#Instinct Design Studio

[dakusan]

MAYBE, BABY

Tattoo Artist!Yang Jeongin x Reader | Clean lines. Dirty talk. No strings. Lies.

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. What started as a no-strings-attached hookup with your tattoo artist turns into something much messier—and much more intoxicating. You only wanted a rib tattoo. He only wanted a night. But from the moment Jeongin drags his fingers across your skin like he’s signing his name, the lines start to blur. And you let him. Again and again. Until something shifts. What was supposed to be a fuck-only situationship turns into something terrifyingly close to love.

💌a/n: I have no fucking idea how long this thing is. I blacked out while I was writing and organising the Ask Dump. I present to you a full-course meal with a side of feelings and a kiss on the forehead?? If you made it to the end, congratulations. You now have an Innie-sized corruption kink and a severe attachment issue. You’re welcome. Enjoy??? IDK??? I’m too far gone to process anything except the words “say my name again.” p.s. reblog if this fic ruined you. I wanna know who survived and who ascended. p.p.s. added my Spotify + Apple Music links on my pinned, just saying 😗 p.p.p.s. no strings, my ass. You’re mine now.

⚠️ warnings: NSFW / 18+ ONLY — DEADASS | MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. GO TO BED | Unprotected sex (wrap it irl) | Oral sex (m & f receiving) | Fingering, spit play | Face sitting, thigh riding | Degradation kink (light) | Praise kink (heavy) | Possessiveness / “mine” kink | Bratty teasing, power play | Multiple orgasms, overstimulation | Breathless, sweaty, studio sex | Aftercare (eventually… Jeongin learns) | Lowkey romantic shift under the filth | Explicit language | “No strings” turning into: oops, we’re emotionally attached now | ✨ Tattoo shop + apartment sex ✨

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Stretch. Ice your thighs.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Stay Tonight — CHUNG HA « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:37 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Jeongin was the youngest artist at NO SAINT INK.

When Chan opened the studio—an industrial-meets-artsy little corner spot on the edge of Itaewon—Jeongin was still a baby, barely legal, and fresh out of a back-alley apprenticeship that nearly made him quit the industry altogether. His lines were good back then. His hands were steady. But it wasn’t until Chan saw the sketchbook he kept buried in the bottom of his bag—spine cracked, filled with anatomy studies, linework so fine it looked like thread—that he offered him a space.

Not a job. A future.

“You’ve got hands like a ghost and an eye like a scalpel,” Chan had said, flipping through the pages with the kind of quiet approval Jeongin would chase for years after. “Let’s make you sharp.”

So he stayed.

Became Chan’s apprentice first—studied under him like a monk, learned symmetry, balance, the rules before he broke them. But Chan was a generalist, and Jeongin was greedy. He wanted more than just solid lines. So he floated—between Felix, who taught him piercings and dotwork with the same flirty chaos he used to charm every client in a five-block radius; Seungmin, who drilled design philosophy and made him redo stencils six times until the curves were perfect; Minho who didn’t teach. Not in words at least. Minho was instinct. He only took blackwork clients. His designs were architectural. Cold. Brutally beautiful. Jeongin watched him once sketch a full spine piece upside down without lifting the pencil. And Minho didn’t explain it—just nodded toward the chair and said, “Try it.” ; Hyunjin, who was chaos of a different breed. Rarity. Flash. Pure art. He lit up the room. He painted with colour, emotion, movement. He made skin weep and bloom. So Jeongin learned to feel. Not with his mouth. Not with his words. But through ink. Through hands; And finally—Jisung. The wildcard. He made Jeongin rewrite every script piece by hand—no fonts, no tracing, no stabilizers. Taught him how to letter like a poet on a deadline. Drilled gradient theory into his skull until he could shade a full moon from memory. He also got him drunk exactly once.

But, Jeongin absorbed all of that information. He rarely spoke unless it mattered. Didn’t flirt, didn’t joke. Just worked. Clean ink, smooth lines, deceptively delicate work that always left clients breathless by the time he wiped them down.

And that made him dangerous.

Clients came in expecting the sweet-faced boy in black gloves to be safe. But he wasn’t. He didn’t smile. He didn’t talk. But he saw. He looked through you with those fox-sharp eyes and touched you like he already knew what would make you shiver.

He wasn’t even your artist.

But you asked for him anyway. Over and over again.

And honestly? You didn’t expect to find anyone like Jeongin in a place like NO SAINT INK. You were a digital artist—head designer at a massive marketing firm in Seoul, the kind of job that paid well but chewed through your soul one brand guide at a time. Long hours. Clean lines. Corporate clients who wanted “authentic grunge” and then asked you to make it “less aggressive.”

You came to the shop for the first time six months ago. It was raining. You still remember the way the neon buzzed through the window, warped by the fog. You’d booked the session weeks ago, and if you bailed now, you’d never go through with it.

The piece was for your sister.

Delicate—inked across the side of your ribs. A fine line moth with wings shaped like her initials, its body drawn from her favorite pressed flower. You designed it yourself. Could’ve gone to anyone to ink it. But Felix—who you’d met at a gallery party once—told you to book with the youngest.

“Jeongin’s got the hands for it,” he said. “Real gentle. Real quiet. Real clean.”

And he was.

He barely said five words the whole session. Just pressed the stencil into place, gloved up, and looked at you once—soft and serious—before asking, “Can I touch here?”

That was all.

But when the needle buzzed to life and his hand steadied on your ribs, something cracked open in your chest.

He didn’t talk. He didn’t flirt. But his touch was so steady. So precise. You tipped your head back. Exhaled. And something in you settled. You didn’t think of him again until a month later—when your hand brushed the moth in the mirror, and you remembered how warm his palm had been against your skin. You booked again. And again.

You weren’t looking for anyone. Least of all him. But something… clicked.

Maybe it was the way he watched you when he thought you weren’t looking. Or the way his gloves lingered a little too long during placement. Or the fact that he remembered your preferred ink tone without asking.

You didn’t flirt. Not at first. But that changed the night you showed up just before closing—allegedly to “ask about a touch-up,” but really, you were just bored and restless and wanted to see him.

The tension snapped before either of you said much.

He was the last one cleaning up. You were the last one out the door. The shop lights were already half-dimmed when he finally looked at you across the counter and said: “You’ve been staring at my hands all week. Just ask.”

You didn’t ask. You just kissed him.

That was the first time. The second time, he pulled your panties off with his teeth. The third time, you were already naked by the time he locked the door.

Your current dynamic? No rules. No titles.

Just fucked-up timing and bad habits and “this doesn’t mean anything” muttered between gasps. You swore it wasn’t serious. You weren’t stupid. Jeongin was a fuckboy—quiet, calculating, the kind who didn’t do commitment but did make you scream into his sheets like it was your religion.

“Friends with benefits,” you called it once.

He snorted. “We’re not friends.”

That stung a little. But you let it go.

You told him once, arms still trembling from orgasm, voice flat:

“You’re just easy to fuck.”

He didn’t miss a beat. Just wiped his hand on the sheets and replied: “You’re easy to keep fucking.”

Fair enough.

But then he started looking at you differently. Staying longer. Not reaching for his phone. Brushing hair from your eyes like it mattered. And you? You haven’t slept with anyone else in weeks. Not since the last time he kissed your throat after, then said—barely audible—

“You smell like ink.”

Like it was a compliment. Like it meant something. Like you meant something.

Seoul, South Korea. Tuesday, 2:41 AM.

It started with a text.

Technically, it started with a drunk sketch at 2:41 a.m. on a Tuesday and a half-eaten tub of mint chocolate ice cream balancing precariously on your thigh. But the text came after—blurry photo, minimal explanation.

[YOU]: [image attached] [YOU]: thinking of putting this behind my ear. or on my hip. thoughts?

You didn’t expect him to reply right away. He never did. Jeongin had a habit of leaving you on read, sometimes for hours, sometimes until you forgot what you’d even sent. He only ever texted back when it mattered.

But this time, he answered in six minutes.

[JEONGIN]: Hip. [JEONGIN]: Bring the original sketch. I’ll clean it up. [JEONGIN]: You free Friday night?

You stared at the screen. Blinked. Then typed:

[YOU]: Yeah. I can come.

He didn’t respond after that. Of course he didn’t. Classic Jeongin. Always just enough. Always just under your skin.

The design was something you’d drawn weeks ago without realizing what it was for—a feather, sharp and broken at the tip, its spine twisting into barbed wire that coiled once before vanishing into smoke. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t meant to be.

You’d doodled it while zoning out during a strategy meeting about a toothpaste rebrand. But when you looked at it later—really looked—you realized what it was: grief, rebellion, exhaustion. A tattoo for survival. A promise inked in blade and burn.

You hadn’t told anyone else about it. Not even your coworkers. Not even your therapist.

But you sent it to Jeongin. Because you knew—knew—he’d get it. Not just the aesthetic. The weight.

You didn’t need him to ask what it meant. You needed him to take one look and say where. You needed him to act like it already belonged on you.

And he did.

Friday, 9:00 PM.

You’re standing outside NO SAINT INK, hood up, hands stuffed in your jacket pockets, trying not to fidget. The shop’s sign glows dull red in the rain—flickering slightly like always—and the front is dark, already closed to the public.

But Jeongin’s still inside.

You know, because he buzzed you in five minutes ago with a single-word reply:

[JEONGIN]: Door’s open.

Not hey. Not come in. Just… open.

That’s how he is.

You push through the door. The familiar scent hits you first—clean metal, warm ink, faded cologne. The space is dim, soft playlist humming low through the speakers.

Jeongin’s still working. Alone.

He’s at his corner desk, black hoodie sleeves pushed up, sketchpad in front of him, pen tapping silently against his lip. Jaw set. The light above him halos his head like something cinematic—sharp shadows, gleaming ink bottle.

He doesn’t look up when you walk in.

Doesn’t say anything either.

Just flicks a glance your way as you approach, then turns the sketchbook toward you.

It’s your design. Redrawn. Sharper. Cleaner. But still yours.

He’s added fine line smoke along the base, twisted the barbed wire tighter, bled the feather edge into a fragmented wing. It’s heartbreak. It’s rebellion. It’s right.

“You didn’t say where on your hip,” he murmurs finally. “Show me.”

Just that. No hello. No how’ve you been. Just show me.

With a quiet exhale, you step out of your sneakers, slide your thumbs into the waistband of your jeans, and peel them down slow. The denim sticks slightly from the rain, catching at your thighs before finally falling to the floor. You kick them aside. You’re left in a long tee and a pair of black panties, the thin lace riding high on your hipbone.

Jeongin doesn’t comment.

He never does.

But his gaze drops.

Not in a gross way. Not even obviously. Just… that half-second sweep he always does—eyes dipping to skin, breath slowing, jaw flexing once like he’s cataloguing the exact shape of you for later.

You swallow. Your voice comes out quieter than you expect.

“Here,” you say, brushing your fingers along the curve where your waist narrows into your hip. “I want the feather to sit right above the bone. Barbed wire trailing low.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stands, gloves already on, stencil in one hand. He moves like he’s done this a thousand times. Like you’re just another canvas.

But when he steps into your space and kneels to your level—face suddenly inches from your bare hip—your lungs forget how to work.

“Don’t move,” he says, and his voice is low. Focused. The same tone he uses when he’s mid-linework. When he’s inside you.

You still.

His hands are warm even through the gloves. He smooths the skin once—just once—with a barely-there touch, and then carefully presses the stencil into place. It’s cool against your skin. Wet with transfer gel. His fingers trail after it, holding it down, checking placement.

You feel his breath before you hear it.

He’s close. So fucking close. One exhale and his mouth could be on your thigh.

“You sure about this?” he asks, voice quiet now, more smoke than sound. “Once it’s on you, it’s permanent.”

You know he’s not talking about the ink.

You don’t answer.

Instead, you glance down—and Jeongin is still crouched in front of you, one hand on your hip, the other brushing the edge of your thigh like he’s testing the gravity between you.

He looks up.

You meet his eyes.

And that’s when it snaps.

Because the silence between you has never been empty. It’s always been a loaded gun. And now, standing half-naked in the soft hum of NO SAINT INK, it finally fires.

Jeongin rises without warning—slow, fluid, eyes never leaving yours.

“You’ve been thinking about it,” he says, voice low and even. “This exact moment.”

You blink. “What moment?”

He tilts his head, steps closer, so close you feel the heat off his chest.

“The one where I press you against this chair and make you forget what you came in for.”

You breathe in. Sharp. Shaky.

He smirks, just barely. “But you came in for the tattoo. Right?”

You nod.

“Then sit.”

He turns—walks back to his tray like you didn’t just melt a little under his stare. Like he didn’t just say that shit and leave your brain scattered like ash.

He pulls the stool over, checks the stencil one last time, preps the needle—buzzing low now, hungry in the quiet.

“Underwear stays,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “But pull the side up for me. High.”

You do as he says.

The chair’s cold. Your thighs are bare. Your panties cut high over your hip now, nearly indecent. But Jeongin doesn’t touch you yet. He just kneels again—level with the stencil—and studies it. His hand smooths along the edge, careful.

Then his voice, soft and dark: “Try not to shake too much.”

And then the needle kisses your skin.

“Fuck,” you hiss through your teeth, hands gripping the chair’s armrests like it might help. It doesn’t.

Jeongin doesn’t look up. “Too much?” he asks mildly, like you’re inconveniencing him by reacting to literal pain.

You glare down at him. “It’s a needle in my hip, Jeongin.”

He hums—an amused little sound low in his throat. “You’ve taken worse.”

Your breath catches. “Excuse me?”

He finally glances up. Eyes dark. Unbothered. That faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth like he knows exactly what he's doing to you.

“You heard me.”

You grit your teeth, refusing to squirm—even though the sensation is starting to blur now, sharp heat ebbing into something deeper. The rhythm of the machine. The drag of his gloved fingers. The low thrum of tension that has nothing to do with pain.

“You’re an asshole,” you mutter.

“Mm. But I make pretty things,” he says, gaze dipping back to your skin. “Stay still. You twitch and I’ll have to fix it.”

You mutter something under your breath.

He glances up again. “What was that?”

“I said—” You inhale through the sting. “You’re lucky your dick game is unreal.”

Jeongin’s laugh is barely audible, just a huff of air through his nose. But the way his hand slows for a beat at your words? You feel that.

“Oh?” he murmurs, adjusting the angle, fingers spreading slightly against your hip to stretch the skin. His touch is professional. Barely. “Is that why you keep coming back?”

You scoff. “Please. I keep coming back for your artistry.”

“Right,” he deadpans. “Not because you came all over my tongue in this chair two weeks ago.”

Your stomach flips.

“You’re disgusting,” you whisper.

He leans in—just enough to make you feel his breath again, warm across your skin.

“You’re the one who begged.”

“Jeongin—”

“Begged,” he repeats, eyes flicking up, daring you to deny it. “With your thighs around my head.”

You do squirm now, fingers gripping the chair harder, breath shaky.

He smiles. Just a little.

“Thought so.”

Another line starts, slower this time—agonizing in the way it presses in deep, steady, confident. You hate that it’s turning you on. He’s too close. The buzz of the needle is too low. His voice, when he speaks again, curls up your spine like smoke.

“What’s it say about you,” he murmurs, “that you’d let a fuckboy mark you this many times?”

You narrow your eyes, forcing a breath. “What’s it say about you,” you whisper, “that you keep memorizing every place you’ve touched me?”

He doesn’t answer.

But you see it. That flicker in his eyes. That shift behind the usual quiet. He does remember.

And then he says—calm, quiet, almost cruel: “Stay still, baby.”

And fuck—you do. You have to. Because if you move now, you’ll either ruin the line—

—or climb into his lap.

And you’re not sure which would be worse.

He works in silence after that. Not the kind that feels cold or distant—but sharp. Loaded. The kind that listens. Every brush of his glove against your skin is surgical. Every pause is precise. Every inhale from your side? Noted.

You swear he’s dragging the needle slower on purpose.

“I can feel you smirking,” you mutter.

“Am not.”

“You’re such a dick when you tattoo.”

Jeongin’s mouth twitches—just slightly, just enough to confirm what you already know. He is smirking.

But all he says is, “You’re squirming.”

“Because you’re being annoying.”

“Because you’re wet.”

Your mouth drops open.

“Fuck you—”

He tilts his head innocently, like he didn’t just say that with the same tone someone might comment on the weather.

“You get like this every time I ink your hips.”

“That is not—”

“Every time.”

He lifts the needle for a moment, wiping gently—grazing your skin with a motion so tender it makes you shiver.

“Remember that piece on your inner thigh?” he asks, like he’s recalling the weather again. “Took longer than it should’ve because you wouldn’t stop clenching.”

You bite down a moan. “That’s because you breathed on me, Jeongin.”

“And you begged for a break halfway through.”

“I needed water—”

“You needed a dick.”

Your hand flies out and slaps his arm.

He doesn’t even flinch. Just laughs under his breath—wicked, warm, devastating. Still not looking at you. Still focused on the curve he’s finishing.

“You’re evil,” you whisper.

He hums. “Maybe.”

Another pause. Another wipe.

You think the worst is over—until he speaks again.

“Why’d you ask for me this time?” he says suddenly, soft. “Not your usual spot. Not your usual style.”

Your throat tightens. “Yeah,” you say.

He doesn’t ask why. Just keeps going—needle buzzing like a wasp in the quiet. But then—because maybe he does want to know, just not directly—he asks, “You never said what this one’s about.”

You hesitate.

He wipes gently. Adjusts his grip.

And this time, when you speak, your voice is quieter. Flat. “Drew it by accident.”

He pauses. Looks up. Not fully. Just enough that you catch the flick of his eyes.

You go on. “During a rebrand pitch. I was half-listening, just doodling. Didn’t even realize what it was until later.”

He stills the machine and wipes

again—more slowly this time. Then leans back just enough to glance at the stencil he’d reworked from your sketch. Your pain. His hands. It looks exactly like what you were afraid to say out loud.

“You added the rest.” you murmur.

He nods.

“It’s better.”

“It’s honest,” he says. “Didn’t want to pretty it up.”

“Thank you.”

A beat.

Then he leans in again, steadier this time. “Ready?”

You nod.

He starts again and goes silent. But not for long as he then parts his lips to talk again. “What does it mean to you?”

You swallow. Then: “Grief. Rage. The part of me that stayed after everything else gave up.”

He exhales slowly. Not surprised. Just—understanding. “You draw like someone trying to survive,” he murmurs.

You huff a laugh. “You tattoo like someone who already died.”

Jeongin chuckles—just once. Quiet. Dark. “Maybe I did,” he says.

Silence again. But not cold. Just… full. And then—without lifting the machine, still tracing ink into your skin—he adds: “I redrew it three times before it felt right. I didn’t want to fuck it up.”

You turn your head. “You never fuck it up.”

“I could.”

“You won’t.”

He doesn’t answer. But you see the flicker in his expression—something unspoken and sharp and vulnerable. The kind of thing you both ignore because naming it would make it real.

The needle hums again. His other hand steadies you with the barest pressure.

“Stay still,” he murmurs. “Almost done.”

Before you know it, he's done and for a second, there’s only silence. Then the soft rattle of his tray—tools settling, gloves flexing, the gentle hush of something opening. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t say done or look at that or any of the things other artists might say.

He just sets the machine down with care and shifts back on his stool, gaze flicking over your skin with a craftsman’s intensity.

Then—quieter than before: “Go look.”

You blink. “What?”

“The mirror.” He gestures with a tilt of his chin toward the full-length mirror across the room. “Go see it.”

You hesitate—your thigh prickling with heat, the skin raw and new—but then slowly rise from the chair.

He doesn’t watch you walk. Not exactly. But he feels you go.

You stand in front of the mirror, eyes tracing over the tattoo. Your idea. His craft. You stare at it—at you—for longer than you mean to. Behind you, Jeongin moves again. You hear the snap of fresh gloves, the squirt of antiseptic, the fold of paper towels. Then—

“You like it?”

You nod. Still watching your own reflection.

He walks over slowly, crouches behind you again—this time not kneeling to tattoo, but to clean. The disinfectant is cold. His touch is not. You flinch anyway.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “Stings a little.”

You exhale. “It’s fine.”

He works quietly—wiping carefully, checking for any sign of irritation, scanning the lines with a gaze that misses nothing. Then he grabs the wrap and tape from the tray and starts dressing the tattoo, pressing the edges down gently.

“You’ll need to keep it clean,” he says. “No tight pants. No soaking. I’ll send you the aftercare again.”

You glance at him in the mirror. “You think I’ve forgotten?”

He lifts a brow. “You think I trust you?”

You smirk. “Fair.”

The tape seals into place with a soft press. His palm lingers on your thigh a beat too long.

Then—

“There,” he murmurs.

You look down. The tattoo is covered, secure, safe.

But the tension is not. Neither of you move. His hand is still on your skin. And in the mirror—you catch it: His eyes, locked on you. Not the tattoo. Not the wrap.

You.

That same look he gave you the first time you fucked against the wall of this shop. The look he had when you said you didn’t want anything serious. When he nodded like it didn’t matter—and then kissed you like it did.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move.

Just stares at you like he’s trying to decide if now is the moment—if this is the time he finally stops pretending that you’re just another client, another warm body, another convenient fuck.

Your breath tightens.

And then he speaks low and even: “Say it.”

You swallow. “Say what?”

He tilts his head, fingers flexing just slightly against your skin. “Whatever excuse you’re about to make to leave.”

You flinch. Not visibly, but enough that he feels it—because his hand slides higher. Not inappropriate. Not quite. Just enough to remind you of every time before. His fingers warm against the edge of your hip. Just under the hem of your crooked panties.

You meet his gaze in the mirror. And whisper, “I wasn’t gonna leave.”

A pause.

Then: “Good.”

His hand flattens, slow, spreading possessive heat across your thigh. His voice stays soft—never louder than the buzz of your heart in your ears.

“‘Cause you came here for more than a tattoo.”

You don’t argue. You can’t. Because he’s right. And he knows it—because his mouth brushes just behind your knee, a featherlight kiss that shouldn’t be as devastating as it is. Then another. Higher.

“You always come back,” he murmurs, lips grazing up the inside of your thigh. “Even when you say you won’t.”

Your eyes flutter closed. “Jeongin—”

“I waited,” he says, almost to himself now. “Thought maybe this time you’d ask for someone else. Felix. Seungmin. Minho.”

You shiver. “I didn’t.”

“I know.”

He stands. Rises slowly—like a shadow overtaking light— and moves behind, close enough that his chest is against your back, and his breath fans against your ear. His hand stays where it is, gripping the meat of your thigh. But his other hand—oh, it trails up. Over your ribs. Your waist. Until his thumb drags under your bra strap.

His lips hover at your neck. “And I told myself this was the last time.”

You can’t breathe.

“But you walked in wearing that little smirk,” he says, voice darker now, rougher, “and sat in my chair like you knew I’d ruin you again.”

You glance at his reflection. His pupils are blown wide. His jaw tight.

“You think I did this on purpose?” you whisper.

His smile is sharp. “Didn’t you?”

You don’t get a chance to answer. Because his mouth is on your neck in the next second—hot, open, biting just enough to make your knees weaken.

“You said no strings,” he mutters against your skin. “But you let me draw on you like I’m signing my name.”

You gasp.

And then—his hand slides up, past your tattoo, past the tape, until his palm cradles your lower belly.

His fingers splay. Possessive. Intentional.

Like he’s reminding you where else he’s touched. Where else he plans to.

“Still no strings, baby?” he whispers. “Even now?”

You don’t answer. Instead, your turn around to face him, lips crashing onto his. Hungry. Needy. He groans into your mouth—low and wrecked—like he’s been starving for this, for you. Like he’s been holding himself back since the second you walked in, cocky little smirk and all, asking for him again. Like every time you said “no strings,” it sliced just a little deeper.

His hands are on you instantly—one gripping your waist, the other fisting into your hair as he drags you closer, mouth devouring yours like he’s reclaiming territory he never really lost.

Your fingers claw at his shirt, dragging it up, desperate to feel skin. He helps—yanking it over his head in one sharp motion and tossing it somewhere behind him. You don’t even get a second to admire the view before he’s on you again, teeth grazing your bottom lip, hips pinning you against the counter.

“Tell me to stop,” he mutters, breath hot against your cheek.

You don’t.

You grab his jaw instead, kiss him harder—tongue, teeth, everything.

And that’s all he needs.

He lifts you onto the edge of the sink like you weigh nothing. The mirror rattles behind you, your thighs parting as he steps in close, his fingers already dragging your panties aside.

But he pauses—because of course he does. Jeongin, for all his unhinged quiet-boy energy, never forgets to check. His thumb presses gently against your inner thigh. His mouth brushes yours.

“May I?” he whispers.

You nod—shaking, desperate, soaked.

But he waits.

“Words,” he breathes. “Give me words, baby.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “God, yes, Jeongin—please—”

He growls, low and filthy, and drops to his knees like a man worshipping something he’s already ruined. Because that’s what you are now. Ruined.

Jeongin's hand grips your thigh—tight, possessive—spreading you wider as his mouth descends like a death sentence. The first lick is slow, deliberate, a warning shot. Just the flat of his tongue dragging through your folds, gathering every ounce of heat you’ve been soaking in since the stencil hit your skin.

Then—he moans.

Like it tastes as good as he remembered. Like he missed it. Like he fucking needs it.

You choke on a gasp, hips jolting—only to be slammed back down by the firm pressure of his palm.

“Stay still,” he mutters, mouth grazing you as he speaks. “Wanna do this right.”

And then he devours you. Not sweet. Not gentle. Just—Jeongin. Filthy, focused, starved.

His tongue works you open with slow circles, sharp flicks, then a sudden seal of lips around your clit that makes your vision flash white. He’s quiet, but his mouth is chaos—sucking like he’s trying to pull your soul through your cunt, fingers digging into your thighs like he can feel the pulse from the inside.

You tangle your hands in his hair, back arching off the mirror behind you. “Jeongin—fuck—please—”

His grip tightens.

He hums, tongue stroking deeper, and the vibration nearly undoes you.

“You always beg so pretty,” he murmurs, voice muffled against you. “No strings, right? So let me ruin you.”

And ruin you, he does.

His pace shifts—knows the pattern that makes you shake, that makes your knees weak and your breath break in your throat. He works you like a song he’s played a thousand times. Like your body was made for his mouth.

And when he slips a finger in—then a second, slow and curling—you nearly sob. His fingers curl again—precise, relentless, stroking right where you need it. His mouth stays locked around your clit, tongue flicking in sync with every pump of his hand. Like he’s in your head. Like he knows exactly when you're about to fall over the edge and drags you back just to watch you tremble.

“Jeongin—” you gasp, voice breaking. Your thighs twitch around his shoulders, muscles drawn so tight you’re shaking. “Fuck, I’m—”

“Cum for me,” he breathes, lifting his mouth just long enough to say it—wet and ruined against your skin. “Come on, baby. Let me have it.”

And you do.

The tension snaps like wire—hot, vicious, absolute. It hits like a wave crashing through your core, stealing the breath from your lungs as you cry out. Your hands clutch at his hair, your back arches against the mirror, and your hips buck once—twice—before he locks you down again, tongue lapping through your orgasm like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.

Your moans taper into a long whimper as he slows, soft licks now, gentle—comforting. His fingers slip free with a final curl that makes your whole body flinch. You sag against the glass behind you, boneless and wrecked, breath catching in your throat.

Jeongin rises slowly.

Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes heavy, lips swollen.

And smirking.

He cages you in with a hand on either side of the mirror—still fully dressed, still composed, like he didn’t just make you fall apart on a bathroom sink with the kind of head that ruins lives.

“You came so hard you almost forgot your name,” he says softly. “Want me to remind you?”

And you—your hand already at his belt—just grin. Weak. Wrecked. “Only if you use your mouth again.”

His mouth twitches at that—half smirk, half growl—and his hands drop to yours, guiding them as you undo his belt. The metal clinks through the quiet, obscene in how deliberate it sounds. You’re still trembling, your thighs sticky with the aftershock of what he just did—and he hasn’t even fucked you yet.

But you can feel how hard he is. Pressed against the fabric. Heat radiating between you. Dangerous.

“You sure?” he murmurs, breath hot against your cheek. “Because if I fuck you now, it’s not gonna be soft.”

You nod. “I don’t want soft.”

He laughs—dark and low—and kisses you again.

One hand fists in your hair while the other drags your panties down your legs. They drop to your ankle and stay there—forgotten, tangled.

He pulls his cock out—thick, flushed, already leaking—and runs it once through your folds. Slow. Teasing. He watches your face as he does it, watches your eyelids flutter and your lips part.

“You’re still shaking,” he murmurs.

“You’re still stalling,” you shoot back, voice ragged.

That earns you a sharp snap of his hips—just the tip breaching, making you gasp.

“Say it again,” he rasps.

“Fuck me, Jeongin.”

And that’s all it takes.

Jeongin thrusts in—deep, perfect, filthy. The stretch has you gasping, clawing at his back, your head tipping back against the mirror with a soft thud. He groans low in his throat like he’s the one unraveling—like you are the ruin he can’t stop coming back to.

You’re wet. Still fluttering from the orgasm he gave you. And he doesn’t give you a second to adjust. Just starts moving—deep and rough, hands gripping your hips like they’re his handles. Like he owns this moment.

“Still no strings?” he pants, voice cracking as he fucks into you.

You can’t answer. Only moan.

“Still just a fuckboy?” he grits out, dragging your hips forward, fucking deeper. “Even now?”

Your nails dig into his shoulder. You’re close again, already—tension building fast. Too fast. His thrusts get sharper. His forehead presses to yours, and when he speaks, it’s quiet. Desperate.

“Say my name when you cum,” he breathes. “I need to hear it. And you will cum. All over my cock.”

His words detonate something inside you.

You clench around him—so tight he groans, forehead falling to your shoulder for a split second before he snaps back up, hand fisting in your hair to keep you exactly where he wants you.

“Louder,” he pants. “Let them hear you. Let the whole fucking street hear how good I fuck you.”

And fuck, you do. You're moaning, gasping, whining his name like a prayer dragged through broken glass. Your hips grind to meet each thrust—sharp, fast, brutal—and the mirror shudders behind you, rattling with each slick impact.

He’s everywhere. His mouth is on your neck, biting, dragging bruises like signatures down your skin. He sucks just below your jaw—hard enough to make you whimper—and bites again. Possessive. Proud. Like he wants every inch of you marked.

“You’re mine right now,” he growls, breath hot against your pulse. “Every time you fuck someone else, you’re gonna feel this. Right here.”

He drives in, deep, angling his hips until your legs twitch around him.

“Feel that? That’s me. That’s how you’ll remember.”

Your mouth opens—maybe to sob, maybe to curse—and he doesn’t give you the chance. His thumb presses into your bottom lip, demanding, and your body obeys before your brain catches up—sucking it in, lips closing around the digit as your eyes flutter shut.

“Just like that,” he whispers. “So pretty like this. Fuck—don’t stop.”

His cock grinds deeper. Filthy. Perfect.

And then his hand moves—thumb slipping free, wet and shining, before he curls it beneath your jaw.

“Open,” he orders, voice hoarse.

You do.

He spits—hot and slow—straight into your mouth, watching with half-lidded eyes as it lands on your tongue.

Then he crashes his mouth into yours. Kisses you like he’s drowning. Like your mouth is the only thing keeping him alive. Tongue fucking, teeth clashing, breath shared like oxygen isn’t real unless it passes between you first.

The thrusts don’t stop. He fucks you through the kiss—fast, messy, ruthless.

You feel it building again. Pressure winding tighter. Ready to snap.

“Come on, baby,” he whispers against your lips. “Cum for me. Say my name.”

And this time, you scream it.

“Jeongin—fuck, Jeongin—”

Your body breaks. Wrung out on his cock, his mouth, his name. Everything shatters. Every nerve lights up. You cum so hard your vision blacks out, breath gone, hands shaking. You collapse forward, forehead pressed to his shoulder, chest heaving, body limp and twitching from the aftershocks.

But Jeongin doesn’t stop. Truly insatiable.

“Mm-mm,” Jeongin hums, low and cruelly sweet. His pace slows just enough to feel—deep, dragging thrusts that have you sobbing into his skin. “What, you thought that was it?”

His cock pulses inside you, thick and hot, still painfully hard.

“You’re shaking,” he coos, like he likes it. Like he’s proud of it. One hand smooths up your spine, mock-gentle, before he fists your hair again and tugs—just enough to tilt your head back.

“Look at me.”

You try. Barely. Your lashes flutter, lips parted and glazed with spit, wrecked in every sense of the word.

He groans—deep and hungry—at the sight.

“Fuck. You are pretty like this.”

Then his grip tightens, and he pulls out slow—just the head still inside—before snapping his hips forward again, hard enough to make your voice catch on a moan.

“I’m close,” he pants. “But you’re not gonna take it here.”

You blink. Confused. Barely able to string two thoughts together.

“Wha—”

He grins, eyes dark.

And then—he pulls out, dragging slick down your thigh as you whimper, empty and raw.

“On your knees,” he orders, already stroking himself, cock flushed and angry in his fist. “Mouth open.”

You slide down, dazed, trembling, ruined—but obedient. And Jeongin watches you drop like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.

Eyes locked on yours. Jaw clenched. Chest heaving.

You kneel, wrecked and flushed, thighs still shaking—and he’s towering over you, fist tight around his cock, breath hissing through his teeth.

“Open,” he growls.

You do. Lips parted, tongue out. Wanton. Waiting. “Fuck—” he chokes, stroking faster now, his other hand gripping your jaw, thumb pressed just under your chin to keep you steady. “You look so good like this, baby. All mine."

He laughs, breathless—half-mocking, half-obsessed. And then he spits again. Right into your mouth.

“Swallow,” he commands, voice wrecked.

You do. Without blinking. Without shame.

He groans, low and rough. “Good fucking girl.”

And then he breaks.

A guttural sound rips from his chest—he jerks once, twice—then he’s spilling across your tongue, hot and filthy, painting your mouth like a claim he’ll never admit to out loud.

You swallow again. Eyes locked. He’s panting. Still holding your face like you’re fragile. Like you’re holy. Like you’re his, even if he’ll never say it.

And then—after a long beat of silence—

“You’ll come back,” Jeongin murmurs, voice soft and certain, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth.

“Maybe,” you whisper, licking your lips.

But you both know the truth. You already did.

The air is now thick with sweat, sex, and something else neither of you dare name. You’re still kneeling, flushed and dazed, your breath coming in short waves as you finally—slowly—rise to your feet.

And Jeongin catches you.

No hesitation. No smart-ass remark. Just catches you—hands steady at your waist like instinct. His grip is gentler now, his gaze darker but softened. He brushes a strand of hair from your cheek, his thumb dragging lightly along your jaw, and then he tilts your face up.

“You good?” he murmurs.

You nod, but he’s already moving—already kissing your temple like he didn’t just fuck the sanity out of you. Like it’s reflex now. Like it’s routine.

Because it is.

Pulling up his jeans again, Jeongin reaches for a clean towel from the cabinet—one of the soft ones, the kind he used to never bother with when this all started—and runs warm water over it, checking the temperature against his wrist like you’re breakable. Like you matter.

“I’ll clean you up,” he says quietly. “Don’t move.”

He kneels again. Not like before. Not like worship.

This time it’s care.

You feel the difference when he wipes between your thighs with slow, deliberate strokes. Not rushed. Not clinical. He even murmurs a low, “Sorry,” when you twitch at the sensitivity.

“You didn’t used to do this,” you whisper, voice dry with post-orgasm rasp.

His hand stills for a second. Then resumes.

“Didn’t used to care if you got home safe, either,” he says, not looking up. “But I do.”

You swallow. Something hot curls low in your chest.

When he finishes, he tosses the towel in the laundry bin and returns to you—pressing a water bottle into your hand, then grabbing your discarded jeans and helping you step into them. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t smirk.

He just tugs them gently up your legs, careful not to touch the fresh wrap on your thigh.

“Tell me if it starts to hurt later,” he says. “Text me if anything feels off. I’ll fix it.”

“Jeongin…” you murmur.

“I know,” he says, voice softer now. “No strings.”

But still—he presses his forehead to yours. Just for a moment.

Something shifted.

You felt it first the next morning—not in your body (though, yes, your thighs ache and your tattoo’s tender), but in your phone.

[JEONGIN]: how’s my favourite canvas? [JEONGIN]: tattoo feelin okay? [JEONGIN]: or do i need to come kiss it better

You laugh—because of course he’s still a menace—but you also… pause. Because he’s never texted you first. Not like this. Not with check-ins, not with half-flirty, half-soft words that make your stomach twist in a dangerously not-just-horny way.

You reply. You always do. But this time, the thread doesn’t end at “come over.”

Instead, it leads to—

[JEONGIN]: wanna get boba or some shit later [JEONGIN]: bring your sketchbook. i wanna see more of what’s in your head

So you do. And he does.

He makes dumb faces behind his cup lid when the pearls hit your teeth wrong. He teases your handwriting. He compliments your line work in the same breath he makes fun of your playlist. He asks about your job—not just the annoying clients but what you actually like doing. When you mention the burnout creeping in, he hums thoughtfully and says: “You should quit and be my studio wife.”

“That’s not a job.”

“Then I’ll make it one. Full benefits. All the orgasms you can handle.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Your idiot,” he says with a smirk. Then coughs. “I mean—not officially. But, you know.”

And then he blushes. Fucking blushes.

In the weeks that follow, the change isn’t loud.

It’s subtle. Warm.

He starts saving you a seat at the shop when you visit. Starts texting you good luck before meetings. Starts calling you after just to hear your voice when you sound tired. Starts drawing more—leaves his sketchbooks open, just in case you feel brave enough to peek.

He still fucks you like a goddamn fever dream, of course. Still ruins you in every corner of the studio when the door’s locked and the music’s loud enough.

But after?

He doesn’t vanish.

He lets you stay. Brushes your hair back while you’re curled up on his chest. Taps your ankle with his foot until you laugh again. Offers you a hoodie, then scowls when you steal it for real.

Sometimes—when he thinks you’re asleep—he traces your tattoo with his finger. Like it anchors him. Like he knows something changed, too.

And sometimes, you open your eyes just enough to see him looking at you like this—like he feels everything you won’t say yet.

No strings? Yeah. You’re both tangled as fuck.

Your sheets are already half-off the bed, twisted beneath your back, damp from sweat and friction and his mouth.

Jeongin has been between your legs for what feels like forever. Not rushing. Not teasing. Just—feasting.

Tongue deep and slow, then fast and flicking. Then back to slow, like he’s savoring something no one else is allowed to taste.

Your thighs keep trembling. One’s thrown over his shoulder; the other keeps spasming, jerking whenever he sucks that one fucking spot. He’s holding you open like you’re an offering, like you owe him this.

“Fuck—Jeongin, please—”

He hums against your clit. The vibration makes your hips stutter, back arching off the sheets.

“Sound pretty when you beg,” he murmurs. His voice is wrecked. Drenched in filth. “Could make you do it all night.”

You whimper—high and helpless—and try to push his head down, needing more. Needing everything.

He laughs, dark and low, then gives you exactly what you want.

Sucks your clit hard, tongue circling, then sliding down to fuck you deeper. His nose nudges the swollen bud just right, and you choke on a sob.

You’re gone.

You can’t hold back. Not with the way he’s devouring you. Not with the way he knows your body better than anyone. You feel it—your climax crashing through like a violent wave, all heat and light and wreckage. You scream his name—loud, broken—hips jerking as your orgasm hits like a car crash.

But Jeongin doesn’t stop.

He growls into your cunt and doubles down. Licks you through it—messy, wet, relentless. His mouth is soaked, chin dripping, and you swear he smiles against you when your thighs start to close in.

Jeongin finally pulls back—face glistening, lips swollen, breath ragged—and climbs up your body like he owns every inch of it.

He crashes into you with a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth and desperation. No finesse, no restraint—just need. His hands roam everywhere, gripping your hips, your waist, your face like he can’t touch you fast enough, close enough, deep enough.

“Mine,” he pants between kisses. “Mine—mine—mine—”

You’re still trembling. Still trying to come back to earth. But you manage a breathless laugh against his mouth. “Innie?”

He freezes. Just a little. Eyes flicking up to yours, wide and dark and soft.

“Mmm?” he hums, like he didn’t just break you open and eat your soul.

You smile, wicked and sweet. Drag your nails gently down his back. “Remember when I said no strings attached?”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t answer.

You lean in, press your lips to the shell of his ear, and whisper: “And you said—maybe, baby.”

He exhales—shaky. Vulnerable.

You pull back, meet his gaze, and smile softer this time. No teasing. Just truth. “Well,” you murmur, threading your fingers through his hair, “I think that maybe was about more than you let on.”

You smile, smaller this time. “Because I want the strings now. All of them.” Your thumb then brushes his cheek. “You’re mine. And I’m yours.”

Jeongin stares at you.

Still. Silent. Like the earth just tilted on its axis.

Then—finally—he exhales. A soft, stunned sound. His eyes flutter shut for half a second, and when they open again, they’re wide and warm and wrecked.

“You’re really gonna say that to me while I’m still hard?” he mutters, voice hoarse, mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile.

You giggle. Actually giggle.

And Jeongin melts.

His hands slide down to your hips, squeeze once—possessive, reverent—and then he’s rolling, flipping the two of you in one smooth, easy motion until you’re straddling him, flushed and still catching your breath, hair wild around your face.

He looks up at you like you’re the only thing left that makes sense.

“Let me fuck you properly, baby,” he says, voice low, hungry—but laced with something new now. Something real.

You smile—wide, wicked, his. You lean down, kiss the corner of his mouth. “Then shut up and show me, Innie.”

He groans—low and fucked-out—and lets his head fall back against the pillow. “Jesus, baby—gonna be the death of me.”

You roll your hips once, just to be a menace. “Thought you said you wanted to fuck me properly.”

His hands fly back to your waist like instinct, like gravity. “I do,” he pants. “But if you keep doing that, I’m gonna wife you instead.”

You freeze—then burst out laughing. “What?”

He grins up at you, smug and wrecked. “You heard me.”

You blink. Stare down at him. “You’re such a little shit.”

“And you’re on my dick,” he shoots back. “So maybe we’re both exactly where we belong.”

You groan, drop your head to his shoulder. “God, I hate you.”

“Liar.”

“Maybe.”

He pulls you down, chest to chest and kisses your temple, wraps his arms around you like he’s never letting go. And then—just to make sure you know? He grinds against your already soaked folds.

You gasp. “Fuck—Jeongin—”

He smiles.

“Say my name again. Say I'm yours.”

“You're mine.”

[dollyzdaydreamz]

sam winchester x fem!reader

tramp sammy stamp

description: your tattoo artist friend suggests doing a 'random' henna tattoo on your lower back out of boredom. when you return to the motel, your semi-permanent tramp stamp practically turns sams brain into mush. reader has 'sammy' on her lower back aaa (::>_<::) warnings: no nsfw, but slightly suggestive, fluff. spn masterlist

You and the boys were on a hunt in your hometown, so you figured you’d give your childhood friend a visit. Sam and Dean were oblivious to the fact that she knew you were a hunter. The poor girl had been caught up in one too many of your half assed lies and near death experiences when creatures had decided to hunt you back; so naturally, the secret had to get out somehow.

Her tattoo studio was tucked between a shuttered record shop and pawn store on the edge of town, its windows fogged by condensation. It was dim, but cozy in its own way. The walls were a patchwork of old band posters, ink designs pinned like sketches in your hunter journal, and a few faded Polaroids of past clients who’d braved bolder choices.

You were curled up on a faded leather couch in the front room, a chipped mug of hot chocolate cooling in your hand.

She was finishing a walk-in tattoo, leaving you to your thoughts, until your phone buzzed quietly on your thigh.

Sammy (2:43 PM)

Just checking in. You doing okay?

You smiled and gave him a call, “Hey.”

“Hey,” Sam echoed on the other end, his voice soft and familiar. There was a quiet rustle. Paper maybe, or an old book, then a sigh. “Just wanted to make sure you got there alright.”

“I did. She’s finishing up a piece. I’m just chilling here waiting,” You reply. "It was snowing a little last time I checked. You keeping warm?" He asked. “Yeah. Hot chocolate’s questionable, but it’s hot.” you chuckled softly.

He huffed a short laugh, and you could picture him, probably hunched over an old lore book, elbows on the table, sleeves rolled up.

“That’s good.” A pause. You could hear Dean faintly in the background, and the distant creak of motel floorboards. “I miss you.”

That pulled at something quiet inside you, making you smile, “I’ll be back soon.”

“Alright,” he murmured. “Call me if you need anything.”

“I will. Bye Sammy.”

You ended the call just as your friend stepped back into the room, tugging off a pair of gloves. She eyed your expression with a grin.

“Sammy? That your guy again?”

You nodded. “Just checking in.”

She grinned, amused, “He’s the moose, right?”

You lifted a brow, “Moose?”

She smirked. “Tall, broad shoulders, hair like he lives in a forest?”

You paused, “Huh, I suppose he does look like a moose.”

She plopped down in the armchair across from you. “Yeah, I've see him and his brother around town. He seems good for you.”

You exhaled slowly, “He is. He’s smart and sweet. Sometimes it’s like he’s thinking five steps ahead but never makes you feel behind.”

“Bagged yourself a fellow nerd.”

“Yeah,” You sigh dreamily, “A cute nerd.”

She chuckled before leaning back, tapping her chin, “You bored?”

You shrugged, “A little. Why?”

“Wanna let me give you a henna tattoo?”

You hesitated, then gave a faint smile. “Ah, why not?”

“Dealer’s choice?”

You nod, "Yeah. I mean I trust your artistic instinct." She perked up at that, "Let's do one on your lower back! Like a cute little tramp stamp?"

“Go ahead," You shrug. "Something small though.” 

You shifted to lie down on your stomach, pulling your blouse up just enough to give her space to work. The cool touch of henna paste startled you at first, but the process was slow and relaxing, the way she always was when she had a brush in hand.

She didn’t tell you what she was painting. Just chatted with you idly and occasionally adjusted your shirt. When it finally dried and she wiped off the excess, she handed you a mirror and let you see it.

A delicate bunny and moose, outlined with just enough detail to make them whimsical, sat in the small of your back. Above them, written in careful script: Sammy.

“You know what? This is the most wholesome tramp stamp I’ve ever seen.” You laughed quietly. “Why the rabbit?”

She grinned. “Hm, I guess you remind me of one. And like I said, that Sammy of yours is obviously a moose.”

You glanced back in the mirror, the figures sweet and strangely personal. “It’s adorable, thank you.”

“Anytime.”

By the time you two finished catching up it was getting late. 

As you gathered your things, your friend caught a peak of the tattoo and snickered,

“Something funny?” You sassed, slipping on your boots and looking back to her smug expression.

“Sammy's gonna love it,” She whispered as she pulled you into a hug. 

“Shut up,” You grumble, though you hugged her tighter anyway.

By the time you returned to the motel, the sky had dulled into twilight, the clouds washed in violet and gray. The scent of motel soap clung faintly in the air, and you could hear the bathroom fan running. Dean was probably washing up, taking advantage of the steam showers the receptionist was raving out. Sam was sat at the table, a book open in front of him, lamp light catching the edges of his hair.

He looked up as you came in. That quiet smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Hey. Have fun?” He asked, voice soft, eyes already on you like you’d been gone longer than just a few hours.

You nodded, toeing off your boots. “Yeah. She just wanted to catch up for a bit.”

“Mm.” His eyes lingered on you, then dipped back to the book, fingers absently turning a page. “Can you grab that old journal from the top shelf? The leather one with the green spine.”

You crossed the room, lifting your arms to reach the shelf. The hem of your shirt rose slightly with the motion.

And that’s when you heard it.

A sharp inhale. The sound of paper crinkling under a suddenly too-tight grip.

You turned, journal in hand. Sam was staring, not in the way he meant to, more like his eyes had found something and were refusing to let go. His mouth parted slightly, brows drawn like he couldn’t quite process what he’d just seen.

“Sam? You alright?” you asked, beginning to worry that he’d seen some sort of vision. 

He blinked fast, dragging his eyes up to yours like he was trying to catch up. “What? Yeah—I’m fine,” he said, voice wavering. He cleared his throat and dropped his gaze to the book like it could ground him. His leg had started bouncing.

You nodded, still unconvinced, but you didn’t wanna push it. You crossed the room to hand him that book he wanted, before getting ready for bed.

A few minutes later, you lay on his bed, facing him to get some shut eye, it was weird, but sometimes just watching work or do something quietly helped you fall asleep.

“Hey—did you...get a tattoo or somethin’?” he asked after a moment.

You glanced over your shoulder, then remembered, “Oh. Not a real one, it’s just henna,” you shrugged. “We were bored, so she gave me one.”

“Oh,” he nodded, lips pressed together like he didn’t trust them to say more. But his fingers fiddled with the corner of the page, restless.

So it was the tattoo that rattled him...

You felt a little grin tug at your lips, wanting to revel in the attention a little more. So you got up, padded toward him and lifted your sleep shirt just enough to show him the full thing, “Do you like it?”

Sam blinked, mouth opening, but nothing came out for a second. "Sammy?"

He cleared his throat when you turned back around, eyebrows quirked at his dazed expression.

“Yeah, it’s hot—or cute. If that’s—what you were going for…” He sputtered.

“Thanks,” you bit back a laugh. "So when are you gonna finish up?" You asked, sitting on his lap to push the brown locks out of his face, grinning at the way his shoulders slumped and his eyes closed, seemingly melting into your hands. "Mm, I don't know, soon," he murmured, face tilting to give your wrist a little kiss. "Could've gotten a real tattoo in all the time you've been sitting here," you chuckled. Sam's head was nearly lolling back, sleep beginning to overtake him as you continued to gently stroke his hair when you leaned into his ear to speak again, “I was never into tramp stamps but, I don't know, this one’s like my little Sammy stamp,” You whisper. His big brown eyes shot open. You could practically hear the gears grinding in his head as he tried to process what you just said. You weren’t sure if it was the nickname, the location of the tattoo, or the casualness in your voice, but something short-circuited in that big beautiful brain of his.

You leaned down, lips almost brushing his.

And then—

You pulled back with a soft yawn, blinking sleepily as you got up off his lap. “I think I’m gonna get some shut-eye.”

Sam stared up at you,

"Wha—Seriously?” his eyes narrowed in disbelief.

You stifled another yawn, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning too obviously. “Yeah, it’s late and I’m tired.”

He gave you a flat, betrayed look, the corner of his mouth twitching in spite of himself. “You—” He scoffed, falling back against the chair back, “You planned that, didn’t you?” He was met with silence as you settled on the bed with your arms folded under your chin. The hem of your shirt rode up again, but you didn’t bother adjusting it, resting your cheek on your arm with a barely concealed smile and close your eyes. You let him stew in it, content in the knowledge that your little tattoo was doing exactly what your friend hoped.

Sam tried to read. Really, he did. But he kept tapping the same sentence with his pen. He felt his gaze drifting again, never quite landing, but never quite staying away either.

His thoughts were a mess.

Yeah, maybe it would fade, but it was his name. On your lower back. In a spot usually reserved for something…private.

And you looked so damn content. Like it didn’t even occur to you that it might be even the slightest bit suggestive.

…this ones like my little Sammy stamp

He groaned under his breath, before rubbing the back of his neck and staring at the page harder, “Sammy stamp...” he muttered with a huff, "Christ."

A few hours passed and Sam was finally calmed down. Dean had long since emerged and flopped onto the far bed, snoring within minutes. Sam finally shut the lore book, brain too fried to keep going.

Sam turned, and there you were. Curled into his bed, face smushed into the arm tucked under your cheek, the other draped loosely off the edge.

He moved quietly, slipping in behind you. The mattress dipped under his weight as he settled in, his body curving gently against yours. His hand brushed your back lightly, the way that usually helped you stay asleep. Then his fingers dipped to trace the soft shapes adorning the small of your back.

He hadn’t really looked at the design earlier, been too busy short-circuiting over his name. But now, in the moonlight peeking through the curtains, he saw what was etched below his name: a little rabbit, leaning up to a moose. 

Sam's fingers gently pressed on the animals. He tilted his head, it sorta reminded him of the two of you. Then he huffed in amusement as the realization hit him, of course it was you and him.

He tucked his nose into your shoulder and closed his eyes, the steady rhythm of your breathing slowly pulling him under, falling asleep behind you with a little smile on his lips.

don't be shy, lmk what you think ! `(*>﹏<*)′ justice for tramp stamps frl, if i could get a tattoo, i'd get one there. they can be so dainty and cuttte. i'm still working on the fairy!reader fics for sam and dean + some requests i've gotten :)

[fuckyeahgoodomens]

SFX Magazine Issue 372 - Designing Good Omens ❤ 😊

PRODUCTION DESIGNER MICHAEL RALPH REVEALS HOW THE SHOW’S CENTREPIECE SET, WHICKBER STREET, WAS GIVEN A DEVILISHLY CLEVER UPGRADE FOR THE SECOND SEASON

WORDS: DAVE GOLDER

Invisible Columns And Thin Walls “The new studio is Pyramid Studios in Bathgate – it used to be a furniture warehouse. And unfortunately – or fortunately, because I accept these things as not challenges but gifts – right down the middle of that studio are a series of upright columns. But you’ll never spot them on screen. I had to build them in and integrate them into the walls and still get the streets between them. And it worked.

“There’s all sorts of cheeky design values to those sets. Normally a set like this is double-skin. In other words, you do an interior wall and an exterior wall, with an airspace in between. But really, the only time a viewer notices that there’s that width is at the doors and the windows. So I cheated all that. I ended up with single walls everywhere. So the exterior wall is the interior wall, just painted. All I did was make the sash windows and entrances wider to give it some depth as you walked in.”

GOOD OMENS HAD A CHANGE of location for its second season, but hopefully you didn’t notice. Because Whickber Street in Soho upped sticks from an airfield in Hertfordshire to a furniture warehouse in Bathgate, Edinburgh. It’s the kind of nonsensical geographical shenanigans that could only make sense in the crazy world of film and TV, and production designer Michael Ralph was the man in charge of rebuilding and expanding the show’s vast central set. “I wish we could have built more in season one than we did,” says Ralph, whose previous work has included Primeval and Dickensian. “We built the ground floor of everything and the facades of all the shops. But we didn’t build anything higher than that, because we were out on an airfield in a very, very difficult terrain and weather conditions, so we really couldn’t go much higher. Visual effects created the upper levels.”

But with season two the set has gone to a whole other level… literally. “What happened was that the rest of the street became integrated into the series’s storyline,” explains Ralph. “So we needed a record shop, we needed a coffee shop that actually had an inside, we needed a magic shop, we needed the pub. To introduce those meant we had to change the street with a layout that works from a storylines point of view. In other words, things like someone standing at the counter in the record shop had to be able to eyeball somebody standing at the counter in the coffee shop. They had to be able to eyeball Aziraphale sitting in his office in the window of the bookshop. But the rest of it was a pleasure to do inside, because we could expand it and I could go up two storeys.”

For most of the set, which is around 80 metres long and 60 metres wide, the two storeys only applied to the shop frontages, but in the case of Aziraphale’s bookshop, it allowed Ralph to build the mezzanine level for real this time. According to Ralph it became one of the cast and crews’ favourite places to hang out during down time.

But while AZ Fell & Co has grown in height, it actually has a slightly smaller footprint because of the logistics of adapting it to the new studio.

“Everybody swore to me that no one would notice,” says Ralph wryly. “I walked onto it and instinctively knew there was a difference immediately, and they hated me for that. I have this innate sense about spatial awareness and an eye like a spirit level.

“It’s not a lot, though – I think we’ve lost maybe two and a half feet on the front wall internally. I think that there’s a couple of other smaller areas, but only I’d notice. So I can be really annoying to my guys, but only on those levels. Not on any other. They actually quite like me…”

Populating The Bookshop “The props in the new bookshop set were a flawless reproduction from the set decorator Bronwyn Franklin [who is also Ralph’s wife]. It was really the worst-case scenario after season one. She works off the concept art that I produce, but what she does is she adds so much more to the character of the set. She doesn’t buy anything she doesn’t love, or doesn’t fit the character.

“But the things she put a lot of work into finding for season one, they were pretty much one-offs. When we burnt the set down in the sixth episode, we lost a lot of props, many of which had been spotted and appreciated by the fans. So Bronwyn had to discover a new set decorating technique: forensic buying.

“She found it all – duplicates and replicas. It took ages. In that respect, the Covid delay was very helpful for Bron. There’s 7,000 books in there and there’s not one fake book. That’s mainly because… it’s a weird thing to say, but we wanted it to smell and feel like a bookshop to everybody that was in it, all the time.

“It affects everybody subliminally; it affects everybody’s performance – actors and crew – it raises the bar 15 to 20%. And the detail, you know… We love a lot of detail.”

(look at the description under this, they called him 'Azi' hehehehe :D <3)

Aziraphale’s Inspirational Correspondence “There’s not one single scrap of paper on Aziraphale’s desk that isn’t written specifically for Aziraphale. Every single piece is not just fodder that’s been shoved there, it has a purpose; it’s a letter of thanks, or an enquiry about a book or something.

“Michael Sheen is so submerged in his character he would get lost sitting at his own desk, reading his own correspondence between takes. I believe wholeheartedly that if you put that much care into every single piece of detail, on that desk and in that room, that everybody feels it, including the crew, and then they give that set the same respect it deserves.

“They also lift their game because they believe that they’re doing something of so much care and value. Really, it’s a domino effect of passion and care for what you’re producing.”

Alternative Music “My daughter Mickey is lead graphic designer [two of Ralph’s sons worked on the series too, one as a concept artist, the other in props]. They’re the ones that produced all of that handwritten work on the desk. She’s the one that took on the record shop and made up 80 band names so that we didn’t have to get copyright clearance from real bands. Then she produced records and sleeves that spanned 50, 60 years of their recordings, and all of the graphics on the walls.

“I remember Michael and Neil [Gaiman] getting lost following one band’s history on the wall, looking at their posters and albums desperately trying to find out whether they survived that emo period.”

It’s A Kind Of Magic One of the new shops in Whickber Street for season two was Will Goldstone’s Magic Shop, which is full of as many Easter eggs as off-the-shelf conjuring tricks, including a Matt Smith Doctor Who-style fez and a toy orang-utan that’s a nod to Discworld’s The Librarian. Ralph says that while the series is full of references to Gaiman, Pratchett and Doctor Who, Michael Sheen never complained about a lack of Masters Of Sex in-jokes. “He’d be the last person to make that sort of comment!”

Ralph also reveals that the magic shop counter was another one of his wife’s purchases, bought at a Glasgow reclamation yard.

The Anansi Boys Connection Ralph reveals that Good Omens season two used the state-of-the-art special effects tech Volume (famous for its use in The Mandalorian to create virtual backdrops) for just one sequence, but he will be using it extensively elsewhere on another Gaiman TV series being made for Prime Video.

“We used Volume on the opening sequence to create the creation of the universe. I was designing Anansi Boys in duality with this project, which seems an outrageously suicidal thing to do. But it was fantastic and Anansi Boys was all on Volume. So I designed for Volume on one show and not Volume on the other. The complexities and the psychology of both is different.”

[ordinaryschmuck]

With Gooseworx all but confirming that the Jax being an AI thing is bullshit, I personally want to talk about an interesting part about Jax that a lot of theorists used as "evidence" that validates the theory:

Jax's fourth wall breaks are a common topic brought up amongst the "Jax is an NPC" theory. After all, Caine broke the fourth wall in the pilot, knowing full well that the world of The Amazing Digital Circus isn't real and is talking to some unseen viewer as he introduces the Circus Crew.

There's also this bit of official art surrounding Jax's pin:

Where everyone else is inside their room, Jax is outside as pieces of the circus fall apart around him and all of reality to crash. Certainly lends itself to this idea that Jax knows he's not a real person and that his presence could cause great disruption to this world. And he doesn't care because none of it is real. Might as well have fun and cause chaos in a world that doesn't exist.

And I'll admit, all of this seems like valid claims for how the theory could be true. I saw it all and thought that it surely COULD be possible...but there are some things that stop me from being convinced.

Firstly, Caine breaking the fourth wall in the pilot doesn't really seem like an AI talking to the audience. It looks more like an AI programmed to talk to a player as a game boots up. What we saw in the opening could be more like a morning routine that he has to do at least once a day. Plus, we've yet to see any other NPC talk to the audience like Jax has. He explicitly called out the viewers in episode three, knowing full well he's being watched by SOMEONE. Or, at the very least, acting like he is. What do I mean by that? Well, to explain, I'd like to use one of my favorite fourth wall breakers as an example:

Deadpool, in most adaptations, knows fully well that he's a fictional character. He'll talk to the readers/viewers, move the camera around, and constantly talk shit to the writers/studio for occasionally screwing him over. It's all in good (Sometimes bloody) fun...but there's a canonical reason for this. It's not like She-Hulk where the fourth wall breaks are a way to tell HER stories HER way. You see, Deadpool...is just fucking insane.

No, really, that's the reason. Due to the trauma of gaining his powers, Deadpool's mind breaks and he's led to believe that he MUST be a fictional character. In comics, he actually gets voices in his head that makes him think he must be some comic book superhero, and the movies implied that something similar happened given how he never broke the fourth wall ONCE before getting his powers. This means him breaking the fourth wall could be seen as a coping mechanism. After all, it's better to believe you're a fictional character designed to entertain some invisible audience than believe that all of the shitty things that happened to you and people close to you is just a cruel joke from the universe.

Sound familiar?

Going back to the pilot, remember how Pomni's first instinct was to say that the Circus was all just a dream? To her, it's better to live in a lie that everything around her isn't real than to accept the reality that she's stuck in digital purgatory. Jax very well could be going through something similar, but unlike Pomni who seemed to just accept her reality, Jax never did. The trauma of being stuck in the Circus had led to his mind breaking just like Pomni's, Kinger's, and anyone else's. It's just that, for him, he thinks he's coping with it better because he discovered the secret that no one else did: None of this is real.

They're not actually people trapped in some hellscape while an AI unintentionally tortures them. They're all just fictional characters whose tragedies and silly antics are used to entertain viewers. I mean, it's either that or they're real people forever trapped in the circus with the closest thing to death being a full, psychotic break as they give up their sanity because they no longer want to exist in this hell anymore...But that possibly can't be true. Because if that IS true, then Jax has to face that he's a real person stuck in a real, awful situation that he can't joke his way out of. So, it's best to think nothing is real and nothing they do matter. So, might as well have fun with it.

Going back to the pin...

I don't think this is damning evidence about Jax being an NPC. Actually, it perfectly captures who he is as a character. He knows the circus isn't real. He even thinks HE isn't real. So instead of grappling with that, Jax lets himself believe that if nothing is real than nothing he does matters. He can break things, ruin lives, and assist in torturing the others in the circus. It's what he thinks will make the show more entertaining, even though all he's really entertaining is himself so his mind doesn't break more than it does.

Now, could the same apply if he's an NPC? Well...maybe. Gumigoo definitely proves how far someone could fall when they're told their world is fake. He was about ready to give up on life because he didn't think he had one. If Jax was an NPC, I could see him having a similar break, but going in the far opposite direction where, instead of giving up on life, he chooses to live the way HE wants it. Instead of being some one-off NPC for a lame adventure, he could go off on adventures of his own and ruin the lives of others now that his is thoroughly ruined.

However, Gooseworx makes a good point: "...a lot of people come up with theories based on how unexpected they'd be, and not because they make sense or align with the show's themes."

If Jax is an NPC, it would harm the overall message of the show. That there's meaning to be found in a stagnant life, and you find that meaning with people close to you who make that life worth living. Jax represents a sort of foil to that idea, with his way of coping with the madness being pure chaos and breaking others. It's his coping mechanism, and it works because it shows how human Jax really is. They're ALL human and they have human desires and wants, with the Circus pretty much stripping that away and leaving them...as they are now. They're emotionally broken, their sanity is decreasing, and some of them are losing all sense of self. By making Jax an NPC, it would definitely be surprising, but it would take away from that idea. It no longer makes him a human facing his own tragedy but instead an AI that's just as broken as Gummigoo. More than that, it gives the others an easy out. All the crew has to do is tell Caine that Jax is an NPC and POOF! No more annoyance. So making him someone who HAS to stay with the others and they're forever forced to deal with him also adds more to THEIR tragedy and torture.

Jax being an NPC is an interesting theory, but I don't think it's one that SHOULD be true. To me, it's more fascinating watching Jax treat the world around him as meaningless knowing he's a human instead of a rogue NPC breaking everything. And Gooseworx made it clear how they feel about it. Now, could it potentially be a mislead to get fans off the trail? Genuinely...I don't think so. That sounded very "I don't like this idea so it's not gonna happen" type of response. Still, we won't know until the show wraps up. Anything can happen, but don't get your hopes up if a character who does bad things to people that don't deserve it is more human than you think.

[devosin]

— LATE NIGHTS & FLASHING LIGHTS !! episode one : taco bell & shitty tuesdays . .

♡. Spotify playlist | Updates, every Friday !! — Vil Schoenheit x reader | Y/n pov . .

You stare at your phone screen, waiting for the phone call to end, and for the screen to fade to black—A sigh of relief escapes you as you finally hear the line close, the familiar sound of a phone call ending brings you such overwhelming relief, you'd think you just paid off a million dollars worth of nonexistent debt. 

You let yourself fall back on your chair, your publicist had landed you into another event you could care less about all in the name of publicity, and honestly you wish you had the heart to tell her, but you’re well aware that Jean only wants the best for her clients, and each decision had a reason behind it . . —But who the hell goes to a dolphin event anyways?—They’re like the cruelest sea animal!

You stretch your arms, and stare at the pile of clothes spread at the top of your bed and floor. It was the first day on set, nothing major would be happening, only meeting the crew and learning of the plans for the show—and you’d like to make a good impression—anything below show stopping would be an insult to yourself . . and your stylist who suggested a bunch of outfits with the clothes you now have on your bed and floor. 

You let out another sigh, wishing you could just fall back asleep instead of dealing with whatever it is you got yourself signed up to, “I should take a shower”, you mumble to nobody in particular. 

Time: 10:32 am Location: Y/n’s Car

You stir the car into the drive thru of some random Taco Bell that fell on the highway—Normally taco bell for breakfast isn't ideal, and in all honesty will never be your ideal . .  It's a bold move to take the most diarrhea-inducing meal right before a first time cast meeting, but when life gives you taco's, one must oblige. 

Time: 11:43 am Location: Y/n’s Car 

You had parallel parked your car somehow—To be fair ninety percent of the time you park your car with hopes and prayers, and sometimes you forget to fill your gas up entirely, which proves to be really annoying since it's a three hour drive to the capital city where you film mainly, and you have to drive there a lot . .  Your parents would be ashamed to see your yearly towing costs due to a forgetful gas repayment. 

You always seem to assume that somehow the distance to get to your designated location will magically change into a couple minutes and won't waste your gas as much, which quite literally never works, but are you going to learn from your mistakes? . . Most likely not. 

You stretch your arms one more time, taking a few deep breaths and a sip of your drink, before you finally grab your tote bag and head into the studio. 

Time: 11:52am Location: Inside the studio 

A shiver racked over your body the moment you entered the studio—'Dear seven it's fucking cold in here'—you thought, mentally noting that you should ask Amanda when you meet her if there was a way to turn up the heater, it’s literally winter . .  they can’t expect you to film in this situation right? 

As if on instinct a distinct cheery voice could be heard from the farther corner of the room, "Y/n!! You're here", a petite brunette makes her way up to you . .  way too energetic for this early in the morning, "Hi, Amanda", you greet her, a bit awkwardly, not knowing how to exactly approach the conversation. 

“Yes! That’s me, we're just setting up right now, I’m so glad you came.”, she smiled, “You can put your bags on that chair over there, we're just getting a few things sorted, so feel free to introduce yourself to everyone.”. 

"Omg, it's so great to finally see you! . . and like meet you", she seemed so excited, for some weird reason, her energy rubbed off on you, easing your nerves, "Sorry if I'm late, traffic was horrendous", you mumbled, “that’s completely fine, you live further out East right?”, she asked curiously, and you watched as she fiddled with her clipboard checking off random things. 

“Yeah”, you reply dryly, shoving your hands in your pockets, “It’s usually a three hour drive, it took four today”, she nodded along, “Well, if you’re hungry we have snacks in that room”, she points to one of the random staff rooms, “You and Vil will be sharing a dressing room, if you don't mind—If you do I can totally work something out!”, she quickly corrects herself. 

“No it’s completely fine”, you smile, it wouldn’t be the first time, a lot of films on a shorter budget opts to have actors sharing a dressing room, and this is the first ever late night show for the company, you wouldn’t be surprised if sorting things out is already eating a chunk away at the budget set in placed.  

“Speaking of Vil . . Where is he?”, you ask, looking around curiously at the room, you see a bunch of other staff members and crew, who wave hi to you and you wave back. You’ll have to greet them properly later, but you’ll put that to a back burner until your social battery recovers to its full level. 

“Vil?”, she stands in place, thinking for a couple seconds, “He left an hour ago”, you raise a brow, “He came like really early in the morning, said he was getting breakfast and had a meeting, and that he’d be back . . maybe . .  soon?”, she walks around, throwing some pointers to some of the crew . .  it looked like gang signs but the crew understood so who are you to judge, “Honestly I don’t remember much.”, she whispered to you, like it was a secret of some kind, “But . . I did plan a meeting between the two of you tomorrow, you’ll be meeting at this cafe, it’s really private and I booked the area so you guys can comfortably talk about the show, if that’s alright with you?” 

“That’s great actually!”, you smiled, that just gives you one less thing to worry about.

Amanda is actually just a random character based off of no one in particular, I felt like a really sweet manager would be really fun <3

Taco bell . . . no y/n's were harmed in this process (They had pepto bismol in the car dw)

Previous chapter | Masterlist | Next chapter . .

— LATE NIGHTS & FLASHING LIGHTS !! ♡. Synopsis : VIL SCHOENHEIT recently signed a contract under Descendant. Inc for his very own late night show, only to find out his co-star and fellow co-host is none other than Y/n L/n, someone he hates despite knowing very little about them and never having met them, previously. Y/N L/N, an actor who made their debut 3 years ago and hasn’t been able to catch a break since, recently decided to sign a deal with Descendants. Inc to host their new late night show “late nights & flashing lights”, as a break from acting . . Only to find out their favorite long-time actor will be co-hosting with them. Tune in every Friday, for a new episode of “late nights & flashing lights” to see if these two hosts can find a peaceful work-bond amidst their judgements . . and quite possibly even love? . .

♡. Want spoilers ?! . . Join my server . . !! (or to be namedropped <3)

— taglist ♡ ; @well-look-at-this , @honkai-freak , @kingnem10 , @merviolet-asks , @katzline , @pebble-bb , @meigalaxy , @lordbugs , @crowbird , @yuus3n , @azriel-sama , @reivelmin , @the-ghost-0f-t0m0 , @eliza-be-t-h , @feverish-dove , @yejiswifex , @l0v3r666 , @cece-cherries , @frootloopscos , @abell2029cluster , @ephemii , @alienlatteinspace , @frangiipanii , @vamprel , @kittycat246 , @jar-03 , @leifsclubroom , @everettelz ,

♡ . Ask to be tagged... (If you don't see yourself up here, I cant tag you)

© devosin , do not repost, plagiarize, translate, or adapt my work without prior permission and or confirmation.

[rafecswhore]

divine - tattoo artist rafe cameron x f! reader

the parlor was quiet when you walked in, save for the faint buzz of a machine in one of the back rooms. it wasn’t your first time here—far from it. over the last couple of months, you’d been stopping by more often than you cared to admit.

and every single time, it was for him.

“hey, trouble,” rafe greeted, leaning against the counter with his usual easy confidence. his dark shirt clung to him, tattoos peeking out from the sleeves and collar. he tilted his head, a sly smile spreading on his face. “finally ready for some ink, or are you just here to keep teasing me?”

“i told you i was thinking about it,” you shot back, though the heat rising to your cheeks gave you away.

“well, if you’re thinking about it today, i’ve got time.” he tapped the counter, his piercing blue eyes locking onto yours. “what’s it gonna be?”

you hesitated for a second before pulling out your phone and showing him the design. it was simple yet striking—divine, written in elegant script. his eyes flicked to yours, holding your gaze just a moment too long.

“chest piece?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

you nodded. “middle of my chest.”

his smirk softened into something more serious, his gaze dipping briefly to where you gestured. “all right,” he said, turning to grab his clipboard. “let’s do it.”

the room was smaller and more intimate than the open studio area. his station was spotless, his tools lined up neatly, but your nerves had nothing to do with the tattoo. the way rafe’s presence filled the room made it hard to focus on anything else.

“you’re gonna have to lower this,” he said, gesturing to the neckline of your top as he prepared the stencil. “just enough so i can get the placement right.”

your hands trembled slightly as you tugged the fabric down, revealing the center of your chest. his eyes flickered to the newly exposed skin, and though he said nothing, you didn’t miss the way his jaw tightened. his fingers brushed against your sternum as he positioned the stencil, his touch sending a spark down your spine.

“this okay?” he asked, his voice softer now, almost intimate.

“yeah,” you managed, your breath catching as his fingertips lingered a little longer than necessary.

when the machine buzzed to life, you instinctively tensed. rafe leaned in closer, his free hand resting lightly on your ribs to steady you. “relax,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “i’ve got you.”

the first touch of the needle made you gasp softly, and his thumb immediately began tracing slow, reassuring circles against your side. “you’re doing good,” he said, his voice dropping a notch. “just breathe.”

as he worked, the air between you grew heavier. his hand moved occasionally, his touch grazing the sensitive skin just above your chest. every time his fingers brushed against you, your breath hitched, and you swore you saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

“you’re gonna make me lose focus if you keep making noises like that,” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear. your cheeks burned, but you couldn’t deny the heat pooling in your stomach.

“sorry,” you whispered, though the smirk on his face told you he wasn’t really complaining.

he leaned in closer to adjust his angle, and the scent of his cologne filled your senses. his chest was almost brushing against you now, and you were acutely aware of the way his breath ghosted over your skin. “you okay?” he asked, his voice rougher now.

“yeah,” you replied, but your voice betrayed you, shaky and uneven.

his smirk deepened, but he said nothing as he went back to work. every once in a while, his fingers would linger, his touch firm yet gentle, and it was impossible to ignore the way your body reacted to him. the tension between you was electric, and you weren’t sure how much longer you could keep your composure.

when he finally pulled back, he wiped the area clean and handed you a mirror. the tattoo was flawless, the script perfectly centered and delicate.

“it’s beautiful,” you whispered, your fingers hovering over the fresh ink.

“yeah,” rafe said, his voice lower now, his gaze fixed on your chest. “it is.”

the weight of his stare sent a shiver through you, and when you looked up at him, his expression was darker, more intense. he stepped closer, his hand brushing against your side as he leaned in. “you keep coming back to me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “starting to think you like having me this close.”

your breath caught, but you didn’t pull away. “and what if i do?”

his lips curved into a slow, dangerous smirk. “then i’d say you’re gonna have to stop teasing me and do something about it.”

his words hung in the air, and the charged silence stretched between you. he didn’t move closer, but he didn’t step back either, his hand still resting on your ribs, his thumb brushing faintly against your skin. it was a challenge, a dare, and you knew this was far from over.

[m0chisenpai]

Accessorize

˚｡⋆ lestat de lioncourt x black!fem!reader

in which Lestat and his little muse have a preshow ritual

Lestat picked you up in the beginning of his rise to fame. He heard you sing, and needed your voice. Over the screeching fans, he heard you sing to his song, and knew that your voice would be heard for centuries to come. The following day he would send one of his agents to pick you up from your hotel room. “Mr Lioncourt wants to negotiate a contract with you ma’am”

You were quick to deny it, but when they showed you the paperwork and pay you were going to receive, the thought of working for a tempered immortal that could snap you in half like a twig was the least of your worries.

They provide you with accommodations and cover all expenses to move you from your home state to California where he had already begun working on his next single.

You started working in back up vocals something you were already used to, but two recording sessions later and Lestat demanded your voice be on the song with him alone. He waved off the three singers demanding you were to stay. You could feel his eyes like a weight upon you as you read the lyrics in front of you over and over. Rock was the last thing you’d expect to do, could you even do it?

But you have little time to prepare before the sound engineers voice echoes in your ears, “whenever you’re ready!”

The song is something new, not necessarily metal or hard work. But you close your eyes and begin to hum lowly into the mic, whispering the lyrics into the mic until the song turns off. When you sang in the recording studio, his eyes remained on you unblinking.

Finally you break the silence speaking into the microphone for both men to hear. "Was that good for you, Mr. Lioncourt?" you tilted your head. He smirked pressing a ring clad finger to respond.

"Perfection, cherie" he can see the delicous shiver tingle down your spine. The song was a hit, no doubt the man was a musical genius, but he had to credit you as well, Your voice was the missing piece.

This new life was something new, something better. Who were you to deny it? You were making thrice more then you could ever in your life time. Add your new immortality? You were untouchable. You had an immortality lover, maker, companion, whatever he chose to label it by your side. Had Lestat known there was this new side to you with the Dark Gift he would have bestowed it upon you the year he began working with you.

You took to your thirst and instincts like a duck to water. Prowling the nights with your costar. Taking groupies back for meals. Walking red carpet appearances, and doing interviews in the most bold outfits.

You were made for this, made to be with him.

The tabloids and networks were reporting on the chemistry you two had stage. Were you a couple? No you were more than that. You and Lestat completed something in one another.

You sat beside him on the tour bus. It was designated just for you two and tinted windows protected you both. Your fingers scrolled on Instagram, reading the latest highlights and news from your last performance. In the high and rush of pre performance jitters, you bit him.

And the fans noticed it immediately as Lestat popped his jacket open proudly displaying it, and the smeared blood painting your lips making you look like a goddess on stage.

Tonight was an interview, and whoever it was peaked Lestat’s attention enough to get just the two of you on camera.

"It seems your previous work has begun to fade," Lestat sits up a bit on his elbows, his curly waves fall behind him. And he flashes you a fangy smirk. The bites you bestowed him have in fact begun to fade.

“Who are we to deny the people what they want,” you snicked, tossing your phone beside you.

Your crawl to him like the little minx you are are. Kissing your way up his stomach. Your first bite is just where his heart would be beating, and you take a small drink from the wound. You press kiss after kiss landing another biting right in his neck.

That's where you begin to feed, getting drunk off the ancient taste of him. He surrounds and intoxicates you. He’s panting and digging his nails into your hips, he always loved it when you fed from him.

When you are full you pull back, chest heaving and pupils wide like his own. You both would be late, using this time to satiate another hunger.

When you;ve arrived you are walking on cloud nine with your beloved, your manager in front of you both. Lestat holds your hand as you both enter the studio., guiding you like you are royalty.

Two seats are situated side by side but he immmediately pulls you atop his lap. Ignorong the staff member who fumbles to fix the set up.

Your nose crinkles at the chalice beside you. The blood smells foul. Lestat sees the distaste on your face, "my muse won't be drinking that."

A woman approaches him with a make up brush that he immediately moves away from.

“Do I look like I need you?” His sneer deterred the makeup woman immediately who moved to you.

“I touched up on the bus.” Your smile sends her away with blushing cheeks. They move to mic you both up, doing their best not to brush on the vampire. But their eyes do catch the fresh bite on his neck and the one just barely peaking on his chest.

“Can we uh…do you need to get that checked? Or covered?”

“Oh I think you know the answer to that,” you eye your work in pride, and Lestat smirks up at you. Perhaps he ought to give you a matching one.

[lotusapple-xia]

LADS Men x Goth Reader

✰ synopsis: lads men x goth reader headcanons

✰ pairing: lads men x reader

✰ content: fluff, established relationships, mentions of tattoos and piercings, some parts mention specific substyles of gothic styles

✰ w/c: 641 (100-140 for each)

✰ notes: for @liz9898 <3, dividers by @kodaswrld

🪷Reblogs, comments and likes are always appreciated!🪷

Xavier loves literature of all kinds. Despite the countless degrees and diplomas, he has a thirst for knowledge that he loves to indulge in. It works out that you both love reading. You have a collection of gothic novels and films that you view often. Xavier loves reading your books. Not only can he escape to a new world within each book, but he also learns and understands more about you. He’s used sticky notes to annotate your books. Each chapter has a poetic note waiting for you when he returns it after finishing. After a tough mission, Xavier sets up the couch with comfy blankets and pillows to wind down. He picks a movie from your collection to play and snuggles into your chest as the night falls.

Rafayel would love to do your makeup. Whether it’s modern trad goth or cabaret goth he’d make it his mission to make an original and unique design for you. He’d sit you directly in front of him on the bed, an array of palettes and brushes next to him. Rafayel would gently press the eyeliner to your eyelid, making sure not to hurt you and focusing on keeping his hand steady. He presses the dark lipstick to your lips and dabs some eyeshadow on top to create a chrome effect. After some time, he prompts you to look in the mirror. Intricate swirls of black and sharp, clean lines decorate your face. You look back at Rafayel, who’s looking at you like you’re the most stunning piece of art ever created.

Zayne helps you to care of any tattoos and piercings you decide to get. No matter if it’s a small fine-line tattoo, big blackwork piece or a new piercing, Zayne will be prepped with all the aftercare essentials. He’ll apply tattoo salve twice a day on the new artwork and will help you to wash it in the shower after gently peeling back the second skin. He would also apply the saline solution to your fresh piercings. But, most of all, Zayne would research the best studios to get these done because he wants you to be safe and healthy most of all.

Sylus loves to buy accessories and outfits for you, especially if you’re into Victorian goth or gothic Lolita styles. He’d purchase from trusted and high-quality boutiques and support the original creators of the outfit designs. If you prefer lace, he’d source garments from an ethical lace-making business that creates their pieces by hand. If you lean towards velvet, he’d find a shop offering original designs tailored to your body. Sylus enjoys adorning you in ornate black and red jewellery, and he loves to match your style. Whenever you both go on dates, people stare. Not with any ill intention, but rather in awe. Two seemingly intimidating figures—one of which is the leader of Onychinus—that are adorned with rich, dark colours. But little do they know that Sylus is gushing over his wife like a schoolboy in love.

Caleb always puts on your favourite artist when it’s storming outside. He understands very well that thunderstorms make you freeze up in fear. To combat this, he makes sure you both are touching in some way, to make sure you’re grounded. Caleb puts on your favourite song to drown out the harsh sounds of the thunder. You both like listening to gothic music, you enjoy the sounds, and he enjoys how each song reminds him of you. He pulls you up gently and sways you both to the rhythm of the song. You two wave your arms up and move instinctively to the beat. You imagine a dark ballroom where it’s just you and Caleb dancing. He spins you gently while you fall into his embrace. The moon lit sky and flashes of lightning illuminates both your lovesick smiles.

i imagined that these were the gothic styles that reader had with each guy!

Xavier – mall/pastel/trad

Rafayel – cabaret/trad/whimsy

Zayne – corporate/gothabilly

Sylus – Victorian/gothic Lolita/vampire

Caleb – romantic/perky  

[l0vema]

PRISM EFFECT

Pairing: Mingi x Reader x Yunho

Genre: Poly idol AU, Slow-burn, smut, tension-heavy, size kink, emotionally devastating, soft obsession

synopsis: A collaboration between Kpop group Ateez and your group turns into something far more intimate when the choreography between you, Mingi, and Yunho becomes too real to fake. The cameras catch everything, the fans notice, the other members are watching and soon you're all past the point of pretending it's just performance.

Word count: 8k (this is the longest thing I've ever written)

The studio air was heavy with humidity the kind that clung to the backs of your knees and curled the tips of your edges no matter how slicked they were that morning. The floor gleamed under harsh fluorescent lights, waxed to the point that your sneakers squeaked when you pivoted too fast. The mirrors lined every wall, turning you and the others into infinite reflections, bodies bending, lifting, reaching in synchronized rhythm.

You were front and center now.

It was the third hour of rehearsal, and the choreography was sensual by design. You hadn’t even blinked when you’d seen the initial layout: your leg lifting over a seated Mingi’s shoulder, your hands resting at Yunho’s neck, the three of you forming a tableau of trust and heat and tension under the guise of movement. The move was called the coil.

You had to step up behind Mingi, place your palms on his shoulders, and with strength and grace swing your right leg over one side of his neck until it rested against his collarbone. Mingi’s job was to sit perfectly still on the chair, hands on his thighs, back straight, chest up. You had to arch, hold your core tight, and lean forward just enough to let the camera see the intimacy of the shape you made together.

Yunho’s part came next: he approached from the side, lacing his fingers around your waist from behind, steadying you midair as your balance shifted.

No one told them to look at you the way they did.

You were supposed to be statues. Rehearsal pose. Hold, count to six. Switch.

But Mingi? His breath hitched the moment your thigh slid into place. You felt it before you saw it a full-body shudder beneath his hoodie. He didn’t move, but his ears flushed red, color blooming so fast it was like watching heat rise through skin. His hands, clenched tightly on his lap, trembled just once.

Yunho stepped in like a shadow. You hadn’t even seen him approach. His hands found your waist with practiced ease but it wasn’t rehearsed. Not really. The way his palms splayed against your sides, thumbs pressing slightly into the curve of your ribs that was instinct.

His hands were big. So big.

They covered more of you than anyone’s ever had in a single touch. Gentle, sure. Warm. He held you like he was anchoring you in place, like he wasn’t sure you’d stay without him.

You let out a laugh breathless and quiet, more exhale than sound. A helpless thing. It wasn’t amusement. It was disbelief. Disbelief that your body was responding this fast. That your skin was already warm everywhere he touched. That you could feel Mingi’s shallow breathing beneath your leg, see the tension in his jaw in the mirror across from you.

And then the choreographer shouted “Reset!”

You dropped back down, sneakers hitting the floor with a soft thud. The spell shattered. But something had changed. You saw it in their eyes.

Yunho blinked once. Then again. He looked at his hands like they weren’t his.

Mingi ducked his head, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair and adjusting the hem of his hoodie with jittery fingers. He glanced at you only once, fast, and when your eyes met, he turned away like he’d been caught staring at the sun.

You didn't even get the chance to process what you felt before your groupmate Sae shouted from across the studio, "Y/N, girl. I know I saw you float midair. What the hell was that?!"

From the far side, Wooyoung muttered to Hongjoong, “If they get any closer, we’re gonna have to light candles.”

Hongjoong didn’t even look up from his water bottle. “Good.”

Laughter rippled across the room. But you weren’t laughing. Not really.

Your skin was still buzzing.

And when you turned back, Yunho was still staring at you. Not shy. Not even flustered anymore.

Just… wrecked

________________

The day of the fanmeet filming felt like stepping into a dream with too many mirrors and too few places to hide.

The venue was sleek, a converted performance hall turned filming set for the collaborative “fanservice cut” content your companies were producing. You’d been briefed to expect light games, behind-the-scenes moments, and “natural” interactions between your group and the boys of ATEEZ.

The producers’ idea of natural was putting you in coordinated outfits and sticking you in an air-conditioned sauna of LED lighting for ten hours straight.

Your stylist had gone all out soft glam makeup with a shimmery highlight, hair picked out into a side-parted cloud that framed your face like a halo, and a loose satin blouse tucked into belted high-waist pants that hugged your waist like a secret. The fabric stuck to the small of your back as the set lights heated the room more than any of the bodies inside it did.

Well. Almost.

The moment you stepped onto the platform for the opening group shot, Mingi and Yunho both noticed. You didn’t need confirmation, their reactions were in the delay of their gazes. Mingi looked and looked again, eyes catching the curve of your hip before flicking upward in a rush, almost like he’d gotten burned. Yunho met your gaze and then dropped it entirely, jaw flexing, hands twitching at his sides like they were used to holding something.

Neither of them said anything. But their silence had weight.

Filming dragged. You smiled for the cameras, laughed at jokes, waved at the sea of imagined fans behind the lenses. You shifted between ATEEZ members as the rotation continued;  pairing off for brief skits, interview questions, sketched charades. At some point, someone handed you a handheld fan. At some later point, it died in your hand, the tiny blades giving a pathetic wheeze before stopping entirely.

You sighed, fanning yourself with your palm. “My soul just left my body,” you muttered.

A quiet voice cut in beside you. “You need a new one?”

You turned, and there they were.

Yunho crouched at your side, already inspecting the fan like it owed him money. Mingi hovered behind him, fiddling with something in his palm.

You blinked. “It’s okay, really”

“It’s probably just the connection,” Yunho mumbled, brushing his thumb over the battery latch. His brow furrowed. He was so close you could see the faint sheen of sweat at his temple, the way his lashes clumped together.

“I thought maybe…” Mingi’s voice trailed off, then he held out a small object. “I brought this. Earlier. I saw it and thought it might look good on you.”

It was a hairpin.

Tiny. Gold. Shaped like a flower, its edges lined with small, pearl-like beads. It sparkled even in the dim backlight.

You stared at it.

“Oh,” you said. “Oh.”

“I thought maybe” he stopped, rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking very interested in the floor. “It’s stupid. You don’t have to”

“It’s not stupid,” you cut in, softly.

You reached out, taking it from his hand carefully. his fingers were still warm from holding it. You looked up at him and maybe it was the lighting, maybe it was the fatigue but something soft cracked open behind your ribs.

“Thank you, Mingi,” you said, and smiled. Not politely. Not performatively. Warm, slow, real.

His ears turned red. Fully. Even Yunho glanced up, blinking like he’d just come out of a trance.

From a few feet away, your member Jina whispered to Sae, “Girl. This is a fanfic. I’m watching a fanfic unfold in real time.”

Later that night, when the videos started rolling out online, you’d barely gotten back to the hotel before Twitter lit up like a battlefield:

> 🐥: “Did Mingi give Y/N that hair clip?? 😭”

🐯: “YUNHO ON HIS KNEES FIXING HER FAN LIKE IT’S HIS LIFE’S MISSION.”

🧊: “Her SMILE at them?? THEY ARE DONE FOR.”

🐉: “Yeosang watching this unfold is me watching my friends spiral into romantic ruin.”

In the shared hotel room, San threw his phone onto the bed. “They’re gonna combust. I’m telling you.”

Yeosang didn’t even look up. “Yunho already combusted. He just hasn’t realized it yet.”

______________

The hallway was almost empty now, just a long stretch of flickering fluorescent lights and the low hum of vending machines buzzing like tired crickets. Most of the staff had cleared out, and your group’s van was already waiting in the loading zone downstairs.

But the last suitcase hadn’t been packed when they left.

So now it was just you dragging a stubborn, overstuffed black case with one squeaky wheel down a waxed hallway, your hoodie sleeves rolled up to your elbows, your curls slightly frizzed from the day’s chaos, and a slow, sticky heat building at the base of your spine.

You didn’t notice the elevator was already occupied until you nearly missed it closing.

“Hold it!” you shouted, jogging awkwardly with one hand gripping the suitcase handle and the other flailing for balance.

Just before the doors sealed shut, a hand shot out large, veined, sure and pressed flat against the metal.

It jolted open. Mingi.

Standing inside in soft black sweats and a half-zipped hoodie, hair. damp from a post-filming rinse, lips parted in surprise. His gaze trailed down not in a leer, but like his brain was playing catch-up, scanning the mess of the suitcase, the crumpled bag slung over your shoulder, the single bead of sweat tracing down your neck.

You offered a sheepish grin. “Don’t judge. I'm helping.”

He said nothing at first. Then he stepped to the side, giving you space.

You maneuvered the case inside with a groan, tugging at the handle until it bumped over the elevator threshold. The weight shifted. You tugged harder and the suitcase tipped, fast, dragging your arm forward with it.

Your foot slipped.

The jolt was small but sharp just enough to send your center of gravity forward.

And suddenly, you weren’t falling.

You were caught.

Two hands; large, warm and strong anchored at your waist. One curled slightly above your hip, the other pressing flat against the small of your back. Not forceful. Just… there. Like a wall that had appeared out of nowhere to catch you mid-spill.

You blinked, eyes wide, breath stolen.

Mingi’s chest was firm beneath your shoulder. His scent, clean soap and something darker, muskier, hit you in a wave.

He didn’t say anything. Neither did you.

Because Yunho had just stepped in behind you.

“Whoa-” Yunho’s voice was quiet, low, more winded than surprised. “You alright?”

Your mouth opened to respond maybe laugh it off but before you could, Yunho’s hand brushed your arm, featherlight. Then, his palm rested on your upper back just below the spot where Mingi’s hand still sat.

The three of you were too close now. Caught in this triangle of accidental touch.

No one moved.

You were acutely aware of your breath ragged from the stumble. Of Mingi’s hand still on your waist, thumb ghosting against your hoodie fabric. Of Yunho behind you, taller, warmer, his proximity a weight you could feel without even turning.

“You always carry everything yourself?” Yunho asked.

His voice was near your ear now not flirtatious, not scolding. Just… intimate.

The elevator began to move, soft hum underfoot, numbers ticking down above the door. Still, no one moved.

Your voice came out breathy. “I…yeah. I don’t mind.”

Mingi’s hand twitched at your waist, as if resisting the instinct to squeeze. Instead, he slowly pulled away but not before his fingers lightly grazed the curve of your side.

You shivered.

The tension between you was thick. Like the kind you could only make worse by acknowledging it.

So no one did.

Not until the elevator dinged and the doors slid open at the next floor and Yeosang stepped in.

He looked like he’d just walked off a runway in casualwear black coat, coffee in one hand, eyes sharp. He paused as he registered the scene: your suitcase, Mingi standing a little too close, Yunho behind you, lips slightly parted.

He looked from you, to Mingi, to Yunho — and said absolutely nothing.

Then, slowly, he turned around, sipped his drink, and faced the front of the elevator.

No one else spoke.

The elevator started moving again. This time, the silence was deafening.

You didn’t dare move. Mingi shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Yunho exhaled like he’d been holding it in. Then the doors opened again. Yeosang stepped out without a word. But, just before the doors closed behind him, he turned over his shoulder, casual and dry:

“Next time, do that somewhere private, yeah?”

The doors shut.

You could’ve died.

Mingi coughed once, a low, awkward noise into his sleeve.

Yunho pressed the heel of his hand to his face and groaned.

You stared forward, cheeks hot enough to boil water.

No one said a single word the rest of the ride down.

But when the doors opened and you all stepped out onto the pavement, Mingi leaned over, voice low, near your ear:

“If I’d let you fall… I think Yunho might’ve killed me.”

Yunho, still behind you, muttered, “Don’t test me.”

And suddenly… your palms were sweating all over again.

___________________

The cold air of the loading dock hits your skin, but it does nothing to cool the heat under your clothes.

Your van isn’t there yet. Someone mutters about traffic. You nod vaguely and start moving, not to anywhere specific, just away. Away from Mingi’s voice still echoing in your ear, from the memory of Yunho’s hand on your back, from the wild look in Yeosang’s eyes when the doors opened.

Your sneakers tap quietly on the concrete stairs as you climb. The silence is thick, broken only by the soft hum of fluorescent lights and the sound of your breath in your throat.

But inside? It’s chaos.

You’re imagining things.

They’re idols. You’re colleagues.

You’re here to dance. Not to ache.

You try to slow your breath, but your heartbeat won’t cooperate. It’s thudding in your chest, like it knows something you won’t admit.

They don’t look at you like that.

You’re just tired. Touch-starved. You haven’t felt someone want you in so long that even an accidental brush feels like worship.

You squeeze your hands into fists. Loosen them. Again.

Calm down. This isn’t real. It can’t be.

The rooftop door looms ahead. You push it open with your shoulder.

Cool air hits you first- sharper than you expect. The city stretches out below, windows glowing, sky ink-blue and quiet. It smells like metal and faint jasmine. Someone must’ve been up here earlier smoking; the scent still clings to the railing.

You step forward slowly, hands still tucked in your sleeves, like if you just stay still long enough, the tension might evaporate from your body entirely.

Behind you, the door creaks open.

You glance back. Yunho.

He steps out silently, a water bottle in one hand, hoodie zipped halfway up, hair slightly tousled like he’d run his hand through it too many times.

“I figured you might want some water,” he says, holding the bottle toward you.

You take it. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t move closer. Just leans against the railing next to you, arms folded. His presence is large but unintrusive. The kind of closeness that doesn’t press, it just waits.

The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable.

Until Yunho speaks again, voice low and almost shy:

“Do you know what it’s like being next to you in that studio?”

You blink, caught off guard.

He doesn’t look at you. His eyes are fixed on the skyline like it’s easier to speak to something that won’t look back.

“You move like you don’t even realize you’re taking people down with you.”

Your chest tightens.

Before you can respond, the door opens again. Mingi.

Hoodie sleeves pushed up. Skin still flushed. He walks a little slower, but his eyes find yours immediately.

He doesn’t speak right away, just joins you on the other side, creating a triangle of body heat and quiet breath.

“I told myself I was imagining it,” he says softly. “The way it felt when you touched me. When your leg went over my shoulder.”

His words hit like gravity, slow, inevitable. Yunho’s jaw clenches. He still hasn’t looked at either of you. “I thought if I ignored it, it would pass,” Mingi continues. “But then I saw your face when I caught you earlier. And I knew I was done.”

You can’t move. Every part of you feels pinned between their voices and the cool wind and the heat still radiating under your skin.

You swallow. “This… this can’t be what we think it is. It’s-”

“Why not?” Yunho interrupts. His voice is quiet but intense, like the words are being pulled out of him. “Who said it can’t be?”

“I don’t know,” you say, laughing nervously. “Common sense? Reality? Our companies?”

Mingi finally laughs, a short, stunned exhale. “You think that’s gonna stop this?”

You turn to look at him. His eyes are wide, dark, reverent.

“You’re not just beautiful, you know,” he murmurs. “You’re... magnetic. I’ve never been this nervous around someone. It’s like I can’t think straight when you’re near.”

Yunho finally turns toward you, his gaze molten.

“And when I’m that close to you,” he says, stepping in slightly, “I forget there’s anyone else in the room.”

You feel it, the shift. The closeness. The weight of three people standing too near, wanting too much.

Mingi’s hand brushes yours. You don’t pull away.

Yunho’s shoulder nudges yours gently. His warmth spreads along your side like a slow burn.

Your throat goes dry. Your fingers curl.

But no one moves further. The moment hovers, electric.

And you realize; this isn’t some fantasy. This isn’t your mind playing tricks.

This is real.

And it’s just beginning.

__________________

A few days pass.

You haven’t spoken much to Mingi or Yunho since the rooftop.

Not really.

You’d left too fast that night, the moment got too real, too raw. Your brain screamed flight before your heart had time to stay.

They hadn’t chased you.

But they also hadn’t looked away since.

You’ve been professional. Cold, even.

You stick close to your members, leave practice early, respond with polite nods instead of lingering glances. You avoid their eyes in group meetings. You brush off moments in the choreo where you used to melt.

And still, you feel them watching.

Every breath is too loud. Every rehearsal minute is too long.

They can’t like me like that.

This is probably all in my head. It was probably just adrenaline? Studio lights? Human instincts? bodies reacting to proximity. I’m touch-starved.That’s all.

You tell yourself these things.

But your body doesn’t believe you.

And today, the final full-cast rehearsal before filming, you walk into the studio late and straight into a storm.

The choreographer claps his hands together as you enter. “Great. You’re here. Positions, Section B. Yunho, Mingi, Y/N. Let’s run the formation from the lift through the drop.”

You freeze. Yunho’s already standing center. Mingi’s sitting on the edge of the stage.

You step forward. And suddenly, you’re back in it.

The lights overhead are fluorescent and cruel. They catch every drop of sweat, every quiver of muscle, every flicker of tension.

You roll your shoulders back and take your mark.

Mingi is kneeling.

His palms rest lightly on his thighs, but his gaze rises the moment your shadow crosses the floor in front of him. There’s something reverent in the way he looks at you now. Not performative. Not staged. Real.

You exhale slowly. Inhale. Then begin.

You take your first step forward, deliberate, slow, measured. The choreography calls for confidence, sensuality, control. But your heartbeat trips as you cross the invisible threshold between performance and something far more dangerous.

You reach him. And like muscle memory, the movement clicks in:

Your back to the audience. Mingi in front of you. Kneeling.

His hands rise, featherlight, and meet your hips.

His fingertips skim along your waistline. Up. Then down. Slowly. Like they’re memorizing something they’re not supposed to touch.

He breathes out through his nose. You feel it against your thighs.

His head dips forward as part of the choreo, temple brushing your stomach, hair catching on your shirt.

You don’t move.

Can’t.

He’s not acting.

Neither are you.

A soft gasp leaves you before you can swallow it.

He tenses.

Then, “Switch!”

You’re pulled.

Yunho’s grip is sure, steady, possessive.

His hand cups under your thigh, pulling your leg up until it rests high against his hip. Your knee bends, the pose sharp, intimate.

Your faces are inches apart. The room blurs.

He smells like laundry detergent and sweat. Your shirt slips, and his palm presses into the bare skin just above your hipbone.

And then you feel it, the inhale. A slow, dangerous breath.

His eyes flutter. His lashes lower.

You stiffen.

Yunho murmurs, barely audible, “You smell edible.”

Your lips part. You blink.

He doesn’t meet your eyes, just presses his palm firmer into your waist, grounding you.

From the corner of the room, Hongjoong calls, “Ten-minute break!”

You release the pose, step back, heart in your throat.

Behind you, Mingi is still kneeling.

He’s looking up at you like he’s drowning.

You try to speak, but your mouth is dry. He swallows, averts his gaze, and stands too fast.

“Y/N, you good?” Sae asks, approaching with a towel.

You nod. But your knees wobble.

On the far side, Yeosang mutters to Seonghwa, “Someone needs to pull the fire alarm or they’re gonna combust mid-routine.”

And you?

You’re barely holding it together.

The sun dips lower by the time the session wraps.

The studio empties in scattered bursts, laughter, thuds of bags hitting the floor, staff shouting about wrap-ups and release times. Someone mentions food. Someone else is already texting the group chat. The energy shifts, high-strung tension melting into post-rehearsal fatigue.

Sae loops an arm around your shoulder. “We’re going out. Everyone. Team bonding dinner.”

You start to shake your head, but she narrows her eyes. “Don’t fight me. You need carbs and chaos.”

You sigh. “Fine.”

Outside, the cars are already lining up. You pile into one with your members, the van swaying gently as it pulls out into Seoul traffic. Your body aches, legs heavy, shoulders sore, but under that is something hotter, still pulsing.

Your thoughts drift.

The way Yunho’s breath hit your skin.

The way Mingi’s eyes followed every inch of you, like he was memorizing something.

You press your forehead to the cool window and try to will the thoughts away.

They don’t leave.

___________________

You arrive at the restaurant, low-lit, intimate, noise spilling from private booths and long wooden tables. The air smells like sizzling meat, soy, and something sweeter, peach soju on the table, ice clinking in glasses.

You slide into a seat at the far end with your group. Yunho and Mingi end up directly across from you.

The table buzzes with jokes and stories, someone brings up an old tour memory, someone else spills a drink. Laughter rolls like waves. You find yourself smiling without thinking, eyes warm, shoulders loose for the first time all day.

You don’t even remember what the joke was.

It had something to do with Jongho mishearing the lyrics during practice, someone teasing Seonghwa for the way he says “espresso,” and maybe San doing an impression so loud the entire back half of the restaurant turned to stare.

But whatever it was, you’re laughing now, breathless, light-headed, free.

Your hand’s pressed to your chest as you giggle, cheeks hurting, stomach clenching from how hard the joy is bubbling up and spilling over. It feels like the first time in weeks you’ve really let go.

The truth is, you're a little tipsy.

Enough to let the pressure slide off your shoulders like a coat someone else forced you to wear. Enough to let the ache in your bones soften into something looser, lighter. Enough to let your head tilt back when you laugh, eyes crinkling and lips parted, unguarded.

And not just that, but it’s over.

The weeks of rehearsals, the pressure of managing two groups, the cameras, the expectations, the choreography that turned your body into a weapon and your emotions into a live wire. All of it,  done.

Tonight is the first breath after a storm.

And your body feels it.

You feel it in the warm flush spreading across your cheeks, in the way you’re leaned comfortably against Sae’s shoulder, in how your fingers curl loose around your glass, condensation sliding down to your knuckles.

You don’t notice Yunho staring.

You don’t notice Mingi’s jaw tighten as he watches a drop of peach soju fall from your glass and catch on the curve of your lower lip before you swipe it away with your thumb.

But they do.

Yunho’s chair is turned slightly toward you now, subtly, like he’s been leaning closer without realizing it. His eyes track you like you’re something alive and wild that he’s scared to disturb.

Mingi’s fingers twitch under the table.

He hasn’t touched his food in ten minutes.

You glance up mid-sip, catching their expressions.

Something in your chest stutters.

You set your drink down, slower this time. Try to act casual.

Sae whispers something in your ear, probably a joke, and you bite your lip as you smile, eyes crinkling again.

And Yunho just breathes out like it physically hurts him.

You catch that.

You tilt your head, not quite teasing, not quite serious.

“Y’all good?” you ask, soft and playful, as if you don’t already know the answer.

Mingi blinks like he’s been caught mid-fantasy.

Yunho clears his throat. “Yeah. Just... you look like you’re finally breathing.”

That throws you.

You look down at your glass. Then back up.

“Maybe I am.”

Silence hums for a beat too long.

Wooyoung cuts in, dramatic as ever. “Okay, can we all agree that if anyone starts making heart eyes across the table, we’re tossing them into the grill?”

Everyone laughs.

You shake your head, cheeks warm, but not from the soju.

The night is wrapping around you like silk, warm, slow, and softly unspooling. Laughter still lingers in the air as people start to shuffle out, chairs scraping, empty glasses clinking.

You reach for your jacket, standing slowly. Your body is still buzzing, from the soju, from the tension, from the way Yunho’s eyes burned through distance.

You barely lift the jacket before a hand reaches past you.

Yunho.

He holds it up by the shoulders, silent, waiting.

You hesitate.

Then you turn, slipping your arms in, and feel the weight of it settle over you, heavy, grounding.

His hands brush against the tops of your shoulders, adjusting it gently.

And then, he doesn’t move.

He’s standing close behind you, the warmth of his chest brushing your back, and when you turn your head slightly, his breath ghosts over the curve of your jaw.

You stop breathing.

And then another presence slides in.

Mingi.

His fingers move to the collar, fixing it carefully, one side, then the other. His brow furrows, eyes laser-focused like adjusting your jacket is life or death. Then his fingers pause at your collarbone, brushing a curl back behind your ear.

And that’s when you feel it, their stillness.

Mingi’s hand is still curled near your neck.

Yunho hasn’t stepped back.

They’re both too close.

Too quiet.

Too careful.

Yunho’s voice, barely a breath, says it first in his head: Pull away before you kiss her.

But he doesn’t.

Mingi blinks slowly, staring at your mouth for half a second too long.

He’s not breathing either.

Don’t lean in. Don’t ruin it. Don’t-

Your lips part. Just a little.

Your eyes meet Mingi’s.

The heat is unbearable.

And then-

“Are you guys coming?” Jongho's voice breaks the spell, casual but loaded, like he knows exactly what he walked in on.

You step back. Fast. Too fast.

Yunho clears his throat. Mingi drops his hands.

“Yeah,” Yunho says, his voice cracked and rough. “Coming.”

You nod silently, trying to look normal. Unbothered.

But inside, everything’s cracked wide open.

Your jacket is warm now. But your skin’s burning underneath.

_________________

The vans split after dinner, half heading toward the dorms, the rest chasing down midnight snacks or late-night cravings. You slide into the backseat with Sae and Ny, curling up in your oversized jacket, cheek pressed against the cool glass.

The streetlights flicker past. Blurred gold, soft blue, midnight hues.

Everyone’s quiet.

Except for the buzzing.

A phone lights up in Sae’s lap.

So does Ny’s.

So does everyone’s, except yours.

They exchange a glance and start giggling.

You furrow your brows, leaning closer.

“What’s so funny?”

Ny covers her mouth. “Nothing.”

Leya snorts. “Everything.”

You narrow your eyes, suspicious.

It’s only when you catch the edge of Yeosang’s name in her notifications that you realize:-

There’s a group chat.

One you’re not in.

You pretend not to care.

You absolutely care.

Later, much later, you’ll find out the full thread:

[GROUP CHAT: “collab chaos ☠️”]

Yeosang: so… who’s gonna say it?

Sae: say what, king?

San: they’re obsessed with her.

Seonghwa: you say that like she’s not also obsessed with them.

Ny: guys it’s giving spiritual bond

Hongjoong: poly rights 💅🏾

Leya: we need to lock them in a room.

Yeosang: do it for the culture.

_________________

Back at the dorms, it’s quiet.

You let yourself in with a low sigh. The lights are off. Someone left incense burning — faint sandalwood still clings to the air, earthy and warm.

You set your bag down by the door and lean against the wall, eyes closed.

Your body’s sore. Not just from dancing, but from holding it all in.

The want. The confusion. The not-knowing.

You kick off your shoes. Drag yourself to the kitchen. Pour a glass of water with shaky hands.

You should be asleep.

Instead, your fingers flick your phone open.

Twitter.

You shouldn’t look.

You do anyway.

Your name is trending.

“when y/n wrapped her leg around mingi and he looked like he saw heaven... I'm on my KNEES.”

“yunho literally inhaled her scent on stage. this isn’t choreography this is foreplay.”

“THEY’RE NOT ACTING I REPEAT THEY’RE NOT ACTING.”

“someone please tell y/n she deserves both of them and a raise.”

You scroll until your thumb aches.

It should freak you out. it's better than what you expected. the usual kill her, my idol can't like someone.

A knock on the door nearly makes you drop your phone.

You freeze.

It’s late.

Another knock. Softer. You tiptoe to the door and crack it open.

Mingi.

He stands there, hoodie slung over his frame, hair still slightly damp from a shower. His eyes are wide. Nervous. Soft.

“Hey,” he says, barely audible.

Behind him, another shadow moves in the hallway light.

Yunho.

He looks just as wrecked. Just as unsure.

“I thought about calling,” you whisper, stepping aside, “but I didn’t know what I’d say.”

They both walk in slowly. Mingi closes the door. Yunho doesn’t look at you right away,  just stares at the floor like he’s afraid of what happens next.

You stand there, all three of you in the quiet dark.

“I-” Mingi starts. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Me neither,” Yunho adds.

You nod. Your chest is too tight to speak.

You sit first, cross-legged on the floor by the low coffee table. Mingi follows. Then Yunho. There’s enough space between you to breathe. Barely.

“What are we doing?” you finally say, voice fragile.

No one answers right away.

Then Mingi says, “Thinking about you. Constantly.”

Yunho’s voice is low. “Wanting you.”

You blink. The air thins.

“I thought I was going crazy,” you admit. “Like… maybe I imagined the way you looked at me. Or how it felt when you touched me.”

“You didn’t imagine it,” Mingi says quickly.

Yunho leans in, elbows on his knees, gaze locked on yours. “I tried not to feel it. But I do. And it’s more than I know what to do with.”

Your throat tightens.

“And the fancams,” Mingi adds, running a hand through his hair, “they just… confirmed it. Everyone saw it. We couldn’t hide it if we wanted to.”

You look down.

There’s a long pause. Heavy.

Then, Yunho reaches first.

Just his pinky brushing yours on the table. Barely a touch. But it’s like fire licking across your skin.

Mingi watches it. Then reaches out, too.

His hand wraps around your wrist. Gentle. Protective.

And something inside you cracks.

You lean forward without thinking, pressing your forehead to Yunho’s shoulder, your hand curling into Mingi’s.

No one moves for a moment.

Then arms wrap around you, one from each side.

Yunho’s palm on the back of your head.

Mingi’s fingers splayed across your spine.

You feel caged in. Safe. Wanted.

You breathe.

“I don’t know what this is,” you whisper.

Mingi’s voice is muffled in your hair. “Whatever you want it to be.”

Yunho exhales slow. “But I can’t pretend it’s nothing anymore.”

And then, so quietly you almost don’t hear him:

“I don’t know how to stop wanting you.”

The words settle.

You don’t pull away.

And for the first time, it doesn’t feel like a fall.

It feels like landing.

Mingi’s thigh is warm against yours. Yunho’s fingers brush your sleeve as he shifts. You lean forward, elbows on knees, trying to control your breathing.

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” you murmur.

“But I don’t want it to stop.”

Mingi makes a low sound. Like he’s trying to hold something in.

“I think about you every time we’re not in the room with you,” Yunho says quietly. “And even when we are.”

You blink hard.

Mingi shifts closer. “I didn’t know I could feel this much for someone so fast. Or... so strong.”

The air thickens. You feel like you’re about to combust.

Yunho gently wraps an arm around your shoulder. Mingi’s palm finds your thigh.

They hold you.

And you let them.

Eventually, it’s time to part.

They both linger by the door. No one wants to break the silence. But there’s a lightness in the room now, like something’s been unlocked. You walk them to the elevator. Mingi squeezes your hand before stepping in. Yunho brushes a curl from your face.

You close the door after they’re gone and lean your back against it, heart racing. For once, the feelings in your chest don’t feel unrequited. They feel seen.

Real.

One Week Later 

The air inside the arena rehearsal space is humid with effort and adrenaline. Spotlights buzz above. Mirrors catch fleeting glimpses of movement, your arched spine, Mingi’s focused gaze, Yunho’s sharp control.

You move like instinct. The music pulses beneath your skin.

On the last eight-count, Mingi spins you into Yunho’s hold. His palm presses flat against your stomach, your back to his chest, lips barely inches from your ear. You feel his breath before you hear it.

You’re so aware of them, of yourself, it’s dizzying.

“Break time!” someone calls.

You barely register it.

You drift away from the others, wiping sweat from your chest and neck, headed toward one of the back rehearsal rooms. A smaller, dim space. You’re halfway through removing the wrap from your wrist when you hear the door close behind you.

Yunho. Then Mingi.

They’re quiet. You look up.

Yunho’s voice is soft, like a secret. “We miss you.”

Mingi steps closer, almost hesitant. “All I think about is holding you. Keeping you close.”

Your throat tightens.

“Do you feel the same way?” Yunho asks.

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak.

They close the space between you slowly. Not with lust first, but need.

Yunho’s palm finds your cheek. He looks down at you, and up close the difference in height feels laughable. He’s tall. Broad. You’re not used to looking up at anyone, being a taller woman. Not like this.

He leans closer, mouth hovering over yours. Your eyes flutter. His soft lips are on yours; making your body burn so fast you stutter a little. It doesn't stop you both though. No. You sink your hand into his hair and pull him closer to your level. Tongues fighting to stay together. 

When you part it's because you were getting lightheaded from the lack of oxygen. Turning to mingi your eyes are pleading, “I've been waiting so long you have no idea,” is all he confesses before you go for each other. With mingi it's less of a fight for each other more he is giving himself to you. Holding you as he sneaks in all the emotion and longing and want he's had for you into the kiss. 

You feel dizzy with want and musk and mingi and yunho. You cant think clearly right now.

Yunho who has been holding you from behind whispers into your ear “Can I lay you down?”

You nod.

Yunho lifts you effortlessly, laying you across the makeup table like you're made of something precious. The cool surface contrasts with your flushed skin. He moves with careful, practiced grace, like he's making sure you know he's in control but only to protect you.

Then Mingi kneels. His hands smooth over your thighs, warm and trembling slightly.

His eyes find yours, and there’s something wrecked in his face.

“Let me taste you,” he says, low and soft, like he's afraid of breaking.

You part your legs, breath caught.

He caresses your leg going up your calf, lips feathering kisses up your thigh, he looks like he is worshipping you already nose prodding at the softness in your fuller thighs. All this has you breathing hard before he has really touched you at all.

His tongue is slow at first, being used to kiss up and down your core, exploring every curve like he’s trying to learn you for memory. Each flick makes you tremble, back arching, one hand bracing behind you.

Your hand finds Yunho blindly. He's a grounding force. 

He leans down over you to kiss down your neck, hard. Like he's trying to mark you. It has your core squeezing tight at the thought of being his. He goes down to your chest pulling up your shirt for him to take your nipples. Your back arches at that. Him biting and sucking. You're trembling. It's too much. 

Mingi has been rubbing a finger at your entrance and takes now as the moment to enter. You gasp a reach out to grab his arm wrapped around your thigh for fear life. His pumping finger, his tongue in your clit, yunho making a mess of your chest. You're in the brink of climax. The cliff is right there- waiting to be jumped off of.

“Yes, yes, yes I'm so-” it all flushed down the drain when both yunho and mingi pull away from you. You're whimpering before you even know what happened. 

You feel yourself being pulled up and made to kneel, your ass facing mingi and you facing yunho. You reach out for his waist band, feeling how hard he is already and wanting, needing to help him. Your own ruined orgasm forgotten. 

You get to working his belt. Mingi is still behind you massaging your ass slowly- as if he is preoccupied watching you and yunho.

When you wrap your fingers around him, he groans. You pull him out, heavy and flushed, the weight of him resting against your lips.

You shift, turning your body so your thighs widen, your knees bend beneath you, and your back arches just slightly. You're kneeling low, your face in line with Yunho’s cock... and your ass high, presented directly to Mingi’s mouth.

He gasps.

You feel his hands press into your thighs harder. He groans again, deeper now, and dips his head lower.

His mouth trails to the round of your ass, kisses one cheek.

Then the other.

Then, muffled, trembling:

“Can I eat your ass?”

The moan that slips out of you is broken. You choke around Yunho’s cock, eyes wide.

“Yes,” you manage, voice shuddering.

Mingi moans into you, it vibrates through your bones.

He spreads you gently, tongue hot and slow as he licks you open. You press back into him instinctively, whimpering as his hands clutch your thighs like a man falling.

Yunho’s hand cups your cheek. His thumb brushes your jaw.

“You’re okay?” he asks.

You nod, mouth full, hips trembling.

“Doing so good for us,” he murmurs.

Mingi’s breath is shaky. He’s panting now, whimpering into your skin as he devours you with a kind of desperation that borders on worship. He’s gone, totally gone. Drowning in you.

Yunho moves with more control, hips rolling gently into your mouth. He keeps your pace slow, fingers brushing your curls back with care.

It builds.

The pressure. The heat.

You whimper around Yunho as the knot inside you tightens, burning, overwhelming. It takes one last suck from mingi before you start trembling.

You cum first and hard.

Your whole body seizes as you cry out around Yunho’s cock, legs shaking violently, cunt throbbing against Mingi’s mouth. Mingi moans into you, tongue still working, hands stroking your back, your thighs, grounding you.

Yunho groans, pulling back before he loses it, his hand stroking slowly as he watches you unravel.

Mingi’s eyes fluttered open. He looks up at you like he’s seen God. There’s no going back.

The air is heavy. Mingi leans his head back against the wall, breathing hard, a dazed smile twitching on his lips. Yunho, composed, tucks himself in with quiet precision. Not a hair out of place. Not a breath out of rhythm.

He reaches for the water bottle and, without hesitation, offers it to you first. His voice is soft. “Sip slow.”

You’re trembling a little, lips dry, and the water feels like salvation.

Then, Yunho steps toward Mingi and, with two fingers, gently wipes something off the corner of his mouth. Probably gloss. Maybe more. His hand lingers for just a beat longer than necessary.

Mingi blinks up at him eyes wide like he is being hypnotised.

You’re still catching your breath, watching them, and the sight of it, the way Yunho’s thumb grazes Mingi’s cheek, the way Mingi exhales like he just got kissed, makes your stomach twist. Hot.

You pull your shirt down a little, hoping to look a touch more composed.

Yunho finally turns back to you with a calm nod. Like he hadn’t just, well. Everything.

You swear he looks like he just got out of a skincare commercial.

Meanwhile, in the Main Rehearsal Room...

“Ten bucks says they don’t come back the same,” Wooyoung whispers to Yeosang handing him a small, yellow, game bill.

Yeosang doesn’t even look up. “You think I bet with Monopoly money?”

San is pacing. “Okay but what if they actually, I mean they’ve been weird. Like hot weird.”

Your group’s main vocalist, Leya just sips her bubble tea and says, “If they’re not making out or making love, I will literally sue for emotional damage.”

“Not you projecting your fanfic desires again,” Wooyoung mutters.

“Shut UP,” she hisses, but they’re all leaning toward the door.

[GROUP CHAT: “collab chaos ☠️”] Wooyoung: if they don’t come back wrecked and glowing I'll riot Sae: i say 25 mins. not a second less. Jongho: should we get them couple necklaces??? 😭😭😭 Ny: NO. we get them “i survived the joint rehearsal” shirts. Seonghwa: with matching lip print decals.

You, Yunho & Mingi re-enter the room.

Twenty-three minutes later.

The silence when the door opens is almost comical.

You walk in, doing your best not to limp or smile or combust. Mingi looks like he just stepped out of a fever dream, face flushed, pupils blown, shirt untucked in a way that screams scandal.

And Yunho? Yunho looks like he just filed his taxes. Emotionally neutral. Shirt crisp. Hair perfect. He even has a clipboard. Where did he get a clipboard?!

“Bro,” San breathes. “He’s not real.”

“I think he ascended,” your leader, Mina whispers.

“Yunho looks like he taught the Kama Sutra and then took attendance,” Wooyoung adds.

Yeosang smirks. “And Mingi looks like he got hit by a soul train.”

[GROUP CHAT: “collab chaos ☠️”] Ari: i need a debrief. they walked in like it was the last supper. Wooyoung: mingi is FLUSHED. Yeosang: and yunho??? mf just raised a whole baby and paid off a mortgage emotionally. Sae: i need them to never break up or I will require therapy. Leya: y’all. this is revolutionary. we are in the golden age of idol romance. Jongho: MY THREEE-PLE 🔥🔥🔥 Ny: i’m buying them matching satin robes

Back in the room...

Practice resumes. Supposedly.

You all take your marks. Yunho calls out counts like a man unfazed by mortal desire. You swear he even stretches his shoulders like nothing happened.

Mingi keeps stealing glances at you. He nearly misses his cue.

Your thighs squeeze together instinctively.

When you catch sight of your group’s main vocal mouthing “bitch I KNOW” at you mid-run-through, you almost break character.

You catch Yunho’s gaze across the mirror wall.

His smirk, this time, is tiny. But it’s there.

Three... two... one.

The lights shift.

And the next dance sequence begins.

______________________

The collab concert ends in a blur of light and sound, a sea of screaming fans, sweat-glittered skin, and the kind of adrenaline that doesn’t let you crash until hours later.

You’re back in your room before you realize it. There’s laughter still echoing in your bones, the stage lights burned behind your eyelids. Your group and ATEEZ had hung out in the hotel restaurant for dinner and a while after, celebratory drinks, teasing, someone playing a victory playlist off a phone. But you snuck away first, too buzzed, too full.

A few minutes later, they came to find you. Of course they did.

Now you’re lying in bed, between them, Yunho on your right, Mingi on your left. The sheets are tangled, the room dim, and your body is still humming. Not just the show. Not just the sex. But the everything of it. The intimacy. The way it finally felt like you weren’t on the edge of something, but finally, finally inside of it.

The pillows smell like them. Your skin’s still dewy with leftover sweat and scent. Mingi is trailing his fingers gently up and down your arm, half-asleep, and Yunho’s chest rises and falls beside you, steady and calm like a tide you trust.

“Hey,” Yunho murmurs, voice low, brushing a curl away from your cheek.

You hum.

“I want to take you on a date. Seriously.”

You turn toward him, eyes fluttering open.

“I mean it,” he says. “I want this. Not just what we’ve been doing. All of it. I want to be yours. Publicly, privately, painfully real.”

Before you can even respond, Mingi shifts and blurts, voice still a little sleepy and hoarse:

“I’d take you both on a date so hard.”

You laugh breathily, burying your face in the pillow.

“Is it like that?” you tease, soft and playful.

Mingi curls closer to you, his cheek pressing into your shoulder like he wants to disappear inside your skin.

“It’s like that,” he mumbles. “It’s... a lot. But it’s you.”

Yunho leans over and kisses your temple. His arm slides around you, protective, claiming, warm. His hand reaches over to graze Mingi’s side too, and Mingi visibly melts into it.

There’s no more room between you.

No more doubts.

You’re not fumbling through tension anymore. Not playing pretend. You’re choosing this.

Maybe the world still won’t understand. Maybe you’ll have to keep parts of it quiet. But in this moment, tangled under blankets, Yunho’s breath on your cheek, Mingi’s hand on your waist, it’s enough.

More than enough.

You close your eyes, and whisper what you know is true.

“This isn’t the end.”

Mingi presses a kiss to your bare shoulder. Yunho’s fingers tighten gently on your arm.

“No,” Yunho says.

Mingi smiles sleepily, the curve of his lips brushing your skin.

“It’s just the beginning.”

“I feel like we are in a movie or smth, anyone else? That felt like a cool movie line,” he continued.

You snort and giggle, yunho sighs heavy, “mingi go to sleep,” but none of you miss the little smile yunho has on his face.

They feel so right, you think.

___________

A/n: Its taken me TIIIMEEE to get this done. I hope you enjoyed it

L0ve, M.A

[instinctdesginstudio]

From Vision to Visual Identity: The Power of Custom Branding Design Services

Behind every successful brand is a clear vision—and behind every memorable visual identity is thoughtful, strategic design. As businesses evolve and consumer expectations grow, a generic logo or off-the-shelf brand kit simply isn’t enough. To truly connect with your audience and express what your brand stands for, custom branding design services are essential.

These services translate your business vision into a cohesive, authentic visual identity that speaks directly to your audience—and sets you apart from the competition.

Why Vision Alone Isn’t Enough

Every entrepreneur or business leader begins with a vision—an idea of what their brand should represent and how it should be perceived. But transforming that vision into a design that resonates, performs across channels, and builds long-term recognition requires more than creativity. It takes strategy, expertise, and alignment with your market and audience.

This is exactly where custom branding design services shine. They go beyond surface-level aesthetics to deeply understand your brand’s personality, voice, and business goals.

Strategy Meets Design

Effective branding isn’t just beautiful—it’s strategic. A custom design agency doesn’t jump straight into visuals. They begin with brand discovery sessions, competitor analysis, and audience profiling. From there, they create mood boards, style guides, and logo concepts that align with your business objectives.

The result? A brand identity that’s not only visually appealing but rooted in purpose. Every color, font, icon, and layout is intentional—reflecting your values, market position, and customer expectations.

Consistency Across Touchpoints

Modern branding doesn’t live in one place. From websites and apps to social media, packaging, emails, and presentations—your visual identity shows up everywhere. And if those touchpoints look inconsistent, your audience notices.

Custom branding design services ensure that your identity remains cohesive, no matter where it’s seen. This builds trust, improves brand recall, and creates a seamless experience for your customers.

Authenticity That Resonates

Today’s consumers crave authenticity. They don’t just want products—they want brands they can connect with on a personal level. A custom-designed brand identity gives you the tools to build that connection.

Through thoughtful typography, unique icons, and meaningful visual storytelling, your brand becomes more than a name—it becomes a personality. And that personality helps you stand out, especially in competitive markets.

Future-Proofing Your Brand

As your business grows, your brand should grow with it. One-size-fits-all branding solutions often fall apart when you try to scale or pivot. But a professionally crafted brand identity is designed for flexibility. Whether you’re launching new products, entering new markets, or shifting your business model, a custom identity ensures you remain consistent, adaptable, and recognizable.

Final Thoughts

Going from vision to visual identity is one of the most powerful transformations a brand can undergo. And with the right custom branding design services, that journey becomes a strategic investment—not just in how you look, but in how you connect, grow, and lead.

Your brand deserves more than a logo. It deserves an identity as unique as your vision.

Source: https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/from-vision-visual-identity-power-custom-branding-jwc0e/

[o-sachi]

Rose Colored Boy - Punk Rock Band AU

ଳ Punk Rock Band AU! Michael Kaiser Route - older brother's best friend ଳ tags; lead guitarist! kaiser, isagi's sis! reader, college au, fluff, afab reader, no y/n

Part One: Still Into You 5.7k words

There was something alluring about starting from a clean slate. Without any threads of the past holding you down, it makes it feel as if you could be anyone and that you could do anything. That’s exactly what this new chapter of your life has to offer. You were certain that college would be the ultimate turning point.

It’s not like you had any bad habits—unless being stuck in your safety bubble would be considered one. By all means, you were comfortable with how your life was. But whenever your brother showed you how fun his life at college was, your desire for the preconcerted way of living was slowly being chipped away. 

Perhaps the unconscious longing for a different—more thrilling life—was what determined you to change your ways. But then again, the past cannot be totally left behind. It’ll always find a way to worm itself in the present.

That worm in your life happened to be your brother’s little punk rock band.

Well… to be fair, they’re not as little as they used to be when they started in their high school years. You’ve heard the talk around the campus, but DEVOUR’s a pretty big deal now. And that’s exactly the problem. It would have been fine if it was just your brother—no way of avoiding him. But the rest of the band? You had history with them and it was highly likely that you’d have to encounter them A LOT.

Of course, there was also the thing about him.

Who would’ve known they would cause you more problems than one? When Yoichi dropped the bomb that you’d be staying with him at his studio apartment it already gave you a huge headache. But now that you were suffering the consequences of sleeping in the room next to their designated band practice location—this was more than a mere headache. It was a real fucking nightmare.

If Yoichi thought he could placate you by soundproofing the practice room, well, he’s dead wrong. You could still hear the music, though faintly. But the real issue was all the thumping. As a light sleeper, it was nothing short of torture for you. 

Although, it did come as a shock when the disturbance eventually died down. You were expecting them to go at it until the wee hours of the morning. But it was good to know that they still had some sense in them. Checking your phone on the nightstand, it was around 11 PM. Not too bad.

You close your eyes and let sleep overcome you. Lately, your dreams have been about college. Even your subconscious was brimming with excitement. Tonight was supposed to be one of those dream-filled-deep-sleep kind of nights. But not even an hour later, you were awoken in the worst way possible.

You were sure something made its way in your room because how else would you explain the thing that just slammed into you—knocking the fucking air outta your lungs? You didn’t even stir when the door open and closed. But as you looked to your side, you could make it out in the darkness—an unfamiliar figure lying next to you with an arm draped over you.

Of course, most people’s first instinct would be to scream. And boy, did you scream like a banshee. Unfortunately, your room wasn’t soundproofed so Yoichi, who’s room was next to yours, was alarmed. Your door swung open, letting the light from the common room filter into your darker one. Yoichi stood by the door, groggy and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“What happened?” he asked, a bit too calmly for someone who just heard their sister scream bloody murder.

You wondered how he hasn’t noticed the hulking figure next to you until you realized that the sneaky bastard hid themself under the covers, blending in with the pillows. Now, how were you going to respond to his question? On one hand, you were fucking disoriented by the issue at hand. On another, it wouldn’t look good if you somehow had a person in your bed literally the first day you moved in.

You had your suspicions about who it might be, but even then, it was still a questionable position to be in.

“Uh… I think a cockroach landed on me or something,” you lied. Gulping down the guilt, you hoped that he’d go back to his room. Then, you felt a sharp poke to your side causing you to yelp.

Yoichi sighs, unamused. “Seriously. Do you want me to help you kill it or what?”

“No! No… um… I’ll be fine.” Poke. “Eurgh… I mean, sorry to wake you up.” Poke. Poke. Poke. You weren’t even sure why you were covering up for this annoying asshole. But whoever this was, they kept poking at your side, trying to elicit another reaction. Clearly, they were getting a kick out of messing with you. Jerk.

Your brother nods, displeased at waking up for nothing. “Weirdo. Alright, I’ll spray some insect killer in here tomorrow or something.”

With that, Yoichi was finally gone and so was your fear of getting caught. But there was still a pressing issue. Hearing the door click shut, you immediately stood up and stomped your way to the light switch. It took you a while to adjust to the sudden brightness. Things were blurry for a moment, but you were certain about what was right in front of you.

Oh… you were so damn sure who it was.

The tips of his hair were now colored and he had a massive tattoo that ran from his neck and down his arm. Sure, he was more muscular than the last time you saw him. But despite all that, you were sure. There was no mistaking that it was him.

Him. The thread of the past that threatened to hold you back. You couldn’t put a finger exactly on your relationship. Perhaps you were close before, but did those sentiments survive the test of time?

It was none other than (your sworn love of your life at the age of 12), Michael fucking Kaiser.

“So I’m a cockroach now huh?” At least the cocky smile of his hasn’t changed a bit. You’d know because you’ve seen it a million times before. It was the same kind of smile he’d have while teasing you all those years ago.

You crossed your arms, glaring at him for the stunt he pulled earlier. “You’re worse than a cockroach; that’s for sure.”

“You’re saying you’d rather sleep beside a roach than me?”

Yes, you answer in your head. But your honest answer will only serve to inflate his already gigantic ego. “Enough of that—what are you even doing here?”

He laughs a bit. Kaiser found this strange reunion quite fun. “I crash here sometimes after practice and I may have forgotten that Yoichi’s little sister was moving in today.”

The intruder seemed way too relaxed on the bed as he propped himself up on his elbow. The cocky smile morphed into a lazy grin as he continued to look at you.

Somehow your annoyance melted away. You were reminded of all the times he’d stay at your house for hours on end. As a kid, you thought nothing of it. In fact, you were jealous of how permissive his parents were. You’d have to go through a whole spiel just to get your parents to agree for you to join your friends at the park—while Kaiser was allowed to stay and sleep all the time at your house.

But growing up, realizations were made and maybe it wasn’t something to be jealous of.

You took a few steps over to the bed, still with your arms crossed. As serious as you made yourself out to be, he only found it endearing.

“Don’t you have a place to stay at? Like a dorm on campus?”

The concern in your voice puzzled you a bit. Even though he was a pain in the ass, you cared for him regardless. The way his smile disappeared heightened your worries.

“I could go back to my place with my parents…” he muses while lying flat on his back. “But you know… practice drains me so it’s better if I can pass out in the room nearby.”

He could play it cool all he wants, but the way his voice and expression changed couldn’t fool you. There was no need to pry in his personal business. If he wanted to tell you the truth—he would. “You can take the couch… I’m sure Yoichi won’t mind.”

A smile returns to his features, albeit a smaller (less cocky) one. “The question is—would YOU mind?”

Right. Well, you may have had a crush on him for all these years since you were in middle school and high school. And you may have wished that he would stop seeing you as his best friend’s little sister. Aaaand you may have promised yourself that you would end this little crush of yours in college—even if you happen to stumble upon him.

Which you did and it just so happens that you encountered him in your bed of all places.

When he and Yoichi graduated from high school and went on to go to university, you haven’t seen Kaiser since. You haven’t heard from him except from the little snippets Yoichi would tell you about his band.

So you were sure that your feelings had faded along with his memory. But then why is your heart still beating so fast? Why couldn’t you take your eyes off of him?

You chalked it up to the earlier adrenaline of having some unknown presence break into your room. But now that the presence is known… Why do you still feel so nervous?

The simple and glaringly obvious answer was: you still liked him. A lot, to be exact. But you wouldn’t let yourself admit that. Despite pining after him all these years, you were aware of how much it hurt. It pained you to know that he’ll always see you as his best friend’s little sibling. And now seeing him with his new appearance—tatted and in a punk rock band…  you were certain that he had no slim pickings when it came to women.

Once more, you felt the familiar pang of disappointment in your chest. But above all that—you couldn’t deny that he mattered to you.

“No… I don’t really mind. The couch is yours for all I care.”

Kaiser sits up straight, still keeping his gaze fixed on you. “Sweet. You’re the best.”

The best huh? It was like a knot had formed in your stomach at his words. Dropping your arms to your sides, you gave him a tristful look in exchange. So many thoughts ran rampant in your head that it barely registered to you that he had already dragged himself out of your bed and was now standing in front of you.

He still towered over you like before. Did he always go to band practice shirtless or was God messing with you right now by shoving this awful coincidence at your face (quite literally). A cold sweat ran down your spine as his scent permeated your nose. His presence alone was intoxicating.

Kaiser placed a hand on your head, ruffling your hair a bit. “Good night then. I’ll see you in the morning.”

With one last smile, he was gone the same way he went in. He was even kind enough to switch the lights off for you. 

Like a drain, the thoughts that had swirled in your mind slowly vanished. Out of sight, out of mind—you figured. You slowly got back into bed, pulling the covers just below your chin. Your fingers bunched the fabric tightly enough that your knuckles went white.

You could finally sleep… but maybe in a few more minutes because now you have to deal with your covers smelling like him.

— — — — —

“I told you she was moving in yesterday. Is your head full of air or what?”

“I just fucking forgot. Get off my ass will you?”

“For fuck’s sa—Hey, morning.”

You weren’t sure what they were mumbling about. You weren’t the most coherent after waking up. Though, this did feel like a familiar scene. You, waking up later than usual—still yawning with eyes half-lidded—while your brother and his best friend were already at the table eating breakfast. And most often than not, they’re going to be arguing about something stupid.

“Morning, Yoichi… Morning, Michael.”

“Heh, you must’ve slept well. You still got marks all over your face from the sheets,” he teased. 

Kaiser was only met by a scoff. “Shut up.”

You made a beeline for the fridge, grabbing a carton of milk then making a bowl of cereal. Sitting at the table, you began to eat quietly from across them. 

“So,” Yoichi starts. “I have something important to talk with you about

Your brow quirked, piqued by your brother’s sudden shift to seriousness. “What?”

He sighs, seemingly frustrated about the impending discussion. “I’ll be straight to the point. Can this fool stay with us? Like on the couch?”

Your chewing slowed, eventually coming to a complete halt. “You mean like… indefinitely? I thought he had a place to stay though?”

Yoichi glared at the man next to him, confirming your suspicions that perhaps the things he said last night weren’t factual at all. Was he occasionally crashing here or did he actually live here? Kaiser simply held his hands up in defense, an uneasy smile to boot.

“I don’t know what this idiot told you but he’s been living with me since we got here,” Yoichi explains. You drop your spoon in your bowl causing a bit of milk to splash out. This was the first that you heard of this arrangement.

“But… does Mom know about this? There wasn’t even any sign of anyone else living here with you?”

“Nah, she doesn’t know,” Kaiser coolly replies. “Plus, all my stuff’s in a duffle bag and some of it’s in the band room. It’d be a hassle to put away all my stuff when your parents visit.”

You should have been worried about a plethora of other things, but for some reason, all you could think about was why he had to live with your brother. Just what is going on in his life?

You cleared your throat. “Are you freeloading off of my brother?”

“Ouch. Do you really think I’d do such a thing? Don’t worry. I have a part-time job so I can pay half of the rent.”

Half? For a studio apartment? Whatever part-time job he has—it definitely pays well. You could see why Yoichi would agree to it and halving the expenses was cheaper than getting a dorm. Seeing as how he’s diligent about their living situation and Yoichi isn’t refuting his claims… you feel oddly calm about it. Besides, you were sure that your parents would be fine. It’s not that different from when he’d sleep over at your house when you three were younger… right?

You scold yourself internally for being so chill about this. You were too accepting of his presence. Bad habits die hard it seems. 

But the discussion wrapped up quickly and not long after that—the two men were already deep into their discussion of the band. Yoichi and Kaiser are like the heart and mind of the band after all. This was originally their dream and somehow they roped in other guys to be a part of it. You’d never admit it to them, but you were proud of how far they’ve come.

Once you finished your breakfast, you stood to wash the dishes while they were already heading for the door.

“Hey. Come to the freshman party later. We’ll be playing and you need to watch or else I’m telling Mom.”

Kaiser chimes in. “There’s going to be a surprise too~”

Not a hint of trustworthiness could be seen in that mischievous smile of his. You had your hunch on what that surprise might be.

“I swear if you shout me out I will ignore you for the rest of the year.”

“Heh. No promises! But you should still come, alright? I’ll be waiting for you~” “I’m fucking serious. Don’t even think abo—”

And just like that, your brother and his menace of a best friend were out the door. Seems like you have something to keep you busy tonight then. Besides… you can’t disappoint someone waiting for you, right?

An act of courtesy was all it was.

— — — — —

Even without your brother’s earlier threat, you would have still come to this party. As a matter of fact, you’ve been mentally preparing for this night for about a week now. You were dead set on mingling with your fellow freshmen, getting loose, and having the time of your life. But you weren’t expecting to be overwhelmed to such a degree. The flashing lights, the huge crowd of dancing people, and the blaring music—you’ve never seen anything like it before.

How you would even get to talk to anyone here was beyond you. But perhaps you were looking at it the wrong way. People talked with their bodies here, but you couldn’t imagine pushing yourself between them—dancing and letting that speak for yourself. 

You were getting cold feet. The urge to just turn around and leave was strong. However—as much as you loathed it—his words kept you anchored in your spot.

“I’ll be waiting for you.”

Sure, he was. They have a whole crowd out here; there was no way he’d be able to see you among all these people. The better part of yourself knew he was buttering you up, helping Yoichi into coaxing you to come here. But you let yourself be swayed.

Desperately, you tried to weave yourself through the throng of people blocking the path towards the stage. For a freshman party, the size of the place was impressive. Though that didn’t help when it took forever to get a good spot near the stage. If you weren’t going to socialize—might as well watch your brother and his friends perform.

You’ve mostly seen their band through videos. Whenever Yoichi sent one to your parents, they’d watch it on the living room TV. But now that you were about to see them live, the atmosphere was totally different. Maybe watching it on the TV wasn’t as excessive as you once thought.

As the DJ’s music died down, people—including you—were forced to direct the attention to the stage where they had already set up shop.

“Mic check… mic check… 1, 2, 3…”

An uncharacteristic smirk crosses your face. Your brother didn’t seem so lame when he was up front and leading the band. They were quite cool, holding their instruments and wearing black outfits with hints of red. Of course, you recognized most of them from high school, but there was a new guy sitting at the drum set.

Their last drummer was a bit of a lunatic… maybe this guy won’t be so bad.

“Alright. Sorry, Mr. DJ, but you gotta pack up ‘cuz DEVOUR is in the house.”

The crowd goes wild. If they’re this pumped—what more if they start playing? Guess Yoichi wasn’t lying when he said they were a big deal now. Even the university new bloods were howling for them.

“My name’s Isagi, your vocalist for tonight.”

“It’s Kaiser. Better keep your eyes on me, a’ight?”

“Rin.”

“Sei…I mean—Nagi… Nagi Seishirou.”

“And last but not the least! I’m Shidou Fuckin’ Ryusei. Make some noise, fuckers!”

By all means, that new drummer surely is the flashiest of the bunch. With an introduction and dramatic bow like that—there’d be no shortage of eyes staring at him all night. But, of course, your eyes immediately went to a certain tattooed man. Sure enough—Kaiser wore the (sexiest) black tank top. Of course, he did. And no, you were adamant that you were merely admiring his tattoo in its full glory. Definitely not his bulging biceps. You wouldn’t dare.

They start their set with one of their louder and faster songs. Yoichi has gotten better at singing and it never fails to amaze you how his demeanor changes once he gets ahold of a microphone. Rin and Nagi are… well, they’re still laid-back as ever. And the drummer’s really going all out. They had the crowd jumping, going wild along with the music. It was insane.

Although, one of them seemed out of it. It looked as if Kaiser was finding something amongst the crowd. His eyes darted from side-to-side in the large function hall, obviously distracted. But best believe he never missed a beat; Kaiser was as  flawless as ever. He prided himself in being an excellent performer through and through.

His hunt only ended when his eyes zeroed in on you. His expression softened—you swore it did. The corners of your mouth tugged, wanting to match the smile that was plastered on his face. You were no lip reader, but you were certain that he mouthed those words to you.

“Watch me closely, okay?”

You wondered if the words he uttered in their introduction were meant for everyone or if it was addressed to someone specifically…

Whatever—you found yourself getting lost in the rhythm of their music. Sure, you were staring at Kaiser for half of their set, but the entire band caught your attention down the line. They were really really really good. There was no stopping the amused smile from creeping on your face.

Alas, they slowed after some time, signaling that their set had ended.

“How are we doing so far?”

Your brother was met with the enthusiastic roar of the crowd. Huh… well, ain’t that neat? He flashes a grin. “How about we end the night with an encore? A cover? What do y’all say?”

Again, another wave of agreement.

Safe to say—your expectations were curbed when Kaiser gave his guitar to Yoichi and took his spot at the mic. He taps the mic once, then twice. “Yoichi, take care of my baby for me. Will you? I just have a crowd to wow right now.”

Cocky. But you had to admit—strong stage presence.

The tune started and your expression quickly changed. Seriously? Of all songs to cover… they really had to go with a song that resonated WAY TOO MUCH with you. But then again, seeing that stupid shit-eating smirk on his face tells you this was not much of a coincidence.

“Can’t count the years on one hand that we’ve been together…”

Hell, you promised that you’d start this new chapter of your life like a clean slate—nothing should be holding you back. Especially not some dumb-unreciprocated-childhood crush. But could you still call it a childhood crush at this point?

“I should be over all the butterflies, but I’m into you…”

Perhaps it was your mind playing tricks or you were actually going crazy and suffering hallucinations—but you promise that his eyes were fixed on you as he sang the lyrics. 

Well, shit.

“Yeah, after all this time… I’m still into you.”

Seems like you’re not over him at all.

At the last note of the song, the crowd cheers for them—energized even after dancing for an hour now. Kaiser flashed his million dollar smile, leaning into the microphone.

“Thank you! You’ve been an awesome crowd. Again, we’re DEVOUR.”

The crowd swoons and they bow, concluding their performance for tonight. As the other guys began walking off the stage, Kaiser quickly added one last thing.

Your heart dropped when he pointed a finger at you. “And shoutout to our first and biggest fan, Yoichi’s little sister!”

While all eyes turned to look at you, your own gaze was fixed on the infuriating man on the stage. Something about those eyes were telling you that you’ll be alright.

— — — — —

It felt strange on your walk back home. After their set, you would have never thought that you’d actually find yourself with a group of people, talking and hyping each other up for the coming semester.

Well, they did approach you because Kaiser pointed you out. But a win is a win in your book. A small part of you was thankful for him. He gave you that little nudge—the boost that you needed to jumpstart from that clean slate of yours.

As you stood at the door to the studio apartment, you could hear muffled voices coming from inside. Pushing the door, you were met with the entire band. So it seems that this isn’t just their designated practice location… but also their hang out space.

How troublesome.

Yoichi and Rin were too busy arguing about something that they failed to greet you. Kaiser was nowhere to be seen, so it was only Nagi and the drummer aware of your presence.

“Yo,” Nagi greets you.

“Hey, Sei. Nice to see you again,” you wave back. Nagi only nods. Actually, you were expecting him to drop like a fly after the taxing performance they just did. But it was a pleasant surprise to see him wide awake.

You felt the drummer’s eyes on you as you made your way inside. What was his name again? Shidou was it? 

“Uh… hey, Shidou, right?”

He grinned like the Cheshire cat. “Yeah, that would be me. You Isagi’s girl?”

That seemed to catch the attention of the two men arguing. “Dude, what the fuck.”

“Did you not hear Kaiser introduce her earlier as his sister? She’s literally an Isagi too, dumbass.”

At least Rin and Yoichi can agree on some things. 

Shidou shrugs. “Must’ve missed it ‘cuz I got off the stage first.” He sat up straighter, a determined look on his face. “In that case, can I shoot my sho—”

“Hey. Shoot your shot somewhere else, you pink haired freak.”

A familiar voice made itself known as an arm draped over your shoulders. Kaiser pulled you into his side, acting all protective. “She just got here and you’re already scaring her off.”

“Pink haired freak? We got our tips dyed together, man.”

A short “pffft” comes from Nagi.

“Besides, what gives?” Shidou asks, an eyebrow raised. “You got an arm over her. How’s that any different?”

Oh how you wished your brother would come to your rescue, but he was just sitting there—bickering with Rin again. Jesus. How do they function so well on stage, but they’re like this behind the scenes?

Kaiser scoffs. “I’ve known her even before she could walk, alright?” He sets down the can of beer he was holding on his other hand. “Anyway, I’m heading out to get some more.”

But you swore the beer can was still full with the sound it made when he set it on the table. The reason behind his lie became apparent as soon as he dragged you out of the apartment with him. 

“I can’t go out alone, can I?”

Soon as you two were out the door and out of sight of the others, he removed his arm from you. It seared where his warmth lingered. You wanted to ask why he retracted, but that was too much. Kaiser shoved his hands into his pockets and walked a few steps ahead of you.

“How was the party? Had fun?”

“It was okay,” you downplayed. “Met a couple of new people.” 

He looked back at you to see what kind of expression you were making. It was rather flat—not what he was expecting. But your outward appearance betrayed the brimming excitement that threatened to burst out your chest.

He sighed before turning to look back at the path in front of him. “Glad you did. Aren’t you forgetting something though?”

“What?”

“I dunno—maybe a ‘thank you’ for helping you out.”

“Usually people don’t ask for anything in return when they do good deeds,” you retort.

“Then what’s saying ‘thank you’ for?”

“It’s for genuine people who don’t smile cocky at you while putting you on the spot.”

— — — — —

Thankfully, the convenience store wasn’t too far away. He pulled the heavy glass door for you—the hinges of which put the doors of a bank to shame with how difficult it is to open. It sure made potential robberies difficult. The cold air of the store hit you in the face causing you to squint.

“Good evening,” says the cashier. He was probably a student at his part-time job. You could tell—not because he was young—but because he looked like he’d rather be anywhere else on the planet than behind the grimey register of the store. 

He didn’t even spare you a glance until Kaiser entered the store himself. His eyebrows raised despite his deadpan expression.

“Yo, Kaiser.”

“Hey, Raichi. Working late hours again?” he asked while making his way to the fridge.

Raichi clicks his tongue. “What’s it look like?”

The dryness in his response earned a short chuckle from Kaiser. Raichi grumbles. “Heard you guys had a set today at the freshman party.”

Kaiser surveyed the different brands of beer that stared back at him through the glass of the fridge. “Yeah. Sucks you couldn’t be there.” He opens the fridge, finally having made a decision. Although he pulls out a six-pack of the same brand he was drinking earlier.

He stops and turns to look at Raichi. “This is Yoichi’s little sister, by the way,” he says while pointing to you. Suddenly, you were obliged to wave awkwardly at the other man. The lazy look remained on his face as he nodded at you.

“Knew she looked familiar.”

You were growing concerned with how more and more people were starting to know you only as “Yoichi’s little sister” —that and how Raichi basically implied you looked like your brother.

Kaiser closed the fridge, directing your gaze back to him.

“Why are you getting a single six-pack?”

A look of disbelief crosses his face, paired with an uneasy smirk. “Oh are you a drinker now too? Want a whole pack to yourself or something?”

“No, dumbass. You brought me all the way here so I thought you needed help bringing back stuff.”

He laughed louder than he was supposed to. “Can’t I bring you along as company? Besides, I’d never let you carry shit.”

You only let your gaze follow him as he carried the pack of beer to the register. As the cans made contact with the counter, Raichi had already placed a pack of smokes along with it. Kaiser stiffened, silently telling Raichi with his murderous eyes to put the fucking thing away.

But it was too late.

“Woah. You smoke?”

Raichi makes a look of realization before slowly sliding the box off of the counter. It wasn’t his fault that he had learned Kaiser’s routine like a waiter at a diner learning their patrons’ usual orders.

Kaiser shook his head while pulling out some bills from his wallet. “Psh, nah. It’s just common that when people buy booze—they also buy smokes. Force of habit huh, Rai?” 

Kaiser smiled while handing him the money, as if telling him to agree. Raichi sighed, dropping his shoulders. He doesn’t get paid enough for this shit. “Right. My bad, dude.”

It was rather… suspicious. But you thought nothing of it as Raichi shook his head incredulously, scanning the barcode plastered on the plastic wrapping of the six-pack. The cash register slides out with a bit of a hiccup. He grabs a couple of coins and hands the change to Kaiser.

“Thanks, man. Take care. Also, liven up.”

Raichi holds up his middle finger as the two of you make your way out of the store. “Yeah, take care and fuck you too.”

— — — — —

This time he walked beside you. Although, you preferred it when he walked in front of you. Staring at his back was better than feeling his presence way too close like this.

He was unusually quiet. Kaiser wasn’t bugging you or enticing you with a random story—He was just right beside you, walking silently. It only made you more nervous.

But when he spoke, you felt that perhaps his silence was better.

“What do you want to accomplish in your time here?”

That was… deep. Certainly, you’ve never spoken to each other like this before. But it felt as if he finally saw you as an equal—that you were “adult” enough that he could ask such questions to you.

He glances at you, noting your long pause. “I don’t mean boring shit like graduating. None of that. What’s something that you REALLY want to do this time around?”

“I guess…. I want to have fun.”

“No shit. Everyone wants fun. But how do you want to do it?”

He was putting you on the spot again. “I-I don’t know… I just want to do things I normally wouldn’t do without having crippling anxiety. Y’know? Like—like escaping my comfort zone or something.”

It was a shitty answer, you knew. But he nodded his head in acceptance. He halted, resulting in you doing the same. He was looking at you with that smile he had when you found him in your bed yesterday.

“Want me to help you have fun?”

“What do you get out of it?” 

“I get to have fun too. Duh.”

If anyone knew how to have fun—you would guess that it was him. His logic didn’t make perfect sense to you, but then again, Michael Kaiser never made sense to you either. It was that mystery that surrounded him that captivated you.

Pursing your lips, you eventually relented despite not knowing what was in store for you. Kaiser’s smile grew wider. “Great. I’ll look forward to making the next 4 years of your life the best you ever had.”

You were glad he started walking in front of you again… otherwise he’d see how hard you were trying to keep a straight face. This man—he was going to be the death of you.

o-sachi © 2024 pls do not translate/copy/reupload my work on other platforms.

[bread0nhead]

The Beauty and the Blast | Chapter One

Summary: In the spotlight, the world calls her Pulchra. A rising celebrity model who's known for her quick, Infinite Beauty. A quirk that alters a persons perception of beauty, causing anyone who sees her to subconsciously view her as the embodiment of their ideal vison- making her universally captivating. 

Everyone either wants to be her, or to be with her. From obsessive fans to controlling agencies, everyone wants to own her. While the world sees her as perfect, behind closed doors she's deeply lonely yet craves the silence. 

He's loud, intense, blunt and more emotionally repressed than an angsty teen alone on Valentines. Everyone sees him for his explosions and strength, but its that short fuse that landed him battling the hardest war yet- public image and the PR team that comes with it. 

Note: Cross posted on ao3. This is a reader-insert series, but reader is given the alias “Pulchra” for sake of the story. The idea of Pulchra has been living so deep inside my brain its chemically altered me. I’ll probably continue to write other series with her in it, but with a different storyline. I’m sorry for any grammatical errors and misspellings. This took me far too many weeks and I don’t want to go back and clean it up lol Rating: 18+

A crowded room always had a funny way of going quiet when you walked in. Like the air has been sucked out of the space and no one could breath. 

Cameras stilled, lights stopped flashing and conversations dropped off. Heads turned instinctively when you, no, Pulchra, pulled at the strings of desire. Eyes watched your every move with either lust or envy, wrapping them into a tight knot of fixation. 

You didn’t ask for this. Not the fame or the attention. And definitely not the name. Pulchra. 

Pulchra- latin for beauty, a nickname coined by some glossy magazine trying to sound smarter than they actually are. They were the magazine to find you and make you. Printing your face on the front cover of tounsand of copies. The editor nearly drooled on you as he made an offer any girl living in a poor countryside town couldn’t refuse. A blank check. But as you signed your name on the dotted lines, you had no idea the stain of Pulcha that would be left behind. And when you eventually moved out of the countryside, into the city, no one spoke your real name again. 

You sat in your dressing room, lit by the ring of vanity lights, staring at your reflection. Your hair curled perfectly, lips tinted the prettiest shade of pink and your eyes dusted and smoked out to highlight your natural eye color. You stared back at the reflection empty, debating on busting your hand on the mirror so it shatters and ruining your perfect skin. Not that it would matter. You could be beaten, bruised, riddled with zits and knotted hair. Your quirk will still make you beautiful. 

Three stiff knocks pulled you from your thoughts.

“Five minutes, Pulchra!”

You didn’t answer. No need to. 

You slipped on your floor-length dusty pink silk robe. The photoshoot was for some overpriced perfume, the kind that smells like roses. Why is it always roses? But you smiled through it.

The robe flowed and swished with your movements as you nearly floated down the hall into the studio. As predicted, everyone turned and stared in awe. Floods of makeup artists, hair stylists, designers and the kid who brings you coffee swarmed around you to invade your space and make everything even more perfect. 

“There she is! My Goddess! My muse!” The photographer you didn’t even care enough about to remember his name clasped his hands like he was praying. “Pulchra, darling, you’re a vision. This champaign is going to be iconic.” They literally all say that. 

As is this ad is going to be the ad to beat all ads. But they are all just replicas of each other with different outfits.  

You smiled, not the kind to reach your eyes, but the kind that still made people feel validated. 

“Thank you” you said softly, your voice with just a kiss of husky to sound mysterious. 

He guided you to set- a velvety chaise lounge surrounded by expensive flowers and draped with fine linens. The makeup artists gave your face a couple more puffs of powder, fluffed your hair a little higher and draped your robe off your shoulder so it was a little more……sellable. 

“Alright my venus, give me longing. Give me yearning. Yes- just like that - oh god, you’re a star!”

You tilted your chin slightly, parted your lips with a hint of invitation. It was magic. Your quirk, Infinity Beauty, warped perception. No one saw your flaws. They couldn’t. The world only saw you as a goddess with flawless skin, shimmering eyes, and a perfect body. You were everyone's ideal vision of beauty. Whether they wanted to or not- they wanted you. You’re universally beautiful. 

It was a curse. 

When your quirk first manifested, creepy men made comments despite your young age. Little boys hid their feelings through teasing and hair pulling. At fifteen, a classmate tried to carve your name into his arm. When you were seventeen, a girl punched you just because her boyfriend said “Pulchra” while sleeping with his girlfriend. When you started modeling, things only got worse. Crazed fans followed you,  stalkers broke into your home just to sniff your underwear and pillows. Everyday you receive love letters of people promising to commit their entire lives to you. It's why you now have four locks on your door and security cameras everywhere. 

After the shoot wrapped, you disappeared before anyone could even offer celebratory drinks. Your driver knew the routine, pull around back, windows up and don’t talk. 

Back at your penthouse, you peeled off the costume of Pulchra. Kicking off your designer heels, tossing name brand cloths into a pile on the floor and wiping the makeup off your face. The silence of your apartment was like an old friend. The apartment was filled with the silver lighting of the city and the warm tones of the burning candles. It was dim and quiet. 

You opened the fridge, filled with expensive half opened bottles of wine, artisanal water and fancy meats and cheeses. You reached for the bordeaux cabernet sauvignon and poured a hefty glass of wine and curled up on the cream colored couch. 

Here, no one watches. No one has expectations. Here you’re just….you. 

You wrapped a soft blanket over your shoulders, put your phone on do not disturb and picked up the book you’ve been drowning yourself in for the last few days. A fantasy novel about a princess turned warrior, battling dragons and goblins. It was whimsical, silly, even a little childish. But you liked it. And no one ever asked what you actually like, only assumed. 

“Pulchra drinks green juice.”

“Pulchra listens to classical music and French jazz.”

“Pulchra only dates supermodels and rich men.”

You haven’t dated in years. You weren’t sure you wanted to. How would you know if they wanted you, or Pulchra? 

No one saw you. They only saw what they wanted to see. 

As you curled deeper into the couch and slugged down the rest of your wine while throwing yourself in the fantasy of your book. You let out a long sigh. Tomorrow would be more of the same thing. Another shoot. Another crowd. Another performance.

[nitrowyverine]

I thought playing Obscura would help me get rid of my brain worms. no, it just gave me new ones. For Obscura, specifically.

I'll be adjusting the format from my TOUCHSTARVED expanded thoughts post. Brain dump after the cut!

[Demo/CH 1 spoilers are included]

(Header Image from Itch.io page! All images in this post are either from there or the Rotten Raccoons tumblr page)

Design/gameplay thoughts:

In full honesty without fluff: this game fucks immensely.

The setting for Obscura might be my new all-time favorite, like, ever. Mystery underground scandalous marketplace??? Under a mountain???? it's a diverse and vast city that's still elegantly contained and claustrophobic, but in a spicy way. The worldbuilding and flavor is excellent. I really want to run a TTRPG in a similar setting now, since its an area with so many possibilities.

CH. 1/the "demo" has a LOT of meat on it. It's got different endings, variations, a whole soundtrack. Speaking of sountrack-

Obscura is also one of the few games I've put on the soundtrack to just to vibe to. The soundtrack is SO good, and sets such a strong mood/tone. I think it complements the game perfectly.

Allot of people have mentioned it, but I am also a fan of the Safeword pause menu. It's a nice and comforting touch, especially when the game can get so intense. It lets players take a breather if they need it, but also doesn't interrupt the intensity/mood of the game for someone who doesn't want a break from the narrative.

Now, onto character specific thoughts!

Cirrus:

IN MY HOUSE WE DON'T BELIEVE IN NOT STARTING OUT STRONG

Shout outs for having your asexual option in the dating sim be. The kinkiest guy there

Cirrus is a bit too intense for me, however, that is NOT a bad thing in the slightest. I think his route is well done for those who are up for his brand of intensity.

I might still play his route because. damn this boy's issues got me curious about his backstory. ($10 on mommy issues)

I had the hardest time getting to Cirrus's good end during my playthrough because having pretty much any self-preservation instinct around Cirrus gives you a bad/neutral ending. He's the only one I had to pull the guide out to get the best ending. (I think I'm just too sassy)

I get medusa vibes from Cirrus. The snake imagery is more likely tied to the lunar church, but his staunch reluctance to take his own mask off makes me wonder (this is mainly referenced in asks answered by the Rotten Raccoon studios). Refusal to let people see his eyes + snakes + power + slightly unnatural abilities to influence is, something.

I am shaking this man like a snowglobe WHAT IS YOUR DEAL I MUST KNOW MORE

(I am. metaphorically shaking him like a snowglobe. I would never shake this man im terrified)

CONCLUSION: Most likely to shame you for your anime choices. Least likely to be normal about it when you ask for help peeling an orange.

Keir:

HERE COMES BIG MAN

yeah he's tied for favorite right now. the slow burn in his plot is just too good? big man....freckles...secret soft side...im weak

he's so nice I keep forgetting. He kind of kidnaps you? not even kind of he just drags you off the street and goes "you live in my house now". Even Griff calls MC a stray early on. My man really said "Here's a convenient lost human I'm dragging them home now"

oh my GOD they were ROOMATES

I definitely was too nice to him in my first playthrough until I realized he does need (and want) to be sassed to death.

this man is like 6'6 and the canon-ish Vesper height from the CG is 5'4. THE HEIGHT DIFFERENCE. This kills the man (me)

The sprite of Keir's ears blushing SENDS ME INTO A FRENZY

I quite liked the gameplay style of Keir's route. I was so focused and invested as soon as I realized I needed to remember specific directions to save the heist group during timed decisions

Something I haven't seen discussed yet: I'm mega curious about the dagger Keir has on his outfit. It's specifically pointed out in text that it's high-quality, and I vaguely remember an ask that Rotten Raccoons answered that said it's a status symbol. (The dagger also just looks SO cool. and....it looks like Francesco's...?)

(My bet is that he either 1. stole it. or 2. got it from Oleander during their tryst (WHICH WE ALSO NEED TO TALK ABOUT-))

CONCLUSION: Most likely to be gifted a "WORLD'S BEST DAD" mug from his similarly-aged peers. Least likely to live down that one time he ate soap because he thought it was edible.

Francesco:

someone keep the "silver dust" away from this lad im scared

Originally, I was least looking forward to playing Francesco's route since I just wasn't interested in his initial concept. After playing his route though? It was excellently done, and I genuinely had fun. It was refreshing to have a character more naive than Vesper, so more cultural aspects were explained and we got a good alternate perspective on the marketplace. Also, it got REAL spicy in new and exciting ways the other chapters didn't. I'm really looking forward to the next chapters with his route!

I totally love the contrasts in his design and his character. He's got both bright red and blue highlights in his design, his outfit is very pointy and angular while his hair/smile is soft and flow-y.

And in his personality, he's both sweet and open, but extremely cagey about some information, and quite pragmatic when he wants to be. I think he's way smarter than he lets on.

that doesn't mean I don't want to bridal carry him and tuck him into bed at night after a all-nighter party

I do think Fran's slightly looser demeanor could lead to him being even more brutal than the other LI's. Remember that one anime clip (Found it, it's this one from Danshi Koukousei) where a group of friends wants to fight for fun, but one of the friends asks why they need rules in a fight? And said friend is shown like secretly holding a rock and was ready to use it? that's Fran. He would not have chill and does not heed the rules.

"Protect the boy", but mostly to prevent him from tasting blood. Because if that happens we're all fucked

CONCLUSION: Most likely to eat that M&M off the ground because you dared him. Least likely to beat the puppy allegations.

Oleander:

Oleander is tied for favorite with Keir. Oleander is just *chefs kiss* LOOK AT HIM. inscrutable......

Somewhere in an ask answered by Rotten Raccoons studio, they mentioned that for Oleander's route, they were going for a "Sexy boss situation that doesn't feel like a work safety violation". They hit that right on the nose; there's intrigue and a power imbalance, but in a non-restrictive or terrifying way.

I love being involved in the business part of his route. I keep making decisions like "Hmm yes my primary goal is to romance Oleander. But what would be the smartest business move here? How do we advance our agenda?"

Also, I do love playing a sexy evil secretary in a vn. love having a job and being evil at it AND being paid money. 10/10

That dance scene is everything I could have ever wanted no notes

I am fascinated to find out more about what he's been up to since his last trek into the marketplace. Seems like people are trying to kill him all the time anyway, so what would be enough to cause him to leave?

he's like an angler fish, but the lure is his booba

I relate to Oleander in that. I have too many online usernames because I can't stick with one. People get my 800 online names mixed up often. He has the same problem, we're basically twinsies

This man is pretending to be a himbo like his life depends on it (It probably does). He's too smart though, I know for a fact he has at least three different schemes going at any given time.

CONCLUSION: Most likely to be able to help you properly lace a corset (this man knows the boot-to-the-back necessity of the process). Least likely to be allowed to be banker during monopoly night.

Vesper:

black mask enjoyer 4 life

(all three are good I just wanted to say which one I picked. And to add my conclusion section)

CONCLUSION: Most likely to get their shit rocked by a falling piano. Least likely to survive an argument about pineapple on pizza.

Concerns:

With how separate the four routes are, the game could potentially feel like four separate visual novels all in one universe. Maybe I haven't played enough VN's, but there is a feeling of separation between the routes.

In the very beginning of the game, when you're picking your route, I wish there was a bit more heads up/information between who you're picking. For example, I had a rough idea that going into the church is where you'd find Cirrus, but only from information outside the game. I didn't know sticking around for the brawl would push you into Kier's route. It's overall pretty vague to which route you're going based on only in-game information.

Misc thoughts:

Vesper: "How are you going to keep me?? ;)" Keir and Oleander: "crimes" Vesper: "Wh-" Keir and Oleander: "you're an accomplice now congrats we're in this together. wanna get drinks"

catch my socially anxious ass wanting to be under the mountain and wear masks so I don't have to make eye contact with strangers all the time. at least its a fun thought to have when I mask for covid

OKAY FRANCESCO AND KEIR'S DAGGER MATCH? AND ARE RED/BLUE LIKE FRANCESCOS OUTFIT? DOES IT MEAN ANYTHING??? probably not but I do like the pretty knives....

For real, I got the brain worms for this game, I'm on the edge of making a big ol playlist. the headcannons? They go on my friend. they go on. I'm laying awake at night thinking about what each character would order at a coffee shop

by the time I publish this post. I did start working on the playlist

yes, I've also designed my own vesper, its such a prime opportunity for character design.

Obscura also may or may not have inspired me to get involved with an otome jam game team, more on that in the future possibly.....

OVERALL: I got the first chapter/demo of Obscura for free from Itchio/steam. High marks for writing, sound, art, game design, all of it! I am on the edge of my seat waiting for CH2.

TL;DR: If you haven't played it, and love spicy and dark stories, go play it! Part one is free! and fantastic.

Itch.io

Steam

[darsynia]

Hi Darsy, I hope you're recovering from your procedure okay! Please only write for this prompt if you feel inspired–no pressure at all!

I would love if you wrote something with Steve x Reader Friends to Lovers and Steve realizes that Reader has a history of past/abusive relationships. Obviously Steve is just protective and compassionate and fluffy. But I totally understand if you're not interested or comfortable writing this! Ty bestie, get well soon!

Thanks for this prompt, I hope you like what I came up with for it!

MCU MASTERLIST | STEVE ROGERS| BUCKY BARNES

Words//Warnings: 1,600 // allusions to past abuse (reactions)

For @the-slumberparty's December Daze challenge Day 5, I chose the prompt: 'I worked so hard on dinner, but nothing turned out'

MCU MASTERLIST | STEVE ROGERS | BUCKY BARNES

You Win Yum, You Lose Yum

People like to call your scrappy little apartment building The Matchmaker.

To fit in its narrow footprint, the designers put studio apartments on one side and 1 or 2 bedroom apartments across from them. You’ve heard that the management company capitalizes on their reputation by placing single women across from single men when possible. Given the other aspects of the place (shoddy wiring, flighty elevators, and smoke alarms that get the vapours more than an Eighteenth century heroine dying of consumption), you imagine the turnover is enough for it to be true.

It’s certainly true in your case. All of it. You’re hopelessly in love with the single man in the 2 bedroom apartment across from you--but honestly, who isn’t in love with Captain America?? 

His signature ‘home from work’ notification tap on your door makes you wince and assess the utter catastrophe happening in the kitchen corner of your studio. He’ll be over in just about a half hour, as the two of you have standing dinner plans on Wednesdays. You had the day off, and Tuesday You had the brilliant fucking idea to go all out.

You’ve gone all out, all right. If you go any more out, the whole apartment building will be forced out, on account of the fragile flower of a smoke detector that lives in your apartment.

A timer beeps to remind you that Failure #2 is due to come out of the oven. You look down at your cute little apron and do a little hiccup-laugh-cry before leaning over with a flashlight to see if opening the oven is going to make you everyone’s least favorite neighbor tonight.

The Shepherd’s Pie actually looks…

As you watch, the center of golden-brown mashed potato crust bubbles up, up, up--and then, like the worst version of Enceladus, some of the under-crust liquid splashes up onto the oven’s surface, creating smoke.

“SHIT!” you scream, grabbing your armpit-deep oven mitts and the bottle of specially formulated anti-smoke solution, setting it down at your feet. “I can do this. I can do this,” you mutter, taking a deep breath before springing into action.

You throw open the oven, immediately yanking out your offending moon pie with both mitts and tossing it onto the stovetop. Chanting arcane prayers to Steve’s teammate Thor, you snag the spray bottle and let the inside of the oven have it until it's a dripping, alien landscape in there. There will be no Try #2 at berry rhubarb tonight, Pi day or no Pi day.

“You got everything under control?” a male voice booms from behind you.

The sound prompts the primal, instinctive need to become smaller and apologize, not that it ever really helped. The spray bottle falls from your nerveless fingers, and the lid flies off. You sink to your knees and snag a dishtowel to start sopping up the mess as soon as you can, tossing the mitts to the side in haste.

“Hey, are you--” the voice asks, and it’s familiar, it’s Steve. Reality comes swinging back around, slamming into you from behind with even more force than your practiced misery. The elation of knowing you’re not back there, you’re safe--more than safe--is your accidental undoing.

You set your fingertips down to push up from the floor, but it’s not the floor, it’s the oven door. Hissing in pain, you snatch your hand back, but the next few minutes blur by, filled with the quick, careful actions of an actual hero. Somehow when it’s all over, you’re sitting on your couch, a bandage and a washcloth-wrapped gel cooling pad on your stung hand. Steve is nowhere to be found, and if it weren’t for the thankfully dulling pain you can feel in your fingertips, you’d wonder if you were actually asleep eight feet away in your own bed, dreaming of being cared for.

Movement makes you look up. It’s Steve, his eyes on you, a concerned look on his face as he moves slowly into your line of sight. He’s trying not to startle you, and god, that means more than a dozen roses.

“I brought you some pain meds. I don’t think you’ll need any medical treatment, but you won’t be touch-typing anytime soon.”

You blink up at him, but every time your eyes close you see an after-image of disaster: the separated corner of your cutting board//the burnt top of your first sweet pie attempt//the splash of Shepherd’s Pie juice in the oven//the instinctive jolt of fear that had led to your wet knees and finger burns--

“Hey,” Steve says, his voice impossibly close. Something about the care in his tone nearly brings you to relieved tears, like the first glimpse of sunrise lifting after a night lost in the cold woods. You open your eyes to see that he’s kneeling beside you, one hand setting down a glass of water on the end table. “I won’t let anyone hurt you,” he adds.

The hiccup-laugh-cry is back, more laugh than cry this time, because if you can’t believe Captain America when he says something like that, then you’re truly broken.

And you’re not.

“Wow, I just realized something,” you whisper.

“Looks like a good one.”

“You know what? It is.” The pressure of a long-held, toxic breath leaves your body in a long exhale before you allow yourself to look at Steve. “I believe you.”

His expression goes on a journey from concern to affection with a detour through ‘stern.' “I’m not going to ask, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to know someday, all right?” He holds your gaze, and you swallow, then nod. “Good. I had a look at everything--” You groan, but Steve lifts up to his feet in a move you’re certain is pure operational distraction. “The mashed potato pie thing looks delicious. I turned off the oven and threw a towel down on the stuff that spilled. The food looks great, thank you.”

“You didn’t have t--” you begin, but Steve clears his throat entirely too loudly, and you shift gears as smoothly as you can into, “We managed to avoid setting off the alarm, and that was the real win, wasn’t it?”

Fifty minutes, two generous slices of solidly-mediocre Shepherd’s Pie and two cautious slices of too-sweet, topless sweet pie later, Steve offers to take your plate into the kitchen.

“I’m going to do the dishes, and you can’t stop me,” he says, once he’s over there.

He can’t see the look on your face, which is good because it’s got to be embarrassingly close to ‘completely besotted.’

After a few minutes of dish-washing noises, Steve says, “You’re too quiet in there, are you planning my demise?”

“Of all the men in my life, you’re the one I’m least likely to want to murder, Steve, don’t worry,” you quip, the words escaping before you realize how revealing they are.

The sounds stop.

“Never mind,” you offer, but you can hear him walking back over. “Steve--”

“I’m sorry I startled you. I didn’t know-- I’m sorry I startled you,” he says, the small break in his voice burning an asteroid’s path straight to the deepest places in your heart.

“You never have anything to be sorry for,” you gasp out, but he’s beside you on the couch, taking your undamaged hand.

“Don’t overcorrect,” Steve tells you gently. “Expecting perfection is too much pressure, as I suspect you know. Not every relationship is like winning the lottery-- just like not every meal ends up the way you want it to. That’s what I love so much about-- what I value about knowing you.”

A rare third hiccup-laugh-cry threatens, but you valiantly hold back enough to tease, “My lack of perfection, you mean?”

Steve freezes in obvious horror. “Crap. See what I mean? I’m trying to say you treat me like a regular person who can make mistakes, not like--” he pauses, obviously struggling to come up with the right words to explain himself.

Maybe it’s your burned fingers, maybe it’s the sincerity on his face, or maybe you’re a little high on the smell of burned pie crust, but you are feeling really brave tonight.

“--a hero to fall in love with? What if I fell for my very kind neighbor instead?”

There’s the barest few seconds’ pause as a smile grows on Steve’s face.

“Yeah.” All of the tension rushes out of Steve’s body at once, leaving behind a look of abject relief tinged with joy. You totally recognize it, because that’s how you feel too. “That would very much feel like winning the lottery.”

He’s looking at you like you’re precious, even after you burned half of his dinner and made a mess for him to clean up. This is as foreign to you as another planet-- but one where you recognize all the elements, at least.

Your instinct to deflect from strong emotions via laughter bubbles up before you can really stop it.

“So, are you going to tell me which neighbor caught your eye, or…”

Steve throws his head back in a laugh, rubbing a fond, affectionate hand across your back as he leans close.

“You may have to help me with that, I don’t think I remember her apartment number.” As he says that last, teasing word, Steve touches his lips to yours. For the first time in a long while, you realize that ‘losing’ a battle (of wits or whisk) doesn’t really have anything to do with losing a war, not with a soldier like Steve at your side.

[bwoahtastic]

tw for somewhat in depth needle talk

thinking about polyamory in the tattoo shop au again. specifically I think max should use lando as a model for play piercing/temporary piercings show showcases and promotions like max will pierce like a corset down Lando’s back for a photoshoot or angel wings across his shoulders for a specific event.

Oscar used to be Max’s model (need Charles to be feral about the pictures max has on like his website or in the shop display when he finds out it’s Oscar) but when he finished his sleeves and back piece he was no longer an option for fear of messing up the ink.

Charles would love to do it. Charles is hypothetically and hornily jumping at the chance to be maxes model but max knows the trouble of getting one needle through Charles let alone enough to make an intricate design so despite Charles whining max will not let him model.

Maybe the first time it comes up max has got some sort of piercing convention coming up and the model he booked to sit for him fell sick last minute so he’s scrambling around mkaing phone calls (ignoring Charles) trying to find a replacement with less than 24 hours notice and lando (who has zero piercings) his just like “hey I could do it”

At first max refuses and Oscar makes lando sit down and write a pros and cons list or something responsible. In the end they work out that max will simplify his design and take photos in the studio rather than a live demonstration.

Lando ends up laying down on Oscar’s tattoo bench holding his boyfriends hand while max very carefully pierces a love heart onto his back and take photos.

Max banished Charles to the corner (the cuck chair) because he knows Charles cannot be normal about anything.

Maybe there’s been the lestapiastri tension for a little while but half way through max working on his design as lando lets out little huffs and grunts every time max places a new piercing he realises that he’s half hard and thag hasn’t happened with any model since Oscar.

Oh plss!! Okay but am a little feral about the backstory of Oscar and Max, like they have the shop together nad work together and pls, Oscar always modelled for Max until he got too inked up, and all the tattoos Max has are done by Oscar cos ofcourse they are! Like they are the same kind of quiet which will yap uncontrollably around people they like (each other) and Maxnjust trusts Oscar with his life and vice versa!

And pls Max is a little lost after Oscar stops being able to be the model for the play piercing displays hr creates for showcases and sure, by that time Charles is literally quivering like a chihuahua with rabies to be the next model but Max vetoed the idea cos he adores Charles, loves him, but 1 piercing takes them approximately 4 hours and Max doesn't have weeks to do this. Plus his Charlie will not enjoy it no matter how much he wants to help Max!

Lando then offering and both Max and Oscar instinctively go "no" but then Lando just huffs and calls them idiots because yeah he doesn't have piercings, but so far he has sat well foe tattoos and has a pretty good pain tolerance. They take their time to discuss it all but in the end both Max and Lando are confident about it so it's fine!

Lando on his tummy on Oscar's chair as its more comfortable and Oscar is sitting next to his head holding his hand. Max makes Charles sit far away cos he has 0 chill and also sits blindfolded for most of it after the one time Charles fainted head first into the counter seeing someone else get pierced. (They pretend not to notice Charles blindly and slowly scooting his wheelie chair closer, he just really wants to hold Lando's other hand)

There having been some tension between lestappen en Oscar for a while (also max and Oscar definitely slept together pre- Charles and lando) and Charles just loves everyone but pls Max realising he is equally not normal about Lando as about the other two idiots. He is half hard by the time is done and Oscar definitely notices and takes over taking photos of Lando's back as Max is distracted.

Also pls Lando getting so much praise by all of them and he preens a bit with all the care and cuddles! Max taking his work out again and keeping an eye on how it heals and Lando loves being fussed over!

Charles a few days later going "you know, it's stupid how the four of us all love each other but don't act on it because we are afraid of hurting each other, but by keeping back we are only hurting each other more" and everyone is stunned into silence because charles has never said anything remotely profound before, and also, it's very fucking true lol

[iveseenthatlovebefore]

Okay so hear me out—Templar!Desmond AU

I mentioned it before but you don't understand. Not an on-purpose Templar!Desmond AU. Accidental Templar!Desmond AU.

Like what if he got fired from the Bad Weather for whatever reason? The Templars wouldn't have found him at the start of AC1 but because of PLOT, Desmond found THEM because he needed to pay the damn rent and oh hey, that's an awfully convenient job opening.

Now what kind of job, you may ask? Well, Des ain't no scientist and he has zero credentials to his name, but—you know who also has no credentials to their names, zero experience, and the perfect amount of fake it till you make it attitude?

Interns.

He gets an internship at Abstergo, somehow, and it just SPIRALS FROM THERE.

Imagine—Desmond doesn't even realize he's joined the Templars. This would be before he even found out about his Assassin bloodline. He only applied for the experience—for the paycheck but somehow he finishes the internship, gets the job, gets PROMOTED??

Maybe somehow Abstergo finds out about his Assassin bloodline, but he's super clueless and is already employee and so they're like, ok, hey you wanna maybe join this special project? Comes with extra benefits!

Cue maybe some mind control/hypnotism/other BS hyjinks or something idk and he somehow goes from desk job Templar to junior fieldwork Templar agent but with a pension plan.

Also maybe a sprinkle of Tsundere!Daniel Cross who is attached at the hip because Desmond is some sort of Templar Advil that makes Daniel's bleeding effect waaaay more manageable.

Can you imagine this?!

Because I sort of did.

Desmond didn’t mean to get fired.

It kind of happened in a blur.

He’d been halfway through his shift at Bad Weather—a moody, brick walled bar downtown where the cocktails were overpriced and the lights were too low—when he spotted the guy. Mid-thirties. Designer jacket. Confident smile. The type that watched people a little too closely and tipped just a little too much to be normal. Not too unusual—not unexpected—but what was was the move he did when his hand hovered over a girl’s drink as she looked away.

Quick. Practiced. Something small and clear dropped into the glass of a drink—his signature drink—and the moment it registered, instincts kicked in before his brain caught up. The punch landed clean across the guy’s jaw. The sound was satisfying. The guy hit the floor. The bar went dead quiet.

The girl cried. The cops came.

The guy claimed Desmond misunderstood. The girl couldn’t stop crying. Management said it was a ‘PR issue.’

The next morning, Desmond was out of a job.

That was six months ago.

Now, he was twenty-four, unemployed, broke, and lying on a sun warmed mattress in his studio apartment, watching dust float through a shaft of light.

He spent the first week of unemployment scrolling job boards like they owed him something. The second week, he gave up and scrolled online forums instead. The third, he shaved and updated his resume.

He applied for everything. Any bar that had openings. Bookstore clerk. Front desk at a gym. Data entry for a moving company. An assistant mailroom position at a tax office that ghosted him after a second interview. Unfortunately, it seemed like the economy must have gone to shit because out of the thirty one jobs he applied for, he got three interviews. One was a pyramid scheme. One wanted him to relocate to Oregon. The last said he was ‘overqualified’ and ‘seemed too independent minded for the team culture.’

Desmond had stared at that email for a full minute before replying, “Thanks for the feedback. I'll try to be dumber next time.”

What saved him—if you could call it that—was that he’d started taking online business courses a year before he got fired. His previous manager at Bad Weather had pulled him aside and pretty much kickstarted him into it.

“You’ve got decent instincts, Francisco.” She’d said and even after eight years of using the fake alias, he still couldn’t get used to it. “But instincts won’t carry a business. If you want to run your own place one day, you need to know the numbers. Think ahead.”

So he did. 

Two weeks later, he signed up for online classes—Intro to Business, Financial Accounting I, and a random management course he promptly ignored and unenrolled out of midway through the semester. He didn’t plan to get a degree—he wasn’t trying to become a CPA or anything like that, but he figured he’d take just enough to not get screwed if the opportunity ever came along. Besides, if he ever ran his own bar, he should know how to balance a ledger without crying. Or at least learn how to use QuickBooks.

He’d liked it more than he expected.

Accounting wasn’t exciting. He didn’t fully grasp the theory and couldn't explain what compound interest was or how to calculate materiality without cheating to save his life, but the numbers made sense in that weird intuitive way, like catching someone in a lie. If the totals didn’t add up, it meant someone made a mistake—or lied. That part he understood.

And Desmond was good at spotting lies.

He was halfway through the Accounting for Beginners (5th Edition) textbook again, legs sprawled across his mattress, when a job listing popped up in his inbox.

Abstergo Entertainment – Accounting Internship (Spring Term)Entry-level, flexible hours, possible long-term offer. Must sign NDA.

Compensation: Competitive.

Requirements: Coursework in accounting or finance. Self-motivated. Discreet.

Discreet was a weird requirement.

So was the sender name—just ‘J_.’ No full name. And the email had no footer. No unsubscribe button. No contact information.

Honestly, it looked like a phishing attempt, but the link checked out, and the listing was real.

Still, it beat unemployment.

Desmond clicked Apply.

Thus was how he ended up standing in front of Abstergo Entertainment a month later, holding a laminated visitor badge and wondering if he was accidentally participating in a social experiment.

Technically, Abstergo Entertainment’s HQ was in Quebec. This was just a New York satellite office—probably for accounting, PR, or whatever vague nonsense they didn’t want cluttering the actual work. Desmond figured if you had enough money, you could slap your logo on a downtown skyscraper and call it a branch. Seemed legit enough.

The building was sleek—glass and steel and way too many security guards for an accounting internship. The lobby was quiet, temperature controlled, and smelled faintly like printer toner and lies. There was a small cafe to the side of the lobby, past the security checkpoint. 

There were over twenty floors, but the building directory only listed one name: Abstergo. No shared offices, no law firms, no dentists or startups—just Abstergo Entertainment, in crisp sans serif font, like they’d eaten the entire building and were still hungry.

Desmond frowned at that. Most companies, even the big ones, rented. Shared. Leased space like normal people. But Abstergo apparently just bought skyscrapers like they were Starbucks gift cards. Rich people were weird.

He checked in at the front desk, got his picture taken, and was directed to the 16th floor. “Intern Orientation.” The woman said with a practiced smile. “Don’t stray from the green line.”

There was, in fact, a literal green line on the floor.

He followed it to a bland conference room already half filled with nervous looking twenty-somethings. Some were dressed like it was a casual startup. Others wore full suits. Desmond had settled on jeans, a button-down, and the lingering aura of someone who hadn’t had a real job in seven months.

He grabbed a seat near the wall, dropped his notebook onto the table, and was so glad he had decided to grab a cheap coffee from the cafe. Having a 12 oz latte made him feel like he belonged.

When the room finally filled, that was when the presentation began. Orientation was standard corporate fare. Rules, nondisclosure agreements, company history. Some guy in a polo said something about ‘organizational synergy’ and ‘data transparency’ with a straight face. 

Desmond was already regretting this and zoned out somewhere between the sixth and seventh slide about ‘industry alignment’ and ‘core competencies.’ 

When the presentation finally wrapped and Desmond had the chance to stretch his legs, everyone was herded toward the second conference room for icebreakers.

Desmond stared at the sign taped to the glass door. "Get to Know Your Intern Team!" Under it, in smaller font: Mandatory Attendance.

He considered walking into traffic.

The room had been rearranged—circle of chairs, catering trays in the corner with sad muffins and fruit that looked suspiciously dehydrated. There was an intern packet waiting on each seat, complete with a name badge, department assignment, and a branded stress ball in the shape of a pyramid.

Desmond found his badge on a chair near the back and when he settled down, turned the stress toy over in his hands. It was soft, cheap foam. The company logo was printed across the base as Abstergo Industries—which was weird. What was that, the parent company? Of all the logos they chose, why did it have to be a pyramid? Was this some subliminal messaging? Was this all a pyramid scheme? Illuminati? 

Desmond grimaced. God, he was sounding like his parents. 

The triangle shape was probably just branding.

Probably.

Around him, conversation buzzed.

“So I’m a junior at Columbia, but I just transferred out of pre-law.” One girl was saying. “Accounting resonated with me more, you know?”

“I’m double majoring in finance and international business.” Said another guy. “I want to work in public. Maybe regulatory compliance if I’m feeling crazy.”

Desmond pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled slowly.

He was twenty-four. Not old by any real measure, but sitting among a sea of nineteen and twenty-some-year-olds, all chirping about master’s programs and networking opportunities, made him feel like a cryptid someone accidentally let into the building.

Someone to his right leaned over and offered a wide smile. “Hey! What school are you from?”

“Uh…” Desmond tried not to sink into his seat. “Not in school right now.”

“Oh! Like… gap year?”

“More like a gap lifestyle.” He deadpanned.

The guy laughed politely, unsure if it was a joke.

Desmond was saved from filling in the silence when the coordinator clapped her hands for a group activity. They were instructed to go around the circle and introduce themselves. Name, school, something fun.

Fuck.

When it was his turn, Desmond winged it. “Francisco Randez. No school. Took some online classes. I—” He hesitated, and thought fuck it. “—once got detained for climbing a museum exhibit because it looked like a staircase.”

A few people laughed nervously.

He gave them a pleasant smile and passed the metaphorical mic to the next intern.

The orientation dragged. The HR coordinator was all buzzwords and strained optimism. Synergy. Collaboration. Brand alignment. Desmond spaced out halfway through, watching the second hand tick on the wall clock and mentally calculated how long he could stretch his meager finances if this didn’t work out just to stay awake.

By the time lunch rolled around, he was starving, underslept, and ready to question every life decision that had brought him to this glass paneled hellhole. The Company had a lunchroom, outfitted with kitchens from various vendors that you could order at kiosks. Desmond took one look at the prices and walked out. 

He stepped outside, walking past the lobby security and immediately regretted it. The spring air was too fresh—like the world was mocking him with sunlight and competence.

He ducked around the corner of the building, pulled out his phone, and opened his banking app. The number on the screen made his soul leave his body for a full three seconds.

He had enough for groceries or rent.

Not both. 

He pulled out the granola bar he’d stolen from orientation snacks from his bag and chewed it bitterly, watching pigeons fight over a discarded panini with more dignity than he currently had.

Then, his phone buzzed.

Shaun:

how's the first day?

Desmond sent a gif of a dumpster fire. 

Shaun:

oh good, you're settling in.

Desmond:

watching two pigeons fight over a sandwich

one of them won

it was not me

i’m eating a granola bar i stole from orientation snacks.

lunch prices are criminal.

Shaun:

i warned you

that building is a temple to late stage capitalism and soft cult vibes.

Desmond:

it smells like printer toner and regret.

the receptionist has dead eyes.

Shaun:

told you

something’s off about that place

Desmond:

yeah well

off is paying better than broke

Shaun:

hm.

i have an idea.

Desmond stared at the screen, then typed slowly.

Desmond:

i don’t like it when you say that.

Shaun:

you’ll love this one

i applied to the cafe in the lobby

Desmond:

wait what

Shaun:

barista job. i start next week.

figured i’d keep an eye on you

make sure the capitalist death cult doesn’t eat you whole

Desmond:

i’m fine

you don’t need to go undercover

Shaun:

too late

call it espionage adjacent moral support

Desmond stared at the screen, watching the message linger like a slow loading virus, and shook his head.

Shaun was crazy.

Not dangerous crazy, but definitely ‘might build a hidden server farm in a storage unit just to expose corporate tax fraud’ crazy.

Desmond hadn’t looked that deep into Abstergo before applying. Technically, Abstergo Entertainment didn’t exist. Not officially. Not publicly. The website was half-built, the branding was inconsistent, and even the job listing had felt like a phishing attempt. He’d Googled it once—got a corporate landing page and a PDF press release that might’ve been made in Microsoft Publisher.

Supposedly, it was a “pilot division.” Something to do with interactive media. A new branch of Abstergo’s tech empire focused on storytelling and “memory-based experiences.” Whatever that meant.

Desmond figured it was probably just some exec’s passion project with too much funding and no oversight. Which would explain the stress muffins, the biometric elevators, and the eerie sense that the walls were watching.

Abstergo Entertainment was just another subsidiary of Abstergo Industries, which supposedly did medical tech, biotech, and some research stuff too. Something about ‘memory science.’ He’d skimmed the corporate site long enough to copy buzzwords into his cover letter, then stopped caring. As long as he got experience and a paycheck, he could ignore the sterile lobby and pyramid logos.

Shaun, on the other hand, cared.

Too much.

Desmond didn’t know how the guy found half the things he did—old court filings, shuttered LLCs, redacted patents—but he had a talent for digging. If there were skeletons in the closet, Shaun would find them. Probably label them. Possibly send them a polite email.

Still, Desmond had to wonder. Was this whole barista thing really about some undercover scheme?

Or was Shaun just being… Shaun?

The guy did have a weird habit of showing up when Desmond looked like he might spiral. Maybe this was less about Abstergo and more about moral support disguised as espionage.

He didn’t ask. He just shook his head again, stuffed his phone into his pocket, and went back inside.

——

By the time Desmond returned, the room had been rearranged again. Chairs in rows now, not circles. Everyone had settled in like they were preparing for a final exam.

The HR coordinator was already standing at the front of the room with a new slide on the screen.

“Welcome to your official rotation schedule!” She chirped, like this was exciting news.

Desmond slid into an empty seat near the back, sipping the last of his coffee like it was all that tethered him to this dimension.

“You’ve all been accepted into a ten week internship program.” She continued. “Every week, you’ll rotate through a different department in our Finance Division. That means new mentors, new challenges, and lots of opportunities to learn!”

There were some murmurs of excitement. Desmond resisted the urge to die.

“You’ll be in groups of three for each rotation. These groups will stay the same across all ten weeks, so please lean on each other. Support your team. Build those connections!”

She winked, too exaggerated to be normal.

Oh god, it was a group project. For a corporate summer camp.

“Each rotation will introduce you to a key department in Abstergo’s financial operations.” She said, clicking to the next slide. “These include, but are not limited to—” The slide flashed, bullet pointing the departments against corporate approved background: 

Accounts Payable

Accounts Receivable

Payroll

Financial Reporting

Internal Audit

Cost Accounting

Capital Expenditure Management

Budgeting & Forecasting

Inventory Management

Compliance & Risk Management

“Don’t worry if some of these sound intimidating. Your mentors are here to help. Just show up, ask questions, and take notes!”

Desmond nodded along, mostly to pretend he was listening. Ten weeks. Ten departments. Two interns glued to his side the whole time.

‘Guess I’d better hope they’re not insufferable.’ He thought. Or worse—motivated.

As the coordinator read off group assignments, Desmond barely registered his name until—

“Group 4: Francisco Randez, Caleb Larson, and Andrea Lin.”

He blinked. That was him.

A guy two rows ahead shot up like someone had just called him up to the Price is Right stage.

“That’s me!” He said brightly, like a labrador in a business casual button-down. He had blond hair, bright blue eyes, and the energy of someone who unironically said things like—‘Let’s crush it today!’

Desmond raised a hand halfway in acknowledgment. The guy immediately made his way over.

“Hey! Francisco, right? I’m Caleb.” He beamed. “Stoked to be on your team, man.”

“Yeah.” Desmond said and tried to sound more excited than he felt. “Can’t wait.”

From the side, a girl slid into the third chair with all the grace of a housecat hopping onto a sunlit windowsill. Sleek black hair, winged eyeliner sharp enough to kill a man, and an expression that said she’d already decided how much effort this internship was worth—which was not much.

“Andrea.” She said, voice smooth but flat. “Don’t expect morning conversation.”

“Got it.” Desmond replied, respecting the vibe.

Caleb didn’t get it.

“That’s cool! We all bring something to the table.” He said, completely unbothered. “I’m just excited to get started, you know? Learn everything. Meet people. Network.”

“Gross.” Andrea muttered, already scrolling on her phone.

Desmond leaned back slightly and looked at the two of them. One radiated sunshine. The other looked like she’d bite him if he breathed wrong.

‘I’m going to die.’ He thought. ‘I’m going to die in a corporate sandbox with a human golden retriever and a feral alley cat.’

The coordinator clapped again.

“Group lists are final!” She named the groups and their assigned department before turning to Desmond’s group. “Group 4, you’ll be heading to your first rotation in Accounts Payable after the break. Your mentor will meet you there. Don’t be late!”

Caleb gave a thumbs up like this was a motivational retreat. “Awesome! That’s where the magic starts, right? Payments, invoices—money in motion?”

Desmond looked at him, personally offended by the phrase ‘money in motion.’

Andrea didn’t look up from her phone.

The coordinator continued. “You’ll report to Janet from 9am to 1pm each day. She’ll walk you through the basics—vendor tracking, payment logs, invoice reconciliation, and so on. At 1pm, all interns will head back to the 16th floor for the daily group session. After that, you may return to your departments at 2pm before being released at 5pm. Pretty straightforward.”

Desmond just sighed.

Only ten weeks, he reminded himself. How bad could it be?

(Spoiler: it would be very bad.)

------

IDK if I'm even capable of continuing this cause I have my main wip, but like imagine William’s reaction. Imagine Desmond's reaction when he finds out about the mind control and human experimentation and is like, oh no I've accidentally joined another cult and he's like SHIT.

Cue:

Office spy!Desmond

Feral Tsundere!Daniel defecting to be with bae

Desmond stealing a POE

?????

Corporate espionage that ends with Desmond nuking Abstergo servers using Clippy as the virus--("Hi! It looks like you’re trying to commit genocide. Would you like help with that?")

SOLAR FLARE? IDFK. Why touch it in the first place? It needs Desmond's touch? FINE. Desmond sneezes, hits the Eye/ORB THING. BOOM. SOLAR FLARE CANCELED. THE WORLD IS SAVED.