of him myself! He steals my money, burns my coat, and disappears whenever I need him!"

"The coat was old! Be thankful!" Y/N grimaced at his father.

"Give me back the five dollars first, you thief!"

As everyone looked at this messed-up family, Tim started laughing... he couldn't contain himself.

"I think there's a worse family than us," Dick said, while Jason burst out laughing like a maniac, at Y/N and J'onn's fight.

And Batman? He felt that Gotham was in more danger than ever.

[fettuccin-e]

The First Time

Kinktober Day 15: Size Kink

Tags: Frankie "Catfish" Morales x Reader, afab!fem!reader, unprotected piv (pls wrap it up irl fuck them kids), fingering (r!recieving), oral (r!giving and recieving), Frankie's monster schlong, yeah he's got a giant dick we all know it (w/c: 1.5K)

A/N: Part of the rapid-fire Kinktober catch up! My absolutely massive size kink really let itself free with this one (get it?? massive?? hehehe) but anyway please enjoy my ramblings about taking Frankie's gigantic schlong. (I have been using these prompts from flightlessangelwings for Kinktober!)

The first time you undress Frankie, really see him for the first time, bare and open to your gaze, you think you’re fucking hallucinating. He’d been so shy when you’d first met, so unassuming next to Pope and Will and Benny. Tugging the brim of his cap to cover his eyes, a timid little smile playing on his face as you flirted with him, not his friends. 

You couldn’t have expected the fucking monster between his thighs the first time you have him naked in your bed, his cock so thick you can barely wrap your hand around him. You don't expect the way you choke on him when you try to blow him, only for you to realize that you hadn't even made it halfway.

He doesn’t fuck you that night, the both of you too high on each other’s bodies and too tipsy from the bottle of wine you’d shared earlier.

“Need time to get you ready, hermosa,” he whispers in your ear, fucking you so hard and deep on his fingers you nearly cry. “Next time baby, next time.”

The first time he fucks you, he doesn’t make it all the way. You think you're ready, despite Frankie’s protests, begging him to fuck you, grinding into his mouth, into his fingers as he works orgasm after orgasm out of your heaving body. Through your blurry eyes, you can see the way his hips thrust gently into the mattress, fucking himself into your sheets as he eats you out, groaning into your pussy as you gush down his face. It’s fucking maddening.

He lines himself up, pressing into you gently, so gently, but God, it’s already too much. Too fucking much. You gasp as the thick head of his cock presses into your entrance, spreading you so much wider than his fingers, wider than you’ve ever been stretched. It fucking stings, and you dig your nails into Frankie’s shoulders as you try to take it for him.

He only sinks in halfway before your body just can’t take it anymore, squeezing him so tight that he can’t possibly move deeper. Tears spring to your eyes at the feeling of it, and you try to apologize, but Frankie only leans down to seal his mouth to yours, kissing the breath out of your lungs.

“Feels so fucking good,” he mutters against your lips, sounding so fucking wrecked, and you throb around him at the sound of it. “Your little pussy is so fucking tight.” 

You feel lightheaded at the destroyed rasp of his voice, and when he moves, you feel lightning rocket up your spine, whining loudly against his lips. He grins, the shy boy from the bar long gone as he thrusts until he’s halfway in again, fucking you on only half his cock as you keen beneath him. You have no idea how he’ll ever fit inside completely, how just half of him fills you up more than anyone else ever has. “Wanna take all of you,” you gasp, “want it all inside, fuck, Frankie, please.”

He shushes you gently, smoothing his hands down your sides. “Mi amor, we need more time to get you ready,” he murmurs softly. “Next time, baby, next time.”

He fucks you just like that, breaking you open with just half of his cock and fisting the base in a large, warm palm until you squeeze around him with your orgasm. When you beg him to cum inside you, he groans, pumping you full, gripping tight to your thighs. You promise yourself that next time you'll take all of him.

The first time you take Frankie, really, truly take him, you think that he’s more affected than you are.

You’re so wet, dripping down your thighs from Frankie’s endless preparation, his lips shiny with your slick as he leans down to kiss you slowly, deliberately. You find that you don’t mind the taste of yourself.

He’s been fucking you on his thick fingers for what seems like hours, spreading you so wide, wide enough that you thought you’d break.

You don’t know how many times he’s made you cum, how many times he’s told you that it’ll make you looser, get you ready. You think he just likes watching you fall apart, his eyes blown wide as you tremble against the sheets. 

When he finally, finally notches the thick tip of his cock against your entrance, pushing forward slowly, you try to brace yourself for pain. It’s so much, he’s so much, and it should hurt, fuck, you should feel like you’re being ripped apart. 

But your mind is foggy with desperation, your need to finally fit him inside, that you can barely feel the pain at all. You can only gasp for air as his cock stretches you wide, pressing in so deep it’s like you can feel it in your lungs. And he just slides in, easy as that, as if it was easy all along.

And as much as you moan and gasp, your fingers clutching into the skin of his back, it is nothing compared to the way Frankie fucking whines at the feeling of it, his head dropping into the crook of your neck as he stills his hips, pressed in as deep as he can get.

“Fuck me, please, oh my God, Frankie,” you gasp, grinding your hips against his on pure instinct, desperate to get him in deeper, somehow. But his hands tighten on you, gripping so hard you think he’ll leave bruises.

“Stop,” he says, deep and raspy and fucking primal. “Stop fucking moving, shit, ‘m trying not to fucking cum.” He sounds goddamn sinful, and your pussy throbs at the sheer idea of him filling you up just from finally fitting inside you. You let him breathe through it, raking your nails gently up his back. He shivers at your touch.

You suck air in through your teeth when he pulls out, just barely, only to fuck back in. He does it again, and again, and again, thrusting so deep into you that his cock fucking drags into your sweet spot, not even trying. You’ve never felt so fucking full before.

“Fuck, baby, you’re so goddamn tight, don’t even know how I can fuckin’ fit,” he mutters, pulling your thighs tighter around his hips and pulling you down onto his thick cock with every thrust. “This little cunt is just sucking me in, ‘s like she can’t get enough.”

“God, yes, Frankie please,” you choke out between labored breaths, your vision blurring at the edges. All you can fucking feel, hear, smell is Frankie above you, warm and towering over you, filling you up so perfect.

“So goddamn pretty wrapped around my cock,” he growls, pounding into you hard enough that tears start to pour down your cheeks. “My greedy baby, am I big enough for you?”

“Fuck! Yes, it’s so- it’s so fuckin’ big, Frankie, I can feel it in my fucking stomach.” You’re slurring your words, your brain turned to mush as Frankie breaks you apart so viciously. He reaches between you to rub quick circles into your clit with a calloused thumb, and your body locks up, your back arching so far it presses your tits into Frankie’s strong chest.

“That’s right, honey, just fuckin’ feel it. Nobody else can fill you up like I can, right?” he snarls, and you can only nod frantically, choked moans punched from your throat every time he thrusts inside you. “Cum, sweetheart. Show me how much you love my big cock.”

And you have no other choice but to fucking scream, pulsing violently around him as you cum. You’re fucking lost in it, broken apart in the best way possible, and Frankie groans, stilling inside of your as he fills you up with cum. It’s pure bliss, a goddamn revelation, and you don’t think it’s ever going to fucking stop. He smothers your cries with a kiss, licking into your mouth and soothing you like a wild animal as you both ride out the aftershocks. 

When you finally feel yourself start to breathe normally again, to find it in yourself to blink blearily up at him, smiling softly when you see him already staring down at you. As he pulls out of you, you feel the emptiness immediately, whining as he shushes you gently. “I know, honey, I know,” he murmurs, falling beside you and pulling you into him. “You did so good for me.”

“Damn right I did,” you murmur, sleep already weighing down your eyelids. “Who else is going to take that monster dick of yours?”

He laughs, loud and gruff in the most perfectly Frankie-way you could possibly imagine. “Don’t act like you didn’t fucking love it, hermosa.”

And, well, you don’t really have arguments for that.

[wowieeitsisa]

BFDI CHARACTER VS FEELINGS TOWARDS CHILDREN AND HOW THEY TAKE CARE OF THEM !

This started with a thought about Golf Ball, check under the cut for a SUPER LONG RAMBLE ABT THIS 😭🙏

LIKES KIDS, IS GREAT WITH THEM

- Baloony: Fun Uncle, possibly a great dad too, he’s also a really great babysitter !

- Barf Bag: GREAT babysitter, extremely patient with kids and 100% gentle parents

- BasketBall: #MOTHER, a bit too busy with her own work but SUPER caring !

- Bell: I’m going with a feeling, she has been in a team with Grassy, great babysitter and probably sings 2 children

- Cloudy: Cool Uncle, that shows off his trinkets to children and let them play as long as they return them to him

- Eggy: Great babysitter, the type who’s always making a bunch of outdoor activities for children

- Loser: idk, I feel he’s nice with children as the local famous guy, he’s chill about supervising them

- Marker: You’d think he wouldn’t be a good babysitter, but he’s like SO good, if not the best, in the entirety of Death Pact towards children, super fun and an awesome babysitter

- Nickel: Fun FUN uncle, surprisingly responsible even he’s the type that LOVES playing rough with kids in a way that parents would disapprove

- Pie: Great Babysitter, right behind marker, excels at preventing kids from killing themselves

- Spongy: IS FRIENDS WITH CHILDREN (Rocky) ! He understands them like no other, fun uncle and great babysitter

- TV: GIANT IPAD, he just LOVES to entertain kids !!!!!

- Two: They’re chill w kids ! Supervises them just perfect

- Six: Aunty <3 Makes coloring activities for the kids

- X: Great babysitter!!! And he understands kids in a way it’s scary lmao

- Ten: He’s just a chill guy, great babysitter, manages to keep the child calm most of the day

- Snowball: There’s a living proof he’s good with kids (Grassy), and it’s kinda a good contrast to his character

- Coiny: Cool Uncle who is cool with kids, they adore him

DISLIKES KIDS, IS GREAT WITH THEM

- Bubble: The only reason she dislikes kids it’s cuz they’re too rough and careless, and SHE IS easy to pop, regardless of that she makes sure she’s a great babysitter

- Donut: Not very patient with kids, but treats them as human beings, so he’s great supervising them

- Fanny: She really loves saying she hates everything and she doesn’t get along with kids the best, probably makes them cry accidentally, but she’s good taking care of them !

- Golf Ball: Definitely says out loud she dislikes kids but she’s such a great caretaker, a bit too strict though

- Needle: Kids are not her vibe, regardless she’s quite responsible and well that makes her good at supervising them

- Four: It’s the fact he doesn’t understand children that makes him dislike them, but since they’re a good host he does end up being good with children

- Eight: They’re responsible, even not liking kids they end up being good at supervising them

- Fifteen: She probably hates kids as much as she hates everyone else, PLEASE leave this integer alone ! But she wouldn’t leave a child alone if she saw them wandering off, ends up being a really good babysitter

NEUTRAL (NORMAL) ABOUT KIDS

- 8Ball: No strong feelings, ok as a babysitter

- Bomby: No strong feelings, AWFUL as a babysitter

- Bracelety: No strong feelings, is great at entertaining children but not the best babysitter though

- Cake: No strong feelings, not the best to supervise children

- Clock: He’s a normal guy, no strong feelings abt kids but responsible enough around them

- Foldy: No strong feelings, but has been in a team with Grassy, she ends up a good babysitter

- Gaty: No strong feelings, prefers not interacting with kids but responsible around them

- Lightning: No strong feelings, awful as a babysitter

- Liy: No strong feelings, awful as a babysitter

- Naily: No strong feelings, cool auntie to supervise kids though

- Remote: No strong feelings, not the best babysitter but ok and responsible at supervising kids

- Saw: No strong feelings, responsible but not the best at supervising kids since she doesn’t really know how to interact with them

- Stapy: No strong feelings, doesn’t know how to exactly interact with children

- Five: No strong feelings, Responsible

- Zro1 + Zero Bunch: No strong feeling, responsible and GREAT babysitters

- Ice Cube: No strong feelings, ok around them but doesn’t exactly has the patience or really understands them

LIKES KIDS, IS AN ABSOLUTE DISASTER WITH THEM

- Blocky: ABSOLUTE FUCKING AWFUL INFLUENCE TO CHILDREN

- Book: LOVES kids, but don’t leave a kid alone with her she doesn’t manage to take care of them alone for her lack of leadership

- Bottle: LOVES kids, too irresponsible to be a alone with them

- Firey: I just feel he’s not responsible enough

- Flower: She likes kids but the kids don’t like her lmaoo

- Gelatin: he would lose those kids so easily my fucking god

- Leafy: ADORES kids, not emotionally intelligent enough to be left alone with them for long periods of time though

- Pen: Boyfail at taking care of them, just let him play with them

- Pin: She likes kids, but the kids don’t like her- she tries to keep everything in order and be fun but fails miserably

- PriceTag: leave a kid alone with them for enough time and they’re about to sell something to them OR SELL THEM

- Puffball: she’s like, A SUPER COOL AUNTIE, DOES SO MANY FUN THINGS WITH CHILDREN, but not responsible enough to keep things in order and she might take things too seriously- chaos WILL ensue

- Ruby: Loves to do fun things with children, but she IS NOT RESPONSIBLE DO NOT LEAVE RUBY ALONE WITH KIDS

- Taco: Likes kids enough, but she doesn’t exactly know how to interact with them properly

- Tennis Ball: Likes kids but the kids don’t like him back- doesn’t know how to interact with them accordingly and fails at fun activities

- Yellow Face: FOR THE LOVE OF GOD TAKE THE KIDS AWAY FROM HIM

- Seven: Cool Uncle, but not responsible enough to be left alone with kids

- Fourteen: NEVER FUCKING LEAVE A CHILD ALONE WITH THIS MANIAC

DISLIKE KIDS, IS AN ABSOLUTE DISASTER WITH THEM

- Black Hole: It’s not that he completely dislike kids, it’s more that he’s afraid of them

- David: Aw, seriously? I don’t think I need to explain

- Dora: It’s not really worth it

- Eraser: Kids do not go with the flow and aren’t his vibe

- Lollipop: Professional kid hater, she can put up with them BUT SHE’S NEVER TAKING CARE OF THEM EVER

- Match: Thinks kids are yucky

- Pencil: Not really worth it, even if she’s responsible enough

- Pillow: NOT WORTH IT AT ALL, she will use them for one of her experiments and will get frustrated when they ruin it

- Robot Flower: Taking care of kids is not in her programming

- Roboty: SAVE this robot from kids

- Teardrop: Kids annoy her, and she’s a little too rough with them

- Tree: DO I NEED TO EXPLAIN, treats kids as adults and that’s NOT the moment. He is good at preventing they kill themselves tho

- Winner: Not their vibe! Kids make them uncomfortable

- Woody: EXTREMELY afraid of children

- Announcer: take a little look at BFDI season 1 and tell me he would be a good caretaker (the answer is no)

- One: NOT WORTH IT, she going out to buy milk and cigarettes !

[loves-n-kisses]

so happy to see that you’re back :p

can you do a katsuki x reader fic where Denki broke something of significance to Katsuki so he begged the reader to take the fall for him.

so Katsuki comes into the common room where they’re all hanging out and asks who broke it and when reader takes the blame, he’s really upset and kinda cold about it.

which makes the reader cries but he immediately stops caring about the object to comfort her whilst the rest of bakusquad are confessed

Sorry this took long! Ive had it in my notes for a while, ive had a few hectic days at my job, lol. Awesome request, btw. I hope i did it justice!

Katsuki x Reader - If It Aint Broke, Don't Fix It

A story where Denki breaks something of Bakugou's and Reader takes the fall. But....Bakugou...forgives her? What's up with him?

TW: slight angst, fluff and comfort at the end, Denki being an adorable idiot.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The U.A. dorm common room hummed with the Bakusquad’s usual energy. Kirishima and Sero were debating hero rankings, Mina was painting her nails a bright pink, and Denki paced nervously beside you on the couch. You shot him a wary glance, your stomach churning from the mess he’d dragged you into.

Earlier, Denki had rushed to you, panic in his eyes, holding the shattered remains of a framed photo—Katsuki’s prized possession, a rare picture of him and his mom, Mitsuki, both grinning after he’d won a junior hero contest in middle school. Denki had been fiddling with a charged-up prank, and the frame had taken the hit, glass cracking and the photo bending.

“(Y/N), please!” Denki had begged, hands clasped. “Bakugou’s gonna turn me into a lightning rod! Take the blame, just this once! I’ll do your chores for a month!” His desperation won, and you’d hesitantly agreed.

Now, the door slammed open, and Katsuki stormed in, crimson eyes blazing, the broken frame clutched in his fist. The room fell silent, Mina’s nail polish brush freezing mid-stroke, Kirishima and Sero pausing their debate.

“Which one of you idiots broke this?!” Katsuki roared, holding up the shattered frame, glass glinting ominously. His voice was sharp, cold, and furious. “Fess up, now!”

Your pulse raced. Denki’s pleading eyes locked on you, and you swallowed hard, standing. “It… it was me, Katsuki,” you said, voice shaky. “I’m sorry. It was an accident.”

Katsuki’s gaze snapped to you, his expression icy and piercing. He stepped closer, the frame still in hand. “You? You broke this?” His tone cut deep, frigid and biting. “This ain’t some random trash, (Y/N)! You know what this meant to me, and you just smashed it? Real careless, huh?”

His cold words stung, and tears pricked your eyes. The guilt of lying, his anger, and the fear you’d ruined things overwhelmed you. Tears spilled over, and you turned away, a quiet sob escaping as you hid your face.

Katsuki’s fury faltered, eyes widening. He dropped the frame onto the table with a clatter and crossed to you in seconds, hands gently grabbing your shoulders. “Hey, oi, stop crying,” he said, voice softer, almost frantic. “It’s just a dumb frame, alright? I don’t care that much. Just… don’t cry, (Y/N).” He pulled you into his chest, one hand awkwardly rubbing your back, the other on your head as you sniffled.

The Bakusquad stared, utterly confused. Mina’s jaw dropped, nail polish forgotten. Sero leaned to Kirishima, whispering, “Since when does Bakugou chill out like that?” Kirishima blinked, shrugging. “No clue, man. I thought he’d blow up the dorm over that photo.”

Denki, pale and sweating, finally broke. “W-Wait, Katsuki, it wasn’t her!” he blurted, stumbling forward. “I broke the frame! I was messing with my quirk, and it got wrecked, and I begged (Y/N) to cover for me ‘cause I was scared! I’m sorry, dude!”

Mina gaped, turning to Denki. “You let her take the blame? What?!” Sero shook his head, baffled, while Kirishima frowned, muttering, “Not manly, bro. Why’d you drag (Y/N) into this?”

Katsuki’s head turned, dangerous eyes narrowing at Denki, who flinched and hid behind Sero. “You damn sparky idiot,” he growled, but his grip on you stayed firm. He looked down, scowl softening. “You okay, dumbass? Why’d you cover for that moron?”

You wiped your eyes, voice trembling. “I didn’t want you to hate Denki… or me. I thought I could fix it. I’m sorry, Katsuki.”

He sighed, exasperation mixed with gentleness. “I ain’t mad at you, got it? Don’t do that again.” He glared at Denki, who yelped. “You’re fixing this, sparky, or you’re dead.”

Katsuki guided you to the couch, sitting close, arm still around you. “Forget the frame,” he muttered. “You’re worth more than that junk.” You managed a small smile, and he gruffly wiped a tear from your cheek, ignoring the Bakusquad’s baffled stares as Mina whispered, “Okay, what is happening right now?”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------note: should we thank Denki? for, like, bringing them closer together?

my mailbox is open! send in requests, questions, or even statements! I love talking to yall, lol.

-made with loves n' kisses! 💋✨

[h0useslut]

the silver lining’s i’ll be there with you ˙⋆✮

part one | series masterlist | masterlist

pairing : aaron hotchner x fem!bookstore owner!reader

w/c : 2,2k

warnings : age gap, anxiety attack, emotional distress, physical touch for comfort, soft!aaron, mutual pining, light drinking (wine), kissing

summary : a thunderstorm, a breakdown, and aaron hotchner’s arms around her. later, at readers bookshop anniversary, he’ll show up late - holding a first edition of her favourite book and a kiss she didn’t dare hope for

The lights had gone out.

You were in your bookstore with Aaron. Alone. And the lights had gone out amidst a thunderstorm.

It felt foolish now, being afraid of thunderstorms. But you couldn’t help it.

“Hey, Y/N…It’s okay. Everything is fine” He said softly, sensing your distress.

But little did he know, your lips were trembling. Your eyes were clouded with tears, and each lightning strike made you involuntarily flinch.

“It’s going to be okay. Can you take a step towards me?” He coaxed, wanting to help you out.

You mustered up a small nod, and then cursed quietly, realising he couldn’t see you. Stupid, stupid.

You took a cautious step, but in the process, a few books fell behind you. The cry that you’d tried so hard not to let out, came out raw and barely audible.

But he’d caught it.

“Sweetheart, shh. It’s okay. Okay, okay I’m coming to you, alright?”

You heard him move, shoes against the wooden floor making your breath hitch.

“I’m right here” He reminded you. “Don’t be afraid, I’ve got you” he said softly, just a few feet away from you now.

His arms wrapped around you, hesitantly. Only when you leaned into his embrace did he pull you closer.

Your tears fell faster than you could sniffle them in. And you couldn’t stop them. It was like you were little again, curled up on under the covers to shield yourself.

Holding you felt natural to him, as if you were a puzzle piece missing from his life. You fit so perfectly. His hand came to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair.

Aaron’s chest was warm, steady. An anchor holding you down when everything else was falling apart.

“I’m so- so sorry” You whispered, voice breaking. “Don’t know why- Don't know why I am like this”

“No, no shh,” He murmured. “You don’t have to explain. You’re allowed to be scared”

That was what unraveled you. He didn’t try to fix it, didn’t ask why. He just held you, let you break. Even though he didn’t know you well - at least not yet - he made you feel safe enough to fall apart.

More tears fell down your eyes, body trembling in his hold. You hadn’t meant to cry like that in front of him. Like you were some petulant child scared of thunder.

Aaron never pulled away. He held you closer, not shushing you. Not telling you it’ll pass. He simply held you, reminding you every now and then that he was there and that he had you.

At some point, the lights flickered on. The thunderstorm had faded into distant rumbles, but you hadn’t even noticed.

Still tucked into his arms - Aaron whispered to you,

“It’s okay, look. The lights are back on”

You pulled away, blinking back tears as you took in the soft lights illuminating throughout the room.

His hands came to rest on your arms, noticing you were still shaking.

“Come on, let’s sit down. You’re shaking” Aaron said, like it physically pained him.

You barely registered the fact that he had helped you sit down on one of the bean bags, pulling you under his chin. His scent filled your nostrils, grounding you.

You curled up at his side instinctively, legs over his lap, one arm draped across his chest like you were afraid he’d vanish.

Then quietly, almost like he didn’t want to break the spell - he picked up your worn-out copy of Pride and Prejudice that you’d dropped earlier.

“Pride and Prejudice” He said out loud. Aaron had seen you one too many times reading that book, and if you weren’t reading it, it was behind the counter.

“Oh, the pages are falling out,” He said softly, the small rumble of his chest making you feel calmer.

“Yeah, it’s… I’ve had it since I was 16” You admitted.

“That’s not too long” He teased.

You chuckled, a wet and breathy sound coming out. And then you felt it.

A soft kiss to your forehead, followed by the soft turning of pages.

Aaron’s voice came next, his voice a low and soothing murmur in your ear.

“It is a truth universally acknowledged…” he began, “that a single man in possession of good fortune must be in want of a wife”

And just like that, with your heartbeat slowing and his voice filling the space around you, both the storm outside and inside you finally began to settle.

When you woke up, you were surprised to find him still holding you, his big hand stroking your hair gently. He hadn’t let go.

“You fell asleep, sweetheart” Oh, there he goes with the petname again. Making you melt.

“I didn’t want to wake you”

You smiled, eyes still puffy from all the crying you’d done earlier. “Thank you for staying… for being here”

“I’ll always be here”

True to his word, he was there. In every sense of his words. He came frequently, most times alone. Bringing coffee, pastries, and even lunch.

He never stayed too long or asked too much. But he always noticed. When you were overwhelmed, needed warmth, or when your hands trembled a little more than usual.

He remembered things. Your coffee order, the way you lit up a few candles and put on soft music before closing. How you giggled whenever he pulled you in his arms and swayed to the faint sound of Strangers in the Night by Frank Sinatra.

He never made a show of it. But his presence wove into your days, until you weren’t sure how you ever did them without him.

And now, a few months later, you stood in front of the shop mirror - adjusting the little ribbon on the back of your dress (or at least trying to) for the millionth time, heart hammering in your chest with something you didn’t quite know how to name.

Five years. Your cozy, lovely, and warm bookstore had made it five years. And tonight, everyone you loved was coming to celebrate it.

Well, almost everyone.

You didn’t expect him to show up - mostly because you knew how hectic his job was. You might’ve nervously rambled about the party and how you didn’t want him to feel pressured to come.

Not really good at playing it cool.

Because when you had said,

“It’s okay- It’s okay if you’re busy Aaron”

You didn’t know if you meant it. A part of you would be crushed if he didn’t come.

So you kept busy.

Rearranging the snack table, dimming the lights again and again, until you found yourself surrounded by friends, a few indie authors, and some frequent customers.

Everyone but him.

The shop looked beautiful. Warm and inviting. Fairy lights glowed along the shelves, people were laughing in the poetry section, and the smell of cinnamon pastries lingered in the air.

You smiled. You were proud. Hell, you should be proud.

But as more time passed and as people clinked glasses, making toasts to you, hugging you and congratulating you on your business - you kept thinking about him.

Aaron.

Tall, and charming Aaron Hotchner. Who once held you through a storm like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Pouring yourself another glass of wine, you barely heard the doorbell chime. Late. Subtle. Like it didn’t want to interrupt.

Why did you miss the door every single time he showed up?

But you turned - and there he was.

Wearing a dark suit, no tie, two top buttons loose from his white shirt. He carried something in his hand, small and carefully wrapped in a burgundy tape. You didn’t know whether to cry, run to him, or pretend that your heart wasn’t breaking open like a chapter you’d dog-eared one too many times.

The urge to run to him and kiss him was too strong, you might admit. And on top of that, white wine hits you like chemicals.

He looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time all over again.

“Hi,” He said quietly, like this wasn’t a room full of people. Like it was still just the two of you in the bookstore, with no one to bother you.

You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out.

So he took a step closer, holding out the small package. “I know I’m late” he murmured, tone apologetic. “I hadn’t forgotten about it. And I brought you something”

Looking down at the burgundy wrapped gift, - a book clearly. Your fingers unwrapped it carefully.

Pride and Prejudice.

He’d bought you a copy of Pride and Prejudice. Not just any copy.

A first edition.

Your breath caught. Your eyes flew to his.

Aaron only shrugged, a gesture that seemed so boyish coming from a man like him. “It’s not… not in the perfect condition, but I remembered you had yours since you were sixteen”

Tears pooled in your eyes.

Not because of the book. (well because of that too)

Because of him.

This.

“Aaron- This is-“ You sniffled, lips already trembling.

He saw the way your hands shook, and before you could speak again, Aaron reached out and pulled you into his chest.

You melted into him instantly.

His arms wrapped around you with practiced ease, like he’d done this a thousand times in dreams he’d never dare to mention. You pressed your cheek against his shoulder, the thunder of his heartbeat making you feel dizzy.

And then, like a secret only the two of you would ever know, he pressed a kiss just above your ear, soft as a feather.

“You look beautiful”

Your eyes fluttered shut, chest aching in the best kind of way.

Throughout the entire night, you kept staring at each other from across the room. Whether it was him admiring you as you chatted with friends, or you catching him thumbing through shelves as if he didn’t already own a hundred books. The glances lingered. You were in your element, glowing in the soft light of your bookstore, and he couldn’t look away.

And when the last guest filtered out and the front door clicked shut, the room felt still again. You were left standing across from him, just the two of you. Once more.

“So…” You trailed off shyly.

His eyebrows raised, and he looked at you with genuine curiosity.

You paced around the room, dimming the lights, picking up a bottle of wine and the forgotten box of pizza.

Placing everything on the floor, you took your heels off and gestured for him to come and sit with you.

“I think you would’ve left early. Or not show up at all” You admitted, glasses clinking as you poured.

Aaron gave a small shake of his head. “No, sweetheart. I wouldn’t miss this”

The answer, simple as it was - it made your cheeks heat again. You slid down further next to him, knees pulled to your chest.

“I still can’t believe you bought me that first edition,” you said, voice hushed now. “No one has ever… Done that”

“Y/N…” He whispered.

“No, I’m serious. No one has ever done something like that for me”

The room was silent for a moment. Not awkward. Just soft. Heavy with something unspoken.

“You deserved to be thought of”

You sipped on your wine, licking your lips afterwards. “You always say things like that when I’m least prepared”

Aaron smiled, that small and rare expression he wore when he was truly at ease. “Should I stop then?”

You looked at him, gaze steady now. “No. No, don’t stop”

And then silence again. This time, charged.

He was closer now - physically, emotionally, undeniably. And when your eyes met again, you weren’t so shy anymore.

“I was hoping you’d come,” you murmured. “Even though I told you that it would be fine if you didn’t”

Aaron’s voice was quieter this time. “I didn’t want to miss it. I didn’t want to miss you.”

You looked down at your lap, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Aaron, you’re making it really hard not to fall in love with you, you know”

He didn’t laugh.

Instead, he leaned in - noses brushing, his forehead resting against yours.

“Then don’t fight it, sweetheart”

That was all it took.

Your breath hitched, and before you knew it his lips were on yours. Warm, soft. Maybe a little reserved at first. Just like him, you thought.

You could get lost in his touch. In the way his hand found your waist, tugging you impossibly closer to him. Like he’d been waiting to do that for a long, long time.

“Aaron…” You whimpered between wet kisses, his name a prayer on your lips.

His hands gripped your waist, your hips - tugging and pulling you flush against him, mouth warm and insistent on yours like he couldn’t get enough.

To his horror, you pulled back all at once.

You were breathless, flushed. Pupils blown wide and the straps of your dress almost slipping from your shoulders.

Without a word, you stood.

He blinked up at you, confused. Until he saw you crossing the room, turning the lock with a soft click.

Then you turned back around, the dim light catching your face as you sat down at his level again.

Nothing else was said.

Not yet.

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